Chapter Text
Now
The knock on the door stirs up a fluttering, sinking feeling in his stomach that he hasn’t been able to shake since he hung up the phone. It’s soft but decisive, the triplet of tones echoing through the quiet house. There’s a certainty to the sound that clashes against his own hesitance.
He wouldn’t call it dread but he certainly wouldn’t call it excitement as he struggles to name the emotions that are currently competing for dominance in his mind and in his heart, threatening to burst out of him at the seams.
John has been an absolute wreck since yesterday evening’s phone call, practically counting down the hours until this moment. He’s already gone for a run twice, cleaned the entire house top to bottom, trimmed the garden, and yet his hands continue to fidget with nervous energy, practically itching for a distraction. He tried to get a bit of drawing in, but his mind kept drifting towards his muse, towards his own magnetic north, towards the man who stands at the other side of the door.
If nothing else he hopes this visit might put him out of the misery he’s been wallowing in for the past couple months, might give him some kind of closure.
John knows the outcome he’s looking for, the one he dreams about, the one he craves. He can practically feel it in his bones, how deeply he wants. But he also knows that this might be his ruin, the kind that’ll sit with him for the rest of his life, more permanent than ink. He’s made a career out of looking fear dead in the eyes and coming out laughing, and despite it all he feels as if nothing could’ve prepared him for this moment.
Before his mind can come to a decision his feet are carrying his body over towards the door, his hand reaching out to undo the deadbolt. He takes one last breath—as if this might finally be the one to steady himself—before turning the doorknob and letting the door glide open on well-oiled hinges.
He is greeted by the smell of damp, earthy air, seasonably cool, the soft rumble of thunder in the distance a warning of what’s to come. His eyes come into focus on the tall, broad figure standing before him and the sight alone makes his chest ache with unease, ache with the lovesickness that threatens to infect whatever might be left of his violent, poisoned heart.
And yet the noise in the back of his mind dims, something in his strung out nerves feels soothed, knowing he’s within arms’ reach of this one specific person.
Before him, brown eyes warm the cold dreariness of the day, soft and searching as they take in a new environment. The hard lines of strong shoulders carry a subtle tension, but the stance is casual, unguarded. Ashy blond hair and pale scars mark an unmasked visage that he seldom sees outside of the sweetest heights of his dreams and the most horrific depths of his nightmares, haunting him like his namesake.
Everything John has ever wanted is standing right here in front of him, and it takes him a moment to remember how to breathe.
“Can I come in?” A deep, raspy Manchester accent finally breaks the silence.
It’s a loaded question, as far as John is concerned. He trusts Simon Riley—in all his forms—without qualm or hesitation, readily places his life in these strong and capable hands. But this is another matter entirely, and he’s just not sure whether he’s ready to take that plunge just yet, if he will ever be ready.
John has a feeling that whatever comes next is going to be uncomfortable at best and, at worst, deeply unpleasant. Either way, he knows that whatever professional relationship he’s built with Simon will probably be irreversibly changed after today.
But John agreed to this conversation, and he has every intention of honoring that, although the sad reality is that he probably never could turn Simon away, not after all they’ve been through together.
John simply steps back and gestures the man inside, reaching out to take a soft, well-worn leather jacket and hang it up on the coat rack while his new companion unties his boots. It takes every ounce of self-preservation not to bury his face in the material and inhale deeply, taking in the subtle scent of musk and leather, but also gun oil and moss and just a hint of citrus, as unique as a fingerprint.
He needs a distraction.
“How ‘bout a wee brew?”
John’s offer is accepted with a nod, and that’s all he needs to immediately head into the kitchen, Simon following closely behind. He can practically see the question forming in Simon’s eyes, but John’s taken enough lessons from his gran on how to be a semi-decent host.
“Have a seat, Si,” John gestures towards the small kitchen table, hardly with enough room for two men of their size.
Simon takes a seat and takes in the comfortable, lived in house around him. He watches as John put on the kettle, retrieving two mismatched mugs out of one of the upper cupboards. He looks out the window to his right, takes stock of the small but neatly kept garden out back, tall fencing offering privacy from the neighbors. He watches as the first few raindrops meet glass, leaving damp trails.
The drive up from Manchester was equal parts agonizingly slow yet over far too quickly. Mile after mile spent ruminating about what to do, what to say, about whether he’d made the right choice. He trusts John, probably to a concerning degree when he lets himself think about it for more than three seconds, but this is uncharted territory.
Simon wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find as he drove past the rows of semi-detached houses, modest but well kept. He looks around at the walls, the furniture, steals a peek at what must be the living room through the open doorway, and he’d almost describe it as cozy. Not the most decoratively furnished, but a far cry from the cold, sparse, impersonal flat that Simon kept around despite seldom returning to it while on leave.
The soft tapping of rain and the simmering of water keep him grounded in the present, both comforting, familiar sounds; he can’t help but notice how strangely at peace he feels here, whispers of home coming from that traitorous voice somewhere deep in his consciousness.
He’d be lying if he said he was surprised by it. John had long been filed under ‘safe’ in the indexes of Simon’s mind and watching him move through such a routine task as making a cup of tea has him feeling not quite calm—on account of the circumstances—but still somewhat at ease.
Simon can tell John is also tense, having memorized, having studied each one of his movements like it was the most important field manual he’d ever read. John is good at putting up a good front, better than most people give him credit for in Simon’s opinion, a master at appearing open and relaxed while remaining closed off to the rest of the world. And he’s doing it now, betrayed by only the slightest hint of rigidity in his movements, lacking that comfortable fluidity that Simon has come to know too well.
He can’t decide whether that’s a good sign or a very, very bad one, but decides to take the fact that he’s currently sitting in John’s kitchen while the man makes him a cuppa as a net positive. In any case, Simon trusts John to be mature enough for the conversation he’s been rehearsing since he put down the phone yesterday evening.
For a long time, Simon thought that this would be a conversation he’d never have to have. He’d convinced himself that men like him aren’t meant to have beautiful things, this being no exception. Even once he was confronted with the physical proof, he’d only recognized it as a possibility in a statistical sense, in a sort of abstract frame of mind.
But sitting here, in John’s kitchen, as a warm mug is placed with care on the table in front of him, Simon feels his future suddenly coming into focus, more vivid than it’s ever been.
He takes a deep breath, inhaling a little bit of the steam, the smell of it sweet and slightly herbal. John takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, brows furrowed slightly. He looks as if he’s thinking about saying something, like the words are sitting just on the tip of his tongue.
But John remains silent, taking a slow, tentative sip from his mug. Simon does the same, and he can’t decide if the fact that it’s perfect—exactly the way he takes it—is comforting or just unsettling. In some ways he thinks it’d be easier if he and John hadn’t been on the same wavelength practically since they met.
Simon sets his mug down, glancing out the window and looking back over to John before deciding to break the heavy silence.
“When are we going to talk about the whole soulmate thing?”