Ink, Wolves, and Coffee

A queue has formed in the bakery section. Whatever, he never eats breakfast anyway. So he storms to the self-checkout and out the door.

But there’s one thing Simon adores about the morning.

Head kept low and focused on the music, he navigates the roadworks and traffic lights towards the only spot in town where there seems to be a perpetual quiet. Where he can sit for hours, left well and truly alone.

However, maybe he doesn’t crave being by himself as much here.

Over the course of the last few weeks, Simon has worked his way from a chair for customers in the thriller section on the first floor further upstairs towards the café. It started when he first saw her over the rim of his notebook. She was a vague figure passing by, nothing to be bothered by.

He shouldn’t have been. Being distracted doesn’t help when you’re trying to complete a manuscript that you hope will be the backbone of a back-up career. Why write down countless ideas in the notebook he always has with him only to never do anything with them?

Why bother with someone else?

Two weeks later, she was helping a colleague sort through the new books that had come in and stock the shelves.

And he couldn’t stop staring.

He should’ve had his eyes on his screen. Used his fingers to write down the vivid imagery going through his head while he was in the flow.

But the flow had stopped. It was replaced by an insatiable urge to pluck novels out of her hands when she needed to put them on the highest shelves. To tell her to let him do the heavy lifting.

Yet, he sat there. Barely restrained and pleasantly frozen in a fantasy he didn’t knew he had.

Only when she looked at him did he snap out of his reverie.

She saw him.

Saw the scars on his lips and cheeks.

Saw the familiar walls rebuilt before her eyes.

She shouldn’t have seen him.

He doesn’t want her to see him.

Doesn’t want her to see Ghost.

Nevertheless, he can’t show her the man beneath the battle-hardened persona. He doesn’t know how, can’t remember where the one starts and the other ends. Although, perhaps he’s one and the same.

Maybe Simon Riley will never return.

Maybe he’s always been Ghost.

Yes, merely here to observe the world without being able to be part of it. He’s still debating on a pen name, though the name on the long since expired passport starts to sound like one the more days pass by.

But then, who could he be to her?

No, fucking hell, he shouldn’t be.

He won’t.

She’s a stranger, someone he doesn’t know.

Nonetheless, he knows she wants to open her own bookshop one day. One with a nice little café where customers can read and work on their own creative ambitions.

Knows she wants to move somewhere quieter than Manchester, preferably somewhere a bit desolate. At least somewhere with way less people.

And he knows he wants to go where she does.

Until then, he sits there, laptop open and a fresh page before him.

About to work further on the story imprinted in his mind. A concept he hasn’t been able to dismiss easily, unable to shake off because it keeps coming back in dreams, thoughts, and memories his chaotic mind seems to deem true and not invented. They’re not warped by trauma, not by the beatings and battles he’s endured.

They’re an echo of a time and place he cannot name. It’s all covered in mist and water, decorated with the gleam of something shiny in sunlight.

All he knows is this.

They were both there.

And maybe, just maybe, they knew each other.

No.

John loves singing to you while slow dancing in the kitchen. The most stupid grin will break out on his lips when he does. But, honestly, can you blame him? He’s on Cloud Nine whenever you’re in his arms.

(Or balancing on his toes as he guides you through the dance)

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

Ghost leans against the fridge while watching you quietly sing to yourself. Usually it’s him cooking dinner, but after much debating you finally managed to convince him to let you do it (for the first time in two months).

Now, the only time Simon will allow for Ed Sheeran is when you’re singing along to his songs like this evening. Although, he also doesn’t turn off your music when you’re listening to the singer-songwriter while cleaning the house (another daily debate because he’s actually a bit of a neat freak).

He likes it better when you sing something else, however. In fact, a proud warmth spreads in his chest when he notices you’re singing along to one of the playlists he’s made for you. Sure, he doesn’t expect you to scream your lungs out during certain parts of songs by Sleep Token or Bad Omens. But he does like that you’re listening to and evidently liking the songs he likes.

It’s difficult for Simon to express himself and to communicate with you (at times). However, he’s glad he’s found a way via music.

Little do you know how much your voice comforts him, puts him at ease.

It’s his guide to you.

And he wants to hear every single note.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

Gaz immediately joins you in song, phone in hand and iTunes on if he doesn’t know the lyrics. Fight me on this, but I dare to bet he kinda sounds like Pharell Williams.

Kyle flat out refuses to participate in karaoke, though. Simon knows not to pressure him any further when he does (he’s lost microphone rights after one song the first time you and the lads went), but Soap and John don’t take ‘no’ for an answer as easily. Eventually they do… after you’ve told them off for the third time. He’ll never admit it, but Kyle’s glad you come to his aid. Although, he’s not so sure the men would listen as well out in the field. Then again, he still recalls the furtive glances around the table the first time he introduced you to the task force and you asked them to come over for dinner.

He still doesn’t know how you did it, but whatever magic you worked to keep things lowkey, casual, relaxed, and civil (not a single swear word or cuss to be heard the entire night) was impressive.

To be fair, you’re always enchanting to Kyle.

And as enthralling as a siren when you sing to him

Soap McTavish

Most of the time, he’s the one initiating a veritable home concert. Or, rather, musical.

Yes, you read that right.

MUSICAL.

Johnny loves musical songs and you often catch him watching replays on YouTube of Hamilton, Phantom of the Opera, or some other show in the West End (Boys from the Blackstuff, anyone?). That being said, though, if he’s on leave, he’ll occasionally book a weekend in London for the two of you so he can drag you along to one of the many theatres. Of course, to repay the kindness, he takes you out for lunch if the show is in the early afternoon or a nice restaurant for dinner. 

Now, you tagging along is a given which wouldn’t need compensation whatsoever. Nevertheless, Johnny feels guilty about making the days down south about his passion and fun rather than yours. So the least he could do is treat you.

Though his company is already enough.

The shared moment, away from the battlefield, away from army life, seated in a theatre to immerse in a play, is enough.

Your man being Johnny McTavish rather than Soap is enough.