Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s three in the morning on a Tuesday, and as he can often be found at three in the morning on a Tuesday, John is hunched over at his computer, sleepless, waiting to see just how bad he could burn his retinas staring at an empty document before the words would start coming to him. Being nearly halfway through writing the chapters of his thesis, he’d think it would’ve gotten at least a little easier by now—but of course, being nearly halfway through writing the chapters of his thesis, he should also know better than to be so naive.

A half-eaten box of takeaway sits cold and tempting to John’s left as no more than an excuse to get up and stare at the microwave for two minutes as a change of scenery—however, his stomach rumbles with hunger just as much as it churns with repulsion at the idea of getting up from his desk, and suddenly the unruly, mountainous stacks of textbooks and papers that sit to his right seem a thousand times more appealing. He continues slouching unproductively, not having so much as lifted a finger in either direction.

John doesn’t think Simon would be disappointed at his struggle, especially considering the bastard himself is partially at fault for it—having been killed in action and all, and subsequently inundating John with grief—but John’s imagination isn’t so far off that he can’t still hear Simon’s gentle chiding at the sight of John’s clutter, clucking his tongue and insisting John would work better were his space clean, to which John would always deflect, teasing Simon for questioning his genius.

Apologies, your highness, Simon would respond with an eye roll and a flat tone. He’d lean over as if to bow, peck John on the cheek, and subtly grab whatever abandoned dishware was currently occupying desk space to bring to the kitchen. How dare a lowly pleb such as myself offer advice to someone of such unquestionable brilliance?

That’s more like it, John would say, failing to stifle his laughter at Simon’s shit attempt at sounding posh. Then his insides would turn all mushy, his organs a gooey mess, and he’d blink up at Simon through dark, tired lashes and tell him, thank you, love. Dunno what I’d do without you.

A soft, delirious smile puppets his lips, and he sighs, and he draws his knees uncomfortably to his chest. The caret taunts him with every blink on his blank screen.

No, John thinks. Simon would only be disappointed if I gave up.

But tonight, just like the night prior and likely the night following, John would surrender to leaden eyelids and a lack of inspiration against the better wishes of memory-Simon. If he’s feeling up for it tomorrow, he might endeavour to email his adviser about the mental block, but something tells John he either won’t be up for it, or her advice would be something similar to that of the voice already in the back of his mind that has no right to still sound as Mancunian as it does. 

John briefly contemplates not moving at all, just shoving his keyboard and notepad aside and slumping over the desk for yet another dreamless sleep, but reluctantly decides it wouldn’t be worth the back pain in the morning. It takes a great deal of courage, effort and a muttered pep talk, but John eventually manages to force himself to save his nonexistent work and shut off his computer, stretch his arms until his shoulders pop, and slide lethargically out of his cushy office chair. He lingers awkwardly in the dark a moment, staring off at nothing in particular, yawning and distractedly scratching his stomach while he tries to figure something out. What, he’s not sure yet, but something.

His epiphany ends up being the decision to save himself from one extra chore the next morning, so he swipes the takeaway box from the desk and shuffles over to the kitchen to unceremoniously chuck it in the bin.

There, thinks John, smug and self-satisfied, how’s that for genius, Simon?

A sudden pounding at the door has him nearly jumping out of his skin. John just barely swallows the yelp that’s startled out of him, clapping a hand over his mouth to keep quiet.

For several minutes afterwards, nothing happens. John remains glued in place. He watches the front door intently, everything suddenly seeming brighter in the bluish-silver haze of moonlight. During those several minutes, his jackrabbit-paced heartbeat gradually calms to its normal state, and John begins to wonder if he’d just misheard something toppling over in the front closet or simply hallucinated the sound entirely.

It’s three in the morning on a Tuesday, after all.

But then there’s more pounding, and it’s more insistent, more desperate, and John’s first thought is to do anything but approach the door. However, because of the current hour and the threat of waking his neighbours—not to mention a growing, inevitable, gnawing curiosity—John creeps toward the door anyway, because in the end he really has no other choice.

Unfortunately, every step closer makes the short hall leading to the door feel infinitely longer, and John gets increasingly hesitant with every additional knock, every jiggle of the door knob, every indistinguishable, frantic whisper. When he finally completes his trek and the door has finished receding, his hand hovers over the lock before turning it, questioning whether or not this is really his reality, or if he had only ended up falling asleep at his desk and is now merely dreaming.

Just to be safe, he grabs an umbrella from the stand sitting in the still-open closet from when he had reluctantly gone out earlier that day. He supposes it’s enough of a weapon to buy him time before an embarrassing, untimely demise for one of the dumber decisions he’s about to make.

He unlocks the door. All activity on the other side ceases after the heavy click. Silence engulfs the flat. 

John fights the urge to screw his eyes shut in fear as he finally opens the door to investigate.

Of all the things that could have been there to greet him—be it nothing, a neighbour, someone in need of help, or maybe even an axe murderer—this was probably at the very bottom of his list of expectations, were it even on the list to begin with.

John feels so much and so little all at once standing in that doorway; he’s simultaneously completely overwhelmed and completely numb. He’s still disbelieving even as that name falls from his lips as naturally as it always used to.

“Simon?” In the flesh, standing here before John, as if he hasn’t been dead for over a year now.

“Johnny,” breathes Simon, and how ironic, because John remembers watching his casket being lowered into the ground. “I’m sorry,” he’s apologizing, voice raspy and strained and not at all his. Not at all how John remembers it. “I’m sorry,” he’s saying again and again and again, like a broken, warped record.

John doesn’t quite know what to make of that. 

He accepts a haggard Simon’s collapse into his arms.

John stands, hands on his hips, staring up apprehensively at the faded paint of the butcher shop’s sign reading Ba  l rs & So s where it’s supposed to read Barkers & Sons, and wonders if he’s perhaps gotten himself in over his head.

He has a million and one assignments he should be chipping away at, and far cheaper places to shop for meat, but Grace had said she liked the idea of a home-cooked meal for their next date and John had decided with finality he owed to no one but himself that he’d deliver exactly that. Only problem, he’s now realizing, is that he doesn’t know how to cook, nor does he know what cut of meat he’s supposed to look for, nor does he remember if Grace even eats meat.

You’re nineteen, you dafty, John reminds himself, dropping his arms and gaze to the door handle, its faux-gold finish worn and dirty. You can figure this out. It’s hardly rocket science, and you’ve aced classes on that before.

With a deep breath, John steels himself and pushes inside, cursing inwardly at the cheerful jingle of the door bell overhead announcing his arrival. He wipes his trainers near obsessively on the floor mat as the door falls closed behind him with a muted whoosh, taking in the shop about as casually as an alien would experiencing its first day on earth. Thankfully, the man behind the counter hardly seems to notice—or care, for that matter, as his nose remains firmly between the pages of a local newspaper all the while John contemplates turning right around and abandoning his idea altogether.

But no. He’s made it this far, and he isn’t about to be a bad date, even if he’s almost certain his thing with Grace wouldn’t work out in the end.

John sidles up to the counter and begins to pretend inspecting the various cuts of meat on display as if any of it means anything to him. He decides he’ll act like he’s browsing for a few minutes before attempting to get the employee’s attention, hoping that way he might appear less eager, borderline bored like he’s done this countless times before, and only then will he ask for recommendations as if he’s indecisive rather than utterly clueless as to how he’s meant to go about this whole thing, and the employee will comply, John will pay, and everyone will go on about their day just as they were.

His plan goes out the window about three minutes into his anticipated five, when there’s a rustle of paper and an irritated clearing of a throat, and John glances up to be met with the prettiest face he thinks he’s ever seen.

A blond eyebrow is raised at John, pink lips twisted into a scowl. For a few disappointingly fleeting moments, Grace is far from John’s mind as he’s almost entirely certain he’s fallen in love with the man behind the butcher shop counter.

John’s staring like an idiot, he knows it. If he keeps it up, soon enough he might start attracting flies, and he imagines that would be bad business for Barkers and his sons, whoever they may be.

“Let’s not wait ‘til Christmas, yeah?” The man grunts, and yeah, that fluttery feeling in John’s chest is most definitely love. “What do you want, kid?”

“Not a kid,” John asserts childishly. His next question tumbles stupidly out of his mouth before it even finishes crossing his mind. “You’re not one of the sons, are you?”

The man frowns, disarmed, eyes narrowing suspiciously at John. “S’cuse me?”

Already sure he’s just about flubbed any and every chance he might’ve had with this man, John doubles down. “You know, ‘Barkers and Sons.’ Is one of those you?”

That pretty frown deepens until it transforms into an expression of sheer incredulity. Skinny arms fold defensively over a narrow chest, and now John’s begun to feel guilty in addition to his well-deserved, well-earned mortification. “No? Listen, if you’re just here to take the piss, then—“

“No!” Exclaims John, his face burning red as sudden as his outburst. The man reels back a fraction. “No, I’m—I’m sorry. I panicked. I don’t know what I’m doing, if I’m honest.”

“Clearly,” the man snorts after the moment of shock has passed, his shoulders gradually releasing their bunched-up tension. John finally glances at the name tag pinned above his heart, blocky but neat handwriting revealing his name to be Simon. John just barely resists the urge to try out how Simon feels rolling off his tongue. “Why are you here, then?”

With all the false bravado he can muster, John lifts his chin and puffs out his chest, all for his mouth to go dry when Simon stands from his rickety stool and John learns just how tall he is. “It’s for a date,” John explains. He shrinks in on himself, chewing his bottom lip as he scans everything laid out behind the glass cover. “Except I don’t know what any of these labels mean. Or how to cook them.”

Simon sighs, bracing himself against the edge of the counter. He offers John a flat, but notably less annoyed look. “Tell you what.” He cocks his head, and John listens very intently. “I’ll help you this once, then I never have to see you again. That a deal?”

It’s not much of one, and John can already envision himself going against it, but he’ll take what he can get for the time being. He nods once, his lips curling with a bashful sort of smile, and Simon shakes his head before he starts doling out instructions.

Fifteen minutes later, John walks out of Barkers & Sons with two ribeye steaks, written instructions, and a heavy heart—not because Simon told him not to come around again, but because he’s now fully aware he’s heading into a date with the wrong person on his mind, and he doesn’t think there’s any way to change that.

Oh well. John had figured Grace was about done with him anyway, give or take a few more weeks. This nonexistent thing blossoming between him and Simon would only speed up an inevitable process, he supposes, and maybe it’s better that than to drag things out. 

Doesn’t hurt to still have one more nice dinner, however. He’ll have to come back and tell Simon how the ribeye goes.

Something’s tugging at his elbow, but John can’t tear his eyes away from the coffin, and he can’t help but think of how much Simon would hate all of this.

Not even Catholic, he would grumble, and John can almost imagine Simon sat to his left in the pew like he had the one and only time he’d been forced to go to church for his brother’s wedding. Surprised they didn’t refuse entry. Surprised I didn’t start burning up soon as I came in.

John rolls his eyes because the memory is about the only thing keeping him from crying again. The tugging at his elbow persists, approaching jostling territory, but John’s mind is still somewhere else entirely. He wonders if Simon would at least appreciate his veto of all but one floral arrangement to keep things as simple as possible. Simon’s former captain (or so a man by the name of John Price claims to be) had given John a nod of approval before the procession started, so John assumes he must have done a good thing. As for the choice in coffin—

“Uncle John,” a small voice whispers beside him—or attempts to whisper, anyway. Tiny hands grasp onto the fabric of his sweater with urgency, tiny fingernails digging crescents into his skin even through the two layers protecting it. John’s head lolls heavily to the side, and he winces when he’s met with those same big, brown doe eyes his—Simon’s nephew appears to have inherited. Then he does his best to school his grimace, because Joseph did nothing to deserve it.

“What’s the matter, Joey?” John whispers back, leaning closer to the kid in the hopes he might release his surprisingly tight grip. He’s almost certain he’ll find pinpricks of blood on his button-up later. “D’you need something?”

Joseph shakes his head back and forth in that exaggerated way young children always seem to do. He continues to cling onto John’s arm, staring up at him but never elaborating. John sighs, because he really isn’t in the mood to entertain impromptu guessing games.

“What is it, then?” Murmurs John, gently coaxing Joseph to let go. “Grown up words, Joey.”

Joseph’s bottom lip wobbles with uncertainty. In a fit of desperation, John glances up and frantically looks around for Tommy or Beth or anyone more well-equipped to deal with a crying three-year-old than he is, but he comes up short. He really hopes Joseph isn’t about to start crying.

“Where’s Uncle Simon?” Joseph asks instead, and oh, how that’s so much worse.

A thick lump rises and sticks in John’s throat, his chest hitches with panic, and suddenly his entire body feels like it’s just been crushed.

“I—” He searches his brain for any sort of answer, unsure if Joseph would even understand what gone gone means, and great, tears are welling up in his own eyes again despite promising himself he wouldn’t shed any more, not here and now, and he still has yet to give his—Simon’s nephew an answer. “He—”

Mercifully, Simon’s mother swoops in at the nick of time to offer John an escape. Her dark eyes are red-rimmed too, but she’s far more composed than John could ever hope to be. She scoops Joseph up into her arms and mutters something into his ear to appease him before turning to John with a sad but comforting smile.

Maternal instinct, John supposes.

“Why don’t you go get some air, love,” she suggests softly. “Someone will come get you when it’s time to… when the pallbearers are needed.”

John stands and nods his thanks, not trusting himself to speak. He leaves a polite kiss on her cheek, ruffles Joseph’s hair, then all but makes a break for the door. John doesn’t glance back at the casket, fearing it’d only make things worse for himself more rapidly than he’d prefer.

Once outside, John crumples into a useless heap on a nearby bench, thankful for the first time that day that the weather is as shitty as his mood. The sky has been a dreary, overcast gray all morning, and while it hasn’t rained yet, the smell of ozone is cloying, and John has no doubt he’ll be going home uncomfortably damp that evening.

It’s all so unfair. He and Simon were supposed to grow old together, get married, maybe even adopt a cat or two. They were supposed to have a house in the countryside, after John had gotten his PhD and a cushy job so Simon could retire early and take up part-time work at a used bookstore like he always wanted to. They had plans and a future they were supposed to have together, all stripped away by the universe in the name of fuelling man’s insatiable bloodlust.

The world is a selfish and cruel beast, John thinks, but he supposes a part of him is as well for believing anything could ever be so easy, so perfect.

Someone joins him on the bench, slumping just as defeatedly beside him. John doesn’t have to look to know who it is, only has to listen to the flick of a lighter and wait for the acrid scent of cigarette smoke to waft lazily in his direction. It’s a routine he’s gotten used to as much as he had admonished Simon for the bad habit, having shared enough kisses tasting like nicotine and whatever fruit- or mint-flavoured gum Simon had chewed to try and mask it to grow familiar, but that doesn’t make John any less disappointed in Tommy for indulging at his brother’s funeral.

John swallows thickly, sitting up straighter as if that might help him remain in one piece. He braces his hands on either side of himself, the unsanded wood of the bench rough against his palms as he stares out at the vast greens and greys of the cemetery grounds, inhaling the excess of Tommy’s exhales.

 “Simon would be rolling over in his grave if he knew you were still smoking, you know.”

John turns to Tommy, who merely shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “But he ‘asn’t been buried yet, so I think I’m allowed to sneak in one last ciggie.”

John snorts, finding a brief reprieve in the weak humour and slight upward twist of Tommy’s lips as a result of it. That much, John knows for certain, Simon would approve of, if his endless reservoir of dad jokes were anything to go by. Even though John might’ve groaned every time Simon proudly delivered a punchline, he currently finds himself missing them so, so dearly.

Silence engulfs them for a long while afterwards, as Tommy smokes with an increasing desperation and John contemplates the landscape like it might provide him with answers. He still doesn’t know the entire circumstances of Simon’s death—doesn’t think he ever truly will know, all because the details of that final mission are so severely classified—and that ignorance hardly does wonders for John’s ability to find solace or closure. As far as he’s aware, and as far as Price or any other personnel will tell him, Simon died alone in Mexico after something unnamed went wrong, and maybe he died a hero, and maybe he didn’t, and maybe John just wishes someone would man up and tell him all the gory details in spite of the red tape, because fuck, Simon died alone in Mexico, and it was bad enough that John didn’t even have the option to decide whether or not the funeral would be open or closed casket.

Tommy flicks his cigarette butt to the ground, grinding it into the dirt with his heel. He heaves a loud sigh. “Wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he mumbles, glaring at the horizon. Tommy sighs again, drags a hand over his face, and shakes his head with the same kind of frustrated disbelief that’s caused by watching a player on his favourite footy team pull a stupid move; the same kind of frustrated disbelief incited by a brother being a nuisance, as if Simon dying has just been one big prank. “Gonna miss him, the stupid cunt. Just had to go and be noble, didn’t he?”

John couldn’t agree more; Simon was as selfless as they come, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. Dumb prick had always been so annoyingly, stubbornly self-sacrificial, and John loved that about him, but John also hates that it’s the reason Simon will never come home again.

“Bet he’s watching us,” John says mildly, “thinkin’ we look like a pair of right numpties sobbin’ over him. He’d say we’ve gone mental.”

“He’d say I’ve gone mental,” Tommy argues. “You he’d coddle for a week straight.”

John fights a smile as he shakes his head. “Naw, yer haverin’. That's pure keech, that.”

Tommy barks out a laugh. “Oh, do one!” He exclaims, playfully punching John in the shoulder. John’s heart hurts seeing Tommy's smile, so painfully identical to Simon’s. “Speak English, man. I’m not—”

One of the heavy church doors suddenly creaks open, and a somber cloud falls over John and Tommy, reminding them of where and why they are. Lighthearted smiles and moods fade in an instant, the two of them easily and willingly consumed by the overbearing, shadowy thing those doors shielded them from. John thinks he might be sick.

“—not my brother,” Tommy finishes quietly. He glances to the open door, hangs his head, holds his breath, then forces himself to stand. He wordlessly walks past John and back into the church where that dark and evil thing still lurks, still beckons for John’s return just as well, and John supposes he’s meant to follow suit but he just can’t seem to make himself move.

He feels stiff. Statuesque. 

Like rigor mortis has set in.

Someone is calling his name, but it sounds muffled and false to his ears. He follows it anyway, numb and mechanical, because there’s really so little he could do to resist the ebb and flow of time and life and inevitability.

He’ll help carry Simon to his grave, watch as the first spadefuls of earth cover the glistening varnish of his coffin, bid farewell to fellow mourners, then drive home alone.

John starts to think he won’t be able to bear seeing Simon’s family again after all this, as he takes up the cool brass handle he’d been assigned the burden of holding. Tommy’s expressions and mannerisms, Joseph’s eyes and head of blond curls, Mrs. Riley’s unending kindness, and even Beth’s dry wit—it’d all be too much, after he’s meant to have processed his grief. The pieces of Simon’s existence scattered between them would only begin John’s cycle of mourning anew, and he knows his life can’t be left on pause forever.

He stays and helps the procession along to its end. He worries his bottom lip until the taste of blood floods his mouth as Simon is lowered into the ground. He says goodbye to the Riley family and goes back to an empty flat.

He has Tommy and Beth’s phone numbers blocked by the time he’s stabbing at poorly reheated leftovers later that evening.

It’s for the best, John tells himself. And one day he might even believe it.

When John wakes up, he’s comfortably tucked into bed, there’s a painful crick in his neck, and he is thoroughly, thoroughly confused. 

Warm sunlight streams in from the bedroom window, the curtains having been mistakenly left open the night prior. John guesses he must’ve been too tired to remember to close them despite his usual bedtime routine—be it at three in the morning or at a more acceptable hour—except he doesn’t actually recall going to bed, nor does he know why he would have also decided to forgo changing out of yesterday’s clothes, and now John is finding himself to be severely more puzzled than he already was to begin with.

He sits up slowly and tries to stretch his stiff neck and shoulders, racking his brain for the missing pieces that led him to this moment. 

Other than the curtains and his clothes, nothing else appears out of the ordinary in his bedroom. He remembers his continued lack of progress on his thesis, remembers the takeaway he abandoned, remembers that he’ll probably have to go shopping because there surely isn’t enough food stocked in the flat to feed both him and Simon, now that—

Simon. 

Now that Simon is home.

John’s heart pounds in the confines of his rib cage as everything comes flooding back to him about Simon showing up at the door in the middle of the night, looking worse for wear but damningly alive.

“I’m sorry,” Simon keeps muttering. He doesn’t look John in the eyes, rocks slightly on his heels, picks anxiously at bitten fingernails. “I didn’t—I—”

John doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know if his eyes and mind are reliable. He wants to push Simon away and bolt the door shut; he wants to pull Simon into the flat and never let go. Instead all he does is stand uselessly in the doorway, shellshocked, a pooling sadness mounting in the pit of his stomach the longer he observes the poorly state in which Simon currently exists.

“Simon,” John rasps pathetically, and the invisible dam breaks.

Simon hadn’t looked like himself, and for a moment after opening the door, John remembers thinking that it couldn’t possibly be Simon—not his Simon, anyway. That Simon, looking small in spite of the size of him standing in that doorway, he had Simon’s face, had those broad shoulders John had watched Simon grow into, had that ugly tattoo on his forearm that they both hated. But it couldn’t be Simon, because that Simon’s eyes were so hauntingly hollow, and John had only ever known them to be warm and lively even when his life had never exactly been easy.

After that brief moment, however, relief and joy and a profound sort of melancholy filled John’s chest, because it was Simon, Simon was alive, and maybe John should start believing in God again because maybe miracles really did happen.

Then the silent tears started trailing down Simon’s sunken cheeks, then Simon came crashing forward into John, quietly crying into John’s shoulder and clinging onto his shirt like a lifeline. It was troubling and sobering and subtly horrifying, and John had been reminded then and there of how it would always be in his second nature to hold Simon in his arms.

He had coaxed Simon inside after that, their contact left unbroken as John slowly navigated them through the flat, to the old sofa John kept intending to replace but never did. Simon had curled into him like he had so many times before, head settling in John’s lap. He sobbed into the fabric of John’s shirt while John could hardly offer anything more in return than soft hushes and words of reassurance. John had gently scratched at Simon’s scalp, petting hair shorn too short to properly card his fingers through until the crying became hiccuping breaths became light snores and stuttering sighs, and Simon had finally fallen asleep with the hem of John’s shirt still balled in his fists.

There had been new scars on Simon’s face, John recalls, a face now too pale and gaunt. He’d felt nauseous at the thought of what could have possibly left Simon so broken and battered, but he hadn’t the time to ruminate on the possibilities before he had also fallen asleep.

Which John assumes is what led him here, somehow. Perhaps he had gotten up at some point, or perhaps Simon had even carried him to bed, but that left John wondering if Simon is still here.

God, he fucking hopes so. John wouldn’t survive losing him again.

He won’t survive if all of that had only been a really, really vivid dream.

Having finally gathered his bearings, John tentatively crawls out of bed, his stomach sinking with dread as he realizes how empty the flat still feels, how not a single noise out of the ordinary can be heard.

But no. He won’t give up so easily.

He cracks open the bedroom door and peers into the flat, seeing nothing else out of place, no signs of life. The dread rises, but thankfully, as he steps out of the bedroom, John hears the quiet hiss of the bathroom sink tap running, followed by several splashes of the flow being interrupted. A sliver of bathroom light paints the floor, occasionally flickering in and out of existence at the interruption of a single large shadow milling about the loo. 

John takes a cautious step forward to investigate, only the parquet squeaks underfoot as he does, and the world comes to a startling halt. The tap shuts off and John freezes, worried any move out of place might expose all of this as nothing more than an illusion.

“Simon?” John ventures, tentative as ever.

Everything in the universe remains suspended for the few infinite seconds between John’s address and the hesitant, shuffling footsteps on the bathroom tile. It takes John conscious effort to breathe in, out, in, out, still nervous, still convinced he must have dreamed everything last night, that he’s hallucinating, that something is amiss.

Then Simon finally appears, undeniably John’s Simon, real and here. He’s put on new clothes from last night, something worn and stretched loose that had been shoved as far back as possible into their shared dresser before Simon would have gone digging. John never could bear to get rid of Simon’s belongings, even from the rattiest of shirts to the chipped mugs in the cupboard; ridding himself of it all meant ridding himself of Simon for good, and John simply did not possess the heart nor courage for that.

But regardless, against all odds, Simon has returned to him. He’s home again, shifting his weight between his feet as if intending to make a run for it, as if John might throw him out if he draws too much attention to himself.

“Johnny, I—”

“Don’t—” John says with a faint shake of his head, still afraid to upset the delicate balance of this impossible circumstance. “Don’t apologize. Please.”

Simon concedes with a weak nod before sheepishly hanging his head. He looks out of place even though, up until a year ago, it had been his name on the lease. 

He looks frail, wrong, not at all like himself. Like he haunts the place in which he stands. 

John feels as if it’s forbidden to inch any closer, and swallows his growing apprehension when he does so anyway. John pauses, takes a step, pauses, repeats like he’s approaching a wild, frightened animal, until he’s standing near chest-to-chest with the ghost of the love of his life. 

John gingerly takes Simon’s hands in his, alarmingly aware of the subtle flinch the contact elicits. Simon immediately amends this, however, melting into John’s touch as John gently presses his thumbs into the pads of Simon’s fingers, his knuckles, the meat of his palms just to prove Simon’s existence to himself.

Simon’s hands are rough as they've always been, the same calluses, the same cold touch. John stares at them intently, scrutinizing every mark new and old, every freckle and white, silvery scar—what upsets him the most, though, is that even with his grip to steady them, there’s a slight tremble in Simon’s hands that never existed before his disappearance.

John selfishly guides them to his face once he’s finished his exploration, a silent plea for Simon to hold him. It’s involuntary, the way John’s eyelids flutter shut, the way he molds to the shape of every curve and bump and crevice in spite of placing Simon’s hands on his cheeks himself.

When he opens his eyes again he’s met with Simon’s intense gaze, a plethora of emotions and thoughts and turmoil all swimming in the deep browns of his irises. John feels the oncoming swell of tears in his own eyes, but blinks it away the moment he realizes.

“What happened to you?” John murmurs, something unknowable, agonizing clawing up his throat. He wishes he could be angry instead because it’d be so much easier to rationalize, but John doesn’t know if he’d even be capable.

The contact with Simon’s hands are all that lend him any semblance of feeling grounded in this strange purgatory, this insistent irreality. 

“Wish I could tell you,” whispers Simon, his voice terribly gravelly, sore from disuse, like his vocal cords have been torn to shreds. John doesn’t think he could have ever imagined something quite so awful. “But I could never do that to you.”

The words send a chill down John’s spine, something harrowing, disturbing about the implication of the details of Simon’s disappearance—details John had never been allowed to know—being too gruesome for words. Too grisly to even tell the person he fled to despite everything, the person he used to love so profoundly, the person he’d dedicated so many years of his life to.

It stings as much as it makes John sick, to think that what everyone was keeping from him they were just as well protecting him from. And tracing his gaze along exposed skin in his limited line of sight, picking out the new damages one by one, John feels guilty for having no choice but to let Simon suffer the burden by his lonesome, but feels equally as choked with fear over what else he might eventually find that Simon has left concealed beneath old, baggy clothing.

John detaches himself then, conflicted as he is in doing so. Simon’s arms fall limply to his sides. Many questions burn on John’s tongue.

“Does your family know you’re here? That you’re alive?”

Simon averts his eyes, his jaw ticking nervously, fingers twitching intermittently. His ashamed silence is answer enough.

“Simon,” John scolds, exasperated, suddenly absolved of his prior selfish distress, now transformed into mild outrage for Simon’s family. For all they never faulted John for abandoning them for months, John shouldn’t be the first to know of this. Why should he ever be the first choice over flesh and blood Simon had fought so hard for?

Simon’s breaths are paced but shallow, his shoulders curling inward intentionally or not to make himself appear smaller, and that gradually dissipating guilt settles back on John’s chest with a vengeance. Simon’s mulling something over, John can tell that much, but he looks impossibly troubled by whatever it may be.

John doesn’t like that look. It makes him uneasy. It makes him worried.

“Whatever it is, Simon,” John urges softly, his own body collapsing in on itself, “you can tell me. I promise. I won’t run away.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to say—doesn’t know if he was truly meant to say anything at all—but John’s stomach continues to churn at Simon’s persistent and uncharacteristic reluctance to share something with him. Before he… before, they never kept anything from each other. Not even as a rule or a demand, but as an inherent nature of their relationship. Neither of them had ever felt the need to keep secrets, barring Simon’s work.

At least, that’s how John felt.

Simon’s lips are left parted, undecided. John is about to relent when finally, in the smallest voice John has ever heard, Simon confesses something that cracks John’s heart in two all over again.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

John shakes his head furiously, resisting his want to cradle Simon’s face between his own worn palms, biting back his urge to wipe away the stray tear that slides down Simon’s cheek, his eyes glassy in the yellow glow of the bathroom light. 

“I could never be afraid of you, Simon,” promises John.

Despite so desperately wanting to mean it, though, time apart has made John wary. He wouldn’t dare speak his concerns aloud, but what if what Simon tells John really does scare him? What if John really couldn’t look at Simon the same anymore, no matter how much John had missed and mourned him so fiercely?

Silence stretches between them. John becomes acutely aware of the tension wedged into what little space separates him from Simon, and it’s suffocating.

“I did go home,” Simon confesses. “Christmas Eve, I—but no one was there. No one was—I thought something happened.”

Two months ago. Two months ago, Simon tried to come home. 

What happened between then and now?

“I had them over that night,” John assures Simon, because it’s true, and it took a hell of a lot of courage and therapy to get to the point of being okay with having Simon’s family over for dinner, “Nothing happened. Swear it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Simon mutters, his voice marked by fear and something else undecipherable. Something like a vicious bitterness. “There was someone in the house. Someone there to…”

John doesn’t fill in the blank. Doesn’t want to fill in the blank. He can’t fathom it just yet, guessing or assuming who might’ve been at the Rileys’ home and why, and what might’ve happened had they not been at the flat that night.

Simon doesn’t tell him then, either. Whether for John’s sake or his own, his lips merely draw into a thin line as a faraway look clouds over his face—and though John has begun to worry it may be impossible to ever again read what Simon’s thinking, it wouldn’t take an expert to know he’s falling back into a rabbit hole of memories that send his entire body into lockdown. A simple enough admission about a home intruder had been Simon’s only defence, and now that it’s been shared with John, that protection has come crumbling down.

While John can deduce that these are certainly new nightmares that Simon’s mind is reliving, his bodily process to deal with it is, finally, something familiar to John.

So John himself says nothing, doesn’t prod Simon for a response or a sign of life—instead he guides Simon toward the kitchen, depositing him in one of their mismatched dining chairs while he sets off to make some tea.

The kettle takes too long to come to a boil. Never in a million years could John forget the exact way Simon takes his tea.

In spite of the shock of everything that’s occurred in the past few hours, there still exists a sense of peace in waiting on the shrieking kettle whistle and knowing just how much milk and sugar to add to Simon’s mug. The rhythmic clinking of the spoon against ceramic has long since become one of John’s favourite sounds, one of few things left untainted since what he believed was Simon’s death.

John places the mug in front of Simon and wraps his hands around the warmth for him, pressing a kiss to his temple like he always used to before going to sit down himself. The tea gradually seeps life back into Simon even as he only stares at the wisps of steam that rise from the mug. They continue to sit in silence, content for the first time since Simon’s unexpected arrival, until he finally takes his first sip before the liquid has a chance to cool too much.

Surprisingly, it’s Simon who first cuts through the quiet.

“How’s your thesis coming?” He wonders timidly. Simon scrapes his nails along the ceramic in mechanical motions, chewing nervously on the inside of his cheek, and God, isn’t it terrible. Simon has always been a quiet, introverted, sometimes stoic type, but never so meek as this. It’s reminiscent of a younger boy John had never met, one he knows only through stories—a boy that harboured far more trepidation of the world than a child his age ever should.

It doesn’t suit him.

“It’s fine,” John says, shrugging a shoulder. Never mind the fact that, truthfully, he’d been struggling lately, all research and surveys and lab reports doing little for his inspiration. In a past life, Simon would have recognized and confronted the lie immediately. “Naomi’s not been too kind with her revisions, though.”

Simon hums. He’s moved onto picking at his cuticles, his gaze still firmly planted anywhere but John’s face. “How’s her wife?”

“Kate? She’s well, still doin’ that CIA-spy-secret agent shite, I reckon.” John waves a hand. He suddenly feels more like he’s catching up with his Mam or one of his sisters, and less like he’s talking with his partner— should he still be considering them together?—for the first time after over a year of thinking he was dead.  “Think she must be workin’ on something big, and Naomi’s taking that out on me. Feels like it, at least. That, or my work has really gone to hell these past few months.”

Finally Simon looks up, his face pinched in concern, regret, guilt. “I’m sorry.”

John shakes his head. “Not your fault,” he says quickly, and while honestly Simon isn’t to blame, a distant, bitter part of John’s heart still insists on calling him a traitor. To have been the source of John’s joy just as well as his ruin, it makes it easy to feed his conscience those selfish thoughts of betrayal now that his initial relief has passed. But no, no, it isn’t Simon’s fault, and it isn’t fair to blame him, to add to his unquantifiable burden. “Just a slump. Was bound to happen like it did with my master’s.”

It’s obvious Simon is unconvinced, worrying his bottom lip in a way so painfully familiar to a life that feels decades past. John aches to reach out and smooth the crease between his brows.

“Besides,” John adds, “if it were your fault, I’d have kicked your arse into next week already. Next month.”

Warmth floods John’s chest at the slightest hint of a smile on Simon’s face, though it doesn’t quite mitigate the vacant depth of his eyes, or the dullness of brown irises that used to be so full of life. So full of mirth and light and love for the world in which he existed, despite having had more than enough reason to be resentful of the hand he’d been dealt. 

“I don’t doubt that,” says Simon, fond, terribly soft.

John almost reaches out, almost covers Simon’s hands with his own, almost succumbs to the ache of his marrow demanding he set something to rights. But he doesn’t, not yet, only offers his own weak smile instead. “I—” He swallows, tongue sitting heavy and thick as molasses between his teeth. I still love you, Simon. I could never stop loving you. I just don’t know how to process this. “I’m just… I’m happy you’re alive, Simon.”

The faint smile lingers, but Simon still doesn’t seem quite persuaded.

“Well,” sighs John, before the tension has a chance to grow stifling, “I’ll let you drink your tea. Settle, whatever. This is still your home.”

And it is, and always will be. 

But unfortunately, they’re not quite done enough with this conversation to be able to resettle comfortably just yet. Things will be inevitably and unchangeably different, and they’ll have to reconfigure, but as John slips away from the hold of Simon’s heavy gaze, he can at least pretend to be optimistic.

“...what do you call a cow with no legs? Ground b—“

“—ground beef. I know. You told me that one, like, a month ago.”

Simon rolls his eyes, fumbling the shop’s keys as he locks up for the evening while John practically hangs off his shoulder. It’s noticeably cooled off from the summer months, so it’s an easy enough excuse for them to huddle so closely, even in spite of Simon’s tendency to run warm and the stolen jumper of Simon’s currently adorning John’s frame.

“You’re impossible to please,” Simon grouses, stuffing the keys in his pocket and double-checking the door handle. He shrugs John off and turns around to face him proper. “Go on, then. Give us a better one. Else you can walk home.”

John groans, wrapping his arms around himself now that he’s lost Simon as a personal space heater. “Si-mon,” he whines. “I didn’t mean it. I can’t walk home from here!”

Simon’s unmoved by John’s pout and batting eyelashes. “Bus, then.”

“Christ,” John mutters. “Joke wasn’t bad, Simon, I’m just saying—”

Simon arches a brow, challenging. John huffs.

“—saying that you’re so funny and smart and generous, and you’re the expert at jokes here, so I can’t bear to step on your toes.” John pauses, levelling Simon a look as if to say there, is that better? “Please don’t make me walk.”

Simon snorts, shaking his head before shoving his other hand in his pocket and jerking his chin in a get going gesture. John happily obeys, the two of them falling naturally into step as they start their way down the street to where Simon is parked. Their fingers brush in passing a few times, but neither of them ever act on it, though John himself knows he’d like to.

He’s known he’d like to for quite some time now, honestly. He’s just… afraid it wouldn’t be mutual. Whatever it may be.

Never mind the fact that home at this point has become Simon’s flat rather than his own, a truth that’s been so ingrained into them both that Simon stopped asking where to drive John once he finished a shift at the butcher’s—after he’d accepted that John was now a permanent fixture in his life, that is. After his irritated greeting of you again? became a series of endearingly and increasingly lame puns, and after calling John MacTavish or Twat became almost exclusively Johnny, a name of which John would insist that no one but Simon call him.

Still, John doesn’t make any moves. Nor does Simon, for that matter.

“Ma called today,” John informs Simon idly, fastening his seatbelt. For all Simon can be comfortable in pure silence, it may very well drive John mad. “She thinks your name is Seamus, now. Told her you’re not Irish.”

Simon exhales sharply through his nostrils, something almost equivalent to a laugh as he checks his mirror and pulls onto the road. “‘Least it starts with S this time,” he says. “Though I reckon even ‘Marvin’ sounded a little closer.”

“It’ll only get worse from here, I’m sure.” John twists in his seat to face Simon, no matter if Simon doesn’t drive safely enough for John to be doing so. “She’ll get it eventually.”

“Hm.” Simon drums his fingers on the steering wheel in no particular pattern. The radio is turned too low to hear over the thrum of the engine of Simon’s beat-up Citroen Saxo, but John’s too distracted watching the light of sunset fanning through Simon’s eyelashes to notice, or care. “Is tonight your pick or mine?”

“Mine,” John answers, before turning back to the dashboard and opening the glove box to root through spare tissues, creased pamphlets and outdated owner’s manuals for the wrong cars to find the pack of gum Simon always keeps among the other junk. “Fancy another rom-com?”

“You ask—” Simon casts a brief glance John’s way, then swats his hand away from rummaging. “—but somehow it doesn’t feel like I have a choice.”

John’s lips curve into a bright, playful smile, reaching back into the glove box to seize the half-empty pack of Extra before nudging the compartment closed. He pops a stale piece of spearmint in his mouth before offering one to Simon, who takes it, per usual. 

“Funny, smart, and generous, just like I said,” John teases. “Though don’t act like you don’t enjoy them. You wouldn’t stop talking about Chris Evans for a week after we watched What’s Your Number.”

Simon frowns, a petulant furrow of his brow. “Wasn’t a week,” he mumbles. “Can still make you walk, you know.”

“You can,” John says, “but you won’t.”

“I might,” Simon argues, but John can tell he’s bluffing. Really, John had known he was bluffing from the start.

“Fine,” John concedes, still grinning ear-to-ear. “Not a rom-com, then. What about Fantastic Four? The Chris Evans Johnny Storm version, of course.”

He probably deserves Simon’s socking him in the shoulder. It doesn’t keep John from laughing, however.

They don’t end up watching anything Chris Evans-related despite John continuing to poke fun at Simon, instead choosing to comb through Netflix until they come across some low-budget production neither of them have heard of before, and it’s so laughably bad that they miss the majority of the plot from how much they nitpick, as if they could do any better. 

The movie’s paused part way through as it usually is, time enough for John to ransack Simon’s kitchen while the latter goes and does something minimally productive that he hadn’t been able to prior to his shift. Then they’d meet back in around five minutes to resume their godawful watch because that’s their routine—only it seems that this time Simon has decided to disrupt said routine, and tall fucker that he is, he appears to have moved his good snacks to a cupboard just out of John’s reach.

“Simon!” John calls over his shoulder, once he’s encountered his dilemma. He thinks Simon mentioned something about watering his plants. “Simon, help me grab the crisps, will you? Ought to get me a step ladder if you’re going to—”

John freezes when a hand curls around his waist and a solid presence presses up against him, meanwhile Simon is casually retrieving the bag of crisps as if he isn’t doing something so incredibly out of the ordinary.

John wonders if he’s selfish for liking it. If he’s selfish for wishing the touch would’ve lasted longer when Simon is pulling away, having noticed John’s sudden pause. 

Simon holds the bag out as he stares at John in wide-eyed, dawning terror, beginning to look just as shocked by his own actions. For a minute they remain locked in a stalemate, both John and Simon trying to process what’s just happened.

“Sorry, I wasn’t—” Simon wets his lips, bag crinkling in his hand as his grip tightens. “If that made you uncomfortable, I—”

Unthinkingly, impulsively, in a moment of oh-he-is-so-going-to-regret-this—John leans forward and kisses Simon.

And miraculously, mercifully, in a moment of oh-thank-God-he-is-not-regretting-this—Simon kisses him back.

It’s awkward, unplanned as it is, a wrong angle and a small gap between them, but it’s still sweet and tender and although it’s chaste John wouldn’t change it for the world. 

They part, breathing quietly into each other’s space, both teeming with doubt and uncertainty despite the obvious reciprocity of their feelings. John suddenly finds himself wanting to kiss every beauty mark and freckle and acne scar on Simon’s face, right then and there, just because it’s an option now open to him.

“Not uncomfortable, then?” Simon asks, bashful, a delicious pink staining his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

John shakes his head, something fluttery in his stomach, something floaty about his chest. “Not uncomfortable.”

“Good,” Simon sighs, nodding to himself more than anything, his blush growing redder by the second. “Good. The, um. The movie, we should—“

“Aye, the movie. Right.” John gnaws on his bottom lip, swaying slightly from heel to toe, jittery with the good kind of nerves. “The movie. Of course.”

Both movie and crisps wind up abandoned that night, but John gets a relationship out of it, so he can’t really bring himself to care about the ending of yet another cheap shark-themed thriller.

He and Simon would have forever for those now.

Impatient. John is impatient.

He doesn’t know how Simon did this so willingly every other week. The waiting room feels somehow more clinical than an actual doctor’s office, the ticking of the clock on the wall is doing his head in, and there’s a dull droning contained somewhere within the building that’s making his skin itch—but the seats are comfortable, at least, so John supposes he can allow the shrink’s office some credit for that.

For the nth time John checks his phone for the hour in spite of that too-perfectly functional clock, anxiety-induced nausea rising with every passing minute approaching his appointment. He has other things— better things to be doing, things that don’t involve talking and thinking about his dead partner, and as time continues to move forward, John continues to contemplate getting up and leaving and never turning back.

Which would probably be more doable were it not for the fact that he hadn’t driven himself to the therapist’s office today, because otherwise he wouldn’t have altogether, and that would just mean continued earfuls from Kyle and Naomi and his family begging him to take a break and go talk to someone.

John doesn’t know if it makes him feel better or worse to know that his best friend is sitting outside in his car, just a stone’s throw away, stubborn and level-headed and uncompromising about this one thing. 

Kyle had better make good on his promise to buy lunch after this.

Someone finally pops their head out of the door leading to the hallway of offices, not bothering to skirt their gaze about the empty waiting room, merely looking him straight in the eye and, with a polite smile on their face, asking, “John?”

John nods, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans as he stands, knees cracking like he’s 52 and not 25. He silently trails them down the hall to where he’s invited to sit in a room much cozier than the one outside, and left with no choice but to go in, he complies.

A minute later, John is joined by a woman small in stature and surprisingly close in age to himself, and immediately he gets the sense that she’d be the give-no-shit, take-no-shit type, which, again, leaves him questioning whether or not this is the best or worst case scenario. Either way, she isn’t entirely who John pictured when Kyle offered him a recommendation and a business card.

“John,” she greets evenly, taking a seat across from him. Her expression is placid, not unkind, though her gaze weighs heavy, inquisitive, as if she’s already picking through his brain. “My name is Dr. Karim, but you can call me Farah.”

John inclines his head ever-so slightly in acknowledgement, pressing his hands tightly between his knees to keep them from fidgeting, from wandering and picking at the frays at the hem of his shirt. Well, Simon’s shirt, really, but John doesn’t think it’s so far off for him to assume he’d been transferred ownership with Simon’s passing. Not like anyone else was planning to wear it.

Farah observes him for a moment, quietly assessing—were she not empty-handed, John assumes that this is the part where she’d start taking notes. But as it stands, John is powerless to do anything but sit in deafening, stuffy silence, pretending he doesn’t hate every second of it, not knowing where to look or what to do all the while Farah watches him.

“You are here for a reason,” she says, not asking, though not condescending either—just stating a fact, prompting John to answer at his own pace. In a perfect world, John thinks this could have worked out, that he could have found success in therapy, but at the moment he wants nothing more than to go home and throw himself into something only to emerge days later and regret it.

He doesn’t know if he can heal. He doesn’t think he can.

“Aye,” he replies, though it comes out as little more than a hiss of air. John clears his throat, pulling his knees tighter together, and tries again. “Aye. I am.”

Farah raises an eyebrow, waiting. John is beginning to resent that Kyle knows him well enough to send him to a therapist who could match his pigheadedness. 

John shifts in his armchair, mouth dry as a desert, tongue helplessly limp. In all honesty, he doesn’t really know what he’s meant to say, or how much to say, and as he mulls it over, and questions and answers begin to tumble over themselves in his mind, it ends up coming out in a single, concise statement.

“My partner died,” John finally confides. Simple, true, and something he might decide isn’t his reality on the really bad days. It’s a statement he’s now expressed countless times, three words that have become as natural as I love you. “Two months ago. He was killed in action.”

John ducks his head once the explanation emerges into tangible space, raw and unpleasant, never having been capable of meeting someone’s eyes when admitting it aloud. It doesn’t matter how often he chews on the words; they’re not something fit for his digestion.

“I just…” John sighs, shrugs, traces the outline of a floor tile with the toe of his shoe. “Look, whatever Kyle told you—”

“Whatever Kyle told me is not important,” Farah says pointedly. Concern does not edge into her tone, but there’s a sense of familiarity in the way and reason she chastises him. “This concerns only you.”

But it doesn’t, John wants to say, defensive, but what would he know—his life has been restricted to little more than all his basic needs and functions as a cause of his grief, and the only mechanisms of the brain he had ever studied had less to do with the undesirable afterthoughts of evolution that have locked him into this state of being, and more to do with the most essential parts that force him to survive regardless.

John tongues the inside of his cheek, pensive. “I’m not sure what you want, then.” 

Farah leans back in her own armchair, open, patient. “Tell me about him,” she suggests, light, like she’s throwing out a casual proposition for a weekend outing. “Anything about him.”

He swallows thickly, a mouthful of cotton, something invisible caught in his throat. He suddenly finds himself unable to think of anything to share—he doesn’t want to share, isn’t prepared to. Simon is still his, all those precious moments supposed to stay close to John’s heart and John’s heart alone.

“Is this not a conflict of interest?” John asks in a rush, deflecting, voice thin and tight.

Farah is unfazed. “I can refer you to someone else, if—“

“No,” John cuts in, shaking his head. He’s barely able to start the process, let alone start over. “No, that’s fine. I just don’t think I can do this… today.”

Again, Farah is entirely unperturbed by John’s lack of cooperation—a prerequisite to her choice in career, surely. John wonders if she feels any sort of smug satisfaction when she receives yet another denial and a bullshit excuse when she suggests rescheduling, knowing very well that’s what she’d get the moment she asked.

Perhaps John should learn to stop being so predictable—for his own sake, mostly.

“Right, then.” He grits his teeth. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Okay.”

He frowns. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Farah concurs. “Because that is also not important. But it’s good you recognize it.”

There’s a mounting frustration within John, rapidly bubbling up to the surface only to fizzle out completely once it reaches it. He feels drained, as he has for a while now—for approximately two months, to be exact. The phone call from Simon’s mother still echoes in his head daily, a persistent reminder and heavy weight on his mental health, the way her voice sounded like it was underwater when she told John that Simon had been presumed dead, declared KIA, still an ever-present ghost in his conscience. He still sleeps on his friends’ couches and goes home to live with family from time to time, sometimes unable to bear the emptiness of what was his and Simon’s flat, still littered with pieces of Simon’s existence John never threw away.

He’s deteriorating, he knows it, but just as decomposition would have taken hold of Simon’s coffin, his corpse, John can only let the process eat away at him, too.

“Getting over it feels like I’m trying to forget him. To move on from him,” John explains. “And that feels like a betrayal.”

“Well,” says Farah, “you don’t need to expel your grief. We all hold onto it. But it should be you controlling grief, not the other way.”

John rolls the advice around his teeth, mentally gnashes it to bits, and forces himself to ignore the imaginary bitter aftertaste of his disregard. It may not be in Farah’s tone, but like every other instance of someone telling him to stop letting his mourning overrule his life, John feels patronized, angry, and disinclined to agree, even if he knows it’s true, knows it’s something he needs to do. Wants to do.

His face twitches. He clenches his jaw, relaxes it, clenches again. John almost releases his hands, almost gives into the urge to pick at the hangnail on his left thumb, or a loose thread on his jeans. But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

“Could’ve figured that out on my own,” he says coolly, dismissive, uncooperative. 

Farah isn’t visibly frustrated by this, and maybe she isn’t actually frustrated at all, but John feels tension seeping into the room like carbon monoxide—invisible, deadly. He feels like he's being slowly poisoned by it, the same way he felt those very rare occasions Simon would ice him out after a bad argument. Too tired, too irritable, too willing to lay down and surrender.

Un willing to make any effort to save himself.

“Yet you still made an appointment,” she says.

John frowns again. “Because that’s what everyone told me to do.”

Farah hums, and again John is imagining her jotting something down in her nonexistent notes, something disappointing, something reflecting poorly on him, his character. Lord knows what he’d write about himself, were he in Farah’s position.

“Sure,” she replies, and it’s weird how it stings.

John’s frown deepens. “That is why,” he insists. “I wasn’t even allowed to drive myself.”

Farah does not dispute this. It puts John more on edge. He’s not even certain who he’d be persuading at this point, if he hadn’t bit his tongue to keep more pointless explanations from spilling out.

“Know what, I’m leaving,” declares John. It’s a glaringly empty threat—even if he does leave, there’s a non-zero chance Kyle will just march him back in. “I won’t be back.”

Rising to the challenge, Farah merely shrugs and gestures a not-unkind hand to the door. “You are welcome to do as you’d like, John.”

John grits his teeth, staring at Farah and wondering if it’s even possible for her to falter. He contemplates actually leaving for a too-long stretch of time without taking any action, internally weighing every pro and con to cross his mind for anything he could decide to do. John doesn’t think there’s any scenario where he wins, nor does he think there could be a scenario where he wins, especially considering the fact that none of his options involve bringing Simon back to life.

His thoughts get sidetracked for just a second, pondering the merits of changing his thesis focus and potentially taking up necromancy.

Ultimately, though, he chooses to lose in the least devastating way possible.

John doesn’t move from the chair.

The first few days spent with Simon back are… weird.

They constantly walk on eggshells around each other, like they’re both too fragile for completely different reasons. Simon hardly eats or sleeps unless John insists he do so, and even then the compromise is always sleeping on the couch or picking at the leftovers of a meal John lies about being too full to finish off himself. John talks to himself more than anything to fill the awkward silence, unsure of what is safe to talk about with Simon, and a lot of the time it comes to feel like the flat is merely haunted, and John has finally lost his mind.

John is late to his appointment with Farah that week, uncomfortable with the thought of leaving Simon alone for any amount of time—it isn’t without a considerable amount of reassurance from Simon that he should go that he finally does. John nearly forgets to pocket his phone, wallet and keys by the time he’s halfway out the door, too preoccupied with checking in again with Simon for the thousandth time that morning that everything would be okay.

And it does turn out okay, thankfully, but it doesn’t make John hate the situation any less.

He also decides not to tell Farah about this… development, just yet.

A week passes, and it’s still all so wrong. John wishes they didn’t have to act like strangers, but more and more, day by day, it feels like that’s their only choice; to get to know one another a second time around, only now nothing is so natural or simple or easy as it once was.

It’s difficult. Either one of them would be a liar to try and claim otherwise.

Not to mention, all this tension—it doesn’t even begin to account for the topic they’ve been tiptoeing around entirely, save for that first morning, of informing Simon’s family of his not-dead- ness. From fragments of what John has managed to coax out of Simon (home intruder, American soldier, brainwashing), he’s able to understand Simon’s hesitance, but it’s been months since that happened, and now knowing that his family is safe and sound, John doesn’t get why Simon is so adamant about putting off telling them.

“Because they’re going to find out eventually, if you plan to continue staying here,” John rambles, his back to Simon as he prepares that evening’s meal with more aggression than necessary. He’s nearly decimated the poor onion he needs for the fried rice by the time he’s discarding the knife and whirling around on Simon with his hands on his hips and tears stinging his eyes. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to rip off the bandaid now?”

Simon, hovering at the threshold of the kitchen, merely shrugs. He has a finger wedged between the pages of a book John very well knows he wasn’t actually reading, and he’s currently wearing the same jumper John had been on the day they shared their first kiss. Suddenly, John is feeling overwhelmed by the need to absolutely throttle Simon.

Then maybe kiss him better. John doesn’t know.

“I could just call your brother,” John bluffs. “Invite them all over. There’s nothing stopping me.”

Simon starts to go rigid at the threat before seemingly snapping himself out of his knee-jerk panic. He draws compulsive circles with his thumb along the laminated cover of the novel in his hand, head shaking nigh imperceptibly as he regards John with a look of utmost intensity. A clear, resounding no. 

In better days, it might’ve been a clear, resounding don’t you fucking dare.

“Okay,” John sighs, resignedly turning back to his cutting board. “I won’t call Tommy.”

John does his best not to pay attention to the sounds of Simon shuffling across the kitchen, or to the motions of Simon setting the book down on the table and unexpectedly sidling up to him. He cautiously encroaches on John’s space, testing the waters the same way one might hold their hand out for a cat to sniff, and John has to keep himself from practically rejoicing when Simon snakes an arm around his waist and plants his chin on John’s shoulder just like in the olden days.

“I’m not… ready,” confesses Simon, plain and honest. “I don’t want them to see me like this. Not after everything.”

After everything, meaning Simon’s nightmare of a father, and all Simon had gone and done to make certain he stayed far away from the rest of the family for good. Simon hadn’t been himself for the duration of that ordeal, either—paranoid, quieter than usual, lacking sleep and prone to self-destructive behaviours. Throughout it all, Simon kept calling himself weak, blaming himself for not having done something sooner, before he’d even thought to enlist; berating himself for stooping down to unpleasant levels for the sake of wanting to get even before putting an end to things.

It took a lot of time and therapy and persuasion for Simon to stop equating himself with the sorry excuse of a man he has the misfortune of sharing DNA with. But obviously, there is still quite a bit more he must’ve suppressed. Or that might’ve been reinstilled, during his time being dead.

In either case, John doesn’t know if there is any number of words that could convince Simon that his family would think no less of him in his current state.

Not now, anyway.

“But I get to? Lucky me,” John teases, though he grimaces as soon as the words leave his mouth. He thinks it’s most certainly the wrong thing to have said in response, and he braces himself for that familiar warmth to slip away and for Simon to clam up again, but that never happens. 

Instead, Simon only huffs and buries his face in the crook of John’s neck, breath soft against the skin. John tries not to make obvious his contentment with this progression, simply returning to his meal preparation as if there isn’t a year of unknowns sitting between them. He readily blames any sniffling on the onion.

It isn’t until he has to move onto the actual cooking part of making dinner does he realize that Simon has fallen asleep.

Simon keeps shifting nervously on his side of the booth, and John has started to struggle with stuffing his face with chips and pretending like he hasn’t noticed.

He’s been like this all week—avoiding John when possible, insisting John not come visit him at the butcher’s, declining John’s offers to spend time together and ducking his head whenever John tried to kiss him. It all started so suddenly and for no apparent reason, and at this point, in all honesty, the erratic behaviour has begun to make John nervous. John has been trying not to overthink it, but his mind keeps wandering to the worst outcomes, and the longer they sit in uncomfortable silence the more John thinks that this is all just leading up to Simon breaking up with him.

John soaks another chip in gravy. “Did you see—”

“I quit my job,” blurts Simon. 

John’s gaze snaps to him, caught off guard. Is that all this has been about? Simon quitting his job? Did he think I’d be upset?

“...Okay?”

“I quit,” Simon repeats, wringing his hands anxiously, “because I’m going to enlist. Or, well. I already have. A while ago. Basic starts in a week.”

John shoves the chip in his mouth before sitting back, chewing slow and deliberate to keep himself from frowning. It feels like swallowing a mouthful of sand once the mush becomes cold and unappetizing and John has to say something before he vomits.

“That’s… that’s… Simon, I…” John is speechless, torn, confused—the last of which he latches onto, because somehow this feels worse than a breakup, and he wants to focus on anything but the pseudo-heartbreak. “But isn’t there an application process, or something? When did you…?”

Simon looks away from John, sheepish. “Few times I lied about going to visit Tom.”

“Ah.” John taps his fingers on the edge of the table, awkwardly glancing around the restaurant like he might find something to dispel the many weird feelings he currently has going on. He doesn’t, unfortunately, and when his attention finally returns he’s almost disappointed to see Simon is watching him, waiting. “Well, I’m. Happy? For you.”

Simon huffs. “Thanks, Johnny. That’s really reassuring.”

“I’m sorry!” John exclaims, a nervous, borderline maniacal laugh bubbling out of him, his accent thickening unintentionally along with the lump in his throat. “I support you. I do. In anythin’ you decide to do. I’m just… in a wee bit of shock, is all.”

“I should’ve told you sooner,” says Simon. “I shouldn’t have waited so long.”

John shrugs. On one hand, yes, he supposes it would’ve been nice to know sooner than a week out from Simon’s being shipped off, but on the other, at least this way, with so little time to process it, there won’t be enough room left for the sense of impending doom to set in before Simon leaves.

Ideally, though, this wouldn’t be happening at all.

“So.” John worries his bottom lip. “A week. Have you even started packing?” 

Simon hesitates, then shakes his head. John's laugh is far more genuine, natural this time, and contagious enough to have Simon join in in that silent, shoulder-shaking way. 

“And I’m the disorganized one.”

“You’d get suspicious when you noticed half your clothes missing,” Simon argues, gesturing to the stolen shirt John’s currently wearing. “Better go shopping before I’m gone, else you’ll be left naked.”

“That supposed to be a bad thing?” Quips John.

Simon happily plays along. It dilutes reality, just a bit. Softens the blow. “If I’m not there to see it, yeah.” He reaches across the table and snatches a chunk of battered fish from John despite his own nearly untouched meal. “You should be celebrating, anyhow. You’ll have the entire flat and bed to yourself.”

John hums noncommittally. “You’re right. Maybe I should be celebrating.” He slings an arm over the back of the booth, forcing himself to at least appear less tense than he is. “Removing tea from the budget might afford us a house in a few years.”

“Oi, careful, Johnny. See what happens when you’re sick and the peppermint’s gone,” Simon warns, failing to suppress his smile. Like many threats that have been playfully made since the start of their relationship—since they met—they both know it’s out of love, and that it’ll never be acted upon.

Suddenly, John is hit with the thought of how much he’s going to miss having this on a daily basis. 

And, as if sensing the onset of melancholy, Simon’s face falls, which only serves to make John feel worse.

“If it helps,” Simon says, now so nauseatingly sincere, “we can visit at least once before training’s done. And after that…“

It really isn’t intentional that Simon’s voice sort of fades out, it just happens. John stops listening as Simon rambles in that shy, endearing way he only ever does with him, too focused instead on Simon’s gestures, his expressions. Simon’s eyes. Basic training may only be a couple of months, but the career itself will be a considerable change, one that would separate them more than they’ve ever been these past two and a half years. Of course, as he’d said, John will only ever support Simon, he’d be a fool to not return the favour—but it still feels weird. Like a disruption of balance. Like the feeling of moving away and having to say goodbye to a longtime friend; a promise to keep in touch, left unintentionally unfulfilled.

The longer John watches Simon, the more he finds himself zeroing in on the most minute, delicate details—the beauty mark under Simon’s right eye, his crooked, fang-like canines that peek out as he talks, perpetually reddened knuckles as he makes distracted gestures. John admires and admires, and soon enough everything comes together into a single, revelatory thought.

“...which, if I—”

“I love you.”

Time stops. Simon freezes, lips framed with the remainder of a sentence that would be left forever suspended. For a moment, even John doesn’t register his own confession. 

Doesn’t register it, in fact, until Simon quietly asks, “You mean that?”

“I—“ John licks his lips, instantly feeling his face go warm with a blush he knows is bright pink. His arm slips from the booth as he shrinks self-consciously in on himself, that tingly, buzzy feeling spreading down his neck and chest. “I mean, yeah, obviously. I didn’t—maybe tellin’ you that in a chippy for the first time isn’t ideal, but aye, yes. I love you, Simon.” After too long a pause follows this, John hastily adds, “But don’t feel pressured to… you know. Say it back. I don’t expect—“

“I love you, too,” Simon says.

John sighs a breath of relief, before his face splits into a smile that will most definitely have his cheeks sore by the end of the day. He tries to resist it, but it’s damn near impossible and John is almost certain he’s just making himself look like a lunatic.

He doesn’t care.

They may be simple words, but now being so freely available to him, John suddenly feels far less concerned with change, and more excited for their future. It’s still unfortunate Simon would be leaving, but this leaves John feeling a little less hollow than before.

John probably tells Simon I love you at least a thousand times that next week, up until they’re kissing and hugging goodbye.

Farah’s lack of greeting when he enters her office is probably the first thing to tip John off that she’s caught wind from Kyle that he’d lied about putting an end to some habit of grief she’d been pushing him to fix. Despite the fact that their very first session, she advised John to keep Kyle out of this.

They sit in silence for several minutes, until John starts to get suspicious that Farah’s staring isn’t exactly some strategic patient assessment known only to therapists. 

“Are we going to—”

“You have his family blocked?”

John’s mouth snaps shut. He’d really like neither to confirm nor deny a fact that he isn’t proud of but is still reluctant to change, a fact he hates acknowledging but doesn’t quite regret. It had been… a while ago now that John promised Farah that he was still keeping in touch with Simon’s family, the few other people to share his kind of grief and would surely make this process a lot easier, but that had been nothing more than a bold-faced lie. He’s worried he’s long since crossed the appropriate amount of time to take back his action of cutting the Riley family out, and he doesn’t dare risk making things worse for anyone by suddenly changing that.

He’s just barely started to get better all by himself. John can’t afford to burden them with a weak explanation and flood himself with guilt all over again.

“It was for the best,” he tells her unconvincingly. 

Farah is, understandably, unimpressed. “You all decided this together?”

John winces. “Well, no, but—”

“Then how do you know it is for the best?”

“I mean.” John shrugs. “I was only his boyfriend. I doubt it’s made a difference.”

Farah studies him, pinpointing every one of his vulnerabilities before deciding on her approach to John’s idiocy. It’s moments like these that John has no trouble discerning the reason he’s chosen to stick around this long. The reason he actually finds himself receptive to Farah’s advice. She reminds him just enough of the sternest parts of the individual he’d come here for in the first place.

She narrows her eyes at John, decision made. “And if it did make a difference?”

Lips pulled into a thin line, breathing slow through his nose, John fails miserably at keeping his face neutral. He has thought about it, still does every once in a while, and it only ever makes him less open to the idea of reaching out again. Losing Simon had been enough—but the possibility of Simon’s family being angry with John? Resentful? To think about it makes him ill.

“It’s too late, anyway,” says John. “Damage’s been done.”

“Damage?”

“Farah—“

“Dr. Karim, today.” Farah levels him a look. “And next session, I want to hear that you’ve reconnected.”

John sighs, barely restraining an eye roll. Farah makes certain to remind him several times of her expectations over the course of their forty-five minutes, going so far as to threaten informing Kyle when John eventually gets up to leave—which is more immediate a threat than John would like, considering Kyle had yet again been the one to drop him off that day, and is now currently parked in the lot with his seat angled back and an arm thrown over his face like he’s suntanning on a beach, and not catnapping in his car on a dreary day in Manchester.

At the very least, John is amused by the way Kyle jumps when John taps on the window and gestures for him to unlock the door.

“You’re a prick,” Kyle grumbles as John climbs in, readjusting his seat and starting the engine.

John laughs. “You offered to do this.”

“Because I’m a good friend. You are an arsehole.”

Like the handful of other times Kyle has served as John’s transport to and from therapy, he drives them not back to John’s flat, but to some random lunch spot Kyle had picked out for the day—always a surprise to John until they arrived. The ride there, conversation meanders around the whole grief talk, focused instead on work and John’s PhD and whatever drama Kyle’s sister has fed him for the week, and it’s nice, because it makes John feel normal.

It’s unfortunate that once they’ve ordered their Thai food, the illusion has to break on account of Kyle continuing to be a good friend.

“So, what’s this week’s assignment?” Kyle asks casually, like he’s inquiring how a date went, or what John did this past weekend, rather than wondering how John is managing his grief.

“Well, because someone—“ John stares pointedly at Kyle. “—told Farah I’m still not talking to Simon’s family, I’m supposed to… do that.”

“For the record, someone only mentioned that offhand,” says Kyle. “But that’s not so bad. You and Tommy got on, yeah?”

John shrugs. He reaches for his water. “Yeah, but that was before I ignored him and his family for over half a year.” He takes a swig, waits a moment before swallowing. “They’re not gonna want to talk to me now.”

“Then do some… big gesture. As an apology,” Kyle suggests. “Christmas is coming up. Invite them over or something.”

John gnaws on the inside of his cheek, contemplating the idea. He takes another sip of water, then another, then sets the glass down with a thunk. He knows he’s just buying time, knows Kyle is aware of it too, but it’s a decision—an initiative—that he’s honestly afraid of taking.

When he still doesn’t answer, Kyle says, “Why not do it right now? Get it over with. I’ll be your moral support.”

John scoffs and rolls his eyes, though he does move to fish his phone from his pocket. “How helpful,” he grumbles, much to Kyle’s amusement. “Tommy might not even respond.”

“Well, you can’t know that ‘til you try, can you?”

Kyle's brows jump in challenge when John opens his mouth to protest. John sighs, reluctantly unlocks his phone, and navigates to his message thread with Tommy—abandoned after some conversation regarding funeral arrangements. He feels Kyle’s eyes on him as he hovers over the unblock button, hesitating like it might bite him once he presses it. John knows that it isn’t like he’ll be suddenly flooded with missed messages—those, if any, are now lost to time—but it still feels… dangerous, somehow. Forbidden.

He holds his breath as he hits the button. And, as expected, nothing. John sighs a breath of relief.

“Still have to send a message, mate,” Kyle reminds him. 

Rather unhelpfully, if John may add.

“I will, just—” John sighs, exasperated, throwing a brief glance around the restaurant in the desperate hope that their server would magically appear and buy him some time—but no dice. “—have to think about what to say.”

Kyle mutters something that John doesn’t quite catch over the din of other patrons’ conversations, though it doesn’t really matter whether he knows the exact insult of choice in the end. It doesn’t make Kyle’s growing frustration any less obvious, nor does it change the fact that John can’t even decide between hi, hey and hello.

“D’you think I should just send him an explanation now or—”

“Jesus, Tav, you’re not texting a school crush. Quit overthinking it.” Kyle holds out his hand, beckoning. “Here, let me send the first text. You’re driving me mad, man.”

John hesitates to surrender his phone, although he trusts that Kyle wouldn’t ever send anything outrageous, and although he agrees that it’d be a lot easier to get over that initial hurdle when someone else is dragging him over it. His gaze flicks between the open message thread and his friend’s outstretched palm, chewing pensively on his bottom lip before he’s finally—reluctantly—handing over the device.

A blink, and Kyle is already typing. He only pauses briefly to consider something, then types some more, scans the message and hits send all within the span of thirty seconds. The phone is returned to John so quickly it’s like it never left his grip.

Heart pounding irrationally aggressive in his chest, John peers down at the screen to assess the damage.

Hi Tommy, the message reads. I’m sorry I haven’t reached out in a while. How’ve things been? It’s a bit formal, and John usually had a tendency to address Simon’s brother as simply Tom in text, but it would do—it was certainly better than anything John would have eventually thought up himself.

“There,” says Kyle. Of course, it’s then that their server finally decides to bring their meals, so they both readjust, say thank you, and wait for her to leave before Kyle finishes making his point. He picks up his fork and jabs it in John’s direction before starting on his pad see ew. “Now you can turn off your phone and enjoy lunch. Worst part is over.”

Hardly, John would argue, especially considering all the what ifs that would follow a response from Tommy. But he doesn’t, because Kyle had ultimately still done him a favour, so he concedes and shoves his phone back in his pocket.

To Kyle’s credit, he does a bang-up job of steering them well clear of anything to do with Simon, Tommy, and John’s therapy over the course of lunch, and John nearly forgets what had him so anxious in the first place until they’re just chatting, sufficiently fed, and he feels his phone buzz against his leg. He’s not sure he’d exactly call it a good thing, the way his heart jolts in his chest.

Thankfully, Kyle doesn’t seem to notice his panic, or if he does, he mercifully doesn’t comment on it.

John clears his throat and scoots his chair back an inch. “Just gonna head to the loo. Be right back.”

Kyle shoots him a thumbs up. John has to force himself to move at an acceptable pace, lest he practically sprint to the toilets and make Kyle suspicious, and everyone else in the restaurant think he’s insane.

Once he’s safely out of sight, however, John wastes not one second on locking himself in a stall and whipping out his phone.

But the notification isn’t from Tommy. It isn’t even from anyone. He’d gotten himself all worked up over some promotional email from a company he doesn’t even recall subscribing to. Fucking unbelieveable.

John squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, annoyed, before counting to sixty in his head and exiting the stall. He washes his hands for good measure, wanders back to the table, and picks up where they left off because duh, he never had anything to worry about in the first place, because of course Tommy wouldn’t want to respond to him.

He feels his phone buzz a few more times between splitting the bill and walking back to Kyle’s car, but this time, John thinks nothing of it. Just continues their conversation with a smile on his face because these are one of the few things left that don’t leave John feeling anchored by his everlasting grief, even if it’s gotten quieter since the start.

They’re parked outside John’s building when Kyle asks, “Has Tommy answered yet?”

John stares at his friend, a no already on his tongue, but Kyle just stares back, waiting expectantly for John to actually pull out his phone and check.

Because it’s courteous, John supposes, he complies. And when he turns on the device, as expected, there isn’t anything from—

Except… there is something from Tommy. A few somethings, actually, all hidden behind the usual locked previews. John’s brows pinch together, and he contemplates opening the messages right then and there, but ultimately decides against it.

“…No,” he says slowly. Kyle can probably tell he’s lying, but he must’ve decided there isn’t any reason to call John out on it. “Nothing.”

“Oh well.” Kyle can definitely tell he’s lying. “Might take some time. It was nice seein’ you, yeah?”

John nods. He doesn’t stow his phone away again. “Aye, always is. Thanks for the lift.”

Kyle shakes his head. “Not a problem, Tav. And hey, if you ever need anything—“

“I can text you, I ken. Cheers, Garrick.”

John climbs out of the car and waves goodbye, not waiting to watch Kyle drive off like he usually does before heading inside. It’s only been a few hours, but he feels like he’s been out of the flat for days.

He takes the steps two at a time (because Simon had to go and sign the lease for a place with a perpetually out-of-order lift) and only summons enough patience to lock the door and slip off his shoes before he opens the messages to see what horrible words await him.

It’s nice to hear from you, John, is the first one, and… no, that can’t be right. John scans it again, frowning.

Family is doing okay. Well, okay as we can be, reads the next message, and John’s frown deepens. Joey misses you.

John just barely makes out the third and final message—a simple how are you?—when a lump rises in his throat and tears sprout in the corners of his eyes. Because fuck, fuck, he’d been so selfish. He was never the only one mourning but he sure as hell acted like he was, and now look what he’s done. Simon’s—his nephew misses him. And the kid’s only four—he probably doesn’t understand why both Simon and John left. He probably doesn’t understand the difference in their absences.

A tear snakes down his cheek, then another, and another. John sniffles and wipes his nose with his coat sleeve, reading the texts over and over and over as he swallows that lump and tries to breathe deeply and calm his crying. It’s a few minutes before he can inhale without his chest stuttering, before he can finally dry his face without it becoming tearstained immediately after. Only then does John finally set the phone down a moment to shed his jacket before padding over to the sofa with the device clutched tight like he’d lose those messages if he didn’t.

John unlocks his phone, reads slowly through the thread of texts one more time, then finally types out his reply.

Could be better, he writes, then sends before he can think too hard on it. It feels… oddly liberating. He quickly types another text because he’d rather not turn this olive branch into a pity party so soon.

I know Simon always called me a lousy cook, but would you and the family like to come over for Christmas Eve dinner? I swear I’ve learned since then.

It’s easier to send the second one, like he’s relearning to work a muscle, dusting off the rust. He almost doesn’t get nervous when the bubble of three dots appears instantly afterwards.

‘Course! Tommy says. But I’ll still ask mum to make something extra just in case lol.

And just like that—just like that—it already feels like a bit of weight has lifted from John’s shoulders. Like his burden has become just a bit more bearable to carry. Like he can finally breathe again.

John finds himself smiling involuntarily, something quaint, just for him, for that moment. He decides not to answer right away, only because he knows he won’t struggle next time, and that fills him with a sense of… hope. With a sense that maybe things will turn out fine, in the end.

He’s going to hate telling Farah she was right about something again during their next session.

A month passes since Simon came home, and everything has… almost settled; the big picture looks right, at least, but it feels like some puzzle pieces have been forced into slots they don’t quite fit.

They still haven’t confronted the glaring elephant in the room, and it’s fine, really, John wouldn’t want to make Simon relive whatever trauma had been inflicted while he’d been in Mexico—but he’d like if something could just… go right. Sure, Simon has finally gained a little weight back, and sure, they’re finally sleeping in the same bed again, but it still feels like so little progress has been made. Like so little distance between them has closed.

On a few occasions now, John has insisted Simon speak with a psychologist, psychiatrist, someone, but he always refuses. He’s become almost agoraphobic, barely leaving the flat for anything other than a walk in a nearby park, or sitting on a bench outside the shops while John buys food for the next week, and always wearing a medical mask like he’s some fugitive on the run.

And maybe he is. John doesn’t really have any way of knowing, and that scares him.

But as he’d promised Simon, he isn’t scared of him, only for him. John understands that the likelihood of Simon ever returning to his complete former self is essentially impossible, but as John had experienced himself—Simon can’t live the remainder of his life as a husk. John, too, had had to learn that it just isn’t healthy.

John doesn’t know what to do. He wishes it were as simple as solving the equations that have become second nature to him over the past eight years of studies.

At the moment, it’s three in the morning on a Tuesday again, only this time instead of staring at an empty document—of which has finally started to gradually fill up—John is staring up at the ceiling while Simon sleeps tucked under his chin, their limbs securely entwined. He mindlessly combs his fingers through Simon’s hair, longer now, finally beginning to resemble his former curls. In the month and a bit that they’ve been reunited, they’ve discovered that it’s one of the only configurations that allows Simon to get a sufficient amount of rest.

Right now, however, John himself seems to be bearing the burden of insomnia.

He still hasn’t said a word to anyone about Simon, and it’s growing tiring to have to keep pretending like Simon isn’t just… here, now. Being the mourning partner is something entirely different from simply playing the part, and the guilt that’s manifested from having to continue accepting genuine sympathies has made John feel almost disconnected from himself. He may not be outright lying—except to Farah, maybe, but that’s only because she has to directly confront Simon’s death as part of her job, and randomly cancelling all future appointments would be suspicious—but the lack of any truth has started to make his shoulders sore.

But at the same time, John also doesn’t want to go behind Simon’s back and against his wishes for fear of losing him again. More than anything John wants to give Simon safety, because it’s clear he’d been entirely devoid of that luxury wherever he’d been in Mexico, but the demands in order to do so… he doesn’t know if he’s willing—or prepared, for that matter—to follow through with them for the rest of their lives.

Simon’s family deserves their happy ending just as well, and John can only continue to make so many excuses as to why he can’t babysit Joseph on that day, either.

John is drawn away from his thoughts when Simon jerks suddenly in his sleep, his gaze skittering rapidly back and forth beneath his eyelids. He’s having a nightmare, no doubt, but that isn’t anything new with Simon. 

Normally, whenever this happened, John would just cradle Simon closer and coax him awake, whispering reassurances that he’s okay, his family is okay, his father is not coming back, he made sure of that. There might be tears, the really bad nights when the dreams are more vivid, but it was never unmanageable. It never lingered. By morning it would be like nothing had ever occurred. 

This time, John quickly learns it wouldn’t be the kind of nightmare he’s used to dealing with.

Simon whimpers softly, brokenly as he grows increasingly restless, squirming so much that John’s unable to keep hold of him for long. He carefully detangles himself from Simon before the tossing and turning becomes too unpredictable, wanting, preferably, for no one to get hurt, though in the end this wouldn’t make a difference.

“Simon,” John murmurs. Then, louder, but no less cautious, “Simon.”

No response, other than mumbled words John can’t quite make out. He’s not even certain if it’s English.

“Simon, love,” John tries again, but to no avail. He sits up in bed, watching Simon curl in on himself, his body trembling, his breaths a staccato. He reaches out to grab Simon’s shoulder and gently shake him awake. “Simon, it’s just a—“

A startled gasp catches in John’s throat when Simon twists around and latches onto his wrist, grip white-knuckled and painful. It only causes John to wince at first, stuck in his shock, but as seconds pass he begins to process what’s happening, and feeling the bones in his wrist grinding together he kind of wants to cry. John tries to pry himself free, but weakened as Simon had been, he’s still goddamn strong.

“Simon,” John croaks. “Let go, please. That hurts.”

But Simon doesn’t listen. It’s like he doesn’t even hear. He just stares at John, chest heaving, eyes wide and wild and glazed over with something John wouldn’t even call human.

He can’t break his promise to Simon. He can’t.

John won’t let himself be scared.

In spite of the vice-like grip on his arm surely to leave bruises he’ll have to cover up for the foreseeable future, John takes a deep breath to steady himself, to keep his voice even and soft. 

“It’s just me, Simon. Johnny,” he persists, trying desperately to not sound like he’s pleading. “You’re home in our flat in Manchester. You have been, for over a month now. You showed up in the middle of the night, remember?”

There’s a faint glimmer of recognition, though it soon clouds over. Somehow, Simon’s grip gets tighter. John’s internal concern has shifted from bruises to broken bones.

“Not possible,” Simon slurs, caught somewhere between his dreams and reality. His gaze is distant. “He told me you were dead. Told me you were all dead. He showed me your skulls.”

John swallows thickly around his rising dread, not knowing how far you all extends, though it hardly matters as he blanches at the gruesome image of Simon being presented human skulls by a nameless he, and being told in whatever fragile state he’d been in that they belonged to his loved ones.

Exactly what the hell had happened to him?

John shakes his head, so slight it’s basically undetectable. “It’s not true. That wasn’t—“ His tongue suddenly feels too thick in his mouth, incapable of voicing the grim part aloud. So instead he does something probably ill-advised, but arguably necessary.

He hesitantly wraps his free hand around Simon’s forearm, squeezing lightly. It confuses Simon enough to loosen his grip, and John takes the opportunity to wriggle free.

Then he brings Simon’s hand close to his throat, guiding his fingers to the pulse point below his jaw—where his carotid artery relays every pump of his heart, still warm and alive. John prays Simon doesn’t get any ideas of what else he could close his hand around, and hopes Simon doesn’t register the jackhammer pace of each beat, but he never lets go.

“Still goin’,” John whispers. “Still beating.”

A long few seconds pass. John flinches when Simon shifts and cold fingers are suddenly slipping under his shirt, migrating up to where his heart sits protected by his ribcage. John’s chest rises and falls, rises and falls, and he’s helpless to do anything but stare into dark, unfocused eyes as something in Simon’s brain tries to make sense of it all.

It’s a great relief when the ice finally begins to melt, and warmth seeps back into Simon’s irises. 

But in a blink, his face changes, and it looks as if he’s aged ten years.

“Simon?”

Simon’s gaze falls, and his fingers curl slightly against John’s neck, though this time John doesn’t panic. Not quite, anyway.

Then Simon is pulling away, rolling onto his other side to put his back to John. He bunches his shoulders and draws his knees to his chest like he’s trying to make himself appear as small as possible.

And in the low light, with his body still undeniably frail as it had been made to be, he really does seem to shrink. 

John realizes almost too late that he’s reaching out again. 

“Simon, I’m not m—“ 

“I hurt you.”

His voice is so quiet John has to strain to hear him. 

“It’ll just be a bit of bruising,” John assures. “You didn’t—”

“Could’ve done worse.” From where John sits, he’s able to see as Simon studies his calloused palms like they aren’t his own. Like he doesn’t trust them. “Would’ve…”

“You don’t know that,” John says, and maybe Simon doesn’t—but he doesn’t know that either. He doesn’t know this Simon nearly as well.

Simon’s hands curl into fists before he’s tucking them under his head. His body sags as he exhales.

“But I do, Johnny,” Simon murmurs. “Because I have.”

A thousand unfilled blanks, yet John understands the weight of the confession. He hears the way it tears Simon’s throat apart when he spits it out, like it’s made of thorns and shattered glass and everything else sharp and rough and rusted. 

John knows, of course, that there are certain things that Simon has had to do, being in the military—and the SAS, at that. He knows that Simon has hurt people, has killed people, because John had been there when Simon came home for a period after the first time he’d taken a life, shaken to his core though he’d tried his damndest to hide it. Over time, Simon would learn to reconcile with it, and John would hear less and less about his work as things became more and more classified, and so John stopped thinking about it, too.

But this… it’s different. John doesn’t know how, but he knows that it is.

And it’s then that he decides something finally has to be done about it, regardless of how Simon feels.

“Well,” John starts slowly, not wanting to spook Simon again, “if you’re afraid something might… happen…”

Simon unfurls slightly, listening. Hesitant. It reminds John of that first morning, how Simon looked like he was bracing himself for John to tell him to leave. 

John takes a deep breath, and continues, “Then maybe it’s time you start seeing a professional again.”

Simon cranes his neck, peering up at John over his shoulder. His eyes glisten with unshed tears. His expression is indecipherable.

“I—” John sighs and hangs his head. “I love you, Simon. But I don’t like seeing you like this.”

It isn’t a pleasant truth to say aloud, nor does John imagine it’s a pleasant truth to hear—but it’s the kindest he can offer at the moment. Because John is still human, and as is Simon, so John is allowed to be anxious about these kinds of things. Obviously he’s already thought up a handful of scenarios and outcomes, a plethora of ways to deal with the current state of Simon, and getting him help had been the most favourable possibility. 

This… minor incident had only accelerated its need; it’s always been on the table. Simon knows that. John told him. Yet he kept refusing.

Now that the threat that something could happen is real, however? John still knows Simon damn well enough to be confident this would make the difference.

Even though John did mean it when he tried to tell Simon he wasn’t mad.

“We can find someone outside the city. Discreet. Familiar with military personnel.” John looks back at Simon. He reaches out again, cupping the far side of Simon’s face, wordlessly coaxing him onto his back as he brushes a thumb over the new scar that’s formed a wedge in his upper lip. “We can figure something out. Like we always do.”

Simon stares at him, almost wistful. 

One thing that hasn’t changed, though, is the silent way Simon’s eyes revere John like he’d hung the moon and stars just for him.

“Okay,” Simon finally agrees, his voice faint, hardly above a whisper.

John smiles. “Okay.”

A quiet moment, a deep breath, and Simon is resuming his place against John as he’d been prior to the nightmare. He’s accepted with open arms.

John wants to be hopeful. He really does.

When John had gone through the motions of his first university graduation ceremony, he hadn’t been all that nervous. 

Sure, it was his first degree—his BSc in biomedical sciences—but he was far from being the only undergraduate student to walk the stage, so he never put much thought into being worried. He’d be in the middle of the group with his M surname, immediately forgotten in the moments after he’d accepted his degree and shaken hands with the dean, and so it was no skin off his back. In two hours, give or take, the sum of a few years’ worth of work and achievements would culminate in a piece of paper he’d have to pay to get a frame for, and that would be that. He would move onto his next project.

John thought the second time would be even more of a breeze—but no. Hardly at all. And he’s not sure why.

Simon hadn’t been able to attend the first one, having been stuck in the tail-end of his basic training, though they did go for a nice dinner the next time he was home, to celebrate the both of them. John had had his family present anyway, so all was well and good.

Just over two years later, and it seems like the same thing. Simon is away on deployment again for who knows how long, John’s parents are in the crowd somewhere, and John is sitting closer up front, because now he gets the privilege of walking amongst a much smaller group of master’s students. 

He chalks the nauseous churning in his gut up to that. Because otherwise he has no discernible reason to feel so antsy, and he’d much prefer to have any kind of answer, no matter how flimsy.

The ceremony goes off without a hitch, of course. But even once everyone is congratulated and dismissed, that heartburn-y feeling still hasn’t gone away, and John has to take a moment to himself before wandering off to locate his parents and sisters.

With his hat and gown and newest piece of paper, John trails in the opposite direction of the crowd until he finds himself a secluded spot to just sit and breathe.

He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. He’s never been the empath-premonition-type. 

A shadow falls over John some five minutes later, and he’s more than prepared to accept a scolding for being somewhere he shouldn’t—but to his surprise, that never comes.

“You go and mope after your last graduation, too?”

John’s head snaps up so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t get whiplash. Then he’s scrambling to his feet, his cap and degree discarded in favour of wrapping his arms around Simon.

“You made it,” John remarks excitedly, squeezing Simon tight and relishing in the steady embrace he gets in return, big, strong arms that—wait. 

John slips free from the hug, standing back with a puzzled frown as he smooths his hands over biceps larger than he remembers them being as of several months ago. He’d noticed some differences since Simon had enlisted, sure—he wasn’t going to stay scrawny with the consistent physical demand of the military—but hell, John thinks. Six months apart makes a fuckin’ difference.

“The fuck were they feeding you in that selection process?” John exclaims, all too privy to Simon’s amused smile as his hands wander like he’s performing an incredibly unprofessional physical exam. He pats down the crisp lines and pressed fabric of Simon’s uniform, an image of which he’ll be stowing away for later. “Did your shoulders get wider?”

Simon snorts, gently guiding John’s restless hands to settle on his waist. “Just what happens when the food is designed to meet every nutritional need,” he says flatly, like it’s a fact he’s had to recite countless times. “And when you’re constantly carrying around a million tonnes of equipment. Enough about me, though—it’s your big day, Johnny. My master’s student boyfriend.”

John hums, staring up at Simon in wonder, like he must always do. “We’ll talk about this later. You took my place as the strong, muscled one in the relationship,” he teases, sticking his tongue out for good measure. “But I really am happy you’re here. Did you get to see the ceremony?”

“Through the livestream, I did. Since someone didn’t give me a ticket.”

“It was a limit of two! And you said you’d be away!”

Simon shakes his head, sighing melodramatically. His eyes twinkle with mirth. “Can’t believe the man I love didn’t want me at his graduation ceremony.”

John pinches Simon’s side. “Och, awa’ an’ bile yer heid, you prick. You get no sympathy points from me. I’ll tell the army they can keep you.”

“Cold bastard,” Simon purrs, and that sends a jolt of something decidedly inappropriate for their current time and place up John’s spine before they’re both overcome by laughter, giggling in their little corner like schoolchildren.

“John!” Someone calls, startling both John and Simon out of their bubble. “There you are!”

John peers past Simon and sees his younger sister power walking her way over, waving her arm in an exaggerated arc like she thinks he’s completely blind. Simon steps to the side and turns to face her as well.

“Mam and Da were startin’ to think you—who’s this?” She stops in front of them, her brows drawing together as she narrows her eyes at Simon—they then go comically wide once she has that same realization John had only minutes prior. “Simon? Steamin’ Jesus, I hardly recognized you. You been on steroids?”

John gawks at his sister. “Blair!”

Blair throws her hands up in surrender. “What? It’s not my fault I haven’t seen him in three years! Have you been keeping him in water this whole time?”

“No, that’s—“ It isn’t any help to John that Simon’s just standing beside him, laughing. John huffs, lowering his voice near conspiratorially. “I told you he joined the military. That’s why Simon’s—“

“Doubled in size?” Blair says, far too loud. “Aye, I can see that. Mr. Captain America over here.” 

John opens his mouth to make a joke, recalling a conversation from long, long ago about a certain someone’s celebrity crush, but Simon elbows him in the ribs before he gets the chance. John doesn’t think Blair notices.

“Anyway, came to find you for pictures,” says Blair. “So c’mon, you can snog later. Everyone’ll be happy Simon’s here.”

Blair has already started walking by the time John and Simon have processed what she’s said, both fighting off blushes as Simon reminds John not to leave the specially-printed recognition of his degree behind.

John’s family is, of course, plenty happy to see Simon after so many years, all equally taken aback by Simon’s obvious transformation—it must run in the family, Simon would later tease him. John’s mother takes about a million photos, squinting at her phone screen while her reading glasses sit atop her head, directing everyone around as if she’s running some big production.

She makes certain to get some of John and Simon together, proudly declaring them her two handsome lads, which results in the tips of Simon’s ears blossoming a cherry red. She also insists on Simon being included in the family photo she demands a passerby take, which results in the apples of his cheeks staining a rosy pink, and a watery smile given to John in private much, much later.

It’s during this cheerful, whirlwind affair that John realizes that strange, roiling feeling from earlier had completely dissipated. And it’s afterwards, once everyone bids farewell and goes their separate ways that John completely forgets about it.

A simple yet wonderful thing it is to be able to go home and have Simon there with him. John doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feeling of having him home after a long time away.

They shed their nice clothes and change into something more comfortable, both more than ready to call it a day even though it’s hardly evening. Simon catches John up on some things he has going on as they order Chinese, curl up on the couch, and turn on one of those tacky reality TV shows that require little-to-no brain power to follow along.

It’s nice. John has learned to cherish these times as they grow fewer and further between, what with Simon now gunning to work in the SAS.

Simon’s head is heavy on John’s shoulder, his hair tickling John’s neck. They’re both just about tuckered out, now having eaten and updated one another on anything they could think of.

“Johnny?”

“Hm?”

“Wanted to ask you something.”

John nods, then yawns. He’s been toying with one of Simon’s hands for the better part of an hour now, tracing his knuckles, bending his fingers, squishing the prominent veins beneath his skin. Simon flexes his hand before twisting his wrist to let John draw nonsensical shapes on his palms.

“I’ll admit,” he starts, “I’ve been back for a few days. Staying with my family. Finally kicked my old man out.”

At this, John pauses his uneven circles. “Simon?”

Simon shrugs, nestling closer to John. “Wish I could’ve done it sooner than now, but the military training helped. But that’s besides the point.” He sighs, oddly serene. “Since he’s gone, now… I wanted to ask if you’d want to finally meet them. My family.”

John sits up straighter at the prospect, as if they’d be showing up at their door at any second. He knows of them, and he knows they know of him, but still—the ever-looming idea that they won’t like John decides to rear its ugly head.

“You…” John squirms in his spot, feeling suddenly, weirdly self-conscious. “You’d want that? For me to…?”

“Mhm.” Though he’s quiet, it’s clear that Simon is nothing but certain. “I told you Tom and Beth had a baby, right? ‘Bout two years ago now.”

John nods again. “You did. Joseph?”

Simon hums. “He’s the cutest.” He stops to ponder something, turning his hand over again. “Doesn’t have to be right away, but yeah. I want you to. They want to meet you, too.”

“They do?”

“‘Course. Why wouldn’t they?” Simon tilts his head, pressing a kiss to the underside of John’s jaw despite the awkward angle. “So?”

John worries his bottom lip a moment as he considers. If Simon wants him to, now that it’s safe to do so, John supposes there shouldn’t be a problem. Hell, Simon’s already met some of John’s own extended family years ago, so it’s only fair—it only makes sense—that John should meet the other important people in Simon's life, too.

Even if the thought makes him nervous.

“I’d be happy to,” John finally says.

And he’d be even more so, after seeing the smile saying yes puts on Simon’s face.

If Simon were here to see his pacing, John is fairly certain he’d have made some comment about running the flooring into the ground if he didn’t sort himself out soon.

John has about a million alarms set to make sure he doesn’t burn anything currently on the stove or cramped in the too-small oven of the flat’s kitchen, and he’d gone to a charity shop a week earlier to buy the extra chairs he lacked to properly accommodate Simon’s family. The recipes are all his Nan’s, tried and tested, and he’d cleaned just about everything from top to bottom at least twice over, but he just can’t shake his nerves. He has nothing to be worried about, yet here he is, circling, feeling like he’s gone mad.

There’s a knock on the door just as John has started biting his nails, then suddenly one of his alarms is going off and he’s panicking that everything has just decided to go wrong all at once—but John forces himself to take a deep breath, turns off the alarm and the corresponding hob, and steels himself to greet the Rileys. 

He only gets a moment to process seeing Tommy for the first time in what feels like ages before Joseph is barrelling into John’s legs with all the strength his small body can muster.

Swallowing the lump that rises in his throat is no easy feat.

Tommy, thankfully, swoops in with a greeting—John doesn’t think he’d trust his voice in those few seconds following Joseph’s surprise knee-hug. 

“It’s nice to see you, John,” Tommy says, smiling amicably. John ruffles Joseph’s hair as Tommy leans over the kid to give John one of those awkward in-law side hugs that isn’t at all helped by the odd positioning. John smiles at Beth and Simon’s mum over Tommy’s shoulder before he’s stepping aside to let them enter. 

Joseph continues to cling onto his leg, so John has to hobble after everyone to collect their coats and tell them where to leave their shoes. Beth gives him a proper hug, and Simon’s mum kisses him on the cheek as they make their pleasantries. 

Were Simon’s absence not so glaring, John might call the occasion homely. Warm. He kind of wishes his own mother hadn’t been so understanding why he’d only be able to make it up north for Hogmanay that year. Then he’d have an excuse to not have to be here and feeling so out of place in his own home.

“Food should be ready soon.” John wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, mindful of the four-year-old still refusing to let go. “Made a roast, n’ such. Feel free to, um. Sit.”

Everyone is kind enough to pretend like John isn’t acting as if he’d been born yesterday, chatting quietly about nothing in particular as they all migrate to the living room. Beth coaxes Joseph to let go of John so he can check up on dinner, though it takes John promising Joseph a gift later to actually pry him free—which isn’t an empty promise. John isn’t cruel.

He takes a few extra minutes than are needed in the kitchen to catch his breath and internally berate himself for being so stiff. Even his first time meeting them hadn’t been so terrible—but here he is, after almost two years of knowing them, bracing himself on the kitchen counter thinking he might vomit.

His heart nearly falls out of his ass when Tommy suddenly appears beside him, just as eerily silent as his brother. That goddamned uncanny stealth is still haunting John, it would seem.

“Are you doing alright?” Tommy asks, voice lowered. 

In the other room, while John can’t discern any conversation, he can make out very clearly the sound of Joseph’s shrill giggles.

“I meant it when I said it’s nice to see you again, but if you don’t want us to—“

John shakes his head. “I do want you all here. I do. And I should’ve kept in touch,” he says, then sighs defeatedly. “It’s just—“

“Weird?” Tommy supplies, like he’s speaking from experience, and maybe he is. He leans against the counter beside John, folding his arms over his chest. “I know. God, do I know. Most days I still think he’d pick up if I called ‘im.”

And, well. Isn’t that just it.

Most days John still thinks he could go down to the butcher’s and see Simon behind the counter, unimpressed as ever to see John again. Most days John still thinks he and Simon would be curling up for their weekly movie nights whatever Saturday was to follow. Most days John still thinks he wouldn’t wake up to a cold, empty bed.

It is weird. That’s exactly what it is. And having only known Simon for a handful of years, rather than his whole life? He can only imagine that peculiar feeling is tenfold for Tommy.

Knowing that—realizing that, John suddenly finds it a little easier to breathe.

“It’s just… I dunno.” John’s shoulders slump. He screws his eyes shut. “I’m fine. I am. I think I just got it in my head that with him gone I don’t really have a place in your lives,” he confesses. “It’s a load of shite, though. Took a lot of therapy to realize that.”

Tommy chuckles. “Fuckin’ tell me about it. Shrink was thrilled to hear I was adding a dead brother to our sessions, as you can imagine.” He goes quiet for a moment. Somber. Sober. “Beth was worried I’d start using again.”

From the corner of his eye, John can see the shame radiating from Tommy as he ducks his head, arms falling loose at his sides. 

Tommy picks at a hangnail. John averts his gaze. Joseph is still laughing in the other room.

“Sorry,” Tommy mutters. “Bit gloomy for Christmas. But we’re always happy to have you, John.”

John opens his mouth to say something—to thank Tommy, maybe—but that’s when the remainder of his alarms decide to go off one by one, and in a flurry he’s fussing over the food and praying it’s edible as if their conversation had never happened.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Tommy snickers, also clear from the shadow of their talk. That amicable smile finds his face again before he turns to leave, though his eyes—steel grey, unlike Simon’s—still shine with understanding. A sad, pained sort of empathy.

The meal is edible, thankfully. A Christmas miracle that he managed to not fuck up his Nan’s recipes, really. And after his brief yet incredibly eye-opening chat with Tommy, it’s much easier to slip into the groove of things once more.

He talks about his thesis, and everything else at least somewhat child-friendly that’s happened since the funeral, and subsequently gets stories in return. Simon’s mum is timid as always, weathered by age and difficult years spent with her ex-husband, but she’s no less kind than John has always known her to be, and how Simon had always described her as. 

Quietly fighting, Simon would tell him, it could’ve been much worse, had she not been quietly fighting.

Tommy still teases him like an older brother would, and Beth stills gets exasperated with him and John both, like she’s dealing with two teenage boys rather than two men in their mid-twenties and early-thirties. 

Joseph is just happy to be present. Happy to see his Uncle John. And for a while, it’s easy to pretend like there isn’t a cavity carved into their collective heart, an empty slot that Simon should be occupying.

The gift John had gotten for Joseph isn’t anything special—he knows from experience with niblings and cousins that a kid his age will change interests in the snap of a finger—but he seems to cherish it nonetheless. For the rest of the night, Joseph clutches the stuffed bear to his frail chest, determined in his decision to name it Simon.

A comforting hand rubs John’s back when Joseph announces this, a firm support between his shoulder blades. He doesn’t know whose it is, sandwiched between Tommy and Beth on the sofa, but he finds it doesn’t really matter.

Because despite the anxiety and mild dread that had led up to this evening, John now wants nothing more than for this to never end.

Inevitably it does, however; soon enough Joseph is constantly yawning and his eyelids have grown heavy, and snow has begun to fall outside. Their goodbyes last much longer than their greetings had, and John mourns their dinner just a bit as he’s waving goodbye to Joseph as the family walks down the hall, the poor kid fighting to keep awake long enough to wave back.

It isn’t all bad, though, John thinks. With the connection reestablished, their relationships rekindled—this wouldn’t be the last time they see each other. Hell, John had already agreed to prospective babysitting duties.

He goes to bed with a smile that night, after putting away what food was left and leaving the dishes to soak. Even though he would much, much prefer to have Simon here to experience it all alongside him, John supposes this isn’t too bad, either.

Everything would be okay.

John would be okay.

Another month goes by, then three, and Simon is still John’s best-kept secret.

Well, kept is debatable. He thinks Simon’s brother has started to get suspicious of something, though the way he alludes to it makes it sound like he’s trying to tell John that it’s fine for him to have started seeing someone else—which he hasn’t, but he’ll take any excuse he can get at this point.

John minds less this time, however, because Simon is making an effort. He won’t say finally, because crawling out of his own grave was effort enough—literally, which is something John still can’t fathom having happened—but it’s a positive change nonetheless, if only because Simon no longer looks so harrowed.

It had taken extensive research to find a psychologist that met their main needs: someone with a specialization in trauma and PTSD pertaining to the military, who is located at least a half hour drive outside of Manchester, and who, most importantly, wouldn’t question the ambiguity of Simon’s status of legally dead. That last criteria had been the trickiest, but they had managed through an unbearable amount of correspondences.

At least, John had managed that part. All Simon had to do was decide whether he liked the profile John had drawn up of the incredibly limited options.

So now John semi-regularly finds himself sitting in the home-slash-office of one Dr. Nikolai Russian-Surname-John-Can’t-Pronounce in Liverpool. Nikolai had seemed nice, if not a little… off, but given that Simon almost always goes over time, John supposes that’s good enough.

Only around the horizon of the sixth-month mark of Simon’s return does John notice a picture frame amongst the scattered but impressive collection of antiquities that Nikolai keeps, one that contains a photo of him and a man with an awfully familiar set of mutton chops, arms slung over one another’s shoulders in a way that’s far too casual to be considered nothing more than professional.

John doesn’t know how he hadn’t seen it sooner. He isn’t entirely sure what to make of it.

A door opens and shuts somewhere within the house, and quiet voices gradually fill the space. John hadn’t realized he’d gotten up to peer closer at the photograph until he finds himself straightening and rushing to the other side of the room like he’d been doing something he wasn’t supposed to. He tries to look nonchalant in the armchair he usually occupies during Simon’s sessions by the time he and Nikolai come into view, but John is too aware that he’s doing a shit job of it.

He shoots out of the armchair as soon as Simon has acknowledged him with a glance, plastering on an unconvincing grin and clenching his fists to keep from fidgeting.

“You good?”

Simon nods, stepping away from Nikolai and past John to slip on his shoes. John is left face to face with Nikolai for a moment longer than he’d like, and John doesn’t catch himself in time before his gaze flicks back to the picture frame. 

Nikolai notices, but says nothing. Only shoots John this knowing look that has John feeling uneasy for reasons he can’t bring himself to understand.

“Simon has made good progress,” Nikolai tells him, that secretive, almost mischievous expression weaving into the words. “If he keeps it up, he’ll be back in the field in no time.”

John immediately frowns, shaking his head without a second thought. “No, Nik,” he says. “Simon’s not going back.”

“Simon is right here,” Simon interjects, sidling up to John, snaking an arm around his waist. “And he can decide that for himself.”

“You—“ John glances up at Simon. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because—“ Simon glares pointedly at Nikolai. “—I still don’t know if I will yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Nikolai apologizes, though it hardly seems sincere. All it really is is courtesy. “I thought you might’ve talked. I don’t mean to start anything. Not my area of expertise.”

John scoffs. He pulls away from Simon and starts toward the front door, outside, to the car. The late-summer air reeks of ozone, and the thought of unforecasted rain accompanying them on the trip home just serves to piss John off even more.

Progress, his ass. How could Simon want to go back to working for the very people that left him like this? That betrayed him? That doesn’t sound like progress to John. It sounds like anything but.

The cherry on top of everything is that he’s only now realizing Simon has the keys to the Citroen, so John is left standing outside like a complete idiot staring at his pouting reflection in the window.

Once they get home John is going to start researching psychologists again, ones that aren’t coincidentally acquainted with Simon’s old captain, ones that won’t put stupid ideas in Simon’s head, ones that—

“Johnny?”

Simon sounds meek. Like they’ve regressed all these months of so-called progress.

John refuses to turn around, gritting his teeth. “Unlock the car, Simon. I want to go home.”

A pause; a brief scuffle of shoes on pavement. “Johnny.”

“Simon, I’m not—“

“John.”

That gets John to finally look at Simon, absolutely abhorring the way his proper name sounds coming from him. John raises his eyebrows as if to say, well?

Simon heaves a sigh. “Look, it’s nothing definitive, Nik and I were just talking and—”

John can’t help himself. Anger and trepidation and a compound of every other emotion simmering just below the surface all boil over, his limit not only reached but stretched beyond. He’s already tolerated so much, and fuck, he loves Simon, but it isn’t fair. John respects his wishes and does everything in his power to support Simon, and for what? For Simon to leave again?

A man can only defy death so many times. 

And a man’s heart can only break just as often.

“Did you know Nik is friendly with your old captain, Simon?”

Simon tenses. “What?”

“Mhm. Real friendly, too, by the looks of it.” John sounds too bitter, he thinks distantly, but he doesn’t have the time to correct it. Doesn’t have the desire to, either. “Sure, s’probably a coincidence we found his information, but now I can’t help but wonder if your talks haven’t been motivated by something else. Someone else.”

Simon’s body starts to go lax again as John rambles. He steps closer, tentatively reaching out. “Johnny, even if Nik does know Price—“

John swats Simon’s hand out of the way. It’s impossible to completely ignore the hurt look the action brings to Simon’s face, but he presses forward anyway. “Even if he didn’t, why, Simon? Why would you want to go back?”

Passersby shoot them wary looks in the wake of John’s outburst, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

“I know there are things you don’t want to tell me and maybe never will, and that’s fine. I can respect that. But I thought you were dead, Simon! I mourned you! I was fuckin’ beside myself with grief for a year until you showed up and for a second had me believing again in a God I’d left behind when I was twelve.”

John is breathing hard. A few moments pass, and he deflates along with them.

Simon doesn’t say a word.

“And now you want to go back to the same people who signed your death warrant in the first place.” John’s voice is dull. Cold. Foreign, like it doesn’t belong to him. Like it isn’t him at all. “I just want to understand, Simon.”

For a long, too long time, Simon just keeps quiet. His gaze buckles with the weight of the bags that sit permanently under his eyes—but he doesn’t appear ashamed or particularly upset, only tired and mildly exasperated.

Not that John thinks Simon has any right to be irritable with him.

“Well, regardless, it’s not something I want to talk about in public,” Simon says firmly, intending to leave no room for argument or protest. “But… what I went through, it was… I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. So sue me for not wanting all of it on your conscience. When I told you I was buried al—”

“That still doesn’t explain anything.” John crosses his arms. “I can handle it, you know. I’m an adult, too.”

“I know, just—” Simon hesitates. He casts a furtive glance around before he’s digging in his pocket for his keys and jerking his chin at the Citroen. “In the car.”

John reluctantly obeys with a less-than-subtle eye roll as Simon unlocks the doors and crosses over to the driver’s side. If he climbs in and shuts the door with more force than is necessary, then it’s no one’s business but his own. 

Simon doesn’t start the engine right away. He merely sits, staring blankly ahead, smoothing his hands over the steering wheel before steeling himself and twisting to face John.

“Being buried alive wasn’t even the worst of it, Johnny,” he says quietly. Soft, not as if speaking to a child or an animal, but soft, as if he’s breaking bad news to a loved one. “I don’t doubt that you can handle it. I don’t. But the people who did this—it wasn’t my people. And if Price knows I’m alive? That’s probably a good thing.”

John frowns. His brows knit in concern. In confusion, maybe. “Why is that?”

Simon looks away again, gaze falling to his lap. “I told you some of this already.” He inhales a deep, ragged breath, absentmindedly rubbing a fist back and forth across his sternum. “About the cartel. The brainwashed Yanks. He—they tried with me too, but—” Simon shrugs. “—didn’t stick.”

Though John had been given all the essential pieces over the past months, it’s only now that everything clicks.

And it’s only now, watching Simon repeatedly drag his knuckles over his chest, that John realizes he still hasn’t seen—doesn’t know —what Simon’s been keeping hidden beneath clothes that don’t fit him quite right anymore.

“That’s why they buried you, isn’t it?” John asks, though it really isn’t much of a question. “But you escaped. And the cartel found out.”

Simon nods. “Was one of the bloody Americans in the house, there to kill my family. To make a point. Lucky you had them over. Lucky I got there in time,” he says lowly. Simon stops his self-soothing, fingers unfurling like a flower in bloom, his palm pressed flat over his heart. “You were supposed to be next. Couldn’t let that happen.”

There’s a stormy look in his eyes. He doesn’t elaborate, and John doesn’t need him to; the expression Simon wears is not one that requires deciphering. 

It doesn’t take multiple degrees for John to be able to understand that Simon more than likely killed a man last Christmas Eve. 

“And the two months between then and when you…?”

Simon’s face twitches. He rasps, “Went back to Mexico.”

John audibly swallows, nodding faintly. That, he can’t exactly spell out for himself, but it doesn’t appear like Simon will do it for him, either. Really, it doesn’t appear like Simon will spell anything else out for him in its entirety, at least not today.

Although, John supposes he should be grateful enough that his frustration got him this much—he should be grateful enough that Simon is in any sort of shape to explain at all.

“If anything were to happen,” Simon continues, “and Price knows I’m alive, then that’s extra security. For you, for—“

He cuts himself off when his voice begins to waver.

A selfish thought tumbles from John’s lips before he can bite his tongue. “You know, Simon… if you go back, you’ll only make more enemies.”

“I know.” Simon fumbles the car keys before shoving them in the ignition. He still doesn’t turn on the engine, still deliberately averting his eyes from John. “That’s why nothing’s decided yet. But it’s… it is in the cards. Because going back gives me the means to keep you safe, Johnny.”

John sighs. He decides he won’t argue anymore, won’t try to change Simon’s mind. Probably can’t, for that matter. But he supposes he’d gotten what he had asked for, and it’s still more than he had been told in the past five or so months.

“Okay,” is all John says. 

Simon finally starts the car. He looks to John, who turns his attention to the window. 

The hour drive home is painfully long. By the end of it, John can feel a headache beginning to press against his temples. 

When Simon parks in their designated spot, John doesn’t move, at first. He can sense Simon’s hesitance when he notices, as he makes to get out himself. 

“Johnny?” Simon settles back in his seat, gently shutting his door. “Love?”

It isn’t much, but it gets John to melt, even if just a bit.

“We both know I won’t stop you from doing what you want,” says John. His head still rests on the window, a pit forming in his stomach. He cranes his neck to look at Simon. “But whatever you choose to do, you’re going to tell your family you’re alive. I’d prefer you tell everyone that matters, honestly, but I won’t ask for that much yet. Even if we just have your brother over.”

Simon clenches his jaw, seemingly mulling the request over his teeth. Well, demand, truthfully, but John would like to start by presenting it as an option. He’d rather it not come down to an ultimatum, though he’s more than prepared to give one, even if it pains them both greatly.

He—they can’t continue to limit themselves the way they have been. They can’t continue to limit their lives, still so wholly unlived.

When Simon still hasn’t answered, John adds, pleading and a little pathetic, “Please, Simon. I cannae keep this up forever.”

Like the pet name, it does the trick.

“Fine,” Simon relents. “But Tom alone before anyone else.”

John nods, slowly sitting up straighter. “We can do that.” The moment begins to resemble that of when Kyle had forced John to reach out to Tommy what feels like eons ago. It’s sort of funny, since Tommy is one of the least intimidating people John knows. And yet. “I’ll talk to him.”

Simon’s eyes widen briefly in alarm. “You’re not just going to t—”

“Relax.” John finally undoes his seatbelt, wrapping his hand around the door handle. The car had suddenly become too stuffy, filled to the brim with unacknowledged tension. “I’ll just invite him over next week, or something. No expectations.”

“No expectations,” Simon echoes dubiously. 

“No expectations,” John insists. Against his own will, as an idea forms in his mind, a smile creeps up on John’s face. “He thinks I’ve started seeing someone. He’ll probably think I finally decided to tell him.”

Simon’s eyebrows jump to his hairline. “He what?”

John throws his unoccupied hand up in surrender. “Don’t look at me like that. He’s your brother.”

“He’s a wanker, is what he is,” Simon grumbles.

“Aye, well.” John releases the latch and pushes the door open. “Save your complaints for him.”

He climbs out of the car, and Simon follows suit soon after. They don’t speak on the way up to the flat, but as he’s unlocking the door, Simon pauses and turns to John.

“We’re okay, right?”

Admittedly, some unpleasantness still lingers within John. Such strong feelings spilling out aren’t so simple to reel back in, but in time—even so soon as later in the day, John would bet—they would fade completely, fizzing out like sea foam in the sand. 

So he already has his answer prepared, as always, without hesitation. 

“Of course.” Because they are.

Hiccups are inevitable, but they aren’t detrimental.

Not for John and Simon.

“You ever think about the future?”

They’re lying on the roof of their building, a ratty blanket splayed out beneath them and a mostly empty bottle of red wine to Simon’s right. While overall John has less-than-favourable opinions about their flat, it’s still home, and it certainly helps that home has rooftop access thanks to a lack of security cameras and Simon’s ability to pick a lock.

Tonight they have no occasion. John isn’t busy for the first time in weeks, Simon is home on leave, and the weather is nice. The sky is clear enough that they can make out the brightest stars in spite of the light pollution that persists in just about every city nowadays, and it had been a while since they carried out this little tradition.

John rolls onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. He observes Simon’s face, wanting to gauge his reaction to the question—which ends up being little more than a slight pinch of his brows.

“Sometimes.” His gaze flickers to John’s. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”

John shrugs and lays back down, partially draping himself over Simon. Simon wedges an arm beneath him, pulling John closer. For a moment, John contents himself with pressing his ear to Simon’s chest and listening to the steady ba-dum, ba-dum of his heartbeat.

“I dunno, I just…” John sighs, his eyes falling shut. He breathes in Simon’s scent, the faint note of his cologne that always sticks to his clothes even after every wash. “Eventually I’ll be done with school. Eventually you’ll establish yourself in the army. I doubt we’ll live in this flat forever. Can’t hurt to wonder what’s next, right?”

“Right,” Simon concurs softly. Serenely. As if the question of what the future holds is hardly any more important to him than deciding what to make for dinner the next day. “You wanna know what I think, then?”

John nods. “I do.”

“Well…” Simon takes a slow, deep breath, his face pensive in the moonlight. A gentle smile toys on his lips. “…for one, I can’t wait to start introducing you as Dr. John MacTavish.”

“Jesus.” John scoffs. “You’re ridiculous.”

Simon grunts. “D’you want to hear the rest of it or not?”

John hums, laughing quietly to himself. “‘Course.”

“Then shut your gob.” Simon jabs John’s arm. John can hear the grin in his voice, can hear it even as they linger in silence for a minute before Simon continues. 

“I think… once you have your PhD, we’ll move to Scotland like you’ve always wanted. Just into a flat, at first, until a few years into whatever fancy full-time gig you end up with, because I know you’ll somehow find your way into the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Simon’s voice sits awkwardly between a whisper and a normal volume, transforming it into something of a low rumble, like thunder just over the horizon warning of an approaching storm. He smells vaguely of tobacco, John notices, and he wonders when Simon must’ve snuck out to smoke.

“We’ll get a house in the Scottish countryside. Maybe get a cat, too. I know you don’t like dogs much.”

John can feel his face growing warm, buzzing. His chest swells with a kind of joy he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. He knows things may not always go to plan, but hearing Simon express those plans with such conviction? It’s like John can visualize them playing out perfectly right before him.

“I like to think I’d at least be a sergeant by then. It’s nothin’ like putting doctor in front of your name, but maybe I’d have a cool callsign.”

“I have one for you,” says John.

Simon squeezes John’s bicep, encouraging. Comforting. “And what’s that?”

“Ghost,” John declares, smiling inwardly like it’s some inside joke. “‘Cause you’re a spooky bastard. Reckon I’ll die of a heart attack some day, you’re so stealthy. Bet the special forces are a fan.”

Simon snorts. “Ghost, huh?” He pretends to ponder it as he loops his other arm around John, securing him in place. “I like it.”

“Mhm. Knew you would,” John mumbles, half-smothered by Simon’s chest. His face is squished against what’s now a solid mass of muscle—he’ll admit, snuggling has gotten comfier since Simon’s enlistment. “What else’re you picturing for the future?”

“Not sure,” Simon says. “Do you happen to know your ring size?”

He asks it so casually, meanwhile the implication has John shooting upright, his eyes going wide as saucers.

“You don’t mean…?”

Simon’s body is completely relaxed. Open. “Well, not now. But one day, yeah. ‘Course we’re gonna get fuckin’ married, Johnny.”

John positively beams, so bright he could rival the sun. He ducks down and captures Simon in a long, slow, tender kiss, so sweet John thinks he might develop a cavity. 

When they part, lips swollen and stained the colour of the wine they’d shared earlier, Simon is smiling too.

“Is this your preemptive yes?”

John laughs, resting his forehead against Simon’s. Their lips brush again, brief, chaste. “It was always gonna be yes, you absolute weapon.”

Simon hugs him close, eyelashes fluttering against John’s. “Then I can’t wait to ask you for real.”

John couldn’t wait, either. He feels like he’s floating.

He feels like he’ll live forever, with Simon at his side.

For the first few months, it was easy to pretend like Simon was merely away for work, deployed for a long stretch of time like he oftentimes was.

John carried on with life as he knew it, as he’d grown used to. He worked on his thesis, met with his adviser, talked with Kyle, his sisters, others like nothing had changed. He left Simon’s things undisturbed as he always did, waiting on that inevitable correspondence to let him know Simon would be home again in the near future to move things around.

But that correspondence never came, and things started to collect dust.

He tried cleaning things out, but every time he sat down to do so, he just couldn’t bear the thought of tossing anything. Couldn’t bear the thought of erasing Simon, because getting rid of his things meant his death was real. It meant he wasn’t coming back. The most he could ever throw out was the few meaningless items, nothing with sentiments attached—old magazines, the socks with holes, sticky note reminders that had long since come due. 

Even after he’d reconnected with Simon’s family, John still couldn’t stomach the task. He offered a few things to Tommy, but that was about the extent of it.

Visiting his family up north and not having to face it all for a week had been a nice reprieve. But then he’d come back and there it all was, still, mostly untouched after months and months. 

About a week after his return, John had run into some old undergrad mates at the shops, and was invited to a night out the following Saturday. And, having nothing better to do, he accepted.

John drinks more than he probably should. It had been a while since he’d last gone out and done something like this, downing beer and whisky at a pub with friends like they’d just come off a dreaded exam, and it’s also a nice reprieve. Things had gotten better since the start, yes, but sometimes grief is something unavoidable. When his mind is swallowed by the thick cloud of alcohol, however, it’s like it doesn’t exist.

Until someone has shipped him home in a cab, and he comes stumbling up the steps to his flat, struggling to get the door unlocked when the keys just don’t want to work. Until John is trying to get undressed, getting caught in his own sleeves, and in searching for pyjamas accidentally opens the drawer he’d mentally labelled OFF LIMITS for himself up until that very moment.

Because that drawer contained Simon’s clothes. Simon’s clothes that still smell like him. Perfectly folded and stacked all neat, waiting for the day Simon would come home again.

The grief hits John hard and fast, then. He becomes so overwhelmed with anger—at himself, at Simon, at the world—that he begins tearing Simon’s things out, throwing them carelessly to the floor, desperate to just get rid of it all. 

How dare he leave? John thinks drunkenly, or maybe says out loud. He can’t really be too sure. How could he just abandon me like that?

The drawer is nearly empty now, and he feels a little lighter. John seizes a fistful of the last hoodie and rips it out like all the others.

But as he does, he suddenly hears a soft thump, muffled by the piles of clothes sitting around him. John whips around, blindly patting everything to try and find the source of the sound, until his hand comes across a small lump. He snatches it up, cradling it to his chest as he crawls over to the bed, sits on Simon’s side, and turns on the bedside lamp.

It’s a box. Small, navy, velvet. John’s chest tightens. He already knows exactly what it is.

He pries it open anyway.

The band isn’t anything particularly fancy, but John imagines it was still worth a good chunk of Simon’s paycheque. It’s simple, silver, and a perfect fit when John plucks it out and slides it onto his ring finger. He likes the weight of it. Likes the look of it.

Doesn’t like the circumstances in which he’s discovered it.

John doesn’t realize he’d started crying until teardrops are soaking into the back of his hand while he’s admiring the ring.

He sniffs and wipes at his face, pulling the ring off like it’s something forbidden. He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger a moment before sliding it back into place in the box. He notices an inscription on the band’s interior, but his eyes are too watery to make it out. John closes the box and throws it in the direction of the rest of Simon’s things before curling up on the bed, quietly sobbing.

John knows some of it is just inebriation, emotions amplified by ingested substances. But it stems from a very real place of pain and resentment, and at that very moment in time, it feels like it’s consuming him whole.

They talked about this, about their future, about getting married. It wasn’t supposed to be for another few years from now, yet Simon already had a ring and the audacity to leave it behind with the rest of him. With all that’s left of him. All for John to discover after it’s too late.

It isn’t fair. None of this is fair.

John cries himself to sleep that night.

He’ll regret the outburst in the morning, when he’s hungover and haphazardly shoving Simon’s clothes back in the drawer. He’ll look at the ring one last time before tucking it back where it was hidden, and finally read what the inscription says. Only he won’t understand it, because it’s something in Latin, and he doesn’t have the heart to look up what it means. That privilege was reserved for Simon, and died along with him.

Nunc et Semper.

(Now and Forever.)

Telling Tommy about Simon goes about as well as John had imagined—which is to say well enough, though far from going smoothly.

Simon had watched over John’s shoulder like a hawk when he’d been texting Tommy, practically breathing down John’s neck to be certain John wouldn’t outright tell his brother Simon is alive. It had been a little annoying, his insistence, but John just called him a pest, allowed him to review the messages before hitting send, and soon enough John had plans with Tommy the following weekend.

Well, ‘plans.’ But in any case.

It had taken some deliberation to decide on how they’d present Simon’s whole not-being-dead thing, wondering if they should just rip the bandaid off and have Simon answer the door, or have John sit down with Tommy and gradually work toward the big reveal. While it’s good news—at least, so John thinks—it still isn’t easy news to break.

Ultimately, they go with something sort of in between. 

Tommy’s smiling when John greets him, easygoing and oblivious to the way John feels like he needs to scratch an itch that lies beneath his skin.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Tommy inquires as he’s toeing off his shoes, casual, surely about to be blindsided by the information John couldn’t bear to continue keeping to himself indefinitely. “What’s so secret that even Beth wasn’t allowed to come?”

John shrugs, desperately trying to quell his nerves. “Can’t we just visit, the two of us?” He jokes, “Or is there some rule that states I’m not allowed to hang out with either of you separately?”

Tommy pauses, then looks at him, puzzled. “You hang out with my wife?”

“Sometimes.” Which is true—only very, very rarely. Especially this past year. “She’s a far better gossip than you are.”

Tommy considers this revelation only a second before accepting it with a quiet huh. John already knows it’ll be something Simon is going to bring up to him at a later date, but he chooses not to mind that right now. He has far more pressing issues to deal with at present.

“Well, while you ponder that, make yourself at home,” John tells him. “Gonna grab us drinks.”

John turns and heads for the kitchen, hoping his pace seems reasonable. The kitchen is closed off from the living room and blocks the view from the hallway, which is exactly what’s needed when Simon is currently—unbeknownst to Tommy—occupying the space.

He waits impatiently in the kitchen for the moment of truth, which follows very shortly after Tommy traverses the hallway, and his footsteps come to an abrupt halt.

“John, have I gone mad?”

John waits a second longer, then peeks his head around the corner, keeping his expression carefully neutral. 

“Hm?” He glances deliberately between Tommy and Simon. He tries—and likely fails—to feign innocence. “Oh, right. Must’ve slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your—?” Tommy frowns, and John immediately becomes very, very afraid that he and Simon had taken the wrong approach to this, because it is a very, very angry frown. “John, what the fuck do you mean, ‘slipped your mind?’ Slipped your mind?” Tommy drags a distressed hand through his hair. “Christ, I have gone mad. My dead brother’s sitting in my mate’s flat.”

“Not dead, Tom,” Simon interjects.

“You, shut up.” Tommy holds a finger up in Simon’s direction as he pivots and points another finger at John. “You, explain this. Right now.”

“Well, I—I mean—” John flounders, repeatedly looking to Simon in a silent plea for help. “What is there to explain, really? I think we should just—“

Tommy sets his jaw, both his arms falling to his sides in defeat. Were John standing any closer, he might’ve noticed the sheen of tears threatening to spill from Tommy’s eyes.

“What the fuck,” Tommy says. The words aren’t directed to anyone in particular. “What the fuck.”

As Tommy turns his back to both of them, viciously scrubbing his face with the heels of his palms, John stares pointedly at Simon and jerks his head toward Tommy, mouthing fix this. Simon returns the gesture with a face that asks what am I supposed to do?

John doubles down on his glaring, and with an inaudible sigh, Simon resigns himself to get up from the sofa and approach his brother. John considers slowly retreating to the kitchen, but not yet. Just in case.

Simon makes his footsteps heard, slow and deliberate. Cautious. He doesn’t entirely close the distance between them, but he shrinks the gap a considerable amount.

“Tom,” he tries, and when that doesn’t work, “Tommy.”

Tommy whirls around on Simon, and for a second John worries he’s about to deck his brother—but he doesn’t. Instead, he engulfs Simon in a tight hug. Even Simon looks taken aback, but little by little, he melts into it.

John steps back, though he still hovers in the hallway.

“You’re a fucking twat,” Tommy snaps. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you if you ever pull that shit again.”

“Pull what? Dying?”

That’s when Tommy smacks Simon upside the head. John decides everything is just fine, then, and takes his cue to leave—well, as much as he can leave, without drawing attention to himself. The front door isn’t exactly inconspicuous.

Simon and Tommy talk for a while. John does his best not to eavesdrop, but it’s difficult when everything is so quiet. Most of it is the same vague explanation that John had received prior to the one-sided spat that led them to this, but there’s also things John hadn’t been privy to. Family things.

He leaves. It feels like too much of an intrusion.

He goes up to the roof.

The sky is grey today, the visibility is shit, but for the first time in a long time, John feels almost… at peace. It’s a weight off his chest, and probably a great relief to Tommy—and it’d be for everyone else in time, too. John feels like he can finally be happy again. He feels like everything can actually be set to rights, with a little more effort. 

John just hopes to God that if Simon somehow returns to the military that it won’t end up pushing the limits of their luck, with it already having been so generous. So unreasonably kind.

It’s maybe an hour later that he hears the creak of rusty hinges being forced open. John doesn’t startle, but it’s a near thing.

“There you are.” Simon.

“You sure we can be up here?” Tommy.

John stands and turns to face them. Both brothers look… lighter.

“Good talk?” John asks.

Simon nods, throwing a glance in Tommy’s direction, who has already found his way closer to the edge of the roof to peer out at the horizon. “Good talk. Gonna see about telling the rest of the family later this week, I think.”

John smiles. “I’m glad, Simon.”

Simon smiles back. “I am, too.”

“I’m glad you finally got his head out of his arse, John,” Tommy calls over his shoulder. He mutters, “Fuckin’ cunt needed it.”

“Can still hear you, Tom.”

Tommy flips Simon off. 

Simon rolls his eyes. He lowers his voice, speaking softly to John. “He’s right, unfortunately,” he says. “Thank you, Johnny.”

John reaches out and tucks a stray curl behind Simon’s ear. His hand settles on Simon’s cheek, warm and scarred. Simon leans into the touch like a cat seeking affection.

“You’d have done the same for me, were I in your shoes.”

“I l—“ Simon’s eyes flicker to something behind John—Tommy, presumably. The lovesick shine in his eyes gives way for irritation, but John can’t find it in himself to be upset at a moment ruined. Not then, after everything. “Do you mind?”

“Can’t help it.” John can hear the shit-eating grin in Tommy’s voice. He’s almost afraid to turn around to see what Tommy’s up to. “Mum’s little boy is all grown up and in love. She’ll want a picture.”

Simon’s face transforms into a scowl—one John hadn’t seen in a long time. One that could only ever be brought on by an older brother being a right dickhead. 

One that John had missed.

“C’mon, Simon, give us a smile.”

John snickers. The scowls deepens just as the accent thickens. “I’ll wring your fuckin’ neck, Tom.”

Tommy clicks his tongue. “Aw, well that doesn’t sound like a smile to me.”

Simon sighs wearily, returning his attention to John. “I take it back. I don’t want him back in my life.”

John pats his cheek—lovingly, of course. “Too late for that, I’m afraid.”

Judging by the look in Simon’s eyes, he’s plenty happy with this outcome, anyway. It’s a look that tells John he wouldn’t have it any other way.

And, well, truth be told—John wouldn’t either. Not in a million years.

Tommy most certainly ends up with that photo.

It’s two weeks after the reveal to Tommy—and subsequently to the rest of Simon’s family—when Captain Price shows up at the flat alongside the wife of John’s thesis advisor, strangely enough. She almost looks surprised when John is the one to answer the door.

When John is asked if Simon is home, he merely steps aside to let them both in.

Everything that happens after that is mostly a blur.

Price and Simon share a brief reunion whilst John and Kate stand awkwardly aside—that awkwardness belonging mostly, if not completely to John. They speak in low tones too difficult to make sense of, and John observes Simon’s face sift through an array of microexpressions. At the end of it, Price turns to John to tell him, sorry, but I’m afraid you can’t be here for this conversation, to which Simon tells him, no, we’re not having this conversation unless Johnny can stay.

So John stays. He figures he’ll probably be hit with an NDA or some questionably legal threat some time afterwards, but he stays.

The thing he remembers most clearly about the conversation has nothing to do with the conversation itself; what John remembers most is Simon’s white-knuckled grip on his thigh, and the aborted circles he’d attempted to rub soothingly along John’s leg. John still doesn’t know whether it was meant for him or for Simon himself.

Price and Kate inform Simon of a few things, though they skirt around some of the more grisly aspects and omit the extremely-confidential details for John’s sake. Price speaks gruffly as he relays what they’d uncovered about the betrayal and the operation and the cartel, sounding rather pissed, and a bit like he blames himself for letting it all happen to Simon. Kate speaks far more clinically when she addresses both John and Simon to say they have the means to fix Simon’s legally dead status, if he so chooses, but that it wouldn’t change the fact that Simon’s career options are essentially limited to returning to his position in the SAS, or finding an employer willing to overlook a lot of grey areas and red tape.

Simon had said he’d think about it. John offers no input.

The visit doesn’t last very long, but it feels like an eternity nonetheless. John tunes out at some point once Price and Kate begin to map out Simon’s potential next steps, but only because he still disagrees with the idea of Simon returning to the military, and listening to the plans like they’re something concrete would probably just get him worked up again. He focuses instead on the weight of Simon’s hand, how solid Simon is beside him, how alive Simon is beside him.

“You’re the bravest man I know, Simon,” Price tells him as he and Kate are leaving. He glances between Simon and John, a knowing glint in his eyes. Almost scheming. “And if anything, it’d be an honour to have you back on the team—Ghost.”

Thankfully for Simon, Price’s back is turned and heading down the hall before he can witness Simon’s neck and ears burning a bright red, particularly once Simon had made eye contact with John, who grins cheekily from ear-to-ear.

Kate arches an eyebrow at them, though she cracks the slightest smile before she follows suit.

“Good luck with your thesis, John,” she says, then looks pointedly at Simon. “We’ll be in touch.”

Closing the door in and of itself is a sigh of relief. It’s also amusing, the way it leaves Simon slumping against the door just as he locks it.

“Wanna tell me what that was about?”

Simon turns to John, frowning. “You were there, weren’t you?”

“Not that.” John shakes his head. His grin grows impossibly wider. “I’m talking about that last thing Price said, Ghost.”

Simon’s blush renews with ferocity, staining his entire face pink where it hasn’t been scarred. It makes them all the more prominent, and John finds it endearing. 

“It’s… possible I mentioned it to him, way back when.” He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, like he’s self-conscious to admit it. “Really fits now, though, doesn’t it?”

John barks a laugh, loud and full. “It does, aye.” He steps close enough to loop his arms around Simon’s neck. Simon snakes his own arms around John’s waist like it’s second nature. They slot together like two puzzle pieces perfectly formed for one another. “Good thing it sounds badass, too. Makes it good for striking fear into the hearts of your enemies. ‘Cause I know Simon Riley, and he’s a wee bit of a loser, unfortunately.”

Simon huffs. “But he’s your loser?”

John nods. “But he’s my loser.”

They kiss. For the first time, John realizes, since Simon came back; since Simon had originally left for that mission over two years ago, doomed from the very start.

Dinner that night is a quiet affair. They don’t talk about the unexpected visit that took place earlier that afternoon, and they don’t need to. Not yet, anyway.

And now it’s three in the morning on a Sunday. Restless, John couldn’t sleep, so he snuck out of bed to sit at his desk instead, hoping that maybe he could start plucking away at one of the final chapters of his thesis. Simon woke up shortly after, and is now draped over John as he types.

John suddenly stops at some point, struck with a memory he thought he’d left properly buried. He doesn’t know what about this moment incites it, but it hits him so hard and fast that he doesn’t have time to think before he’s saying it out loud.

“I found the ring, you know.”

For all John knew, Simon had been asleep up until then. He must’ve been, John thinks, because the weight on his shoulders gets lighter almost immediately after he’d cut through the silence.

Simon’s voice is raspy, riddled with sleep. “You what?”

John shrugs, continuing to bore holes in his monitor. The blinking caret is taunting him yet again. “In your drawer. I was… cleaning things out. I found it.”

Behind him, Simon inhales sharply through his teeth. “Oh.” His hand curls around the backrest of John’s chair, a mimicry of the grip he’d held earlier on John’s leg. Simon swallows audibly. “And?”

“And?” John frowns, squinting at his screen like it’d personally wronged him. He swivels in his chair to face Simon. “What do you mean?”

Simon looms over him, in the dark, shifting his weight between his feet. “I mean, is it—would you—” He gestures wildly, helplessly. He sighs frustratedly when the words don’t come. 

But John has an inkling of what he’s trying to say.

“Are you proposing?”

Simon winces. “Yes? Or… no.” He watches John’s face a moment, trying to gauge his reaction. For a supposedly highly skilled operator, in both Price and Kate’s words, Simon is floundering. “Whatever you want it to be.”

John considers that a moment—genuinely considers it, because his immediate response is I don’t know. Does he still want to get married to Simon? Absolutely, he does. But it hasn’t even been a full year since Simon’s return, and they’ve only just told his family he’s still alive. The Rileys would need time to process, and eventually there would be more people to tell—John’s Mam would kill him if he ever got married without telling her. She’d probably kill Simon, too, after crying over his return. 

That’s what Simon’s mum had done, anyway. Beth did too, though in fewer, involuntary tears she tried to hide. Joseph still isn’t quite old enough to understand, and maybe one day they’d tell him, but not for another several years.

So he decides his answer is no, not now, not yet— but a resounding yes to some day. Once the dust has settled, and they’ve finally gotten everything figured out; once things are no longer so uncertain, and John stops feeling like everything might be stolen away from him again at a given moment.

“I love you,” John says slowly, mindful of his tone, mindful of how Simon perceives it, “but right now, no. No, I don’t want it to be that.”

Simon attempts a smile. John can see right through it. “Okay. That’s okay.”

John takes Simon’s hands in his. A mirror of that first morning, he guides calloused palms to hold his face. It eases Simon’s smile into something softer, less forced. 

“It’s not a definitive no,” John assures him. “You’ll just have to ask me again, is all. Though maybe wait at least a year.”

Simon laughs. It’s gotten rougher, as of his time in Mexico. John adores it nevertheless. “I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” John turns his head just enough to kiss the centre of Simon’s palm, his eyes never straying from Simon’s face. Then he remembers something else. “What’s the inscription mean?”

The question catches Simon by surprise. “It’s… stupid.” He shakes his head, bashful. “Means ‘now and forever.’ Nowt too special.”

John hums. He quirks his lips. “Special to me.”

Simon leans forward to kiss the tip of John’s nose. With the chair blocking most of the light of the monitor, all John sees this close is a mere speck of the reflection in Simon’s honey-brown eyes—forever the colour of freshly ground coffee, flecked with the gold of Simon’s favourite bourbon. 

“Then I suppose that’s all that matters,” Simon murmurs.

John’s breath hitches, like all air has been stolen from his lungs. “Aye, I suppose so.”

Their lips crash together, though only briefly before John is looping his arms around Simon and pulling him into a hug. He buries his face in Simon’s shoulder, clinging tight.

“I’m so fucking happy you’re alive, Simon.”

Simon cradles John close, a hand wrapped around the nape of his neck, another flattened against his back. Secure. Safe. Home.

“I’m happy, too,” whispers Simon. “Wouldn’t be, without you.”

John huffs. “You’re just saying that.”

“‘M not. Thought of you every time I…” Simon trails off, terribly honest, raw. He shakes his head. “You’re more than I deserve.”

“Never. Not in a million years.”

John relishes in Simon, fingers digging into the space between his shoulder blades.

There’s still progress to be made, they’re both well aware. But where they are now, how far they’ve come from that night and the disturbed look in Simon’s eyes—it’s good. Hopeful. 

But it’s also tiring.

And as if Simon has read his mind: “Think it’s time for bed, now, Johnny. You’ve done enough work today.”

John hums his assent, letting himself be pulled out of his chair. Simon makes it seem effortless—John makes the mistake of giggling to himself over it, causing Simon to then make look effortless throwing John over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes to bring him to the bedroom. Once there, Simon unloads John onto the bed in kind before crawling in with him, both struck with peals of loud, bright laughter in spite of the late hour.

Simon doesn’t have any nightmares that night. Nor does John, for that matter.

It’s now nearly five in the morning on a Sunday, and as they can again be found at nearly five in the morning on a Sunday, John and Simon sleep soundly, entangled in one another, two inseparable souls.

Now and forever. Just as the ring John would someday wear promises.