ARCHIVED STUFF.

@asocialconduct asked: " there's no redemption for the likes of you. " from davy jones.

hollow stare is cast, like a curse, in the captain's direction. but the other knows of azrael's power — just as he knows of his purpose. and this tale of spectre manifesting on corroding ship, infested to its very core by the sea's touch, to warn jones of his spiteful relinquishment of responsibility is growing old. the souls of those lost within the vastness of the ocean are not simon's to guide. an agreement between jones and calypso.

not necessarily his business, though the rot and loss of these souls draws him in, nevertheless. distracting him from his tasks on land. he's upsetting the balance, earning the disdain of forces he knows nothing of. it's evident from the captain's tone that he feels resentment towards him. apparently heartlessness equates to amplified ego. something has to fill the void, naturally. maybe on some level, simon can relate. " you reckon i do this f' redemption? " an equally dry question returned. as though he'd agreed to this immense demand and tiresome tirade of aiding lost souls to feel better about his past. there is no aiding his own soul.

          " the dead make f' better company than the likes'a you, " a monotonous retort, " and most others, for that matter. you might have no heart, jones, but you talk too bloody much t' be a dead man. " around them, the sea rumbles — nature's scolding, and for a beat he wonders whether it speaks on behalf of calypso herself. agreeing with the ghost. rounded shoulders turn, flowing cape not catching the wind that instead ripples and thrashes torn sails. like he's not really there.

if not for redemption, then what? average man bestowed supernatural power. dead man... marked with tragedy and horrors. unearthly, they stand, two former men. he questions how they might be described, now. monsters, myths, legends, nightmarish in their appearance and acts — though equally they share an indifference that plagues each in their own ways. azrael is infested with objectivity. a detachment so severe that it causes accursed tentacles to curl and flick restlessly, envious. and jones, a loathing so intense that he could collapse the sea in on its very self.

he loathes that he cannot possess the same neutrality as the other. that, no matter how he tells himself he doesn't care, it merely makes it seem that he does. his callous acts of slaughter achieving nothing more than to exaggerate how out of control he feels. yet, he cannot stop himself. he recalls how he too had once agreed to a mystical responsibility. solely for love... and what a pathetic, pitiful pursuit that'd turned out to be. thus, the souls of those whom had died at sea remain as such. displaced, disconnected, like him. a bitter and spiteful result to his bleeding heart.

words provoke a terrible sneer, eye contact held defiantly despite his sincere lack of power, here. " ah — a mistake, then. for i am certainly no man. " as though to emphasise his point, tentacles writhe furiously and his claw clenches shut — emitting an audible creak. you're disappointing your lady, after all. expression falters, shock breaking the hostile façade. a scowl is swift to conceal it. he knows the reaper knows. a secret recognised only among those equally as mysterious. it agitates him no less, however.

dudley makes a run for the hunter and clings to him like a terrified child, prompting a frustrated snarl from her. step back, outlaw. " no, no, no! " mara seethes, tensing as muzzle is pointed in her direction. she's not afraid — far from it, but her death means the ultimate failure in her justice and she won't stand for it. beside her, dudley rambles pathetically, encouraging him to shoot. " shut it! " she warns him, stiffening when the gun shifts to remind her. who's to say i'm not crazier than her? she observes the twist, the distressed drop in her target's expression and the concern in her brow relaxes into something more akin to relief.

is he seriously helping her? the following compliments flow like blood straight into her veins and her stance strengthens. perhaps this hunter isn't such a pain in the ass, after all. it's when the gun is redirected at dudley that mara's whole body almost collapses, the sheer strain she'd been under holding as still as she had been surprising her. when she's given the go-ahead to ask her questions, she considers him. this isn't safe to discuss in front of him, but after everything — she can't just tell him to leave. not that he will, either. he's already made that perfectly clear. " your lips are sealed, " mara all but orders, pointing at the other.

          " let's try this again, mr dudley — seeing as you now understand i have support throughout the town, should i need it. " she doesn't; the bounty hunter is the only one she knows but she's not going to confess to that. give him another chance to exploit her. " i wanna know where they are. i know you know, and if you don't tell me things are going to start getting real painful for you. " a hand clutches at his hair and yanks it taut, snatching a gasp and shout from the man. " enough fucking around. you tell me, or i take your scalp. " attempting to ignore ghost's presence, mara lays her threats on thick and it gets dudley to start near-bawling.

his lips are absolutely sealed. her curt order leaves him breathless and he watches closely as mara regains her confidence. he ponders silently on who might've pissed her off to such a high degree. who is she hunting? and he likes to think about her that way. stalking someone. tracking them down. like a wild cat crouched low within the bushes. except mara doesn't strike him as someone with such patience. she's more like a whirlwind, destroying everything in her path. simon wets his lips behind his mask.

you tell me, or i take your scalp. he swallows thickly, observing the scene unfold before him. dudley dares to cast him a pleading glance and all he offers in return is a mere shrug. it's all someone like him deserves, spreading false rumours about strong women. he listens closely as their hostage spills his secrets. curiosity sits heavy on his chest, making it difficult to draw in air. he wants to be involved. he's not sure why, why he can't just leave it alone and let mara be, but he knows he needs to be involved with whatever she's dealing with.

their gazes meet and he shifts, his own flicking down upon catching the glint of her blade. not that he intends to but before he has a chance to discourage her, blood sprays from dudley's throat and he starts to choke and splutter. he releases him, allowing dying form to writhe to its end. mara leaves him in place and for a beat he's trapped in a trance. she just murderer someone in front of him. can't tell if he likes that she seems to know he won't turn her in.

we're not outta this yet. tongue presses to the inside of her cheek in a childish manner, glum and pondering. he's arrogant, she concludes. not like it's new information. she'd known this about ghost for years. it's why she's so drawn to him — how matter-of-fact he is with her. no one, but max, had ever been this blunt with her. tells it how it is. even her uncle had neglected to be upfront with her, and it'd gotten him killed. she finds safety in the cutting candour.

          " don't call me an ass-kisser, " mara complains, folding her arms over her chest. she's merely told to step aside however, and when she does — ghost goes to town kicking the door from its frame. " jesús, " mara mutters to herself. were she perhaps more mature she'd appreciate the gravity of his strength and how it signified how much he was holding back with her. inside, the farmer guards his corner with a farming fork and mara holds her position outside as lookout whilst simon interrogates the man. " we can use that fork if he doesn't talk, " she suggests nonchalantly.

she listens as he asks his questions, pausing to look back to her companion at the mention of payment. that's not good. ghost meets her gaze and her arms drop to her sides. " maybe we can come to an agreement, " she proposes as he exits and approaches her, " don't be such an ass and maybe i'll be more inclined to listen. " she's not lying, either.

an agreement. he scoffs. " guns are an asset, " ghost states bluntly, " i don't use 'em for every challenge. sometimes, this job calls f' tactility. unleashin' you 'ent the right choice here, trust me. " a shake of his head. her words speak to him, and he sympathises. of course he does. he's a compassionate individual beneath it all. but he'd had to earn his place, once upon a time. always belittled, always put down. [ pathetic little simon, incapable and useless. ] how he'd grown, since then. teeth grit and he turns on her.

          " if you wanna make yourself useful, stop gettin' in the way of our survival. this isn't some sorta trainin' for ya to fuck about and walk out of unscathed. these people catch you, they'll ruin your day. and i won't be held responsible. " a skeletal finger points at her as he addresses her. " when it comes to teamwork, you apply and withdraw yourself as much as your teammates need you to. you sense it, you read the room. i don't know what your folks tell you in america, but where i'm from you learn as you go, and what you learn is — don't fuck up. "

the spectre hangs in the air, a lingering mass. transparent, he remains in his ghostly form — for lack of trust. there is worse to see than this. " you need t' tell me who, " he says, voice hoarse. he's sure, in his corporeal form, there must be cobwebs in his throat. an insect-ridden corpse. " who sent you t' kill me? " an individual wholly aware of the consequences of putting a hit on a man who cannot die. someone thinks this bloke a terrible fool. a target for their entertainment, or loathing. sounds like perhaps he has enemies. don't they all?

@girlinfect asked: " are you a ghost? "

as he rests his eyes, the gloom sets in. he feels it, cold at his shoulders, gnawing at his jawbone. he isn't the only undead here. senses their rot; his mind is cast back to mexico. his breathing grows shallow, his throat tightening. plant some flowers. no! please no! each shovel of dirt weighs heavy on his torso. he's breathing it in, he fears. feels it filling his lungs, feels the bugs crawling on him and the creak of stimulated maggots. they want him. starving, they feast below — feels them on him. a horrified sound leaves him as he watches the skin peel from his corpse and ribcage extend into view. retches when his organs slip out of place and — simon startles awake, gasping and choking as he frantically pats his chest and stomach down.

it wasn't real... he says nothing as he catches his breath, staring down at his covered lower half. gear-clad, it's not necessarily proof he's fine. it's just out of sight, and so out of mind. the spectre sits upright, self-soothing as hands brace his forearms and stroke lightly. are you a ghost? swallowing, he turns to look at her.

then why are you still here? a vitriolic huff is given through his nose. he doesn't have to answer him. he's not asking as his superior, he's asking as someone else in the room with him. he's here because he wants to be. because he's chosen to be here. perhaps part of him seeks this antagonism. in a world where he doesn't feel welcome or wanted, maybe it's easier for gary to be outright told he isn't.

everyone feigns it — of course we want you around. but the social cues don't match. hasn't ever considered that it could be more to do with the fact that he inadvertently brings the energy down. sharp, cutting, precise, in all the ways inappropriate to the moment. the military had certainly cultivated him to find social events outside of it immensely complex, but then... that'd always been an issue for him regardless, hadn't it? " what are you tip toeing around it for? " the sergeant bites, finally meeting his eyes.

he regrets it instantly, feels as though he might combust under the intensity of ghost's gaze. then again, his own can't be that comfortable. " tell me to piss off if it's bothering you that much. " another challenge. there's no saying he'll listen, even if he does. but there's also no reason for his lieutenant to be holding off on him, biting his tongue. " seems like no one can just say what they bloody mean. "

the cutting confrontation is sudden, and a bead of sweat drips down his concealed forehead. why is this verging on stressful? like he's been put under a spotlight and an answer is expected of him. a solution. tell me to piss off. it's another direct challenge. [ go ahead, simon. tell him. you're better off alone, you know this. ] ghost goads him and roach is all but begging for blunt honesty. yet, simon maintains his composure and remains reserved. he won't succumb to it. he can overcome anything.

however, it's the final jab that has him crumbling, pointing an gloveless finger. " you want me t' say what i mean? " brows lift, somewhat surprised by his accusation. typically, people prefer the opposite. simon draws in a deep breath. " you wanna know why no one tells you the bloody truth, sanderson? it's because you're actin' like a soddin' kid. throwing your weight around, bitching about this 'n' that — you're bein' a brat and no one wants t' deal with it. " admittedly, it feels good to get off his chest in the isolation of this small room.

this outlaw causing you trouble, mate? mara's head whips around to see red-masked problem leaning nonchalant against the saloon's outside wall and she bares her teeth furiously. " i thought i told you — " please! there's something wrong with this woman! her target wails, attempting to clamber upright and flee to ghost's side. mara blocks his path, conscious of the other's own weapon behind her, thus she tries to maintain her peripheral on him. she offered me her time and i rejected her, now she won't leave me alone!

an outrageous claim made by the man, mara finds herself enraged and unable to do anything about it. " pendejo! that's a fucking lie! " she snarls, pointing a finger at him. why is she mortified by such a falsehood? she knows it's not true, and typically wouldn't give two shits about what anyone else might think as long as she gets what she's looking for. however, perhaps part of her, something she'll wholeheartedly deny, does care what ghost thinks. will this impact how he views her? how he interacts with her. does he even believe it?

          " only help he's gonna need is when i'm finished with him for lying. isn't that right? " the man shoots her a glare, expression shifting back to one of fear when she narrows her eyes at him. " mr dudley here has it all wrong, friend. this is just a conversation, no need for you to intervene. i'm sure he appreciates your concern but you can move along now. " she knows ghost sees straight through her, and seems incapable of keeping himself from getting involved, but she desperately tries nonetheless.

the man's wails draw a grimace onto his features. how embarrassing, for him to become so worked up due to a lady's stern gaze and words. what ghost wouldn't give to be the receiver instead. his following accusation wipes his expression into something rotten. a furious disgust. to hear him belittle this woman in such a degrading way... to imply she'd ever go after the likes of this individual. that's a fucking lie! mara's voice raises above what he's familiar with and it strikes him. he steps away from the wall. she's agitated, and therefore he's agitated. who does this bloke reckon he is?

mr dudley here... well, if mr dudley isn't the nicest of fellas. grits his teeth behind his mask and even debates agreeing to her heavy suggestion — that he should leave her be and let her achieve what she needs to. yet, ghost can't overcome her energy. it matches his own, something that's immeasurably uncommon. wants to see it in action, further. he sucks in a breath when she shoots a look at him, though is surprised when mr dudley bolts for him, clutching onto his right arm like a desperate child. you have to help me! she's crazy! simon focuses on mara's following stare. it bleeds impatience, but under the cold surface he sees her ultimate request. " crazy? " simon repeats, tilting his head to side-eye dudley. " sounds terrible. "

he plays it off cool, like he's considering aiding the oblivious man out of his troubling predicament. " step back, outlaw, " he calls to mara, grasping his holstered gun and bringing it up. by now, dudley is goading. pleading and urging for him to take the shot. to put her down, as he'd said it. and simon finds him to be entirely too comfortable. " i hear ya, mr dudley. thing is, you turned t' my help when you don't even know me. " dudley's expression falls into something of deep concern. " i mean — who's t' say i'm not crazier than her? "

din rasps, inconvenienced by the other's words. " business? what business? " what's all this business that's going on that he knows nothing about? as a bounty hunter, it admittedly doesn't look good. then again, he'd never been one to read his surroundings, save for in the form of legitimate calculations, estimations and general readings. ghost doesn't respond however, and pushes forward to pass him, forcing din to shift the kid's pod aside to avoid it being knocked around. frustrated, the mandalorian pursues him. " simon. " ignored.

he huffs, picking up his pace to keep up with the other only to slow as he reaches the doors, noting his company digging into exposed neck for proof of death. halting sharply, a hand snaps to his wrist and he closes the pod so the kid can't see any gory details. or just you, din? he shifts, leaning lightly against the doorframe. he must be getting somewhere, if simon's taking this tone with him. not wanting to antagonise him further, he opts to keep his lips sealed — instead letting ghost concentrate. the head squelches as it disappears into the sack and he subconsciously grimaces behind his visor.

yeh. alright. he tries not to wilt under the other's stare, a relieved smile on his features at the agreement. the following threat earns a vague chuckle, and he rolls his eyes to himself. " sure. what you say goes — within reason, " he specifies. " i need your help, yes, but don't get cocky. maybe there's something i can help you with, in return. so that we're even. " not that he necessarily wants to help ghost with anything, knowing exactly what kind of work he gets up to, but if it means the hunter can't hold this over his head for the rest of his days... " we can talk in the ship. follow me. "

ghost scoffs, shaking his head. " what d' you reckon you could help me with? " is he insinuating he needs help? that whatever he needs to do, he needs din to hold his hand along the way? another scoff. " let's not be runnin' with even. if i'm doin' this, it's because i agreed. end'a story — none of this owing business. " we can talk in the ship. yes, the razor crest. din's renowned hunk of junk. a smirk touches his lips at the thought.

he supposes it's admirable, if he really ponders on it long enough. the fact that the mandalorian finds refuge in such a ship explains his dedication to the kid ghost had yet to be properly introduced to. he needed to find other mandalorians, to find information on where the littlen's species might reside. in all his years of travelling, he'd never encountered anything like it. but he does know of someone who might be able to help him. " i do, " he answers. business he needs to get on with. anything specific?

          " thought i told you t' leave it alone. said you were busy, yet you seem keen t' follow any and every distract that passes ya. " or he wants to spend time with him — something ghost hadn't considered in the slightest. despite them being on decent terms these days, he's still very much a loner. wants nothing less than to be stuck on a ship with another, let alone a ship that isn't his. " if i tell ya, will you quit pesterin'? "

@girlinfect asked: " it's bad, you shouldn't swear, it's wrong. "

there's only one route out, down an alley, through the door they'd finally come to. it's extremely risky, and the last thing he wants to do is lead her into it. " shit. " there's something morbidly amusing about her words. out of all the horrifying, scarring, abominable things to experience, she's holding him accountable for swearing. it's wrong. on the streets, the dead are feasting upon both corpses and the unfortunate living. men and women alike are pilfering, murdering and more. and that's on top of what he already knows about the city's grimy underbelly. the corruption...

it's why he's here, after all. a devastating virus sought after by some of the world's most despicable humans. " yeh, you're right, 's not good. i'll try not to. " god forbid she pick up a bad habit, after having taken a life not too long ago... simon swallows, faced with the alley. there's no chance sherry's going ahead, and he's not comfortable keeping her behind him, either. at least, should someone come up from behind — he'll tank the first hit. and if someone approaches from the end of the path, he'll have time to aim his pistol.

sometimes to save oneself, you must be ruined in the process. this is what ghost is familiar with. it took the total and absolute death of him to finally feel alive. a terrible end that'd led to a certainty he'd never been able to experience in life. choices have consequences, he knows better than anyone. but with ruin, with disaster, tragedy, comes rebirth. or, in his case, the after life. stuck in his purgatory, he yearns for finality. but, not for sherry. hence why his actions display a level of control.

when wide eyes peer up at him, simon's stomach tightens and churns. she's almost as pathetic as you were, lad. an urge in him rises, to tell her to knock it off. to wipe that look off her face. get over it. it's difficult for him to look at, recognising such similarity between his younger self and her. except he well and truly had been alone. she's got no idea how bloody lucky she is, simon. we should show her.

sherry takes the knife out of his hold and it snatches him from within his own head. it silences the oppressive voice, swallows up any doubt that were she alone, she'd have no hope of surviving. it lifts the pressure off of him somewhat, and soothes the simmering child in him. he should know that throwing another into the deep end when they can't swim isn't a viable method of teaching. then again, history is doomed to repeat itself. suddenly, arms encircle him and everything feels far too claustrophobic. he comes close to automatically shoving her away, an immediate defence mechanism he struggles to resist. " careful, " comes out taut and rasped, conscious of the blade she wields. am i in trouble? simon swallows, followed by a soft exhale. " trouble? " head angles to look at her. " why would you be in trouble? "

skeletal hands navigate to her shoulders, tugging gently to remove her from his form as he presses the tip of his index finger to her collarbone. " you did exactly what i would'a done. that bloke weren't right. he would'a tried t' hurt us. you kept us safe, sherry. i couldn't be prouder. " if this is what it took to keep a child protected, so be it. even if it meant, were they to survive this, her committing atrocities in the future because of how scarred and psychologically fucked she'd become because of him, because of what he'd allowed her to see, the things she'd done... simon wishes he'd have had the nerve to do something about his father much sooner than he did. wishes he'd had the know-how. even if it'd landed him in prison.

oddly, this isn't the first time she's done this. watched the man rest, observed him unconscious. except this that this time around, zita's wholly aware of the threat he poses. widely respected and feared, simon had clearly worked hard to build himself back up — after what roba had done to him. and how ironic now that, despite all those years ago she'd vehemently denied any and all similarities between the near-corpse of a man and her father, she finds herself picturing him in this moment and not ghost.

she blinks rapidly, pulling lower lip thoughtfully between teeth. it'd been a year since they'd reunited. they'd talked a whole lot since, catching up on finer details. simon had been less than pleased to hear of her ventures, further disenchanted to learn that her inspiration had been him. nevertheless, zita's not eighteen anymore. fact is, she can do as she damn well pleases. an effort is made to maintain the peaceful silence, a luxury hard to come by in las almas, having gained entry over the garden wall and entered through the back — knowing simon had trapped and blocked off all possible front entrances.

the assassin opts for busying herself by making tea. there's no milk, but she's sure he'll appreciate it regardless. he'd always liked her tea, back when they'd first met. as she draws near and places the mug on the table, simon stirs from his slumber and she stills. overslept... he grunts, and zita runs her tongue across the top row of her teeth to keep from smirking, oblivious to the gaiter still covering her face. " i didn't want to wake you, " she shrugs. but he scolds her, expresses frustration at their lack of progress. " it's no big deal, simon, " zita insists, arching a brow when his gaze lands on her features.

momentarily confused, it takes no more than a few seconds for her to realise what he's looking at and tugs the face covering down. " better? you know, you have one on too. " her jest goes unappreciated. you look shattered. " i'm fine. i've been busy... " does she really look that exhausted? damn. figured she'd been doing a decent job of hiding it thus far. las almas is a lot for her, a lot more extreme and unforgiving than what she's familiar with. it reminds her of the zaragoza cartel... wonders if simon's experiencing a similar brain fog from it. doesn't ask.

i'll rest when i'm dead. lips curl disapprovingly, hidden by his mask, but he makes it clear with a curt huff through gritted teeth. " don't say shit like that, " he scolds quietly, sitting up to stretch his back. her shrug earns a shake of his head. the fact that she's pushing to continue the job makes him uneasy. he'd promised himself he'd listen to that gut instinct in the future, or at the very least prepare for the potential carnage that follows ignoring it, given what he'd suffered the last time he'd set his concerns aside.

in this circumstance, zita's life is in danger. if her loyalty to the cia is discovered, or her connection with a special forces operator, she won't survive the consequences. it's making him more protective than usual. " not stopping you from doin' your job. just hold off a little longer. " he's not going to shift, either. knows exactly how detrimental a lack of sleep can be. she could unintentionally screw over both of them, should she fuck up due to tiredness. " you know what your padrino would say, don't ya? " a gloved palm is rubbed across skull-textured forehead and he sighs.

          " don't be bloody silly, zee. a couple'a hours. come on. " simon even rises to his feet, gesturing at the seat he'd been occupying — take it. " you see much out there? " zita had spent the last month or so, since price had discovered the las almas cartel's involvement in hassan zayani's criminal efforts, getting acquainted with the cartel. and most importantly, seeking intel on its leader — el sin nombre.

the templar scoffs and he recoils, offended, shaking helmeted head. " impractical? " on the contrary, his 'get-up' has served him well. effective. without it, he'd surely be dead. if not in the past, then certainly at the hands of the dark covenant — upon them learning of his departure. an insensitive retort sits on his tongue, about how simon's get-up had failed to protect him from templar's blade. still has the stab wound to emphasise his point, he's sure. the nerve.

          " bah, i am certain you are well acquainted with the word, as a briton. " a light-hearted jab, still perhaps inappropriate given how recent their truce had been established. but édouard has never been one for being a bore in the face of tension. besides, it's just as snide as ghost's remark. " do you talk to all of your allies this way? " a concealed brow arches. " it is no wonder the five knights maintained such power over you. " such disrespect wasn't tolerated in his previous position. he is no dog to be called or commanded. " i will sit, " édouard states, lowering himself onto the bench opposite the lieutenant, " but only because i want to. "

we can't navigate our next steps until we're on the same page. he huffs in an attempt to make his discontent evident. it'd be foolish for either of them to assume they could ever, truly and wholeheartedly, be on the same page. then again, he recognises simon is being proactive. idealism over realism — something he supposes he can get behind. if only he didn't know that, without all of this fuss, he'd be well on his way to sophia by now.

eyes inadvertently roll at his jab. fucking frog. the second remark has his teeth grinding subconsciously. " the five knights maintained power 'cause they had a wall built around 'em. hard t' fight those in hidin'. " templar couldn't be making more erroneous assumptions if he tried — although simon suspects this is all part of his cocky intimidation tactics. even as allies, temporarily or not, he should work towards expecting exactly this from the other. lifted chin, puffed chest, solid stare. behaves like he's a lord.

what he'd give to make the man's tone waver a little, to pull the rug from under him and shock him. even when he'd finally managed to defeat him, with templar on his knees and wholly vulnerable to death, he'd shown no real fear nor panic. no concern for pain or suffering. perhaps he'd trusted ghost to make it quick, to honour a fellow warrior with a warrior's death. simon sneers. édouard deserves no such thing — and they are nothing alike. we will discuss decorum, first.

          " what? " a frustrated huff threatens to leave him and he barely contains it. the five knights had certainly amped templar's self-importance up. then again, he supposes this is the legitimate, soldier-side of the other talking — knows his rights. " you get that without us, you've got no one, don't ya? " ghost reminds him venomously. " you go public about any'a this, 'n' you'll be hunted down. easy-peasy. " eyes narrow as he stares back at him. " your rights, in this moment, are a privilege. you 'ent got any power, édouard. so you're gonna take what you're given. understand? "

the silence hangs between them, before she suddenly brightens, a spark of excitement lighting up her expression. " what if we had a team name? " she suggests eagerly, her enthusiasm bubbling to the surface.

as skeletal hands reach the top of the ladder, he pauses. sherry resides close to him — so close in fact that he can't actually climb up onto the next level without knocking her to the floor. he glances over his shoulder, ensuring nothing is creeping up on him. a hint of a smile quirks his lips at the question and he turns back to look at her. what if we had a team name?

simon huffs in amusement, shaking his head. at least she's managing to keep herself distracted. sherry doesn't have to manifest her own protector, like simon did as a child — and as a grown man, because she has him. " could ya step back? " he requests, gesturing to the space between them. when she does, he hauls himself up and to his feet with a strained grunt. another scan around. " team name? " ghost looks down at her and hums thoughtfully.

he's discovered on accident. like a bear slumbering in its den, or perhaps more fittingly — a sleeping guard dog. it's her safehouse and yet she feels like the intruder. even, for a moment, considers closing the door and feigning ignorance. that is until she notices he's awake. mara swallows, uncertain of what might come of this interaction as she crosses the threshold, immediately folding arms over chest — closing herself off. " better not have broken anything, on your way in. " a nonchalant threat, for the situation. however, she's stumbled across ghost occupying her place more times than she can remember at this point.

he's a welcome guest — her only guest. how he gains entry is of no major consequence. if anything, it undeniably exhilarates her, knowing when she's sought out, it's due to him wanting and / or needing her company. brows furrow when he gives a subdued response. no jokes, no comments on her security setup. he sounds fucking terrible. " you injured? " had he come from an altercation? was there a pool of blood waiting to be discovered beneath him? concern reveals itself in odd forms, and such rings specifically true for mara, as her body language becomes more agitated and impatient. his answer is a meagre no. she loathes the uncertainty that creeps into her bones.

he doesn't look good, either. beaten down, curling in on himself — pathetic, really. and she feels almost as pathetic, worrying about him. gradually, it becomes evident that this is not something she's going to have much if any control over. tongue presses to her cheek, averting her gaze to the window. " you don't sound like yourself. " and that, slowly but surely, lures out some information. almost lost a teammate. she's not sure what to say. lips are taut as she looks back to him, debating her next move. it's not the first time he'd been vulnerable, in front of her. nor the second, or third. mara had seen simon at his worst, witnessed his darkness as well as his light. still, she remains unsure. couldn't go home...

she tells him to move over and he does, on command. creates sufficient space for her, his stare upwards hardening as mara settles beside him. it's all too much. everything's been deadened and it's still overwhelming. he's mentally cut himself off. is of no risk to her in this state. it's like he's sedated, unable to truly process his surroundings. he doesn't even notice the hand in his until the light pressure of her thumb on his knuckles creates friction — and thus, energy. like pin pricks up his forearm, he senses her presence. feels a little more alive than he did previously.

simon swallows, drawing in a breath and then exhales steadily. i got you, pana. " don't know what t' do. " ultimately, he thinks this is worse. a near miss. johnny's alive, his life hanging in the balance. he's going to have to face it, sooner or later. something he hadn't had to do with his family. he can't move on from this, with his head down and it compartmentalised. he can't bury himself in his work. he's not asking for guidance, either. it's a rhetorical statement. as minutes pass and mara's energy continues to radiate through him, he finds his hidden expression softens. he's damn tired. skeletal hand tightens around her own. this is nice, is the sentiment behind it. perhaps traces of desperation — please stay.

mara scoffs at his suggestion. the nerve of this cowboy — red-faced for all the wrong reasons, she yearns to humiliate him. to knock him off his high horse. he stands like he owns the saloon, like everyone here is a paid extra engaging in fake conversation solely for him to run his feeble rodeo. she's not buying it. " so, suddenly you wanna team up, " it's not phrased as a question, but more a cynical scrutiny. " what, not enough outlaws for you t' corral, pendejo? " her gaze has since shifted forward again, elbows pressing firmly into the railing — to the point of causing herself discomfort.

          " what did he pay you? huh? the sheriff. what did he pay for my arrest? " money that could've been better spent, she's sure. makes assumptions about him, that something secured through getting her locked up likely provided him with a night or two of some relatively unimpressive women and perhaps a meal or a bottle of whiskey. " if you fancied yourself as my confidant, you shouldn't have spent that money. " brows almost cut into the bridge of her nose, stare fixed on the door. at this rate, she's going to miss the piece of shit she's looking for. " you'll have no eyes if you keep bothering me. "

a direct threat, though she's not blessed with the time to see it through as the door swings open and in strolls her target. " perfecto, " mara mutters through gritted teeth, pushing off of the railing to saunter past her current company. a single glare is shot back at him. " don't follow me. " she carries herself like a hawk, down the steps and over to the table her guy had seated himself at. when her palms press flat to its surface and she looms beside him, he grows visibly distraught. no, no, no, not you! " ah, ah, ah — take it easy, friend. i want no trouble. " trouble is all you want, he disagrees, shifting to stand but mara catches his wrist and halts him. " i'll snap this clean in half, " she hisses under her breath, bending it at an angle that prompts him to wholly comply.

her attitude is fiery. she's brazen, unlike anyone else he knows. thinks if his fingertips were to graze bare flesh he himself might burst into flames. it's undoubtedly why he's pushing boundaries. hopes she'll sear him. " plenty, " he replies curtly, " just givin' 'em a head start. need somethin' to occupy me in the meantime. " it comes across as more coarse than intended but he supposes it won't matter. concludes that no matter how playful or nonchalant he attempts to come across, she'll merely perceive it as an attack. it's a challenge indeed, but he came prepared.

          " figured i'd — " he's interrupted by her, snake-like fangs exposed and dripping with venom... what did he pay for my arrest? he doesn't necessarily want to offend her, by naming a price. largely because it'd certainly been more than the average outlaw, but equally not enough for what he deemed her to be worth — priceless. good fucking luck finding someone like her among the usual slimy, untrained and foul-breathed outlaws. you shouldn't have spent that money. debates telling her that he didn't. that he'd given it away to those who'd needed it more than him. selfless simon... as much as his conscience fights to disagree.

mara is flying too fast for him, however. her aggressive verbiage fires relentlessly, preventing him from getting a word it. or maybe he just doesn't want to. it's not hard to overpower a woman. he could shut her up if he really wanted to. most men wouldn't think twice. simon huffs at the threat she gives, though she gives him no time to retort before she's rounding him and approaching the stairs, departing. don't follow me. it's far too enticing of a warning. a promise? doesn't matter. all he knows, as he watches her strike utter terror into a grown man, is that he has to know more. her target's arm is pinned roughly behind him and ghost remains in place, watching as she manoeuvres the bloke out of the saloon. the hunter doesn't hesitate. he's down the stairs in a matter of seconds and pushing through the doors in pursuit of her.

what are you up to? who are you looking for?

minding my business. the temptation to roll his eyes sits heavy on his features and it takes impressive resolve to keep his expression set in place. it's something about how ghost addresses him. it triggers an urge to respond a certain way. competitive? defensive? it's hard to say. he's not some insufficient child playing soldier. in actual fact, he's sure he's not all that much younger than his lieutenant. but something about his tone makes him want to not only prove himself — he wants to floor the other. have him tight-lipped and regretful for his smugness.

he's knows both from experience and discernment that the lieutenant fancies himself as the all-seeing, all-knowing and driving force of every and any team he's a part of. you need me, i don't need you. will remain obnoxiously ignorant to how similar they are in that regard. maybe that's why they're clashing. it doesn't matter all that much to him, to understand or cultivate a definitive reason. as long as ghost doesn't try and sabotage his time within the 141. well, if price isn't around it can wait. he's not about to stalk the halls in search of his captain — like a lonely child seeking affirmation from his teachers.

          " thinking, you say, " gary notes, pressing his tongue into the roof of his mouth as he dares to push boundaries and enters the room. knowing better than to invade ghost's space, hating when his own is, he at least honours his bubble and positions himself in a different corner. the sergeant sinks onto his arse, back pressed to the wall, and comfortably brings his knees to his chest. if ever the lieutenant wanted a challenge, this is it. " good, " he says curtly, " i have some thinking t' do. " from there, he keeps his lips sealed. largely because he's stewing. that something you struggle with, sergeant?

the moment foot crosses threshold, ghost's watchful gaze hardens to a glare. and yet, sanderson continues, occupying one of the room's corners diagonally to his own and seating himself. his jaw locks, teeth grit and form tenses. simon wills to resign and accept this newfound company. to ease and absorb the energy the other brings. but ghost refuses to do anything less than stand fast. gary had been exactly like this, the last time he'd known him. known being a strong word. they'd worked together, and they'd certainly butted heads perhaps more than worked. they'd equally impressed each other. though, neither had ever expressed such.

two highly skilled, capable and effective soldiers paired up in turn presents quality results. and to ghost, that's all it'd been. getting a job done. it hadn't erased what a blazing know-it-all sanderson had been — an entitled prick. i have some thinking to do. he swallows, scanning gary's expression while his gaze is averted to gauge just what is going on here. he's not going to get up and leave. fat chance. which means gary's gotta go. he narrows his eyelids. the nerve to enter, let alone remain. the command for him to get the fuck out sits on his tongue, but simon keeps it there for now. rememb'a what happened t' johnny, simon? i'm not here just so you can keep diggin' yaself into holes.

he wonders what gary's thinking about, truth be told. a genuine ponder. if mactavish were here, he'd be waffling about what he got up to at the weekend, some bird he'd just met and how he was utterly besotted with her, a mention of food or footie... then he'd whirl into something wholly off topic and bizarre. the things that lad would spew. he wonders if gary knows johnny's in hospital. knows what'd happened, prior to his recruitment. as though to answer his question regarding what he's thinking: for the record, sir, i can mind my business just fine. another challenge, it's direct this time. so, johnny spews and gary stews. his brows furrow behind the mask. " then why'a you still here? "

@asocialconduct asked: " what are you doing in this creepy little room, anyway? " from roach.

nothing is forcing him to remain. in fact, no gun muzzle had been placed to side of skull for him to even feel the need to initiate conversation. and yet, sergeant sanderson lingers in the doorway in an attempt to engage his lieutenant. who's to say why he's in here. why his back is pressed to the wall and arms crossed over broad chest; the spectre tucked away within the shadows of sought after silence. a moment — a break in the otherwise fast-paced atmosphere of base.

irritation settles across his rigid form. this is an outright interruption of his peace. a disrespectful display of ignoring his space. that's what he tells himself. ever since they'd first crossed paths, prior to 141, simon knew gary was a cocky, arrogant soldier. granted, he hadn't been pretentious like some — he's actually good. maybe a little too good for ghost's liking. a little self-reliant, a little shit at being part of a team, a little shit... generally. maybe he sees too much of himself in his attitude, his character.

thinks he can hop on in and replace mactavish. thinks he's already earned his place, by simply having skill. thinks he can just open a dialogue with him, like he isn't the slightest bit intimidated. " mindin' my business, " he counters, head turning as his gaze lands on the other. " that somethin' you struggle with, sergeant? " gary's a man of few words. simon knows that much. so why is he bothering with this?