CHAPTER 7 - DANGEROUS GAME
Mild NSFW. Word count around 2200.
Some horror elements in case that's not your thing.
This chapter is mostly Simon's POV with a bit of Soap's POV. And reminder that lines in bold italics are Simon's father's voice.
Masterlist here. Or find the rest of the story on the archive.
Simon didn’t need to check the time – the nightly commotion outside of drunks heading home from the pubs told him it was around two in the morning.
No sense in fighting it, he was wide awake.
With an aggravated groan, he stood and headed for the bathroom.
He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above his sink, the towel he kept over it having fallen again at some point.
Fucking hell she’d had a grating, nasally voice.
Wasn’t the first time he’d gotten a comment like that when he refused a lady’s attentions, but it still stung a little.
Despite how he looked, a certain someone had never acted that way around him.
On the contrary, the nugget – for reasons he didn’t get – seemed to enjoy his company.
Called him sweetie, even.
Simon smirked and shook his head.
While he brushed his teeth, the Brit glanced at his unmasked reflection as he fiddled with the towel, getting it back into place.
Where the hell did she find ‘sweetie’ in all this?
Didn’t matter really. Wasn’t like he’d see her again to find out.
Making his way seamlessly through the dark, Simon rummaged in the cupboards for a clean mug and set the kettle to boil.
Girls had pursued him for his looks before he started wearing the balaclava.
Now they practically threw themselves at him and assumed his size matched his… size.
It did, but he would never let them know that.
The mask was a bit irksome in that regard. Seemed to embolden them.
But then they’d get all pissy when he refused sexual advances, just like the woman the other night.
Asking before touching him, never expecting or demanding something in return, and calling him things like sweetie. And… Buttercup.
Goddamn it, now he was grinning.
Simon kept himself to a strict schedule.
Regularly waking at the same time, eating the same breakfast. Followed by training and a shower after.
Mid-morning, he would handle any business he had – errands and whatnot.
Then more training. Sometimes having dinner, sometimes not.
Lastly, cleaning his guns, and train more until his muscles forced him to call it a day.
Day after day, until the vapid monotony finally ended when he was called up again.
Everything predictable. Regimented and controlled.
But in six weeks that little munchkin wormed her way into his thoughts and now his entire routine was off the rails.
Forcing himself to bury this feeling was supposed to be easier.
Despite having firmly ordered himself to forget this weird… whatever-it-was, the sensation continued to gnaw at him.
Sereza’s memory would creep into every single mundane and boring aspect of his day. Motivation began slipping away, eluding him almost as much as sleep, as the hole inside him grew larger.
And it was beyond frustrating.
He needed to focus on intel and strategy, not a woman he’d never see again.
Regardless of how harshly he punished himself… Simon couldn’t forget.
Leaning back on the bench, he gripped the bar in both hands and began his next set of presses.
Another thirty reps and probably his tenth set.
Maybe more than that, he wasn’t sure.
All he knew was this kept thoughts about the peanut at bay better than anything else seemed to – but only marginally.
Fucking hell, why couldn’t he have crossed paths with Sereza ten years ago? Twelve, fifteen years ago?
Just his luck that she’d pop up out of nowhere, with her goddamn gorgeous face, when life had left him a wreck mentally. Physically too.
Heaven forbid anything ever be easy.
(“Can’t do a single goddamn thing right.”)
Simon panted with effort as he increased his pace.
A final rep and the bar dropped with a crash.
He stood and began angrily loading more plates, slamming them together while berating himself for his weakness and idiocy.
The night’s stillness shattered as Simon jerked awake.
Drenched in cold sweat and heart beating out of his chest.
The void threatened to pull him in, the monsters whispering in his head, reminding him he was the reason his family was dead.
If he had just stayed in the ground… just suffocated as Roba intended, then his family – his little, innocent nephew – would still be alive.
Their murders were entirely his fault…
And it will be his fault when Sereza dies.
…Because everyone he cared about died.
Arm heavy as lead, his shaking hand reached for the other pillow and met with something.
Long strands… thick, sticky, and cold.
A scent both metallic and putrid assaulted his nose. He recognized it immediately, and his blood curdled.
Hair stood along the nape of his neck.
Wide-eyed and breath held, he peered over to his left.
Honey-hued curls, heavily matted with dark blood, covered his pillow.
Body posed, with her arms neatly folded across her stomach, meant for him to find.
Her head had been angled toward him–
The gaping exit wound obliterated it.
Simon scrambled away from the corpse and tumbled backward off the edge of the bed, knocking the nightstand over.
Thrusting his arm under the mattress, he drew out the pistol and flicked off the safety.
Senses on high, he scanned the bedroom, the hall, the second room–
With savage and methodical precision Simon swept the house, searching for the intruder.
Everything was as he’d left it.
Sereza’s body flashed through his mind.
His heart seized. Cold sweat beaded on his uncovered forehead as he approached the dark doorway.
Silence roared deafeningly in his ears.
Ice trickled down his spine…
Pillows and dark gray sheets, disheveled but clean.
No trace of the blood or her body.
“It’s not–” Simon forced out a series of short breaths.
Control. He needed to regain control.
He swallowed the nausea in his throat. Following the quiet click of the safety, he let the gun slip from his hand.
His vision wavered, limbs began to tremble with the ebb of adrenaline.
“Not real,” he again whispered under his breath.
Terror giving way to rage, Simon flipped the mattress over.
“Goes in the second bedroom. On the right,” he instructed the delivery drivers.
A voice called from the other side of the lorry.
Simon nodded briefly to Soap as the Scot came to stand by his side, watching the new mattress be carried in.
Why was his friend still in Manchester after this long?
He pondered on it for about half a second before dismissing the thought.
“Didn’t wee in the old bed, did you?”
The semi-permanent scowl deepened before he sighed – too tired for this.
“Why do I put up with you?” Simon shook his head at the younger man.
Soap just laughed at the jab.
“Because no one else puts up with your grumpy arse.” He elbowed Ghost’s arm with a wink. “I’ll go put the kettle on while you finish up with them.”
Movers loaded the old bed and left the new one behind.
Simon signed the paperwork, relieved to see that out of the house, then headed inside.
“Bloody hell LT, why you got your windows open?! It’s fucking raining!”
Again with his dramatics, it was just a light rain.
Soap turned around with two mugs in his hands, holding one out for the skull.
“You alright sir? Look like you’ve seen death,” he asked with concern.
(“Toughen up you little shit.”)
“Fine,” Simon answered curtly as he accepted the tea.
The Scot opted for new tactics. Ghost wasn’t going to crack, but maybe a bit of teasing might lighten the oppressive mood.
“If you’re feeling a bit down, I could still call Abrams for you.”
The Brit was less than enthused, judging by the displeased rumble in his chest and the tick in his jaw.
“I’m sure he misses you too.”
“Aye, he certainly seemed fixated on you, didn’t he?”
Ghost rolled his tense shoulders.
His skin felt… uncomfortable.
Quickly downing the rest of his tea, he set the mug down hard on the counter before stalking out of the kitchen.
If he didn’t, he might punch something.
(“Yeah, walk away you little coward.”)
Johnny let his smile fall.
That may have been a bit much.
Abrams was gone, and good-fucking-riddance, but that meant Ghost’s little lady was gone too.
“Alright, alright,” Soap called after the retreating skull. “No Abrams. How about you call Sereza instead?”
Simon practically spun around.
If looks could kill, the glare would have reduced Soap to a smoking pile of ashes on the floor.
“Why the hell would I do that?” he asked.
“Why not? It was pretty obvious,” Soap carefully baited the lieutenant.
The Brit shot him a sideways look at the statement.
“Well you know,” Johnny casually shrugged. “You hung around her a lot and always seemed like you were feeling your best when you did.”
Simon fidgeted with the clip of his concealed knife before wiping his palm on his trouser leg.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think I know precisely.”
Soap met his superior’s black gaze without flinching.
Ghost huffed. “You’re a goddamn nutter.”
“Yeah, probably. But I recall you having quite a daydream during a certain meeting at Westforge.”
Soap took a moment to say a mental prayer that Ghost wouldn’t bash his head in for that.
“You’re exaggerating. Nothing happened.”
“I reckon it’s more than fancy… You want her. You were pitching a tent, mate. Practically drooling–”
“I was not!” Simon retorted, flustered at the memory.
“So you admit something happened then?”
Ghost was getting sick of this.
“Nothing happened, now let it go Sergeant,” he warned.
Soap held up both hands appeasingly.
The skull crossed his arms. “And I don’t have her number anyway.”
“Oh no worries, I do,” the Scot cheekily quipped, whipping out his phone.
“What the– Why the fuck do you have it?” Ghost demanded right as his own phone dinged.
Because we all knew you wouldn’t have asked for it, ya’ numpty. So we did.
“Absolutely no reason at all.”
Ghost could not have gotten rid of Johnny fast enough.
He was positively knackered afterward.
The meddlesome Scot had closed all the windows while he was there. Now Simon went from room to room opening them again, uncaring of the cold breeze.
Standing grim-faced in the bedroom doorway, Simon stared at his new bed where it sat against the opposite wall from the old one.
The room fucking smelled.
He’d cleaned every centimeter earlier – meticulously. Laundered every scrap of fabric. Scrubbed the goddamn skirting boards even.
Yet the coppery scent of blood hung thick in the air.
After… last night… he’d had half a mind to drag it into the garden and set it on fire. City ordinances didn’t allow that though – the fuckers.
Setting his mattress ablaze in the middle of the night would’ve raised questions, and then he’d have to talk to people, which he was in no mood to do.
Maybe if he cleaned it again–
He was tired. Tired and his head fucking hurt.
Tugging the balaclava off, Simon opened his mouth wide a few times, trying to ease the tension in his jaw.
He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been clenching it – his molars ached now, a dull throb radiating up the side of his skull that did nothing for his headache.
After a deliberate detour to the kitchen to retrieve the half-empty bottle of whiskey, he headed straight for the sofa. The bed could be for another night – maybe.
He slowly unfolded the sofa, the metal frame groaning and protesting from the movement. The abrasive noise grated on his last nerve – he’d never used the thing.
Adjusting the blankets at the corners of the mattress and tossing the throw pillows at the head, he dropped down gently onto the bed. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t that room.
Setting the whiskey on the floor within reach, Ghost’s gaze focused on the moonlight streaming across the ceiling, trying to unknot his insides.
With a long, quiet sigh, the Brit reached for the bottle.
He welcomed the burning swallow that could carry away his stress. Or at least numb it.
In the darkness, he could almost feel it–
The slight weight of someone beside him.
Swallowing the dryness in his throat, Simon turned his head slowly as he opened his eyes.
In his imagination, Sereza lay beside him, peacefully sleeping. Perhaps he could allow himself this small relief–
His scarred hand reached to touch the soft ringlets…
No. He blinked the image away as he turned his back to Sereza’s spot.
This was a dangerous game.
