being the new, shy tech for the 141 introduced by laswell, and the boys are already trying to tease you. (18+)
you’re playing a game of truth or dare, taking shots and laughing and trying to relax even though the pub is so loud. it’s a saturday, there’s a footie game on, and you’re just trying to get to know them better.
well, johnny and gaz dare you to ask ghost out. the big brute that’s standing like an awkward statue ordering more drinks at the bar. and there you go, swaying on fawn legs, poking ghost gently in his meaty arm. the boys watch as ghost has to bend down to hear you over the noise, and you stand on your toes, putting your hands on his shoulder and murmuring in his ear.
you disappear with that big giant man’s arm around your waist, and when you come back to the table about twenty minutes later, you’re giggly and a little sweaty and stumbling just a little more. johnny leans over the table, confused.
“what happened? what did he say?”
“huh?” you raise a brow.
“what did he say? when ye asked him out?”
“oh…” you go warm all over, pressing the backs of your hands to your cheeks. “is that…is that what you meant? i couldn’t hear you!”
“what?”
the booth rattles when ghost sits his weight down right beside you, big fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck and curling you up so he can press his forehead to yours. the eye contact is intense, and you break out into another fit of giggles as you stare right back at him.
big, scary bear. adorable giant.
you turn back to johnny, shrugging your shoulders.
“i thought…i thought you said to ask him to eat me out.”
something something Ghost getting off on being called a pervert. not because he isn't one (he is) but because no one ever seems to have the guts to do it. so when you call him a pervert and a creep to his face after he started whispering dark and dirty in your ear at the bar, oh boy he is hard as a rock and already thinking of all the ways he can show you just how bad he is. maybe he should drag you into the bathroom and make you ride his face in one of the stalls, or take you to the alley and put you on your knees, or maybe he should just bend you over the bar and bully his cock into you. if you want to be mouthy he'll let you tell the whole room what they've been too scared to say. but that would lure certain other perverts out and Ghost... well he doesn't really share.
Masterlist
More flowers from: Soap | Price | Gaz | Nikolai
Ok, guys, you voted Ghost!
Commission for the Ghoap? Ghoap channel on telegram. The guys asked me to keep this series of work exclusive, so please don't take this to your telegram channels if you have them.
Letting Simon indulge in his breeding kink. (🌽 link)
It's no surprise that Simon had a breeding kink. The amount of times he's hinted towards starting a family with you is outrageous, but also adorable. You know that Simon would make the best father – after all, he's protective, loving, and caring. He'd do anything for his children.
”There we go, love- That’s it, relax into me.” Simon's voice is guttural and seductive, the sound of it sending shivers down your spine. You squirmed and wriggled at the pleasure bubbling up inside of you, the effect he had on you. You felt Simon's lips against your neck as your legs were pushed out of the way and wrapped around his well-built waist, allowing for him to hit places he's never touched before. He wants to make sure he fills you up to the brim, forcing you to be plugged with his hot, creamy release. The thought drives Simon up the wall, leaves him pent up.
”That’s it, deep breaths f’me– You’ll make the perfect mama...” He grumbles out quietly, kissing down your neck lovingly as he begins to slide inside. Each thrust causes a different reaction from you and earns Simon another pleased, needy noise. You arch your back and trail your sharp nails down his bare, broad back at the stretch between your soft thighs. The slapping noise of his balls colliding with your rear echoes in the bedroom, along with your moans and cries for more.
You can already feel Simon's pace increasing as he becomes more desperate. All that he thinks about is having you pregnant and swollen, to rub your stomach, to give in to your cravings and desires. He pounds into you, your velvety walls clutching onto his veiny shaft, with his eyebrows furrowed together and his eyes shut tightly. He's lost in comfort and intimacy, the feeling of fatherhood right at the tip of his fingers. He finishes deep within your walls and tenderly kisses the skin on your nape.
He'd do anything to hold his own offspring, to coddle his baby, and take care of his soon-to-be wife.
A Sad State of Affairs (Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader)
Chapter two | Chapter three | Chapter four
Summary: You're known for being "prickly" -- or, at least, that's what Soap called you the night before holiday leave.
Weathering a brutal English snow storm, and without a single friend to your name, you resign yourself to spend Christmas Eve alone, drowning in cheap wine and cheese balls.
That is, until you happen to run into the one person on base more miserable than yourself -- Simon Riley.
If you have to hear the Mariah Carey Christmas album restart one more time before you leave this goddamned grocery store you might actually murder someone tonight.
Your PTSD-induced retail memories are on a hairpin trigger, a sentiment which is (somehow) completely secondary to the buzzing irritation that’s been flowing through your veins since the minute you stepped off the plane on Tuesday morning. Heathrow had been busy enough to keep your mind from wandering, but once you got home to your too-expensive, woefully empty London flat, any and all preoccupations had flown out the window.
When you’d rented the place, you’d been sitting under a tent in the Syrian desert, praying that the on-station wifi would be strong enough to wire transfer the safety deposit before you lost the one and only vacant apartment left in the British isles. If your perusal hadn’t been interrupted by an air-raid siren, perhaps you wouldn’t have rolled your dice on the London housing market so recklessly.
Guess you should actually physically visit the apartment you’re choosing to rent the next time you decide to drop twenty-six hundred pounds in a single go.
Yeah, probably.
In all truth, you have no one to blame but yourself. Price had announced holiday leave for the entire team over four months ago—a rare treat for any special forces operator. Soap had lodgings arranged within the hour. All it took was a single phone call to his mother in Bishopbriggs, and by the time 9PM curfew rolled around, the sergeant had business class tickets to Glasgow, Christmas sweaters in his Amazon cart, and plans to meet the family in Glencoe for the annual MacTavish family holiday.
You hadn’t pegged Soap’s family for the affluent type, especially given the man’s penchant for roughhousing in the barracks. However, a simple Google search revealed Johnny’s father as one of the foremost real estate lawyers in the greater Glasgow area. Go figure.
And of course, Soap, being the obnoxiously kind man that he is, didn’t hesitate to extend an invitation to Kyle as well. Price had received his at the mess hall the very next day. You didn’t see it personally, but you don’t doubt Ghost found one in his inbox one way or another.
You worry your lip, scuffing your shoes against the linoleum floor while you read the advertisement on the shelf in front of you.
Tampax. No shame, no stress, no limits.
Somehow you doubt that, if the slight embarrassment you feel when you pick up the box is anything to go by. Inconspicuously, you crowd in front of the display, trying to compare the different brands before someone rounds the corner and finds you fondling tampon boxes at the grocery store at a quarter ’til midnight of Christmas Eve.
Your eyes flick over the lines, but your mind drifts instead of grifting the monotonous product claims for anything illuminating.
By now, their little group would’ve long touched down in Scotland. Johnny’s parents probably met them at the airport with a hand-drawn cardboard sign, his name written in shaky Sharpie strokes on the front. You can practically imagine it. Some polished Scottish woman with a bob and four-hundred-pound handbag, jogging through the airport as fast as her So Kate’s would carry her, laughing with glee when she shoves a box full of homemade cookies into her son’s waiting arms.
You deadpan.
Okay, so maybe it wouldn’t be that dramatic, but you’re sure the sentiment’s there nonetheless. You were usually right about these sort of things.
Another low breath. Focus, you will yourself, returning to the print on the tampon box.
”Everyday comfort for up to 8 hours of out of sight, out of mind protection…”
You barely make it to the next sentence before you’re already fading into oblivion.
Soap had called you “prickly.” Well, not to your face, but you’d heard him whisper it to Gaz the night before holiday leave in the common room. At the time, you hadn’t taken offense. After all, you’d always been a loner by nature. You weren’t going to change that over a few bubbly coworkers and their insufferable holiday plans.
Though—and it pains you to say this—the instagram photos Soap had posted this morning of family breakfast by the Christmas tree seemed almost…taunting, in a way. Price and Kyle were on either of his sides, smiling around bites of handmade pancakes and eggnog.
You pull in a low breath, the sound of Johnny’s voice wrapping around that thinly veiled insult reverberating through your thoughts, like a broken record that just wouldn’t stop. A grim discomfort settles in your chest and you place the box back on the shelf.
Of course, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why he didn’t invite you of all people.
A current of winter air penetrates your thick winter jacket, shooting up your spine like needles on a chalkboard. Shivering, you pick at your thumbnail, glancing at the objects in your shopping trolley.
Aperol Spritz. Duct tape. Cheeseballs—the biggest container you could find, the one so unnecessary and so obvious any other person might’ve been embarrassed to lug it around the shops, but you were beyond help now.
A memory courses through you, one born from some unnameable time in your past; it’s impossible to tell when. Fir sprigs in your nose, baked cinnamon and butter, still hot in the oven. There’s snow on the window sill, December chill held at bay by slim, tempered glass and love-worn couch cushions. It’s sharp in your mind, the ever present rose-tint that underlined every childhood memory, the kind you only recognized once you’d grown up and faded.
All of that—all that love, hope, and warmth…and here you were, alone in the grocery store the night before Christmas eve, shivering in the cold, and with nothing to show for it aside from cheap wine and TV dinners. How did you get here?
Sourness wrenches your features, brows furrowing in frustration. Screw this.
You wrap your hands around the first box you can reach, throwing it over your shoulder and into the trolley without sparing another second of thought. Impatient now, you wring your fingers around the slats in the front of the cart, pulling it behind you like a wagon on your adventure to the dessert aisle.
Mariah Carey continues on overhead, the tenth rendition of that same, dopey love song. You might’ve strangled somebody if you still had the presence of mind to care, but if anything, she’s drowned out by the memory of what Soap had said that night, unaware of the way you peeked around the frame of the door, too stubborn to ask for a seat at the table.
“Prickly.”
You take a deep breath inwards, trying to leave it all behind you.
You’d only been with the 141 for six months now, much less than any of the other four members. They’d been there since the beginning, together from the moment Price slapped the patches on their shoulders and sent them into battle, arm in arm, walking in file lines, always on each other’s heels. Laswell had recommended you for the promotion, and like always, you hadn’t thought twice before ditching your previous squad for the new post.
Consider it a bad habit, but you liked to think of yourself as a floater, never staying in one place long enough to watch the ties you inevitably made become severed by the natural course of the work. You’d gone through more posts than you cared to think of, familiar names and faces lost to time and trauma. Six months ago, you expected the same of the 141. You’d stand where they wanted you, point and shoot whenever commanded, but at the end of the day, you were your own person, and your loyalties never laid with anyone but yourself.
Of course, you never expected to have a full month off for the winter season. People like you were born and bred to work, made for little else. Trudging through the shops, folding bedsheets, and watching infomercials was out of your purview, a world separate from the one you’d occupied for all too long now. Perhaps Price was trying to punish you for your inability to assimilate. He’d had his eye on you since Day 1, just waiting for the inevitable slip. Even now, you could never quite gauge what he thought of you.
The dessert aisle is even colder than than the store entrance, what with the frost emanating from the box freezers. You scrutinize the frozen pastries on the shelf, contemplating whether sausage rolls or chocolate croissants would better relieve the dark bags under your eyes.
You bite your tongue.
Chocolate croissants…right?
But frozen sausage rolls would make such a good breakfast, especially in this dreadful weather.
You lean into the freezer, holding both the boxes side by side. Maybe you should ask Mariah Carey (like she’d even care in the first place). You dawdle for another second or two, before your impatience gets the better of you. Once more, you throw the freezer open, shoving your arms in up to the elbows just to see if some shameless digging might reveal the cure for whatever acid is eating at you right now.
The noise of trolley wheels sneaks up behind you. You imagine they could use some WD-40, but you’ll be damned if you force yourself to talk to another person with the state that you’re in. The squeaking stops just as your hand wraps around a loose plastic package.
“Well, this is a sad state of affairs.”
The sudden shock of hearing another voice makes you hit your head against the rim of the freezer on your way out.
“Fuck—” you rub at the bump on your head, whipping your head around to stare at the person who’d just walked up beside you.
It’s a man, glaringly tall, and with dark circles under his eyes. He’s got a black face mask pulled over his nose, well-worn winter clothing baggy on his stiff frame. His blonde hair is too bright for the hour, for this place, for the only two people left in this empty grocery store, tucked into a corner of London so obscure most people had already forgotten it had even existed first place.
He stares straight down at the contents of your shopping cart. Suddenly, the box of tampons perched centerstage on the lid of the family-size cheeseball container seems…humiliating, at the very least. Life-ending, at the most. The Aperol sprite doesn’t even hold a candle to that particular scene. The duct tape, however, might just be the cherry on top.
“Ex—excuse me?” You stutter, trying to push the rim of your hat back out of your eyes.
“Mind steppin’ back?” He huffs—and his voice sounds familiar now, “You’re hogging the fridge.”
You squint your eyes at the visible parts of his face, trying to place his name. It’s only when he steps closer, invading your space until you’re forced to take a step backwards, that it finally hits you. When it dawns on you, you have to physically stop the shock from manifesting on your face.
“Ghost?” You ask, nearly incredulous, “What—what are you doing here?”
Now that you’re looking at him, it’s obvious. Those uneasy shoulders, that taut voice, like he’d never relaxed a day in his life—they’re just the same as they were throughout all those long nights in the field, sharing clipped words over the radio while you stared at each other through smudged sniper scopes.
Only now, you’ve got a full, uninhibited view of the rest of his head. Blue eyes. Buzzed hair. A scar through his right eyebrow.
You can’t help but stare. (Ghost is blonde? You’re going to have to spend some time mentally reckoning with that fact.)
He scoffs at the look on your face, holding up the box of sausage rolls you’d just been cradling.
“What’s it look like?” He tosses it into his own basket, “Shopping.”
He gestures to the basket gripped in his hands. His knuckles are still bruised from the right-hook he’d given your last target during interrogation. The memory collides with the mundanity of the grocery store, and suddenly, discomfort wells up in your throat.
Stunned, you blink through the fog of your hazy mind, catching a glimpse of the items in his basket. A handle of Jack Daniels, a box of Marlboro Reds, protein bars, a dozen eggs, and now, sausage rolls.
You’re tempted to quirk a brow at him. With that assortment of groceries—if they could even be called that—who the hell is he to give your Tampax the stink-eye?
“Well, yeah, I got that,” you huff, looking anywhere but at his face (you’ve never seen him so exposed before; it’s almost like he’s standing in front of you, stark naked), “I mean, what are you doing here, in London?”
Ghost shuffles on his feet, readjusting the mask on the bridge of his nose, “Like I said, shopping.”
With that, he brushes right past you, proceeding down the aisle like the carefully carved lines of your professional and personal lives weren’t disintegrating right here and now, in aisle four of some no-name grocery store in the British capital. You sit with your confusion for a couple more seconds before you get back with the program, grabbing the handle of your cart and whipping it around before he can escape. You barely manage keep up with his length strides.
“You’re supposed to be in Glencoe. With Soap,” you state—like it’s a fact—to the back of his bobbing head.
He makes a low humming noise beneath the mask.
“Yeah,” he posits, never one for elaboration. You roll your eyes as he pulls a Bic lighter off of a display, tossing it into his basket, before moving right on, hardly even pausing in his step.
”So…why aren’t you? In Glencoe,” you shrug your shoulders even though he’s not looking at you, “I mean, not to be the bearer of bad news here, but from Soap’s instagram, it looks like the festivities started last night, so I think you’re a little late—”
“You follow Soap on instagram?” He scoffs, surveying a bag of crisps.
You freeze, “So?”
He stares at you, unblinking, for a few moments, before he breezes right by again. You perform a swift u-turn with your cart, stalking after him all the same.
“So why aren’t you in Glencoe?” You ask again, voice terse this time.
“Why aren’t you in Glencoe?” He fires back, which elicits a pouting scowl on your part.
“Soap called me…prickly,” you mutter beneath your breath.
Another scoffing, chuckle.
“Yeah.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looks you up and down as he sets a box of lotus cookies into his basket, “Means you’re prickly, love.”
There’s no mercy from Ghost—there never was. He was sharp-tongued, quick-witted. He never pulled his punches, not towards his enemies, and especially not towards his friends. It was just a factor of his nature, the reason why he wore that blasted mask in the first place.
Not for the first time, you find yourself wondering how he, of all people, scored an invitation to Soap’s family holiday and you didn’t.
“M’not prickly,” you pinch your face, “And even if I were, you’re way worse than me—”
The metal of the shopping cart clangs when it collides with his unmoving shins. To his credit, the man doesn’t even flinch. He only stares down at you from his imposing height, irritation just barely restrained behind the tight set of his brow.
“What’d you just say?” He bites back, voice low now.
You don’t back down. Your hands only tighten around the plastic cover of the handles. Mariah Carey’s voice trills in the background.
“Tell me why you’re not in Glencoe,” you demand.
“I decided not to go,” his eyes waver in displeasure, “There. That good enough for you?”
“No—and why the hell wouldn’t you go?”
“Look—you got a crush on Johnny o’ something? That what this is about? Want him under your tree on Christmas morning?” He taunts, though the words are spoken hard enough to nearly qualify as an insult in and of themselves. You roll your eyes, disgust evident.
“You know I don’t, Ghost, so stop hedging and just answer me, will you?” You cock your head, “Why are you here? I mean, you’re really trading in the Scottish highlands for cheap whiskey and a pack of Reds?”
You bump your knee against his paltry haul. His veins jump beneath his skin at the gesture. You move to step back, but his hand catches your jacket before you can go too far. His eyes skate over the content of your shopping cart, before they resettle on your face, mirth simmering in his pupils.
“Heavy-flow day?” He bats his eyes. Instantly, a flush climbs up your neck. That stupid slogan rings in your mind: ’No shame, no stress.’
“That’s—private,” you mumble, wrenching his wrist out of your jacket.
“Mm-hmm,” he nods teasingly, “N’ so’s my free time. So step off, will ‘ya?”
He shoves you back with force, sending you stumbling a few feet down the aisle. He moves to pick up his pace, fists clenched around the handles of the basket, and for a few seconds, you register what a common scene this is. Familiar faces turned away, hands wrung with irritation, disdain tainting every syllable in their voice. Something inside of you falls alongside the pride on your face.
Quickly, you launch forward a few steps, all pretenses forgotten.
“Wait—wait! Ghost, just—hold up for a second, please,” your voice is high, nearly unrecognizable. The haughty tone has completely left you. Now, all that remains is a haunting, all-too-familiar dread. His footsteps slow at the sound of your voice, but he doesn’t turn. Regardless, your haste gets the better of you.
“Look—I’m sorry if I overstepped. I didn’t mean…It’s just—people say that I’m difficult sometimes, and—I let my mouth get ahead of me. I didn’t mean to offend you, I swear, I just…” your gesturing hands flop weakly at your sides, and you close your eyes as the last of your dignity falls away to reveal the dreary overcast of your mood, “I thought the pictures that he took looked…nice. I don’t understand why someone would wanna to trade all that for…well, for this.”
You wave your hands vaguely at the barren shelves and empty floorspace, finishing it off with a regretful glare at your own dismal cart.
“I guess, I…” you swallow the slight sting of pride in your throat, “I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll just—I’ll let you go. Just forget this.”
You recede back to your trolley, prepared to grab the handlebars and drift right into the middle of the nearest intersection. However, just when you’re prepared to duck your head and arrange passage on the nearest transatlantic freight, the sound of his soles against the floor stops you.
“No—it’s...okay,” he halts before he can get too close, almost as if he were afraid of bridging the space between you and him, “I might’ve…overreacted.”
You let out a low sound beneath your breath, “Yeah, a little bit.”
You immediately regret the frank comment, but before you can jump into apologies again, the sound of a chuckle emanating from beneath his mask freezes you in the little moment of embarrassment. Again, he readjusts the mask on his nose, and you can tell by the lines around his eyes that he’s grinning, even if it is filled with slight exasperation.
“You really live up to your nickname, don’t you?” He teases.
At the reminder, you’re tempted to roll your eyes. However, you consciously reign in your sarcasm. Your nickname was an insult in and of itself.
They called you Sunny, because that’s exactly what you were: a ray of sunshine. Or so the members of your first team had repeatedly called you. You’d left that squad within the month, but the nickname had followed you across borders nonetheless.
“So I’ve been told,” you look down at your feet, unsure of what to do next. Ghost’s fingers tap against the handles of the basket, obviously searching for something to say. His voice is oddly…soft when he finally chooses to speak, “You’re not going home for leave?”
You shake your head, still too flushed to look him in the face, “No—Price said we have to present at Northolt on the fifteenth, so I figured I’d stay close. Not worth the trip. It’s better to save on airfare, y’know?”
It’s a weak excuse, but he doesn’t seem to disagree. Instead, he nods his head, “I thought the same.”
Another few awkward beats pass in which both of you fumble for something to say. This time, it’s you who breaks the spell first.
“So…” you suck in a tight breath, heart racing with an anxiety you’ve never felt before, “I take it you’re free over the holidays, then?”
At the sudden question, Ghost seems to balk, blinking down at you with slightly widened eyes, like he couldn’t quite register the sudden shift in conversation. Not for the first time, your mouth moves faster than your brain. You’re not even sure where you’re going with this, but…
“Yeah, I guess that I am. Why?” he mutters, looking away from you and towards the half-empty display of cheeses instead.
Your jaw moves up and down for a few seconds, brain scrambling for a single word that might save you.
God, what the hell were you doing? You hardly like the guy when you’re on the job, let alone off the clock. If you had any sense left, you’d flip him the middle finger and walk away.
So, why, exactly, do you just keep talking?
Only God knows at this point.
“I’m planning on having a dinner. Tonight. Y’know, for Christmas Eve?” You try not to lash out over how awkward you sound, but it’s too late now. The only way out is through, “Maybe…you’d like to join me? As coworkers—friends, y’know, but only if you’re free.”
Ghost is speechless for a good few seconds, and his eyes fly around the store, pointedly avoiding your face.
Retreat, retreat! Your mind screams, but you hold fast. Your mother didn’t raise a quitter.
“Christmas Eve is tomorrow, not tonight…” he shakes his head, confused.
“It’s…past midnight…” you manage slowly, brain cells dying by the second. You don’t even know if that’s true. Secretly, you hope it’s not, if only so that you can get home and transfer job positions as quickly as possible.
The bastard has the gaul to check his watch, like he was looking for any excuse to nip this interaction in the bud. In all honesty, so were you, but when the hands show a glaring 12:05 AM, the both of you are well and truly trapped in the hollow formalities of social interaction.
Goddamnit. You really should practice keeping your mouth shut sometime in the near future.
“Huh,” he remarks, absolutely bland, while he looks at the ticking clock. He nods his head, resigned to his fate now. The dread on his face perfectly matches your own when he finally raises his vision. You brace yourself (only slightly) for his inescapable rejection.
However, instead of launching into a polite refusal, something unexpected overcomes his expression. His twitchy eyes settle on the plains of your sour face, the wrinkle between his brows slowly softening, until soon enough, it’s gone altogether. His hand goes limp at his side, and for the first time since you bumped into him in this blasted store, you’re suddenly all too aware that this is what he looks like when he’s being sincere, when he’s out of uniform. Caught off guard. Out of line.
Your fingers clench. His jaw grinds beneath his mask, but within seconds, all of that tension falls away in an abrupt wave of palliation.
“Yes,” he suddenly says—sounding almost hopeful, “Yeah, that—sounds nice.”
You’re so stunned by what he says you hadn’t prepared what to say in a scenario in which he agrees. Hell, you didn’t even want him to come over in the first place. God, why had you even asked?
But, if that’s all there was to it, then why do you feel something small and warm flare at light that shines in his eye?
You don’t know. You only nod your head slowly in response, hands fidgeting on the handle of your cart. The awkwardness is palpable, and both of you shift in your stances, all too eager to leave. Ghost manages a single sentence more before the ineptness gets the better of him.
“I’ve got some errands to run, but…Afterwards, I’ll be good to come over,” he steps closer, “What’s your address?”
For a beat, your brain rummages through your mental filing cabinets. Only, you belatedly realize you hadn’t truly memorized the damn thing yet. You refuse to pull your phone out, lest this cursed interaction last for even a second longer.
“It’s in Marylebone, Bramley Row. A nice brick block of flats, one of the taller buildings. I—just moved in. Paid for the month, y’know. I can’t remember the exact address.”
At the mention of Marylebone, of all places, he seems shocked—and for good reasons, too. Living in Marylebone came with a hefty price tag, one far out of the bracket he probably expected. You have the sense to at least be slightly embarrassed about it, but he reels in his reaction soon enough.
“Marylebone, Bramley Row,” he repeats, “Tall brick flat.”
“Yes,” you step backwards, ready to run the moment the final syllable leaves his mouth.
“Got it,” he clears his throat, swallowing, “I’ll be there, then.”
You nod, already retreating, “I’ll see you?”
“Yeah, see you,” he turns before this torture can go on any longer. His departure is abrupt, but hardly unwelcome. The minute he turns the corner, finally out of sight, you give a long, low sigh.
Great.
Perhaps now would be a good time to mention that you still hadn’t bought any cookware in preparation for this supposed Christmas dinner you were planning to make.
-
Not two hours later, you find yourself sitting on the curb, pants stained through with groundwater, watching how the streetlight captures the falling snow. Sodium lamps were the only warmth left. Not even the hustle and bustle of London remains any longer. The clubbers had all gone home for the night, tucking in early in anticipation of Christmas Eve, it would seem.
And here you are, shivering in the freezing cold, all because you forgot to retrieve the spare key from your landlord earlier this morning. Now, the poor old lady had climbed into bed for the night, oblivious to the mountain of voicemails you’d left on her answering machine. Again, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. Who left their phone on the hook after midnight, anyway? It’s stupid.
Sucking on your teeth, you stare down at your own boots, tracing the leftover patterns of their soles in the snow. In all honesty, you’re not sure why you haven’t pulled yourself up just yet, why you haven’t phoned for an Uber and booked a room at the nearest motel. The shopping bags from the grocery store are still looped around your wrists, pinching red marks into the the plains of your bitten skin. Your cheeks are raw and dry from the whipping wind. Your jacket does nothing to dissuade the cold. Your fingers ache with ice, down to your very bones, but still…you don’t try to stand up.
You think there might be tears in your eyes, but who was keeping score now anyways?
Absently, you swipe at your dripping nose, wrestling with your grocery bags just to get enough purchase to lift your hand to your face, but when your digits finally make contact with your flesh, your nerves are so numb you can hardly feel what you’re doing as you give your nose a haphazard wipe of the sleeve. Beneath your breath, you give a low curse, using the toe of your shoe to kick a pebble into the open road in front of you. It skids in a way that might’ve been satisfying if it weren’t so damn cold outside.
You’re just about ready to call it quits, haul your mountain of groceries into your arms and find somewhere else to waste the oxygen, but just then, a car comes skidding around the corner, and the curbside erupts into a flurry of powdered snow. You yelp as the frost hits you, dancing in a voluminous cloud, like ash in the wind. Exasperated, you study the bastard’s license plate, like dusting someone with snow flurries was a crime worthy of death. However, much to your own surprise, the car comes skidding to a stop before it can even make the next turn. When the driver kicks it into reverse, you barely have enough sense to jump out of the street before it kicks you back onto the curb—literally.
Still reeling from the wet snow residue clinging to you, you can only sit there, seconds away from bursting into tears, when the driver rolls down the passenger side tinted window. What greets you is Ghost’s barely masked face, eyebrows scrunched in obvious astonishment. He doesn’t even seem remorseful for splashing you with that puddle. If anything, he merely seems surprised that it was you who turned out to be standing under the wave of water and snow his tires just unleashed.
“What in the hell are you doing out here?” He spits from the driver’s seat. It sounds like an accusation, but you’re too shell-shocked from the temperature and his sudden appearance to carry out your original plan of yelling at whoever just ruined your second-favorite winter jacket.
Stunned, you take a deep breath inwards, trying to contain your anger, but it ends up coating your voice anyway, “What the hell are you doing out here?”
If his reproach at the grocery store wasn’t still fresh in your mind, you might’ve accused him of following you home. Again, your mother’s nagging voice appears in your mind. If you’ve got nothing nice to say, then don’t say anything at all. With a deep, deep sigh, you snap your jaw closed.
“I never go out without scouting the area first,” he explains—as if that was a remotely normal thing to say to another human being, “You invited me for dinner tomorrow. M’not showin’ up unprepared.”
“So you decided to do a drive-by on my house at two in the morning?” You question, reasonably concerned. Ghost, however, looks baffled.
“Coulda done it tomorrow, but it’s easier at night. Not as many people outside,” he mutters unapologetically. Now that you’ve spoken more than ten words to the man in a non-professional setting, you’re really beginning to understand why people call him a jerk. The mask was strike one. The tampon catastrophe, strike two. And whatever the hell this interaction was turning out to be…strike three.
You have half a mind to rescind that dinner invitation, but alas, the guy knows where you live now. (And if you were being brutally honest with yourself…what else were you going to do on Christmas Eve, anyway? Chug white wine and watch Seinfeld Reruns? Somehow, hanging out with Ghost seems like the more respectable option of the two—even if he was shaping up to be a bit more of a creep than you’d originally anticipated. Go figure. The guy wears a custom-made skull mask in the office. Really, what had you expected?)
Pulling in another deep breath, you pinch the bridge of your nose, content to let your own irritation fall away.
“I’m pretty sure it’s best not to let the host know you’re…y’know, doing something like this in the first place,” you mutter, trying to sound some approximation of normal.
Ghost blinks a few times, “Most people don’t go for a midnight stroll in a bloody snowstorm.” He shakes his head, obviously exasperated, as if to say ‘idiot.’ You’re so tired of this conversation you don’t even have the bandwidth to entertain the concern you’re sure you should be feeling right about now. Instead, you wipe the last remaining snowflakes off of your ruined jacket, more than ready to get out of this weather and into the nearest heated room you can find, “Whatever, Ghost.”
After that, the conversation falls flat, not unlike the exchange you’d shared at the grocery store. A mutual sense of disdain fills the air, and despite the weirdness of this encounter, the well-defined borders of social expectation demand that you stand there, trembling in your wet clothes, while he burns through the petrol in his gas tank, heater cranked high and leaking out of the window. For a few seconds, it goes on like that, the both of you staring at each other in simmering annoyance while you wait for some other means of escape to present itself. However, when it fails to appear, Ghost gives a low exhale, hands clenching on the steering wheel, before he finally speaks.
“I bought you a lamp,” he says, unprompted.
You don’t answer, but the corner of your mouth twitches. Unsatisfied, his facial muscles clench and he reaches into his backseat. Clumsily, he holds up an old, dust-covered lamp, its stained glass shade hanging on by a thread. It’s reminiscent of one that your grandmother’s nursing home used to place on every bedside table, but that’s neither here nor there.
Your eyes flick between the lamp and his unimpressed face, the motor of his car underscoring your singed nerves. Eventually, he wins out the staring contest, and your shoulders drop with a deep sigh.
“Find a place to park, will you?” You cross your arms, “I need your help with something.”
To his credit, he doesn’t even ask what the task is. He only hits the button for the window, and the tinted glass rolls back up, obscuring his face and the subsequent flow of the heater you were beginning to enjoy.
-
Not five minutes later, you find yourself climbing the final set of stairs, breath coming hard and fast after three flights with a full arm of groceries. Behind you, Ghost follows, carrying his own groceries from before, alongside that truly dreadful lamp. Part of you desperately wants to know where he got it from. After all, you doubt there’s a single antique store in a 10 kilometer radius open at this hour. On the other hand, however, you feel like that’s a mystery better left unspoken.
“Sorry—about the stairs. It—hah—makes the rent cheaper,” you speak in between pants, sweating now.
“It’s fine,” he responds, breathing hard, too. You might’ve been trained in counter-terrorism, but no amount of army crawling or farmer’s carry would negate the difficulty of carrying the groceries inside with a single trip. When you finally summit the final step to the fifth floor, your back begs you to plant your feet and catch your breath, but you hate to think of what Ghost might think of you if he saw how winded you’d become from the little trip. In spite of your own weakness, you trudge down the hallway with flagging enthusiasm, trying not to trip over the wrinkles in the aged hallway runner underfoot.
The building was charming, if not a bit antique (which was really just a kind word for “dated” if you were being honest). The landlord was a wrinkly, old matron, the kind that hosted dinner parties on her husband’s cushy salary and went to great lengths to hide the nicotine addiction she’d convinced her children she’d quit nigh on a decade ago. Regardless, she was nice enough, hardly offset by your tight lips and dark under eyes. A woman of steel, one made of tougher stuff than what your “prickly” demeanor could dole out. Back on deployment, you could almost convince yourself the scratched floorboards and aged locks were endearing, just as charming and vintage as the worn crown moulding and arched entryways. You don’t know why you were drawn to the apartment. The rent was astronomical. The stairs alone were a drawback.
But sitting there in the desert, feet too cold to join in on the passionate conversation Soap was leading, you looked past the dark entryway and into the cramped parlor room. In that moment, eyes lingering on an octagonal window seat overlooking the streets of Marylebone, you could almost convince yourself that it was all you needed to become someone new. Like that singular, whimsical shape could bring it all full-circle, catapult you to the one, specific moment that would change things forever, as if there, in that unassuming apartment, you’d find what you’d been missing that everyone else already seemed to have.
Though, when you come to a stop at the mud-stained “WELCOME” mat outside the new flat, the damned place feels more like a curse than a blessing. You push out a purposeful exhale. Simon quirks a brow at the sound.
“What now?” He huffs, plastic bags rustling in his hands.
“You any good at lock picking?”
You figure it couldn’t hurt to ask, and like always, there’s little to no reaction on his face.
“Depends,” he finally answers, “You got a credit card on you?”
Without wasting time on menial conversation, you reach for your wallet, pulling out the first card that you see. You hold it out to him, lashes fluttering, and he takes it with quiet understanding.
“Hold the lamp,” he all but shoves the lamp into your arms, side-stepping the pile of grocery bags that dangle from your arms. You have to stand on your tip toes to get a view over the brown, plastic film obscuring your vision. Meanwhile, Ghost sidles up alongside the door, tucking the plastic card between the latch plate and strike. He gives it a good few wiggles, and eventually, you hear a pivotal clicking sound.
“Wait,” you shove past him, even despite all the bags you’re carrying, to see if the door opens now. However, the knob doesn’t turn an inch, even with force applied.
“Think it’s jammed?” He huffs, twirling the credit card between his fingers.
“No—no, trust me,” you pant, biceps positively burning from the strain of carrying both his groceries and yours, “It just needs a good jiggle. Hold on.”
Scowling, you jiggle the door knob, the sound of rattling metal echoing throughout the hallway. When that doesn’t prove successful, you take a small step back, slamming your shoulder up against the door a few times to see if the momentum will pop it out of socket. In the background, Ghost spares a furtive look at the neighboring doors, anticipating resistance.
“Fuck,” you whisper, willing your arms to stop their stupid quivering. Breathing hard, you glance at where Ghost stands.
“You just gonna stand there?” You blow a strand of hair out of your eyes, “Or are you gonna help me open this thing?”
Ghost doesn’t seem convinced by the methodology, but that sure as hell doesn’t stop him from assuming position. He braces his shoulder against the opposite side of the door. The wood creaks under the weight of a couple hundred extra pounds.
“Ready?”
He nods—just like he did in full gear, charges set, countdown initiated.
“Go,” you command, and together, the two of you ram your shoulders into the wooden door. The hinges squeak violently, colliding with the bombastic sounds that emanate from the bags in your arms and the lamp hugged to your chest. When that doesn’t do it, you rear back for a last, final push.
“Come—on!” You grit, sending the full weight of your body into the door—which is thrown open hardly a second later. You go stumbling through the entryway, dropping several bags of groceries in the process. Ghost just barely manages to yank the lamp out of your grip before it goes tumbling to the floor, but even then, a trio of ripe oranges go rolling across the floor in the wake of your entrance.
“Finally,” you straighten up, whipping the hair out of your face. With an incensed push of breath, you tug at your jacket, stepping over the fallen groceries and into the barren kitchen. The ancient floorboards bend under Ghost’s weight. You pull your jacket around your elbows, rescuing the bottle of wine from the pile of shame and embarrassment that was your collective shopping. You can hear shuffling in the background, but you’re on a mission. You throw open the empty cupboards and drawers, searching for the singular corkscrew you’d bought at a gas station your first day in town. Sure enough, it’s in the third drawer from the right, all alone in its wooden coffin. You retrieve it with a small smile, reaching for the neck of the bottle.
“Sunny, this is…” Ghost suddenly speaks, and for the first time since the door opened, you have the peace of mind to think about more than just yourself.
Beyond the dusty edges of your cabinets, Ghost stands amidst the barren living room, lamp dangling from his hands while he adjusts to the chill of the void around him.
There are no pictures on the wall. No coverings on the open light fixtures. There’s no coffee table, coat rack, or magazines. Rugs and curtains were an afterthought, that octagonal window exposed in a way that was markedly unsettling in the overbearing darkness of night. Even the thin film of dust that clung to the floors on move-in-day still remained, minus the track of wet footprints you’d created on your hasty march to the kitchen. All you’d managed to scrounge up so far was a second-hand sofa you’d found on Craigslist, a bed frame and mattress off of Wayfair (an impossibly lucky find), and a TV you’d snagged on discount at some store you can no longer remember the name of.
The bulk of your possessions exist like that, on minuscule island amidst the vast and empty sea of the floor plan. The television sits dumbly on the floor and the couch is crooked, cushions already flat. There’s not even a place to set that stupid, antique lamp. Even Ghost—a man you’d been ripping to shreds in your own head since the day you first laid eyes on him and his edgy disposition—looks disheartened by the scene, idling aimlessly while he searches for a single sign of life.
Your neck flushes with something hot, horrible, and choking, tears climbing back into your eyes. Still, you wipe your eyes and get back to the corkscrew, shoving it into the bottle. (Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thank god you’d had the presence of mind to at least set up your shower curtain the night before.)
“Yeah—sorry about that,” you mumble, voice wobbly, “I…haven’t really had the time to shop for furniture yet, so…it’s a little empty.”
Ghost takes in a breath, “‘A little?’”
You choose not to respond to that little quip. Instead, you rip the cork out of the bottle with a small grunt, sniffling now that the air is warm enough to breath, “Do you, uh—want a glass? It’s French—I think...”
“What about the dinner?” He questions.
“Yeah, about that…” you stop yourself mid-pour, clasping the bottle between two hands, like the chill might assuage the wretched pounding of your heart, “I don’t really have, like, kitchenware yet. Or—or a table…or even plates, for that matter. S-so, y’know…”
With a terse swallow, you resume your pour, trying not to flush at the sight of the expensive wine filling one of the few cracked mugs that happened to be left behind by the apartment’s previous occupant. Ghost takes a step closer, and you can’t bear to look him in the eye.
“If you don’t have plates, then…” he shake his head mirthfully, “Then why’d you even invite me”
Shakily, you pull the wine bottle back from the rim, fingers slipping through the condensation. Your gut burns with a single answer, one that tastes so painfully true on your tongue: Because I was lonely. Because I have nothing better to do. Because you’re the only person I know in this godforsaken city and I’ll be damned if you leave me, too.
Instead, however, all you manage are three, stunted words.
“I…don’t know.”
To his credit, Ghost doesn’t scoff. He only looks down at you with some unfamiliar, unreadable expression on his face, eyebrows pinched in such a way that there’s a tiny wrinkle in the middle of his forehead. He seems too big for your smalltime life, for this empty apartment, this desolate corner of the city. Pity holds true in each one of his clenched muscles, but still, something soft that swirls in the depths of his pupils keeps him from unsticking his boots. His eyes dart around your kitchen, settling on the corkscrew, before eventually returning to your face.
“That expensive?” He gestures towards the bottle of wine in your hand.
You shrug, holding it in his direction, “Enough. Why?”
“Good,” he says simply, pulling it out of your hands. Before you can even blink, he yanks the mask down around his neck, lifting the bottle to his lips to take a good, long swig. All the while, you can only sit there, unblinking, as you take in the entirety of his face.
Pale. Scarred. Crooked. Normal.
He’s got stubble around his jawline, just as blonde as his hair. His thin lips are cracked, nearly bleeding, stinging with alcohol and cold. His cheeks are sharp, handsome, and hollow, just as you imagined they would be, and yet, entirely not.
His Adams apple bobs while he takes down the wine, and despite the incredulity still wracking your brain, you have half a mind to be impressed at how much he’d managed to drink. He exhales roughly when he drops the bottle from his mouth, tension slowly leeching from his shoulders.
Wine bottle still clasped in one hand, he holds up that stupid, antique lamp in the other, “You got a cardboard box I can set this on or something?”
At that, well…a small smile begins to tug on the edges of your mouth. You snatch the bottle back, taking a small sip for yourself, before you leave to ransack your recycling for a box that might be strong enough to support the dreadful thing.
