Chapter Text
Curiosity wasn't in Simon's nature. At least, not typically. When he was younger, showing an interest in anything meant it would be taken away or tarnished in a way that he would later on hate or fear. Simon had his father to thank for that. Either way, this was all to say that he rarely showed curiosity. Which led to a life filled with shades of dull grey, like the films he sometimes got to watch. However, like with everything in his life after meeting him, John MacTavish was an exception. A burst of colour that overwhelmed his bland life.
He was a short man, most were compared to Simon, but his personality made him seem larger than life. He was filled with jokes and friendliness, a steady man in combat, and a quick thinker. His perchance for explosions got him put on a mortar team, lugging the equipment with his other two team mates, and Simon – if there was a pause in the combat and gun fire – would look over to see the glint of manic delight when the ground exploded with dirt and grass, their mortar meeting its target.
Simon was curious and was drawn into the charismatic gravitational pull of John's orbit. His father had mocked Simon for having an interest in men when he was younger if only to be a prick. And the bastard happened to be right only through sheer coincidence. Simon had observed the men of his company, eyes lingering on certain ones from time to time, but never when anyone could catch him. John was where his eyes had decided to settle on for the rest of their time together. It was a hopeless endeavor, the Scotsman having regaled the men about his bird back home in Glasgow, so Simon knew nothing would come of his staring and curiosity.
It meant it should've been easier when the inevitable arrived.
But it was far from easy.
Maybe, if he had heard the news after the gunfire had died down. Maybe, if he had stumbled upon John's body in the aftermath. Maybe...maybe…
The word echoed his mind daily these days, circling around in his head as he thought about all that he should've or could've done. He had returned from the war hollow and rung out like a used rag, thrown into the bin and left forgotten. It was the 'maybe' had him going to such lengths after the war in search of some sort of purpose, falling into his studies of medicine, which led him down a rabbit hole of plants applied to healing for that damned curiosity. Which then further led to what plant life was available in his country, which meant it had Simon coming across plants in Scotland. And then that meant that he arrived at what felt like a natural outcome of his new, voracious curiosity: John and his family history.
John would talk about his family and its history from time to time during the war and training camp. Simon had actually met the man's mum once before they were all shipped off, having been close to John even with hiding the pathetic flame that he carried for him. She had been tearful when she pulled Simon into an embrace, being there to pick him up from the train station when the war came to a close. Moira MacTavish was a short woman like her son, brown eyes just as warm, though now full of grief. But she had opened her small cottage door for him in the middle of the Highlands for some months after the war's end with the same ease that John had welcomed Simon as a friend. Simon had no one else, and John had been her only son. Her daughters had flocked the home too, and Simon could sit there in his mourning, knowing that he was not alone in his love for John.
The daughters may not have picked up on it, but he had noticed the knowing glint in Moira's eyes when he stared at the grainy pictures of the dead man that he loved. It was lacking in judgment and disgust, to which he was relieved for. Instead, it was sympathetic, as she pressed a small picture book into his hands, filled with photos she was happy to part with.
He hadn't even tried to put up a polite front and protest. Instead, Simon tucked it into his coat pocket, up against his heart, and looked at it every night before bed, his other hand playing with the dog-tag he took off of John's body. There was always two of the same on a soldier's chain. One was given to Moira, who had given it over the John's lass, and did not mention the other one he kept clinking against his own tags.
The lass was sweet and doe eyed. Her name was some old and traditional Scottish name Simon did not want to recall. She had thanked him for being there with John at the end, like Simon cradled John's body for her sake, and not because he couldn't figure out what else to do, screaming for a medic as he fruitlessly promised John that he would be alright.
To make a long story short, this was all to explain how his curiosity – and the love of a dead man – had led to him standing in the middle of a field, piss off o'clock in the morning, staring at ancient rocks.
He had traveled to Inverness, following a lead on the MacTavish Clan history, Moira having pointed him in the right direction. She had a cousin who held a lot of records of their family, and though the man gave him confused looks on why this strange Englishman was so intent on learning everything and anything on the Scottish history of one clan, he was kind and happy to talk on the topic.
History was not Simon's favourite topic in school when he was a child. However, John got him interested through just how much he would not stop talking about his clan. And because of how depressingly in love Simon was with John, of course he hung onto every word the man said like a man of faith at sermon.
The rocks however was actually more an old woman's fault, who mentioned a story about an aunt of hers that went up the hill and returned ten years later, talking about the past and William Wallace. That was when the newly rearing head of his curiosity got the better of him, and Simon had to check out these odd chunks of stone.
The cold morning luckily held no frigid breeze, though he wrapped up warm in his coat and sweater, bottom half of his face tucked into his scarf, hands shoved into pockets. Standing in the center of the rock circle, he slowly turned, staring at each of them and trying to see how a woman could disappear for ten years from this place. Granted, it was far from the town, which made kidnapping highly plausible. Though, she could have easily ran away too.
Simon got no answers, and knew that he had a planned meeting with an archivist this afternoon, and decided he had time for a nap after getting up so early this morning. At least it had been a nice walk. Scrubbing his hand through his hair roughly, sighing hard, Simon started back down the hill.
Or he would've, if not for the strange buzzing, thundering sound from behind him. Frowning, Simon turned around and after a pause, cautiously approached the tallest stone, where the sound was coming from the loudest. As he did so, step by step, Simon felt a strange floating sensation fall over him. It was like when the combat haze took over, seeing only German colours as he fired his gun, watching his fellow soldiers' backs and avoiding getting shot at by the enemy. Focused and single-minded, Simon only had one thought on his mind: To touch the stone.
Both hands rising, Simon had the second to take in a soft breath, before his cold hands touched damp and freezing stone.
There was a time, on the Normandy beaches, when an explosion went off not a few feet from his left. His body was flung in the air, thrown by the impact though not directly hit. The sudden jerking sensation of his body, the weightlessness for only a short second that seemed to last minutes, and the hard hit of his body against the sand, all breath knocked out of him. His ears had been ringing, and the sky was turning. That was how he would describe what happened after he touched the stone.
When the world stopped spinning and Simon didn't feel the need to roll over and heave, the man groaned as he sat up. He took in his surroundings, and decided that he must have passed out from lack of food. He hadn't really eaten since yesterday morning. Combining that with the long walk, all that buzzing had just been the warning his body was giving him before he collapsed.
Shaking his head to get rid of the lingering black spots and pitched noise that was still piercing in his ears, Simon staggered to his feet and began to walk down the hill and from those strange stones, bewildered. That old woman was mad and Simon would not be taking advice from old women ever again. He had done so before, when he was eighteen and the night before going off to training. A woman gave him a palm reading, also Scottish, and the nonsense of having a broken life line and how it forked should've been the first indication to stop listening to Scottish women, Moira notwithstanding. Moira would never lead him wrong, an absolute Saint of a woman.
However, as he stumbled down the hill, the missing wooden fence and his vehicle was where things got weirder. Had someone stolen his car? However, there wasn't even a road, or tire tracks, which made no sense because he couldn't have been out for more than a few minutes, going by the still rising sun. Looking around, baffled, Simon orientated himself to where the village should be, and began walking that way. He would have to file a complaint about his car being stolen, much to his internal grumbling. Simon was certainly pissed, but what was done was done, and he didn't have an issue with walking, long marches familiar. He could only hope the archivist wouldn't be too upset with Simon being late to the appointment he thought decidedly, shrugging his bag further up his shoulder as he prepared for the long walk.
But something did not feel right the more he walked. Gut instincts from the war and his time with his father that made him pay extra attention to his surroundings. Yes, the birds were still singing, a sign there wasn't any danger in the trees, but there was a strange...quietness to the world. Like it was lacking the familiarity of the rush of life. Scowling to himself, Simon felt those instinct rise up, and kept a keen eye on everything around him. His foot steps became silent and his hands slipped from his pockets. It was just as cold as earlier, but hands free was better than being caught off guard with them tucked away.
A gunshot then rocketed from his right, and he immediately threw himself to the ground, right into the tall grass as birds took to the air. Hands clamped over the back of his head, Simon held completely still as his heart raced into his throat, pounding heavily. The echo continued as the birds fled. A hunter? Not unusual. But maybe they could help. Still, his gut said to be on guard as he slowly sat up, peering through the long grass to make sure there wasn’t a weapon aimed his way. Once he tripled checked it was all clear, Simon clambered to his feet and headed towards gun fire.
His fellow soldiers of war would call him an idiot, but in retrospect, Simon heading towards the gunfire turned out to be the best thing he could've done. But he wouldn't know that until much later.
Taking slow steps through the forest once he entered, Simon was careful to not make any loud or sudden noise, eyes peeled for a person. His feet avoided branches and touched down carefully with every step, silent as a hunter. Then, when sound of life that wasn't from any kind of animal caught his ear, Simon headed in that direction with a slightly quickened pace. It was a bunch of rustling and some grunts, which Simon hoped he wasn't going to come upon two lovers having an outdoor fuck.
Simon almost wished it was that however when he rounded some brush and halted at the sight before him. It was of a man in a bright red coat fighting with another man, who was wearing...a kilt? The more Simon stared at the scene, the more baffled he became. He could've sworn he'd seen red jackets like that, but in history books. And kilts weren't entirely that strange in Scotland, having seen many since he arrived, but it was the gun and the swords that completely threw him off.
A reenactment? A scene for some film screen. He took a quick glance around and saw no cameras or other people. Just the pair of men going at it like they were honestly trying to kill one another, the kilt wearing man wrestling the gun from red coat, tossing it to the side and out of reach before throwing himself back at the other man viciously. Simon was tempted to just leave them to it, until the red coat was hit was a hefty right hook, and he dropped heavy to the ground, out cold. In doing so, he was no longer blocking his vision of the man in the kilt.
John.
That was all the ran through his head as he watched John stumble back a few steps from the red coat, picking up his sword off the ground. It was the blood that began to leak through his dirtied white shirt that forced Simon into action, even though his head was spinning with the fact that John was alive and not dead and buried. The sound of him haphazardly crashing through the wood had John lifting his sword up in warning. Simon staggered to a halt on the other side of the red coat, eyes locking onto John's. He was barely six feet away from him, and Simon was breathless as he took them in. Only to falter.
They weren't brown, Simon noted with confusion even as he breathed out in disbelief, “John?”
A man who looked like his dead love glowered, “Hou dae ye ken me?”
His accent was far thicker than the John that he knew had, and it took Simon a second to decipher. When he figured it out, Simon began to put together all his observations, and realise that no, this was not John. At least, not the John he had known.
“I-” Simon tried to explain, only for this John's eyes to flutter momentarily, a pained grimace taking over his glare and panic took Simon's heart. He stepped closer, ignoring the way the sword, which had dipped some, come back up threatening. “I can help. Your wound.” He earnestly explained, his mind beginning to dip back into a memory Simon really did not wish to think about.
The man glared, “An' why should I trust a sassenach?”
“Please.” Simon couldn't stop the desperation in his tone, hastily taking his satchel off and holding up a calming hand, “Please, let me help. I promise I'm not going to hurt you.”
John stayed quiet through his obvious pain, staring at Simon with a fierce but confused expression. Then, his eyes fluttered shut and he listed to the side with a groan. Simon lunged towards him, barely managing to not trip over the knocked out solider on the ground. Catching John’s weight before he hit the ground, Simon lowered them carefully. Shifting them away from the soldier for more room, Simon immediately shrugged off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves as he sifted through his satchel. The scene of an injured John was all too familiar, and Simon did not want it to end the same way it had the first time.
He was only a combat medic in the last year of his time in the war, and only for very light work, not having had as much experience and training as the other medics. Simon, after his John had died, had begged for any kind of information and knowledge on how to help with the injured. His own men had looked at their captain in bafflement, but their own medic had taken Simon under his wing with quiet understanding when orders came in that they weren't pressing forward against the Germans, leaving it to the Americans. Simon had gained more practical knowledge than academic by the time he decided to go back to school for medicine. After five years of studying for his degree and having a flimsy piece of paper to prove his ability to heal others as well as field dressing from the war, Simon was quick to rip back the shirt of his new patient to peer at the wound in his shoulder.
This John stared up at him, panting from the pain but maintaining that fierce expression as Simon inspected the exit wound, muttering to the injured man after a moment of inspection. “It was a clean exit, didn't hit the bone. But there's a lot of blood.”
He got a grunt in response, but at least no resistance. Which meant that Simon could get to work without any hindrance. He tended to carry a bottle of medical alcohol for the cleaning of wounds with him because he generally got into a lot of scrapes to begin with, so when he pulled some out of his bag, he applied it with liberal use to the wound on both ends, making this John yelp and spit out some insult in Gaelic. Ignoring the glare sent his way, Simon searched through his bag for any bandages, but found none, much to his irritation.
For a split second, he debated using the pieces of the man's shirt, but decided they were far too filthy, eyeing some of the suspicious stains. Sending a glare back at the Scottish man, Simon grumbled, “You better thank me later.” And pulled his sweater over his head, ignoring the startled in take of breath from this John as he shrugged off his suspenders and began to unbutton his collared shirt with all the efficiency drilled into him by the military. It was chilly, but the adrenaline running through him in that moment had him barely reacting as he began tearing the shirt into strips. He must look ridiculous, topless and tending to some kilted bloke who was slowly bleeding out in front of him. Expertly wrapping up the wound tightly, Simon glanced around quickly to ask, “Got somewhere we can get you to?”
Eyeing him for a long moment with barely veiled suspicion, the man then nodded curtly but with a hint of reluctance. “A house no ower far from here.” And he pointed in the opposite direction Simon came from. “Ye an English spy?” The suspicious squint had Simon snorting incredulously, tying off the bandages with a hard jerk, ignoring this John's grunt of pain. “No. I'm not. Just an idiot who touched a magical bloody stone.” He muttered the last part, but the Scot caught it, gaze sharpening as he stared at Simon in a new light. “Craigh Na Dun?”
Simon snapped his eyes to the injured man. “You know it?”
“Aye,” The man nodded slowly, “Heard a few tales o' the place. Fairies an’ witches mainly.”
Sitting back on his haunches, Simon glanced at the blood on his hands and searched for some water. He knew that the Craigh Na Dun of his time had a stream close by, hopefully in the last how many years before his time it was still in the same place.
His time...Dear lord, he really was contemplating the possibility that he had traveled through time. Shaking his head in incredulously, Simon got up and ignored the protesting calls of the Scotsman as he headed to the faint sound of rushing water. The man would hold until Simon returned. Finding the stream quickly, Simon washed his hands before gulping down some of the cool water. It came from the mountains, so hopefully that meant it was fairly clean and not full of deadly bacteria. Oh well, he's drunk and eaten way worse in Europe.
With this moment alone, Simon closed his eyes and focused on the ache in his heart, recalling the sight of this John. He rubbed his fist on his chest in tight circles, easing the pain to the best of his abilities. So focused on the injury he hadn't taken the time to explore the man’s features beyond his eye colour, to see what was similar and different to his John. He only noticed the different in irises due to this John being such a brilliant blue that it was noticeable from a short distance. Besides that, and that he was a little more pasty compared to the John in his time, that was all he had for differences. God, that was going to be confusing. He could just refer to his John as Soap, that stupid nickname that they coined the young man with during basic.
Getting up, Simon shook the memories away and headed back to what was technically his patient. He ignored the way his heart beat rapidly in his chest, how his hands had begun to tremble, as he stepped back into the small clearing. Simon paused.
This John was back on his feet, though he leant heavily on his sword. The sword which was now plunged into the chest of what was once an unconscious man. Simon had seen death, and plenty of it. That was not what made him swallow thickly, a building of terror in his throat. What got him scared was if he truly was in the past, then as an Englishman, Scotland was not a safe to be for him in this time period.
Hearing his return, the Scotsman glanced over his shoulder at him, and the cold blue eyes froze him further in his place. The expression was no longer glowering or glaring. Just pure assessment of a threat, and though Simon thought himself a decent soldier and could hold himself in a fight, its been five years since the war and he had only kept up with some of the basic training and exercise to stay fit. Even injured this John could do plenty of damage to Simon if he decided to.
Clearing his throat awkwardly, suddenly very aware he was shirtless with nothing but his dog-tags on his chest, Simon cautiously made his way back to where his sweater and coat laid, keeping a wary eye on the other man, who took a step away from the dead man, his sword leaving the flesh with a wet sound. It was not a sound he liked, hauntingly familiar. Reaching for his discarded clothes, Simon crouched down to pick up his things, redressing before slinging his bag over his shoulder once more. His suspenders hung loosely around his thighs, not wishing for the rough material to dig and rub against his skin.
They continued to watch one another, two soldiers and technically enemies. But perhaps tentative allies if Simon played his cards right. Clearing his throat once again, Simon glanced at the make shift bandages, and noted the blood that was lightly staining through them. “We need to get that properly looked at. You said there was a place where we can go?”
“Aye,” This John nodded slowly, wary, “Jus' past the treeline north o' here.” When the man took a step in that direction, Simon spotted the minor wavering of his form and the doctor instincts took over, sidling up to swing this John's uninjured arm over his shoulder. The man jerked back a little, glaring up at Simon. “Whit dae ye think ye're doin?”
The John he knew had shown his anger before, but the John he knew never reached twenty-three. This John looked older by at least half a decade, though that could be down to rough living. That was to say that this John's anger was less pouting and more vicious. Something to actually be afraid of. Simon's mouth went dry as he hoarsely replied, “You- I thought-” The other man tried to shake him off, but even with his mild fear Simon did not allow him, finding his words to finally state sternly, “You'll collapse without me.”
“A already took help from a sassenach.” The man growled, “A'm no gaun'ae let ane carry me like a wee bairn.”
Scowling, Simon gripped the arm around his shoulder tightly and began to move despite the Gaelic protests and curses spat his way. So long as this John wasn't reaching for his sword or knife to stab him, Simon was not going to let him go. He wouldn't make it ten steps much less to the treeline. And seeing as Simon was not meeting an unfortunate end with a blade to his kidneys, this John knew that too. His insults trailed into grumbles that Simon could not translate even if he wanted to. Instead, he kept an eye out for any more red coats – his own countrymen, technically – like they were German enemies, ready to shove his wounded patient into the brush to stop him from getting further injured.
Luckily, they made it to the house that the Scotsman was referring to, more of a broken down hut, but it would do. At first and second glance, no one would suspect anyone hiding out in the place so long as they didn't light a fire to signal their position.
Simon shouldered the door open, bringing in John behind him and zeroing in on the rickety, small bench by the empty fireplace. Plopping the man down onto it he went about surveying the hut as well as trying to regain his breath. Its been awhile since he went about half carrying men about and this John was no light man, Simon able to feel the strong muscle on his frame from hauling his arse. There was dust covering all the surfaces of the hut, leaves and animal droppings gathered in the corners, and dried old herbs tied to the rafters on one side of the place. There were shutters, which Simon pulled shut along with the front door, hiding their position. He stalked the place a little further and spotted a kitchen knife tucked under a counter top. He eyed it for a short moment before grabbing it. After thumbing the sharp edge and deciding it was a suitable enough weapon just in case, Simon slid it into his bag.
There was a snort behind him, and he realised that through all of this, the other man had been watching him. Turning to look at the man, this John was shivering slightly, even as he had an amused arch to his brow. “Gaun'ae stab me wi' that?”
Scoffing, Simon remarked, “After dragging your arse here? Would have made this entire venture pointless. Now, you got a needle and thread?” He added, eyeing the hut once more for any possible sewing kit. He had a basic first aid kit in his bag, but not one for sewing up wounds unfortunately. Funnily enough, he hadn't thought that his short jaunt up to the magic rock circle would require such equipment.
“Dae A leuk like a lass tae ye?” The other man snorted again.
Rolling his eyes, Simon shifted around some things on a shelf and by a sheer fucking miracle, he find a tiny wicker basket with some fabric and spools of threads, tiny little needles poked into the fabric for safe keeping. With a small noise of triumph Simon returned to this John's side.
The lighting was shit, and figuring with it being daylight, the sight of candle light shouldn't be noticeable, especially with the shutters and door closed. Plucking up the candle and lantern he had noticed earlier, Simon slipped his lighter out of his pocket and lit the wick. Dragging over another stool along with a small table, Simon set up his station. Lantern on the table, at level with the wounded shoulder, Simon took out the sewing supplies along with the alcohol. Using his lighter to sterilise the needle, he doused his hands with the alcohol and wetting the thread with it too, not willing to take the risk of infection.
Throughout this entire procedure, the Scotsman decided to be helpful even as he silently watched Simon, undoing the bandages around his wound. The entrance wound was the larger one, so Simon focused on that as he took out his canteen of water from his bag and washed away some of the tacky blood before pinching the skin together.
Sewing up wounds was not too hard, as long as you had the right curved needle, a clean and non-slippery area, and knew what you were doing. Unfortunately, he only had one of those things, when usually he would have two, as there was no such thing as an open wound that wasn't slick with blood, even when washing it clean. However, he's worked with worse tools before, his crash course towards his last year of the war making sure of that, and Simon focused on his task at hand. It made all other thoughts that he was worrying about fade to the back of his mind.
Candle light was not the best to work by, but he's worked in darkness by just the moonlight before, so it was far better than most medics on the battlefield could ask for, especially seeing as he wasn't being actively shot at. Time passed, Simon did not linger on how long but he knew that a bit had passed due to the stiffness of his joints as he tied off the second thread on the exit wound, using his knife to cut it short. He wiped away any lingering blood before wrapping it again with more scraps of his shirt and tying it off.
Done, Simon sat back with a sigh, rolling his stiff neck. “Ye got steady hands, sassenach.” The words were a soft rumble, and Simon pried open his eyes. He was sat quite close to the other man, which made sense, but it still caused the breath in his lungs to disappear. Daylight would've been better to search for the difference between this John and the John he knew, but the lantern was enough to spot them nonetheless.
War took a lot out of even the brightest of people, and even his John had a haggered and sunken look about him through his smiles and jokes. However, he had a slimmer jaw line compared to this John, his squared under a thick layer of dark scruff. His hair was longer on the top, tied back messily with his sides a few months past a shearing. His John's hair was a terrible mohawk that Simon had a few lucky moments in the past that he got to run his fingers through, ruffling it to mess with the fellow soldier as an excuse to touch it.
More noticeable was the scar, old and healed, that cut down his left eye and through his brow. The tops of his ears didn't stick out a little the way his John's did as well. However, they both had this slight natural pout to their lips when resting their expression. Simon couldn't help the way his eyes flicked down to them before snapping back up to the unfamiliar blue eyes that were watching him. Registering the injured man's statement, Simon cleared his throat and sat back some more, “Got to be, seeing as I'm a doctor.”
A new one that hadn’t even joined a practice or hospital, but a doctor nonetheless. And certainly more knowledgeable than most people in this current time period. A cold chill washed down his spine, recalling now that he had the time, just when exactly he was. It had to be before the 1800s at least, but that left a few centuries to choose from. When did the English began to invade Scotland? Or was the better question to ask was, which time? When were guns invented? Simon felt like he should know this.
“Ye a spy?” The repeated question cut through his panicking, and Simon scowled at the other man. “No, I'm just a man in the wrong place.”
“Aye, you said the Craigh Na Dun wis where ye came from?”
Simon nodded cautiously, knowing that babbling about time travel would be a dangerous thing to say in a time that witch hunting and superstition was taken seriously. However, this John didn't seem ready to burn him at the stake, instead watching with assessing eyes.
“Whit's yer name, sassenach?”
“Simon Riley.”
“'Riley', ey? Ye Irish?”
Unable to help himself, Simon snorted with amusement, “Not that I'm aware of.”
“Hm. An’ ye ken me somehow.” The other man recalled. Pursing his lips, Simon looked away. “You looked like someone I knew. It was a mistake.”
Undeterred, this John leant forward with an assessing glint in his eyes, catching Simon’s gaze against his will. Despite the difference in colour, they were still the same shape, the same captivating power that he couldn’t turn away from. “Yet we both share the same name. Coincidence, isnae it?”
Scrubbing at his face with his clean hand – he needed to find some more water again to wash his bloodied one – Simon sighed tiredly. “Look, I was just-”
“Tell me, Simon Riley.” The man cut in, “Am familiar wi the tales, sae be honest. Are ye from a different time?” Wide eyed, Simon met his unwavering gaze and he learnt in that very moment he was just as weak for this John as he was for his, and gave another uncertain nod. A satisfied crinkle in this John's eyes had the man leaning back with a nod. “Thoucht sae, wi the clothes an aw.”
Letting out another sigh, more heavy than the previous one, Simon decided to be honest as this John demanded. He didn't have much to lose, and he could out run the injured man back to the stones if the other decided to attack. His sense of direction was impeccable. “I'm from the year 1950, don't know how many years from now that is, but I would give it at least a hundred. I was a soldier in the British army, became a doctor after the war.”
There was a sudden rigidity in the other man's form, Simon rushing the clarify, “Not against the Scottish. It was Germany that was the enemy, and I fought alongside a lot of Scottish men, Irish too.”
Minutely, this John relaxed. “An’ the John ye ken?”
“A...descendant of yours, I believe.” Simon cleared his throat, looking away to pack up this things, “I was uh, researching his family and clan, the MacTavish when I came to this time.”
“Why?” The other man's tone was now baffled.
Simon's gaze flickered to the side. “Curious.” Honest, but not enough to be the whole truth. This John saw that immediately, gaze sharpening as he leant forward once more, his good arm braced on his leg. Simon had another realisation that the man was shirtless and he had far more musculature in his chest and shoulders than his John did, no thinness from terrible rations to be seen. There were scars that dotted his body, crudely sewn or even cauterized back together, going by the burn scar on his right pec. It was...tantilising.
“Ye're lyin'” This John softly rumbled and Simon swallowed thickly as he dragged his gaze back to that piercing stare, though they darted away again, unable to hold it. Wires were starting to cross in his brain and beginning to lead into dangerous territory. “He was a friend, and he...” The word choked up in his throat, eyes flickering back up to the other man's, hoping that he understood what he couldn't say. The man did, a dawning realisation as he pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“A see. A close friend?”
'Not close enough.' Simon thought miserably, even as he gave a nod. Because that wasn't a lie. Even with harbouring a deep love for his John, for Soap, they were still good friends. Simon wouldn't let his affection get in the way of that, cherishing all the moments they had together, sharing terrible jokes and a smoke in between fights. Holed out in a fox hole as the ground shook and trembled from mortars dropping around them, bodies pressed together and stinking of weeks old sweat and gunk. They were – in some twisted way – his favourite moments. Simon took what he could when it came to physical contact.
Could it be called selfish, hugging Soap's body close to his as he bled out, calling for a medic but hoping Soap wouldn't be torn from his arms? Hoping the man could just lie in them forever? Was that sick of him?
“Right.” This John began, jerking him from his grief, “We'll stay ‘ere tonicht, travel firs’ light tomorrow.”
Startled, Simon snapped out of his memories to demand, “Wait, where are you taking me?”
“Well, assumin ye're no headin back tae the stones?” The other man arched a brow, “A figurit ye'd be comin back wi me tae ma home.”
Simon's brain blanked in that moment at this John's explanation. Why hadn't he ran back to the stones at the first opportunity? He could've after sorting out the wound, but he had stayed there. Could it be that he was so desperate for any piece of his John, that he stayed by the man's ancestor just to continue getting a glimpse of the man he once knew? He really was as pathetic as his father always sneered at him, Simon thought with a humourless huff, shaking his head.
“Guess so.” He murmured to both himself and the other man, answering both statements at once. “Got room for an Englishman?”
This John made a face, “A sassenach like ye won't go unnoticed. We can call ye a mute, say yer Irish.” What a terrible plan. Guess that ran in the bloodline then.
“Best work on my accent then, just in case, yeah?”
The other man snorted at Simon's statement, “Might be a guid idea.” Then, he got up, barely swaying, before exiting the hut. Simon was quick to follow after, curious but mainly concerned he was going to collapse again. However, this John remained astonishing stable on his feet, heading around the back of the hut and revealing a saddled up horse. The animal huffed at the sight of the Scottish man, who cooed softly in Gaelic. After stroking the horse and giving it some affection, he rummaged through his saddle bags, and pulled out a satchel of his own, along with a blanket and a flask, which he tossed to Simon. Catching it, Simon opened and sniffed, rearing back at the strong scent of alcohol that wafted up his nose. Hearing this John's laughter, Simon glared.
“Water o’ life.” The other man stated. Taking a tentative sip, his mouth was flooded with the sharp taste of whisky. Figured, fucking Scottish. However, it was not too bad, the after taste, and took another two sips before pressing the cork back into the opening. With his supplies, this John headed back into the hut, Simon once more trailing behind him, though he was taking more cautionary glances around the area. They were tucked in a small valley between hills, the little glade surrounded by broken down fences and thick trees. They had decent coverage as long as no one thought they were hiding out here. The horse was out of view in a small stable so Simon didn't worry too much about people seeing the animal, but it would get chilly tonight. He was used to hunkering down in a hole, but typically he had another solider to huddle up with, and he wasn't so certain this warrior would be so willing with an Englishman he’d just met.
And with the amount blood this John had lost, Simon was worried about how the cold would get to him. Speaking of blood, his hands needed another washing. “I'll be right back.” He informed the other after making sure the injured man was back safely on his bench. The Scotsman eyed him before giving a curt nod.
With nothing more exchanged between them, Simon left back to the woods. And with the solitude, that weight in his chest he had been ignoring grew heavier as a thickness clawed up his throat. War brought out a different part of you, one you didn’t even know you carried. Simon knew there was violence and an animal-like fear within him since he was a child, knowing how to claw his way to survival and how to hide himself to protect his vital organs. War was just a step up from that, but instead of finding a way to keep yourself alive, it was that and killing that which was attacking you. In society, you weren't allowed to do that. It was terrifying what was allowed in war, and how you had to pack it all the way once returning to civilisation like it was never there to begin with. He had the blood of friends and enemies on his hands, gained from vastly different circumstances, but it was blood all the same.
Finding the river once more, he crouched down and washed his hands, lost in his turmoil.
Simon wasn't allowed to cry as a child. His father tried to beat that out of him, and Simon was convinced he actually had, until war broke out. He had cried on the beaches of Dunkirk, so close yet so far from home. He had cried during the first night after storming Normandy beach, having managed to survive the D-Day attack, running up the sand and trying not to scream. He had killed and had watched friends die over the course of half a decade. When he had found safety with his squad during the war, sleepless nights in a hole and clutching their guns, twitching at the gun shots and explosions in the distance, Simon had cried then too. Many times.
It was a stifled thing, lips pressed together in order to not make a sound and give away their position. The tears were hot down his muddied cheeks, and across from him, his John, Soap, had made eye contact, just as scared as him. That was not the first time, and it would not be the last.
His hands were growing numb from the cold water, clean in appearance but never truly feeling so. He was trembling, and wondered if this was shock. Tears silently ran down his face and he sniffed hard, sitting back on the bank of the river, holding his shaking hands to his mouth. The life of the forest around him was nothing close to the battlefields he had crawled back home from, but every bird song was like a bomb dropping, Simon flinching and squeezing his eyes closed.
He saw Soap. His John. Johnny. The last moments with the man alive, growing colder and paler in his arms. He had gasped up at him, eyes hazy and asking if he's going to make it. Simon had promised he would in between clutching him close and screaming for a medic. His hand pressed at the wound in Johnny's chest, feeling the sluggish beating of his heart begin to slow and the rattling of his lungs with every breath become softer and softer. Brown eyes stared up at him, lids fluttering as he breathed his last words.
“Don't forget me.”
It was said with a pleading whisper, desperation in his eyes, and Simon nodded, promising past his tears, “Never. Never Johnny.” It wasn't until he dived into the MacTavish clan history and learnt their words, that he understood. ‘Non Oblitus’, which translated to 'Not Forgetful', though Latin experts had cited that it was associated with funerary texts, in which to commemorate the deceased. The full text was ‘Non oblitus post mortem me’, translating to 'Do not forget me after death'. Meaning, 'Not Forgotten'.
John – Soap – was proud of his heritage, expounding constantly on the Scottish and his clan history. It made sense then why those were his last words. A sick part of him wished the last words were words of love, a confession of a dying man. Something that would give Simon relief, knowing his affections were reciprocated, but that was the thoughts of a sick man. Thoughts of a man who was grasping at smoke.
Besides, when he decided to be rational, if Soap had given a love confession on his death bed, it would've made Simon's precarious heart break further knowing they had wasted what time they could've had together. In the end, Johnny's last words were for the best, and he carried it to Moira and her daughters, to Johnny's lass. And he carried it with him like he did with his photos and dog-tags.
It was how parched his throat was that drew him from his daze of memories and ghosts. The sun was setting, and he wondered how long he sat at the riverbank. He was shivering, cold, but relieved frost bite hadn't set in yet. Scooping freezing water into his dry mouth, ignoring the trembling of his hands, Simon stood up with stiff limbs and made his way back to the hut. There was not a single lingering thought of how Simon should instead be heading to the stones. He did not look too closely at that decision.
When he staggered his way to the hut, he noted the smoke rising from the chimney, and figured he was too tired to be concerned about the signaling of their position. Upon his entrance this John, by the fire place, had his head whipped around, one hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. However, he relaxed at the sight of Simon.
“Thought ye had left.” At the man's comment, Simon shut the door with a shake of his head. “Just was thinking.” He whispered, coming closer to sit near the fire, warming his chilled bones, wrapping his arms around his knees like a child. A warm touch against his cheek after a long moment of soaking up the heat had him flinching a little, cracking open his eyes. When had he closed them? Blinking tiredly over at this John, the older man was frowning. “Ye're freezin'. Lips near blue, sassenach.”
“What does that mean?” Simon finally asked, not addressing his current freezing state.
“Englishman, or Outlander. Which is whit ye are.” And this John gave a small crack of a smile. Simon saw it for what it was: a friendly gesture of reassurance. However, Simon's own heart gave a dull leap. By God did it look like his John’s smile. His breath caught in his throat, and he looked away, the fingers against his cheek dropping away.
“Ye leuk at me like ye've seen a ghost, sassenach.”
“Well, you look like him.” Simon muttered bitterly, just as his stomach rumbled, making its demand for food known. He felt heat on his neck, flushing in embarrassment as the other man chuckled softly. Rustling sounded before a hard lump was pressed in his hand.
“Bannock. No’ much, A ken. But fillin'.” This John said as Simon struggled to take a bite out of the tough bread. He was right though, it was filling, especially as he washed the bland taste down with some whisky. What was it that Moira said? Water was not good in Scotland, but the whisky always was. He couldn't recall the words exactly, but it didn't matter in that instance, his stomach was happy to have something.
“Thanks.” He murmured gratefully to the other man, who nodded, sitting back and giving his injured shoulder a soft rub. That was when he noticed the man's kilt was around his shoulders. Curious as he chewed his bannock, Simon peered a little to catch the back end. Was his arse exposed? Apparently not, as there was pleated covering, but he could see where extra fabric hung over the belt, meaning this John had coverage should he need it. Smart. When he straightened up, curiousity sated, he glanced up and froze at the amusement dancing in those blue eyes, bright in the fire light. “Satisfied?”
Flushing once more, Simon muttered, “I don't see kilts like that often.”
“They dinnae have kilts from whan ye're from?”
“They do.” Simon amended, “They're just...different.”
A pleased nod, “Good tae know they still have thaim.”
“Not for long,” Simon couldn't stop himself from mentioning, “They get banned for sometime. Anything to do with Scottish culture burned and destroyed.”
This John froze. “What.”
He was sharply dragged out of his listing thoughts, realising what he just revealed. Simon glanced down at his bannock, a sudden welling of shame in his gut. He never really thought about the shit the English had done to the other countries. School taught things as the English being saviours and strong. Soap taught him differently, talking about the oppression from the English upon his people, which had his world view shifting and expanding. It was like he had to look over all his history knowledge with a different eye, seeing at the atrocities his country had committed in the name of spreading knowledge and religion. With that in mind, he grimaced but explained to the tense Scotsman, recalling his recent history dives.
“There's this battle, in 1744 or '45, can’t remember exactly. It’s the last Jacobite uprising, and the Scottish lose. Tartans are burnt, Gaelic is banned, and the English occupation here gets worse. It's not until a king hears this romantisied version of Scotland and begins to repeal a lot of the bans. I don't recall it all, but...it's not good.”
“Simon,” This John softly breathed out, looking pained. “This is the year o' 1741.”
Simon become rigid before meeting the other's gaze. “I'm sorry.” He can't help but whisper, sincere. The other shook his head, looking away and voice gruff, “I dinnae want tae hear anymore tonicht. Get some sleep, we leave early.” He reminded Simon, before standing up from his bench and lowering himself to the ground, back to Simon.
Swallowing the regret down, Simon took a moment to gather himself, cursing internally at having upset this John. Then, he tossed some more wood on the fire and laid down himself. He used his satchel as a pillow. It wasn't the most comfiest, but he's slept in a literal dirt hole, so it would do. However, he noticed a blanket left on the bench, and glanced to the Scotsman's back.
Getting back up, Simon silently plucked it up, beginning to spread it out to lay over the other man. “Ye use it.” Was the grunted words from this John, stalling Simon. He hesitated for a long moment, before nodding despite knowing the other couldn't see him. Simon laid back down, covering himself with the blanket. He stared at this John's back until his eyes grew tired and drooped closed.
Gunshots rattled the air.
Dirt flew into his eyes.
He was running, hands clawed at his legs.
He heard the whisper of his name.
There was a desperation in his chest. He had to get to him.
He couldn't run. The arms pulled him deep into the ground, soaked deep with blood.
Hands cradled his face.
He saw him.
His face was rotting as he whispered,
'Don't forget me.'
Simon jerked awake, breathing laboured. He saw nothing as he was still latched onto the words that echoed his mind. Panic and grief threatened to suffocate him.
“Simon?”
His head whipped around to a somewhat familiar voice. The face before him had him croaking out, “Johnny?”
Soap frowned. “I danae think we're that close, sassenach.”
The name drew him back to reality, blinking rapidly as he sat up, rubbing his eyes to be rid of the sleep that caked him. When he looked back at the other man, he saw that yes, that wasn't his John. Letting out a heavy breath, Simon muttered, “Apologies.” And got up to stagger outside to relieve himself.
The morning sun was a relief from how stifling the hut had become, taking deep breaths of the dew scented air. The birds no longer sounded like bombs. They were just birds, and he felt some tension in his shoulders dissipate.
This John came out after him a few moments later. Though short like Soap was, he was actually taller than his descendant, the top of his head coming to Simon's nose instead of his chin. He was also stockier, wider in the shoulders, and Simon hated how the sight caught his gaze before he could rip his eyes away. The other man eyed him with a frown for a long moment, before walking towards where his horse was without a word. A shuddering breath escaped Simon at the man's disappearance. He felt too exposed after his nightmare muddled mind had him use that nickname. He could only imagine what this John was thinking, especially with how Simon had reacted.
The sound of hoof steps signalled John coming around the side of the hut, now on his horse. Eyeing him from up there, Simon asked, “How far do we have to go?”
“Nae tae far, aboot a two day ride from here, gin we keep a guid pace.”
“Might add another day, I'll slow you down.” Simon pointed out, leading to this John to frown down at him.
“Ye're not tha' heavy fer ma gal.” And held out a hand to Simon.
His mind blanked once more, letting out a stupid, “Oh...” He took the hand after a moment of hesitation and awkwardly swung up behind the man. Made sense he was in the back, being taller than John. He tried not to find that amusing as they began to maneuver through the wood. Not knowing where to settle his hands, he placed them on his knees, doing his best to keep balance with the sway of the animal. It was a quiet ride for awhile, taking them further away from the Craigh Na Dun. Simon knew he should return to his time, who knew what he was changing with his very presence. Maybe this John was meant to die last night, and he's ruined the future by his survival.
However, his gut churned at the thought of this John dying. He didn't know the man, not like Soap, but he couldn't bear the idea of him being dead too. And if he was anything like his John, this one was going to get into many scrapes and scraps. He would need a doctor to patch him up, especially with this dangerous time in Scotland.
It was foolish how Simon was already feeling this need to stay beside this man. Having already a strong attachment to someone he had just met was ridiculous. He wasn't the John Simon had known and loved. He was practically a stranger, and a possible enemy in this time period. He wasn't safe. But Simon's heart was drumming hard in his chest at the contact between his chest and this John's back, mouth growing dry where his hands settled lightly after about an hour of riding – cautiously, ever so cautious – on the other man's waist.
The terror in his stomach churned at the other man's reaction if he ever found out about Simon predilections for men. His own time period wasn't the kindest to men preferring men, he couldn't imagine what 1741 would be like for his kind. And to think he had already been caught staring a few times curdles that fear further. Simon would just have to do better and not look.
“The war ye says ye foucht in,” John cut through his spiraling thoughts, “Ye say ye were up against the Germans?” Nodding, Simon began to explain, “They invaded Poland, which started it all. Great Britain and France declared war against them two days after their invasion.”
“Any idea why they invaded?”
Simon thought back to what he had learnt after the war, the reels he and many other soldiers had watched about all those people locked away in camps. About the genocide of the Jewish people, and any others the Germans deemed less than human. Swallowing back the bile that rose up at the images in his head of those skeletal people, Simon's voice was rough as he replied, “I'm not sure. There's a lot of history, but uh, the short answer was that they decided they were better than others. Their leader, he uh, believed that blond hair and blue eyed people were superior, and particularly targeted the Jewish people.”
There was a low hum of consideration of his words from John, their bodies swaying with the horse's motion. “Strange reason tae start a war.”
“A stupid reason.” Simon muttered in return with vitriol. “Nearly 15 million soldiers died in total on all sides. 38 million civilians died. It's being called the largest military conflict in human history. The bloodiest war.” The statistics were near burnt into his brain at this point, the numbers running across his eyes as he continued. “I signed up when I was eighteen, wasn't the first of the soldiers to be deployed but I was there fighting in France before having to be shunted back to England. Fucking Dunkirk beach,” Simon spat, “Standing in line for ships as you waited for German bombs to drop on you. Had to go back to that damn sand when we and the other countries against Germany stormed the Normandy beach. It was a damn blood bath.” Dunkirk was purgatory, with the war being hell. That agonising wait of either death or aid to take them home was almost worse than actually being shot at.
There was a long breath exhaled from John, what ever that could mean for his reaction to Simon's words, the taller man couldn't say, the horse then being tugged into a halt not a few moment after. “We've been ridin’ for a few hours, let's let the gal rest.” He announced, swinging off with surprising dexterity, his injured arm curled up to his chest and not taking any weight. Simon nodded silently, following after him. He staggered inelegantly, soreness making itself known.
Wincing privately, Simon stood and watched as John led the horse to a small stream. With the animal preoccupied, the Scotsman came back to him and stared at Simon for a long moment. He was being sized up. Not for a fight, but assessed. John then snorted, shaking his head. “Who'd thoucht ye were a warrior, with ye wee twiggy frame. A soft wind coud blow ye ower.”
Affronted, Simon snapped, “I'm not that skinny!” He still kept up with his exercise from boot camp and was decently fit, though perhaps not to the same standard that was drilled into him years ago. “Ye barely got any muscle in yer arms.” John chortled, reaching up to roughly pat Simon's left bicep.
Heat prickled up the back of his neck as he retorted, “Least I'm not a short bastard like you.”
Instead of getting offended, John smirked, “It's the only part o’ me thon is small.”
If his neck wasn't already burning, it was now. Simon quickly averted his gaze from the smug Scotsman, unable to help the muttered, “Fuckin' hell...” That slipped past his lips. He retreated, going to the stream to get some cool water down his throat, running a wet hand across his neck while he was at it. The man was a liar, because Simon made sure to do his regular pull ups and push ups, his arms were in great shape! And he had seen his bare torso when they first met, so he was just purely taking the mick.
John laughed behind him. It wasn't a mean sound, but it wasn't comforting either. A lull of silence then fell over the two, continuing to take a break from the riding. That was until Simon rejoined the man by the horse, and John spoke with a solemn tone, his gaze searching, “Ye've been throuch a lot, sassenach. A thank ye for tellin' me.” And gave Simon a gentler pat to the shoulder in comfort before swinging back up onto his horse.
Simon gazed up at the baffling man for a long second. Even with the bandaging – which they would have to change soon – there was a story book feel about John. A dashing hero, coming to save the day. He held himself with a confidence that was earned through many fights and harsh life, a settled knowledge that he was a strong man. Simon could admit to himself that it was attractive despite not having known this man long. And the sword at his hip did a lot to add to that picture. Cursing himself internally, Simon took the offered hand and climbed up. As a child, he had liked the stories his mum would tell him, particularly about knights and kings. Damn him for that boyhood infatuation to be made into somewhat of a reality with the Highlander before him. How ever long he was staying in this time, Simon thought this man would be the death of him. If dysentery didn't get him first.
When they stopped for that evening, it was pissin' it down. They were tucked under a thick tree, wide canopy that helped somewhat against the rain. Instead of being completely soaked, they were only a little damp from the drops that fell down upon them periodically.
Having stopped, Simon tugged out the torn pieces of his shirt from his bag and used them to change out the stained bandage. The dirtied bandages he had stuffed into his bag, not wanting to leave hints of their presence. Eyeing him thoughtfully, John asked, “Ye used ta being followed?”
Simon shrugged nonchalantly as he finished chewing up the yarrow he had foraged along the journey, spitting the mush into his hands, “We were in enemy territory. Surveillance and keeping your tracks covered was basic training. Didn't want to be found as we slept or be followed.”
With the mush of plant, he pressed it to the wound before bandaging it into place. John had made a brief expression of revulsion as Simon explained with a slight smirk, “Yarrow helps to stem the bleeding, and we don't have any tools for me to mash with, besides my mouth.”
With a sigh, the Scotsman muttered in resigned agreement, “Have haed worse on me A suppose…” That got Simon to raise a curious brow, which led to the man expounding on a story from his youth, where he and his cousins mucked about in the stables, having a fight in horse dung, and not being allowed back into their home until they were washed completely.
“Clothes were hopeless at thon point, ye ken? Stunk sae bad they were burnt ootside an’ the three o’ us trailin' nakit as a new born bairn, shiverin’ an’ cauld intae the house. Stayit far from the stables for weeks.”
Chuckling a little, Simon added his own anecdote. “We were in Belgium, taken back from the Germans at that point and had some down time. We had been all over Europe, mainly in Sicily. Uh, Italy.” He elaborated to the Scotsman, who nodded in understanding. “Anyways, it was a few of us, we all had these nicknames for one another, you tend to get them in close squads. John, your descendant, he was called 'Soap'. Had this obsession with staying clean, not that anyone blamed him, but it started way before we even stepped onto a battlefield. War was filthy most of the time, but he would carry bars of soap with him every where. For every one that others carried, he had three.”
Simon paused to chuckle to himself at the memory before continuing on, “One of our squad mates, Gaz, dared him to climb down this hole we found in one of the streets of a Belgium town. The place had been littered with bomb craters and crumbling buildings, there were loads of these holes. It was right dangerous, looking back on it. The stability of these holes were shite, it was lucky he hadn't been crushed. But it turned out that hole connected with a sewer system.”
John frowned in confusion, leading to Simon to diverge from his story to briefly explain a sewer system, and immediately his expression turned to a knowing amusement, already seeing exactly where this story was going. “This daft man decided he wanted to crawl further in, after hoping down. Gaz continued to egg him on as Roach, one of our other men, was pleading with him to get out. Roach had it right, because Soap stepped somewhere wrong, it shifted some stone, and a huge gush of shit just burst out, covering him almost completely.”
Snorting, the other man shook his head, “History repeats itself, A suppose.”
Laughing a little with him, Simon nodded in agreement, a faint smile on his face. It felt a little strange where it sat, but it was nice. “Yeah...”
“Did they live?”
Simon sobered, glancing at the damp ground below him. “Gaz did, so did our squad leader, Price. Roach died a month before Soap. It was actually a few weeks after Belgium that he did. We were pulling out of Europe, the Americans handling it now as most of the British forces were kind of depleted. We lost a majority of our men in the first few years before America sent their troops and pushed Germany back.”
“Sorry fer yer loss, lad.” John murmured, a heavy hand settling on his shoulder. Glancing at the familiar but unfamiliar man, Simon adverted his eyes the second the man gave him a small smile of reassurance. Taking a shuddering breath in, Simon shrugged. “Many people got used to death.”
“Still...”
He sighed in resigned agreement. “Still.”
As they were rested up against the tree trunk late into the night, Simon was keeping watch, unable to really sleep anyway, when John spoke up. It had been quiet between them for a few hours, so it startled Simon some what, having thought him asleep. “What wis yer name?”
Simon turned his head towards him. “What do you mean?”
“Soap, Roach, Gaz.” John elaborated, “You haed names for thaim. Whit wis yours?”
“Oh.” Simon glanced away, settling back against the tree and stared off into the raining night. “Ghost. They called me Ghost.”
“Ill-omen name, tha’ one.”
“I suppose.” He hummed. “I was quiet on my feet, quiet in groups. I got a lot of kills, a lot due to sneaking up on the enemy and taking them down with a knife. Nearly got promoted into a more higher profile squad, that did secret missions. I declined. That would separate me from men I knew and trusted to watch my back.”
A long pause. John then began to talk. “A wis thirteen whan the banners were callit. The Jacobites. A wis desperate tae join, prove meself. Ma father didnae allow it, thouch our clan wis in favour for it. A wis angry then, no’ bein’ allowit tae ficht, but A see now A wis a child. Wad've been cut doun easily.” John sighed, turning where he sat and looked out into the forest. “The MacTavish’s are no’ in favour o’ the Jacobites. Our chief an' heir are currently imprisoned, an’ they'll be executit if our clan try tae support thaim.”
Simon recalled some of that from his history search, nodding as he wondered, “How do you have so much fighting experience though?”
“Trainit.” John shrugged nonchalantly, “Foucht against some red coats here an’ thare an’ aw, whan they raidit villages or startit a ficht. A'm also part o’ the Black Watch.” And here, the man gestured to his dark coloured tartan. “Thouch we are sympathetic for the Jacobites, ma clan, we are allied wit the Campbells, an’ thae fuckers are no’ tae be messit wit'.”
The clan was familiar from his research, Simon humming in understanding. “Still prominent family, even in my time.” He added.
John snorted, “Not surprisit. A'm on a surveillance march, however...” John side eyed him with a hint of mischief, “A tak care o’ the red coats from time tae time. Doin’ ma part for ma people where A can.”
The corner of his lip twitched in amusement. A thought then occurred, leading to Simon to roll his head against the trunk towards John, “Why are you telling me all this?”
John shrugged again. “Ye savit ma life, an’ ye are no’ an enemy. No’ currently anyways. Besides,” The man met his gaze, something sly and knowing in his eyes. “A'm yer ghost, arenae A.”
Tongue growing heavy, Simon murmured, deflecting weakly, “That's a terrible joke.” But the other man was correct. He wouldn't let anything harm this John, because of Soap. Stomach churning, Simon decided to get some rest, not wanting to speak anymore. Luckily, John didn't bother him for the rest of the night.