Chapter Text
Among the many kinks that Simon Riley and John MacTavish indulge in, there was one that Simon never quite understood.
It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy it— no, it was quite the opposite.
He just couldn’t understand why he enjoyed it so much. Maturely, he’s able to deductively acknowledge where some of his kinks come from. It’s healing to do so.
But this kink in particular… It looms like a creature swallowed by the dark sea– ambiguous, horrifying. Deep and unresolved.
Yet every time he and Johnny are in the throes of each other’s heat, grasping and peeling away at the psychological grime –digging for something deeper–, what gets Ghost off faster than anything is when Soap asks Ghost to breed him.
With militant speed, the rubber is snapped off and Simon is galvanized by something he won’t dare think too much on.
It would be innocuous– just another kink that has Soap contently purring under him– but it wasn’t. Because the way Ghost’s heart stutters isn’t a benign event. The possessive beast that turns strangely warm when he sees himself seeping out of Johnny was different and dangerous.
So, he continues on. Wasted condoms and second-day pills as the armory to fight the unequivocal beast that Simon can’t quite face just yet.
-
Ghost shouldn’t be here.
The bronze lighting, eclectic curtains, the chemicals and sweetness used to mask the scent of death and injury– the suffocating warmth.
The civilian hospital is different in all ways Simon Riley thought he’d never see again. Worse, the joy and kinship whirring in the form of hushed cooing– that, is something Simon Riley was sure he’d never see again.
Johnny’s sister had given birth.
It was perfect timing until it wasn’t. The 141 had just wrapped up a mission, one that had the team sitting silently in the bar nursing their own drinks– not a celebration, but a communal coping. Sure, they’d left the field with their lives, but the feeling of breaking windpipes under calloused hands and too-close bullets left with them.
It affects Soap the most– they all know that.
After missions like this one, the young sergeant could never be alone. Always finding some excuse to hang around Gaz during training or the Captain as he does his paperwork. Simon’s selfish favorite is when Johnny comes to him though– curling against his couch as Simon aimlessly smokes or shyly crawling into his bed for warm safety.
Always, Soap needed someone who understands to ground him after missions like this. Ghost knows it’s because Johnny is the best of them– so trusting in himself and the people around him that the pain and carnage was something to battle, not ignore.
So when he got the news that his sister had given birth to her third daughter not two days after the mission, Ghost found a panicked John MacTavish at his door. Eyes bulging with unshed tears, feet pacing a hole into concrete, and cuticles picked beyond existence. Soap had cried while explaining to Ghost that he couldn’t go alone.
Gaz was on leave. Price was set for another mission. Ghost, as Ghost always is, was there.
“I– I cannae just– What if I have an episode, Si? What if someone blows some fucking fireworks outside and I just lose my heid? Fucking traumatizing the poor lass right out of the womb.”
The sergeant must’ve blabbered for at least fifteen minutes straight, but even then, Simon knew Soap would never ask him to go. Not because of his incompetence to ground him, but because Johnny knows of his past. Has learnt the boundaries that Ghost enforces through late, bourbon-fueled nights. Johnny understands how tender the scars around ‘family’ are to Simon.
Even if the decision between testing his mental resolve and meeting his new niece hangs on the line, Soap would never ask Ghost.
So, Ghost offered.
Now, here he is. In a hospital room far too warm and far too kind. The room is packed with what Simon believes is four generations of thick dark hair and bright blue eyes: The MacTavishes.
He’s met them before, a shy introduction by Soap as ‘just his lieutenant’ but –as close families can apparently do– they saw right through them. Today, his appearance was met by beautiful, beautiful indifference. He’s not the star of the show after all, no, today was for baby Reilly MacTavish– Simon scoffed with ironic amusement when he heard the name.
The MacTavish genes are strong.
Esmee– John’s elder sister holds her newborn child as her fair haired husband strokes her dark locks. Dark locks just like the ones crowning her new daughter, thick and wavy. Ghost wonders if Soap’s hair would too curl into soft waves if he grows it out.
Decidedly, the MacTavish family is a matriarchy.
The fiance, Soap’s father, and the two SAS soldiers were the only men in the room. Soap has three sisters, the eldest before them holding Soap’s fifth niece. Johnny, in his all so professional wording, had called the MacTavish family a “pussy farm” at some point which had Gaz choke on his MRE for 10 minutes straight.
Three daughters in– the MacTavish family had thought they’d given birth to another before Soap had realized he was their son instead.
That story still sits like a pit of hot lead in Simon’s chest. Johnny had told him of when he came out as trans to his family. Of how after the initial shock, his father stood up, patted his shoulder gently, and looked him in the eye.
”My first son.” He had said proudly, lovingly. Then they cried together.
Simon thinks about that story a lot. For a father to show such unconditional love– it seems unreal to him. The story would be a lie if Ghost had to use his own anecdotes to back it, but Johnny would never lie. And seeing how Johnny is tightly woven into the MacTavish family even now, Ghost knows it's not a lie.
Their love is a reality. Something tangible and veracious.
Something Simon never had.
It’s probably why John Mactavish is a good man.
Probably why Simon Riley isn’t.
For the most part, Simon lets himself meld into the corner of the room as the family beats like a functional heart before him. There’s two young children with a small polaroid camera causing mild chaos as they take pictures of the moment through their ingenuous eyes. Too much trouble and they’re gently wrangled by some Scottish nonsense back into order– their energy built up quickly again though, just like Soap’s. Restless.
The eldest MacTavish sat in a cornered chair, a great grandmother proudly watching her legacy continue. Never was she dismissed, never was she left out. With reverence, the volume of Scottish twang increased as they repeated conversations to her failing ears. They brought the child to her, let her dote on the baby all the same.
For the most part, Simon is fine.
He probably understood less than half of the words curling out of the family’s mouth, but he didn’t mind.
He’s fine. That is until they start passing the baby around.
Indiscriminately, so fast that he couldn’t even reject it, the bundle of dark hair and squinted blue eyes falls into his arms.
Fuck.
“Johnny,” Ghost breathes, eyes wide and searching for his safe space as something far too delicate and far too precious was placed into his arms.
“Oh fucking hell Si–” Soap laughs. Makes his way over to his terrified lover.
“Language, John!” Someone upbraids.
Johnny steps towards him, eyes warm and twinkling– Simon has no idea what Soap is looking so fondly towards cause he’s sure he’s holding the bundled baby like a live, military-grade explosive.
“Take it, Johnny,” Ghost hisses, using his ‘lieutenant voice’ in a hushed tone– as to not disturb the baby of course.
“Can’t believe you let him call you Johnny,” Soap’s mom teases, there’s a lilt in her voice that makes Soap’s face pink, but Ghost can’t dwell on that too much right now.
Instead, he feels Soap’s hands settle on his stiff shoulders, sliding down and caressing his elbows that are at sharp orthogonal angles to support the baby in his arms.
“Relax, Si,” Soap chuckles, running his hands up and down Simon’s arms– it helps a bit. “S’Just a bairn.” Johnny smiles up at him, giving him a look that only speaks of trust. A trust that he won’t hurt the precious Reilly MacTavish.
Simon lets his shoulders drop a little, takes a breath he’d been unconsciously holding.
“There ye go,” Johnny hums, still gently rubbing circles into Ghost’s tense biceps. The baby makes a sound, Simon’s reaction is immediately soothed by cooing from John– he’s not sure if it’s to calm the baby or him. Either way it works. “Tha’s right. Big scary L.T. is a nice soft pillow, huh?”
“Personal experience, eh?” Esmee MacTavish whistles from the bed.
John glares at her, but quickly turns back to his baby-ridden lieutenant.
“She likes you, Simon,” he says, smiling softly at Simon in a way that makes him glow despite the drab hospital lighting. Johnny gets closer, keeping gentle pressure on Simon’s arms, pulling all three of them into a sort of embrace. “Och jus’ look at ‘er.”
Simon does.
He looks down at the small being in his hold, his forearm is nearly the size of her whole body. Idly, she squirms, nuzzling into the warmth of his chest. He doesn’t expect something to hitch in his throat right then– but it does.
She looks like a MacTavish through and through. She looks like Soap.
Dark hair, thick and powerful despite her age, frame her small head. Her nose, pronounced yet placed in a way Ghost can only describe as “cutely” on her face– is just like Soap’s. Crooked brows. Elfish ears.
Simon looks up at Johnny to see the same features matured on the man he loves.
His heart nearly stops. He cradles her closer.
-click-
“Oi! Maise I told ye’ to turn the flash off! Wha’ do ye wan’a blind lil’ sister?!”
Simon blinks, stunned out of his lovesick trance as the family admonishes the other children– they’re apologizing.
“‘ere I’ll take ye out of yer misery,” Soap says, gently pulling the baby out of Simon’s arms– it’s perplexing how he almost refused to let her go.
But alas, he’s rewarded with something much more beautiful.
John MacTavish shelters the baby in his arms naturally, perfectly cradling her body against his chest as if he were made to do so– as if he weren’t a professional building flattener. No, at the moment, this is the side of John MacTavish that Ghost begrudgingly fell in love with: A Scottish man who loves his family, who is afraid of dogs (though he’d never truly admit it). Just a man who sings though he knows he’s offkey, and a man who is currently rocking a baby in his arms as if she’s his own.
Gentle, nurturing, and perfectly Johnny.
Same dark hair, same bright eyes, same perfect fucking nose– something dangerous finds it’s way into Ghost’s viens.
Whether it's possessiveness or protectiveness, he’s not sure– but if any harm were to come through that dingy curtain, he’d give his life to ensure nothing will ever touch the scene before him.
“Uncle Ghost?” A small voice and a gentle tug on his pant leg interrupts him.
He looks down, finds a gaggle of bright young eyes staring up at him. Then he notices the whispers, Johnny’s other sisters goading the shy child with flutters of their hands as they woefully attempt nonchalance. When did he become the center of attention– he’s not sure.
The girl peers back at her aunties, then is nudged by her sister before she looks back at Ghost.
“You can have this,” she shyly giggles, pressing something small into his hand before she scitters away– her siblings and cousins prance and snicker after her.
Children are perplexing, Simon thinks. He blinks dumbly at the mischievous MacTavishes, glances back to see Johnny returning the child to her father, then opens his palm to find a polaroid.
Freshly printed, framed by white, the image is something that Simon’s brain struggles to comprehend.
It’s a picture of him– rare by this day.
In his arms is a bundle, Reilly, her dark hair stark against the soft white blanket. Even more devastating, Soap is in the picture too. The sergeant’s hands gently supported Ghost’s arms, the touch tender even through processed photo. Johnny’s eyes are soft on Reilly, gentle crows feet proudly crinkling at the edges.
But Simon’s eyes are softer.
So soft he barely recognizes himself– He was gazing down at Soap.
Him, Johnny, and a newborn baby.
They look like a family.
