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Soap is crouched in a half-collapsed mud brick house somewhere in *redacted* Syria, pawing through his kit, taking a quick inventory. This has been a bloody fucking op from practically the moment their boots hit the sand. They lost three marines almost immediately to an ambush and it took every skill Soap had to keep the half-dozen wounded stitched together and alive long enough for exfil.

Apparently they finally got their arses pulled out of the fire because TF141 haloed in last night and blew the insurgents base to hell and back and generously took out the arseholes who had Soap’s squad pinned on their way out. Now they’re stuck waiting for exfil because the wounded were first priority on the medivac out and there just wasn't enough room for them all. So, Soap, since they were in safe hands, stayed behind with a couple of stout hearted lads waiting for the last helo. He hasn’t had any sleep in two days and his eyes are gritty with sand and his mood, jittery from stims just as abrasive.

Taylor is on watch at the window and Schulz is slumped half-asleep on a stool in the corner, rifle cradled across his broad chest like an infant. They are all grubby and exhausted, with sand in excredible places, adrenaline dump leaving them all in the lurch. Soap is pleased to see that his hunch to add extra wound clot and pressure bandages to his kit this mission paid off. Sometimes he likes being right if it means he can save another life.

A sharp whistle brings all their heads up and they tense, weapons ready, until Taylor mutters over his shoulder,

”Our’s.”

And he stands to push open the half demolished door to allow the three big men to push inside. Not the 22d Soap notes. Two of them are supporting the third who is a huge son of a bitch. Gadgie has to be at least 195 cm and 131 kgs, dressed in funereal black and he is rumbling deep in his broad chest like a grumpy bear as his friends ease him down next to Soap, who is already pouncing on the thickly bandaged thigh wound that is already soaked through with dark red blood. When the man growls and tries to bat him away, he simply responds by spreading a big, calloused hand across that skull plate mask and shoving him flat and snarls, teeth bared, down in his startled eyes (which are all he can see of the guy’s face) as he straddles his legs and holds him down.

”Lie still ye great twat, afore ye bleed out! Donnae make me knock ye out, mesel!”

Muttering under his breath about giant, bonepated eejits in both English and Gaelic, he sets to work making sure the great numpty doesn’t die, deftly cutting off the makeshift bandage, disinfecting the wound, with the lightning speed he is known for, noting with relief it's a relatively clean through and through the meat of a pale, thick, muscled thigh, that thankfully missed both bone and the femoral artery. He skillfully applies generous gobs of wound clot gauze and a pressure bandage and it's only as he is wrapping it tight and clean that he hears the helos arriving for exfil. A couple of medics rush in with a stretcher and only then he takes note of the vest patches his patient and his buddies are wearing and realises that he just snarked off at a Lieutenant in the infamous TF141, and that the two sergeants with him are now regarding him wide-eyed, with fascinated disbelief.

So this is how he first encounters the infamous task force led by the equally infamous Captain Price and his first meeting with the legendary Lieutenant Ghost.

Great.

Another demerit no doubt added to his file.

At this rate, the complaints regarding insubordination are piling up in there thicker than the commendations. Oh, well it all balances out in the end. One day he is brawling with a rival sergeant in a pub, the next he is yanking some cretin NCO out of the line of fire. He wearily piles onto the last helo with his guys, legs dangling out the door, his medical kit damned near empty and watches the handsome young sergeant with the ball cap and megawatt smile cheerfully wave goodbye from his own bird, a sleek, matte black aircraft piloted by a big, shifty looking guy with slicked back hair, vintage ray-bans and an honest to god, sheepskin lined flight jacket. Definitely not regular Special Air Service. Lieutenant Bonehead was still glaring daggers at him from where he was lying on the stretcher, but at least he is still alive. Numpty. Soap resists the urge to give him a rude two fingered salute. He should have tranqed his giant arse just for fun.

****

Three months later Soap is crouched behind a crumbling stone wall over a vaguely familiar unconscious SAS sergeant, one hand keeping pressure on the bleeding wound in his arm and the other on the detonator in his hand. As a combat medic it isn’t often that he gets the chance to use his demolition skills, and he flashes a feral grin through a grimy, bloody face as the approaching squad of hostiles venture just close enough. through the hazy cloud of dust and ash blown up by too many air strikes and explosions.

He presses the button with a flourish, ducks and listens for a moment with great satisfaction at the very satisfyingly loud ‘Ka-boom’ and the aborted shouts of the unfortunate men, before ordering the groggy man beside him to hold pressure on his mate’s wound and popping up with his C8 Carbine and deftly sniping the dazed survivors before they can take cover. It isn’t every day that he can use his superb sniping skills either, so spoiled for choice he is today. He ascertains none of them are getting up to return fire and turns to the addled young man who is clumsily obeying his orders despite looking more than a bit peely-wally himself—concussions suck duck eggs—and half the poor lad’s face is one big, swollen red and purple bruise—and takes over.

”Good job, laddie!”

He checks his unconscious patient and finds a substantial goose egg on the back of his head as well as the single bullet wound to the bicep, notes that bleeding is sluggish now and that the man’s vitals are good as he slaps a pressure bandage on. So he isn’t in danger of bleeding out and in all probability (he sneaks a peek at the man’s name tags) Sergeant Sanderson will survive to fight another day and awaken in hospital with a hell of a headache. Soap in the meantime is due for another demerit in his file (just in time for the holidays) because he has words for that fuckwit, Lieutenant Roe, who has mysteriously disappeared during their squad’s strategic retreat. Typical officer behavior. Last one off the helicopter and first one on during exfil.

This time the fuckwit left two wounded men behind—three if you count Soap as well—but his cuts and bruises and graze to the bicep hardly count as wounds. He slapped a bandage on and carried on. He wonders how long it will take the fool to notice he’s missing three men. In the meantime he also wonders how exactly he will call for exfil as his comms have been broken, choppy static for the last hour. He finishes bandaging the sergeant’s wounds and quickly turns to young FitzHenry, cleaning his face and taping a thick, protective gauze pad over his bruised eye which is swollen shut. Fortunately it appears there was nothing lodged in it, so he rinsed it with saline and he should recover once the swelling diminishes.

Finally, he stands, hoists the diminutive Sanderson over one broad shoulder with a grunt, makes sure that the groggy Fitz has a hand on the back of his belt and heads out in the direction of where presumably Lieutenant Fuckwit called in exfil. The dust is still thick and they make good time, but he startles when a huge, heavily armed specter suddenly looms in front of him with a familiar pale skull face and narrowed, dark eyes. Soap nearly drops his man and shoots him on reflex.

”Fook me! Give warning next time! I could have shot ye!”

Lieutenant Bonehead snorts and actually rumbles a reply.

”I think you have your hands full, Sergeant MacTavish.”

Soap gives him an evil grin and wags his Glock in his free hand, indicating that he very much has a free hand. It doesn’t occur to him to wonder how the man knew his name. As a highly skilled medic and general good guy, he’s pretty popular among the squads, both regular and SAS.

However, he doesn’t protest when the big man steps forward and gently hefts the wounded man up himself. The smaller man looks like a child in his huge arms. Something about the worry in the big guy’s eyes snags Soap’s attention and ticks his curiosity. It’s only later after they are scooped up by the sleek, very fast helo, (Soap is envious, apparently TF141 gets all the good toys) piloted by a jovial Russian named Nik and delivered to base and he gets to gloriously witness (and hear) the unfortunate Roe being savagely reamed out by none other than the formidable Captain Price himself nearby, that he learns that Roe arrogantly poached one of Price’s men (Sanderson) and departed for the op without requesting permission to do so.

Soap gleefully eavesdrops as long as he can as he gives the medical stats of his patients to the medical team who swarmed the helo, only to be immediately betrayed by Lieutenant Bonepate, who dryly points out to the medical team that Soap is wounded as well. To his chagrin he apparently was bleeding through his hasty bandage and before he can protest, Sita and her team have scooped him up as well and whisked him off to medical. He gives the big man a swift one-fingered salute as he is frog marched away and is sure the great arsehole is smirking under that mask in return.

Despite his whinging (possibly because of it) Sita actually sedates his arse and he then spends the next ten hours blissfully catching up on some much needed sleep. When he wakes he is pleasantly surprised to find out from his superior officers that not only had Roe gotten slapped down a rank, and posted in the arse end of Iraq, but Soap has magically acquired a brand new commendation. There is even a shiny new medal involved.

Groggy, but pleased, Soap relaxes back on his cot and waits to flirt or grovel as needed with Dr. Patel for his release papers and pokes in disgust at the tasteless, grayish green, mushy peas pigswill that was served for dinner. He gingerly eats the powdery mash instead. If he is lucky he will be served a fine helping of his Meimao’s special holiday haggis when he visits for Yule next week and will acquire extra cranachan for dessert and be fussed over within an inch of his life after displaying his grievous battle wound. It’s well worth a scolding, a gentle skelping about the head and cheek pinches for the extra scran. Mam will send him off with shortbread as well. Hopefully Mark, his steady fellow, will coddle him a bit as well. Mark has been sullen of late, still whinging about Soap’s choice of a career although they have been together long enough that he should realize John has no plans of leaving the military. He both likes and excels at his job.

A month later Major Reed calls him into his office and plummily informs him that his services have been requested for a month long op and that it's an excellent opportunity for advancement. This raises both Soap’s paranoia levels and hackles because that statement usually means the chance of him getting shot dead just increased exponentially. When the Captain goes on to explain that a certain Captain Price of TF141 has requested him personally, his heart sinks. Fuck his life. No doubt Lieutenant Bonehead will take the opportunity to make his life miserable as well during the op.

Summarily dismissed, he stomps back to the barracks to pack up his duffle and gear and restock his custom medical bag, because apparently he is catching a ride out on the transport at the asscrack of dawn to Credenhill. He takes a few minutes to call his Mam and sisters and inform them that he may be going dark for a while and not to worry (they will anyway because he is a fucking combat medic who is always headed directly into the thick of things). He doesn’t bother calling Mark. He’s been busy lately with his job in seasonal hospitality. They fought over his job again and Mark thinks the cold shoulder is an effective punishment. Soap just enjoys the peace and quiet.

At Medical the Inventory Tech takes note of his new assignment, does a double take and basically fucking loads him up with extra everything because apparently the TF141 has a literal bloody reputation. Fucking lovely, he thinks sourly as he crams the extra wound clot, bandages, stims, painkillers and morphine syrettes in as best he can in the overstuffed med bag and struggles to fasten the buckles. Feeling particularly vindictive, he also adds a large packet of colorful lollies usually kept at hand for the rare child patient and a box of cartoon plasters featuring dancing, grinning skeletons.

He has barely grumpily trundled off the transport and dropped his duffle on his new bunk, before he is reloading with the TF141 and a half dozen greenies on their way to yet another redacted location, this time in a fucking steamy jungle in South America during rainy season. Soap wishes that he’d packed an economy sized container of Daktarin Foot powder. If they’re lucky toe fungus and jock itch is all they will have to deal with. He devoutly hopes they don’t run into any fucking vipers or those fucking bullet ants whose bite makes you wish you’d run into a Fer-de-Lance for a less painful and quicker death instead.

They end up dropped off near an old, crumbling, vine covered stone temple where they set up a temporary base, taking advantage of the fairly intact section that still has a partial roof to stay out of the evening monsoons. After beating it for any venomous occupants and Soap doesn’t blame one of the marines for the girly shriek he lets out when a hairy tarantula the size of a saucer they evicted trundles grumpily away across the man’s boot. Looks like the poor lad just acquired the callsign of Spiderman.

The Oplan is mainly recon and intel retrieval, but they have to wait around and twiddle their thumbs in case a HVT deigns to appear for a meet. Apparently this particular group of drug runners are branching out into missiles. Soap is caught up on the details by Garrick the handsome Sergeant who was so friendly the last time they met. Gaz is an intense but friendly bloke as is his fellow sergeant, Roach, or Bug, as he is affectionately known. Soap brushes away the man’s earnest thanks for saving his life and carrying him out of the fire zone. He was just doing his job.

Soap has heard of Captain Price—everyone in the SAS has, the man has a reputation that exceeds him. It’s the big, silent bloke that he is wary of, Ghost. So far, the man hasn’t said a word to him, just given him the occasional stink eye as he goes about his business and Soap makes it a point to avoid him (he’s heard the rumors and is of the firm belief that where there is smoke there is fire) and is hanging instead with his fellow sergeants and the half dozen accompanying recon Marines, half of which are greenies. He refuses to poke a bear unless its with a tranquilizer gun.

As always with life in the military, Soap is used to long stretches of intense boredom interspersed with moments of arse puckering terror, so he settles in to wait out the peace and quiet, checks his kit (again) and bemoans his lack of tasty snacks. He usually at least remembers to throw a package of Irn Bru sweets or gummy sharks in his bag to satiate his sweet tooth. He is superstitiously reluctant to open his packet of lollies. The Marines are either napping when not walking the perimeter or playing endless games of cards as the squad plays hurry up and wait.

He takes his turn on perimeter checks and then after being relieved takes advantage of the sunshine to seat himself on a huge stone block and pull out his sketchbook to draw a portion of the temple, particularly the spectacularly ugly statue of a squat, smirking jaguar deity sporting a set of fangs and throttling an unfortunate, grimacing individual with both hands. Sometimes he wished he had tried for Art College, but there had been no money for that and the military was his best bet to start earning a paycheck. He still sent regular deposits home for his baby sister’s school expenses despite his Mam’s protests. He got into regular fights with Mark about that, but his family would always come first.

After his Da died in service, she raised six daughters and one rascal of a son on her meager nurse’s salary and he was determined to pay her back as best he could. He had loved his father, but the man was career military and a stern, distant parental figure at best and Soap was small when he died. His death had forced his mother to move to a poorer, rougher neighborhood, and Soap grew up fast. His elder sisters did so as well, Iona was now a fucking eye surgeon and Liz was a English professor at a prominent university. The second set of twins, Alys and Anne, were reading on full scholarship at St.Anne’s and the youngest, Fiona, still in secondary school. None of them had approved of his joining the military. He’d had to sneak away to do so.

He didn’t have the heart to explain to her that his bank account was more than fine—he regularly deposited his combat pay bonuses into his savings. She didn’t need to know the reason he was flush after being paid quite well was because he risked his life every time he deployed. He has been in the SAS for over a decade now and even has enough savings to buy a wee house should he choose to, because he didn’t bother to rent a flat, preferring to stay on base or take mini vacations when punted off base on leave.

Instead, he is content to see that his Mam and grandmothers are comfortable (mortgage all paid and a utilities and household account set up that the girls contributed to as well). He hadn’t bothered to explain his job in the SAS further than ‘medic’ to Mark. His boyfriend was always nagging him to leave the military, but Soap had no desire for the tedious desk job that Mark wanted him to take (under his supervision). As he sketches, he is blissfully unaware of the pensive, hooded gaze of the man seated nearly hidden in the temple shadows as he silently sharpens and oils his knives.

****

Price sat back and perused the blueprints again, although he has the entire compound memorized. They have been bivouacked here for almost a week now, patiently waiting to see if Alvarez actually shows. The man is an ambitious pain in the arse to the government and he has plans to rise higher in the Colombian underworld as he has developed an unhealthy interest in procuring the latest stealth missiles, for reasons Laswell is determined to prevent.

Now he was amused at his Lieutenant’s poorly concealed (to Price) fascination with their borrowed medic. Price was intrigued by the young man too. He’d listened to Gaz and Roach telling the tale of the medic who fearlessly interacted with The Ghost and remained totally unimpressed by the big man’s glower while he treated him and single-handedly hauled an unconscious Roach out of an active combat zone after taking out half a squad of hostiles himself. The boy got along with both his sergeants like wildfire and he was a favorite with the marines. He’d read the lad’s file and whistled in admiration at his scores. His time rivaled Gaz’ and he was adept in both demolitions and sniping. He was a prize for any squad to have on board. The fact that he was a highly skilled medic was the cherry on top. It was like having three elite specialists rolled into one. Why hadn’t Price gotten access to his file before?

Paging through, he realised that it was probably because;
A. the 22d guarded their highly competent medic like he was made of gold (Price was already getting irate emails from Captain Hall wanting his medic back asap) and
B. the kid had a thick stack of reprimands in his file. He had even cold cocked and locked a MP in his own vehicle for sexist remarks.

Price had snorted in amusement at that one. He liked it when his muppets were feisty. Men who showed initiative made excellent covert recon specialists. Now he sat back with a cigar and watched his lieutenant watch the sergeant. The big man was clearly smitten. This certainly beat reality television any day.

He snorted when he saw both Gaz and Bug were also watching both men avidly as they went about their business—Gaz cleaning his rifle and Roach settling in beside the fire pit, slowly unloading a load of semi dry firewood for later. This was clearly high entertainment for his sergeants. He made a mental note to find out if there was already a bet of some sort in the works. If so, he wanted in. He also sent an email to Laswell requesting the immediate transfer of one John ‘Soap’ MacTavish to TF141.

With those scores he should have had the lad on his team ages ago. That would please both her and the brass, who were constantly nagging his arse about expanding his team. That pillock Hall could just kick rocks. Feeling quite productive after poaching the young medic from his gormless colleague, he settled back to smoke and watch his muppets. Bless them, they could be right idiots but they never failed to amuse him.

****

Ghost scowled down at his hands when he realized he was still sharpening the same knife and had been sharpening it for the last fifteen minutes. A deep chuckle and a bit of incomprehensible Gaelic blather from across the clearing snapped his gaze back to the young Scot who was now crouched on the stone block heckling the newly christened Spiderman who was now being tormented by one of his mates with an even larger arachnid which was angrily wriggling hairy feet as it was gleefully dangled in the cringing private’s face.

Ghost wouldn’t blame the greenie if he shot his friend. That was one huge, ugly spider. Soap shifted his weight and Ghost found his eyes drawn to where his camo trousers were drawn taut across an admittedly fine, well muscled arse. Why did he find the incorrigible, bordering on insubordinate Scot so intriguing? Soap stood in one lithe, graceful move and leapt gracefully off the huge block to land lightly on his feet.

Fucking hell. .

Ghost swiftly dropped his eyes glad that his mask hid his flushed face, realized he was still sharpening the same bloody knife and swearing silently to himself, it wasn’t like him to be distracted by trivial, physical things, hurled it vengefully across the room to impale a mosquito the size of a toy helicopter to a crate, causing a nearby greenie to cringe and hurriedly find something else to do across the clearing.

Soap was now exchanging japes with a grinning Gaz presumably about the spider if the way the Scot was waggling his fingers and Bug shuddering involuntarily in response was the indication. Roach, oddly enough, did not care for his insect brethren. They gave him the heebie-jeebies. Raucous laughter as the unfortunate greenie yelped and fled across the clearing to avoid his charging, arachnid wielding teammate caught his attention again. Soap was laughing, head thrown back, eyes bright, hands on hips and haloed in sunlight. He looked…movement caught his eye and he saw that Price was watching him, amused smirk clearly visible on his face. Fuck. The old man would be insufferable now. Scowling, Ghost sheathed his knives, put his whetstone away and strode off under the tree canopy as though heading for their makeshift latrine.

He needed to think.

They managed to eliminate the target and make exfil with little damage other than a few insect bites and one minor wound only to Ghost who had a defensive gash to the heel of his palm after deflecting a knife slash from an overly ambitious hostile who made the tragic and fatal error of taking on a man whose skill with blades was legendary.

Now Price and his sergeants were being highly entertained because Ghost as always, tried to hide the minor wound—he had a bad habit of doing that and skulking off to tend to himself in his quarters later—only to be pounced on by their eagle eyed young medic the second he plopped his arse down in the helo. Now he was being stitched up, bandaged and scolded by said medic and Price would give a thousand quid to actually see the astonished look on his lieutenant’s face.

The young man sat next to the big man, Ghost’s wounded hand held firmly by the wrist as his glove was whisked off and the nasty slash was expertly tended to, all while he was soundly scolded and lectured on how nasty rapid sepsis in tropical climates could be. The Scot was totally focused on his work as he deftly cleaned, disinfected ‘be still ye great eejit,’ and put three neat stitches in to close the deep cut before sealing, bandaging it and to both Price and his sergeants’ utter delight the young medic then plummily placed dancing skeleton plasters on the nicked and bruised knuckles of the big hand and handed Ghost a cherry lolly afterwards with a flourish and a shit eating grin.

Breathless, they watched as a stunned Ghost regarded the dancing skellie plasters and sweet for a long disbelieving moment, then slowly narrowed his eyes at the grinning Scot and then, still holding his gaze, slowly unwrapped the lolly, pushed his balaclava up and popped it in his mouth and began to suck and swirl it around in his mouth it in a distinctly lascivious manner, wet pink tongue curling around the sweet, with a smirk on his scarred face. Young MacTavish immediately blushed a becoming rose pink and hastily turned his attention to cleaning up, fumbling to fold up the medical waste from the suture kit and tucking it away to be disposed of later. Price noticed that Roach was now surreptitiously handing a fiver to a grinning Gaz.

Yes, there was definitely a bet going on there.

He most certainly wanted in on it.

****

Two days later Price summoned young MacTavish into his office, plummily informed him that he was now a full fledged member of TF141 and watched with great satisfaction as his dismayed protests abruptly cut off as the young man skimmed his new contract and saw exactly how much his new pay rise and combat bonuses were and abruptly shut his mouth. As a member of the premier elite SAS squad who regularly risked life and limb, the pay reflected that, as did the bonuses dependent on the level of high risk operations.

Price had taken note of the fact that MacTavish has a household of female relatives to support at home in Scotland and that the youngest was still in secondary school. He’d also been impressed when he realized that Soap was the only son of the deceased Captain John MacTavish, who had been KIA when the boy was only eight. He’d had the privilege to work with the man once on a Russian op and was very impressed. The man was both blindingly efficient and one of the bluntest individuals he’d ever met. It had come as a great sorrow to learn he was KIA some years later on a clandestine op in the Baltic region. It was a tragic loss of a good man to both the SAS and his grieving family.

****

MacTavish settled into the squad seamlessly. He was good natured and amiable, yet blindingly competent with a core of pure Scottish steel. He got along famously with both Gaz and the selectively mute Roach and could often be found slumped on the break room sofa exchanging gossip and bad japes with both. He had no problem understanding Bug’s BSL, because ‘ma wee sister is deaf’ and he is fluent in it. Price realized to his chagrin that he’d created a monster when the pranks began. The three were thick as thieves and were expert at putting obstreperous recruits and snobbish officers in their places. Fortunately Price seldom had to reprimand them as they were impossible to catch in the act.

The racist recruit who slurred Gaz behind his back tripped over a hidden IED in the urban maze and ended up dyed neon purple for a week. His new call sign was Grape. The officer who maligned Roach found his narrow arse firmly glued to a toilet seat. Removal required no little effort as none of the usual solvents worked on the glue, and the man required ‘a reverse Brazilian wax’ according to a grinning Soap. The man’s pained howl as it was forcibly yanked off his hirsute arse had echoed through the barracks to the utter glee of the recruits. (Price noted that Soap was nose deep in a chemistry textbook for a week before the incident.) Said officer transferred himself out of Credenhill shortly after the incident seeking to escape the lasting infamy after the hairy toilet seat was mysteriously hoisted up the base flagpole as a trophy.

After digging a little into MacTavish’s files he discovered the man had a degree in chemistry from a university in Edinburgh that he’d earned via remote learning while moving up through the ranks. If he wished, the Scot could have had a promising career in demolitions but had promised his Mam that it would remain a ‘hobby’ so he wouldn’t ‘ lose an eye, go deaf, or blow his bits off.’ He was blindingly fast on the urban warfare obstacle course. He could stack a door, pie a room, clear it and move on before most men managed to even fumble open the door.

It became obvious in a very short time why the man’s call sign was Soap and it certainly wasn’t for the tiny bar of hotel soap he carried in his plate carrier along with a packet of antibacterial wipes. He was fast, slippery and came away clean in every exercise he undertook. Price and his new teammates were not only impressed despite themselves, they were extremely grateful that the man was on their side because as good natured as he was, the Scot could be a vindictive little shite if harassed.

****

Ghost was rather irritated to learn that Price had poached the medic from the 22d. He didn’t like change. Still, he convinced himself that friendship simply wasn’t in the field manual and prepared to shoot the man down if he became overly familiar. He’d been surprised and more than a bit nonplussed when the man kept a respectful distance despite the fact that he clearly wasn’t put off by Simon’s icy reputation (or his best glower—the cheeky git). MacTavish clearly wasn’t afraid of him and remained cheerful and friendly and SImon found that there was often a cup of hot tea perfectly prepared waiting on his desk, or tubes of soothing lip balm and moisturizer tucked in his gear.

How did the man know that Simon’s sensitive skin was often irritated by his masks? Reluctantly, Ghost decided that the young medic was just very good at his job and buried his competence kink beneath a heavy layer of cool, formal professionalism. Slowly he allowed himself to adjust to having the man at his back and eventually was surprised to overhear one of the marines firmly informing a greenie that just as Gaz was Price’s favorite sergeant, the hot medic, MacTavish, was Ghost’s and that he’d better keep his hands to himself less they be lopped off.

Startled he’d turned a watchful (and protective) eye on the young sergeant and realized that the good natured (and attractive) Scot sometimes had to deal with more than a bit of covert sexual harassment from both men and women alike. Yes, MacTavish was a born flirt, but he kept it light when it came to other members of the military and the recruits. Clearly, he didn’t screw around where he worked and Ghost respected that because he saw how often Soap had to fend determined admirers off at the pub, he was polite but firm.

Yes, he draped himself over his fellow sergeants on the battered sofa in the lounge in a puppy pile nap, or flung an affectionate arm over Gaz or Bug’s shoulders as they gamed or watched the Telly, but clearly if he needed to scratch a sexual itch he did it privately off base. Ghost, who was about as celibate as a career soldier could be, respected that. He’s seen too many promising careers ruined because a man couldn’t keep his mind out of his trousers.

Ghost was then both relieved and chagrined to learn that MacTavish had a steady fellow back in Glasgow, and that it was actually a long term relationship dating from secondary school. He’d even overheard the exasperated Scot arguing with one of his sisters via speaker phone, firmly denying any intention of proposing to the man over Christmas. He didn’t try to understand why that statement pleased him immensely, merely telling himself that it was good that MacTavish focused on his career.

He’s always kept his own sexual life on the downlow, sparse as it was. On the rare occasions he indulged to let off steam, he kept strictly to professionals based in London and Manchester. He neither wanted or needed a woman mooning over him, and in truth his libido was low and he was seldom attracted enough to either men or women to indulge. His hand usually did the job. He didn’t believe in labels, and he didn’t think of himself as aro-ace or even demisexual. Sex was simply another annoying bodily function that had to be dealt with periodically to ease tension and clear the pipes.

So when it dawned on him that his annoyance at MacTavish’s presence had shifted to something else—admiration of both the man’s skills and his compact, perfectly proportioned body—it rattled him. Neither friendship nor fraternization were in the field manual, although he knew Price didn’t give a rat’s ass as long as his team wasn’t affected—he’d been in a relationship with Nikolai for years himself. It annoyed him. He wasn’t some idiot greenie mooning over the handsome young sergeant. He’d never lusted after a man in his life. He was determined to maintain a professional distance and knowing Soap was safely in a long term relationship helped.

That became increasingly difficult as he became acquainted with his young sergeant. The cheerful young man was sunshine personified. Ghost found himself hiding a smile behind his mask at the young man’s antics and it didn’t help when the Medic discovered Ghost’s fondness for deplorable puns and began to match him joke for joke. Ghost also found himself gleefully searching the internet for new material. When Christmas rolled around (Ghost always stayed on duty at base—too many bad memories triggered by the holiday) he discovered a neatly wrapped book of puns on his desk along with a tin of homemade biscuits from Meimao MacTavish.

Touched, he sank down in his office chair and examined his prezzies. The caramel shortbread was excellent and the book actually held some excellent puns. He found himself in a corundum. It’s been years since he shopped for Christmas gifts. Not since…Joseph. But his sergeant deserved at least a small token of appreciation. Gifting was usually easy. Cigars for Price, vodka for Nik and a bottle of good liquor for Garrick and Sanderson to share.

After some serious thought he sent flowers to Soap’s granny and carefully chose a knife (dithered for an hour) from his large collection, wrapped the razor sharp blade in craft paper and twine and left it on the Sergeant’s desk. Soap had a deft hand with a scalpel and would no doubt appreciate a good combat blade. The one he wore in a shoulder sheath was regular issue, adequate as it kept an edge, but factory made with substandard balance. The beaming smile and sincere thanks he got when Soap returned from leave and found the gift made him flush under his balaclava.

Soap felt nothing but relief at returning to base after the holidays. His long term (dragged out) relationship with Mark had finally crashed and burned to a fiery crisp on Christmas Eve. For months Soap had been trying to think of a way to amicably break things off—he had finally acknowledged to himself that on his end, it was for convenience only and while they had known each other since secondary school, they had little in common now and simply outgrew each other.

He liked Mark, but he no longer loved him and there was little more than physical attraction left, which was rapidly fading every time Mark opened his mouth to whinge or nag Soap about his career. It had come as something of a shock when Mark seemingly expected a ring, a proposal, an elaborate Highland wedding and for Soap to give up his career and work for his family's hotel—in that order for Christmas and threw a hissy fit on receiving a nice sweater and expensive bottle of cologne instead.

The petulant display quickly led to a screaming fight where Mark broke off their ‘engagement’ (which in itself was news to Soap) and flounced off, slamming his flat door, leaving a stunned Soap sitting silently by the gaudy fake silver Christmas tree. To his surprise he felt only vast relief and hastily packed up the few belongings he kept in the flat and skedaddled off to his Mam’s house. His family seemed relieved that his relationship was over, except for a disappointed Anne, who was bosom buddies with Mark.

Later Liz would gleefully inform him that Mark had fully expected Soap to capitulate to his demands and call and beg him to return. He’d been both outraged and dumbfounded when Soap hadn’t (He’d simply blocked his number and went about his business.) and now spent a great deal of time wailing about the whole mess to Anne, until his Mam firmly ordered him to pull himself together and have his tantrums elsewhere. It dawned quickly on Mark that he wouldn’t be able to replace his handsome, superbly fit, charming lover as easily as he thought.

Soap’s mam would always take her son’s side, she informed Mark frostily and he needed to get over it. The resulting flounce out of the MacTavish house merely resulted in the door being slammed shut and firmly locked behind him. He soon learned that his toxic drama was no longer welcome there if all he could do was badmouth John. The only one willing to listen to his whinging now was Anne and even she had her limits.

Ghost found himself offering sparring lessons with blades which his sergeant just as happily accepted. During the first lesson, Ghost was startled to discover two things, The first was that Soap was blindingly fast and made him actually have to stay on his toes and actually have to extend himself to win and that Soap actually already knew how to wield a blade. It was only after that first spar when Ghost was showering, flushed and exuberant after a rare, enjoyable bout where he actually had stay alert and work hard to win—a real workout— that it dawned on him that MacTavish grew up in Glasgow in a rough area where knife fighting was practically an extracurricular activity among the working class youth. The young Scot clearly didn’t need schooling, but enjoyed the bouts as much as Ghost did and wanted them to continue.

He found himself contemplating Soap’s facial scars and the pale, long healed defensive wounds on his big hands and bronzed arms. Had his sergeant gotten both his brow and chin scars before he joined up? He made a note to ask. He told himself it was good to keep the young medic in practice and In the meantime their spars became a regular activity and something the recruits always hurried to gawk at whenever possible. Sergeant MacTavish was soon acknowledged as the only man in the SAS who could hold his own against the formidable Ghost in a sparring ring.

Even in unarmed combat, he was a force to be reckoned with, proving as slippery to pin down as his call sign. It was only Ghost’s superior reach, weight, strength and experience that gave him the edge there. For the first time in years, the big man had to work at winning a bout and he found each session highly enjoyable. Both men emerged from the bouts flushed, drenched with sweat and beaming and Soap always determined to ‘win the next time. Sir.’

Price had stopped in the gym once, witnessed their grappling in a close contact bout that each was determined to win and walked away rolling his eyes but hiding a smile in his whiskers. Did his touch starved lieutenant even know that he was flirting with his entire body? He doubted it. He tracked down Gaz and Roach and silently tossed a fifty quid note into the rapidly growing betting pool. Not only was Nic involved now, but Laswell and Dr. Patel as well.

****

Soap continued to fit seamlessly into the team and Price was very pleased at the results. Not only had he gained his ‘three-for-one’ man, but his surly loner of a SIC got along famously with the Scot as well. The Captain became accustomed to seeing his hulking lieutenant striding across the base with Soap at his elbow yammering away, expressive hands flying. Instead of ordering the sergeant away or shutting him up, Ghost’s head was always tilted at that tiny ‘I’m listening’ angle and there was usually a crinkle of amusement around the corners of his eyes.

The first few months of acquiring the young medic were spent with the Captain smugly fending off Soap’s former Captain’s irate demands for his return asap. Apparently the replacement medic wasn’t up to Soap’s high level competence. Price finally had the Brass (who were still chuffed he’d actually added a man to his team as requested) step in and sternly inform the 22d’s Captain to back off. Soap was TF141’s sergeant now and they could just go kick rocks for all he cared.

****

The fact that Soap was now a full fledged member of TF141 didn’t prevent him from being ‘borrowed’ by other units. It was a fact that his medical skills were highly sought after and medics in commando units were always at risk by opposing forces. Sniping medics was tactical. If you eliminated the medical aid you eliminated aid for the wounded and crushed troop morale at the same time. So, Soap was a high value target from hostiles in any firefight.

Price kept that ‘borrowing’ at bay as often as he could, but even he had to obey orders from his superiors. He calmly worked around that by discouraging this practice simply by letting the other units know that they would have the Ghost to deal with if anything happened to his lieutenant's favorite sergeant. No one wanted the huge, cold-eyed skull-faced man looming in their business with the silent promise of severe pain as the very least of their problems. So, it was rare that another unit temporarily poached Soap, but it did happen and when it did, his team went on high alert until he was safely returned.

”What exactly do you mean by MIA, Lieutenant?”

Price’s voice was dangerously silky and his pale blue eyes frigid and he held the sweating Lieutenant Payne’s eyes as the man stood rigidly at attention. The man’s squad had just returned from a mission, minus three men—including their borrowed medic and a furious Price was waiting on the ground when the transport arrived. The man in front of him fought hard not to let his gaze stray over Price’s shoulder to where a glaring, black clad wraith loomed, eyes blazing and promising death.

The mission, a simple recon and fact finding foray had gone tits up the moment their boots hit the ground. There was an ambush waiting and communications between Soap and several others was lost after a massive explosion in the targeted compound. Payne stammered out an explanation and knew he was fucked as Ghost’s glare seared into his brain. He made a mental note to apply for a transfer as soon as possible.

Price glared at Payne.

”I’ll attend to you later.”

He turned to Ghost.

”Alright, Simon. Gear up and meet me back here in thirty. I’ll round up Gaz and Roach.”

The burly Captain was irate. However he would wait to vent after they retrieved their medic. He and Ghost jogged off in different directions as Price phoned Nik to prep a bird and called Laswell to get her eyes on overwatch. He had a very bad feeling about this. Payne was an arrogant prat and inexperienced as well. He bet the man hadn’t even sought to contact his missing men again after the comms went dark. The 141 haloed into the compound after dark with a small squad. Price had the suspicion that Soap hadn’t gone far from the target, especially if there were wounded to deal with. He would stay to protect and tend to his men.

It took them less than three hours to locate and retrieve their teammates. It was Roach who noted the faint Morse code clicks on their comms and they eased in and found their men tucked away in a well hidden sub-basement with damaged radios. Soap had somehow managed to carry and drag the other two wounded men to cover, covering their trail with a few judiciously applied grenades and tending their wounds before passing out from his own head injury. He was in and out of full consciousness afterwards. Mercer and Rutledge were in pretty rough shape—Mercer had a serious head injury and was temporarily blinded. Rutledge had a bullet in his shoulder and needed surgery asap.

The team quietly exfiled their wounded men without incident, carefully carrying them to Nik’s waiting helo under the cover of darkness. Price noted that it was Ghost who scooped the groggy, half conscious Soap up in a bridal carry—he was still trying to slur out a report— and gently carried him out while the marines hefted up the others. Rutledge was conscious and lucid enough to give a more detailed report. Payne left them after they were cut off with nary a check in on the comms or a backward glance. It was Soap who quickly fumbled with and combined functioning bits of their damaged comm units together enough to periodically send out the coded signal on the 141’s channel. The young sergeant had quietly reassured his men that the team would come for them.

Price noted that even now, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, the young Scot gamely attempted to grin and exchange the usual bad puns with his lieutenant and that Ghost hadn’t relinquished his hold on him at all. The big man sat with his back against the bulkhead with Soap supported carefully across his lap while Gaz carefully taped a padded dressing over the wound on the back of his head and wrapped his battered hands in protective gauze. Soap was going to be pissed because medical would undoubtedly shave his head to examine and rebandage the deep, nasty gash. It was a miracle he didn’t have a TBI. Price grew more concerned as the stubborn muppet began to slur his words as his consciousness waivered, dark head drooping against Simon’s broad shoulder, eyes blinking as he sought to stay awake.

He’d managed to shred his palms and injure his left leg as well and the knee was so badly swollen that the locked limb extended out stiffly. Gaz slid a duffle bag under it to support it and the Scot gave a small grunt of relief even as he tried to obey Simon’s gruff command to stay awake and engaged. Simon to his credit was doing his best to keep him awake by making small talk, asking stilted questions about his family leave and Soap, hurting and vulnerable let it slip that his steady boyfriend dumped him at Christmas because Soap refused to propose and quit his military career for a desk job. He tried to make a joke about it, but he was clearly still stung by his ex’s rash decision.

Once they reached base, Soap was deposited in medical along with the other wounded. Price stomped off to make Payne’s life miserable, Gaz and Roach returned to duties and Ghost lingered to wait for news of his sergeant’s condition. He hadn’t bothered to offload his gear yet and the medical staff gingerly moved around his silent bulk, as he waited patiently in a chair near the nurses station. He silently relaxed a bit when Dr. Patel emerged, tired, but beaming to inform him that Soap was recovering nicely and he could see him briefly.

Turns out the Scot didn’t need surgery—yet. He had a nasty concussion, a badly twisted knee and lacerated palms, but no surgery was required. Just rest and time to heal. She has immediately put him on medical leave with strict instructions to rest and stay off his feet with a meaningful stare at Ghost which he rightly interpreted as an unspoken order to ensure his sergeant followed orders. Despite being a medic, Soap was notorious for ignoring orders regarding his own wellbeing. Ghost decided that if he had to sit on the Scot he would. The silly muppet needed to take better care of himself. Pondering how he could keep the man still long enough to heal he strode off to confer with Price.

Price solved that neatly by immediately placing the team on Medical leave. His team was due for some downtime anyway as they had been going full tilt for months. The base commander, anxious to have the entire lot of them out of his hair for a few weeks, signed off for a month's leave. Having Price and his irascible lot off base would be a vacation in itself for him as well.

Ghost slyly thought he had the problem solved of keeping his sergeant well contained by grassing on him to Soap’s mother and revealing Dr. Patel’s orders that her only son actually rest long enough to recover so his knee could heal and not require surgery. A mini flock of MacTavish women immediately descended on the base hospital in a swirl of plaid and Scots Gaelic to whisk their lad off to Glasgow where he could be firmly incarcerated and spoiled rotten in the family home.

The only problem with the plan was that Soap’s tiny granny took one look at the giant Manc lieutenant lurking smugly in the corner, massive arms folded across his chest and was instantly enamoured with the big Brit. She had a word with Price, who folded like a house of cards under an expertly applied homemade chocolate biscuits interrogation and somehow learned Ghost had no family to visit while on leave and he suddenly found himself included in the MacTavish clan because they needed ‘a braw muckle lad’ to aid in hauling Soap’s great loopy arse home to Glasgow.

Simon in turn, folded like wet newspaper under the combined power of several sets of familiar ocean blue eyes and found himself blurting out a feeble agreement. (In his defense the elder MacTavish ladies were very petite and Soap’s tiny granny could not be expected to help haul him about.) As he helped load a very groggy Soap and a wheelchair into Meimao’s ancient van along with both their duffles, his glare promised murder and retribution— in no particular order— upon his return to Price, who cheerfully waved them off before flying off for a seaside tryst with a wiley Nik (which he thought was a fishing trip.) Neither of them noticed the flurry of twenty quid bills being exchanged by their remaining sergeants and half the medical staff. The betting pool was enlarging with every op. Someone was going to either come into a windfall shortly or get shot.

****

Soap woke from what he thought was a very odd dream to find himself sandwiched snugly in the back row of seats in his meimao’s ancient VW bus, “Blucifer” ( thus dubbed because the vehicle was upholstered and carpeted in pale blue shag dating from the sixties, still smelled faintly of patchouli and had the tendency to backfire like a rifle shot and fart black smoke) halfway to Scotland. To his horror, he was tucked between his youngest sister and his huge lieutenant and had apparently been drooling on the man’s shoulder for several hours. Blushing furiously, he wiped his face and struggled to sit up straight, wincing at his stiff, now aching leg, stinging palms and throbbing head. The brace to keep it immobilized wasn’t exactly helpful as he was finding the stiffness painful and he groaned when an aborted movement caused it to throb vengefully.

“At ease, Sergeant.”

Ghost rumbled, wrapping a massive arm around his shoulders to keep him still.

”We’re stopping for scran soon and you can stretch a bit. “

To Soap’s horror his Mam and Meimao immediately turned around to scold him and order him to be still and behave himself, while his sister Liz snickered from the driver’s seat. Apparently half his bloody family had descended upon Credenhill to kidnap him and taken his Lieutenant hostage as well and his medicated fool self thought it a lucid dream. Beside him, Fiona giggled and signed at him to ‘suck it up.’ He suddenly had a flashback of primary school road trips with the entire clan bickering and needing a bog every twenty kilometers and was chagrined to realize that he indeed, needed the bog yesterday. His pain meds caused him to piss like a racehorse. He struggled to sit up again and croaked;

”Ah need a cludgie, Lizzie.”

At Simon’s baffled look Fiona piped up and gleefully translated, in her high, nasal voice that she was loath to use in public but apparently had no problem using when it came to humiliating her brother in front of his superior officer
.

“ ‘E needs tha bog!”

Mam tutted and spoke confidingly to Meimao in a dulcet tone everyone in the van could plainly hear.

”Goes right through him, it does. Cannae take script meds for shite. Cause ‘em to pish over the moon, always have since he was a wean.”

Humiliated, Soap groaned, slumped back and hid his hot face against Ghost’s shoulder, noting the amused crinkle around his eyes as he did and knowing the man was grinning broadly under his mask, amused at his plight. Why was he even here? He must be catching a ride to his flat in Manchester, he deduced groggily. A wee bit faster than the train. Price, he thought darkly, has a lot to answer for. Soap could have recovered quite nicely in his quarters on base. It was nice to have a private, if small room. He could have just kicked back with his sketch pad, ordered takeaway and streamed movies on his tablet, but no. Instead his Captain had ratted him out to Mam. Whatever happened to team loyalty?

He was still sulking when they pulled into a petrol station and he had to submit to his superior officer lifting him and plopping his arse into a wheelchair and wheeling him into the toilet and giving him a hand up so he could do his business. The big man seemed quite cheerful about the whole affair and his family has apparently adopted him as a second son while Soap snored blissfully away. Resigned to his fate, Soap was actually relieved that Simon was strong enough to easily manhandle him to his feet without his Mam and Meimao having to accompany him into the toilet, which they would have done despite his protests

Back in the van, he grumpily listened as his Mam shamelessly called his superior officer “Simon love”, while dispensing copious snacks and cans of Irn Bru. Soap took his share despite knowing he would have to piss again after drinking it. After sullenly eating his sausage roll and crisps he obediently took the dose of meds that Simon silently produced and sat up straight, blinking and scowling, determined to stay awake and coherent to prevent future humiliation. Fifteen minutes later he was snoring against Simon’s shoulder, mouth agape while his sisters tittered and took incriminating photos and his Meimao lovingly tucked a tartan rug around him and patted his scruffy cheek.

She beamed at Simon and confided in a low voice,

”E’s a gud lad. Too gud for tha cheating jobbie Mark. ‘E dosnae know, so donnae tell him. Ahm glad tha eejit left. Too trusting my braveheart is. ‘Tis gud ye look after him now, aye?”

”Yes, ma’am.”

Ghost responded, making a mental note to fuck said Mark up if ever given the opportunity. Johnny was well shed of the cretin if he couldn’t appreciate his sergeant. Meimao MacTavish seemingly read his mind, smirked and patted his hand with her own tiny one,

”Ye are a gud lad too, Simon Riley.”

She tilted her head consideringly, eyes enormous as an owl’s behind the thick lens of her bifocals and added thoughtfully,

”Even if ye are a Brit.”

****

When Soap next awoke, Liz was pulling into the drive of his Mam’s house. He was startled to realize he was still tucked cozily against Ghost. Apparently Simon had not been hitching a ride to his flat in Manchester after all. Suspicious, Soap peered narrowly at his Mam as Simon wrestled him out of the van and into the wheelchair, who beamed angelic innocence back. Right, and bears dinnae shite in the woods. Suddenly he realized what was up. She was matchmaking again.

God alone knew what she has been blathering to Simon about while Soap snored cluelessly away, and no doubt Meimao was in cahoots as well. Face hot, he glared down at his stupid, lame leg, the direct cause of his predicament, as Simon steered him inside, where his Mam sweetly informed him Simon would be sharing his old room since the guest room was being redecorated. Suspicious indeed, because that room has remained untouched decor wise for twenty plus years. Before he could protest, one of Liz’s kids came thundering through the house, eyes wide—her oldest, Liam, who at twelve was usually resigned to being babysitter for the entire growing clan of MacTavish weans.

”Meimao! Gran! Mum! I cannae find Granny! Ah’ve searched the whole house and asked the neighbors!”

”Fooking hell! She has done a runner again!”

Mam exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation, while Meimao tsked and rolled her eyes and his sisters immediately exited the house and fanned out to search the neighborhood. Sometimes it took hours to find her. Usually Granny Chatton resided at the nearby assisted living village due to her fierce independence spiced with dementia and her propensity for adventure and walkabouts, but they were renovating her tiny cottage there and she was staying at home until they finished.

Granny was his mam’s mother, all of 97 years old and extremely spry and opinionated. A former WAAC who had served as an ambulance driver in WWII, when she took a notion for a ‘wee walk’ there was no stopping her. She was notorious for escaping the care facility, even if she had to scale the iron gates to do so. She was the most independent soul that Soap knew and he loved her dearly. As the only son in a house full of women, Granny Cee had stepped up to provide Soap with boyish activities after his father was KIA. She was the one who took him fishing and camping, taught him to climb trees, fight dirty and played footie with him when he was small. She had attended all his footie games to cheer him on and hurl cheerful and creative invective at the opposing teams.

”Ah think ah can find her, Mam. Si, will ye give me a push?”

A curious Ghost immediately acquiesced, he hasn’t had this much entertainment in ages.

At Soap’s direction he pushed the chair briskly down the block towards what he could see was a very nice wooded park, complete with duck pond, flower gardens ,strolling couples and a footie field where a stout, ginger haired, beleaguered man was trying to coach a rowdy batch of youngsters who appeared to be running about in aimless circles, the tallest of which barely topped his knee. He waved cheerfully at Soap and jogged over,

”Oi, John! Home on leave?”

”Aye, Ned, ‘ave ye seen Granny Cee aboot?”

”Escaped again, has she? Ah think ah saw her heading up the high street towards the kirk a few hours ago.”

”Thanks, mate.”

Soap waved as he jogged off to bellow at his tiny players, two of which were now wrestling in a mud puddle instead of kicking the ball. Soap grinned. He volunteered to help with the weans’ sports leagues sometimes, it was often high comedy and always great fun.

“Ah think ah know where she is, Si. Head up the High street for now.”

Ghost obediently pushed Johnny up the street while the man gave him an impromptu tour of the neighborhood, which lay on the outer limits of Glasgow. This was the ‘best sweets shop ever’, there were ‘excellent pints and cottage pies to be had at that pub’, ‘this charity shop had good stuff but they overprice it.’ They both sniffed appreciatively as they passed the village’s only Indian restaurant and Soap recited his favorite menu items. Apparently they had the best curry in town.

Finally they reached an old stone church and Johnny indicated they turn into the path leading to the ancient cemetery beside it. Many of the gravestones were old and moss covered and the trees enormous with age. They wound through it until they reached what was clearly the MacTavish family plot. Simon read the pious epitaphs on an enormous skull embossed headstone of a Callum MacTavish who lived in the 1700’s and perished via ‘miasma’ and his unfortunate spouse Eleanor who expired from consumption, as he pushed Soap closer.

Soap indicated they stop, and he peered keenly about before slumping, disappointed in his chair and spoke softly.

”Sometimes she likes to visit Grandda and Da.”

Simon saw they were parked next to two well kept polished white stone military headstones—the same type that would probably decorate his own grave one day. Both his grandfather and father had served and with a start, he realized that he actually had actually known the Captain MacTavish who rested here. He’d once led a op that greenie Private Riley was on. The man, like his son, had been blindingly efficient in the field, only much broader and taller than his son. He noted that both graves had small, fresh bouquets of what appeared to be wildflowers on them. They both regarded the stones solemnly for a long moment, before Simon stiffened as the hair on his nape rose and he felt eyes on him.

Slowly he raised his head and scanned the branches of the enormous oak opposite and met a pair of bright blue eyes, peering back at him with great interest. A tiny, wizened woman with a head of curly, improbable, thistle down white hair was perched just above their heads, accompanied by a trio of cats who lounged on the branches around her.

Soap apparently saw her too, because he started, swore and yelped,

”Granny wha are ye doin’ in yon tree? Ye will break yer bones!”

Granny Chatton gave a contemptuous sniff at the idea and calmly clambered down, accompanied by her feline entourage. Her hair was full of leaves and random flowers and she looked like a little forest elf of some sort, dressed as she was in her full handmade, patchwork skirt, AC/DC band tee, colorful knitted cardigan and red sneakers. She hurried to hug her favorite grandson and examined his injured leg and Simon with equal interest before addressing Soap in Scots Gaelic with such a thick accent that Simon understood absolutely nothing. Here, he realized, with sudden insight, was the direct maternal source of his sergeant’s incomprehensible babble.

Soap’s face flushed scarlet at something she said regarding Ghost and he hastened to divert her and make introductions.

”Granny this is ma lieutenant, Simon Riley. Simon this is ma grandmother on ma mam’s side, Kathleen Chatton.”

Simon carefully shook her little hand and rumbled a

“Pleased to meet you Ma’am.”

Which caused her to titter and beam up at him.

“Ye can call me Kath, bonny!”

She then turned to her mortified grandson and announced that ‘this one was a braw laddie and a cut above that asal Mark, even if he was a Brit.’ Soap hastily persuaded her to sit across his lap for a ride home and they wheeled back to the MacTavish house followed by a parade of felines in single file, tails held high. Simon grinned all the way, highly amused by the Scottish blather as the two scolded each other soundly for not taking better care of themselves, then immediately started exchanging the latest gossip about their hapless family and neighbors.

Simon was indeed having the most entertaining leave he could remember in years, not even that brief team leave in Montenegro ages ago, where he watched an obviously amorous Nik attempt to court an oblivious Price could match it. Other than the abstract humming the little woman broke into as they trundled along, there was no visible indication of her dementia. That the two adored each other was obvious, as Granny Chatton gently patted her brawny grandson’s cheek as he cradled her petite form gently in his lap as they happily gossiped, heads together. She whispered something in Soap’s ear that caused him to throw his head back and bark out a laugh, then she winked over his shoulder at a very amused Simon.

Soap’s mother was relieved to see them and scolded her mother soundly, only to be serenely ignored as the old lady entered the house with a sniff, nose held high, followed by the cats that she had formally introduced to the family as Basil, Reginald and Grimalkin. Mrs. MacTavish sighed and threw up her hands in despair and muttering about ‘yet more cats, we are already feeding a regiment of strays in the back garden,’ went inside to set the dining room table for the Munchie boxes her daughters had acquired since it was a bit late in the afternoon to cook and after the long drive, none felt like standing over the stove.

Simon peered in disbelief at the variety of food stuff on offer from said boxes. There was everything from fried chicken to pizza, chips, pakora and donner kebabs with a variety of sauces and bread. It was a hungry soldier’s dream scran. He obediently ate the variety of items that Meimao heaped on his plate, noting that the quality wasn’t bad at all and quite filling. (The next time he was stuck on an isolated op and reduced to basic ORPs he would long for a munchie box.) Beside him Soap ate hungrily and reluctantly took his next dose of pain meds under his mother’s eagle eye. It had not escaped Simon’s notice that his sergeant’s strength was flagging. After all, he was barely released from Medical and the drive north had been long and the excitement of tracking down Granny had been tiring. By the time the few leftovers were being boxed up his eyelids were drooping again although it was barely eight p.m.

He proceeded to crash out on the sofa and slumped bonelessly across an amused Simon’s lap, emitting the steady snores of the heavily medicated. Simon remained still, full and content to absently stroke Johnny’s soft ruff of improbable hair, lazily scratch his scalp and listen to the MacTavish women critique the latest episode of the Great British Bake Off. The older sisters having left for home earlier with their children, leaving only Fiona. Despite himself, he found himself intensely invested in what miraculous pastry the contestants could produce with a handful of ingredients and winced in sympathy at the sad collapse of one poor sod’s improbable dessert, while Mam MacTavish tutted over the obvious lack of an apparently vital ingredient to produce anything remotely eatable.

Simon was beginning to understand why he often found Price and the muppets riveted to the screen of the ancient Telly in the break room on Bake Off nights. The show had everything, food, drama, rivalry and suspense. There were charming judges, several pretty ladies vying for the title and prize and everyone had a favorite. Plus he could pick up decent cooking tips. Maybe he could extend his cooking repertoire beyond canned beans on toast and pasta with jarred sauce.

He was on the verge of dozing off himself when there was a knock at the door. Meimao rose with a frown to answer it and his ears perked up at the sound of a snide masculine voice and Meimao’s clearly irritated answer to a question.

”Och, yes, he is here, wounded and resting. Ye shall nae disturb him with yer drama, he is well shed of ye.”

Ghost straightened up as he realized that this must be the infamous Mark. The moron that had not only cheated on Johnny but dumped him over the holidays as well. He heard Soap’s grandma make an irritated huff and brisk footsteps in the hall as Mark clearly ignored her and arrogantly swanned into the lounge, clearly intent on ignoring his lack of invitation and causing drama. The slender, blond man that walked in wasn’t bad looking but neither was he particularly interesting either. Fit enough, but certainly only gym fit, soft as most civilians were. Simon noted with distaste that his carefully coiffed dark blonde hair was streaked with platinum blond highlights and his hands soft and manicured. Across the room, Soap’s mum and Granny Cee bristled, changeable ocean blue eyes frigid as their home was invaded. Fiona glared and clenched her fist into a sofa cushion, clearly wanting to hurl it in the man’s smarmy face.

Sprawled across Simon’s lap, an oblivious Soap slept on. The long drive combined with a full belly and heavy duty meds have ensured he will sleep deeply for the next six to eight hours if Ghost has calculated correctly. He was unaware of his own cold glare as he kept one big hand cupped protectively over the vulnerable nape of his sergeant’s neck. Johnny had burrowed into his midsection a half hour ago, sighed happily and was sleeping peacefully and Ghost had fondly allowed it, knowing that deep sleep was a rarity to his hyperactive sergeant. Hell will freeze over before he allows this pretentious twat to disturb him.

Mark stopped abruptly in the middle of the room, mouth slamming shut at the sight of the huge, scarred man coldly staring him down from where he sat on the sofa, John sprawled indecorously across his lap. He barely noticed his ex-lover’s bandages and knee brace as he suddenly realized he was treading on thin ice here. Except for Anne, most of the MacTavishs have made it quite clear he is no longer welcome in their home. Especially after the village gossip recently revealed he’d been involved with another man (who worked as a groundskeeper at the hotel he managed) for several months before breaking things off with John.

Clearly John has moved on if the huge, scarred brute now staring him down is involved. Before he can hiss out an acerbic remark, the man shifts, easily hefts John’s considerable weight and stands effortlessly, cradling John’s substantial weight as easily as a child. John makes a wordless, grumpy sound and the man soothes him with a murmur, shifting him slightly so his head rests on his shoulder. John snorts, buries his nose in the big blond’s neck and resumes snoring like a buzz saw

Mrs. MacTavish springs up immediately and says,

”Come, Simon love, ye can put him to bed here.”

She leads him down the hall to John’s old room and the giant follows, steps light for such a tall man. The man, Simon, returns immediately while John’s mother is no doubt tucking him in, and leans against the doorframe and stares him down, deliberately blocking access to the hall, huge arms crossed across his broad chest. Mark is forced to admit that the man is built like a fucking brick wall and feels a sharp pang of sheer envy, knowing that this is John’s preferred type. Any hope he has of sparking a fight with his ex (which often led to spectacular makeup sex in the past) fizzles and dies. Clearly John had moved on. Moved on and upgraded despite the horrible scars.

Stung, he huffed and dramatically thumped down the small cardboard box he was holding on the coffee table and announced spitefully,

”I brought the rest of John’s things. God forbid he forget his cologne or bath products.”

Before he can say anything else, the stranger sauntered over and lifted a glass bottle out and peruses it and dropped it casually back into the box, with a sneer, then rumbled out,

”Sorry mate, you’ve mistaken someone else’s kit for Johnny’s. He doesn’t wear fucking Oud cologne or use cheap cocoanut soap. Can’t stand either of them. He prefers vintage Lagerfeld and rosemary lime soap instead. So you can just take it home with you for your next hook-up.”

”And I’ll hold the door for ye, ye cheating bawbag!”

Granny Cee chirped from behind him, even as she prodded his arse sharply with the steel tip of an ancient brolly she’d taken from the tall stand in the foyer.

Fiona tittered, then slapped a hand over her mouth, blue eyes dancing as Mark yelped, jerked and realized that this wasn’t exactly the dramatic entrance and confrontation he had hoped for and flushed an angry beet red which clashed with the glittery pomade in his hair. Before he could open his mouth again, Simon simply shoved the box into his chest with enough force to cause him to step back and clutch it to his chest and indicated the exit with a tilt of his chin. The implication was clear. He could leave on his own power or Simon would assist him.

Mark huffed, opened his mouth, stared around at the circle of hostile faces, including Mam MacTavish who had rejoined them and was now shooting him the death glare, realized he had nothing witty to say and settled for sneering at them before pivoting and flouncing out the door, sharp nose in the air. Simon heard him yelp again as Granny Cee slammed it shut behind him, and the sturdy brass doorknob slammed his skinny arse on his way out.

Meimao appeared as well, an evil smirk on her face, causing her daughter-in-law to narrow her eyes as she noted she had appeared from the kitchen, meaning she had gone out around to the back of the house after letting Mark in and was looking very pleased with herself.

“Moira, what did ye do?”

Meimao sniffed, nose in the air.

“Wha? I was just tossing that spoiled milk and that tin of bad sardines into the tip. Tomorrow is garbage day, ye ken.”

Lips twitching, Mrs. MacTavish, bit back a laugh and said reprovingly,

”The milk was fine, and I just bought that tin yesterday.”

”Oh, was it? Ah, well, I’ve gone a bit senile, mesel. Do ye think that Mark likes cats?”

With that cryptic remark and smiling serenely, Meimao strolled off into the kitchen for a fresh cup of tea while Fiona was now collapsed on the sofa, face as red as her auburn hair, howling with silent laughter. Mark did not like cats. He was allergic to anything with fur. Simon felt a wide grin cross his face as he realized what she’d done even as the sound of screeching brakes and a resounding crash sounded from outside. Everyone hurried to the front window and peered down the road and Granny Cee tsked.

”Oh, dearie me, looks like the laddie has plowed into
Lileas Ross’ new mailbox, and tha was a new car, he just bought it last month. He must have been tippling and driving. Constable Ross will have a field day with that.”

They watched avidly as a clearly unhurt, but decidedly shaken Mark stumbled out of his vehicle followed by a half dozen escaping felines, who flowed out and dodged his flailing kicks and scattered into the shadows, as he stood cursing at the crumpled bonnet and severely twisted fender of his sedan. The uproar increased when a rotund woman with her head full of curlers emerged from the house with a broom to whack and roar at him about her crushed mailbox. He yelled back only to be interrupted by the flashing lights of a police car as Constable Ross returned home.

They all ducked and Mrs. MacTavish quickly yanked the blinds closed as Mark indicated their house, arms windmilling angrily as he pointed and tried to explain to the unimpressed man why he reeked of Scotch. Meimao had poured a large glass of it into the driver’s seat after placing the milk and sardines in the back footwell and invited several of Granny’s always opportunistic strays inside for an evening snack. (It would be some time before Mark noticed the scent of rancid milk and sardines in his car.) They knelt up and peeked out through a crack in the blinds to watch as the unimpressed Constable cuffed him and stuffed the whinging man into the back of his vehicle.

Constable Ross quite liked his neighbors, had coached a young John in junior footie games and was well up to date on all the town gossip regarding Mark Monroe. Half of being an efficient neighborhood police officer depended on keeping up on the latest gossip. Irritated, he drove back to the station where he intended to charge the man with as many complaints as he could think of, including driving while intoxicated, property damage, etc. Most egregious of all, he was now late for dinner and was quite vexed as it had been a long, tedious day and it was pot roast night. He would simply place the man in the drunk tank for the night and return and do the paperwork in the morning, he decided, ignoring the complaints from the back seat. He was unaware of the merriment he left behind him.

An extremely groggy Soap awoke with a dire need for the bog and heard the crash and commotion as he exited and slowly hop-limped down the narrow hall to investigate, holding onto the walls. Now he stared bewildered into the lounge where his mother, sister, Simon and both grannies sat collapsed in a row beneath the front window, howling with laughter. They all noticed his appearance at the same time and burst into a new round of merriment at the sight of his groggy, befuddled face and flattened, bedraggled mohawk. Vaguely he wondered if this was a very lucid dream or if his meds were causing him to hallucinate. Before he could ask, he swayed in place and Simon leapt up to catch him before he could keel over and brain himself. He yelped dizzily as he was swept easily off his feet in a bridal carry and his mother bustled over.

”Simon? Mam? Why are ye all on the floor?”

He asked plaintively, clutching desperately at Simon’s hoodie as his head swam and he yawned widely, attempting to stay awake and fighting a losing battle with his meds since he no longer needed the toilet. (Dr. Patel had cleverly upped his dosage in an effort to ensure he kept still and rested long enough to heal properly.)

”Donnae worry yer wee head, my love. Back to bed with ye. Simon?”

”I have him Ma’am.”

Simon assured her and she beamed up at him with satisfaction. This man will make an excellent son-in-law now that they were well rid of that bahookie Mark. She patted his firm bicep admiringly and bustled down the hall to straighten the bed clothes from where her boy had half dragged them off the bed in his groggy quest for the loo. She watched fondly as SImon gently put her yawning, blinking son to bed and tucked him in, soothing him and rumbling practiced assurance that had her lad drifting off back to sleep in seconds.

“None of that Ma’am love. Ye call me Mam or Elspeth now. Ah will put fresh towels in the bath for ye, Simon. Ah know ye will sleep better after a shower. We will see ye in the morning for brekkie, aye? Do ye like tatie scones?”

And that was how Simon Riley, the fearsome Ghost of Task Force 141 found himself neatly assimilated into the MacTavish clan. The next morning a sleepy Soap squinted suspiciously around the breakfast table and hesitantly mentioned the odd dream he had (making a mental note to cut back on his meds), only to have his traitorous family and superior officer exchange sly grins and burst into raucous laughter at his expense. He scowled down into his bowl of porridge, much put upon.

He was feeling more than a bit confused. He woke up tucked securely in bed with his superior officer, panicked momentarily and immediately played possum until Simon woke up and shuffled off to the bog. He’s bunked down with Ghost before, but then they were usually wearing full kit and not worn, comfortable night clothes. And most certainly not intertwined intimately together, snug in each other’s arms.

He carefully ignored the wistful thought that it was the best night's sleep he’d had in ages. He’d awoken warm and enfolded in Simon’s big arms, his knee resting on a pillow and for a few minutes allowed himself to indulge in a foolish daydream where this sleepy, warm morning was an everyday occurrence although he knew it would never happen. He remembered Ghost’s stern warning on an op in Mexico.

“Friendship isn’t in the field manual, sergeant.”

Ghost stayed in Scotland long enough to see his sergeant regain his footing before departing for his empty flat in Manchester for his remaining leave. The MacTavish women loaded him down with foodstuffs before he left and lamented his departure and only his promise to return to visit soon had satisfied them. Soap had seen him off at the station, leaning on a cane borrowed from the umbrella stand in the foyer. It was an ancient blackthorn that once belonged to his granddad. It was topped and tipped with a heavy bronze knob and end tip and had been used to thump more than one fool if Granny’s tall tales were to be believed.

He found himself in a curiously reluctant mood to leave and oddly discontented once he reached his flat. It felt barren and empty and too damned quiet. He’d wandered about it and done his usual clean and all his laundry and then restless, gone out for groceries. He’d eaten the delicious lamb stew that Elspeth had sent home with him at the kitchen counter, the news on the Telly as background noise. That night instead of falling instantly asleep comfortably in his own bed, he’e slept restlessly and woken more than once reaching a hand across the wide mattress seeking a sturdy, warm body that was not there. He missed the scent of rosemary and warm male musk and the heavy dark head burrowing under his chin, breath warm against his skin, a muscular arm thrown over his torso, fingers firmly holding his shirt.

During the day, he missed the chaos of the MacTavish household and all the Scottish blather. Discontented, he wandered around his flat and found it lacking. He’d chosen it years ago for its proximity to the train station. Now he found himself thinking wistfully of owning an actual house. Perhaps one on the edge of a village near a forest where he could hike in peace. Before he could second guess himself he made an appointment with the nearest realtor and put his flat on the market.

The agent was enthusiastic, pointing out how much market value it had gained in the years since he purchased it and that it was an excellent size and location in a venerable, well kept building. There would be no problem selling it, she assured him. He arranged to have the place cleaned, repainted and the wooden floors polished and put what bits of furniture and household odds and ends he wanted to keep in storage, tipped the rest and returned to Credenhill, accustomed to living out of a duffle. Soap was still on leave despite his whinging to his doctors and PT and Price laughed and sent him off on a solo op, a milk run to gain intel, to ease him back in and he carried on about his duties.

Although everyone invested noted he was in a cracking good mood the day the transport deposited a grinning Scot with a newly shorn Warhawk onto the tarmac and the man bounced down the ramp with his usual grin and joie de vivre. Life went on, although the greenies and outsiders noted that the surly Lieutenant Ghost wasn’t so surly when accompanied by a certain blathering Scot.

****

Ghost glared through his scope down into the dusty mud brick village swearing beneath his breath, Price was snarling orders in his ear to his men over the comms as chaos reigned around the convoy below as they took heavy fire. An IED had just taken out the first three vehicles, the billowing dust has not settled and now Soap was in the middle of things as insurgents hidden in the buildings and surrounding hills opened fire on the vulnerable men. Ghost simply glassed the area and took out any hostile sniper who raised their head to shoot and soon the dust was settled and the enemy retreated and Ghost’s kill count was up six would be shooters. He stayed in place, when the shots ceased, and the dust finally settled offering a clear view, vigilant in case one lingered to snipe the men below as they sought to retrieve the wounded.

He glimpsed the Red Cross on Soap’s med bag and the back of his plate carrier as he moved among the wounded, whisking them back under cover and meticulously checking each downed man for signs of life. He swiftly scanned the area around him, knowing hostiles always sniped the medics if possible and smoothly took out a dusty turbaned head that made the mistake of bobbing above a broken wall, rifle aimed. He caught a flash of white teeth as Soap grinned in his direction as he jumped down into the crater made by the IED and Simon swore as he realized Johnny was checking for further hidden, unexploded ordinance. Dammit, he was a medic, not an EOD specialist! Where was Price?

As though reading his mind he heard Price on the coms ordering Soap back as the actual bomb squad cautiously approached and he heard Soap curse and order them all to stay back. Before Simon could think, as he frantically scanned the rim of the pit looking for Soap, there was a massive whomp and cloud of dust and sand as the unseen ordinance within detonated and a sturdy body was flung up and out of the pit and went flying in an arc into a pile of rubble next to a shattered wall.

A part of Simon died and inside his mind there was a mindless babble of nononono—not Soap! Not his bright boy. He froze and could only stare through his scope for long moments as men rushed towards the wall, Price and Gaz leading, then he could only watch in amazement as a dusty, bloody figure now minus his trousers and shredded medical bag stood defiantly up and shot an emphatic finger in the direction the insurgents had retreated to. Soap was alive and miraculously in one piece sans pants.

Ghost stared greedily through the scope at the sturdy, dusty figure whose mouth was moving soundlessly in Scottish invective as he gave the hostiles verbal hell and scanned him from the top of his filthy, helmeted head to the soles of his dusty boots. His bronzed, well-muscled thighs and legs were smeared with blood and dirt, but there were no gaping wounds or missing bits that Simon could determine. He watched as Price and Gaz and the rest surrounded him, grabbing hold and hugging him as a determined American medic tried to squeeze past to examine him, but he remained on his feet, if a bit wobbly, as he was led away towards the medivac chopper, clearly resisting Price’s order to allow himself to be examined. The cocky little shite even waved in Ghost’s direction.

Simon was going to kill him himself with his bare hands.

Instead, he coolly glassed the area where he knew any stragglers would be retreating to and took great satisfaction in shooting the single running man who most certainly had been the one to stay to detonate that last bomb, turning his head into a red mist. Then he sat back and breathed until his rage had dissipated and his hands stopped shaking. His sergeant was alive and whole and not shredded into bits of bloody meat and bone. Ghost has seen what IEDs do to men. This is the first miracle he has ever witnessed. His boy is alive and whole and that means everything.

Price’s voice crackled over the comms.

”Ghost, are you there?”

”Affirmative.” Good. His voice at least was calm.

”He’s alright, Simon. Just got his bell rung good.”

”Rog. Out here.”

He finished scanning the area, hands still lightly shaking and teeth clenched as he listened to the chatter on coms, waited long enough to ascertain that there would be no further surprise snipers (and to regain his legendary composure) preying on the convoy below, then stood and hiked down out of the brown zone.

He has never been more glad that his full plate mask completely covers his face as he calmly joined TF141, although the very astute Roach took one look at his eyes and quickly found a task that took him elsewhere. Price regarded him keenly from where he was speaking with the American Captain in charge of this mixed convoy and gave him a slight nod. Simon simply stood to one side and loomed, oblivious to the awed glances the other soldiers shot him as they moved about, reforming the convoy to continue on. Gaz sidled up and spoke softly, reporting that Tav miraculously had only minor bruises, scratches and ringing ears despite apparently practically finding himself astride a bomb. Somehow with astronomical luck he survived intact what would have taken out a tank. No one noticed just how hard Ghost’s gloved hands clenched on his sniper at that tidbit of information.

****

Soap glared at the ceiling of the medical tent.

Price and the doctors have ordered him to stay overnight for observation despite the fact that except for a headache and ringing ears, he felt perfectly fine and was still riding an adrenaline rush. He’d at least been smart enough to don ear plugs before hopping down into that crater although his last thought would have been ‘oh, shite’ at the sight of the red detonation cord running between his feet.

He’d stumbled back and instinctively flung his med pack between him and the charge, turned and dove and his heavy pack and trousers had taken the force of the blast. The bomb maker had buried it deep. Other than some cuts, scrapes and blisters from the hot sand he was fine. Gaz had even managed to round up a pair of spare camo pants so he wouldn’t be forced to helo back to base bare arsed because his shorts were in tatters. Bless Gaz and Roach who had brought him a decent ORP for dinner and clandestinely toasted his luck. Where they acquired the hootch he had no clue.

Even Price had marveled at his luck and not reamed him out (too much) for disobeying orders. However, the one person he wanted most to see has not appeared. Has Price sent Ghost off on another solo op? More likely the man was pissed and Soap would be cleaning the latrine floors with a toothbrush for a month when they returned to Credenhill. Maybe he could feign deafness for a few days until Ghost cooled down?

Despite the adrenaline, he managed to doze off after dark and was abruptly awoken around midnight by the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Blinking in the dark, he became aware of a huge figure looming silently at the foot of his cot, and a pale skull with living eyes glaring down at him. He swallowed hard and murmured,

”LT?”

His ears were still ringing and he fucking hopes that chronic tinnitus is not his new reality as he groggily reaches out a hand towards his LT. There is an audible huff of pure exasperation and the next moment Ghost has swept him up in a tight embrace, pulled him into his lap as he plops bonelessly down onto an ammo box and yanked his mask and balaclava off to reveal a tired face and wet eyes.

“Don’t ever do that again. I will kill you myself. Do you understand?”

Before Soap can speak, Simon is kissing him.

Simon is taking his mouth roughly, blond scruff rasping against his own, wet tongue plunging deep as he is clasped close in a tight embrace. All he can smell and taste is Simon. He tastes like bergamot and black tea, salt and dust and smells like rancid man sweat, generic soap and male musk. Then as Soap leans into the kiss with clutching, eager hands and a soft, wanton moan the kiss gentles and Simon is holding him like he is made of porcelain, like he is something rare and precious. He never stops kissing Soap, one big hand tenderly cradling his head and he isn’t sure how long they continue, only that it's the best thing in the world to be held close by the man he has secretly adored for ages and exchange hot, wet, deep kisses. The only sounds, their breathing and the soft sounds of their kisses.

He never wants it to end and when Simon finally pulls back he whines in protest, very aware of his bruised, tingling lips and the taste of his man. He tugs fretfully trying to pull him back into lip range but his LT thwarts him by pulling back out of reach, although he still holds him close in his lap. With a huff he yanks John against his broad chest into an embrace, chin resting on his tousled head and says tightly.

”I meant it. Don’t ever do that to me again. I thought you were dead.”

Meekly Soap clings tight, presses his mouth reverently against the hammering pulse in Simon’s sweaty throat and responds softly to soothe his LT and hopefully soon to be lover.

“Ah won’t Simon, ah won’t.”

He can’t really promise that.

They are elite soldiers who are always, always thrown into the gore and nastiness that is the true filth of war. But to soothe his love, he will promise anything his man needs to hear. He will live forever if he has to, to comfort this man. This silent, closed off man who has dared to reach out—dared to take a chance on life and love again. He will live, they both will and they will retire together and move up to be close to his family and he will watch his love’s ash blond hair turn to silver frost and the smile lines around his beautiful dark eyes deepen, and when the end nears and Death gently extends her tender hand they will totter off together, bickering, into the Summerlands, or eternity or wherever career soldiers go. He will put a ring on this man if it's the last thing he does.

They sit quietly, wrapped in a tight embrace, just holding each other close, hearts pounding, rocking gently together for comfort. Simon Riley presses his mouth to silky, sweaty, salt sweet hair and promises himself that if there is one good and bright thing he will allow himself in this life it is the man in his arms. He will hold him forever, cherish him and bind him with his oath and a ring of pure gold and when they go, whether in combat or to old age, they will go together.

No man left behind.

Outside, two inadvertently eavesdropping shadowy figures curse silently as they stand guard because a very astute Dr. Patel has just won the specifics of the longstanding bet. A doctor who dealt with death every day, she knew that only a very close brush with the Reaper would bring one or both men to their senses.

Epilogue

Three Months Later

Mark looks up from the front desk where he is covering the clerk’s lunch as a group of familiar ladies flutter in with the hotel Events Planner. He hasn’t seen the elder MacTavish women in some time. He watches curiously as they peer speculatively about the hotel lobby for a few moments before shaking their heads decisively, and excusing themselves from Sarah who looks very disappointed. They sweep out again and his keen ears catch the name of their biggest hotel rival located up near the loch as they exit. He notes that Soap’s mum ignored him and never once glanced his way or greeted him.

Sarah joins him with a sigh.

“Well, so much for that. We’ve lost another wedding booking. Apparently this hotel is much too ‘gloomy and has a distinct funk in the air’, to quote the mother of the groom. I did suggest in our last meeting that the lobby needs a lighter, more modern update.”

She makes air quotes with her fingers. Sarah is relatively new at her job here and isn’t familiar with either the venerable hotel or the area and its people. Mark swallows hard. Elspeth MacTavish has only one son to be married off, but he asks anyway, needing to know for certain. He feigns a light interest although he is dying to know.

”Oh? Who is getting married?”

”Oh, yes! Her son and his fiancé are both in the military. They want a Fall wedding when they can both take family leave.”

She absently checks her appointment book and wanders off, phone to her ear, leaving an internally fuming Mark behind.

He tosses the pen he is holding down petulantly and sits back in his chair with a huff. His last affair resulted in an embarrassing STD, as well as a screeching, messy public break-up and he’d been scheming to somehow get back together with John (handsome, cheerful John who was superbly fit and always delightful and satisfying in bed) to the point of attempting to ingratiate himself back into the MacTavish household, but he’d been stonewalled immediately. Even Anne no longer kept in touch. He glared angrily at the far wall. No wonder John’s grannies had both smirked triumphantly at him as they left. He was out of the game for good.

FINI

05/02/2026