#soapghostkonig

The night was warm, which pulled the students from the nearby university onto the streets. They were chattering, yelling and drinking, enjoying the last few years of their freedom.

Soap sat on the loveseat on his balcony with his beloved wraith laying on his lap like a big, snuggly cat.

“So these humans pay money to acquire knowledge?” the void that was Ghost, shed of his usual mask, echoed out. He was bewildered, absolutely not comprehending how colleges work. Soap had been trying to explain it for the past half an hour.

“Well, yeah. And if you don’t learn everything fast enough, they can kick you out and you’ll have to pay again.”

Soap gently threads his fingers through the smoke under Ghost’s hood, eliciting a pleasant, rumbling purr.

“Outrageous!” Ghost bellows, accidently awakening the eldritch being napping next to them. Ghost sat up, pressed a tender kiss to the spot where Konig’s forehead could potentially be under that hood he wore and settled the other demon back in the other loveseat.

“How can this even work? Taking someone’s right to knowledge away?” he repeated, this time more quietly, settling his head back on Soap’s plush thighs.

“Okay, to be completely honest, no one is taking anyone’s rights away. Or at least not in this case. The whole thing is really transactional, but that’s just because being able to teach so many people is really time consuming.”

Sopa rambled on and on, absentmindedly rubbing Ghost’s semi-material skin.

“The professors spend their whole life getting certificates and learning so they can teach other people. They have to be paid too. Capitalism, darling.”

And maybe Ghost’s unmoving heart gave a small, strained squeeze at that word. Even if it did, that would be only for Ghost to know. And maybe Konig, because Ghost was convinced the bastard was listening in.

“I suppose that’s somewhat reasonable.” Ghost grumbled unhappily and nuzzled into Soap tighter. “But I want to see this ‘college’ you speak of. I want to see what this place of knowledge looks like.”

Soap laughed, a hoarse laugh Ghost could probably hear and recognise even from hell.

“Fine, fine. I’ll find us a fun seminar with an open audience, how about that?”

Once the mission is completed—all six missiles recovered safely, the big bad gunned down in Istanbul after going on the lam—and he’s shaken hands with just about every bureaucratic officer in the chain of command, Ghost is required to take two weeks leave before his next assignment in Azerbaijan.

Home for Christmas. Hurray.

As a rule, Ghost spends his leaves resting and healing. When he settles into bed on his first night back in his Chiswick flat, he sleeps for fourteen dreamless hours. Once he manages to drag himself into the loo for a piss and a shower, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He’s wearing civvies, pajamas at that, maskless, not a piece of tactical equipment in sight. He grips the bathroom counter and leans forward to get a closer look at his face, seeks to recognize the person staring back at him. He catalogs what he sees. Tries to fit the puzzle pieces together. 

From his right cheekbone to the corner of his mouth is a silvery white scar, keloided and gnarled. Got that one in Somalia over a decade ago, from a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. She had come at him after he’d forced his way into the target’s home, a man who was wanted for a slew of things but chief among them in Ghost’s mind was the child trafficking. She hadn’t even hesitated to throw herself at him with her arm raised above her head, the blade already arcing down to cut open his face. Ghost had only realized after he’d killed her, firing the gun in reflex, blinded by his own blood and driven by his body’s stress response, that she was likely one of the victims. He had neglected to treat the wound, instead letting it become infected so the scar would never fade. He’d ended up in the hospital for sepsis two weeks later. He was pulled from active duty for two months after that. 

A scar on his neck, red and thin, an attempt to slit his own throat at twenty-eight, just returned from the dead after a seven month stint as a POW in Afghanistan and pissed to the point of alcohol poisoning;

a smattering of small, thin scars above his left temple, shrapnel he’d caught after a helo had gone down with him in it, the pilot’s lifeless eyes staring at him where he laid twenty feet away from the carnage, having been ejected from the cockpit by the force of the impact;

a cigarette burn on his left brow, a gift from his father when he was only nine years old. His eyebrow had never grown back the same, the line of it permanently broken by a slash of purplish skin. 

The list goes on.

Ghost struggles to reconcile the man he sees before him with the black-eyed phantom he sees from under the mask. It’s like uncanny valley, there’s enough there that he registers his own face, he just can’t tell if it’s real, doesn’t know who he is right now. Simon, he supposes. In all his naked, scarred glory. A creature of flesh, exposed and fallible.

Simon sighs, roughs his palm over his stubble, grown out enough now that it’s nearly a beard. He goes for the shaving kit in the vanity and then changes his mind, decides to let it grow out. 

-

Bam is Simon’s seventy-seven year old neighbor. Born and bred in Chiswick, she mother hens the hell out of him during the few times a year he’s actually home. She’d even talked him into taking up yoga and meditation “for your mental health, Simon, don’t be dense.” Had strong-armed him into attending a class with her, where other blue haireds had cooed and fawned over his first attempt at downward dog. It’s a practice he’d taken to rather quickly, reserving thirty minutes of his mornings for sun salutations, circumstances permitting. 

She doesn’t have any family, like Simon, and he often finds himself accompanying Bam on her shopping trips, chuffed when she insists on buying him a chocolate at the register like how he'd imagine his Nan might've if she hadn't passed when he was a baby. He helps her get her cat to the vet one time, the wretched thing hacking and howling, clawing the ever-loving shite out of Simon’s arm. He doesn’t tell her he’s allergic, but she brings him benadryl and a cuppa while he’s sitting on her sofa once the cat had been determined to be healthy and whole, just royally pissed that his owner had changed cat food brands. 

She takes him to see Rage Against the Machine at Finsbury Park for his birthday after Somalia. He wines and dines her to show his appreciation the next time he’s on leave, kisses her cheek after he drops her off at her flat. She always pats his face and says he’s a good boy, that anybody would be so lucky to have him. It’s the healthiest not-relationship he’s ever been in.

It’s Christmas Eve morning. He’s in St. James’s, shopping for a Christmas gift for Bam at her favorite jeweler. The shop is quaint and bright, playing Frank Sinatra’s Christmas album softly. He’s debating which style of chain to get for Bam’s necklace when he hears the bells on the front door jingle and someone behind him says “Ghost?”

He almost gives himself whiplash turning to face the source of the voice. Ghost recognizes those burning blue eyes. It's König.

Simon realizes his mistake instantly, the sleeves of his heather-gray thermal sweater pushed up so that the tattoos on his left arm are clearly visible. He’s usually so careful, covering his tattoos when he’s in London, the obverse to wearing a mask while deployed. König flushes, clearly embarrassed at having guessed right, probably wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.

“Not on leave,” Simon says. “Here I’m just Simon.”

“I will not be calling you that,” König says. He is blond, Ghost realizes with a twinge, a creamy ash unlike Simon’s dishwater. But blond nonetheless, and well groomed, dressed in civvies, a black peacoat overtop a pale blue button up and grey fitted slacks. He’s almost too pretty, face unmarred and symmetrical. His eyes are deepset and penetrating, even more startling blue like frost without the veil.

“Have it your way.”

“I didn’t come here looking for you,” König hurries, putting his hands up in defense. “I promise, I wasn’t following you.”

“Never said you were.”

“I’m visiting my sister in South Kensington for Hanukkah.”

“Happy Hanukkah,” Simon says.

“Merry Christmas,” König responds.

The bells jingle again and a young woman, similar in likeness to König but much shorter, enters the jewelry shop, a small dark haired child clutching her hand trailing behind her. König’s sister, Simon guesses.

“Klaus, wir werden zu spät kommen — oh, hello,” the woman says. 

“Petra, this is—” König starts, stops, brushes a hand through his hair. “Simon.” 

“Are you sure about that?” Petra asks, teasing, brow arching. Her accent is a bit posh but undeniably Austrian, like her brother’s. 

“Well—” König starts.

“A pleasure,” Simon interrupts, and shakes Petra’s hand. The child, still a toddler Simon realizes, stares up at him from behind Petra’s leg. “Hullo,” Simon tries, and the child tucks his face further out of view.

“Joachim, say hi,” Petra encourages. Joachim shakes his head against her leg. “Sorry, he’s a bit nervous around strangers.”

“My ugly mug doesn’t help, I’m sure,” Simon says, going for playful.

“Oh, not at all. That is, not that I–I mean, you’re very tall,” Petra stutters. “The scars are kind of working for you.”

“Please make this stop,” König whispers from behind the hand he’s slapped against his forehead. 

“We’ve got to go anyway,” Petra says. “We’re meeting mum for lunch at Fallow.”

“Oi, ‘aven’t they got one of those stars?” Simon asks

“A Michelin star? Yes, that’s right—” Petra responds, smiling. 

“Ja, ja, Petra is a successful barrister, a real wunderkind, she takes mum out to extravagant, Michelin-starred restaurants and puts me to shame,” König intones and waves his hand. Simon laughs. König stares like he's grown a second head.

“Right,” Petra says, looking between the two. “Anyway, it was lovely to meet you Simon. Klaus, wir sind spät. Let’s go, ja?” She hooks her arm in König’s and begins walking the three of them towards the door, Joachim still clinging to her other side. 

“Likewise,” Simon says. “Happy holidays.” 

“See you,” König says, hesitating in the doorway. He seems to want to say more but Petra’s not having it as she drags him out.

“Scheiße, Klaus. Just ask for his number next time,” he hears Petra say as the door closes.

-

Simon picks out a delicate silver chain with a dove shaped pendant surrounded by quarter karat diamonds. He's allowed to spoil Bam, has so much money in his savings account it’s a little sickening. He’s not one to splurge, especially on himself, but once he sees the dove he knows it’s the perfect choice for her, his saving grace.

As he’s rounding the corner for the tube station, he sees König leaned against a building across the street. When he spots Simon, he jogs over, nearly getting himself rundown by a black cab who honks at his wave of apology.

“How have you survived this long?” Simon asks.

“He knows jokes!” König says. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at lunch?”

“I told Petra I left my wallet at one of the shops.”

“And did she say it doesn’t matter because you’re not paying for lunch either way?”

“Ha! Johnny said you were funny, I just didn’t believe him.”

And there it is, this unspoken thing between them. Simon recalls the way König’s back had flexed under the red light, how he had lifted Soap with ease, graceful line of his body coiled with power but not violent, almost tender in spite of how hard he had been fucking Soap. 

“Look, I didn’t know you two were—”

“It really isn't like that,” König interrupts. “Well, it is. But, it’s just not realistic for men like us is it? Doing what we do, the risks we take. ” Any promise they’ve ever made outside of their professional careers—to lovers, friends, family even—inevitably broken, disappointment festering into resentment. 

“S’pose not,” Simon says.

“I think he misses you, though he won’t admit it.”

“Could you. Well, would you give me his number?”

“Of course! Here take mine too while we’re at it” König responds and pulls out his phone. “What’s your number?” Simon gives it to him.

“Thanks,” Simon says when his phone lights up in his palm with the notification.

“What will you say?” König asks.

“You’ll just have to wait to find, won’t you,” Simon says. König flinches. He doesn’t mean it to be cruel, and isn't particularly bothered that Soap has shared the details of their escapades with König. He has every right to talk about it with whomever he pleases, trusts Soap wouldn't forgo professional decorum outside of this thing he has going with both Ghost and König. 

“I didn’t mean it like that—” he starts.

“Nee, nee, warte," König interrupts, holding up a hand. "Johnny likes you. He really, really likes you. And I could too, for him, I think.” König flushes, and Simon’s eyes watch it spread down his neck to the v of his shirt. Snaps his eyes back up to König's face, his pink lips. Then he turns on his heel and leaves, Simon staring after him. 

-

It’s a rare thing that he’s home for Christmas, so Bam had insisted on doing it up right. Had him carry a tree up three flights of stairs and forced him into a Santa hat while they decorated with popcorn garlands and dusty ornaments Bam had pulled from the depths of her hall closet. 

Christmas day, he helps Bam prepare dinner. Honeyed ham, roasted potatoes, rosemary brussel sprouts, yorkshire pudding, and Christmas trifle for dessert. They feast and get pissed on Kentucky bourbon, swapping stories and hurling jabs, bantering. Simon hadn't realized how much he missed Soap until now, sharing Bam's easy company and wishing Soap was there with him. They sway to Rod Stewart’s Merry Christmas, Baby and chain smoke an entire pack of Davidoffs. It’s midnight by the time Bam’s falling asleep at the table, cigarette dangling from between her fingers. Simon stubs it out in the ashtray and carries her to bed, tucks her in with a kiss on the forehead.

“Such a good boy, Simon,” Bam mutters, half-awake. “All alone in this world. Simon, when you find someone, don’t let them go.” She then turns over, pulling the sheets around her, and begins to snore. Simon backs out of the room and closes the door softly.

He sits in the armchair by the fire, basks in the warmth of it, dazed and well-fed. He considers what Bam said and isn’t surprised to find Soap waiting on the other side of that door once he’s dared to open it. König's words ring in his ears. “I could too, for him.”

Could he…? For Johnny? 

He would give Johnny the world on fire, he thinks, if he asked for it, but maybe he’s just drunk.

His blood pulses in his ears as he considers it. What it might be like to fuck Soap with another man’s dick shoved deep down Soap’s throat, in Soap’s ass rubbing against his. The bourbon sings in his blood: yes, you could. yes, you could.

Before he’s even decided, he’s got his pants unbuttoned and pushed down his hips. He palms his cock, rubs over the sensitive head, gets himself to half mast and grips the outline of it through his briefs. Snaps a picture. Send it to Soap with the caption ‘ You were right. ’ Then he adds ‘ Merry Christmas ’ and turns his phone off. He does up his pants and finds a throw blanket and settles on the sofa. The room spins. He closes his eyes.

*******