Ghost runs towards danger. That's who he is. Not who he always was, but it's who he is now. He always runs towards the danger. Towards the guns and the fires and the enemies.
But not this time.
Not when soap is in the aftermath of it. The terrorists blew the entire city block, and razed their entire route with bullets the entire way out. But Ghost didn't run to stop them. Not when soap was in the smattering of buildings that went down in a crumble of dust.
Only when he finds Soap having run himself into danger. When he's wedged himself between concrete debris and civilians with kids. When rubar impales inches into his shoulders while he tries to hold long enough.
Then he throws himself into it. Next to Soap. Neck deep side by side. Like they're meant to be
"you don't owe anyone anything" You are a tar pit. Speak for yourself. I personally owe the cafe employees my dishes put away and my friends a listening ear and small scared insects a cup and a gentle trip outside. Hyperindividualism is a rancid infection borne of capitalism and willfully misinterpreted therapyspeak and I will defy it by continuing to be kind regardless of whether or not it benefits me personally
The wind whispered faintly past broken panes and rusted steel as Simon picked his way through the skeletal remains of the high-rise. Debris and shattered glass crunched underfoot, every step careful, calculated to leave no trace. Like a ghost.
The building he’d chosen was once a corporate tower, now a concrete husk, gutted and abandoned. No different to any other war-torn hellscape, except the vast majority of the city was still populated, even if the building itself was too fragile to trust as shelter. It offered the perfect vantage for Simon's purposes though; an unimpeded view of the fire exit at the back of the building opposite, and minimal risk of counter-sniper exposure.
He reached his chosen spot by stairwell, avoiding the elevator shaft, which gaped like an open wound through the building's spine. He cleared every landing as he went. The last thing he needed was some street kid hopping on his back and getting a knife to the gut. Room by room. Corner by corner. Cleaning house. Johnny would be proud, Simon thought wryly.
He built his nest in the remains of a corner office; half its outer wall gone, wind whipping tattered blinds over jagged concrete edges. Simon set his pack down silently, using his knee guard to shuffle some glass away from where he'd lay prone. He chucked out his thermal mat, laid out his MCPR-300, and aligned it with muscle memory. Scope caps off. Suppressor attached. Wind meter clipped to the edge of a twisted beam. As he hunkered down, his core bracing, knee lifting a little, he tilted his cheek inwards and surveyed the street.
The rifle's scope brought the street below into razor-sharp focus. Cars rusted in place. A burnt out bus near a derelict park. There were a few civilians wandering the street, but they'd vanish the moment the sun set. It was too dangerous to be out at night, when vicious monsters hid in shadows.
Given who he was hunting, he updated his mental map of the operation: hostile QRF likely. He'd taken leave for this. Couldn't get the idea out of his head. The niggling feeling under his ribs that he had to do something. Anything. The only tools he had were violence and death, so that was where he had settled.
He stabilised his position, using his backpack as a makeshift tripod, and hunkered down for the wait. A spotting scope lay beside him, laser rangefinder synced to his wrist display. Heart rate: steady, despite a subtle tremor in the back of his mind. Breathing: shallow, controlled. He was built for this.
He watched. And he waited.
Eventually, the door opened as he had predicted. A tall, familiar figure with jet black hair stepped into the street. He wasn't in his trademark flight suit, nor the brown leather jacket Simon had become accustomed to over the last year and a half since the task force had formed. He was in a sharp black suit; no tie, gold chain glinting in the dark curls of his chest hair. Simon's tongue flicked out over his lower lip, catching the worn material of his mask. The bastard was so bloody arrogant.
The easy swagger was still there. The way he walked with his hips first, his shoulders back, like he owned the fuckin' place. Knowing Nikolai, he probably did. But it was harder, meaner. The broad, jovial grin he wore for Laswell and Price was gone. The man taking up the end of Simon's scope looked as austere and dangerous as any Russian mobster. And that was the truth of it, weren't it? That was why Simon was here. He'd seen through Nik to the reality of him. He was bad fuckin' news. Price didn't realise, not yet, but Simon would open his eyes.
Simon jammed his ear piece in and tapped the green icon on his phone. He watched Nik reach inside his jacket, the cross hairs hovering over his head, and the international dial tone cut short as he answered. "Da?"
"Bang."
Simon wasn't sure what he expected. Shock? Panic? Stupid, really. He should have known better. The smirk that uncurled over Nik's face was infuriating, and Simon's finger pressed hard above the trigger guard. "Lieutenant," Nik said, "how did you get this number?"
"State secret." Simon tried not to let the fact that Nik had identified him by a single syllable get under his skin.
"Of course." Nik was scoping out his perimeter. Simon could see his eyes scanning the streets, the doorways. "Can I buy you dinner?"
"Where? We're in a bloody warzone."
Nik rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "You know already where my Black Hawk is parked. Allow me to take us somewhere more... suitable."
Simon ground his teeth. It irked him that Nik wasn't more... alarmed. "'m not 'im, not so easily charmed, Nikolai. Came to warn you off."
"Warn me off?"
Simon swallowed. Hard. He drew in a slow breath; measured, so that Nik couldn't hear the tremor. "He's mine. I don' like sharin'. Never 'ave."
"I see." Nik was looking at the rooftops now, but his posture remained casual, relaxed. Like he didn't much mind being at the end of a sniper's scope. Like his life didn't balance in Simon's palm. "Is he aware of your claim?"
The true answer sat in the pause before Simon growled. "Don't matter."
"So that is no."
"Soon as he finds out what you are, really... You put on the act. Loyal pilot. But yer standin' there in yer posh suit, sellin' guns to people who'll use 'em on us later. Yer a crook, not even worth the shit on his shoe."
Nik huffed a laugh. His gaze turned towards Simon's building. "He has known me for twenty years. He knows what I do, who I sell to. He has seen me in all states of dress, and..." Nik's eyes travelled up the building and drilled right down the channel of Simon's scope as he said the next word, "...undress."
Simon's breath caught in his throat. His hesitation was like blood in the water to a shark. It was impossible for Nik to see him at this distance, but Simon felt pinned by those dark eyes none the less.
"Does it bother you, lieutenant? That he knows all of me and yet still opens his heart and his legs for me."
"Shut up..."
"Do you worry that if he were to know all of you, he would not do the same?"
"Shut the fuck up."
"Or perhaps, you are worried he would."
Simon's heart felt like it was trying to fight its way out of his plate carrier. The way Nik damn purred down the phone, his low voice unhurried, almost playful. Simon shifted his finger and for a heartbeat he was going to do it. Spread the contents of Nik's brain over that fire exit door.
Nik's eyes never moved, his posture relaxed, his smile light. He was damn handsome, with his dark stubble and broad shoulders. The way he took up the space around him, completely at ease in a devastated city riddled with the worst criminals, targeted by the scope of a veteran SAS sniper. "Are you still there, lieutenant?"
"Could do it and no one would ever know."
"If you were going to kill me, you would have done it the moment I left the building. You could not do that to him. You are too loyal. Sweet, like a puppy."
Simon hated that he was right. Again. "You ever get tired lookin' over your shoulder all the time?"
"I realised a long time ago that I did not have to look over my shoulder for my enemy's next move if I controlled the board."
"Don't seem like you do this time."
"The pawn is not privy to the strategy of the player."
"You arrogant cunt."
Nik's smile broadened. "You feel my confidence is unearned?"
Simon chewed on the inside of his cheek, shifted his hips against the gravel. Fuck, was that a...? Christ. Every year he found new levels of 'fucked in the head' to sink to. "Yeah."
"Hm. Shall we find out?"
No way. No fuckin' way did that bastard hang up. Simon watched him kiss the damn phone and wave it in Simon's direction before tucking it in his jacket. And then he walked away. Simon's hand creaked on the grip of his rifle and he seethed into his wrist.
He punched the concrete three times after pushing up from his chest, and then dropped his head into his stinging palm. Fuck. Fuck.
***
Nik dropped into the driver's seat of the low profile sedan he had rented for the occasion and groaned. His hand slid down his belly and over his belt to grasp the hard bulge of his cock, squeezing longingly. "Blyat..."
Simon was a wild thing. Barely tamed. Nik had taken a gamble and it had paid off, while confirming everything he had deduced since first encountering John's stoic lieutenant. The encounter had left Nik a little breathless with want. Simon was begging to be brought to bear; his gnashing teeth, his barking, it was all a show. A challenge.
Nik tapped the ignition and shifted the car into first, adjusting the rearview mirror to capture the building where the eagle had made his nest.
It would take patience, but Nik would have Simon as well as John. They yearned for each other anyway, trapped by and fearful of the parts of themselves they saw as broken. They were raw, vulnerable, so desperate to feel safe, to let their guard down and have someone take control. They just needed guiding in the right direction. By winter, Nik would have them both on their knees at his feet.
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
