Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

s e v e n - z w i s c h e n g z u g

The house was quiet.

Simon stepped into the foyer, the lights coming on automatically.  There was no sound from down the hall in the kitchen, no TV on in the den, no music drifting from the drawing room.  The house was empty.

Of course it was.  The occupants had left for dinner a few hours ago.

Simon blinked, and turned when he heard a slight shuffling behind him.  Soap was closing and locking the front door behind them, and didn’t look at him as he moved into the house.  Simon’s hand had risen a few inches as if to reach out, but…

“S’late,” Soap mumbled, walking to the stairs.  “We should…”  He swallowed thickly, and his head twitched as if about to glance back at Simon.  “Should get some rest,” he muttered.  And like that, he disappeared into the darkness of the second floor.

Simon stood in the foyer, listening to the footsteps fade into the suffocating silence.  He felt his phone buzz in his pocket.  A clock in the drawing room chimed the hour.  Simon counted ten.  It wasn’t late; he usually wouldn’t turn in until after midnight.

He swallowed, and made his way to his office.  There was a message on his phone, three new emails, and two texts on his cell.  He remembered losing his cell when he was shoved into one of Vargas’ cars.  He didn’t remember getting it back.

Yvette had texted him.

new contract in your inbox. please tell caïd to call me in the morning regarding last week’s proposal. enjoy your night.

“Fuck,” Simon breathed, dropping his phone on his desk and burying his face in his hands.  Yvette.  How was he supposed to tell her that Gary was…

“An old friend needs a favor,” Gary greeted him one morning.  “Her cousin is apparently embarrassing their family, so she wants us to hire him.”

Simon looked up from the newspaper, taking a sip of his coffee.  “Why would we do that?”

“To keep him out of the wrong kind of trouble for a bit.”  Gary leaned in and snatched a blueberry off of his plate and then kissed his cheek.  “She’s got good connections, and I’d like her in my debt.”

“Does she have connections that you don’t have?” Simon asked with a chuckle as Gary moved around him to perch on the opposite arm of his chair.

“Of course not,” Gary scoffed, draping an arm over his shoulders and stealing another berry.  “But I’d much rather have her deal with those connections instead of me.  So we hire her cousin, and then she’ll owe me a favor down the line.”

“Mm, you do rather enjoy having people indebted to you, don’t you?” Simon hummed, smirking up at him.

“You know me,” Gary purred, leaning in with a grin, “I get off on the power trip.”

They had proceeded to hire this friend’s cousin, only to find out that the cousin seemed to have his own plans that involved trading some of their secrets to French and German rivals.  Gary had been able to cash in on the owed favor rather quickly after that, and had …gently persuaded his old friend to come work for them instead.  “We’re down a body,” Simon had listened to him on the phone, “and we did the work of pruning the family tree for you.  Besides, London’s gorgeous this time of year.  Much better than Lyon, anyway.”

Yvette had flown in the following week.  Apparently, she and Gary had met in high school, and ran in similar social circles.  She proved to be quite efficient with paperwork and had no qualms with the nature of their business.  In fact, a few months in, she confessed to Simon that she had hoped her cousin would prove worthless by Gary’s standards and that they would indeed do the dirty work of removing the shame of her family’s name.  “Gary ‘as never ‘esitated to rid ‘imself of dead weight,” she had snorted into her drink.

Despite her capability, she patently refused to take any proper leadership role in title.  Over the years, Gary slowly convinced her to take on more and more responsibilities, none of which she denied as long as she remained where she was in their operation’s official hierarchy.

Dragging his hands down his face, Simon looked down at his phone again.  Clearly a text message was the wrong way to break the news.  But a phone call was hardly better, and he definitely couldn’t just ask her to come by this late without her worrying.

“Goddammit,” he mumbled, and picked up his phone to call her.  It was going to have to be enough.

“Bonne soirée, Monsieur,” she greeted him on the second ring.  “‘ow was dinner?”

Simon sighed, leaning back in his chair and covering his eyes with his other hand.  “Yvette,” he said.  His voice was rough and cracked, too much pounding through his head and heart to modulate his tone into anything nearing casual.

Yvette heard it.  “What ‘appened?” she asked gently, if apprehensively.

“I…”  Simon swallowed, dragging his hand down his face and staring at the ceiling.  His eyes were prickling with uncomfortable heat.  “We uh.”  How the hell was he supposed to say it?  “Gary…”

There was silence on the other side of the line for several long seconds.  “Is… is ‘e all right?” Yvette prompted quietly, her voice suddenly much smaller than Simon had ever heard it.

It had the bile rising in his throat all over again.  “No,” he choked.  He cleared his throat and rubbed his hand over his mouth.  “Yvette, I— I’m sorry.  We were ambushed, and he.  Gary didn’t…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence.  He heard Yvette take a shaky breath, and exhale very slowly.  But all she said was, “I see.”

“I-I’m not sure… his family… I— I can’t—”

“Monsieur.”  Yvette’s voice was wavering slightly, but steady and familiarly soothing.  “Please, do not worry over anything more tonight.  I… I can… make arrangements,” she said, the last two words falling somewhat uncomfortably across the line.  “Are you injured?  And Savon, is he—?”

“We’re fine,” Simon cut her off.  Not technically the truth, but necessary.  “We’re home.  I just… fuck.  Fuck, I’m sorry, I—”

“Simon.”  Had she ever called him by his first name before?  “I will be there first thing in the morning.  Please, I think tonight… I think you need to get some sleep.  We will discuss the… specifics tomorrow.  Will you get some rest?  You and John… I think you both need it.”

“Yeah,” Simon mumbled.  “Yeah, I… yeah.”  She was putting on a brave face for him, and it made Simon feel sicker still.  Was he really in such a pathetic state that his own employees needed to remind him to rest?

After reiterating that she would be by in the morning, they said somewhat awkward goodbyes and hung up.

Simon slumped back into his chair, letting his phone fall once more onto his desk.

Gary draped himself over the back of Simon’s chair, nuzzling against his cheek.  ‘You’ve been in here since breakfast,’ he signed over Simon’s shoulders.  ‘Come to bed; it’s almost 2am.’

“I need to get this shit over to Luci before she lands back in London,” Simon grumbled, even as he tilted his head towards his partner’s affections.  “You know, if you had just reached out to that uncle of yours—”

Gary nipped at his neck, earning a laugh.  “Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,” Simon chuckled, kissing Gary’s temple.  “If you’re not going to talk to your family, then we’re using Luci as our UK liaison for the foreseeable future.  Which means she needs the paperwork when she lands.”

‘Fine.’  Gary trailed kisses across his jaw, and Simon turned to meet him for a kiss.  ‘Take a break, then.  She doesn’t land for another two hours.’

“Gary—”

‘Not a suggestion.’  Gary slipped around the chair and straddled Simon’s lap.  ‘Paperwork’s almost done, and I’m going to bed soon, with or without you.  But not before I get my cock inside you, one way or another.’

Simon snorted, wrapping his arms around the redhead and grinning up at him.  “I suppose I can afford a short break,” he murmured.

Gary was smiling back at him.  ‘Good.  Let’s see just how quickly you can get me to come then.’

“Yes, sir,” Simon teased before he was swept into a kiss.

There was a half-full bottle of expensive bourbon in one of his desk drawers.  Simon retrieved it, ignoring the glasses sitting next to it.  He flicked the cap off and took a swig directly from the bottle.  His head was buzzing with thoughts of what to tell his people, of funeral arrangements, of announcements and adjustments and accommodations to be made in the next couple days in order to keep things running smoothly.  His chest felt tight, and his stomach was roiling with guilt and anger.  He knew Soap was down the hall, getting ready to turn in for the night.  Simon briefly considered whether or not to try to talk to him again tonight, or wait until morning.  Should he join him in bed?  Should he sleep on the couch?

Simon took another shot of liquor, and stared at his computer screen.  He would need to contact Vargas to see where Gary would be taken.  Then he’d have to decide whether to cremate or bury.  If he chose cremation, where would the ashes go?  Spread somewhere meaningful, or sent to his family?  What would a tombstone say?  A name and two dates, an entire life summed up with a hyphen between them.

I can make arrangements, Yvette had said.  She would be here in the morning.  They would discuss what to do.  Would they have a service?  What would they tell everyone?

Another swig.  Simon opened his email.  Yvette had sent over a contract for review, Luci had forwarded flight information and asked about a potential conflict of interest, and his head of west coast operations had sent a request for a virtual meeting later in the week.  The world was continuing to turn.  There was work to do.

Simon set down the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  He opened the meeting request.

When Johnny woke up in the morning, it was to birds twittering outside the window.  The rest of the bed was cold, and just as untouched as it was last night when he had gotten into it.  He closed his eyes again and swallowed the painful lump in his throat.

It would be a lie to say he hadn’t expected to wake up alone, but the disappointment he felt was real nonetheless.  Whatever had happened last night had caused an uncomfortable fissure between him and…

And… who?  His boss?  His boyfriend?  His lover?  His employer?  All the things Simon was to him, all the threads connecting them, and the death of their partner had threatened to sever it all.

Soap buried his face in his pillow, ignoring the pricking of tears behind his eyelids, and took a deep breath.  The memories of the previous day were alternately too sharp and clear, and blurred to the point of suppression.  He could feel Gary’s hands on his face, soft and gentle; and then a hazy image of blood and terrifying stillness where Roach should have been.  Simon’s hands were on his hips, a teasing whisper in his ear; then indistinct anger and concrete under his back while Ghost’s voice snarled from above.

There was pain and tension— of that, at least, Soap was sure.  There had also been a promotion offered and accepted— and despite being dealt what was undeniably a losing hand in this, Soap needed to make the most of it.  After all, it might end up being the only thing holding together whatever was left between him and Ghost.

He dragged himself from bed and got dressed.  His phone lay quiet on the nightstand, no new messages.  He opened the door into the hall, and was met with silence.

Then, the front door opened and closed.  Soap took a breath, and slowly closed the bedroom door behind him before going to see who had arrived.  He would hold off on sharing any news from the previous day - and everything it entailed - until he could muster up the courage to talk to Ghost, but someone arriving at the house this early usually meant something to deal with.

Anything to distract himself.

“Oh.”  Yvette was already part way up the stairs, meeting Soap halfway.  They both stopped, looking at each other.  She had an armful of files and papers, and there was something about her face that made Soap’s heart twinge.  “Savon,” she murmured, ascending a step towards him, “b-bonjour.  As it were.  I, ah.”

Soap managed a weak smile.  “Ye heard, then.”

Yvette chuckled humorlessly, and took the few more steps needed to be level with Soap.  “So perhaps ‘good morning’ is not the case for any of us, then.  Savo— John.”  She reached up to put a hand on his shoulder.  “I am so sorry.”

“S’okay,” Soap mumbled, blinking sharply and looking away from her searching expression.  “I-I mean, it’s— it’s not, it’s really not, but.  But it happened.  And…”  What was there to say, anyway?  “Yeah,” he finished lamely.  “It’s— I’m— I’ll be fine.  There’s work, so.”

A squeeze to his shoulder, and Yvette dropped her hand.  “I know,” she murmured gently.  “These next few days will be difficult for us all.  Know that I am ‘ere for you, if you need anything.”

He looked up at her, ready with the empty response to the empty platitudes they were trading, but a door down the hall opened.  They both turned to see Ghost stepping out of his office.  He looked utterly exhausted, his hair on end from where he had been running his hands through it, eyes dark and red at the edges from the sleep he had been avoiding.

“Thought I heard you,” Ghost grunted, glancing over them both.  His eyes lingered on Soap for a second, then dropped.  “Fill in for Yvette today,” was all he said before disappearing back into the room.

Yvette shifted slightly, and started up the remaining stairs.  “Don’t ‘esitate to call if you ‘ave questions, but I know you can ‘andle it,” she said with a small smile back at him.  “You were trained by the best, after all.”

And like that, Soap was alone again, standing halfway down the stairs, only the click of the office door closing and indistinct hum of voices from inside to see him off.  A definitive dismissal if ever he had received one.

If nothing else, he mused as he got into the car waiting out front for him, Ghost clearly wasn’t handling the entire situation very well at all.  It was a sickening sort of comfort that was brought to him, one that made Soap feel ashamed to acknowledge, but any comfort at this point was better than nothing.

Four hours later, Simon finally collapsed back into his chair, rubbing his eyes.  Vargas had been contacted, arrangements for the transfer of Gary’s body had been made, and a short list of people for Yvette to contact with the news had been compiled.  They had discussed what a funeral would look like, and set a date for two days out.  Yvette suggested giving Soap more tangible responsibilities to help the functional transition of power, and Simon had begrudgingly agreed.  That had been when Yvette had started to pick up that there was something tense between the two men, but she hadn’t remarked on it past a brief, knowing sort of look.

Lack of sleep and too much alcohol had Simon numb to everything.  It was disturbingly easy to discuss the price difference of calla lilies and peonies, to draft an obituary, to decide on a fucking font for a headstone.  It felt unreal, a pantomime of a bad dream.  True, Yvette was gently guiding him through each step, but it wasn’t nearly as difficult as it should have been.

But as Simon sat now, staring at the ceiling while Yvette wrapped up the order details with the florist over the phone, he was starting to feel something creeping into his mind at the edges once more.  All night, he had sat in his office, reading through old emails and texts from Gary, convincing his increasingly lethargic consciousness that the man he loved was still there with him.  An awful coping mechanism, he knew, but he needed something to stave off the building pressure of isolation that was now consistently threatening to overwhelm him.  He had skimmed through pictures they had traded, jokes that made sense to no one else, references to memories of no objective importance.  Surely, Gary was just out for the night, would be returning soon, couldn’t be wholly and properly gone.  And it was easy enough to pretend, to answer a few emails, to schedule a few calls, to do some actual work.  Each time the dread tried to worm its way back into his heart, it was another too-large swig of bourbon and a continuation down the spiral of memory through digital conversations.

He had been able to push it all away when Yvette arrived - and nevermind the surge of guilt he had gotten upon seeing Soap - in order to focus on paperwork and planning (and the continued avoidance of considering what any of this meant for his relationship status).  But now?

Now, Yvette would be leaving soon.  Simon would be alone.

“You should sleep,” he heard Yvette say, as if she had read his mind.  She wasn’t looking at him, gathering up the papers on his desk into a neat pile.  “A few ‘ours, at least.”

He heard the implication under her words.  You look like shit.  You’re no good to anyone in this state.  “Yeah,” he mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face and sitting forward again.  “I’ll uh.  Yeah.”  He didn’t need to be told what he already knew.  “Thanks for…”  He motioned half-heartedly over everything.

She mustered up a brittle sort of smile.  “I am in your service, Monsieur, whatever that may entail.  I will let you know when I ‘ear back from the attorney’s office.”  She picked up the pile she had made and tucked it under her arm.  She hesitated.

“I’m fine, Yvette,” Ghost said, refusing to look at her, knowing she could see the lie for what it was.  He turned to his computer instead.  “Tell Soap I’m sending him a list of his new duties.”

The briefest of sighs was indication enough that he had given away too much of the tension with Soap.  But Yvette, ever the professional, simply said, “Of course.  Bonne journée, Monsieur.”  And she left.  A few seconds later, the front door opened and closed.

The house was quiet.

In the silence, all the dread and panic and anxiety finally found its chance, and pounced on its listless prey.

Simon took a shuddering breath and buried his face in his hands.

Late that afternoon, there was a knock on the front door.  Simon was in the drawing room, sitting on the couch and staring at the wall.  It took two more knocks before he realized whoever it was wasn’t coming in, which meant he had to get up.

It wasn’t until he opened the door that he realized how odd it was for someone to knock at all.  All of his people came and went as needed, deliveries were made without announcement, and there were rarely unexpected visitors.

“If I hear one more knock on that goddamn door,” Gary mumbled, burying his face in his pillow.

“You were the one who said we should use the house as headquarters,” Simon mused, lazily stroking the other man’s back.  “I told you it’d be a nightmare.”

“S’too early,” Gary grumbled, kicking Simon under the covers.  “The fuck does anyone need to do here this early?”

“It’s half past ten,” Simon said.

“Too early.”

Simon laughed, pulling Gary into him.  “I seem to recall someone saying last night that one more round wouldn’t hurt, there was still plenty of time to get sleep.”

“Not my fault ‘one more round’ turned into two.”  Gary shifted, wrapping an arm around Simon’s waist, and smiling against his collarbone.  “Or three.”

“You’ve got no one to blame but yourself, sweetheart,” Simon cooed teasingly, ruffling his hair.  “I was already half-asleep by the last one.  If you weren’t so insatiable—”

There was another knock at the front door.

Gary cursed, and bit at Simon’s shoulder.  “We’re leaving the damn thing unlocked from now on,” he said amidst Simon’s laughter.  “Don’t give a shit who waltzes in, I’m fuckin’ tired of hearing that goddamn knocking.”

Alejandro was standing on the porch, somewhat tense.  “Fantasma.”

“The fuck are you doing here?” Ghost grunted.

Alejandro held out his hand.  “You were insistent that this return to you immediately,” he said.

Simon blinked.  His head felt fuzzy, and it took a moment to recall what Alejandro was talking about.  He felt the ring under his shirt shift against his skin as he reflexively held his own hand out.

Alejandro dropped the ring’s twin onto his outstretched palm.  “You will keep your word, and refrain from ‘gutting’ my people, then.”

The silver shone in the dying autumn sun.  Til death do us part, signed with slender, freckled hands, flashed in his mind.  Simon closed his hand around the ring and swallowed thickly, looking up at Alejandro without seeing him.  He recalled demanding the ring back, could vaguely remember a growled threat and a brandished knife.  Or was it his fist?  There was a flash of red, of crimson, of auburn.  Four months they had had their rings.  Everything broken in a moment.

“If that is all,” Alejandro was saying, turning to go.

“You…”  Simon blinked, realizing his vision wasn’t blurring from lack of sleep or alcohol, and cleared his throat.  “You,” he started again, more firmly, “are going to regret this.”

“Hm,” Alejandro hummed with a smirk.  He turned, and walked back to the car waiting for him.  “I have my doubts.  You should get some rest, Fantasma.  You look like shit.”

“And now we commend Gary Sanderson to the earth.  In the midst of our sorrow and loss, we are grateful that we were able to know you while you were with us.  We take relief in knowing that you will know no more pain, no more suffering.  May you know wholeness and peace for all eternity.”

It was a warm day in mid October.  A light breeze wove through the air, fallen leaves chasing themselves between headstones.  A large group stood around an immaculately decorated new gravesite, all dressed in sleek suits and modest dresses.  No one was crying, but the grief that hovered over them was tangible.

As the officiant completed the ceremony, the crowd shifted, murmuring condolences and well-wishes as the outer members began heading back towards their vehicles.  There was a bit of chatting, some loose plans being made to meet up for drinks or dinner in remembrance.

Simon stood next to the grave, Johnny on one side, Yvette on the other.  Many people were coming up, extending their support and sharing tidbits of memories of Gary.  Yvette received it all with warmth and grace, although Simon could only recognize a handful of the people.  Most were community connections they had made over the years, independent shop owners or transit employees with some level of authority.  He had been surprised to see how many of them had shown up, considering at least half of them primarily resided out of state.  It was… well, he supposed it should have been comforting.

But the reality was that Simon was still numb.  The past few days had passed in a haze dulled with whatever liquor he had been able to find around the house.  As Yvette had spent most of her time in the house as well, making sure the business was properly set up following the absence of a co-owner, Soap had been busy in the field.  Simon could admit to himself that Soap was doing well with his new and expanded duties, but he wouldn’t complain that it limited the time they spent together.

Because things were tense.  He could feel it in the way Johnny stood next to him, consciously a few inches apart so even their shoulders weren’t touching.  They had barely looked at each other while getting dressed that morning, Simon trudging in after a restless nap on the couch as Soap got out of the shower.  Yvette had attempted to serve them breakfast, but neither had managed to maintain an appetite.  They rode in silence on the drive to the cemetery.  Simon had wanted to say something, to try to start a conversation about what was there between them, the loss of someone they both loved.  But when he had looked at Johnny properly for the first time in days, all he saw in the profile backlit by the bright midday sun was a stubborn repression of grief.  A mirror of himself, and Simon had been unable to find his voice.

“Fantasma.”

Simon clenched his jaw and looked up at Alejandro.  He knew the key players of rival operations would be here, had seen a few peppered throughout the crowd.  For them, this was a victory, a piece taken off the board, a major player weakened.  They feigned appropriate sadness well enough, but Ghost wasn’t so naïve as to ignore the insincerity behind it all.  Still, he wasn’t looking forward to facing Vargas in any capacity after their last clash.

“Vargas,” he grunted.

Alejandro was flanked by Valeria and Rudy, a few others trailing behind him.  “We all feel this loss,” he offered simply.

“Right,” Simon said.

“He was an admirable opponent,” Alejandro added, glancing at the casket next to them.  “Sharp mind, creative solutions.  He knew how the game is played.”

“Piss off.”

“Monsieur,” Yvette murmured, a placating hand on his arm.

Simon shook her off.  “Don’t pretend like you’re sorry we’re here,” he continued to Alejandro.  “I can take the bullshit from them,” he motioned to the scattered attendees paying them no attention, even as his voice began rising with poorly repressed ire, “but you don’t get to talk about him as if you weren’t the one to put the bullet in his head.”

Alejandro stifled a sneer as Valeria snorted next to him.  “It’s give and take, Fantasma.  One too many times, you upset the balance, taking my people,” he jerked his head in Soap’s direction, “my territory.  Someone needed to remind you that there are consequences—”

There was a pair of hands on his arm before Simon was aware of having moved forward.  Johnny was firmly holding him back, shifting to stand in front of him.  “Fuck off,” Soap snapped, “before I show yeh what the consequences are of showin’ up where yer not welcome.”

Alejandro smirked.  “All bark, Jabon.  You’ve gotten less obedient, I see.  Tsk.  I certainly don’t regret that loss.”

“What Alejandro is trying to convey,” Rudy said firmly, pointedly taking Alejandro’s arm, “is that we do mourn the loss of your partner, Ghost.  Whatever the circumstances that led here, the loss is real, and we aren’t here to cause any problems.  Not today.”

“Is that right,” Simon sneered.  Johnny’s grip tightened slightly.  Simon forced himself steady, took a small breath, remembered where they were.  “At least you’ve finally got someone with some sense on your side,” he said curtly.

“We haven’t had the pleasure of a formal introduction,” Rudy said smoothly, extending his hand.  “Rodolfo Parra.”

It was bold, introducing himself after all that had transpired.  Simon almost laughed.  “You’re joking.”

“Business rivals or no, we exist in the same circles,” Rudy said with a slight smile.  He dropped his hand when he realized Simon wouldn’t humor the gesture.  “It’s nice to meet you properly, Señor Riley.”

“Piss off,” Simon repeated his earlier suggestion.

Alejandro bristled, but accepted the dismissal for what it was.  “Take care, Fantasma.  Jabon.  Yvette.”  He turned with Rudy to leave.

“My condolences,” Valeria cooed with a grin.  “I do hope you are able to find peace in la cucaracha’s passing.”

“Puta,” Johnny spat at her as she left as well with a teasing little wave.

“Bastards,” Simon grumbled, rubbing his head.  “Knew they’d be here, just didn’t want to see ‘em.”

“Had to gloat,” Johnny agreed with a glare at nothing in particular.  “Right bastards, the lot o’ them.”

Simon was about to respond, but behind Vargas’ group was a familiar face he hadn’t been expecting.  “Luci,” he greeted her in surprise.

“I see Vargas has remained as pleasant as ever.  Hi Riley,” she returned easily with a small smile.

“We— I didn’t think you’d make it,” Simon said apologetically, thinking of the invitation he told Yvette not to bother sending.  Clearly, she had sent it regardless.

“Oh, love, I couldn’t miss it,” she hummed, leaning in to wrap an arm around him in a quick hug.  “When I heard… when Yvette called, I just…”  She pulled away, eyes shining slightly.  “Changed the booking to the next flight out, put Pierre in charge for the week.”

“You’ve been so busy, I… fuck, sorry, I should’ve known, should’ve called you—”

Luci chuckled and swatted lightly at the air.  “We’ve all been busy, no hard feelings, don’t worry.  Yvette, it’s good to see you, too,” she said to the other woman, leaning in to hug her as well.

“Fantôme did not want to bother you with the ‘assle, the international travel,” Yvette told her, kissing both her cheeks, “but I knew you would be cross if you were not told.”

Luci chuckled.  “I would have been, yes, but I understand.  With the pushback we’ve been getting from Prescott and his people, I’m amazed I’ve even found time to sleep.  But,” she turned her gaze to Johnny, who was watching her with poorly concealed curiosity, “I see you’ve got someone new with you.”

Simon stiffened slightly; if Luci noticed this, she didn’t react.  “Yeah,” he grunted, giving a sort of half-nod in Soap’s direction.  “Been with us a few months, left Vargas to join up.”

“John MacTavish,” he introduced himself, holding a hand out.  “Everyone calls me Soap.”

Luci accepted it.  “I guess you picked up on it, but I’m called Luci,” she said with a smile.  “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances, but it’s nice to meet you.  Did you know Roach well?”

“I ah,” Soap hesitated, and glanced at Simon, clearly unsure how to answer that.

Simon sighed.  “He’s standing up here with me and Yvette, Luce; you know the answer to that question.”

“Mm, yes, I know,” Luci agreed.  “Just his type, too.  Christ, and just a few months to be with him.  I’m so sorry, John.  He was a good one.”

“He was,” Soap said in a small voice.  He cleared his throat and blinked hard.  “Did you—?  Yeh must have, of course.  Known him.  Well, I mean.”

“Luci joined us when we were still in the UK,” Simon supplied.  He watched as Yvette went to greet someone else.  This was the most communication he and Soap had shared in the past few days, and it felt strange that it was something so banal as introducing someone.  “She keeps our overseas contracts going.”

“My secondary job,” she corrected.  “Though it does take most of my time these days.  I’m primarily a doctor.  Riley and Sanderson took me on to patch up their people and skirt the laws in the medical world.”

“Hard t’ do, an ocean away,” Soap remarked pointedly.

Luci chuckled.  “They don’t get in nearly as much trouble as they used to.  Well.”  Her eyes flickered to the casket nearby, but she quickly averted her gaze.

“Yeah.”  Soap’s voice was a little strangled, and Simon saw him manage a small, rueful smile out of the corner of his eye.  “Unexpected trouble, I s’pose.”

“Very,” Luci agreed, looking back at Simon.  “Riley, truly, I am so sorry for this loss.  Gary was family.  It still hasn’t really sunk in yet.”

Simon nodded, swallowing hard.  He couldn’t quite manage a response.  But he didn’t need to; Luci was leaning in again for another hug, murmuring a goodbye, a promise to meet for dinner soon, to catch up, telling Soap it was nice to meet him and to take care.

“A doc on payroll,” Soap mused, watching her go.  “Didnae know yeh needed one.”

“Long story,” Simon muttered.  “She was the surgeon who… who patched him up.  Years ago.  When he… had the accident, lost his tongue.”

“Oh!”  Soap’s eyebrows raised, and he stole another glance after Luci.  “Oh, well.  Yeah, I can see how yeh’d want t’ thank her then, givin’ her a job and all.”

They had never really told Soap what had happened to lead to Gary losing his tongue, though Soap had danced around the topic a few times.  It felt so long ago, that neither he nor Gary really felt it was relevant anymore.  It had just been a series of bad choices and accidents that lead to a brief coma, a subtotal glossectomy, months of rehab, and learning sign language.  They had been young then, or at least it felt like it.  An entire lifetime in the past.

“She earned it,” Simon agreed.  The crowd around them was thinning out.  “Continues to earn it.  Before us, she was sort of a freelancer, provided medical care to most of the big names in our circles; y’know, people who didn’t want to - or legally couldn’t - deal with hospitals.  So when she lost her license and we took her on full time, she had plenty of connections to call on when we needed them.”

“Lost her license?”  Soap looked up at him in surprise.

Fuck, had his eyes always been so blue?  Simon lost his voice for a moment.  “She—”  He floundered for a few seconds, gesticulating weakly.  “She uh.  Well.  Another long story.”

“I’d like t’ hear it sometime.”

Would he?  Simon opened his mouth to agree, but they had been maintaining eye contact for a bit too long, apparently.  Johnny’s eyes darkened slightly, and he tensed, as if just remembering that things weren’t normal, that everything had gone to shit, that they weren’t supposed to be on good terms.  His eyes dropped, and he turned away, mumbling about needing a smoke.  And he slipped off.

It was the most words they had traded in the last few days.  Simon wanted to follow him, wanted to say he would love to tell him about their past, about Gary, and Luci, wanted suddenly so desperately to have this, a casual conversation about nothing at all.  But someone else was coming up, offering sympathy and condolences.

There was a faint humming in his ears.  Simon stared through the well-wishers, trying not to think too hard about how many terrifyingly simple moments were slipping inextricably and uncontrollably through his fingers.

Simon didn’t see Soap again until they were back in the car to head home.  Yvette mentioned that there was a gathering at a nearby bar, a sort of impromptu wake, but Simon hadn’t wanted a proper wake, and wasn’t interested in anything resembling one.  He just wanted to get back to the house, to bury himself in work again.  To forget this was all happening.

“We should go,” Soap said as the car made its way through the winding cemetery lanes.

“No,” Simon grunted, staring out of the window to avoid looking at the other man.

He heard Soap scoff and bristle.  “That’s it?  No?”

“I’m not going,” Simon said.

“So I cannae go either, then?” Soap argued.

“You can get your own damn ride there, if you’re so eager.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Maybe you should.”

It was snippy and petty, and not at all what Simon wanted.  Why couldn’t he just say what he wanted to say?  That he was sorry he was behaving so childishly, so sullenly?  That he wanted things to cool down, to try again, to see what was still there between them?

“Savon, I can arrange a car for you,” Yvette said patiently.  Simon could feel her eyes boring into his skull.  “I am sure it would be good to meet more people.  Caïd was so well-loved, and you ‘ave only met a few of those who knew him.”  Simon knew she was pointing out his own inability to acknowledge his feelings on everything.

“Good,” Soap said, perhaps a bit more forcibly than strictly necessary.  “Yeah, I’d like t’ meet more people.”  This was also said pointedly.  It made something in Simon’s stomach start to boil.

“I bet you do,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

Soap let out a barely suppressed growl.  “Yeah, I do,” he pushed.  “Want t’ meet people who care about Gary, about what happened.”

Simon felt bile rising in his throat.  He spun around to Soap with a glare.  “Yeah?” he spat.  “Because you don’t think I care?  Is that it?”

“Monsieur—” Yvette began gently.

But Soap ignored her, too.  “Yeah, that’s it,” he snapped right back at Simon, meeting the glare with his own.  “Yeh dinnae really care, do yeh?  Dinnae care about what happened, definitely dinnae care about me, how I’m handlin’ it, do yeh?”

Sometimes, when looking back through his life, Simon could see clearly where paths forked, where a choice led down a specific road, where he had made the right choices, and the wrong ones.  He didn’t need hindsight for this one; he knew the second the words left his mouth that he had taken the wrong path.  But it was too late.  There was so much bubbling up - the days of repressed frustration at his own inability to communicate, of having to maintain the composure held together by fraying twine and whiskey, of trying to suppress the overwhelming and unbearable grief - that something just snapped, and unfortunately, Johnny had made himself a lightning rod.

“No,” Simon snarled.  “No, I don’t care.”

The silence rang heavy with his words.  He heard Yvette inhale shakily, but his eyes were fixed on Soap.

Soap blinked.  Whatever he had been expecting, this had not been it.  But then his eyes darkened again, narrowed slightly, and his jaw tensed.  “Right,” he said.

There was a long, tense moment that none of them dared break.

Then Soap leaned over and wrenched open the partition separating them from the driver.  “Stop th’ car,” he said.

“Savon—” Yvette tried.

“Stop th’ car,” he repeated firmly.  They were on the outskirts of the city, and it took a moment for the driver to be able to comply.

“John, please,” Yvette said weakly, putting a hand on his arm.

“Stop the fuckin’ car!”  Soap yanked himself away, already opening the door.  “Fuck!  I’m not doin’ it anymore, I’m not— fuckin’ bastard, dinnae care— I’m not— I won’t—”

“Fuckin’ go, then,” Simon spat at him as the driver - hearing the door opening - hastily pulled over, half up on a sidewalk in his rush.  “Get the fuck out.”

For a moment, Soap looked as if he’d like nothing more than to launch himself at Simon, to grab and tear at him, to rip him apart.  But in a flurry of curses and agitated gestures, he was out of the car.  All rage and loathing, he sent one last odious glare into the car, at Simon, then slammed the door, leaving the windows rattling.

They were too stunned to move for several tense seconds.  Then Yvette twitched, and was moving to the door.  “I am going after ‘im, and you are going to apologize, and—”

“No.”  Simon grabbed her arm, harder than he meant to, but he was blinded by spite and resentment.  “Fuck him.  Leave him.  We’re going back to the house.”

“Simon!” she snapped, shocked and indignant, and trying to shake off his grip.

“We’re going back,” he repeated sharply, fingers tightening on her wrist.  He could feel her pulse, pressing into the soft skin between tendons.  He dug his fingernails in, felt her heartbeat quicken.  “I’m not dealing with his bullshit.”

She was staring at him with wide eyes; she had never seen him like this.  He had never laid a hand on her like this.  She forced herself to relax in his vice, to exhale slowly.  “As you say,” she consented as calmly as she could.

He let her go.  She relayed the instructions to the driver.  They began moving again.

Simon went back to staring out of the window.  But he couldn’t avoid seeing Yvette looking at her wrist, at the red semicircles imprinted there.  She covered it with her other hand, and stared ahead without saying a word.

“Too old for this shit,” Soap slurred, his empty glass clattering as he clumsily dropped it onto the bartop.  “Relationship drama’s for fuckin’ kids, supposed to get better when we’re old.”

The man next to him offered a sympathetic sort of chuckle.  “Yeah, mate, that’s what we all thought growing up.  But it never gets easier, y’know?”

“Fuck, know it too well,” Soap grumbled, letting his head fall into his arms on the bar.  “‘nother round?”  He blinked through the drunken haze in his head, up at the handsome stranger he had been venting to.

The stranger smiled.  It was warm, friendly.  Sweet.  “Sure.  Next one’s on me.”

After getting out of the car, Soap had stomped angrily down the street as he willed his head to clear from the swirling thoughts of rage and spite.  He didn’t know how long he had walked for, maybe twenty minutes?  But the sun had begun to set, and the autumn evening was chilly.  He slumped against a lamp post and fished a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, smoking it while texting Yvette to find out where the “wake” was happening, and could she send a car to get him.  He was shivering by the time the car arrived, even though it hadn’t taken long.  Yvette had said she would try to make it there too, but wanted to make sure Ghost was all right first.

So Soap had walked into the trendy, modern semi-dive-looking pub and slid into a stool at the bar.  A few people had come up to him, recognizing him from his spot next to Ghost at the funeral, and chatted about Roach with him.  A faint hum of anger had remained in his veins, and he had had a few too many drinks a little too quickly; he couldn’t remember anyone’s names, could barely picture their faces after they left.

But then a rather handsome man had taken the abandoned stool next to him, and asked how he was handling everything.  Lowered inhibitions, a vicious argument earlier in the evening, and the warm chocolate-colored eyes watching him had been enough that a dam in Soap had broken, and he began spilling the entire story.  Well.  Most of the story, anyway.  He wasn’t so far gone as to remember to keep certain details to himself.

The man had introduced himself at some point, but Soap couldn’t remember his name.  He thought it might have started with a G, but maybe he was just thinking about Gary too much.  Maybe it had been a K.  Or… was it a C?  Why were there so many letters in the alphabet?

Another gin and soda for Soap, another vodka tonic for the stranger.  “For what it’s worth,” the man said, shifting slightly so their shoulders were touching, “I’m sorry for your loss.  The whole thing sounds like a shite few days.”

Soap hiccupped, and laughed.  “One partner dead, the other a fuckin’ prick?  Yeah.  Shite.”  He sipped his drink, trying to take it a bit slower.  He wanted to keep his head - or at least, start to get it back - in order to keep talking to the stranger.  “Yeh’ve let me blather on long enough, though.”  He smiled into his drink, then turned it to the stranger.  “Sorry.  Thanks.  Mostly sorry.”

“It’s all good,” the stranger said with another disarmingly gorgeous smile.  “Seemed like you needed a shoulder.  Always happy to offer mine.”

That made something flicker in Soap’s memory.  He grinned, then chuckled.  “Yeh remind me of a mate I had, back home.”

“In Scotland?” the stranger prompted, sipping his drink.  He had a curious sort of smile now, eyes twinkling.  Soap had almost forgotten what it felt like to talk to someone who actually wanted to be talking to him.

“Well, England,” Soap corrected with a lazy shrug, almost spilling his drink as he had raised it for a sip at the same time.  “Moved to London; my sister, she needed all these specialist docs.”  He set his drink down firmly, and reached for his cigarettes instead.  “Better docs in London, apparently.  Dinnae really remember, was still a bairn, knee-high.  Five, maybe.  Six.”

“Tell me about your mate.”

“His mum, she was a mess.”  Soap lit a cigarette, then offered the pack to the other man, almost as an after thought.  He declined.  “He was the one takin’ care of her; backwards, it was.  Always told him kids shouldnae be takin’ care of their parents.  Should be his mum’s job, takin’ care of him.”  Soap exhaled a thick stream of smoke, digging back in his memories.  He hadn’t thought about his life in the UK in a long time.  “But he’d say he liked bein’ helpful, liked helpin’.  Liked bein’ a shoulder to cry on.”

“Even for his mum, huh?”

Soap laughed.  “She’d always be cryin’ over some man, new one every month.  Cryin’ about how they always left, didnae like that she had a kid, couldnae handle her needs, always somethin’.  So I told him one time, told him I didnae like addin’ to it all, with my own stupid problems.”  He smiled a bit, as he remembered that conversation.  It was a bit blurred at the edges, but it was one of the few memories of his early years he had held onto.  “But my mate, Gaz we called him, Gaz just said, told me he had two shoulders for a reason.”  In the memory, they were barely teenagers, around thirteen or fourteen.  Soap had gotten into it with his dad, and had escaped the house for the day sporting a split lip.  Gaz had met him at the barely-used playground nearby, and they had sat on the rusty swings while Soap had gone on a long-winded rant about how rough he had it.  Gaz was a good listener, though.  “Made me laugh,” he said, a little quieter.  He cleared his throat, shaking his head once to bring himself back to the present.  “Gaz always knew what to say.  Even when I was bein’ a selfish prat.”

The stranger chuckled, swirling his drink, watching the single, large ice cube spin.  “You sound fond of him.”

“Miss ‘im,” Soap hummed, taking a long, contemplative drag.  “Think of ‘im, from time to time.  Wonder where he ended up.”  He looked at the stranger.  The man even looked a bit like what he thought Gaz might look like now, as an adult:  handsome, composed, well-dressed, and with the same aura of general benevolence and goodness.  “Left the UK when I was barely outta school,” he added.  “Never even said a proper goodbye.”

“Why’s that?”  The stranger looked up at him, head tilted slightly.

His eyes were so pretty.  Soap almost forgot what they were talking about.  “Oh.  Well.  Just sorta…”  He gesticulated lazily, cigarette in hand leaving a thin trail of smoke.  “Just sorta left.  Hadnae really planned it, just.  Family hated me.  School was done.  Wanted to get out.  Woke up one day, packed a bag, went to the airport.”  He shrugged, looking down at his drink.  “Never looked back.”

“What if you could see him again?” the stranger asked, voice gentle but encouraging.  “What would you want to say to him?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and Soap smothered his spent cigarette in the ashtray.  “Actually thought about that a lot,” he admitted, lifting his glass to his lips.  “Thought about him a lot.”  Then he laughed.  “Fancied him, y’know.  Never told him.”

The stranger smiled.  “Do you regret that?”

“Oh yeah.”  Soap laughed again.  It felt good to laugh.  The past week had been so exhausting, he had begun to wonder if he had forgotten what mirth felt like.  “Definitely regret that.”  He took a deep breath, downed the rest of his drink.  “So I’ll be honest with yeh.”  He set the empty glass down, and felt his cheeks warm as he turned on the stool to fully face this charming, delightful, and alluring stranger.  “All that’s been goin’ on, and now drunk and dwellin’ on the past?  It’s got me wantin’ to make a mistake or two.  No more regrets, and all that.”

The beautiful man smiled at him, keeping his twinkling eyes on Soap’s as he finished his own drink.  “Is that right?”

“Lemme bring you back to mine.”  Soap knocked his knee into the stranger’s.  “Distract me for the night.”  He leaned in with a grin.  “Promise I’ll make it worth yer time.”

The stranger’s smile widened, just a tick.  “You sure you won’t regret it in the morning?” he teased, even as he glanced away to catch the bartender’s attention to get the check.

“Sweetheart, I could never regret somethin’ as bonnie as you,” Soap purred.  “Almost wonderin’ if yer just a dream.  Too damn pretty to be real.”

“Now you’re just laying it on a little too thick,” the man said with a laugh.  He stood, and shifted so he could comfortably slide a hand onto Soap’s thigh and give it a squeeze.  “But I think I can keep you company for the night.  As long as your boyfriend won’t be coming after me for it.”

The thought of Ghost, probably home alone, drinking his way through his grief, flitted into Soap’s head.  There was a pang of guilt.

But then their last conversation came back to him.  No.  No, I don’t care.  Soap swallowed, and hitched up his faltering smile.  Luckily, the other man was too busy paying for their drinks to have noticed.  “Didnae worry about him,” Soap said as reassuringly as he could muster.  “After today, he needs his space anyway.  We’re handlin’ it all in our own ways.”

“So hooking up with men in bars after funerals, huh?”  The man finished signing the receipt, and turned his gorgeous, teasing eyes back to Soap.  “That’s your way of handling it?”

“No.”  Soap stood, and only swayed a bit.  He leaned in closer, slipping his hand around the stranger’s waist.  “Hooking up with gorgeous men in bars after funerals,” he corrected with a grin.  “That’s how I want to drown it all out.”  He hesitated as the logic of it all occurred to him.  Maybe it was a mistake.

But the other man just pulled in a little closer, and let out a comfortable sort of sigh.  “Okay,” he agreed with a softer smile.  “I don’t mind being your distraction for the night.”

This close, Soap noticed there were flecks of gold in those lovely eyes.  “Might want yeh for more than the night,” he murmured.

The stranger just continued smiling, and took his hand to lead him out of the busy pub.

“You think you’d find someone else?  If I got offed by the competition?”

They were on the swing on the back terrace.  Simon was sitting at one end, reading through the endless reports that came to them on his tablet; Gary was lying across the bench with his head in Simon’s lap, playing some silly game on his phone with one hand while the other fiddled with the ring on the silver chain around his neck.

Gary snorted.  ‘What competition?’ he signed one-handed, not even looking up from his phone.

Simon smiled a bit, taking a sip of his tea and setting it back on the nearby table.  “You didn’t answer the question.”

‘It’s a stupid question,’ Gary responded easily.  He huffed, restarting the level after a bad move.  ‘You’re not going to be offed.’

“Humor me.”  Simon set his tablet down next to his tea, and ran a hand through the other man’s hair.  He had cut it a few days prior, out here on the terrace.  Gary had asked him to shave the sides off completely, getting tired of the way it curled around his ears.  Simon liked the curls.  But the shaved sides still left a mess of the curls on the top of his head, and it was just as nice as ever to comb his fingers through.  “If something happened,” he prompted, when Gary continued not to answer, apparently engrossed in the game, “would you find someone else?”

The summer air was cool in the morning, and birds were twittering in the trees.  Gary’s phone let out a tinny victory tune.  He sighed, and let the phone drop onto his chest as he enclosed the ring in his fist.  ‘No,’ he signed eventually.  ‘Might follow you, though.’

“Don’t do that,” Simon hummed, brushing the curls off his partner’s forehead.  “Too much else to live for, hm?”

Gary smiled humorlessly, tilting his head to look at Simon properly.  ‘You planning on getting offed sometime soon?’

“Of course not.”  Simon reached over and eased Gary’s fist open.  The ring sparkled in the early morning light.  “Just thinking.  We’ve got the rings now.  Suppose things’re different.”  He brushed his thumb over Gary’s fingers.  “I wouldn’t want you to find someone else,” he admitted.

‘You wouldn’t have much say in the matter.’  Gary grinned.

“Asshole,” Simon muttered, smiling.

‘C’mon, you really think I’d find someone else who would put up with me?’  Gary brought Simon’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.  ‘Everything we’ve been through, and you think you’re replaceable?’

“I know I’m not.  Just wanted to see you say it.”  Simon smirked, and reached back for his tablet.

‘Asshole,’ Gary signed mockingly, rolling his eyes and snatching his phone back up.  Simon wondered if he would ever tire of that smile.

Ghost sat in his dark office, unmasked face lit up by his phone screen as he stared at a picture from months ago.  It was one of the only pieces of evidence that he and Gary were “married”, aside from their rings:  a selfie the other man had taken on Simon’s phone later that night, some time after Simon had passed out from the evening’s… festivities.  Gary was holding the phone at arm’s length, leaning in close in their bed to capture both faces in frame; Simon looked dead to the world, a few fresh bites and bruises visible on his neck and shoulders, and Gary was grinning brightly with his beautiful curls spilled around his head on the pillow.  He had edited the picture, scrawled “successful wedding night” and a lopsided heart in his chicken-scratch handwriting across the bottom, then set it as Simon’s wallpaper for him to discover in the morning.  Simon had laughed, and immediately changed his wallpaper back, making some remark he couldn’t remember about compromising positions.  But he had kept the picture.

Of course he had.

Ghost took another large sip of the drink in his other hand, and let the phone fall to his desk, then touched his chest, where there were now two rings on the chain, pressing against his skin.  How did it feel so real, Gary being gone, and yet still like some sort of waking nightmare?  It kept crashing into his brain, that Gary was gone, taking him by surprise every time.  Gone.  Gone.  It wasn’t real.  It couldn’t be.

Because they weren’t supposed to die.  Injuries, hospital visits, even close calls— that was all par for the course.  But death?  Death was different.  They were supposed to be untouchable.  Sure, they had had actual discussions about their unfortunate mortality, had set up contingency plans for the business, drafted wills and all that.  But Death was never supposed to find them, and certainly not on anything but their own terms.

‘You’d better move on, though,’ Gary had told him over lunch, hours after their conversation that morning.  ‘You’re not allowed to wallow.’

Not allowed to wallow for what? Simon had asked, bewildered.

‘If I go first,’ Gary signed, as if there hadn’t been a half-dozen other conversations in between these two.  ‘If I go first, I’d want you to move past it.’

Simon remembered rolling his eyes at the idea.  That Gary would die before him?  Ridiculous.  To think that something would be able to take Gary from this world without having gone through Simon first…

I wouldn’t wallow, Simon had responded petulantly.

Gary had laughed.  ‘I know you would.  And you can, for a while.  But then you’d better move on.  I didn’t spend all these years building a life with you just for you to abandon it if I’m gone.’

If.  It was always if when they had those conversations.  Never “when”.

Ghost rubbed at his eyes; they stung, staring at screens in the dark.  But it had seemed too much effort to turn the lights on when they had gotten home.  Yvette had come in initially, had made him tea.  But Ghost had brushed her off, sequestering himself in his office and refusing to discuss anything that had happened that day.  She tried, but when she realized he had no intention of having a proper conversation, she had left.  Ghost didn’t know where to.  He didn’t much care.

He picked his phone up again, thinking about texting Soap.  He wasn’t sure what to say.  An apology, he supposed.  But how the hell was he supposed to apologize for saying, point blank, that he didn’t care about the other man’s feelings?

He emptied his glass, and poured more vodka into it.  He had finished the few bottles of bourbon in the house.  He would need to get more.  Vodka wasn’t his first choice in liquor, but it was all he could find.

He tapped on his messaging app, and tapped on Soap’s icon.  The cursor blinked in the text box, waiting for him to type something.

‘You need to apologize,’ he could see Gary telling him.  ‘Don’t be an ass.’

Ghost grunted, dropping his phone onto his desk again.  “Right, like ‘sorry’ even begins to cover it,” he grumbled, turning his computer on.

‘It’s a start.’

“It’s shit.”  He was arguing with no one.  Ghost rubbed his neck, staring up at the ceiling briefly to stretch the tense muscles.  He wished Gary was here.  Gary would know what to say.  Gary would know how to fix this.

‘Wouldn’t be a “this” to fix, if I was still here.’

Gary would be draped over the back of his chair, signing over his shoulders.  Gary would encourage him as he struggled through getting the words out into a text.

‘Spell it out; don’t just say “sorry”.  Better to say “I’m sorry”, and tell him what you’re sorry for.’

As if it was that easy.  Gary always made everything seem easier, as if anyone could just do anything.  Ghost stared at the login screen on his monitor.  He looked at his phone.  The cursor was still blinking, keyboard up and waiting.

‘He loves you.’

“You loved me.”  Loved.  Past tense.  “We never fought like this.  I never said stupid shite to you.”

A hint of whispered laughter across the shell of his ear.  ‘Oh love, we did nothing but fight those first few years.  How easily you forget.’

“It wasn’t that bad,” Ghost argued.  Argued with no one.  He picked up his phone.  “...was it?”

‘Relationships take time.’  He could feel Gary’s smile on his neck, the way he would bury his face there, as if trying to hide it.  Or maybe to let Simon feel it, to know it was more than an image, that that smile was a real thing.  ‘Took us years.  You’ve only been with Johnny a few months.’

“We,” Ghost corrected.  His screen dimmed; five minutes of no activity.  He tapped it.  It lit up.  “We’ve been with him a few months.”

‘Just you now, love.’  A soft kiss to his jaw.  ‘And he needs you.’

Blink.  Blink.  Blink.

Would “I’m sorry” be enough of a start?  Ghost swallowed thickly as his thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

Then his phone buzzed, and a notification popped up at the top of the screen.  A text from Yvette.

finally heard back from attorney’s office.  3pm tomorrow.  we will come to you.

Just as the notification cleared, a second text.

please try to sleep, simon.

Ghost reached for his drink.  Yvette and their lawyer would be over tomorrow with Gary’s last will and testament, the one he had amended just two months ago in light of their “new relationship status”.  Simon had met with their attorneys as well, but hadn’t found anything to change in his.  There was nothing to update.  Everything important would be left to Gary to decide what to do with, and a handful of endowments to local businesses and charities.  He hadn’t understood what Gary felt the need to change.

‘Well, you’ll find out at three tomorrow, won’t you?’

“You’re not really here,” Ghost muttered.

‘Maybe.’  He could almost still feel Gary’s warm weight on his shoulders.  ‘But you want me to be.  And that could be enough.’

The screen had dimmed again.  Ghost tapped the screen again.  Blink, blink, blink went the cursor, waiting for him to say something to Soap.

He sipped his vodka.  He typed a text.  He turned his phone upside down on his desk, triggering its temporary do-not-disturb function.  He logged into his computer.  He didn’t feel like sleeping.  He might as well get something done tonight.

Johnny woke up alone in his bed.  His head was throbbing, just a bit, and he kept his eyes closed as consciousness eked back into him.  He could hear the traffic outside his window, and the shower running in his bathroom.  Oh.  So the handsome stranger had stayed the night.

He didn’t know how he felt about that just yet.  He didn’t know how he felt about anything yet.  If anything, he felt a bit guilty; he couldn’t remember too much of the night after they had gotten back to his apartment.  He could remember that he had spent a lot of time thinking about Gaz, his childhood best friend and first love.  Something about the previous day had stirred up a lot of memories, and his mind had been thinking of Gaz, of where he was, of what it would feel like to see him again, to admit to the feelings he had kept repressed for far too long.  Fuck, he thought he might have even called the other man Gaz, so lost in his fantasies.

Groaning, Johnny rolled over onto his back, pulling a pillow over his face.  At least he couldn’t have embarrassed himself too much, or the stranger wouldn’t have stayed until morning.  Right?

He’d find out soon enough; the shower turned off.  Trying to compose himself, Johnny tossed the pillow to the other side of the bed, and reached for his phone on the nightstand instead.  It was plugged in, fully charged.  Huh.  He had a vague memory of dropping it in the living room as it fell out of his pocket as he had struggled to get his pants off.

There was a text from Ghost.  He hesitated, not really knowing if he wanted to open it.  But it was just a single message, not a barrage of would-be angry texts demanding to know what was going on or where he was.  A single text couldn’t be too bad.  Steeling himself, he opened it.

me and Y in meetign at 3 - wont make 4pm call.  take notes,

And that was it.  Just that.  A text telling him to take notes on the weekly conference call with their midwest suppliers.  Business as usual.

He wasn’t sure what to make of it.  Did it mean Ghost was ignoring their argument yesterday?  Should he ignore it too?  Pretend it hadn’t happened?  It wasn’t exactly an argument over nothing, though.  It had been… not good.

He heard the bathroom door open, and struggled to sit up, letting his phone fall into his lap.  At least for now, he’d see how his “morning after” was going to go.  He yawned and stretched as the stranger walked into the room.

“Oh, you’re awake!”  He was rubbing a towel over his head, pants already on but still shirtless.  “Morning.  Hope you’re not too hungover, but I think we got enough water into you before you passed out.”

Johnny blinked at him.  The other man was smiling as he retrieved his shirt from the floor, shaking it out.  “You’re…” he began, not really sure what to say.

“I made tea before hopping in the shower; hope you don’t mind,” the man continued, shrugging his shirt on.  “Kettle should still be warm.  Early meeting this morning, or else I’d offer breakfast.”  He moved around to Johnny’s side of the bed, buttoning his shirt up.  “But we could always grab lunch.  Might have more to talk about, now that you’re sober, yeah?”  He was grinning now.

Johnny just stared, dumbfounded.  Without the haze of alcohol, he knew that voice, he knew those eyes, he knew that smile.  “Where… how…”

“Knew you wouldn’t remember much once we were in bed,” Gaz said with a laugh.  He leaned in and kissed Johnny on the cheek.  “You kept asking questions, and I told you we’d talk when you weren’t halfway to falling asleep.  I left my number in your phone; I’ll text you when I’m free this afternoon, shall I?”  He straightened, and went to Johnny’s dresser to pick up his wallet and phone.

“I—”  Johnny cleared his throat.  “M-meeting at four,” he said automatically.

“Dinner then?”  Gaz tucked his things into his pockets and straightened his shirt.  “Good seeing you again, mate.  We’ll talk later.”  And with a wave and one of those gorgeous smiles, Gaz disappeared down the hall.

It took the sound of the front door closing before Johnny was scrambling out of bed.  He tripped in the sheets tangled around his legs, and then realized he was naked.  Cursing, he ripped the sheets away from him.  Pants, he at least needed pants.  He found some half under the bed, and wriggled into them, stumbling down the hall, chasing after Gaz, not knowing why, what he would say, how he would explain his behavior or the context of his current situation.  He reached his front door and had his hand on the handle when logic caught up.

He had Gaz’s number.  He was half-naked and barely sentient.  And Gaz wanted to meet for dinner.  He didn’t need to run after him.

Johnny hurried back to his bedroom and rifled through his sheets until he found his discarded phone.  Still on his knees on the floor, he hastily scrolled through his contacts, found the newest one and opened a new message.

it’s really you?

He stared at the screen.  The three dots popped up a second later.  Then the response.

now imagine my surprise seeing you yesterday

He shot back, you’re supposed to be in london!

Gaz sent back a shrugging emoji.  Then, work took me overseas.  A few seconds later, and a follow-up:  i’m not complaining though 😘

Johnny smiled.  Then laughed.  He laughed longer than he had in days, nearing hysteria with the extensive range of emotions fighting for dominance.  He felt tears in his eyes as he fell backwards onto the floor, phone dropping on his chest.

Life sure knew how to throw him curveballs.

not complaining either, he sent a few minutes later before getting into the shower.  unless you used all the hot water.  might have some complaints then.

“We assumed there would be no contest made to the contents of the will, but I’m well aware how circumstances can change.”

“Non, I cannot imagine there would be any challenges raised,” Yvette hummed, skimming over some paperwork.  “Mon dieu, there was a lot to account for,” she murmured under her breath.

“In business relationships such as these,” the attorney chuckled, “yes, we find there is often quite a bit to consider.  And of course, Mr Sanderson and Mr Riley have done extremely well for themselves.”

Ghost was watching the legal proceedings with disinterest from the other side of his desk.  Yvette and the head of their legal team, a man Ghost was pretty sure they called Baker, were sitting across from him, discussing what needed to be signed and by whom, when assets would be officially transferred in name, timelines and other such inanities.  None of the changes that would be taking place had quite the same impact as the change that had led them here.  Gary’s absence had left a gaping chasm that no amount of liquidated assets could fill.

‘Dunno about that, love; there were a lot of assets in my name, after all.’

Well, his physical absence at least.  Because Ghost was letting himself believe that Gary was still talking to him.  It had started out as a way to get his thoughts in order, managing the initial shock and subsequent deterioration of his situation, but throughout the previous night, it was becoming easier and easier to almost see Gary there in the room with him.  Currently, he would have been sitting on the desk, facing Ghost, but half-turned to be able to see the others as well.  Despite the morbidity of the situation, Gary was still smiling.

‘Easier to smile when you’re dead, I suppose.’  He glanced at the papers Yvette was showing to Baker, asking for clarification on something.  ‘She doesn’t want to accept what I left her.  But it’s hers, and you know that.’

“It’s yours,” Ghost interrupted them.  He cleared his throat and sat forward.  “He wants… wanted.  He wanted you to have it.”

“It is much too much,” Yvette protested, laying down a document that showed a decently large sum of money.  “On top of the salary you would continue to pay me?  Monsieur, I cannot accept it.”

‘As if she isn’t the one running things anyway,’ Gary pointed out with a chuckle.  ‘She never acknowledged everything she does for us.  About time she gets what she’s owed.’

“You deserve it,” Ghost said simply, picking up his drink.  He saw Yvette’s eyes flick to the glass, then to the bottle on the side of the desk.

‘She’s worried about your drinking, love.’

“Sign it,” Ghost pressed, ignoring Gary.  “If it doesn’t go to you, then it ends up in my accounts.  And I’ll just put it in yours anyway.”

Gary grinned at him.  ‘Good boy.  Just what I’d want you to do.’

“Shut up,” Ghost mumbled into his drink, hoping it was missed by the others.

Luckily, Yvette had turned to ask Baker if Ghost could do that, and it was confirmed that there was nothing technically stopping him.  Yvette huffed, agitatedly brushing her hair behind her ear before picking up a pen.  “Fine.  I will sign.  But I am not ‘appy about it.”

‘She isn’t happy about anything,’ Gary signed, rolling his eyes.  ‘She’d complain if I left her nothing, too.’

There were a few more papers for Yvette to sign, then Baker passed over a few for Ghost.  He signed without reading them, already knowing what they contained.  After all, it had only been a handful of weeks since the last time he had seen them.

“There may be a few things that arise over the next couple weeks as everything gets seen to,” Baker said as he gathered up the papers into his portfolio, “so I’ll be in touch.  There’s just one last thing.”  He pulled an envelope from the file, and slid it across to Ghost.  “Mr Sanderson asked that this be given to you in the event of his passing.”

Ghost stared at it.  It was a plain envelope, other than an S scrawled on the front.  “What is it?” he asked.

‘Well, you’ll find out when you open it, dummy,’ Gary pointed out.

“I am not privy to the contents,” Baker said, standing, “but I believe it’s a letter from Mr Sanderson.”

“Why the fuck did you write me a letter?” Ghost muttered, picking up the envelope.

Gary shrugged, kicking him lightly.  ‘Wait until you’re alone to read it, though.’  He motioned to Yvette, who was watching him apprehensively.  ‘I doubt you’ll want her to see how you react to what I’ve got to say.’

Ghost looked up at her.  Gary was probably right, but he still couldn’t help but feel a little guilty telling her to leave, when he hadn’t exactly been treating her as kindly as he’d like to.

But she didn’t wait for him to say anything, one way or the other.  “I will see Msr Baker out,” she offered, following the attorney to the door, “then per’aps a late lunch?  I believe there should be enough in the kitchen for me to make something to your liking.”  She opened the door, motioned Baker out first, then followed, the door clicking softly closed.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to read the letter anyway.  “You don’t write letters,” he told Gary, flipping the envelope over.

‘I didn’t,’ Gary agreed.  ‘But I suppose I had a few things I wanted to make sure you heard from me.  Just in case.’

“Just in case you died?”

‘Apparently.’

Sighing, Ghost tugged at the half-adhered flap, and opened the envelope.  There was a single piece of folded paper inside, handwritten in black pen.

S,

I hope you never have to read this.

But if you are, that means my will has been executed.

“Really couldn’t resist the ‘if you’re reading this, then I’m dead’ cliché, could you?” Simon asked with a small smirk, glancing up at Gary.

Gary laughed, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture.  ‘Let me have it; I earned it.’

But if you are, that means my will has been executed.  I trust you’ll put everything I had to good use.  Make sure our people are taken care of.  I never thought I’d have a family to pass it all on to, so it’s nice to be wrong for once.

Whatever happened to lead us here doesn’t really matter.  What matters is that you’re still alive, which means you still have things to do and memories to make.  I know it won’t be easy,

“Christ.”  Simon dropped the letter onto his desk, and slumped back in his chair.  “Why are you doing this to me?”  He pushed his mask off, rubbing his eyes.  “You didn’t have to write a goddamn letter.”

‘Keep going,’ Gary urged gently.

Taking a deep breath, Simon picked up the letter again.

I know it won’t be easy, but I need you to try.  Get whatever revenge you need, and then try.  That’s all I can really ask.

I always thought I’d end up getting myself killed doing something stupid as a teenager, leaving behind nothing more than disappointed parents.  Because there was never a world I could imagine that had someone in it who would put up with me, who would challenge me and push me to be more than what I was settling for.  I know I didn’t exactly make things easy for you at the beginning, but you stayed.  Against all odds, you chose me again and again.  Which makes this letter all the more difficult to write,

Simon closed his eyes.  The sensation of tears prickling was becoming all too familiar.  He took a slow inhale, let it out carefully, and continued.

all the more difficult to write, because I promised you that you’d never be without me again.

I’m sorry.

Maybe you can find some solace in knowing that you were everything to me.  Being able to wake up next to you, fall asleep in your arms, touch you, hold you, and love you was as close to heaven as someone like me will ever get.  I never could have thought to ask for more.  Happiness was never a goal I had ever thought to set, let alone reach.  Until you came into my life.

If I could do it all over again, the only thing I would change would be finding you sooner.

We found each other in this lifetime, and we’ll find each other in the next.  Wherever you go from here, I know you’ll find your way back to me.  Take your time.  We have the rest of eternity to spend together.  Our relationship wasn’t exactly conventional, and we both know that “til Death do us part” won’t last, either.

G

Simon set the letter down.  His office was empty.  He felt entirely, devastatingly, horribly alone.  He took a shaky breath, buried his head in his arms, and let himself cry for the second time in as many weeks.

Soap stood outside the front door.  It was dusk, the late October air a little too cool for his liking.  But he was delaying going inside, because he knew Ghost was in there.  Ghost was waiting for him to report back on the call earlier, and the general consensus of their people in the midwest was not great.  Soap wasn’t particularly thrilled about having to deliver that bad news, nor the fact that it was coming a few hours later than Ghost likely expected it.

Because he had come from dinner with Gaz.

And that was a whole separate thing.  Dinner had been nice.  Good.  Almost too good.  Soap and Gaz talked openly about their childhood crushes - embarrassingly mutual, and yet unspoken until now - and about the previous night.  To Soap’s surprise, they hadn’t actually hooked up.  Apparently, or so Gaz reported, they had been about to, when Johnny had called him “Kyle”, then cursed and apologized, and Gaz had realized at that point that Johnny was too far gone to realize who he was with.  Of course, he had suspected at the bar that Johnny hadn’t fully recognized him, but the “slip-up” had confirmed it.

So they had just sat.  Talked.  Then had gotten into bed, and fallen asleep.  As if it was the most natural thing.

Over dinner, Johnny - flustered by his behavior - had explained a bit more about what he had been up to since leaving the UK, specifically the last few months.  Kyle had taken it all very well, and explained in turn about his life.  Their chatter had been easy, effortless.  And when Kyle walked him to the car waiting to take him back to headquarters, he had left Johnny with another kiss on the cheek, and a promise for not losing touch this time.

It was leaving Soap feeling warm and mollified, the darkness of the past week lifting somewhat.  And that was confusing.  Because he loved Gary, and Gary was gone.  But if not for the funeral, would he have reconnected with Kyle?

Then there was the question of Ghost.  Soap rather doubted that Ghost would take the news of a rekindled friendship - with implications of more - very well, in his current state.  Given how snippy and curt their communication had been recently, Soap wondered if he should mention Gaz at all.  The idea of lying by omission to his… boss, boyfriend, whatever, it wasn’t appealing.  But he wondered if it was better than the alternative.

Then again, maybe it would be welcomed news.  Maybe Ghost would appreciate having Soap out of his hair.  Clearly there wasn’t anything left between them, in Gary’s absence.  There couldn’t be.  Not with the way Ghost had been treating him.

But they were both hurting, stung by the sudden loss, weren’t they?  Once the jagged knife-edge of it all dulled, would they be able to communicate better?  To fix things?  To still have… something?  Anything?

A breeze rustled the branches of nearby bushes, and Soap shivered.  He didn’t want to go inside, but he was going to freeze if he stayed out here like this.  With a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit foyer.

There was a faint sound of tinkling glass from down the hall, in the drawing room.  Soap glanced up the stairs, having expected Ghost to be in his office.  But the light spilling into the hallway further on confirmed that someone was there, and at this hour, that could only be Ghost.  There was a clatter, a grumbled curse, then a light thump.  Soap gathered himself, and walked down the hall.

“You’re late,” Ghost said.  He was sitting on the couch, back to the entrance, and typing something on his laptop, propped on the side table he had dragged over to hold it.

“Dinner,” Soap said simply.  He cleared his throat, hovering in the entryway, wondering if he should sit as well.  “Yeh wanted a report on the call.”

“Why else would you be here?”  Ghost finished typing, clicked something, and then snapped his laptop shut.  He still hadn’t turned to look at the other man.  He picked up a glass from the low table in front of the couch, and settled back against the cushions.  Soap was concerned to see just how much amber liquid was in the glass, as well as how much disappeared in a single swig.  “Well?” Ghost prompted gruffly.

Soap swallowed.  “Wilson reported two waylaid couriers in the last week,” he said mechanically.  “McDonnell corroborated, and discussed a further issue, a raid on the main Topeka warehouse.”

Ghost grunted, swirling his drink.

Soap waited.  But apparently Ghost had nothing to say on the matter.  “Ghost,” he began tentatively.  “Two couriers ambushed, and a raid.  In th’ last week.”

“I heard you.”  Another sip.  The glass was almost empty.

“How much—?” Soap started to ask.  Then stopped himself.  Then tried again.  “Yeh’ve been drinkin’ a lot,” he observed.

“And?”

And it was concerning.  And it wasn’t exactly a healthy way to deal with things.  And it was borderline careless, especially considering that he didn’t seem at all put off by significant blows to their supply chain in just a few days.  And it worried Johnny.  Everything he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t leave his tongue.

So instead, Soap took a few careful steps towards the couch, moving into Ghost’s peripheral vision.  “Simon,” he said quietly.  Testing the waters.

But sharks could smell blood, and Soap had opened the wound.  Ghost’s head snapped to him, eyes hard and dark, and just a little unfocused.  “Yeah?” he sneered.  “Is that what you’re going to try to do?  Act like you still give a shit about me?”

“It’s not an act,” Soap retorted tersely.  “Just because yeh dinnae care about me—”

“Don’t fuckin’ start,” Ghost cut him off.

Soap huffed, feeling his blood start to boil.  “Simon—” he tried again, a bit sharper than he had intended.

He might as well have dumped a bucket of chum into the churning waters.  Ghost was shooting to his feet with far more poise than Soap expected him to have at the moment.  “No,” Ghost snarled, dropping his glass on the table with a clatter and taking a threatening step towards Soap.  “Don’t you even fucking try.  I’m your boss, MacTavish.  Fucking act like it.”

Soap stiffened.  He was so tempted to rise to the challenge, to throw it back in the other man’s face, to start to shout at each other, even to let it all come to blows.  Because even vitriol from Simon was better than the cold, desolate silence he had gotten lately.

But then there was a flash of something in his mind, of easy smiles and genial chatter, of chocolate eyes flecked with gold, of a warm embrace, of acceptance.

He didn’t need to put up with… with this.  Soap steeled his expression.  “Yes, sir,” he said coolly.  But he couldn’t resist one last jab.  “And while yer drownin’ yerself, I’ll just run things for yeh, shall I?”

Ghost took another step towards him, sneering, but Soap didn’t back down.  “Yeah,” Ghost growled, “yeah, why don’t you do that.  Make yourself fuckin’ useful for once.”

Soap’s lip twitched, but he forced himself to stay calm.  “Right,” he said.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly, flicking briefly over Soap’s shoulder, as if this had been too easy, as if wondering how to respond.  Had he wanted a fight?  “You have anything else to report, or are you just going to hover?” he snapped eventually.

“No, nothin’ else to report.  Sir.”

“Good,” Ghost grunted.  He turned away.  The blood had dissipated, the water was clearing.  “Then you can leave.”

Soap didn’t argue with the suggestion.

But on the ride back to his apartment, there was an awful, unnamable weight settling in his gut.  Sure, he could do better than dismissive snips and growled orders.  But that was Ghost .  Simon was still under it all somewhere, he knew.  Ghost might be keeping himself numb to everything, but that was only further proof that he was feeling something.  Maybe even too much.  Didn’t that mean he needed someone at his side, now more than ever?

His phone buzzed, and the screen lit up with a text from Gaz.

wishing we had more time for dinner.  free for lunch tmrw?  how’d the meeting go?

One door closing, another opening.  Soap sighed, tucking his phone away for the moment.  He already knew how he’d respond, gladly accepting the invitation and suggesting one of his favorite lunch spots, while sidestepping the question about work.  But something about the idea of enjoying himself while Gary was gone, while Simon was suffering, while something was going on with the business he was now apparently in charge of… well.  It didn’t sit right.

Something was happening.  It felt like he was careening down a dark, treacherous path that could surely lead nowhere good.

Stomach roiling, feeling a bit sick and a lot guilty, Soap tugged his phone from his pocket.  If he was going to end up dead at the end of it all, he might as well enjoy what he could get.

1230 tmrw work?
i know a barry italian spot
miss you already