#platonic!ghost

Johnny hadn’t come out to the Jeep yet, and for the past five minutes Simon had been about to drive away, one hand on the wheel, index finger tapping away impatiently as he scowled in the direction of the house. They both seemed almost attached at the hip more often than not. You wondered what was holding the werewolf up.

The front door swung open, but instead of Johnny and his ever-wagging tail coming out, it was Price who lumbered out. The little brown fuzzy’s barely visible on his head, which you assumed were ears, twitched as he approached the car, opened the passenger door, and hauled his body in.

The car shook ever so slightly when he pulled the door shut, slamming it loudly in a gesture that made you jump a bit.

“Where’s Johnny?”

Simon asked, his tone calm but the hint of annoyance creeping in. He raised a brow at Price, who huffed with a hint of a growl that had the hair on the back of your neck standing up.

“Said I’m gonna pull my back out choppin’ wood, told me to come with you.”

John sounded more than annoyed, huffing, his sentence trailing off with his voice growing a bit more than brusque as usual, Simon sighing out through his nostrils.

“Not like he’s wrong.”

He mumbled, putting the keys in, turning them, and starting the ignition, before Price growled deep and low. Your breath caught in your throat, muscles tensing as you scooted more away from the middle of the backseat to the right side, body curling up as you tried to focus on the moving scenery outside the tinted window, the car pulling out of the driveway and bumbling along the bumpy roads. Trees blurred into brown and orange masses as Simon sped up a bit, his and John’s conversation speeding up as well.

“Leave it, Price.”

If you were a hybrid, you might’ve been able to smell the souring of John’s scent or the hint of bitter anger that tinted it.

“You’re hardly younger than me, but those muppets don’t blink twice when you’re doing work, do they?”

A pause from Simon.

“It’s..different, Price. We’re different.”

“Yeah, how’re we different? You saying you’re better than me.”

The atmosphere thickened. You didn’t like how angry he sounded, how Simon’s knuckles were white around the wheel, how John was bordering on a growl every word. He seemed pent up. Angry about more than just what had happened today, as if this had been building for a while, longer than you’d been around to see.

Simon didn’t deny it.

“You muppets, always thinkin’ I’m getting too old for this, well I’m not. I’m not too fuckin’ old to chop wood—“

He snarled out, and your hands went to cover your ears, tears pricking your eyes. You didn’t like angry, cussing men. They brought back bad memories, things you didn’t want to think about again, not right now, if ever. Your knees curled up into your chest, and your blurry vision focused on the window.

The trees had turned into walls of rock, with a few darker spots where water was steadily dripping down, and grass crusted over with frost. The little trees that were on the top had lost all of their leaves by now, the cold chill getting to them.

It was cold in the car, too.

They didn’t have the AC on, which made sense, considering the amount of hair on John meant he didn't need much heat, and Simon’s large body produced enough on its own. Or at least you assumed.

Their argument grew a bit more heated, a few words slipping into your ears despite the hands covering them until they were both yelling at each other, and you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Stop it!”

You finally yelled, hands still covering your ears, eyes fearful and scared. John’s mouth was still open from something he’d been about to say before they both turned to glance at you and knew they’d fucked up.

Simon took one look at you through the rearview mirror and internally winced. You witnessed the entire thing, an argument that he and John had been having for years now. The old man was too stubborn to let anyone else try and take care of him, shouldering more and more, trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and getting angry when anyone tried to help him if he stumbled.

John’s anger was gone in a second, replaced with the full internal instinct to fix. His cub was upset because of him. It was his fault. He had to fix it.

Your body language alone was screaming “stay away from me, I will bite your hand off”, as was your scent, but he couldn’t just let you sit all terrified in the backseat, so he tried to calm you down just a bit.

“‘M sorry, cub. Didn’t mean to scare you,”

His voice turned from angry to soft and cooing so quickly it almost gave you whiplash, but it still worked a bit on softening the anxiety churning in your gut. Not enough for you to accept the large hand he was offering, though.

Simon looked at the rearview mirror once again, both behind the car, and then at you once more, and was hit with a sudden realization.

You were afraid, fearful, but he didn’t see any hint of surprise in your expression. You’d been in foster care so long, you’d probably seen all sorts of relationships, maybe even experienced a few, if your earlier request to visit a ‘friend’ was anything to go off of, but you probably hadn’t seen what a healthy relationship was before.

And what he and John had just showed you? That wasn’t healthy, not at all.

So he tried to think of what Gaz would do, ever the virtuous young man, always trying to mend relationships and crossing bridges before burning them completely. He’d seen it just a day ago between him and Soap. Kyle was always thinking about what the other person was thinking and feeling, what they might be going through, putting himself in someone else’s shoes.

Simon might’ve not been the best with emotions, but he could recognize the signs of a minor breakdown. Price hadn’t slept well much this week, before you’d come he’d been worried about getting the room done on time, and since then he’d been worried about you getting comfortable. His short temper made sense. And with such a small, new kid in their home, slowly becoming a member of the pack, it made sense for his protective instincts to be on overdrive, making him shoulder more responsibilities as the leader of the pack.

In fact, he hadn’t seen John this worked up in years, not even with their past fosters.

Simon could have some empathy for the man, and after growing up through his childhood with no good father figure, only his dad abusing his mother and being drunk all the time. You deserved better than what he’d had to see and much better than what he and Price were showing you.

“John.”

He interrupted the man’s cooed words, and John at the lack of nickname and the sheer tone that Simon was using. It wasn’t an unkind tone, it was soft and quiet, much less intimidating than the usual monotone and bland voice he adorned.

It caught your attention too, he could tell. His eyes remained on the road, but he could scent the subtle shift in your emotions, from the fear and worry, a bitter scent, to the shift to a calmer, softer scent. Almost like freshly done laundry, and how soft and warm it is coming out of the dryer.

“Yes?”

He was trying to stay angry, Simon could tell, but it wasn’t working.

Simon took a deep breath, trying to push down the embarrassment he already felt for what he was about to say. It felt strange to acknowledge emotions so clearly, but it was necessary, and if he had to push himself out of his comfort zone to make you comfortable, he would. He’d done better for worse people.

“I...understand that you’re stressed, and feel like we’re undermining you, but we’re just worried that you’re pushing yourself too hard, and not trusting us enough to let us help you. It’s not that any of us are better than you, we just don’t want you taking everything on your shoulders.”

He heaved a shaky breath out, eyes on the road as he pulled into the parking lot of the mall, eyes scanning for a parking spot that wasn’t taken up.

“I’m sorry,”

John finally spoke up, voice rough, but not with anger, only thick with emotion.

“I’ve just been stressed, and trying to keep myself busy. I didn’t mean to…”

His sentence trailed off as he leaned into Simon, and Simon leaned his head against him as he finally found a spot, and pulled into it.

As you sat in the back, watching, John finally pulled away from Simon a minute later, giving a little apologetic smile to you as he opened his door, moving to open yours.

“Sorry for scaring ya, cub. Let’s make it up and go get some clothes, yeah?

He offered a hand, and you found that you took it, despite having to lift your arm a bit for your hand to meet his large, calloused one. He was warm.

Simon came around after you heard him pull the keys out, lock the car, and shut his door. He took your other hand, leaving you sandwiched between the two giant men as you all approached the entrance to the mall, which was a lot of sliding glass doors marked with “Exit” and “Entrance”.

As soon as you entered, your senses were assaulted with the smells and musks of other people and perfume, not to mention delicious food and drinks, as well as bright lights from stores and flashing lights from stands selling kids’ toys. It was loud, people talking unabashedly on the phone, to their friends as they laughed and tripped over their own feet, or to their partners as they walked hand in hand. A few other children your age were there, but no humans.

It didn’t necessarily surprise you.

Simon noticed how overwhelmed you were, and he couldn’t say that he hadn’t expected it. Malls were large spaces packed full of people looking to sell things, and others rushing to buy things. Especially with how most people tended to easily be taller than you, or tower over you, he could imagine you’d be easily intimidated by that, let alone all the options of where to go.

Giving your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze, he spoke.

“We can get clothes first, then decide from there.”

John met his eye, and nodded, silently agreeing with him. You mumbled a little “okay”, before being led along by the both of them to a nearby area in the mall that was a large clothing store, one of the bigger shopping areas than the hallways full of different, smaller stores.

“Let’s focus on winter clothes first, so jackets, scarves, gloves, pants, those sorts of things. Then we can move on to lighter wear.”

You all navigated the store, meandering around before John spotted the “Children’s clothing” sign, and you finally found the girl’s section. From there, you had to narrow that down to the human section among all sorts of hybrids.

That was the one thing you didn’t envy about hybrids, was how hard it must be to find clothing that properly fit their various parts like wings, tails, etc. There was a reason that seamstresses and embroiderers had become much more popular after hybrids really began rapidly spreading and taking over the population. The business was booming.

“What about this one?”

John asked, gesturing to a striped sweater. You could tell from a few glances that the quality wasn’t the greatest, and that it wasn’t made of real wool or fiber, probably just the type of polyester that rubbed against your skin badly. You reached a hand out, disconnecting from Simon, and rubbing against the fabric only to confirm your assumption. You shook your head.

“Itchy.”

You said simply. They tried pointing out clothes and jackets you might like to no avail, probably not understanding the concept of needing fabric to stay warm, considering most hybrids had fur to keep them warm, if not their bodies practically being furnaces.

Finally, you found the absolute perfect jacket. A hoodie that wasn’t tight around the bottom, but baggy enough to where it went down to your mid-thigh, the sleeves weren’t tight, and the hood was loose and wasn’t so heavy that it weighed the hoodie down or strangled you. The inside felt like a cloud, and it was stretchy but also firm enough to keep heat insulated.

When you finally stopped feening over the hoodie, you flipped the price tag over and winced, putting it back. It might’ve been perfect, but it was a ridiculous amount of money for a hoodie. Too much money for a hoodie.

Simon and Price exchanged a look behind your back as you went on to find other clothes, returning twenty minutes later with, as John requested, a scarf, gloves, some sweatpants, and socks. Simon scoped it all out of your arms and put it in their cart, following behind as John began looking for the clothes for lighter seasons, finding it and letting you choose your pick.

Having spent almost two hours in the one place by now, with you trying on various clothes, John said he wanted to make sure they fit right before buying them, and your mild indecisiveness as well. When it was all said and done, you had plenty of clothes for outfits throughout the year, and they checked out.

It was only after everything had been checked out that you saw it.

The hoodie.

Simon held it carefully, scanning it, before ripping the tag off with ease and handing it to you. You opened your mouth in protest at first, a bit embarrassed, but decided against saying anything as you slid it on. It fit perfectly.

It wouldn’t be very easy for either of them to hold the bags and your hand at the same time, so Simon leaned down, getting on one knee, and gesturing to his shoulders, gently picked you up by the armpit, and lifted you until you were sitting on his shoulders.

You blinked in surprise for a moment or two, but eventually, the shock wore off. The internal cringing after seeing a couple go “awwww” at the sight of you, or a group of women giggling to themselves, seeing Simon carrying you, didn’t though.

John noticed, a little smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t mind anyone noticing what good parents they were to the newest member of their pack, it actually made his chest swell with pride.

“You hungry?”

Simon asked, tilting his head a bit to the side to catch a glimpse of you, just so he knew you had heard him. You gave a little nod, being absolutely starving by now, and he chuckled.

“Me too, kid. Let’s see how much we can convince Price to spend on food.”

You’d both convinced him to spend quite a lot on food, apparently, as you both sat down, eating Thai chicken that tasted scrumptious. You devoured it, eating faster than even Simon, and Price was steadily laughing as he watched you somehow shove more food down your throat.

“Save some for the rest of us,”

Price chuckled, watching as you swallowed more chicken, looking up at him with a look more feral than any hybrid he’d seen, before pouting in what he assumed was a joking way.

“I’m just a girl.”

You said, and Simon’s deep, raspy laughs started up at that. He apparently found it funny. You continued devouring your food, filling your stomach until you were all full, something you weren’t used to from your past foster parents.

Price was enjoying his food as well as you all sat at the Food Court, in a little booth table. The lady working the shop had given extra-large servings after taking one look at Simon and Price, knowing big men like them would need plenty of food. She probably hadn’t known how starved you’d been, and by now, you were too hungry to care about eating nicely in front of them.

There was sauce on your lips and your fingers, but you didn’t care, Price wiping some from his beard, Simon using a napkin to wipe some of it from his mouth, before folding that napkin over, and wiping it off your face. You looked at him, a smile tugging at your lips. He tried to conceal his smirk but failed as you burst into giggles. Price laughed again.

After finally finishing off all of the chicken, both you and Simon were in a food coma by now, Price had to drag both of you out of the mall and into the car, climbing into the driver’s seat. You and Simon lagged behind a little bit, before you broke out into a run to the car, yelling a message for Simon.

“I call shotgun!”

“You can’t just—“

He sputtered, racing after you, but too late as you yanked the passenger door open, collapsing into the seat as you shut the door and locked it manually. He raised a brow, but you buckled up, securing your seat with a badly suppressed smile.

He opened the back door, climbed in, and stretched out on all three of the seats in the back, yawning as he didn’t even bother to buckle up.

You and John both looked back at him, you giggling quietly as Simon’s lips twitched, John just shaking his head in fond exasperation.

The drive home was quiet, other than the low-volume music playing in the background as you curled up in the large seat, watching the window, eyelids heavy, but you resisted the siren's call of sleep for most of the car ride, other than a little five-minute nap, or maybe a little bit longer than five minutes.

Or maybe you fell asleep almost the entire car ride, only waking up when you heard Johnny’s excited voice, followed by hushing, and you shifted around, only to find yourself cradled in John’s arms.

“Quiet, she’s sleeping.”

Kyle murmured, and Johnny whined, the sound almost piercing to your ears.

“No, she ain’t—“

And then you slowly blinked awake, finding yourself being shifted from John’s arms to Johnny’s, warm muscle gently caging you in as soft fur rubbed gently against your skin, tickling a bit. His chest rumbled with a deep purr, one that even had you melting further into him, despite not being the same species. It somehow still affected you.

You heard his heavy footsteps thud down the hall, until your bedroom door creaked open, and the soft blankets in your bed surrounded you now instead of him.

You shifted around a bit, finding a comfortable angle and spot, listening to his quiet breathing and loud purring as he kissed you on the forehead, murmuring something so low that you couldn’t hear it, before leaving the room, leaving you to fall asleep.

Tags:

@theartgremlin

@roastyyytoastyyy

@simonrileysown

@thriving-n-jiving

@angeldemon28

@purple-moonbeam

@d-oo-t

@epochal-oracle

@picklehat3r

Your elbow connects with the man’s nose with a satisfying crack.

Immediately he howls, pressing his broken nose with one hand, blood dripping between his fingers.

“FUCK! What the fuck! You broke my nose, you crazy bitch!”

This. This is why you didn’t want to meet the Task Force on base. There was always one brainless fucker who didn’t get the memo that, no, despite having breasts, you weren’t here as a comfort woman.

The private is glaring at you with a hatred as deep as it is sudden, one that screams murder.

The only good side of the situation is, with how loud he’s being, you won’t even need to call for help. Already most of the soldiers nearby are staring at you, muttering among themselves. Not that you can’t beat this guy up on your own, but the military tends to frown upon civilians roughing up their members, you learned it at your expense quite early. On the other hand, soldiers settling accounts between each other was… well, not exactly authorized, but it was way less trouble for you.

He grabs you by the collar, his rage only exacerbated by your composure. The action stains your clothing with his blood. You mentally grimace. You’re no stranger to blood, but the idea of this repulsive individual’s bodily fluids being anywhere on your person is disgusting. 

“Are you listening, you dumb bitch!? I’m gonna fucking kill-”

The venom-filled verbal onslaught stops dead as a hand takes hold of your assailant’s wrist.

“Now, now, at ease, soldier. Ya making a spectacle of yourself.”

The thickly accented voice of your boyfriend sends a wave of warmth in your chest. 

Your harasser hesitates a second too long, so Soap makes the decision for him, tightening his grasp until the soldier winces, and finally takes the hint, letting you go and taking a few steps backward. Johnny immediately positions himself between the two of you, shielding you.

He’s been smiling the whole time, but it’s the kind of dangerous smile you wear when you’re about to give an asshole a righteous beating.

The private looks partially sheepish, but not defeated, indignation burning in his eyes. He lets loose a torrent of justifications and excuses, actively painting you as the villain, not caring if he contradicts himself in the process. You don’t pay attention to the details of his speech. It’s always the same “she was asking for it” kind of diatribe. The fact that he sincerely believes that there’s a chance that Soap will take his side instead of yours is laughable, but not surprising. 

You wonder how long this will go on, until the private notices something next to you, and all blood seems to desert his face as his voice deserts his vocal cords. 

You turn your head and, to no surprise to you, Ghost is there. He stands so close to you that your arms are almost touching. Clothed entirely in black, which brings out the white skull on his mask, his presence is as menacing as ever; all he needs to do is scowl at lesser soldiers to make them cower in fear. He doesn’t look back at you, but his support for you is so obvious through the rest of his behavior that he doesn’t need to.

Soap takes advantage of the newfound silence to turn to you.

“Ya good, yeah?” He asks, cradling your cheek tenderly, and stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. 

The question is futile - if you were hurt, he would have noticed right away. But it’s still cute to see.

“Yeah. Not a scratch.” you smile.

“That’s my girl”, he smiles back. “So, what the bloody hell happened here?”

You glance at the private behind him. He’s shaking, and the look he sends you back is begging for mercy. Remembering the first words he addressed to you earlier, you realize you’re all out of mercy for today. Thus, with a sadistic little smile, you recount the events.

“This man came to me complaining that I was unfairly privileging Sergeant Mctavish and that he wanted his turn. Then when I explained that I wasn’t some kind of free-for-all buffet, he took it the wrong way and put his hands on me. That’s when I exploded his nose.”

By the time you finish your explanation, Soap’s expression has darkened considerably.

“I see.” is all that leaves his mouth. Anyone familiar with him would know that for him to start talking by monosyllables like Ghost, something must be very wrong.

Pivoting again, he faces the private and, as the latter opens his mouth to plead for forgiveness, punches him right in the face. Blood gushes, drops of it landing on his face. You mentally count until three, one for every blow, and when Soap still doesn’t stop punching, you frown, disturbed and worried by his conduct. He’s never been one to remain impassive in the face of injustice, easily riled-up even in critical situations and despite his superiors’ orders, but you’ve never seen him go this far. 

You’re about to intervene when Ghost beats you to it, putting a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder. That’s right. Ghost, the voice of reason, the paragon of self-control, their cold-hearted leader, will fix everything.

However when you hear the next words that leave his mouth, it’s like the world tilted on its axis.

“Not out in the open, Johnny.”

The words are whispered low enough that only Soap and you would have heard. They send a cold shiver down your spine. Rattled and unsettled in a way that they never made you feel before, you contemplate the situation in silent incredulity.

“Aye, L.T.”, replies Soap with an abnormally monotonous tone.

Before you can ask what the fuck is happening, he proceeds to punch the soldier so hard in the stomach that the latter collapses without a sound, except for the muffled noise of someone winded. The scene makes you increasingly uncomfortable. You feel like Bluebeard's newest wife, having stumbled upon the one room you were forbidden from entering, having witnessed something you weren't supposed to see, and now you can never go back to how things were before.

You counted on Soap and Ghost’s intervention, sure, but you expected them to put an end to the fight, maybe intimidate the guy a little, and ultimately end things here. You didn’t expect… whatever this is.

Staring in shock at the two Special Forces, you shake your head to get a grip and come closer.

“Alright guys, I think he’s had enough-”

Ghost interrupts you with a hand on your shoulder. The Ghost touching two people in less than five minutes? Yes, something’s seriously wrong. Looking at him, you try to convey urgency with your gaze…

“Simon, this isn’t-” 

…but his next words make you lose hope of winning this argument.

“Easy there, love. Johnny’s takin’ care of it, ya don’t need to worry ‘bout a thing.”

The next thing you know, he presses a hand against your lower back, making you leave the premises, completely ignoring the way you stare at him in utter disbelief… and growing apprehension. 

It had all started one morning, in an old public school. The first day of 2nd grade.

You’d sat down near the middle, not wanting the attention of being in the front or back, preferring to be farthest from the teacher. He’d sat down in the back, on the desk behind you.

The teacher, an older woman with frizzy, short hair and thick bangs, had passed out pieces of paper with little plastic bowls of macaroni and instructed each of you to take out your glue bottle and stick the macaroni pieces down to make the shape of an apple. He hadn’t brought anything to class, mumbling something about ‘forgetting’ his backpack before thanking you when you decided to share.

You remembered seeing the splotchy bruises on his skin, on his too-skinny knees, and wondering where they were from. His blonde, greasy hair, almost looked brown. He had blonde eyelashes, that was what you remembered the most.

You’d knocked your bowl of macaroni off your desk, and everyone had turned their heads to you, the chatting of other children stopping as some giggled. He watched as your ears turned red from embarrassment, and you got up, kneeling on the floor to pick up each and every piece, one by one. He’d gotten up too, deciding that he would make whatever was between you two even by helping.

“I’m (Y/N),”

You’d murmured, offering a little strained, nervous smile. He’d glanced up at you, and nodded, swallowing as his Adam’s Apple bobbed.

“Simon.”

He whispered back. You had smiled a bit at that, and he’d assumed you were just mentally laughing at him, until you’d whispered something to him about having an old dog named Simon, one of those crusty white mutts that would bark at everything, could barely see, and would hump everyone’s legs.

He’d snorted at that.

The other kids had moved their focus back onto their crafts by then, and you’d written your address on the back of an index card, passing it to him, whispering for him to come visit on Saturday afternoon, that he could play games with you and your neighborhood friends.

He’d come and gotten to know all of them. Some of the only childhood friends he’d had, considering the people who lived in his neighborhood didn’t have any kids, or not good ones to hang around with unless you were looking to get addicted to something, anyway.

He’d finally met your parents, being welcomed in, your mother taking some of his torn jeans and pants to stitch up for him, giving him food to take home, your father helping with homework after school, teaching him how to fix things, helping teach him woodwork and how a man should act, caring for his family, how to be respectful to women. He started getting invited to Thanksgiving, essentially staying at your house every day after school to escape his actual dad waiting at home.

He’d been there when you’d first gotten your period, waking up to your hushed panicked whispers to yourself, walking over only to cover his eyes as he tried to erase the sight of your pants and underwear, both stained with blood, pulled down. You held a tampon in one hand and squealed as you saw him.

“Hey, it’s just me—“

“Oh god, Simon, I don’t know what to do—my mom only uses tampons and I don’t want that inside of me-!”

“Just..uh…shove toilet paper in your underwear.”

“No! I need pads, shit-shit-shit, we don’t have any…”

He’d seen the tears welling in your eyes as he peeked out from his hands, keeping his eyes strictly on your face. He knew what he had to do, even as his cheeks turned bright red.

“I could, I dunno, go buy some? There’s that little shop like five minutes away?”

“Oh, thank god, there’s twenty bucks under my plant on my dresser, you can use that. Thank you, Si.”

He’d run to the little shop, bought the pads using the twenty bucks, despite the weird looks the cashier and men in the store had given him, and run straight back, handing you the pad and reading the instructions from the back of the box to try and help you figure it out together with him.

He’d been there for your first boyfriend, some guy with no real personality outside of being tall and good at basketball, but you’d both broken up abruptly because he’d simply gotten bored of you. He’d comforted you then, and you’d comforted him after his first girlfriend cheated on him.

High school had come. He survived the first two years only because you helped him through it, basically tutoring him through all of Geometry and the advanced classes he somehow tested into, and he’d taken you to all the fast food restaurants you’d craved in the middle of the night in exchange. He dropped out Junior year, and because of being held back for ‘disruptive behavior’ in his elementary school, he was already 18.

He didn’t know how to drop the bombshell that he was going to the military, having already applied, and been accepted, he was expected to report in only a day.

So he wrote a letter, saying everything about how he would miss you, and that he’d bring you home all sorts of trinkets, and that you’d both be best friends forever, even when he went into the military and escaped his father for good. He’d thanked you for everything, saying he’d see you again soon, and he’d visit again as soon as possible.

Except that, between all the missions, a few injuries that hospitalized him, and then the training he had to undergo to be put back in his Task Force, and everything he witnessed, it was a couple of years until he finally went back.

But when he did go back, getting off of the flight, speeding the entire way to your house, hopping out, he knocked on the door, newly painted with the yard trimmed nearly, a few different decorations and flowers in place now, it was a stranger who opened the door. A stranger said that he didn’t know who Simon was looking for and that he’d owned this house for a good four years now.

Simon had assumed you’d moved on. Gone on for better things than him. Little did he know, his father had found the letter in the mailbox, mailed to go to your house, since Simon knew you might find it too soon if he put it right in your mailbox, and his father had opened it, and promptly thrown it in their fireplace, watching it burn to ash.

You didn’t know where your best friend had gone. He’d just…disappeared with no word, and after all of his family tragically died a year or two after, you’d gone to the funerals, and not seen a trace of him. Here you were now, standing and waiting for your flight back home from visiting some family that lived far away, messy bun holding your greasy hair up, eye bags prevalent as you hadn’t cared to put on makeup, wearing the most atrocious but comfortable outfit possible, and you saw it.

A pair of blue eyes that looked all too familiar.

He was with three other men, one looking old enough to be your father, with a gruff beard and weathered demeanor, another with a Mohawk, wearing a small grin as he nodded at something, the other silent and listening with a smile, and him.

He was wearing a cloth mask, the sort that had been mandated throughout countries not too long ago. It had a skull pattern, one you recognized from the countless nights his older brother, Tommy, had worn a skull mask and scared the wits out of both you and Simon. You still remembered his shrilly squeals of terror as he booked it, running for the hills.

“Simon?”

His head snapped in your direction so fast you thought he might have a whiplash injury. They all paused, a bit of surprise, and a hint of suspicion and mistrust in their expressions as they watched him yank his mask off, face one of shock, before he ran over to you.

You laughed in pure sleep-deprived shock, embracing him in a hug as he gave you a fat kiss on the cheek, he sighed.

“Thought I’d never see you again. By the time I went back, you were already gone. Guess you read the letter, huh?”

He felt a bit of embarrassment bubbling up at the memory of his teenage self crying while writing that letter, all of his angsty little thoughts spilling out into what he thought might be a final goodbye.

“What letter?”

You both looked up at each other confused, and it was his turn to laugh in disbelief.

“I, uh, made a letter. Tellin’ you I was going off to the military, that I’d be back. I thought I mailed it to you, must’ve forgotten through the nerves.”

The other men finally began approaching. They’d never seen their Ghost look so nervous before, going back to stuttering, rubbing the back of his neck, grinning nervously while looking at the floor.

“Ghost? Who’s this?”

The gruff man asked. You raised a brow.

“Ghost? Seriously?”

Simon huffed elbowing you in the side, watching you wince slightly. He forgot how strong he was, sometimes. Maybe it was because he was always surrounded by people who were just as large as he was, that he wasn’t used to being around civilians anymore.

“Ah, this is Captain MacTavish and Captain Price—“

“Christ’s sake, we’re off base, just tell the lass our names.”

He saw the way your grin widened at his Captain’s Scottish accent, meeting his gaze with a look of wonder.

“Right, John Price, John MacTavish, and that’s Gary.”

“What’s Gary’s special name?”

You watched as Simon’s lips twitched up a moment, before responding.

“Roach.”

You busted out laughing, and soon enough the older men were joining in too, while poor Gary just cringed and turned redder by the second.

“Gonna introduce me, Si?”

You finally asked once the laughing fit was over, and he nodded, throat suddenly drying up as he realized he didn’t know a proper title for you. Friend? Were you two even more than acquaintances after all these years? His brain seemed to decide for him, as he spoke.

“This is my best friend, (Y/N).”

The men raised brows at that, but Price only chuckled, jerking his head to the airport’s hallway.

“This has been a lovely reunion, but we need to find a place to sleep, best friend or not.”

He’d said, giving a smile that felt a bit passive-aggressive to Simon, considering how he was tired, hungry, and just wanted to rent a hotel room for the night already, and the words had tumbled out of your mouth before you’d thought it through.

“You could just stay with me. We’ve got plenty of catching up to do, anyway.”

You’d said, giving a pointed glance at Simon, who’d smirked ever so slightly.

“How about it, lads?”

MacTavish had asked, and after a collective nod from everyone, he sealed your fate with a simple sentence.

“Lead the way, then.”