LOCATION: EMERGENCY SAFEHOUSE # [REDACTED]
Nothing is louder than the silence after a mission failed, the thick cloud of anger and confusion soldiers cling to because it's the only thing that makes sense; the only thing that can be explained as opposed to almost being killed in action despite intel assuring you had the advantage—as opposed to the enemy having been “none the wiser”.
“They couldn’t have known we were there,” Price, cigarette between his lips as he gazes at the night sky, grumbles indignantly into the SAT phone. “Only a few guards; too spaced out to hear one other hit the ground. No cameras outside, not one. No fucking alarms when we bursted the door; they didn’t even ‘ave comms, walkies, radioes, nothin’. Just word of fuckin’ mouth.”
In the distance, he hears an owl’s hoot, perhaps nature’s plea for him to shut the Hell up and let the land have its rest. Even with the constant buzzes of irritating insects, all he could feel was his team’s control over the situation slipping, the feel of his own patience thinning with every passing second.
Kate sighs. “Intel was supposed to be solid...” There’s a catch in her voice that suggests she’s equally as frustrated, but doing a better job at keeping composure.
Price clenches his jaw, glances behind at the door of the shitty cabin the team is holed up in. They're safe, he reminds himself, alive and kicking.
“We were the only ones,” he gravels, “the only ones who knew we’d be there.” Part of John wanted to blame the higher ups for possibly missing something, but the other part cursed himself for placing so much trust in them in the first place.
Laswell shifts behind her desk, files staring expectantly at her. She doesn’t answer immediately, mind sifting through possible responses as John huffs another long drag of his cig.
A beat of silence passes, long enough for an idea to pop into her brain, one that was dangerous if uttered aloud, one that’d breed more theories and assumptions that could be perilous for everyone.
Careful not to sound too sure, but confident enough to elicit thought, “They could’ve suspected you.” As soon as the words left, she nearly regretted it—nearly.
John huffed, leaning his forearms on his knees after snagging the cig out between two fingers. “Then why wait ‘till we’ve nearly cleared them out?” His brows furrowed in thought, “Killed the guards, blasted the bloody door; why not stop us before?”
The question was asked for reflection rather than an answer, and before either could speak up, a voice was sounding behind Price.
“Wanted to box us in,” Watz, shirt ripped where the bullet had struck, came next to Price. The wound in his shoulder had been cauterized, dark skin raised where flesh was forced back together. The man passed a folded paper to John, sitting down next to him as he plucked the half smoked cigarette out of stained hands.
Price let him, placing the SAT phone down on a nearby rock.
“Flint found that on one of ‘em,’” he took a long drag, letting the smoke settle in his lungs, “take a look.”
Thick digits began to unfold the paper, wary of what could be on the inside.
If anything, Price certainly didn’t expect a friendly face to greet him. He felt his nose begin to twitch as he quickly scanned the contents in front of him.
“Said the same thing.” Watz laughed without humor, shaking his head, “Y’should’ve seen Wilson.”
Price’s jaw clenched, molars grinding together as he felt hot anger begin to clot in his blood.
“This was a hit.” The sentence alone weighed heavy in the air. “They wanted Jasper...”
Watz hummed, his own brows furrowing as the weight of reality sunk itself deeper. “Age, height, rank—the whole fucking biography.” He shook his head in disdain for whomever was after his comrade.
“You hear that, Kate?” Price tried to level the strain in his tone. Too much had changed in a matter of seconds, and he was trying his best to recalibrate how his team was fit operate now that he knew one of his own was being hunted.
“Yeah,” she exhaled, “we know who they are?”
Watz gruffed out a “No.” Then, as if it wasn’t already obvious, he offered, “Could be anyone.”
It’s been a long time since you’ve felt true frustration towards your artistic capabilities. You deem yourself competent with both pencil and brush, but as of late, ever since that night, your pages have become incomplete.
The drawings of Simon that now reside within a good few pages of a sketchbook are constantly lacking. You don’t want to admit it, or perhaps don’t realize, but it’s because you were too surprised (and probably sleep-deprived) to truly register that only his left side was illuminated that night, therefore completely stunting your ability to conjure up a full sketch.
You’d caught some small details, a sleeve tattoo on a thick forearm, a bunch of scars, you’re sure you’d even seen the start of a smile etched faintly near his mouth. All of it, on his left, because it was too damn dark for you to see him entirely.
Every time you try to sketch his other side, it feels…odd?
You can’t truly place the sentiment, but it’s there, and it’s why you continuously erase all attempts at his right side.
You can’t truly be upset, though, you got to see a bit of the man behind the mask. You like to think you saw Simon that night, the name he had gruffed to you one day in a polite exchange, not Ghost, the ruthless, executing soldier Price often praised during his visits.
You’d never admit it, well, not verbally, but you wanted to know more about him.
Why the mask? To hide scars? From what you saw he’s covered in them, so that wouldn't be a crazy assertion. Perhaps it’s to protect his identity? You don’t know what secret missions he’s marching into, but if he’s familiar with your father he has to be part of some sort of confidential, secretive part of the Army. A group of hounds that get sent off into the pits of hell so you and other citizens can sleep peacefully.
He’s also always wearing gloves; germaphobe, then? Well, he wasn’t wearing them that night, and didn’t seem to really care about what he touched, but then again, who wears gloves to sleep?
Then there’s the tattoo. You’ve only seen it once, but the effect was immediate. One can’t blame you for being especially intrigued by it, it’s literally art upon skin, how can you not be interested?
Even now, embarrassingly so, it’s all you can think about. From afar, it looked like a medley of all different types of smaller images. Little bits and pieces that each have a place, ones you'd give any opportunity to get a closer look at.
Whatever story his eyes kept locked away, that tattoo dared to spill. Whether the piece was something silly done in his early years after joining the Army, or something that held value with memories carved into his flesh, you’d want to see it. See it all.
Where words fall apart, art reconstructs, and you simply wish to see what beauty broken phonics have created.
After all, isn’t that what you’ve been doing for over a decade? When all you’ve wanted to do is bite your own tongue off for being so goddamn worthless? When your jaw makes a sound that suggests cobwebs have stacked themselves against the roof of your mouth?
You feel your face grimace with an ancient shame, one that usually causes headache inducing sobs.
The only thing that seems remotely normal is you putting pencil to paper and trying to make sense of all the noise in your mind. It’s not the worst coping mechanism around, and with the minibar downstairs, your father is lucky you stuck with color and not Cognac.
Gently, the wind begins to blow, dusting away the flecks of charcoal you’d had yet to brush away. The sun has taken a position high in the sky, its rays directly on your face, and you tilt your head towards it, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath.
You feel like you haven’t felt the sun in centuries; it’s rays alone are a balm to your wounds.
In the moment, time seems to slow and the environment settles both around you and within. Your sketch of Simon sits patiently under your hands, charcoal paraphernalia sitting just as patiently besides you.
Another breath, this time more shallow, a means of gratitude for such warmth. The slab of stone you’ve been sitting on no longer feels cold, your legs unbothered by the chill. The light shawl you have wrapped around your shoulders brushes quietly against your arms, swaying in motion with the wind and reminding you of its presence.
You hadn’t realized when, but slowly your worries and shame began melting away into a quiet murmur, the only registered sounds were the small chirps of birds and the rustle of trees. You welcome it, though, the concept of stewing in silence just for your thoughts to take the wheel again was not what you needed right now.
If anything, maybe that’s what you needed—something new to take your mind off things. It isn’t a terrible idea, one you haven’t had since college, but unlike back then—despite still carrying the embarrassment of being so different from your peers—the idea doesn’t make you flinch.
Your eyes remain closed as you look over imaginary scenarios. Maybe you'd go to a bar, or a little comedy club. Oh, there was that restaurant your mother loved, the one whose staff knew her by name and your order by heart.
You smile softly at the idea of it all, your mothers voice whispering not to forget to say ‘thank you’ for the extra whip cream on your milkshake. Or the way she would playfully scowl at your father when he scarfed down his meal like it was his last.
A phantom of a laugh escapes you as you remember the look on his face when your mother pouted and wiped his lips of ketchup, the way her hands would pluck a clean napkin from the dispenser and gently wipe yours as well.
You remember the way her eyes would shine at the sight of your art, how she would squeal and smush you in a hug when you painted for her. You would both giggle, then go show your father.
It’s these memories you desperately cling to, they keep you grounded and sane (for the most part).
You feel cold fear sink its fangs in your neck as your eyes snap open, a full body jump shivering through you as your throat catches on a terrified yelp.
“You feelin’ alright?” There he is, standing slightly bent as he gazes at you, big eyes slightly squinted in unease.
You meet his eyes for only a moment before glancing away, unable to even think with him this close. Despite wanting to, you can’t even recall his question and scramble to answer because you’re too focused on the slight smell of gun powder that constantly follows him.
The small spike of adrenaline from the initial scare is still lingering, leaving your fingers clutching at your sketchbook.
Simon tilts his head, eyes more neutral now that it’s apparent you haven’t had a stroke, and he backs up, seemingly realizing his proximity and suddenness is what startled you.
He curses, Gotta stop doin’ that, Riley, the inner monologue delivered harshly towards himself. He hasn’t scared you in a while, but he was bound to do it again.
There’s a good five seconds of silence before he’s speaking again, “Didn’t mean to…I’ll announce m’self next time.” He’s not the best at apologies, but he attempts one, as well as a smile, doesn’t know why, it’s not like you can see it through the mask.
You catch his eyes again, practically staring at him as flashes of his face come barreling at you in a quick barrage of vivid images. This barrage distracts you and you don’t catch his quick glance to your sketchbook.
Simon does a once over of the page, immediately recognizing himself on the paper.
His eyebrow quirks at the image, chest beginning to fill with something he can’t name—well, one he refuses to name.
Simon then steps back completely, returning to his full height and crossing his arms.
He wants to say he hates seeing his own face (even half of it), how your eyes seem to search for a sliver of skin as if you wish to put more of him on the paper, but he can’t.
The little doodles and sketches you have of him make him look so…human, which is something Simon hasn’t felt since the day he gained consciousness.
He knew you'd seen him that night, that you'd seen a relatively barren version of him. He clocked you the minute you snuck into the shadows, but had half a mind not to call you out on account of your reserved nature. Part of Simon even wanted to call you out at that moment, but he was too focused on his tea to truly care about what you saw.
At least that’s what he told himself at the time.
In reality, he felt stripped bare, his lashings and sins put on display for your eyes to judge. Usually he didn’t care about what others thought of him, having lived too many lives to pay attention to other’s perception of him. If anything, the only person's opinion he took seriously was Price’s, and that was only because the man drinks Bourbon.
But now, in that image, he was beginning to wonder how you felt about him. There was no doubt you didn’t exactly hate him, but the way you drew Simon made him feel like you actually liked him.
His company, appearance, his being; that’s what made him feel so flayed.
The way you drew his eyes didn’t reflect two deep pits of nothingness, of endless void with no place for light. The way you drew the scars on his body didn’t depict him as a man tortured by home and war. The way you drew his tattoo—whether your little doodles were accurate or not—didn’t capture the looming dread many felt when seeing them.
His eyes were drawn with vitality, as if a soul was behind those pinpointed pupils. His scars, the ones you could see—the less grotesque ones, as Simon puts it—were shaded in as if they were tokens of survival and not brutal reminders of his constant failures.
His tattoo, a medley of memories and traumas pressed into ink. From the knives to the plethora of skulls, it serves as a reminder, but unlike the scars, its presence was purposeful, not gained after a stab or being shot or having been hung by his ribs. This tattoo is not just a cliche military tattoo, it’s Simon’s reminder to be better.
Despite all of this, you hadn’t drawn the skulls or knives or guns that adorn his arm. You obviously couldn't make out the tattoo all the way, so you’d improvised the best you could. There were little doodles, lines that looked like something from afar but revealed their individuality up close.
When looking at it, there wasn’t the bittersweet feeling he got when he looked at his tat, when his eyes glanced at that jawbone, or when he caught a glimpse of Medusa screaming on the front of his forearm.
There was just…less of a pressure in his chest, one that usually peaks in the early forties. One he could see plain as day on Price's face, and could hear clearly in the cadence of Jasper’s speech.
But standing there, observing your depiction of him, that pressure eased a bit, and Simon caught himself breathing an inch deeper.
It was too much, though. Too much for his mind to handle, and instead of acknowledging that, he deflected.
“Been lookin’ for you,” he says, though it comes out softer than he meant.
You blink, rapid and sudden as if returning to the present. It seems you realize that Simon’s presence wasn't a badly timed hallucination because you're suddenly scrambling to close your sketchbook, embarrassment apparent on your face.
Your mouth opens, closes; your head tilts then shakes then stills. Your hands are moving rapidly, Sorry, you sign, unaware of what you’re to apologize for, but apologizing nonetheless.
Simon glances somewhere to the right, “Price called.”
You perk up at that, unable to help the glimmer of surprise that shines in your eyes.
John? You haven’t talked to him in a while, and if anything you would’ve expected Simon to say your father called as opposed to your uncle.
Last time you spoke was when—Uni graduation? You can’t truly recall the exact time, which is exactly what makes this more of a surprise.
Simon doesn’t seem fazed by your reaction, “Said you like museums.”
Now, is that what Price actually said?
The man had said something much more cautionary before bringing that up, but overall Simon was told to not worry you, just get you out the house for about an hour.
Either way, his delivery is flat, indifferent.
You tilt your head once more, as if you don’t understand what he’s saying. Your expression results more from the fact that (1) it was Price who offered such an idea; and (2) you were just thinking about going out literally moments ago.
It’s funny how the universe works, how it reinforces what you were already considering. If anything, despite being hesitant, it makes you want to do it even more.
Simon’s eyes occasionally drift to your book, how your hands, slightly stained with charcoal, rest protectively over the cover.
He feels his tongue go heavy in his mouth, the urge to reassure you that he won’t go through it without explicit permission is steadily rising, but he ignores it and continues the conversation.
“Seventeen-hundred,” he huffs out, the heat of the sun atop his head grounds him enough to get the last bit out. “Be ready.”
Simon then walks away before he could stumble over his own words and say something stupid—which is odd because he never has had to worry about feeling like that. If anything, Simon’s put off by the feeling, resulting in a quick turn of heel and a stride back into the house.
He ignores the way he can sense your eyes burning into his back. He doesn’t acknowledge the slight heating at his ears or the itch of his mask. Instead, Simon keeps walking, knowing—somehow—that you’ll be dressed and ready on time.
He hates how much that affects him, hates that he knows you’ll listen to what he says. He hates how Jasper made you understand that Simon is there for your best interest, there to protect you so it'd be best to listen to him.
He hates how much he likes that. That a man his age, nearly a decade older, is trusted so blindly by someone so young and fragile. So beautiful and creative, but he feels he can never have you without the risk of tainting your being.
He feels no lustful attraction, no want to claim you like some reward or thing to be broken in. There’s no doubt you're beautiful, but he would feel undeserving if you ever thought of him romantically. If you, already frayed at the edges, trusted him of all people to hold your heart.
Not to mention you still have your youth, and Simon wouldn’t know how to feel depriving you of the ability to seek love in your own age bracket, as if he’s stealing you away from all the young, mentally sound bucks of the world.
Although, he also wants you to want him, but again, he refuses to acknowledge it. He wants to imagine you actually choosing his ominous, laconic being instead of the charming, smooth talking lads whom he knows would die to just speak to you.
But, selfishly, Simon wants you to ignore them and only pay him mind. He wants to be next to you when they try to woo flirt thinking he’s simply a bodyguard only for him to gently wrap his palm around your waist—
He stops the thought there, before it can rattle his desires even more. He’s already let the idea become too comfortable, and the fact that you've begun to draw him also doesn’t help. As he rounds the corner, he makes an effort to remind himself that he’s here to work and recover, not fulfill his desperate craving to be wanted. To have someone look at him as a man and not a weapon.
To have someone peel the mask off with their own hands.
He pushes it all down, ignores it for the most part, because all Simon can afford to think about right now is the orders his Captain gave him: “Do your job.”
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