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“MacRiley.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Ravish.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
The longer he thinks on it (the longer Johnny goes on listing horrid mash-ups of their surnames,) the more convinced he becomes that they should just keep their own as is. It would make the streamlining process a hell of a lot easier. (As easy as it can be for a dead man with a high-clearance-only military file to get legally married. Ghost’s paperwork will be a nightmare no matter if his name is changed or not.) Plus it would mean no unnecessary confusement in the field.
Johnny is quick to veto that idea.
“Where’s the romance in that, ye numpty? C’mon. What sounds better, John Riley or Simon MacTavish?”
Ghost actually full body snorts at that one. “They both sound dead weird.”
“Och, ye wound me. There’s no other choice then. Plain ol’ Riley-MacTavish it is. Simon Rhys Riley-MacTavish,” Johnny says his name with such softness that it hurts.
And that one…that one might work. Bit of a mouthful but nobody besides an officiant is ever going to be saying his full name anyway. And Johnny, apparently.
An officiant. With the highest of clearances. At their wedding. Their make-believe wedding.
This is all, of course, a joke. They’re meant to be having a laugh on watch duty while Garrick and Price sleep their dedicated four hours. Simon had maybe forgotten himself and delved a little too deep into the idea. Maybe he forgot this wasn’t a real conversation. Easy to do with electric blue eyes lit by a full moon and a perfect mouth spouting random, sleep deprived nuggets like “What if we got married?”
“Sure. That’s the one,” he says, regretting every single one of his life choices that led him to this moment. They need to stop. Now.
“That’s the one,” Johnny repeats.
Despite it all, his own jaws keep fucking flapping. Soap tends to have that effect on him. Curious, that.
“When I was a little brat,” he’s already second-guessing the confession about to escape his lips, “I used to think I’d make the perfect husband one day. Cause my old man showed me everything not to be.”
He tries to ignore the sharp inhale that Johnny tries to mask with a clearing of his throat.
“You would be. Anyone would be lucky to have ye, Simon. I’d certainly be beside myself,” he says that last part in a mutter, looking off into the dark of the forest.
“Right,” he whispers, sarcasm dripping from the word. He hopes they leave it at that. He thinks they have left it at that, peaceful silence promising until Soap picks it up again within minutes.
“If it weren’t for the military, the task force, would ye marry me?”
“Maybe if you asked nicely.”
“Simon. I’m serious.”
He glances up and, yes, that is Soap’s serious face. He’s staring at him so intently it might burn a hole straight through the hard shell mask and into his skull. Fuck. Fucking hell. What is this? The fuck is going on here?
“I—Johnny, we aren’t…we aren’t together,” he can’t help but ease into it as if he’s breaking the truth to Soap. And yet he phrases it as a question instead of the statement it’s meant to be.
“Ye didnae answer the question proper.”
“You didn’t ask proper,” he quips, agitation rising in his voice. Why can’t Soap just stop this? Can he not see how much it’s hurting him? He’s usually so good about reading him.
Johnny grins evilly and plucks a blade of grass from the ground, quickly tying it off. “Need ye to stand up for a sec.”
“What,” he deadpans.
“Up.”
He stands, ever the obedient dog for John fucking MacTavish.
And John fucking MacTavish stays sat on the ground, switching his position to a kneel right in front of him.
He’s going to throw up.
This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening. He’s in a dream and he’ll wake up screaming and sweating and shaking any second.
“It’s not funny anymore, Soap,” he croaks.
It hurts.
“I’m not laughin’,'' he holds the blade of grass up, haphazardly knotted into a tiny circle. “Simon Rhys Riley, would ye do me the absolute fucking honor of being my husband in all ways except legal? Sir.”
It’s so stupid. It’s pretend—he knows that, but he’s sinking to his knees anyway. “This would make me your fiancé. Not husband.”
“That a yes then?”
Johnny is serious and his smile is blinding. Not for the first time, he’s bloody thankful for having his mask on around this ridiculous man. He’s sure his entire face could rival a tomato.
Maybe it’s not a real proposal but, Simon realizes, it’s real to them. Maybe not so far as a promise, but a wish. A what if.
“We’ll wait a bit, let it marinate. Maybe this’ll turn to gold, aye?” Johnny makes to slip the…ring…onto his finger but hesitates, motioning to the glove covering Simon’s hand. “Can I?”
He nods once and the skelly glove is far too gently pulled off and replaced with another far too gentle glide of grass up his ring finger. It’s the perfect fit. It doesn’t rip, doesn’t fall off when Johnny moves his hand back into his glove. It’s as if that stupid blade of grass was meant for him.
What a stupid thought. A stupid thought for a stupid, lovesick ghost.
They blink at each other, both seeming to be in a daze of their own when something possesses Simon—something unhinged and desperate and absolutely necessary in this moment.
He yanks the mask completely off before surging forward and kissing hard enough to hurt both of their noses and quick enough to leave them both aching for more. Johnny whines pitifully and follows his lips when he pulls back.
“Think we’ve done this all backwards, LT,” Johnny breathes into his mouth, hands coming up to pet his face.
This is everything. Everything. Backwards, frontwards, sideways, he doesn’t give a fuck because Johnny is everything.
“You started it, Sergeant.”
***
Six months and six thousand kisses later, Johnny presents him with a gunmetal black ring. Fucker had it planned from the start.
Engraved on the outside:
Riley-MacTavish
And the inside:
In every way that matters.