Welcome to the splash zone

He can’t help but think the hot pink you had on today would look amazing around him.

‘And you’re set,’ you smile, snapping him back to reality. You apply one final dusting of red to his faux cheek wound. A mirror is held up, allowing him to inspect your work and take in his new, temporary form as a victim of an ambush. Every time, without fail, he’s quick to sing your praises and try to slowly grease the wheels on a potentially getting closer to you. ‘Keen for your fight scene today?’ You ask.

‘Talented and beautiful, h’ardly fair on the rest of us babe,’ he tilts his head, a brow raised, ‘I am yeah, some new guy comin’ in to stand in for the villain, apparently ex army as well. But uh,’ he smiles, ‘I’m more excited for what comes after though.’

Before you can even dare to ponder what event has caught his fancy he places a hand on your shoulder, halting your attempts at packing away brushes. ‘Lemme take you out tonight, dinner on me. Anywhere ya’ want.’

You’d grown used to his subtle but frequent passes and evident preoccupation with seeking you out during his every spare moments on set. Perhaps it was mistaken for a tool of the trade, a plastic attempt at charming all he met and symptom of his generally hospitable nature. This however, was bolder and forced you to face him head on. You began to pack away quickly, both makeup and the act of avoiding his advances your chosen forms of artistry. 

‘Oh! I uh…’ you stumble, but fail to slow down the haste in your movement. ‘I’m sorry I’ve got to go, needed in costuming…’ you leave only because he allows you to, his hand slipping from your shoulder despite every fibre of his being resisting your departure. 

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It isn’t until he was heading toward set later, ready to shoot the first physical combat scene of the film that he’s met with the astonishing reality behind your continued refusals. The crew buzzed about preparing the setting for the first of many gritty, potentially hazardous conflict scenes that could only be pulled off by those well versed in risk. 

Even prop knives and blank rounds could be potentially lethal in the wrong hands so they needed not one but two experts. An assumed ability to remain calm and follow instructions in hectic environment made veterans an allegedly prime choice.

He catches sight of you immediately, the figure of his apparent stunt counterpart facing away as you apply something to his brow. It’s what comes next, the manner in which you’re pulled in for a peck for ‘good luck’ as you conclude your duty that sows seeds of anger in him. Seeing you oblige, seeing you stare with soft adoration at the man he’d soon face in malice that would be more real than previously thought that had it grow into something dire.

Kyle went still, the already burgeoning rage inside him doused with a searing gloss of betrayal as the stranger turned.

‘C..Captain Price?’ An old means of address, muttered in shock and delivered with a lack of composure ill suited to the task ahead. Deep brown eyes bounce between you and the man, his former superior and a figure he once hailed. It was a title and connotation he felt no longer fitting with a nauseating realisation.

‘Kyle, Gaz… what a surprise…’ an earnest smile, one that was either blissfully unaware of or revelling in the thoughts teeming behind his gaze.

The image of what had just taken place vanquished any chances of fond reunion or the rekindling of their previous, mutual respect. The director could hardly fathom the irony behind his next instructions, a silent yet sizzling glower attempting to ignite and melt the once solid casing of reverence that surrounded the elder male.

‘So you know each other! Even better,’ the man running the production clapped his hands together, ‘now for this scene, I want you both to really have at it. You,’ he gestured to Kyle, ensuring his line of sight remained firmly stuck on the other party.

It appeared he was not alone in sharing such fascination though it seldom inspired him to act. Instead, Johnny chose to observe with an intensity once thought exclusive to the glossy scope of a rifle. When hungry eyes that burnt and picked you apart across the bar grew more daring, more volatile to the point of flirting you remained silent. When, god forbid, it escalated to sneaking a few ravenous touches you still said little. Your face scrunched and your lips wobbled with a tremor he so deeply longed to bite or kiss away. He failed to deduce whether it was sadness, anger or meek protest pushing forth in the most diluted form possible. In fact, that was the most enticing thing about it all- the mystery and ambiguity. What would it look like if you tried to truly fight back? 

A dozen sultry scenarios flashed in his mind, all of them a mockery of the image you presented.

‘N…no…thankyou …’ the little exchange between you and the pushy stranger was like a gift. It was a hamper of delightful, sweet little nervous doings hand selected for the voice inside him that yearned for something simple to claim. One would almost think your own conscience was breaking the rebuttal into smaller, more digestible pieces lest you come off as bold for self preservation. He longed to take the little fragments and swallow them whole; Johnny wanted to be the only man, the only soul privy to your weakness.

The staggered little cluster of speech was like a sirens call, a song performed to a melody made distinctly for his ears. 

It took little for him to shoo away the other men. There was no fun here for them, no prize to be won from the game of torment. You weren’t likely to muster up witty retorts or humour them with shallow, reductive conversation. You weren’t there to pass time until you went home with whowever irritated you the least to satiate some boredom. They were simple and narrow minded, not inclined to the simple joy of taking your company for what it was.

Your eyes shone with discomfort, a glossy sheen that stood out as he remained by your side when the others trickled away.

‘Yer’ coming with me,’ stated in fact, a thick tone that left no room for imagined choice. He had to have you, had to take you home right then and there. A palm was offered, and even its coarse unfamiliar surface seemed softer and more favourable to those lurking nearby.

Perhaps it was for your own good. No one else would play as nicely as him. Johnny knew a treasure, a novelty when he saw one; he’d take good care of you if you’d just let him. Though really, it’s not like you’d protest. In fact, you’d probably struggle with mustering a clear coherent thought in your current state.

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Johnny’s teeth grazed the soft, sensitive skin of your throat as though it was there he sought to peel away whatever held you back. You couldn’t seperate yourself from the present, your mind doing little to aid you in denying the reality of his touches. Large hands wandered along every inch of you with something between obsessive precision and needy, famished conquest.  His lips found your jaw- a kiss that started off chaste then sunk into a sloppy, greedy pop. Slowly but surely, he was burying himself deeper- the only sounds to be heard was the bed straining and his own grunts.

That wouldn’t do. ‘Don’ be a tease lass…’ he mumbled, grunting as he shifted, as though trying to push words out from within you. ‘Talk to me…’

‘D..do…’ you exhaled, the act of him moving faster both encouraging you and making it difficult, ‘d..do you have a…a con..condom?’ 

He took in every syllable, every sweet little choppy note and discarded the suggestion entirely. He huffed in amusement, squeezing you tighter as he made a stout point of going as quickly as possible. The bed continued to shift, adding a squeaking symphony to the mix that drowned out your continued albeit, barely audible expressions of need. Your own breathing heightened, you once again tried the question with an airy, distracted trill. It didn’t take long for him to finish, his grip anchoring beneath the plush of your breasts as he rocked through the waves of release. 

He pulled out, eyes washed with an intensity that turned the temperate blue in them to a more leering, pelagic shade.

Talk of engagement, plans detailing a big grand wedding hit his social media before you can even think of slowing things down. His fans are just as excited about the relationship as he is, meaning thousands across the globe contribute to the hold he has on you through their well meaning messages and gushing that encourage him and his drastic ways. Few outside the relationship question the pace, seeing it only as him being his usual overly enthusiastic self. 

He finds your hesitation almost endearing, as though you’re someone to be guided along to something you must surely desire deep down. 

‘Come now, no need to be nervous. Why the hesitation? We’re meant to be’ it’s spoken so casually, so earnestly that attempting to convince him or anyone else otherwise would be futile. He has endless emotional stamina when it comes to working for something he wants.

He never does anything half baked, never settles for a common approach which may as well be the bare minimum. You can try whatever you want to push him away, you can conjure any excuse you like to try and paint his behaviour as anything short of true love but he won’t have it. 

If anything, Håvard takes accusations as motivation. He sees your disdain as a challenge, and almost yearns for the chance to push things further. Hidden neatly behind his public image teem jealous, possessive mannerisms. Alas, he cleverly seeks out avenues that justify them and paint them as caring.

That daily bouquet of flowers to your workplace isn’t a reminder that he’s keeping tabs, its devotion. Him not wanting you to hang out with your friends isn’t jealousy, it’s simply that you deserve better. Hasn’t anyone ever loved you this much before?

He’s eerily malleable to your every desire as long as it doesn’t entail any form of distance. You’ll get the best of everything and you’re the one person in the world he’ll drop everything for. On the outside? It would seem that he was wrapped around your finger.

And he is; though it is not in the warm, comforting manner one might think. It is not a little glove of companionship, but rather a set of gilded handcuffs locked tight with the keys of domineering desire. Håvard is ever present, using his charm and reach to have his influence douse any foolish suggestions you have of this being anything short of permanenth. 

Behind that golden aura, an eerie, manipulative set of links and capabilities rest. Should it come to it? He’s willing to pull a few strings and have any obstacles or grievances taken care of, all whilst donning a smile that discredits any suggestion of malice. 

‘You’re being foolish, you know me.’ That smooth act lets him get away with almost anything, and only you’re the wiser. His words are a thin, honeyed threat to remind you that you’re unlikely to be taken seriously.

NSFW

Prepare to be overstimulated, it’s one of the only ways he feels he can punish you whilst still upholding this favoured persona he’s built. To be so ravaged with pleasure you’re bought to tears in his arms surely can’t be the worst way to learn a lesson can it?

However, sex sometimes comes as a means of breaking free from such restraints. He takes on more dominant, more greedy and selfish characteristics and it reflects in the way he speaks and engages with your body.

‘You’re fucking mine,’ rarely does he ever use such words outside the bedroom, saving them only for when he’s at his most desperate, most carnal and grasping your skin until it leaves a mark. 

Little do you know he records most of your intimate moments, saving it for his own eyes but all too willing to share should you step too far out of line or in the instance of someone else needing a reminder you’re spoken for.

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.

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‘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. 

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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. 

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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 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-