The Russian was smiling, just barely, more in his eyes than anything, but smiling none the less. He was propped up on his elbow on the pillow. Laying just close enough to hover over Simon.

"Wot." Simon's voice was sleep-thick and gravelly.

"Good morning to you." Nik chuckled, pressing a kiss to Simon's forehead. Then his cheek.

Simon groaned softly, closing his eyes. "Time is it?" He brought his hand up to scrub at his eye then paw Nik off of him

"Do not worry about time." Nik said. Kissing Simon's hand that had found its way to his mouth. "I have made breakfast. After, we will go down to the lake."

Simon hummed. "Wot for?"

"For fresh air and sunlight. Both of which you need."

Simon turned his head, meeting Nik's eyes. "I'm not some sick Victorian man, Nik."

Nik nodded, taking Simon's hand, pressing it more firmly to his lips. "No, you do not have a physical illness."

Simon let the comment slide for now. Rising at Nik's prompting. It was easy to let Nik guide him. Just as easy as it was to let Price, but different somehow. Following Price was mechanical, a path laid out and steps to follow. Following Nik was fluid, a stream flowing the path of least resistance.

They navigated breakfast quietly. Nik had him sit while food was plated and served. Warm and filling. And Simon caught Nik staring more than once. But he didn't say anything, didn't let himself react more than the blush on his cheeks.

He didn't wear the mask when he was out here with Nik. It would have been a fruitless effort, as Nik could read his eyes alone at this point, but he always found he didn't need it anyway. There was only Nik. And Nik never gave him reason to fear the exposure, to hide himself away from what was. Nik kept him moving, firm but gentle, Nik kept him covered and held. In some strange, unnameable way, Nik was his mask. Something that gave him shelter and made him feel safe despite how easily the man saw every inch of him.

Eventually, and with no urgency, Nik cleared the table and scooped up his bag. Shoes were slid on and they stepped out into the sun. The trail to the pond was shaded by tree cover, the wind creating a gentle harmony with the leaves. The cicadas and crickets chittered the rhythm from the bushes. And the birds sang the melody above them.

Simon thought it was noisy, but not in the unpleasant way of men talking on a crowded cargo plane or the busy streets of a city. This kind of noise he could get lost in just following behind Nikolai without a misguided step. It was easy. He tilted his face up through a blank patch, letting the rays warm his cheeks.

Nikolai didn't look back to see it happen. He never looked back when they walked like this. Nik trusted him to come along on his own at whatever pace he needed.

The path opened up to the water, blue and shining under the late morning sun. A flock of ducks made their way in and out of the water, going about whatever it is ducks do at this hour.

The pair stepped down into their usual patch of green just above the rocky shore. Nik laid out the blanket and took a seat.

Simon stood a moment longer, letting the breeze kiss his face and the new current of lapping water and distant conversations of the ducks fill his ears.

He took his seat next to Nik, leaning in until his head rested against his shoulder.

"You will put sun cream on, I do not want to worry about you later tonight." Nik was already reaching into his bag for the bottle.

"I'm not a child, either, Nik." Simon said, not doing anything to avoid the inevitable.

Nikolai hummed in agreement, squirting some of the cream onto his hand. "You are not. But I do not want to be fucking a whiney lobster in bed tonight."

"Chirst, you've been around Price too much."

"There is no such thing," he wiped a bit of the cream on Simon's nose. "Sit up."

Simon went reluctantly, moving up just enough. Their faces stayed close, Nik's hand that'd come up to the back of Simon's neck made sure of that. The other hand spread the cream across his cheeks. He was completely focused on the task at hand and very careful as he went. Like Simon was worth every second, every ounce of it meant entirely for him. The pads of his fingers passed over each of his cheeks, up the scar that led to his temple. Thumbs spreading across his brow.

Nik's hands were always surprisingly soft when they touched Simon's skin. Calloused and large, sure, but well maintained, like if they were going to touch Simon, they should not feel like tools, but like medicine. That's what Simon might have called them, if he were more poetic. Nik's hands could find any point in his body and make it feel human. Hell, Nik didn't have to touch him at all, just guide him towards a bed, or a lake, and tell him to sit and be and Simon would sit. And Simon would be.

They left for only a moment, then returned to finish the nose, then to his jaw. Simon leaned into the touch, closing his eyes as Nik moved.

Then Nik's hand cupped his cheek. Holding him steady as Nik's lips met his. Firm and steady. No doubt in the action. There was never any doubt, not with Nik.

Simon let his lips fall open against Nikolai's, like putty in his hands, water down the path of least resistance.

Then Nik pulled away, not ripping or pulling off, just gently, letting Simon come up from it slowly.

Nik was smiling again, that same soft smile from the morning. "We should have put some on before we left. You are very red already."

Simon didn't try to hide his defeated laugh, "shut up, Nik."

"Can't help you if you don't talk to me, Johnny." He glances up, finding the Scotsman's eyes.

The younger man crosses his arms, feet shoulder width apart. Always a bit too proud to say everything he's thinking outright. Or maybe just holding out to torture Price a bit longer. Probably the latter.

"At least sit down. All you ever do nowadays is stand there." Price gestures defeatedly to the chair across his desk.

Soap does not sit.

Instead he tilts his head, seemingly listening for something. Then closes his eyes. Price sighs and leans back, closing his eyes too. It's this dance they've done—been doing—whenever Ghost is out on a mission. Specifically missions that Price isn't particularly inclined to send Ghost on.

Price waits, then there he is, Soap right in his ear. "You shouldn'ave waited."

Price sighs. "I know."

"Should 'ave let me kill him—"

"—when we had the chance. I know."

Soap is silent for a moment. Then he places an icy palm on Price's shoulder, running it up and down. Then up to his cheek. Price opens his eyes. Soap's face takes up most of his vision now, forehead pressed to forehead.

His legs straddle Price's. As close as he can be. Just fatigues and a t-shirt, already untucked. His eyes are closed, mouth just slightly ajar. Like he's waiting for Price to make a move.

"He'll be back. Like always." Soap finally says, voice low, almost sarcastic.

"I know."

"Like a loyal mutt. We're ye mad when he started comin' to my call?"

Price lets out a little huff. "He's yours, Johnny. I know that."

Soap hums with delight. "But it's yoo he'll die for. Then what? Kyle would happily—"

"No." Price growls.

"—roll over if you ask. Why not now? Save us all the bother."

"Get out, Sergeant."

Soap is quiet for a moment. Cold palm still against Price's cheek. He frowns, considering this. Eyes still closed. Then he pats Price's cheek.

"I'll be around, Sir."

Price grits his teeth and exhales, squinting his eyes closed once more. He rubs his face with both hands until the burn dissolves.

When he opens them again, Soap is gone.

Price glances up at the clock on his wall. 0300. Ghost won't report for another three hours. He should sleep.

With a groan he stands, not bothering to turn off the desk lamp. Kicks off his boots. And finds his way to the sofa across the room.

He lay there for a while in the quiet dark. Waiting for sleep to take him. When he closes his eyes it's Soap's eyes he sees, angry. Always so angry. Piercing and inescapable. Waiting for Price. Always waiting on Price.

It's stained and worn, red marks from his sister's brief stint as an artist, a slash in the fabric from that time a craft knife took the brunt of what could have been a leg wound. His history is entwined with the fibers of the couch, memories have bled into the material and cannot be erased no matter what product someone uses or how hard they scrub.

The couch is also Kyle's favourite sibling.

Long ago had the magic faltered, drifting away on the couch to wake up with a familiar, knitted and every so slightly wonky blanket strewn across his shoulders. The coincidental occurrence had come to an end when the blanket no longer covered him whole.

Yet, as a grown man with blood on his hands and an ache in his muscles, he opens his eyes to a familiar blanket corner pressed against his cheek. It covers little of him now, he's grown to much for anyone to recognise him as the chubby cheeked, smiley baby who spent his days drooling across the green wool. It's still as comforting as it was they day his biggest worry was the scrape on his knee.

"Bit old for this now, am I not?"

His mother doesn't look the slightest bit guilty, but Kyle knows deep in his very soul that she already has a photo of him curled up with his childhood blanket that he can never let see the light of day.

"Doesn't matter what age you are, you're still my baby."

He does not help the childish allegations by smacking her with the corner of the aforementioned blanket and whining, "Mum," like an embarrassed pre-teen.

cw: ghostgaz. Hurt/comfort. doctor's appointment and Simon is terrified. He's got strep poor baby. :( mostly just he's scared and that's all for cws.

The room is cold. That fact isn't something that particularly surprises Simon. And yet the cold meant to keep a busy medical wing from getting uncomfortably warm instead makes him feel like the beginnings of preparing his body for the morgue.

A hand on his arm interrupts his thoughts. He's shaking and hadn't realized it, mind so far from his body sitting here on the exam chair. When he looks up, Kyle's face is haloed by the cold, sterile lights. But Kyle himself is warm, smile resting softly on his face

"You alright?" He says, voice low and gentle as he can manage.

Simon doesn't answer, doesn't trust himself enough not to jump off the cold mat, put his feet on the cold floor, and sprint through the cold halls until he's found somewhere warmer than this.

Kyle's hand squeezes his arm. Kyle's hand is warm.

"It'll be quick, yeah?"

There's a soft knock at the door. Simon's head snaps up. He watches as the doctor enters, smiling gently, saying something in greeting that Kyle responds to. She's younger than he expected, or... he's gotten that much older that they've all started to look young.

She clicks a few things on the computer before turning to them again. Then approaches to stand just in front of Simon. "Alright, Mr. Riley. Mr. Garrick tells us you've been a bit under the weather. I'm going to ask you some questions then take a look, sound okay?"

Simon nods. More automatic than choice.

She asks some generic questions—the same ones the nurse asked when they checked him in. Those he can get through. Then some confirming his symptoms—fever, headache, nausea, sore throat, the works. He nods when appropriate, and doesn't skip a beat at his non-responses. She just waits for just the right amount of time, never pressing or forcing an answer out of him that he doesn't have. Like how someone might approach a stray dog. Patient and soft.

She steps away slowly, but to Simon it's all become a hazy blur. She slides on gloves, then a swab kit.

"I'm going to swab now. It'll be uncomfortable, but quick." She shows him the swab, long but thin.

Simon's nearly forgotten Kyle's there until his hand squeezes again. Simon's hands squeeze hard at his thighs.

She prompts him to open his mouth. And he does. Tense and awkward, but enough. Then her hand touches his jaw, just to hold his head steady, and he jerks back. Hard. Flinching away and turning his head into Kyle's arm.

He can feel his chest heaving, forehead against Kyle's arm. Kyle's arm is warm.

He can't hear the conversation happening around him, but he can feel Kyle's free hand that's come to the back of his head, stoking gently in his hair.

Logically, Simon knows the doctor is here to help. Logically, Simon knows the doctor won't hurt him. Logically, Simon knows the test is to make all of this easier for them. But logic's got nothing to do with it.

Then Kyle's moving. Slowly, as not to startle Simon. Then they're face to face, and Kyle's face is warm, gentle.

"Hey. It's alright. You're okay." He soothes. "We're going to get you some medicine, penicillin. She's pretty confident it's strep. It's alright."

Simon shakes his head.

Kyle just smiles. "You did good. So good." He presses his forehead to Simon's. "Thank you for coming."

Simon nods. "Home?" His voice is rougher than he expects, gravelled and tight.

They exit quietly, Simon's facemask back in place, trailing just behind Kyle's shoulder down the cold hall, to the check out desk, and finally to the door. Which Kyle holds open for Simon.

When they step outside the sun is warm. The air is warm. There's a bed of flowers growing and they're in bloom. Simon feels the shaking in his hands finally ease.

Kyle opens the car door, offering his hand as Simon steps in. The door shuts carefully. And before Simon realizes it, they're driving. Kyle's hand finds his across the console. Warm and solid. And Kyle gives him a gentle squeeze.

"Rest, love." He kisses the back of Simon's hand. His lips are warm. "I've got you."

He sat down without a word and put his head in his hands.

"...Captain?" Gaz ventured, sliding a coffee across the table.

"Mm," Price said, not lifting his head. "Thanks."

Soap and Ghost exchanged a glance. This was new. Price had walked off battlefields with less drama than this.

"Rough night?" Soap tried.

Price finally looked up, and the sheer exhaustion on his face was almost comical. "No sleep. None. Up every hour on the hour." He took the lukewarm coffee and downed a swig. "Wants to eat at midnight. Wants to play at midnight. Doesn't want to sleep. No, sleeping's for the weak apparently."

Gaz slowly set down his fork.

"And the nerves on her. Skittish little thing. I so much as shift in my chair and she's gone, absolutely vanished, like I'm coming at her with a bayonet."

Nobody said anything for a second. Ghost's spoon had stopped halfway to his mouth. Price and Nikolai vanishing on weekends, and Price coming back every morning recently a little worse than the last. The pair of them cagey as hell about it for months—course there was a baby somewhere in that. Gaz was already picturing it: Price, of all people, pacing some flat at 2 a.m. with a bundle over his shoulder, muttering the kind of low useless nonsense you mutter at babies. Nikolai hovering behind him with a bottle he'd warmed, consoling the small thing in Russian in case the Queen's English had no effect.. It wasn't hard to imagine, weirdly. Price could, that gruff on the outside, absolute marshmallow for something tiny and precious.

Soap was three steps further down that road already, silently doing the maths on how long this had apparently been going on and why in God's name nobody had said a word.

"But God, she's cute," Price said, and his face relaxed. "So fluffy. You wouldn't believe it."

"...Fluffy," Ghost repeated.

"Climbs right up into Nik's lap every evening, settles in, and starts up with the little paws, kneading away, making biscuits on his thigh." He almost smiled, then, properly smiled. "Used to be my spot on that sofa. She's earned it, though. Fair's fair."

Soap set his mug down very slowly. Something in his expression had started to shift.

"Woke us both up at four this morning," Price went on, "batting Nikolai's dog tags off the nightstand. Little menace knew exactly what she was doing."

Ghost swallowed his bite of food. "Price. Does the baby have paws."

Price blinked at him. "Course she's got—" He stopped and looked at their faces, all three of them frozen mid-dawning-horror. "Oh, you daft sods." He actually laughed, a short disbelieving bark. "She's a cat. Nikolai's cat. Well—our cat, I suppose, since she's moved in."

And in a few short beats, three grown men mentally rewound an entire conversation.

"A cat," Gaz said faintly.

"I had a whole scenario built," Ghost said. "You covered in spit and changing a nappy. Very domestic."

He waits a beat, listens for the shuffle of paper or the scrape of a chair, but ultimately hears nothing, and eases the door open.

Price is slumped over his desk, both arms folded under his head. A pen has rolled to the edge of a half-finished report. The lamp's still on, throwing warm light across scattered files and an empty mug.

Ghost is quiet as he crosses the room, light as he can manage in his boots, and presses two fingers to the side of Price's neck. A steady, slow thrum is there, warm beneath skin. A man who finally stopped fighting sleep.

Ghost straightens, steps to the closet, and finds a spare wool blanket folded on the shelf. He shakes it out and lays it over Price's shoulders, carefully, because the man might wake and pretend he wasn't tired at all.

Price just breathes, the lines in his face softer now.

Ghost lowers himself into the chair across the desk, legs stretched out, arms crossed. He tells himself he'll only stay a minute. Make sure the captain's alright.

The office is quiet. The building's quiet. For the first time in longer than he can remember, so is his head.

Nik knew he'd never been "on the dating scene". His first love was the service, and it was only usurped by Nik when John realised the yawning chasm in his soul couldn't be filled with violence. Nik had gladly taken up his place in that abyss and he had filled it, like he had always been destined to be there. Hopeless romantic, you say? Well, of course.

"An' then, she text me three weeks later and asked why I'd given up the chase. Girl, you told me you weren't feelin' it and spent our entire final date on your phone," Gaz said, exasperated. "I ain't bein' your next viral TikTok. I'm not a bloody mind reader."

"Aye, that's rough," Soap murmured, pausing to take a swig of his beer. "'Hae I ever telt ye aboot the man I met on Grindr for a quickie?"

Gaz snorted. "Narrow it down for us a bit, Tav..."

"Shut yer pus. Naw, this yin brak intae ma flat when I deployed and slept in ma bed for the hale week. Wore ma clothes and everythin'."

Rudy's eyes widened. "Qué va..."

John blew out a puff of grey smoke and cleared his throat before leaning across to Nik. "Fanks for savin' me. I fink I woulda been eaten alive."

Nik hummed in agreement.

John continued. "If you go before me, I'm stayin' on my own. Maybe invest in a dog. You've set the bar too fuckin' high, mate."

He also cannot stop fucking laughing.

In Kyle's defence, Nikolai is also laughing and Price might not be making a noise but his shoulders are shaking. Ghost is watching with thinly veiled disapproval, to Kyle it reads as an outright cackle.

They're far from the loudest table in the pub, and quite frankly, the two women at their left side seem entertained with their antics. Kyle thinks they'd have a hard time convincing anyone in the room that they're military men.

There's a greasy onion ring wrapped around the ring finger of his left hand and there's an equally greasy, pale hand stroking his own. Johnny's giving it his best petted lip, big blue eyes wide and pleading.

"C'mon doll, marry me. A'll treat ye nicely, gie ye aw the wains ye want. Just let me put a ring oan it."

Kyle has never been one to run away from a bit, he thrives on improvisation. And Johnny's the best man for it.

"I can't, not after what you did. I know about him, I know everything. You dirty bastard."

Nikolai, a funnier man than most, offers the most dramatic gasp he's capable of and shoots the Scot a trult scathing look across the table. It takes all of Johnny's effort not to laugh.

"Darlin, he didnae mean oanyhin. He could suck a golfball through a hosepipe, bit he didnae mean oanyhin. It's you that's gettin the ring."

Kyle knows he's giggling like a toddler, but in his defence, they're a few drinks in and he hasn't had this much fun in weeks. With as much seriousness as he can muster, he pulls his hand free from Johnny's grip and takes a bite out of the onion ring.

"It's over, we're done."

You got me, I love an AAU..... alas, I think Soap would be a LOT less subtle about it than Ghost was - because that's his man ALIVE

I was made to love you, and yet,

anyway, this idea. Simon scared of being in hospital. Hates the whole shebang. Really only stays unless it's Price seated next to him, making sure the Lieutenant has nowhere else to go. Practically ordered to "lie still and let them take care of you, Riley."

Still, the moment he gets an opportunity he'll flee. Quiet and cold. Like a ghost on the wind. Price knows where to find him, his usual hiding spots, most frequented being Price's flat itself. Price never makes him go back. Just makes sure he rests.

Another brutal mission. Another brutal hospital visit for Simon. This time Garrick's on the bed next to him—nasty concussion and broken arm that have left him unconscious for about a day.

Price expects an empty bed when he's finally out of the meeting with command. Instead he finds all six-foot-four of his lieutenant hunched over Kyle's side, Kyle's good arm slung around him, face tucked into Simon's shoulder, whole body shaking.

He doesn't move. Not for a long moment.

He watches Simon ease Kyle back down, murmur something low, tuck the sheet in with more care than Price has ever seen him give anything, himself included. Watches him sit back on the edge of his own bed, back to the door, one hand fisted in the sheet.

Price steps forward, slow. Waits until Simon's head tilts, just barely, a sign he's been noticed, before he lets his hand settle on the nape of his neck. Thumb brushing through the short hair there.

"Everything alright, son?"

He keeps his voice down. Simon's shoulders lift in a shrug. Then his head nods. Then it shakes, contradicting itself entirely, and Price sees the exhaustion in every motion.

"He woke up confused. I didn't know where you were, so I just—" Simon's head drops into his hands.

Price squeezes the back of his neck, gentle. "You stayed."

A sob breaks out of Simon's chest, quiet and strangled, like he fights the way it tears itself free. Price lowers himself onto the bed, Simon folds into him, near boneless, in a way he never does, not even half-asleep, not even concussed himself.

"Shhh." He keeps a hand moving slowly between Simon's shoulder blades. "He's alright. You did good. Easy, now."

He doesn't say anything else. There's nothing else to say, now at least, and Simon's never been one who needs the words.

It takes a while for the shaking to run its course. When it does, Simon peels off him and lies back down facing Kyle, watching the rise and fall of his chest like he's convinced without him watching it may stop, until sleep finally wins the fight. Price stays where he is, seated on the edge of the bed between the two of them, until his own eyes start to lose the fight.

NikPriceWeek2026 - SFW Day 5 - date night + spring

cw: none. just more of Nik's self doubt and price's patience

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The pâtisserie was small, tucked down a side street Price wouldn't have found on his own in a hundred years. There was no sign, just a painted shop window and lights coming on round the outside as the afternoon began to settle. Nikolai walked in like he'd been here a thousand times, nodded at the woman behind the counter, and rattled off an order in French good enough that Price raised an eyebrow at him.

"Didn't know you spoke French."

"I know many things. You are only now discovering this because you never ask." Nikolai said it lightly, teasing, steering Price toward a table by the window with a hand at the small of his back.

"I ask plenty."

"You ask about weapons. Escape routes. Which one of us is buying next round." Nikolai sat, entirely at ease in a way Price rarely saw him beyond after a mission or loosened by good vodka. "Different questions than ‘do you speak French, Nikolai.’"

"Fair." Price settled back across from him, glancing around at the place. Charmingly mismatched chairs, the smell of butter and sugar thick in the air, a low hum of conversation in three languages at once. "How'd you find this place?"

"Years ago. On a… personal matter. I hid in here for two hours, ate my weight in croissants, decided to keep coming back." Nikolai shrugged, easy. "Habit now.”

"Not the strangest way a place becomes special."

"No. But I like the story better than admitting I simply like pastries."

Price laughed properly at that, and Nikolai's whole face changed watching him do it. Softness in his eyes slipping in under the usual easy charm, unguarded for just a second.

The pastries came, absurdly good, and they ate slowly, Nikolai stealing bites off Price's plate under the flimsiest pretenses. At one point Nikolai reached over and thumbed a bit of powdered sugar off the corner of Price's mouth, lingering just slightly longer than the correction required. “Messy.”

"You're one to talk," Price said, nodding at the crumbs on Nikolai's own collar.

"I am a mess. This has never been in question."

"My mess, though."

For the flash of a moment, there was a sadness to Nikolai's smile, there and gone. He covered it with a grin, reaching for his coffee. "Yours. God help you."

They stayed long after the pastries were gone, coffee cups empty, the little shop starting to thin out around them as the sun found it's way to the horizon, soft and warm. Nikolai's foot found Price's under the table at some point. Price didn't move his away.

"This was good," Price said eventually, watching him. "Thank you for bringing me somewhere that's yours."

Nikolai looked at him for a long moment, jaw working in thought. His eyes were soft, almost pained, like he was physically holding up floodgates.

"John, I—" He stopped himself.

"You alright?"

"Da." Nikolai reached across the table, took Price's hand instead of finishing whatever he'd started to say, and pressed it, warm, between both of his. "I'm alright."

Price watched him for a moment, clearly aware something had been swallowed, but he didn't chase it. Like knowing chasing a scared animal would only make it worse. He turned his hand over and laced their fingers.

Later, walking back through streets gone gold with the last of the evening light, Nikolai's hand loose in his, that Price stopped him near a bridge, turned him by the shoulder, the back of his knuckles coming up to his jaw.

"Nikolai."

"Hm?"

"I lo—"

"Don't." It came out too fast, too sharp, and Nikolai winced at his own tone immediately, softened it just as fast. "Don't… Please. Not yet."

Price went still, searching his face. "Alright."

"It's not—" Nikolai exhaled, frustrated with himself. "It's not that I don't. You must know that I— I just—" He shook his head, like the words wouldn't come no matter how he arranged them in his head. "I'm afraid if it is said, it becomes a thing that can be taken away. Right now it just… is” He raised his hands in a vague little gesture. “Quiet. Ours. I don't want to ruin that."

Price studied him a moment, worried brows softening into understanding and nodded. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." Price brushed his thumb along Nikolai's jaw. "Whenever you're ready. I… Well, I'm not going anywhere."

“You will.”

Price huffed a laugh. “Then I want you with me.”

Nikolai felt it in his chest, breath caught just short. There it was again. This thing Price offered, patience, endless and unbothered, that he bestowed upon Nikolai.

Nikolai leaned in and pressed his forehead to Price's, everything said the only way he currently knew how.

"Come," Nikolai murmured eventually. "Walk with me a little longer. I'm not ready to go home yet."

Price smiled and let himself be pulled along. "Lead the way.”

Surrounded by young people who still have hope, not the resigned acceptance he's grown to know with age. Wearing make-up and glitter over their eyelids, carrying expensive drinks and eyeing someone across the room.

He and Nikolai are wearing similar outfits: jeans, a T-shirt, and boots. Nikolai brought a jacket; John accepted that, with the heat, he'd spend the night carrying his, and left it at their flat. He has his wallet in his pocket; Nik has the keys, and he's almost certain they both have a knife tucked into the ankle of their boots.

It's a small gig, some local metal band that's gaining an audience in the area. John's heard better, but back in the day, he heard a lot worse and enjoyed it just as much. A cheap-ish pint does him fine; he'd already had a few before leaving. He refuses to consider it pregaming, which he is certainly too old for.

There are people of all ages in the building, but it's predominantly twenty-somethings, on the younger side of twenty specifically. He's aware of every wrinkle on his face, the grey that's starting to peek in just over his ears, the ache in his knee that has him leaning against a pillar for support.

"Are we too old for this? Is this embarrassing?"

Years together are why John knows the furrow of Nikolai's brows and the twitch of his bottom lip are the man's way of declaring "I think you're an idiot" without voicing it.

"It's embarrassing to think your age can dictate what you enjoy."

Nikolai's hand is warm against John's face when the man turns his head to look at a group lingering by the bar. A group of men and women with black clothes, smudged eye make-up and grey in their hair. Most of them are smiling; two women are bickering with each other, but the shorter of the two has her arm wrapped around the taller woman's waist. It's clearly playful.

They don't look a bit out of place.

"These are dangerous times, when you're getting smarter than I am."