Chapter Text
John sat with his computer late one evening in the room they had dubbed as their office. While neither Simon nor he had a job where they needed an office at home, the title just fit the small space. It was just a large desk that had already been there when they bought the cottage with an office chair, closets lining one wall and filing cabinets flanking the desk. There was a pull-out couch there too, opposite the closets, just in case there was not enough space in the guest room. They had their Military graduation pictures along with the medals and honorary titles hung up on the wall above the couch, framed pictures of their military lives that didn't truly fit inside a living space surrounding the graduation photographs. Pictures that told two very different stories that eventually started to converge together.
The closets were filled with curtains, old blankets, extra pillows and sheets. But one of them held all of their old gear that didn't need to be handed back in. Old tactical gear, field boots and dress uniforms from different branches of the military. Skull balaclavas and the many other hard masks Simon had donned in his career, the one he had donned during his years in the 141 had been strung up above his graduation photo.
John rolled his shoulders, he’d sat here a while now, journal open with a bunch of scribbled-down notes and doodles. Feeling an ache building up between his shoulder blades he would have to beg (ask) Simon to massage away later.
He didn't get up though, he had a chat with his sister Veronica and a different one with Price and Gaz, sending messages about the topic he was currently looking at. Price had come with some good pointers, Gaz was just a menace and John groaned every time something stupid popped up from the chat from him. Veronica had been on and off answering, probably not too weird as Alec had a tendency to not want to sleep, and John jotted that down too in the journal.
Simon was currently gone, his trusty old Land Rover had decided that today was the day for it to break down and Simon was still at the mechanic. Probably haunting some shadowy corner in the waiting room while it got fixed.
A chime came from the computer interrupting John as he drew a sleepy Simon next to the jotted-down list he had begun on. He glanced up to see a message from Veronica finally answering him.
‘ Here is that link I was supposed to send, there are some good resources there! <3’
He wrote out a thank you and opened the link and began to read through the website, he sighed and tapped out a rhythm against the wooden desk. Distant memories of writing stupid reports and mission logs, deciphering his own handwriting of important notes he had taken on the go in the margins of photocopies of half-finished ones. He had never been a man who could sit still for hours like this. He wasn't like Simon, who meticulously could take apart his guns and clean every bit of them for hours, who would write a report in one go without moving an inch until it was done. But John deemed this too important, he needed all the details, all the information so they didn't hit a wall they couldn’t climb over. Once they started this it would be no going back, and he wanted them to be well-informed.
Simon was digging through the closet in the office, he had taken out two dress uniforms, and too many balaclavas and was currently elbow-deep in the pockets of his old field uniform. He couldn’t find it. He sighed and switched pockets, he swore under his breath as he found just old bullet shells and trash, and he swore one more time as he started to shove the balaclavas back into the closet not caring that they would spill out if something brushed against the pile.
He heard the front door open and small feet thundering against the hardwood floors while he hung the dress uniforms back, checking that too just in case even though he hadn’t really used it. Lewis skidded to a stop when he noticed Simon was in the office, “Uncle Simon I started school today!”
The balaclavas were about to tip out when he shut the closet door, a stray thought of that being a future problem as he walked over to Lewis who proudly held out his week plan that was printed on a piece of paper. Simon took it, looking over it intensely like he did with everything the kid handed to him. “Was it fun?” he asked looking at the homework schedule that only said ‘ make a new friend ’.
“Aye!”
They walked back into the kitchen and Johnny stood there with grocery bags on the island and still in a jacket. Looking stressed and patting his pockets. He barely noticed them entering as he nearly barreled into Simon’s chest. “Oi, look out there Johnny,” Simon grabbed him by the shoulders, keeping his partner steady.
“Ack,” John stopped and took a breath to calm himself down, before grinning up at his partner, “sorry love, think I forgot my phone in the car.”
Simon let him pass with a kiss to his temple, seeing the man shove his feet in Simon’s shoes and walk out the door without closing it, laces flying around his ankles and half slipping off because of the bigger size. Letting the late summer air waft in. Lewis was somewhere in the living room and Simon had half a thought to check on him but settled with unpacking the groceries first. His therapist had said it was healthy for him to let things happen as they happened, his need for control and to check on things were remnants from his years as a lieutenant, so he let the worry sit on the back burner of his mind and continued with the groceries. Keeping an ear out for any out-of-place noise.
John returned without his jacket and phone in between his fingers looking proud of himself for finding it. He walked up to Simon, sliding his arms around his waist and letting his forehead rest against the nape of Simon’s neck. “Long day?” Simon asked, bringing one hand to where Johnny’s rested against his stomach. He felt a nod against his neck and hummed as he continued to unpack.
They stood there in silence, just letting the sounds of crinkling plastic soothe the aches of the day. A distant yelp and a small crash interrupted the moment and both of them went on high alert. Simon shoved John behind him and followed the sound to the living room with fast steps, internally cataloguing where the closest weapons were in case of intruders. His heart beat frantically in his chest and a cold dread seeped through his body. All worst-case scenarios flickered through his mind as he saw the couch pillows on the floor, and then he saw the bloodied handprint against the glass coffee table. His mind conjured horrific images as he rounded the couch, hands itching to get the handgun stashed in the side table next to it. Lewis was crying, clutching his hand against his chest and sitting back against the couch on the floor. Massive sobs and fat tears streaked his young face.
Simon immediately slipped into action after seeing no signs of intruders or attackers, all his feelings and dread were put behind a wall as he kneeled in front of Lewis. He scanned the boy with trained eyes and let his hands settle against his trembling small shoulders, “what happened?”
Lewis hiccuped and cried harder, tucking his chin into his chest and curling a bit on himself where he sat. He looked more scared than hurt, and Simon gently rubbed his shoulders, trying to get him to unfurl from the huddled position.
“Let me see your hand Lewis,” his voice was cold, but not harsh - never harsh towards Lewis - commanding in a way that got Lewis to give his bloodied hand to him, blinking up at him with large grey eyes. Simon noted John moving behind him and walking down the hallway with fast determined steps. The small hand cradled within Simon’s massive ones was curled in a tight fist, blood dripping down onto the carpet. “You have to open it too.”
His small fingers shook, but he complied and sobbed a bit harder, John came from the other side of the couch, handing an opened-up first aid kit - a military one they both knew how to navigate with their eyes closed - to Simon who inspected the cut. It was clean and straight and thankfully not deep, just in the palm of the small hand. Guilt started to spill out over the wall in Simon’s mind. His body tensed up as the realisation dawned on him. But he put a bandage hard against the wound, Lewis yelping in John’s arms now, who was gently comforting him; thick arms curled around the small body, cradling him to his chest. Simon raised Lewis’ hand while holding the pressure, elevating the cut so it would stop the bleeding.
“Lewis, tell us what happened,” John coaxed gently into the tuft of brown hair when Lewis started to calm down, only hiccuping a few times and rubbing at his eyes with his uninjured hand. Mumbling some incoherent apologies and taking a big deep breath before he managed to answer.
“Lost my week plan underneath the couch and I saw this cool sword,” he mumbled, twisting slightly to cuddle against John’s chest, seeking comfort away from the sting in his hand, “but then it hurt when I touched it…”
Simon caught John’s gaze, a mutual understanding passing between them, and even more, guilt washed over him. With his free hand, he wormed it underneath the couch where the knife had been hidden a long time ago when the couch had been brand new and the locks on the cottage hadn't been replaced yet. The handle felt heavy and unbalanced in his hand - like it held more weight in the blade now that it had innocent blood gleaming on the sharp edge - as he fished it out from its hiding spot. The blade had been sharpened by his own hand, now it gleamed in the light and had deep red blood on it. Simon felt sick just looking at it. “This one?” he asked, knowing the answer already.
Lewis nodded and reached for it without any fear, Simon let him feel the handle but he didn’t let go of the blade, his hands steady while small fingers felt the rough texture on the handle, “it looks cool…” Lewis mumbled again, a small upturn of one corner of his mouth.
The blade got put on the table, and with a bit more tears and some good comforting hugs from John later, the cut was cleaned and bandaged. John took Lewis back to the kitchen to find some sweets hidden in the cupboards while Simon took the knife and put it up on a high shelf where it wouldn't fall and dealt with the blood stains on the carpet.
He tried to calm his racing mind and enjoy the rest of the afternoon with Lewis in their house. He joined them back in the kitchen, feeling tense and guilty still, but John swooped in with gentle hands and half-hidden kisses that Lewis commented were gross.
It was only later when Colin had come to pick up Lewis and Simon needed to explain what happened to his hand, that the guilt fully returned with a force enough to punch the air out of his lungs. He felt careless and stupid. He had put a child in danger because he couldn't feel safe without weapons easily in reach inside his own home.
But Colin had only nodded but forgave everything with a simple, “accidents happen, just make sure to not have anything where the kids can get them again, kids are like magnets to danger,” before taking Lewis and leaving with a gentle smile.
John had put his hands on his arm gently, but Simon still flinched away from the touch. Guilt wracked his mind and awful memories resurfaced. “Simon,” John tried but Simon was already slipping on his shoes, lacing them harshly and tight so they hurt just a bit to walk in, “love, please don’t do this, let us just talk about it.”
Simon grabbed John’s hands as they tried for a second time to touch him. He held them tight, his hands shook with barely contained emotions, and he couldn’t even face him properly - brown eyes locked on his shaking hands. “Johnny I can’t now…” his voice was deep and wavering, tight emotions swelled in his chest and he started to leave for the door letting go of John’s hands in the process.
“No we need to talk this through Simon you cannae just run away!” John grabbed at his shirt to slow him down, knowing it was a mistake the second his hands curled around the fabric.
It was quick, a blink of an eye and John got pinned against the jackets hanging from the pegs on the wall. A strong arm across his upper chest and intense eyes that seemed cold and distant, “just fuckin’ leave it, John!” Simon yelled, shoving him a bit harder against the wall, before he actually left, half running out of the door and slamming it shut behind him.
John knew Simon well enough to know when to leave him alone. It hadn't happened in a long time, they had their squabbles, arguments that only led to more anger and no resolution. Simon had his bad days where John pushed just a touch too far - opened his mouth one time too many. He knew that Simon needed the space, needed to get his emotions under control before he would come back. And he always did come back, he would slink back from wherever he had run off to and would come back and they’d talk it through calmly, finding the golden middle ground or a good compromise with a soft apology after.
John had only been yelled at once by Simon in an argument, and that had led to Simon needing an emergency therapy appointment. The man was practically allergic to emotional conflict where anger was involved, whenever things started to escalate Simon would leave. Even if John yelled after him out the door without shoes on his feet. Simon rarely raised his voice, rarely shouted or yelled in anger - the few exceptions were during their active years when yelling was the only answer to the situation. So in the echo of the door slamming shut, John sagged against the jackets and the dread started to seep in. “Fuck!” he hissed and dragged a hand down his face.
He knew of Simon’s family history - that had been a long uncomfortable conversation where John had barely contained his own rage - and the abuse he endured as a kid and teenager, he knew the yelling was a big trigger, only ripping open old wounds his father made decades ago. John had pushed it too far this time, he saw him begin to leave and now he was out there dealing with it alone - probably made worse by John's pushing. He thanked whatever higher power that the summer temperatures still lingered and that the forecast was steady clear skies. Because Simon had gone out in the cold dark winter for two hours without a jacket once because of some stupid argument John couldn’t even recall now.
So, he waited.
Waited as the clock ticked past midnight and sleep started to wear heavy on John’s eyelids. He waited until the clock ticked past one and then waited just a bit more before essentially giving up. He took his time brushing his teeth, changing clothes, flipping off the lights except some few so Simon wouldn't return to a dark house and he walked slowly to the bedroom.
He passed out near two, feeling the day wearing him down.
The light and the distant clattering from the kitchen woke him up gently. Easing him out of a dreamless sleep. His hand felt the side where Simon always slept, it was cold and empty, the duvet still made up hinting towards Simon never returning back to bed.
John got up, dragging on clothes and feeling tired still, the clattering continued but it was different, coming from more parts of the house. He walked in on Simon, still in yesterday's clothes, standing in the kitchen with a handgun taken apart in his hand. Knives, his hunting rifle and John’s handgun laying on the island top all spread out neatly. Simon didn't greet him with a good morning, he kept taking apart the gun, taking out the magazine and emptying it for bullets. He saw the knives carefully placed in a non-specific order, all polished and glinting in the morning sun, even Simon’s old throwing knife collection was there on the island top - probably dug out from storage down in the basement next to his hunting equipment.
This was the middle ground, and John knew he had to take the next step, he kept his distance trying to catch the other's eyes but they never left the gun in his hands. “Simon?”
It was met with silence, just a slight faltering in Simon’s movements indicating he heard him.
“Wha’ are ye doin’?”
“Securing all the weapons in the house,” his voice was gruff and hoarse after not being in use for some hours, his hands were steady, locked in the action.
“We have tae talk about yesterday,” John started, he was toeing the line he knew he had to cross, Simon had never had this reaction before. “Yesterday was only an accident, Steamin’ Jesus that kid gets himself into more trouble than a simple cut in his hand, it wasnae like ye were the one to cut ‘im…”
Simon stopped and the gun clattered loudly against the wooden surface, bullets rolling lightly over the grain and bumping into the knives. “I was the one who said we needed to have the knives and guns hidden around the house,” his gaze still locked on the gun in front of him and holding the island top with a white knuckle grip, “if Lewis had just gone to the side table instead and fiddled with that he could have put a bullet through his own skull.”
“So this isn’t about the cut?” John stepped further into the kitchen, settling a hip against the island, ducking his head to try to find Simon’s eyes. “I never protested against having weapons hidden, you cannae take all the blame love, it is just as much my fault too.”
That got his deep brown eyes flickering up, red-rimmed with deep circles underneath, giving John the answer to his earlier theory that Simon hadn't slept a wink. He shook his head, small movements and pursed his lips. His shoulders were tense and his whole body looked like a wound-up spring, ready to burst. “No Johnny, this is too serious, we have both been trained in weapon safety. This,” Simon released the death grip he had on the wood and gestured towards the guns, “this is not weapon safety, I am not allowing anyone into this house before we get every weapon locked up!”
And then the realisation dawned on John, it hadn't been about the accident, it wasn't just that. It was deeper, he had seen the guilt, and felt the tense shoulders during dinner yesterday. John rubbed at his unruly hair, not knowing how to even begin that conversation. “Look Simon,” he inched a hand over the island top towards Simon’s shaking hands, feeling the smooth grain underneath his palms, “let us just find a better solution, we can get one o’ those weapon safes and put everything in there, and then we can go over the house you ‘n me, secure it so no one can get hurt.”
His hand gently touched Simon’s shaking fingers, slow deliberate movements as he curled his own hand around Simon’s. The hand turned, palm against palm, feeling gun oil on Simon’s skin against his.
“But I know this isn’t about Lewis hurting himself,” John inched forward against the island, rounding the corner like he tried to calm a scared animal. Simon still avoided his gaze, but his hand squeezed John’s. “Please love, talk tae me…”
There was a single tear running down Simon’s cheek when his eyes finally found John’s, and like a broken dam, more tears started streaming down over scarred cheeks. It felt natural to drag the man into his arms, letting him sob into his neck while his hands clawed at John’s back. “ ‘M sorry,” Simon mumbled into John’s neck, burying his nose into the familiar scent, screwing his eyes shut.
John let his hands rub at Simon’s scalp and shoulder, trying to shoo away the tension and calm his partner down - like the many times he had done before. After a while John broke the stuttering silence, “It’s alright,” he gently pried Simon away from his neck, cradling his face with his hands, his heart breaking as he saw the pained expression and conflicting feelings displayed, “we’ll get through this, and then we’ll talk about it, figure out the plan and how to make this work like we always do.”
“Johnny,” Simon started, opening and closing his mouth as he tried to formulate a proper sentence, he sighed and ducked his head, hiding his brown glassy eyes from John. “Yesterday I realised how underprepared we truly are, and how careless I am. I felt like I was turning into my own father while yelling at you. The whole thing just reminded me of how Joseph died because of my past carelessness… ” He took a shuddering breath as some stray tears slid down his pale eyelashes, “what if I… Johnny, what if I am not meant to do this? What if I am too dangerous?”
John moved away then, feeling Simon’s hands clutch at the fabric of his t-shirt not wanting to let go just yet. But John bent down next to the doorway towards the hallway, where his backpack had been discarded yesterday after he had picked up Lewis, fishing out his journal. He made obvious movements to placate Simon who still stood rooted to the spot next to the kitchen island.
Simon was silent as John stepped back into his space, he pushed the gun away and the stray bullets and put the journal down and opened it where his pencil marked where he left off. The dark leather crinkled and the pages - some stained with coffee and others slightly ripped or folded at the corners - fluttered against his fingers.“I started doing some research to see our options, we have surrogacy but I dinnae ken if I like that too much and we have adoption,” he traced a finger underneath the words as he spoke, keeping it light.
“Johnny?”
He held på a finger, shushing him gently, “I started doing research because I saw how ye are around kids Simon,” he flipped a page backwards in the journal, small stills from Simon and Alec’s first meeting at the hospital, soft pencil strokes outlining a small baby held in big safe hands. John flipped back to another page where a fast drawing of Simon in a too-small jungle gym for a man of 193 centimetres with a Lewis dangling from said jungle gym with the title ‘Super Uncle Simon’, he flipped through many more further back, but eventually turned to the page where lists and research filled the paper. “Yes, we were careless with the weapons, but that disnae take away all this, ye are his hero Simon, and no bad day will take that away. We learn from our mistakes from yesterday and our past, and I know ye will be a great father and nothing like that arsehole, ‘cause I am a witness to how good ye are with them.”
Simon chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes reading the many lines on the open pages, but eventually, his eyes slid back towards John. Still glassy and red-rimmed, with dark circles that only some good sleep would smoothen out, but they glinted something other than guilt, a small hope. Simon's mouth twitched upwards and John knew he had managed to ease Simon’s worries, at least a little bit.
“Thank you, Johnny,” he whispered before leaning down and kissing John breathless. All the bad emotions drained from the room like bathtub water vortexing down the drain, and the tense muscles in Simon’s shoulders eased up and relaxed.