Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You sure about this?”

Johnny squints up at the man next to him, uncertain if he’s being serious or just using that particular brand of dry humor that got him to this very point in the first place.

Simon simply arches a brow, underlining the fact that he hasn’t actually answered.

As it is—Johnny’s the one bouncing his knee up and down, an anxious twitch causing him to shuffle and then reshuffle the papers in his lap, mouth hanging open like a faulty escape hatch.

“’Course,” he answers assuredly; so why does it come out like a croak?

They’re sitting thigh-to-thigh in two cramped chairs in the waiting hall of the registry office; the one closest to Simon’s London flat, the one chosen out of convenience, as this whole affair had been dictated by.

Convenience. Nothing fancy, nothing unreasonable. Just the simple matter of settling it between the two of them.  

‘It’ being the not-so-insignificant decision to get married in secret on this stuffy Sunday morning in June.

“Just wondered,” Simon drawls, leaning in a touch closer, the pleather of his seat squeaking, “I dunno…if you were regretting not telling them?”

Johnny knows he means his family, and it’s a reassurance, at least, that he hadn’t meant ‘this whole fucking thing’ when he’d asked if he was sure.

They’d certainly outdone themselves in terms of spontaneity this time, but Johnny can’t pretend there hadn’t been several opportunities for him to at least clue his relatives in.

It had been just shy of a week after Simon had departed in May that he’d gone and filled out his marriage notice, popping into the council hall in Blairgowrie while Ruth had been getting her nails done at the shop next door. She’d taken to offering to drive him places—a forced attempt at bonding, perhaps, but probably more to do with the excuse of ‘My brother’s handicapped, have some decency!’ whenever she chooses to park in increasingly illegal locations.

That might have been the first chance—to let his sister know what his ‘errand’ was for—but after completing the form, Johnny had found himself stalling, and simply chose instead to get his cuticles cleaned up while waiting for Ruth to finish having her own grubby nails plastered with glitter.   

And in the month since then, well…it just never came up.

“Can’t help but feel like they might be a bit…miffed,” Simon adds, telepathically confirming Johnny’s current guilt.

He huffs, digging his shoulder into the other man’s side. “Ye mean mam?”

Simon, tactfully, doesn’t confirm or deny.

“Well, ye’ll hardly endear yerself as her favorite in-law once she finds out ye didn’t invite her to her on’y son’s wedding.”

“Hey,” Simon hisses, “this was your bloody idea, remember?” And good lord, that sounds like genuine panic in his voice.

Johnny snorts at him, “Thought we both decided, aye? No fuss?”

The other man just grumbles under his breath, something that sounds vaguely like, “MacTavishes without a fuss, fuckin’ likely…”

Continuing to tap his leg up and down, Johnny spares his partner a thorough glance. While John himself had gone with a nice button-down and some fitted trousers, Simon opted for a black t-shirt and jeans. Not that they intended this to be an overly formal occasion, what with the practicality of it, but a brief recon of the hall reveals an assortment of individuals, from clean suits to full-length gowns.

All in all, there are about a dozen or so other couples, each with more evidence of matrimony than the two lousy blokes catching glances in their too-small chairs. One of the blushing brides appears to be quietly having a fit over some floral arrangement that had never arrived, while her groom-to-be looks like he’s scouting out the nearest exit, flighty bastard.

They’d said in the appointment booking that they could accommodate a ceremony of their choosing, options for decorations, music, multiple guests, etc.

But nope. T-shirts and jeans it is.

John tugs at the neck of his collar, unfastening a few of the more threatening buttons.

Christ…is this really the best way of doing it…

As if seeking some sort of validation for their unorthodox appearance and, well, the fact that they’re the only doubly male couple here, Johnny spots two gals linking arms across from them, a minor relief in knowing they’re not completely alone in being queer as shite. Small blessings.  

Upon accidentally making eye-contact with one of the lovely ladies, though, Johnny finds himself giving a bit of a nod for whatever fucking reason. And bless the lass, she actually nods back.

“What was that?” Simon mutters, intruding into his embarrassing exchange. “Do you know her?”

Sputtering a bit, John shakes his head, while his partner gives him a wry smirk that’s half covered by his black medical mask.

“Was that a ‘gay nod’, MacTavish?”

“Shut it,” Johnny hisses, now thoroughly mortified.

He distracts himself by shuffling all the forms in his lap again, to the point where Simon has to snatch them away from how much of a pain the arse he’s being.

“Just sit fuckin’ still, kid,” Simon scolds, patting the papers down on his own knee and nudging him with a heavily tattooed elbow, another eyesore for the folks tallying grievances against their presentation.

Johnny, to his credit, does remain courteously quiet as they continue waiting in the hall for their scheduled time. In fact, it’s only the bride and her botanical catastrophe stirring up any interest from the other poor souls who’d chosen this particular venue on such an inauspicious day as this. 

June the ninth. Just about a week before the anniversary of his injury.

Might as well make it a better memory, they’d decided. 

A low grunt at his side causes Johnny to raise a brow at some point, Simon inspecting the paperwork with a scrutinous frown.

“What’s this? Why did you put this?” the man asks, that same hint of panic in his voice as before.

Johnny has to lean over to glance at what he’s talking about.

It’s the marriage certificate form he’d painstakingly filled out nearly a month ago, and Simon’s pointing at the line that reads ‘Name after marriage’.

Written in Johnny’s keen script is: John MacTavish-Riley.

The other man stares at him accusatorily, now the one sputtering. “Johnny, what the fuck? I thought I told you not to take my name!”

Huffing indignantly, John counters with, “Well tha’ was my bloody decision, wasn’t it?”

“But I…but you…” Simon continues stammering, flipping to his own form. “But now they…don’t match.”

And hand to God—that might be the saddest little admission Johnny’s ever heard from him.

It’s even more affective seeing the man’s blunt handwriting spell out: Simon Riley MacTavish.

Oh…

Christ…he’d told himself no fuss today, but hell if there aren’t tears at the ready.

Johnny just rapidly blinks his eyes a few times, insisting, “You were the one tha’ said not ta change them!”

“Yeah, but I…I don’t fucking know…” Jesus, why does he have to sound so shy about it?

Still feeling his heart somewhere in the range of his trachea, John shakes his head. “Ach, dinnae fash, love, we can change yers now.”

“To what?”

“MacTavish-Riley, o’course.”

“Why should yours go first?”

And that’s enough to make Johnny scoff again, rolling his not-teary eyes. “Aye, it just…it looks better.”

“Oh, give your ‘ead a wobble.”

“Oi! I’ll fuckin’ stand by tha’! It just…flows more nicely, s’ppose.”

“Fine, ‘ave it your way.”

Thankfully, Simon has a pen on hand for just this occasion, but he continues griping upon the mess he’s about to make of their meticulous forms. “What am I supposed to fuckin’ do—scribble it out?”

He’s got a fair point, seeing as there’s no room to cram the ‘MacTavish’ in there like a last-minute, sloppy Scottish sandwich filling. Not that that’s something Johnny’s unwilling to try, in fact, it reminds him of that night after—

“Oi!” Simon shoves his elbow, breaking the sultry thought and alerting him to their current dilemma.

Glancing around the room in a sudden frantic burst, John leans over to the couple closest to them, muttering a tactless request. “Say, ye wouldn’t happen ta have any white-out, would ye?” he asks the unsuspecting chap, realizing how absurd that sounds as soon as he says it.

The guy just shrugs at him, something of a wry chuckle. “Nah, mate. Why, ya getting second thoughts?” It’s accompanied by a pointed look at the aforementioned jeans-t-shirt-tattoo-scowl combo.

Fuck you then, Johnny mentally endorses a swift divorce in the man’s future.

Turning back to his chosen disaster of a life-partner, John finds Simon has now encased his former name in a shroud of black, not unlike redacted text in a classified file. He watches the other man scratch out his new identity next to it, not bothering with neatness, but taking his time with the capital M and T.

Goddamnit…there’s that lump in Johnny’s throat again seeing him spell it out like that, and suddenly—

This whole thing feels real.

Holy shite…

They’re getting fucking married.   

“Well, it looks like shit, but what are ya gonna do?” Simon huffs, capping the pen and setting the papers back on his thigh.

Now struggling to keep the evidence of emotion from his voice, John just mumbles, “Ye fergot the hyphen.”

Simon blinks at him. “The fuck is a hyphen?”

“The…the in-between the names, ye need ta put the little tick.”

“Why?”

“’Cause tha’s wha’ I did.”

“But what’s the fuckin’ purpose of it?”

“I don’ actually know.”

“Then why should I put one?”

“Well, I thought ye wanted them tae match, fer Christ’s sake!” If he’d raised his voice a bit, it gets lost amongst the sobs of that poor groomless, flowerless bride. At least their own problems had been deftly sorted…

Simon grumpily uncaps the pen with his teeth, scratches in the appropriate dash, slips the thing back in his pocket and turns to Johnny with a raised glance.

And perhaps he’s just acknowledging that split-second fear he’d fostered before upon hearing the other man’s initial question, but Johnny returns it back to him now, just to be one hundred percent certain. “Are you sure about this?”

Expecting a solid answer from Simon Riley is a wasted effort, he’s come to learn in all their years.

But the other man reaching out and slotting his fingers through his—smirking at the ceiling as his hand gives a firm squeeze—feels worth all the grunts and monosyllables.

Aye. He’s inclined to agree.

They end up having to wait a bit more than they expected, but Johnny doesn’t really mind.

He’d headed down to London on Friday, the both of them still getting used to this long-distance arrangement, neither willing to confront the glaring issues thus far. Since Simon’s brief stay at his home in Scotland, they’d only managed to see each other once before in the past month. So, naturally, their next step had been to just get the marriage thing over and done with. 

Convenience, as they’d said. They’d have time to sort out all the rest later.

After the queue of couples starts winding down, there’s a buzz from Simon’s pocket, and he discreetly takes the call, one hand still dutifully holding Johnny’s.

“Affirmative. Yeah, that’s the one. Mnh. Right.”

It’s appallingly endearing to him now, Johnny would admit, the fact that he finds Simon’s blunt phone conversations one of his favorite things about him.

“Trouble at the office, dear?” he drawls, leaning into his side with a smirk.

Pocketing his mobile, Simon just mutters, “Garrick’s here.”

And Johnny blinks a few times before countering with an eloquent, “Um…what?”

“Said the traffic was a bitch, but he’s not entirely fuckin’ useless.”

Still shaking his head, Johnny questions further, “Naw, naw, back up—wha’ d’ye mean he’s here? I thought we weren’t tellin’ anyone?”

That had been the whole point of this ‘eloping’ nonsense, right? That they wouldn’t have to face any of those messier consequences yet, namely their family and friends finding out.

It had been easier for Simon to concede at the time—lucky bastard has no family left. Hell, he’d had Johnny listed as his next-of-kin for a year without him even knowing it.

“Yeah, but we need a fuckin’ witness don’t we?” Simon rationally explains, and huh—Johnny had completely forgotten about that.

Although, now that he’s thinking about it…

“Hang on—don’t we need two witnesses?”

And in immediate retaliation, the door to the hall opens, revealing the easy saunter of Kyle Garrick and one very out-of-place Sergeant Gary Sanderson.

Well, that’ll do it…

“Alright, Cap?” Gaz greets Simon first, quick to give a cursory handshake to his superior before pulling Johnny up out of his seat into a ridiculous hug. “Oi, there ‘e is!”

It hadn’t even been that long since he’d last seen him; Johnny’d visited base two weeks ago when he’d been down, pleased to find not much had changed in his absence; except, perhaps, for a new co-conspirator in barracks shenanigans.

Standing next to them, Sanderson doesn’t offer much in way of appearance. Tawny-haired, proper British pale and freckled. But in the brief encounters Johnny had had with him, he knows enough to chip away some of that unremarkable exterior.

“Nice to see you again, MacTavish,” the sergeant bashfully addresses, that hint of color in his face a reminder to them both that Johnny had caught the man belting out show-tunes in his underwear while peeking into his quarters during his previous stay.

It’s always the quiet ones, Johnny reckons.

“Sir,” Sanderson addresses his captain, giving Simon a stiff, wary nod.

“You’re off duty,” the older man reminds, huffing lightly as he guides Johnny back to his seat. “Ease the hell up.”

If anything, Gary drops his shoulders a centimeter. But Johnny catches his eye enough to toss him a wink, feeling almost like he’s passing the torch in a way—one uniquely mental sergeant for another.

He’s a good kid, if a bit twitchy. 

“So what’s this all about then?” Garrick asks, slipping his hands into the pockets of his shorts as he stands in front of them, coolly oblivious. “Need us to fudge your signature for summin, boss?”

Evidently, Simon had neglected to inform his subordinates of their current task. But Sanderson discreetly nudges his fellow sergeant in the arm, nodding at the hall.

It does take Gaz a comically long time to put two-and-two together, only snapping back to gawk at them after spotting that weeping bride in all her white, frilly glory.

“You’re fuckin’ with me!” is the man’s classy accusation. If they hadn’t been getting stares before…

Johnny just shrugs at him, eyes briefly directing to the clasped hand still around his. Simon doesn’t even bother grunting an affirmation.

“Get out!” Gaz sputters beautifully, scraping a palm up his clipped hair, reaching out to grasp them both in a handshake again. “Cheers, mates, fuckin’ congratulations and all that.”   

Failing to hide the grin on his face, John accepts a further handshake from Sanderson alongside his sincere, “Fancy that!”

“Not a fuckin’ word from either of ya,” Simon insists, imbuing it with his CO-voice enough to garner a faint shiver from Gary. “This is all just…diplomatic.”

Well, you wouldn’t catch Johnny swooning over that notion. But they’d given up any pretense of ‘romance’ as soon as Simon had curveballed that ring box at his head without even the courtesy of popping the damn question.

Yet a month later, here they are.

Thankfully, the room for their appointment clears out of its newlyweds soon thereafter, so Johnny lets Simon guide him to his feet, slipping the cane in his left grip to steady his gait, although it’s safe to say his step is a bit compromised at the moment due to the sudden bout of nerves.

There’s no walking down an aisle, though, no church bells, no weepy mother tucked against his arm.

And Johnny isn’t certain how he’s supposed to be feeling about all that, so he anchors himself to the strong palm in his, as they proceed with their very brief, diplomatic, convenient wedding ceremony.

The officiant is some dull balding man, but John finds it’s easy enough to drown him out, chiming in whenever he’s scripted to, Garrick and Sanderson respectfully standing off to the side, parade-rest with just the hint of a smirk between the two of them.  

Beside him, Simon stands in a rigid pose, finally free of his mask, though his face is still remarkably devoid of any trace of emotion.

And they say their bits, the ‘I am lawfully free to marry this man,’ and all that.

But when it comes to the point for Johnny to say the main line, he feels that pressure tighten in his throat again, and he struggles, even though the bald bastard recites it to him word-for-word and it’s his own bloody name in there.

“I, John MacTavish, take you, Simon Riley, to be my wedded husband.”

His eyes glaze over, a heavy exhale escaping him with the weight of it all. But he looks up and—

Simon’s smiling at him.

Very subtly. Just the tiniest tick at the corner of his scarred mouth.

And when he hears him say the same—

“I, Simon Riley, take you, Johnny MacTavish, to be my wedded husband.”

—he feels certain warmth in his chest, a secret for their hearts only.

Love, some might call it. Johnny’s still searching for a more intimate word.

They’d been given the option to add in personal sentiments, an exchange of vows if they were inclined, but neither of them thought it necessary.

‘I don’t need the fancy wedding, sweetheart’, he’d whispered into his lover’s bare shoulder two weeks ago. Not the flowers and the music. Not the doves flying.

No bells. No whistles.

Just that perfect smile.

And a hand that seeks his on instinct, fingers threading to bind them more surely than any words could.  

Johnny’s never been more sure in his entire life.

And just like that—the ceremony is over. Less than five minutes.

The officiant waves his hands at them, expressing in a perfunctory tone, “Congratulations to the happy couple.”

Unsurprisingly, Simon has a bit of a self-conscious stall, rubbing his palm over his mouth and squinting at the floor, while Gaz offers a low whistle behind them. “Go on then, boys. There’s s’pposed to be a kiss there, innit?”

Simon’s face gets even more flushed, a mutter of, “Bloody Christ…I’m not kissing you in front of Garrick…” as Johnny just chuckles at his embarrassment.

“Ain’t I here to be witnessing somethin’?” the sergeant teases.

“You’ll need witness protection if you don’t keep your fuckin’ face shut,” Simon growls.

Off duty or not, Sanderson knows a threat from his superior when he hears one, snapping back into a rigid stance, while Kyle insists, “Come off it, Cap! I’ve already seen ya plant one on him after that helicopter ride, eh?”

Another footnote in their unconventional history with romance. Was a cracking good kiss though, Johnny recalls.

“I told ya—not a word,” Simon grunts back, the officiant already clearing the space for the next couple.

Knowing his partner is now battling intimate mortification, John carefully coasts a hand up his chest, cradling it around his neck with a small whisper, “Hey.”

And Simon blinks down at him, lowering his palm a fraction.

“It’s just me, love.”

He watches the other man’s eyes, the way they cast over his whole face, dark and low, settling with deliberation on his lips.

It’s just us, goes unsaid.

Before Johnny can prepare himself, Simon sweeps an arm around his back, turning him so that they’re nearly huddled against the wall, as private as they’ll get.

And the kiss is achingly soft, pressed with care against his mouth, Simon’s whole body shielding him from the giddy onlookers.

Breathless, Johnny leans into it, barely more than a second, curling the edge into a smile as he tugs him closer.

Just this…

Behind them, he hears Gary clapping, a cheer from Kyle, not a hint of church bells or angels singing, but there might be something sacred ringing round them in this stuffy registry office in the middle of London.

To Johnny, it just sounds like the smallest, driest chuckle, hushed across his lips as Simon slowly pulls back.  

“Well done, lads,” Gaz congratulates, more handshakes passed around, clammy palms and pink-flushed faces.  

“Right. Let’s get on,” Simon says brusquely, tucking his arm through Johnny’s as he guides him back out the door.

That’s that sorted then.

Their post-wedding celebration consists of tracking down the nearest, cleanest-looking fish-and-chips shop, a round of drinks and fried food on the house, as Gaz brazenly blurts out, “Oi, my mates just got hitched!”, which very well could have been a battle cry in a less-accepting neighborhood, but Johnny and Simon accept the mediocre seafood with the relief that they hadn’t needed to fist fight any potential bigots.

They press in close to one another in the sticky booth, Johnny still caught in a state of half bliss, half bewilderment.

He doesn’t quite know how to feel at the moment, but he’d chalk it up to the novelty of this whole thing.

His wedded husband…shite, that’d take a while to get used to…

Kyle and Gary have a minor squabble over the acceptable amount of vinegar—John sides with Sanderson, can never have too much—and Simon huffily offers his opinion on condiments—"Doesn’t fuckin’ matter as long as it’s not that gluten-free shit,”—says the man who thinks unfiltered pea-water is a culinary staple.

And then Sanderson has the gall to ask, “Neither of you are vegan, right?”

“Nah, he’s a Scorpio,” Simon grunts, leaving Johnny cackling into his chips.

As far as feasts go, they’ve had worse; army boys for you.

But for further consolation—there are no MacTavishes to fend off, no mam to sneer at for fussing over the tacky venue, no sisters to roll his eyes at over obnoxious comments, no unintelligible interruptions from granda.

Yet as Johnny rubs his arm against Simon’s, lightly chuckling while Sanderson starts making an abstract art piece with his napkins, he can’t help but feel…

Not unsatisfied, no, not with the warmth that spreads through his whole chest, the gratification of signing their names in the same document, hyphen and all. 

It’s just…

There are no MacTavishes making a scene, no da clapping Simon on the shoulder, no nieces running around their shins, giggling over why they keep holding hands…

“Y’alright?” Simon mutters close to his ear after the meal, intuitive as ever, brushing his thumb in a loose circle around Johnny’s wrist.

“Mn-hm,” John mumbles, and to prove it, he presses his forehead against the other man’s briefly, a small kiss to his temple.

“That’s our cue, bruv,” Garrick says to his fellow sergeant. “Reckon we oughtta let these lovebirds get on with it.”

It becomes strikingly apparent as the two of them make their way back to Simon’s flat that it’s only about three-thirty.

A five-minute ceremony and a swing by the local chippy really don’t carry an afternoon, sadly.

Simon fumbles with his keys for a moment before entering the apartment, not even a cheeky joke about lifting Johnny over the threshold.

They stand there for a bit, hesitant, the older man adjusting the thermostat, Johnny simply skirting around the kitchen on his cane.

And when they meet somewhere in the region of the living room, an awkward chuckle escapes them both, this weird timidity accenting what they’d just gone and accomplished.

“Whaddya wanna do?” Simon asks stupidly, Johnny now coming closer to him, letting his cane rest against the sofa to free up his hands.

Feeling a rush of nerves like he’s a bloody virgin about to get lucky, Johnny just tilts his head at him, chewing his bottom lip.

It’s actually not all that difficult to come to a conclusion.

Stepping into Simon’s personal space, slotting an arm around his hips, John decides, “Wannae kiss my husband proper.”

And to see the flush of perfect pink climb the other man’s neck, the way he arches downward a touch, lips parted—Johnny’s nerves dissipate into unquestionable heat.

He drives his mouth up, catching the arch of Simon’s lips, hands snaking into threads of close-cropped blond.

And Simon lets him in, melting with the passion of it, a dry gasp as his lungs stutter, no need to be soft for privacy’s sake. 

It’s quite the kiss, if Johnny says so himself.

They take it slow, feeling each other out, Johnny dipping in with his tongue, salt and vinegar, stroking Simon’s thick neck between his hands.

The realization does catch up—that this is his husband.

Simon Talmadge MacTavish Hyphen Riley, his bloody fucking husband.

And like that giddy, blushing teenager, Johnny giggles as he pulls back from making out, tucking his forehead against the taller man’s sternum, the pressure in his throat more a trapped prayer than a lump by this point, that vow he’d never speak aloud.

What he does manage to say is hardly adequate to spell what his heart is feeling, but it’s standard enough.

“I love you,” he mutters, a breathless exhale that he buries in the other man’s clavicle.

Even now, he doesn’t say it in hopes of hearing it returned.

Because Simon’s breathing becomes heavier, the thrum of his heartbeats a better indicator of his wordless emotions, of the promise he’s still too afraid to confess.

Instead, he tightens his hold around Johnny, arms squeezing almost painfully. Then he brings up a rigid palm to the back of his head, drawing it firmly against his chest.

And there’s a pattern to his exhales that Johnny knows well enough to read as: I don’t deserve you.

I don’t deserve to say it too.

But he lets Simon hold him like that, his face pressed against the side of his temple, breathing in the scent of his hair, arms cradling and tightening simultaneously, as if Johnny is both the most precious and most dangerous thing in the living room.

They find their way to bed eventually.

And Johnny undoes his lover’s belt, strips off that standard-issue t-shirt to reveal the expanse of pale, battered skin he knows and loves, sprawled out beneath him on the mattress; home, if there ever were such a place.

They’re hardly out of practice, but something about it feels like the first time again. There’s a carefulness, a curiosity. As if they’re discovering each other in this new, more permanent light.

To have and to hold…

Johnny takes his time, carving a path with his hands and lips, Simon grasping at his hair to keep him still enough to breathe his name in his ear.

For better, for worse…

They roll a bit so that their limbs tangle in the sheets, chests pressed together, neither taking the reins in an effort to just see where their bodies lead them.

In sickness, in health…

Simon ghosts a palm along Johnny’s spine, kissing up his neck to distract him, to draw away from the fact that his fingers still count every stitch, a tally in his head that reminds them both how close they’d been. To losing all of this.

Until death do us part…

Johnny traces skulls and barbed wire and flames across the ink of the arm that holds him tight, but it’s easy to let them all fade into a fevered blur, his eyes shutting as Simon starts doing something sinful with his hands, grasping up and down, in and out, to love and to cherish…

And if either of them had vows to pledge, it’s nothing a few desperate moans can’t cover better.

Johnny ends up getting quite an earful, so to speak, his lover becoming uncharacteristically vocal about his affections after some creative turns. Hitched grunts, curses, the softest of sighs, his name alongside God’s, as if they were equals in their will over him.

They give and take, testing out this newfound commitment; MacTavish-Riley, a package deal.

Three-thirty, as it turns out, gives them just enough time to waste away the rest of the day.   

When Johnny leaves on the early train Monday morning, he watches Simon stand there on the platform, waiting till he’s just a tiny speck in the distance.

It hurts just as much, if not more.

But they’d figure it out.

His father picks him up from the station in Dundee, and when he asks his son, “So what did ye’s get up to then?” all Johnny has to say is:

“Not much.”

“Aye,” Jack acknowledges. “Hope ye gave ‘im our love.”

It does something to that guilt he’d been adamantly refusing to name, his body slumping a bit further in his seat, feeling the cold metal of the hidden ring pressing against his chest.

But he says nothing.

And he just leaves it at that.

Johnny really can’t pin down why exactly he’s keeping this whole thing secret.

Maybe it’s that inherent urge to keep everything to himself, a tactic he’d employed for much of his life, especially in regard to his sexuality.

He really does hate having to explain himself.

But to the surprise of no one, it doesn’t take long at all for the cat to find its way out of the bag.

Scottish summers are a stark contrast to the bleak, dull clutch of winter, and even then—they’ve not got much sunshine to bank on.

But maybe it’s a particularly fortuitous year, because John finds himself in high spirits for much of June and July, a recent ‘job opportunity’ giving him an excuse to enjoy being outdoors as much as he’s able, working on the easy tan he’d always been blessed with.

Through an unforeseen set of circumstances, Johnny had been appointed as the unlikely coach of Jessie’s kiddie football team. Turns out the previous chump had had enough of the screaming brats—and his screaming sister, for that matter—so after his niece had tearfully revealed that their team would be disbanded, John had taken up the mantle himself.

Not that he fancies himself an athletic expert, what with the fact that he’s half-crippled and has to deliver most of his instructions with his cane pointing out various techniques, but it had been worth it to see little Jessie run around the house with glee, shouting “Coach Soap! Coach Soap!”

And for further incentive—they’d managed to drag Agatha along as well, his eldest niece reluctant to join a sport that is, “Really rather styoopid,” in her words, but something that gets the both of them to play along together under Johnny’s supervision.

Well, them and a dozen other mismatched children.

Besides Midge McDuffie’s notoriously whiny grandson Archie, there’s a pair of twins called Lilli and Dani, who are more interested in braiding each other’s hair, one of Mrs. Harrison’s brood by the name of Alex, who’d clearly rather be doing anything else, a local kid who goes by ‘Scooty’, which becomes apparent with their tendency to scoot around the field on their bottom, a quiet lass called Christine who'd taken to collecting bits of moss she finds interesting and hiding them in Johnny’s pockets, Emmy, Kell, Kerry and Evie, who are all vying for the professionals, apparently, if judging by the fierce rivalry they’ve committed to, each more eager to sabotage the other than actually improve their own skills, which inevitably leaves Johnny having to separate all four to different corners of the pitch.

To top it off, he’d given this gang of muppets the high honor of getting to name the team, so now they’re called the ‘Ultra Otters’, with the squad mascot being a bunny, and the group chant a ridiculous howl that reflects neither otter nor bunny, but seems to keep the morale high enough.

He’d admit to being in over his head most days, but honestly—John does get a hoot out of watching the rascals kick about.

The only main concern is the attention it gets him.

Most of the parents know him as Aggie and Jess’s uncle, or even Jack and Elaine’s boy. But some of them had taken to viewing him in an entirely different light, specifically the single mothers of the bunch. 

And, well, as things go in a small town—his eligibility status soon becomes a target.

Two of the mothers are permanent fixtures in the stands already, going so far as to linger for the entire practice just to ‘oversee’ behind his back. Just the other day, Kell's mam had come up to thank him personally for teaching her daughter how to perform a header—hadn’t been that hard, really, he’d just tossed a ball at the kid’s head for a half hour. But she’d gripped his arm quite pointedly and offered to buy him a drink, even after he’d politely tried to brush her off.  

“Oh, they’re fuckin’ slobberin’ over ye,” Ruth had confirmed, picking Jessie up after one of their games, having slyly overheard some of the chatter in between her screeches from the sidelines. “Bloody disgustin’ if ye ask me, gonnae give me the boke.”

His sister’s opinion of him notwithstanding, Johnny really doesn’t know how to handle this sudden boost to his ego.

As such, another one of them appears to be trying to catch his attention in the car park as they make their exit. But thankfully, Jessie causes an opportune distraction when she trips her pal Archie, running off to leave the poor nugget crying again, with Ruth calling after her, “Oi, ye radge wee shite!”

That’s enough to keep the attention off his own back, for once.

Simon, ironically, thinks the whole thing is hilarious.

“I’m seeerious, mate,” Johnny whines over his phone, defeatedly lying in bed. “These lasses are out fer me!”

“Slim pickin’s up there, from what I remember.”

“Oi, you!”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Johnny, half of those birds only want you for your disability pension.”

There are several creative insults tossed back and forth after that, until sleepiness gets the better of them both, Johnny softly hushing, “Night, my love,” into his mobile and switching off the lights.

Miles and miles apart, and the answer still lies right above his heart.

So for their next practice session, Johnny slips the gold ring off the chain around his neck, and nips at least one issue in the bud.

He can’t help marveling at how it catches the sunlight, and how quickly it shuts those curious mothers up as soon as they catch a glimpse of the thing on his finger.

Like a fucking target on his six; abort, abort, do not engage.

Johnny’s careful to only wear it during practice, but after taking his two nieces and some of their teammates to the ice cream parlor—a recent tradition that sees them as regular customers once again—he gets a kind of cheeky urge to spill some beans.

“Likesay, girls, can ye keep a secret for me?” He chuckles at the way both of them peek their heads up from the comically large sundae they’re sharing, eager little nods.

Johnny brazenly flashes his ring at them, knowing the significance is likely lost.

“Tha’s very bonnie, Uncle John,” Agatha asserts, while Jessie squints at it with disinterest, turning back to slurping ice cream like a feral cat.

“Aye, but d’ye know what it means?” he teases further, now fully committing to it.

Aggie quirks her mouth, contemplating, before shaking her head.

He leans in closer, mindful of keeping his elbows clear from the mess on the countertop, half an eye on Archie, whose grandmam is one of his mother’s closest friends, though the rascal seems to be occupied with spilling half his treat down his top. 

“Means I’m married,” John whispers to the two girls, watching their reactions as it registers.

Jessie tilts her whole head sideways, eyebrows scrunched. “Nu-uh!”

Aggie’s argument has far more substance, “Tha’ cannae be true, Uncle Johnny! Ye didnae wear a white dress or nothin’!”

Nearly choking on his own milkshake, Johnny chuckles at her. “Dosnae mean I’m not married, hen.”

“So who didja get ta marry ye?” Jessie asks, still looking like she’s more interested in claiming the majority of their shared sundae. 

He leans in even closer, elbows be damned. “Uncle Ghost.”

Both girls exchange looks at that, Agatha crying out, “Tha’s no fair! I wanted ta marry Uncle Ghost!”

“Naw, I was gonnae!” Jessie insists, and Johnny’s too busy cackling into his straw to intercede in their minor row.

That’s another ego boosted, then.

Before he can properly swear them to secrecy, Archie starts crying because, “Lilli knocked my ice cream, Coach Soap!” even though he’d seen the clumsy lad drop it himself, and then there’s more mess to clean, more tears to dry, but Johnny can’t help grinning for the rest of the day, only dropping it when he slips the ring back off his finger.

The next to find out is more accidental.

He’d been taking to meeting up with Shelly Kirkland at the local gym or town pool, a motivating workout partner if there ever was one, as the lass likes betting on who can do the most laps, and Christ—she’s got some arms on her.

He needs the exercise though, relishing the opportunity to restore some of that lost muscle mass, while also providing some relief to his gammy spine. Plus it’s good craic to splash around a bit. 

And here Johnny had been relying on his friend’s courtesy and the fact that she’s a lesbian for her not to be checking him out in the locker room, but as he slips his shirt off for their latest backstroke rematch, he hears a hum of curiosity.

“Wha’s tha’ then?” Shelly’s standing right in front of him, hands on hips, nodding at the ring looped across the dog-tags on his neck.

There goes pulling the gay card…

“Nothin’,” he tries, receiving an arched brow that confirms he’s full of shite. “Jus’…mighta got meself a husband, or summin,” he mumbles, failing to keep the warm blush from his face.

“Who’s he, tha’ blond gadge of yers?”

“Aye.”

“Well done, you,” Shelly congratulates. “Quite the catch, is he?”

Well, Johnny would certainly say so, as would both his nieces.

“Gives ye someone ta go cryin’ to after I leave yer arse in the dust. Now, let’s get on wi’ it, Tavvy.”

And sure enough, the woman outperforms him once again. But maybe Johnny had been a bit distracted with the ridiculous giddiness he’d felt saying it out loud again.

He does call Simon later, not to whinge his loss, just to hear him pick up with a dry, “Yeah?” and to respond with:

“How are you today, Mr. MacTavish-Riley?”

He’s certainly not giggling like a schoolgirl in his bed, no…

His next confession is more for practicality’s sake.

Writing club had still been a weekly staple, but if any of the members noticed a difference in their token broody not-poet since that first week of June, they’d just chalked up his increasingly romantic passages to a change in style.

But really, it’s…getting out of hand.

His last sample had surely been steamy enough to be mass-marketed with one of those shirtless beefcake covers, to the point where young Maisy had subtly inquired afterward if he’d ever been inclined to dabble in erotica.

You used to have self-respect, mate, he tells himself, penning another ‘ode to long legs and blond lashes’ in his misspent free time.

Alice is the one to make him break first, his closest confidant. John’s honestly guilty that he’d withheld it from her for this long, nearly a month at that.

“Ye’re glowin’, Johnny, dear,” she remarks, as the two of them take their weekly walk around the park after club, a less intense exercise than the one with Shelly.  

“I married Simon,” he blurts out, bold as you please.

The woman stops in her tracks, turning to face him with a wide-eyed expression.

John just shakes his head bashfully, slipping his arm through hers to continue skirting around the hedges of juniper into the shade, his face surely crimson by now.

“Well, that’s very sneaky of ye,” Alice claims, a grin in her voice as she tugs his arm with a loving pat.

“Aye, we couldnae tell ye ‘cause the whole thing was top-secret.”

“Is tha’ so, dear?”

“Mn-hm, very high-stakes, do or die, like. I don’t even have the clearance ta be tellin’ ye this.”

Alice giggles lightly, shaking her head as they continue their walk. “I imagine there was lots’a gunfire an’ explosions, no doubt.”

“Aye, turns out the ring-bearer was packin’ a live grenade! You try sayin’ ‘I do’ in those conditions, bloody nerve-wrackin’, I’d say.”

It feels like instant relief, one more load off his chest, even if all Johnny wants to do is sit down and write sappy, sappy poetry all day…

When he next sees Simon at the end of the month, he’s sure to pass on Alice’s well wishes, alongside a sample of her famous tablet and a reminder that he’s missed.

Telling Greg next hadn’t really been John’s intention, but it just happened to come up.

Arriving at an impulsive decision that first week in July, Johnny asks his brother-in-law, as discreetly as he can, to help him look into a…real-estate-related issue.

Eager as ever, Greg ends up taking him round to a few potential listings, being reliable enough not to ask too many questions, bless him.

It had been a bit of a wake-up call for Johnny after the anniversary of his accident had come and gone—this notion that he really can’t be expected to live with his parents forever.

Not that he doesn’t appreciate all their efforts—in fact, he’d consider them all closer than ever, fussiness aside.

But perhaps they’d been getting too close.

That red flag had really started waving after his father had entertained the idea of starting his own band again (at the age of sixty-six, mind) and Johnny and his mother had immediately, at the exact same time in the exact same tone, exclaimed, “Have ye lost yer bloody heid?!” He swears his life nearly flashed before his eyes.

Aye, John had taken from Elaine enough in his looks, he could do without the identity crisis over having any more similarities.

It’s just as well—he’s thirty fucking years old and it’s high time he had a place of his own.

And Greg is happy to accommodate, offering to show him some options in a few areas, nothing too far from the family home.

Right now, besides the obvious issue of his partner living over four hundred miles away, his main concern is the…health thing.

It had become apparent during his last visit with Simon, after a minor scare that left them both a bit rattled, that Johnny really shouldn’t be living on his own.

He’d known it, admittedly, that he still requires assistance with certain things, as there’s always the risk of falling or being unfit to walk some days.

But it’s scary having to acknowledge that he’s unable to completely take care of himself. And it’s not something he likes addressing, even on the other side of that one-year mark, that he’d likely need aid for the rest of his life.  

“Some of these more recently-renovated homes have some handy built-in features,” Greg is saying, going over a narrowed-down list as Johnny nods absentmindedly. “Open floor plans, accessible bathrooms. We’ve got a few ones with handrails an’ such, y’know, ‘cause them elderly folk are keen on tha’.”

His brother-in-law sends a winced glance his way, quickly backtracking, “Aye, no’ tha’ ye’ll be wantin’ ta go fer summin like a nursin’ home. I’m sure we can find ye a proper bachelor pad, eh?”

Johnny just snorts at his blunder, but he finds himself admitting, “Thing is…I’m not…strictly a bachelor.”

Quite the contrary, in fact.

And Greg sputters even further, respectful enough to not make a fuss, but he offers to buy Johnny a drink, good lad, and they agree to keep looking into it.

Too bad the man isn’t so considerate in his confidentiality.

Because the very next morning, Johnny gets a frantic phone call from his sister Caroline, a screech in his ear that sounds like, “Whaddya mean ye’re fuckin’ married?!”

He ends up meeting Caro for brunch at some joint near her work just to explain himself, and to have her spell out—completely seriously, and quite menacingly—the list of terms she’d compiled that he’s to deliver to Simon, of which the underlying sentiment expresses: if you hurt my fucking brother I’ll kill you myself :)  

It’s…sweet, in a way. Even if he’s positive Simon will view this as a declaration of war, just another tally against him in the MacTavish family echelon.

Yet Johnny knows he can trust Caroline enough to keep the secret from mam, as she’d been the main one he’d been trying to evade all this time, being the highest-ranked family member and all, bloody tyrant.  

But to see his sister look at him like that, taking both his hands and saying, “God, Johnny. Why didn’t ye say anythin’?” makes him question why he’d even done it this way in the first place. 

“I…I dunno, Caro. I just…”

He’d assumed it would be easier. To keep pretending, maybe, that things would just fall into place on their own.

“I guess I thought that it only had ta mean somethin’ to the two of us. Didnae wannae get anyone else involved.”

He can see it flash in her eyes, something like disappointment. But she quickly converts it into a small smile. “Are ye happy, darlin’?”

There’s that heat in his cheeks again, his biggest saboteur. The grin fights its way onto Johnny’s face before he can help it, exposing him as the sap he’d always been. “Yeah,” he mumbles, trying to play it off, but Caro gives him a nudge with her elbow, and he finds himself adding, “I’m so fuckin’ in love with him it’s embarrassin’.”

Just to substantiate that claim, he covers his face again, still grinning with all his teeth when Caroline teases, “My baby brother’s a right softie, he is.”

That’s for sure.

He lets his sister wrap him in a tight hug, grateful for her support, even when she kisses his temple and mutters, “I’ll still murder him if he mistreats ye, aye?”

Maybe keeping Simon a healthy four hundred miles away had been a safe bet, now that he’s thinking about it…

His younger sister finds out in the most Ruth way possible.

Still maintaining the charade of ‘bonding’, the woman insists on dragging John along to various appointments and shopping trips as a chance for them to spend ‘quality time’.

This current joyous occasion consists of Johnny getting half-high on hairspray fumes as Ruth scorns his lack of advice on whether getting a shorter fringe is a good or bad idea during her latest turn at the hair salon. 

And when she soon gets bored waiting for the blow-dry to finish, the nosy wench abruptly snatches his hand out of nowhere, squinting at it with scrutiny.

“Christ, Johnny, yer fate line’s snakier than the Tay, no wonder ye dinnae have any direction in life.”

John huffs, blessedly oblivious as to whatever nonsense she’s on about to properly be insulted.

His sister takes some time dissecting his palm—he has ‘earth hands’, apparently—but when she asks for the left one, there’s an unexpected discovery that has little to do with divination.

“Oi!” Ruth exclaims, yanking his hand up to point accusatorily at the offending appendage. “Keepin’ secrets, are we?”

And sure enough—there’s a thin, pale line around Johnny’s ring finger.

So much for only wearing it at practice; damn his ability to tan so easily!

Ruth, in a rare display of maturity, doesn’t give him too much shite over it. Just a few words of congratulations and a sly, “Ye’ll be pleased ta know tha’ yer heart line’s quite long and deep,” whatever the fuck that means.

But it’s nice to have her seal of approval, as it were.

It’s a shame the same can’t be said for the shorter fringe, which ends up being a very big mistake after all.

As far as his secret slowly being unraveled MacTavish by MacTavish, Johnny can’t decide whether it’s better or worse that his mother is the last to find out.

It’s nearing the middle of July, so he’d had a good run. But it was only a matter of time before his own stupidity could claim victory and spill it all out in the open.

He’s currently sprawled out on the couch in shorts and a t-shirt, one of the hottest days of the year so far. Beneath him, Aggie and Jessie are playing ‘army robots’ on the floor, and Frankie is sat up on his chest as he attempts to get the wee lad to learn how to clap.

Absently, he hears his father come in from the kitchen, a call of, “Dropped by the post, think tha’ newsletter’a yers came, Lanie. Summin fer ye as well, John.”

Johnny grunts in acknowledgment, still more occupied with getting his young nephew to cooperate. “C’mon, ye monkey, I know ye can do it.”

Frankie just gives a short giggle, drooling down his chin as Johnny wipes it away with the corner of his t-shirt.

It strikes him just a moment too late, the realization that while he hadn’t been overly eager to collect his mail, someone else is nosy enough to intercede on his behalf.

Suddenly remembering the letter he’s expecting, Johnny jolts from the couch, nearly knocking poor Frankie before setting him upright. But he turns his head to find his mother is already standing there at the counter, an envelope torn in her snooping hands.

“Johnny, babes…wha’s this?” she accuses, her eyes blowing wide as she takes in the contents of the new bank card he’d just ordered. The one that has his updated name—John MacTavish-Riley—spelled out like a warrant for his bloody arrest with the way his mother is gaping at it.

“I…uh…”

“Wha’ have ye gone an’ done, child?”

Slipping shakily to his feet, Johnny tries to hold up his hands; a weak defense, seeing as he can’t walk properly without his cane. Nevertheless, he’s rooted in place with the severity of his mother’s stare.

“I was…meanin’ ta tell ye,” he tries, already wincing.

“Tell me what?!” she squawks, flashing the card at him with further accusation. “Wha’ the devil have ye done, Johnny?!”

Eyes now close to bulging, Elaine seeks out her two daughters, Caro and Ruth sitting behind her in the kitchen with twin expressions of apprehension.

“Easy, mam, it was his decision to make,” Caroline defends, but that just incites their mother to spit more fire.

“So all of ye’s knew then?!” she barks, causing Ruth to try to hide her guilty eyes behind her too-short fringe, unsuccessfully. “All behind my back, the lot of ye’s!”  

Just to further condemn him, Johnny’s father returns to the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder. “Wha’s tha’ then, Lane?” And he squints at the shiny new bank card, brows raised. “Ah, I see. Was wonderin' when ye'd find out as well.”

And Elaine turns accusatorily to her husband the second Johnny does, both of them shouting out, “Wha’dye bloody mean?!” at the same time.

Jack just backs up a step, trying that same hands-up maneuver his son had just failed, flinching when his wife asks again, “How did you know an’ I didnae?”

“He told me,” da states matter-of-factly.

And Johnny rounds on him now, equally baffled. “Naw I didn’t!” As far as he can recall, he’d not slipped up in front of da yet, banking on his inherently oblivious nature.

“Not you, boy,” his father clarifies. “Simon.”

The expressions on both John and Elaine’s faces must be further evidence of their uncanny relation, identical looks of befuddlement.

“Aye, yeah,” Jack explains nonchalantly. “Been ringin’ him now an’ then. First just ta ask ‘im ‘bout the bike, likesay, but then we just got ta talkin’.” 

“Y-you…” Johnny stutters, completely thrown for a loop, “you’ve been talkin’ with Simon?”

“Aye, he’s good conversation,” da says, shrugging as if it’s no big deal.

Already wobbly without his cane, Johnny all but flops backward into the side of the couch, while mam continues stirring up a monumental fuss on his behalf. “My son! My own son gets married an’ no one has the decency ta tell me!”

“Pipe down, ye bat,” Caro tries, but it’s too late now.

Johnny covers his whole face with his hand as the waterworks come out, lots of, “How could ye do this to me?!” and “Dinnae ye even care about yer mother’s poor heart, John?!”

He just slumps further back onto the couch, grumbling out half-excuses, but Elaine completes her tirade by storming from the room, the only thing to accentuate the slam of her bedroom door little Frankie giving the scene a tiny round of applause, cheeky rascal.

Surprisingly, it only takes about three minutes for her to show her face again. After catching a few commiserating looks from his siblings and a dubious squint from da, Johnny burrows his face further in the couch cushion as he hears his mother return, a small sniffle and request. “I’d like his number,” she says to her husband, not even looking in Johnny’s direction.

“Who, love?” Jack asks, ignoramus extraordinaire.

“Simon,” she states, with a more exaggerated sniffle. “My new son-in-law!” And she completes it with an over-the-top sob that has both her daughters scoffing behind her back.

Rolling off the couch again, John shakes his head adamantly. “Oi, tha’ is not a good idea.”

He’d have no warning to give the man of the shitstorm coming his way, no way to protect him. But Elaine simply scowls at him, reaching out her hand for the house phone.

And Johnny and Jack linger outside her bedroom door as she makes that call, neither of them man enough to try to talk her out of it.

It’s nerve-wracking, to say the least, especially because there’s little snooping to be done with how eerily quiet his mother’s voice is on the other side of the door.

Jack claps a hand on his shoulder, though, five minutes in. And John peeks up at him with a guilty cast to his brow, muttering, “Ye coulda told me you knew.”

His father snorts at that, reminding, “Aye, an’ ye coulda told me as well.”

Fair.

“Wha’ the hell do you an’ Simon even talk about anyway?” Now that’s a conversation that he’d be having later, on top of the more…pressing concerns.

“Eh, bits an’ bobs, y’know. Been helpin’ me come up with a name fer my new band.”

Steamin’ fuckin’ Jesus…

Johnny can’t help the small laugh that leaves his lips, the absurdity of this whole thing finally catching up.

To be fair, it doesn’t take too long for that door to crack open again, a very reserved Elaine exiting her bedroom to return the house phone to its spot by the fridge.

And Johnny trails after her like a hopeless puppy, Jack slipping him his cane so he doesn’t faceplant on the tiles and have to crawl, further selling his patheticness.  

“So…um…” God, he sounds like a bloody fourteen-year-old; similar to that time he’d told his parents of his plan to join the army, having to practice to make his voice convincingly deep enough. “Uh…wha’ did ye say?”

Elaine takes a moment setting the phone back in its cradle, but when she turns, there’s an odd nonchalance to her expression that Johnny doesn’t trust for a second.

“Nothin’ much, dear,” she says. “Just gave him my well wishes, some advice.”

Advice, now that’s the one Johnny’s worried about.

“A-and wha’ did he say?” Christ, he’s nearly two decades past puberty, why is his voice cracking now?

His mother simply tilts her head, still eerily calm. “He said some very lovely things about you, which was nice ta hear.”

Squinting suspiciously at her, John stammers, “Th-that was all?”

The small ‘Mn-hmn’ does little to placate his current paranoia, well aware of the contrasting personalities of Simon Riley and Elaine MacTavish to mistrust any semblance of civil conversation between them.

But his mother doesn’t offer further explanation, so Johnny is forced to count it as a win, at least in terms of damage control for the time being.

Predictably, he gets even less from Simon when he calls him later that night.  

“So how’d the tongue-lashing go? She tear ye a new one?”

“Dunno what you’re on about, Johnny.”

“Aye, c’mon, let’s hear it,” he goads. “Should I be expectin’ divorce papers with the next post?”

There’s the tiniest scoff through the receiver. “We had a very reasonable discussion.”

Now it’s Johnny’s turn to huff, shaking his head at the other man, regardless of the miles between them. “Aye, right.”

“I’m serious. Your mother is an honest woman, and you should treat her with respect.”

“Christ, she got ta ye good.” He has to wonder if her methods of passive-aggression were that potent even over the phone.

Shaking his head, he adds, “An’ what’s all this about you chummin’ around with da?”

He can practically see Simon’s careless shrug from the other end. “Nowt much to say.”

“Suuure. You an’ Jack Mac, thick as thieves, eh?”

“Dunno what the issue is.”

“Oh, come off! Ye gonnae join his band, are ye?”

“Hardly,” the other man drawls. “Wants me to be manager.”

Covering his eyes with a chuckle, John rolls onto his stomach, wishing his partner was right beside him so he could deliver a cheeky kick to his shin.

“When didja tell him ‘bout the weddin’ then?” he asks.

There’s a short pause, Simon undoubtedly chewing his lip, before, “Day after.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny grumbles, not at all surprised. “I thought we were try'na keep my bloody family outta this shite…”

“Don’t really see the point.”

“Aye, tha’s easy fer you ta say. Ye’re not the one tha’ has ta deal with all the tears and naggin’. Like a goddamn circus troupe, I tell ye.”

“Oi! They’re good people, you ungrateful fuck,” Simon chides, and it’s a callback to something he’d said previously. Right before he’d left after Christmas, about how he was glad for Johnny’s family being there to take care of him.

And all at once, John is ambushed with the full extent of how much of an idiot he really is.

Because he’d made that decision—to keep this whole thing between the two of them, without his family’s involvement—but he’d never even asked Simon.

How rash and selfish and cruel to deny the man he’d sworn himself to that same connection, to the people he ought to be sharing instead of withholding.

Typical fuckin' idiot, MacTavish…

Now he has to wonder about the ‘very lovely things’ Simon might’ve said about him to his mother on the phone.

Before he can adequately attempt to put it into words, the other man offers a dry exhale in his ear. “Listen—we might be arrangin’ something soon, bit of a land navigation exercise.”

“Ah, ye're takin’ the boys on a field trip then?” Johnny teases, despite the ache he feels in his gut. They hardly ever talk about Simon’s work.

“God knows they bloody need the fresh air. Base’s like a fuckin’ petting zoo.”

Johnny chuckles at that, still feeling a weird sort of guilt. “Hey, if it gets you out of the office, aye?”

Since his previous injury on assignment, Simon had been mostly relegated to desk work, at least until his broken arm had sufficiently healed.

He had gone into the field once this month though; a small job, as far as Johnny had been told, in all his lack of clearance.

Evidently, they’re still figuring out what to do about his ‘disability’ status.

Another topic he’d rather not discuss at the moment.

“Been going over it with brass, think we can coordinate something in August,” Simon continues. “There’s a private military base somewhere up in the Cairngorms, Price knows a guy. Get our boys some high-altitude training, yeah? Keep ‘em from goin’ moldy in this fuckin’ heat.”

The significance of the location is not lost on Johnny. He rolls onto his back again, humming lightly into the phone. “The Cairngorms, eh? Quite lovely this time of year.”

“So I’m told,” Simon drawls, a hint of a smirk somewhere in there.

Surely it can’t be considered a coincidence—picking a destination that’s practically right on Johnny’s doorstep. Not a bad field trip at all.  

“Should be fairly busy with the FTX prep, but I’ll find an excuse to pop by.”

“Aye, sure, an excuse.” As if the man hadn’t explicitly planned this whole training exercise with a certain pit stop in mind, sly bastard.

“Well, I’ll be hard-pressed not to,” Simon says. “Your mum said she wants to see me.”

“Now that’s a scary thought.” Still, Johnny can’t help but find it hopelessly endearing, this notion that Simon might only be inclined to visit because Elaine MacTavish had commanded him to.

Jesus…what else must the wench have told him in that phone call? Johnny shudders to think.

They chatter back and forth a bit, Simon clueing him in on a few more details of this impromptu trip. And Johnny tells him about his day, all the boring shite that has no real resemblance to the important work his partner is doing. But it still feels like they’re sharing something.

And when Johnny turns back onto his stomach, glancing at the late hour, his small acknowledgment comes out sadder than he’d like.  

“I miss you,” he mumbles into the phone, his heart aching very pointedly over it.

“Your hand better not be down your shorts, MacTavish.”

Rolling his eyes with a huff, Johnny can’t help but grin as he presses his chin into the pillow below him. “Here I was try’na be sweet…”

“Dunno what for. Nowt much to miss about some cranky old shit like me.”

Another scoff, fonder than the last. “I dunno, mate, you're supposed ta be ‘good conversation’.”

“Fuckin’ bet.”

They linger, as they do most nights, just muffled breaths exchanged over radio waves, nothing at all to say.

But as Johnny snuggles deeper into his sheets, about ready to turn off the lights, he gets a goodnight kiss for his troubles.

“I miss you too,” Simon mumbles, impossibly soft.

Johnny keeps the phone by his ear all night.

Seeing as the secret is out, John sees no real reason to keep tiptoeing around his family anymore.

In an ironic turn, though, the same can’t be said for them.

About four days after the reveal, Johnny returns home a bit early from his swimming session with Shelly to find all of his relatives huddled in the living room, rightfully suspicious.

“There’s always the Green Crown,” da is saying, as Johnny skirts his way around the kitchen counter on his cane, amused that no one’s noticed he’s there yet.

“Are ye daft?” Ruth hisses back, shaking her head. “We cannae have it there, it’s a shitehole.”

“Wha’? I thought tha’ was where we had all yer communions.”

“Exactly,” Caro concurs. “Tha’s no’ really the vibe we’re goin’ for, is it?”

“Shitehole,” Ruth enunciates, da shaking his head in defeat.

“Wha’ would be really grand is havin’ it over at Glamis Castle,” mam contributes, and both her daughters nod emphatically while Jack groans.

“Made’a money, are we? Naw, we’ll be needin’ summin a bit more practical.”

“Well, we’ve still got quite a bit from tha’ winnin’ ticket of yers, dearie,” Elaine adds, referring to the lucky lottery numbers da had drawn a few weeks ago, a decent pot of around three thousand pounds. “Might as well make the most of it.”

“Aye, an’ tha’ was meant tae be fer our savin’s,” Jack grumbles. “Not ta blow it all on a bloody castle.”

“Aww, c’mon, it’s really no’ tha’ out of our range, is it, da?” Caroline claims, and Greg gives an exaggerated head-tilt that begs to differ.

His curiosity now piqued, Johnny steps into the living room. “Who’s havin’ a do at Glamis, then?”

And all heads turn in his direction, comedically wide eyes, his mother suddenly brandishing a broom out of nowhere as if to fend him off.

“I thought ye were meant ta be at the pool with Shelly,” she says accusingly, only lowering the broom a fraction.

“Was,” Johnny snorts, scuffing up the back of his still-wet head to prove his whereabouts. “She just dropped me off, had ta go run some errands.” He leans against the kitchen counter, hands dropping into his shorts’ pockets, eyebrows raised to accentuate the fact that no one had answered his previous question.

“We’re plannin’ a party,” Caro supplies, and that just causes Johnny’s brows to lift further.

“Fer Jessie,” Ruth adds, and all of them nod along a bit too vigorously. “It’s her birthday comin’ up, aye? First week of August.”

Grabbing an apple behind him and taking a deliberate bite, Johnny squints at his sister. “An’ ye wannae book a castle fer her party?” That gets a concurring finger-wag from his father. “Christ, she’s turnin’ seven, not gettin’ coronated.”

“Aye, but it’s actually a very important milestone,” Ruth justifies. “Y’know, seven is a significant number in terms of spirituality an’ mythology an’—”

“Right, sure,” Johnny cuts her off. “But have ye’s even considered askin’ the lass wha’ she wants?”

They all blink at him for a moment before Johnny casts his eyes to view the floor of the living room, where both his nieces are obliviously rolling around on the carpet.

“Oi, Jess!” he calls, smirking at the way she pops her head up like a prairie dog. “What’ll ye be wantin’ fer yer birthday party?”

The girl immediately starts hopping up and down, proclaiming, “A bouncy house!”

And Johnny points his thumb at her, tilting his head towards his family. “Well, there ye go.”

Mam stutters a moment, caught in the act, but they continue speculating back and forth about this supposed party with increasing levels of absurdity—“We can have it on the beach!” “Or we can all fly down ta London!” “I hear they do party cruises around the Hebrides!”—until Johnny himself suggests:

“Wha’ about the local golf course, eh? I think they’ll let us rent one’a the fields an’ set up a tent or somethin’. Plus it’s close.”

“That’s…” Caro tilts her head, considering, “actually no’ a bad idea.”

“Ooh, we can even decorate it ourselves,” Ruth adds.

“Aye,” Jack concurs. “An’ I’ve got a membership so they might cut us a good deal.”

Even mam seems to agree, already fussing around scribbling up a list of what they’d need.

And Johnny leans back against the counter, finishing off his apple, pleased they’d managed to reach a convincing agreement.

All things considered, it takes an embarrassingly long time for him to put two and two together.

Wouldn’t be the first time a MacTavish had been accused of being oblivious…

He’s currently straining his poor back tying up another pair of shoelaces on the side of the football pitch, children screaming contentedly in the background, when Ruth comes over to hand him a cool beverage, plopping down beside him on the bench.

“Ta,” Johnny says, brushing the back of his hand over his forehead as he returns to his current task. Little Emmy had tripped on her laces, constantly in need of him to re-tie them for her. “Good ta go, hen,” he assures, watching the lassie rush back to the field where he knows it’ll take her about two minutes to unravel them again. 

“Got ye knockin’ yer pan in, eh?” Ruth offers, nudging his shoulder. “Bet’cher regrettin’ takin’ up the reins now.”

Grinding his neck back with a slight wince, Johnny tsks. “Naw, they’re a blast, these muppets.” He grins as he observes the ‘Ultra Otters’ waddle around the pitch like so many loose marbles. “Keeps it entertainin’ enough. Sure ta be interestin’ havin’ them all over fer Jessie’s party.”

At that, Ruth raises her eyes, something wily in her expression. “Ye’ll be wantin’ all these brats at the party then?”

“Sure, why not? It’s Jessie’s gig, aye? I’m sure she’s keen on havin’ all’a her pals there.”

“Christ, ye can be so daft, Johnny…”

Before he can adequately ascertain her meaning, another child runs up to the bench, wee Dani with what looks like the world’s smallest flesh wound, more of a paper cut really, but by the shrillness of her cries, one might think the limb needs amputating.

“Aww, let me see, poor lamb,” he coos, propping the girl up on his knee to inspect her elbow, all while Ruth keeps sending him that fishy glance.

She’d resigned from her position as ‘most annoying parent on the pitch’ in a surprise turn of events. In fact, most of the weekend matches are a pleasant chance for the siblings to actually spend that quality time together, Ruth sitting by his side and offering snarky commentary about some of the other mothers, or her new job that sounds made up, or just…keeping him company mostly.

No, it’s not his sister that had nearly caused the team to be suspended on account of ‘improper sideline conduct’.

That honor had, hilariously, gone to Greg.

“Watch tha’ back line! Steady! Keep an eye on tha’ number ten, he’s got a sneaky look about him!”

While Agatha had only begrudgingly agreed to join the sport, her father had apparently taken his role as cheerleader to the extreme. Lots of shouts to the ref, misguided instructions at the players, more than one row with some of the rival parents…

“Ref! Lookit tha’—did ye see wha’ he did! Tha’s a foul, I’ll have ye!”

Both Johnny and Ruth shake their heads at their brother-in-law’s antics, blessedly relieved that he’d been relegated to standing at least ten meters away from the benches, not that that had dissuaded the man from his ridiculous ranting.

“C’mon, Ags! Hussle now! Kick the ball, darlin’, yes, the ball, kick the ball!”

“Quite astute, really,” Johnny quips, watching his niece Agatha toss her hands in exasperation, her face flushed with embarrassment.

“Aye, righ’, he might be doin’ a better job coachin’ than you,” Ruth counters, as if she hadn’t been just as bad a few months ago.

Snorting at her, Johnny finishes applying a plaster to Dani’s elbow, the girl still adamantly pouring out tears; Christ, she’d been getting even worse than Archie lately, like a damn faucet with pigtails.

“Shh, look, it’s all better, darlin’, promise,” he consoles, patting the elbow gently and trying to ease her off his lap.

It’s bad enough that his bad leg had been acting up lately; he really oughtn’t be dragging around children in his condition anyway. Hazards of the job.

Batting around her damp eyes, the girl points to his upper arm. “Have you got boo-boos too, Coach Soap?”

She’s referring to the nicotine patch he’d taken to wearing, having quit smoking at the beginning of the month; something about his life expectancy suddenly feeling a bit more significant to him, for whatever reason…

“Aye,” he says with a pretend grimace, tapping at the patch. “But I’m bein’ right tough about it, yeah? An’ you should too. Not gonnae let a little scrape get us down, right?” He gives her a wink and smirks as she stumbles back to the field, her tears picking right back up again, though, when Greg shouts, “What’re ye doin’, abandonin’ yer team like tha’?! Get yer head back in the game, lass!”

“Shite, I think we need to boot him to the car park,” Johnny grimaces, knowing full well that that’s where his older sister is with their father, passing around pints so they don’t have to deal with all this racket. A wise move.

He sits there on the bench for a bit, calling half-assed instructions from the sideline to his team, a few odd comments from Ruth, some more outbursts from Greg, twirling the gold ring around his finger and trying not to feel so wistful.

Another kid gets pulled off with a skinned knee; Mrs. Harrison’s rebel, Alex, who appears unbothered about the whole thing. There are several goals scored, Johnny uncertain from which team, to be completely honest. Little Christine comes over to him at some point, feeding his pockets with more clumps of moss, just adding it to the collection.  

But he takes it all in stride.

“Ye’re good with them,” Ruth remarks, toying with the edges of her recent manicure, the bright purple already flaking off. “Almost too good,” she adds, a tad jealously.

John huffs, leaning back and watching the group of misfits with a small amount of pride.

Yeah, he supposes he is…

His sister’s next question certainly catches him off guard. “How does yer man feel abou’ havin’ kids?”

Completely thrown for a loop, the expression on his face must look absurd, because Ruth offers unnecessary clarification. “Simon. Yer husband.”  

Christ, he knows what she meant it’s just…

The idea of him and Simon…having kids is not something he’d ever considered before.

Especially with how unorthodox everything else in their relationship had been.

“We don’ even live together,” is his first excuse, but hell—it sounds all the more pathetic when he puts it like that.

Ruth pulls a face, confirming how sad their tenure in matrimony has been thus far, but she goads further, “Aye, bu’ have ye, like, talked abou’ it, or wha’ever?”

No, as a matter of fact, in all their late-night, hushed soliloquies he’d never broached the topic of rearing children with a man he’s pretty sure wouldn’t be allowed 500 meters from any playground from just his menacing mug alone.

He’s wishing the same could be said of Greg…

“Hussle now, Otters! D’ye even know where the net is, Christ’s sake!”

Shaking his head, John can only argue, “Not sure Simon’s exactly ‘father figure’ material.”

Ruth shrugs, peeling the rest of her damaged nail with her teeth before muttering, “Wouldnae be so sure. JJ keeps goin’ on about him, says she wants ta be jus’ like him when she grows up.”

“Oof, now those are some big shoes ta fill.” Not that he has any intention of letting his niece follow in either of their dangerous footsteps. He’s still trying to convince her to curb her interest in field medicine to that of something milder; a veterinarian, he’d suggested. All that had led to was a carnage of stuffed animals, poor sods.

“She asks about her da too,” Ruth adds, now sounding as proper adult as she can. “Jessie,” she emends, alluding to her past dumpster fire of an ex, and namesake of her child. “He’s gettin’ out in a few months, so I hear.”

Scoffing, Johnny mutters, “Christ, why the fuck are they lettin’ tha’ bastard go?”

“It was on’y a few drug charges, they cannae keep ‘im locked up forever.”

“Well they should. He’s a menace to society.”

Ruth huffs, flaring her nostrils. But her expression deepens again when she mutters, “Dunno wha’ I should even tell her…”

And Johnny ponders that for a moment while he seeks out his niece on the pitch, smiling subtly at the firecracker in question as she runs around in a spastic circle.

It had been hard enough on all of them, that business with her being kidnapped by Ruth’s other dumpster fire of an ex a few months back. Poor kid’s had it rough, that’s for sure.

“Maybe jus’…tell her the truth,” Johnny says, knowing it’s easier said than done. What is the best way of going about telling a six-year-old her father’s in jail? “She knows that she’s got us, though. Tha’s the important thing, aye?”

Ruth nods, still looking conflicted.

“We’ll make sure she gets well looked after,” he assures.

John recalls the words his sister had mumbled to him—Dinnae ye know how loved ye are?—on his birthday, half comatose with his own grief at the time, barely anything left to hold onto.

He’s about to remark to her about how much that had meant to him when—

“Oi, ye minger! Tha’ was offside an’ ye know it!” Ruth bellows right in his ear as she stands to shout at the ref, effectively sabotaging the moment.

Clearly, she’s still got some fire in her.

“Shite, they’re on’y, like, seven,” Johnny tsks, after she returns to her seat with a grumble. “I dinnae think they even know wha’ offside is.”

“Aren’t you s’pposed ta be the one teachin’ them then?” Ruth accuses, and, well—she’s not wrong.

Maybe this coaching gig had been more about the other perks though—basking in the rare sun, the fresh air. Getting to spend time with his nieces, and all the other rugrats. His sister too.

Johnny's not sure, but hearing another brat yell, “Coach Soap!” from the field just makes him feel…a little bit alive again.

A little bit like that leader he was meant to be, in another life.

“Oi, Scooty!” he yells back. “Get off yer arse again, ye rascal!”

He quietly chuckles into his palm as he watches the child scoot around the field, the rest of the team in various displays of silliness, offering their best animal howls and making his heart do that thing where it wonders how to contain itself.

Sighing contentedly, Johnny twirls the ring on his finger again, watching it spin in the light as he ruffles his niece’s hair after the game, someone having the bright idea to snap a group picture of all of them lined up, muddy and grinning.

He doesn’t even know if they won. 

But he sends it to Simon later, alongside the caption of: Reckon my squad’s better than yours.  

Football champions, hardly. But he’d take this misfit crew any day.

And when his partner replies back with a solid agreement, he wonders about that question Ruth had asked, and if there ever might be an answer.

He reckons it’s too soon to say.

So he just lets himself get further distracted when Simon replies back that he’d arranged the training exercise for that first week of August, just in time for Jessie’s party.

Hmn. Now what are the chances of that…

On Friday the 2^nd, Johnny goes to pick up his boy.

Along with the current roster of 141 grunts, Simon had made the trip up to the private base located at a classified destination somewhere in the Cairngorms National Park for a two-week-long stint. Word is, Price’s contact, some old war hound called MacMillan, keeps a personal headquarters for some of the military’s more…off-the-books operations.   

Johnny’s not even sure it’s legal.

Or real, for that matter.

But he follows the directions Simon had given him, rolling up to the base around noon, pleased to observe that it does, in fact, exist, and is currently parading a troop of sweaty 141 boys around the impressive yard for some godforsaken drill.

Johnny parks the car just outside the main gate, assumingly having been cleared for entry, which is why he hadn’t been held at gunpoint upon arrival.

He gets out now, snickering at the rowdy bunch, tilting his sunglasses down so he can offer a wave at a few of the rookies that look familiar.

Now, he hadn’t purposefully intended to make a show of it. Just a quick pickup, in and out. But John leans against the car for a moment, stretching his legs in jeans that are, perhaps, a tad too tight, and crossing his arms across a t-shirt that undoubtedly is, smirking when he hears one of the boys shout, “Oi, Cap! Delivery for ya!”

Any attempts at catcalls are immediately quashed when Captain Simon Riley shoulders his way out of the base’s door, a short bark of, “Back ta fuckin’ work!” shaking more than a few boots.  

There he is, Johnny muses, the love of my life.

All of the soldiers are quick with their ‘yessirs!’, not even looking in his direction as their superior officer makes purposeful strides toward the entry gate, his standard off-duty cap and surgical mask concealing the look on his face Johnny is so desperate to catch a glimpse of.

Swooning already, John simply sprawls a bit further against the car door, testing his jeans, carding a spare hand through his hair; it had been getting long again, brushing his forehead, but he reckons it’s got a bit of that artful dishevelment to help sell his James Dean impression. The shades and smirk are just further shameless attempts at being a sight for some very sore eyes.

Simon barely blinks at him as he shuffles his way out of the gate, but it’s enough for him to feel bold.

Crossing the scant distance in between, Johnny meets the man halfway, not hesitating a second before yanking his mask down and grabbing him into a passionate snog, savoring that sharp intake of breath as it leaves his lips open and vulnerable.

“Ahh-ooh!”

“Get it, Cap!”

“That’s how it’s done, lads!”

There’s no stopping the catcalls now, several insubordinate whistles and hollers of delight as Johnny pushes his luck by reaching around to squeeze Simon’s backside in a rare public display of affection.

He swears the man nearly chokes.

“Miss me, did ye?” John mutters, pulling back from the kiss to get a full scope of his partner’s blushed features.  

Simon just gapes at him for a few seconds, before turning to snap over his shoulder, “Quit gawkin’, useless fucks! Twenty more laps, all of ya’s!” shaking his head as he stumbles into the passenger seat.

Johnny returns to the car with a mock salute to the giddy rookies, quickly reversing out of the base with a sharp awareness that Simon won’t even look at him now, currently boring holes into the windshield with his face still flushed scarlet. 

After a minute, the man grumbles under his breath, “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Aye, sure,” Johnny counters with a wink. “And I just enhanced it.”

All that gets is another strained grunt. 

They only make it about a kilometer from the base before Simon mutters quietly, “There’s a hard shoulder up ‘ere.” He gestures to the empty road, indicating, “Pull over.”

And Johnny wonders if he’d forgotten something, or is just feeling ill, but the second he puts the car into park, the other man springs from his seat and—

“Jesus…mng…so ye did miss me!”

“Shut up.”

Simon is frantic with the way he assaults Johnny’s mouth, grabbing his face with both hands while scrambling from the passenger side, pressing in to hover over the younger man without ever letting his lips detach from his.

“Easy…eas—oof!” Johnny snickers as Simon bashes his head against the mirror, but it quickly gets overtaken by a few heated moans as the man makes his intentions fully clear with his tongue.

Both of them fumbling around the cramped interior, Johnny lets Simon manhandle him into a sprawled-out position, locking his bad knee around the steering wheel as the taller man grinds on top of his body.

And then Simon’s hands are greedily pulling off his top, his fevered breathing only picking up further once he spreads his palms up the sides of Johnny’s torso, something near religious in his voice when he hushes, “Fuck…look at you.”

Johnny had been banking on that spare bit of confidence before, but it all turns to mush now as he watches his partner take in the sight of him.

It’s rare, these days, that John gets to feel proud of his body. He’d been trying extra hard these past months, all those workouts with Shelly, taking care to be kind to his limits, so he reckons he’d packed on a bit more muscle now; trim, but still solidly built.

Still strong.

But as Simon continues his inspection of his chest, coarse hands sliding up his ribcage, roaming lustfully over his pecs, his collarbones, his heartbeat, the main thing that seems to catch his attention is that small glint of gold missing from the chain around his neck.

A callused palm grabs his, and it’s the tiny exhale, the soft mumble of, “You’re…wearing it…” that really lets Johnny know how much restraint it had taken him, to not rush up and grab him in his arms the second his boots hit the dirt out of the gate.  

Simon stares at the ring on his finger for a while.

At least until Johnny begins unzipping his jeans, reaching up to grab a fistful of blond to pull him closer, Simon’s shirt tossed over the dash as they try to find the best angle that doesn’t risk either of them setting the car alarm off.

They’re lucky this neck of the woods is so deserted; good place for a top-secret base, eh?

And Johnny ought to feel guiltier about the sacrilegious act of shagging in his parents’ car, but all that gets lost the second the other man yanks both of their cocks in a tight grip, knees squeaking on the leather interior, Johnny’s cries getting harder and harder to stifle.  

“God…Simon…fuck…mngh…”

He’d missed him too.

Simon’s arrival at the house sees mam in her usual overbearing extravaganza, practically hauling the poor man out of the car into a very aggressive hug.

“C’mere, darlin’, let me get a look at ye!” Simon doesn’t protest when she squeezes him further; granted, he probably can’t, nearly suffocating in her sweater. “It’s been too long, have ye lost weight, dear? I hope ye’ve been eatin’ well, I’ll go on an’ fix ye somethin’ now—”

It’s a small blessing Elaine doesn’t remark upon the fact that his shirt is inside out.

What’s less fortunate is how the woman breaks down in tears when she sees Johnny reach out to take his hand as they walk to the door. “My, look at ye’s! I still cannae believe it, married, gracious sakes! Never wouldae seen it comin’, makin’ an honest man out of my John.”

“Jesus wept, mam,” Johnny grumbles. “Glad ye think so highly of me.”

His mother keeps pestering, going so far as to take Simon’s other hand and insist, “Please, Simon, dear, ye can feel free ta call me ‘mam’ now too, aye?”

Visibly rattled, the man just mumbles, “I’m…not gonna do that,” as they shepherd him inside the household he’d just, regrettably, attached his name to.

Jack’s reaction is tamer, as expected, but Johnny finds his own emotional restraint being tested when the old man loops an arm around Simon’s shoulder, nothing but a simple, heartfelt, “Glad ta have ye back, son.”

Who said anything about weeping…

The rest of his family are here as well, both his sisters coming over to greet their new brother-in-law, Greg looking a bit put out that he’d seemingly lost the top honor, but letting wee Frankie have a grab at the man’s hat before offering a hearty handshake.

Jessie and Aggie come rushing over as well, Simon failing to curb the flash of joy on his face, just a small tug of his lips, as he hefts the two girls in his arms.

“Oi, there’s my two best squaddies.”

“Uncle Ghost! Uncle Ghost!” they chant, Johnny feeling his insides melt instantaneously.

“What’s this about someone ‘avin’ a party, then?” Simon asks, adjusting them both so that they’re happily sat on his lap while he settles at the counter, Elaine presenting him with a hasty spread of about nineteen different food items.  

“That’s me! I’m turnin’ seven, Uncle Ghost!” Jessie cries, wiggling up and down in excitement.

“Well, you know what they say about birthdays, love,” he says. “Too many’ll kill ya.”

The baffled looks on both his nieces’ faces confirm they don’t get the joke, but Johnny’s left sinking further into his hopeless adoration, even moreso when Simon adds:

“Why did the little girl get a bubble bath for her birthday?”

And Jessie blinks up at him curiously before he states bluntly, “It was a soap-prise.”

This is what I married, Johnny thinks, not at all remorseful.

He comes over to stand behind them just to nestle his face in the back of Simon’s neck while his nieces giggle, another rare display of affection that sees his mother tearing up again.

In terms of MacTavish family initiation, da sets the bar high when he’d suggested forcing his new son-in-law to assist in preparing a meal of haggis, from scratch, following their ‘sacred’ family recipe.

“That’s that boiled sack full of guts, right?” Simon asks, suitably apprehensive.

“Offal,” Jack corrects, while the other man just mumbles, “You said it.”

It turns out to be a class act of comedy, as it should, all of the family participating to various degrees, even Ruth, who’d been on another hippy fuss and insists on making her own, vegetarian version, much to the uproar of the traditionalists.

“Ye cannae call a haggis without meat haggis!” Jack argues. “It’s like a bloody contradiction!”

“Tha’s blasphemy, tha’ is!” claims Greg; bold words, as he’d been the one who’d nearly fainted when the lamb’s pluck had been revealed, still looking a bit peaky.   

“It’s waaay healthier than all’a tha’ shite,” Ruth asserts, dutifully chopping up carrots and celery, never mind that Johnny had caught her nicking the leftover steak pie in the fridge just yesterday.

“I wannae make a chocolate version!” Jessie proclaims, and doesn’t that just set a sparkle in a certain someone’s eye.

“You’re onto somethin’ there, sprog.”

So then Simon and the girls take on the challenge of coming up with what can only be called ‘dessert haggis’, as cursed as it sounds. 

The results are definitely interesting.

“D'ya ‘ave any jam?” Simon asks Johnny, elbows deep in a horrific splatter of crushed biscuits, fudge, half a Bakewell tart, and what might be the remains of that pudding from Christmas.

Christ, it looks like he’d apprehended the Gingerbread Man and beat the shit out of him. Always on the clock, innit?

“What kind?”

“All of them.”

Johnny can only snort as he watches the man perfect their little diabetes-inducing experiment, his nieces further escalating the mess when they all try to force it into a proper haggis-shape by squeezing the abomination into a sheet of cling film.

As a demolitions expert, Johnny knows exactly how that’s gonna end.

Sure enough…

Agatha and Jess cackle with glee as the thing explodes in their faces, Simon offering a very rare bout of laughter that makes the mess worth it, in John’s completely unbiased opinion.

Even his family seem to be taken aback, all eyes on the man as he chuckles quietly, covered in sugary entrails.

“Reminds me of that time back in—”

“Don’t!” Johnny cuts him off, intimately familiar with that particular war story enough to spare his relatives the filthy details.

Simon just keeps grinning.

Mam insists he go wash up in the bathroom, so Johnny takes his partner’s absence to reflect on how fortunate he feels to be alive in this moment, all while testing his mettle as a true Scot by managing not to boke as he handles the ox bung, slippery and foul, smelling faintly of blue cheese. Poor Greg had taken one look at it and stepped outside because he, “Needed a breather.”

But John assists his father now, never one to shy away from getting his hands dirty, even if he wishes he’d remembered to take off his shiny new ring.

Simon returns after a few minutes, settling back at the counter to evaluate the carnage of his doomed dessert. He hadn’t only managed to clean his shirt, and flip it to the right side, Johnny notes with interest. He’d also slipped on a pair of glasses, standard brown frames over his eyes, evidently trying to remain inconspicuous about it.

It had been a begrudging concession, after undergoing the scheduled health exams that Price had promised to run him through a few months back. Confirming all of their suspicions, Simon had bombed the color vision deficiency test, the results of which are still being kept on the down-low as to failing to meet certain military requirements.

But his physical had also yielded other diagnoses, namely the fact that Simon’s eye-sight had been deemed poor enough that the optometrist had wondered how he’d gotten away with being able to function in his day-to-day, let alone in the field.

“I’ve managed,” had been his well-worn excuse.

Turns out, he’d skived off one too many yearly check-ups. So much for being mandatory—by this point, the man’s service file is so ‘down-low’ it’s practically scraping the earth’s core.

And, naturally, Simon had grumbled about not wanting to wear contacts, but claimed he hated the glasses more. Which is why Johnny’s so taken with seeing him sporting them now; besides the fact that he finds them, well, incredibly sexy.

Smitten, Johnny quietly sidles up next to him, mindful of his intestine-slathered hands, as he presses a kiss on the man’s forehead.

Simon huffs, predictably, making a show of squinting at the handwritten piece of paper that Jack had been pouring over, the cherished family heirloom.

“Blimey, this is the recipe we’re makin’?” the man grunts. “Thought it was the invite list for Peppa Pig’s funeral.”

“Sometimes you say things that astound me,” Johnny deadpans back.

“Well, tuck in, kid, ‘cause there’s more where that came from.”

And that’s just enough to incite him to peck his forehead again, sloppy kissing sounds included.

“You two are bloody disgustin’,” Caro asserts, but she’s grinning as she winks at him from across the counter, a point in Simon's favor.

“Uncle Ghost!” Agatha calls, rushing back to sit in his lap once more. “Uncle John says ye have trouble seein’ colors, is tha’ wha’ yer glasses are for?”

Simon simply shrugs. “Nah, these are just to make me look smarter. Like you.”

That makes Aggie giggle, the man tapping at the edge of her own purple glasses.

“We oughtta get ye a pair of those special ones, aye?” Johnny says. “S’pposed ta be some that can help restore color vision, or summin, might be worth lookin’ into.”

Simon just shrugs again, a mumble of, “I’ve managed so far. Don’t really see the need.”   

It settles somewhere beneath his ribcage, this apprehension Johnny had been nursing since discovering his partner’s disability.

What with the whole ‘military captain still committed to the counter-terrorist cause’, he’s still not really sure what his future might look like. What their future might look like.

No point fashing about it now though…

“I made ye somethin’ tha’ might help!” Agatha says, nervously fiddling with an item behind her back before she hands it over. “Look! It’s got aaall the colors, so tha’ way ye know which ones are which!”

Simon sits there, scrutinizing the thing—a row of shiny beads that Aggie had threaded into a bracelet, a certifiable rainbow. 

“Hmn.”

“See—this one’s red, an’ this one’s orange—” She goes through them all while Simon nods along in earnest.

“Aww, love her. Isn’t that sweet of ye, hen,” Johnny coos, planting a kiss on her head, and turning to his partner. “An’ what do we say, Uncle Simon?”

His partner subtly flips him off, before giving a quiet, “Thank you, muppet,” as he ties the thing around his wrist.

“Look, now we match,” John remarks, holding up his own wrist, a customized bracelet Agatha had made him, sporting a football-shaped bead and everything. He’d strapped it under his watch, flashing it now to make Simon snort.

“Quite a pair ye make,” Caro teases, giving her daughter a loving pat as well. “S’ppose someone was kind enough ta get ye’s a weddin’ gift.”

At the mention of that taboo word, mam starts fussing again, muttering to no one, “Cannae believe it, still cannae believe it…”

“Why were ye rushin’ ta get hitched ta this scabby bastard anyway?” Ruth asks boldly, nodding at her brother while nibbling on something that may or may not be a pilfered piece of ham, lying wench.

John is sure Simon will shrug off an answer, but he looks down at the counter for a moment, before stating, “Just wanted to make sure Johnny’d receive all the proper benefits…should anythin’ happen.”    

Oh.

Well, that’s certainly a mood killer.

But Johnny will take small comfort in the fact that Simon had reached out to take his hand, quietly brushing his thumb over the ring he’d thrown at given him, romance be damned.

The rest of his family don’t really know how to react, Elaine looking two seconds away from bursting into tears again and Jack offering a misplaced chuckle, frowning simultaneously.

Sensing the sober shift, Simon huffs, “Seeing as I’m likely to take a heart attack if I try havin’ a go at this.” He gestures to the pile of his confectionary massacre, somehow acquiring a spoon to begin ingesting it in earnest.

“Not bad,” is his genuine assessment. “Could do with some squirty cream.”

And Johnny just blinks at him, abruptly appalled. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Y’know, that can of cream that’s like—” Simon makes a positively lewd gesture with his hand, halting when he remembers the kiddos are still around.

“Aye, ye mean skooshy cream!”

“You wot?”

“Skooooshy cream,” Johnny emphasizes.

Now it’s the other man’s turn to glare, a twitch of his nostrils. “The fuck are you on about?”

So much for minding the kids…

“I think yer English mind is a bit rattled, laddie,” Johnny tsks, turning to the fridge to secure said item. “This here’s the finest skooshy cream East’a the Clyde, Alba’s own.”

Simon rolls his eyes under his glasses, but he takes the bottle, brandishing it like a weapon. “You’re fuckin’ mad if ya think I’m callin’ it that.”

“Ye cannae call it ‘squirty cream’, sounds like a—” Thankfully, Johnny’s mindful enough to keep the apt innuendo to himself.

For now, he just watches the man he loves plaster his disgusting treat with mounds of cream, applauding his digestive tract while also mentally tallying the cost of dentures…

So that’s what their future might look like…

“Better,” Simon announces around his latest mouthful. “Needs more jam though.”

While they wait for the real haggis to boil, Johnny smirks as da and Simon strike up an easy conversation—about the bike, mostly, but also his father’s accursed band.

“So I was still thinkin’ on a few names again—how does ‘the Blackjack Macs’ sound?”

“Hmn…”

“Crackerjack Macs? Highjack Macs?”

“Are we sold on the rhyming thing?”

And then Ruth starts nagging the poor man about her made-up job, asking if he’d ever consider, “Gettin’ some headshots done up, ‘cause wow—with the right lightin’ and accessories, we could, like, totally have you as a brand ambassador fer this new line of men’s jewelry—”

Mam starts crying again after she’d suggested they take a picture of the two of them, “For the album, so I can look at all of my lovely children after they’ve gone an’ forgotten aboot me.”

And that just leads to an uproar from said children, both Johnny and Caro exclaiming, “Stop bein’ so dramatic, ye weapon!”

But they let her take her picture, Johnny grimacing on Simon’s behalf, but the man simply wraps an arm around him, not smiling, per se, though the photo does come out nice enough, Ruth still going on about how, “Seriously—ye have such fantastic bone structure, ye really oughtta capitalize—”

It’s the first picture they’ve ever taken together.

Maybe the first one of Simon unmasked he’d ever seen, besides his hilarious expired driver’s license photo.

Dinner is served, and Greg eats his way through most of the haggis, seemingly having recovered from his previous squeamishness.

Simon has no complaints either, shoveling it down like a proper good soldier, going for a second round of his disaster dessert, Jessie and Ags getting quite a sugar rush from it as well.

And after the meal, they haul him to the living room, a veritable warzone of robots and action figures and one very overqualified captain barking out silly orders.

“That’s it, grunts, get your lads in order—let’s see if we can't launch an attack on this latest threat.” That threat being wee Frankie, who’d taken to trying to snatch half of the toys, toddling off in various hiding spots around the room, oblivious to the havoc he’d been wreaking.

“Target’s fuckin’ crafty, I’d say,” Simon mutters, both of the girls squealing enthusiastically. 

At some point, Caro starts to subtly grill the man over how he’s been treating her brother while she supervises from the couch.

“On a scale of one to ten, how highly would you rate your ability to provide for John?”

Ok, maybe not so subtle.

“Uh…”

He’s spared from answering with another upset from their ‘battlefield’, Jessie and Aggie arguing over which direction to attack from, and then further with a comment from Elaine in the background, mentioning that someone needs to pick up Granda Frank from the station on Sunday for the party.

Johnny swears he sees his partner shudder.

All in all, he’s not surprised in the slightest when they crawl into bed later and Simon is certifiably exhausted.

“Sorry fer all the mayhem,” Johnny feels the need to apologize. “Know we can be a lot ta handle.”

“S’fine,” the other man mumbles, currently propped up in bed with his tablet. The glasses, delightfully, are still in place, perched at the bridge of his slightly crooked nose.

Johnny smirks at him, rolling in a touch closer to nestle against his ribs. He spins that ring around his finger, metal tags pressing against his sternum, finally feeling that sense of ‘home’ he’d been lacking.

“Sure ye’re not havin’ regrets, eh?” he drawls. “’Bout marryin’ a MacTavish?”

The other man simply huffs, his spare hand reaching down to toy a strand of dark hair, eyes still on the tablet. “Dunno. Still waitin’ on my bloody sheep.”

It gets an honest chuckle from John, his heart clenching in affection as he snuggles further into his side.

“Did ye mean what ye said before?” he asks, having been mindlessly chewing over the words from earlier.

Should anything happen…

“Yeah, I think ‘the Beeswax Jacks’ is a shitty band name.”

“Naw, not that. Y’know…‘bout wantin’ ta marry me fer…bureaucratic reasons.”

Tilting his head down at him, Simon frowns, his eyebrows wrinkling above the rim of his glasses. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Aye, sure, I know,” Johnny asserts, redirecting his mood so he doesn’t have to really think about…all that. He idly starts fiddling with the man’s hipbone. “Thought ye jus’ didnae wannae have ta call me yer fiancé or summin.”

Simon snorts. “Dead true. Sounds way too fuckin’ French.”

Chuckling again, Johnny commits to his fondling, reaching over to start rubbing against the stiff material of his partner’s sweatpants. “Mmn. An’ we all know ye’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Barely twitching, Simon continues to scroll through his tablet, even when Johnny slips a wayward hand beneath his waistband.

“Would certainly be a shame if I didnae get ta…receive all them benefits, aye?”

That hand slides deeper, still no evident reaction besides another wrinkle in his partner’s brow.

“Was kinda curious about that ‘squirty cream’ ye were on about, reckon we could give that a try…”

“Fuck’s sake.” Tossing his head back with a low hiss, Simon steadies him with a mildly offended scowl. “I’m try'na read,” he states, gesturing the damned tablet, once again indicating how he’s always on the bloody clock.

Johnny shifts his body anyway, knee hooking over the other man’s thigh in a light straddle, inching his hand downward.

“It’s called multi-tasking, captain.”

“I’m old, leave me alone,” is Simon’s bluntly delivered argument.

It leaves John near cackling, humping his leg with more glee now. “Wha’ was all tha’ business in the car then?” he teases.

“Had to get it outta my system.”

“Aye, well I’m still gettin’ it outta the upholstery.”

Another huff, barely disguised behind the groan that wants to escape. Johnny can see his neck getting flushed now, as Simon persists in his act of pretending to have work to do. 

“No matter,” Johnny claims, pressing his palm in deep, deliberate strokes up and down the man’s evident arousal. “I can do all the heavy-liftin’, darlin’.”

Shifting only slightly, Simon sweeps his free hand over his crotch in a manner that suggests ‘have at it’, leaning back on the bedframe as John tugs him out of his shorts.

At least one of them had remembered to leave room for dessert.

Johnny takes his time, roving his tongue in curious trails, trying to see which spots make the man above him offer the faintest of reactions.

Always a challenge, that Simon Riley…

He gets his prize when he lets his fingers work their magic, a combination of persistent frisking and his very talented mouth causing his partner to shift his hips, that low groan finally breaching the wet-smacking haze.

“Mng…”

“I’ve got ye,” is Johnny’s husked-out reassurance, easing his lover into the pressure, the warmth, all of that excess lust from being over a month apart.

“Fuck, Johnny…”

But when Simon leans back further, finally tossing that tablet to the side and reaching up to shed the glasses from his face, Johnny stops him with a palm to his chest.

“Leave ‘em,” he instructs, watching the man’s heated features glaze over when Johnny takes him fully in his mouth, eyes locked.

Guess it takes longer than expected, getting it all out of their systems.

After—Simon finally gives in to his exhaustion, flopped out on his back while Johnny finishes a half-assed clean-up, propping himself on an elbow to admire the man below him.

“Not gonna sleep, kid?” Simon mumbles, sounding well shagged. His nose scrunches like he can feel Johnny hovering over him, even with his eyes closed.

“In a bit,” John assures. “Not until I’ve counted all yer eyelashes.”

The other man snorts, shaking his head on the pillow, all while Johnny continues savoring the view, those dusty pale lashes spreading across sturdy cheekbones.

He really does have fantastic bone structure…

Johnny must linger for a while, slowly brushing his thumb across his lover’s brow, telepathically soothing the tension out of the wrinkles that seem deeper than last time.

They’re both getting older. Surprisingly, it doesn’t scare him anymore.

He spends some time lovingly tracing the edges of Simon’s scars, the puckered skin around his jaw, that split between his mouth, envious of its constant proximity to those perfect lips…

So handsome, his husband.

When he does settle down next to him, Simon grunts, “What’s the final count then?”

And John switches the light off, nuzzling back into his side to mutter, “At least ten.”

Simon’s low chuckle lulls him into an easy rest, no silly words to mumble to each other back and forth tonight.

All they have energy for is a quiet exchange of:

“Love ye.”

“Mnh…”

The next morning sees a light rain blanketing the town, and with it—a somber affair.

John had arranged it prior with Alice, the coincidence of Simon’s arrival and Jessie’s party also overlapping with a less-happy occasion.

They meet her at the cemetery just before breakfast.

“Thanks fer comin’, boys, it really means a lot.” Johnny doesn’t blame Alice for struggling to put on a smile today.

Wordlessly, he wraps an arm around her, brandishing the fresh flowers they’d just picked up at the florist—daisies—as they make their way to the spot.

One year since she’d lost her child.

Beloved son and father. Trevor Clyne. 1992—2023.

It’s quiet in the cemetery, save for a few stray barks from Bobbins the dog. Jeremy tugs his leash to keep him in line, but Simon, surprisingly, goes over to give the mutt a pet, dropping to a crouch and muttering something under his breath. Probably a strict command, ever the taskmaster, but Johnny smiles at him nonetheless.

He lets Alice have a brief moment of alone time by the headstone, respectfully keeping his distance, but still within earshot to pick up some faint prayers.

She’s able to connect to a videocall with her grandson, Simon quietly showing her how while slipping an arm around Johnny’s waist, tugging him closer as the woman begins talking to Nicholas, both of them taking a trip around the perimeter lest they intrude on the private moment. 

Maybe it’s the weather, or the mood, but Johnny finds he’s leaning heavily on his cane today, a deep ache in his leg convincing him to press more of his weight into his partner’s side. Simon keeps him steady.

He’d been diligent about it—ever since that incident last month—keeping an eye on Johnny’s health.

They walk around the graveyard twice, Simon kneeling to ruffle Bobbins’s ears when they make it back to Trevor’s plot. 

“Thank ye fer comin’,” Alice says again once she’s finished her call, watching them lay the flowers next to the ones she’d arranged herself. She looks small, tugging her sweater closer over her shoulders as Jeremy comes by to take her hand. “He…he was a good lad.”

Johnny brushes his thumb over one of the petals, already damp from the light rain, leaving them there on the stone.

“My Trevor,” Alice whispers, as an afterthought.

Climbing to his feet with Simon’s assistance, John slips his notebook from his pocket, suddenly self-conscious.

“I…I’ve written something, just a few words,” he mumbles. “Dunno if ye’d want me to…”

“Please, John,” Alice insists, nodding at him for encouragement. “Tha’ would be…tha’ would be lovely, dear.”    

Even though they both know how much it will hurt.

Still feeling like he’s intruding, Johnny flips through the pages, shaking his head.

“I didn’t really know Trevor, but I…” His throat already threatens to seize, eyes tightening. Distantly, he registers Simon standing off to the side.

He doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t even look at the page. But the words find their way.

“What do we say in the aftermath
Of a life lost?
As if our small cries might
reach you still…

To say I miss you
Wouldn’t breach the earth
Because you’re carried here
In every half-held laugh
In the color of your smile
That lingers in the tree’s sway
Your mother’s startle of breath
When she finds just one last
Hair on the bathroom floor
Still enough of you
Left
To sweep
And sweep
To keep a lock of you
In a bedside drawer.
You’re not gone.

She would have thought,
I get to die first.
And that’s the only
Curse she’ll bear besides
Reaching
For you always.

She should have said,
I have to die first.
Because death doesn’t make
Ghosts of us.
Promises do.

We don’t go on thinking that
The end is the end
That the oldest you’ll get
Is the youngest you’ll remain
Because you were someone’s
Child once
Someone’s father, someone’s heart
And forever you will be.

You were someone’s boy.
So let us carry you
While you wait for
Your ghost
To hold you again.”

John sets the book back in his pocket, one last glimpse at those daisies before he turns to find Alice softly sobbing against Simon’s chest.

He just watches his partner cradle the woman, with that hesitant, untrained posture, his strong arms kept secure enough to lend her support, loose enough to offer comfort. 

Standing at the side, Jeremy gives John somewhat of a nod, a pat to his arm, retracting to go chase down Bobbins, who’d gone off sniffing round the shrubbery. 

All the while, Simon quietly shushes poor Alice, a low rocking motion accompanying the deep, indecipherable whispers he breathes into her tidy gray hair.

Johnny doesn’t ask, later, what he’d told her.

But he holds the man’s hand in his when they walk back, his cane squeaking in the muddy grass as Simon mumbles, “You write pretty words like that often?”

“Sometimes.” John shrugs.

His partner simply hums, squeezing his hand a bit tighter.

They take Alice out for breakfast after, the mood cheering up a bit when they all watch in fascinated horror at how quickly Simon can devour a dozen scones: forty seconds, new record.

And the sun does start peeking its way through around noon, enough that Johnny changes into a pair of shorts when they make their way over to the golf course, his sisters already in full swing organizing the tent for the party tomorrow. 

Simon doesn’t remark upon it, but he does spend an awful lot of time checking out his legs.

“You’re limping,” is his reasoning, which is a fair enough point, but it doesn’t excuse the stray hand that keeps snaking across his backside, for ‘support’.

Caro and Roo had assisted Jack in securing the tent, a wide tarpaulin affair that’s now situated on one of the course’s sprawling greens. Unfortunately—it can’t just be a simple matter of going off without a hitch.

“Ye cannae do ‘em like tha’, it doesnae go with the theme!” Ruth is nagging da, shooing him away when he’d attempted to place a chair in an arbitrary spot.

“An’ wha’s the theme exactly?” Caroline challenges, hissing as her sister tries to swipe the string of balloons she’d been arranging.

“Naw, absolutely not!”

“Wha’s wrong with balloons then?”

“They’re tacky as shite!”

Caro simply sweeps her hand to encompass Ruth’s ridiculous outfit, rhinestones and all, while they continue wrestling over the décor.

After cautiously offering to help, Johnny’s met with a practical snarl from his sisters, both of them insisting he needn’t interfere with all their hard work.

“It’s jus’ a kid’s party, aye?” he grouses, being all but shoved from the tent, relegated to the small patch at the side designated for the bouncy house Jessie had requested.

It ends up being a bit of a challenge, even for two highly-trained army lads, Simon and John getting lost in all the nylon and tubes and pegs while Jessie and Agatha run around squealing, just making the task even harder.

“Naw, tha’ one goes there!”

“What—this thing?”

“Naw, not—the other fuckin’ one, mac na galla!”

“Stop try'na hex me, dammit!”

“See, look—tha’s the top bit, aye?”

“Nah, reckon that’s the bottom.”

“Who says they cannae be both, darling?”

“Fuckin’ try me…”

Johnny grins like a loon, still tangled up in deflated house parts, the other man getting frustrated enough to start kicking spare bits, as if that might sort them into their proper place.

“Bloody brutal, this,” Simon grumbles, eyes still flashing to Johnny’s bare legs, an excuse for his shitty performance.

“Should have yer 141 boys come down, give ‘em a proper trainin’ exercise.”

“Heh.”

They end up leaving the bulk of the job to Greg, who’d swept in with an unexpected knack, claiming, “Aye, must be all tha’ real estate knowledge put ta good use.” In reality, he’d just read the instruction manual that came with the damn thing; who knew…

“Uncle Ghost!” Jessie calls, still running around the lawn with all the energy of an almost-seven-year-old. “Can I show ye my new super cool footie trick?”

“Let’s ‘ave it.”

Simon watches on as the girl throws herself into some ridiculous pose while Aggie tries to show her up with one of her dance moves, Johnny smirking from behind them.

He leans his weight against the tent pole for a minute, kneading the tense muscle around his knee brace. Of course the thing would start acting up now…

Without warning there’s a loud pop! from inside the tent.

Then in quick succession—pop! pop! pop!

It’s as if those instincts had never left, because in an instant—Johnny’s warning bells flash, a burst of adrenaline tricking him into jolting upright, eyes scanning for an immediate threat.

All he finds is Ruth and Caroline, bickering back and forth at each other over the damned balloons, his youngest sister trying to hide the fact she’d just stabbed several with a pair of scissors.

Fucking hell…

His heart rate needs a second to catch up, but Johnny sags in relief against the pole, only snapping his head around when it strikes him that he’s not the only traumatized service member here.

Simon’s instincts had always been sharper than his. Means he often acts without thinking.

Johnny’s heart clenches when he spots the man huddled in a crouch on the ground, both Agatha and Jessie caught tightly between sheltered arms, Simon’s heavy breathing visible even from this distance.

His first reaction had been to protect the girls.

Jesus…  

Greg seems to catch on to what had happened, quickly coming over to kneel beside them, putting on a cheery voice. “Havin’ a cuddle, are we, darlings?” He gently eases his daughter and niece from the man’s grip, Simon’s jaw tensing as he struggles to release them, still in a minor panic. “Can I get some too?”

Both Aggie and Jess appear a tad confused, but they brighten up when Greg takes them by the hands, showing off the bouncy house he’d just completed.

Johnny locks eyes with Simon, the other man bowing his head for a moment before giving it a light shake, the wordless exchange between them reading: all clear.

Seemingly embarrassed, his partner climbs to his feet, Jack coming over to offer him a hand, having been lurking by the tent to witness enough, muttering a few words to the man in earnest, a tender hand on his shoulder.

Johnny keeps his distance for now, knowing Simon won’t want to make a scene of it. He lets his father have a go at reeling him back in, lord knows they always have something to talk about.

Still makes his heart quiver, hearing his old man call him son.

They spend most of the afternoon setting up for the party, Johnny being told to ‘take it easy’ by enough members of his family that it feels like an intervention of sorts. But he still tries to help out where he can, limping around to fetch whatever he’s able to surreptitiously grab one-handed.

The stubborn ache in his leg persists, though, and it gets past the point where John knows he shouldn’t be pushing it, but he…

He just hates feeling useless.

Pity, then, that he can’t account for remaining so stupid all the time.

Johnny’s aware that it’s probably a mistake, but he leaves his cane on the edge of the tent for just a second, hobbling over to try to drag one of the coolers of ice into the shade.

His knee sends out a sharp stab as soon as he puts pressure on it.

To be fair—it’s less of a collapse and more of a ‘hey, I’m on the ground now’.

All Johnny can tell is that he’s suddenly lying on his back in the grass, his bad leg outstretched and limp, flashing pain as a means of telling him how disappointed it is in him.

“John?” That’s da, calling over in concern, as expected.

And the man on the ground knows he only has to wait two more seconds until—

“Johnny!”

There’s a solid weight at his side, Simon practically sliding in the still-damp grass on his knees, hovering over Johnny like a hawk.

He blinks his eyes up, squinting through the sunlight to catch the look on the other man’s face.

“Alright?” Simon can’t ever seem to keep that flash of fear from his eyes, however much he tries to hide it behind forced composure.

“M’fine. Just slipped.”

“Johnny,” the older man warns, knowing him all too well.

“Fine, fine. Leg’s actin’ up, damn thing.”

The strain in Simon’s jaw betrays his inner worry, that thick palm reaching out to clasp Johnny’s, both of them aware of how this looks.

Johnny on the ground. Hurt. Unmoving.  

Sometimes it takes less than just a loud noise, for those same ingrained instincts to start clawing their way to the surface. 

Can never quite shake it…

And in response—Johnny’s mind flashes back to that incident in Simon’s flat, when he’d visited his partner that last weekend of June, the circumstances not unlike this one, but a bit more…harrowing.

He’d taken the train down again, just about two weeks since he’d last made the trip, but this time—Johnny’s really feeling the extent of those seven-plus hours.

Suitably exhausted when he arrives, he doesn’t protest when Simon suggests an early night. It’s just as well—the other man has some big weapons presentation to make tomorrow morning, something he’d been stressing about over all their long-distance phone calls.

And for the beginning half of the night—Johnny’s fine.

Simon’s bed is large enough for them both to sprawl out, though inevitably snuggling closer to each other on instinct. It would certainly be a shame not to take advantage of the closeness, now that they’d been apart for so long, after the whole…marriage thing.

Takes getting used to, that.

John reckons it might be around 0300 when he wakes with a dull pain in his lower back.

It’s fine, it’ll pass, is Johnny’s routine dismissal. It’s commonplace enough, these minor flare-ups, that he’s not too concerned about it.

That is, until it starts spreading like wildfire up his entire core.

Johnny struggles to remain still on the mattress, his teeth clenched tightly in his mouth to keep from voicing any of his rampant discomfort, as he rides through the fresh bout of torture.

Simon’s sleeping. He needs to be up early for his presentation in just a few hours now.

So he keeps lying there, trying those breathing exercises his doctors had suggested, something about attempting to drown out the pain. Which might work, in theory. It’s too bad his whole body feels like it’s being passionately electrocuted by a sadistic powerline.

He tries and fails to go back to sleep.

It’ll pass…it’ll pass…eventually the words become a mantra, more effective than the shitty breathing exercises at keeping a rhythm, even if it just ebbs and flows with the intensity of his pain.  

By some miracle, Simon’s alarm goes off sooner than he’d expected.

Johnny hears the man beside him grumble, shifting his legs over the side of the bed and scratching his messy hair for a few seconds before turning the alarm off.

He doesn’t know why he’d assumed his agony would abate upon the other man’s return to consciousness, but it doesn’t.

In fact, it might feel a little bit worse.

Turning to find him awake, Simon grunts something, what might be a morning greeting, before hefting his weight off the mattress.

“Y’should sleep’s’more, kid,” the man mumbles, padding clumsily across the bedroom floor towards the kitchen without a second thought.

“Can’t,” Johnny grits out, but his partner is still too sleepy to recognize the pain in it.

“Makin’ a brew,” is all Simon offers, going about his typical heavy-eyed morning routine, needing at least an hour or two to prepare himself for the upcoming meeting.

Now lying in a half curl, his bad leg stirring up twinges of fire, Johnny shifts the sheets off his body, letting out the faintest whimper when he goes to climb out of bed.

It’ll pass…it’ll pass…

Somehow, he’s able to scramble to his feet, snatching the cane at his bedside to force himself in the direction of the bathroom.

Maybe a shower would help. Maybe just some cool water on his face.

It’ll pass…

Skirting by the kitchen as Simon goes about fixing his tea, Johnny practically bangs into the bathroom door, still not managing to attract the other man’s attention.

He takes a piss, leaning heavily on the counter as he methodically starts brushing his teeth.

Taking in his appearance, John can’t ignore how drawn his features are, a tightness to his whole face that betrays the stress he’s under, dark bags, feverish eyes. In short—he looks like absolute shite.

Something about the pressure of his toothbrush in his mouth seems to distract him for a moment, though, so he continues frantically scrubbing his gums, eventually spitting to reveal a trail of red pooling in the water as he rinses it down.

Easy…take it easy…

Johnny’s inner placations are useless, he’s aware, but he still needs something to galvanize any sort of effort to get him off the bathroom counter.

But as soon as he moves—

It’s as sudden as it is severe.

John can’t stop the shocked cry from escaping his mouth, nor can he keep from collapsing in a heap to the floor.

His back hits the wall on the way down, amplifying the nerve-splitting spasm of agony that had just ripped through him.

Fuck…fuck…fuck…

He can’t feel the tiles beneath him, the shabby bathmat. He can’t even think.

All he’s aware of is that coursing riptide of pain, like a snap of electricity through water, drowning and reviving in tandem.

He thinks he might scream.

What he does hear is the frantic call—“Johnny!?”—his name breaching through the static in his head, enough that he can pinpoint the alarm in it.

His back continues spasming, forcing him to curl up on the tiles with his head face-down, breaths getting labored.

“I’m fine,” he tries to say, fucking liar that he is.

He doesn’t want Simon worrying about him.

And for good reason.

Johnny hears the heavy pound of footsteps, but as quick as they come—there’s a sudden halt, a shadow in the doorframe.

“M’ok, love,” he gasps. “Jus’ need a second.”

It takes him more than a second.

Unfurling from his hunch with a pathetic whimper, Johnny pivots his head on the tile, trying to spare a glimpse of the man above him.

Simon is rooted in the doorway, his eyes—

Blank.

“S’jus’ a flare-up, sweetheart, it’s fine, I’m fine.”

He knows the words don’t register when Simon keeps staring at him like…that.

“It’ll pass, love, it’ll pass.”

His partner only snaps out of it when Johnny attempts to climb up from the floor, letting out another dull scream with the resulting seizure of pain up and down his back.

And just like that—

“What the fuck are you doin’—Jesus fuck, Johnny!” Simon’s hand grips his bicep, tugging him up to support him while the younger man falters.

“Sorry. M’sorry.” Johnny doesn’t know why he’s apologizing, Simon even more baffled.

“Fuckin’ hell, just stop try'na move, I’ve got ya!”

Now panting against the other man’s chest, Johnny forfeits control, letting Simon prop him up as his body continues screaming at him.

“What the hell happened?”

“My…my fuckin’ back. Must’a slept poorly, kept me up fer hours. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck, Johnny. You don’t gotta…” Simon struggles for a moment, a harsh exhale failing to steady the heavy breaths Johnny feels with his face so close to his lungs.

“Jus’…jus’ help me back t’bed,” Johnny slurs, adding a pathetic, “Please?”

“You fuckin’ collapsed, John, I have half a mind to call a goddamn ambulance—”

“It’s fine,” he insists, another stab up his spinal column causing him to bury further in Simon’s chest, whimpering behind clenched teeth.

“Johnny…”

“I’m sorry, love,” he says again. Just because he has nothing more to give.

What else to say to the man who had run from him before, too shaken, too intimate with the sight of a loved one lying face-down, unmoving, on the floor?

Simon had been the one to find his brother.

Johnny hasn’t forgotten.

He grits his teeth as the other man half-carries him to the bedroom, but lying back down on the mattress doesn’t seem to offer any aid.

Writhing through another spasm, Johnny jerks his head down, gasping into the material of his t-shirt as he tries to mask his anguish.

“Fuckin’…what do I do to help?” Simon sounds frantic now, kneeling beside the bed, his fist curled in the sheets. 

“N-nothin’,” Johnny rasps. “Jus’ gottae…wait it out…”

Simon swears again, fingers tightening, his spare hand hovering over Johnny’s form as if too afraid to touch. 

Johnny tries his hardest because he knows the other man hates to see him cry, but it…

It gets to be too much.

All at once, the sobs start to wrack through him, as rapid and consuming as the pain. It’s pathetic, he’s pathetic, he knows. But Johnny can only curl in on himself, self-suffocating on the awful sounds that wrench from his throat.

“This is…Jesus fuckin’ hell—I’m calling a fuckin’ ambulance.”

“Don’t,” Johnny hisses, but his complaints just get smothered by another terrible cry. 

“I…I can’t take this, Johnny.”

Through the haze of pain, Johnny senses Simon scramble towards his side of the bed, returning once he’d snatched his phone, an urgency in the way he waits for it to connect, and the way he desperately holds Johnny’s hand in his.

“I need medical assistance.” Simon’s delivery is as blunt as if he had just called for backup.

His voice doesn’t tremble, but his fingers do, that callused thumb twitching erratically as it clings to Johnny’s palm.

“Not for me,” he continues speaking into the phone. “My husband collapsed. He’s in a lot of pain.”

There’s a murmur from the other end of the call, routine questions that Simon dutifully answers.

“No. Yes. Said he felt some pain in the night. A few hours now. I’m not sure.” Distantly, Johnny’s aware that Simon starts checking him over, feeling at his backside in a way that ought to be cheeky given better circumstances. In reality, he’s probably just checking if Johnny’d pissed himself. “Negative. He’s still in pain at the moment. Reckon about a nine. Yes. Former spinal cord injury, just over a year, trauma to his thoracic vertebrae, as well as—”

Johnny starts to zone out as Simon continues listing his ‘top-ten injuries that almost killed him’, having exhaustive personal knowledge on the subject, all the more relevant right now.  

He swears his body feels like an incredibly fragile, fucked-up tree, a shiver of agony spreading through each imaginary branch inside of him. His teeth start chattering with how violating it feels.

“They’re sendin’ EMS,” Simon informs, chucking his phone on the mattress so he can now use both hands to begin awkwardly running over Johnny’s back.

Suspecting there’s not much that can be done about his condition besides some NSAIDs and the aforementioned ‘waiting it out’, Johnny forces a nod anyway, clinging to the one solid distraction he’d had this morning.  

“First time ye called me that,” he mumbles, voice strained but still coming out soft.

“Hmn?”

“Yer husband.”

He’d hesitate to call the look on Simon’s face ‘heartbreaking’ if only because he looks so fucking beautiful in this moment. Those brown eyes flicker, that persistent wrinkle in his forehead deepening, the tiniest quiver of his mouth before he ducks his head, shaking it lightly.

“Get a grip, captain,” Johnny teases, more of a feeble croak. “I’ll be fine in a bit, promise.”

Simon just keeps shaking his head at the floor.

“You scared the shit outta me, John,” is what he mutters eventually, dark and ashamed.

Please don’t call me that, Johnny wants to say.

Instead, he just reaches for his hand again after hastily scrubbing away fresh tears. And this time, it’s Simon’s turn to apologize for no reason.

“Fuck…I’m sorry, Johnny,” the man whispers. “Hate seein’ you like this…in pain…it’s fuckin’…”

Johnny closes his eyes, giving those breathing exercises another go, though he reckons the hushed words do him one better.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart…I’m so fuckin’ sorry…”

EMS arrives shortly thereafter, giving him a brief inspection and asking a bunch of questions that Johnny struggles to answer through his padlocked mouth.

What does the pain feel like? where is it located? how often do you experience pain like this? etc.

Is it not enough to simply respond with an emphatic groan and be diagnosed accordingly?

“What’s his name?” one of the paramedics asks Simon, when it’s clear they can’t even get that from him.

“John,” Simon states bluntly, before correcting, softer, “Johnny.”

“Alright, Johnny, we can get you on some painkillers and try an ice-pack, ok?” Just as he expected. “Other than that, if your symptoms get any worse, we can arrange to bring you to the hospital.”

“You can stay with him, keep him under observation?” the other one asks Simon, receiving a dutiful nod.

The first paramedic gives Johnny another sympathetic pat, evidently remorseful for the lack of relief they’re capable of providing for these kinds of nerve pain issues. It’s just one of those things, unfortunately.

“I’d suggest havin’ your husband try to get you up and walking, helps to move around a bit, love.”

They end up giving him a lidocaine patch that Johnny reckons might actually be the most successful at easing the pain off; that, or he’d just gotten used to it by now.

And Simon does help him walk around the room in a short circuit after the medics leave, both of them eventually returning to the bed so the older man can curl up next to him, clutching him against his whole body with quiet shushes every time Johnny’s whimpers pick up, a steady hand carding through his dark hair, holding him through it.

Simon misses his presentation.

And they stay in bed all day, until that tea left on the counter gets very, very cold…

From the look on his partner’s face now, Johnny can tell Simon’s probably thinking of the very same thing.

He watches him silently, the calculated way the older man starts unstrapping his knee brace, giving it a thorough inspection while Johnny continues lying in the damp grass.

“Some faint swelling ‘ere, reckon you’ve got a bit of fluid.” Simon continues compressing the joint, a touch painfully, instructing further, “Try to extend it as far as you can.”

Johnny obliges, fixated on the professionalism his partner evaluates his condition with. The other man had been spending even more time devoted to med training lately, since being out of commission from his own injury. Convenient, that.

“Turn it, slowly, that’s it.”

“Shite, careful,” Johnny hisses, refusing to acknowledge how much it actually hurts.

Simon frowns further. “Feels a bit stiff?” He completes his treatment by leaning in to help prop Johnny up, the back of his t-shirt now accordingly drenched. “Need to rest it,” the man insists. “Get some ice on it as soon as we can.”

Without missing a beat, Caroline appears behind him with one of the bags of ice from that cooler Johnny’d tried to drag, putting himself in this situation in the first place.

“Here, lemme help.” His sister crouches down on his opposite side, hooking under his arm as Simon does the same. His family had developed a sort of system, for whenever Johnny happens to find himself incapacitated; more of a frequent occurrence than he’d like, what with being a clumsy git all the damn time. Usually, it’s Caro and Jack who take on the task of hauling him back to his feet. But Johnny sees his father keeping to the sidelines now, entrusting that role to Simon instead.

“Good strong lad, that husband of yers, John-boy,” Jack remarks, tossing his son-in-law the set of keys with something of a fond smirk. “Take him home. Make sure he behaves.”

And Johnny’s currently propped on Simon’s shoulder, so he can’t see his face to confirm or deny, but hell if it doesn’t sound like a wink in his tone when the other man states dryly, “Aye, sir.”

They get Johnny to the car, depositing him into the passenger seat as Simon gives his knee one last check before craning his head to start backing out of the lot. And when he places his hand there again after turning out of the exit, Johnny doesn’t complain. Especially when he starts sliding it up and down his bare thigh.

“Ye like the shorts then?” John teases, receiving a dismissive scoff.

“How does it feel?” Simon asks, and it takes a second for him to realize he’s not referring to the fondling.

“S’a’right. Jus’ achin’ a bit. Probably overdid it.”

Simon hums in agreement, his mouth set in a firm line. Johnny doesn’t have to wonder what he’s likely thinking about.   

Two days, that last flare-up had lasted.

Would be a real shame for him to miss the celebration tomorrow. A real shame, indeed.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, knowing how stupid it sounds as soon as he says it.

Sure enough, Simon scowls at him. “Don’t…ya don’t gotta say shit like that, kid. You’re in pain, that’s no reason to fuckin’ apologize.”

“Yeah, I just…” He doesn’t fucking know.

Slouching further in his seat, Johnny frowns at the window, aware that it won’t just be Jessie disappointed if he ends up bedridden over his stupid fucking pride.

“It’s for us, you know,” he mutters to the man beside him, Simon lifting a brow in question. “The party.”

His partner just offers a low sigh, right hand clenching against the steering wheel, left still on Johnny’s leg. “I’m not an idiot.”

That makes one of them. Took Johnny weeks to catch on, but it turns out he’s not entirely daft enough to miss all the obvious clues. Though, it might’ve only been confirmed for sure when his sisters had taken him ‘dress shopping’, both of them bustling around trying to find a proper suit for him to wear for…what was it—a seven-year-old’s birthday? And here they’d wanted to book him a bloody castle…

Diverting topics just so he doesn’t have to stew in his current guilt, Johnny delicately asks, “That thing with the balloons—you a’right?”

They’d have to broach the man’s PTSD display at some point, however much they both despise the subject.

Simon’s response is to shrug, his thumb brushing Johnny’s kneecap. “Caught me off guard,” he mumbles as an excuse.

But Johnny’s certain the man is, in fact, always on guard. It’s why he’d been so quick to snatch his nieces, pure reflex spurring him to shelter them in that split second. It’s why he’d rushed without thinking to Johnny’s side as he fell.  

It’s why it’s always such a paradox, witnessing what it really looks like when his lover takes those shields down.

The flat had been so quiet, two days, that whole goddamn weekend.

And Johnny had finally, mercifully, been able to doze off into a proper rest at some point, only waking up again at the sound of the shower.

So quiet, just the faintest hiss of water on tiles.

He finds Simon in the stall.

Sitting on the floor, his head buried between his knees, stationary.

Johnny lingers in the doorframe a moment, something so intimate aching through him that eclipses all the previous pain he’d just endured.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Slowly, he begins shedding his clothes. The sweat-stained t-shirt, his socks, Simon’s borrowed trousers that bunch up at his ankles.

The shower door rattles, but the other man doesn’t flinch. Not even when Johnny slides down next to him, the naked skin of their shoulders icy cold and goosebumped.

John reaches to warm the water, turning the dial all the way up.

He waits.

Defrosting alongside the spray, Simon gradually lifts his head from his hunch, blinking back the droplets in his eyes.

“With me, love?” Johnny braces around his back, tugging him closer to warm him up faster.

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” the other man rasps, still blinking.

“Shhh. It’s fine. You’re ok.”

“Good?” Simon asks, though Johnny’s not even sure it’s a question aimed at him.

“I’m good,” he says anyway, rubbing those solid shoulders. “More worried about you though, sweetheart.”

“Just…fuckin’ tired,” Simon mumbles, eyes glazed and distant.

“I know, mo ghràidh. I know.”

He’d stayed up with him, by his side, those two whole days. Didn’t sleep at all. Didn’t leave.

“So fuckin’ tired, Johnny.”

With that, Simon’s head drops, settling with a heavy thump against Johnny’s collarbone.

He holds him right there.

“Shhh. Shhh. I’ve got ye.”

It’s more an act of surrender on both their parts, letting those walls break.

Simon doesn’t cry like a normal man. He doesn’t love like one either.

There’s unspent violence in even the most fragile exchanges of his heart, but Johnny’d grown thick enough skin to weather its claws.

He just sits there as Simon shudders and gasps in great heaves against his chest, shaky and savage and beautiful.

“Shhh. Let it out. I’m here.”

Johnny’s not even sure he sheds any tears at all, just hollow expressions of a grief that has no tether, no name.

“That’s it, sweet thing. You’re ok.”

He lets the other man cling to him, rough fingers digging into his clavicle for purchase, desperate breaths scattered amongst his own calmer ones, that sturdy arm keeping Simon upright as he rides through the panic attack he’d likely kept bottled up since last June.

“I’ve got ye, my love, I’ve got ye.”

It’s no wonder Simon Riley doesn’t wear a blood-type patch on his gear.

How vulnerable it must be, for a group of men primed to slaughter, to declare so openly right there on their chests: this is what’s inside me; do with it what you will.

Johnny just holds him close, till the shower runs cold again.

And they don’t talk about it, after.

They just climb back into bed, water-wrinkled skin and the softest kisses pressed behind shoulder blades.

There’s a chain around Johnny’s neck still, the one he’s worn every day since that hailstorm in November, its trust kept safeguarded right above his heart.

Always.

From the driver’s seat, Simon spares a glance at him with the corners of his eyes, a flash of deep brown that tells Johnny he’s already moved past it. Bottling it all up until the next overflow.

Doesn’t take a demo expert to recognize how hazardous that is, but alas…

They let the subject drop, for now, Johnny only speaking up to alert the man, “Tha’s not our street, ye hopeless fuckin’ git, ye jus’ bloody passed it.”

And Simon rolls those gorgeous eyes, muttering, fondly, “Up yours, MacTavish.”

Elaine had commandeered the dining room for the whole afternoon, demanding privacy and threatening bodily harm should anyone sneak a peek at whatever ‘secret project’ she’d been stressing over.

Evidently, that hadn’t excluded her new son-in-law, as the second Simon attempts to walk through the entryway, he’s met with a whack from the broom, a startled grunt escaping him; finally caught off guard, eh?

“Naw, naw! Out with ye’s!” The woman tries to usher them back out the door, only conceding when Simon explains quietly, “Johnny’s needin’ a rest.”

The shift in tone is palpable, mam immediately tutting away at her son, urging Johnny into the kitchen to get him some meds, groping at his forehead to gauge his temperature in all her henpecking glory.

“S’fine, mam. Jus’ strained mesel. It’ll work itself out.” He can’t quite keep the guilt from it, even further when he overhears Simon and his mother muttering back and forth just within earshot as he sits on the couch with his ice-pack.

“Crumbs, how bad d’ye reckon?”

“Too soon to say. Looks like it’s swollen, might be inflamed.”

“Shite…”

“Shouldn’t be puttin’ any more weight on it, at least for the rest of the day.”

“An’ wha’ about tomorrow?”

“We’ll just have to wait and see...”

Johnny sits there while his mother goes about drawing a bath, trying not to feel like he’d personally failed them all.

After all the effort they’d gone through for this party, here he goes fucking it up just because he can’t adhere to his bloody limits.

It had been a while since he’d needed to remind himself—this is not your fault—but Johnny still can’t help giving credence to the opposite every now and then.

Certainly doesn’t help that he’s a self-diagnosed idiot, as advertised.  

Simon helps him into the bathtub, extra mindful of his right leg as he settles him into the blessedly hot water. Once seated, the older man gives a cheeky splash, bringing his hand up to soak Johnny’s head, ruffling the hair for good measure.

“Hey!” There’s really no need to protest; Johnny’s already half-melted into the porcelain.

At first, he thinks Simon might just leave him to it, but after a few minutes, he hears the tell-tale sound of disrobing, an offhand argument already forming on his lips about the tub definitely not being big enough for them both.

But the other man doesn’t attempt to plop down in the water.

No, he just climbs in and stands there like the fucking statue of David, switching on the showerhead and blasting Johnny right in the face.

“Oi, you fuckin’—” There’s his noble protest, Johnny squawking like a fool as he tries to dodge the spray at the opposite end of the tub.  “Bloody bawbag piece’a shite!”

With Simon laughing like a madman, though, it’s harder to hold it against him.

God, he loves that fucking sound…

Johnny simply huffs and leans back, grateful the man had moved to block most of the spray with his massive body to begin scrubbing up, even more indebted to the view it grants.

Someone had also been spending some extra time in the gym, so it would seem.

Thick, ropey arms, delicious legs, a sculpted chest straight out of those romance novels of his mother’s Johnny pretends not to read over her shoulder. Such a specimen, that Captain Riley.

Still doesn’t excuse his hijacking of Johnny’s bath.

“Go on, soldier boy, gi’es a navy shower,” John tsks. “Two minutes, clock’s tickin’.”

“Fuck off, I’m on ‘oliday,” Simon grunts, pivoting to let the soap run off his back, Johnny forfeiting a low whistle.

“Knew I kept ye around fer somethin’,” he drawls, inching his left foot out of the water to slap it against the other man’s rear.

Simon hisses at him, still covered in suds.

It’s not often Johnny gets to appreciate all of the man’s assets from such a domestic viewpoint. What with the way Simon’s just standing there, naked as a bairn, he can’t help but admire the show. And be a little shit about it, naturally.

“Oi! MacTavish, don’t you d—” The noise Simon emits might be called a squeal from any other person, floundering against the tiles with a full-body wriggle.   

And Johnny cackles at his expense all the same, having just wedged a soapy foot between his lover’s legs, staking a claim, as it were.  

He tickles with his toes once more, just to see how pink he can make the other man’s ears.

“You’re gonna make me fall and break a hip, you know that?” Simon growls, turning to wash his hair and shaking all the suds in Johnny’s direction, damn prick. “Then we’ll both be crippled fucks.”

“Aye, but we’ll never have trouble parking.”

“Heh.”

The two of them take their time cleaning up, Johnny lounging back to soak, Simon continuing to stand under the showerhead long past his allotted two minutes.

Eventually, though, the older man climbs back out, parking himself in front of the mirror with a reflexive grimace.

Johnny lingers in the tub while his partner sorts out an array of products from his travel bag, various creams and what looks like a straight razor.

It occurs to him that he’d never seen the other man shave before. Must be part of his morning routine, he wagers.

There’s barely any evidence of facial hair on Simon’s jaw at the moment, just a faint scruff along his chin. Johnny’d been blessed to have seen it grow out once, on a long assignment, enough to confirm that the beard had leaned more towards a rusted ginger.

Cute…

He wouldn’t mind seeing it again; though he knows Simon prefers to be kept clean-shaven, unlike Johnny’s own beard he’d been sporting lately, much to mam's disdain.

“Need a hand?” he asks, craning his neck from the tub to see the other man shrug. It’s as much of an affirmative as he’d get. 

To keep the weight off his knee, John sits propped on the counter in his underwear, Simon in a compromising position between his thighs below on the toilet, but neither of them dwell on the sensuality of it.

Instead, Johnny takes his time, steady and deliberate, especially when navigating the minefield of scar tissue on the other man’s face.

“Careful around the—” Simon tilts his chin up, mouth closing as John scrapes the razor oh-so-gently along the edge of his acid scar. 

Hardly any hairs grow there anyway, but he completes each pass with precision, a finesse he hadn’t had reason to practice since last disarming an IED in the field.

Johnny knows which wires to avoid with this one, never leaving the knife’s edge too long across his lover’s throat.

I could kill him and he’d let me, is the split-second manic impulse his mind tells him must be true.

How else would Simon allow himself to be exposed so earnestly, neck bared and eyes closed, if not to give Johnny license over his lifespan?

He carries the weight of that responsibility as he does the man’s dog-tags, knowing it’s his own damn welfare tethered to the lifeblood that flows in steady pumps beneath the throat he holds so carefully, however much that sounds like a suicide pact.

Since when did their contingency plan become: if you die, I die? Johnny can’t be certain. 

He combs Simon’s wet hair when he’s done with the shave, not a necessary task, but call him selfish for wanting to keep the man between his legs for a little bit longer.

The older man’s dark blond strands are smooth and fine, little dashes of silver catching his attention as he slicks it all back from his forehead. It had finally grown some, since needing to be buzzed down after the shrapnel he’d taken to the scalp. John’s sure they both prefer it this way, just long enough to hint at a loose curl on the ends.

Cute, he thinks again.

“My mum used to cut hair,” Simon mumbles absently after a few minutes, nearly startling him with its unexpectedness. “For a livin’.”

It’s strange how oddly receptive the other man gets from just a soak and some light petting, his accent also drawing out, loosening into a nasal drawl.

Should pamper him more often, Johnny supposes, if it gets him to open up more. He still hardly ever talks about his family.

“That so?” Johnny encourages, shifting the comb to part those blond locks.

“Mn-hm. Some shitty salon in Longsight, inner ci’y. Came ‘ome reekin’ of hairspray and perfume every day. Gave dad ‘eadaches, so he said.” Simon leans against the broad expanse of Johnny’s leg, nodding. “Kinda liked the smell myself, though. Reminded me of this coloring set I’d got once, buncha markers that were s’pposed to smell like fruits and shit, y’know?”

“Huffin’ markers in yer youth, ah, those were the days.”

Simon snorts, rolling his forehead off Johnny’s thigh so he can start combing round the back.

“Did she used’ta cut yers then?”

“Yeah, free of charge, like.” They both smirk at that. “’Course, Tommy’d try to get her to give him the most outrageous haircuts. Problem was—he always tried ‘em out on me first.”

“Oof, ye have my sympathies.”

“I’m talkin’ experimental shit, stuff like lightning bolts on the sides, plaits on the top, shoulda been criminal.”

“The 90’s, man…”

“Worst one I can remember was when he’d tried to bleach the tips. Ended up wiv my whole ‘ead like a fuckin’ cotton bud, was mortified.”

Johnny doesn’t even try to keep from laughing at the mental image, Simon grumbling beneath him. “Shite, what I’d pay ta see that.”

“I can assure you, all the records’ve been fuckin’ burned.”

“Pity.”

“And our Tommy tried to rectify his sins by try'na help me color it back in with bleedin’ magic markers, if you can believe,” Simon adds, chuckling in a short burst against the skin of Johnny’s leg.

“Hope they were the fruit-smelling kind.”

“Heh, might’ve been.” Simon laughs again, such a lovely thing. “You can imagine how unsuccessful that was, eh?”

“Arts and crafts were never your strong suit, sir.”

“Sure enough, mum ‘ad to shave it all off after the school called accusin’ me of bein’ a Nazi or some shit, overdramatic fucks.”

“As if ye weren’t blond enough,” Johnny tsks.

“’Least I spared Tommy though,” Simon reasons, a touch of affection in it he can’t quite mask. “’Course, he had his when he got his first tattoo off a bloke in the back of some van. Wanted it to say summin like ‘can’t be judged’. Guess what he got?”

“Och, don’ tell me.”

“Well, the crackpot must’a got his tattoo license the same place he got his secondary school degree, ‘cause our Tommy-boy walked out declarin’ he couldn’t be ‘fudged’.”

Johnny snickers into the man’s shoulder, picking up steam with Simon’s own deep belly-laughs. 

“Christ,” he says through his giggling. “Don’t think the magic markers couldae fixed that one.”

“Reckon not,” Simon concurs, nestling back against his thigh, so warm. “Wore it proudly though, bless ‘im.”

The laughter fades out amongst the steam on the mirror, Johnny now trading the comb for his bare fingers, keeping him there.

It’s silent for a moment, until…

“He woulda liked you,” Simon mumbles, almost too quiet to hear.

“Mmn.”

“Stubborn pricks with shitty haircuts,” the man adds, snorting fondly. “Yeah, you woulda got on.”

Johnny doesn’t push it. He knows these wires are the most unstable, the most crucial.

Families often are.

Withdrawing from the man’s hair, Johnny begins tracing the outlines of Simon’s own tattoo with a wayward finger from where it’s propped up in his lap.

Black and ugly, full of so much hate. It’s surely a contradiction that Johnny can find beauty in it, but he does.

Under all the skulls and weapons and one tiny Scottie dog, that pulse beats still. 

“Wannae see somethin’ really fuckin’ stupid?” Johnny prompts, waiting for the man to squint at him dubiously.

He nudges up the bracelet Aggie had given him on his left wrist, exposing the hidden patch of skin beneath.

“Tell me you didn’t,” Simon groans, Johnny already grinning as he flashes the latest addition he’d had done on a whim just last weekend after that shopping trip.

A tiny ghost, permanently doodled right at the joint, spooking its way across his pulse.

“That’s gay as shit, MacTavish,” Simon accuses, the corner of his mouth quirking nonetheless.

“Oi, that’s yer husband ye’re talkin’ about,” Johnny pretend-scoffs, tightening his legs to softly strangle the other man, smirking at the way he just flops further into his lap.

“You always have to have the last laugh, dontcha?”

“Must be the Scorpio in me.” They both roll their eyes.

“S’ppose it’s not as bad as mine,” Simon mumbles, rotating his shoulder to splay his tattooed arm across Johnny’s thigh, inciting him to begin tracing over it once more, such a fucking softie.

Giving in to him, as always, John can’t help but wonder what it might be like to fill it all in with color, painting imaginary strokes with his fingertips, magic markers bleeding life and warmth back into the brutalistic lineart.

How long had Simon’s life been grayscale? Long before he’d gone color-blind, he wagers.

His lover lingers beneath him on the toilet seat, eyes closing yet again after Johnny continues his lazy ministrations, leaning in closer.

And Johnny just looks down at him as Simon carefully brushes the edge of his mouth in a slow caress against his bad knee, not quite a kiss, but that same protective act he’d displayed while shielding the girls earlier.

Cute is hardly the word now, but Johnny doesn’t reckon there is one.

A strong, beautiful man, right there between his legs, breath and lips and skin ghosting across his limb in a way that’s both possessive and surrendering.

If ever there was incentive for poetry…

They call for an early night, justifiable given Johnny’s condition and Simon’s chronic old-man bedtime.

Just after dinner, he lies on the couch with his leg propped up by a pillow, both of his nieces sprawled on the living room carpet with Simon, a film on the telly.

That one with ‘the bear in the hat’, Johnny had cheekily suggested, smirking at his partner’s eager reaction.

“Ah, yeah, love that little bastard.”

The girls love it too, giggling up a storm at Paddington’s antics, Aggie cozying against Simon’s side while Jessie tries to reenact the scenes as they happen.

It is, admittedly, surprisingly wholesome.

When it’s time for bed, Johnny doesn’t object when Simon literally scoops him up off the couch into his arms with a deadpanned, “Up we go, princess,” both girls squealing further and insisting they want to be carried too.

"Me next! Me next!"

“Ya’ll get your turns, sprogs.”

Johnny fights a grin, losing the battle with his pride, as he lets the man cart him off upstairs to their bedroom, catching the residual sounds of laughter from downstairs as Simon makes good on his promise.

Jesus, he loves him so much it ought to be considered a health risk by now…

Considering they’d gone to bed so early, Johnny isn’t really surprised when his partner wakes up at the crack of dawn on the day of the party.

Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

The sound he lets out when he senses the other man roll out of bed is something that might be produced by some unholy creature, Simon glowering at him while he attempts to retreat from Johnny’s clingy arms, and the leg he tries to wrap around him like a serpent.

“Jeeesus, fuck! Why are your feet so fucking cold?” Simon hisses.

“Bad circulation,” Johnny mumbles, continuing to grope for his current source of heat.

His partner just swats him off. Rude.  

“Stay a bit?” he pleads, rolling over onto his stomach and blinking sleepily in what he hopes is his best puppy-eyes. “Pleeease?”

From Simon’s scowl, he’s more likely to be sent to the pound. “Can’t. Got shit to do.”

Said ‘shit’ consists of what must be four dozen sit-ups and press-ups, all performed in expert form on Johnny’s bedroom floor, the massive bed that had been a gift from his parents monopolizing most of that space, but Simon makes do.  

Nodding back off at around set number two, Johnny rouses again to the sound of fabric rustling, blinking blearily at the sight of Simon shrugging on a hoodie, his weight squeaking into the edge of the mattress to get his socks on.

“'ow’s the leg?” the other man asks, now seeing he’s awake.

Johnny gives the limb in question a tentative stretch, sprawling himself out on the empty bed like a starfish. “It’s…not bad, actually.” From his initial assessment, the pain seems to have lessened considerably, only a faint twinge.

Simon still spends a minute checking it over, shifting the quilt back over Johnny’s body when he’s done, going so far as to tuck his feet nice and cozy. “That’s good. We’ll need you on your best today.”

Rolling back onto his side to nestle deeper into the blankets, Johnny pouts. “Sure ye cannae gi’es a wee snuggle?”

“Told ya—there’s shit needs doin’. Got business with your dad.”

That sends Johnny into a momentary spiral, several horror scenarios flashing in his mind. “Christ almighty, ye’re not actually joinin’ his band, are ye?”

Simon huffs, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “Paranoid much?”

“Jus’ don’ know how I feel about bein’ a groupie…”

Another snort. “Get some more rest, lazy twat. Your mum said to let you sleep in.”

“Takin’ orders from Mrs. M then?” John feigns shock. “Captain, I daresay ye’ve been outranked.”

The other man shakes his head, leaning in to scuff up Johnny’s hair once more. “Stand fast, sweet’art.” He plants a quick kiss on his forehead, barely a second. “I’ll see ya la’er.” 

With that, Simon withdraws from the mattress, leaving Johnny behind in his bedroom, equal parts baffled and aroused.

Well, that was a nice little pick-me-up, he’d say.

Regardless, he falls back into an easy sleep, lazy as charged.

The benefit of being allowed to have a lie-in, Johnny determines later, is that he misses most of the fuss going on downstairs as his mother and sisters prepare for the party.

He rolls awake closer to noon than he’d like, to the sounds of a petty cat-fight in full swing. Ahh, siblings…

“Where the hell did’ye put it, Roo?”

“How should I know?!”

“’Cause I jus’ gave it ta ye, like, three minutes ago!”

“Naw ye didnae!”

“Bloody typical—this is why ye cannae hold a job!”

“Fuck off!”

“Girls!”

After barking at his two sisters, Johnny cringes when he hears mam marching up the stairs, resigning himself to being the next victim caught in her line of fire.

“Up!” she snaps at him, shoving open his door with a bang. “Whaddye think this is, boy?—some kinda free-fer-all? I said ye could sleep in, not count all the bloody sheep in Yorkshire!”

“Steamin’ Christ, I’m already up.”

“I’ll have no lip from you, John Laith MacTavish!” she warns, a veritable threat. “We'll need ye’s dressed an’ ready ta go by the hour, now move it!”

“Yes, mam,” he grumbles, ruefully climbing out of his sweet, sweet bed.

Elaine only seems to register the previous day’s injury when she spots him groping for his cane, eyebrows sharp as if already pre-judging his answer. “How’re we feelin’ today, then?”

“Better,” he confesses, wishing the same could be said of his pride.

“Good. Now, chop-chop!”

Having missed most of the morning mayhem, Johnny still gets his fair share with his sisters bickering over helping him get ready.

They’d gone to the shops last week, an outing that had John seriously considering hopping on a bus to the Highlands to escape the mortification of his two sisters’ efforts to act like complete lunatics in public.

It had been a goddamn tug-of-war—quite literally at some point, when both had decided to yank Johnny back and forth like a damn mannequin—trying to find him something suitable to wear.

Yet after countless trials and errors, fabrics, cuts, undershirts, trousers, shoes—they’d managed to come away with something decent. His own choice, actually, who would’ve thought?

“Are ye sure ye wannae wear…green?” Caro had scrutinized.

“It’s not really green, though, is it?” John had argued. “It’s like…neutral gray-green?”

“Aye, he’s right,” Ruth had concurred. “Dusty green is in this season. Very summer casual. If we pair it with this, an’ leave the collar open, it’s actually quite chic.”

That’ll be his first time being accused of that, but Johnny does like the suit—a nice, tailored jacket over a white dress shirt, fitted trousers to match in a surprisingly flattering shade.

Plus, it happens to be someone’s favorite color, allegedly. The muted tone is just to accommodate for vision deficiency, he supposes.

Consequently, his sisters aren’t done treating him like their own personal barbie doll, because they corner him in his bedroom, stripping off his clothes with barely an affronted “Hey!” as they wrangle him into his semi-formal attire.

“Mam’ll be miffed ye’re no’ wearin’ the kilt,” Caro tsks, standing at a distance to give him a once-over.

Johnny simply shrugs, causing Ruth to snap at him for moving his shoulders as she tries to get the lapel straight. “Hear there’ll be lots’a wee ‘uns around, wouldnae want any of ‘em climbin’ up me skirt.”

Truthfully, the main reason John had decided against the family tartan had been because his disability would be in plain view. He’s fine with baring the scars on his leg around his family, but he still carries a weight of insecurity at being so publicly scrutinized; his sisters…not so much.

It’s not his fault, he knows. Still can’t help being a bit self-conscious.

“Don’ think yer man’d be able ta contain himself either,” his younger sister adds. “The way he was gawpin’ at’cha, ye’d think he hadn’t seen legs outside of a twelve-piece bucket.”

Johnny actually chuckles at that, rolling his eyes.

“Aye, baby brother,” Caroline concurs. “Got tha’ English boy wrapped right ‘round yer finger.”

Well, also wrapped around his—

His sisters drag him into the bathroom before he can finish that thought.

Plopping him down at the sink, Caro and Roo continue their makeover crusade by tackling his hair next. It goes about as expected.

“Didn’t ye think ta get it cut?” Ruth flares her nostrils.

“Wha’s wrong with the length? I think it’s fine,” Caro insists.

“Och, you would.”

“The hell does tha’ mean?”

“Leave yer lack of style outta this, please.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Naw, we really oughtta clean up the back, he looks like a bloody priest.”

“An’ wha’ the hell does that mean?!”

Ruth, taking matters into her own hands, secures Johnny’s electric razor, a brief tussle as Caro unsuccessfully tries to wrestle it from her, Johnny just blinking dully at the mirror to an imaginary laugh track.

What does make him jolt is the sudden buzz at the back of his head, accompanied by a horrified giggle from Ruth.

“Aw, shite…”

“Wha’ the hell did ye do?!” Caro gasps, turning Johnny by the shoulder so she can get a look for herself.

Catching a glimpse in the mirror, John spots a sizeable patch of hair missing at his nape, Caroline hissing at their younger sister for this most egregious crime she’d just committed.

“Dinnae fash, I can fix it!” Ruth asserts, already powering up the razor again, albeit with a less-confident expression than before.

To his credit, Johnny remains relatively calm. Can’t be any worse than plaits and lightning bolts, he wagers. Though adding frosted tips might be what finally heralds his full gay awakening.

Ruth takes a ridiculous amount of time clipping the back of his head, enough for him to wonder if he’ll have any hair left by the time she’s finished. But after both his sisters furiously dust off the back of his jacket, Johnny turns to appraise her hard work.

“Aye, tha’s not half bad, reckon,” he admits, handing it to Ruth for not giving him a tonsure as he’d feared. Could’ve been the prank of the century.

The hair is trimmed down into an even fade, buzzed at the nape up to the ears, with the top portion left untouched. Clean, modern, still rugged enough that he doesn’t look like some flashy chav.

Ruth continues pestering, though, by trying to tastefully arrange the longer hairs with copious amounts of product, Caro intruding as well.

“Naw, we should part it this way.”

“The right part is on’y if ye wannae look feminine.”

“How am I related to you?!”

“I’m serious. The left part makes ye more masculine, there’ve been studies.”

“Fuckin’ hell…”

“Speakin’ of—ye really oughtta sort yers out.”

“Piss aff!”

“Still better than Johnny’s though...”

“Christ—looks like he’s just had a shag.”

If only…

Eventually, John groans, reaching up to knead against his forehead, running his fingers through the hair out of sheer exasperation.

“Hold on, leave it right there—tha’ looks perfect!” Ruth declares, clapping her hands in front of her mouth like she’d just witnessed an ecclesiastical miracle.

“Are we done?” Johnny huffs, his sisters finally scurrying off to finish getting their own appearances in order, more bickering in the background.

He finds himself blessedly alone in his bedroom for a bit, sitting on the edge of his mattress and evaluating the weather.

Sunny enough for August, though still a tad gray.

That collection of items on the windowsill catches the light as it comes and goes, clouds shifting overhead, as indecisive as his resolve, he’d wager.

In the quiet of his room, John lets out a long exhale, coming to terms with the fact that, in spite of it all, he’s feeling rather nervous.

Da and Simon had been gone all morning. Surely intentional on his family’s part, but he’d still feel better right now with his partner at his side. 

He toys with the ring on his finger, as well as the bracelet from Aggie, smirking at his silly tattoo underneath. The look on the tattoo artist’s face when he’d shown her the doodle had been well worth the fifty quid.

Nodding at his own subconscious, Johnny leans over to secure the secret item he’d kept in his desk drawer for months, slipping it into his breast pocket.

You’re a damn fool, MacTavish, he chides himself, if you think there’s anything to be nervous about.

Conjuring up an image of Simon’s perfect smile, Johnny feels lighter almost instantly.

The knock at the door intrudes that brief moment of peace, however, mam ducking her head in with a tsk.

“Caro an’ Greggie have jus’ gone ta pick up granda. We’ll have Ruthie an’ Jess ridin’ with us.”

It hasn’t escaped John’s notice that the Corsa had been left at home. Makes him wonder how his father and Simon had got on.

From the doorway, his mother gives a momentary expression he’d struggle to define. Sad, almost. He watches her quietly enter the room, reaching out a hand to help him to his feet, mindful of his leg.

“Don’ ye look lovely,” Johnny compliments, smiling as he gives her a short twirl. “The flowers are nice.” Elaine has on a smart, knee-length frock, fitted to her small frame with a floral pattern that Johnny’s pleased to find pairs well with his own attire; must’ve been his sisters’ input.

She keeps squeezing his hand, even after he drops it to his side, only lifting it to fasten the top button he’d left purposely undone, giving his cheek a soft pat. “Sure ye dinnae fancy a shave, darlin'?”

Johnny chuckles. Typical. “No, mam.”

The scruff had been a point of contention all summer, but Johnny’s keen to keep the facial hair for now; reckons it makes him mature, of all things.

Opening and closing her mouth, he thinks his mother might be about to nitpick further, but her blue eyes abruptly fill with tears, peeking up at him with a look he can now determine isn’t sadness; rather, pride.

“Lookit ye,” Elaine sniffles, fussing once more with his collar as her eyes continue to well. “Ye’re so handsome, my Johnny.”

He startles at the unexpected lump in his throat, at odds with some long-reserved battle he’d sworn he’d never give a name to.

“I’m sure it’s jus’ the fancy suit.”

Wagging a finger, mam insists, “Naw, naw, I raised a good-lookin’ boy, I did.”

“Thanks fer yer contribution then,” he snorts, conceding her point.  

“Simon’s a very lucky man,” the woman asserts, though her voice quivers again when she adds, “We’re all…we’re all so lucky ta even have ye here in the first place.”

“Mam…”

There’s a heaviness now, that thing they never talk about.

Unasked questions, sleepless nights, the scars, his service portrait in the hallway, an absence from those photo albums, before and after.

“Ye don’ know wha’ it did ta my poor heart…all those years…”

Johnny’s own heart trembles in response, but he still can’t put it into words. It’s that same self-consciousness he feels about exposing all his faults. How can he look his mother in the eye now and say: I wasn’t running away from you all back then; I was trying to find my own, when he still hasn’t come close to discovering who it is he even wants to be?

Johnny Laith MacTavish Hyphen Riley is as good a rough draft as any.

“Never mind all that,” mam concludes, brushing away the fresh tears and beaming up at him once more. “Now—ye’re sure ye dinnae want ta go with the kilt? ‘Cause I’ve got it pressed an’ ready ta go. An’ if ye were wantin’ tha’ shave, now would be the time ta do it—”

Her son cuts her off by grabbing her into a swift hug, ducking her head under his chin so he can rest it there. Such a fussy thing, this little lady. But strong and beautiful, too.

Johnny’s proud to have taken from her, in every regard.  

Aye, he’s the lucky one, he knows now. Always has been.

“Quit yer greetin’, mammie,” he mutters into her hair, accent thick and sweet. “I’ll wear the kilt ta Jessie’s next birthday.”

There’s an acknowledgment there, a small wink when she pulls back and gives him one last affectionate pat.

“Love ye, my Johnny Laith.”

“Love ye too, mam.”

“Have ye’s finished takin’ yer time yet?!” Ruth cries from downstairs. “Let’s gooo!”

And both Johnny and his mother bark, “Haud yer wheesht!” chuckling as he holds his arm out for her, shepherding them from the bedroom.

“Shall we?”

For once, Johnny doesn’t mind being relegated to the backseat, knocking knees with Jessie as they giggle back and forth over silly jokes.  

“Are ye excited fer yer party, then?” Johnny asks, tucking an arm around the girl, who gives him a conspiratorial grin.

“It’s no’ jus’ my party,” she whispers, Johnny smirking further. “I said I’d share the cake with you an’ Uncle Ghost.”

“That’s very generous of ye, hen,” he whispers back, straightening the scalloped collar of the adorable little frock she’s wearing, already wrinkled with a few suspicious smudges. 

His heart gets tested even further when his goddaughter asks, “D’ye think my da’s gonnae come?”

Johnny fights a frown, choosing to tug her in closer while he senses Roo peering back at them guiltily. “Not sure, Jess. Though all’a yer friends’ll be there. Plus Uncle Ghost.”

The girl seems to chew on that, deflating only slightly before proclaiming, “Wicked!”

They pull up to the golf course to find the car park relatively packed, Johnny suddenly wary of how many people his mam had decided to invite to this thing behind his back. Still no sign of Simon and Jack, though.

Caro and Greg had already arrived, toting Granda Frank along with the kids, the old coot having a laugh with Aggie over by the entrance.

“Alright there, granda?” Johnny greets, receiving a surprisingly strong clap to his back, and an incomprehensible, “Madainn mhath, whit like, laddie? Cannae mind the nemm...”

Clearly, his grandfather’s efforts in combining Gaelic and Scots have only further substantiated his senility, Johnny having to remind, “It’s John, granda.”

“Aye, fàilte! Sae et is, me Jackie’s bairn!”

Snorting, Johnny just follows his family up the path to the tent, that nervousness bubbling back up against his will.

There’s a gaggle of children frolicking around the outside, some of Jessie’s school pals as well as familiar faces from the ‘Ultra Otters’. Johnny gives a quick wave to wee Scooty, the tot already making practical use of the bouncy house by rolling all over it.

Nearing the entrance to the party tent, Elaine takes his arm once more, a tighter hold as she guides him forward, well supported with both his mother and his cane.

“Hope ye like wha’ we’ve done,” she says, typical teariness evident in her voice.

And to be fair—Johnny’s nearly rendered speechless himself.

Inside the tent, his sisters had arranged swathes of pale fabric across the top, draping around the space with a collection of lights. Hanging plants dangle from the ceiling as well, soft green ribbons trailing down. The whole thing seems to take on an ethereal glow, warm and airy.

And underneath—a bar set up in the back, stereo speakers, neatly placed tables with satin cloths. And atop each, one of his mother’s handmade baskets bursting with flowers.

Daisies, his favorite. 

“Mam…” Johnny says, at a loss on account of the lump in his throat. “This is…”

Too much…

“We’ve got Midgie’s nephew supplyin’ the food,” his mother carries on. “An’ yer father got Ed an’ the boys ta handle the music. They told us we can use the clubhouse fer the loos an’ such, so we’ve got that all sorted—”

Johnny continues blinking at the space, now noticing the guests lingering about, more than a few waves and smiles in his direction.

It appears as if half the town might be here, local friends of his parents, some old acquaintances from school. He spots Dylan and Shelly by the bar, Midge consoling her grandson Archie who’d already managed to spill punch down his front. Not to mention all the regulars from writing club—Mrs. Harrison and her rambunctious family, Dan accompanied by what looks like a new date, young Maisy brooding with her notebook in the corner. And of course Alice—who dashes over to greet him, looking exceptionally charming in a loose yellow dress.

Johnny accepts her hug with a smirk, knowing the woman had secretly assisted mam in the preparations, keeping him well distracted these past weeks. 

“Ah, bless ye, Johnny,” Alice grins, tucking an arm around Jeremy, who keeps a firm grip on Bobbins’s leash lest the pooch run off to piss against the bouncy house. “Couldnae let ye get off the hook, I’m afraid.”

“Dunno wha’ ye mean,” Johnny continues playing dumb, still baffled that they’d all planned this at his expense, more than a little chuffed.  

“Jus’ enjoy yerself, dear. Ye deserve it.”

He greets a few others, presently reeling from the happy shock of it all; might need to hit up that bar sooner rather than later.

Seemingly sensing his nerves, Caroline sneaks up behind him to press her chin into his shoulder. “How much would’ye have hated me if I invited Roy?”

“Och, tell me ye didn’t.”

Caro just gives a teasing wink, adjusting the sleeve of his dusty green jacket. “Naw, he’s moved on from yer sorry arse, rest assured.”

Not that Johnny has any hard feelings over the guy, but he’s very glad his sister refrained from extending an invitation to his sort-of-ex.

Best of luck to him, though. He’d just found better prospects.

Lingering at his side, both his sisters look lovely in their attractive blush-colored dresses, Ruth moderating her penchant for glitter with just a simple beaded headband, managing to flatter her too-short fringe and all.

Johnny raises a brow at Caro, waiting for her to remark, “Well…whaddye think?”

He turns to regard the tent once more, noting the distinct absence of balloons. He still wonders what the ‘theme’ is supposed to have been.

“Bit much, innit?” John snorts facetiously. “But I s’ppose ye on’y turn seven once.” 

In response, he hears Jessie cheering in the background, that bouncy house getting its money’s worth.

“All this wasnae jus’ fer you,” Ruth cuts in, and at first Johnny thinks she means her daughter, but she adds, “We on’y thought it was right, ta welcome Simon properly into the family.”

Johnny’s heart catches at her words, needing to tug at his collar and undo that top button to remember how to breathe.

“Lord knows why he puts up with ye anyway,” Ruth continues. “He’s well outta yer league, ye should know.”

Regaining his breath just to snort, Johnny flicks her in the forehead, his sister squawking as she fusses to sort her fringe back in order.

“Speakin’ of,” Caroline muses, pulling out her mobile from her purse. “’Course those two would be late…”

Before Johnny can ask about the whereabouts of his partner, he gets his answer.

The muffled rumbling of an engine comes from the distance, long out of practice, followed by an obnoxious rev.

Straight out of a movie scene, he watches the old Norton Commando roll into the car park, freshly polished, its two passengers sliding clumsily from the bench, the taller steadying the shorter, a hand clapping a shoulder as if sharing an inside joke.

Having experienced paralysis before, Johnny reckons whatever he’s feeling right now might be similar.

Because all he can do is stand there, rooted on a heartbeat, staring across the distance as Simon strides forward with his father, looking like…that.

The first thing that strikes him is the suit—a goddamn tuxedo by the looks of it, immaculately tailored to his frame, rich black fabric sheathing those long legs with every step.

The second thing is the look on his face. Simon is actively grinning at something Jack had just said, too far away to hear, but as he picks his head up in the next second, his gaze finally finds Johnny’s.

There’s only the faintest halt, a hitch in his step as he stumbles over his glossy shoes.

Seemingly from nowhere, Elaine appears at Johnny’s side, looping under his arm and nudging him forward.

It’s hardly a walk down an aisle, still no church choir, no bells, but they meet each other halfway.

And mam lets his arm go, da clapping Simon once more on his back, leaving the two of them standing there, nothing but a tried and true:

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

"Fancy meetin' you here."

Simon shrugs, kicking the grass with his heel. "Was in the neighborhood."

“Ye look really nice,” Johnny says lamely.

“Uh, yeah…you too.”

“Very handsome.”

“I like the…” Simon waves a vague hand around, still looking at the ground. “What you’ve done with your hair.”

In a nervous twitch, Johnny brings his fingers up to rake through it, no doubt messing up all his sisters’ hard work and negating the man’s point. “Yours too.”

Simon’s hair is neatly combed back, probably the only time he’d ever seen it styled on purpose. Paired with the ridiculously formal outfit, Johnny still can’t be sure he’s not hallucinating this whole scenario.

“Thought one of us was s’pposed to wear a dress,” Simon jokes, effectively breaking the ice when they both snort.

“Hopin’ it’d be me?”

“Know you Scots love your skirts, is all.”

“Havnae had enough ogling my legs then?”

“Mmn. Reckon you’re overdressed.”

Scoffing, Johnny shakes his head. “Naw, mate, ye’re the one wearin’ a bloody tux.”

“I’ve never been to a birthday party,” Simon deadpans. And just like that—

The two of them chuckle, Simon stepping forward to place a hand on his waist, Johnny leaning in.

There we are…

Abruptly aware that his entire family is now standing at attention around them, Johnny coughs into his fist, face heating up. 

“Go on, then,” his father encourages, waving a hand, an enthusiastic granda adding, “Gie ‘im a cheeper!”

Without further hesitation, Johnny closes the distance, pulling Simon into a tender kiss, both hands clasping his jaw to keep him right where he wants him.

“Atta boy!”

From the sounds in the background, he knows his mam is crying again, various guests are clapping, but the only sound he can focus on is the exhale that feeds into his own lungs, Simon’s lips staying parted even when they detach, as if ever longing for more.

He blinks up at him, his partner, his husband—a title that feels official now, like it was waiting for this very moment to be bestowed.

“Who woulda thought,” Johnny whispers, reaching up to kiss him once more, just because, “ye’d make an honest man of me after all.”

Flashing teeth in the rarest of smiles, Simon concedes, “Guess you’ve got the last laugh then, kid.”

“Lucky me.”

And Johnny can’t help but give a swift pat to that lovely backside as the pair make their way to the tent, garnering more fanfare, Simon grumbling under his breath, “There’s still time to take it back, you know.”

“Naw, ye’re stuck with me now, I’m afraid.”

"God help us…"

Entering the party, there’s the inevitable dog and pony show where Johnny has to introduce Simon to all of the guests, but they both grin and bear it with dignity, cashing in on that open bar as soon as they’re able.

Truthfully, it doesn’t feel all that grueling for John to have to repeatedly say, “Aye, this is my husband, Simon.”

Never gets old, that.

They mix and mingle as you do, the immediate MacTavishes clinging around them, mam still with a handkerchief permanently at the ready.

“Still cannae believe it. Look at the both of ye's, so handsome, my two lovely boys!” She seems to register the existence of her first son-in-law, because she adds, hastily, “An’ you of course, Greggie.”

Greg just tips his cup at that, resigned to being the bland background man in all the family photos, though Caro comes over to give him a kiss out of pity.  

“Wha’ were ye thinkin’ gettin’ him a tux!” Ruth chides their father. “We said semi-formal!”

“Thought it was proper dashing,” Jack justifies, rubbing the back of Simon’s neck in a fatherly fashion, although having to stretch on his toes. “Suits him, don’ it?”

Johnny can’t help but agree. He’s still pinching himself regularly to confirm this is reality; might need to fondle that arse again, just to be sure…

“Shouldae seen us gettin’ it tailored, lad’s got limbs that seem ta grow a centimeter every time he was measured. Took all mornin’, it did.”

“I think ye look lovely, dear,” mam says to Simon, casting a dubious glance at her own husband.

One of the major talking points besides the grand entrance is Jack MacTavish’s flashy outfit.

“Wha’? Ye don’ like it?” Johnny’s father gives an awkward twirl, all of his children groaning in embarrassment.

The old geezer has on a plaid suit, green and indigo tartan with a frankly criminal red bow tie, complete with a bowler hat and everything.

“Our Simon helped me pick it out,” he defends, attempting another twirl, but aborting it when it proves too much for his meager flexibility.  

“Ye do know the man’s color-blind?” Johnny reminds.

“Ah, cripes.”

Regardless, the hilarious mental image of Simon and his father picking out formalwear is too cute for Johnny to hold against either of them.

But it turns out, Jack’s attire isn’t even the most offensive of the night, a rival contender showing up with the recently arrived cavalry.

As dramatic as the motorcycle entrance, Johnny isn’t even that surprised when the small fleet of armored vehicles appears, turning with a raised brow to Simon, the other man shrugging.

“Don’t look at me, I didn’t invite them.”

Mam simply clasps her hands together, looking well pleased with herself. “Ah, so glad we could arrange it round such a busy schedule.”

There goes any doubt the woman outranks all of them.

Johnny telepathically shivers imagining what a conciliatory negotiation between his mother and John Price might’ve been like.

But, boy—does the man in question carry his presence.

Barking out a short reprimand to one of the rookies, Major Price cuts an imposing figure marching across the lawn, all while sporting what can only be described as ‘midlife crisis menswear’, an astonishingly gaudy Hawaiian shirt with a pair of vintage aviators, looking like he’d just dropped his last fuck in a Salvation Army bank.

Before even offering a greeting, the man brandishes a hefty bottle of wine, practically shoving it against Johnny’s chest. “Barca Velha, vintage ‘78, Portuguese. Use it well.”

“Aye, thanks, sir,” Johnny accepts the gift, only slightly offended it appears to be a quarter empty already.

Price smirks from under his mustache, clapping both of them on the shoulders. “Congrats, boys. The worst is over, now all you’ve got to look forward to is spendin’ the rest of your miserable lives together.”

Before he can parse the man’s backhanded wisdom, Price shoulders passed them, upping his charm as he goes to greet Johnny’s mother with a kiss. “Mrs. MacTavish, always a pleasure!”

Well, that’s two sets of rosy cheeks then, and only one of them from sampling the expensive wine on the ride over, he wagers.

Ever the dutiful lapdog, Kyle Garrick is right on his heels, dishing a few playful punches and a genuine smile. “Oooh, lookit our boy Johnny Mac in his Sunday best! Lookin’ snazzy, bruv.”

“Not as snazzy as some of us, eh?” Johnny nods over his shoulder at the flamboyant and nautical Price, now attracting a crowd of older women who appear to look past his backyard barbeque ensemble. 

“Believe the hype, mate,” Gaz concurs, while looking rather fit in his own slacks and button-down. “That man needs to get laid.”

“Don’ give my family any ideas.” Johnny shudders once more.

Tipping a chin in Simon’s direction, Garrick just sticks with a professional exchange out of courtesy.

“Alright?”

“Alright.”

That’s British soldier for: ‘Permission to never speak about this again, sir?’ ‘Granted.’

Next on the list of awkward party-goers is one Sergeant Sanderson, who approaches both of them with a little gift baggy, extending it as if it contains a live grenade.

“I heard you like sweets, sir,” is his hasty explanation, stepping back into parade-rest on instinct.

Simon has a cursory look at the contents, Johnny as well, spotting dozens of truffles and toffees, anticipating that the gesture would only be enjoyed by one of the newlyweds, and it wouldn’t be him.

Johnny shoots Gary an appreciative grin regardless, the kid still looking mortified. 

“That’ll do,” Simon accepts, sweeping his hand in acquiescence so that Sanderson may enter, as if the man’s invitation had only extended so far as the quality of his gift.

The poor sergeant just stumbles along, trailing after Gaz.

“Bit of an arse-kisser, that one,” Simon remarks, already with a praline truffle in his mouth. “But I reckon he’s a keeper.”

It hasn’t escaped Johnny’s attention that his sister Ruth had perked up considerably upon the arrival of the army boys. He turns to find her making eyes at both Garrick and Sanderson, furiously swiping at her fringe like it might lure them more effectively.

Now that’s a shitshow that he’d try to avoid at all costs.

All of the other soldiers offer congratulations as well, probably in the interest of staying on their boss’s good side. Two of them approach holding a sizeable parcel, though, explaining, “From our Vaquero boys. They couldn’t make it but wanted this to get to you both.”

Having kept in contact with Rodolfo with texts here and there, Johnny’d known Alejandro had been quite busy lately, so he doesn’t fault them for not making the trip over just for their sakes.

Curious now, he unwraps the package to reveal a stunning landscape painting, Simon peering over his shoulder and humming in surprise.

With bright colors and textured brushstrokes, the image depicts a sunset settling over a mountainside, somehow surreal and familiar all the same.

“Wow, tha’s pure gorgeous, eh?” John praises, angling the painting so he can show his family as well. He’ll be sure to pass on his gratitude to their Mexican comrades at some point.

Now they’d just need a place to put it…

After the latest guests finish filtering in, the odd mix of townies and 141 boys posing an interesting experiment, Johnny finds himself loosening up as the party takes over.

Always the more social of the two, he enjoys getting the chance to chat, leaving Simon as his brooding shadow while they continue to make their rounds.

Getting to show him off to his writing buddies is a hoot, Dan marveling at his stature, asking if he’d have any interest in performing historical reenactments, and Maisy shyly requesting if she could take a selfie for her blog.

Johnny’s also pleasantly surprised to find his therapist Nellie, in the flesh, complete with her feline co-counselor Pepper.

“It’s nice ta finely meet ye in person,” he greets, pulling the short woman into a hug, angling his head at Simon in introduction.

“Aye, I know who you are,” the woman shrewdly addresses, shaking the other man’s hand and gesturing Johnny. “We’ve made good progress with this one. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

That’s a loaded threat if he’s ever seen one. But in the next second, Nellie lets Simon give Pepper a skritch, effectively using the cat as an olive branch.

“Careful with her,” Johnny warns later. “If ye stick around too long, she might give ye her card.”

“Already got a therapist,” Simon grunts, taking him entirely by surprise.

“Have ye?”

The other man just grunts again, not saying more.

“That’s…good,” Johnny concludes, taking his husband’s hand in support. “Proud of ye.”

He’d been keeping up weekly appointments with Nellie himself, tackling some of the lingering mental health issues he knows might come and go as they please. It had been a goal of his, to eventually start addressing some of his partner’s difficulties, so it’s nice to know Simon had already taken the initiative.

Progress, after all, is often a two-way street.

What’s even awkwarder to navigate is the various questions aimed their way, most of the guests confused over the fact that they’d already been married since June.

“Aye, we had ta rush the whole thing. Confidential, I’m afraid, ‘cause of his work.”

“And what is it ye do?” one of the locals asks Simon.

His husband looks the man dead in the eye and says, “Telemarketing,” leaving Johnny nearly choking on his latest cocktail.

Naturally, the inquiries only get bolder from there.

“So who was the one to make the first move?” one of the new 141 rookies goads, submitting himself to toilet duty for the foreseeable.  

Both Simon and Johnny just turn to each other, shrugging.

How else are they to explain the logistics of it all? Because honestly—Johnny doesn’t even know for certain; who had cornered who in a barracks shower, who had gasped into the other’s mouth, needing something to draw breath on besides ash and gunpowder, who had held them both there, past those two allotted minutes, till the already chilled water ran icy cold…

“That’s none of yours, private,” Simon growls, the same time Johnny says:

“Was mutual.”

Sums it up quite nicely.

Leaving his introverted partner while he continues circulating through the crowd for a bit, Johnny’s surprised when he stumbles across him later, having finally found some company he agrees with.

The large man’s weight nearly topples that damn bouncy house, a swarm of children all vying for his attention as he sprawls against it, but he looks perfectly at ease.

“Mr. Ghost! Do the thing!”

Rolling his eyes, Simon simply reaches back, smacking his arm in full force onto the nylon interior, sending about a dozen kids flying upward with glee.

“Again! Again!”

When Johnny eventually ambles his way over, the poor bloke already has two of them sitting on his lap, a wayward Alex using his shoulders as a jungle gym.

“An’ this one was from when I tripped on a leaf,” little Dani is explaining, pointing to an invisible spot on her shin.

“Tragic,” Simon drawls.

“I know!” An’ this one was from when Lilli bit me—”

Meanwhile, Christine keeps trying to add clumps of weeds into his hair, Jessie bounding over demanding he lift her up again.

“Like yesterday!” she instructs, hooting like a loon when the man picks her up princess-style and gives her a hearty swoosh.

Unsure if he’s rescuing him or keeping him from his natural habitat, Johnny collects his husband back to his side, smirking as all the kids bemoan his loss.

“Makin’ friends?” he teases.

“Mmn. Should bring ‘em on a field trip up to base, put the fear of God back in our boys.”

Johnny chuckles, nudging the other man’s elbow.

“Oh, right—was meanin’ to give this to Jess.” They stop at the table set up for gifts, Simon securing a clumsily wrapped package.

Upon giving it to the girl, it’s revealed to be a junior-sized camo field jacket, an embroidered patch on the right proclaiming ‘Captain Jessie’.

His niece is thrilled, to say the least.

“Oh my God! This is—gahh! It’s really for me?!”

“’appy birthday, muppet,” Simon says, ruffling her hair as he slips the jacket over her scrawny shoulders.

Jessie lets out a ridiculous howl, already dashing around in a circle like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“Wha’ do we say, hen?” Johnny reminds.

“Thank you, Uncle Ghost! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

They both snort in unison as they watch the girl run off, flashing her new present to her friends to rub it in all their faces.

“Got one for Aggie too,” Simon confesses. “Figured she might be jealous, so I wanted to make it fair. Though hers is purple.”

Johnny smiles at the easy fondness in it, squeezing his hand. He’s pleased to find they’re both wearing the bracelets from his niece; perfect accessories, he’d say.

“They love you, you know?” he mutters softly, glancing at the man beside him. 

Simon shrugs, eyes still on the kiddos flopping around the bouncy house, something distant in his expression.

After a moment, he nods at Jessie. “She was askin’ ‘bout her dad before.”

There’s that strain in Johnny’s throat again, an urge to rush over and grab his goddaughter in a tight hug, that same overprotectiveness he’d fostered for her since he’d first held her in a stuffy church, seven years ago.

She really is a good kid.

“Told her I didn’t have one either,” Simon says quietly, scuffing a patch of moss with his shoe. “And I turned out fine.”

His immediate impulse is to laugh him off, to call bullshit, but Johnny’s unexpectedly struck by how honest his husband sounds.

“She’ll be alright,” the man adds, entirely meaning it.

They watch the girl play in silence, neither saying anything as John slips his hand into his partner’s once more.

Until, of course, two seconds later when his impulses get the better of him.

“D’ye want kids?” Johnny blurts out, just like that.

There’s an evident startle from the other man, a tensing of his wrist. Simon angles a raised brow down at him, rightfully bewildered.

“I mean…like, havin’ a kid of our own, or more even, or…ach, wha’ am I sayin’? We couldnae raise a shrub between the two of us, let alone a bloody human. Jus’ thought…I dunno, I cannae mind, let’s jus’ ferget I said anythin’—”

“Breathe, idiot,” Simon scolds, placing his hands on both Johnny’s shoulders to suppress his blabbering.

As fussy as his mam, through and through.

“Sorry, I just…” It’s surely a good sign that his husband hasn’t fled at just the subject matter alone, but Johnny knows not to push it. “It’s…somethin’ to think about, aye?”

“Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that pretty fuckin’ head of yours,” Simon mutters, giving said head a playful shove.

John is certain they’ll leave it at that, but as Simon starts making his way back to the bar, a stiff drink with his name on it, the man adds over his shoulder:

“Just hope our kids get my brains.”

And Johnny’s left, once again, both baffled and aroused.

Eventually, they all gather round the tables for food and drink, Johnny probably indulging more than he should, but fuck it—they only get married once; well, twice, technically.

There’s further evidence of gluttony when it comes to the cake, everyone joining in a loud chorus of ‘happy birthday’ for Jessie as the wee lass sits on his lap, Johnny smudging her nose with pink frosting.

Taking a generous chunk for himself, he turns to Simon, suggesting, “What this really needs is some skooshy cream, eh?”

And the other man sends him a death-glare, halfway through his own sizeable serving, muttering, “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

After polishing off the desserts in record time, Johnny senses a shift in the mood at their table, his father giving him a curious look before rising to his feet. Jack then makes his way over to the bar, asking his buddy Ed for the mic from his equipment.

“Oh, Christ above, he’s not about ta sing, is he?” Johnny’s life flashes before his eyes, Caroline swatting his arm to get his attention back.

Da fumbles with something in his pocket before coughing twice into the mic.

Well, this is sure to be painful…

“Hi all! Thank ye’s fer comin’ down, really means a lot ta have ye with us.”

“Which of you told him ta give a bloody speech?” Johnny hisses to his family, turning in his chair so he can now face his father, gritting his teeth in silent support.

“I…I’ve written a few silly things down, ‘cause I know our boys are keen on their jokes, heh.” Jack fiddles with the paper once more, before shaking his head and putting it back in his pocket. “Th-though maybe we’ll keep that fer another time.”

Oh God…Johnny’s practically sweating in his seat, a firm hand finding his to offer the faintest of sympathy.

“I…” da stumbles, adjusting the mic. “I jus’ wannae say—Simon, lad, I see how happy ye make our Johnny.”

That hand tenses in his, Simon staring forward with a neutral expression.

“I’ve watched him struggle so much this past year, and you…you brought him outta that. You made him smile again, and I…” Da’s voice falters, a wobble of his lower lip. “I jus’ wannae say thank you, son, fer givin’ me my boy back.”

The clench of his heart already threatens to be too much, but Johnny’s eyes don’t start watering until what comes next.

“John,” his father addresses, an exchange of trust in the name they both share. His gaze finds his, wrinkling around a sad smile when he continues, “Johnny-boy, what can I say? I couldnae be prouder of ye if I tried. Ye’ll always be my wee lad, even though ye’ve long outgrown me. An’ ye’ll keep growin’, aye, ‘cause ye’ve always been the strongest of us.”

He can tell his father starts to lose it the same time he does, soft fucking bastards, the both of them.

“I…I wish I could tell ye how much it means ta me…havin’ ye home safe, gettin’ ta see ye stand tall in spite’a everythin’. Wish ye could see fer yerself—the man ye’ve become. Jus’…jus’ take my word fer it, laddie. They don’ call ye MacTavish fer nothin’.”

"Slàinte mhath!" cries granda in approval. 

And before he knows it, Johnny’s already striding from his seat, at his father’s side, pulling the hopeless geezer into a fierce hug.

“Love ye, Johnny-boy. M’so proud of ye,” Jack sniffles into his shoulder, gripping the back of his son’s head like he’s a child again, like he’d always be a child.

“Shouldae stuck with the jokes,” Johnny says wetly, scrubbing at his eyes while da kisses him on the temple. “Instead of greetin’ yer heart out fer everyone ta see.”

That makes two of them.

For now, Johnny will just ignore the fact that half the town and an entire special forces unit have just seen him blubber like a bairn.

“Aye, some’a these are no’ bad,” Jack insists, slipping the piece of paper into Johnny’s own pocket. “Might get a kick out of it.”

“I’ll let Simon be the judge of that.” As if summoned, Johnny’s husband appears at his shoulder, tactfully peeling his sappy spouse away from his father, severing the public display of emotion.

“Good lad, son,” da says, clapping him on the back in approval. “I know ye’ll take good care of him, aye?”

Simon issues a pointed nod, stating, “Of course, sir.”

It’s then that Johnny realizes that just because Simon never had a man worthy of calling his father doesn’t mean there’s no chance for a substitute. Granted, a very goofy, poorly dressed, daft-as-shite one. But he’s always been happy to share.

“Aye, jus’ don’ let him get ye on the back of that damned bike,” Jack warns his son with a shudder. “Swore I shook the hand’a Christ takin’ tha’ last bend, God’s honest.”

Johnny simply wraps an arm around Simon’s waist, smirking. “So that’s a no ta ridin’ off into the sunset, then?”

The other man rolls his eyes, scoffing, “The roads up ‘ere are like fuckin’ footpaths.”

“Aye, right, that’s the issue.”

“Shut it.”

Johnny’s certain they’ll find some use of the bike though; visions of leather-clad legs and chrome…not a bad alternative.

As most parties go, the music starts picking up soon enough, old Ed enjoying his privileges as DJ a little too much if judging by the decidedly retro playlist, but it gets the crowd to the dancefloor.

Johnny gives a wicked smirk, already knowing how this will go.

“Hell no,” Simon states bluntly, refusing to budge from where he’s sitting, even when Johnny tries to yank him along.

“Ye’ve got ta dance with me, it’s yer husbandly duty!”

“Sounds fake.”

“Ach, ye’re no fun,” John concedes, knowing him enough not to press him.

Simon just crosses his arms and spreads his legs, holding his ground.

As it is, Johnny can hardly be expected to dance himself, more of a crippled shuffle while using his cane as a prop. Still gets a grin out of him, especially when his nieces join in, swinging the two of them around to the beat of some cursed Eurhythmics song. 

With the collection of energetic army boys, it doesn’t take long before the dancefloor turns into a veritable warzone, some bold rookies flexing their athletic skills, Shelly stepping in to impress them with a perfect split in the center of the floor. 

Meanwhile, most of the locals are treating it as some sort of ceilidh dance, each to a different routine entirely.

It’s spirited mayhem in the best way.

Perhaps the highlight of it all is Price’s ‘hold my beer’ moment, the shamelessly drunk man clearing the space to slap his palms on the ground, vaulting into a pretty impressive handstand, much to the enthusiasm of the ladies keeping him in their lines of sight. Johnny swears he sees his mother fanning herself…

It’s no surprise that Gaz turns out to be a fantastic dancer, wooing the other half of the guests who aren’t after Price. Johnny doesn’t protest when the sergeant sidles up next to him, though he wagers it makes his own choreography pale in comparison. That’s not even mentioning his sister Ruth trying to cut in, her eyes darting back and forth between all the fit young men at her disposal.

At some point, Johnny catches Sanderson openly staring at her from across the room. Locking eyes with the wanker, he subtly shakes his head, swiping across his throat. The poor bloke just pretends he was looking for the bar, pirouetting away with an evident blush to his face.

“Twenty quid says you can’t get that white boy to dance,” Garrick challenges, smirking in Simon’s direction.

“Och, ye’re on!” Though Johnny knows it’s a lost cause.   

Still—it’s enough, just being aware that Simon’s watching him from his perch at the edge of the dancefloor, legs still spread as if daring someone to attempt a lap-dance.

Christ almighty…

Emboldening him, Johnny sheds his jacket in a way he hopes is seductive, loosening up. He’s not quite as agile and light on his feet as he used to be, and he’s probably a bit too tipsy already, but he reckons he still has some moves.

Though with the way his husband is shaking his head at him now, he knows he must look a fool.

Testing that theory, Johnny attempts to spin around one of the tent poles, which goes about as hilariously as expected. A trip over his bum leg sees him crashing right into Midge McDuffie, the older woman helping him back to his feet and immediately pulling him into a breakneck waltz.

Well, there goes his potential career as a stripper…

But he still works up a sweat making an arse of himself, having fun in spite of it all.

After a few turns, though, Johnny retreats to the clubhouse restroom, that last song nearly awakening that gay presence he’d been so keen to avoid letting loose in public, telling himself he needs to cool off anyway.

He goes to shut the door, only to be met with a thick hand gripping the frame.

“Wha—?”

In the blink of an eye, Simon shoulders his way into the room, locking the door and all but slamming Johnny into the wall.

“Christ, what’re ye doin’?” Johnny hisses, his body still catching up but thoroughly piqued already.

“Kissin’ my husband proper,” Simon growls, shoving his mouth against Johnny’s neck, wet and sharp.

Merciful lord…

Johnny lets out a pathetic whine, hating himself for trying to peel the man off. “Eeeasy there, big boy.” Wouldn’t do well to come out covered in bruises; there’s only so much he can blame on being clumsy. “Slow down.”

“Can’t,” Simon grunts, roving his tongue in a sloppy circle around John’s clavicle. “You look too fucking good.”

Well…who said he had any virtue anyway?

Deftly unbuttoning his dress shirt, Johnny’s breathing picks up when the other man starts sliding his palms up and down his bare chest, still drenched in sweat, followed by that ridiculous mouth of his.

The groan he releases when Simon drags his tongue in a long, red-hot stripe up his center right over his dog-tags, navel to sternum, surely must be heard over the whole damn golf course.

Biting his own tongue doesn’t help, Simon now scraping teeth across his ribcage in just the right way to make him lose his mind completely, gripping Johnny’s waist with both hands to carry on with his efforts of making out with his torso.

“Don’t you know how crazy you drive me?” his husband rasps, lapping at one of his nipples, enough heat in his voice to scorch all the blood in John’s arteries. 

“Fuck…Simon…”

Rising from his crouch, Simon hefts under his bottom, Johnny already frantically scrabbling at his trousers to shove them down his thighs.

“See, this is where that skirt would’a come in handy.”

“Next time.”

Johnny’s back hits the wall, legs wrapping around as the taller man braces him with a forearm, his other hand closing in so he can hook inside him, both of them panting in each other’s open mouths.

“So good…you’re so fuckin’ good…”

They rarely exchange words in moments of passion like this, too cheesy, nothing a guttural moan can’t do better. But Johnny finds himself melting at the sudden dialogue, Simon’s throaty expletives right in his ear.

“So fuckin’ hot, you have no idea…just wanna fuck you…need you to come for me…”

Johnny hitches further up, trusting his husband to keep him balanced, letting the other man’s fingers make short work of those dirty promises.

“So fuckin’ good, Johnny…”

It’s as hasty and uncoordinated as any illicit bathroom shag ought to be. Simon fumbles with his own dress pants, entering him with a shaky exhale, both of them clinging to each other out of some newfound desperation.

“Come on, gorgeous. That’s it.”

“Mng…ah…fuck…”

Johnny surrenders all his gasps into the crook of Simon’s neck, biting down at some point with the sharpness of the other man’s thrusts, rocking against the wall while his lover grips his own arousal, sending him over the edge.

“I’ve got ya. Look at me, I’ve got ya.”

Blinking around the delirious haze, Johnny centers himself on Simon’s dark eyes, two bullet holes, dangerous and grounding all at once.

“That’s it, love. So close, sweet'eart.”

It should say something about him that the terms of endearment are what do him in.

Johnny comes with a full-body shudder, one last cry into the satin lapel of Simon’s jacket, sagging around deep, heavy breaths.

The other man is quick to follow, burying his face in Johnny’s hair with a cut-off gasp.

Simon holds him there, for a while, not letting him down as they continue trading breaths against each other’s skin, milking the last drops of this backroom consummation.

They could be back in that barracks shower.

No words uttered amidst the shelter of those cyan tiles, just a need.

A hope.

If Johnny’d known then what would become of it, he might’ve held him just a bit tighter, let him linger as the blood spilled down the drain; always so painful—first times.

“Did I hurt you?” Simon mumbles now, as he had then. Full of guilt and shame, as if every time since has been a feud between himself and the ghost that wears his skin.

No, love, Johnny sends into the strands of silver in his hair, you could never hurt me.

Simon eases him down slowly, dragging his trousers back up as he settles them both on the bathroom floor.

His hands are still in Johnny’s hair, cupping his whole skull.

And they wait there like that, catching their breaths, sweaty foreheads pressed together.

What do we do now? is ever their cross to bear, but for the time being, they just see about cleaning each other up.

“’ere, lift,” Simon instructs, swabbing at Johnny’s drenched torso with a wet towel, carefully polishing the tags around his neck.

Johnny takes a moment to reassemble the other man’s attire, fixing the tie, his rumpled collar, spending just a tad too long combing the hair back from his face.

So beautiful… 

They sit there, sprawled on the probably-filthy clubhouse bathroom floor, until their heartbeats finally start evening out, a ghost and a Scottie dog counting out each pulse.

“Can I keep you?” Johnny mumbles, and at once, it sounds so juvenile.

Simon is slumped in front of him, one glossy black leg tucked under his weight as he frowns at his hands.

“How can I keep ye here with me, Simon, love? For good?”

They’d gone on long enough—not talking about it.

His brow furrowing, Simon sighs, opening his mouth to mutter, “Johnny, I…”

But whatever he’s about to say gets cut off, another one of those impulses getting the better of him.

“I bought us a house,” Johnny says.

The older man blinks at his hands for a second before shaking his head, lifting it. “You wot?”

Stuttering now, John clarifies, “Aye, well, I’m buying a house, technically, still need ta negotiate a few things, but Greg’s been helpin’ me with the whole process, shouldnae be too difficult now tha’ my pension’s gone through, think he can get us a good deal an’ everythin’, jus’ need ta—”

“Johnny,” Simon interjects, an unspoken reminder to breathe goddamnit. 

“Right,” Johnny exhales, finally meeting his eye. “I just…I wanted this.”

That's all it really comes down to.

“For us,” he adds, as if that hadn’t been clear. “An’ I know things are still… uncertain, but I figured I might as well…put it out there.”

The silence that stretches between them is a line in the sand, leaving both in doubt as to which side they’re even on.

“Take it or leave it,” Johnny finishes, breathless over the simplicity of it.

When his husband dips his head back down, he fears the worst. But in an instant, that dread turns to confusion.

Because Simon is smiling.

Laughing, even.

“Price is giving me the base.”

It takes more than a second for those words to register, Johnny blurting out an inarticulate, “Hwa?”

“Managed to get old MacMillan to step down, part of why we arranged this whole thing. Says it might take a while to sort out logistics, but I’ll be takin’ over as temporary base commander.”

Johnny continues blinking at him, baffled.

“We’re takin’ business private, so to speak. Within the next few months, we’ll be restructuring the whole compound as a sort of unofficial HQ. Price’ll be in and out what with all the PMCs he’s been collectin’ under his belt, but I’ll be handlin’ advanced training and mission planning, as well as overseeing intel as it comes. Should get us a proper network up and running soon. MacMillan’s been keepin’ it old school, but what do ya expect, it’s a miracle they’ve got runnin’ water.”

Clearing his throat, Johnny finally manages to ask, “Wha’…wha’ are ye talkin’ about, Simon?”

And the look his husband gives him is as annihilating as it is fond. “Slow on the uptake, are we? Christ, kid, you’re lucky you’ve got your looks.”

He knows he should be offended, but Johnny can only toss his head with a shrug.

“I’m movin’ up ‘ere, you twat,” Simon spells out for him, and even then it doesn’t sound real. “Sure, I’ll ‘ave more responsibilities now, and I might need to bounce around from time to time, but the whole idea was for me to still remotely captain the 141 from a permanent post. And now I’ve got the place to do it.”

Here. At a private base located just about forty-five minutes from Johnny’s family home.

Twenty minutes from the house he’s under contract with.

Can it really be that simple?

“You…” Johnny keeps shaking his head, just shy of pinching himself. “Ye’re not goin’ back in the field?”

It’s as if that line in the sand gets swept away entirely with Simon’s dry exhale. “As it stands—nope.”

“…oh.”

And he’d already had one too many emotional breakdowns today, but Johnny doesn’t fight the wetness in his eyes, the cramping in his throat, even though it makes Simon sigh in exasperation.

“There he goes…”

He just flops forward, trusting the other man to break his fall, which he does with a palm cupping the back of his neck, rubbing the shorn hair there, shushing.

“C’mon, fuckface. No reason to get all dramatic on me.”

Johnny’s breath hitches, sniffling like a bairn again. “I’ve had a very trying day.”

“’eard you slept till noon.”

“Tha’s neither here nor there.”

They both chuckle, Johnny continuing to not-cry onto his husband’s jacket they’d just cleaned.

“What am I gonna do with you…” Simon murmurs against the crown of his head, terribly soft. 

That makes a second stakeholder in the pervasive question of his life, but Johnny reckons they can figure it out together this time.

“Ye’re really movin’ up here?” he asks, leaning back to scrub at his eyes. “Like, here here.”

“Mn-hm. Figured we couldn’t get more under-the-radar if we tried. Perks of livin’ in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere with a bunch of yokels, but I s’ppose I’ll just have to get used to it.”

On behalf of a town full of said yokels, Johnny’s flattered. 

“And what’s this about a house then?” Simon drawls, using his knuckle to brush away the last of his partner’s overdramatic tears. “Y’know, I always suspected you of bein’ a homeowner, MacTavish.”

“Oi,” Johnny feigns offense, grinning stupidly. “That’s yer—”

“My husband I’m talkin’ about, yeah, I know.”   

They exchange a pair of smirks, Johnny reaching up to card through Simon’s hair again, just because he has nothing else to do with all this affection rushing through him.

“So we’re really gonnae make this work?” It seems taboo to say so matter-of-factly, the universe’s penchant for taking the piss out of him surely at the ready to come bite him in the arse.

“Told ya we would,” Simon states, shrugging as if that’s all it takes. 

Well, Johnny supposes, he’d always been one for having the last laugh. 

For now, the universe just keeps at bay, watching the two of them sit there on that filthy floor, planning a course for the rest of their miserable lives, step by half-crippled step.

Eventually, it gets to the point where their absence had probably been noted by a good portion of the guests, so Simon helps Johnny climb to his feet, handing over the cane and dusting off the seat of his trousers with a lingering grope.

They both can’t ignore the evident wince on his face, though. “Christ, if ye really wanted me to stop dancin’ ye couldae jus’ said so.” Might be a little stiff on the dancefloor, and it’s not just to do with his disability status.

Simon rolls his eyes, but it’s clear he feels remorseful for his passionate display, if judging by the way his hand refuses to leave John’s backside.

In fact, it only retracts when they exit the bathroom, Simon jolting about a foot in the air when they open the door to reveal Frank MacTavish standing right outside.

“Duin’ wi’ th’ bog then?” the old man asks, nodding at the loo.

“Aye, she’s all yers, granda,” Johnny smirks, tugging along his paralyzed husband, Simon’s face looking remarkably like it had just turned to stone.

The party continues in full swing, more drinks and music and dancing, and one increasingly drunk Major, nearly a full bingo row of buttons undone on his abhorrent shirt.

When they return to the tent, it’s just in time to see Price reach for the mic at the bar, Johnny abruptly horrified that they’ll get another impromptu speech, but the man just slurs, “To the owner of the Foxhound LPPV parked out front, ya forgot to turn off your headlights.”

Well, at least someone seems to find it hilarious, Price cackling into his wine glass while Sanderson tries to politely pull him away from the bar.

“Cheers to the ‘appy couple!” That one gets a round of applause, in any case.   

Inevitably, it can only go downhill from there, as most of the partygoers start to dwindle, only the bravest and drunkest of them remaining for the rest of the night.

Johnny ends up getting a second wind, successfully crossing into fully-pissed mode with that last cursed cocktail from Gaz, leaning against the sergeant’s shoulder as they sway around the dancefloor like two kinetic noodles.

“I’m buyin’ a hooose!” he sings into Gaz’s face, probably the fourth time he’d done so thus far.

“Fuckin' brill, mate!”

“I’m gonnae get ta fuck my ‘usband in it!”

“Well done, Johnny Mac!” Garrick grins with all his teeth, proclaiming, “Let’s get this man another drink!”

He knows Simon is glaring at him now, bouncing a wee Frankie on his knee, who’s up way past his bedtime. But there’ll be time for sleep later.

For now, he just gives in to the chaos.

And as far as MacTavish family shitshows go—it’s one of the most memorable by far.

Turns out, Jack Mac and his not-yet-named band have a song or two in them after all, because at some point, da sequesters the microphone, a collection of his other geriatric buddies joining in to start belting out a version of ‘Shang-A-Lang’ that ought to see them all arrested.

Perhaps the only saving grace of the performance is Jessie taking to the dancefloor, flapping around in her new captain’s coat in a big circle while the 141 boys dish her complimentary salutes.

And then, of course, Greg has to have his shining moment. Whoever allowed a Celine Dion track onto the playlist is as culpable as the rest, because the agony produced by listening to that real-estate agent croon his heart out will surely be suffered for generations.

To make matters worse, or better, Bobbins the dog starts barking along, taking the high notes.

It’s no surprise Johnny finds his sister Caroline dunking her glass straight into the punch-bowl after that, if questioned about her husband, responding, “I don’ know tha’ man.”

In terms of claiming the karaoke victory, the top honor, hands down, goes to Sanderson.

Johnny recalls overhearing those awkward show-tunes in the barracks, but as it happens, the lad can really carry a fucking tune.

“Ah, yeah, should hear him in the showers,” Gaz praises, lifting a lighter out of nowhere to start waving along. “Like front row at an Elton John concert.”

Johnny’s not the only one to appreciate the talent, Ruth seeking him out as he sways with both his nieces quite appropriately to ‘Tiny Dancer’, his sister tapping him on the shoulder.

“Like, if ye happen ta have his number…” she says, tossing her head nonchalantly. “I mean…ta thank him fer comin’, or whatever…”

God can only help that disaster in the making. Although, admittedly, they could both do worse…

Da is just as enthusiastic over the lad, claiming, “We gottae get tha’ kid in the band!”

That’s two for asking for his number then; he’ll be sure to patch them through to Simon’s new base once that network’s set up.

Gripping Johnny’s shoulder, Jack adds, “Can ye break it ta Greggie, though, son? ‘Fraid he’s jus’ not gonnae make the cut.”

And knowing his brother-in-law, he can only anticipate how poorly Greg will take the news.

Numbing any lingering pains with alcohol, Johnny reckons he should tone it down with the dancing, but he finds himself grabbing Alice towards the end of the night, pulling her into a lazy shuffle during one of the slower songs, neither of them leading.

“Havin’ fun?” he asks, beyond pleased to see the healthy glow in her face, perhaps a twinkle or two in her eyes.

“Havnae danced this much in ages, John, I’m chuffed ta bits!”

“Tha’s wha’ I like ta see,” he says, swinging her in with a smile.

He ought to take the chance to marvel at how far they’ve both come, how much can change in just a year.

But for now—he simply twirls her round and round, basking in the way her yellow dress looks under the glow of all those hanging lights.   

Perking up, Alice nods at something behind them. “Think yer boy needs rescuin’.”

And he turns to find Simon standing stock still by the edge of the dancefloor right next to Frank, his granda seemingly blabbering up a storm of nonsense judging from the blank, pale expression on the taller man’s face.

“Ah, leave ‘im,” Johnny teases. “He needs ta start acclimatizin’ himself ta the pigeon racket soon enough.”

They continue their sweet, awkward slow-dance, Alice imparting one final bit of wisdom before the song ends.

All she says is, “Cherish him,” with a nod towards Simon again.

She’d always been the best at giving the simplest advice.

Jeremy comes to collect her after, stepping in to swoop her into an even clumsier dance than the one with Johnny, but he smiles at their eagerness.

A hand at his back startles him, and at first, he’s worried John Price is about to pull him into a tango, but the older man just drapes an easy arm across his shoulders, cigar in hand.

“Should thank you,” his former-captain remarks, still sober enough to sound coherent.

“What for?” Johnny probes, taking the outstretched cigar as he had those months ago, despite his commitment to quit smoking. It’s his wedding, he could spare to live a little.   

Price tips a head at their resident ghostie, who Johnny’s amused to find is now rocking baby Frankie in his arms, still held captive by granda’s ranting.

“You’ve done the unthinkable,” Price claims. “Damn well domesticated him.”

Johnny passes a chuckle with his next hit off the cigar, handing it back to the older man. Bit woodsy, nice aftertaste.

“Wasnae tha’ hard, really. Jus’ need ta make sure he keeps hydrated, goes to bed early, and gets enough pets, else he’s inclined to get cranky.”

Any passerby might wonder if they’re talking about the six-foot-four man or the baby he’s currently cradling.

“Still—good, clean effort, son.”

Johnny will take the compliment.

“It’s you I should be thankin’, sir,” he concedes, waiting for Price to raise a brow in question. “Reckon securin’ him that post might be a better weddin’ gift than the wine.”

Price’s mustache ruffles, a low snort. “Fair.”

“I mean it,” Johnny stresses, knowing Price understands the severity in it with the way he begins rubbing his shoulder. “I can only imagine how many strings ye needed ta pull.”

“Ah, well, benefits of the rank,” the major shrugs. “Was worth it knowing we could find a compromise over his vision deficiency; too risky, that.”

“Aye.”

“I still can’t completely guarantee his safety, you know.”

And Johnny nods, but it doesn’t feel like either of them are accepting it as an inevitability. 

He’d be ok.

They both would.

“S’ppose it’s not just our own interests wantin’ to keep him nice and bubble-wrapped,” Price adds, and it’s the first time he’s really acknowledged the affection he fosters for Simon. “That mother of yours drives a hard bargain.”

Johnny snorts in agreement, leaning into the easy embrace.

“But I’ve got his back, Johnny,” his former-captain asserts, more rare acts of affection—he almost never calls him that. “Got yours too.”

“Much obliged, sir,” Johnny says, hoping it’s enough to spell out his eternal gratitude.

He’d be hard-pressed to find a finer man than John Price, even dressed like a tropical fever dream.

“Now, if you don’t mind…” With that, the major stumbles away, in search of a drink, or a potential partner—Gaz had been on the money; that man needs to get laid.

At any rate, Johnny just watches him flop right into the bouncy house, accomplishing none of those feats at all.

What a man…

Johnny spends an extra moment admiring the scene of Simon holding his nephew from across the room, smirking when he sees him offer a few mumbled words to granda; progress, perhaps.

And he could just be bullshitting it, seeing as he’d never know what he might look like—but for a second, he imagines another figure there next to him; dark-eyed, not as tall, sporting a trademark shitty haircut.

Tommy Riley would be proud of his brother, Johnny wagers. And he surely can’t be ‘fudged’ for that.

Walking over with his cane, he pauses a few steps away, stopping short when he notices granda pulling something from his breast pocket. A gold pocket watch he recalls from childhood.

Johnny distinctly remembers sitting on his lap, in the years after her passing, coaxing him to pop it out so he might sneak one last peek of Gran Mairead.     

She’d had the fire in her, that lovely lass. Spoke the Gaelic tongue like there weren’t any other, even to nonfluent grandbabes just wanting to hear a bedtime story.

They’d lost her when Johnny was seven, same age as Jess.

He can still hear her laugh. 

And he’s just within distance to overhear Frank now, as he displays the contents to Simon, smiling beneath his bushy whiskers.

“Mo ghràidh,” he calls her, as he always has.

There’s an indecipherable look on Simon’s face, a slow nod.

“Yeah, I…I know that one,” he mumbles, his brow furrowing as he soundlessly mouths it out.

My love…

Johnny’s so caught up in the swell of affection, he nearly misses it when Simon’s eyes find his, lifting in silent greeting as he continues rocking the baby back and forth. 

They use that wordless language, as they had across battlefields, somehow managing to pack so much behind a simple ‘all clear’.

Johnny catches his drift, regardless.

As all nights do, theirs comes to a close as well.

Simon passes Frankie off to mam, assisting a few others in cleaning up while the rest linger in various drunken states, each entirely different flavors.

Jack is now three sheets to the wind, propped up against the bar with that bloody microphone, though someone had politely managed to unplug it without his notice. Johnny smirks at him, watching the old coot scribble something down in a notebook; song lyrics, he learns later, of the overly-rhyming variety.

His sister Caroline had also gotten to let her hair down, rosy-cheeked and smiling as she runs around with her daughter and niece. Apparently, some kind of extreme version of tag had been taking place, the army boys taking the whole thing ridiculously seriously, but Johnny admits that it’s hilarious to see his grown-up sister taking charge with the wee ones, an alliance forming with Shelly Kirkland that gives the girls’ team an advantage.

He dodges Aggie now, his niece giving a galloping twirl across the dancefloor as she chases after one of the rookies, who goes down with an exaggerated gasp, flopping ‘dead’ while the girl giggles victoriously. 

Jessie’s just as enthusiastic, although it appears she’d now defected to the other side, her captain’s status granting her the authority to shout increasingly ridiculous orders. “We need more cake! Lots an’ lots of cake! Trust me—this’ll work!”

Johnny snorts as he watches them play, turning to locate the girl’s mother. Ruth is currently leaning against one of the tent poles chatting with Gary Sanderson. Flirting, undoubtedly. She does the whole ‘chuckle into hand, place hand on shoulder, you’re so funny’ bit and everything.

But John leaves them be for now, shaking his head as he watches the young sergeant awkwardly ruffle the back of his hair at least sixteen times.

They’re good kids.

It’s Gaz who’d lucked out by the end of the night, and not in terms of getting laid—he’d finally acquired a partner to keep up with him. Johnny finds him in the middle of a heated dance-off with Midge, spinning around her sizeable form with ease and laughter, the both of them looking like winning contestants on some gameshow that surely exists out there. Neither of them seem to notice how the music has drifted into soft, slower songs, but alas…

Catching his attention from across the tent, Johnny rolls his eyes at Simon’s ‘c’mere’ gesture, just a stiff nod with his chin.

“What, ye didnae get enough cake?” Johnny teases, tapping the other man’s leg with his cane when he stands beside him. “’Cause I think Jess jus’ ran off with the last of it, though there’s still some cranachan lyin’ around if ye’re interested.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Simon grumbles, and that’s a sign that something's up. “Just…wanna show you somethin’.”

Curiosity stirred, Johnny lets the man take his hand, skirting back around to the entrance of the tent.

“Sure ye don’ wannae play tag with the squad? Might get yerself ‘best uncle’ status if ye help Jessie’s team win.”

Simon huffs. “Had enough on my plate keepin’ tabs on the two dipshits and Major Half-Price all night.” He nods towards Gaz and Sanderson, both of them spotting Price’s legs still dangling out of the bouncy house ahead.

Ah, bless him...

Johnny chuckles in amusement, leaning into his husband’s side. They pass mam on the way, Elaine presently heels-up across two seats, Frankie fast asleep in her lap as she picks all the best raspberries out of a stray cranachan glass.

Feeling cheeky, Johnny plucks one of the daisies from the table arrangement, tucking it into his mother’s hair with a kiss to her crown. 

“Thanks fer everythin’, mammie,” he whispers, mindful of the baby. “Was a real success, loved every second.”

And the woman peers up at her son with a grateful smile, looking half-asleep herself. “Of course, Johnny, babes.”

“Yeah,” Simon grunts quietly, adding an almost imperceptible, “Thank you, mam.”

They leave her to stifle fresh tears into her raspberries and cream, Johnny squeezing his husband’s hand extra tight.

Turns out, there are two sets of legs in that bouncy house, because he can just overhear the mutterings of an existential discussion coming from its nylon interior, Price and Greg stretched out on the slowly deflating floorplan, exchanging drunken soliloquies.

“Sometimes I wonder why I’m even in this game in the first place, mate…”

“Mn, yeah, mate? Ye oughtta consider switchin’ ta real estate, though it can get pretty hairy too…”

“Wha’ws’it you said before?”

“When you want it the most, there’s no easy way out,” Greg slurs. “When you’re—”

“When you’re ready to go and your heart’s left in doubt, shit, that’s it, innit?”

“Celine, man.”

“Christ, she’s good. D’ya have her number?”

Johnny keeps his cackling at bay as they leave them to their ruminations. He’s worried he might’ve missed Alice and Jeremy leave, but as they near the clubhouse, he identifies two fumbling figures by the bushes, the happy couple necking it like teenagers out after curfew.

Good for them, he commends, wondering how Bobbins is taking this next step in their relationship.

He spots the dog in question sniffing around Granda Frank, a new unlikely friendship.  

And the old bastard himself is spinning in wide, dizzy circles under the moonlight, sipping away at his scotch, something like a lullaby crooning from under his whiskers, lilting and Gaelic and incomprehensible, all while cradling that pocket watch to his chest.

That’s everyone accounted for then.

When Simon keeps pulling Johnny along to the side of the clubhouse, his first impression is that the man is going to passionately shag him again—which, admittedly, wouldn’t be the worst surprise.

Might be his turn to throw the other man up against the wall, though…

“Wha’ was it ye’ve got ta show me then?” Johnny asks, his heart stopping with his husband’s next words.

“Dance with me,” Simon mumbles, looking at the grass as he awkwardly holds out a hand.

Oh…

Johnny just stares at him for a few seconds, Simon eventually snapping in his face. “Oi, this is your final offer!”

“R-right.” Johnny shakes his head, eagerly taking the outstretched hand in his. He has to prop his cane against the wall to place the other one on Simon’s shoulder, stumbling a bit, but the taller man holds him steady. “This ok?”

“You’re askin’ me? How the hell am I s’pposed to know?”

He's aware the grin on his face must look ridiculous, but Johnny can’t help it.

They’re dancing.

Well…more of a slow, awkward sway back and forth, but it still counts.

“The fuck is that stupid face for?” Simon grunts, confirming his goofy smile.

“Nothin’,” Johnny lies. “Gaz owes me twenty quid.”

Simon just continues grumbling under his breath, his eyes looking well concentrated as he leads Johnny in the smallest, most practical circle.  

The music is faint now, something slow and easy, so they take time with their clumsy steps, Johnny leaning in more and more, trusting that hand on his waist.

“This what ya wanted?” Simon mutters absently, still tracking their every footstep.

He knows he’s referring to the party, but Johnny reckons he could mean everything as well.

Aye, he reckons it is.

“Told ye I didnae need the fancy weddin’,” he reminds, waiting for Simon to scoff.

“Yeah, but we both know that was rubbish.”

“You callin’ my bluff then?”

“I would’ve given it to you, Johnny,” Simon states, flat and honest. “The bells, the whistles, all that shit.”

And Johnny has no reason to disbelieve him; the man’s standing here, dancing with him, in a bloody tuxedo, for Christ’s sake.

He can’t even bring himself to tease him over it.

“Ye’re pretty good at readin’ me, aye?” Johnny says instead. “Keepin’ me on my toes.” Not quite metaphorical, that, as he’s practically dancing on the other man’s glossy dress shoes at the moment.  

“Someone’s gotta make sure you stay humble.”

“Hah, I dunno, I hear ye say some ‘very lovely things’ about me sometimes.”

Simon’s dry huff is expected.

They turn once more, Johnny with his back to the tent now, craning his head so he might view a patch of hazy black sky. It’s a nice night; cool, airy. No stars, but they don’t need them anyway.

“An’ wha’ about you?” he asks, Simon squinting dubiously. “Is this everythin’ ye wanted, Mr. MacTavish-Riley?”

The other man hesitates a moment, self-consciously coordinating his steps, endearing as can be. “S’ppose it’ll do,” is his verdict. “Still holdin’ out for those sheep I was promised.”

Johnny chuckles brightly, bold enough to sweep back, winding out from his husband’s exposed arm before curling back in to press flush against his chest. “In due time, love,” he vows.

Then he shifts his hand off Simon’s shoulder, slipping it into his breast pocket with a wink.

“Here—I’ll give ye somethin’ ta tide ye over.” John holds out the item, rolling it once on his thumb. “Consider it collateral.”

Well, he doesn’t throw it at him.

Johnny simply grasps his husband’s left hand, slipping the silver ring onto a very callused finger. 

“There. We match.”

Beaded bracelets and shiny rings, what a pair indeed.

“When did you get this?” Simon murmurs, turning his palm to scrutinize his new jewelry.

“A while ago,” Johnny admits. “Got it done a few days after you left in May. Took a bit to craft it though, ‘cause I had it custom made.”

“Try'na impress me, kid?”

“Heh, is it working?” Johnny angles his neck so he can study the ring as he explains, “There’s a jeweler down in Dundee that can work with any kinda metal.”

He can see the flash of recognition in Simon’s eye, just as he reveals the final significance.

“Gave him my old dog-tags,” he says, “so it’s good stainless steel. Figured I didn’t need ‘em anymore.”

Why does this feel like more of a ‘coming out’ than it had with his family? There’s something here, a confession, a decision—as if all it took was melting down those scuffed-up discs to say: I’m not a soldier anymore. And I never will be again.

But, perhaps, this is who I want to be now.

Johnny’s not sure that the jeweler was able to fit all that into one slim band, but it feels like it’s finally off his chest, at any rate.

“Aye, he let me get a bit fancy with it too,” John explains further, self-conscious all of a sudden. “Though nothing too over-the-top, ‘cause I figured ye’d go fer summin practical.”

The ring is gorgeous, to its credit. A solid, silver band, etched with a subtle Celtic pattern around the rim. It’s a miracle he was able to get the correct size, what with the gnarled scar tissue around his husband’s knuckles, but it seems to fit fine.

Simon keeps staring at it. Then at him.    

“Fuck you,” is what he says, most earnestly.

Johnny sputters out an offended chuckle. “I also accept ‘thank you’s’, y’know? Gift baskets, wine, shitty shortbread biscuits—”

“You know what I mean,” Simon grunts, nearly scowling at the ring on his finger before the edges soften it into an almost-smile.

“There are better ways of tellin’ me ye like it, love.” Goes to show their etiquette training undoubtedly still needs a lot of work.

“It’s just…” His husband sighs, struggling with himself for a moment. “It’s not fair that you can keep getting away with all this romantic shit, Johnny.”

“Och, ye’re one ta talk!” Johnny protests. “Ye gave me yer tags, those keepsakes, an’ a bloody ring too!”

“Found a cheap one, isn’t even real gold,” the bastard lies, while Johnny keeps singing praises.

“You came up for family Christmas, ye cunt, and you chartered a helicopter for me!”

“That wasn’t romantic, that was illegal!”

“Ye still snogged me, didn’t ye?”

“Fuck…I just…” Simon lets out a frustrated huff. “I want to do better by you.”

“Naw, we’re no’ havin’ this argument, ye hopeless dafty.” Johnny vehemently shakes his head, pulling the man back into their awkward slow dance.

“But I…you deserve so much and I…I just don’t…”

“Simon, love, ye’re talkin’ shite.”

“Jesus, Johnny, I…I can’t even tell you…” He stumbles tremendously here, John pausing their movement just because the look on his partner’s face is so…

“Tell me what?” he dares, meeting those stark brown eyes.

“That I’m so fucking in love with you, you stupid twat!”

Johnny’s not sure he would’ve remained standing had Simon not been holding him so carefully around the waist.

“Wha’…” Even then, he falters, a weakness in his knees that has less to do with his injury for once. “Wha’ was that?”

“You fuckin’ ‘eard me,” Simon practically snarls, spinning Johnny in a frantic twirl to hide the fact that his cheeks are so scarlet.

God, if the look on his face was goofy before…

Johnny grins like a little shit, goading, “Darling, I think tha’ bears repeatin’.”

“Fuck off.”

“Naw, c’mon, wha’ was that, babes? Couldn't hear ye.”

“Johnny…” The taller man retracts a hand to crush against his forehead, exasperated and embarrassed and so fucking cute he almost can’t take it.  

Especially when he lowers his hand to cover his mouth, staring at their rhythmless dancing feet, gritting out the most pitiful and inaudible “I love you,” Johnny’s ever heard.

Well, he’ll be damned…

“Once more, with feelin’, love,” John can’t help but tease, though he’d take this pathetic confession any day.

Hopeless fucks, the both of them.

He assumes his husband will just hit him with another eloquent curse, but Simon does lower his hand after a few seconds, gripping Johnny’s waist to pull him in just a touch closer.

And it’s less of a ‘have it your way’, and more ‘oh, the things I’d do for you,” when Simon finally concedes.

“I love you,” he says softly, enunciating it with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “Johnny,” another, placed gently on his cheek, “Laith,” his nose, “MacTavish,” the space between his brows, “Riley,” grumbled into his hair, as if he still can’t quite believe the name now belongs to both of them.

Johnny just blinks and blinks, swaying to the muffled music, his grandfather’s lullaby, the echo of church bells or angels or whatever sound cathedrals make to get people weeping on their knees.

Might be laughter, now that he’s thinking about it.

A short, huffed-out chuckle, a snap of fingers right in his face.

“Ah, bless, I think I broke ‘im.”

Johnny shakes his head, recovering from the brief spell, his bodily functions returning with a single motive.   

He has to crane on his toes, reaching up to grasp at his neck, but he pulls Simon down into a perfect kiss, long and sweet and gentle, bit of tongue; he’s no prude, after all.  

Simon hums so attractively into his mouth, his left hand seizing Johnny’s jaw to push it deeper, flushed lips and heady breaths and a silver ring digging into the skin of his cheekbone.

“Wasnae so hard, was it?” Johnny breathes after he pulls back, drawing his fingers in a tight lace around his lover’s neck, his catch.

“Reckon not,” Simon mumbles, resuming swaying them both along to some imaginary tune. “Helps that you’re a pretty good kisser.”

“Pretty good, eh?”

“Decent.”

"I love ye too, by the way."

"Good to know."

Johnny smirks, leaning his bad leg against Simon’s as the man spins him once again. The background music is nice, but it doesn’t take long before they fill that space between them with lovelier things.

“So, tell me about this house of ours.”

“Well, it’s not made of nylon, and it doesnae bounce, sadly.”

“Fuck, that might be a deal breaker.”

“We do have a fireplace though.”

“For your bad circulation, naturally.”

“Aye. And there’s a nice wide bathtub too.”

“Pressure jets?”

“Still waiting on confirmation. I’ve requested at least two.”

“Big yard?”

“Space enough fer a barbeque.”

“Be sure to invite Price up.”

“Only if he’s cookin’.”

“Garden?”

“Small, barren, needs work.”

“As long as there’s room for my fuckin’ sheep.”

“Might need to do some rearrangin’ if ye’re still dead-set.”

“M’not compromising.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, mo ghràidh.”

“Heh. You and your pretty words…”

They spin round and round, in the shelter of their hiding spot, to the soft score of a distant stereo, da’s shitty lyrics, giggles from the girls, barking from the dog, drunken epiphanies, that enchanting Gaelic lullaby putting all the stars to shame…

Until the night closes in, and the music fades, and they have their last laugh.

Chapter Text

First up we have...

Coach Soap!

(This was definitely a fun little easter egg for some of my friends in our writer's discord, hehe. So of course, I had to design a jersey for our lovely Ultra Otters~)

Hot Army Wife Come to Fetch His Captain--oil on canvas(jk it's digital), 2023

Uncle Ghost!!

Leg Appreciation Awareness Month

Bed Rest

Major Half-Price and the 2 Dipshits

Teenage Dirtbag Simon T Riley (affectionate)

Wee Johnny and Granda

The Groom Doesn't Want to Dance

Sweaty Filthy Bathroom Shag 🤙

And finally--

The Whole MacTavish-Riley Family ✨

Hope you enjoyed~