#kittyhawk writes

2015 He didn't really understand where Simon's reputation of being cold and aloof came from. He was plenty approachable in John's opinion; sure, he'd never run a mission with him—maybe he was different on the job. But John had watched Simon clearing the kill house several times while waiting for it to be his turn and each time was a treat in his eyes. He was locked in and intense; then again, weren't they all? John knew he was but he also had a competitive streak a mile wide. But Simon's speed and agility was another level—he moved surprisingly light on his feet for his size. It was truly a thing of beauty—John may have had dreams about it once or twice. He certainly hoped to see him in proper action someday. But out at a pub over a pint? Simon was easy to get along with, anybody who said otherwise had never tried talking to him. Unless, John thought, watching Simon turn a cold stare at a group of squaddies behaving like complete tossers, you did whatever they were doing. Perhaps John should have been clued in to his own feelings by the pleased sensation running through him every time some bird walked up to Simon, only to be turned away with a flat stare and a "Not interested, luv". And surely it was pure coincidence when Simon met his eye after these moments; the challenging gleam in his eyes accompanied by this little half-smirk was just a trick of light. And John certainly wasn't filing away every little interaction somewhere in the back of his brain, no. None of this meant anything. It was fine.

A few days, later John sported a new haircut. He'd been due one for a while and had decided to try something different. Personally, he thought the mohawk looked rather fetching—perhaps not quite up to regulations but his sides weren't shaved with grade zero, so he figured it would be close enough to skirt by. "The fuck is that?" Simon said, looking pointedly at the new hair-do, eyebrows raised. "Looks good, doesnae it?" John ran a hand through the strip of longer hair. Simon cast a doubtful look his way. "Ya look like a twat." The corners of his mouth twitched upward, silencing the exclamation of protest bubbling in John's chest. "Makes for a good handle, though." He winked, and set off at a steady jog. Stunned, John hesitated a beat before following, a mental image now planted firmly in his mind. He could almost feel the sting on his scalp thinking about Simon's fingers tangled in his hair— Fucking hell. "Fuck ye," he spluttered when he caught up with Simon's long strides, trying unsuccessfully to will down his traitorous dick. "Like that idea, do ya?" Simon smirked, giving him a sideways glance without slowing down. "Ye're evil," John huffed, falling in stride beside him, "givin' me a fuckin' stauner like tha'." Simon laughed out loud. "I'll make it up to ya, sweet'heart." "Ye better."

John looked wearily out through the hotel window from the seat of his bed, the last bit of adrenaline fading away. He'd been cleared by paramedics after telling him to follow concussion protocol but his head throbbed dully and, even worse, he could still feel the ghost of Zyani's hands dragging him toward the broken window every time he closed his eyes. Could still feel the cold November wind rushing by outside, tugging at his hair, his clothes, just before the Major crumbled to the floor, the back of his skull blown right off. The memory sent a shiver down his spine. He'd never been afraid of heights, hell, John loved climbing, but the thought of stepping closer to the window and looking down currently made his stomach turn over. Simon saved him. Simon would always save him.

After nearly four weeks at SENTA John was ready to go home. It didn't matter that he quite enjoyed the marches through the Brecon Beacons. He missed his husband. Missed watching him putter around the kitchen with Billie Holiday crooning in the background because sometimes Simon loved listening to old-timey jazz and blues and soul, singing along under his breath, which absolutely nobody would believe John if he told anyone. Well, maybe Price and Gaz, but he wouldn't bet on it. Two more days.

"Hey Si," he said, taking in his partner's appearance. "Ye look knackered." "Mhm, been utter shite the past few days. Nothing but FISH and CHIPS but we're headin' back next week. Had a sandstorm blast through the other day and felt like I was a VM again tryin' to get the damn car to start. Wanted to let you know we'll be back in Credenhill by Wednesday, if they don't push it back again." John let out a hollow laugh. "Looks like I'll miss ye by a day. We're being sent to Brunei to," he did air quotes with one hand, "refresh our jungle training. Flyin' out to TUDB airbase on Tuesday." Simon swore quietly under his breath. "Well, that's jus' typical, innit? So, in six weeks, then?" "'Fraid no'," John replied, face twisting with regret. "It's straight to the yanks fer jump training after." "Bollocks." It truly was, if anyone asked John. But, such was military life and they both knew it. They'd make do, they always did. "Have fun with the leeches and mosquitoes, and don't forget to pray before peein' under a tree," Simon said before disconnecting, leaving John more than a bit confused. He hadn't been to Brunei during selection but to Belize, so SEA was a new one. He quickly typed out a message. <Simon, wtf are ye talking about?> [21:51] <Local customs, Johnny. Keep up. FYI, haunted trees are mostly banana and banyan. Interesting bugs there as well. Try not to get bitten.> [21:52] Well, that sounded just lovely. John wasn't sure he wanted to know what, exactly, Simon considered to be "interesting" bugs. Also, what even was a banyan tree and what did it look like?

And if John prayed for the animals not to take his ghillie suit for foliage—and thus for food—while he prayed just as vehemently that the shepherd did then that was between a God he didn't really believe in anymore and himself. He would be lighting a candle next time he came across a Catholic church, though. Just to be safe.

Anger settled deep in Cody's gut. So many of their brothers killed. So many innocent lives taken, both Separatist and Republic. They’d all been pawns. Jedi, clones—all sacrificed for one power-hungry man’s plans. There was no more Republic, only an empire built on blood.