#john soap mactivish fanfiction

[nirmalneaners]

First meeting AU GHOSTSOAP

When Price said he had someone in mind, this isn't exactly what Simon was picturing. The blokes got a mohawk, for Christ's sake. He looks up at Price as this little twat comes prancing up to them. Price gives him a small nod. Trust me, it says. He hasn't really got a choice, he thinks.

"Simon, this is John MacTavish, but everyone calls him Soap," he says, patting John on the back fondly. He's pretty, was Simon's first thought, annoyingly. He's not exactly soft-looking, but Simon is intrigued by how many years of service he has done. He doesn't exactly strike him as a rule follower. He seems the type the drill sergeant would know personally.

"The hell kind of name is Soap?" he asks, unimpressed.

"The name next to yours on the tenancy agreement, if ye a little sweeter, darlin'," he says, winking. Simon frowns. Price has always liked a quick mouth to challenge him; it's no wonder why he likes Johnny. He's a cocky bastard; he can tell already. Typical bloody Scotts, that is.

"Sugar doesn't just fall from the cane," he says.

Soap laughs loud and bright, and it drowns out the chatter of the hall. He smiles with his whole face—an expressive sort, he decides. Nice teeth, too. A little too nice, like maybe he gets them whitened or uses those fancy toothpastes. He elbows Price and says, "Ye didn't tell me old Riley was a jokester, ye old sod."

Price snorts, "That was a joke?"

"A shite one, but ye are English," he shrugs. "I Cannae be expecting first class."

"I'm already regretting introducing you two," he sighs, but his lips are twitching. He pats Simon on the shoulder as he leaves them and says, "I'm off before my own humour is compromised. The meeting starts in 5, boys."

Simon grits his teeth. He's not in a great mood today. He doesn't like these meetings, and he's in pain. He hasn't got a choice about coming, though; after all, he can't get himself anywhere with a broken arm, and he can't stay back at Prices on his own.

"The wheels permanent, then?" Soap asks. Simon looks up at him, shocked. Not many people ask about the wheelchair and even fewer acknowledge it. Brazen little basterd he is, indeed. Soap isn't looking at him, and Simon doesn't know if he's not looking on purpose, but he finds he appreciates it either way.

"No," he says, a little bit defensively. He watches Soap, and he doesn't really know why, but he adds, "Knee got smashed up, so I had surgery to put it back together, but now I'm wishing I just let them cut the bloody thing off when they wanted to and be done with it. Stuck in this chair for another few months or so."

Soap nods and simply says, "Shite, that."

He's not actually told anyone that before, and he doesn't know why he told him of all people. He takes a deep breath. It doesn't feel good, per se. But he feels lighter. He watches with a grimace as Price starts rallying people to sit in the circle, and he knows it won't be long until he's wheeled closer. Even if he's stubborn enough not to talk, Price likes him at least somewhat involved.

"Ye know, ye don't really strike me as a chatty Cathy, Si." Soap says, and Simon scoffs meanly. Soap crouches down a little and gets close—real close. He has a glint in his eyes, and Simon must be desperate because he finds himself intrigued. This bloke is the closest he's come to a touch of danger since the field. "Do ye reckon Price would notice if we fucked off to the pub down the road for a bit? Promise to get ye back to ye Daddy at a reasonable hour,"

He hasn't had a pint in so long. He's not meant to, considering his medication, and he hasn't left Prices sight since he came out of hospital some months ago. He's been doing so much lately that he hasn't wanted to do, and as he looks at Soap, he goes a little bit feral at the sight of the freedom he offers.

He looks over at Price. He's talking to someone. Busy, as usual. He answers without giving himself a moment to properly think it through. "No, I reckon not."

"Well, Hot Wheels, let's get out of here before the old boy slaps our wrists," he grins.

Simon has to suppress his own as he's wheeled out of the hall. Perhaps the Scottish basterd isn't so bad after all.

"Drinks are on you though, Johnny. Daddy has all the money." 

Soap makes a noise as they head out down the ramp. It sounds conflicted. "Johnny?"

He smiles to himself. "Problem?"

There's a long pause before he finally snorts. "Nae, nae. But if I hear anyone else say that name tonight I'll be usin' ye to run 'em over. Deal?"

"Deal."

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[nirmalneaners]

Idk who needs this right now but I got a soapghost fic in the works...

AO3: Soundsgaytbh - Profile | Archive of Our Own

lil snippet>>

It's only later, when Gaz left in the Uber, that the flat is peaceful again. Simon takes his time stacking up the dirty plates and cups, brushing crumbs up into one of the empty snack bowls. A door down the hall creaks open. Soap slips out of his bedroom, his hair out of sorts, and a red flush to his skin. They disappeared a while ago. There's a small mark on his neck, but Simon decides not to comment on it. Soap is an oversharer at the best of times, and he really doesn't want to know.

"She's a right bonny lass, don't you think?" He asks, and he sounds smitten as he collects up the leftover snacks and the little bowl of olives. Soaps olives—the ones Simon went out this morning and bought especially for tonight. He doesn't think much of her personally, but he keeps this to himself. He hums as he picks up the last glass, his leg twinging a little in protest.

"I think if you give it more time, the two of ye will really get on Si," he says, smiling. He looks hopeful. Maybe he actually believes that.

"Right," he mutters. He still feels distant. Out of sorts with himself. He starts walking slowly to the kitchen, his gait a little bit more uneven as he balances the stack. Soap is right behind him, like always.