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hisaacswrites · 1 year ago

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Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Chapter 4

Summary:

When Simon first interviewed for The Great British Baking Show, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. He certainly didn’t expect to win. Despite the chaos it brought to his life, he couldn’t really complain. It landed him the best job he could ask for and a close circle of friends who actually seemed to enjoy his company. It also led him to his biggest fan, one John MacTavish, who’s determined to win him over one baked good at a time. — Or, The baking AU that no one asked for

← Chapter 3 】 ⦿ Chapter 4 ⦿ 【 Chapter 5 →

☆ Read on AO3

【 Chapter Specific Warnings: - 【 Notes: Apologies for the delay, but Bake Room in Your Heart for Me is now entirely outlined! You'll see that the chapter count has been upped to 13 for that perfect baker's dozen. Unbeta'd, as always, so forgive anything that slipped through the cracks! Now that I have this entire work outlined, I'm hoping updates should be a bit more frequent. We'll see if time cooperates.

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Masterlist ⦿ CoD Library ⦿ Hayden Isaacs Library

🍰 Chapter 4

The kitchen was quiet as Simon finishes with the last of the pans, only the metallic clink of them hitting the sides of the sink and the white noise of running water filling the space. It was miserably rainy and windy outside, so much so that not even the promised warmth of good drinks and pastries could tempt customers into the cafe. That meant it had been quiet and slow all day, though Simon had refused to vocalize that out loud lest he jinx it, so he had let Alejandro and Rudy leave a bit early to get a head start on their weekend.

The extra work was minimal, and, honestly, Simon didn't really mind. Sometimes it was nice to be alone in his element. No need to carry on idle conversation, direct anyone, or even think, just falling back into a blissfully empty mind and muscle memory led by the rhythm of softly rumbling thunder.

Setting the final pan into the drying rack, Simon assessed the kitchen, satisfied to see it sparkling clean and ready for a fresh start the next morning. Wiping his hands on the towel tucked in his apron, he mentally consulted his to-do list. Cafe 141 was meant to be open for a few more hours, but all that was left for him to do was tidy up the front display cases and restock the shelves with the last of their goods for the day. Once that was done, Simon figured he could relax for the rest of his shift, start planning for next week's baked goods, and maybe even start thinking about some new seasonal recipes to experiment with.

First thing first though: cleaning and restocking. Approaching the kitchen's door to the cafe, Simon looked through the window to gauge what state of disarray the shelves were in and how much product he would need to restock them. The cafe looked like a ghost town, the warm lighting appearing especially moody against the dark skies outside. The display case didn't look too chaotic, thankfully, and the shelves were still relatively full. It looked like they would have extra pastries left over at the end of the day... Simon mentally added stopping by the shelter to donate the excess to his to-do list.

As his eyes swept over the end of the counter, Simon realized the cafe wasn't entirely empty. Gaz was leaning against the countertop, wiping it down with a rag as he spoke to a familiar mohawked man.

Soap.

Without thinking about it, Simon ducked his head down from the small window, hoping that he hadn't been seen. His heart started racing and he stood there, tall frame awkwardly crouched behind the door, for a few moments to settle his sudden nerves. Rising slowly, Simon peeked back through the window.

Gaz and Soap were still chatting as Gaz cleaned up, the Scottish man gesticulating wildly all the while. Gaz was reluctantly smiling at something his friend said and Soap grinned in victory, radiating smugness even in a separate room. Simon felt the tips of his ears warm as Soap's teeth gleamed in the low light, contrasting against his tan skin impishly. It was cute, Simon noted, the playful mischievousness in his grin, the pleased crescents his eyes formed, the way well-worn laugh lines creased the corners of his mouth—

Simon moved away from the door, willing the flush away from his cheeks. He didn't know how to act around Soap, feeling completely adrift in an unknown sea. The other man was kind, if a bit awkward (though who was Simon to judge others on their level of awkwardness? He was awkward personified). He was also sweet and attractive in a way that Simon couldn't describe. Just the thought of being around Soap again made him nervous, which was ridiculous considering the situations he had faced down in his military service.

Fighting the urge to peek through the window one more time, Simon turned to gather up his supplies. It would be no big deal, he tried to convince himself. Gaz would be talking to Soap, keeping him distracted while Simon quietly cleaned the cases and refilled them. They wouldn't even notice he was there and he'd be back in the kitchen before they knew it.

Cleaning rags tucked into his apron pocket and carefully holding a small tray of pastries in his hands, Simon took a deep breath before gently shouldering the kitchen door open.

Gaz heard the door open from behind him but paid little mind to it, continuing to tell Soap about a particularly obnoxious Ken of a customer that had stopped by a few days ago. He was scrubbing at a stubborn coffee stain on the counter as he spoke, only pausing to look up when Soap didn't respond for an oddly lengthy amount of time. He was looking over Gaz's shoulder, but his blue eyes didn't have the telltale glaze to them that signaled when the Scot had zoned out.

Gaz didn't even try to recapture his attention, instead looking over his shoulder at the object of his single-minded focus. He couldn't help snorting or the amused quirk of his lips. It was Ghost. Of course it was. Cafe 141's hulking head baker was wiping at the interior of one of the display cases with a damp rag, seemingly oblivious to his spectators. From the subtle tensing of Ghost's grip and the way that he angled his body, however, Gaz knew that Ghost was aware he was being watched. And was that a blush peeking over the top edge of his medical mask? Oh, how perfect...

Smile widening into a teasing smirk, Gaz turned back to Soap. His best friend was obvious in his little crush on Ghost and it looked like the attraction was reciprocated. Never let it be said that Gaz wasn't the best wingman.

Gaz snapped his fingers in front of Soap's face, reveling in the embarrassed way his focus jolted back over. He didn't even wait for Soap to try and defend himself, grinning at Soap with way too many teeth as he said, "Seems like you've found something a bit more interesting, mate."

Red burst across Soap's cheeks and he spluttered out an excuse, but Gaz just shook his head and laughed. "I'll head to the back and give you some alone time, 'lright? Make sure you turn on the rizz before you talk to him."

"Gaz." Soap whisper-hissed in panic, lunging for the barista's wrist before he could walk away, "No, dinnae! What dae I even say to him? He must think I'm a feckin' moron."

Gaz was ready for another round of teasing, but a look at Soap's face had him sobering up. Usually charismatic and suave, Soap looked worried and at a complete loss. "Hey," Gaz said softly, catching the Scot's wide-eyed gaze. "It's just Ghost, alright? Take a deep breath and be yourself. Just talk to him. You got this."

Soap could only nod, his grip on Gaz's wrist loosening until the other man turned to walk away. "I'm heading to the back to make sure we've got the coffee and tea for next week," He called over his shoulder to Soap, loud enough for Ghost to hear while not being obvious about it. "Keep yourself occupied and don't burn the place down."

And with that, Gaz headed to the stock room disappearing through the hallway door, leaving Soap alone.

With Simon.

Soap sucked in a breath, trying to be quiet as he attempted to calm his racing pulse. Sat at a barstool at the counter as he was, he could see Simon methodically cleaning the display shelves out of his peripherals. As the other man swept up spilled frosting and jam from the glass, Soap couldn't help but admire his form.

Simon was tall and broad, imposingly so, but not in an intimidating way. No, in the privacy of his own mind, Soap could admit that Simon's size gave him a feeling of... safety. Of someone solid to lean on, of an all-consuming embrace, of comforting strength to weather any storm. It was honestly one of the first things he had noticed about the man over a year ago when he first saw him on the Great British Baking Show. A massive mountain of a man that had the most gentle, reverent touch for baked goods. Soap had become obsessed, watching and rewatching Simon's season just to see the man in his element. And now, seeing him in person? Well, the telly screen didn't hold a candle to him.

Chestnut brown hair with an endearing wave to it that never seemed to lie flat. Rich, dark brown eyes that looked almost black at first glance, but gleamed like gold in the light. Thick forearms with a fine coating of hair on them, strong and able. Wide, long-fingered hands that moved with a precise deftness that had Soap's mouth dry. And his lips— Simon's mouth was covered by a mask more often than not, but the glimpses that Soap had sneaked? Slightly chapped lips, the skin constantly worried by anxious teeth, that were surprisingly plush looking and far too tempting.

In Soap's professional artistic (and not at all biased) opinion, Simon was gorgeous. But Soap knew that he was more than just a pretty face. While speaking on the show, Simon had come off as quite reserved, but Soap had seen glimpses of a thoughtful and caring man underneath the prickly shell. And now, getting to see him in a more natural setting, Soap coveted all the moments he found Simon in with his walls lowered. How he wanted to see more, learn more. To be invited to look behind the broody wall and know the carefully guarded man within.

But in order to do that, Soap would actually have to talk to him.

Just the thought had him veering towards an internal crisis. It seemed like every time Simon was in his vicinity, Soap lost the ability to act like a functioning person, much to his embarrassment. Despite Gaz's words, Soap couldn't help but start mentally planning their conversation. He couldn't afford to put his foot in his mouth again — his self esteem would never survive it. After a few moments of mustering his courage, disguised as strategizing, Soap slid from his barstool and walked over to Simon.

Simon continued to clean the display case, oblivious to Soap's inner turmoil. He had felt the Scot's eyes on him, increasingly so when Gaz had gone to the back, but he had a job to do (and he was never the best at small talk), so he continued to wipe the last of the crumbs with a damp cloth. While it may have looked like he was entirely focused on his task, his military training had him tracking Soap's movements as he walked over, so it didn't startle him when Soap suddenly spoke up.

"Good tae see you again, Simon," He drawled with a grin, leaning against the display in a charming manner.

"Afternoon," Simon greeted quietly, straightening up from where he had crouched to reach inside the case. Despite Soap's loose postured, he carried an air of nervousness about him. Surely Simon wasn't actually that intimidating?

"I wanted tae apologize for being awkward as all hell. I dinnae ken what's been wrong with me but I swear tha' I am a functioning person and not some—", Soap gesticulated widely as he fumbled for the words, "Some primitive pod person who dinnae ken how to behave themselves. I ahm civilized."

His eyes had been jumping around, nervously avoiding Simon while he spoke, and it was only once his apology trailed off that he had the courage to look back at the quiet man. Simon wasn't even looking at him, instead, his gaze was focused downwards. Soap internally preened for a moment, thinking that he was checking him out, only to realize that Simon was looking at his hands.

Which, odd, but everyone had their favorite features he supposed, except—

Except Simon was looking at his hands where he was leaning against the display case.

The glass display case.

The glass display case that Simon had just cleaned.

Soap jumped back as if burnt, hurrying to apologize once more. "Feckin' hell, I'm so sorry! I ken ye just cleaned tha', 'n Ah wasnae even thinking, lemme just-" He pulled at the sleeve of his jumper, wiping frantically at the handprints he had left on the glass, ever mindful of Simon's stare as he only made the oily smears worse.

"Shite, I can clean tha' if ye have a spare rag? Or I can just..." Simon was still quiet, his dark eyes flitting back between the handprints and Soap's face. Soap deflated, considering that perhaps it would be best for him to retreat, even if it was with his hypothetical tail between his legs. "I'll just... head back over there 'n wait fer Gaz. Get outta yer hair 'n stop making more work for ye."

Heart in his stomach, Soap turned to leave.

"Two-" There was a clearing of a throat, "Two cakes are on a shelf,"

Soap's brow furrowed, and he turned back to Simon, barely noticing that the man waas nervously fiddling with a corner of his apron with thick fingers. "Go on,"

"One cake leaves, and the other says to himself, 'Just a bunch of desserters these days.'"

An awkward silence dropped between the two, Soap staring incredulously at Simon while Simon looked anywhere but at Soap. When the silence stretched almost too long, Simon looked at Soap out of the corner of his eye.

"'S a little bit of baking humour," Simon rasped quietly, the barest hint of pink peeking above his medical mask.

Soap finally barked out a laugh, breaking the tension with his customary grin. "Aye," He agreed as he stepped back towards Simon and the display case, seizing the offered olive branch with both hands. "Very little,"

With the ice broken, the conversation seemed to unfold easily, naturally, akin to dough finally given the breathing room to rise. It was nothing deep, nothing substantial, but it was perfect in allowing the two men to get comfortable with each other.

Soap was a chatterbox, always had been, and Simon seemed quiet and reserved. Soap was worried that he was potentially overwhelming him, or that his tangential rambles were a bit too much, but Simon actually seemed to be listening to him, offering grunts and short responses occasionally. It may have been nothing to some people, but to Soap it meant quite a lot. He had a history of being "too much" for people, of being too loud, too "hyper", too eclectic in his conversation topics. So for Simon to be actively listening and engaging him? It made Soap's chest warm.

So, it was really no surprise for him to sheepishly divulge a secret he'd been keeping close to his chest around Simon. "I, uh... Actually watched ye on The Great British Baking Show." He ran a nervous hand through his mohawk, tugging at the long strands. "Yer season is my favorite; watched it so many times that I think I can tell all yer jokes by heart,"

Simon nearly dropped the tart he had been restocking the display case with. Multiple people had told him they found him endearing in the show, but he still struggled with seeing himself as anything other than awkward and standoffish. Habit makes him want to read into Soap's admission, but the other man came off disarmingly sincere. Still, Simon couldn't help but downplay and deflect.

"Well, I had plenty of material to work with with some of those bakes. 'Nd they had to keep someone around for comedic relief."

Soap snorted, seeing right through the deflection. "Aye, right, ye won the season based on your dad jokes alone." He quipped, revelling in the blush that peeked over Simon's mask and his scowling eyebrows. "Cannae say yer jokes weren't some of my favorite parts, but yer bakes... Ye made some amazing stuff and it's no wonder ye won. I dinnae ken if there was one thing ye made that didn't look absolutely delicious."

Soap was delighted to see the flush erupt higher onto Simon's cheeks and onto his ears. The quiet man was determinately avoiding Soap's gaze, grumbling something under his breath as he finished restocking the display case.

"Thanks," He grunted, setting down his empty tray before glancing up at Soap through golden brown lashes. Usually he'd leave it at that, but something about the lively Scot just made him want to... try.

"You're probably the expert by now," Simon continued, focusing on cleaning the crumbs and frosting from his hands with his rag, "With how often you've been stopping by the cafe and such."

"Not exactly," Soap countered quickly, "Dinnae get me wrong, I've tried everything ye've had on the menu at least once, but there was one thing that ye made on the show that I haven't been in for that I've been dyin' tae try."

Soap's eyes took on a bright gleam as if imagining this mysterious pastry, and Simon couldn't help but snort under his breath. He was absolutely ridiculous. Simon tried not to find it endearing.

"Well, what was it?"

"Er, good question. Uh, it was lemony and had a weird name, mile faux or somethin'-"

"Mille feuille," Simon corrected seamlessly, remembering the stacked puff pastry dessert. Of all his bakes during the show, he had actually been quite pleased with that one and the handshake it had earned him.

"That's the one!" Soap's voice rose with excitement. "It looked pure magic, I'm telling ye. I love lemons 'n' with that blueberry sauce ye made? Jesus wept, I've been aching for a taste since I saw it."

Simon's mind raced, thinking over the recipe and its difficulty. "I actually haven't made it for the cafe yet," he said slowly, "But maybe it'll show up on the menu soon."

He hadn't actually meant to say that last bit, the words escaping his lips before he could even think about them, but Simon couldn't regret them when he saw Soap perk up as if his birthday had come early.

"Really? If ye make them, Simon, I swear tae ye that I'll buy out the entire tray just for myself. I'll come in first thing and buy every batch throughout the day, amnae even joking."

Simon laughed, his first unhindered one in a long while, fully believing Soap's words. He had already made it this far without things catching fire in his face and Soap seemed receptive to his... "charms", so what harm would a little more harmless flirting be near the end of his shift?

"I make no promises, Soap. You'll just have to come back to see me to find out if I do."

Soap grinned at him, smaller and softer than his previous ones. "Aye," He agreed. There was a lull then, a peaceful sort of quiet between the two as Soap watched Simon gather up his things to bring back to the kitchen.

"John."

Simon blinked at the non sequitur, brows furrowing in confusion.

"My name," Soap rushed to say, "Soap is my nickname, had it forever an' everyone calls me that, but John- My name is John."

Simon smiled, knowing that Soa- John wouldn't be able to see it behind his mask but unable to help himself.

"If those mille feuille do make an appearance sometime next week, I suppose they'll have your name all over them, Johnny."

#soapghost #ghostsoap #fanfic #writing #fanfiction #cod fanfic #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod #call of duty #baking au #simon riley #john mactavish #ghost #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #bake room in your heart for me #baking puns #john soap mactavish

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hisaacswrites · 1 year ago

Text

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Chapter 5

Summary:

← Chapter 4 】 ⦿ Chapter 5 ⦿ 【 Chapter 6 →

☆ Read on AO3

【 Chapter Specific Warnings: The R slur is used in a purposefully offensive way to describe Simon. There is also vague description of disassociation and a panic attack, though not in any heavy detail. 【 Notes: Split this one in two, please don't kill me. :' ) Thank you all for your kudos and comments; I didn't expect my return to writing to be this well received and it really means a lot to me.

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Masterlist ⦿ CoD Library ⦿ Hayden Isaacs Library

🍰 Chapter 5

Cafe 141 was in pure chaos, and considering that most of the staff had survived active war zones, that was saying quite a lot.

While Rudy and Alejandro had enjoyed the long weekend Simon had given them, both had gotten a nasty case of food poisoning that had them incapacitated. It was a shame because they had been celebrating their anniversary, but the remaining staff of the cafe found it hard to sympathize as they struggled to handle the current rush. With Rudy and Alejandro taking the day off to recover on such short notice, only Gaz, Price, and Simon had been available to keep the Cafe up and running.

It was hectic, but the trio had dealt with worse situations. While they had never all served together in the same unit at one time, they had grown familiar enough with one another outside of their military careers to work like a well-oiled machine.

Gaz, charismatic but efficient, manned the register. His cap secured to his head in "focus" mode, he smoothly went from taking orders, to bagging up pastries, to making strategic recommendations (he did not, in fact, order enough coffee the week before. It's not his fault he got distracted by watching Soap and Ghost's flirting through the kitchen window), all with a friendly smile.

Price, the resident beverage expert, made the orders. It was a miracle that his bucket hat didn't fly off of his head with the way he rushed between the machines and juggled multiple mugs, glasses, and containers. And if he turned on his old-fashioned charm to soothe any ruffled feathers when calling out the completed orders and handing them off to customers? Well, that was just good customer service.

That left Simon to bounce between the two, filling the gaps and rushing back to the kitchen when he could. While he refused to man the second register, he helped Gaz retrieve and deliver pastries and worked on the tea orders when Price was catching up on the coffee ones. In the moments he managed to sneak away during the not-so-frequent lulls, he made whatever quick and easy things he could in the kitchen to replenish their display cases as the baked goods continued to fly off of the shelves.

The slammed staff of Cafe 141 hadn't had a free moment to breathe, let alone check the clock, and Simon knew that he wasn't the only one who had to be feeling the exhaustion pile up.

All of that slipped out of his mind when Johnny pushed through the door. The Scot looked surprised by just how busy the cafe was, but he still shouted a cheerful greeting to Gaz, Price, and Simon himself before squeezing his way to the back of the line. Hidden behind the safety of his medical mask, Simon smiled, pleased to see him.

His eyes drifted over to their display case as he hurried to fill the next order.

Simon wasn't sure if it was just luck or if Gaz had given his Scottish best friend a head's up, but he actually had made the mille feuille Johnny had requested. It was definitely lucky that he had gotten up early to make them — there was no way he would have been able to during the day with the constant stream of customers. Easily the most complicated pastry in the case, the delicate layers of flaky puff pastry separated soft pillows of whipped ricotta and rich lemon cream. An elegant drizzle of blueberry sauce curled across the top and if it resembled a cursive "J" at first glance? Well, that was just coincidence.

Johnny's name on them, indeed.

The mille feuille were quite popular, but Simon had made an extra small batch hidden in the kitchen just in case. He handed off the current customer's cup of tea before immediately starting on the next while trying not to worry about whether Johnny would like them.

With he, Gaz, and Price moving at full throttle, the line was steadily moving and Johnny became close enough to take a look into the case. His blue eyes moved quickly over the different options before he did a double take, eyes widening and a huge grin lifting his cheeks when he spotted the mille feuille. Simon almost let out a breath of relief, smiling behind his own mask at Johnny's apparent happiness.

Still smiling to himself, he crouched down and grabbed a small wax sheet to reach into the case with for the current order. Simon was, admittedly, zoning out a bit, so when a harsh slapping sound rattled the glass of the display, he jerked to attention. The sudden movement had him bashing his elbow into the case's door, but before he could even register the pain radiating up his bad arm, he was being scolded by a fuming woman.

Leaning up against the glass, the short woman held a mug of coffee in one hand and was clearly seething. "Finally," She snarled as Simon rose from his bent position, "I've been trying to get your fucking attention for ten minutes now! What, you folks too good to actually talk to the rest of us?"

Simon was completely at a loss, having no idea what the woman's problem was. The sudden whiplash from being hopeful about Johnny's opinion to being screamed at had him off kilter and he struggled to figure out how to respond. This wasn't the kind of yelling one heard in the midst of battle or during training, this was different, was viciously personal in a way that reminded Simon of his childhood. His shoulders curled inward involuntarily as he fell back into years-old placating habits.

"I-" Simon had to clear his throat, his mouth suddenly dry and pulse thumping in his ears, "I a-apologize, ma'am, I was — I was just getting another customer's order and didn't hear-"

The woman's pink painted lips curled into a sneer, her nose wrinkling in disgust as she glared at Simon. The other customers around her shifted uncomfortably, moving away from her as she gestured wildly with her free hand. "No wonder my order is wrong if they have some stuttering idiot working behind the counter," She spat, "I said I wanted toffee nut syrup in my drink, not whatever bullshit this is! What are you? Some kind of fucking retard that doesn't understand simple instructions?"

Simon froze, his entire body stiffening up as if someone had doused him in ice water. The woman continued to yell obscenities, but he couldn't hear them over the high pitched ringing sound in his ears. He could vaguely see both Price and Gaz moving his way from the dark edges of his vision, but he struggled to fully register what was going on and tried his best to diffuse the situation.

"I'm sorry," he said, moving closer to the counter to reach for the woman's mug, "I didn't make your order, but if you tell me what it was, I can have it remade for you."

"Haven't you been fucking listening?" The woman screamed, her cheeks a vivid red as a vein pulsed on her forehead. "If this is how you do things over here, I don't want your disgusting coffee! Take this shit back and give me a goddamn refund!"

Simon barely registered what happened next, only feeling a burning pain splash across his chest and extended arm. And in that moment, he completely shut down.

Price reached Simon a moment too late and frantically wiped at the burning hot coffee that the woman had thrown at him with his own apron. The older man reached for Simon's shoulders, urging the unresponsive man to look at him, but his eyes were dazed and unseeing, trapped in his own mind.

Gaz was talking sternly to the woman, his rich voice dripping with venom, and the rest of the cafe was in chaos as other customers tore into her for her behavior. They were nothing compared to Soap, who shouldered past an older teenager who had pulled his phone out at the first sign of conflict and was silently filming the whole thing. The Scottish man was quaking in rage and stormed right up into the woman's face. His accent made his words nearly indecipherable, but the meaning behind them was quite clear.

"Whit th' actual feckin' hell is yer kinch? Ye think ye kin juist come ower 'ere 'n' treat fowk lik' garbage? This isnae th' states, ye godless cunt!"

Unwilling to back down, even cornered as she was, the woman screeched right back at Soap, jabbing a pointed nail into his chest with every word. To emphasize her point, she threw her empty mug with a huff, stomping her foot in a full-blown tantrum. The mug clipped Price on the shoulder while he was still turned around to try and help Simon, causing the glass to bounce up and smash into Simon's face with a solid thunk. The large man flinched, snapping out of whatever flashback had been holding him hostage, cringing even further when the mug hit the ground with a resounding shatter.

Cafe 141 was suddenly quiet.

Price turned to Gaz, his expression cold but furious. "Call the police."

The barista immediately pulled out his cell phone, quickly and succinctly relaying information to the dispatcher. Behind him, the enraged woman was shoving at the other patrons, storming towards the door. It seemed that with the threat of the authorities looming over her, the woman had decided to finally leave. Unfortunately for her, the faithful customers of the cafe were less than accommodating, outright blocking her path and helping corral her to the far corner of the room.

Things were fuzzy for Simon after that. He registered that things were happening around him, but they were muted and distant as if he was watching them through someone else's eyes.

Gaz had greeted the police at the door, relaying all of the information he had given the dispatcher and directing them towards the still shouting woman in the corner. Her attention was focused on Soap, who was going toe to toe with her, but her eyes quickly widened when she spotted the two policemen stalking her way.

Price stuck by Simon, doing his best to keep the larger man present while doing what he could to tend to his injuries. Gaz was soon by their side, fawning like a mother hen over Simon's busted cheekbone and cut nose as he stared blankly on.

Simon was familiar enough with the feeling of disassociating, but he couldn't seem to break himself out of it. Soon there were more police in the cafe, a pair dragging the still protesting woman out in handcuffs while another took his statement. When the policeman turned his attention to Price to question him as the owner of the cafe, Simon's attention drifted.

Cafe 141 was in chaos. While a bunch of customers had left, the ones that stayed were enthralled with the spectacle, either talking amongst each other or filming what was going on. They were loud, but not loud enough to drown out the abuse that the vile woman was still screaming about him even as she was forced into the back of a cop's car. Price was visibly frustratd, his bucket hat askew and mustache turned down severly as he spoke to the officer in a low, stern voice. Gaz was running around, doing his best to gain some sort of order in the cafe, while sending worried glances Simon's way. He couldn't see Johnny, didn't know if he had left already or if he was outside talking to another officer or if he was just lost in the crowd. Porcelain shards were strewn across the floor. Sticky coffee dripped sluggishly from the counter. Simon watched as a drop broke from the rest, falling in slow motion to splash into the puddle on the floor.

Everything seemed to snap back into focus at once and he suddenly felt clammy and cold, his breath getting caught in his throat. He needed to get out. It was too much.

Simon bolted, disappearing through the hallway door and rushing into the bathroom. He threw himself at the toilet, the stall door slamming shut behind him and locking automatically as the sounds of his dry heaving echoed around the empty room.

He fell back against the wall with a wheezing gasp, shakily ripping off his mask and throwing it somewhere. He couldn't breathe. He pulled at his hair, mind racing as he struggled to remember his calming exercises.

A bitter, self-deprecating laugh twisted itself from his throat. The fearsome Simon "Ghost" Riley. Curled up like a greenie after being yelled at by a Karen. Fighting off a panic attack on the bathroom floor thanks to repressed trauma and PTSD.

His next laugh was more akin to a sob.

So caught up in his spiraling thoughts, Simon almost missed the creak of the bathroom door opening. He immediately froze and went silent, tracking the shadow of a person as they approached the stall door. He stared at the well worn boots he could see from under the door, holding his breath as he waited for the other person to do... something.

There was a hesitant knock to the door, the faint rustling of cloth as the person shifted behind it.

"Hey Simon, it's Soap."

Oh.

Oh, God.

Johnny had been there. Of course, Simon had seen him, had known he was in the cafe, but he hadn't fully realized what that meant. Johnny had seen him get screamed at by a customer. Johnny had seen him shut down. Had seen him panic, run away, sequester himself in the bathroom like some child.

Johnny had seen.

Simon couldn't fight the wave of embarrassment and shame that washed over him or the burn of self-loathing in his gut that put his coffee-scalded hands to shame.

"I saw ye come back here 'nd just wanted tae make sure ye were okay. Well, I ken you're not okay, not after tha', but if there was anything I could do tae help. Maybe help ye clean up? Patch up your injuries?" Johnny's voice was low and calm, his accent lighter than it was previously, but still present enough to give his words a soothing lilt.

Simon's immediate response was to turn him away. He had tended to worst wounds than this while out on missions and the last thing he wanted was for Johnny to see just how... pitiful he was right now. He wanted to lick his wounds in peace, find his footing, and not feel raw and exposed.

On the other hand, he was just so tired. It had been a long and hectic day without Rudy and Alejandro. His bad arm ached. His chest and arm were on fire. His cheek was sore and the cut on his nose stung as sweat teased its raw edges. He was exhausted and overstimulated and just done.

The Scot was quiet outside of the stall as Simon thought it over, not pressuring him, just silently offering his support.

Johnny had already seen him at his lowest point in a while. What was a bit more vulnerability in the grand scheme of things?

Simon grabbed his dirty, crumpled mask, looping the bands around his ears before reaching up with a shaky hand to unlock the door.

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