magic

While his youngest Emmey was seated on the medical bed- a nice fat bandage around his head and arm in a sling as he played on his little tablet with his one good one. With the muffled sound of you out in the hallway talking to the nurse in a clearly panicked tone.

This was not how he wanted to spend the first 4 hours back home..

You had picked him up from the airport. Having left the boys as the last time you had brought all three it had turned into utter Chaos. So a quiet car ride with the two of you was always welcomed.

But who knew that would turn into a utter disaster...

Here John stood looking at his middle child crouched down while Michael had his hands on his head like he was in mid panic.

Surrounding his youngest son.

Emmey laid there like a ragdoll on the bottom of the stairs half flung from a laundry basket in a far too big plastic bike helment he got for Christmas.

Not moving-

John felt his heart drop from his ass.

His mind going from fluffy home to work- especially seeing his own boy in a helmet on the ground like that.

Flashes of the field seemed to hit him suddently- especially when you screamed.

John was gone and Price stepped forward.

It felt like he blinked and Emmey was in his arms, he looked over his son's face as he felt his heart beating in his ears- Emmey having a large cut across his forehead red with fresh blood. Price quickly tossing the helmet off his messy hair as he immediately put his ear to his son's chest. Feeling the rise and fall of his tiny chest and a steady beat.

You were hysterical at this point.

Especially at seeing your youngest bleeding.

"(Y/N) call 999. Michael- Go into my pack, Left pocket farthest to the right. There will be-"

Price stopped as the boy moved in his arms, Emmeys eyes snapped open revealing confused wide eyes. Clearly by everyone around him looking at him.

Before eyes landing on his Dad staring at him.

"Hi Daddy?"

For some reason that seemed to make everyone take a breath. Relief washing over the group as Emmey looked at them all. John let out a shaking breath as he felt warmth finally go behind his eyes, as if his emotions finally could come to him.

"Fuckin hell..."

"Moses can we surf again?"

John felt his eye twitch at that as Moses winced as Emmey told on him. The grown man growled a bit as he stood up harshly.

"Why couldn't I have one daughter!? Just fucking one! OR A CHILD WITH SOME FUCKING COMMON SENSE!!!"

He yelled as he marched right back out the front door he had came from with his youngest in his arms.

Which brought him back to now.

"So I can understand.. Michael instead of watching your brothers you 'doom scrolled' on the loo.."

John pointed to Michael who wilted in his seat a bit.

"And Moses you decided that you and Emmey would get into the laundry bins and 'surf' down the stairs?"

Moses nodded softly at this.

"Which now has lead to your brother having a dislocated shoulder and a concussion"

He wanted to yell...

Or scream ontop of his lunges

This was also the closest he had ever felt to wanting to raise a hand to his boys almost wanting to break the vow he made to not be like his Mother and grandparents.

"...youre so lucky im not like your Nan.."

He grumbled, rubbing his face- having to control his temper.

"No Lads.. Its not me youre going to worry about"

He said calmly, Shaking his head.

He slowly pointed at the closed door, into the hallway were the found of your voice could be heard.

Before the door slowly opened and you walked in.

The mirror was merely a fractured rectangle, held against a crumbling concrete pillar by two strips of duct tape. In its cracked reflection, the city of Verdansk —or what was left of it after the blockade— sank into a hazy blue.

Johnny sat backwards on a skeletal metal chair, forearms resting over the backrest with his head tilted high. His face was covered in a thick mask of cheap soap, whipped up in a rusted ration tin using a stiff shaving brush. 

“Hold still, MacTavish, or I’m going to have to leave you with a permanent smile like a Batman villain,” Gaz muttered. He was leaning in close, sharpest knife he could find held delicately between his fingers. With surprisingly steady precision, he dragged the flat of the blade down Johnny’s cheek, clearing a wide path through the thick soap and weeks of stubble.

“I am holding still, ye bloody butcher,” Johnny grumbled, slightly muffled by the layer of foam covering his top lip. His eyes darted up to the mirror, tracking Gaz’s movements with an intense amount of suspicion despite trusting him with his life. “Jus’ making sure I dinnae go home to my gorgeous wife looking like a had a run-in wi’ a blender. Domestic necessities.”

A low huff echoed from the shadows beside the pillar.

Simon was leaning against the structural wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Even inside a decaying apartment building with no running water and zero supply lines, the Ghost managed to look completely unbothered. His dark eyes flickered from Johnny’s overgrown hair down to the foam dripping onto his collar.

“Domestic necessities, my arse,” Ghost rumbled through the distant, sporadic artillery fire outside. “If I were her, I’d leave the deadbolt slid shut.”

“Ah, dinnae listen to him, Gaz,” Johnny flashed a sharp, white-toothed grin cutting through the remaining foam on his face as his eyes sparkled with mischief. “LT’s just jealous ‘cause no one’s seen his jawline since the late nineties. He disnae understand the logistics of a proper reunion kiss.”

Gaz let out a soft chuckle, wiping the edge of the knife on a piece of torn cloth before stepping back in for another pass. “Though personally, Johnny, if I spent eighteen months ghosting the grid just to come home and get nagged about a crooked shave, I’d head right back to Middle East or something.”

Johnny grunted, flinching slightly as Gaz ran the blade along his jawline. “She disnae do the nagging bit. She’ll look at me, at the absolute state of my mohawk, and tell me I look like a rat born out of wedlock. It’s the quiet judgment that gets ye, boys. Saps the confidence right out of a man.”

“Good,” Ghost said, cold amusement bleeding through his mask as he shifted against the concrete wall. “Keep you humble. Lord knows a year and half of surviving on stray dogs  and rainwater hasn’t done much to quiet your mouth, MacTavish.”

“Hey, it’s canned mutton. I won’t allow this smear campaign against our rations,” Gaz chuckled whilst finishing the final stroke along Johnny’s neck and wiping the knife clean on his thigh. “I think making sure he’s got all his limbs is far more important than caring about the symmetry of his body hair.”

Johnny reached up, splashing a bit of cold water from a plastic jug onto his face to rinse away the leftover foam and hair. He blinked through the droplets, looking at his clean-shaven face in the cracked glass. The dark circles under his eyes were deep, and there was a new scar slicing right through the edge of his left eyebrow from a rogue piece of masonry six months back. But beneath the grime and exhaustion, his jaw remained set. He looked like himself again. You’d grab his face and call out how unfair it was for him to be this handsome, he knew it. 

“Aye,” Johnny murmured, patting a cloth against his face to dry the skin. He looked over his shoulder at Simon, then at the Captain, keeping watch by the window. “Eighteen months of this shite. I’m ready for a proper roof.”

Eighteen months of quiet had turned the house into a museum of waiting. The living room, once bursting with Johnny’s booming laughter, discarded clothes thrown carelessly upon the excitement of seeing you home, and the warmth of his all-consuming presence, now felt vast and uncomfortably, uncharacteristically still. 

Friends and family had stopped calling about it around six months back. You barely got any visits from them anymore. At some point, you’d stopped taking up on the offers of going out to a pub, to get something to eat, as friends definitely noticed how hollowed out you seemed; and after that point, people just stopped asking. 

You couldn’t blame them, really. Knowing someone is dead was closure. Having a gravestone to caress and leave flowers by was relief. Not knowing where the love of your life might be, whether he was dead or alive, buried or burnt, grave unnamed or not…

You never did well with uncertainty. 

You sat in the exact same spot on the floor, back pressed against the base of the sofa, half-empty glass of red wine resting on the carpet beside your knee. The telly was on, of course, he’d told you to keep it on, and it cast a flickering glow across the dark room as it played that same home restoration show. On the screen, a new couple was bickering over the layout, their superficial problems serving as a numbing cream over your bleeding heart. It didn’t feel like mockery anymore. You found an odd sense of comfort in seeing that at least they had each other. 

You swirled the wine in your glass, watching the dark liquid coat the crystal, mind drifting back to the last afternoon you had spent on this very rug— with Johnny’s heavy, stubborn head resting against your lower abdomen while he grumbled about the work on TV. You had spent all this time nursing that memory, holding onto the phantom weight of his head, the ghost of his gravelly purr. 

The house was hell to walk through. The bathroom shelf with its hollow wall anchor sat exactly as he had left it, the mismatched color of the patchwork he’d done serving as a sacred testament to his messy domesticity that you refused to let anyone touch. You lived your life in a perpetual, agonizing limbo, walking that fragile tightrope without any sort of safety net whatsoever, never knowing if the man who loved you more than his next breath was still fighting his way back, or if the dark had finally taken over. 

You took a slow, deep sip as you stared blankly at the TV screen, completely unaware that a few streets over, a matte-black military transport was quietly cutting through the twilight.

A few minutes later, the heavy thud of a car door shutting broke the silence of the street.

Your hand froze halfway to your mouth, glass of wine tilting slightly whilst your chest locked up. That sound. It was way too heavy for a regular car. None of your neighbors owned a car that sounded like that.

Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as you set the glass down with a shaky rattle, scrambling off the floor. Your slippers skidded on the rug as you dashed into the hallway, hands trembling so much you could barely get a proper grip on the deadbolt. 

You threw the front door open, the cool evening air hitting your face as you stepped outside, but your eyes immediately locked onto the curb. 

The military transport was sitting there, its exhaust spitting thin plumes of gray into the air. But only one door had opened.

Simon stepped onto the pavement. 

He was moving slowly, shoulders hunched, skull mask making him look like the grim reaper incarnate under the dim yellow of the streetlamp. He walked across the grass alone. No loud, booming Scottish accent behind him. No Johnny.

Your world as you knew it, completely tilted on its axis. The terror you had spent eighteen months mourning finally crashed down, crushing out the remaining air from your lungs. 

“No,” you choked out, a breathless sob tearing from your throat as you stumbled down the porch steps. Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes wide, pleading, wild with the paralyzing grief that began to consume you. You didn’t necessarily see a soldier in front of you. You saw the nightmare that kept you awake, the dress uniform, polished shoes, hat off by the chest, and he’s so, so sorry. “Simon, no… please, no. You promised me. You promised…”

Simon caught you before your knees could buckle into the grass. His gloved palms gripped your body, hold firm, grounding as he pinned your collapsing weight against his broad chest. 

“Hey, no, look at me. Look at me, love,” Simon barked, trying to cut in between you and the rising panic bubbling in your heart. He leaned down, forcing his forehead agaisnt yours, forcing his eyes to lock onto your tear-blurred ones. “He’s not dead. Johnny’s alive. Breathe, bloody hell, breathe.”

The words took a second to register through the loud ringing in your ears. You clutched at his vest, fingers digging into the stiff nylon until it hurt. “Where is he? Simon, why isn’t he with you?”

Simon let out a long, heavy sigh, beginning to slowly lead you back into the house. You fought against it, but to no avail, he was too strong for you to fight back and run to the car. 

“Because your husband is the most pig-headed bastard in the entire British Army,” he muttered and you caught the faint edge of exhausted, fond irritation in his rough cadence. He practically forced you into a sitting position on the couch, eyes catching the wine glass and some of the empty bottles around, but he didn’t comment on it, getting down on his knees to force you to look down at him. “Took a nasty bit of shrapnel to the thigh a few days ago. Nothing fatal, skipped the artery, but the idiot hid it from us because he was terrified we’d miss the extraction window.”

You let out a trembling breath, eyes closing for a second as you leaned forward, closer, just to make sure you weren’t mishearing anything. “Oh my god…”

“Fever hit him like a damned train halfway through the flight,” Simon continued, hand coming up to gently pat your knee. “He’s completely out of it, mumbling nonsense. Medics put him straight into the base infirmary the second we touched down to get him on an IV drip and flush the fever out.”

He pulled back a little, then, eyes softening beneath the mask as he looked up at your unraveled face. “He wanted to come straight to the door, love. Genuinely tried to fight the orderly. When he couldn’t, well…” he shrugged, vaguely pointing at himself. “He’s safe. I kept my promise.”

The suffocating amount of terror that had colonized your chest for a year and a half didn’t vanish entirely, that would be too easy. It shifted a bit, transforming into a frantic need to move, right that second. 

“Take me to him,” you whispered, voice cracking as you made a move to stand up from the sofa. “Simon, please. If he’s fighting orderlies, he needs me. Take me to the base.”

Simon refused to move an inch, hands anchored to your knees, keeping you safely seated. “Not like this, love,” he murmured, eyes trailing your mismatched loungewear, the tremor in your hands, the frantic gaze you sported. “The base is a forty-minute drive, and the infirmary is freezing. Wash your face first. Then go put some boots on. Grab a proper jacket. I’ll wait right here.”

You wanted so badly to argue, to tell him you didn’t care if you walked into the military hospital stark naked as long as you got to Johnny, but the authority in Ghost’s gaze brooked no refusal. You nodded sharply, swallowing down a fresh wave of emotional exhaustion as you stood up and bolted down the hallway toward the bathroom.

Your hands shook so violently you could barely pull the sweater over your head. You grabbed the first pair of sturdy boots you could find and snatched Johnny’s heavy flannel off the back of the closet door— craving the faint scent of him even if it was buried under eighteen months of dust.

When you hurried back into the living room, Simon was already standing by the front door, holding your house keys in his gloved hand. He took one look at you. “Right,” he rumbled, turning the doorknob and stepping into the night. “Let’s go get your idiot.”

The engine rumbled with a vibration that seemed to match the anxious knot restarting its hold under your ribs. Simon’s hands rested steady on the steering wheel, eyes tracking the slicked roads as the typical purple twilight bled into the deep ink of the night.

You sat in the passenger seat, wrapped so deeply in the oversized flannel that the cuffs swallowed your hands. Your knees were pulled tightly to your chest, boots braced against the dashboard to keep yourself from coming apart. Every red light felt like a lifetime, every mile of asphalt a physical barrier stretching between you and the breath Johnny was drawing in a hospital bed. 

“Stop that,” Simon didn’t look over you, his eyes locked on the dark highway ahead. “You’re going to put your foot through my dash.”

You slowly dropped your legs, pressing your palms flat against your thighs to force the trembling to stop. “How bad is the fever, Si? Really.”

“He was out of his head by the time we crossed the airspace. Kept trying to unbuckle his harness because he swore he heard you calling him from the cargo ramp.” he let out a huff of quiet laughter, then. “He’s strong. Too strong to let a bug take him down after a year and a half of dodging mortars. But he’s spent. The whole lot of us are.”

You looked out the window, watching the bleak walls of the military base finally materialize out of the dark. “You kept him alive.”

“You owe me one, then,” he spoke flatly, which managed to pull half a smile out of you. The vehicle swung through the security checkpoint, guards waving the transport through on sight. “There were at least a dozen separate occasions in that blockaded sector where MacTavish’s crazy logic was the only thing that cleared a path for us. He fought like a demon to get back to this city. To get back home.”

The vehicle squealed to a halt in the restricted red zone directly outside the brick building of the base infirmary. Simon was out his door in an instant, walking around to your side to throw the door open, hands catching your waist to help you down onto the asphalt. 

“Second floor,” Simon murmured, nodding towards the heavy doors where a faint fluorescent white light spilled out onto the pavement. “I’ll handle the parking. Don’t let the orderlies give you any grief, tell ‘em the Ghost sent you.”

You practically sprinted through the double doors of the infirmary, and bolted up the stairs to the second floor. When you rounded the corner, the harsh lights overhead blurred together, but your eyes instantly locked onto the small, rectangular window of Room 204. 

You flinched upon the sight. Not that he looked like shit, well, he did, but he was Johnny. Your Johnny. Asleep. 

He still looked massive in the narrow hospital bed, broad shoulders propped up by pillows. He was stripped of all his armor, only wearing a loose green medical gown that showed a glimpse of a thick white bandage wrapped around his thigh. His face was flushed with the remnants of the fever, and a cannula was hooked beneath his nose. But his chest was rising and falling. He was breathing, and he looked so, so alive. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

The soft murmur made you tear your eyes away from the window. Sitting on a row of plastic waiting chairs directly outside the door were Price and Gaz. They looked entirely spent, barely out of their dirty uniforms, eyes hollowed out by the same tomb Johnny had just escaped. Each of them was holding a steaming cardboard cup of coffee. 

Gaz was already on his feet before you could get a word out, setting his coffee on the chair beside him. The second his eyes met yours, a look of profound relief broke through the obvious exhaustion. 

You stepped straight into his space, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. He caught you instantly and pinned you to his chest in a brief squeeze that smelled of rain and mud. 

“I got you,” Gaz whispered into your hair. “He’s good. He’s okay.”

As Gaz slowly let you go, Price stood up. The Captain had taken off his iconic boonie hat, revealing a sweat-dampened hairline, though his thick beard couldn’t hide the paternal tilt of his mouth. He looked at you, then down at Johnny’s oversized flannel drowning your frame, and let out a long breath.

You moved directly to him next, throwing your arms around his neck. The older soldier braced himself with his calloused hands coming up to rest against the back of your head, holding you securely against his shoulder for a long moment. It was the embrace of a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but had made damn sure to carry his boys back with him. 

“Go on inside,” he murmured near your ear, voice steady and certain as he patted your back. “He’s just waiting on the right voice to wake up to.”

The heavy wooden door turned with a click as you stepped into a space that felt entirely frozen in time. 

The steady beep… beep… beep… of Johnny’s heart monitor worked as proof that he was here. He was breathing. 

You walked over to his side of the bed, unlaced boots dragging against the concrete floor. Up close, the reality of just how tough the deployment had been was written all over him. Johnny was pale beneath the flush of the fever, jaw rough with a dark stubble. There were small, faded nicks along his collarbone, and a jagged line through his eyebrow looked pink against his skin. He looked thinner. 

Your knees gave out slightly as you sank into the chair right beside the mattress.

Slowly, your trembling hand reached out from the sleeve of the flannel. Your fingers hovered over his hand for a second, genuinely terrified that he might vanish into a puff of smoke if you touched him. But when you finally pressed your palm flat against the back of his hand, he felt real. Skin burning hot, slick with fever sweat, but the weight of his bones beneath your touch was the most beautiful thing you had ever felt. 

“Johnny,” you whispered, the sound small and broken. “My baby.”

At the sound of your voice, the line on the heart monitor jumped, the beeping speeding up just a fraction. Johnny’s jaw shifted sharply. His head rolled against the thin white pillow a little, a pained groan vibrating deep within his chest as his brow furrowed. His internal radar had instantly picked up the one frequency he’d always tune into.

“Sunshine?” he rasped.

His eyelids fluttered, heavy and uncooperative from the medication, but he fought them open. He was a fighter through and through. His bright blue eyes were clouded, unfocused, and bloodshot, rolling blindly across the ceiling before they finally drifted down and locked onto your face. For a long moment, he just stared at you, chest heaving deeper as if he couldn’t quite decide if his mind was playing a cruel trick on him. 

“Am I… am I dreaming ye up again, hen?” he whispered, large fingers twitching beneath yours, desperately trying to find the strength to curl around your wrist. 

Hot tears finally spilled over your eyelashes, dropping onto the back of his warm hand. You leaned over the metal guardrail of the hospital bed and brought your other hand up to cup his face. Your fingers slid into the short, soft hair of his mohawk, thumb tracing the sharp, trembling line of his jaw just like you used to, back home.

You choked out a soft sob, smiling through it as you pressed your forehead gently against his damp temple. “You’re not dreaming. I’m right here. Look at me, John, you’re safe, you’re at the base. You’re home.”

Johnny let out a long, shuddering breath, chest lifting so violently it probably strained the wires of the heart monitor. The rapid beeping of the machine echoed through the room as his clouded eyes slowly began to track the movement of your thumb on his skin. He swallowed hard, his throat working against the dry rasp of his breath.

You could see the sudden wave of clarity breaking through his fevered haze. His jaw trembled, the hard mask he was so used to wear beginning to shatter at the edges.

“Sunshine,” the word ripped out of his chest like a sob.

With a sudden urge of desperate and uncoordinated strength, one of his arms came up, hand locking around the back of your neck to keep you there. He didn’t care about the IV line pulling taut in his veins or the burning of the stitches in his thigh. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he let out a deep breath that tasted stale in his mouth.

The entirety of his body began to shake beneath the thin medical gown, shoulders racking with silent sobs as he held you. His arm kept you pinned so close to his chest that you could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart hitting against your own ribs. He was breathing you in, nose brushing against the collar of his own old shirt, desperate to drown out the memories of concrete, smoke, and blood with the scent of you and home. His favourite. His everything.

“Ye’re the only real thing I’ve got left in this miserable world,” Johnny wept into your skin and you couldn’t help but weep with him, at how unraveled he was, how small and scared he seemed with the sobs breaking out of him. “Thank ye for no’ letting go, no’ moving on yet, ye’re my home— I did it, I crawled through, for you, for you only, I—”

“Shh, I know,” you held him back just as tightly, fingers burying deeper into his hair as your tears ran hot against his shoulder. You could only whisper as you didn’t trust your voice just yet. “I know you did, Johnny. I never stopped looking at the door. I never stopped waiting for you.”

Within the quiet minutes of your embrace, the beat of his heart began to ease, settling into one that synced with yours. The monitor slowed down, though Johnny didn’t loosen his grip an inch, grounding you against his chest as if the physical friction of your body was the only thing keeping him tethered to the real world.

He pulled back just a fraction when tears no longer ran free, eyes the brightest of all blues, clearer now, stripped of the dark illusions he kept close to his heart, searching your face with a breathtaking reverence. His thumb came up, rough skin brushing a tear from your cheek with that breathless gentleness that always made your chest ache. 

“God, ye’re beautiful,” a tiny, lopsided ghost of his classic smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as his eyes drifted down to the flannel drowning you. “Wearing my shite, too. Missed me a wee bit, did ye?”

A wet laugh escaped you at that, his timing still so absurd, although it definitely flushed away the remnants of your grief. You leaned forward, pressing your nose playfully against his just to feel his breathing. “Not just a wee bit, I should say.”

The discharge papers took another thirty-six hours of bureaucratic nightmare, but Price pulled the necessary strings to get Johnny cleared for a much needed home recovery.

The vehicle pulled up to the curb and Johnny, of course, didn’t necessarily have it in him to argue about pride. He was still weak, skin pale and the stitches in his thigh pulling painfully with every move. Simon killed the engine, walked around to the passenger side, and hoisted Johnny out of the seat. Gathering his friend into a careful carry, Simon bore him up the porch steps, his heavy boots making the wooden floorboards creak as he navigated the front threshold. 

You had hurried ahead to get the house ready, and the second the front door swung open, the entire space was flooded with the rich, savory aroma of Johnny’s favourite meal— the rich scent of a slow-cooked beef stew and fresh caramel shortcake sweet enough to push back eighteen months of cold isolation. 

Simon carried him straight into the living room, carefully propping Johnny up on the worn cushions of the sofa. He arranged a stack of pillows behind his back and gently elevated his bandaged leg onto the low coffee table. 

The softness of his actions put a smile on Johnny’s face as he thanked him quietly and sank into the fabric with a long sigh of surrender. He looked at the television, the rug, walls, and then tracked the scent straight towards the kitchen doorway where you were standing, a dish towel clutched between your hands and a soft, welcoming smile across your face.

Simon stepped back from the sofa, no gloves on his hands as he wiped them down his thighs. Instead of heading straight for the front door like he used to, his boots turned to navigate into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter where you were beginning to serve the food into plates, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked down at the simmering pot, then back up at you. 

“Smells good,” Simon murmured, gaze drifting back towards the sofa for a second before locking onto you. “Are you going to need any help with him? With the leg, fever… the rest of it? He’s going to be a handful when he regains his full mouth. And he’s heavy.”

Knowing amusement flickered in your eyes. You looked past his broad shoulder towards the living room, where your husband was already melting into the couch, before looking back up at the giant in front of you. 

“You can stay in the guest room for as long as you want if you’re that worried and eager to see him, Simon,” you teased softly, but the warmth in your eyes made sure he knew the invitation was real. “You too gotta get some warm food in your stomach, you know.”

Simon was still for a few moments. The sudden offer of a proper roof, a warm meal, and an open door was a heavy thing to process for him. He looked at you, then down at his own worn boots, a faint shift in his shoulders telling you all that you needed to know. 

The fabric of his mask huffed as he gave a single, slow nod. “Just for a bit. Make sure the idiot doesn’t try to walk before the stitches settle.”

You didn’t mind having him around. He didn’t mind staying around either, and God knows you couldn’t hoist Johnny to the bathroom for a much needed shower yourself. 

Dinner was pretty quiet. Johnny stayed on the sofa, too drained for the kitchen chairs, as Simon sat on the opposite edge of the hearth. There was little talking, just the scraping of spoons and the football match on the TV that nobody bothered to pay attention to. 

The real hurdle had been getting Johnny cleaned up. Between the weakness from his fever and the fresh stitches slashing across his thigh, a standard shower was out of the question. It took both you and Simon to navigate him into the bathroom. Simon provided the brute strength, stabilizing Johnny’s frame against the tile while you handled the warm water and soap. He’s seen me in worse conditions, lass, Johnny had joked while Simon was busy looking away. By the time you helped him into a soft pair of sweatpants and had him settled back into your bed, Johnny looked profoundly human again— exhausted, pale, but clean nonetheless. 

Now, the bedroom was bathed in the golden amber of the bedside lamp, rest of the house falling into deep silence whilst Simon was —you hoped— fast asleep by the other side of the wall. 

You were propped up on one elbow, cheek resting in the palm of your hand as you looked down at your husband. Johnny was lying flat on his back, clean sheets pulled up to his chest with his heavy, stubborn head sinking deep into the plush pillows. One of his large hands was resting palm-up on the mattress between you, his fingers twitching in a silent invitation. 

“Ye’re staring, sunshine,” he rumbled softly. 

“Just making sure you won’t fade if I blink,” you murmured, sliding your fingers into his open palm. He closed his hand around yours instantly. 

“Give it half an hour and LT’s snoring will let ye know jus’ how real all of this is.” a soft laugh was shared between the two of you, then. “Thanks for allowing him to stay, too.”

“He looked like he was too busy looking after you to take care of himself these past days,” you murmured softly and shifted a little, laying down on your back next to him as both of you stared into the dark ceiling. “And he didn’t seem like he wanted to leave you yet.”

“Bastard’s been on my arse for a year. I cannae take a proper break,” Johnny shook his head and brought your joined palms up, pressing the back of your hand against his chapped lips slowly. “I always imagined what this would be like. Coming home after all that. Most days I imagined a would have my dick out in ten minutes for the reunion shagging.”

You snorted. “Wishful thinking. It took two people to give you a shower.”

“Aye, well, a man can dream, sunshine,” he murmured, bright blues rolling toward the ceiling with a lazy fondness. “Kept me warm in the cellar, did it? Kept me going, thinking about those shorts you wear. Wee ones with the frayed edges.”

“You are unbelievable,” you whispered, a genuine smile tugging at your lips as you turned your head to face him. “Eighteen months in God knows where and your motivation was a pair of denim shorts?”

“The very same,” he nodded solemnly, eyes flashing with a spark of his classic fire that defined him right down to his core. “Gave me somethin’ to focus on, it’s no’ easy spending all that time with three other wankers. Though I suppose I can settle for the current view. Ye’re no’ a bad sight for sore eyes, hen.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of bed tomorrow, MacTavish.”

He slid his arm out from the sheets, carefully pulling you just an inch closer until your shoulder was pressed against his ribs, bridging the last bit of distance between you. “Guess am yer captive now, then.”

“Completely,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you tuned in to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “Get some sleep, my love.”

“Goodnight, sunshine,” he whispered against your hair, thumb tracing circles into your skin as his eyelids finally won the battle. “Am home. Dream of my cock still, might be a while ‘til we get the beastie to its full power.”

Outside the window, the twilight faded into a deep black, and for the first time in eighteen months, the deadbolt was slid shut, the house felt warm, and the silence was broken by all the ridiculous things Johnny had in him to say. 

heeeyy, so... hihihi. thank you all so so much for reaching out with sweet comments, dms, asks, all that— it means the absolute world to me and i'm so glad i managed to write something that made you feel something!! i hope you're all having the bestest year and i love you all sm. hugs hugs hugs. lmk if you want to be tagged in future works or not tagged in anything and feel free to drop by to say hi!

Ghost broke his cover, the sights of the gun in his hand riding the coattails of a glower that burnt into the steely goggles of his new target. There was no eyes visible in the line of sight returned but a moment passed between them that could only be compared to the sensation one felt when looking over the sheer, unforgiving edge of a cliff. His stomach dropped so deeply it felt like a hobble around his ankles whilst the fracture in his rib migrated to his chest in a vice like pressure as he watched one sided gunfire rain out. Straight into Thames’s neck, a horrid, gelatinous clap as the dark figure’s bullet lodged itself.

‘Fuck!’ he bolted forward, coming to dispatch the man behind the wound with equal expedience. He came to the sergeant’s side, the other’s body dropping almost in unison with the moment he came to face the wounded. 

‘Cap…I…’ a nauseating choke that was comparable to a cauldron coming to a boil was all he managed.

‘Easy now easy hang tight, come on we’ll get you out of ‘ere…’ an unruly mix of ice, gunpowder and the raw, gritty smell of freshly spilled blood commandeered his senses. A process he’d practiced a thousand times in training until it was second nature became nerve wracking in real time. The trauma kit was tough to open, a finger rendered stiff from the cold struggling with the hook and loop denying entry.

A shaky hand lacking its usual colour softly came to guide his own away from the satchel of supplies, not even humouring a pointless attempt at aid. Ghost watched as Thames eyed his masked face, a look of exhaustion and completion that pleaded wordlessly for rest.

Such a look was seen on the faces of green recruits doing laps and those disdaining a call back to shop after hours. He’d seen it on the best of the best, grown men unafraid of danger but resentful of being held on deployment longer than anticipated.

Never before had he seen it on the man before him. It was not born of weakness, nor from a lack of fervour. The sergeant had not failed, he had not shied away from a task deemed too unforgiving. He simply had no fight left, his duty fulfilled with every last fibre of his being and he could give no more. To demand he keep going, to shove the reality of his situation aside would’ve been mockery.

‘Please… look after my wife… keep her safe…’ every last drop of life was delivered in a light squeeze to his forearm. A thousand words teeming behind that act alone, and his most treasured and essential verbalised with the final gargling stutter his throat would allow. Time seemed to stop for a moment, and Ghost could’ve sworn the world came to watch with him as he parted.

Silence. Bittersweet silence. 

‘C2 this is…’ he swallowed, a hand coming to pry the steely dog tags from the fallen. ‘C2 this is bravo-01, bravo-02 is KIA. I repeat bravo-02 is KIA. We are down to four strong. Continuing to FRV’

He cast one final glance at the resting body of his ally and the one of his assailant. In the wake of battle, pity saw no lines. Death filled the room, and the smoky haze of the wind creeping into claim them both with a dusting of snow. It was far different to the steamy, almost suffocating confines of that fateful metro trip that had tore away someone he trusted once before.

Not again. First Johnny, now him.

════════

‘Leave chit got approved,’ one of his men shot him a look, a knowing shrug of resignation, ‘just two weeks.’

A fortnight devoid of a shaving routine he didn’t even have the agency to decide for himself. Unstructured runs and meals he could eat whenever he damn well felt like. Early mornings born from habit, not the banshee like beeps of an alarm.

He could get used to this.

Over the course of a few months, those two weeks morphed into a blur of paperwork and the burgeoning promise of an honourable discharge.

He’d made Captain. Led missions. Buried enemies. Buried twice as many friends. Buried the part of himself that roared with envy when more and more familiar faces hung up the beret.  He was a soldier; not an actor nor a martyr. He’d given his pound of flesh, the skull insignia no longer a means of intimidation or compartmentalisation but emotional starvation. Whatever it was that had called him here was gone, digested by time and spat out by fruitless repetition. 

Exhaustion would be the beast to end his career, not a bullet or bastard that goes bump in the night. 

‘Best of luck…sir,’ said the youngest of his unit, not yet ready to abandon formal titles but evidently comfortable enough to jest, ‘does this mean you’ll not be ‘round to scold me for a half baked razor job tomorrow?’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll never hear from me again.’ A joke delivered with a single huff, but a subtle beat of guilt in his chest as there lurked an undetected truth behind it. Simon stared down the younger male, placing a hand on his shoulder with a playful, uncharacteristic clap. A gesture speaking volumes he didn’t care to verbalise, a final order of returning to his post the last words truly shared between them as he departed. The only thing guiding his steps out the wrought iron gates of the sterling lines was an oppressive, unwavering desire to run. He didn’t dare to look back; the prison of familiarity perhaps turned favourable in the company of uncertain freedom. 

He’d packed his car at the crack of dawn and cleared his apartment the night before, wanting only a swift clean exit like the ones suggested in every mission briefing. He’d never be reading one of those ever again- a thought that brought both drenching relief and scorching unnerve as he drove away one final time.

Four hours east of nowhere, and couple more south of everything he’d ever known was where he was headed. A little coastal town lay waiting, a place devoid of regiment and of anyone that could even come close to an acquaintance. It was a fresh start, a stark white future that burnt to look at but inspired a feeling of unmarked potential.

Ghost would not be accompanying him in this next chapter. Ghost had failed him, and failed others. It was easier to pin the past on something tangible; compartmentalisation the one souvenir of service life he’d hold onto. The hollow, ductile, blank slate of a man he’d neglected for many years was the only self he’d packed for the road. Simon Riley, whoever he was, craved life in a cheap brick rental far far away. 

Hope took on the form of paddocks and pothole filled roads as he inched further and further away from everything he’d known. 

 ════════

It was an old town. Bordered by a barren rocky bay, crowned by rolling sheep studded hills and garnished with townsfolk that kept to themselves. 

He worked security at the main entry of the quarry a couple of nights a week. There was no pristine expectations involved, no uniform or guidance other than the assumed willingness to ward off anyone loitering. His stature alone fizzled out any inclination that bored, bike riding teenagers might’ve had to trespass and scoot along the ridges. This job didn’t call for an assigned firearm, allegedly anything beyond a few harsh words and incident report would be handled by the police. The emptiness of his pockets and the lack of a holster was at first comparable to the feeling of being  naked. The first few shifts had him casting a glance to the place under his bed as he left out the door. It was there that a lockbox rested; inside it a 9mm pistol sat waiting for the day dire circumstances may have him pick it up again.

As time crept on however, as the days blurred and the nights standing and pacing by that boom gate became more and more mundane- he began to doubt he’d ever need to even think about brandishing such relics of the past. At first it was refreshing; a little routine of easy work and days between spent at the small but well enough equipped gym in town. He answered to no one but himself, the quiet of his little flat a continuous guarantee that had nothing to contest it. There was no contrast, no masked border between his emotions and the sanctuary of being a way from work.

Simon was experiencing a blank canvas of being that let him take on the greys of the rain drenched little world he’d stumbled into. It served as the anthesis to the existence he’d carved from the bloody, rotting remains of mere survival. He had time to ponder and eventually, for the first time ever, to feel the crushing blows of true solitude. 

Perhaps Ghost was more a part of him than he cared to admit, a part of him he foolishly thought he could rid himself of.

His gongs mounted and collecting dust reminded him of simpler times. The enemies then had been absolute, picked off easily with gunfire and an equal adversary. His own mind? A foe unlike any other. Its threats were personal, hand tailored from the silk of his deepest fears and more. The only thing to comfort him was some semblance of a repetitive routine, but even that grew stale and left him feeling hollow after a while. 

Work, gym, groceries, go back to that little apartment, repeat.

At least the pub wasn’t too expensive and the food wasn’t too shit. On days he didn’t work he sometimes chose to sit by the counter since Colin the bartender made easy conversation but knew to never prod too deep. 

‘Been waiting for the day you bring your missus,’ a comment delivered with a soft, inquisitive smile but answered with a swaying of the head in place of an eye roll.

‘Don’t have one…’ he replied, taking a swig to play on old tactics learnt in interrogation training; keep yourself occupied, busy hands or a busy mind are less likely to say too much or too little.

‘Shame,’ came the response, ‘I guess ya’ didn’t have much time for that in… what was it you did?’ A series of melodic pangs sounding as the thick glasses were placed away one by one. ‘Firefighter?’ Clink, ‘no… copper?’ Clink, ‘wait a miner right?’

‘Private security,’ not an outright lie, but a greatly minimising label for his previous occupation. ‘Long hours, weird timing…’ he could be partially honest, ‘not the kind of lifestyle that’s compatible with building a life like that.’

‘Ah, you ever look after anyone famous?’ Colin tilted his head, ‘you know, celebrities, pollies… any terrorists or real edgy crooks?’

Simon said nothing, shifting in place at the latter. He appreciated the other’s willingness to divert from the topic almost immediately, taking it back to more casual avenues.

‘What you need is a dog,’ he remarked, a conclusive certainty in his tone. A gesture to one of the many faded pictures collaging the pine panelled wall behind him, retrieving a portrait of a large gold and black canine. ‘After my wife died, I couldn’t stand the quiet and having no one to come home to. Kids grown up an’ all, so I got old Athena there.’ 

Simon placed his glass down, taking  the picture held before him. ‘Great Dane?’ He questioned, never having the luxury of spending much time with anything but working K-9 units.

‘Nope, called a Kangal, an old, rare Turkish breed,’ he smiled for a moment, ‘great dog, great company. But…bred to work, she’d protect her flock until her last breath. They’re only good if ya’ got something to guard. If you don’t give em’ a job they’ll find one themselves and well…’ he trailed off , ‘can’t say it ends well to let a creature like that have no place for its loyalty.’

‘Hmmm,’ he hummed, cautiously handing the picture back, ‘impressive but a dry argument, my yard is tiny.’ 

Simon had heard similar about the shepherds he crossed paths with and made coworker’s of on occasion. Dogs bred to work, fine tuned genetically and trained to be infallible in situations where humans were given the concession to be nervous or hesitant. They didn’t ask questions, didn’t get the luxury off of days or let self doubt cripple them. They just did as they were told, devoid of agency and therefore liberated from blame for any shortcomings. It was this hardline dedication and pedestal beyond a normal dog that made them completely unsuited to civilian life. 

He had always admired them with a strange muddle of appreciation, envy and sympathy. Just creatures shaped and moulded for a role and when deprived of it, they became aggressive and restless. A prison of their own success, jilted by their circumstances even if they flourished in them. Not dissimilar to their human counterparts.

‘No time for’a girl, no room for’a dog… I don’t suppose there’s a reason why I can’t pour ya’ another pint?’ 

Simon gave a single nod, something equivalent to a smile and few words of grace from anyone else. The light squelching of the beer tap rose beyond the blurry hum of music and patches of noise from other patrons. He closed his eyes, letting a bit of fatigue take him as he lulled over what he’d do to pass time when he went back home.

Only one voice stuck out from it all, a less rough, more pleasant tone than the rest that forced them open once again.

‘Peroni please…’ 

Simon faced the woman taking a seat at the bar, his stomach dropping. 

Hair kneaded into a simple, comfortable style. Eyes that seldom glinted when they once shone in Polaroids. A face that was pretty but crestfallen. Silent distaste curling in your features at an all too enthusiastic fellow patron who’d sauntered over. His manner was sloppy, fuelled by the false confidence of inebriation.

He couldn’t believe it- and rather, didn’t want to.  But there was no denying it, the woman seated only half a counter away was you. The last time he’d seen you had been in the wake of tragedy. You’d existed only in his mind as some a sacred vessel of grief, as nothing more than an unfortunate side effect of that fateful mission where your husband had been taken.

‘Please… look after my wife… keep her safe…’ those words echoed in his mind as he stared, the past coming back to brief him once again.

The funeral was bolted together with the flimsy order of ceremony. Everything was formal, even sorrow had to be wrapped and pressed neatly in dress blues. When it concluded, guests dribbled away slowly with reddened eyes and and heavy hearts but had the luxury of separating grief into an uncomfortable little throb that prodded and poked . For you and everyone else that had known him, it was a vine that coiled and snared for the rest of their life. Simon’s squad remained for a while after the last mourner departed. They were standing sentry, protecting in a way they’d failed to before. Guilt kept them at parade rest, the occasional hand pressed against the casket breaking formation. It was a grounding act, a painful means of facing reality and the closest they’d get to saying a real goodbye.

 He took only a brief break to eye down the woman he’d been charged with. He knew your name and your age. He knew more about you than he cared to admit. When the initial buzz and tempo of deployments whittled down to a tired, worn drag, it was then that late night conversation took to softer, familiar topics. The locker room talk watered itself down to longing for quiet Sunday dinners in front of the tv, grocery runs and domestic comforts. Your husband had spoken of you many times, shown pictures of you and gushed of the future he’d been so adamant you’d share.

By proxy, Simon knew how you liked your coffee. Knew the tv shows you watched, he knew what flowers you liked, knew you’d be waiting at home in this tacky cat print nightdress your best friend had given you for Christmas he hated to love.

It was all foreign to him, a concept so outlandish, so far from his reach it may as well have been fiction or a miracle.

Ghost had been at that funeral, Ghost was the one that offered you only a gruff note of sympathy and curt ‘call us if you need anythin’. His mask stayed fastened even when it was physically discarded for formality. The last he’d heard of you, you’d moved back in with family. Memories and a world of reminders all too much for you to bare. Occasionally when his own mind wandered to that dark day, he cast a lonely curiosity your way. 

Where were you? Had you managed? What should he have said?

Behind any title, behind the moniker, lurked a coward. Ghost was a flimsy smokescreen, a false cadaver to pretend he didn’t hold a fear that was very much alive. But now? As Simon Riley, as this self he insisted was a second chance, he could do better.

He would do better. 

‘Sorry to interrupt…’ he mumbled, casting a testing glance to the male inching ever so slightly closer to you. Simon’s gaze was pure, glacial precision; not bold enough to be burning but sharp enough to elicit a pause on the other’s advances. He pushed forward, one leg propped on the metal beam of his chair. An old tactic from interrogation- get in the subjects space, deny them breathing room to do anything but bend to your will.

You turned, initially disdainful at yet another figure crowding you before recollection came flooding across your features. Your brows knitted,eyes downcast with the same unspoken weight he bore.  Your eyes narrowed, trying to squeeze familiarity from the presence before you.

 ‘Do… do I know you?’ An accusation more than an open question, recognition an unwelcome symptom of his greeting.

‘Malalcahuello, June 24th…’ your expression tightened and your lips parted, first in disdain before realisation settled in with a thud. This man was no stranger, those three words alone bounded him to you in a way only a select handful could. 

‘How…how do you…’ a hand held to your jaw.

‘Captain Riley?’ You pondered, casting a glance up and down, saying his other name in an all too fitting whisper, ‘Ghost?’ 

‘Yes,’ guilt settled on him for a moment, an apology brimmed on his tongue. You rose suddenly, pulled him into a hug that left him stupefied for a moment. Before he could even lift a hand to cup your back you parted, face blank and a few words delivered. ‘Sorry I just.. it can’t believe it’s you.”

A mutual feeling. Remnants of your physical embrace stuck to his body in a strange warmth long after the gesture ceased.

When he opened his mouth, his subconscious clung to old pugnacious ways. ‘Hey chum,’ A generous $20 was shoved towards the miscreant leaning all too close. A head tilt signalled a very limited vat of patience within him, ‘take it, fuck off, buy a pint and leave us the ‘ell alone.’ The note was snapped up and crumpled into his dirty jeans as though he was stealing it.

You stared in satisfaction as the strange man departed, either the call of a free drink or the realisation that confrontation would do him no good powering his hasty steps. A thanks was given, your line of sight falling to the golden liquid you’d barely touched on the bar. Silence fell between you both, the murky sounds of other people living in the present like a fog; thin conversations that formed no solid sound, but all encompassing. 

‘I…’ Simon exhaled, a hand cold and stiff as he pulled his mask down. A plain black one, the skull print long abandoned. You looked back, the gravity of the moment unknown to the waitstaff idly clearing glasses beside them. He tried to keep his pallid gaze trained on you and you alone. ‘Mind if I sit?’

You gestured to the unoccupied stool and he took his place.

Silence elapsed for a brief moment before what troubled him pushed forth. ‘I’m sorry we… well, I never reached out.’ A dozen other apologies lay buried inside him, but now was neither the time nor place for them. 

‘What could you say?’ You shrugged, taking a single sip. ‘He’s dead,’ you hesitated, swapping your scalpel like tone for a softer one, ‘you got that bastard eventually. That’s justice, I guess.’ It was praise apparently, but he didn’t feel a surge of satisfaction or relief and your presence didn’t feel at all lighter. 

‘So, how long have you lived here? Got a job in town?’ He tried to get a clearer picture, was trying to fill in the gaps between you getting into a car at the funeral and popping up again two years later half a country away.

‘Yeah I started a gig down at the harbour. Friend of a friend needed help running a little tourist shop. It’s…different,’ your fingers drummed against the bar, ‘aaaand I got the keys to my flat on Sunday but you know,’ you shrugged, ‘no furniture. Toll are just as lousy as they were when we used to post around…’ another sip, though it was not thirst you sought to satiate. ‘How about you? Working?’

‘It’s been…’ he calculated, finding slight shock upon reaching the answer, ‘eight months. I work nights at the quarry.’

‘Wow,’ you half raised your glass, ‘I’m gonna be honest, I never thought I’d find you here of all places.’

‘Yeah…’ he felt a pint slid toward him, Colin wordlessly encouraging his newfound company with an irritating eyebrow raise. ‘It’s a’right, not much happens here. Exactly what I needed.’ Or so he’d thought.

‘So what..’ you exercised caution, ‘what made you leave finally?’ 

He paused, something pushing him to let a more candid answer than his first instinct offered play out. ‘I got tired of it…’ he took a swig, ‘got tired of having to finish what others started. I got sick of getting dirt’y hands for a world that never got any bloody cleaner.’ Blue eyes latched into yours, ‘got tired of loosing friends, got tired of seeing good men trade it all for nothing in return.’

‘You know what?’ A weighted gap splitting your response, ‘that’s exactly what he said…’ you trailed off, ‘told me he was going to hand it in, that he was sick of cutting off heads just to have the hydra grow another one… said he had just one last easy assignment.’ You huffed, something between amusement and anger, ‘He told me it was a rescue mission.’

‘That was the brief…’ Simon murmured, ‘we were told we’d be in and out, fetching a trafficker MI5 were keen on that had gotten himself captured by the local crime syndicate.’ He exhaled, lowering his tone, ‘we ‘ad no idea we’d end up knee deep in a turf war between two groups. ‘

‘That’s a far cry from a rescue mission,’ you answered, sitting there before turning with a more earnest look. ‘But…he never wanted me to worry, would always make up some elaborate story about fighting sea monsters or aliens whenever he got stuck overseas or whenever he hadn’t been able to speak…’ a flicker of a smile curving your lips.

He mirrored such fondness, his own kind trailing back to the dependably plucky attitude of the man you both mourned.

‘It’s so bad I…’ you were evidently trying not to let the tears brimming on your lower lashes fall. ‘I have a box of his things still waiting for me at Hereford I never had the guts to pick up…’ 

‘I still have contacts,’ he said, ‘I can arrange for it to be sent here if-‘ 

‘No,’ resolute, a single syllable that left no room for argument. It seemed you’d practiced isolation well, two or so years spent fine tuning the art of rejecting any conversationc or companion that shifted the earth on thoughts best left buried. You slowly stood up, a tight smile matching your newfound, stiff posture. 

‘I’m really glad I ran into you, but you don’t need to do that. I’m trying as best as I can to…’ you swallowed, ‘trying to start over. Trying to honour him but…’ your next words didn’t come easily, ‘trying to put it behind me. Trying to let him rest. Just like you are I’m sure.’

Simon felt himself mimicking your rise, his eyes stuck on you as this abrupt change to an icy, distanced persona took over. ‘What are the chances huh?’ You offered a parting nod, ‘take care.’ The two of you stared for a moment, knowing this town was hardly big enough to consider this another farewell.

As if acting on impulse his hand reached out, halting your departure with a cursory glance at both your unfinished beverages. That wouldn’t prolong this encounter, so he struggled with a bumpy, awkward promise. 

‘You need anythin’, you come to me.’ This time, his pledge was made with a grasp and flutter of conviction he’d not felt in half a year. You looked back, something clouding your face as you tossed him a look that was cautious at best and incredulous at worst. 

As you walked off he noted both the primitive, toothy pout of the man he’d pissed away earlier and the bartender coming to investigate his newfound company. Colin leant forward, eyeing the fading figure of the woman that had captured his customers attention in a previously unseen manner.

‘Not a fucken word,’ he said, finishing his pint quickly with the intention of getting away from public and far from prying, needling interjections. 

════════

Simon volleyed between feeling overheated and rueing the ever present chill seemingly stitched into the bones of this town. One leg flung out of the sheets whilst the rest of him remained tucked underneath them- it seemed to soothe his temperature woes, but did little to cure his minds refusal to return to the peace of sleep. He picked up his phone, the usually serene graphic of a pine forest became a burning expanse of green in the darkness, the ‘3:38am’ at the header the cherry on top. Such curiosity did his eyes no favours; it was placed back down, that same hand coming to wipe his brow and rub his eyelids in frustration. There was little to be done but lay there, two preoccupations haunting him and acting as gatekeepers to a decent nights rest.

In the small window of sleep he’d managed -probably no more than a few minutes despite the imprint of sweat on his sheets- he’d ended up right back on that catwalk. The wind sneaking in from his creaky little window became an Andean gust in a vivid retelling of that fated evening.

In his dream, Jacob, ‘Thames’ River had been right there once again. Only, the black wrapped figure that would eventually take his life had stopped, making direct eye contact with the man who could be his saviour if he would only just fire the gun held perfectly aligned in front of him. He, Captain Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, the man charged with leading them to victory and shepherding them to safety had remained still, the weapon that could save his life drawn with a clear shot but there was no intention of firing it. He watched, time at a crawling pace. He was allowing the events that followed to play out- acting only in false remorse as his teammate fell to his fate. He’d jolted awake, the visceral nature of the dream inducing a barrage of heat on his skin and shallow breaths. What troubled him most however, was the lack of embellishment. Dreams had a tendency to add false details, to create artificial, flowery or downright horrific version of events. He’d had many nightmares born from a heightened nervous system and a handful of visions so perfect and pleasant they couldn’t be anything but a figment of imagination.

The one presented to him just then felt more honest, more loyal to candour than the version of events he’d presented to his team, to command and to himself. Claims of it being too late to stop what had panned out no longer sandwiched between remorse and anger but laid bare in gritty verbatim  from his subconscious. The raw emotions, the heavy, rich tang of making such a greedy decision did not muster any unfamiliarity.

Were you a widow by his own will? 

All he could think of was the sensation of the poised pistol, and the few seconds shared between the three of them. He had been Ghost- judge jury and executioner in that moment, and made his choice. And still, the man he’d betrayed had in his final words, tasked him with the most paragon of commands he could think of.

Enter you. His hesitation to acknowledge you had been from a resistance to duty. A desire to create a divide between the world he’d been born into and the one he was trying to create. Alas, it seemed, there was little distinction between them at all. 

Ghost and Simon were one and the same. Simon would now have to pick up the pieces of the mess Ghost had created, yet there was nothing odious about it. A quiet room forced him to reflect, forced him to think of all the times he’d sat through talk of your place in his soldiers life and the bitter, sour sensation that swelled on his tongue as he listened. 

He hadn’t understood it then, but he did now. For all his transgressions, you’d been hand delivered to him on a silver platter. The few months spent running from his own fate were punishment, his inability to be without the familiarity of a purpose assigned to him a life sentence of its own.

He groaned, cutting off his own bolting thoughts as he rolled over to the other side. The distant lights of the bay twinkled out his window, and he tried to sleep once more. 

Protect her, keep her safe. He’d figure out a way to do just that even if you weren’t particularly receptive to him yet.

An eerie, venomous thought surfaced just as he fell dozed off once more. In that moment, a sick resentment formed for a man who didn’t have a breath in his body for self defence. Whether he’d pried the baton from dying clutches or been handed it was irrelevant-

Before he realized it, the affections he had for you were hidden in the layers of sitting next to you during meetings, shielding you with his body once the world became a battlefield, when his eyes unconsciously hunted for yours when he was in a room of people he didn’t recognize.

It only grew when your world got too loud, he would find you sitting on the floor of his room as your hands glided across the page when you began to draw. Those times were always filled with deafening silence, but you manage to make those moments sound pleasant when your pencil sketches lines and shadows of images that caught your attention.

On one occasion he decided to ask what it was you liked to draw. Your eyes would smile knowingly as it met his own and you’d just mutter, “Things I like…” It was always vague and he never understood it until he caught a page with images of those around you. Price with a cigarette hanging from his lips. Gaz out of uniform cradling a cat. Johnny sitting on the floor with a towel over his face after a run. Then himself. 

Most of your sketches of him were never finished, particularly his hands and his face. The images were there, his shape was there, his mask was there, but never his eyes or any indicator of the man behind the mask.

“Was it difficult to capture my likeness?”

Your hands stopped sketching the world outside and you’d nod slowly, the kind where you’d nod to appease the speaker than to speak your truth.

He’d press you further because he wanted to know and then you said, “If I draw you exactly. I might never see you again.”

He’d tilt his head, ask for you to elaborate and as usual you’d respond to him with typical vagueness that fell in line with poetry he didn’t really understand.

He should have asked you more about it then.

—

Simon knew above all that he was an imperfect, ugly, hypocritical man. He knew it when he woke up in the morning and washed his face and what stared back at him was the reflection of his father. He can’t bear the sight of his own face.

Yet he hated how you made him tolerate it. Made him learn to like it, even a little bit.

When he’d brush his hand across the scar that marred his face he’d close his eyes and imagine it was your fingers delicately tracing the shape of his skin while you poured his cup with the poison of your tenderness. 

He’d bring his hand over your own, squeezing softly as he’d bring his lips at the point of your wrist, grateful that you see him. Grateful that you could hold him longer than a second. Grateful that you could still look at him and still call him by his name without the ounce of bitterness that he looked the way he did.

He adored you so much it hurt to breathe when you were near, it hurt to be away from you knowing that when he’d glance at the corner where you’d draw, you weren’t there. It hurt to know that when he laid in bed he’d imagine that this flimsy pillow he pulled deep into his chest was you. He was pathetic when it came to you and always will be.

—

When his heart stilled at the realization of how much you complemented the days he spent with you he was star struck and so deathly afraid because he knew you realized it too.

You knew it and you liked him. You adored him. You loved him. 

You said it yourself.

You said it looking at him dead in the eye, his face in your hands as you drew on his skin with coloured markers. 

You said it on the cargo plane back to base with your face muddied with earth and dirt as you grinned at him.

You said it when you laid on his bed together with legs tangled between each other.

You said it when the car park was dark and your staggering footsteps trailed behind him when he forced himself to say goodbye.

Simon forced his gaze away from you as you ran after him. He forced every painful step he took forward and away from you because deep down inside he knows the moment he stops walking he will simply stay just for you. He forced himself to muddle those deep, honest words you spoke into twisted lies because he cannot allow himself to believe that for once in his ugly bloody life was he worth enough for someone like you to love him.

His chest stung when you wept behind him, begging for him to turn around to to simply just talk to you, and with every breath you took he simply kept moving forward. All you saw was the back of the man you thought you knew.

When the door slammed shut the sound of your cries stilled an echo within him and the muffled sound of your voice sounded like fingers pointing in his direction that said, that this happened because of you.

—

“Ghost…”

“I’ve got to go. Price needs to see me.” He didn’t spare a single glance in your direction and it stung.

“Ghost, please talk to me.” Your soft voice lulled him and he wanted to look at you, go down on his knees and apologize for making you cry, but he didn't. 

Rather he pushed past you, shoulders brushing against each other as he could hear your voice call for him again.

“What did I do?” You quicken your pace to match his, “Please just- tell me what I did wrong. I’ll fix it- I’ll be better! Just please stop ignoring me like this-” You say, hurried and out of breath, eyes begging to meet him and your gaze was never returned.

He arrives at Price’s office, door just within reach when you step in front of him, blocking his path and for once after weeks of trying to forget your face, your voice, your presence– his world returns to him only this time its a still frame of your reddening face and watery eyes and he can just feel how much he hurt you. How much he took from you that he knows he can never give back.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Simon.” His body stilled at the sound of his name. Your shaking hands nervously squeezed to a fist, like the way you used to when you first became a part of the taskforce or when you take on a mission you lacked the confidence of fulfilling.

“What did I do? Please just-” Your voice cracks, “I want to fix it. I want to just talk and at least be– friends again..”

He stood like a formidable wall, casting you in shadows from the bright, gleaming ceiling lights only this time, this wall wasn’t protecting you anymore.

“Fix your act sergeant.” Your breath hitches and as his heart claws itself inwards he pushes on, “Since when have I ever cared about you?” He bends down to your level and the hands that once cradled you with fondness became vines with thorns that prickle and poked into your skin that bled.

His hand itched to wipe your tears only he dropped them down on your shoulder, pushing you aside. “I’m not your friend, sergeant. You’re most certainly not mine either.”

It was too loud and the lights were hurting his eyes.

He opens the door to Price’s office and you grab his sleeve.

Simon forces a sigh and rips his arm away from you as she shuts the door behind him.

—

He squeezed his pillow tight into his chest, pretending everything was alright, that he didn’t turn away from you, that he didn’t make you cry, that he didn’t lie to your face that you meant nothing to him.

But he knows that the damage has been done.

You hate him. You need to hate him. You need to hate him so much that his blood is fire against his bones. You need to hate him enough to hate himself. You need to hate him enough that he believes the lies he feeds himself because any ounce of mercy from your kind eyes will melt any preservation he had to ensure he suffered for you.

What he did is the right choice. Simon can’t allow himself to be loved by you when he knows by the end of the game he will simply just hurt you and everything you have built together.

He will hurt you more being with him than being away from him.

He is fire against your still waters and he knows he will burn everything around him that the warmth you thought eased your soul was destruction in disguise.

He will hurt you, scar you, bite you, and burn you so deeply that the marks of how much he destroyed leaves a mark on your heart and you deserve so much better than his flames. You deserve someone who doesn’t ruin you when they stay. You deserve someone who can nurture you to grow to someone better than who you are now. You deserve someone who can make you happy. You deserve someone who isn’t him. Simon Riley, the scarred face bastard who was so scared to be loved by you that he pushed you away hoping you’d forget him forever.

Simon nuzzles his face into his pillow, pretending it's your shoulder and the memory of what was stung and comforted him.

This is for the best. Even if it hurts.

—

From then on the eyes that used to linger on him and his form disappeared. Now they gaze at someone else, someone far more charming, kinder, safer. Someone who eased the nervousness of your shaking hands before an operation. Someone who stopped at the sound of their name being called. Someone who wasn’t afraid to hold you and be loved by you so loudly that it deafened everything around you.

It relieved him so much that you were in the hands of someone who can properly cherish you without hurting you.

It relieved him enough to breathe like his ribs didn’t hurt him. It relieved him that when he walks down the hall he doesn’t hear you right behind him. It relieved him that he didn’t have to hear you sketching in his room late in the afternoon when your world got too loud. 

It relieved him so much not to be loved by you.