Sans titre

You were so lost in the phantom sensation of his touch that you almost missed the arrival of the SAS honor guard. They moved with a chilling, synchronized grace, their boots striking the wet pavement in perfect unison. And then, you saw him.

He was a ghost of a man, a stark monolith of black against the grey day. He was taller than you'd imagined, broader, his presence swallowing the light around him. He wore his uniform with a solemnity that seemed to weigh him down, his cap pulled low to cast his face in shadow. But you knew who he was. Johnny had spoken of him with profound respect: Simon Riley. Ghost. You had pictured him as a cold, unfeeling spectre, a man forged from ice and impervious to emotion. Johnny's stories were laced with a grudging admiration for the man's skill, but always with an undercurrent of a deep, unspoken bond you never fully understood.

The image you had constructed shattered the moment he moved. There was no ice. His shoulders, so rigid and square, were trembling. His gloved hands, resting on the polished stock of his rifle, were clenched so tightly the knuckles showed white even from a distance. As they approached the casket, a low, guttural noise broke through the monotonous patter of rain. It was a strangled sob ripped from the very core of him. He was crying. Simon "Ghost" Riley was falling apart right before your eyes, his grief a raw, agonizing thing that mirrored the tempest in your own soul.

Your breath hitched. This man wasn't a stranger to Johnny; he was the other half of him. The one who had been there when you couldn't be. The one who had held him.

The memory assaulted you, unbidden and vicious. You'd seen the official report, the cold, clinical words detailing suppressive fire and multiple gunshot wounds. But Johnny, in one of his rare, quiet moments, had told you the truth. "He was with me, love. Si was there. He held on to me. Told me to hang on, ye stubborn bastard." He'd tried to laugh, but it had come out as a choked cough. "Didn't wanna let the old man down, you know?"

You knew. And now, watching Simon's monumental frame shake with violent sobs, you understood the depth of it. He wasn't just Johnny's superior officer; he was his brother, his anchor, the man who had tried to hold him in this world when death came calling. The air between you crackled with an unbearable, shared sorrow, a charge so potent it felt like it could ignite the very rain.

The honor guard lifted the casket. The polished wood, draped in the Union Jack, was a final, cruel sight. It was too small, too still to contain the vibrant, chaotic energy that was your Johnny. That was when the dam broke. A wail of agony tore from your throat and echoed off the ancient stones. Your knees buckled, and you would have fallen to the wet ground if strong, steady hands hadn't caught you.

You looked up, your vision swimming with tears, into a face etched with pain. Simon Riley's eyes were rimmed with red, his lashes clumped with tears. He held you as if you were the only solid thing in a collapsing world.

"I'm so sorry," he rasped, his voice broken, his Manchester accent a rough, grounding sound. "I'm so bloody sorry."

You clutched at the front of his uniform, your fingers twisting the dark fabric. Unable to articulate the chasm of loss inside you, all you could do was nod as sobs wracked your body. He held you through it, a pillar of strength in the midst of his own devastation, sharing the weight of the moment.

As the procession moved towards the hearse, he gently guided you, his hand a warm presence on your back. He walked with you as a silent, steadfast guardian. You felt the eyes of the other mourners on you, but all you could focus on was the solid warmth beside you, the proof that Johnny's love had existed in this world, and that it had been reciprocated so fiercely.

Later, after the crowd had dissipated and the rain had softened to a miserable drizzle, you found yourself standing alone under the shelter of a grand oak tree. You stared at the fresh mound of earth, the headstone already feeling like an inadequate marker for the man it represented.

"He loved you," a quiet voice said beside you.

Simon had appeared out of the mist, his cap still off, his hair plastered to his skull. He wasn't looking at you, but at the grave.

"He talked about you all the time," he continued, his voice low. "He had this photo of you on his phone. A little one he'd look at before a mission. Said it was to remind him what he was fighting for." He finally turned to you, his gaze direct and piercing. "He was a good man. The best. And he made me a better man just by knowing him."

Tears welled up again, hot and stinging. "He never told me how bad it was," you whispered, your voice fragile. "He always made it sound like an adventure. Like he was invincible."

A sad, humorless smile touched Simon's lips. "That was Johnny. He'd have fought the devil himself with a grin on his face, just so you wouldn't worry." He paused, his jaw clenching. "I was there at the end. I held him. He asked me to tell you he was sorry. Sorry he couldn't come home."

A fresh wave of grief crashed over you, and you turned away, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle the cry. Simon didn't try to offer empty platitudes. He just stood there, a silent witness to your pain. In that moment, you realized you had never truly known all of Johnny. You'd known the lover, the man who came home to you on leave, the one who filled your days with laughter. But you hadn't known the soldier, the warrior who faced down death with Simon Riley by his side.

But you had loved him with every fiber of your being, and he had been yours. That truth was a small, flickering flame in the overwhelming darkness. It was a truth that bound you to the heartbroken man standing next to you, a man who had loved the same brilliant, stubborn, wonderful soul.

"Thank you," you finally managed to say, looking up at him. "For being there with him."

Simon's eyes shone with a fresh sheen of tears. He gave a single, sharp nod. "He was my brother," he said simply, as if that one word explained everything. And in a way, it did.

You stood together for a long time, two strangers bound by an irrevocable loss, finding a strange, painful solace in each other's silent company. The rain continued to fall, washing over the city and the grave, but for a brief moment, the cold didn't seem so unbearable.

The silence in your flat was a living, breathing entity. It had moved in the day the military men delivered Johnny's personal effects (the duffel bag smelling of gun oil and foreign soil, his phone, his watch) and it had made itself at home. It was in the empty space on the sofa where he used to sprawl, his long legs taking up all the room. It was in the kitchen, where his favourite mug still sat upside down on the draining board, waiting for a cup of tea that would never come. Most of all, it was in your bed, a vast, cold expanse where the ghost of his touch lingered.

You were haunted by him. Not by the soldier, but by the man. The scent of his shampoo on the pillowcase. The sound of his key in the lock. The way he'd hum off-key while you cooked, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind, pulling you back against the solid warmth of his chest. "Smells good, hen," he'd murmur, his lips brushing your ear. "But you smell better." The memory was a sweet poison that coursed through your veins, reminding you that you were utterly, irrevocably alone.

Weeks blurred into a monotonous cycle of grief. You'd go to work, move through the motions, and come home to the suffocating quiet. It was during one of these evenings, while sorting through a box of his things you couldn't bring yourself to unpack, that you found it. Tucked into the back of his worn copy of The Art of War was a folded scrap of paper. The paper was thin, the kind from a notepad he'd carry in his tac vest. His scrawl was unmistakable, a hasty, slanted, chaotic dance of ink.

You unfolded it, your heart pounding a painful rhythm against your ribs. It wasn't a note to you. It was addressed to S. Your breath caught in your throat.

Simon,

Ye'll probably never see this. Too much of a coward to give it to ye. Too much of a coward to look ye in the eye and say what's been twistin' my gut for years. We're out on the op tomorrow. Don't know if I'll make it back. Don't want to leave this world with this still sittin' on my chest.

It's you, ye daft bastard. It's always been you. From that first bloody scrap in Hereford, when you wiped the floor wi' me and then offered me a hand up. I hated your guts. And I wanted you somethin' fierce.

It's the way ye look at me, like you can see right through all the shite I spew. It's the way your voice gets all low and raspy when you're tired. It's the way you've got my back, always. No questions asked. I'd follow you into hell, Si. I think I already have.

I know I've got her. She's my world, my bonnie lass. She's the sun, and you... you're the fuckin' moon. Always there, pullin' at me, even when I can't see you. This isn't about replacin' her. It's about... addin'. I know it's greedy. I know it's a bloody mess. But the thought of never tellin' you, of dyin' with this in my heart... I can't do it.

I love you, Simon Riley. I think I have from the start.

Yours, Johnny.

The paper trembled in your hand. Tears blurred the ink, but the words were already seared into your mind. It wasn't a betrayal. It wasn't a rejection of you. It was the most honest, painful, beautiful confession you'd ever read. He hadn't cheated. He hadn't lied. He had loved you with all his heart, and he had loved Simon with a part of it you hadn't known existed. The puzzle pieces of your life with Johnny suddenly shifted, forming a new, more complex picture. His bond with Ghost, the unspoken tension, the way they moved in sync, it all made a devastating, heartbreaking kind of sense. He had been trying to protect you from this, to spare you the complexity of it. But all he'd done was leave you with another ghost to chase.

You clutched the note to your chest. You had to find Simon. You didn't know what you would say or do, but the note couldn't just sit in a box. It was a piece of Johnny's soul, and it belonged with the other man who held a piece of it.

It took time. Military bases are fortresses, and Simon Riley was a man who knew how to disappear. But you were persistent, driven by a purpose that cut through the fog of your grief. Finally, you got an address: a small, nondescript flat in a quiet part of Manchester. You stood outside the door for a long time, your fist hovering, your heart in your throat.

When you finally knocked, the sound echoed with a terrifying finality. There was a long pause, a shuffle, and then the door opened a crack, the chain still on.

Simon Riley stood in the darkness. The man from the funeral was gone; this man was a wreckage. His eyes were hollow, the pale blue dull and lifeless. He was unshaven, his hair unkempt, a shadow of the formidable soldier you'd met. He looked at you, and for a second, there was no recognition. Then, a flicker of pain sparked in the depths of his gaze.

"You," he rasped, his voice a dry ruin. "What are you doin' here?"

The words you'd rehearsed died on your lips. Seeing him like this, so utterly broken, was a punch to the gut. It was a mirror to your own soul. "I need to see you," you whispered.

He made to close the door, a reflex born of isolation and despair. "There's nothin' here for you."

"I found something," you said quickly, your voice gaining strength. "Something of his. Something for you."

That stopped him. His hand froze on the door. He stared at you, a war waging behind his eyes. Slowly, he closed the door, the sound of the chain sliding back loud in the silence. He opened it wide, stepping aside. It wasn't an invitation, but it wasn't a rejection either. It was an act of surrender.

You stepped inside.

You were surprised by the order. The place was meticulously clean, the surfaces polished, everything in its place. It was a shrine to control in the midst of chaos. On a small table by the window, two of the most beautiful German Shepherds you'd ever seen turned their heads to watch you, their intelligent eyes assessing you with calm curiosity. Johnny had mentioned the dogs, his 'wee beasties'. You felt another sharp pang of loss.

Simon didn't offer you a seat. He just stood there, his hands shoved in the pockets of his joggers, his shoulders hunched. He looked vulnerable in a way you suspected he never allowed anyone to see.

"I found this," you said, pulling the folded note from your pocket. Your hands shook as you held it out to him. "In one of his books. I think you should have it."

He stared at the piece of paper as if it were a live grenade, making no move to reach for it. "What is it?"

"Johnny wrote it," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "For you. Before the last mission."

The colour drained from Simon's face. He looked at you, truly looked at you, and you saw raw, naked fear in his eyes. "You read it?"

"I did," you nodded, your own tears threatening to spill over. "I'm glad I did."

A tremor ran through his frame. He finally reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he took the note. The contact was electric, a jolt of shared pain. He unfolded it with a care that was heartbreaking, his eyes scanning the words.

You watched his face crumble. It was slow at first, a twitch in his jaw, a flinch at a particular phrase. Then, as he reached the end, a single, broken sob escaped his lips. His knees seemed to give out, and he sank onto the arm of the sofa, the note clutched in his fist. The formidable Ghost was gone, replaced by a man shattered by the weight of a love he'd never known was reciprocated.

You moved without thinking, closing the distance between you. Sinking to the floor in front of him, you reached out to rest a hand on his knee. It was a simple, human gesture.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered, your own tears falling freely now. "I'm so sorry, Simon."

He looked at you, his face a mask of anguish. "I didn't know," he choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I suspected. Hoped. But he never said. I told him I'd follow him anywhere. I should have said more."

"You were his rock," you said, your hand tightening on his knee. "He knew. He loved you so much."

Simon's composure broke completely. He leaned forward, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with violent sobs. You moved closer, wrapping your arms around his heaving frame, pulling him down onto the floor with you. You held him, your cheek pressed against his chest, feeling the ragged thunder of his heart.

The dogs came over, pressing their warm bodies against you, offering their own silent comfort. In that moment, you weren't Johnny's girlfriend and Simon's acquaintance. You were just two people, clinging to each other in the wreckage of your shared loss. The note lay on the floor beside you, its purpose fulfilled.

Simon's sobs eventually subsided into shuddering breaths. The solid wall of his chest stilled. He didn't pull away, and neither did you. The silence that followed was different from the one in your flat; it wasn't empty, but full, heavy with unspoken truths and the scent of rain-soaked wool from his jumper.

After a long moment, he shifted, pulling back slightly to look at you. His eyes were vulnerable, stripped of all hardness, leaving behind a profound sadness that mirrored your own.

"I need to say somethin'," he started, his voice rough and hoarse. "I need you to know I never disrespected you, or what you had with him." The words tumbled out, laced with a desperate sincerity. "I would never have done that. He was everything to me. My best mate. More. But he loved you. You were his world. I knew that, and I respected that. I just... I loved him too. From the sidelines, like a shadow."

You listened, your hand still resting on his arm. You saw no lie in his eyes, only deep-seated guilt and a well of love so deep it had broken him. You thought of the note, the raw honesty of Johnny's words. There was no jealousy in your heart, only a profound, aching understanding. Johnny's love wasn't a finite thing he'd divided between you. It was a vast, expansive force that had found a home in two very different people.

"I know," you said softly, your voice steady. "I read it. All of it. And I'm not angry, Simon. How could I be? He loved you. That's all that matters." You saw the shock register on his face, the way his brow furrowed in disbelief. "He saw something in you. Something incredible. I see it too, now."

He stared at you, utterly bewildered. "You're not hurt? Or jealous?"

"I was at first, for a second," you admitted, a small, sad smile touching your lips. "But then I understood. It wasn't about choosing. It was about capacity. His heart was big enough for both of us. It's like he loved two completely different things with the same intensity. I was his sun, his home, his comfort. You were his challenge, his equal, his partner in the fire. How could I be jealous of that?"

Simon let out a long, shaky breath, as if you'd just defused a bomb inside him. He looked away, running a hand over his short hair in a gesture of pure exhaustion and relief. "I always thought if you ever knew, you'd hate me. I thought you'd see it as a betrayal."

"I could never hate the person he loved so much," you whispered.

That made him look back at you. Really look at you. His gaze was no longer just sad; it was curious, searching. He was seeing you for the first time, not as Johnny's girlfriend, but as a woman who had held his world, and who now understood his.

"You're..." he trailed off, seeming to struggle for the right word. "You're incredible."

You felt a flush creep up your neck. It was absurd in this situation, but his quiet, intense admiration was disarming. "So are you," you replied, meaning it. You saw it now, the man Johnny had fallen for—the loyalty, the fierce protectiveness, the hidden depth beneath the hardened soldier exterior.

A new kind of silence fell, one that was charged with something other than grief. It was tentative, inquisitive. You were two halves of a whole, finally meeting, trying to understand the shape of the man who had completed you both.

"What was he like?" Simon asked, his voice low. "When he was with you? The real him, not the soldier."

You smiled, a genuine, watery smile this time. "He was a chaos of love. He'd steal the covers and sing terrible pop songs in the shower. He'd cook this awful Scottish breakfast that would stink out the whole flat, but he did it because he said it was the most important meal of the day. He'd just hold me for hours, like if he let go, I might disappear."

Simon listened, rapt, his eyes tracing the contours of your face as you spoke. He was drinking in a side of Johnny he'd never been allowed to see. "That's him," he murmured. "The heart of him. I got the soldier, the wit, the bravado. You got the home."

"And you got his loyalty," you countered. "His absolute, unwavering trust. He told me once, There's no one I'd rather have at my six than Simon Riley.' He'd never say that about anyone else."

A fragile, shared smile passed between you. It was painful, but it was also a connection. You were building a bridge over the chasm of your loss, using the stones of your memories.

"I don't know what to do now," Simon confessed, his voice cracking slightly. "Without him. Feels like the colour's gone out of the world."

You nodded, the feeling all too familiar. "Me too. But we're still here. We have his love. Both of us. Maybe that's enough for now."

Simon looked at the note still clutched in his hand, then back at you. His gaze was heavy with a new emotion, something that flickered in the depths of his eyes, something that felt a lot like hope. "Maybe it is," he said softly.

König blinked once, then twice, his eyes landing on a large mass on the carpet. A Great Dane. A huge Great Dane, with its massive body taking up nearly half the space of the room, and its ears perked up in an almost comical display. König wasn't expecting this at all. He usually avoids pets, finding them too much of a hassle. You emerged from the kitchen, casually wiping your hands on a towel. "Surprise,” you smile as you gesture vaguely to the large beast of a dog that's still lounging on the floor. "You like her?" The dog padded toward him, its giant paws almost making the floor creak. “I thought it would be nice,” you said with a grin, leaning against the wall. He stares at you for a moment before giving you a small smile, his hesitation about the dog fading when he sees you smiling so happily, "She's cute. Certainly a surprise."

Price kicked off his boots, stretching his sore shoulders, and took a deep breath, ready for the peace and quiet of home. But as he rounded the corner into the living room, he came to a screeching halt. A small, furious ball of fur was standing in the middle of the room, its beady eyes locked onto him with intense, undiluted disdain. A Chihuahua. A fucking Chihuahua? Out of all the things you could have picked? Price loved dogs, he's been wanting one but he didn't mean anything like this little, evil looking creature that was yapping up at him and biting his boots. "Hi, honey," you say brightly as you walk to the living room, drawn by the intense barking. "Love, what is this thing doing in the house?" He asks without hesitation. He really can not fathom why you brought this mangy little thing home. "You said you wanted a dog, I got one. She's cute, don't you think?" No. No, he did not think that at all. "Love, this... thing isn't what I was talking about." He says lightly, not wanting to hurt your feelings. His heart breaks when he sees you frown. "You really like her?" He asks as he steps closer to you, reaching out to play with your hair. You nod and he sighs, "So... what's her name then? She'll be needing one."

Gaz is over the moon when he walks in to see a fluffy ball waddling up to him and letting out rough barks. It's eyes were huge and bulging, going off in two different directions. It's fur was far too long for it's little skinny body and was tangled beyond belief, and it's impossibly skinny legs looked bent in all the wrong places, but he was ecstatic. “You’re a strange one, aren’t you?” Kyle laughed, crouching down to pet the dog's scruffy head. Kyle picked up the bizarre looking animal, gently stroking its tangled, greasy fur. "You need a bath... like now," he chuckles, setting off for the bathroom. He's surprised to see you already in there and running a bath for the weird little dog. "Hey, Love. Where did you find this beast?"

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Vodka Cranberry by kooksie, ilya/shane, 5.1k     After the hookup where Shane and Ilya didn’t kiss, Shane nearly passes out in his rival’s hotel room.

against the tiles of the locker room by saythemahae, ilya/shane, NSFW, 2.6k     “You have a filthy mouth, Captain,” Ilya murmured, his voice thick with contempt and desire. “I will clean it for you.” Then, Ilya—fucking finally—leaned in.

Overtime Confessions by ThePromptWasntThisLong (shredded_potato), ilya/shane, NSFW, 3.9k     Caught between the roar of the rink and the hush of a locked door, Shane insists he can’t stand Ilya, but everything changes once he’s pinned, moaning “Daddy,” and Ilya starts calling him “baby” like a promise he intends to keep.

WAG Support Network by stabthroughme, ilya/shane & jackie & ocs, 2.6k     Shane went down hard, bleeding on the ice, and Ilya was hiding in a stairwell to avoid Shane's teammates when he caught up on the WAG chat and saw the missed call from Jackie.

sweet tooth by rosepetal, ilya/shane, 1.3k     “Sorry…Who are you?” Shane builds up the courage to ask when he knows they’re alone again. The man’s piercing eye contact is making him squirm a little, but it’s not unwanted. It makes Shane's stomach flip actually. “I am Ilya” “Ilyaaaaa.” He tests the name out, it feels right. Familiar. He lets out a small giggle at how ridiculous he must sound right now.

sophomore slump or comeback of the year? by rowed, ilya/shane & hayden/jackie, nsfw, ~1k     A wave of emotions washed over Hayden then, a strange combination of annoyance, despair, self-pity, and abject horror. Luckily for him, Shane and Jackie were approaching with the children in tow before Rozanov could say anything else that would scar him for life. “Shane. Shane! Did you hear what he just said?” Hayden asked hysterically.

Dig Two Graves by devovitsuasartes, ilya/shane & centaurs & ocs, nsfw, graphic content/scenes, 28k     The Montreal Voyageurs won't stop slinging mud at Shane in the press, so Shane and Ilya decide to get revenge the best way they know how.

Shane Hollander vs. the Cat by barelypink, ilya/shane & centaurs, NSFW, 7.4k     Or Shane and Ilya adopt a cat. Hijinks, sex, and feelings ensue. (Not with the cat. They're not perverts, I promise.)

A Lily by Any Other Name by V_L2_3, ilya/shane & hayden & rose, 3.9k     Or: Shane decides to come out to Hayden after breaking up with Rose, and Hayden is determined to find out who Lily is.

everything subdural by Anonymous, ilya/shane, 10.2k     Shane gets laid out cold on the ice for the first time in his career. A month later, things go sideways again, and Ilya realizes he doesn't have forever to figure it out anymore.

I Freaking Knew It by sreside94, ilya/shane & ocs, 1.3k     Shane Hollander has never been normal. But it's pretty weird when he says Ilya Rozanov's first name while semi-conscious on the ice. Shane and Ilya might think no one ever caught on to them, but Marc knew.

Cliff Knows by bombshellblonde, ilya/shane & cliff & hayden, 1k     Cliff Marleau has known about Roz and Hollander for years. But unlike some people he didn’t post videos about them.

The Annoying Best Friend of My Husband is My Enemy? by broidkwhatimdoing, ilya/shane & hayden/jackie & centaurs, nsfw, 2.7k     Ilya gets in a fight during a game with Boston. It's not for the reason anyone expects.

where the lovelight gleams by gurlsrool, ilya/shane & david/yuna & troy/harris, NSFW, 10k     the sugary highs and lows of Christmas Day through the years, from Ilya Rozanov's perspective.

Then It Hits (That I'm Damned) by somethingwild (heartenedevasion), ilya/shane & cast, NSFW, 5.5k     Or: despite the initial fear, the world doesn't end when Shane Hollander realizes he loves Ilya Rozanov. Now, he just has to convince Ilya of that same truth. An adjusted timeline. A collection of moments. A story about completing someone, despite the odds.

the baby monitor by alaska_was_taken, ilya/shane & david/yuna & hayden, 1.4k     or how Hayden, Yuna and David found out about Hollanov after Shane’s accident, because they set up a baby monitor

You Got Me Dizzy (I Can't Even See My Way) by servetas, ilya/shane, NSFW, 5.2k     Shane knows how to say about four words in Russian, and Ilya loses his mind

Not Gay Not Straight But a Secret Third Thing by shadowmaster13, ilya/shane & cliff, ~1k     Set during Ilya's final season with Boston.

longing in the afterglow by RavenOfRao, ilya/shane, 1.8k     In which Shane wants Ilya to teach him some Russian.