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random0lover · 2 years ago

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This made me want to wither away into a hole and cry lol

It was amazing though and I’m really glad we didn’t stick to keeping them away. I can’t even fully imagine how they must’ve felt seeing you gone 😭

Dead Disco / Chapter 2

Chapter two of Dead Disco

Simon Riley/John MacTavish/female reader 2.8k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI (no smut but it's inferred), feelings of fear and anxiety, depression, alcohol use, brief mention of eating/food issues, fluff, relationship issues, angst, could be considered toxic, established throuple. The guys discover you're gone.

Johnny is tired. He’s been away from home for thirty-seven days, thirty-seven long days of trekking through a jungle and hiding out in small towns, thirty-seven days of trying to ferry a diplomat’s kid from one border to another, thirty-seven days of heavy fire and artillery bombing. Thirty-seven days of fleeting touches, stolen kisses, all while being unable to feel Simon’s body against his own. Thirty-seven days of missing you.

His eyes dart around the hangar, checking for stragglers or watchful gazes. When he’s satisfied, he moves towards the driver’s side door, to where Simon is standing, arms already extended in wait.

“We’re home.” Johnny breathes, molding himself into the warmth of Simon’s body.

“Almost.” The answer is gruff, but his grip is unyielding, uneager to let Johnny go, head bowed forward, cheek resting atop the dirty scruff of the mohawk. He’s still wearing the balaclava, will still be wearing it until they get into the apartment and the doors are locked, but for now, they both take what they can get. Simon tosses each bag into the back of the car, eyes pinching sour with discomfort. It’s his back again, Johnny silently hopes that the comfort of their own bed would help alleviate some of the pressure on his spine. Those awful bedrolls were rough for everyone, but especially someone as big as his partner.

“Shuid get goin’.” His mind is already wandering to you and how you’re faring. Your absence chafes them, and it’s obvious now when they’re together that something is missing, that they’re lacking a part of their connection, missing their lost puzzle piece. It wears on them during deployments, causing their tempers to string tight and worry to settle in the back of their minds. Guilt burns in the pit of Johnny’s stomach when he remembers how uncertain, how stressed you’d been when he had promised, promised, you that it would be two weeks or less.

“Dinnae worry, yeah? Back before you know it.” you wrap your arms around his waist, face pressing to his shoulder with a deep sigh. He hated this. Every time, it got harder and harder.

“Okay.” The word is mumbled into his shirt, and he runs a hand over your hair soothingly. The sound of a duffel being dropped on the floor pulls your eyes, arm reaching for its owner, your fingers grasping onto the strings of Simon’s hoodie until he's there too, broad chest pressed to your back, the balaclava twisted in his grip. T-minus ten minutes until Simon was gone and Ghost was on point, so Johnny soaked up every second, you between them, right where you fit perfectly, Simon’s warm palm resting just at the top of his spine, the rhythm of being together, feeling safe, feeling whole.

Seconds turned into minutes, and then Simon was pulling away, dragging you with him to press a kiss to your lips before picking up the bag.

“Be good.” He says with a pointed look, and Johnny fights a chuckle. “And keep the terrace door locked.” You roll your eyes, playful spirit peeking through from underneath your worry.

“Yes Simon.”

“We’ll see you soon.” Johnny wraps his arms around you one last time, meeting your mouth with his, slipping into the comfort of home one last time before regretfully stepping away.

He couldn’t wait to lay his eyes on you, couldn’t wait to strip the balaclava from Simon’s face, couldn’t wait to take a shower and feel the heat of your body, the silk of your skin.

He glanced at the digital read out of the time as Simon turned the key in the ignition and huffed in frustration.

“It’s late.”

“She’ll be asleep. Don’t wake ‘er this time.” Simon warned, and he scoffed. He didn’t intentionally wake you last time, you had blinked your eyes open when you felt them fall into bed, and he seized the opportunity. He couldn’t help it; he had missed you too much. And while Simon might be content to just pull your sleeping form against his body and hold you there, Johnny had to hear your voice.

“Hi.” You blink blearily at him, fingers groping blindly along his stomach in the dark. “You’re wet.”

“Had ta shower.” You shift, turning onto your side.

“Without me?”

“It’s two in the morning, darling.” He hums and you yawn in response.

“Simon?” your voice was more acutely aware now, and he knew it was because you were making sure. Checking off the list, verifying that they’d both come back. To you.

“I’m here, love.”

“Mmph.” You murmur. “Missed you.” your face found Johnny’s neck, lips soft on his collarbone, while Simon slid all the way over, molding himself around your back, an arm resting gently across your two bodies.

“We missed you too.” Johnny whispers, body relaxing for the first time in weeks, muscles going loose and his brain going quiet. It was good to be home.

“We could take her out tomorrow. She’d like that.”

“Maybe on Thursday, dependin’ on how she’s feeling. I’m not plannin’ on leaving that bed for at least twenty-four hours. And neither are you, MacTavish.” Heat licked up his spine, settling in his belly while the city flashed by the windows, while he wonders how upset you are, if you’re going to be barking mad at them, or just sad, the way you get sometimes when they have to ease you back into their affection, when they have to break down the armor that grows in layers upon layers when they’re away.

“Too long, it’s been too long.” He expects Simon to agree with him, say something reassuring like he usually does, but he doesn’t respond, and Johnny looks to where he’s splitting his attention between the screen of his phone and the road. “What is it?”

“Darling?” Simon calls through the apartment, while Johnny shucks his shoes and coat at the door. It’s only eight, still early in the night, and they’re surprised when you pad out of the bedroom in your pajamas, eyes red from crying, straight into Johnny’s arms.

“What’s wrong?” he asks when you bury your nose in his chest, Simon standing on your side, gently rubbing your back, concern in his eyes. “Love, what is it?” he pulls back to get a glimpse of your face.

“Had a bad dream.” You mumble into him, and he holds you a little tighter, Simon leaning into the two of you to press his mouth to the top of your head in a kiss. He taps his fingers down your cheek to draw your attention back up to his face, and that’s when he notices.

How dry your skin is. How cracked your lips are. The circles under your eyes, the hunch in your shoulders. He looks up at Simon over your head, who gives him a swift a nod, and pulls you away and into his own arms.

“What do you think… about gettin’ in the shower with me?” He hears Simon coaxing you into the bathroom while he flings open cabinets in the kitchen, looking for your water bottle. When he gets to the fridge, he swallows a groan. It’s practically empty, only harboring the usual collection of condiments, some cheese, a few avocados. But no leftovers, no meals, no protein. Your usual overflowing bounty of green things is missing. None of the kiwis that you insist on buying every single time anyone goes to the supermarket. Nothing to indicate you had been eating.

What have you been doing?

The apartment is dark. Your sweater doesn’t hang on the hooks by the door, your shoes aren’t lined up neatly in the closet. The giant fleece blanket that you always insist on everyone cuddling underneath during movie nights is gone.

The framed picture of the three of you, the one that sits on the little table in the hallway, is facedown.

The bed is made, all six pillows stacked neatly at the top of the mattress, sheets and comforter tucked into the bottom just how Johnny always makes it. Your little jewelry dish that occupies the top of the dresser is gone.

Some of your clothes still rest on hangers. Your favorite robe is still draped over the tub in the bathroom. Your tea collection is still stacked neatly in the cupboard.

A single silver key sits on the island.

Johnny feels like he can’t breathe. He feels like he’s grieving.

Simon doesn’t speak either. He just stands in the kitchen, lost in thought, knuckles white.

He loves you. Simon loves you. How could you just leave?

He reads the infuriating email over and over again. Four sentences. Not even a proper goodbye.

Hey,

I’m sorry. I left. The key is on the island. I locked the front door.

-Darling.

“It’s a week and a half old.” Simon breaks the silence. “She sent it a week and a half ago, could be anywhere now.”

“What if something is wrong.” He wants to deny it. Wants to ignore the reality, the sinking feeling dragging him down, fingers grasping tight to Simon’s as he gulps. “What if…”

“It would be near impossible to find this place, love.” Simon says gently. He’s right. Of course, he’s right. The title is in the name of a shell company. The mortgage was paid in cash. No one would know who it belongs to unless…

“What if we had a tail? And we didn’t know… and we led them right to her.” Simon visibly stiffens next to him. It’s a slim chance. The probability of the two of them not seeing a tail is extremely low.

“Call her.” Simon orders and Johnny’s hand trembles as he pulls the contact up and dials.

It rings, and rings, and rings.

“Be patient, Johnny.” Simon murmurs in his ear, breath warm against his skin, the smell of Kentucky bourbon washing over the two of them.

“What if she says no.” Simon grasps his chin with two fingers and pulls him in for a kiss.

“No one could say no to you.” They both turn to look at you, slippers on, Simon’s giant t shirt falling to your thighs. You’ve got a wooden spoon in your palm, face leaning over a giant pot of red sauce that you made from scratch. You’re singing to yourself, happily, quietly, but your smile falters when you look up at realize they’re watching you.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” He says, a little too quickly, and can feel the groan building in Simon’s chest. You frown.

“Ooookay.” You do that thing where you drag the ‘o’ out really long, like you don’t believe him.

“We want to ask you something.” Simon jumps in, disregarding his previous advice since Johnny has gone and spooked you. Your eyes go wide.

“What?” you ask warily.

“We want you to move in with us. Officially.” Johnny blurts, too excited. “You’re here five nights a week, anyway, yeah?” You nod, holding the spoon upright, eyes flicking back and forth between them.

“Really?” He doesn’t miss the doubt in your voice but chooses to blow by it. “But… this is your place, I don’t really like, fit here.”

“Of course you do.” Simon assures you. Johnny pulls you into his arms, leaning back against the counter.

“We don’t wanna be without you, darling.” He combs some hair away from your face, and then licks the spoon, earning him one of your amused giggles.

“You don’t have to decide right now.” Simon says, tempering Johnny’s enthusiasm, and you nod.

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

“Anything for last call?” The bartender taps the wood with a knuckle, and you motion to your half empty beer.

“I’ll take one more, thanks.” The bottle leaves a little ring on the bartop, sticky and wet, shining in the muted light of the mostly empty room. It’s a place with no windows, black laminate floors, neon beer signs flickering on the walls. It smells in here, like stale cigarettes and cheap beer, but you don’t hate it, and it beats going back to your empty hotel room, with the giant empty bed, and the quiet empty hallway.

If the bartender notices your appearance, he keeps quiet about it. If he realizes you haven’t washed your hair, or your face, he doesn’t say anything. All he does is nod to the hundred that you’ve kept sitting in front of you, placing another neat pour of bourbon next to your fresh beer.

It’s the good kind, Kentucky. The kind Johnny wrinkles his nose at. The kind Simon loves. You squeeze the lime into the mouth of the bottle, sticky, sour juice squirting all over your fingers that you pop between your lips and lick clean, one by one, before downing the amber liquid in one swallow.

The hotel bed is a king. Not a California, like the one in the apartment, but it feels just as big with only your body in it. You sprawl in the middle of it like a starfish, trying to feel for the edges, only to come up short. It’s disconcerting, you realize. The feeling of being alone like this, not waiting, not wondering what time the key is going to click in the lock. It’s been over a week, and the uneasy feeling has still not passed. Weren’t you supposed to feel good? Wasn’t this what you wanted? You couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t do anything.

You missed them.

You missed them so much; it was hurting you. It felt like a charred hole had formed in your heart, panic and despair leaking through your body.

It had sent you down a dark path, an endless rabbit hole that just got worse and worse as time went on.

So, instead of feeling the full force of it, instead of accepting your fate, you daydream, indulging in a made-up fantasy where they find you, track you down and drag you home. Where they’re standing on the other side of the hotel room door, begging you to come back, pulling you into their arms.

It's just a fantasy. They’re not coming for you, you know that. They have each other. They don’t need an accessory to survive, or even be happy. They don’t need you.

You’re on the verge of drifting into restless sleep when your phone vibrates, somewhere in the down comforter.

You don’t have to look at the caller ID to know who it is.

You knew they’d call when they got home, when they realized you were gone.

You honestly didn’t expect it to be so long, the idea that they got held up somewhere, ran into trouble making your stomach flip. What if one of them is hurt? What if they need you?

No. No, you’re going to be strong. You are NOT answering that phone.

The vibrations cease. You let out the whoosh of breath you’ve been holding.

The vibrations start again.

Your heart clenches in your chest.

Come find me. Come get me and bring me home.

No. No, you’re strong. You don’t need them; you don’t need this.

Don’t answer it. Don’t answer it. Don’t-

Your thumb hits the green button.

“Hello?” The other end of the phone is silent, and then two voices talk over one another for a second before going quiet.

“Bloody hell. Where are you, darling… are you alright? Are ya hurt?” It’s Simon’s voice, raspy in the background. You swallow.

“I’m… I’m fine.”

“Where are ye?” Johnny sounds closer, and you hold your breath.

“I… I’m okay. I’m at a hotel.” Guilt swarms you. Of course. They’re worried something happened to you. “I’m s-sorry.” Come get me, you want to scream, come get me and never leave again. Nobody speaks, and then you hear the muffled sound of a conversation. A terse back and forth before Simon is speaking into your ear.

“Tell us where you are, yeah?”

The knock on the door is loud, and you stand on the other side, hesitant.

Why are you doing this?

The knock comes louder this time.

Don’t be weak. You left, remember? You left for a reason.

You crack the door. Simon’s arms are crossed, and you can’t place the expression on his face, the balaclava obstructing the lines of his mouth that you’re so used to reading.

Johnny, on the other hand, looks torn between being on the verge of tears, and pissed. His hand darts out between the door and the frame, pushing it wider and bringing you into full view. The anger drains from his face within a second. Embarrassment curdles in your stomach. You look like a fucking mess.

“Oh, love.” He whispers, eyes softening. Fuck, don’t cry. Keep it together.

“Hi.”

“Let us in.” Simon demands from behind him, and you chew on your lip. “Please. Whatever it is, we can fix it darling. Just let us in.” He gentles his tone, and Johnny reaches for your hand that’s gripping the door handle.

You’re stepping aside before you even realize what’s happening.

Gee, way to stick to your guns.

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