Archive of Our Own

It's hard being the one left behind.

It’s worse when he realizes that he’s been ghosted. The pun almost makes him smile. The bastard couldn’t be bothered to say goodbye properly, or even, ‘fuck off’. Price and Gaz and even Laswell stay in sporadic touch, but after a while he decides he will be the one doing the ghosting for a change, so he only returns their texts occasionally, just often enough that they don’t contemplate a visit. He doesn’t bother to text Ghost anymore. He never got a reply anyway, except for a couple of curt ‘Wheels up” texts. He got the hint. He stopped bothering the man. But it hurt, Sweet Bleeding Christ it hurt, the sudden distance between them. You would think he had learned his lesson by now.

Friendship isn’t in the field manual.

Keep it tactical Sergeant.

They replaced him quickly enough anyway. He stopped following Gaz’ Instagram after the first group photo he posted with the FNG, all smarm and toothy smiles, a big tattooed arm draped around Gaz’ shoulders. He deleted most of his social media accounts shortly afterwards. The few accounts he kept help him keep track of his family and thus avoid unwanted visits. He sets his phone aside and only answers if it's the ring tones he set for his parents or sister.

It helps that he’s exiled himself to the arse end of nowhere on one of the smaller islands off the west coast of Scotland and deliberately decided not to share his new address, far enough away that his family can’t spontaneously drop by. They have to adhere to the ferry schedule. His parents and sisters were indignant enough on his behalf to agree to keep it quiet if anyone from his old life inquired. They felt he had been hard done by with SAS, used up and discarded when he got too broken. They fussed over him until he had had enough and lashed out hard to keep them well away, to gain breathing space. He told his parents he was going to fix up Grandda’s old cottage, give himself some physical and mental therapy in the process.

He pretended not to see their relief at him actually having a goal because for weeks all he did was lie in bed and stare silently at the walls. The thing about having your chosen career collapse under you—literally in his case, is that suddenly you are cut adrift. He had always assumed that as career military he would be KIA and come home in a box, if his body was recovered at all. He never thought of what would happen if he came back from a mission broken beyond repair.

He wanted to fucking die and be done with it all.

The thing about severe chronic pain is that the only real relief either knocks you on your ass, or turns you into a zombie and Soap’s was often so bad that the only drugs that actually worked without making him sick as a dog knocked him totally out and he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life asleep or a semi-conscious, narcoleptic addict. At least after months of grueling PT he could actually stand on his feet and walk again. He has bouts of vertigo now as well to deal with. At least the seizures have stopped for the most part. Granted, if he got dizzy and fell or got knocked off his feet, getting up again was a labor in itself. Stubbornly he forced himself to walk every day, forcing his bad hip and leg to fucking function, even if it left him nearly screaming with pain on the bad days and exhausted on the good.

He persevered because he has a plan.

He was quietly putting his affairs in order and after he finished with the cottage (he had told his Da that he was going to do it up nice and he would follow through–a MacTavish’s word was his bond) there was a handy cliff trail not too far away. Hikers and unwitting tourists were always falling along the damned rugged cliff hike. If he played his cards right, acted cheerful enough, his parents would come into a nice insurance settlement after his unfortunate accident while out on his morning constitutional. If he was lucky, no one would find his body after it washed out to sea. He would be sure and drop his walking stick at the site where he ‘fell’ and it would all be over and done with. Easy peasy.

‘Och, the poor lad took a tumble, unsteady on his feet he was. How sad, he was only twenty-seven.’

So, yeah, Soap has a plan. He was going to fucking free fall out of this fucking world on his terms and be done with it. There would be no surviving this fall to wake alone and crippled in a hospital room with cold white walls. No more waking up screaming in pain while his muscles tried to tie themselves into knots. No more lying in bed with migraines so bad he couldn’t move without puking. He just has to be patient for a few months more. He can do it. After all, he has the patience of a professional sniper. Having a goal actually cheers his miserable arse up.

***

Ghost tunes out the yammering of the FNG and stares out over the landscape below the helo. He doesn’t know how the bleeding hell Kyle can stand the plummy fuck. He reminds him of Graves with his incessant need to run his mouth. Why Price chose this fuck to replace—he has no clue. Trevor Niles, some Minister’s by-blow. Exhausted and aching he leans back in the corner next to cargo he has tucked himself into and closes his eyes. He unconsciously shifts, thighs sprawling, seeking out the phantom warmth of a sturdy body securely braced—sometimes a dark heavy head would fall against his shoulder as Soap fell asleep and he would inhale deeply to scent the juniper and lime in his shampoo— against his own, then forces himself to stop.

Soap isn’t here.

Soap is out of this hard life now. He is safe in his beloved Scotland, and will get scooped up by a smart, bright-eyed lass and produce a litter of volatile wee MacTavishes of his own. But God, he misses his sergeant like a lost limb. He opens his eyes, pained at the memory of bright blue eyes, a sunshine smile and fond, companionable touches and meets Gaz’ sympathetic gaze across the way. Garrett is too fucking observant sometimes. He is glad that Price is back at the base, he can’t deal with both of them and their sympathy now. He closes his eyes, crosses his arms over his chest and wills himself to sleep.

They’re waiting for exfil and it’s a bit after dawn. They spent the night in a sandstone canyon not far from the desert village they just finished surveilling. Soap is on watch and Ghost opens his eyes to see his broad shouldered sergeant standing quietly, rifle held easily in his arms, head tilted and eyes on the sky. Curious he follows his gaze and watches as an enormous flock of black birds fly over with the slightest whisper of wings—a mumuration—keeping a tight, lazy sweeping synchronized formation except for a single one, lagging and falling behind, flapping valiantly as it attempts to keep up with the flock. Perhaps it's a fledgling, old, or injured, as it struggles to keep up. It won’t last long, its predator bait. Soap turns when he feels his eyes and gives him a sheepish smile. The rising sun loves him and bathes him in soft, golden light.

“I always feel for that last wee bird.”

It's a memory not a dream, and he nearly wakes, but he drops back into sleep and it quickly morphs into something of a lucid dream. It's cold and foggy and he doesn't know where he is. Somewhere in bloody Scotland no doubt, full of sheep and plaid clad yokels yammering in their incomprehensible tongue. He is looking for something. He thinks he hears someone call for him, but when he whirls, there is only heavy fog swirling over the path. He is in the country, it feels like mountains, with the cold, moist air and the surrounding boulders.

Movement catches his eye and he sees a familiar sturdy, broad shouldered form on the path ahead with a familiar stride and he is filled with relief. His sergeant is here with him. The dream Soap turns and regards him with solemn eyes, curiously grave. Ghost is startled to see that he is wearing his full Scottish battalion Black Watch dress kit, beret, chest candy, fly kilt and all. He has seen Soap in that getup exactly once and had jerked off to that image in his head for weeks. As he watches, his sergeant gives him a soft, slow smile, salutes, turns silently away and marches away and vanishes in a swirling heavy fog. Ghost hurries towards him but he can’t catch up. He can’t find his sergeant in the heavy fog. Alarmed, he calls his name sharply, but there is no answer. Uneasily he remembers Soap once telling him that all the MacTavish men in his family who served, are buried in their plaids.

Ghost wakes in a cold sweat with a gasp and a jolt. Everyone else is asleep. Heart pounding he checks his watch. Only an hour until they reach base. He can’t shake his uneasy feeling. Thinking hard, he tries to remember when he last heard from his —from Johnny. Guiltily, he realizes it was weeks ago and he had blown off Soap’s tentative, lonely texts. Soap hasn’t texted or called since.

Determined to make a clean break, Ghost has deliberately not tried to contact him. He doesn’t fall back asleep because every instinct he has is telling him that something is wrong. Something has happened to his— to Soap. He looks across at Gaz, who is dozing, mouth agape and drooling a bit. If Johnny was here there would already be a photo posted to the base TF141 chat. Maybe he will check Johnny’s instagram, sometimes he posts a photo.

***

Soap sprawls on the stone paved floor of the kitchen, eyes closed and cursing in every language he knows, trying to relax and breathe through his leg spasms which are in sync with his pounding head. It's been a shite day from the get go. He woke up in pain and it's not abated all day despite a hot shower and a hospital grade lidocaine plaster. He is both stubborn and foolish in that he refuses to take his painkillers and for the life of him he can’t help but wonder how a hip, knee and leg now with practically more metal than bone can hurt so fucking much. He has so much metal in his leg and head that he probably qualifies as a cyborg. He will never be able to pass freely through an airport metal detector again.

At least he finished varnishing and rehanging the fucking cabinet doors before his leg decided it was past time he sat the fuck down. Too bad he didn’t make it to a chair. His stomach is queasy and although he has no desire to eat, he must, to keep his strength up. He glares at the ceiling, noting a crack in the plaster that needs patching and decides he will crawl over to the cupboard for a few wee water crackers for dinner later. He cannot stomach more now.

The visiting Home Health Care aide is due tomorrow and he will have to put on his usual cheery dog and pony show for the bloody woman so she will leave him in peace for another two weeks. Then his parents will probably drive up and ferry over this weekend to not so subtly check on him and his mam will bring enough food to stock the fridge for a week. She will also snoop through the kitchen to ensure he has enough groceries, hasn’t filled the cupboard with whiskey (it's well hidden in the tiny garden shed), and insist on doing his laundry. He admits that sometimes he is tempted to fill the bloody pantry with whiskey, but a horrific hangover combined with chronic pain is a bitch to deal with. Besides, with his meds, his stomach can’t handle strong drink anymore, so he rarely partakes. Another of life’s small pleasures lost to his ‘condition.’ Spending a bad hangover sprawled on the cold kitchen floor is not fun. He learned that the hard way. Poor Celia had to pry him up off the floor and help him hobble to bed. Exhausted and stiff, he spent the next 24 hours in bed.

He has made it a habit to hop the lone island bus down to the village at least once a week to show himself to the grocer, butcher and hardware store and pop into the pub for a single pint. It’s all about setting the stage, establishing a routine. On this small island that is now mainly a Nature Reserve, everyone knows everyone else’s business.

See, proof of life.

They all know who he is and he plays the part of the cheerful, crippled lad because that will be all they bloody remember when he toddles off this mortal coil. Seamus MacTavish’s disabled grandson, crippled after being caught in an explosion in some far off heathen country. Came home with more metal in his bones than medals on his chest and a pension. Soap has already had to fend off the single hopeful pub slag in search of a meal ticket. He wasn’t very nice about it either. He hasn’t been interested in sex since the hospital and he can’t get it up anymore anyway with the painkillers he is forced to take. Besides he hasn’t been interested in women since he met a certain huge, hulking Lieutenant with a dry, shite sense of humor and fell arse over teakettle for the man, like the fool he is.

After a supper of dry crackers, a shard of leftover cheddar and (reluctantly) painkillers washed down with water, he settles at the kitchen table with his journal and his Last To Do list. This journal too, is a cover, containing some very nice landscape sketches and still lifes. Very generic and bucolic if he says so himself. His older sketchbooks, full of portraits and doodles of his former life are already packed neatly away, along with his uniforms and medals. They gave him an honorary promotion to Lieutenant after they punted him out of the service. He didn’t bother to attend the ceremony or accept the accompanying commendations and made a point of bitterly telling Price where he could shove them. They don’t mean shite to him anymore and he isn’t going to be around long enough to care about his pension. Price sent him a fat brown envelope of paperwork which he promptly chucked into the bin. His savings will support him long enough to get the job done.

Celia the Health Aide always exclaims over his ‘talent’, urging him to branch out from pencil and pen to colored pencil and watercolors. The wee book works nicely to distract her from counseling him and urging him to attend some ridiculous group therapy. He doesn’t have the heart to tell the poor woman that he isn’t suffering from PTSD. He was a highly trained, elite career soldier, for Christ’s sake. It was his job to kill people and he fucking excelled at it. Yeah, it was a filthy job, but it helped make the world a safer place for innocents. He would never be ashamed of that.

In fact, he would still be gung ho at it if he hadn’t ended up on the wrong side of a couple of grenades tossed into the stairwell he was clearing. At least his team came out unscathed. He doesn’t remember much beyond the concussive flash and the pain. Gaz said it knocked him down three flights of stairs. Too bad he landed on his head and then the stairs came down around his ears, due to the bomb he was unable to disassemble. By rights he should have died there, but Ghost dug him out and carried him to exfil.

Bleakly he stares down at his carefully penned list—the one he will burn the morning he decides to off himself, along with the nearly full ‘angst’ sketchbook he kept in the hospital and rehab center (the one full of blood, gore, blades, pain and black rage). He thinks for a moment, then adds ‘buy art supplies’. That too will serve as proof he was not actively suicidal. He will leave some in progress art to aid the illusion. It’s all about setting the stage. Let his parents think it was an accident at the funeral, if his remains are ever reclaimed from the sea. It would grieve his mother to think he suicided and he doesn’t want her worried about the state of his soul.

He checks over his list, his compulsive daily habit. He has always been a list maker and already has his will and paperwork in order, copies filed with his solicitor. That is neatly ticked off. He has his daily routine set—God knows he’s blathered to enough folk in the village so they know it as well, those old hens love their craich. He makes a note to do it the day after he stocks up on his groceries as well. After all, the devil is in the details. Surely the boy wasn’t planning suicide, look he bought these nice sausages yesterday!

After some thought, he nods in satisfaction. Basically all he has to do is finish the cottage and choose a date. It’s been well over a year and half since his discharge, so he figures that by the time he’s done with the cottage, his demise won’t raise suspicion with the insurance company. He adds a note to leave some minor reno jobs in progress. It might raise suspicions if he walks away from a perfect house, though it goes against his grain to leave a job unfinished. Maybe he should do some yard work as well? The idea pleases him and he nods in satisfaction. A man buying rose bushes and planting a garden won’t come across as suicidal, and besides they’re his favorite flowers. He estimates that give or take a few bad days, he can wrap things up in a tidy parcel by mid June. That gives him about six months give or take.

Just in time to see his first and last rose bloom.

***

Ghost finds nothing on his latest search of Johnny’s social media. He is disturbed to find that he has apparently deleted most of his accounts. He has even withdrawn from the private TF141 chat. He can’t blame the man if he wants privacy and to forget his old, violent life. Still, it bothers him because he has never met a more social and infectiously friendly human being than John ‘Soap’ MacTavish. It's not like Johnny. Tentatively he pulls out his seldom used cell phone and hits Soap’s contact. The call goes immediately to voicemail and a computerized voice informs him the mailbox is full. When he tries again later that evening, he gets the same recorded message. He has the sneaking suspicion his number has been blocked. The deep twinge of hurt is unexpected. He wanted a clean break, he reminded himself sternly.

Looks like he got it.

He broods, then goes so far as to casually ask Gaz if he has spoken with Johnny lately and is disturbed when the man gives him a stricken look and admits he hasn’t had contact in over a month. He immediately pulls out and taps away on his phone, but there is no response and he shares a worried look with Ghost, when he gets the same message. It doesn’t help when Gaz blurts out a worried,

“Fuck, I hope he didn’t have to have another surgery! Ya know how he is with anesthesia.”

Ghost does know. It makes Soap as sick as a dog after, and he is even allergic to some types and has bad reactions. Painkillers too. What if something happened? Soap flatlined on the operating table and was in a fucking coma for two weeks after his first surgeries, after they put the metal plate in his head, replaced his hip joint and inserted the rod and pins in his leg, partially due to a bad reaction to his anesthesia. Would any of his family even bother to contact them if something happened to him? Probably not.

He heard part of the blistering tirade Johnny’s mum unleashed on Price at the hospital. The entire MacTavish clan was ready to go head to head with the whole SAS over their perceived ill treatment of their darling lad. Ghost has the sneaking suspicion that Johnny’s mum could and would kick Price’s arse, all five feet nothing of her if she was angry enough, even if she had to stand on a box to reach it. The little woman might weigh the equivalent of a wet hen, but he certainly knew now where Johnny’s stubborn fierceness came from.

For the first time in his life Ghost finds himself dithering over what to do. He tries to fall back on training and keep it tactical. His objective is to check on his Sergeant’s well being because he can’t shake the uneasy, residual feeling from his dream. Once he ascertains the man is alright he’s sure everything will go back to normal. He needs a plan, he decides, even as he absentmindedly makes the latest batch of recruits lives miserable, that whank stain Trevor included. The plummy fuck is not strolling onto his team without working for it and fucking earning a place and he is never going to replace Johnny.

He watches with satisfaction as the fucker pauses on the obstacle course to dry heave, then motions to Gaz to take over while he stalks off to snoop into MacTavish’s personnel file and beard the lion in his den and speak with Price, although he would rather yank out his own teeth with pliers. He can keep things tactical. He is certain. That certainty fades in Price’s office after he states his objective.

Instead of gently teasing Ghost about his attachment to his sergeant, his face sobered when Ghost revealed Johnny has gone dark. Without a word, he turned and grabbed his office phone and dialed. Ghost notes he has the number memorized. Apparently the old man has been keeping in touch with Soap’s family.

“Aye, Irene, it’s John. I’m calling for a sitrep on our lad. Simon and Gaz are worried, he’s not talking. Is he alright?”

There was a muffled burst of Gaelic accented invective and Price winced and held the phone away from his ear as Soap’s mum gave him another blistering. Then, vitriol spewed, she apparently calmed enough for a couple of clear directives before slamming the phone down. Price gingerly rang off himself, face hot and ear no doubt ringing and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Well, now I know where the boy gets his sass.”

He turned stern eyes back on Ghost.

“His mum is worried too. Says he’s distanced himself from the family. She’s trying but he’s a stubborn git and he just avoids her and withdraws and blathers circles around the topic. “

Sighing he ran a big hand over his face, and pulled a bottle of scotch and two shot glasses from a drawer. He poured and nudged one across to Ghost, eyebrows raised when the man simply pulled his balaclava completely off and slammed the shot back. He looked like hell, cropped, unkempt ash blond hair growing out of regulation and dark shadows beneath his eyes.

Price knew the man suffered from nightmares and chronic insomnia but he seldom saw the effects. He took pity on the tightly repressed man and decided to give him a good kick in the arse, metaphorically speaking.

“So, son, I know you have leave due. Are you planning that trip to the Highlands you’ve mentioned? I know you’re due to retire in a few years. Have you decided where you plan to settle? Should you decide to check out a few locations north, maybe you can drop these off. “

Price reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a fat packet of papers and a small box. He pushed them across his desk with a nod.

“I’m a bit concerned. Soap hasn’t filled out his pension paperwork yet. Or accepted his honors. He can’t live on his savings forever, not with his medical bills.”

The shell shocked look on his lieutenant’s face was worth it, even as he realized with a vast welling of compassion that Simon has never considered retirement a viable option, simply assuming he would simply be KIA one day and end up in another forgotten grave. After all, he doesn’t officially exist anymore and he has no one left alive in his family to give a damn. Price may be rather ham fisted in bringing it up, but if a seed of thought can be planted in his stubborn Lieutenant’s head, so be it. Simon Riley can have a life beyond the military, and if he plays his cards right he can have that soft life with a certain acerbic Scottish sergeant.

***

Soap stares down into the depths of the parcel from his sister in befuddlement, then gingerly removes the garments within. He asked the silly bint for a package of a certain kind of warm, thermal socks, not a couple of kilts. What the fucking hell is a ‘utilikilt’ anyway? Upon further inspection it appears to be ones that come with belt loops and pockets, no sporran needed. He snorts in aggravation, knowing he has no choice but to wear the damned things at least once lest Davida have a shite fit otherwise, fashionista that she is. Well, he will bloody well wait until the weather is warmer so his bollocks don’t freeze off. He is somewhat mollified to find the requested package of thick socks as well as some welcomed thermal skivvies in the bottom of the box.

Heaving himself to his feet with a groan, he grabs his cane and gimps into the kitchen. The small cozy kitchen is finally done. It now sports refinished, polished oak cabinets, a new farmer’s sink, and sunny yellow paint on the walls. He will ask his mam for new curtains, adding to his ‘normal’ narrative as he builds his timeline. He takes careful photos and sends them to her with the measurements, with the request for curtains and turns it off. He can claim later if she returns the call that he was away from the phone.

The house is small, he only has the parlor, spare room and the bedroom to go. He finished the small bathroom quickly, as it was roughly the size of a closet. Grandda had called it a ‘rain room’ with a cackle at his own wit, because it was basically a tiny ceramic sink with a battered tin medicine cabinet and mirror above, an ancient toilet, and a wobbly ceiling shower head and all the water drained into the single drain in the stone floor that piped out to the back garden. He will admit, it makes cleaning the room very easy, but he longs for a large bathtub to take long, hot soaks in. It’s with great satisfaction that he ticks ‘kitchen’ off his list.

It’s been a good pain day, he has reached a stopping point while waiting for the paint to dry and the weather is miraculously clear. Time for another scout up the cliff trail. He hasn’t decided yet exactly where he intends to yeet himself into eternity so it behooves him to work on this minor detail in his plan. He sits and yanks on his battered boots, then grabs his grandda’s sturdy blackthorn walking staff and crams a power bar and a bottle of water into the pocket of his waterproof hooded jacket. He is in dire need of both a new jacket and boots, but sees no point in spending money on them when these will suffice long enough to get the job done. He wraps a woolen scarf around his neck against the brisk wind, yanks a beanie down over his ears and he’s off.

He heads out of the house, it's surprisingly sunny for this time of year, but the ground is muddy and boggy and the wind brisk, so he is careful as he makes his way up the path. He has no desire to take a fall and faceplant or go tits up in the freezing mud (again). As he passes his closest neighbor–a nice, retired librarian named Claire–she waves from her garden where she is busily pruning her fruit trees, her thick, silvery hair twisted in a knot and her cheeks rosy from the cold. Claire is a good neighbor, she is friendly but not intrusive and always up to offload her spare garden produce or loan a few eggs or some coffee when Soap has a few bad days in a row and can’t make his weekly trip into the village. He also appreciates that she refrains from trying to set him up with various single female relatives. He gives her a bright smile and hastens on his way so she has no chance to call him over for a chat or a cuppa.

It takes him over two hours as he limps along, breathing harshly—he is so out of condition now—before he reaches the most treacherous section of the meandering trail along the cliff. It winds by a ‘scenic viewpoint’ (as described in the sparse Hiking guide) looking out over the choppy gray sea and conveniently for him, has no protective rail. He takes a quick glance around to insure he is alone and then edges dangerously close to the cliff edge for a gander over to estimate the drop. It will do, he decides, satisfied. If the drop on the craggy boulders far below doesn’t kill him, the crashing waves will and the bloody crabs will have a good meal. He dithers for a minute, then hikes further along the cliff.

There is a grassy slope on the clifftop where the Puffins dig their burrows and nest. Soon it will be time for them to court and nest. He used to love to watch them as a wee bairn when he spent summers with his grandda. They usually come ashore in April. It’s too early yet, but he wants to locate the puffinerie. He thinks he will bring his sketchbook up when they arrive. He finds the grassy, craggy slope, riddled with old burrows and pauses to rest a bit. It really is beautiful here. Especially since the islanders decided on Tourism instead of sheep and now over half of it is a designated nature reserve. So, less domestic livestock and more wildlife. Good news for the wee Puffins and their chicks, with fewer cats and dogs to worry about. The poor wee birds have enough problems dealing with the large, predatory Skuas.

Claire Fife watches with concern as her young neighbor makes his painful progress up the hiking trail that winds past their cottages. Unlike most of her neighbors, fooled by his charm and handsome face, she recognizes grief and pain when she sees it. The boy hides it well, but she has seen that look before with an uncle who came home from the military quite literally half a man and who struggled for several years before suffering a tragic ‘accident’ while cleaning his shotgun. Uncle Daniel had faded before her eyes but kept a smile on his face for the family, until finally he chose not to. Young MacTavish has that same look, but he is a clever lad and much more careful to keep it hidden, even as he deftly isolates himself from the world. In public, he hides behind a sunny smile that is a very well crafted mask.

She keeps a careful eye on the boy as he struggles about the old cottage, working hard to renovate the old Victorian field stone building. Ann, at the library said he is planning to restore the garden as well, and checked out several books. The boy learns fast, and has a skilled, deft hand. He has already done improvements by replacing the warped, rotting woodwork and even installed sturdy new shutters and triple paned windows to keep the harsh winter winds at bay. He repainted the wood trim, shutters and the heavy oak door, a cheerful robin’s egg blue, a nice contrast to the gray fieldstone of the house itself.

It’s like he is struggling to keep busy, probably to keep his mind off his pain. Claire saw the horrific scarring down his right leg, last summer when he wore long cargo shorts about the place. Thick ropes of gnarled scar tissue wrap around his leg from hip to ankle and he wears a knee brace every day. She also noticed other scars on his arms and legs that she contributed to his former profession. On his good days it's a light, supportive wrap of Lycra and Velcro on his leg, on bad, a stiff, heavy duty contraption and on the worse, the lad stays in bed to stoically wait the pain out until he can walk again.

Celia, who is a horrible gossip, worries because he refuses to take most of his pain meds because they make him groggy and pushes himself to his limits, often too weary to feed himself. Once she found him prostrate on the floor with a raging migraine, too ill to crawl to his bed. At least the lad has not turned to drink. He has no visitors other than his parents. Where are his friends? Surely he has friends his own age. Or a pretty girlfriend. She hopes he did not lose them all when he was so horribly wounded. That would explain the grief she sees in those lovely blue eyes, that he tries so hard to keep hidden.

She stays in the garden as long as she can before breaking for a cuppa, keeping a weather eye out the kitchen windows until she sees young MacTavish come limping home, moving painfully slow now, leaning heavily on his staff, thin face drawn. She watches, troubled by how peely-wally he looks until he is safely inside, idly scratching her fat tuxedo cat Edgar’s chin. Surely there is something more she can do. The boy needs more of a tether to this world, she is sure of it. She sighs and drains her cup. Maybe it's time she took it upon herself to meddle a bit. She cracks her knuckles, makes another cup of strong tea and sets up her old laptop on the kitchen table.

Research, after all, is her forté.

It takes a while via several back avenue adventures and meandering loops and rabbit holes through social media. She starts with his mam’s Facebook and tracks him from there, looping out through various family members, admiring the happy photos he shared with his family. She is impressed to discover John was a member of the SAS and she takes careful note of the men from his squad in a rare group photo. Especially the hulking lad clad in multiple layers and a very Goth skull mask. John looks at him like he hangs the moon. Hmmm. This bears further scrutiny, because in a second photo where John is turned away, the masked lad is clearly looking back and there is no mistaking the fondness in those hooded dark eyes.

In the months John has been here, the only visitors have been his parents or sister. So, where is John’s bonny lad? She sincerely hopes that he is alive and well. Perhaps he has been deployed abroad and is unable to visit. She can’t imagine him totally abandoning young MacTavish. Until she gathers more information, she decides on a plan to get young MacTavish to take better care of himself. It’s still winter and the lad needs to spend a bit more time inside warming his damaged joints until the weather shifts to Spring. She takes note of the date on a photo where his mam is presenting him with a very florid birthday cake and realizes the boy’s birthday is only a few months away. That gives her more than enough time to put her head together with Ann (who loves a good plot) and possibly Celia as well.

***

Ghost finds himself unceremoniously punted off base on medical leave after an incident on what was supposed to be a simple Intel retrieval mission that resulted in that twat, Trevor nearly getting them all killed after walking right into an IED. The damned device was in plain fucking sight and Ghost maybe underlined and capitalized that fact in his written report. Anyway the stupid fuck was off the squad for good and whisked away to some posh hospital after his mistake resulted in injuries to both Ghost and several marines. Ghost regrets carrying the unconscious, broken limbed cunt to exfil. He also doesn’t consider a broken wrist, bruised ribs and numerous cuts and bruises that bad of an injury, but Price disagreed and here he is in bloody Scotland with strict orders to deliver an ‘important’ missive as well as Johnny’s paperwork and medals to the address given and not to return for three weeks.

That's how he finds himself blinking down into a pair of narrowed, stormy blue gray eyes (familiar eyes) of a tiny, auburn haired woman clad in a huge, handknit sweater that has more clashing colors than Ghost has seen together in one garment in his life.

“You! Finally! Get your great arse in here.”

A small, strong hand grabs his jacket and he is unceremoniously yanked inside the tidy brick house. It smells pleasantly of fresh baked gingerbread. Ghost has stoically faced death on multiple occasions but he has never wanted to retreat so badly in his life. Irene MacTavish is a force of nature. Before he can open his mouth, he finds himself chivvied into a seat at the kitchen table and a cup of his favorite tea and a plate of fragrant scones plunked down in front of him. When he pulls out the paperwork and box and wordlessly offers her the envelope of ‘intel’ that he was supposed to deliver, she snorts and frisbees it directly into the kitchen bin, confirming his suspicion that his cowardly cunt of a Captain has indeed set him up.

He gets no help from Johnny’s Da, a stout, bewhiskered, amiable looking bloke, who wanders through with a newspaper, snorts at the sight of Ghost, gives him a pitying look and retreats to the lounge and what sounds like a rugby game. Johnny has his mother’s changeable ocean blue eyes and his father’s dark coloring he notes, as she sits down across from him and stares him down. He has met terrorists who are less intimidating. She sits down squarely across from him, ignores the box he gingerly places before her, and gestures for him to help himself to the tea and scones before folding her hands in front of her as she regards him coldly.

“So, ye are tha’ man my boy is dying of love for.”

Ghost chokes on his sip of tea and nearly spits it all over the tidy table top. Johnny’s mother continues to eye him with what he thinks at first is sheer dislike and then to his horror, realizes it is pity instead. She reads his face and smiles thinly.

“Tha’ only thing tha’ can kill a MacTavish before their time is war or love. Which are you boy? Ye are built for war, there is no doubt there, but ye are hiding more than scars under that mask, I ken. My Johnny said ye dug him out of the rubble with yer bare hands and carried him out, only to abandon him in the hospital. Why are ye here, Simon Riley? Did ye come to say goodbye to my son properly, or are ye going to ghost him again?”

It was then that Simon realized to his horror that Johnny was not here. He was not living here, safely tucked within his family being coddled and cherished. He was gone. Had he relapsed? Was he back in hospital with machines breathing for him? He choked again and realized he could not breathe properly himself, for the panic welling up and threatening to choke him. Dear God, was Johnny ill and Ghost without a fucking clue, as usual? The teacup rattled as he sat it back on its saucer and he tried again to take a calming breath.

Small hands clasped his firmly, as Soap’s mother leant over the table, those fierce blue eyes locked on his. Johnny’s true blue eyes. Those eyes softened at the sight of the mute panic in his eyes reading him as easily as her son.

“Aye, ye are both. Easy, boy, easy. Take a breath, yes lad, now another.”

Ghost took a deep breath, cleared his throat and regained his composure.

“So, he’s not here?”

“No, Simon Riley. He’s taken to tha hills, or the isles so to speak. He could not stand our coddling, which he mistook for pity instead of a vast relief at having him alive and home.”

Her sharp eyes narrowed again, before he could relax, relieved that Johnny was alive.

“What do ye plan to do, Simon Riley? My boy is planning to take leave from this world, out of grief and pain. If ye canna help, its best ye hop yer great arse back on the train to London straight away and be done with our business. Are ye planning on leaving him again?”

Ghost stared at her appalled at the implication, that his sergeant was actively contemplating suicide. Soap was the most vivacious person he knew. Her face was deathly calm, but her eyes were screaming. This was a mother in fear for her only son’s soul. Yet she has done her best and is now at her wit’s end and can do nothing more because Soap, irascible, stubborn Soap, has decided to take himself out of the equation. Ghost sat back heavily, mind racing furiously. He has been so damned stupid. He actually thought that abandoning Johnny would help him. He forgot how social his sunshine hearted Scot was, how tactile and fun loving. How he needed people around him, to reassure and encourage him, to love him. Johnny needed to be needed and he loved fiercely.

Instead of having his back, Ghost had retreated like the coward he was and Johnny was paying the price. This was the emotional equivalent to leaving a wounded comrade alone and vulnerable behind enemy lines with no plans to exfil him. Ghost has fucked up and fucked up badly. Because what fucking use was this world without his beloved lad in it? So what if Johnny could never be active military again? Ghost could find him plenty of shit to blow up if it made him happy. He raised his suddenly steely eyes to Irene’s.

”Not on my watch.”

She eyed him narrowly, for a moment, finally judged him to be truthful and sat back in her chair, nodding in satisfaction.

”Good lad. Ye can give this to him when ye see him. Finish yer tea and scones.”

She pushed the box back across the table and that was that. Distantly from the living room, the footie crowd cheered and Johnny’s Da shook out the paper. Ghost reached obediently for the cup, mind racing furiously as he made plans.

The next day, he is on his way, having brainstormed a plan and texting Price with a tense update which was alarming enough that the old man had immediately given him three months of family leave added to his medical leave. Ghost, after getting a brief sitrep on Soap’s location from his mum, loaded his battered old Land Rover with essential supplies, including a huge box of containers of home cooked food and baked goods from Soap’s mother and several thick, hand knit woolen jumpers.

Ghost himself has an expensive tin of colored drawing pencils tucked in his duffle. He saw them in the window of the art supplies shop next to the sporting goods store, where he purchased a waterproof coat, and on a whim stepped inside and purchased them for Johnny. Sketching was one of the few activities that was guaranteed to keep the Scot absorbed and still, when he was recovering from illness or being wounded.

It was just like his stubborn sergeant to sequester himself in the arse end of nowhere on the edge of Scotland. What the hell was Soap MacTavish doing on a tiny fucking island whose major tourist draw was fucking puffins? Ghost has done recon and gathered intel on the tiny island where Soap has hidden himself away. It’s not one of the large islands like Skye, Mull or Iona. No, its a tiny crescent that used to mainly house sheep. Now it boasts one small fishing village, a few family farms, a single inn and pub and a few B&Bs as well as a nature reserve apparently devoted mainly to sea birds.

Irene gave him detailed directions how to find the little cottage that Soap is apparently refurbishing, which Ghost patiently took, not wanting to point out that as a career SAS soldier he could exfil himself from most hostile countries blindfolded and that finding one stubborn young Scot on a tiny isle was not a problem. It was deciding what to do when he found the stubborn Scot that was the problem.

He mentally rehearses what to say to Johnny the entire drive from Glasgow, then the entire two hour-long ferry ride to the island. Nothing sounds even remotely plausible, so he decides to play it by ear. He learns when he docks that he needs a visitors permit for his vehicle, only residents are allowed to keep cars on the island. The drive from the ferry takes him through the small, rather scenic fishing village and winds around the coast to the small glen where several small cottages sit. He recognizes the one that Irene showed him from a photo Johnny sent her after he replaced the shutters and repainted them and the front door, a soft Robins egg blue. The tidy cottage reminds him of something on a postcard. It’s almost aggressively picturesque. He parks in the small gravel driveway, notes there is no other vehicle and forces himself to get out. Apparently most of the residents are content with the small bus that trundles around, or to walk everywhere. He knocks on the door tentatively, but there is no response.

”He’s not home, love.”

The kind voice is from the neighbor, across the narrow lane, who is tying back some shrubs, despite it being winter. Her thick, silver hair is knotted on top of her head and she has a wool scarf snug round her throat against the brisk winds. A fat black and white tuxedo cat sits on the gatepost and purrs benevolently at him.

”He goes for a walk up the path this time every afternoon, weather permitting. You should be able to catch up with him fairly easy.”

Her gaze is too keen and her tone hopeful.

Ghost realizes suddenly that this kind lady has probably been keeping an eye on Johnny and apparently worrying about him too. So he nods awkwardly in thanks and zips up his coat against the wind and heads up the narrow path across the fields. He still has no idea what to say to his sergeant. Johnny will probably tell him to sod off and he doesn’t blame him one bit. The path is slippery in places and he slips and nearly busts his arse in one particularly muddy and treacherous section, but he finds himself enjoying the walk and the fresh air and the farther he gets the more interesting the view becomes. The path he notes with growing alarm, gets steeper and winds very close to the edge of the cliffs over the sea. A flock of white gulls scream overhead as they fly towards the harbor, following the incoming fishing boats.

He catches up with Johnny around a turn in the path and so suddenly that it takes him by surprise and what shocks him to the core is that for a long moment he doesn’t recognize this lean, shaggy haired stranger as his sergeant. Johnny is standing way too close to the cliff edge for his comfort, leaning heavily on a sturdy walking staff as he stares blankly out to sea.

Ghost blinks at the sight of his thin, scruffed face and overgrown hair. Gone is Soap’s jaunty trademark Mohawk. His dark hair is an overlong, tangled mess, more a mare’s mane, caught carelessly back with what looks like an old bootlace. He has lost a lot of muscle mass and he looks almost small now despite his broad shoulders and sturdy frame. His gym muscle is gone. Now he looks wiry and pared down to the bone, he has no excess flesh at all. His old, stained oilskin jacket hangs loosely on him and his jeans are paint spattered and torn and his boots look like they are falling apart. There is mud on the knees and seat of his jeans, and he realizes with a pang that Johnny fell down earlier, probably at the same treacherous spot that nearly sent sure-footed Ghost arse over tits.

Ghost has never seen his bright eyed sergeant look so unkempt before. Johnny has always taken a certain pride in his appearance and his surroundings—Soap wasn’t just a nickname because he could clear a room so cleanly. He was a tidy and meticulous man who carried a tiny bar of hotel soap and antiseptic wipes in his kit, even in the field. He could deal with muck—Ghost has seen him covered with grime and spattered with blood and never complain, but he is a man who prefers cleanliness. Gaz used to tease him about all the high end bath products in his shower caddy and Ghost had always enjoyed the subtle scents of citrus and sandalwood that he came to associate with his sergeant.

But what stops him in his tracks is the bleak look on Johnny’s face. Gone is that upbeat, bright eyed aspect that was so much a part of his sunshine hearted sergeant. He looks haunted and grief-stricken and infinitely weary, like a brisk wind could take him down at any moment, and perhaps it has, judging by the smears of mud on the knees of his jeans. Ghost swallows hard, stricken as he realizes that Irene was right. Her son is dangerously close to the end of his rope— the thin gossamer rope tethering him to this world.

Before he can announce himself, Soap sighs gustily and turns and startles when he sees him. To Simon’s horror he pales and stumbles back, dangerously close to the edge and loses his footing and falls.

”Johnny!”

He is moving before he thinks and catches his sergeant half-way down and to his further dismay, Johnny flinches at his touch and stares at him in wide-eyed disbelief, like he is hallucinating. Then he blinks and looks away, broad shoulders hunched, chuckling nervously as he struggles to get his feet under him, leaning shakily on his staff, holding it with a white knuckled grip. It is with great reluctance that Ghost lets go of him and steps slowly away, big hands clenching and his wrist throbbing. Instead he is horrified at how lightweight his once sturdy sergeant is now. Ghost could feel his fucking ribs and spine when he held him. He has to fight the urge to wrap protective arms around the man.

”Fuck me, LT! Ah thought ah was seeing things!”

He is trying for his old upbeat tone and falling short by a mile and his eyes dart all over and around Simon before reluctantly settling on his face and he squares his shoulders as though facing a firefight. With a pang, Ghost wonders if he sees him as a foe now. He clenches his fist and wishes he could stretch his casted wrist and hand out.

An hour later he is seated in a tidy kitchen painted sunshine yellow. He can smell the fresh paint and varnish, with a steaming tea cup placed in front of him while Soap rummages in the ancient fridge for sandwich fixings. It made him wince inside when he watched his sergeant fumble in the back of a cupboard and produce an unopened package of Ghost’s favorite tea. He also caught a glimpse of a large, unopened tin of the fancy imported Italian biscuits both Price and Gaz favored. How long has Soap had them there, waiting for his team to visit?

If Ghost could kick his own arse he would, because his boy is not doing well at all. There are new lines of pain around his bright eyes and he can see the stiffness in his shoulders in the way he is holding himself. Looking closer he sees that there is a barely discernible tremor in his bad leg and the way he stands to keep weight off it. Soap is hurting. Soap is hurting and Ghost stayed away and let him bear all his pain alone. It makes Ghost feel sick inside. He watches silently as Johnny limps to the kitchen counter and pulls a couple of chipped plates down and assembles the ham and cheese sandwiches. The ingredients are sparse, and he notes one of the sandwiches is much thicker than the other and he caught a glimpse of the barren insides of the ancient fridge. His boy has almost no food in the house and has not been eating properly or taking care of himself.

It’s then that it really dawns on him.

Irene was right. Her son is slowly, irrevocably detaching himself from this world, and heart pounding, Ghost realizes how very close he is to losing the one person who means the world to him. Soap joins him at the table and smiles and makes a joke about the weather and it rings so damned false that it makes Ghost heartsick. It’s a performance. A skilled performance to convince Ghost that all is well and he can toddle off back to Credenhill, his guilty conscience assuaged. If Ghost didn’t know him so well, he would be fooled too.

Johnny smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes and those eyes won’t meet Ghost’s. They dart around the room, or focus on his hands or Johnny’s own thin sandwich, which he nibbles at. This behavior sparks even more worry, because Soap has always had a hearty appetite. Ghost had even gotten in the habit of placing extra desserts, fruit or rolls on his tray at mess, because Johnny would inevitably steal his. No tin of biscuits or packet of sweets left unattended in the break room kitchen was safe unless it was coconut or black licorice, which he loathed with a passion.

Ghost silently chews his sandwich, noting that the bread is stale and that the cheese is sour and on the verge of going off. He has to find a way to insert himself back in Johnny’s life, he realizes, or he will lose him and that is unacceptable. He notes that Johnny keeps glancing at his cast, and his eyes occasionally dart over the small healing cuts visible on his face and hands from the blast. Johnny is curious and that’s good, because a curious Soap is an engaged Soap.

To test this he shifts his broken arm and fakes a subtle wince, with a grunt of pain and is secretly delighted to see the concern flicker across his sergeant’s thin face. Good. He can work with that. Johnny has always fussed over any member of the team who was injured, while ignoring any damage to himself. He once carried an unconscious Gaz to exfil with a bullet in his own thigh, too jacked on adrenaline to notice, until his boot was full of blood. Sure enough, his ploy works and glancing out the window, Soap notes that he is too late for the ferry off the island, he frowns and chews his lip for a moment, then hesitantly invites Ghost to stay with him while he is on the island, because apparently the ferry is only once a week this time of year. Ghost accepts gravely, hiding his jubilation behind his mug of tea. He is going to insert himself so deep in this little house that it will take a block of C-4 and a platoon of Marines to extract him.

He manages to keep Soap engaged with his dry, doleful rendition of the Tale of Trevor the Twat, and he even barks a genuine laugh out when Ghost tells him all the creative names Gaz called him and that it was all he could do, not to kill the fool himself and leave his clueless corpse for the jackals. As he speaks, he realizes with a pang that Soap actually thought the arsehole had handily replaced him. He will have to fix that, and will enlist Price and Gaz to aid him. They have all stayed away too damned long.

”Price gave me some paperwork and a brag rag for ya. Then when I stopped at yer folk’s place yer mum loaded me down with some home cooking and a couple of parcels. Said to tell ya that they can’t make it up to visit this month, something about a cousin’s wedding?”

Soap brightens a bit at the mention of the food, and shrugs after he ponders which cousin is about to be yoked. Apparently there were several on the verge of matrimony. He pushes his half devoured sandwich away, noting that Simon has finished his, and stands, bracing himself with one hand on the table.

”Ah’ll hep ye with unloadin’ the car, LT. Best get it doan, it's about ta pish doon again.”

It takes Simon a second to translate, and he hides a fond smile, noting Soap’s accent has thickened since he returned to Scotland. God, he has missed bantering with his often incomprehensible sergeant. He stands as well, and casually carries their dishes to the sink, ignoring Soap’s protests that he is a guest. He follows behind Johnny, noting he has grabbed a vintage blackthorn cane (probably his grandda’s ) from beside the door as they head outside. As they unload the car, Johnny notes his unusual amount of luggage and equipment.

”Ye on leave, LT?”

”Yeah. Price booted me off on medical and some accumulated leave. Thought I’d see what all yer blather about Scotland was about, maybe do some camping, but to be honest I didn’t take the weather into consideration and my fuckin’ arm and ribs are being a pain. I guess I can find a rental somewhere, gave up my flat in Manchester after the rents were raised.”

Ghost shrugs as he lies plummily and pretends to wince as he reaches into the back cargo area of the Rover, only to have Johnny shoulder him briskly aside and press the rather lightweight insulated food bag in his hands and grab the heavier duffle. They squabble a bit over who carries what, (Ghost wins by surreptitiously grabbing the remaining heavier bag) and carry everything inside, just as the clouds open and seemingly drop a monsoon on the cottage and gardens.

“Aye, jus’ in time.”

Johnny says, smug at not getting drookit for once.

***

Too often the rain has caught him in mid-walk before he can hirple home and drenched him like a drowned rat. He opens the food bags and parcels eagerly. He is actually hungry for a change and now he has his LT to feed too. He will have to go to the grocer and the butcher tomorrow and lay in some proper groceries. Ghost is a big man, and he needs decent meals to heal. Johnny wonders if he will stay beyond the week when the ferry cruises by again. It will be nice to spend some time with him. He has missed Ghost’s dry humor and solid presence. He spreads his mam’s bounty out on the counter and takes note of the quantity. There is quite a lot more food than usual. Probably to make up for the fact she is not visiting this month.

“Well, LT, we’ll eat well for at least a week! Mam has made us a cottage pie, a beef stew, lasagna, sausage rolls, a tattie casserole and a few desserts. She’s a right bonny cook.”

He even finds his mouth watering as he eyes the raspberry scones, then shrugs and grabs one to munch on. He hums in pleasure and offers the container to his guest who takes one as well. Carefully, he places them out of reach so he won’t scarf the whole container—which would make him sick as a dog, he eats such small portions now. He yelps in delight when he sees she has thrown in a caramel iced honey cake and a huge pan of dark gingerbread as well, determined to tempt him with his favorites. Maybe he will ask her for the recipes.

”Ye can stay here with me, if ye like. The sofa is a wee bit too narrow and short for ye, we’ll have to kip together. There’s nae furniture in the spare room yet. ‘Tis more of a box room still.”

He is hesitant as he offers, knowing there is at least one decent bed and breakfast in the village with fairly reasonable off season rates. No one visits here in the winter except a few hardy biologists. He is also aware that his mood has lifted considerably now that his LT is here, and his carefully cultivated anger and hurt has dissipated considerably. Maybe he misjudged him? Ghost has always been as reclusive as an active SAS military man can be, wary of entanglements. Soap remembers his long ago admonishment, “ friendship isn’t in the Field Manual”. Soap wonders if his Lieutenant falls a bit onto the autism spectrum.

Ghost hides his pleasure at his successful infiltration of Soap’s house and agrees casually. They decide on the stew for dinner later, and snack on a couple of pieces of gingerbread as Soap examines the contents of the parcels his mother sent.

”Sweet Creepin’ Jesus, here LT, I reckon this ‘un will fit ye better than mesel.”

Johnny tosses him a huge, hand knit jumper in navy blue. It would indeed, swamp his sergeant. Ghost admires the neat workmanship in the deftly interlocked cables. It even has a hood and pockets. Beside him, Soap pulls two more jumpers out of the box, more his size, especially now with his loss of bulk and weight. One is a demure, pale dove gray with a simple, narrow strip of sky blue around the collar and wrists, which Soap admires with a hum of appreciation, but the other;

”Bloody fuckin’ hell, Mam has been knitting and tippling again.”

Ghost snorts and bites back a snicker at the bemused look on Soap’s face as he stares in baffled dismay at the expanse of wool in his hands. The primary color is a lovely cobalt blue, but its shot through with asymmetrical, jagged slashes of bright yellow and vivid ruby red. A flashback to 80’s fashions. Still, it's made with the same care and craftsmanship as the others. Apparently Mam MacTavish loves her bright colors and these vivid primary colors certainly catch the eye.

“Fook me. Ah will have ta wear the monstrosity or she will have a coo.”

Ghost is devoutly glad the garish jumper is too small for him. He hides his smile in his teacup. The rain lashes against the windows, but it's surprisingly cozy in the little cottage and they don’t lack for conversation. They’ve been apart too long, and missed each other’s company. Ghost fills Johnny in on the long months without him. He makes damned sure that his sergeant knows that he was sorely missed and bites his lip when he sees Johnny blink back tears and avert his eyes and pretend he needs to hit the bog, lurching awkwardly and hastily up from the table.

Ghost is on his phone immediately typing out a frigid terse message to Price and Gaz, basically ordering them to get their shite together and visit as soon as possible. He doesn’t mince words on Soap’s condition. He isn’t the only one who owes Soap an apology. He returns it to his pocket when he hears the toilet flush.

Soap leans against the sink and angrily splashes his face with cold water. Why is he on the verge of bawling like a bairn? What happened to all his carefully cultivated, festering anger? A few soft hours spent with his LT and he’s ready to welcome him with open arms. Is he really that fucking needy? That…weak? No, he decides, glaring into his own eyes. It’s all part of the plan. He will make nice with his old lieutenant, play the role properly and wave him off to his life with a smile, then return to his plan. Nothing has changed in his miserable life and Simon will return to Credenhill and resume his. A visit of a few days makes no difference. It just gives him time to bid his LT a proper farewell and end things on a positive note.

Fortified, he nods to himself.

Ghost will return to base convinced that all is well with Soap and be as surprised as everyone else at his unfortunate accident. In fact, he will take Ghost along for his daily hike so he can note for himself how treacherous the hiking trail is. Yeah. That will work nicely. He will have to fill out the stupid pension paperwork to play the role properly, but that doesn’t matter. The money can just slot into his savings account, which his parents will inherit anyway. In the meantime, he will let Ghost play tourist and stand him a few pints at the pub for old times sake so he will have some pleasant memories. Satisfied at his decision, he wipes his face and returns to the kitchen.

***

They spend the rest of the evening catching up and sharing Soap’s Mam’s delicious cooking. Ghost bites his lip to keep from commenting at the modest amount of food his sergeant consumes, and he suspects that Soap only ate because he has to take a full dose of his meds before bed. Instead he quietly consumes his own generous bowl and accepts dessert, noting that Soap ate only about half a bowl of stew and a slice of bread and passed on dessert.

Afterwards Soap sheepishly apologizes for the lack of a telly, explaining that he keeps busy with his home renovations and if he wants to watch something, he streams it on his laptop. Ghost notes that said laptop sits on a shelf in the kitchen under a thin layer of dust. He suspects Soap exhausts himself everyday to guarantee that with his meds, he sleeps at night. Soap shows him the tiny bathroom, mentioning that it really needs to be enlarged and Ghost remembers that Soap used to wax rhapsodic about the joys of a hot soak in a tub after a grueling mission. He seldom got the chance unless they found a safe house or hotel with a tub. There certainly was a lack of bathtubs on base at Credenhill, where barracks showers were the norm.

In the modest bedroom, Soap shows him the wardrobe and an empty drawer to place his clothing in before returning to the bathroom to change and brush his teeth. Ghost takes full advantage and snoops expertly around his sergeant’s sleeping space. There is something troubling in the lack of possessions in Soap’s personal space. The Soap Ghost knows is notorious for squirreling away various bits and bobs like a magpie, or pack rat. He even had a row of ‘pretty’ rocks lined up on his window sill at base. The night Ghost spent at his parent’s house, Soap’s old room had still been cluttered with books and action figures, the walls plastered with posters of bands, footie teams and Soap’s own drawings.

Now, his space is pristine, almost obsessively so. When Ghost places his clothing in the ancient, battered Jacobean armoire, he notes that he has plenty of room. Soap’s clothing barely fills half of it. He didn’t have to empty a drawer for him, a couple were already empty.
Troubled, Ghost takes his turn in the bath and changes into a long sleeved tee and joggers. It’s quite chilly despite the rattling ping of the old electric heater in the corner. Probably another renovation that Soap intends to get around to. They climb into the full bed and Simon chuckles at the loudly creaking mattress springs of the iron bedstead. Everytime one of them stirs or turns over, the springs scream.

“Fookin’ hell, LT, sorry for the stramash.”

Simon grins at him as he removes his medical mask and lays it on the tiny bedside table next to Johnny’s water bottle and a vial of painkillers.

“Something to add to your list, yeah?”

Soap stiffens beside him for a moment, so he clarifies.

”Your home renovations list.”

Johnny huffs out a sigh, and relaxes and why does he sound so relieved?

“Aye, LT. Ah have made progress, but ah need a few furniture bits and bobs. This bed is older than ma grandpap was. Fookin’ Victorian, ah reckon.”

Warm under the blankets and quilt they chat for a bit before falling asleep to the tick of the electric heater and the sound of the rain against the roof and windows. They fall asleep back to back, keeping each other warm as they are accustomed to in the field, only to migrate in their sleep until Johnny is curled snug and warm wrapped in Simon’s arms, tousled head tucked under his chin, his face buried in the warmth of his lieutenant’s broad chest, bad leg propped over Simon’s thick, hairy calf. It’s the first full night’s sleep he has in months that wasn’t drug induced.

Upon waking and a meager breakfast of eggs and toast, Johnny mentions he needs to do a run on the shops for groceries and a few things for his ongoing renovations and admits to Simon that his car will come in handy, instead of having to trundle along on the single island bus, tied to its narrow schedule and what he can carry. They head out to the car, pleased at the surprise sunny day, but well aware it can change in minutes.

Simon notes that Johnny has paid more attention to his appearance this morning, his scruff is neatly trimmed and his overgrown tail of hair tied back. He is wearing a clean t-shirt and jeans with his trainers. He still notes that his old jacket is too large on his thinner frame and that he has strapped on a heavy duty knee brace and is carrying his cane. So he is still hurting, but stoic as always, says nothing. Simon silently makes a mental note to keep an eye on his sergeant.

The fishing village, as expected, is small, but it has the essentials. A grocer’s, chemist, bakery, pub, hardware, fishmonger, butcher’s shop, library and post office. Family owned for the most part that have been in business for generations. Soap plays genial host, waving at the villagers, exchanging cheery greetings and pointing out things he thinks might be of interest to Simon. Simon says nothing, but he is keenly aware now that he knows what to look for, that this too, is an act. They bicker over who pays for what, but Simon insists on paying for the meat they purchase at the butchers and he notes that the cheerful bloke behind the counter jokes about the change in the size of his order. Apparently his food loving sergeant usually just purchases a few sausages, a bit of bacon and some sliced deli cuts. A meager amount for a man who once had a healthy appetite.

Simon buys whatever looks good.

Maybe he can tempt his sergeant into eating better while he is here if he cooks tempting meals. He purchases a fat roasting chicken, a small ham, and a plethora of assorted sausages, sliced roast beef, lamb chops and a huge slab of bacon under the butcher’s approving eye. Then at the fishmongers he buys fresh cod for chowder and some clams, with a vague notion of linguini in red sauce. This leads to the grocer where he buys sauce, pasta, butter, cheese and milk and cream, while Soap buys a bag of his beloved ‘tatties’, a bag of onions and some fresh veg for salad. Simon silently adds assorted fruit—apples, bananas and oranges. Moving on to the bakery, they purchase several loaves of fresh bread, a bag of rolls and a box of mixed scones. Again the proprietors of each store beam and comment approvingly on the volume of the order, which causes Soap to blush sheepishly. Confirmation to Ghost that his sergeant has not been eating properly.

He also buys a couple tins of tea, a six pack of lager and a few bottles of the neon orange drink that Soap loves and some apple and orange juice. In all, it's a good thing he brought the car because they fill the back with groceries.

Again they bicker over who pays and Ghost allows Johnny to pay for the baked goods because they are surprisingly inexpensive compared to what he has paid in Credenhill and London. He suspects it's because the bakery has been in operation since the village was founded, run by the same family and the charming, plump gran behind the counter has a fondness for his sergeant because she pops from behind the counter and pinches his cheeks and scolds him about not taking better care of himself, while Soap blushes rosily, especially when she inspects Ghost with a narrow, steely accessing gaze from head to toe and nods approvingly.

A stop at the Hardware store for paint sample cards, nails, screws and tubes of waterproof grout and a tarp then on to the Chemists. Johnny reluctantly picks up a refill for some of his meds and Ghost catches a glimpse of a tall vial of fat, yellow capsules, recognizable as some heavy duty painkillers that Soap hastily tucks out of sight. Grimly, Simon makes a mental note to examine and count the contents of Soap’s ancient medicine cabinet in the tiny bathroom because that shit is extreme medication issued only for severe chronic pain and strictly regulated.

In the short time Simon has been on the island, he has seen Soap take meds only once, and that was before bed. Simon suspects his boy suffers from chronic pain and isn’t taking his meds regularly. It’s not something he blames him for, because Ghost is well aware of the unpleasant side effects of most potent painkillers, of which constipation and a constant muddled head are the least and Soap often has odd reactions to medication.

Back at the cottage a bemused Soap helps Simon fill the near empty cupboards and fridge, wondering if they will indeed eat all this food. He doesn’t protest when Simon proceeds to commandeer the kitchen and prepare the chicken and a tray of veg sprinkled with olive oil and herbs for roasting in the old oven. He is surprised by his appetite and Simon grunts approvingly when he actually consumes a full plate and even has gingerbread for dessert, then leans back in his chair and pats his food baby with a sigh.

Simon listens with interest when Soap hesitantly talks about his renovations and remaining plans for the old cottage, even chiming in with suggestions about everything from paint colors to enlarging the tiny bathroom. Soap ends up hauling out some sheets of paper he’s scribbled ideas on, to sketch out new design ideas and catalogs to peruse as they spend a very pleasant evening before heading to bed fairly early. Simon finds out just how cramped the tiny ‘rain room’ is when he manages to nearly brain himself on the low shower head and cracks his elbow hard against the wall as he turns awkwardly about and curses viciously. He can’t repress a pleased smile though when he hears his sergeant’s gleeful cackle from the bedroom as he shakes out his numb funny bone. God, he has missed that laugh.

Before he settles in to bed an already dozing Soap tucked cozily under his arm, tousled head heavy on his shoulder, he checks his phone one last time and is pleased to find a message from Price assuring him that ‘Operation Soap’ is under way and to expect a visit within a few weeks. Simon quickly texts him back, warning about the sparse winter ferry schedule and receives a thumbs up emoji in return.

He is awakened by a moan of pain and a hard kick to his shin and wakes to a gasping Soap struggling to sit up and knead out the spasms in his bad leg, panting and teary eyed with pain. Swiftly Ghost urges him to lie back and takes over. Ghost is not unfamiliar with chronic pain and he works the cramping muscles expertly, big calloused hands warm and sure as they knead the painful, stubborn knots out. He kneels over Soap who is lying back, one hand clenching the coverlet, while his other arm is thrown over his eyes, hiding them, although his gritted teeth and struggle to regulate his panting breaths betray his hurt.

Simon can’t help but wonder how often these vicious cramps torment his sergeant even as he finally feels the twisted muscle start to relax. He keeps up the steady massage, soothing the wiry muscle under his palms, until the limb is warm and relaxed under his hands. He is curiously reluctant to remove his hands from his sergeant’s silky skin and keeps soothing and kneading until he glances up and realizes that Johnny has fallen back asleep, lips gently parted and a blissful look on his face, big hands now relaxed. Free from pain. Pleased, Simon makes a mental note to explore the medicine cabinet and make the drive into town to the Chemist for a medicinal liniment and a heating pad if necessary, even as he gently tucks Soap under the covers and pulls him close to keep him warm. If he presses a soft kiss to the silky head, that is his business and if he falls asleep to a tentative musings of retirement with his sergeant that is as well.

The next day is a very bad pain day for Johnny. A combination of migraine and exertion from the previous day. He slurs out an apology to Simon after taking a dose of his heavy duty meds with a cup of milk and slumping back in his bed. Simon waves the apology away and tends solicitously to his sergeant. He found a nearly empty tin of tiger balm in the medicine cabinet and gave his half conscious boy another massage, working delicately to ease the hard knots in the muscle and gently teasing him about his hairy legs. Soap grins and snorts out a weak chuckle as he dozes off. At noon he gently wakes him and feeds him a small bowl of leftover stew and a buttered roll. Soap is docile and glassy eyed with his painkillers and eats obediently and drifts off again after Simon gently tucks the quilt and blankets warmly around him. As cozy as this cottage is, it is in dire need of a more adequate heating system.

Simon is washing dishes at the kitchen sink when there is a knock at the door and he opens it to a plump, freckled lady in scrubs and a neon pink puffer jacket, with flaming red hair and a beaming smile. She introduces herself as Celia Horne, Johnny’s Home Health aide. Simon raises an impressed brow as she prattles on, and tsks solicitously over his casted arm.

”Ye must be our John’s partner! Alice at the shops told me ye were finally visiting! Ye were deployed, I take it?”

Simon hides a smile.

Gossip apparently spreads like wildfire on this tiny island and frankly, he doesn’t mind being mistaken for Johnny’s partner. If he has his way, he will be in reality soon enough. He is apparently due for a good interrogation by the locals. He shakes the lady’s hand and invites her in for tea, putting the kettle on while she pulls her stethoscope out and bustles off to check on Johnny, tsking softly to herself at the news of his painful day. A gentle tap on the kitchen door reveals Johnny’s neighbor, who introduces herself as Claire, conveniently bearing a plate of homemade tea cakes.

Simon suspects he has been set up for an ambush inspection by the people who have been keeping an eye on his sergeant’s recovery. Resigned to his fate of soft interrogation he invites her in and watches as Celia pretends to be surprised to see her. He plays host and serves tea with the delicious cakes. It’s a surprisingly pleasant way to spend a couple of hours. He genially answers their questions and endures their covert inspection of his scarred face and keen glances around the kitchen. He notes their unspoken approval at the full fruit bowl and bread basket. Celia even cheekily inspects the contents of the battered old fridge under pretense of fetching the cream. It’s clearly stuffed to the brim with fresh food and she is beaming with approval when she returns to the kitchen table.

He learns much more from them than they do of him. He is rather alarmed to learn of Johnny’s habit of skipping meals, his bouts of vertigo and his almost daily jaunts along the dangerous cliffside trail. The steep, winding unmarked trail is little more than a narrow cow path and there are no protective railings at all. And apparently his lad does have horrible days that leave him incapacitated for hours. He isn’t surprised when Celia confides that she suspects Johnny avoids his painkillers as much as possible, taking a dose only in the evening before bed so he can sleep. His vials of medicine stay suspiciously full, with few refills, his lad ever wary of opioid addiction.

That they approve of Simon being there is unspoken in their beaming smiles and acceptance of the fictional tale that he was deployed far away from his boy, now home on medical leave because he was wounded. That they were worried about Johnny was evident at their relief that he is ‘finally home.’ He even allows Celia to check out his arm (noting her touch is deft and competent) and she cheerfully informs him that she can remove the cast for him when it’s time. She even digs into her medical bag and produces a fat tube of medicinal liniment, a handful of chemical heat packs and a package of prescription lidocaine infused plasters to help with Johnny’s muscle spasms when Simon inquires if she knows what he usually uses.

Both women clearly assume that he is here to stay for a while and he doesn’t dissuade them. He has already decided to stay as long as he can and to enlist Price’s aid in doing so if necessary. He has a great deal of leave accumulated. For the first time in his life Simon Riley realizes he would be perfectly content to spend the rest of his days retired on this tiny, blustery island with his sergeant, dilapidated cottage and all. He sees them off with a wave, noting they already have their heads together as they exchange intel. He snorts with amusement and heads down the tiny hall to check on his sleeping Scot.

Soap is sound asleep, big hands lax on the quilt, snoring softly, free of pain in his sleep, tousled hair in his eyes. Simon gently smooths it back, lightly touching his forehead to check for fever. There is none, thankfully. But the news of Johnny’s bouts of vertigo trouble him greatly. He shudders at the memory of that narrow cliff side path, the mud on his boy’s trousers. Was the fall caused by slippery mud or vertigo? His lad has been suffering alone for months now while Simon fucked off and tried to forget those bright blue eyes and sunshine smile.

Simon returns to the kitchen and looks around the small cottage with new eyes. While he is here he can at least help with the renovations. In the meantime, he needs intel, so he unashamedly begins to snoop about. He starts in the tiny front parlor which holds a vintage, decrepit tweed sofa that smells faintly of cherry pipe tobacco, a small antique pedestal table and lamp, a couple of ladder back chairs and a splendid antique, mahogany roll top desk with matching chair. A quick examination of its contents revealed an old accounting book that belonged to Soap’s grandfather, old cheque books, outdated stamps, old letters, some yellowing stationary, dry pens and a treasure trove of old photos tucked away neatly in a shoe box.

The best of the lot is a Polaroid of a stout, bewhiskered old gentleman seated on the front stoop with twinkling lake blue eyes and a small gap-toothed lad seated on his knee with matching blue eyes, rebellious hair and mischievous grin. The little shite has plasters on both grubby, knobby knees, his elbows and one on his chin. Now Simon knows when Soap got his jagged chin scar (the story changes every time). Charmed, he pulls out his phone and takes a photo of the snapshot and sends it to Price and Gaz. Almost immediately he gets a laughing emoji in return.

From the lounge he checks the tiny bathroom cabinet and takes a photo of Johnny’s shelf of prescription medicine vials to research later. Most are full or close to it. There is also a fat bottle of unopened vitamins that has been ignored as well. Scowling, Simon carries it out and places it prominently on the kitchen counter so a daily dose can be taken with a meal. The tiny bath reveals nothing but a few toiletries and a stack of ratty towels that are worn thin and soft with years of use. Simon suspects they are older than Johnny.

Simon frowns at the cheap, generic brands of soap and shampoo, remembering the heady woodsy scents of Soap’s preferred posh brands. This and his illness certainly explains why Johnny, tucked close to Simon in bed at night, smells ever so slightly wrong. Instead of the familiar warm, rich scents of sandalwood, crisp lime and sharp rosemary that Simon is accustomed to, there is only a generic, slightly antiseptic soap scent. The spare room, indeed contains only stacks of boxes and few pieces of old furniture. The tiny mud room holds a bench, some old coats on pegs and some muddy wellies and ratty hiking boots. Simon frowns again as he thoughtfully examines Johnny’s tatty old oilskin jacket, obviously inherited. He suspects it belonged to his grandfather. It’s just that old and decrepit. The boots are thin soled as well.

Simon mentally begins to make a shopping list. He has no compunction about sending intel to Soap’s mother. Johnny might refuse any gifts Simon offers, but he wouldn’t dare refuse anything from his formidable mum or family. Johnny had complained last night about the ‘utilikilts’ his sister sent him when he specifically requested only socks, but he had dutifully placed them along with his new jumpers in the wardrobe. Christmas is several months past, but Soap has a birthday coming up. He cannot refuse birthday gifts, especially if Simon ropes Price and Gaz in. A nebulous plan begins to form in his head.

Since Simon is already familiar with the contents of the small bedroom he continues his examination of the kitchen, as this is clearly the room that Johnny spends most of his time in. It is the warmest room in the house and has the largest windows and the fresh, sunny yellow paint lends it a cheery air. He rifles through cabinets and drawers expertly and hits paydirt in a counter drawer full of renovation catalogs, receipts and paperwork. Tucked in the back are Soap’s latest journals.

Simon sets them on the table and glancing at the clock, pulls out the container of lasagna that Mrs. MacTavish sent to warm in the oven. His lad will need a proper meal when he wakes. He will toast a loaf of bread and slather it with garlic butter as well. He checks on Soap again, but he is still sleeping soundly, the lines of pain finally gone from his face. Back at the table, he opens the first sketchbook. He has always admired Johnny’s artistic talent.

A half hour later he is slowly paging through it again with a puzzled frown. It’s only half full, but there is something off about it. Yes, it's full of landscape sketches, of the cottage, of the view from the trail, small still life’s of items in the cottage and the garden. But as nice as they are, they totally lack life or energy. They’re almost sterile. About as interesting as a greeting or generic postcard. Simon has seen Johnny’s sketchbooks. He fills them with everything from portraits to cartoons, chemical formulas, doodles and lists. Some of his exuberant drawings practically explode off the page like comic book panels. His caricature of a squint eyed, square pated General Shepard had Price guffawing and Gaz cackling for a half hour, while Ghost was heartily glad he was wearing a mask that hid his own broad grin.

He closes it and reaches for the second. It’s older than the first, he realizes as he checks the date in the fly leaf. Soap had this one in his vest when he nearly died in that damned stairwell. The hair on his nape rises at the smeared rusty stains on the cover that he recognizes as blood. Fuck. This book is as different as night and day from the first. A few pages in of casual sketches and doodles and notes pre-mission and then the style changes. Shaky sketches of a sterile hospital room. The bleak view of a meticulously drawn brick wall outside of the window—a couple of sparrows on the sill. A generic hospital bouquet. A jagged angry sketch of Soap’s own damaged legs, bruised and scattered with cuts and vivid surgical scars. Then there is a change of scenery.

Another view from a bed, this one apparently his room at his parents’ house. Portraits of his family. A doodle of a freckled young woman making a face at him that must be Soap’s sister. A quick sketch of a bedside table covered with vials of pills. Then the tone of the sketches becomes darker. There are familiar gray and black ink washed scenes of a city at night, with rain washed cobbled streets and a church tower in the distance. Las Almas, Ghost realizes as he pages past sketches of corpses, both civilians and soldiers. Red ink puddles across black inked cobblestones. A gaunt face with empty eyes that Simon realizes is a self-portrait that has heavy pencil strokes slashed across it. Ghost recognizes nightmares when he sees them. They haunt his own dreamscapes.

Turning the page Simon nearly recoils at a portrait of himself, all geared up, masked face glaring out of the page. The contempt in his own eyes make him flinch. When did he ever look at his sergeant like he was shite on his boot sole? The last sketch in this book is of a view of the sea from what appears to be the cliff side path. The drawing is hauntingly serene. For some reason the innocuous, yet meticulous drawing raises the hair on the nape of his neck. Troubled, he closed the book and replaced the sketchbooks where he found them.

Soap is still groggy when he wakes for supper and not really hungry but he humors Simon by shuffling in and joining him at the kitchen table and obediently eating a small helping of lasagna and garlic bread. It’s less than half the size of a regular portion, but at least it's something. He even takes one of his vitamins without protest along with his meds. They chat as Simon places the leftovers in the fridge and washes their few dishes. He tries to keep Soap engaged with questions about the ongoing renovations and joins Johnny at the table as they peruse paint samples.

Johnny is sluggish from his medication as he blinks down at the samples and compares the colors. Finally he haltingly asks Simon’s opinions on what shade of blue to paint the bedroom and they eventually decide that the wedgewood blue would work nicely. The shade is not too pale to wash it out or too dark for the small room. Simon is secretly chuffed that Soap takes his opinions so seriously and he enjoys sharing plans with him, but the grogginess his sergeant displays after again taking his full dose of painkillers worries him. What would happen if he tried to take one of his hikes while still under the influence of his heavy duty meds?

After Johnny turns in early, after nearly falling asleep in mid conversation, yawning and apologizing, Simon sits down at the table and starts seriously researching his medications. An hour later he sits back, breathing deeply to calm himself. One of the prescriptions that he mistook for painkillers is actually a pretty serious anti-seizure medication. Dear God, how lucky was his sergeant that he hasn’t fallen off the cliffs on one of his determined jaunts up the trail? That he hasn’t slipped in the mud, or had a spell of vertigo or worse seized and fallen and brained himself on a stone?

Simon had to sit for a while and just breathe deeply to calm himself. Soap could have died several different ways while Simon was busy being a fucking coward and avoided visiting him. Fucking hell. He has been a right idiot. That night when he slides into bed with his sleeping sergeant, he doesn’t hesitate to pull the sleeping man into his arms and wrap himself around him and hold him close so he can feel his heartbeat and his breathing. He needs to feel his weight and warmth against him. He needs to feel his humid breath against his skin and smell the salt sweet musk of his hair. Proof that he is here and alive.

For the first time he forces himself to remember that horrible day when he nearly lost his sergeant. He remembers snarling like an animal at anyone who got in his way as he frantically dug through the chunks of dusty rubble and masonry in that collapsed stairwell. Soap had looked dead at first, broken and gray with dust and wet with blood and oh, so still in Ghost’s arms. He has little memory of exfil, only flashes of Gaz’s grief filled face and the sorrow in Price’s eyes. He remembers carrying Soap and talking softly to him, then, as he held his head stable pleading and bargaining with him, promising him anything as long as he lived. He remembers the relief he felt in learning Johnny would live being swamped in the utter despair he felt when he realized that Johnny would be medically discharged from service.

Ghost broke that promise.

Closing his eyes in remembered grief, he presses his mouth to Johnny’s soft hair and holds him tight. He has a second chance now and he doesn’t dare fuck it up. The consequences are unthinkable. He will not walk away from his lonely boy again.

Two days later and another sunny day promising Spring soon and they are again hiking up the cliff side trail. It’s a good pain day and Soap is bright eyed as he points out the lovely view and prattles on about the history of the island and Simon is somewhat amused when their destination proves to be a sloping, grassy bank on the cliff that is riddled with small burrows. He bites back a grin as Johnny prattles on about the ‘puffinerie’, which apparently houses puffin burrows that the little birds return to annually.

Who knew his sergeant was enamoured with small aquatic birds? Not all birds, he notes and Soap snarls curses and shakes his fist at a huge brown gull that flies by overhead, apparently a skua, which preys on puffin chicks. Simon has a sudden insight— that of a small, grubby boy marching valiantly, stick in hand about the puffinerie determined to protect the little birds from the villainous skuas. His lad has always been a warrior.

They lunch near the puffinerie, fat sandwiches that Simon made and fruit for dessert. Simon is pleased to note that Soap scarfs down his with something of his old appetite, as he peers out at the sea below, eyes bright and cheeks rosy from the crisp wind. He can’t hide his fond smile when Soap excitedly points out a spouting whale passing by and catching it, his boy blushes like a wild rose and shyly drops his eyes to his sandwich. Determined to keep him engaged and happy, Simon asks questions about his much beloved grandfather and his childhood.

Apparently Johnny spent many summers here with his granddad, who kept a small herd of black faced sheep and young Johnny ran wild on the island like the feral little shite he was. His parents made it something of a habit to drop him there for the summers so he could release some of the manic energy that his sergeant carried well into adulthood. This explained why every gran on the island knew him by name and never hesitates to pounce on him, pinch his cheeks and scold him for not taking better care of himself.

He regales Simon with tall tales and of the time a neighbor’s ornery old ram treed him in an orchard and he fell asleep lounging high in an apple tree and his granddad found him there hours later, alarmed when he hadn’t returned home for tea. No doubt the amiable old gent had his hands full every summer keeping track of his favorite grandchild. Simon suspects he also enjoyed every moment of it. It showed in the pride on his face in the old photo, seated with his beloved grandson.

When they amble home down the trail later, Johnny doesn’t hesitate to reach for his arm to catch his balance when his worn boot soles hit a slick patch of mud and Simon casually tucks it in the crook of his arm and places his hand over his as they navigate the narrow trail, keeping it there and happily lending his support the rest of the way home, using the slipperiness of the narrow, twisting path as an excuse. Claire waves and calls cheerfully to them from her tidy garden, and her rotund cat strolls out to meet them, tail high and Johnny pets him and fusses over him and introduces him to Simon as “Edgar, after the poet”.

Claire invites them into her cozy white-washed kitchen for a warm cuppa and Simon enjoys her high quality tea and notes with approval that his lad happily devours one of her delicious tea cakes. He is amused to note the sideboard is piled high with books instead of china, and Claire sheepishly admits that she is a retired librarian. Noting his interest in a battered, thick anthology of world poetry she happily lends it to him. It's the first day that Simon has seen Soap eat with any real appetite and he suddenly remembers that one of his meds is known to suppress the appetite. He will have to have a quiet word with Celia about that and see if there is a substitute. In all, it's a very pleasant visit and when Soap later admits as an aside that she always keeps a weather eye on him, Simon makes a mental note to somehow show his appreciation later. He will enlist Soap’s mum if necessary as an ally.

Seated at the kitchen table that evening Simon pretends to page through renovation catalogs while Soap putters happily around it, displaying more alertness and interest than he has in days. The rest and full dose of medication helped more than he likes to admit. They debate bathroom fittings and what to have for supper (and Simon is chuffed at the apparent resurgence of his Scot’s appetite) bicker a bit about updating the heating options and decide to finish off the last of Soap’s mum’s offerings—the sausage rolls and potato casserole and the caramel honey cake for dessert. Johnny shyly admits the cake is his favorite and that his Mam used to send him one in a birthday parcel each year.

Simon is more than a bit surprised at how utterly content he is to simply sit here in a warm cottage kitchen and discuss mundane topics such as dinner and home renovations. It feels good to just—stop and rest. To simply be and not have to be prepping for or on constant alert for the next high octane op where his chances of survival drop with each passing year as his body ages and his reflexes slow. While Johnny happily pokes about in the cupboards, Simon pages slowly through the book that Claire lent him, pausing at a section on poetry from WW1 and a line from Wilfred Owen caught his eye and he skimmed the poem.

He sat in his wheeled chair and waited for dark And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey…

He asked to join. He didn’t have to beg. Smiling, they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years…

How cold and late it is. Why don’t they come?

Shaken, Simon blinked hard and silently closed the book. He felt seen and more than a bit naked and raw. Wilfred Owen had been KIA at age 25, a week before Armistice. He was two years younger than Johnny when he met his end in battle.

Fucking hell.

Sitting quietly in the kitchen, listening to Johnny grumble as he searched a cabinet for the new package of tea, Simon came to a slow, hard won realization. He did not have to sacrifice himself in service. He has already given almost twenty five of the best years of his life. He has something—someone—he can live for and can spend the rest of his life here, in this small house with the one person who fills his lonely life with light and he can have a life beyond a war that will be fought on long after he falls. It’s time he had a serious talk with Price. And he has to work up the courage to court Johnny properly.

While he is quite certain that Johnny is as attracted to him as he is to his sergeant, they have always been cautious about venturing into the forbidden territory of fraternization. It’s something that goes unspoken in TF141, although Ghost knows that Price regularly hooks up with Nik and that Gaz is openly bisexual. Before his injury Soap regularly hooked up with both men and women as well, but was very discreet about it. Careful to stick with one night stands with civilians off base. He’d even had a bit of trouble with a couple who wanted to cling, hoping for a relationship instead of a hookup. Ghost has always been a loner and careful to keep things by the book. The fact that he has a low libido and been almost entirely celibate since Roba, has always helped him maintain boundaries, with his focus on his job. At least until a certain blue-eyed Scot strode up to his on the pre-dawn tarmac one morning, gave a living dead man a friendly thump on the shoulder and promised to save him a seat on the transport.

Fucking hell.

That simple, casual touch sparked something and for the first time in years a long dormant Simon Riley stirred within the hollow shell of the Ghost. He’d fought the surge of interest of course but it did little good especially when Price recruited Soap into TF141. Then there was no getting rid of the inquisitive, cheerful young Scot. Just as Gaz was unofficially Price’s sergeant, Soap became his. And like a snowdrop emerging from a layer of ice, Simon slowly unfolded from the frigid persona of the Ghost that served him so well after Roba.

Soap realizes two weeks later as he and Ghost bicker amiably over what to have for lunch after they finish painting the bedroom (and decide to go out to the pub and spend the night at the local B&B to give the paint fumes time to dissipate), that there has been no mention of Ghost leaving anytime soon. Ghost had Celia remove his cast last week and his lieutenant seems perfectly content to spend his entire leave semi-stranded on a tiny, wind-swept Scottish island and happily argue paint colors with him.

He both wants to ask, and fears to do so and realizes that he desperately does not want Simon to leave yet. He just wants to spend some time with his lieutenant and soak up his horrible jokes, dry often black sense of humor and bask in sleeping warm in his big arms at night. Soap hasn’t slept so well in months and his nightmares have apparently been swept away by Ghost’s presence. Soap likes cuddling with Ghost, likes waking up warm for a change.

They regard the finished bedroom with great satisfaction. This shade of blue, with an ivory trim is working nicely. They contemplate the empty room and Simon suddenly suggests they take the afternoon ferry off the island and spend a few days on the mainland. They can visit Soap’s parents and search for new furnishings for the cottage. Besides, Simon tells him, he wants to rent a trailer so they can better haul renovation materials. Soap blinks, stymied by the implication that Simon wants to spend more time here, that he actually wants to spend more time with him. Then seeing Simon’s worry at his lack of response, quickly agrees.

He hasn’t left the island since his arrival.

Somehow in his head, he decided that he would not leave his self imposed exile until the ocean swept him away on its tides. Now he finds the idea of leaving with Simon rather jarring, as it doesn’t fit his internal narrative. The thought of visiting his parents even more so. He’s been working hard at distancing himself from his old life both mentally and physically. He finds he rather resents the fact that he will be forced to interact with people—his family again. Then, as he absently throws together some clothes in a small duffle, he abruptly decides this can actually work quite well with his plan. He will be leaving his comfort zone for only a short time and this will simply add to the narrative. After all, a suicidal person wouldn’t be shopping for furniture and visiting family with his former lieutenant, would he? He can work with this.

It changes nothing.

They load up the rover and catch the ferry and head for Glasgow. Once there, Ghost rents a small trailer with enough covered space to haul furniture and supplies for renovations. He doesn’t tell Johnny he slyly texted his mum with a heads up. Both men are wearing their homemade jumpers. Simon’s is loose enough that he is able to add layers and it fits his broad shoulders well, while Johnny’s, sized to fit his fighting weight, hangs loosely off his leaner frame. He chose the dove grey one and it looks good on him. He shyly asked Simon to help him trim his hair and the tapered fade with longer top and back, along with a shave looks good on him. He looks enough like his old self that his mother bursts into happy tears at the sight of him and his father nods and beams approval at Simon.

Irene herds them into the kitchen for tea and they all sit down to a delicious meal of mutton stew and freshly baked bread. Johnny eats with a good appetite and obediently swallows the dose of meds and vitamins that Simon silently places beside his plate after. Intent on swallowing his full dose of ‘horse pills’, he isn’t aware of his mother beaming at Ghost or the way the big man ducks his head shyly at her obvious approval.

It’s a good visit. Johnny allows his mother to fuss over him all she wishes and even dutifully admires the new jumper she is knitting, which is an alarming shade of orange, knowing he will look like a traffic cone wearing it. She happily produces the curtains she sewed for the kitchen, which thankfully are in a demure buttercup yellow check to match the walls. Johnny praises them lavishly, wanting his last visit home to be a good memory for her. In this same spirit, he makes a point to consult his Da about the cottage renovations and asks his opinion on good places to shop for quality used furniture and plumbing fittings and the like.

Simon even produces the rough sketch they made for enlarging the ‘rain room’ and before John knows it, his LT and his Da have put their heads together and hijacked his simple plan and are planning on adding a better water boiler and a man sized, accessible bathtub for his comfort. His weak protests are loftily ignored and John Sr. firmly informs him that hot soaks are good for damaged bones and muscles. Meekly he wanders off to the kitchen to allow his mother to fuss over him and stuff him with some of his favorite snacks. He can never resist her thick, chewy gingerbread or her tablet.

When they return to the cottage the Land Rover and trailer is loaded not only with plumbing fixtures, paint samples and new tools, but deliveries of the deluxe water boiler his Da chose and insisted on purchasing, as well as the huge Ghost sized (they checked, Simon climbed into it fully clothed and lay back in it) antique Victorian claw foot tub they found at a second hand refurb shop are due within a week. More than enough time to bash the Rain Room into shape.

They manage to do so, after knocking out a portion of the back wall (with help of the local stone mason), rebuilding it and expanding the entire room. As a result, they soon have a fully modern bath. They kept Grandda’s idea of a single, waterproof ‘room’ with the central drain and expanded on it by adding tile and waterproof sealant to the walls, a high pressure cascade rain shower head and the huge Victorian tub. The new water heater provides more than enough hot water to make their new bathroom downright luxurious and they even decide to replace the tiny sink, mirror, cabinet and ancient toilet and haul out a plumbing catalog to choose and place a hefty order.

Eventually they agree that the bathroom is now the most posh, decadent room in the entire house. John takes the first inaugural hot bath and can testify to this. It was bliss the way his muscles unknotted and Simon practically had to carry him to bed, he was so relaxed and sleepy and he slept like a log, tucked safely in the warm curve of Simon’s broad torso.

Ghost even ‘decorated’ a wall, providing a metal silhouette of a swimming mermaid, being stalked Jaws style by a silhouette shark rising beneath her. Soap laughed heartily at that and his contribution to bath interior design was to slyly add a silly, ceramic puffin shaped toothbrush holder. By now most of the house is fully renovated and it's early April and John can’t wait to see the puffins start to return to the island. He checks diligently every time they hike the cliff side trail and Simon is quietly amused at his eagerness to see the little birds return to the puffery. Simon is very much enjoying island life.

Then it all comes to a screeching halt with a single phone call from Price.

The team is being spun up on an urgent op and Ghost’s skills are urgently needed. For the first time in his life Ghost wants very much to refuse—to dig in his heels and balk and disobey orders. Especially when he sees Johnny’s happy face slowly close down and go blank as Price gives terse orders over the speaker of Simon’s phone. Price apologizes profusely to them both, but there are stolen nuclear missiles involved and Ghost is being spun up now. They are already on their way to pick him up via helicopter.

Johnny says nothing as Simon throws a few items in his duffle bag, and he doesn’t know how to breach that silence. He can’t apologise for doing his fucking job and he can’t even promise to return or even to make it back within a set time. This op could go on for weeks as they track down and secure the missiles and eliminate the hostiles. It’s another one of those egotistical Russian fanatics, determined to hold the world hostage, only this one is more intelligent than most and filthy rich with his own PMC.

Inside, Ghost is silently fuming and trying desperately to calculate how soon he can get back to his boy. He can already feel Soap distancing himself. His smile is thin and strained and he watches with clenched fists in his pockets as Simon prepares to meet the helo. Johnny doesn’t follow him out of the house when Nik sets it down in the lane or bid him farewell. He says nothing when Simon promises to return as soon as possible and just stands in the doorway and silently watches him stride away to the waiting helo.

Simon can feel his eyes boring into his back as he climbs aboard but when he buckles in and turns to wave goodbye, the pale blue door is already firmly closed. He can’t help but glare at Price’s chagrined face as he gears up. Gaz stares unhappily at the firmly shut cottage door. He was looking forward to the impending visit to his old friend and now Soap has made it clear that he can’t be bothered to even wave them off.

Ghost gears up furiously, digging into the bag that Gaz shoved over, focusing very deliberately on every buckle and strap so he can resist the growing urge to wring Johnathan Price’s neck. It's not Price’s fault. It’s always going to be like this, he realizes. There is always going to be yet another dangerous op, another oligarch with visions of grandeur, another well funded terrorist group until the gears of war succeeds in grinding him up and spitting out his remains like it did Johnny. Once Ghost wouldn’t have cared. Career soldiers tend to die bloody deaths and he has already been buried once. But now he has something—someone to live for—someone who needs him and he has had enough. Her Majesty’s government has had over twenty years of hard service from him and it is enough.

He slides his last throwing knife in place and raises cold eyes and meets his Captain’s calm, steel blue ones and grits out.

” This is my last op, Price.”

There is the faintest flicker of something in Price’s eyes. Surprise and then respect and something akin to pride as the man nods calmly accepting his decision and already taking it in stride. The burly Captain simply nods in acceptance and stares down at the little gray stone cottage as it recedes in the distance. Unlike Simon, Price saw the fleeting look of pure grief that flashed across young John’s face as he watched his lieutenant board the helo. MacTavish doesn’t trust or believe Simon will return and has shut the door on all hope.

Price vows to see that Simon Riley returns home in one piece—because that little house and the man inside it have become Simon’s first real home. Price saw it in every photo and brief message that Simon sent detailing his and Soap’s adventures in renovation as they began to build a new life together, unwittingly or not. Sitting back, he pulls out his tablet and types a message to Laswell. Best to get her started now on the proper paperwork so Simon Riley can resume his place in the land of the living. He will need identification and his full pension and Laswell will make it so.

Behind him John MacTavish punches, then slumps against the door and slides bonelessly to the cold floor and gives a single scream of pure rage and anguish for all that he has lost and all that might have been. Sobbing, he buries his face in his shaking hands and weeps until he is all cried out, then stares dully at the floor before he swipes clumsily at his wet face and snotty nose. He feels hollowed out. Then he takes a deep breath and pulls himself together and crawls to the nearby bench and pulls himself slowly to his feet. His head hurts now, threatening a migraine and his leg is throbbing in sympathy.

Simon is and always has been a career military man. He would have eventually tired of playing house with John and become bored anyway. He will probably return to pick up the remainder of his luggage and the Land Rover before returning to Credenhill or send someone to pick them up. John was delusional and began to build fairy castles in his head where they lived happily ever after. Quietly he limps into the bright kitchen and stares dully at nothing until the oven chimes gently. His Mam sent them home with more food, including a lamb casserole which he dug out of the freezer to celebrate finishing the bath. He turns the oven off and decides to have a lie down instead.

He isn’t hungry anymore.

He spends the next few weeks doing much of the same. He wanders silently through the house, finishing small tasks. Eats when his stomach growls and occasionally takes his meds when the pain bothers him so much that he cannot rest. He very carefully does not think beyond the present and when most of his fresh groceries spoil he doesn’t bother to visit the shops to replace them, just digs a tin of something out of the pantry.

He takes his meds and goes to bed early. Wakes up and shuffles listlessly around the kitchen. Stares at the stale scone in his hand, then puts it down. He has no appetite. He walks through the house and dully catalogs the few things that require finishing. The parlor needs new plaster, paint, rugs and furniture. That’s about all except for the vague ideas he had for a garden. It’s enough, he decides. It’s enough. His Da will finish the last renovations.

He is tired.

He returns to the kitchen ignoring the painful throb in his leg. Soon that won't matter. He will never hurt again. He digs into the kitchen drawer and removes his list. It’s finished enough, he thinks. It would look suspicious if everything was left perfect. He has one small task left. His Mam sent a rose bush home with him to plant by the front door and it's been waiting in a bucket in the mud room since. It’s a deep red climber and will look lovely this summer when it blooms by the pale blue door. He will plant it in the morning, then take a final walk along the cliff. Carefully he pencils the task on his list to be checked off. He will do so tomorrow morning.

The puffins should be returning soon. It’s a pity he won't see them one last time.

***

It takes three fucking weeks to wrap up the op.

Simon is a silent, viciously efficient juggernaut. When they need key intel from a stubborn Russian woman—one of the Russian’s overpriced mistresses— Simon literally wrings it out of her bones—taking her slender wrist in his huge hands and calmly snapping long, delicate fingers in multiple places until she breaks and sobs out the info, begging him to stop. He had noted how proud she was of her well kept hands, manicured and decorated with expensive rings and her flawless face. It is fortunate that she chose to speak because he planned to carve a Glasgow smile in her perfect profile next. He is very aware that Price and Gaz watch him a bit warily afterwards. Ghost has always been clinical and very professional when it came to using coercion to gain intel, but now he displays a certain level of savage zeal that worries them.

In the end Ghost puts a bullet in the oligarch’s head, they retrieve the missiles, and Simon pauses at Credenhill only to scrawl his signature on a packet of forms for Price before loading his few belongings in his rental and heading north. He stops in Manchester only long enough to load up the rest of his few possessions, clothing, knives and a few well loved books, and put his small flat on the market before heading for Scotland. There is a growing sense of urgency in his chest. Johnny is not responding to his calls and texts and his mum has not heard from him since their visit.

By the time he wheels into the drive he has been on the road for hours and he has had little sleep for days. It’s a bit past noon and a rare sunny April day on the isle. As he steps from his truck and stretches out his long limbs with many sharp cracks of joints, he notes that Johnny has planted the rose bush his mum gave him beside the door, the long, skinny canes carefully fastened to grow and curve over the door frame, bits of new green tentatively budding out. The front door is unlocked and he hesitates only a moment before entering.

The little house is still and quiet and chilly. There is no answer to his call. Worried, he walks into the kitchen and notes that the only thing on the hob is the kettle and its cold. There is a half cup of cold coffee abandoned on the kitchen table and a piece of paper next to Johnny’s journal. He picks it up and gives it a cursory glance, perhaps it's a grocery list that Johnny forgot on his way to the shops. The next moment he freezes as he realizes exactly what he is reading, then drops the paper and pushes out the kitchen door and sprints for the cliff side trail, heart in his throat as adrenaline surges through him.

No. Not his bright boy. No. He can endure everything that the fucking world throws at him but he cannot endure that. No. No. No! He cannot, he will not be too late. He refuses to lose Soap.

He charged recklessly up the muddy path, nearly falling twice, noting recent signs of Soap’s passage. The muddy scruff where his foot slipped, the divot of his hiking stick. When he nears the curve of the trail near the puffery he realizes that he can hear angry shouts and squawks over the sound of the wind. Rounding the trail, he sees Johnny crouched low, huddled over something and angrily swinging his hiking stick over his head at an enormous brown gull that is viciously dive bombing him. Angry Scottish curses ring out in the brisk air over the bird’s angry screeches. There is blood trickling down his face.

Ghost doesn’t even think and in the next second he hurled a throwing knife with deadly accuracy and knocked the angry skua in a burst of feathers out of the air to thud down onto the rocks below. It’s probably illegal to kill the damned things in a bird sanctuary but he doesn’t give a fuck. He hurries to his boy, who is regarding him with wide eyes and blinking in astonishment, clutching a small black and white bird with a bright orange beak protectively to his chest.

A puffin.

His daft lad was fiercely defending a puffin on the cliff side. One that is apparently an early arrival to the island and injured.

Quickly he kneels by his lad and tilts his face up to examine the deep, bleeding gash on his forehead, suddenly savagely pleased to have killed the skua. An inch lower and it would have stabbed it's hard beak into Johnny’s left eye. He gathers his boy close and presses a thankful kiss to his tousled head. His heart is pounding. He made it in time. His boy is alive and still with him and more importantly, still full of piss and vinegar.

“Are you alright, love?”

”Simon?”

The dazed bewilderment in his lad’s voice sends a sharp shard to his heart. His lad did not believe he would return. He gathers him closer, keeping a possessive arm around his shoulders as he examines Johnny’s new friend. The wee bird regards him solemnly. Apparently not at all perturbed to be rescued by humans from his huge nemesis.

”Is it hurt, Johnny?”

He asks gently, suddenly aware that he must treat his partner with great delicacy now until he determines his state of mind. To his relief, Johnny sniffs and impatiently wipes his face with one muddy hand, smearing blood and snot across his scruffy jaw.

“Ah donnae think so LT. He is the first to arrive and exhausted. There was a squall at sea last night. Tha damned skua was trying to take advantage. ‘Twas not fair, all he wanted was to come home.”

They carefully examine their charge and determine that his small, plump body is uninjured. The puffin isn’t bothered, puffs out his feathers agreeably, preens a bit and tilts his head and regards them back with amiable interest. Simon watches with great fondness as his lad knee walks over and carefully deposits the little bird in front of what is apparently a choice burrow in the puffinerie and the little creature immediately scurries inside and takes residence in it’s prime, new real estate. Satisfied, Johnny struggles to push himself upright and Simon hurries to help, sliding a possessive arm around his waist. To his delight, a rose pink blush floods his boy’s face. Bold now, he doesn’t hesitate to press a fond kiss to his cheek. Best his lad knows his intentions immediately. He doesn’t dare presume otherwise.

Carefully he enfolds him in both arms and holds him close and speaks softly in his ear.

”You are not allowed to leave me, love. When we go, we go together.”

After a long moment, with Soap simply breathing in his arms, breath humid against his throat, he feels strong fingers curl shyly into his sleeve and hold tight and hears a small sniffle against his chest.

”Yeah?”

His voice is soft and hoarse, not quite believing yet, but that is fine. Simon can work with that. He will work hard so his boy never doubts him again. Gently he tilts his love’s head up and takes his mouth in a gentle, almost chaste kiss. His lad responds tentatively and for some time they simply exchange soft, exploratory kisses until Johnny shivers in his arms and he realizes that his lad must have been out here for some time before Simon arrived because he is cold to the bone. Arm around his shivering lad (the wind is quite brisk now), he gently steers him towards home. They have a lot to talk about and he needs to see that Johnny eats a warm meal and takes his meds. He will prepare a hot bath for him to soak in as well and perhaps share it. He plans on sticking to his lad like glue until he sees the shadows vanish from those changeable, ocean blue eyes and his boy finally believes he is here to stay.

***

Soap thinks that he probably had a mental break and is now hallucinating. After all, he hasn’t had a full meal in days. It’s a very nice hallucination too. Simon came to his defense and actually knifed a predatory cunt of a skua to death. He makes a mental note not to mention that to the island gamekeeper. There is probably a hefty fine involved for skua murder.

Simon carefully escorts him down the trail and when he stumbles after his bad leg gives way, he simply scoops John up in a bridal carry and carries him home, giving him a sharp, concerned look when he doesn’t object. Why would he object to such a good dream? He is afraid that if he speaks, he will wake up alone again. It’s very nice to be carried, very comforting. Like floating.

So he is silent and docile when Simon carries him across the yard and into the kitchen and dimly aware of Simon conversing with someone—Claire—who says she will bring over some hot soup and fresh bread immediately. She sounds worried and he hopes she doesn’t call Celia because sweet creeping Jesus that woman can fuss almost as much as his mam. He thinks he closes his eyes for a minute and comes back to awareness again as he is being gently lowered into a steaming bath, fragrant with lavender oil and salts. Dreamily he stares at Simon’s absorbed face as he tends to him. Carefully bathing him, washing his hair and tending to the gash on his head, cleaning it carefully and applying antiseptic and steri-strips. Those beautiful whiskey eyes catch his and crinkle with a smile. Simon is not wearing his mask, so this is most assuredly a dream.

”Back with me, sweet’eart?”

Soap returns the smile tentatively, still refusing to speak afraid to break the dream. Simon looks concerned again but his big, scarred hands are exquisitely gentle as he bathes, dries and dresses Soap in his warmest, softest sleep pants, warm socks and one of Simon’s thickest long sleeved jumpers. Simon carries him to bed and thanks Claire who carries in a tea tray laden with a bowl of hot soup, fresh buttered bread and tea. She brushes it off and they speak softly together for a few moments before she gently tells John she will see him later and takes her leave. Simon walks her out and returns with a full dose of John’s meds and ignores his scowl as he begrudgingly swallows them with his tea.

Why does he have to take medicine in his dream? His scowl melts into a pout. Not fair. However he opens his mouth for the spoonful of delicious homemade cock-a-leekie soup and eats obediently because it pleases Simon. His empty stomach gives a pleased gurgle and he dutifully consumes everything he is given, even the final massive ‘horse’ pill. Shortly thereafter he finds himself lying back in bed while Simon carefully massages liniment into the taut muscles of his leg and then places a lidocaine patch over his swollen, battered kneecap. The massive yawn takes him by surprise and he blinks heavily as his meds take him under, dark lashes drooping, pleased that the last thing he sees before drifting off into the darkness is Simon’s unmasked face. Why does his LT look so worried?

Simon tucks his love in, carefully pulling the thick blankets up to his chin, then sits back in the chair and allows himself to fall apart just a bit. He buries his face into his shaking hands and just breathes. Deep steadying breaths to calm himself down. He was almost too late. If the fucking op had lasted even a few hours longer, if he was held up in Manchester, if the ferry had delayed… if. If not for the early arrival of that small, orange beaked, daft looking bundle of feathers, he would have lost his boy to the tides of the Hebrides. That fucking puffin saved his love, as surely as Johnny saved it’s small life. His fragile, lost boy, who hiked up that fucking dangerous trail one last time, weary and in pain and intent on taking himself out of this world, yet took the time to vigorously defend a small, storm battered bird.

Simon sits and shakes, his mind running in hapless circles.

After a while he takes a deep breath and pulls himself together and gets to work. First, he unloads his vehicle, placing his duffle, footlocker and few boxes in the box room to be sorted through later. Then he walks across the road to enlist Claire’s help. They need a substantial grocery restock and he can’t leave Soap alone yet. To his relief, Claire is delighted to help and happily helps him make a list, then takes it and his credit card and bustles off to the shops. He requests a takeaway as well, too wired to cook. He has no doubt that she will contact Celia who will appear on the doorstep tomorrow to check on Johnny.

Returning to the cottage, he sets about tidying up the kitchen. It’s not too bad, simply neglected because he suspects that Soap hasn’t been bothering to feed himself. He checks the kitchen bin and finds only a few empty tins and quite a bit of moldy bread. He is dismayed at the empty cupboards and fridge. All the while he moves about the small house—reclaiming the space, he realizes, as he dials up the temperature to warm the house and checks the seals around the new windows. Johnny needs to be warm as his bones heal. Finally, reluctantly he returns to the kitchen table and seats himself with a cuppa and forces himself to pick up that damned To Do list.

Johnny meticulously ticked off most of the items except for the unfinished parlor. They were debating ordering new furniture and a telly before Simon was spun up. Now he realizes that this is an old list, carefully crafted and added to over time. He even took out life insurance to leave something for his parents and updated his Will. Simon wonders if he left letters with his solicitor for everyone and feels the hair lift on the nape of his neck as a cold shiver crawls up his spine.

The thought of returning to an empty house, searching desperately along the cliffs only to realize his lad was forever lost to him… he shudders. Carefully he folds the list and replaces it in the back of the journal, finding the nearly invisible pocket in the back. Soap has been very careful and Simon was very lucky today.

He huffs out a breath and pulls out his phone and texts Johnny’s mum, informing her that her son is fine, just having a few bad pain days and that Simon is seeing to him. The loving response he gets from her makes him blush. She reminds him achingly of his own mother, although his mum was much more gentle and timid. She eagerly agrees to visit soon. Next he texts Price and bluntly informs him that he found his former sergeant in a bad way and that perhaps he and Garrick should prioritize a visit soon. Johnny needs connections with family and friends to bind him to this world and Simon refuses to allow him to withdraw from the world now. His boy is a social creature and those ties are essential to his well being.

Unable to resist he goes to check his love, gently bending to press a kiss to his sleeping face. His boy is relaxed now, no pain or stress visible on his face and his skin is warm but Ghost can see that he has already lost weight. He hasn’t been eating, which probably means he has been skipping his meds again. Silently Simon pads down the hall to the bathroom and checks the medicine cabinet, noting the level of the pills in each vial. It’s as he thought. Soap has skipped days of medication. He has been taking only his nightly sleep medication regularly.

Well, Simon is home now and that will change.

John wakes blissfully warm and pain free, cradled in strong arms and blinks in astonishment at the sun washed ceiling. There is a cobweb there and he scowls at it because he distinctly remembers cleaning the freshly replastered ceiling. His brow twinges and he raises a hand to the tender gash on his head. Fucking cunt bird! There is a deep chuckle in his ear and he slowly turns his head to meet crinkled, amused, whiskey brown eyes. It wasn’t a dream. Simon came back. Simon is…home? He is afraid to hope. A big hand gently smooths a strand of hair out of his face and he is gathered close and coaxed to rest his head on a broad chest. Simon’s strong heart thuds steadily beneath his ear. He really is here.

”Yes, love, I’m home. That was my last op.”

Simon assures him gently.

Silently John closes his eyes, one hand fisted tight in Simon’s tee shirt. He hadn’t realized he spoke his thoughts aloud. He barely dares to hope because if this is an actual dream he doesn’t want to wake again.

Quietly Simon begins to speak, telling him of that final op and dryly assuring him that the free world is saved yet again. He snorts at that and Simon grins back at him. Then he tells Soap of his discharge and the reams of paperwork he had to sign and that Price has assured him that his new identification papers will arrive soon, courtesy of Laswell’s brisk efficiency. Apparently he is getting a promotion, pay rise and a full pension for meritorious service. Laswell shamed the Brass into it, pointing out exactly how much Simon Riley has lost in his loyal service to the Crown. Both Price and Gaz are going to be visiting in a couple of weeks, as they are both due leave and his parents are arriving to visit soon and does Soap think his mam will bring his spiffy new jumper? He snort laughs when Soap thumps him hard at the reminder of the impending orange monstrosity.

Simon continues to talk a steady stream of chatter that is both reassuring and totally unlike the laconic man, its comforting and the best lullaby as Soap dozes off again, boneless, reassured and relaxed now but still holding tight to this promise of a new life. He drifts off easily with Simon’s deep voice in his ear and one big hand gently stroking his hair. He wonders if they can clean and repaint the spare room before his parents arrive? If not, they can stay at Rose Halloway’s B&B. It’s the coziest on the island. He slides back into the sweet depths of healing sleep. His last conscious thought is of the gentle kiss pressed to his brow.

***

”Sweet creeping Jesus!”

Soap declared and slumps back against his LT with a relieved sigh as his parents’ ancient car finally putts away, farting black smoke, his mam and sister waving goodbye. Da badly needs to check the fuel injector and change the oil. Davida had been relentless. Not only had she brought John half a posh new wardrobe (including a pair of black lace boxer briefs that made him flush scarlet and quickly hide them), but she had questioned Simon’s intentions regarding her brother and grilled him within an inch of his life until his Mam scolded her and diverted her attention by inquiring about her upcoming final exams. How did one studying couture have exams? Did she have to make a dress or something? He has no clue.

And yes, John is indeed now clad in a new jumper knitted from traffic cone orange yarn with vivid yellow trim on the neck and sleeves, but he is also gleeful because his Mam brought one for Si as well, knitted from an alarming shade of neon green with purple zigzags and Simon had actually thanked her for it with a straight face and dutifully wore it. They both look like glaikit eejits. They then basked in motherly approval during the visit and allowed her to stuff them with her delicious food while John Sr. inspected the ongoing cottage renovations, hummed approvingly and made helpful suggestions, pleased at seeing the rejuvenation of his childhood home.

The elder MacTavish surprised his son by presenting him with a deed and informing his son that he was now the proud owner of the house. Johnny was gobsmacked and a bit overwhelmed at the news and protested only to have his parents assure him that it was only fair because they were leaving their house in Glasgow to Davida. Plus, he informed his son, his grandfather had specifically requested that he do so because he knew how much John loved the little house and the island. Davida, on the other hand, was a city lass through and through and even preferred spending her holidays on shopping trips to posh cities with prominent fashion industries like Paris, New York or Milan. The mere thought of traipsing about the countryside gave her hives. So, even if John decided to live elsewhere, the wee house was now his.

The elder MacTavish somehow managed to haul in a huge antique oak bedstead he’d found at an estate sale, disassembled and strapped down to the roof of the car and plans were made to order a posh new mattress immediately. The ancient Victorian bedstead had finally objected to holding two large men, given up the ghost (literally) and subsequently collapsed beneath them, which had been both startling and hilarious because they were feeling frisky and in mid snog at the time. They had slept on the old mattress on the floor since.

Grinning cheerfully, John turned to Simon and spread his arms expansively to display his sartorial finery at it’s finest and did a silly little twirl causing the hem of his utilikilt to swirl about his thighs and Simon to smile fondly.

“Shall we stroll down the lane and see how many cars we can divert?”

Ghost shrugged, snorted and reeled him in and tucked him cozily under his arm.

”At least they’re warm, love, though I do wonder if your mum is colorblind.”

”Nae, LT. Mam loves her bright colors, she does. Says they cheer her up on gray days.”

Ghost made a mental note of that (he had vaguely heard of color therapy and its effects on depression) and to order some paints for his lad to experiment with. He has noticed that when Soap gets absorbed into the creative ‘flow’ with his drawing, he barely notices his aches and pains. Perhaps he will build his lad a studio in the back garden or convert the box room into one.

Things were heating up considerably between them physically, as they worked their way through Soap’s new drug regime (courtesy of Soap’s new physician) and Ghost overcame his body shyness. Touch has always been difficult for him, but somehow he craved Johnny’s more with each passing day and Soap basked in being doted on and sweetly courted by his lover. He was slowly regaining his self-confidence with Simon’s steady support. With his LT’s steadfast presence, he was beginning to feel he could face anything again.

Price and Gaz were arriving next Saturday and bringing the new sergeant, Gary ‘Roach’ Sanderson along for a weekend visit (and unofficial vetting). Ghost knew the man, has worked with him in the past and thought he would be a good fit for the team. Both Soap and Ghost are sorely missed, because their loss effectively halved the most efficient team in the SAS. TF141 is now seeking a new sniper. Price has a few applicants in mind and no doubt he will run them by his former lieutenant during the visit.

Ghost agreed to do some consultation work, much to Laswell and Price’s satisfaction, but he made it clear that he would not allow the Brass to rope him back into the field. Instead he was blissfully sinking into civilian life with Johnny and took great delight in exploring all aspects of that life together. In his wildest dreams he never thought he would end up living a peaceful, rural life on a Scottish isle with his sergeant and enjoying it immensely. They have decided to stay at least until the cottage is fully renovated and if they now took their sweet time in doing so, no one mentioned it.

They are slowly establishing a routine here.

Johnny has friends new and old across the island now, and is back to his usual cheerful, friendly self despite his bad pain days. They have their domestic routines, making a weekly visit to the shops, sometimes they watch a game at the pub and Ghost has become a regular at the small library. Johnny is getting more engrossed in his art and takes online classes and they both have started to clean up and plan out the front and kitchen gardens at the cottage.

Soap also dutifully checks on the puffinerie almost daily and has a special fondness for the little bird he rescued, who has acquired a spouse and chicks (he is still a terror to any skua daring to cruise by the puffinerie, hiking stick at ready), Ghost listens fondly to his lad’s excited updates on the puffin, whom Johnny has christened Pete, despite the fact he has no clue if the little bird is male or female. If his boy takes delight in spending a few hours daily visiting and sketching the odd little birds, so be it.

The local game keeper, Liam Ross was delighted to learn of John’s knowledge about the small colony and wheedled him into keeping an eye on it and occasionally helping Liam corral the biologists and birdwatchers who visited the island. There is a larger colony across the island that many tourists visit and they keep the gamekeeper busy. Ghost had even been roped in when one of the more enthusiastic ones slid off the cliff while taking photographs and ended up stranded on a narrow ledge. Both Liam and the local constabulary were delighted that the two former SAS men were well versed with rope work and rock climbing.

They had cheerfully hauled the chagrined birdwatcher up with casual expertise, Ghost climbing down and Soap working the ropes above, and handed her off to the EMTs since she had broken her ankle. She was quite taken by her rescuers and disappointed to find they were actually a couple.

***

Claire was pruning her roses along the front fence of her garden, Edgar sprawled tummy up in the summer sunshine when she saw the MacTavish-Rileys coming back from their daily hike along the cliffs. Young John is looking much better these days. He has gained his fighting weight and muscle back and his skin is sunkissed and flushed with health. He is doing so well now, she often hears his laughter ringing out across the road now, when he and Simon are in the garden. His towering husband regards him with such fondness that it makes Claire feel rather voyeuristic.

The big man is very intimidating to many, especially on the days he doesn’t bother to wear his medical mask, baring his scars to the world. Young MacTavish is obviously describing another encounter with his arch enemies, the villainous skuas as he mimes swinging his walking stick and shaking his fist at the sky. This amuses his husband because he throws back his head and laughs aloud, which causes John to beam at him, pleased at entertaining his laconic spouse.

As she watches, amused at John’s antics, Simon scoops him up, throws him over a broad shoulder and carries him inside with a brisk slap to his arse, John thumping his shoulder and objecting to the manhandling loudly. They are still firmly entrenched in the honeymoon stage. She smiles to herself as she snips a fragrant red blossom to place in a vase centerpiece on her kitchen table.

It’s good to see a happy ending to what could have been a horrible tragedy.

FINI

03/02/2025