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Simon could write an entire mission report on reasons why John MacTavish’s very presence makes him want to throw a knife right through him. It was one thing that he was the captain’s new protege - Price couldn’t shut up about the kid after overseeing his SAS selection course - but the word from Stirling Lines has it that MacTavish hasn’t met an ass he couldn’t kiss. He’s brash. He could charm a brick wall. He bleeds the Saltire. He has this infuriating habit of honing in on Simon when they’re in the same room and then smiling at him as if Simon’s presence is the highlight of his day. His laugh is the very essence of joy. His eyes are the color of stormy shores off of the coasts up north, and given that Simon can’t stop seeking them out, they’ll be the very reason he gets shot in the field.
Following John’s trail around base, Simon files away this information. Intel he tells himself. Making sure the new sergeant lives up to his reputation. He’s younger than Simon, twenty-six or so, though his scars tell of far more encounters than a soldier that age should know. His hair appears to be that dull brown found on a thousand other heads, but streaks of honey hide within the strands, only visible when the sun hits them just right. A rarity given that the brown locks are confined to a ridiculous fucking mohawk like Soap is trying to play at teenager trying to piss off their parents. He’s stocky, a modern reflection of the Highland warriors of old, but only compared to Simon would anyone call him short. Simon’s lips match up perfectly with his forehead.
The new sergeant of the 141. A joke, honestly. A crude, absurd joke that this cocky kid thought he could waltz into the role of an elite soldier with only course records and a handful of missions behind him. It was practically more absurd than Simon’s complete lack of legal identity that technically makes it so he should never step onto any government property, but that’s not the point.
The point is that Simon is good at keeping people an arm’s length away. He perfected it early in life, years of bitter practice under his belt. He should have no problem spending the rest of his life keeping Soap at a distance.
He doesn't even last a week.