Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s nearly 3 o’clock.

Unless the needle’s slightly off. You have to squint your eyes to check it’s still moving. It is; hand mechanically cutting across the numbers. The pace slow and easy, like your heartbeat. You're buzzing to get out of this chair. Your knees are aching and you're gagging for a drink. But your freedom's still ten minutes away, and you're not stupid enough to draw attention to yourself.  

Your thumb idly smooths over the butt of your pencil, where your teeth have pressed grooves into the wood. It’s a gross habit, but most habits are. You tend to do it when you’re bored. Chew and chew, ‘til someone pins you with an offensively disgusted look. You can’t help it though. These days, there’re a lot of reasons to be bored. Even if technically, there’s something new to sink your teeth into every three years. A new bed. A new school. New classrooms. New friends. A new military base for your old man, and the badges and titles that come with it. But all these new things blur together, like a train zipping through stations.

Everything becomes boring real fucking quick.

It's your first day at this school, and it already feels torturously dry. You spend a few minutes watching the teacher. She’s an older lady, her hair colour somewhere between blonde and grey. There’s a lanyard with her name on it, which you don’t remember, clinking down her chest. Her eyes are distant. Disconnected, like she’s speaking from muscle memory more than anything else. And she seems to speak with her hands, gliding back to the whiteboard every so often to scribble something down. Pen squeaking glossy, red words that you can barely see from the back. Nobody copies it into their notebooks, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Or maybe she’s used to it. This is one of the dodgier schools in Manchester, after all.

You keep watching a little longer, before your eyes yearn for change. You let them wander, over to the windows at the edge of the room. They loom high, touching the ceiling. Beyond the freckled glass is a grassy field, where netted football posts are pitched on either end. There's a man riding a mower down the middle strip to keep the grass blunt and manicured, but you're not sure why. Apart from the oval, the school's not exactly well looked-after. Above, the sky’s a dark, ominous colour. Clouds swelling thick with oncoming rain. You can almost taste the first specs of it.

Something glimmers, catching the ceiling light. Your eyes chase it back inside the room, landing on the zipper of a jacket. It belongs to a lad sitting close to the window.

Strange.

You hadn’t noticed him earlier when you’d been watching your classmates file into their chairs. He must have beaten you to the room. Only, you were sure the class was empty when you’d first walked in. And you’re certain he would have caught your eye, simply because of how tall he is. Tall enough that he’s forced to cock his knees out wide to fit beneath his table.

You can’t see his face. He’s hunched over his desk, and the thick, navy jacket he’s wearing seems to climb all the way up to his mouth. But there’s something about him that makes you keep staring. It has to be the way his pale hand’s knotted in his hair, fingers spread apart like they’re the only thing keeping his skull together. Like he’s bored too. Not the kind of boredom that coaxes you to fall asleep. Or the kind that prompts you to start chatting with your mate. Or start daydreaming. But the kind of boredom you feel between gristle and bone. Deep and unending. A boredom with life. With living.

Perhaps he hears your thoughts. Or senses someone’s watching him. Because he lifts his head. Lazily, he catches his jaw with the heel of his palm, then slides his eyes across the room. He’s trying to satisfy some need, you think. To find whatever’s pricked at his instincts.

As he turns, you get the first glimpse of his face. Blank and pallid, like a ghost. The contrast makes his eyes seem darker. Deeper. You keep watching him, innocently. How his lips seem sullen by design. Your heart's ticking in your chest so hard it’s outpacing the rhythm of the clock. You’re wondering what he’s thinking. Why he looks like he’s scanning for a threat that he seems convinced is there. Like his life laps so easily between boredom and vigilance.

Suddenly, he catches your gaze.

It severs your reverie. Cuts your thoughts in two. You nearly choke. Your pencil drops. You lunge to pick it up, then purposefully dart your attention away. You pretend to find interest in the ceiling, as if that’s what you’ve been looking at all along. As if you haven't been staring. Your blood throbs hot and you hope to hell he won't think anything of it. But you know it’s too late.

The bell rings.

Chapter Text

“Hey,” you sniffle. “So’m pretty sure my bike’s been stolen.”

She doesn’t reply.

Her fingers pelt across the keyboard, no yield in the tempo. You wait a moment, wondering if she might eventually acknowledge your existence. Telling you to fuck off would at least be something. But she doesn’t so much as flinch. She must be finishing her sentence, unable to stop the thought in motion until she can punch out that full stop.

You decide to give her a moment and look about the reception office. It’s stale and cluttered. Carpeted in grey; enclosed in red brick. There’s a battery-powered clock thudding on the bench by her computer. A beat-up heater breathing warm, dry air into the room. A lampshade covering a struggling light. Rusted cabinets, pushed up against the wall, all stuffed with paperwork. It looks like they haven’t been filed in a year. Maybe more. You wonder if they’d hire you to do it for them.

She’s still not done, and you probably need to say something now. You clear your throat, hoping that’ll do the trick. It doesn’t.

“S’cuse me,” you try, a bit louder this time. “I think someone nicked my bike.”

“You think?” There’s a creak in her chair. She sits back to study you through her fogged-up glasses. “Or you know?”

“Uh - I know I chained it up at the bike rack out front, if that’s what you mean.” She returns her attention back to her monitor, but you’re not perturbed. “Was there this morning, and now it’s gone.”

"If you know it’s been nicked, why’re you askin’ me about it?”

“Well, I was hoping you’d help me figure out who did it," you press. "Does the school have cameras or something?” You set your elbows on the bench.

Her eyes go to them. She bristles. The wheels beneath her wheeze as she kicks out a foot to track a step back. For whatever reason, she doesn’t appreciate you getting in close. You can  guess why. A few days at this school’s already taught you that there’re a handful of prats who’d probably lift her stapler or knock off her glasses just for a laugh.

“Not tryna give you cheek,” you assure, raising your hands in surrender. “It’s just that I’m stuck walking a half hour to school if I don’t find it. My Dad’s not gonna buy me a new one.”

There’s something new in the way she studies you now. A bit of curiosity and something that feels oddly pitying. You don't like it.

“You new or somethin’, love?”

“Yeah.” You wipe your nose with the cuff of your sleeve. “Why?”

Her forehead wrinkles, “Cause you don’t need bloody cameras to know which bellend did it, yeah?”

“Nice,” you deadpan, feeling grim. This has obviously happened before. “Someone could’ve warned me.”

“Notice that the bike racks’re empty, love?”

You inhale, frustrated with yourself. That’s the thing about being new. Nobody’ll go out of their way to let you know the ins and outs - not unless you make a concerted effort to talk to people. But if gits are snipping chains off bikes here and who the hell knows what else, the need for friends turns up a notch.

“You wanna file a lost an’ found report?” the reception lady asks, sympathy colouring her face. She absently slides a paper weight off a pile of documents, then licks her thumb. “In case someone brings it in?”

This is already becoming more trouble than it’s worth, you think. Maybe there's a bus you can take - you've seen a stop down the street. You shake your head, nah.

She shoots you an apologetic smile and hands you the form anyway. This is her way of feeling helpful. You’re not bold enough to refuse the offer, so you take the paper. It crinkles as you shove it in your pocket. Behind you, the door creaks open. Chilly air croons into the building. You shiver, tugging your sleeves down to protect your wrists. Mumbling thanks to the woman, you send a distracted glance to the door. And immediately, you’re dead alert.

It's him.

From class. He’s tall, just like you expected. So tall that he’s filling the entire doorframe. He slips inside, zipping open his jacket on account of the warmth in the reception block. The wood thumps behind him. He’s fiddling with the end of his jacket, correcting the pull tab so that it slides easier. It’s clear he likes things being in order. Every inch of him seems ironed neatly. His uniform shirt, peaking beneath the navy. His meticulously knotted tie. Blond hair cropped close to his ears. But most of all, it’s his expression. Dull and flat, as if he’s run a hot iron right over it. A few seconds pass, as he stamps wet tracks on the mat.

Then he looks up. Your eyes meet.

It's the same as it was in the classroom. You feel suddenly paralysed, like some rabbit caught in a trap. Like everything's stopped. Like the train's finally slowed down, and is whistling helplessly along the track. And you can't help but wonder if he feels it too. It's difficult to read, though. His half-lidded stare bores right through you, calm and heavy. Clearly, he’s not as rattled as you are. Maybe he’s used to people's joints locking at the mere sight of him. Maybe he revels in it.

“Ah- Mr. Riley-,” calls out the woman behind you, peeking over the desk. "Was told I'd be seein' you today." 

His eyes linger on you a moment longer, before they casually drift over to her. The weight pushing down on your chest eases.

“Take a seat,” she tells him, matter of fact. Her typing dutifully resumes, “Detention’s lastin' an hour today.”

He doesn’t reply, but his sneakers move quietly across the carpet. Effortlessly, he sits down. Leans back. His elbows come over his knees, fingers knotting together. You're desperate to get out of there. Desperate to make sure your eyes don't meet again. Desperate that he doesn't pick up on the pink bloom in your cheeks. The carpet sinks beneath your boots as you walk, your focus fixed to the door. You can feel his eyes tracking you the entire way. Your palm, slick with sweat, finds the door handle. You twist it, thankful you remember how to operate the bloody thing. It feels like a long time before you're finally outside; the door clicks shut behind you.

You take an unsteady breath. It feels painfully shallow.

Chapter Text

It takes two minutes to walk to the bus stop.

It’s a small, roofed shelter, covered in cobwebs and graffiti. You cross the street to huddle beneath it, footprints soft on the wet gravel. There’s a rusted metal bench for people to sit and wait. Red paint flecks from its legs, and someone’s inked curses on it with a sharpie. You pause a moment, debating whether to sit down. You decide against it. Accidentally imprinting curse words on the back of your pants is too big of a risk. The school would have a proper laugh. So, you drop your bag on the metal with a clink and stay standing. You clutch your elbows, gaze absently retracing the way you’d walked.

Across the street is your house, half hidden behind a dead tree with naked branches. Your new house is a right ugly one, to be sure. Mostly because of the wood's hue – it’s an ill sort of beige. You think it wouldn’t look so bad if there weren’t slightly nicer red bricked houses on either end, each wearing black tiled hats. It’s functional enough, though. That’s something your Dad values. Function, not aesthetic. Aesthetics aren’t important when he’s hardly there, and you’ll be gone in a few years anyway.

You take a deep breath, watching a car whoosh by. Its tyres thunk in the misshapen potholes that litter the bitumen. Puddles of water spit up into the rubber treads. Dogs bark in the distance. It’s as you’re staring into the void that someone steps into your peripheral. Two lads, judging by their dirtied sneakers. They munch over the gravel, slowing as they near you. Your eyes flit up.

Closest to you stands a shorter lad, who you think might be a few years below you. Messy, blond hair frames his forehead - the tips prickling the corners of his round, brown eyes. His complexion’s pale, with faint freckles dotted across the tops of his cheeks. You stare at him a moment, wondering why he looks familiar. And it’s when he shifts his weight between his feet, that you see who he’s with.

Oh, fucking hell. It’s him, again. Riley. 

Of course he happens to catch the bus from the front of your new house. It’s a cruel, sick coincidence, to be fair. He’s already been leaking into your thoughts like a poisonous, nuclear substance. You really didn’t need any more torture, thanks. And part of this feels unfair, too, seeing as he’s totally unaffected by your existence. Or maybe unaware of it. Honestly, you’re not sure which is more numbing.

He keeps to the edge of the shelter. Hands buried in his jacket pockets. Eyes lost somewhere down the end of the street – which you assume is the direction the bus’ll be arriving. If he knows you’re there, he doesn’t so much as glance at you. Your lips feel suddenly taut.

After a minute, his younger brother turns. Brown eyes slide from your bag on the seat, to you. “D’you mind if I-?”

“Shit- sorry,” you mutter, retrieving your bag and hiking it over your shoulder. “Wasn’t thinking.”

If he forgives you, he doesn’t grant you that knowledge. Small Riley plops down at the edge of the bench, careful not to sit on the graffiti. You wonder if he was the one who did it. Or his brother-

“Your lot just buy that house up for sale?” asks small Riley, mildly curious. He drums his fingers on the metal with routine familiarity.

“Ah- yeah,” you reply distantly. You’re not used to people striking up conversation with you. Your social muscles feel painfully malnourished. “Me an’ my Dad.”

“Proper ugly," small Riley's lips curl into a playful smile.

You feel faint, "Sorry?"

"Your new place," he explains, like it's obvious. The drumming expectantly stops. "It's in proper rot, innit?”

"It's not that bad," you defend sheepishly. That they think your house is ugly is mortifying beyond belief. Something awful skitters in your stomach. "We might re-paint it."

You’re halfway through planning how you’re going to desperately gather money for paint, when small Riley lazily uses his forehead to point to big Riley.

“We put bets on what kinda rabble we thought would take it.” He makes sure to say, “No offense.”

Rabble.

You’re so taken back that you can’t help but breath a laugh, accidentally sucking in more air than necessary. You try to cough to hide the fact that you’re mildly choking. Maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad, though. Small Riley thumps you on the back for good measure. Somehow that makes it feel worse.

“Go on then,” you swallow hard, eventually recovering. “What kind of rabble did you think we’d be, exactly?”

“Well, I guessed a real lonely old bastard. Crusty an’ all that. You know the type, yeah?” Small Riley seems certain big Riley's not going to bother with providing his answer. So he adds, “Simon guessed junkies-”

“Tommy,” warns Simon. Deep and rough. There’s a hiccup in your heartbeat that you’re not proud of. Simon’s jaw tilts just enough for him to level his brother with an unimpressed stare. “Rein it in.”

It’s meant to be subtly intimidating. And hell, it is. Shivers are prickling up your neck. Tommy, however, scarcely appears mithered. He has his own kind of carelessness to him too, you realise. Like making people upset is an inevitability he knows well - the consequences burnt into the back of his skull. Still, Tommy salutes in quiet apology, as if he’s done it a hundred times before. As if he’ll do it a hundred more. And this seems to appease Simon, who returns to boring a hole down the street.

This time, the bus shrieks around the corner. It’s a large, weak looking thing. The windows are all scratched up and blurry, fog veiling what’s inside. A sudden foot on the brake brings the tyres to a jerky stop. You catch sight of the bus driver in the front window, hands twisting around the steering wheel. The three of you pace over.

“My Dad’s in the military,” you tell Tommy, a conversational tone. “My Mum’s not around. S’pose, in a way, that does make him a lonely bastard.”

“Is he crusty, then?” checks Tommy, like this detail is important. “Your old man?”

You’re not entirely sure what that means, but you carefully ponder it all the same. “I mean, sure, he can be crusty.”

The door hisses open, engine rumbling tiredly.

“Eh,” beams Tommy, huddling into the bus first. “That’s five quid, Si-”

To shut him up, Simon withdraws a hand from his jacket and roughs up his hair. Something about this gesture feels gentle. Almost affectionate. Yet Tommy complains, combing his strangled hair down with his wiry fingers. He thumps up the stairs, throwing a twinned unimpressed frown over his shoulder.

You’re about to follow him, when your elbow bumps into something hard. It takes a moment to realise you’ve unwittingly touched Simon. You freeze. Heat creeps up to your ears. Every muscle in your neck tightens as you mash your teeth together. Because he’s close now. Dangerously close. Towering over you. Studying you with those thin, horrendously serious eyes. And you have a sudden desire to escape. To bolt back home and board up the windows for all eternity.

With an awkward handwave, you gesture for him to get on first. But he doesn’t move. He only tilts his head, like he’s wordlessly countering, after you. And you start to panic a touch, because you don’t trust yourself to walk up those stairs without slipping. Or without your boot catching on a stick of gum. Or without your knees suddenly shattering until you keel over and die.

“Sorry.” You sound strained, almost frog-like. ”You go.”

Simon’s brows crinkle a little, the way one does when they're confused about something. Genuinely confused - and you suppose he thinks you're mad. But before you're able to say anything more, to defend your honour, he brushes past you and easily steps into the bus. Your inhale is sharp. Thank god that's over, you think.  You grip the railing to follow in after him.

Your eyes meet the driver's, who's clearly been watching. He laughs.

Chapter Text

“Alright, what’s up with you?”

His tone catches your attention. Tight and neat, like he’s pruned his carefully selected words with clippers. You press your back into the rumbling car seat and narrow your eyes at your old man.

“What d’you mean?” 

He gives himself a moment to collect his thoughts, pretending to focus on twisting off the ignition. Dangling against his knuckles, the keys give a metallic jingle. He grasps them sharply. There’s a splutter as the engine chokes out. Then, stillness. Your Dad’s not great at mincing words – so you steel yourself for anything.

“You’ve been actin’ proper mental,” he says all at once.

You nod, “And?”

"And Pet, you don’t ever leave your room.” A pause as he regards you, brows taut and raised. When he realises that you’re not about to meet him halfway, he inhales deep. “I mean - ever. Christ knows what you bloody do in there, all day.”

“Reading,” you counter, unhelpfully. “Researching things. Thinking.”

“Right,” he seems to agree. Something tells you he hasn’t rehearsed this part. “So, you’d have me believe that out of nowhere, you’re perfectly happy to spend the entire weekend painting the front of the house? On your own?”

Ah – yeah. You can see where this is going now.

“I asked if you wanted to help,” you defend, sniffling. “Not my fault you wanted to play the conscientious objector. Nobody else was gonna do it.”

“Exactly,” he retorts, clapping a palm on the wheel so hard it makes you jolt. “Nobody needed to do it, so makes shit all sense why you did. See my point, Pet?”

Sure, you see the point. You shrug.

This isn’t ordinary behaviour – you’re very aware of that fact. Not once have you ever cared to make a house feel like home. Neither has your Dad, for the record. Neither of you have ever made a fuss about ornaments. Or unnecessary, elegant cutlery. Or solid timber coat racks. Nobody’s ever draped tinsel around the fireplace on bloody Christmas. Ever since you were little, life has been whirring in constant motion. Pack and move and unpack. Rinse and repeat. You’ve lived in a lot of places; gone to plenty of schools. Every time, the stops seem to get shorter. Temporary and fleeting, like stations blurring by the windows of a train.

So, it makes zero fucking sense that you’ve suddenly gone and lathered up the front of the house in fresh, steely grey paint. Tidied up the garden too, which was fucking elbow-aching work. But you couldn’t help yourself either. The desire had started as a lit wick, when Tommy Riley was giving you cheek at the bus stop. Since then, his teasing has tapped at the back of your mind, as incessantly as the way he drummed his fingers on the metal bench. And once the idea of painting the house caught fire in your brain, all other sane thoughts seemed to melt away like wax.

Worst of all, were the ones of him. Simon Riley. And the – fantasies. That he’d be at the bus stop, staring down the street with his hands buried in his pockets. That he’d see your house. That those eyes might slide over to you, and that he’d ask about it. Christ, you’ve spent every shower over the weekend rehearsing how to reply. Dumb, childish thoughts.

As if seeing something in your expression, your Dad shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”

Tired, you rub a knuckle in your eye, “Do what?”

“Shut off like that,” he waves an exasperated hand in your direction. “Always stuck in your head.”

You scoff, “Yeah, like you can talk.”

Maybe he regrets this conversation completely, because he sighs. His gaze wanders along the dashboard before falling out the window. There’s a woman out there, folding up a pram to stuff into the boot of her car. You watch her too, trying to gather yourself.

“I just thought it was ugly,” you find yourself saying through a frown. “That’s all, alright?”  

He shifts so that his knees are pointed toward you. The new position forces his palm up, to shield himself from the jagged slice of sunlight that now cuts across his eyes

“Ugly?”

“Yeah,” you explain, unconsciously prodding your elbow with the tips of your fingers. “Hideous.”

A beat passes. You squirm in your seat.

“You painted our house because you thought it was-,” he enunciates, “hideous?”

Your fingers push and pull at your elbow, more insistent. “Well, it’s not anymore, is it? And if that gets the neighbours to stop staring at our house, what’s the loss?”

He gnaws on these words a tick, weighing them up. A bird flutters onto the car’s windshield, plucking at the wipers with an arched, sharp beak. You watch it peck, extracting kernels of dirt and dead bugs. An odd thought comes to mind, that you wish you could do the same and pick the thoughts straight out of your old man’s head.

Finally, your Dad leans forward a touch and drops his arm. “I didn’t realise we were attracting attention,” he says, regretful. “Been so busy at the base, I guess.” 

“Which is fine,” you reassure, “But yeah - I’d rather fly under the radar than be the gits that live in the ugliest house on the street. That beige colour looked naff, I swear.”

A distant nod. You know the rationale is clicking for him, you feel it in your bones. Privacy is important to the both of you, and that fits neatly into the blueprints of his brain. Whatever tension was knotting in your shoulders seems to be loosening.

“So,” he concentrates on you, searching for those last pixels of clarity. “It’s not because you’re shirty about moving again?”

“Nah.”

“And it’s not ‘cause your bike got nicked an’ you’ve had to take the bus.”

“Nope.” You use the edge of your sleeve to wipe at your nose. “D’you really think I’d be painting the house ‘cause I’m mad about that?”

The crinkles in his forehead soften. “And it’s not ‘cause the lights upstairs,” he taps his forehead with purpose, “have y’know, blown or anything?”  

“Don’t be a nobhead,” you snort, clicking off your seatbelt. There’s a vicious zip as the black polyester retracts. “If I’d gone mental, I think the warning signs’d be a lot worse than painting a bloody house.”

Your change in demeanour relieves him.

“Oi,” he laughs, curling his fingers into the door handle to tug it open. “Piss off with that language.”

“Piss off yourself.”

Another laugh - and it’s fuller now, like his veins are alight with electricity. He watches you swing the door open while he’s punching his hands through the arms of a crinkled, blue windbreaker. He zips it all the way to the top, hiding the tattoos stamped on his neck.

Your wellies meet bitumen. Stepping out into the air, you can already feel your nose beginning to ripen. It’s a damp, cool morning. There are puddles pooling in potholes, dotted with dead, upturned leaves. The doors shut. The car wobbles. Circling the car, you carefully scan the strip of shops lining the carpark.

It’s an older complex, with a roof that’s flaking and old, flattened sticks of gum engraved in the pathway. Your Dad’s tugging on a wool beanie, striped different shades of navy and black. It fits snug over his ears and hides all his cropped hair. He whistles for your attention, then nods his head at something behind you. You throw a glance over your shoulder to see that a man and his dog are waltzing down the path. You duck out of the way to avoid them, but let the dog curiously brush its nose against your calf as it passes.

“Let’s split up,” suggests your Dad, pacing closer. He thumbs through his wallet before pressing folded-up notes at your stomach. “Pick us up some steak, I’ll get the rest of the scran for tonight. Alright?” 

Agreeing, you pocket the quid and salute. He shoves his wallet back into his jacket pocket and spins around to head in the opposite direction. Crossing the carpark, you jog over to the butcher’s shop on the corner. 

You’ve never been inside before, but you’ve walked past it a few times. There are community notices pasted all over the windows. A sign hanging from the roof, that creaks when the wind picks up. And a blackboard sits out the front, where the specials have been messily written in white chalk. You sidle up to the door, peeking inside. The butcher must be out the back, because the shop’s empty. Clicking the handle open, you elbow it forward. The wood creaks. Bells twinkle above. You huddle inside.

It’s cold inside; a gentle mechanical whir that tells you the air conditioner is on. Slowly, you inch across the tiles to the glass cabinets. You peer in, eyes following the rows of pale pink and deep scarlet slabs. The meat’s ordered perfectly along the pearly bench, decorated with prices and sprigs of green herbs. To the corner are the steaks, all varying in size and thickness.

You’re about to call for someone, when a lad idly strides in from the back. From your peripheral, you can tell he’s balancing a stack of fresh meat in his arms. Browsing the steaks, you give him a moment to sort himself out before he has to serve you. Without so much as greeting you, he comes over to your end. The glass door slides open. A gloved arm slips into the case to layer new cuts of marbled red and white over the ones that are already there. Your eyes chase the arm up to see-

Your stomach screeches to a terrible halt.

Panic, for a moment. Nothing but mind-boggling panic.

Because good fucking god, it’s Simon. Simon fucking Riley, again. And you’re alone with him – in this miserable little butcher’s shop.

Simon’s just hovering over the case, up to his forearms in bloodied gloves. Draped over his shoulders is a thick, black apron that stops at his knees. Muddied stains have been pressed into the leather, where the material covers his thighs. And maybe he hasn’t noticed you yet, because he’s taking his glorious time with stocking up the cabinet. Christ – you wonder if it’d be too obvious to bolt for the door. To bolt so far and fast until your legs catch fire. You actually glance toward it, to check the distance. Fucking hell, it’s too far.

Simon practically tosses the last rump. It splatters slightly, and you can’t help but feel like you’re that rump. Bloody faced and just there thawing beneath the bright, piercing light.

He finally looks at you.

And christ, it’s dreadful.

“Oh,” you croak. Fortunately, you find the necessary functions to swallow. “Hey.”

He tips his chin up in reply, almost in passing.

Honestly, that he’s acknowledging your existence is something to marvel at. You take a moment, nodding a bit stupidly, trying to let your heartbeat steady. It’s kicking fierce against your chest.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you try for a cool tone. It comes out rather raspy.

He tilts his head, but says nothing.

“So, you work here th-?”

“Think that’s obvious,” he interrupts, a stale colour to his tone. “You need somethin’ or?”

That’s enough to stir you awake. “Uh-,” you rap the pad of a finger against the cabinet. “Can I get two steaks?”

Thankfully, he obliges by fishing a thin, plastic bag out. He scoops the steaks inside with abrupt efficiency, then twists the bag shut.

“You need anythin’ else?” he asks flatly, drawing out a large sheet of paper.

“Uh – just the steaks.” Unthinkingly, you add, “Pretty sure my Dad only gave me enough for them, anyway.”

His eyes briefly shoot up to yours. “You’re here with your Dad?”

Of all the things to say, exhibiting your dependence on your Dad is not something you rehearsed in the shower. You wipe your palms over your thighs with an unhappy laugh.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I’d normally come on my own, but my bike got nicked. So, we uh - came together in the car.”

He nods once.

There’s a special place in hell for people who over-explain, you think. You’re willing to be teleported there now – to burn in flames for a thousand years – if it means escaping this horrendous encounter.

Simon’s folding the brown paper over your steaks, wrapping it into a tight package. He’s not bothering to look at you. “Why not walk?”

“Walk?” you repeat, confused. “It’s like, forty minutes away.” 

There’s a beat of strange silence, and then he pins you with the full weight of his dark, heavy stare. Obviously, he has some kind of voodoo magical power over you, because you can’t stop yourself from trying to fill the silence.

“Do you walk?”

There’s something focused in his expression now, like he didn’t anticipate that question. Like for some reason, it grates on his nerves. Then his gaze falls back to his hands, concentrating on snapping off a piece of tape. 

“It’s not so bad,” he finally answers, closing the package with the tape. He fetches for another piece, ripping it loud. “Helps me clear my head.”

You mindlessly finger the money in your pocket, curious.

“What d’you have to clear your head about?”

The brown paper stops ruffling.

“Sorry,” you fumble, realising yourself. You pretend to look at the meat in the cabinet. Embarrassment tingles up your neck. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

The ruffling resumes.

“Mind complexities,” he muses. He lazily presses on another strip of tape before testing the weight of the package in his hands. “Have to exercise bad thoughts every now and then, yeah?” 

“Gotta keep them in line,” you suppose, “So they don’t get too bent out of shape.”

Simon doesn’t reply, just extracts a pen from the pocket of his apron. He takes a moment to note down the weight of the steaks on a sticky label.

Perhaps it’s risky, but you use his distraction as a chance to study his expression. Somehow, it feels both dreadfully bored and concentrated. His eyes are following whatever he’s scribbling, pale lashes twitching in synch. You’ve never really noticed someone’s features this much before. But something about his fascinate you. His cheeks and ears are tinged pink – a strange contrast against his fair, ghostly skin. Most likely, the colour’s got something to do with the freezer out the back, where they probably store boxes of raw, frozen meat and carcasses on hooks. It’d be cold in there, for sure. Enough to make his cheeks go red.

But a small, private part of you wonders if he’s a little - flushed. And then, most dangerously, you fancy the idea that you could be the one responsible. That’s bloody nonsense, of course. Still, the very notion makes your own cheeks go warm.

He drifts over to the counter, and you instinctively match him.

“What about you?” Simon suddenly murmurs, dragging his dark eyes back to yours.

You blink. “What about me?”

He slides the package of steaks toward you. “What d’you have to clear your head about?”

You ponder those words for a few beats. Simon’s hand lingers on the package, stretched out between you. This feels like some kind of game. Like he’s got his fingers on a chess piece and is carefully contemplating his next move.

It’s your turn to tilt your head. “You dodge my question, then ask me the same one?”

He inhales. “Got a problem with that?”

“Not a problem,” you counter, “Just a curiosity.”

“Curiosity,” he repeats, finally withdrawing his hand to wipe it on his apron. “What’re you curious about, then?”

“Everything.”

Simon's brows twitch, “Bit vague.”

You dig the crumpled quid out of your jacket pocket and slide it in his direction.

“You’re not the only one that can dodge questions,” you point out.

“Can see that.”

His eyes are still on you, as he threads off his gloves.

You reach for the brown paper package. Simon’s lean fingers simultaneously reach out. There’s an exchange. He collects the quid in his hand, flattening the notes. You clutch the steaks close to your jacket, watching. He’s doing it slowly – making sure to go over every single one. It’s taking forever. You look up at him, unsure. He’s looking at you. And for a moment, something colours his expression. It feels gently familiar – akin to the look he gave you at the bus stop. Confusion.

But then the doorbell thrashes.

Life lurches back into motion. You jump, vacuumed out of the moment. Simon straightens for the new customer browsing the cabinet. Without even collecting your change, you gun for the door.

Outside, you hurtle into someone.

It’s your Dad, raising his brows.

“Alright?” you yelp, cheeks hot. You don’t wait for him to answer. “Got the steaks,” you mutter, holding up the package to show him. “You get everything you needed?”

He smiles, knowingly. “Sure did.”

Chapter Text

October starts with a game of pretend.

You wait at the bus shelter, knees shivering. It’s cold, but it’s your nerves that keep your spine needle straight. The Riley brothers are making their way up the road, sneakers pulsing on the frosty, shimmering bitumen. Their footsteps get louder as they cross onto gravel. You mindlessly play with the lip of your socks, the tips of your fingers edging between fabric and skin.

Tommy unceremoniously budges you over on the bench. He doesn’t exchange any polite greetings before he’s banging on about how he’s saving up for a drumkit. And did your crusty old man need someone to come mow the lawn for a few quid? And Christ – have you gotten any sleep? Cause you look proper fuckin’ knackered. And holy shit, did someone come and paint your bloody house? Looks worse.

Whatever responses you manage are a distracted mumble, because you’re half-focusing on Simon trailing closer. There’s nothing unusual about the way he looks. Everything is in order, like it always is. Hands buried in his pockets. Hair neat and cropped. Jacket zipper peeled down past his ironed collar and neatly done tie. You stare at the twisted-up satin, thinking about how it feels like there are fabric eels slithering inside your stomach and tying themselves into knots. Simon suddenly halts at the edge of the bus shelter, and your eyes trail up to his neck. Up his jaw. His chin. To his eyes, which are staring at you.

He's regarding you like he always does, expression bled of any emotion. But there’s something new there, flickering in his eyes. An electric crackle of recognition. It ripples through you, as if someone’s zapped your chest with a defibrillator. Now your heart feels like it's pumping red, thick blood. Then, you’re suddenly remembering the bloodied gloves at the butchers. How he peeled them off, one by one. How his pale, skeletal hands flexed with anticipation before he collected your quid from the counter. How he made sure to flatten the notes - ever so carefully. Taking his time. You can admit that you liked him touching something of yours. That it makes you feel all molten and weak inside.

Across the shelter, Simon’s eyes dully flicker away. Any recognition within them dissolves. No acknowledgement. No nod. No hello. No nothing. Your chest sinks.

Disappointment turns to resolve. Fine. You’ll play along. You’ll pretend he doesn’t exist. Hand over heart, you’ll burst into thousands of pieces before you mentally yield to Simon Riley. So, for several minutes, you stare at the roof. Up there, sunlight glitters from the sharp, delicate edge of a spiderweb. You follow your eyes along the web, trying to keep your thoughts busy. You don’t even have it in you to reply to Tommy, whose faffing on about a punk mixtape he’s made. It’s cowardly and soft-minded and childish. But it’s all you can do until the bus screeches around the corner.

Simon gets on before you, acting as if nothing’s out of the ordinary. You copy.

---

This game of pretend goes on and on. Some mornings, the board you play on is the bus shelter. Sometimes, it’s in class.

One day, he’s sitting a few rows ahead of you in English, leaning back leisurely in his chair. The sunburnt hours of the afternoon slope over his desk, turning his blond hair nearly gold. You’re staring at his ankle, which is crossed over the other, trying to study the faint smudge of sharpie that’s been drawn on the fabric of his sock. It looks like a skull or something, but it’s hard to tell. You lean forward, balancing on two legs of your chair to get a better look.

Out of nowhere, Simon looks over his shoulder directly at you. No subtly. No hitch or hesitation in the turn of his jaw. It happens so fast that you don’t have enough time to play it off cool or pretend you’re doing something else. You’re just caught there, naked and raw like a banana without its peel.

Simon’s brows twitch, as if to say, again?

Your jaw tenses. Reddening, you drag your eyes away from him and down to your workbook. Good fucking god, he’s trying to embarrass you. Shame you publicly. The idea is so unsettling that you don’t have the heart to glance up for the rest of the lesson. It’s only later when you realise, he must have made a mental note of where you were sitting just to pull that shit.

---

On a different day, it happens again during history.

You’ve been asked by your history teacher to drop off a crate of old cans to the metalwork room. Standing in the doorway, you balance the crate on one hip and use your free hand to shyly knock. Nobody answers.

From the looks of it, there’s no teacher. He must be in the storage room or his office. It feels neglectful that he’s not supervising the students, but there are only two lads working at the benches. They’re at either ends of the room, welding helmets shielding their faces as they concentrate on their assignments. There are prerequisites for doing metal. Some kind of certificate that requires additional study. You remember that written on the form you completed to choose your classes.

Neither of the lads hear your knocking. You stride in, covering your nose with one elbow so that you don’t need to taste or smell sweltering flux and grease. You wave a hand at one of the lads to attract their attention, to let them know you’ll leave the crate on the bench. Embers splatter around his careful, precise hands. When he clocks your presence, he stops what he’s doing. A thick glove goes to his helmet, to lift it up. You’re met with dark, familiar eyes. You jolt. The cans rattle.

Simon is waiting for you to say something. You don’t.

Because for fuck’s sakes, if he thinks you’ll lose this game of chicken, then he’s dead wrong. You’ll cling onto the pathetic little pencil shavings of your pride if it’s the last thing you’ll do. Almost angrily, you slide the crate onto the table. His eyes go to it. The plastic scrapes against the metal uncomfortably. Without so much as a farewell, you turn around and stride out of the room. It’s at the doorway that you give in and throw a look over your shoulder.

Simon’s still tracking you across the room. But now he almost seems – amused.

You grimace, willing to lose the game to demand to know what he finds so bloody entertaining. But, in the spirit of true competition, he flicks his visor back on and calmly goes back to work.

---

Everything changes when the classes get together for football.

It’s a shit morning to be on the oval. The field’s a chaotic mess of brown and green. Grey, jagged clouds drift overhead. Everything is wet. The ball. The metal bleachers. All the studded football boots that stab and puncture the earth. Even the air smells thick with damp mud. Students are scattered in all directions, dressed in red and blue. The exceptions are the goalies and the coach - Mr. Abbott – who’s a football nut and is nonsensically dressed in yellow ref gear. Most of the class are intensely participating in the game, but a few pairs of students are pacing up and down the grass in idle conversation.

Stamping in your spot, you hook a thumb into your red bib and rub the mesh against your nose. It’s stinging a bit from the temperature, which is starting to plummet as October goes on.

You’re no gun at football. In fact, you’re fucking awful at it, especially in the mud. Your knees are caked in the stuff – you can feel it seeping into the dry, cracked wrinkles of your skin. For whatever reason, you’ve been appointed to defence. This forces you to linger exclusively around the goal, which wouldn’t be so bad if Simon Riley weren’t the fucking keeper. 

Simon’s pacing between your team’s goal posts, the tread of his boots munching on grass. He’s dressed in all-black - a long-sleeved undershirt, jersey, padded grip gloves, kneepads and long socks. In all the gear, you fancy he sort of resembles a spider guarding its web. Lanky and silent.

Throughout the game, you begin to gather that he’s played football for a few years. You can pinpoint a few things that give it away. For one, there’s the familiarity in his eyes while he tracks the ball coming down midfield. Or how his knees instinctually bend when he predicts one of the striker’s will take a shot. Or how comfortable he seems skidding and diving through mud and puddles alike. Or the way his gloved hand brushes through his wet, tangled hair, before he claps his palms together, ready and focused.

“Heads,” someone nearby shouts.  

Your eyes snap down the field. A few of the faster lads are inching closer to your team’s goal. Others are sprinting and slipping behind them. The lads are playing rough – throwing elbows and snatching at each other’s collars. You watch the ball zip from one heel to another, hurtling closer. Simon’s studying it too. One of the wingers passes it to his mate. It skims along the length of the box toward you. You swivel your studs in the earth, bracing for anything.

“Do something!” orders one of your teammates. Probably that tosser Williams.

Inhaling, you push to meet the attacker. He’s staring at your shoes like they’ll reveal your intention. They do. He darts left. You follow. But he’s predicted this, and his foot curls around the ball. Easily, he knocks it right. Mud spits at your cheeks. Then he kicks, plastic walloping in your ears. You whirl around to watch where it goes.

Simon tenses. His arms stretch up. Efficiently. Effortlessly. The ball halts, caught in his gloved palms. Simon holds it out and takes a few mechanical steps forward. His leg draws back in a perfect, precise arc. The ball drops. Collides with the toe of his boot. Thuds hard, then disappears halfway down the field. You watch it shrink, frowning.

“Proper fuckin’ save!” barks Joe, one of the midfielders.

Joe’s tanned, slim and all-angles. Sidestepping, he punches Simon a thumbs up. Then his hand swivels over to you and he gives you a dramatic thumbs-down.

“Piss off with that shite defence-,” he hesitates, searching for a name. Eventually, he lands on, “-mate!”

Mate.

It’s been weeks and some of these thick-headed pricks don’t even know your fucking name. Christ – you were the only new kid in the entire year. Surely, it’s not that bloody hard. You cover your face with a hand to mask your mortification. While you’re musing on the bleakness of life, wetness strikes your cheek. You bring a finger up to catch a fat droplet slipping down your chin. As you tilt your head up to examine the clouds pooling overhead, another raindrop plops onto your eyelash.

“Oi,” Mr. Abbott screams, bleating hard on the whistle. He forces himself between two lads who are scrimmaging in the mud, ripping them apart by their soaking bibs. “Come off it, it’s barely ten in the fuckin’ mornin’-”

“Sir,” bellows a girl through cupped hands, “It’s about to piss down!”

Another girl shrieks and cradles her hair with the makeshift umbrella of her arms.

Mr. Abbott roughly releases one of the bibs to test his palm to the sky. After a moment, he fingers for the whistle dangling around his neck. He slips it between his lips and blows unnecessarily hard.

“Alrigh’, let’s finish here, shall we?” he shouts, dribbling the ball down the length of the field. “Let’s have a penalty kick, since Williams can’t remember his fuckin’ match manners.” He kicks the ball to a student, who stops it beneath his boot. “Mal, you’re the best penalty taker.”

Unhappy curses erupt around the oval. Another hiss on the whistle shuts them up.

Mal picks up the ball, spins it once, then sets it on the grass. Straightening, he starts a careful pace backwards.

He’s one of the better players in your class - with a nice, tidy kick that you’ve seen him swirl into the net on the odd occasion. Though his smile’s carefree, he’s always late to form. Just that morning, he sprinted in with less than a minute left on the clock. Bloke must’ve run to school, because he arrived panting - face red and puffy. You remember the way he paused at the doorway, hand on the frame, rotating out a sore ankle.

Someone raps a finger on your shoulder. It’s a girl in Simon’s class - Kitty. You hope that’s a nickname, but then you muse that she might actually despise it. You’ve never been given a nickname, outside of your old man’s babyish ones. Kitty’s quite pretty. Her thick, coiled hair is threaded back with a burgundy-coloured headband. She nods pointedly at the defensive players huddling around the box.

“You coming then?” asks Kitty, somewhere between expectant and inviting. “They’ll wanna talk about what Riley’ll do on defence.”

“For a school match?” you check, confused. “Really?”

“Yeah, they uh-,” she trails off into a laugh. “If you haven’t noticed, blokes take football pretty seriously here.”

You shoot her a strange look but follow all the same. After a few squelching steps, you sidle into the open gap between Kitty and Williams. Maybe you're shit at football, but you like talking strategy. In strategy there's thinking. Sense. Logic. Competition. And there's nothing like the satisfaction of a psychological win.

“Mal’s immune to trash talk,” reminds Williams, wiping his nose with the bottom of his shirt. He lets go of the fabric to point with his elbow at the goal. “I say fake left, dive right.”

Everyone nods, except Simon. He’s adjusting the hem of one of his gloves, listening.

“No,” you blurt out, “Dive left.”

Williams nearly chokes. You give him a moment.

When he realises you’re being serious, he makes an ill-face. “Sorry?”  

“Left,” you insist. You throw a thumb over your shoulder in Mal’s general direction. “My guess is if Mal thinks he’s got a chance to score in the left corner, he will.”

“She must be mad,” laughs Joe, waving a dismissive hand. “Look, obviously you don’t know since you’re new. But Mal’s a right-corner striker.”

You turn to look at Mal, who’s hopping a little on one foot and shaking his shoulders around. When you turn back to the group, you shrug.

“Not today, he’s not.”

Williams scoffs. “Why the fuck should we listen to you, eh?”

“We’re talking strategy, aren’t we?” you point out, a touch defensive. “This is a strategy. You know, to win.”

Another scoff, but it’s a touch more hesitant now.

“No offense,” Kitty offers, jutting her head to flip a curl off her forehead, “But from what I’ve seen, you’re not exactly brilliant at football.”

“Good thing I’m not the one defending the keep,” you agree.

Your eyes slide over to Simon. His are narrowed on you, sceptical but curious. A heavy moment passes. Rain freckles on your nose. You have a dreadful feeling that he might ignore you and keep playing his mind-numbing game of indifference.

But then he cautiously murmurs, “Left?”

You take a deep breath, furrowing your brows at him. You nod.

“Left.”

He’s pondering over your words, weighing and scrutinizing them as if they’re a packet of steaks he’s tossed on the scales. You can almost taste them, bloody and raw, in the lump wedged down your throat.

“Left, then,” decides Simon.

Williams can’t help but groan, “Come on man-”

“I’ll sort it,” cuts Simon, cracking his knuckles. “Alrigh’?”

There’s no politeness in the cold, blunt manner he says this. Nor in the way he dismisses the group with a nod. Whether that’s carelessness or confidence, you can’t be sure. Williams doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t seem to want to argue with Simon either. The group disperses. It’s decided.

Uneasily, you pace toward the edge of the field, pivoting at the line. Your bib billows, wind flowing through the sleeves.

Simon is hanging toward the right of the goal, skewed only slightly to that side. He hunches forward, attention zeroing in. Mal gathers himself by sucking in a deep breath. His chest rises and falls, like a wave rolling and thinning over sand. Everything else seems to fall away, until all that’s left is the stretch of grass that separates them. Mal seems to notice Simon’s position and adjusts his footing, eyes going from the net to the ball. It’s raining harder now. Some of the players are gunning for shelter to avoid getting wet. But you stay still out there, hoping to hell you’re right. Your heartbeat throbs in your ears.

Finally, the whistle tears across the field. A beat goes by. Mal takes a step. Then another. He picks up speed, arching faintly toward the ball. Simon pretends to flinch right. In response, Mal adjusts his angle and shifts left. The edge of his foot contacts the ball. There's an elastic whack. Dirt flecks into the air. The blur of white and black whips for the net. It curls left. But Simon already knows where to dive. He goes left, knocking the ball out before landing belly-down in the grass.

Red team cheers. Fucking easy, by all accounts. Simon eases himself up, brushing off. His eyes find yours. He nods, like he’s saying, not bad. You can’t help the smile that melts your mouth.

Simon’s won his game. You’ve won yours.

---

It costs five quid and a nicked smoke for Joe to tell you where Simon retreats at lunch.

Alone, apparently, behind one of the old science blocks. When there’s ten minutes left of the break, you decide to head over. The journey is an anxious one. And it’s because of this jittery energy that you’re forced to complete a few circuits of the science building before you finally spot him.

As rumoured, Simon sits alone. He’s sitting on one of those metal bag racks, sneakers resting on the middle shelf. His knees are parted, elbows set over them. All you can see is his blond hair, but you can tell he’s fixated on something he’s holding in his lap. A few tentative steps forward and you realise that he’s – reading.

It’s such a gentle task that it sort of takes you off-guard. You’re not sure why, but butchering-metalworking-football-playing-Simon-Riley didn’t strike you as the type to read.

Inching closer, you freeze when a twig snaps beneath your boot. Your other foot is still arched mid-step. Simon doesn’t look up though. Either he hasn’t noticed you or doesn’t care to acknowledge his intruder. Something feels wrong about completing that stride. You get the sense that if you do, you’ll be crossing into that disorienting threshold that endlessly orbits around him. That strange, beckoning space between you and him - which is riddled with hidden land mines and seems to get smaller and smaller as time goes on. Mustering up some strength, you drop your shoulders and wilfully plant your foot on the ground.

“Hey.”

Simon’s dark eyes flicker up from the words of his book, to meet yours.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes, though it feels more on-edge than angry. He’s mindlessly running his hand through his hair. He seems to be trying to flatten it. But you don’t see much point, seeing as it’s already neat to begin with. As if reading something in your expression, the hand drops. His fingers flex over his knee. “Hey.”

“You alright?”

He shrugs, his tone deadpan. "Livin' the dream. You?"

“Ecstatic beyond all measure,” you return, nervously ironing out your skirt with your palms. You glance around a bit. “So, this is where you hide, huh?”

“Not hidin’,” he corrects plainly. “Avoidin’.” 

You slip off your bag and walk over, thumping it on top of the metal rack before heaving yourself up to sit next to him. Your legs dangle over the side.

“What exactly’re you avoiding?”

Simon makes a point to whip the book shut. “Conversation.”

“Right,” you try for a smile, but it comes out as a strange, contorted frown. You can’t tell if he’s making a jab or telling you to fuck off. Maybe both. “Sorry.”

The apology’s barely slipping out of your throat before it pushes his gaze away, almost as though he can’t stand to hear it. You make a private earmark of that reaction. He doesn’t like apologies. If it were anyone else, you’d probably feel bad for unknowingly doing something he hates. But with Simon, you find yourself wanting to know why. To understand the wound. Rummage around in it; dig and poke to see how deep and far it goes. To know how it was formed at the molecular level.

“How’d you know he’d go left?”

You blink. “What d’you mean?”

“You said the sod would go left. He did,” states Simon, matter of fact. “Explain that.”

Cheeks warm, you nod for a few silent beats, pretending to find interest in the cement. An idea paddles to the front of your mind. You gather the words, wetting your lips.

“If I answer,” you taste slowly, “I get to ask a question of my own.”

He’s staring at you fully now, pupils sharp and critical. You think he’s about to scoff and call you mental. But in a gravelly voice, he says, “Deal.”

You go over your memory, trying to figure out how to shape it into a comprehensible sentence.

“He was rolling out his ankle,” you tell him. “The dominant ankle. This morning, in form class. Figured he’d probably stretched a muscle from running to school or something.”

Simon leans back, seeming to grasp what you’re getting at.

“So, stands to reason he’d use his other foot under stress.”

You click your tongue. “Exactly.”

“You like to watch people,” he points out flatly. His gaze moves slowly over your features. “But then avoid ‘em.”

“It’s easier.”

His head cocks. “Is it?”

There’s a mild curiosity in his tone that strikes you. He gets the rationale; you can see that. Yet he’s still curious about this common thread between you. It’s as though, despite himself, he hasn’t figured out what would make you want to avoid people the way he does.

“When you move around a lot yeah,” you explain, “Not a lot of point getting to know people when you have to forget them all over again. Guess I’ve gotten used to just hanging around in the background and watching it all happen. You know, like reading different books with all new characters and plotlines.”

“Like a bug on the wall, yeah?” he offers flatly, almost to himself. When his lidded eyes return to you, they’re full of understanding.

You pinch your lip in mechanical thought, “Think you mean a fly on the wall, don’t you?”

Perhaps he expected this question, because he gives a bored, half-shrug. “Bug suits you better.”

You nod stupidly, not really knowing what that means or what else there is to say. Even so, a part of you is desperate to hold onto this conversation, like you’re huffing the dying embers of a fire in the hope the tinder will catch smoke. You lean back against the brick wall, feeling the grating edge dig into your uniform. Cool wind coos in the rafters above you.

You clear your throat awkwardly. “What’re you reading?”

He looks at you. “That your question?”

“If it has to be.”

Simon’s pale lashes flicker down to the book between his hands, like he’s suddenly distracted by it. He flips it around to show you the cover. It’s familiar.

“The Art of War?” you recite, raising an interested brow. “Didn’t think you’d be into that kind of thing.”

His brows twitch. “You’ve read it?”

“I’ve been subjected to all kinds of military propaganda,” you joke, though it sounds wooden and unpractised. “Family indoctrination.”

“Said your old man’s in the army, righ’?”

He remembers.

“Yeah.” You don’t really want to talk about that, so you point to the book. “Why’re you reading about war tactics, anyway?”

Shut, he places the book between you and him. Then he tethers his bony fingers together.

“Strategy’s useful,” he considers, thoughtful. “Not just in war.”

Your own hands feel clammy and empty, so you pick it up and flip through the pages. Immediately, you can see he’s been marking things with a highlighter. Tiny little notes have been scribbled into the borders too. He probably shouldn’t do that in a library book – but something tells you he doesn’t care. You can feel the weight of his attention on your hands, quiet and unmoving. Perhaps he feels uncomfortable that you’re touching something of his. Or maybe he likes it. Your chest feels weird.

Trying to distract yourself from the feeling, you open to one of the pages and read a quote he’s underlined. It brings a knowing smile to your lips.

“If you know the enemy and know yourself,” you read aloud, “you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

You feel a little transparent, because you know that’s what you want to do with him. Understand him. Get to know him. Get to know your odds. Then a strange thought crosses your mind that Simon might be doing the same thing. In remembering where you sit, and that your dad’s in the army, and that you watch people but don't talk to them, and in asking about how you knew which way to dive. Maybe he wants to understand you too. 

Perhaps Simon knows exactly what you’re thinking, because he exhales gently, and it nearly sounds like a laugh.

Heat crawls up your ears. “Is it just me or does that quote feel weirdly relatable?"

“Nah,” he says flatly, but it feels like this is his way of giving you cheek. “That’s just you, Bug.”

Chapter Text

The next day, it rains.

Your old man offers to drive you to school, tugging on his windbreaker. Taking the car is the last thing you want to do, but the rain’s chucking down so hard you’ll be proper drenched if you don’t. Your dad hovers in the doorframe, assessing the reluctance on your face. There’s a metallic tinkle that tells you his keys are ready to go in his pocket. You can imagine his calloused fingers flexing in there, deep in the caverns of the fabric. Like he’s digging around for an explanation. It makes no sense to him that you want to take the bus. You can tell he wants to extract the answer, pinch it from your brain with his tweezing questions.   

But you don’t give one. Because you don’t want to tell him about this thing. This one-sided, shameful whatever-it-is with Simon. How you want to be around him, even if it means huddling under the bus shelter in the middle of a storm. It sounds so stupid. So mind-numbingly dumb that you’d wilt if the truth was held under a microscope. So, instead, you don a hooded jacket and huddle into the car.

The drive is surprisingly pleasant. Perhaps your dad’s sensed your guarded mood, because he doesn’t ask anything too probing. The two of you share a bit of light banter before fading into an easy, familiar silence. You rumble against the seat, listening to the radio skipping every few beats. Millions of raindrops pellet the car’s metal roof. And every so often, its wheels sigh through the puddles on the bitumen.

Halfway there, your dad reaches out to switch the heater on. His hand lingers there, scarred and freckled. A thatch of hair, darkened by tattoos, pokes out from his sleeve. He’s wearing his old, scuffed wedding ring again. The gold glimmers when he twists it, habitually, with the tip of his thumb.

The heater whirs, making your window white with fog. You wipe your sleeve across it, collecting a rubbery squelch. Outside, rivulets of water bead and waver along the glass. You watch them race awhile, trembling with the wind. They quicken, slow, quicken again. One little pearl of water struggles, wriggling only an inch or two. Eventually, it slips into the tread of another. These two droplets meet. Tether themselves together. Then disappear, as if neither exist when they’re alone.

---

Thankfully, football gets cancelled on account of the weather.

Both health classes are lumped together again, to watch a movie on the projector. Clusters of students wait in the hall, loud and energetic. The teachers are working on getting the room ready, though one has to come out and bark at a few lads that’re scuffling. You get the sense most of the students are keen for a lesson of lazing around. But honestly, you’re not really in the mood.

Simon’s been amiss all morning; you suppose he must be skipping school. Maybe he’s skipping because of you. Maybe you pissed him off when you daftly crashed his lunch break. He said he wanted to avoid conversation. But you keep accidentally running into him. In the butchers. In the metalwork room. The rickety, cobweb-infested bus stop. All these moments you’ve replayed in your mind. Delighting in the details. Over and over, in the small hours of the night. Yet suddenly, they sit heavy and uncomfortable in your chest.

Ruminating on this, you notice a couple tangled by the bag racks. The girl’s sitting on top of one, knees caged around her boyfriend’s hips. His height permits her nose to press into his tanned neck, their ties squashed between them. She looks rather pretty like that, as if she’s falling against him. His jaw, leaning a touch sideways, just to catch her there. Tethered, like the raindrops.

The bell rings.

Students begin cramming through the doors. You merge into the current. Overhead, rusty fans squeak on each tired rotation. It’s a slow shuffle inside, and once you’re in you can smell an odd mix of window cleaner and deodorant. When you’ve weaved to one side, your eyes run a circuit around the room. All the desks are pushed and stacked against the walls, like leaves shoved into a gutter. In the empty spaces where they usually live, there are rows of cheap, plastic chairs. They’re filling up fast – muddied sneakers urgently climbing over each other for a seat. You’re not bold enough to try and grab one, or awkwardly ask if a seat is free. Someone’ll probably guilt you into sacrificing your chair anyway, so they can save a spot for their friend. Instead, you head to the back corner of the class. One of the desks is turned over on its side, metal legs creating a cage-like spot that looks sort of cosy. Slumping your bag on the ground, you sink onto the carpet and scoot back against the wrinkled wood.

The projector flickers on. Someone dims the lights. A mock computer screen shutters onto the whiteboard, the glow so bright it’s overwhelming. You pull your eyes down, to give them time to adjust, fishing a workbook out of your bag. There’s a pen clipped to the front page – the lid slotting into the cardboard.

Suddenly, there’s a thump.

A sneaker kicks a bag across the floor. Then, without a word, Simon drops down beside you, into the tight space of the desk. You’re thrown into a frantic panic, budging over to give him some room. He scarcely seems to care, though. He’s settling comfortably against the wood. Legs long and crossed before him. The bone of his elbow touching yours.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge your existence. Just hinges open the book in one of his hands, like it barely registers to him that he’s this close to you. It doesn’t matter, though. All that matters is that he can’t tell how rattled you are. Or see the harsh shade of red that your cheeks are turning. Or hear the erratic drum of your heart.

---

The period passes, slow and dull.

Most of the movie’s a blur – some inspirational sports story that gives you nothing but pins and needles. Nobody’s acting as rowdy as you expected them to, probably thanks to the noise emanating from the obnoxiously-loud speakers. Naturally, you get distracted. There’s only so much you can tolerate when there are so many heads bobbing and blocking your view. Cradling your book in your lap, you open it and mindlessly draw patterns in the corners of the pages.

Shadows creep over your fingers. You go still, realising its Simon’s. He’s shifted forward, head hanging towards his book. One hand is sprawled in his hair, fingers spread wide apart. The other thumbs for a new page. His concentration seems genuine enough. Yet, you can’t help but feel like something’s a little off. Maybe it’s because his tie is uncharacteristically loose, dangling down over the buttons of his shirt. It’s as if he’s been fiddling with the knot, the way someone would when it’s too hot. Only, it’s not hot. Not one bit. It’s cold. Chilly, even. The rain is drumming steadily on the roof, and someone’s cracked a window. Even he feels cold, from the coolness of his sleeve on your forearm. You wonder, briefly, if the fiddling is a result of - nervousness. Quiet and hidden, except in the little gestures he doesn’t think to quell. That he might be a little nervous too, being so close to you. You push down that bollocks fast.

Simon’s knee bumps yours. Subtle, but intentional. It must be his way of warning you, because he’s abruptly taking the workbook off your lap. Your pulse thrums hard. Jaw tight. Simon opens his palm up, expectant. When you blink stupidly at him, he nods at your hand.

Oh. He wants the pen.

Swallowing, you drop it into his grasp, watching his bony fingers curl around the plastic. Simon plants the book between you. One side on his knee, the other on yours. Then he spends a few silent moments pressing ink into the paper, letters small and straight.

Feeling bored, are you Bug?

He offers you back the pen. Your lips tug up into a sheepish half-smile. You take it.

How’d you guess?

He waits for you to read his response before he shrugs. Stab in the dark.

That’d be more entertaining than this shite. You draw an arrow to indicate the movie.

Simon lifts an eyebrow, and it feels – playful, almost. Seems like you’re plenty entertained by staring at me.

Oh.

Fuck's sakes. Face burning, your eyes lift to meet his.

His head’s slanted to one side, and you know this means he’s serious. Has he always looked so self-satisfied? You can’t be sure. It’s fucking disorienting when you’re pinned by his attention. You feel like a bug twitching weakly under his magnifying glass, catching fire from his scrutiny.

Almost in challenge, he passes the pen back. You take it, palm slick with sweat. Maybe it is hot in this room. Painfully hot. Maybe your ears are burning up. Maybe this is what hell feels like. You try to think out your reply but your brain’s bloody well gone to mush. Finally, the tip of your pen pecks the paper. You write, cautious. Simon leans forward to unhelpfully watch it take shape. You’re already regretting the choice of words. They’re defensive. Obvious. But fuck, it’s out of your control now.

I don’t stare at you.

He’s itching for the pen now, the hint of disbelief in his brows. The plastic passes between you. His thumb skims yours. The touch feels like it burns into your skin, as raw and sizzling as a cattle prod. Your hand shoots back. You bite down on your cheek.

Don’t you?

Flat. Blunt. The pen returns.

He’s goading you to keep digging your hole deeper. Huh. Maybe you will. Maybe you’ll dive in, head-first. Bury yourself alive. Because you’re fucked, really. You’ve got no sodding clue what to say. You’ve already lost this battle – hook, line and fucking sinker. Sucking in a breath, you drag your pen over the wrinkles of your bottom lip. You decide on-

I get distracted sometimes. Daydreams. It’s a genuine problem. Besides, if you’re so bloody sure I’m staring, then you must be staring too.

It’s more avoidant than you like, but fuck it. This is already a right disaster.

Simon’s lashes twitch, eyes sliding leisurely as he absorbs line by line. Then he leans back, just slightly, and there’s a slight change in his lidded gaze. A new bead of emotion flickering there - something akin to caution. He studies you, just like this, leant back. Somehow, the room feels smaller. Somehow, you feel like you’ve gone too far and crossed some line.

A thunderous cheer in the movie snaps you out of the daze. You glance up, thankful. In your peripheral, you can see his wrist curve. He’s writing with more pressure now. Every scrape feels like an incision on your tombstone. You keep your focus fixed to the projector. It filters through images that you've got no real context to understand. Players running across a field. Crowds screaming. A close-up of a whistle, perched between wet lips.

An elbow nudges your rib. It reels your attention back in, to the page.

You’re right. I like to keep an eye on you, Bug. Then, a bit messier – like an afterthought. No point hiding it, is there?

You read the sentence. Then again. Because there’s no way – no fucking way - he’s written that. But the words lie there, perfect and plain and painfully honest. Your temples are throbbing. When he passes the pen back to you, you clutch it tight. Pale, strained knuckles unsure of how to write.

Perhaps Simon sees something else in your expression, because his eyes narrow like he’s asking, What?

You write slow. Nothing. You’re just very… honest.

The pen returns. He flicks it between his fingers, thoughtful. It’s a strategy.

Bit in your face, though. Don’t you think there are more socially appropriate ways to gather info?

How?  

You peel over the next page and rest the book back over his knee. I don’t know. Politely asking why I’m staring at you, rather than interrogating me?

So you do stare.

Brilliant. Huffing, you shake your head. Obviously I stare at you. Happy?

Much better.

Feeling like a prat, you take the pen to doodle a smiley face. It’s wonky and frail, just like you feel. You glance up at Simon, craning your neck to read his expression. But there’s nothing there to give away his thoughts. He inhales, measured. Effortlessly, he extracts the pen from your fingers and starts to shade in the eyes.

As your breath steadies, your eyes wander out the window. It looks ominous out there. Heavy rain. Dark, woollen clouds lingering in the sky. Wind thrashing against the windows like a staccato of chattering teeth. Soon, the bell’s going to ring. The students will slip out and brave the cold for lunch. You could take refuge in the library or catch up on some work in the history block. Or-

Before you have the chance to chicken out, you poke your elbow into his rib. He hardly flinches.

“I want to ask you something,” you murmur, loud enough so he can hear.

Simon’s examining his handiwork on the page. He’s turned your smiley face into a skull. Black chasms for eye sockets; grin bony and misshapen.

His eyes shoot up to yours, “Point an’ shoot.”

“I didn’t think it’d be that easy,” you croak.

He leans back again, folding his arms. “Got my own question.”

“So, we’re negotiating terms now?”

“Bloody hell.” Simon tilts his head and levels you with an unimpressed look. “Just ask yours, yeah?”

“Alright, no need to go mental,” you mumble, making the effort not to apologise.

There’s a beat, and you shyly avert your gaze to his tie. Now that he’s angled towards you, you can see it’s badly crinkled. Your fingers twitch and you sort of want to flatten it. Smooth it neatly so that it fits the rest of him. This unravels into a more dangerous thought - the image of his tie crushing between you, like the couple at the bag rack. And you wonder if Simon would ever let you fall against him. If he would ever catch you.

All at once, you say, “I was thinking I might sit with you at lunch again.”

“And?”

You want to laugh. Or cry.

“And is that - okay?”

“S’funny,” he answers, matter of fact.

Your heart sinks. “Why's it funny?”

Simon’s eyes flicker over your features. He takes in your expression. Your eyes. The confused wrinkle between your brows. Your nose. Your lips. The horrific mosaic of your embarrassment. It’s unsettling just how long he looks. Especially this close. A breath away. Maybe even less.

But then, something happens. Something so completely out of left field that you can’t help but smile. Simon’s eyes soften in mild amusement, expression finally catching up with his words. And he seems like he wants to let you in on the joke too. A private little coincidence that tethers you two together.

“Wanted to ask you the same thing.”

Chapter Text

It starts with lunch.

A quiet forty-five minutes of shared proximity. At first, there’s no need for prolonged, civil conversation. Simon spends a lot of the time reading or working or writing. You do the same – it’s your bread and fucking butter. So, things are surprisingly easy around him. In moments like these, everything else feels distant and unclear. Like you’re waiting and waiting at a train station. Not getting on or getting off. Just standing still, together.

One day, almost without thinking, you ask him what music he listens to. The question is minor, safe. You suck on a crisp and wait for his answer, guessing he’s probably into punk like Tommy. But his answer is dismissive. The brief pause when he glances up from his book. The half-shrug. The deliberate, curt tone when he says, Don’t really have a preference.

Another mystery. He’s full of them.

Unlike most people, Simon is difficult to read. Masking his emotion is a reflex stitched deep into his design. Alone, that tells you something about him, but you haven’t quite worked out what. Maybe you never will. But now you’re a hound that’s caught a scent, compiling notes in the file he occupies in your mind.

Favourite type of weather? Who gives a fuck?

Allergic to anything? Gits, so to speak.

Mates with any of the blokes at school? Nah. Bunch o’ dodgy pricks.

Manchester United or City? Are you takin’ the fuckin’ mickey? United.

Most bizarre thing that’s ever happened to you? You, Bug, askin’ me this bloody fuckin' question.

Simon probes for his own information too. Most times embarrassingly brisk and direct. Yet sometimes, tentative. Almost unsure of himself. Almost unsure of you.

---

On one morning, you’re waiting for him outside the metal work room. A question already brims hot on your tongue. The two of you have started taking turns meeting each other at class, right before lunch. It’s an unplanned, unacknowledged routine. Through the flecked window, you can see him peeling off his fraying gloves. The bell sounds, trill over the speakers. You sidle inside, dodging one of his classmates who’s eager to burst out the door. Simon is packing up, still wearing his helmet and apron. Sensing incoming movement, he angles toward you. A tiny shift of recognition in his posture.

“Alright,” you declare, “What about your first memory?”

The helmet glides off. His neck is shining with sweat. “Ever?”

“Yeah,” you hop up onto the workbench, legs dangling. “First thing you remember. Don’t think about it too hard. Just be honest – I hate when you filter your answers.”

He tugs the apron over his head. “Thought you hated when I was honest.”

“Never said I hated it,” you defend, throwing him an offended frown. He doesn’t catch it – back turned as he hooks the apron on the wall. “Just that it’s intense sometimes.”

He considers this a moment, drifting back over. Shadows catch the curve of his cheeks. “I remember Tommy used to cry a lot, in his crib.”

You nod, unconcerned, “Babies usually do.”

“Not like that,” he counters, flat. Perhaps he’s searching his memory, because he spends a long moment just wiping his sleeve on the visor of his helmet. “Bloody bellend went on for hours. Could hear him from the other end of the house.”

“Must’ve driven you mental.”

“Proper fuckin’ nuisance,” he admits. “Used to get complaints from down the street.”

“Shit,” you whistle. “Did he just grow out of it or?”

“Nah.” His wrist keeps circling on the glass, even though he’s already cleaned off the smudges. “There was this show,” he explains, “Funnybones.”

The name’s vaguely familiar to you, but dusty. You think it might’ve been one of those breakfast shows you used to watch on the small, pixellated telly. You used to sit with your nose close to the glass, hands cradled around a bowl of cereal. Sometimes, your old man would playfully dig his knuckles into your scalp, joking that your eyes would turn rectanglular if you stared for so long. Back then it was embarrassing and annoying. But now that you think about it, you can’t help but smile.

“Is that the one with the skeletons?” you guess.

“You’ve seen it?”

“Used to be on over weekend breakfasts, right?” The theme song is starting to sharpen in your ears. “I just remember the big skeleton, the little skeleton, and the dog skeleton.”

You wisely refrain from adding a musical, woof.

“That’s the one,” he confirms, lidded eyes sweeping over to you. He finally puts the helmet down, near your hip. “We had a tape of it. Was the only thing that’d get him to shut his gob.”

“That explains the skulls,” you appreciate, smiling at him. “Must be nice. Having a brother, I mean.”

Near your knee, he grips the edge of the workbench and leans towards it. Knuckles white. There it is again. Like his visor, his face is clean of emotion. It’s a controlled expression, like he’d rather cut this thread of thought than disagree. He’s not emotionless, you think. Not really. It's some sort of protective mechanism. A self-defence. Or it’s an offensive tactic, to keep people on guard. There’s no way he was born like that, is there? You get a disturbing thought of baby Simon in the delivery room. Only it’s not the wrinkly face of a newborn. It’s him – as he is now – totally sullen.

Simon’s voice is a touch guarded when he says, “Your turn.”

Maybe it’s because you’re thinking of babies, but there’s only one memory clicking into place. You offer him a sheepish smile. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Go on.”

“Hear me out, alright? I know how it sounds, but I remember-,” you shrink into yourself a bit, “-being in the womb.”

He looks like he’s been socked in the face. “The what?”

“The womb,” you laugh, palming your face. You peek through your fingers at him. “Oi, don’t make that face at me, it’s a real memory.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he curses, shaking his head. “You mental?”

“Alright, well my old man reckons it was just a dream.”

He levels you with a serious look. “Think your old man needs to call the police.”

You can’t help but laugh, embarrassed. “Said you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

"I won't." Straightening off the workbench, Simon touches his hand to his chest. He holds your gaze. "Cross my heart.”

Something wells up in your chest. Your skin feels all warm, like you’ve been sunbathing. Simon must not notice, because he drops his hand to pick up the helmet. You scoot off the workbench, waiting for him to set the helmet on the shelf. He returns. The two of you fall into an easy pace. Beside you, he’s towering and thin. He ducks his head to make sure it doesn’t hit the doorframe. You don’t know why it makes you so happy.

"You know," you think aloud, half-way down the corridor, "I feel like you’d be good in the police.”

"Alrigh', piss off.”

“No seriously,” you press, absently wiping dust from the tip of your thumb. “The intimidation thing could work in your favour.”

He exhales, unimpressed.

“Don’t tell me you hate the police too.”

“Bunch o’ dogs with all bark an’ no bite,” he tastes, dark and tart.

A brow quirks. “I’m beginning to think you hate everything.”

Simon’s face falters into something more earnest. “Not everythin’, Bug.”

---

On another day, your history class is doing research in the library.

Students are split across the room, tucked into desks or trekking mud around the metal bookshelves. You trail down one of the aisles, head tilted so you can read the spines. Near the check-out desk, a group of girls are whispering and giggling. Hopefully it isn’t over eighteenth-century battle skirmishes, but you really can’t be sure.

Finding a promising book, you split it open to sift through the contents. There’s a stale smell as the pages rise and fall into each other. Seems relevant enough for your essay though, so you read it all the way to the back of the room. Hidden behind one of the shelves is a window, cracked slightly ajar. You inch toward it, examining an illustration of a battleship with golden masts and beige sails that curve with the wind. It’s sort of tilted, like it’s being tugged over by an unfriendly ocean, white foam spilling from the deck.

“Bug.”

You spring to attention, elbow bumping against the window.

Simon’s leaning against the end of the bookshelf, uniform crinkled where his shoulder meets the tinny metal. He isn’t looking at you. He’s flipping through the pages of a book, too fast to be able to read it.

“Next time you’re floating around like a ghost-,” you complain, half-whispering, “Warn me?”

You massage your fingertips into your elbow. It doesn’t help. Makes it worse, actually. Your eyes drift down to his hand, pale and ghostly. Gently floating between the pages.

Simon shuts the book, regarding you with half-vacant attention. “Not like you to be so blind.”

You frown, “Why're you here anyway? Don't you have metal now?" 

“Finished my work," he brushes off. There’s a pause as he straightens a little against the bookshelf, tucking his book securely into the crook of his arm. "Been thinkin’ about where you’d go,” he says mechanically, and it sounds like he’s rehearsed this. “If you could choose.”

“You mean,” you say slowly, trying to catch up. “If I got to pick where we moved?”

Simon bounces a shoulder to communicate yes.

“Guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

“So think about it.”

“I don’t mind it here,” you ease back against the window frame and look outside. “I don’t know – I’ve always been a passenger so would be nice to just finish school in one place.”

Simon straightens fully. He collects the book wedged in his arm. Then carefully, tilts it – fingers on the spine - into an open space on the shelf. There’s an ease to the way he does this, like he’s slotting a dagger into its sheath.

“An’ after?”

Nobody’s ever tried to know these things about you. The puzzle pieces. The answers that give way to the workings of your brain. Even if someone wanted to, you wouldn’t have let them. Dodging, avoiding, pretending – these are inbuilt animal instincts. But something feels different with Simon. Like the world feels far away. And here, he can only see you. And you can only see him. And fuck, there’s really no point in hiding.

“Uh," you hum in thought. "Maybe some secluded place with big windows. Where I can see everything. Like all the little details. Clouds and mountains and storms on the sea. Somewhere I could just watch it all go by.”

He thinks over your words, trailing a finger idly along spines on the shelf.

“I like that question," you close your book on your skirt, smoothing out the crinkles, pretending to read the back of the cover. "What about you?”

“Only one place for me.”

Your brows arch, “Prison?”

Simon tilts his head in mild amusement. “Hell.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a change.”

“Ha.” His eyes slide back to yours, and they’re warmer now. “Lowest of lows.”

“Lucky you’ve got something lined up," you stretch to your feet and pass him in the aisle. He turns to follow. "The apprenticeship, I mean. What got you onto that, anyway?”

Simon watches you put your book back, bunching up his sleeves before resting an elbow on the bookshelf. He's rather close to you when he says, “I like gettin’ my hands dirty.” 

You make a face. “In animal blood?”

“I’m not picky,” he deadpans, fingers curling and uncurling on the metal shelf. “So, what’s in your line o’ sight?”

“S’pose I’ve always figured I’d enlist.”

“Will make sure I come to the funeral then.”

You snort. He has this dry, stiff way of getting to the point. No mincing. No bothering with polite niceties. It’s kind of comical - because Simon’s a proper gun at most things. Football. Metalwork. And his grades are immaculate in Math and Science. You know this because you stole a look at the grade sheet when the department head was distracted. And you're pretty sure he's taking advanced engineering for his GCSE's. Which is practically mental. One minute, he’s bored and lifeless. Then the next, he’s intense and concentrated. Nerve endings sparking awake like the click of a rifle’s chamber. And yet, he’s fucking terrible with social rules.

A short, unhappy laugh falls through your lips. “If you’ve got any better ideas-”

Simon weighs this over coolly. “Hell?”

You feign a grimace, “Already in it.”

---

On another day, you’re on the football field.

Above, the clouds are pale and scattered. The sun crosses idly behind them. Gold and red autumn leaves flutter like tissue paper in the wind. In the distance you can see lads cutting across the oval, dribbling the ball down the other goal. You’re near the keep, boredly shifting between one foot and the other. Your studs chop up the grass.

Everywhere on your skin feels damp. You’re regretting wearing a jumper.

“Private investigator?”

You glance over your shoulder. Simon’s head is ducked down, eyes fixed on tightening one of his gloves. It takes a moment for it to click – that he’s referring to jobs you’d be good at. It’s difficult to suppress the twitch in the corner of your mouth. Before you can help it, the itch spreads, like a lit match tossed in a lump of straw. The smile reaches up to your cheeks.

“What, being nosy for a living?”

“Fits you perfect, yeah?”

You shoot him a dismissive wave.

Christ, you have to get out of this jumper. Sticking your thumbs into your bib, you rip it over your head and toss it to the ground. You work on your jumper next. As you’re dragging it over your ears, the collar gets caught. It takes a few awkward seconds to wriggle your neck free, a slip of your stomach cool and exposed. It finally comes off. You suck in a breath, relieved. The jumper crumples on the floor, as you put your bib back on.

Without sweating so much, you can think a bit more clearly. A private investigator wouldn’t be such a miserable gig, you muse. But this could also be Simon’s way of saying he thinks you’re a bit too interrogative.

“You know, I’m not sure whether to be flattered or not.”

When your eyes skate back over to him, you jolt. Simon’s already staring. Narrowed eyes, brows tight and concentrated. He’s looking at you like you’re a very difficult – very annoying - riddle. There’s a frantic jump in your pulse. Goosebumps prickling up your arms. You shiver. Shouldn’t have taken off the bloody jumper.

He doesn’t break the eye contact to murmur, “Be flattered.”

Out of nowhere, the ball whips past your head.

It hurtles for the goal. Simon lunges for it. His shirt’s a billowy rhythm. Gloved hands reach out. Fingertip just skimming the ball. But it slips passed him. Is swallowed by the net. Simon lands with a thud on the ground. So does the ball. It rolls into the corner, away from him, almost sheepish.

Heads are half-turning. In confusion, curiosity, bewilderment – take a pick. The fact that Simon just fumbled is truly bizarre. A bad fucking omen. But you're too busy trying not to keel over on the grass, like a bug upturned. Helplessly twitching in embarrassment. Someone might have to resuscitate you. God. That's it's own kind of horror.

“Fuck was that, Riley?” barks Joe.

Wordlessly, Simon picks himself up. He hardly dusts off to collect the ball. From the tightness in his forearms, you can tell his gloved hands are pressing hard into the plastic.

More quietly, Joe scoffs, “Never fuckin’ seen that lad not save it.”

Simon takes a step. Kicks, with absolute unyielding force. Instantly, the ball shrinks down midfield for the kick-off. He watches where it goes, smoothing his padded palm over his hair in mild irritation.

“Quit spacing out,” you try for a teasing tut, but your voice cracks.

He avoids your gaze, “Just givin’ ‘em a chance.”

“Proper hero, huh?”

Simon shakes his head. A huff of mild amusement. “Somethin’ like that.”

---

At the end of the week, the sports hall is in total fucking chaos.

The student committee’s setting up for the Halloween fete. Streamers and half-painted banners are hanging everywhere. Bits of thread, coloured pencils, scrap clippings, all scattered across the glossy court floor. Students are mingling, sorting through things, carrying boxes. On one side of the building, they’re setting up some attractions. Fortune telling. An indoor haunted house. Food trucks. On the other end, a beeping truck is reversing. It accidentally knocks over a pile of boxes. A teacher’s waving an urgent hand to tell them to hit the break. The wheels screech.

You’ve been promised a few quid for helping out. So, you’ve spent the lunch break cutting out paper pumpkin-shaped decorations. Your fingers are aching. Fucking bore.

“You’re good for the haunted house, yeah?” prods Kitty, not looking up from her task.

She’s vigilantly piercing a long piece of string through your completed pumpkins.

“Yeah,” you nod, a bit absent. “Think so.”

“You’ll need to dress up or it’s sort of a downer.” 

“I don’t really have any costumes,” you muse, mentally sorting through your closet.  “S’pose I could wear my dad’s army jacket-”

She ponders it for a moment, hands searching for her own pair of scissors. When she finds her pair, abandoned on a cardboard box, she decides, “The army’s not really scary though, innit?”

You shrug in mild disagreement. Kitty doesn’t know better.

Whenever she’s gently pried into your dad’s occupation, it’s always with a vague, silly kind of curiosity. She’s never met someone in the military before. She’s never seen their fear - that deep, cold crater in their eye. You used to see it more often when your old man would get back from deployments. In the car, when the radio signal would go crunchy or when someone slammed heavy on their horn. His gaze would go distant, there and then. Far. Beyond the windshield. Beyond the road. Lost, somewhere in the museum of his memories, where there are framed pictures of searing flesh. Melted cars. Bullets hacking through bone. He was good at finding it in himself to pull over on the gravel, hands tight and shaking around the wheel. He knew to just - manually breathe. In and out. In and out, until the rise and fall of his chest became even and flat.

“D’you have any white on you?”

Dumbly, you glance down at your clothes to check. “Uh – just my shirt?”

Her nose screws, eyes taking a roll. “I meant at home. You know, like a white sheet or something?” 

Christ. You know where this is going.

“I don't know - maybe,” you manage to say, purposefully trying to sound reluctant. “Why?”

“Go as a ghost,” she waves her scissors about like it’s obvious. “Just cut a few holes in it for eyes.”

Disapproval is stapled to your lips. Impatiently, she snips the metal in your direction.

“Don’t look so bloody dejected," she snaps. "It’s just for the kids.”

Kitty discards her scissors back on the box she found them on. Obviously, she doesn’t feel like saying goodbye. Lifting the string of pumpkins, she carefully carries them over to the lucky dip table. You’ll have to satiate her somehow. She seems like the kind of git that will bring a bag of velvety, sequinned witch dresses and force you to put one on.

Life is utterly dreadful.

Until, it's not.

Suddenly, your heart’s lurching back to life. Simon's just stepped into the hall, halting to scan the room. Sneakers reflected on the court floor. Blond hair slightly swept from the wind outside. Hands buried in the pockets of a black jacket; a striped, red collar that moats around his neck. When his gaze lands on you, he tips his chin in acknowledgement. In return, you wave your scissors in the air. To your delight, he starts to walk over. You try to contain your smile. And the thumping in your ears.

“Thought you’d be here,” he murmurs.  

“What d’you think of this whole thing?” you gesture around the hall with your scissors.

Simon drops to the ground, knees propped up. He rests his wrists over them, knotting his fingers together. “Just an excuse for people to do stuff that means fuck all.”

You’re not sure why, but your gut feels heavy. “Guess that means you’re not going.”

 “Probably not.” Then his eyes look between yours, as though he’s debating something. He draws a breath through his nose. “Are you?”

“Uh – it’s stupid, but I’m manning the haunted house,” you sigh. “Quid’s not great but it’s enough to get a second-hand bike. Anyway, heard Tommy was playing in a band. Wouldn’t wanna miss out on seeing him bash on his tin cans.”

He’s interested now. “You’re gettin’ a new bike?”

“Trying to,” you sniffle, “For when my old man gets shipped out in a few weeks. Can’t drive without him.”

Simon tenses at that. Shoulders going rigid like a screw that’s been twisted in too tight. You don’t have time to prod the information out of him though, because he collects himself quickly. Fuck knows what he’s thinking.

“So what’s your plan then?”

You slant your head, “For what?”

He points at the haunted house with his eyes.

“Oh,” you chew on your cheek in thought, but the residue of his tension lingers on your mind. After a moment, you decide, “Probably play it cool. False sense of security, that kind of thing. Show ‘em the door. They practically scare themselves.”

His tone is gently chiding, “Proper soft, Bug.”

You make a face as if to say, so what?

Then your eyes drift down to his lips, anticipating his reply. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything. And in the beat of silence, you notice a bit of lint on his shoulder, bobbling out of the woollen fabric of his jacket. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to him – not when he irons himself so meticulously to perfection. Unthinkingly, you crouch down. Gingerly reach out. Pluck the thing off. And you linger there, holding the fluff in the pinch of your fingers to inspect it.

Only when you notice he’s completely stilled, do you glance up. He’s watching your face. Very carefully. Lashes pale and soft. Your breath is measured. In moments like these, everything else feels distant and unclear. Like you’re waiting and waiting at a train station. Not getting on or getting off. Just standing still, together.

But then Simon forces himself to look away.

“Could come for a bit," he supposes flatly. "Check on Tommy.”

“Oh,” your ears feel hot. You scramble to say something that might resemble normalcy. “S’pose it’d help to have a butcher. These kids'll be shaking by the time they leave.”

He nods, distracted. “If they make it out.”

Chapter Text

You’re going to be late.

Draped over the couch, you glance at the clock above the counter. A wriggling bead of light reflects off its glass. The needle chops around the numbers, pace so consistent and stern. It almost feels judgemental.

In the corner of the room, your old man’s hunched over his desk, rifling through a stack of files. It looks like he’s counting them – or skimming over the titles - thumb flicking past the corner of each large, manilla folder. There’s an intensely serious crease in his forehead that tells you whatever’s in those files is unpleasant business. You figure it has something to do with his upcoming deployment. But you don’t ask. It mustn’t be that serious or urgent. Not if he’s lounging around the house wearing striped pyjama pants with baby pumpkins on them. Or brightly patterned woolly socks.

Unconsciously, your eyes snap back to the clock. Yeah, you’re going to be late. By about five minutes, at least. You’re wilfully ignoring the urge to get up, rouse your old man and herd him into the car. You fold a leg over the other. Thump your head back into the padded arm of the couch. Sigh.

It’s nerves.

Dumb fucking nerves. Your hands press flat against your stomach, trying to still the writhing snakes inside – slippery, squirming, impossible to pin down. Part of you wants to dig beneath your shirt and rip them out, one by one. Going to the Halloween fete isn’t the problem. You don’t mind working away the hours if it means making a few quid. Hell, you can tolerate having to dawdle around the haunted house. The uncomfortable silences. The mindless chatter with people in the line. Echoing the same topics over and over, like how’s-the-weather, and-how’s-school, and-what’re-you-doing-next-weekend-then?

Nah, your nerves having nothing to do with that. But they do have everything to do with Simon Riley.

Simon Riley, who hasn’t committed to coming along tonight. But might. Simon, who’s calm but unpredictable. Simon, who occasionally shares small, careless pieces of himself. Little things you squirrel away like treasure. Like how he feels when he plays football. Or how he hates that blaring horn at a train station. Or how he and Tommy used to take the bus out to Southport, a pocketful of quid saved specially for some fish and chips. He has no idea how much space he takes up in your mind. There is no possible reality where he feels the same.

Fucking nerves.

You raise your head to check the clock again. Something - someone - cuts into your line of sight.

“Oi,” your dad interrupts. His yawn stretches his words into a strange drawl, “What d’you look so gloomy for?”

“Because I am gloomy,” you deadpan, kneading your fingers together. You aren’t in the mood to lie. “Generally speaking. Besides, it’s Halloween.”

This seems to reboot his memory, because he urgently glances at his watch.

“Shit,” he yelps, jerking into motion. He practically slides across the floor, patting his pockets in search of his keys. “Right, better go, or you’ll be late-”

Rather apathetically, you watch him fuss around for his things. Keys. Beanie. Boots. He always gets this way whenever you’re running late. Alert and impatient - a pattern hammered in by strict and unforgiving superiors. It’s only when he’s shimmying on his jacket that he remembers you.

“Oi,” he prods sharply, whizzing up his zipper. “No time to fuck around. Up you get.”

“Oi yourself.” You slide further down the couch, wanting to thaw into the fabric. “Five more minutes.” 

Two paces bring him closer. He bumps the base of the couch with his boot, the way someone might try to tap a crab out of the furl of its shell.

“S’already been five mikes, pet,” he tuts. When you don’t react, he clicks his fingers, “You tracking?”

You peer up at him through thin, lidded slits. “I’m not sure about going.”

This gets his attention. For a moment, his eyes become a magnifying glass, moving over you to sample for clues. He examines your dark, baggy clothes. Then the checkered socks stretching out of your wellies. Then your fingers, twining anxiously around a loose thread on your sleeve. Under his gaze, your hand freezes. But it’s too late.

The gears in his mind are creaking and shifting. Whatever conclusion he’s come to seems to relax him a little. His hip settles against the back of the couch. From this position, the kitchen light frames the edges of his jacket in gold. Shadow cascades around you, soft and dark.

“You feeling ill or something?” he asks, though you expect he already knows the answer.

He presses the back of his hand to your forehead anyway. Of course, he doesn’t find anything out of the ordinary.

“A bit,” you tell him, “But I might’ve just eaten something bad.”   

“Yeah, thick chance. You’ve hardly eaten today,” he quirks his wrist to steal another glance at the time. “D’you need to let anyone know you’re not coming? Those committee kids or-?”

“No, no,” you smooth a palm over your face. “I can’t not go. They’d genuinely kill me. I just need a minute.”  

He nods about the room, like he’s buying himself some time to think of what to say. Perhaps he’s too tired to word it carefully, so he just wonders aloud.

“Hell’re you so nervous for, pet?”

“I’m just not good at these things,” you confess, tasting a bitter laugh. “I mean, you say it yourself. I’m always cooped up in my head and I’m proper hopeless at socialising.”

He huffs, “Don’t think taking donations an’ telling people where to go requires social skill, pet.”

You shrug and say nothing. You’re feeling strangely exposed on the couch. A helpless fish strewn across ice at the market. There’s no running or hiding from this interrogation. He’s got a hook in.

Something dawns on him then.

“Unless you’re planning on meeting mates.” He hums. That makes sense to him - a pleasant, unexpected surprised. Either he’s impressed with his own deduction, or the fact that you actually have plans. “You are?”  

“I don’t have mates,” you remind him, and you mean it.

Mates. What a vague, numpty word. That definitely doesn’t feel like the right term for whatever you and Simon are - you hope. Curling your fists, you shuffle up so that you’re sitting. Eye to eye with him.

Your tone is reassuring, “We don’t really need to get into it.”

“Don’t we?” Unconvinced, he taps a finger to your temple. “Listen, pet. Talking it out might help you get out of that head for once.”

You bat his hand away. “It’s just jitters – I’ll be good.”

“Right,” a few more nods, “Doubt that butcher lad would be able to tell you’re anxious, anyway. Lad’s not exactly a social butterfly himself, is he?”

This move is deliberate – his chess piece sweeping across a patterned board. An unexpected manoeuvre that flips the game. He knows this. He smiles. Checkmate. Your eyes widen. Warmth wells in your cheeks. The rest happens quickly. Your lips tug up into a sheepish, embarrassed smile. And together, you laugh. Like barking mad gits. Loud and full. So bright and vivid that it aches in your ribs. Your veins hot and thumping with life. Everything is so far away. So unimportant. All your nerves completely dispersed in a matter of seconds.

After what feels like a long time, the laughter finally slips. Shrinks away until the room goes quiet. But the leftover sparks jumping in your chest give you the energy you need to get to your feet. The two of you fall into action. Old floorboards rasping as you head for the door. You unhook your puffer jacket from the coat rack. It’s all inside-out, so you stop to pull the sleeves through the right way. Watching, your dad leans against the doorframe, arms folded.

“You reckon they’ll fire me when I get there?” you muse, finding some amusement in the thought.

He unfolds his arms to swing his car keys on one finger, looking unconcerned. “Nah, you’ll be right, pet. You want me to wait in the car a tick just in case?”  

“I’ll just hang out for a bit,” you decide, and there’s another sharp tug in your stomach. You slip your arms into the sleeves of your jacket, thinking. “I might walk back after – so don’t bother picking me up. S’that okay?”

“You’re not walking alone.”

“No,” you swallow, zipping up your jacket. The teeth connect in one slide, no hitches. “I meant – if Simon’s there. I could ask him to walk me back. He just lives down the street.”

He pauses, deliberating.

“Simon,” he repeats, eyebrows bouncing. “Right. Make sure to tell Simon your old man’s no stranger to mincin’ meat either.” His smile is very polite as he straightens to open the door. “If he wants to be a funny lad, that is.”

You can’t help but scoff. “Yep. Threaten my first-ever mate. Got it.”

“Thought you didn’t have any mates.”

“Shut up.”

He lets out a short bark of laughter, teeth flashing. It’s a contagious thing, and you feel a bit of warmth in your chest as he elbows the door open for you.

You’re about to huddle through when you remember, “Shit, I was meant to wear a costume.”

He holds the door with his boot, clapping his pockets again like he's been struck with an idea. This time, he extracts a black marker from his jeans – the one he was using to mark up his work files. The lid unscrews with a pop.

Wordlessly, your dad leans in, steadying the curve of your shoulder with one hand. With his other, he draws. Lids thinning in concentration. There’s nowhere else to look but at the microscopic details of his face. Prickles of a freshly shaven beard. Patterns of freckles at the corners of his eyes. Licks of shiny scars around his forehead. Details that are so familiar and unchanging, no matter how much time or war weathers his skin.

“You know,” he murmurs, still focusing, “You’re more social than you think, pet.”

“I doubt that.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, starting to colour the button of your nose. The marker tip squiggles and squeaks. “You’re - sensitive to people.”

“Like you?”

He smiles. “Like me.”

Silence returns. And for a moment, the weight of his upcoming deployment looms between you, heavy. Unspoken. It’ll be weird with him gone again - all too recognisable. Always strange. You wonder how it feels for him to be the one to go. To walk into war. Into bombs and shattered concrete. The smell of iron and blood stains that won't fucking come out. You wonder if he thinks of you, out there - clutching his rifle in his hands. Boots caked in mud. Uniform drenched with sweat. It is a conjured-up image that lodges deep in your skull. Deeper and deeper, a bullet that breaks through bone. You have to shake it away, lest the nerves come back. You always have to.

Once he’s done, he steps away and nods to the mirror behind you. The smile on his face means he thinks he’s done you some grand favour.

You turn to look. Your grimace is instant. Three whiskers, a handful of dots, and a black-painted nose.

His tone is encouraging, “There’s my wee pet.”

“I’m a bloody cat,” you declare unhappily. “Simon might laugh me to death.”

Your dad throws an arm around your shoulder, eyes thick with pride. “Well, if you’re too nervous, you could always – paws – for a bit, eh?”

He's the first to double over in laughter. It's not long before you join him, too.

Chapter Text

The sun’s started to melt.

From the car, you watch the colour spread. Hot butter smouldering behind clouds as dark as steel. You suspect it will rain later, from how the clouds thicken and drift. It’s mesmerising to watch them - coming together, growing fat, shrinking again. Like lungs, breathing. Alive.

When the car squeals to a sluggish stop, you come to. The car clock reckons you’re ten minutes late. Could be worse though. If it weren’t for your dad, you could’ve been on that couch all night, thoughts wheeling round and round in the microwave of your head. You step outside the car. He yells out a ‘have fun pet’, slapping a rough palm on the wheel like he’s rallying a squad in the trenches. Somehow, it helps. Through a half-smile, you mumble a farewell. He returns it. The door thuds. You’re alone.

Your first sigh is a vapour of cool, white air. You’re glad you brought your jacket, because it’s stupid how cold it is. Jamming your hands in your pockets, you begin the trek to the sports hall. You take a few shortcuts, boots sloshing in wet grass. The closer you get to the hall, the louder it gets. Shrieks. Giggles. Chatter. Music screaming from the speakers.

Around a corner, the hall comes into view. Sapphire and orange disco balls sparkle from the roof, spilling onto the floor in a myriad of colours. It looks ethereal. Almost like a church at night, when candlelight catches on stained glass. It’s clear the committee is running behind, because a large crowd is still gathered outside the doors. You push through the thicket of people, dodging fairy wings and robot backpacks and alien antennas. Finally, you press your way inside the hall. You flash a lanyard for the ticket keeper to wave you through.  

The haunted house is at the far end of the hall, through a strip of food vans. As you hurry through, your tongue sizzles - nose picking up something hot and sweet. Candy, greasy chips, buttered popcorn. You’re not sure which is the culprit. Either way, you will your stomach to shut its gob ‘til you’re scot-free.  

At the end of the alley, the roof of the haunted house surfaces. In the dark, it doesn’t look half bad. The structure is built from scrap plywood and cardboard boxes, painted to look like old, fraying timber. There are some nice touches. Fake shutters; yellow eyes that peer through. Bats dangling from the indigo tiles on the roof. The ground is meadowed in white – fog spewing from the mouth of a hidden  machine.

Mal, from your class, is sitting outside. He’s perched on what looks like a crate, knee-deep in the mist. A cape is layered over his lap, and he’s fussing with the frilled collar of the vampire costume he’s wearing.

When he sees you, he gives the nod of a vague acquaintance. “Kit figured you were bailin’. She asked me to take over if you didn’t show.”

 “Ah – thanks for covering.” Your smile is faint, polite. You joke, “Surprised you’re not late, too. How’s your ankle been pulling up?”

Mal looks up, confused. “How’d you-”

At that moment, Kitty emerges from the haunted house, peeling back the ragged sheet covering the door. When she sees you, she propels forward, whipping back the sheet. It flutters after her.

“Nice that you finally showed,” she snaps. “Alright?”

“Yeah alright,” you choke out, startled. “Really fucking sorry I’m late.”

Kitty shakes her head; the witch hat she’s wearing bobbles. Your eyes trail along its length – to the curled, pointed tip. The thing’s so fucking sharp you’re sure it could skewer someone’s eye out.

“Are the cat whiskers some kinda dig at me?” she demands, inspecting your face. “Cause it’s not funny.”

Mal’s head skips from Kitty. To you. Back again.

“My dad vandalised my face against my will,” you explain, jerking the hands in your pockets in surrender. “No ill-will intended. Promise.”

She shifts her weight between her feet, the sequins of her dress scratching. Perhaps your answer satisfies her, because she shifts her attention to digging for something in her velvet purse. She looks nice, you think. Twinkling dress. Cheeks glittered silver. Boots disappearing elegantly into the mist. Hair pinned beneath the hat, a few curls dangling around her face.

With a short ah, she rips something out of her bag and punches it toward your stomach. Extended between you, in her fingers, is a CD. The plastic’s old and chipped on the edges – a jack-o-lantern smiling on the cover. ‘Halloween party music’ is printed in orange and purple font that melts like slime.  

Taking it, you dawdle over to the CD player you know is just inside the house.

“You lot all good now?” Mal yawns, standing. “Kit?”

“Uh huh,” Kitty ushers over to him, sounding grateful. “Meet you a bit later?”

In agreement, Mal leans down to plant his lips to her temple. Your eyes shoot away, down to the CD case you’re cracking open. You scoop out the disc with your thumb and click it into the player. When your attention drifts back, you find they’ve separated. She’s palming a cheek, attempting to hide the pleased little smile slipping up her face. He’s draping the cape over his shoulder. Smirking. Turning. Disappearing down the alley.

Kitty stares after him, holding her elbows as if she thinks she might unravel into thousands of threads if she lets go. Once he’s out of sight, she paces over to you.

She waits for you to stand before clearing her throat. “We shut all the attractions at about eleven. That’s when the concert starts,” she takes the empty CD case back from you and stuffs it into her bag. “Everyone clears out an’ heads over then. And pack down's in the afternoon tomorrow - so come after like 1 o'clock.”

Nodding, you switch on the stereo. It wakes up. There’s a hiss – disc spinning. You pinch the dial, turning up the volume a notch. Creaks and coos blurt from the speakers. It sounds like wind bleating through craggy, wooden rafters.

“I know I came a bit late but-,” you clear your throat, stretching to a stand. “Is it okay to finish a bit early? Was sort of hoping I could watch the bands play.”

“I guess so,” she screws up her nose, a hand resting on her purse. Her eyes are on the people filtering down the lane of food vans. “Why though? I mean, most of them’re god-awful.”

“I know someone that’s playing-”

Her attention belts to you. “Who?”

You feel a bit caught. Your brain scans for a fake name, but you can’t seem to pry one loose. “Uh,” you fumble, reluctant. “D’you know Tommy Riley?”

In slow motion, her plum-painted lips shape out, “What, Simon Riley’s brother?”

“Yeah,” you grit out, feeling your composure melting. “Simon Riley’s brother.”

“Course I know those two.” She cocks a hip. A drop of sarcasm. It turns curious. “You know, everyone’s been wondering why you two spend so much time together. You an’ Simon Riley, I mean.”

This is so unbelievable that your lips fall part. That anyone’s noticed you is a genuine shock.

“That’s brilliant,” you find yourself saying, sitting down on the crate. The grooves and bumps prod into your pants. “I love it when people talk about me.”

For someone so quick to sarcasm, she doesn’t seem to notice yours. “There’s been a lot o' chat about it, that’s for sure. I mean, I think it’s because it’s Riley.” She picks at a loose bit of paint on her fingernail. “Don’t get me wrong. I get it - he’s attractive an’ all that. But he’s so like - severe. You know he got suspended once for pummelling Williams in the face? Just ‘cause Will shoved Tommy in football once.”

“Okay?”

You hope that’s enough to convey you’re done talking about this. It doesn’t. She sighs, the way one might when they’re speaking to someone very daft. Maybe you are right daft, because you haven't clocked why she feels the need to get into all this. The discomfort is so strong that you’re not sure what else to do except put on an effortful smile.

“To be fair, Williams is a bit of a prat.” Though you’re trying to make a joke of it, the words taste foul in your mouth. “That git takes football way too seriously.”

Her brow jolts up. “Eh, you’re well in it.”

Your pulse kicks in your wrist. “In what?”

She doesn’t answer, and you’re left wondering what the fuck she’s on about. Her lips curl into a smug, satisfied smirk. 

“Trust me,” she coos. “I get it.”

---

The night passes in snapshots.

Nervous giggles. Coins clinking in the tinny donation bucket. Hands on shoulders, kids shuffling into the house in single file. There are yelps. Screams. Laughter. Then it starts over again. You’ve found the evening strangely enjoyable. Being able to listen to peoples’ conversations and their unabashed attempts to make each other laugh. Or watching the arguments unfold – parents scolding their kids for running off; a toddler wailing when she’s told it’s time to go home.

When you hear the faint screech of instruments being tested on amps, you shut the haunted house. You douse the fake candles, lock the donation bucket in the metal safe, and tape up the ‘no entry’ sign. By the time you’re finished, you’re absolutely spent.

Putting on your jacket, you wander down towards the food vans. It’s so dark now – all the daylight is fully snuffed out. Rain wallops on the roof. The fog’s dispersed just enough that the ground is an eerie, drifting field of white. You sail along, taking it all in. There’s a rap on your shoulder. Your heart skips. Simon.

“How’d you go?”

Ah - not Simon. It’s Kitty and her towering, senseless hat. You pull a smile, careful not to show your disappointment. She’s strayed out of her group to get your attention. Behind her, a group of her friends are watching the two of you, brows wrinkled in confusion. They’re hovering in front of the tacos van. You guess they’re waiting for food.

“Not bad,” you sniffle, thumbing over your shoulder. “I put the donations in the safe. It’s behind the couch in the house – covered it up with a sheet. Hope that’s right.”

“Nice,” she nods, glancing back at her friends. She makes a strange face at you. “Did you wanna come over an-?”

“Um-”

She’s being polite. And since you might need to beg her for a lift home, you follow. Perhaps it’s your own mental bollocks, but the mood shifts when you sidle in. Each of them turns, stopping their conversation. The circle widens. Kitty lists off their names - except Mal's. A round of unwelcome nods and waves follow. Introductions done; their chat continues, nobody bothering to give you proper context. You're only half-listening. Despite how enthusiastic they sound, the conversation is bland – some shit about how two of the teachers at school are dating. Under the wing of Mal’s arm, Kitty shifts perfectly between laughter, judgement, shock. You nod and smile and pretend and hate it.

You can hear the taco van’s engine rumbling. From the counter, a man ducks his head out into the open air. Several ticket numbers are read aloud, prompting some of the group to jog over to collect their food. You’re left with Kitty and Mal, who are wrapped up in their own world. Until, something over your shoulder attracts Mal's attention. He nudges Kitty, who directs a pointed face at you. You turn to see what’s so interesting.

Two lads are approaching you. One taller, hands buried in the pockets of his windbreaker. His hair’s covered with a drawn hood; an old, black cap peeks out from underneath, wet with rain. Beside him, his little brother is spinning a pair of drumsticks in one hand, a wide smile growing on his face.

You beam back.

“Alright?” Tommy tips his chin up – a sort of backwards nod. “Si said you’d be at the haunted house – so we went lookin’ for you thataway.”

You take a hand from your pocket to comb back a piece of hair that’s damp on your forehead. It feels a bit sweaty. Must be the heat of the taco van or something.

“Shit, sorry," you wince, "I was gonna come catch you playing, but got distracted, I guess.”

“Reckon they’d let you move into that haunted house?” Tommy pauses to drum out a beat on your shoulders. He’s practically bouncing on his heels, full of energy. It gives you this odd thought of a bottle fizzing. Bursting off its lid. Spitting foam. “Probably in better nick than your place.”

“Too expensive for us,” you tease, trying to whack off the sticks. “My crusty old man can’t afford it.”

Simon warns, “Tommy.”

Though Tommy looks miffed, the drumming stops. Still, he brushes off his brother with an elbow thrown with practiced ease. He nods at you. “So what’s with the whiskers?”

You squeeze your temples in embarrassment, “I was rough housed into it.”

Tommy cocks his head, squinting. “Hamster or seal? Bit hard to tell.”

“Fuck,” you exhale a horrified laugh. “Drive the bloody knife in, Tommy. I’m s'pose to be a cat.”

“I see it,” offers Simon.

Your eyes flicker up. He’s regarding you, a bead of amber burning in the black of his pupils. He seems a little unsure of himself. Perhaps unsure of why the fuck he just said that. Your face tingles with delighted warmth.

“Okay,” Tommy coughs, in a strangely uncomfortable voice. The thread between you is snipped, and you regard Tommy. He points his sticks over his shoulder. “Better go-”

You smile encouragingly, “Give ‘em hell.”

His reply is a salute. Simon doesn’t bother to dish out encouragement. He just tracks his brother’s retreat, the slope of his nose framed by the lights. Alone, you step a bit closer to crane your neck up at him.

“I thought you hated these things." 

Eyes sweeping down to you, Simon exhales sharp, “Told you I’d come. Just figured I’d skip all the bollocks.”

“Wise,” you hum, staring at his dirtied sneakers. “Wasn’t that bad. The bollocks.”

“That so?”

Your response is tongue-in-cheek, “Not sure if you know this, but I don’t mind being a fly on the wall. Lots to see, you know.”

His head tilts. A subtle gesture that communicates some type of exasperated affection, in his own subdued way. It makes your throat feel all constricted. Lungs growing fat before shrinking again in the snug cavern of your chest.

“Not sure I’ve ever seen you at one of these things, Riley.”

The interruption electrocutes you. You jump around. The entire group’s there, observing. Shoving tacos in their mouths. Lettuce and tomato splattering to the ground. The expressions are assorted - bewildered, reluctant, wary. As if seeing Simon Riley in public is a rare, unnatural phenomenon. As if they’re watching aliens interacting with each other.

“Not really your business,” Simon returns coolly.

Mal doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. It’s colder than necessary, but you’ve come to expect this from Simon. He can’t be fucked dealing with social niceties, after all. There is an awkward beat. Tension. Awkward glances. Uncertain coughs. You scratch the back of your neck, not knowing how to flatten the weird mood.

An elbow nudges your rib. Your eyes flicker to Simon’s, and he holds the eye-contact a moment. Let's fuck off, he seems to say. Understanding passes between you.

“I’ll see you tomorrow for pack up,” you wave to Kitty, casual. “After 1, right?”

 “Sure,” she nods, seeming a bit startled. “See you tomorrow.”

---

After the bands play, you walk home together. Alone - since Tommy's hitched a ride to a mate's place.

It's late. The streets feel completely different at night. There are no couples walking their dogs or jogging down the path. No wrens trilling in the trees. No cars bleating in the distance. It’s another world. Wet footsteps. Quiet breaths. Plumes of smoke that rise from peoples’ chimneys. The dead-ends and alleys, silhouetted by blackened trees that fall just outside the streetlamp’s golden reach. It’s so dark that the road looks like silk tar. Black and endless, like the starless sky above. There is a faint, almost-imperceptible veil of rain. And if you listen closely, you can hear the clicking of crickets in the grass.

But mostly, you are aware of him. His closeness. The way his jacket might accidentally skim yours. The way he melts into the shadow, each step unassuming and quiet. There’s something fascinating about how comfortable he is at night. Though the hood of his windbreaker is down, he wears darkness like a second skin.

You inhale, “So, you really don’t have any music preferences?"

His tone is flat. “Like I said. I don’t mind silence.”

“Well, I can sort of understand that now." The toe of your wellie collides with a rock. It tumbles down the gravel, getting trapped in the gutter. You shoot him a playful smile, “Your brother’s a bit shit at music.”  

“Was worse last week,” he assures, stretching his arms above his head.

“There’s hope then?”

“Definitely not.”

This earns a laugh from you. The sound is so smooth and pleased that when his arms come down, he seems softer around the edges. Silence falls between you again.  The rain is light, enough to make puddles on the bitumen freckle and pulse. You can feel it against your nose, cooling your cheeks too.

“I s’pose it’s good to have dreams,” you consider, after a while of walking. When you peer over at him, he's passing beneath a streetlamp, cast in light. “I like that about Tommy. Maybe it’s stupid, but he’s probably better off than us for wanting to be something.”

“Us?”

“I’ve been assuming you’re as pessimistic as I am this whole time.” There’s a crinkle in your nose. “If I’m reading you wrong, please tell me now.”

“I’ve got dreams,” he levels, matter of fact.

“You do?”

“Bad dreams.”

You snort. “Nightmares don’t count.”

Simon sways a little with each step, but his eyes are steady as ever. His voice is a murmur, “Do you get ‘em?”

“Sometimes,” you answer, without thinking. “I get this one all the time where I’m sort of invisible. Or like – kind of scattered into particles. Like I can see and hear everything, but nobody can see me. Not strangers on the street. Not anyone at school. Not even my dad.”

He’s thoughtful - examining those words with a microscope. Then, without reservation, he asks-

“Why’s that a nightmare?”

Heat spreads up your neck. You take a moment to ponder that, staring at the street beyond to piece together your thoughts. He's right to ask. None of it clicks. You like watching people. Being invisible would be perfect for that. For this to be a nightmare goes against all of your instincts.

“I just - I hate the idea that I'm so - forgettable,” you admit, trailing into a sheepish laugh. “Even though I know I am. Nobody remembers me since I move around all the time. I'm used to it. So, it doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

Confusion crosses his features - so brief, you almost miss it. You think, for a moment, he wants to disagree. But he is quick to compose himself. Of course, you're much slower on the draw. You ruffle your hands, the flesh of your palms damp in your pockets. It’s more than you’ve given away before. Yet, it comes out too easily around him. Under Simon’s scrutiny, it’s like your thoughts are on a spool. Somehow, it only takes a bare tug from him before they’re unravelling quickly.

“What about you?” you ask, wanting to divert the attention.

“Be specific, Bug.”

“Don’t play dumb.” Your brows come together in mock irritation, “What was your last nightmare?”

A hesitation.

Simon takes off his cap to thread a lean hand through his hair. His knuckles are white. Stiff and bony. Something about his silence makes you feel like this is descending into dangerous, reckless territory. Eventually, Simon puts the cap back on, shadow engulfing his face.

He says, “It was about Tom.”

No elaboration. He won't, you realise. Not without a push. Hell, you’ll push. You’re curious now. You can’t help it. You want to tug at this strand. Pick him apart, stitch by stitch.

“So what happened then?”

His lids narrow, like he’s playing back a memory in his mind. Rewinding the tape and trying to make sense of its flickering images. “He was cryin’, like how he used to.” He wets his lips and looks down at you. “’Cept it was like he was in my fuckin’ head. I looked. Couldn’t find him anywhere. Drove me mental.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, “What d’you think it means? The dream.” 

He shrugs, “Fucked if I know.”

There’s a kind of honesty in this reaction. It’s purposely dismissive. A clear attempt to keep you at arm’s length. You watch him with careful attention; the way his expression goes grim. How he turns his jaw, reaching out beyond the tree line. Leaning into the silence. Your fingers tingle, and you have a sudden desire to rip him free of whatever current he’s waded into.

You don’t get the chance to, though. Because it starts pissing down. Hard.

The downpour is sudden and painful. The two of you sprint through the deafening rush. You leap over puddles, boots splashing. Your face stings, vision blurry. Simon clutches his hood – his strides faster than yours. You fall into his tracks and try to keep up. When he finally slows down, it’s under the shade of your house. You seek shelter beside him, grabbing his windbreaker at the elbow so that he doesn’t trip the censor lights. Your yank is so abrupt that he doesn’t have time to argue or pull away. The momentum nearly has you tumbling over each other. Simon finds his balance though - and holds you steadfast. Together, you're huddling near the corner of your house, in the dark. It takes a moment to realise you're still holding onto his jacket. That he's not prompting you to let go. But you release him anyway, fingers feeling cold and achy.

You bounce down to the concrete to catch your breath, clothes dripping. Simon copies your posture, hunching down to inspect his drenched, black cap. He shakes it. Water spits in all directions. 

“I think it means you want to protect him,” you blurt out, between pants. "Your dream."

It takes him a moment to process this, his long exhale gradually becoming shaky. “I don't protect him."

"You do."

"Not enough.”

“It’ll never feel like enough,” your laugh is breathy. With a trembling hand, you brush your hair back. It’s sopping and sticking to your cheeks. “I mean, my dad wants to protect me. And he does - he always has. But it never feels like enough for him, cause he can't be there all the time.”

Simon looks at you, listening intently. Lashes dotted with rain. Droplets slipping down his face, running down his jaw. 

“But he’s always there, even when he’s not home. Big skeleton and little skeleton." You suck in a deep, steadying breath. "Like you and Tommy, you know?”

Simon’s brows twitch, and something settles in the blackness there. Unfettered. Raw, like the throbbing in your heart. His closeness swallows you. His breath, his pant, echoing in your ears. For a long while, he says nothing. But it looks like he’s thinking, hard. At this distance, you can see that his lashes are especially pale. That his cheeks are speckled with light brown, imperfect spots.

His lips part slightly. Your eyes go to them.

“I saw ‘em take your bike.”

You blink.

“What?”

“Your bike,” he explains darkly, sitting down. He brings his knees up to rest his elbows on them. He is grasping his cap with great interest, like it holds all the answers. Everything about him feels suddenly tense, like a screw twisted too tight. “You chained it up. Near the administration block, yeah?”

Confusion muddles up your face. This is a puzzling, disconnected topic. You’re a little stuck on what he’s getting at. But then, your interest catches on.

“Wait – who-”

“Couple o’ bellends Tommy used to be mates with,” he answers with ease. Simon has a serious, calm expression. “I asked Tom where they live. Thought I’d try nick it back when I left work one night. Leave it at the administration block.”

This doesn’t track. Someone nicked your bike on the first day of school. That was before. Before Simon ever spoke to you. Before he ever noticed you. Wasn't it?

You say it slowly, testing the words. “Why would you do that? We were - strangers back then.”

He continues to bore a hole into his cap. “It’s the principle, Bug.”

“What, do unto others? That sorta thing?"

“I don’t like it when blokes take what’s not theirs,” he answers. He tries for a casual shrug, but you can tell it’s put on. “S’pecially from people like you.”

It is difficult not to smile. “Are you mad?”

“Revenge has an evolutionary purpose,” he deadpans, head tipped back to look at the rain. “Predates the justice system.”

You find yourself laughing, uncertain. It seems to put him at ease, because his fingers relax around the cap. 

“So then, why didn’t you?" You run a clammy palm down your face. "Nick my bike back and exact my revenge anonymously, I mean.”

There’s a pause. The pale, bare expanse of his throat bobs. He spends a moment putting the cap down, staring at it between his sneakers. He is cautious. Reluctant. Like this is akin to pulling out teeth. Like he doesn't want to admit it. But for some reason, he feels like he has to. Your eyes meet. 

"Simon-"

“'Cause you started catchin’ the bus.”

For a moment, you're convinced you are hearing things. That he didn't just admit that. But seconds pass, and he's searching between your eyes for some reaction. And oh. Your cheeks are blistering, painfully hot. You want to cover your face. To hide. He doesn’t let you.

On impulse, Simon reaches out, hand going to your jaw. It’s so startling that it almost burns. You jolt. He isn't put off, though. He’s concentrating - exceptionally hard. Watching what he's doing with tender focus. The tip of his thumb pressing gently into the hollow of your cheek. You are completely, impossibly still. After a moment, he wipes. Skin gliding against skin. It feels like forever. You wish it was. But eventually, his hand drops away. Simon inspects his thumb, the smudged marker that he’s collected there. You expect your whiskers are gone. Only the warm impression of him remains. And he will stay there, imprinted on your cheek, long after he’s gone. In bed, you will touch that place. Cradle it. Smiling. Just like Kitty did outside the haunted house.

You sniffle, leaning back against the wall, unsure of what to do with yourself. Unsure of what to say.

All you can think of is, “You really think you wouldn’t make a good police officer?”

“Bloody fuckin’ hell,” Simon breathes, shaking his head. “Shut up, Bug.”

It’s a jab, to tell you to reign it in. But it feels warm, amused, playful – you’re not sure which you like best. Simon is made up of these dualities. Hot and cold. And bored and concentrated. And organised and careless. Severe one second but teasing the next. Complex yet so straight-lined. Guarded, honest, protective. None of your peers seem to know these things about him. None of them appreciate him. Love him.

But, Jesus fucking Christ - you’re pretty sure you do.

Chapter Text

Simon has rules.

Don’t talk about it. Put a tough face on. Don’t ask for help. No one’s coming anyway. Not now, now ever.

Rules keep things simple. Controlled. Keeps his head clear. Keeps his thoughts sectioned into manageable, neat cuts. Any hope - Tom’s boyish illusion that things can change - he shoves to the back of his skull. Like raw meat left out to rot. Curdling on the bone. It’s bloody fine, though. He’s used to the smell.

Sometimes, his rules feel like he’s covering up a murder scene. Sometimes, feels like he’s preventing one. That’s fucked that. Fucked, no matter which way he looks at it. But so is Simon. Simon is a museum of scars. He knows pain, inside and out. He’s been built for it. Built from it. Scabbed knuckles. Flesh on fire. Bruises deep enough to bite bone. Tom making jokes just for Simon to smile. Their mum just about decomposing on the couch, saying she’s sorry. She’s always sorry. Point is, it all hurts the same, yeah? Everything that’s happened in that miserable fucking house has been a lesson. Taught him not to flinch. Taught him discipline. To follow rules. It’s made him stronger. It has to. It will. Rules help with that, see. Don’t talk about it. Put a tough face on. Don’t ask for help - no point. Like a game of hide and seek. Except, Simon’s always hiding.

But then there’s you.

Pure fucking anomaly, you are. You hide, just like he does. Hide and see, and there’s a lot that you see. It is everything and terrifying, the way you look at him. What you see in him. How you always seem to find him. Maybe on accident.

One morning, he’s exiting the school counsellor’s office. Mr. Thompson. Simon’s not the sort to go to counselling. But he’s started considering enlistment and needs to check if it’d be viable to drop out of his apprenticeship. The answers are annoyingly unclear. Thompson waffles on with small talk and Simon ends up staring at the cup of pencils on his desk. Part of him wants to bark back. Say something real snide. But he doesn’t. He knows when to pick his battles. If he’s honest, Thompson’s a bit of a daft old dog. Bloke places three, not four, chairs in the waiting room. He never has a pen that works. And he always shows up a few minutes late, just to make people squirm.

Simon shuts the door behind him, zipping up his jacket.

“Oh- hey-”

Your voice stops him cold.

His eyes dart up. There you are, waiting in the hall, slouched in one of the mismatched chairs. You straighten. Soft, small hands smoothing the crinkles in your skirt. Those fingers go to your hair next, combing strands back. There’s something about this image that makes Simon think about that night, Halloween. When your hair had been dripping and drenched with rain. When he, heart pummelling hard, dared to touch you.

Simon feels a vague tightness in his chest. He minces up these thoughts by drawing a meditative breath. He’s got rules, see.

“Fancy seeing you,” you beam.

He tips his head to gesture to Thompson’s office, “What’re you in for?”

“Life sentence,” you deadpan, sinking further into your chair.  

“Ha,” his brows twitch. “Mandated?”

“Feels like it. Move school. Few months later, counsellor wants to know how you’re fitting in. Move again. Rinse an’ repeat.” He studies how your face contorts into displeasure. “Thompson’s no different.”  

“Think he just wants his pound o’ flesh?”

You shrug, “He’s got boxes to tick.” With your elbow, you gesture to the chair beside you. “Wait with me?”

Controlling his expression, Simon paces over. His hands are buried in his pockets. Sneakers smothering the carpet with each step. He sits, leans back, legs stretched long. Your knees angle towards him, slightly. Simon tries not to notice the way your focus sharpens on him. Like you don’t want to miss a thing. Simon thinks he doesn’t want to, either. He might die if he does.

“Ever find it helpful?” he asks, curious.

“Um - s'pose I did once. Saw a counsellor a couple of years ago,” you huff a laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. One leg crosses over the other. “After my dad came back from this one deployment.”

Simon’s expression steels. “What for?”

Losing his eyes, you search your memory. “When he came home, his superiors sent me to this army counsellor. Said it was just to check on me because it was just me an’ my dad at home.” Your hands are absently crinkling the fabric of your skirt again. “He’d been on this oil rig op and a lot of his team didn’t make it. Survivor guilt, I guess. He’s never talked to me about it though.”

He looks down at his hands. He feels a pulse in his fingertips, an itch to do something – anything. To weld metal. Lose himself in football. Let heat and sweat and motion eat him alive.

“Shit, right?” Your sigh carries weight. Yet there’s no sadness or pity in it. Just – resignation.

His throat feels stiff. “Don’t you wanna know?”

You contemplate that, brows knitting. “Not sure if what I imagine is worse than the truth.” Your legs uncross. “But I don’t need to know. Not unless he wants me to.”

Quiet settles between you. He mulls on your words, cracking his knuckles. Simon isn’t sure he’s ever met someone so – patient. Patiently watching. Waiting. Letting things happen. Understanding, too. Understanding even the things you don’t know. Things you couldn’t know. Things Simon can’t tell you.

You’re first to cut the silence. “So’s this a one off or?” 

“Nah,” Simon returns, eyes straying from the hall to you. He’s feeling lighter, somehow. Smoother. A sheet of metal, beaten flat beneath a hammer. “I’ve been before too. S’funny actually.”

“What is?” When he doesn’t answer, you prod, “C’mon, you have to tell me now.”

He likes how you wrinkle your brows in mock offense. He’s never seen you show so much expression to anyone but him. Not even Tom. Tom’s always been good at loosening people up. Not Simon. Never Simon.

“We had this old trampoline, righ’?” Simon runs a hand through his hair to neaten it. “Me an’ Tommy used to stand it up to play football. This one time, I made Tommy hold it so I could practice scorin’. Kicked so fuckin’ hard – it fell on him. Cracked his head.”

“Shit,” you frown. “Was he okay?”

“He was hurt,” states Simon, calmly. “Bad. I iced it. Tom was so mad – he burnt a hole in my pillow.”

A hand goes to your chest, wounded. “Christ.”

“Went to school an’ the teachers went mental,” Simon continues, “Made us see the shrink for a year.”

You look puzzled. “Thought you said it was a funny story.”

“Of all the times they could've-,” he starts to explain, “An' it was my fuck up that made ‘em-”

His eyes slip away. Down the hall. Fuck’s he doing? Don’t talk about it. Don’t bloody talk about it, for fuck’s sake. But here he is, opening his useless trap without even thinking. He scratches his eyebrow, evaluating his options. He’s thinking through an excuse. But then, the door clicks open. Thompson peers his head through the slit. Beckons you with a hand. Simon hears you getting up, slinging on your bag.

He swallows, “Keep that to yourself, yeah?”

When he allows himself to regard you, he finds you walking backwards. Across the hall. Staring back at him. Hand still on your chest. Purposeful, now.

You promise, “Cross my heart.”

---

Maybe he starts letting you find him.

One afternoon, on the bus, he takes a seat in the middle. Risky move, that. The middle’s where some of the younger lads cause a scene – yelling, pelleting food at each other, throwing punches for the hell of it. Fucking chopped liver – the lot of them. He could sit at the back, as he tends to. He should. But that doesn’t sit well with him. If he sits back there, you might not see him. And he wants you to see him.

The bus is filling up. Students trickle down the aisle. Simon keeps his gaze fixed out the window. When one of the younger lads pass, he makes a point to stare. He wouldn’t normally bother, but he doesn’t want you to suffer for his choice to sit in the middle. So, he makes brief, cold eye contact. Naturally, the bloke’s not brave enough to hold it. He and his mates scuttle to the back.

In his peripheral, Simon catches you climbing aboard. Yawning, your head leans as you scan for a seat. When he’s fallen into your line of sight, Simon tips his chin up in acknowledgement. He diverts his attention while you stride over. You reach him, halting in the aisle.  

You’re already smiling. Bloody hell. Absolute fucking disaster for him.

Tone cool, he murmurs, “You again?”

You lick your lips. “Like a bug you can’t swat away, eh?”  

“Or catch.”

It comes out before Simon’s filtered his thoughts. He flexes one hand on his knee. To his relief, your nose crinkles in amusement. You’ve missed his real meaning. For someone so observant, you can be short-fucking-sighted.  

“Think you better brush up on those strategy books then, huh?” you nod at the chair he’s sitting on to communicate you want to join him. “Consider this my surrender?”

Simon budges over to make room. He props a sneaker up on the edge of the seat in front. The other, he extends beneath. You sidle in. The chair groans with the new weight. Your bag thuds to the ground. You kick it under the seat, resting a book over your skirt. Bloody thing looks heavy; it makes a dimple in your thigh. Naturally, he’s curious.

“What’re you readin’?”

He watches you grip it harder, covering the front. “Oh – just something for an assignment.” Now, you’re leaning forward. Reaching for your bag. “Using it for references.”  

Simon catches the title. He reads aloud, “The evolution o’ matin’ systems?” 

You punch the book into your bag with some force. “I’m writing an essay on apes,” you explain, dodging his eyes. “Science.”

Yeah, he knows in his fucking bones that’s not part of the science curriculum. His knees widen. Yours retreat. There’s a mechanical splutter, as the driver coaxes the accelerator. Snow grinds in the studs of the tyres. The bus eases back onto the bitumen, wet with melted ice. Once the driver’s got his rhythm, chatter resumes. For a moment, the two of you stare out the window and watch things change. Buildings the colour of rust. Lumps of snow sledged in the gutters. The oval. Broken fences. Then, houses and shops and yards.

An elbow on the windowsill, he decides to press, “You find anythin’ useful?”

“About what?” you answer, sounding out of breath. You are concentrating on something down the aisle, fingers coiled around your tie. “About apes?”

He waits.

“Sure,” your jaw turns. A slice of sunlight crosses your face. Your eyes meet. “Did y’know apes kiss?”

He staggers. Just for a tick. But he composes himself. He’s good at that.

“They what?” he returns, lids thin.

“Kiss each other,” you elaborate, quite serious. You twirl your tie on your finger, twisting the ribbon up. “As in, to bond. Resolve disputes. That sort o’ thing. Not like humans though. It’s more complex with humans, obviously.”

Simon holds your stare, interested. “Speakin’ from experience, are you?”

“Huh?” The tie whips free, unravelling. Sheepish, you brush hair from your face. “No. No. Complete inexperience. That’s why I’m -,” a pause, as you recalibrate. “Why I’m doing this assignment.”

Simon nods out a few ticks. That’s all he can seem to do. Jostling in his chair while the bus rounds a corner. Nodding. Fucking soft lad, he is.

“Have you had experience?”

His eyes sweep to you, jaw twitching. Your lips are split, as if still working through the words you’ve just spoken. Wanting to take them back, maybe.

“Can’t say so, no.”

Now it’s your turn to nod. Six times, to be exact. Attention glued toward the opposite side of the bus. In his lap, Simon threads his fingers together, knuckles turning white and taut. His inhale is long. Slow. He needs to contain this. Fuck’s sakes, he needs to act bloody normal.

“Can I?" Palm open, you’re gesturing for him to surrender his arm. “C’mere.”

There’s that tightness in his chest again, the one he hates. Reluctant, he extends his arm. With one hand, you slip your fingers around it. Sharply cold to the touch. With the other, you dig a pen from your pocket. Your thumb clicks the nib of the pen. There’s a pinprick of ink on his skin, dragging through pale hairs. Scraping the slope of his arm. He watches, alert. Tension softens to interest.

Done, you recline back to examine your handiwork. Moving his arm around to see it from different angles. Skulls, black and shaded like they're stained to his skin. Not unlike the ones he likes to draw. Eyes that’re chasms. Bony, dark grins.

“Not bad,” he admits, dry.

You slide the pen back into your pocket. “Not as good as yours.”

Simon isn’t sure what compels him to do it.

Maybe it’s the small, pleased smile tugging up your face. Or the blood thumping in his veins. Or the hoot of the doors as the bus rolls to a stop. Or maybe it’s because he thinks, just this once, he will be selfish. 

Without speaking, he reaches out and steals the pen. His other hand catches yours as it falls. At the contact, you jump, like a bullet throttling on the discharge. Simon is patient, though. He holds onto you, so fucking gentle cause he doesn't want you to break. He gives you a moment to still, before tangling his fingers with yours. Your joined hands shift towards his knee. Carefully, he draws a bug – a little black beetle – on your thumb. He feels your eyes tracking the twitch of the pen, and he revels in the utter intimacy of it. Wanting the moment to linger. Knowing it won’t.

You’re all flushed when he releases you. He’s not sure if that’s good or bad. Maybe bad. Maybe fucking upending, either way. Simon tries to put a tough face on. Honest, he tries. Even though his face feels like it’s been doused in kerosine. There are rules, see. He just needs to remember them.

---

It’s the dead of night.

Simon sits on the carpet, back against the edge of his bed. Through the window, the streetlamp leaks into his room. Drowning him in red. His room feels tight. Suffocating. Blood drums in his ears. His throat is run ragged and raw. Knuckles ripped and bloodied.

There’s still anger in him. Pulsing in his chest. Jagged pieces of wood are scattered on the floor - bits of the shelf he punched apart. He doesn’t go there often. Not anymore. But his old man has a way of tearing anger out of him. Feeding that corner of Simon’s mind that he’d rather starve. Violence is a language. For some blokes, that’s all they know how to speak. And Simon’s fucking fluent at it. His mother-tongue, so to speak.  

Tomorrow, he’ll fix the shelf. Sand down the edges, hammer it back into something functional.  Once he gets some sleep, that is. But it’s already been an hour and Simon’s still wide awake. He screws his eyes shut, forcing himself to think of things that’ll take the edge off. Wind. Stars. Rain. The hiss of it. Cold, delicate skin beneath his thumb. Fingers knotted with his. The warmth of a laugh. Yours. The slight dip in your brow when you’re curious, asking him something. The colour in your cheeks when he answers. He fills his head with you. Acres and acres of you. Enough to slow the rhythm of his heart.

Selfishly, he wonders if you’re awake.

He’s fucking mental for thinking it. But being around you would help him get to sleep. That’s for sure. He thinks you’d understand. That you wouldn’t press too hard. You’d be patient. Sit with him. Let him be. Steady and quiet, while his frustration recedes like a waning tide.

He glances at the clock. It’s past midnight. Restless, Simon rises. Before he knows it, he’s stepping out his window. He slips into the cool air, careful to conceal his footsteps. The street is barren. No light. Simon creeps down the gravel, keeping low and to the shadow. He slinks over to your house, like some weak fucking stray. Simon peers up. He knows which room is yours. You’d told him, once. He hovers below it, gathering a few rocks from the ground. Rough grit in his palm.

He rolls one of the rocks between two fingers, debating what to do. This is proper fucking madness. He has lost all bloody sense. Breathing deep, he reminds himself of his rules. Don’t ask for help, even if it’s just for a place to sleep. Don’t ask for help. Rules keep things simple. Controlled.

Fuck it.

His arm arcs back. The rock sails like a bead in the dark. It nicks the glass. A tick passes. The light switches on. There are three distinctive thumps – like tentative footsteps. Simon listens, heart pulverising his chest. The window skates up. Slow. Torturous. His breath catches. You lean out. Look down, rubbing a knuckle into your eye. Squinting. Then, it’s recognition. You see him, down there in the dark. Simon watches the smile spread over your face, warm and uninhibited. He wonders if you know how it feels to be looked at like that. How it feels like you’re carving out a space - a home - just for him. Not a real home, not like his. But one where everything slows down. Where he can shut the door to the real world. Where there’s nothing but total understanding. Where he wants to keep coming back, again and again.

He draws a line from himself to you, asking silently if he can come up. You nod. And all his rules go out the fucking window.

Chapter Text

Simon evaluates his options.

You see him below your window, scanning the bricked wall of your house. Pistons working hard to calculate his next move. It’s proper mental. Too far and too fucking high. Falling could mean split bones, or worse – death. You’re about to tell him as much. You lean out the window, nose pink from the chill. But the words are stuck in your mouth.

Because he’s decided something. Simon hunches forward, as if he’s preparing for a run up. One heel grinds into the dirt. He inhales, deep. Then he’s all motion. Long, accelerating strides. His sneakers land on a vent with a metallic clang, then vault off another. The rubber of his heel scrapes on brick. Before you’ve even had the chance to gasp, he’s gripping the ledge outside your window.

“Fuck,” you hiss, lurching forward.

You punch a sweaty palm toward him, but Simon doesn’t take it. With a quiet groan, he hauls his own weight up, forearms trembling. Melted snow and sweat sparkle on his neck.

Once he’s climbed into the window frame, he nods for you to move back. “Budge up.”

You do, almost tumbling over yourself. Simon uncoils a long leg into the room. The other follows. His sneakers drop, carefully muffled on the rug. Your eyes touch. Simon rotates his wrist like it’s a bit stiff.

“Fucking hell,” you whisper. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Neither did I.”

He doesn’t sound shaken. Doesn’t look it either. Simon understands his limits well – and how far he wants to push them.

“So’re we pretending that it’s normal to scale a two-story building on your first go?” you ask, brushing past him to shut the window. “Without breaking a sweat?” 

“I sweated,” he deadpans, shaking specks of water off his hoodie. “Slightly.”

You scoff, “Human after all, then?”  

“So to speak.”

Simon leaves it there, turning his attention to his new environment. Dark, lidded eyes move over your small, cluttered bedroom. The second-hand bed in the corner, topped with a mound of pillows and blankets. A desk drowning in books and illegible study notes. Tangles of pants and socks abandoned on the floor. In the bin, a rotting half-eaten apple. Having someone over is rare - let alone in your bedroom. Christ. His room must be the exact opposite. Neat and ordered, like he is. Pressed sheets, bare walls, a perfect crescendo of book spines arranged on the shelf.

Simon completes a circuit on the carpet, his shadow cutting the glow of the failing lamplight. It's impossible to understand what he’s thinking. His expression is made of pristine porcelain. You’re starting to feel exposed, shrivelling like the apple in the bin.

“I don’t get many visitors,” you mutter, snatching a damp towel off the floor. You gesture sheepishly about the room, “It’s a bit uh - messy.”

His hands dig into his hoodie pockets, “S’fine, Bug.”  

The fact that he hasn’t disagreed makes you grimace.

“We’re always moving,” you suppose. “Never seems like there’s a point in making things look nice.”

Simon runs a neatening hand through his hair, pale fingers sifting through the blond. Something red is smeared across his knuckles. At first, you think it’s paint or marker. But your eyes pull it into focus, and your stomach reels. The damp towel in your grip squelches. He’s bleeding. Freshly too, knuckles ripped and weeping. He’s been punching something – or fighting.

You frown at his hand, “What happened to you?”

Simon stills, glancing down at the back of his hand. Lazy, he examines his blood-painted knuckles like he’s remembering them for the first time. Almost like the limb doesn’t belong to him.

“Was just lettin’ off some steam,” he shrugs.

Curt – a brush off. An attempt to keep you at a comfortable distance. Which is sort of amusing, given that he’s just climbed into your bedroom in the middle of the night.

Slinging the towel over your shoulder, you raise a single digit, “Stay here one sec, alright?”

“Alrigh’.”

Simon tracks you to the door. Hand on the handle, you crack it open. Golden light stretches into the blackened hall. You slip through the narrow opening, getting one last glimpse of Simon cocking his head before you shut it.

Downstairs is dark, but you know the house well enough to move blind. You tiptoe quietly down the stairs, a cautious hand out in front of you. Carpet turns to tiles. Your socks slip across the kitchen floor, attracted to the hum of the fridge. On top of the fridge is a medicine basket, which you coax down to rifle through. Medicine bottles, pain killers, scuffed cigarette packs – your dad’s recent vice when he thinks you’re not watching. Buried at the bottom is a roll of bandages. Scooping the bandages up, you push the basket back where it belongs.

The creep up the stairs is the same. Quiet and unhurried. Ears alive and alert. Your old man’s been asleep for a few hours, but you can’t be too careful. Prick can be a bit vicious when he’s roused from sleep, and deployment next week has him highly strung.

On the way, you duck into the bathroom to hang the towel on a hook. You glance in the mirror. Regrettable decision. Your reflection hovers there, speckled with toothpaste and fingerprints. To your horror, you look like a bloody dead animal. Eyes red from tiredness. Purple bags sagging under your eyes. Cheeks flushed pink. Excellent. Simon could probably slice you into slabs and arrange you over ice. That’d put you out of your misery.

Grim, you sidle back into your bedroom. Simon’s sitting at your desk. He’s thumbing through the pages of a book, spread open in front of him. When the door clicks shut, he flinches. He wasn’t pretending to read - was he?

“My dad’s asleep,” you say, in a quiet voice. “We should still be quiet, though.”

Simon shuts the book, dragging his dark eyes back to you. “I can be quiet.”

He is being oddly pliable, you realise. Maybe this is his first time, too - being in someone’s house. Maybe you’re not the only rookie here.

As you tiptoe across the room, you wave the bandage roll in the air. “C’mere.”

He watches you sink onto the edge of your bed. You elbow the lamp’s neck so light pools gold across your lap. A few beats pass. Simon doesn’t move. Your eyes thin at him, peeved. That does the trick.

Simon’s sneakers pace closer. About halfway there, he starts to peel off his hoodie. The black fabric bunches round his wrists. He glides it over his head, hem lifting to show a bare hint of his pale stomach. The image is dreadful. You feel quite faint. It’s only when the shirt he’s wearing underneath falls back into place, that you can breathe again.

“What?”

It takes a few moments to realise he’s speaking to you. That he’s asked a question, because he’s read something weird in your expression. That his brows are creased with confusion. That it’s your turn to speak now. That you possess the ability to speak.

“Nothing,” you dismiss, snapping your attention back to the bandages. Stretching the cotton out, you tear it into two pieces. “Was just blanking out.”

Perhaps Simon isn’t in the mood to tease, because he doesn’t respond. He bundles up the hoodie and tosses it to the floor. At last, he sits. The bedsprings creak, knee propping up on the mattress. Silence thickens in the space between you. You reach for one of his hands, and he lets you take it. Slivers of shimmering cuts are curved over each knucklebone. They’re not as big as you expected. But beneath the blood, you see old scars. Clumpy and pale, like memoirs of fists split open one too many times. Swallowing, you sheath the blood with clean cotton.

“So, why’d you come here?”

Simon exhales to wade through his thoughts. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You raise a brow, “So you came here to count sheep?”

“I just,” he falters, voice a bit rough. It comes out reluctant, “Needed to see you, Bug.”

Your heart kicks. He is staring at you – you can feel it. Wanting to understand your reaction. Perhaps wanting to know if it’s possible that you sometimes need to see him too. And oh, he’s got no fucking idea.

Wind swirls against the window. Outside, there’s faint scratching on the roof – the strut of a cat’s claws in the gutter. You listen to the sound until you’re finished bandaging him up. Simon withdraws his hands from your lap, testing out the bandages.

“You can sleep here tonight,” you tell him, wanting to sound casual. “If you want. The bed’s pretty big.”   

Cautiously, Simon kneads a thumb into his covered palm. “It’s your bed.”

You’re not really sure what that means.

“I’m aware.” you slide over to the far side of the bed to make room. The mattress whimpers. “Offer still stands.”

He hesitates, lost in thought, eyes moving to the mattress. You expect he’s attempting to suppress whatever excruciating pain he’s feeling at the idea of sharing a bed with you.

“I don’t have bed bugs,” you reassure, hoping it'll ease the mood. It doesn't. You fix your quilt over your legs. More deflated, you add, “If that’s what you’re so worried about.”

Several quiet seconds pass. Then he scratches the back of his neck, like he’s been snapped out of some reverie. Decided, Simon bends over and unlaces his sneakers, one at a time. They’re discarded on the floor, somewhere you can’t see. He turns and lies down, rigid.  On top of the quilt rather than beneath it.

“Not plannin’ to kick me in my sleep, are you?”

You reach over his head to flick off the lamp. Darkness envelopes the room. “Only if you deserve it.”

Time passes like this, side by side. Listening to dollops of thawing snow tap on the windowsill. Above, the fan ticking, blades whirling shadows over the bed. The rhythm of your breaths. Inhales and exhales. Rising and falling. Out of time, at first, until matching in sync. In the corner of the ceiling, a spiderweb trembles in the dark, rocking with the wind. When you’re tired of looking about the room, you dare to glance at him. His face is soft. Lids half-shut as he traces the panelling on the ceiling. Perhaps sensing your attention, Simon’s head slackens to the side. Your eyes lock.

“Should sleep, Bug,” he murmurs.

You clear your throat. “You really don’t wanna talk about what happened tonight?”

Just like that, his eyes are gone. “Nah.”

He’s staring back at the ceiling, like that’s what is grounding him in place now. The distance between you yawns.

“We don’t have to,” you rub the furl of your ear. “We can talk about anything. Or I can shut up.”

Simon closes his eyes, like this will help him summon an answer. You wish you could pierce that skull. Shuck the thoughts out. Spread them across a table. Prod them apart to inspect them, wet and glistening beneath your pliers.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?”

You blink, thrown by the pivot. He tilts his chin to peer down at you, a trace of mild interest in his expression. Shadows catch the curves of his cheeks.

“I’m thinking about what you’re thinking about,” you manage to answer.

“Which is?”

“No clue,” you confess. You choose your words carefully, “It’s - difficult - to know what you’re thinking.”

Simon ponders that calmly. “So guess then.”

Confusion knots in your brows. “You want me to guess what you’re thinking about?”

“See how close you get,” his tone is coloured with challenge. “Three strikes.”

It’s difficult to tell whether he’s teasing or not. But your hunch says he’s serious. You absently scrub your shin with a socked toe.

“You’re thinking about what happened tonight?”

He narrows his eyes, no.

Rolling onto your side, you tuck a hand beneath your pillow and regard him. Your eyes dart around his face, sampling for any hints. Best to go for something more tongue-in-cheek.

“You’re thinking about our English exam next week?”

His lids soften, but you can tell you’re wrong again. Warmer, though. This time, you focus on the clues. Given that his ears are tipped pink, he could be thinking about the temperature. Or maybe he’s thinking about the tail of the bandage on his left hand, which has come a bit loose. While you’re contemplating the possibilities, Simon’s head shifts, as if he’s making sure he won’t get sucked into a quicksand of silk.   

Squinting, you venture, “You’re thinking about how shit the pillow is?”

That earns a huff – almost like a laugh. “Not bad.”

You punch two triumphant fists into the air. The victory doesn’t last long.

Simon steeples his fingers over his stomach. “Now you.”

“Now me what?”  

“What’re you thinkin’?”

“Like I said,” your elbows fall back onto the bed. You tug your quilt up higher. “I’m not really thinking about anything. C’ept this conversation.”

“Try.”

Chewing your lip, you search your memory. Flickers of images and thoughts and conversations trickle across your mind. Music and football and Halloween fetes and future careers and-

“Apes,” you blurt out.

This is the dumbest shit you've ever said - of all time. Fucking hell, when did you become such a fucking numpty? Simon’s eyes shoot over to you, like he’s thinking the same. He flourishes his hand for you to continue. You’re searching for some kind of explanation, but all logic seems to zoom away from you on a rocket ship hurtling into space.

You gather some courage. “Y’know how we were talking about them?”

He looks like he doesn’t know where this is going. Neither do you. “I remember.”

“Well, I lied to you.” Inhale. “The stuff about the assignment was bollocks.”

Simon’s jaw eases back to the ceiling.

“You were researchin’, righ’?” he says, having somehow completely understood your meaning. “For yourself.”

Embarrassment itches in your throat.

“Maybe you’re better at reading my mind,” you wipe your nose with a sheepish wrist. “Sounds weird, but I was researching about bonds - in primates. Wanted to know whether it’s different, for humans.”

Simon leans toward you again, crushing his shirt beneath his bicep. His long, lean shape framed in shadow. The tips of his blond hair slope over his pillow. When you glance over at him, you can see he’s staring at you. Searching for something, between your eyes.

“If what’s different?”

You sniffle, “Love.”

“Bloody hell." He sounds unimpressed. "Apes don't love, Bug.”

"Animals can love," you defend. 

"You learn that in your book?" 

You frown, “Didn’t learn much, to be honest. Most of it was on parenting and social groups, and there was a whole chapter on kissing. Which made it clear it's different for humans, I suppose.”  

“You said more complicated,” he checks, remembering what you’d said on the bus. “Righ'?”

“Well, yeah,” you insist, softly. “Humans have all these layers, right? So, even if you get to know someone and you like them, it still doesn’t mean you can just go ahead and kiss 'em. You have to, you know, trust each other. And it needs to be the right time. All that sort o' shit.”

“D’you trust me?”

You don’t want to – but you look at him. There’s no amusement in his eyes. Just quiet, intense concentration. Like he’s looking at a jigsaw frame missing its pieces.

“Yes.”

“Then,” he continues, “you’d kiss me?”

“Uh, well,” you wring the blanket between clammy palms. The walls seem smaller somehow. The ceiling closer. Boring in. Your pulse is kicking. Heart about to explode in the kiln of your chest. “I guess that depends.”

“On?” 

“If,” you take a pensive breath. “If you wanted to or not.”

“Bloody hell,” he exhales, stroking a bandaged hand down his throat. “You’re right. Fuckin’ complicated.”

Longing for an anchor, you stare at the spiderweb in the corner of the ceiling. Bucking and swaying like a ship riding a tide. Maybe it should fucking let go, you think. Give in, just this once.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you whisper, head snapping toward him. Soft silk surrendering beneath your cheek. “If you kissed me, I mean. I wouldn’t mind.”

"You wouldn't?" 

"No," you say, a small voice. "Not at all."

In the black of Simon’s eyes, something changes. Something tentative and unsure. And maybe you’re mad but you think it’s – hope. Simmering there in the dark. It’s gone fast, though. He steels himself, expression hardening. Perhaps this makes him brave enough to lift a ginger hand. To place it over yours, cotton rough against your naked skin. To smooth a thumb over your knuckles, as if to calm you.

So that he can lean forward and kiss you.

It’s warm. Hesitant. Careful, at first. Calloused fingertips spreading over the pulse of your neck. Your noses brush. Lids shudder shut. Forehead so close your hair licks at his temples. Pursed, fissured lips fitting together.

The match inside you catches quick. Your entire chest is burning. Your cheeks too. You’re so lost in him that you don’t know how much time passes. Seconds or minutes or hours, it shouldn’t matter. But for the first time, you wish time could stop. Here in this school. In this suburb. In this house. Here, with him. In his arms, where everything else feels so far away. It doesn’t have to be forever. Just a little longer. Please.

Simon draws away. Yet he doesn’t retreat. He lingers, a bare fingertip away, looking down his nose at you. The curtain of his lashes cloaks his eyes. Warm breath cooing against your vermilion face. Hand slipping back over yours.

“Not so hard, yeah?” he sighs, sounding a bit dazed.

“Guess not,” you let out a breathy laugh. “Next time you do that, warn me, would you?”

Simon doesn’t speak. Instead, he brings your hand to his chest, holding it there. Like a promise. Cross my heart.

Chapter Text

This is how the story begins.

On a dark, dark hill there was a dark, dark town. In the dark, dark town there was a dark, dark street. In the dark, dark street there was a dark, dark house. In the dark, dark house there was a dark, dark staircase. Down the dark, dark staircase there was a dark, dark cellar. And in the dark, dark cellar some skeletons lived.

---

Tom’s house is a built like a morgue.

Cold. Colourless. Filled with ghosts. In the evenings, his parents slump lifeless on the couch. No words. No laughter. Just silence, running deep into the bones of the brick walls.

Around this time, the telly would be tuned into a boxing match. Tom can picture his father’s hands – calloused, slick with grease. Dead eyes glued to the screen as he picks meat from his teeth with a pocketknife. Socked feet stacked on the coffee table. Clothes caked in grime and sweat he earnt at the scrapyard. Mum’s there too, face sculpted into that vacant expression. Her dark eyes would be fixed to the two cunts bashing each other bloody on the telly.

But she wouldn’t be watching them. She’d be thinking about something else. Tom, maybe. Or Si. Her boys - the skeletons in her closet. Tom imagines her looking at the clock, wondering where he and Si are. He doesn’t care if she’s worried, though. Tom’s no mop. Not there to wipe up her mess. Not like Simon does. Si thinks he’s some sort of fucking guard dog for all the sad sods of the world. Stay in your room, Tommy. Don’t go hanging round those bellends. Keep your head on. Get stronger. Be a tough lad. And yeah yeah yeah, Tom gets the fucking point, alright?

It's late afternoon – around five. Tom’s meant to be home, but he’s not. For the past half hour, he’s been outside the butchers waiting for Si to finish his shift. He’s just come from the park, where he sometimes pisses around with some mates after school. Tom’s feeling a bit on edge. If he’s honest, he wishes he didn’t pass on the toke in the park. But tonight’s different. Tonight, he’s going to dinner at yours. Can’t exactly show up high, can he?

Dinner. Sounds too neat. Pretentious. Like something from a sitcom. Girl and crusted old man invite the rabble down the street to a last supper. Tom’s not sure what made him accept. He supposes he does like you. You’re a laugh. Bit weird, but you need to be to get on with his brother. Si’s in a rut, too. Poor bastard. Love’s poison. A terminal illness. It messes with your head and makes you daft. Makes you do shit like – go to dinner. Tom’s mind drifts to his parents again. They would’ve gone to dinner once. Before their love died. Before they killed it.

He leans against a pole, bored. There’s not much to look at except lumps of gum on the concrete, trodden flat. Five minutes pass. Or maybe it’s eight years. Yeah, fuck waiting. Tom struts up to the shop door. The bell clamours. Glass cabinets glittering.

“Knock knock,” he announces, slipping inside.

No response. Tom steps across the tiles. The shop smells clean, but beneath it he can smell raw meat. After several seconds of nothing, Tom raises his voice.

“Oi - what’s takin’ so long?”

Still nothing. Fucks sakes, getting Simon to acknowledge him is like getting a dog to play the fucking piano. He’s about to scream even louder when he hears footsteps. Si strolls out from the back, unbothered.

“I’ve been waiting here for a bloody half hour,” Tom mutters, squinting at him. “You know that?”

“I noticed,” Si dismisses, hanging his apron on a hook. “See you’re finally learnin’ how to sit still. Good ol’ pup.” 

Tom musters up an expression that he hopes communicates fuck you, I’m not a dog you dumb cunt, and you’re a fucking no-good piece of lint, all in one go. It’s not effective. Simon’s not even looking.

“You ready or what?”

“Need a minute,” answers Si, occupied with something at the counter.

Heaving himself up onto the counter, Tom peers over the cabinet to see what he’s doing. He’s wrapping something in butchers paper. Looks like some kind of small, metal token. Rough around the edges. An image etched onto the surface. Tom doesn’t have time to work out what it is before Si folds paper over it.   

Tom nods, “Hell’s that?”

Si doesn’t look up, snapping off a piece of tape. “Nothin’.”

“Who’s it for?”

He presses the tape on. “Bug.”

Tom scoffs, lips curling. “You made that? Bit mingin’, innit?”

Simon slants his head like he thinks Tom’s a stupid mug. “Speak for yourself, Tommy.”

“We’re brothers,” Tom retorts, smug. “If I’m ugly, so’re you.”

Their eyes meet. Tom’s legs halt mid-swing. The expression on Si’s face is familiar. Like a tired old dog that can’t be bothered fetching a stick. Si returns to his task, securing on one more piece of tape. Then he tucks it into his pocket.

“So,” sniffles Tom, legs swinging again. “What’s it for, then?”   

“For invitin’ us over t’night.” Si zips up his jacket, then digs the shop keys out of the drawer. He spins a finger, impatient. “C’mon. Don’t fuck about or we’ll be late.”

Tom flips him off but leaps off the counter to follow. Simon shuts the door behind them and starts to lock up. Behind him, Tom circles the pole, restless. An ambulance wails somewhere in the distance. Once everything’s shut, they cross the carpark. There’s a large tear in the chain link fence that Si uses as a shortcut. The metal’s rusted orange and smells like blood. Almost looks like metallic, jagged teeth. Si climbs up through the hole. Then, half hanging on, extends an arm down to ease Tom up. Their palms clap. Simon pulls. Tom feels weightless. On the other side, two pairs of sneakers land on the grass.

“That’s not normal, is it?” wonders Tom, sloshing through weeds. “Givin’ things to people just for havin’ you over for dinner?”

Simon shoots him a look that says he’s getting fed up. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

That earns a snort from Tom. “I just mean if you’re in the mood to give her somethin’, why not just give her the truth?”

“An’ what’s that?”

“That you’re so desperate for her to be your girlfriend, Si.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon exhales. “Shut up Tommy.”

Tom smirks. “What’s the matter? Scared she’d say no?”

It’s meant to be a joke. Just to stir the pot. Tom loves stirring the pot. But Simon’s hands find his pockets. And strangely, he goes quiet. Looks ahead, in thought. This throws Tom. Throws him so much that the next half hour passes in silence.

As they walk, the sun begins to slip. Grass turns to pavement. The night gets colder. Darker. Tom presses his lips shut to stop the wind from making his teeth sting. Naked trees waver with the wind. Snow melts into cracks on the concrete, like bloodied veins. Your place is getting closer now. When they’re a street away, Tom decides he needs to break the tension. There’s no way he’ll ruin this fucking dinner.

“Why not give her flowers or somethin’?” Tom asks, bending down to collect a stick.

Si sends him a sidelong glance, “Flowers die.”

“That’s why people cherish ‘em, innit?” Tom’s arm sweeps in the air, like he’s brandishing a sword. “Girls like flowers.”

Si exhales a dry laugh. “I’ll take notes.”

That’s sarcasm, Tom thinks. He rubs a knuckle under his nose and swings, like he’s chopping through an invisible tree.

“Think I’d be better at catchin’ birds than you, Si,” he pants. “S’pecially when we start doin’ more gigs. I’ll be fendin’ em’ off.”

“Those tossers in your band tell you that?”

Tom frowns. “They’re not tossers.”

“Nah,” Simon returns, flat. “Just a bunch o’ wannabe rockstars.”

“Jeff’s a bit of a cunt,” concedes Tom, swiping the stick like a baseball bat. “But the rest aren’t bad.”

“Gettin’ you pissed on pints an’ smokes doesn’t make ‘em alright, Tommy.”

At first, Tom thinks Si’s taking the piss. But when their eyes meet, he can tell his brother’s dead fucking serious.

He inhales, “How’d you know-”

“Just rein it in, yeah?” warns Simon, a dark voice. “If he catches on-”

“Yeah, an’ what if he does?”

His shoulder draws back. With a bit of effort, Tom flings the stick up to the powerline. Narrow miss. The stick thumps down on a lump of grass. That’s what the lump in his throat must look like. Wet, green slosh clogging up his windpipes.

Tom swallows, angry now. “He’s fucked off his face most o’ the time. Why’s it matter if I get in on the fun?”

Withdrawing a hand from his pocket, Simon turns. He shoves Tom to a stop.

“You wanna wind up a piss head before you’re a man, do you?” Simon bites. “Drink your life away, like him?”

“Piss off,” Tom hisses. “You’re out havin’ your own fun, aren’t you?”

His brows knit. “What’s that mean?”

“I know you’ve been sneaking out after he an’ mum go to bed,” declares Tom, almost out of breath. “Been doin’ it all week, righ’? What d’you think he’d do if he caught you?” 

Simon’s grip is suffocating on his shoulder. Tom wants to fight. Push him off and kick his fucking head in. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Simon’s all he’s got. Tom avoids his brother’s eyes, staring down the street.

He feels like a coward. He is. Always smiling on the out. Dead inside. That’s why he likes losing himself with his mates. When the flame catches. When the cherry burns at the end of the joint. When he sucks the smoke into his lungs. When he chases it with a swig, hot liquid sliding down his throat. It feels like he can breathe again. Like he’s alive again. Like his heart is pumped with adrenaline, beating as loud as his sticks on the skin of his drums.

“It’s not the same,” is all Tom can think. “I’m nothin’ like him.”

Simon takes a breath, watching him with those same dark, deep eyes that belong to their mum. “I know,” he says, finally. “You’re nothin’ like him.”

“Yeah well, neither are you.”

Simon considers that. Then something melts. The grasp loosens.

“Neither am I,” Si agrees, giving Tom’s shoulder a light shake. “You alrigh’?”

“Yeah,” Tom nods. And he is. “Alrigh’.”

---

Your place is – nice.

Not posh or anything. Just a standard two-up, two-down with furniture in fair nick. One couch with a few cushions, a standard telly, and a Christmas tree in the corner, red and yellow baubles winking. Beneath it, a tasselled rug patterned with multicoloured shapes. Flames nibble at logs in the fireplace. To be fair, it’s a lot nicer than Tom expected. The jitters in his veins are worse now, too.

You lead them further into the living room, seeming nervous. Simon’s tracking you. Tom wants to ease the tension, so he plops flat onto the couch. The cushions spring him up.

Leaning over the back of the couch, you wrinkle your nose at him. “Turns out we’ve only got three plates, Tommy.

“Ah, shit,” Tom says, all mock tragedy, “What’ll you eat on then?”

“Tommy’ll eat off the floor,” Simon assures from a few steps away. His gaze sweeps over photographs on the mantle. “Does it at home.”

Something smells like it’s burning. Tom sits up, frowning.

Your laugh cuts into a hum. You start gesturing around the place. “Uh – jackets go there if you wanna take ‘em off. Heater’s on. Oh, and don’t mind the Christmas tree. I know it’s early. S’just something we do when dad’s about to-”

You halt mid-sentence, realising something. Your head whips to toward the kitchen.

“Shit!”

You’re off, running. Simon follows. But Tom lingers, taking his time to stretch to his feet. He pats at the crinkles in his jeans, then hooks his thumbs into his belt loops and tugs them higher. He can hear pots banging. Hissing. Yelping. Tap water bursting from a pipe. He goes to check on the chaos.

Fuck.

Smoke’s everywhere. The air is thick and warm, tasting like burnt gravy. Coughing, Tom waves an arm in front of his face. Near the stovetop, Si is holding a pot in one hand. With the other, he’s using a wooden spoon to stir through its contents. Looks like he’s coaxing the gravy down from a ledge. You’re at his elbow, peering into the pot with fascination. One socked toe idly scratching your shin.

“Is there anything you don’t know how to do?” you ask, impressed.

“Normalcy,” Tom supplies. While Si offers you the pot and spoon, Tom recoils. “That smell’s fucked, that.”

“Hey,” you wave the spoon in Simon’s direction. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughin’,” Si counters, straight-faced.

You squint up at him, noses close. You use that same finger to point between his eyes. It surprises Tom that Si doesn’t move back. To get some space or to keep you at arm’s length. He keeps his ground, looking down at you. Gaze soft.

“There”

“What?” Si’s voice drops.

“I can see it,” you say, pleased with yourself. “In your eyes. There.”

Si slants his head, “Sure you’re seein’ straight?”

“I see straight through you,” you promise. “Admit it - you’re having a laugh at me.”

Tom’s attention skates back and forth between you. Irritation bubbles in him. Somehow, he’s stuck playing piggy in the fucking middle. This is what love does to good men, he guesses. His brother’s blended up like soft serve. To his relief, you’re interrupted.

Heads swivel. Si straightens, backs up a step. In comes your old man, hair shining like he’s fresh out the shower, a towel slung around his neck. No crustiness, though. Tom feels deceived.

“Christ, pet,” your dad mutters, heading for the stove to determine the source of the smoke. “What’s bloody burning?”

You grimace, “Only my ego. Simon sorted it.”

“Local hero,” your dad comments, seeming appreciative.

He seems to notice Si properly now, extending a hand. Si stares at it a moment, like he’s forgotten what to do. Just as Tom’s about to laugh, Simon takes it.

“Alright, mate?” your dad gives Si’s hand a rough shake. “What time’d you finish?”

Simon swallows. “Bout five, sir. Thanks for havin’ us.”

Sir? Tom’s eyebrows shoot up. Bastard’s never called anyone that before. Tom should be laughing – ready to roast him publicly. But weirdly, he’s not.

A hand’s in front of Tom now. “Tommy right?”

Tom takes it without hesitation, shaking briefly. “Yep.”

“So your lot couldn’t make it?” checks your dad, looking around like he’s expecting ghosts. A hand goes to his hip.

“Dad works late,” lies Tom, smooth. “Mum’s not well.”

“Shame.”

Your dad frowns. For a moment, Tom has this strange sense that your dad’s reading his thoughts. As if his mind’s a book with its pages on full display. Maybe Si’s thinking the same, because his brother goes blank-faced. Tom knows that look - his thoughts are in a headlock.

“Cool tattoos,” Tom clears his throat, tipping his chin at the ink on your dad’s neck.

“Cheers.”

Si, curious, asks, “They hurt?”

“Nah,” your dad dismisses, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t mind pain.”

“You some sort o’ masochist?” Tom blurts out.  

Your dad laughs, deep and full, like a stretched elastic snapping back. “Most people that join the army are, mate.

Tom drums his fingers on the counter, “Sounds like Si should join.”

It’s a joke, but nobody laughs. The idea hangs in the area, being privately weighed. Tom’s heart is a race car.

“You ever think about it?” your dad directs at Simon, interested. “Enlisting?”

“Yeah.” Si looks serious. “I’ve considered it, sir.”

Your dad smiles. So do you.

Tom’s so out of place, he thinks he might get a fucking nosebleed or something.

---

He’s staring at the photographs on your mantle.

Fire crackles near his feet. A record spins from the hall– one of those old bands that used to be on the radio more. Normally, Tom would’ve been asking about it by now. Keen, eager. He loves sharing bands, burning mixtapes, fantasising about life on the road. But tonight, he keeps to himself, his gaze fixed on the photographs.

In one of them is a woman who looks tired and slick with sweat. She’s holding a baby to her chest that he guesses is you. Tiny, wrinkled face resting against her collar bone. Another photo shows you and your dad, sitting on your couch. From the angle, it looks like the picture was taken from your coffee table. The two of you are smiling, though not with big, bright grins. Just in comfort. Like it’s nice to be around each other. Like you don’t want to scratch out each other’s eyes.

This isn’t normal. Is it? Tom doesn’t fucking know. He always had a feeling he’d drawn the short straw. But being here – being in this house – it’s never felt so obvious. Tom’s never been the jealous type. He’s not jealous. Piss off with that shit.

“Might go out for a pack of smokes,” your dad announces, boots thumping to the door.

You pop your head around the kitchen, “Will the shops even be open? S’late.”

“Corner one should be,” suggests Si.

While he’s tugging on his jacket, your dad nods at Si. “Up for a drive?”

Si tips his chin in agreement, glancing at Tom on the way. “Alrigh’?”

He does his best to nod, “Alrigh’.”

The door swings open. Then thuds shut. He can hear your dad laughing out on the lawn, maybe at something Si’s said. Car doors open. Close. An engine stutters to life. Tom’s left in the living room. Lights from the tree warm on his cheeks, blinking on and off. Stomach in knots. 

Unsure of what to do with himself, he ventures into the kitchen. The smoke's gone now, so he can see everything clear as day. It's a basic kitchen. Tiles on the floor and the walls, painted with flowers. Behind the counter, wind filters in through the window. The curtains flutter, soaking up the moonlight. You’re in there too, layering a tea towel on the bench because the dish rack’s brimming with plates and cups. Tom plucks the tea towel out of your grasp.

You crinkle your nose at him, maybe about to argue. But you don't. Instead, you submerge your hands back into the sink.

“So’d dinner taste as bad as it smelt?”

“Worse,” he teases, picking up a silky cup and drying it. “Dogs bollocks, actually.”

That makes you laugh. For a moment, Tom’s at ease. He focuses on working the rag over ceramic, feeling it dampen. Beside him, you’re sloshing soap around a tray with a sponge. Perhaps you sense something though, because you pause what you’re doing to glance at him. 

“You okay?”

Tom hesitates. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You don’t push. Just shrug and go back to scrubbing. “Just never seen you so quiet before.”

“S’just sorta weird,” he admits, without thinking. “Guess I’m not used to all this.”   

That gets your attention. “Used to what?”

“Seein’ Simon so-”

He stops, laughing dryly. He sounds tired, like he’s stuck in a maze and can’t get out. Part of him wants to chew himself to freedom, like some filthy fucking rat. He’d eat through cardboard if he had to. Tom pretends not to see the question in your eyes. He holds a plate midair, searching for its place.

“You know, you can talk to me, right?” you say at last, a soft tone. “If you ever need to.”

“Thanks. I don’t need to, though.”

“Well,” you nod, giving him a warm smile. “Either way, I’ll be around.” 

Tom realises he’s opened and shut the same cupboard door twice now. Defeated, he puts the dish back down on the bench. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear cars whooshing down the street. Fuck, if only he had one. He’d drive for hours. Music blaring from the speakers. Hand on the gearstick. No stopping. A one-way trip to who-the-fuck-knows? Tom wants to be someone that goes wherever they want. Not confined in this fish tank he lives in, thrashing against the glass. He wants to be free. Limitless. Burn rubber and never look back.

In his mind, he always thought Simon would be there too. With him. Simon’s always been there. Simon, who held ice to his swollen eye when it was so bloodied he couldn’t see. Simon, who’s been there through screams, and failed grades, and broken furniture. He’s been the one constant thing. The drum beat in Tom’s life. Holding everything together. And now, Tom’s stood there, bitter and pale. Thinking about how easy it’d be for Simon to leave him behind. Course Simon wants this. You’re nice. So is your dad. So is your house. It’s all fucking nice, innit? Of course he’d leave Tom to have it. Tom can’t even blame him for that. Tom doesn’t want to keep him from it either.

“I should uh-,” he sets the tea towel down and wipes a hand down his face. “I might go back, I reckon. Sorry. You’re right – not feelin’ well. Think I ate too much.”

You use a shoulder to wipe a hair out of your eye. “You wanna lay down in my room?”

“Nah,” he waves off, already retreating toward the living room. He punches a thumb over his shoulder. “Just gonna head straight back. Will your dad-?”

“Nah, he won’t mind,” you reassure. Eyes narrowing in concern, you say, “When they get back, I can tell S-”

“Don’t,” he cuts off, decisive. “Let Si hang a bit. Tell him I was tired, yeah?” 

Hands dripping, you hold them out in front of you like you want to follow. “Lemme walk you, at least?”

“I don’t mind the fresh air,” he promises. 

You nod, seeming sad. "Okay, get back safe, yeah?" 

Tom smiles then, and it’s not even effortful. Just slips up his cheeks, easy and bright, like muscle memory. He’s much better at putting on a face than Simon. Always has been.

With a salute, he strides out of the kitchen. Out of the living room. Out the door, shoving his hands in his pockets. His breath fogs white in the air. And he walks. Down the dark, dark street. Towards his dark, dark house. Spiralling down the dark, dark stairs of his mind. Into the dark, fucked-up cellar of his self-pity. Where all his skeletons live.

Fuck, he could use a drink. Tom's pretty sure his dad's still got some whiskey in the cupboard. Screw it. Might as well go and see.

Chapter Text

One day.

The first thing you do after your dad leaves is mark the number down on a whiteboard. You dangle it off the fridge, where you can see the tally. The single digit black, short and stout. The rest of your dad-free routine unfolds as usual. You make your bed, keeping the sheets meticulous even though he’s not there. Make a cup of tea – no milk, no sugar.  Then head down to the shops, tugging your dad’s beanie on to shield yourself from the cold.

Your wellies trail down the street, skipping over mirrored puddles. Short, sharp branches. Bottles that have been dumped on the path. You reach the store right after it opens, automatic doors gliding open in invitation. You sweep in, heading straight for the cold section. It doesn’t take you long to find what you want. Two litres of pearly white whole milk, encased in a plastic jug. Your dad thinks whole milk is rank – insists on getting skimmed. So, when he’s gone, this has become your own private tradition.

Traditions are important. At least, that’s what your old shrink said. He wasn’t wrong. Having little rituals makes the adjustment more predictable. Makes you feel a little less alone. When your old man gets shipped out, life feels spread open. Wide and deep. As if you’re paddling in a lake so cloudy that you can’t see the bottom. But routines help. Even small ones like putting up a tree if he won’t be home for Christmas. Or getting takeout the night he comes back – doesn’t matter what kind. Or drinking whole milk until he comes home.

On the walk back, you’re thinking about new traditions too. Ones you’d like to keep. Grow. Like kisses and dinners and gifts. Simon seems content to stoke them too. Start them, even. You can shut your eyes and remember how it felt when he gave you that gift. The two of you had been outside, drenched in amber porchlight, insects clicking around you. You were flushed because Simon was towering over you, eyes slipping down to your lips, seemingly determined to be less than an inch apart. He coaxed your palm open and slipped the present atop your hand. You were staggered, unsure of how to react, but opening it all the same. There it was. A round metal tag, with a bug carved into its face. You held it up to the light, watching it glitter. He must have spent hours welding his heart into it. He couldn’t have known that you've never been gifted something – anything – from someone other than your dad.

You keep your little piece of Simon Riley beneath your pillow. That feels fitting, because that’s where your favourite tradition started: him sleeping over. He should come tonight - around eleven, you expect. It’s a tradition he’s kept to all week. Slipping in through the window, silent and careful. Mattress sinking in the murky lamplight. Blankets rippling around you, swallowing up more of him each time he’s there. Melting, when he looks at you. The privacy of his dark, lidded eyes. Heartbeats speaking in molten whispers. Breathing – ebbing, flowing. All of time and the world and the universe shuddering away.

That night, when you go to bed, you aren’t feeling alone. You’re snug under your quilt, trying to keep your eyes open. You wait and wait, listening out for the sound of the pebble on your window. Yearning to hear that delightful, faint click.

But that night, there’s only silence.

---

Two days. 

Neither of them catches the bus the following morning. You get on alone, sliding onto a seat at the back. It’s odd. One minute both are at your place having tea. The next, they’re ghosts. As the engine pulses through the soles of your sneakers, you play over the dinner in search of clues you might have missed. There’s an inkling telling you it’s got to do with Tommy. He’d left early on account of eating too much, but you knew that wasn’t right. He’d eaten about half a carrot, a jacket potato and less than a handful of roast meat. That’s strange for someone with a big appetite. And you know he’s got one. Lad’s always stuffing down an entire bag of crinkle-cut crisps on the way home.  

The morning passes slow. You’re in the library, trying to wake up a computer.

It’s a wonder you’ve found one that works. Mock GCSEs are on, so there are more students than usual cramming in revision work. The room’s crowded but hushed. Tired, bored, confused faces are pouring over books or researching things on the computer. You’re sitting toward the end of a row of computers, chair squeaking when you give the mouse a shake. The computer wakes, whirring and groaning from the effort. A loading page flashes up. You punch in your details and watch the progress wheel as it loops round and round. It takes ages, so you shuffle ‘til your comfortable and munch your teeth on the butt of your pencil.

While you wait, your eyes wander off down the desk. There’s all sorts of hands, different sizes and colours, dancing over keyboards. It’s when you see a familiar pair that you startle.

Simon sits slouched at a computer near the other end of the wall. He’s wearing a thick black jumper that is simple and austere. He doesn’t seem bothered by the cold. The windbreaker he usually dons is left hanging on the back of his chair, as still as he is.

He’s reading a book, chin idle on the heel of his hand. Monitor lit but left alone. Bone-white pages spread over his keyboard. There’s no sign that anything’s amiss. The expression he wears is pristine and undisturbed. It looks as if nothing’s changed –flat mood as constant as ever. You’re not sure if that makes you feel better or worse. Perhaps you’ve read the situation wrong. It’s possible he might have had to work late and couldn’t come over, which also explains not being on the bus. Or he might have just hitched a ride to school from one of his parents. Still, you have a bad feeling about it. Simon is punctual and ordered. Almost to a fault. It’s uncharacteristic for his behaviour to change so rapidly. Jarring, even.

It's like he has a beacon for you, because in that moment his eyes drag up and his jaw turns until he finds you. A slight, sheepish smile gathers at the corners of your lips.

Simon tilts his head to one side, as if he’s asking if you’re alright. Rather than answering, you take the pencil out of your mouth and slant yours in the other direction. He likes that. You can see his amusement in the crinkles that form around his eyes. You’re about to mouth a question when his eyes drift to his computer. You watch him move his book to the side, wondering what he’s doing. His bony fingers hover over the black keys, then press.

There’s a dull ring from your monitor. Your attention snaps to your screen, where a chat box has popped up. It’s the school’s software, intended for group work or committee projects. Students aren’t supposed to use it for personal conversation. If caught, punishment is a week of detention. Simon doesn’t seem to care. Neither do you.

SRiley: You’ve got a habit, Bug.

You remember the last time you wrote notes to each other and blush. The answer clicks out of you, but you decide to change your username before you hit send.

Bug’sLife: Time to call pest control?

SRiley: My problem’s too severe.

Bug’sLife: What’s your problem?

SRiley: I think you know.

You can feel your heart beating in your chest. It takes a moment for you to formulate a response that doesn’t make you look like a complete tosser.

Bug’sLife: Lemme guess, your alarm stopped working this morning?

SRiley: Sounds like you missed me.

You sit back, smoothing out the folds in your skirt and willing yourself to come up with a sensible reply. Fingers slipping over the keyboard, you exhale.

Bug’sLife: Your absence is notable, yes. But you know me, I tend to notice when there’s a stitch that goes against the pattern. Know what I mean?  

There’s a pause. His name appears above the chat, as if he’s typing. It disappears. Then-

SRiley: You’re worried.

Bug’sLife: I was, yeah. Did Tommy pull up okay over the weekend?

Another pause. No typing this time, though. You have to keep yourself from looking over, to see what he’s doing.

SRiley: He’s alive.

Bug’sLife: That’s not a real answer.

SRiley: No?

You sigh, a bit frustrated.

Bug’sLife: Neither is that.

SRiley: There’s nothing for you to worry about, Bug. Alright?

Frowning, you stare at Simon’s answer in the chat box. The small, delicate letters that seem to push back at you in rebuke. You’re conscious of your breath, saliva thick in your throat. He is being dismissive. Clinical, like he used to. If anything, that makes you more suspicious that something is going on. Something bad. Something he wants to keep you from. The notion is sort of insulting, because you’re not daft. He knows that you can see more than he lets on. Doesn’t he? When you glance over at him, you find that he’s gone back to reading his book. It sits just right of the keyboard. He’s tracking each line he covers with his thumb, as if he’s distracted and needs the constant reminder of where his place is.

You thread your sleeves up past your elbows, unsure of what to do. Somehow, this has devolved into a standstill. An interrogation, but you’re not sure if you’re the cat or the mouse. You debate your options. Either you can press for more information or drop it. Better to leave it, you think. There’s no point pissing him off now. Not until there’s more intel.

Bug’sLife: Understood. Can I ask you a favour?

SRiley: Go on.

Bug’sLife: I want to put the bug tag you gave me on a chain. Do you think you could drill a small hole in it for me?

SRiley: You’re not planning on wearing the bloody thing, are you?

Bug’sLife: Exactly :) I’m pretty sure they monitor this thing for curse words, by the way.

SRiley: Is that fucking right?

Bug’sLife: Bet security are on their way now. Gonna cart you off and lock you up where no one can find you… any last words?

SRiley: Finally.

---

Eight days.

It’s been just over a week since your dad’s been gone.

Winter is in full force now – snow blooming on the birches, wind raking leaves from the branches, roads glistening with thawing frost. At night, you hear the coo of the trees and light rain popping on the roof. Every once in a while, it sounds like there’s a pebble on your window. You rush over to look outside. Yet no one is there.

Simon doesn’t explain his absence. There’s just no mention of it. No attempt to smooth things over. Total avoidance, which makes things feel stilted. He avoids other things too, like the fact that Tommy has taken half a week off school. Or the raw red carpet burn you catch on his forearm during football. You’re left in your head over it. Thoughts writhing around in there, parts of them logical and others downright proper mad. None of them provide sensible answers. There’s just not enough fucking intel. And the frustration of not knowing is enough to give you a throbbing headache.

There’s no other choice but to ask.

During a lunch time, you saunter to the science block. The school is sleepy as the holidays start to creep closer. With the grass dead and the plants wilted, it makes the place look like a graveyard. Since it’s an especially chilly day, the student committee have been selling hot chocolates for a fifty pence piece. Some students are drinking them indoors. Others hunkering under shelters where the breeze doesn’t reach, soaking in the heat. You’re holding two, palms sweating from the warmth.

Simon is where you expect him to be, on the bag rack. He lies flat against the metal, one knee propped up to use as a table. There’s a workbook planted over it, which he’s scribbling in. If he hears you approach, he doesn’t make it known.

“Oi,” you smile, peering at him upside-down. “I come bearing gifts.”

Simon’s eyes flit over your face. He is taking his time, absorbing your features from this crooked angle. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s staring for a socially unacceptable amount of time. Once he’s ready, he pulls himself up. The workbook shuts. Upright, he drags a hand through his hair to neaten it and uses the other to accept the cup.

 His lids narrow in suspicion. “This some sort o’ strategy?”

“It’s a trojan horse,” you nod. “Better check inside. Make sure there’s no army, eh?”

Peeling off the lid, he stares into its depths, as if he is genuinely expecting to see tiny Greek warriors in there. He mustn’t, because he takes a sip. Your eyes lock through the haze of steam.

“Not bad,” he grants.

“Can’t really go wrong with hot chocolate,” you agree, peeling off your bag. You roll out your shoulder, tense from the weight. Your back finds the edge of the metal bag rack. “Unless you don’t have a sweet tooth.”

Beside you, Simon holds the cup between his legs, elbows on his knees. “You finish your exam?”

“82 of 100,” you sigh.

He gestures vaguely at your bag. “Give us a look?”

There’s no reason not to show him, so you stretch toward your bag, fish out the exam paper, and pass it over. He brings the stapled bundle of paper into his lap, inspecting your work. There’s silence. Lifting your own lid off, you stare at the brown liquid in your cup. It’s topped with bubbles and dusted with a coat of icing sugar.

“No calculations,” he tuts, handing the test back.

“Always forget to write ‘em out,” you admit, shoving the paper back in your bag. When you’re done, you hop up onto the bag rack so that you’re sitting side by side. “Just doesn’t seem like there’s enough time, y’know?”

Simon levels you with a flat look. “Devil’s in the details, yeah?”

“Watch me sell my soul to the devil to make it through the final,” you breathe a laugh. “If I’m there for it, that is.”

He thinks about that for a while, casting his eyes out to the buildings in the distance. You sip at your cup, cardboard crinkling from the edge of your teeth. There’s a hot vapour that sticks to your lips.

“Got somethin’ for you,” Simon suddenly says, digging a hand into his pocket.

Casually, he extracts his fist and extends it toward you. You reach out, open palm, feeling metal thud onto your palm. It’s the bug tag, skewered with a hole that he must have done himself. It should be big enough to fit a delicate chain through. You smooth a thumb over the shape of it, beaming.

“I owe you,” you promise, reaching down your shirt. You tuck the tag into the corner of your bra, where it’s safe. “Name your price.”

He must have been tracking the movement of your hand, because his eyes have drifted toward the fabric of your shirt. When they rise to meet yours again, they seem lost.  

“Well?” you prod. “Quid, is that it?”

Perhaps he catches on, because he swallows and tips his chin. “Don’t need quid. But half a kidney’d do.”

You snort, “What d’you need half a kidney for?”

His head slants, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Never know when you need spare parts.”

Laughter trembles through you. It seems to dissolve the stiffness locking up your muscles. Perhaps it does the same for Simon, because he spreads his knees a bit wider to intentionally bump yours. You bump back.

“I wish you came with me when I was negotiating my exam,” you complain, taking another sip. The liquid’s getting cooler. “The intimidation factor might’ve helped.”

He swirls his cup around, like he’s trying to stir the chocolate. “Negotiatin’?”

“I tried to ask for another go at the test. Since I came later in the year.”

“So?”

“He politely suggested I piss off.” 

“Ha,” he tips his head back and finishes his drink in one go. Simon sets the empty cup down, between your hips. “Sounds like it went well.” 

“I’m persuasive,” you joke. You point in his direction with your forehead. “I showed you what I got for Maths. Now you show me yours.” 

Simon’s fingers tangle together. His brows twitch up, almost playful. “I might need more persuadin’ than that.”

Your lips plummet into a frown. Simon’s gaze falls to them, studying your grimace. He seems to find some pleasure in the way that he affects you. Your ears feel hot.

Somehow, you manage to say, “Please?”

“Much better,” he appreciates.

With that, Simon rummages through his bag. Extracts a folder. Unclips it. Hands you a similar lump of paper – much neater and well-kept than yours.

“90,” you read aloud, forehead puckering in puzzlement. His average is much higher – you’ve seen the grade-sheet yourself. “That’s unlike you.”

“You askin’ me or tellin’ me that?”

“I’m making a deduction,” you reason, matter of fact. “Am I hot or cold?”

Simon considers that, as if it’s a very important question. He holds your stare, unblinking.

“Hot.”

Bloody hell. You’re not sure why, but there’s embarrassment pounding in your ears. You pull your knees up, wanting to cover yourself. Two knees pressing into your chest as if they’re some kind of bullet-proof vest. Your brain is working overdrive to muster up something to say.  

You land on, “Are you bothered? By what you got?”

His reply is a cool shrug. “You win some, you lose some.”

“But what happened?”

“Why d’you care?” he asks, brows twitching.

You falter, casting your eyes down into your lap. It feels wrong to be prodding him like this. Fuck, you feel like your dad. Attempting to wheedle out thoughts that are rooted deep and stubborn in the ground. But Simon isn’t giving you much choice, either. He is a contradiction. Keeping you at arm’s length. Pulling you closer. Only to push away again.

For a moment, he looks away to collect his thoughts. When he does speak, it’s a dry murmur.  “Just lost focus. Didn’t finish the last page. Not much to it.”

That’s something, at least. That’s a lead.

You’re running through explanations for distractibility. “Nightmares again?”

Simon seems to find some mild amusement in your thought process. He angles toward you, leaning in. You look down to see his fingers wind around the end of your tie. In his grip, the fabric twists and shrivels. He gives it a tug.  

“I’m sleepin’ fine,” he assures. “Are you?”

You suck in your breath, feeling a little lightheaded. “It’s different, without anyone there,” you croak. “I wasn’t sure if you – if when my dad left, you’d wanna keep coming.”

The reaction is swift. Unexpected. Simon withdraws his hand. Knots his together again, between his knees. Your tie falls limp against your chest. You feel like you’ve scared off a rabbit, just for stomping too loud.

“Forget I said anything,” you mutter.

He regards you again. But there’s a new reluctance, as if he’s trodden on something that he didn’t intend to. “D’you want me to?”

You lick your lips. “Sleep at mine?”

He cocks his head like this is obvious.

“I mean, I like seeing you as much as possible,” you admit, voice soft. “But I can understand if you don’t want to, as well. It’s a lot to ask.”

Simon takes a meditated breath, breaking your eye contact. He finds interest in his hands, holding them out with his fingers just apart. His knuckles are like red lumps, infant scars a layer over the old. It takes him a long time to find the will to look at you. When he does, when his eyes touch yours, they are full of thought.

“S’not that I don’t want to,” he murmurs, hoarse. “But I can’t.” 

Something throbs in your chest, and you hate it. You throw your head back, finishing your drink. It burns hot, just enough to cause pain. But it’s sweet too, sizzling on your tongue. You gulp, throat warm, stacking your empty cup in his. The question gathers.

“Did I do something?”

His eyebrows twitch, confused. “What?”

“Or did my dad say something when you went with him to get smokes?” you offer. You stare at his mouth, anticipating his answer. “Something that, I don’t know, put you off?”   

“The opposite, Bug.”

“Or is there something else I should know? About Tommy? Or you.”

Simon is still two paces behind, caught in another thought. He tilts his head. “Put me off what?”

You sigh. The skin of your forearms sinks beneath your fingernails. Part of you wants to just come out and tell him that you can stomach whatever’s happening with him. That you want him to be his honest, direct self. That you can take it. Because you love him. And you’d carry all his burdens, if you could. If he’d let you. But something tells you he won’t either. That this is bollocks. That you’re stuck in this one-sided fucking misery. Invisible to him.  

“Bug,” repeats Simon. “Put me off what?”

“Being friends with me.”

A beat passes.

“Friends,” he copies, as if he wants to check he heard that right.

“Yeah,” you nod, but it sounds all wrong. It’s not enough to be friends. Not at all. You want it to be so much more. But you don’t have the heart to say it out loud. “Friends.”

“That what we are?”

“I guess,” you answer. You hope he’ll disagree. You want to give him the chance to. “Is that what you think?”

Simon says nothing. He observes your expression. Concentrating. Deciphering it with leaden, sullen eyes. For the flicker of a second, you think he might challenge you. That he might tell you he likes you – maybe even loves you too. But he doesn’t. Simon tilts his head away and allows himself to go cold.

“Doesn’t matter what I think, Bug.”

Chapter Text

Sixteen days.

It’s the late afternoon.

School was a fucking bore. You’re still wearing your uniform – a dark blue skirt that drapes to your knees, thick woollen tights and a plump jacket. You can’t be bothered to change. Since getting home, you have done nothing but sprawl on the couch thinking. Thinking and thinking, fiddling with the bug tag dangling from your neck. Trapped in that four-by-four prison of your mind.

Simon wasn’t there at school. Neither was Tommy. Sure, that’s nothing to be concerned about. One single instance. But his absence has been growing. Getting louder. First, it was just slight distance. He’s been physically present – at lunch, on the bus, in the hall. But he’s been detached, too. Uninterested. Speaking with precision, as if he’s measuring out his words in teaspoons. You could handle his change in demeanour for a while, put it down to poor sleep or stress or how boring it must be around you. But this is different. Missing school when you know he had an exam on. Too uncharacteristic.

Christ - maybe it’s just in your head.

You have been off over the past week. Your dad hasn’t left a message. Sometimes he can’t, that’s the deal. But this time feels different too. This time, his absence is deafening. Like this sense of homesickness that spreads and recedes like a tide; the rapid swell of a whirlpool when it hits. Reminders of him are everywhere, it seems. The shoes at the door, collecting dust. The beanie hanging worn and lifeless on the coat rack. The half-melted plastic spoon that he burnt fishing black bread out of the toaster. The sixteenth tally on the fridge.

He hasn’t left a message. There’s fuck all you can do about that. But piss it all, you can do something about Simon. And fuck, maybe you will. You get up, storm outside.

You shiver, striding down the pavement. This is a dumb fucking idea. You’re aware of that.  But you want to – need to talk to him. You want to tell him about how you’re worried about your dad. You want to tell him you’re worried about him. About whatever it is that’s left between you. There has to be a part of him that feels the same. That wants things to be smoothed out. That cares about you as much as you care about him. Overhead, there’s a cover of clouds brewing a concoction of snow and rain. The air greys in anticipation. Dogs bark in the distance. Wind screams through the dead grass.

The driveway of the Riley house is narrow and barren. The car that’s usually there is missing, so there’s nothing obstructing your path. You stand near the gutter, hands in your pockets, examining the building. It’s strange to be here. This place that you’ve imagined in your head a hundred times, but never gotten close to. It’s all brick, blocked and lined, which feels perfect for him. But crawling along on the ground is a thicket of dark vines. Tangled, unruly leaves and thorns. Simon has his own weeds, festering away. From the information you’ve gathered so far, you can tell they’re the kind that suffocate. Strangle, maybe even kill. There’s fighting, that much you know. But you’re not sure who between. Or how much. Or what it’s about. It’s like you can see the weeds, smell them, but you can’t identify the species. Somewhere in there are your answers.

Pacing closer, you skip up a lone, concrete step. In front of the door, you halt. The wood is mud-coloured, with a decorative panel of frosted-glass windows. It has a thin, metal handle that’s flaked and worn. Beside it, a doorbell. You stare through the windowpanes, trying to get a glimpse of what lies beyond. You can feel the thunder of your heart, erratic in your ears. Patterns of waves and squiggles on the glass distort your view.

Just do it, you think. Grow a fucking backbone and do it.

Sucking in a breath, you raise a finger and press the doorbell. Nothing happens. Another squish on the button. But nothing. Fuck’s sakes. Battery must be fried. Raising your knuckles, your hand hovers just shy of the wood. You knock.

Several moments pass. You tremble in the cold, wondering if it’s too late to sprint back. What the fuck are you doing here? Christ, someone needs to lock you up. Glancing behind you, you debate whether you should just take a lap around the neighbourhood or something. Run until you’re totally out of breath – take Simon’s advice to exercise your thoughts. Too late. Suddenly, a silhouette flickers in the window. You freeze. Someone is peering through the glass at you, you think. For a moment, it’s stillness – whoever is behind the door seems to be deciding something. Then, the doorknob twists. Opens.

Dark, sharp eyes stare through the sliver of the cracked door. A woman’s. She’s rather pretty. Blonde hair in ribbons around her pale, porcelain neck. She is wearing a black sweater and sweatpants, which seem too big and baggy for her frame. The more you look at her, the more you think it’s like someone has coloured outside of her lines. Made the bags beneath her eyes too prominent and the gloom in her mouth spill into all the creases of her face.

“Hi,” you smile, unsure.

Her eyes dart down to your toes, then back up again. “Can I help you?”

“Um, I hope so,” you sniffle. “I’m sorry to come unannounced like this. I was just uh - wondering if Simon was home.”

“Simon?” she repeats gently, the door widening an inch. She strokes a palm down her hip, in thought. “Um - no, he’d be at work.”

“Oh,” you nod, feeling stupid. You take a step back to leave, “Sorry to have bothered-”

“Wait a tick,” she swings the door open, like she might run after you if you try to duck. Her eyes dart to the road behind you. “He’d be on his way about now. If you wanted to-”

She gestures a thin hand into the house. You stare at the opening. Just beyond the door is a staircase, carpeted and well-trodden. The steps lead up into darkness, where you can’t see. Goosebumps prickle at the back of your neck. If your old man knew about this, he’d be proper fucking miffed with you. She seems alright, but snakes can be charming too.

“Um,” you look over your shoulder. “I should probably go. Could you tell him I-.”  

“He won’t be long,” she butts in, a faint smile. “I’m his mum. If you’re a friend of Simon’s, you’re welcome to wait in here with me.”

Friend. Truth is, you’re not fucking sure what you are. Strangers, maybe. But you’d like to be more. You’d like to show him that. Show him that you don’t mind weeds. Show him that you’ve got some of your own, too.

“Yeah,” you concede. “Alright.”

Lips still trembling, you come in. She shuts the door. The click of it fills the air between you.

“Simon’s father’s down at the pub,” she explains, as if this is something you might be wondering. “Won’t be back ‘til much later. So’s just you an’ me.”

The pub? Bloody hell. It’s just past 5 on a Monday. Who gets pissed at this hour?

You clear your throat, “Nice.”

“D’you wanna take your coat off?” she ventures, pointing at a hook near the door. “Bit stuffy in here, sometimes.”

“Um.” You trail your gaze along the collection of dirtied sneakers lining the wall, then snap back to her. “I think I’ll keep it on, actually. It’s so cold today.”

“Oh,” she says, a blank expression. “Sorry.”

The word feels out of place. You’re not really sure why she’s apologising – it’s not like she can control the temperature. Something tells you it’s a knee-jerk reaction.

Simon’s mum doesn’t take you up the stairs. Instead, she leads you into the next room. It’s pitch black. So dark you can’t make out a thing. Without a word, she goes to open the curtains, swallowed momentarily in black. Strange, you think. Strange for the curtains to be shut this time of day. In an instant, the fabric draws back. Sunlight streams in. Basks everything in gold, including her. She retreats from the window, freckled arms glistening, and lowers herself into an armchair. There’s a quiet, willowing ease to the way she moves. Like a boat that glides over a shimmering lake.

Bag dropping to the floor, you take the arm chair across from her. It’s olive-coloured and velvet, threads fraying like split hairs. Between you is a coffee table, covered in beer bottles. About ten – all empty. Silver labels choking their green, glass necks.

“So,” you break the silence, tone gentle. “Is Tommy not home either?”

“Tom’s-,” she starts, but then confusion gathers in her brows. “To be fair, I don’t remember him leavin’-”

“He wasn’t at school,” you offer. “I figured they were off sick.”  

“Oh, they’re fine,” she says, after a moment. She’s searching her memory, going through the events in chronological order. “Tom woke up late. Simon took the day off to keep an eye on him. Then he got called into work – had to go just for an hour, he said. An’ their father came home-”

There’s a pause.

“I s’pose I fell asleep,” she continues. Her eyes are distant, as if the colour’s faded into thought. “Tom must’ve gone to one o’ his mates places when their father went out to the pub.”

You expect some sort of panic or concern, but her face remains reserved of emotion. She has an odd, vacancy to her. Looking at you but seeing something else entirely. In another time or space or dimension.

“Maybe he’s at band practice.”

“So’re you in Simon’s classes?” she asks, curious.

“Some of 'em,” you nod, unzipping your jacket halfway. “I live just down the street. My dad and I moved here a few months ago.”

Rather than reply, Simon’s mum leans forward. Her hand weaves through the bottles on the table, to pick up a cigarette packet. Taking a smoke out, she waves it at you. “D’you mind if I-?”

“Oh. Go right ahead.”

Barely waiting for your permission, she digs a lighter out of her pants. Her thumb tracks along the spark wheel. One click. Another. The flame stretches tall and melts the tail of her cigarette. She melts too, taking a long drag. A mouthful of smoke is directed to the ceiling.

Then, she asks, “An' so you’re a friend of Simon’s?”

“I hope so,” you answer, shrinking. “He can be hard to read, though. Especially lately.”

“Mm,” she muses, bending over to dust ash into the cigarette tray. She sets the lighter on the coffee table while she's there. “Sounds like Simon. He’s always been very private. Barely cried when he was a baby. Keeps to himself. Gets that from me.”

“I’m not the most social either,” you admit. “Maybe that’s why we get along.”

“Oh?” Her head tilts just a little, smoke curling beside her ear. “I’m glad to hear you get along.”  

You squirm in your chair. “Well, for the most part.”

She takes another pull of the cigarette. She is watching you, very calm. Her eyes are much like Simon’s, but with a distinct, feline quality. Severe and sloped in their design. Her lashes are slightly different too - brown like wet sand. While you’re looking at her, a fly lands on her forearm. It hops, quivering, along her skin. She doesn’t bother to swat it off.

“I’d like Simon to be happy.”  

Your forehead crinkles. “Isn’t he?”

“It’s hard to tell,” she shrugs, holding up her smoke higher. “Like I said, he’s always been very private. But his father can be-”

Catching herself, she plops the cigarette between her lips and inhales. The sudden motion scares the fly away. It whizzes up into the corner of the room. Your heart is beating dull.

Realisation is settling in. The bottles. The pub. Simon’s bloodied knuckles and the carpet burn on his arm last week. Their sleepy, reserved mum. You find yourself looking around the furniture, imagining the whole family sitting there. The head of the house steering the ship. You wonder what he’s like, compared to his sons. Simon’s intimidating and capable. And Tommy’s rebellious, brash and careless – take a pick. You hate the thought. It makes your stomach twist. Hell, you’ve got it good, compared. You’re a total fucking sook for missing your dad. Still, this new revelation doesn't explain why Tommy's been suddenly missing school and waking up as late as she says.

You marinate on this. Neither of you speak for some time. Branches rustle on the tin roof. Wind shivers at the windows. Finally, she interrupts.

“Is that why you’re here to see him?” she pitches, smoke sailing from her mouth. “To see if you’re friends?”

“Maybe,” you answer, reclining further into the armchair. “I wasn’t really thinking clearly, to be honest. I shouldn’t've just showed up unannounced. You must think I'm mental.”

“Don’t give up on him, alrigh’?” she says, soft. “He needs people he can rely on.”  

You falter, unsure of how to respond.

Without warning, Simon’s mum shoots to her feet. “Sorry,” she huffs, waving the smoke around. “I didn’t ask if you wanted tea or-”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you assure, waving your hands a vehement no. “I better go, anyway. Y'know, while I've got my senses back.”

You’re about to get up from the chair, when she stops. Tracks something through the window. Points the little white stick at it.  

“Here’s our kid,” she announces. “Knew he wouldn't be far off.”

In one swoop, she dots her cigarette out on the tray. It sizzles, but she doesn’t stick around to see it. Simon’s mum swishes to the door to meet him there. From behind you, you hear a door creaking open. Shuffling, as if someone’s taking off their shoes and hanging keys on the hook. You want to go over, but you’re glued to the chair. Heart racing. Staring fixedly on the crusts of ash dissolving in the tray. Part of you wants to turn invisible. To zoom off into the corner of the ceiling, like the fly. A familiar, gravelly voice rakes up your spine.

“Alrigh’?”

“Alrigh’. How was work?”

“Fine.”

The word comes out flat, like he doesn’t want to tempt more conversation. You sit up a bit, anticipating him. Your fingers are plucking at a thread on the couch.

Then you see him.

Simon paces into the living room, seeming distracted. He’s wearing his work uniform, no apron. Just a plain black shirt and matching pants that fit him right – the windbreaker over the top. There’s a tiredness to him. Shadows beneath his lids. He’s taking his jacket off. Halfway through the motion, he clocks you. Stops dead.

You wave an awkward hand, “Hey.”

It seems to take him a long time to comprehend what’s happening, as if he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing is real.

“You have a visitor,” his mum explains, shuffling up beside him. She seems to remember something, “Oh, I didn’t get your name-”

When Simon finally comes to, his expressionless, unblinking self is gone. In its place is something dark. Taut, pressed lips. Narrowed, hard gaze. He takes his jacket off like a boxer removes their gloves.

Simon’s eyes go to his mum. “Go upstairs.”

“Si, don’t be-”

“Now.”

She sighs, resigned. Turns to you. “Sorry, it was nice meetin’ you,” she smiles. “Come again-”

Simon throws his jacket on the chair to intercept her sentence. Frowning, she goes to the staircase and ascends into shadow. The room is silent. You want to speak. Explain. But worms are wriggling in your throat. And Simon’s attention is on the carpet, massaging one hand with the other. It’s only when you hear a distant door shutting, that he brings the weight of his stare back to you.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes, wiping his palm over his jaw. “The fuck’re you doin’ here?”

Instinctively, you lean down and pick up your bag. “I didn’t mean to intrude-”

“You are,” he cuts, harsh. “Intrudin’.”

“I get that,” you rasp. For a moment, you stare at him with bated breath. He’s waiting for you to continue. To explain yourself. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Fuck,” he falters, searching for words. He seems like he’s trying to control himself. Bury whatever he’s feeling six feet under. Simon takes a calmer breath, “Not here. We can talk later.”

“When?”

“Later,” he emphasises, irritated. “Go home, Bug.”

Blood throbs in your temples. This was a mistake. You get to your feet, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“I’ll make sure I make an appointment next time,” you mumble.

His brows go tense. “You’re upset.”

“Yes, I’m upset,” you huff, weaving between the coffee table and the couch. “I mean, you’ve been to my place. You’ve met my dad. Learnt things about me that I’ve never told anyone else. But I’m – what? Banned from knowing anything about your life?”  

Simon meets you in the middle of the living room. He wipes a hand down his face, frustrated. “You don’t fuckin' understand.”

“So, make me.”

“It’s-,” he exhales, pitch dropping lower. “You’re better off bein’ far away from here, alrigh’?”

“Don’t you get it?” you ask, voice cracking. “I want to be around you, I want-”

“I don’t bloody understand what you want,” he bites. “Don't think you do either.”

You grip your bag tight. “I’m telling you right now.”

Simon raises his hands again. Presses his palms to his face. Shuts his eyes. You’ve never seen him look so conflicted. Like there’s all this noise and he needs to turn it all down just to fucking think. Like this moment is excruciating and he’ll do anything to get it to end. The distance between you feels like five thousand paces, not one. It’s taken so long to feel confident enough to return his touches. To be close to him. To share your thoughts. These little drops of familiarity have been pooling between you. But somehow, it feels like it’s all evaporating. Slipping between your fingers.

“You can’t be here,” he repeats, as if this is the only thing he can think. “Piss off an’ go home, yeah?”

You look between his eyes, feeling them prick wet. You’re about to argue. Tell him he’s wrong. And you don’t know how to help, but you want to. And you love him. And please – please don’t act like you’re invisible. Like you don’t matter to him. Like you’re nothing.

But you don’t. The words go stale in your mouth. Your legs take you to the door. And you go.

Chapter Text

Seventeen days.

The morning after going to Simon’s house, you wake up to a noise.

It’s faint, spilling into your room through your cracked window. Rustling. Tinkling. Footsteps so light you have to strain to hear them. It sounds like someone’s downstairs. Outside, maybe. Probably just a squirrel rummaging around in the rubbish, but fuck- could be someone breaking in. Holding your breath, you keep still beneath your blankets. Your pulse thumps in your neck as you concentrate. The sound peaks, then dwindles. Dies. When you’re sure it’s gone, you venture downstairs.

Down there, nothing is out of place. The couch, the fridge, the dining table are all dressed in their usual layer of dust. There’s no clear sign of entry or meddling. You check outside the front door too, just to be safe. Again, you’re met with nothing. Not even a leashed dog or joggers panting down the pavement. It’s just deserted bitumen, stretching out in wilful ignorance. Strange.

You stare out into the street, pinching your elbows in thought. There’s a niggling in your stomach to check round the perimeter of the house. So, you do. You tip toe around the corner, tiles biting at your bare feet. You sidestep past the rubbish bins, into the narrow slip that leads to the back garden. And that’s when you see it.

Your bike - on the ground. The back wheel still whirring.

Simon.

You come closer and kneel beside it. It looks the same as you remember. Frame enamelled in black, handlebars worn down. Months ago, you would have been thrilled to see it. But now, there’s a bitter taste in your throat. You hover above the bike awhile, watching the steel spokes whizz round and round. You think about how that motion is sort of like the memory of him. Evidence that he’d been there just a moment ago. Visible but gone. Like a star that’s been long dead before you hold it in your eyes. That’s life, you suppose. The earth turns. Time ticks, unceasing. Things move on, with or without you. And maybe – maybe Simon’s moved on too.

Frowning, your fingers tingle above the black, bald tyre. You reach out. Grab it. The wheel stops.

---

For the rest of the week, you take your bike to school.

It’s alarmingly cold, but the shivering encourages you to pedal fast. Warm clothes are vital for this time of year. The best you’ve got is a thick jacket, an extra pair of socks over your tights, your dad’s beanie, and a scarf that leaves wisps of wool on your uniform. It’s a smooth ride, for the most part. There are places on the bitumen that are slick and carpeted with frost. But you get good at bucking and weaving, avoiding little hills of snow. And this becomes the new norm, just like the bus had been.

Things are just as different at school. Simon is there, but it’s like he’s switched off the light of recognition in his brain. He goes to class. Sits. Looks out the window, mind lost somewhere else. Then the bell rings, thundering in the halls. Simon collects his things, his expression a void that goes on forever, and he leaves. No word, no acknowledgement, nothing.

Each day, you go to the bag rack. You want – hope - he’ll show. To ease things over. Or scold you. Or reiterate the fact that you were well out of fucking line going over his house. Any of it would do. So, you wait there, reading. Doing work. Practicing for exams. Eating mouthfuls of pasties, washing the jagged flakes down with hot chocolate. Sometimes, you lean against the wall and watch things come and go. Teachers waddling to the staffroom, arms stacked with exam papers. Students jogging into classrooms. Spotted finches catching insects in their beaks - the struggle just before one sudden gulp. You watch the weather change too. The wind going raw and white. The air turning bone-cold with falling snow. You lift your nose and watch it come down. How it takes its time. A slow, restful procession to the ground, where the earth will swallow it whole again.

And no, Simon never comes. Never keeps his promise of talking later.

---

Twenty-nine days.

In two weeks, school will break.

To be honest, it can’t come faster. The whole thing’s a fucking nuisance. Classes, exams, studying – all these things blur together, like a train zipping through stations. Maybe it wouldn’t be so mind-numbing if you’d heard from your dad. One month of silence. Hours upon hours of rumination. On your fridge, the tally of days grows as steadily as the dread that spouts in your stomach. Something’s happened. You’re not sure what. But soon enough, you’ll find out. Once school shuts down, you’ll bike down to the base. Make a calculated, rehearsed scene. Demand someone make contact. Threaten them, if that’s what it takes. Claim you’re pregnant or being stalked or homeless – take a fucking pick.

For now, you have spent your Sunday enveloped in books and research. Distractions. You fill your time with them. You need them. Simple tasks that extract you from your mind, like a prescription of time in the sun. Around the late afternoon, your legs yearn for movement. You slip on your jacket, lock up, and take a walk. Outside, it’s cool. Creamy clouds drift across the pale sky, delicate as fairy floss. There’s no snowfall, but mounds of it remain stuffed in the gutters that border the road. You walk a long time. Past driveways and fences and street signs. Dogs pace, yapping behind iron bars. Crickets hum. Ryegrass whistles around mailboxes. Woodsmoke lingers in the air.

After a while of wandering, you decide to duck into the corner store. When you reach the carpark, you can see how active the roads are. There are loads of cars whooshing past, packed with passengers. Must be something on tonight, but you don’t really care to find out. You pause to let a car go. The driver stops sharply to wave you through. You nod in thanks, hurrying to the sheltered path.

When you near the butchers, your temples throb. Simon’s probably not even working today, but you rush past just for good measure. You can’t risk seeing him. Can’t risk looking desperate. He’s made his choice. You respect that. He doesn’t have to know how stupid you feel. How you still wear the bug tag he made, buried safe under all your clothes. Or how your heart flares, them crumples, every time he walks by. Hair a mess, tie askew.

You round the corner, closing in on the shop. Leaving the butchers behind you gives some relief, though the edge comes rearing back at the sight of three lads at the end of the path. You have a sense they’ll be the type to beg you for a couple of quid, so you keep your eyes fixed to the ground – the concrete, the pendulum of your legs, the shadows beneath your boots. A seamless clockwork of motion. You’re so focused that you almost run head-first into an older lady, clutching paper bags.

“Fuck," you mutter, "Sorry.”

Her response is a miffed huff, but she doesn’t give you anything more. She just brushes on, leaving the lads to laugh in her wake. You glance over at them, irritated.

The bloke on the left is sitting on an upturned box, knees cocked so wide it feels purposeful. He has a shaved head, the pricks of his hair like granules of sand. From his posture, you can tell he holds some conceit. Ripped jeans, a band shirt, dishevelled sneakers that seem to say – fuck you. To his right, another lad leans against a pole - not as ragged or smug. Just plain – black pants and a blue jacket that’s bunched up around his elbows. His hair is striking, though. Dyed near white, sweeping and curling around his forehead at different lengths. It’s so choppy you think he’s taken scissors to the mirror and done it himself.

Your eyes flit to the one in the middle.

He’s blond. Sheathed in a blood-red jacket. White stripes trailing down his collar; down his arms too. Thin lips curving into a pleased, cheeky smile.

“Oi,” nods Tommy, enthusiastic. “Y’alright?”

---

With Tommy, there’s no awkwardness.

It’s like the past few weeks have been a long dream. Like this whole time, you’ve been catching the bus with them as usual. No distance, no tension. It feels nice. Normal, even. The two of you are walking to Mayfield Park, chatting about music. His mates are just ahead, leading the way through a shaded woodland track. Tall trees shiver above you. Through their branches, you can see stars scattered behind a veil of fog. Far away, traffic horns blare.

Tommy has pressured you into seeing the fireworks at Mayfield, which go off at seven. About that time, everyone in the neighbourhood will spread picnic rugs and chairs out on the sloping lawns. The night will be rich with chatter, live music will pulse through the earth, people will knock their drinks in cheers. And hundreds of faces will turn upward to watch kaleidoscopes shoot and explode and shrivel in the dark. There’s not much to celebrate. If you’re honest, it’s the last thing you want to do. But something tells you to stick with Tommy tonight. Keep an eye on him - make sure he gets home alright. His mates aren’t thrilled with you tagging along, you can tell from their unenthused expressions. But Tommy doesn’t seem to care. He hangs back with you, sneakers kicking up pebbles. Hands snug in his pockets as he goes on about this underground band he’s gotten into. You listen, nodding along, thinking about how you’ve missed him.

“So, where the fuck’ve you been?” he eventually asks, sniffling. “Haven’t seen you about. Thought you went posh on us.”

“Me?” You zip your jacket up a tad and frown. “Could ask the same thing about you. You been skipping school with your mates or what?”

“Or what,” he answers, sarcastic. Tommy takes out a hand to scratch his earlobe. “Was startin’ to think you died in your rot house.”

You consider that quite seriously. “Maybe I have.”

His lids are thin with amusement. “So’m I seein’ a ghost?”

“That’s the most likely explanation,” you agree. Sucking in a breath, you add, “I’ve just been busy with exams. Was gonna do some more studying tonight. Pick up some things to keep me motivated.  Y’know, reinforce my good behaviour.”

Tommy snorts like he can’t believe your audacity, “Good behaviour’s overrated, innit?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“You’re just like Si,” levels Tommy, a hint of disapproval. He passes beneath a lamplight. It catches the brown of his eyes – irises rippling with molten gold. “No fun.”

You scrunch up your nose at him. “If fun means fucking about and watching fireworks - then yeah, guess I'm no fun. Your mates seem pretty convinced I'm gonna bring down the mood.”

Tommy pulls a face, all mock offense. “Oi, you're my guest. No one's gonna give you cheek tonight.”

“I’m not daft,” you laugh unhappily.

“Just all tense like Si," he counters. "See that's where a bit o’ liquid courage comes in handy." There’s a challenging colour to his tone. “Maybe you should try it, eh?” 

That makes you go quiet. You feign a smile and look ahead, feeling a strange sort of tightness in your gut. You had no idea he drank. Seems a bit young for that shit, but you suppose it makes sense. You remember the bottles littering their coffee table. Glittering green in the sunlight, parched of all their substance. His old man has been a source of many lessons, you think. 

“So does Simon know where you are?” you venture. “What you an' your mates're doing?”

“Si’s not my bloody babysitter,” he returns, sharp.

“Tom-”

“What?” he demands, brown eyes snapping to you. “You gonna go tell him?”

At that moment, one of his mates curses and elbows the other. Tommy’s attention is reeled away, watching the lads begin a shoving match. You stare ahead too, searching for words. 

“Even if I wanted to tell him,” you decide to say, “He wouldn’t have a bar of me.”

“Sure,” laughs Tommy, but there’s a bitter aftertaste to the sound. “Heard you came over our place, by the way.”

“Go on then,” you frown, lips pressed hard. “What bollocks did he tell you about that?”

As if he’s interested in that, Tommy runs his eyes down your face, “What makes you think he gave me bollocks about it?”

“Because he hasn’t spoken to me in weeks,” you say, uneasy. “Figured me coming to your house was the main reason.”

Tommy’s jaw turns away to a thicket. He seems to be mulling on those words, trying to figure them out. The information is obviously news to him. You observe him carefully, the way he brings his fingers together and cracks his knuckles. Fingers like pale, plain porcelain compared to the salmon-coloured scars on Simon’s.

At last, he clears his throat. “Mum was the one that told me you came over,” he explains, sounding oddly unsure of himself. “She said some bird came round askin’ for Simon. Wanted to know if you’d come over again.”

Confusion presses your eyes shut. So, Simon didn’t mention your visit to Tommy. That’s not bizarre, you suppose. His mum said he was a private person. Still, you’ve got an inkling that’s not everything.

“Tommy, did you know he was avoiding me?

“Nah,” he admits, tense. Tommy stubs the toe of his sneaker against a rock. It tumbles away from him and a small, slippery lizard skuttles out of the line of impact. “Listen, it’s probably my fault he’s not talkin’ to you.”

Your brows crease. “What?”

“I went an’ fucked it all up-”

Abruptly, you stop. “What’s that mean?”

Tommy turns, inhaling. He’s annoyed with the position he's in. Like part of him wants to say more and part of him feels like he’s already said too much. He’s not looking at you - eyes fixed to his sneakers, instead. In the distance, you can see his mates getting further and further away. Small black dots shrinking on the path. Tommy draws a frustrated breath through his nose. Collects himself. Meets your gaze.

“He’d fuckin’ kill me if I told you.”

“Doubt you need to worry about that,” you breathe a laugh, chest swelling and falling. “He doesn’t speak to me, remember? How the fuck’s he gonna find out?”

“Just,” Tommy brings both thumbs to his temples and rubs them. Like the idea is enough to give him a headache. “Don’t fuckin’ judge me, alrigh’?”

Your lips sink into a frown, and you hope that’s enough to communicate that you’d never judge him. Not for anything. His eyes move between yours, sceptical. But perhaps he’s already made up his mind to tell you anyway, because he tips his head to the side and sighs.

“So, I’ve been lettin’ loose a fair bit.”

“I gathered as much,” you return, straight-faced.

This isn’t a revelation. He’s been skipping school. Going to his mates’ places without even telling his own mum. Hanging around oddballs like the two lads who are making a racket further down the path. Apparently he drinks, too. As you squint at him, the realisation starts to settle. He means something – worse.

“You mean-”

“Beers. Wine, if we're desperate. Bit of other gear, whenever we can,” he waves a dismissive hand. “Can go pretty hard. Over the whole weekend, that sort o’ thing.”

“You mean like a bloody bender?”

“Bender,” Tommy scoffs, pacing out an agitated circle. He gestures at you in accusation. “You said no judgin’.”

“I’m not judging,” you assure, and you mean it. “But what’s that got to do with me and Simon?”

In one motion, Tommy bounces down to a crouch. He steadies himself with arms over his thighs. Looks around; dead grass, footprints stamped in mud, a worm tubing down the path.

“The night you had us over for tea,” he recalls, rubbing a hand harshly over his kneecap. “I went back an’ had a few to drink. An’ I got – well, caught.”

Caught. You cock your head. There’s an edge to that word - as if it’s dirtied laundry and he’s hanging it out, clipped with plastic pegs and all.

“Caught by Simon?”

“Nah,” he answers, quiet. His hands tangle again, knuckles all white. He kneads them together, like he’s wringing blood from them. “Caught by my ol’ man. We got into a tussle over it. Simon came back later an’ found me.”

Fuck. There’s something painful in this. In the way he describes these events. Careless and matter of fact. It makes your chest sting, like your heart has been sunburnt. You have an urge to come down to his level, so you do. Rocks crunch beneath your boots.

“When I went to your house and talked to your mum,” you murmur, balancing on your heels. “I kind of guessed your dad’s-”

“He’s a cunt,” cuts off Tommy, blunt. He recites this as an undisputed fact. “That’s all there is to say about him.”

“So Simon thinks what happened is his fault,” you check. “Cause he wasn’t around to help you. Cause he was with me?”

“He always thinks it’s his fault,” clarifies Tommy, drawing a skull in the dirt. His voice is rough with grit, like this too annoys him. But you get the impression he’s more annoyed with himself than anyone else. “Never is his fuckin’ fault, though.”

For several beats, you don’t say anything. You press both palms to your cheeks, lost in thought. Listening to your own uneven breath. It all tracks - this past month of absolute misery. Simon not staying over. Not explaining himself. Getting mad when he found you twiddling your fingers at his place like a fucking git. Avoiding you, with such conviction. You feel so idiotic. So self-centred. So bloody dim for not piecing together the clues faster.

“Maybe I should talk to him-”

“Oi,” warns Tommy. “You promised.”

You use your sleeve to mop the back of your neck. “Ah – yeah. Right.”

“How ‘bout this?” he proposes, stretching to a sudden, energetic stand. “I’ll make a deal.”

From this new position, he’s towering over you. And more than ever, he looks like his brother.

“Lemme talk to Si,” he suggests, determined. “I’ll have a word with the bastard – tell him to apologise to you an’ shit. Gives me a chance to make it up to you, yeah?”

You rise, rotating out your ankle. A smile grows on your cheeks. “What’s the catch then?”

“We have a drink down at Mayfield with my mates.”

“A drink,” you repeat, flattening your jacket with your palms. “Tommy – I don’t-”  

Tommy raises a lone finger, “C'mon. Just one.”

He utters the word like sugar's dissolving on his tongue. So sweet, it's sickening. Fucking hell. You tap a foot, hesitant. Something tells you it'll be more than that. That Tommy's impulses aren't easy to keep in check. That you can't just leave him here to his own devices with those two roughed-up lads. You couldn't do that to him. Couldn't do it to Simon. You take a deep breath.

“Promise it’ll just be one?” 

Triumphant, Tommy salutes. “Swear on my own grave."

Chapter Text

It’s not even seven yet, and Tommy’s just skulled his fifth drink.

He's perched on the rock wall, sneakers dangling off the edged, silhouette lined by amber lamplight. The empty beer bottle in his hand revs up his mates. Thumps on the back that make him jolt upright. Volts of laughter. Thunderous encouragement – that’s the way and have at it mate and good fuckin’ lad. Tommy thrives on it. You suppose that’s the only attention he gets. At home, his brother’s cold, his mum’s absent-minded, his dad’s drinking himself into oblivion before nightfall.  

You clutch the beer in your lap, the cool, slick bottle half-full. You can still feel the burn of alcohol at the back of your throat. Smell the malt in your nostrils. Taste it on your tongue – dry and bitter. The beer’s proper shite, but you have to take a sip every now and then. If you’re going to keep an eye on Tommy, you need to blend in a bit.

Tommy tosses the empty bottle, and his mates resume chatting. Jeff, the talkative one, rants about underground bands and politics. He’s full of intense vigour, emphasising each point with a blunt, cutting hand. The twins, olive skin and dark hair, talk to themselves. Then there’s the two that you came in with. Coop with the shaved head, who likes to be argumentative just for the bloody sake of it. And then Dave, the bloke with white, choppy hair that’s nodding along with disinterest.

It's easy to tune out. You let your eyes wander around the park, which is packed. There are loads of people on the lawns, sprawled atop tartan blankets. Some sit at the edge of the lake and throw stones into the shivering, black surface. Others hang around the outer path, where the food vans and toilets are. The air is warm. Thick. Noise everywhere – chatter, laughter, engines humming, popcorn crackling, grills spluttering with oil. It must be close to seven now. Hundreds of necks are craned upward, staring and pointing at the endless chasm above. Waiting with bated breath, faces drenched in silver moonlight. It must be nice, you think, to be here with family. With friends. With people you love. You can picture yourself lounging on the lawn with your dad, pointing out patterns in the stars. The thought makes your chest sore.

“How come I’ve never seen you round?” Dave says, breaking your reverie.

“Cause I’ve never brought her round,” laughs Tommy, palm out for another beer. “You thick or what?”

Coop tosses a bottle. “He’s just thick, as per-fucking-usual.” 

“Come off it. I meant that I know most o’ the birds round here,” snorts Dave, beside you. He leans closer to speak in your ear, and you can feel specks of his spit on your lobe. “You from some posh girls’ school or something?”

“Uh - no,” you answer, twisting the glass bottle around with your fingertips. “Just moved here a few months ago.” You point at Tommy with an elbow, “We live on the same street.”

As he lifts it, Tommy’s bottle catches the gleam of the park lamp. The metal cap glitters in gold. You’re about to reach out, to tell him to take it easy and that it’s probably time to go home. But it’s too late. There’s a sharp hiss - Tommy pries the lid loose. He brings the undressed bottle to his lips. Liquid swirls and collapses against the glass, like a rolling wave. He tips his head back. Wrinkles his nose. Drinks.

Bloody hell. He’s on six now. Six is a lot. Ah fuck. You don’t like this. Not one fucking bit. But it’s not your place to intervene, even if he’s gone back on your deal.

“You in the same year?” asks Dave, still staring at you.

“Nah,” you wipe your ear on your shoulder and frown. The way he’s cutting through your thoughts makes your head feel cluttered. “I’m in the same year as Simon.”

Jeff lifts his drink and smiles, “An older woman, eh?”

You don’t say anything, feeling strangely self-conscious. Tommy takes it on himself to respond, collecting a rock and pegging it at Jeff’s shin. Yelping, Jeff jumps back. Beer splashes down his shirt. He curses and kicks his boot in Tommy’s direction.

“D’you all go to school together?” you ask, cradling your beer against your forearm. Ice-cold droplets slip down your skin. “Or different schools?”

One of the twins opens his mouth, about to answer. But before he can, Coop scoffs.

“School’s for fuckin’ tossers,” he dismisses, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket. “Not sure why the fuck anyone’d wanna go.”

“Well, you legally have to ‘til you’re sixteen,” you counter, thumbing the label on your bottle. One corner flicks loose. “Some of it might be rubbish. But it helps you get where you wanna go in life, so to speak.”

There’s a shift in Coop’s demeanour now, as if he’s just spotted an animal in the wild. He pops his cigarette between his lips - holds it in place with his tongue, which rests on the white underbelly of the paper. Around you, there’s quiet. The others are listening, absorbed in the rally.

“You know none o’ those pricks gradin’ your papers give a toss about you, right?” he mumbles, cigarette bobbing. “System’s rigged. Unless you’re born a winner, you’re fucked from the off. No school’s gonna help with that.”

Your head tilts, eyebrows gathering. “And why d’you think they wouldn’t care about you?”

“Cause most people are cunts, that’s why.”

“Most people,” you echo, glancing away. Across the lawn, there’s a child lighting up a sparkler and twirling it in the air. You turn back to Coop and raise your brows. “That based on evidence or?”  

Coop nudges one of the twins for a light. With one hand, he catches the one that’s offered to him. You watch his calloused thumb ripping down the metal tread of the spark wheel. After three tries, the lighter spits its hot, red tongue. His chin is drenched in the cherry red of his cigarette; one thin spire of smoke winding into the sky.

“My experiences are evidence,” he tells you.

“Maybe they just don’t care about twats like you,” jokes Dave, brushing his bleached fringe out of his eyes. Perhaps he’s the only one that can show Coop that kind of cheek, because the others are careful not to laugh. Dave’s eyes flit back to you. You can see doubles of yourself reflected there. “Coop got expelled last year an’ never went back.”

You tip your chin at Coop. “What for?”

Dave taps a nostril, “He became a glue-man.”

“Piss off,” Coop retorts, but the curl in his lip means he’s amused by whatever memory Dave is stirring. “I’m no fuckin’ glue man. Was just bein’ a good samaritan an’ showin’ other people how to do it.”

With that, he takes a drag. No one else seems to notice, but something about the way he does this catches your attention. The inhale is all raw and uninhibited. And when his lungs reach their limit, he gives the startled cough of someone who’s accidentally breathed in water. It’s strange – out of character for someone who puts on a tough face.

You press your lips together, “Guess no good deed goes unpunished, huh?”

Coop doesn’t seem to catch on to the sarcasm. “So, what’s your story, anyway?”

Wiping the tail of your bottle against your pants, the material turns dark and damp. You're quickly losing the willpower to entertain this conversation. Honestly, you have no real intention of trying to make nice with these lads beyond tonight. Call it exhaustion from spending the past few weeks worried out of your mind. That, or you're tipsier than you thought. Doesn't matter, either way. 

“I already told you.”

“You said you moved here,” Coop points out. He takes a pause to suck on his cigarette, holding it there longer than necessary. This time, he manages not to cough. Tendrils of smoke spill from his mouth. “That doesn’t tell us anythin’ about why you’re here.” 

“Her dad’s an army man,” offers Tommy, licking his lips. “Good bloke, actually.”

You expect Tommy might give you some cheek about your ugly house, but he doesn’t. Tommy wiggles his bottle around, uncomfortable. The liquid whirlpools. He clamps one eye shut to peer down the narrow bottleneck, as if he’s working hard to control himself.

Jeff spits on the ground, “Christ. She better not go on about war like it’s some fucking grand noble thing.”

“Fuck off,” bites Tommy, knuckles white. “Show some bloody manners, yeah?” 

Coop’s eyes drift to him. “Or what?”   

“Ask Simon that, mate.”

That gets the interest of Dave. “Simon?” he rounds on you. “You’re Simon’s bird?” You don’t like the way he says this - the tone of a doctor who doesn’t believe your ailment.

“I’m no one’s bird,” you tell him, thumb squelching along the glass of your bottle. Pearls of water flatten beneath your touch. “We’re - friends.”

That earns a round of hoots and chuckles. Grip tightening, your face prickles red. In your peripheral, you sense Tommy quirking his head toward you, curious.

“Friends,” repeats Coop.

He blows a mouthful of smoke so that you’re plunged into soft, white cloud. Your eyes burn. It smells stale and acrid, and you’re forced to blink until the blurriness subsides. When you can see again, you find Coop tapping his cigarette. An awkward, unpractised movement.

“I reckon that’s bollocks,” he says, gesturing around the park with his other hand. “Where’s he now then? If he’s your friend.”

You shrug. “Not really my business to know where he is all the time. Not yours either.”

“That’s funny,” Coop starts, plucking the cigarette from his lips. He rubs his knuckle against his forehead, smoke drifting around him. “Something tells me you’re the one who gets into other peoples’ business. Look at you - hanging out with his little brother? While the big dog’s nowhere to be found.”

“Maybe it’s one-sided,” Dave laughs, bumping Coop with an elbow. “Big dog’s not interested in the food.”

“Oi,” cuts Tommy, tipping his chin in warning. “Piss off, yeah? She’s alrigh’.”

Coop raises his hands in surrender, but it’s so submissive that it feels sarcastic rather than genuine. His lips rise into a smirk. “I just think it’s a bit strange to be hangin’ round his brother,” he says. “Don’t you?”

Fuck this.

You slip to your feet, wellies squashing into soft mud. You close the space between you and Coop. Just one step, shoving your bottle into his stomach. Startled, he takes it.

“There’s a lot of strange things people do,” you snap. “Like projecting all your shit onto someone else. Or pretending you know how to smoke.” To prove your point, you demonstrate a flicking motion; thumb sweeping over forefinger. “Like this, by the way. That’s how my dad does it when he smokes.”

Coop’s eyes drop to your fingers, observing. He copies the gesture. Ash dusts from the end of his cigarette. There’s a hint of stifled laughter around the group.

You level him with a sarcastic smile. “Much better.”

Someone tugs your elbow, but you don’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of having the last word. You’re so mad, your legs move. You go. You’re not even sure where. You don’t care. You just walk, shutting your ears off to the laughter, the jeers, even Tommy urging you to stop. This was a stupid fucking idea from the beginning. Not just coming to Mayfield Park. But moving here. Meeting Simon. Meeting Tommy. Becoming something other than the fly on the wall – a shuddering insect that people prod and poke for fun. Fuck relationships. Fuck the agony and torture that comes with them. Your eyes feel laden and wet. There’s a twitch in the bridge of your nose. And fuck. You can’t cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front these strangers.

A crack slices the night.

Sparks shoot, spiralling into the air. You stop, look up. Brightness. Blinding, almost. It fills the void, spreading almost everything you can see. Pops ripple across the earth, through the soles of your shoes. You’re sure you can feel Tommy behind you, but you don’t look at him. Neither of you speak. You just watch, for a long time. Watching eruption after eruption, expanding and contracting. Watching light cascading in speckling tiers, and the marigold showers that are left behind. Every pulse seems to calm your heart until it rises and falls to the same repetitive beat. You take a deep breath, face slightly warm. Glowing.

And when you come to your senses again, you look ahead and there he is.

Simon.

Maybe it’s fitting that he’s here, now of all places. Pushing past people, lidded gaze flickering between different faces. He’s searching for something. Eyes alight with a bead of brilliant, bursting colours. His hair looks a mess. Clothes too – all crinkled and unironed like he’s just thrown them on with little care for how he looks. It makes him look out of sorts. Stressed. It’s unlike him.

You hold your breath. It won’t take long for him to spot you – he’s got a knack for these things. And he does. He turns to gaze in your direction. Your heart pulses as loud as the exploding sky. Then, your eyes meet, like always. And in that private hall of time, everything falls silent.

Simon inhales, as if he’s just recognising that you’re real and he’s not imagining you. His hand runs through his hair, like he’s tired. Like he cannot deal with this right now. Like this is some kind of complication he wasn’t expecting. It’s a half-second of so much overwhelming emotion - frustration, conflict, shame. It's not the reaction you expect. It's more than he’s ever let slip before. More than he probably realises. You know something’s wrong. Something’s happened.

The rest of the fireworks fizzle out, like embers hissing after a douse of water. The sky becomes black once more. And that’s when Simon spots Tommy. In an instant, his focus returns. Sharper, now. Scorching - a wicker that’s just caught fire. Simon splits through the crowd.

Tommy raises his arms in mock welcome. “Fuck’re you doin’ here Si?”

Without warning, Simon grabs a fistful of Tommy’s jacket.

“Oi,” complains Tommy, struggling to push his brother off.  “Christ, what’s ya problem?”

“We’re goin’.”

Tommy jerks at his jacket. There’s a brief tussle for control, fists curled around each other’s. Heads turn. Your eyes skate between them too, unsure of what to do.

“Fuck’s sakes,” grouses Tommy. “I’m not goin’ anywhere ‘til you tell me what the fuck’s wrong with you.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” murmurs Simon, yanking Tommy closer. Tone so low and dark it makes your spine shiver. “You wanna lose your head t’night?”

Simon pushes him back and lets go, as if he’s tossing a live wire. The force of it makes Tommy stagger back. You think he might argue or accuse his brother of lying. You’re preparing yourself to jump between them, if you have to.

But instead, Tommy asks, “How pissed is he?”

Simon wipes a hand down his face, calming himself down. A meaningful, private look is shared between them.

“So, he’s actually noticed I’m missin’, for once,” says Tommy, breathing out a low, unhappy laugh. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. “So what’s it got to do with you, Si? It’s none o’ your fuckin’ business. Lemme make my own mistakes.”

“We’re brothers,” answers Simon, sharp. “S’got everythin’ to do with me.”

“I’m not going back if he’s there.”

“So crash at mine,” you choke out.

Two pairs of dark eyes fall on you.

You draw a tight, controlled breath. Maybe it’s the alcohol gurgling at the bottom of your gut. Or maybe the kick in your pulse. Or the picture of them going back to a tank filled with sharks. It doesn’t matter, you suppose. All you can think is this has everything to do with you too. You won’t let either of them get hurt, even if it kills you. And maybe it will. Stupid fucking relationships.

“You can sober up there,” you insist, trying to sound casual. “Gives your old man a chance to sober up too.”

“Your place?” sighs Tommy, thinking over it.

“Yeah. My place.”

You summon some courage and look at Simon. He doesn’t have to agree. He probably won’t. But you want some kind of reaction. You want him to feed you something snide or brusque. Or give you the barest hint that there’s still feeling in there for you, even if it’s anger. But he doesn’t. Simon’s eyes sweep into the crowd, and he says nothing.

How strange it is to be invisible again. To be a ghost existing in that intangible place between here and there. Between houses, between schools, between people you can never quite call your friends. How strange it is that you hate it. That it makes you want to sink to some depthless place where you never need to surface again.

Only you can’t – because someone’s pinching at your elbow.

“We all goin’ back to yours?” asks Coop.

Fucking hell.

“The invitation wasn’t for you,” you mutter. “Not to be rude.”

Releasing your elbow, Coop sidles up next to you. There’s no smoke enveloping him anymore. You suspect he’s stubbed it out, hopefully in embarrassment. But he’s still clutching your drink close to his stomach, like some prize he’s won at a fair.

“You like bein’ rude, don’t you?” he teases. He’s got his eyebrows raised – a conceited expression. Coop raises your drink for a mid-air toast. “Lucky for you, I don’t mind it.”

From the corner of your eye, you see Simon’s jaw turn. He’s staring at Coop now, narrow stare travelling down to Coop’s boots. Back up to his shaved head.

“Alrigh’ mate,” mumbles Tommy, shifting into Coop’s path. “We're gonna piss off now. I’ll catch you lot later though, yeah?”

“One more beer, eh?” Coop smiles, another two-handed surrender. He tips his head at you. “Lemme shoot my shot, seein’ as our kid Simon’s not interested-”

You shut your eyes, frustrated. There’s a curse gathering in your mouth. But you don’t have time to spit it out.

Because it happens fast.

The loud smack. The dull, muffled shout. Coop on the grass, scrambling backwards. Your beer bottle spewing into the dirt. His cheek welling up, raw and red. His palm covering it. Face marred with terror or anger - you don’t know which. Blood pounds, violent in your veins.

Simon stalks after Coop, his right-fist shaking. He gets in close, calm. Eyes vacant. Punches again. And again. And again. Smashing his knuckles hard against bare flesh. Your ears are ringing. You reach out, hand searching numbly for him. To pull him off. To fucking do something. Do anything. You’re not the only one who wants to – there’s a crowd drawing in and shouting to break it up. Tommy’s shouting too. His voice sounds muffled, but you’re certain he’s barking for people to fuck off and not touch his brother. Coop disappears behind a crowd of onlookers who must be checking him over. You rush over to Tommy. He’s dragging Simon forward by the elbow, their sneakers slipping on the grass. Instinctively, your fingers curl around Simon’s other sleeve. It’s crinkled and bloodied, but you don’t let go. They stop. Your eyes find Simon’s. Then Tommy’s. The three of you share one short, sharp breath.

And just like that – held tight together – you melt into the night.

Chapter Text

You crunch along the road.

It’s getting late - near nine, you think. You’re walking, hands in your pockets, lips blanching in the cold. Overhead, the pale oak moon hangs low, watching. Crumpled leaves flutter on the pavement. Cats slink atop fences with practiced ease. Somewhere, far away, the city hums - cars honk, tyres shriek. But here, between the three of you, there’s just silence.

The uncomfortable sort. It shudders and spreads like a crater in the earth; drags your thoughts under its soft, sinking chasm. You can feel it in every drag of your footsteps, the fiddling in your pockets, the way your tongue sticks to the palate of your mouth. Even if you could speak, you wouldn’t know what to talk about. The fireworks? Beer? Coop? You’re too knackered to piece these things together into something comprehensible. All you want is to get home and make sure the two of them make it through the fucking night alive.

As your driveway comes into view, your pace quickens. You skip up the steps, triggering the automatic light. Bugs swarm the glowing bulb, a cloud of frantic movement. You scoop your key from your pocket and feed it into the lock. It slips in, nice and neat, metal teeth aligning before it clicks open.

You huddle inside, shouldering the door wide for them. Tommy steps in without hesitation, exhaling relief. He kicks of his sneakers, toeing them toward the wall. But Simon lingers outside, eyeing the road. Shoulders stiff, head cocked. Listening for something – or someone. You incline your head to see, but there’s nothing there. Just the shadow of him, stretched and swallowing up the copper, porch-lit gravel.

Once his instincts are satisfied, Simon steps forward. His expression is steeled as he brushes past you, so uncaring that it feels precise. Purposeful. Like he’s rationing out his interest, giving you only what he needs to. Tapping a nervous finger on the wood, you swing the door shut. There’s a sharp, final click.

“I’ll sleep in my dad’s room if one of you wanna take my bed,” you offer, peeling off your wellies heel to toe, one at a time. “There’s the couch downstairs, too. So, feel free to take your pick.” 

“Brilliant,” answers Tommy, a kind of agitated tone. His cheeks are still flushed pink, though he looks a little more sober now. “S’pose I’ll take the couch. You have a spare quilt or somethin’?”

“Uh- in the linen cupboard.” You gesture with your chin. “Should be a few in there. Use as many as you want. Or you can put the heater on. Bit far from the couch, though.”

“S’fine,” Tommy dismisses, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto the coat rack. It wobbles dangerously under the weight. “I’ll crash in a bit anyway. Won’t even notice.”

Your palms slip over your arms. “D’you want me to turn the light on or-”

Simon steadies the coat rack with a hand. “Don’t bother.”

Startled, your attention snaps to him. It’s been ages since he’s spoken to you that hearing the words almost feel wrong. Like you’re peeping in on a conversation not meant for you. Tommy pauses to look at each of you. If he notices the tension, he doesn’t point it out. Maybe he’s still a tad tipsy.  

“Bastard might see us in the window,” explains Tommy, swiping a finger under his nose. “Happened once awhile back when we were at the corner shop.”

You want to know more about that, but now’s not the time.

“Right,” you swallow, fingers tightening on the wrinkles of your elbows. “Better keep the curtains shut. But if you wanted to both sleep upstairs, I could take the couch.”

“Nah,” Tommy waves you off. His football socks, striped black and red, are already heading for the couch. “I’m fuckin’ zonked.”

“Well, stay as long as you need.”

“We’ll leave early,” assures Simon flatly. An instruction – one he’s giving to his brother, packaged up with a stern sidelong glance. “Understood?” 

Across the room, Tommy stares back. He seems like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He’s treading careful, you think. Like making Simon upset is an inevitability he knows well - the consequences burnt into the back of his skull. Tommy salutes in quiet understanding, as if he’s done it a hundred times before. As if he’ll do it a hundred more. He reclines back slightly into the crook of the couch.

You’re suddenly aware that it’s just you and Simon standing around in the entrance. Uncomfortable, you comb your hair back, twisting it into a loose knot. Too late, you realise you have nothing to tie it with.

“I might go upstairs and have a shower,” you mutter, holding your hair in place with one clawed hand. “I’ll come check on you after. Just make yourself at home, though.”

“Just pretend like we’re not here,” suggests Tommy. “I’ll be out cold anyway.”

Sure. That’ll be easy - with all the silence and ignoring and the psychological torture of Simon existing in the next room. Before you ascend the stairs, your eyes shoot to Simon. He seems on edge, holding the lump of his jacket in his arms, gaze gliding over the living room. There’s not much to see. The couch, the television, the coffee table are all dressed in shadow. He must be giving his eyes something to do – just to make sure he doesn’t slip up and look at you.

It reminds you of the first time he climbed into your room. How he’d stood in the dark, examining your things with mild interest. How he’d leaned close on the bed, lips searching for yours. Face dim in the low light. And the way he looked at you. Open, full. Like he couldn’t bear to shut his eyes. Like you were the only thing he’d ever want to see again.

Your stomach clinches. You retreat upstairs.

---

Half an hour later, you descend, hair still damp.

You’ve changed into a beige-coloured jumper, the cotton sticking in wet patches to your skin. The steam from the shower clings to your neck, smelling vaguely clinical – nothing like the cucumber and tea promised on the bottle. But you don’t mind. The shower did its job. Grounded you. Cleared your head.

Snores rumble through the living room. Following the sound, you find Tommy sprawled on the couch. He looks dead to the world. Laid on his side, wrapped in his own embrace, mouth half-open. You know he’ll get cold, so you tiptoe to the linen cupboard and bring back a tartan, woollen blanket. You drape it over him, lining the frayed edge up with his chin. Tommy stirs, clutching the warmth instinctively.  His eyelids twitch, and you wonder if he’s dreaming. Nothing bad, you hope. Nothing too real. Something good. Music, safety, better memories with Simon.

Sighing, you go to get a drink. Your socks meet the cold tiled floor of the kitchen, and you freeze. The curtain’s open, moonlight spilling in. Standing under the soft, glowing beam is Simon. He’s at the sink, head bowed low. Jacket discarded on the counter. He is covered in black - socks, a pair of sweats, and a wrinkled shirt in bunches around his elbows.

The faucet’s on, spewing out water. The thin line bursts against Simon’s bloodied knuckles, tinkling into the basin. Fuck. You should’ve offered him bandages sooner. You weren’t thinking straight.   

“You alright?”

Jaw twitching, Simon pushes the tap off.  “Fine.”

You step closer. Fold your arms. Lean a hip against the opposite bench. “I can get you some bandages,” you say gently. “Wrap up your hand like last time.”  

Over the sink, Simon splays his fingers. You can see that his knuckles aren’t ripped up too bad – not like last time. The blood has already dried into course, red pearls. But instead of easing your concern, he brings his hand into a fist.

“Like I said,” he murmurs, turning to face you. His eyes search for yours, brows collecting. “I’m fine, Bug.”

You falter, eyes dropping down to the nail polish on your thumb. The paint is chipped and naked in places, like a snake shedding its skin. You use a forefinger to chisel more off. This is all too hard, you think - pretending like you don’t care. Maybe he can do it, but you won’t. Heaving a breath, you lower yourself to the ground. Your palms find solid clay beneath your thighs.

“You know, you don’t have to be, fine” you mumble, voice shrinking. “I’m not.”

Simon hesitates. Then, sinks to the ground too. He budges up against a cupboard door, back straight, knees bent. His head falls to the wood behind him and he looks ahead of himself, stare reaching long and far. He’s not looking at anything in particular. At least, not in the physical world. He’s examining some troublesome thought – or memory – as if it’s been plaguing him for months.

“Neither am I.”

It’s spoken so calmly; you could have mistaken it for an admission of guilt. That must be how it feels to him. He’s grown up with a shark that hunts down children in the middle of the night. Showing weakness is no better than a death sentence. You picture the skulls he draws so often, and it somehow seems so fitting for him. The vacant, bottomless sockets. Hard, bone-white shell. Then you’re thinking of Coop and the crack of his cheek. Your stomach turns.

“What happened,” you frown, bringing your knees in close to your chest. “With Coop?”

He observes his knuckles in his lap. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, why’d you hit him like that?”

Lids narrowing, Simon cocks his head. Blunt, sharp, sardonic. As if he thinks this is a stupid question that doesn’t warrant a reply. The reaction is annoying. Because fuck, how are you meant to read his mind when he guards it so viciously? You stir in these thoughts, letting them churn around your brain. Getting angrier and angrier. The fridge hums. The clock ticks. Wind beats rhythms into the side of the house. Your heart thunders. Christ, you can’t fucking stand this anymore.

“What’d I do to make you hate me so much?

“Hate you,” he repeats, head tilting back. His eyes lock to yours. Almost accusing, like he doesn’t believe what he’s just heard. “You think I lost it on that geezer ‘cause I fuckin’ hate you?”

“So you don’t hate me then?” you press.

Simon inhales, irritated.

If you’re honest, you have no idea whether this means yes or no.

“You’re so confusing, you know that?” you mutter, teeth grinding together. “I mean, one minute, you’re honest to a fault an’ telling me you wanna keep an eye on me. Acting like we’re friends and all that load of absolute bollocks. Then the next minute, I don’t exist.”

“Keepin’ my distance is a strategy.”

“Oh sure,” you slap a hand on your knee. He’s listening along to your logic, very intently. Tracking each word. As alert as a hound hearing the cries of its prey. “Is going around beating up people that talk to me – keeping your distance? Is that a strategy too?”

“That was different,” he disagrees. “I should’ve kept avoidin’ you from the start.”

“No, you shouldn’t have kissed me,” you say. “You shouldn’t have come over mine for dinner. You shouldn’t have stayed the night-”

Simon’s concentration breaks, eyes flickering down as he shakes his head. “You’re right.” It comes out so dark and bitter that it almost feels like he’s laughing at himself. “It’s better if I jus’ leave you alone. But I’m too fuckin’ weak, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s the bloody truth,” he exhales, rising to his feet in one, fluid motion. His shadow wallows around the room as he paces. “Can’t protect my brother. Can’t protect you. Can’t even protect myself.”

“I never asked you to protect me,” you start, using the edge of the bench to lift yourself to a stand. “I just wanted us to be-”

“Bloody hell,” he snaps. “I don’t wanna be your fuckin’ friend.”

“I gathered as much.”

You taste a bitter laugh, but you can feel a tightness in your throat. Climbing up your face, into your cheeks. No, not now. You won’t fucking cry. You won’t. A palm scrapes over his hair, and you know he’s struggling to calm himself too. Struggling to work his words into something he has the stomach to tell you.

“Just be honest with me,” you ask, pitch wavering. You dig tired knuckles into your eyelids. “I can’t read your mind like you think I can.”

“Let’s not do this here,” he decides, gesturing to the door with his head. “Upstairs, yeah?”

Part of you feels unwilling to move. Unwilling to listen to anything he suggests, because of how maddening he is. But your control is unravelling, and you don’t want Tommy to see how mental you are. So, you follow him up the stairs. You’re running through different points you’d like to make. Days-worth of questions and demands racing through your mind.  You’re barely inside your room before you’re blurting out the loudest one.

“Okay. Tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” he repeats, crossing the room.

“It’s because of him, isn’t it?” you venture, palms flat on the door behind you. It shuts. “Your dad.”

Simon takes a deep breath and sits at your desk, knees far apart. His arms drop to his thighs, chest constricting and expanding as he thinks. You take the moment to wander to your mattress, sinking into the foam.

At last, he regards you, resigned. “Whatever Tommy’s told you’s just a drop in the ocean. S’not safe for you to be around him.”

“Then I don’t have to be around,” you reason, tucking a wet strand of hair behind your ear. “We can see each other at school and that’s that.”

“That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because-,” he breathes. “You’re a fuckin’ distraction. An’ it’s my job to be there for ‘em.”

“I- distract you?” you check, brows puckering. You tug a pillow onto your lap, wanting to hold onto something. It squishes under the weight of your elbows. “You mean, a distraction from being there for Tommy. For your Mum?”

Simon shrugs, which you take as confirmation. His eyes fall to a pile of books on your desk, stuffed with bookmarks and sticky notes. Hundreds of pages stacked together, millions of printed lines pressed between them. It’s almost funny. That was your life once. Chapter upon chapter. Predictable. Sectioned. Characters and places and events that you read about, but never took part in. But now you’re there on the page, in bold ink – some sort of villain in his book. He seems to be waiting for you to say something.

“I don’t understand what I’ve done that’s so distracting,” you admit. “Because I went to your house? I apologised for that – and besides, it was after-”

“S’just hard,” he interrupts, one lone finger tracing down the spine of the books. “Hard to be focused when I’m thinkin’ about you.”

You blink at him, a bit stunned. “You think about me,” is all you can say.  

Simon crushes a scrap of paper beneath his fist, avoiding your gaze. “All the time,” he murmurs, lowering his voice. “Sometimes feels like I can’t fuckin’ stop. Like that night I kissed you – couldn’t think of anythin’ else. Thought I’d go fuckin’ mad.”

You pause to absorb that, sucking in an apprehensive breath. You don’t want him to get the wrong idea, but your thoughts are proper fucking scrambled. Pressure squeezes at your temples and you can’t quite fathom what you’ve just heard. Something balls in your chest. Collecting like a dust ball; lint and fluff, hope and caution all tangling together. It’s going to come up your throat. You’ll suffocate if you don’t let it.

“I thought,” you choke out, “That when we talked about being friends-”

“Bug,” he says, dragging his palm down his face. You concentrate hard on his lips and the way he licks them, as if to give himself time to work himself up to whatever he’s holding onto. “It’s like I said. I don’t wanna be your friend. Alrigh’?”

You go silent. Simon tracks the look of recognition spreading over your face. And, as if he’s privately annoyed with himself, he returns to the books. Without a word, he starts taking the pile apart, creating a new one beside it. All four-corners straight and immaculate. You get this thought that this is how he sorts out his feelings, like he’s clipping them with a boxcutter. And fuck – those feelings are for you. He has feelings for you. The thought is almost paralysing.

You sit up, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Why’re you acting like that’s a bad thing?”

“It is.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” you croak, pushing the pillow on your bed. You can sense your heart wallowing in your chest, cheeks tingling with heat. “I – I don’t want to be your friend either.”

The book sorting stops. Then, after a moment, continues. Cautious, now. “Don’t.”

"Don't what?" Your legs slither closer to the edge of the bed. “Tell the truth?”  

Simon abandons the books. Stands, chair nudging back. He stays there for several seconds, almost unsure of himself, before coming over to the bed. The mattress squeaks as he sits, soles still decidedly rooted to the floor.

“I feel like myself when I’m around you,” you continue, moving to make a bit of room for him. “It feels like - like you see me. Like we’re the same.”

He contemplates that. Then, reclines onto the bed. Facing the ceiling, fingers steepled over his stomach, bloodied knuckles on top. When he speaks, it’s weak and cracked.

“You like me?”

You exhale a weight. “Yeah.”

A beat passes.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

“What?”

“You’re so bloody complicated. You know that?”

You hover over him, damp hair in rivers around your neck. “Speak for yourself.”

Simon shakes his head, like this is some sort of impasse. Two king pieces hopping around square after square, without purpose.

“I’m a dog with no fuckin’ control,” he warns, putting on a blank tone. “You saw it.”

“Coop was pissed and talking bollocks. Someone would’ve clocked him sooner or later-”

“You don’t get it,” he cuts in. “Just him bein’ near you. Thinkin’ you might’ve- I couldn’t even-.” He takes a moment to breathe, deep and long. “I’m no different than my old man. S’what I’m built for.”

“That’s not you,” you return, words thin and brittle. You feel like you’re on spitting, cracking ice. “You don’t hurt people for the sake of it. You - defend. And I like that. A lot.”

Simon takes in your words and studies you. You do the same, tracing his austere features with caution. He looks tired, you think. Haunted. With shadows curved beneath his eyes and blond, stiff curls framing his forehead. You’re so used to how composed he always seems. But there’s something honest about the way he is now. More honest than he’s ever been.

“Bug,” he says, fixing his attention to you. “I wish it could be different. Jus' - lemme pull the trigger an’ do the right thing.”

You sigh. “You mean be there for Tommy.”

“It’s better for you too.”

“How’s it better for me?”

“When you move.” He answers like its rote memory. Like he’s rationalised this over and over to himself. “It’ll be easier. On us both.”

There are words sweltering on your tongue, wanting to be said. That’s nothing to worry about. You’re not moving. You could keep in touch. See each other on a weekend. But the more these thoughts rattle on in your brain, the more you see them for what they are. Childish fucking fantasy. The truth is, that your old man's work is unpredictable. Changing all the time. And yeah, you'll probably move to the next place, even if you don't want to. That's just how it is. It's not fair on Simon. Not when he has other things that're more important to worry about.

Shutting your eyes, you ease onto your back. Neither of you say anything more. For a long time, your eyes trail the ceiling. The fan, hanging motionless up there. The bug chittering in the corner, freeing itself from a web. Acorns and sticks clamouring on the tin roof. The whole house feels frail, somehow. About to collapse, like it can’t keep itself standing anymore. There, in the dark, you decide you can’t keep fighting against something you can’t control. Can’t keep losing. Life doesn’t happen around you. It happens to you. Sweeps you into its crashing, consuming vortex. Washes you back onto the shore exactly where it wants you to go. If you struggle, it drags you under. Your lungs fill and it erodes you to the bone. You don’t get the things you want. You don’t get the life you want. But you can make it easier, at least. You can let the tide take you where it wills you to go – simply because you have no other choice.

You turn on your side to face him, a hand beneath your cheek. Sensing the movement, Simon’s jaw turns too. You know you will remember this moment later, and you’ll wish you had memorised his face. Long shape. Thin, piercing eyes. The slight frown in his mouth – almost sullen by design. And the way he looks at you. Open, full. Like he can’t bear to shut his eyes. Like you’re the only thing he ever wants to see again.

But you find yourself wanting to just look at him. Listening to his breath come and go. Relishing in the last few minutes you have before one of you might drift to sleep.

“Alright,” you whisper into the dark. Stiff and stale and eyes growing wet. “But when things aren’t so bad at home-”

“Then I’ll find you,” he says. “Alrigh’?”

“Alright. Just don’t forget me.”

“Never, Bug.”

Lids half closed, you put your hand to his chest. His heartbeat kisses your palm. Faint. Delicate. Promise? you want to ask, searching between his eyes. And Simon crosses his arm with yours, placing his hand on your chest. Holding it there, in answer.

---

Thirty days.

Someone is thumping on the door.

Yawning, you stretch out of bed and stagger mindlessly to the window. The angle’s shite, you don’t see a thing. Maybe you just dreamt it. You rub your eyes with the heels of your palms and turn around. The bed’s barren. Scrunched up sheets. Lumpy pillows. Silence. Almost like he was never there. Simon must have ducked out before you woke, just like he promised. Tommy too. You remember last night, a deep well in your stomach.

Several more thumps. Louder, this time. Urgent.

Fuck, it must be him, you realise. Tugging on a cardigan, you race down the stairs. He’s changed his mind. Or just forgotten something. You don’t care which. Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears. You skid to a stop in front of the door, making sure to flatten your hair a bit. Then you take a breath. Undo the latch. Open it, smiling.

But it’s not Simon.

Two soldiers stand outside. Clean shaved and dressed in pressed, olive uniforms. Ceramic buttons shining in the morning light.

One takes off his peaked cap. “Is this Lieutenant Blake’s house?”

It takes a moment to remember how to speak. “Uh - yes.”

“Right. D’you mind if we come in?”

Chapter Text

Pet,

The others reckon these things are bad luck. I guess I’m not scared of death. But I am afraid of leaving you alone, and I’ve got a feeling you’d appreciate this sort of thing.

I know we’ve gone over this, and the plan hasn’t changed. If Murphy makes it back, he’ll come get you and bring you to my cousin’s out in Cornwall. Murphy’s gonna help sort out all the stuff with the house and your inheritance. He’ll keep a close eye on you, alright? Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. He’s a bit much and likes to have a laugh, but that old bastard’s my best mate. I know he’ll do whatever he can for you.  

Doubt you’ll let him, of course. I know you prefer to deal with things your own way – in your own head. You’ve always been that way. Stuck in your head and thinking about christ knows what. It’s funny, actually. Lately, I’ve been thinking about when I used to pick you up from preschool. You remember that classroom with the green carpets?

Well, I’ve never told you this. But when I’m out here, I shut my eyes and I’m there again, picking you up. You’re about 5, and I can picture you running out to the gate all happy to see me, jumping up in my arms. We’d go pack your stuff and your teachers would go on about how they couldn’t get you to stop daydreaming. Shit, that always made me laugh. What was I meant to say, eh? I’m the exact same. Your mum loved it about me. I love it about you.

That was so long ago now. But somehow, it still feels like it was yesterday. Guess I’ve missed a lot of things since then, haven’t I? If you're reading this, it means I’ll miss a lot more too. I’m sorry for that, pet. I wish I could've seen you grow into the woman I know you’ll become. But I’ll still be watching. Cheering you on to keep fighting, pet. Always keep fighting. And if you need me, just shut your eyes. I’m right there with you.

Ah – time to go.  

Love you with all my heart, Dad.

---

One day.

There’s just one day left until you move. The first thing you do is mark the number down on your notebook – a single black digit, short and stout. Then you tuck it in your bag. Make your bed, keeping the sheets meticulous. Have a cup of tea – no milk, no sugar. And head out, tugging his beanie on to shield yourself from the cold.

Your wellies trail down the street, sloshing through mirrored puddles. Cracking short, sharp branches beneath your footsteps. Kicking bottles dumped along the pavement. You reach the corner shop right after it opens, automatic doors gliding open. Silent, you sweep in, heading straight for the cold section. You know where to go. The fridges line the back wall, their glass doors scratched and powdered with frost. Inside are row upon row of bottles, cartons and jugs of milk. Each of them seems to wait, in their little humming incubator, to be selected. You’re not sure how long you stand there, staring. Ten minutes, an hour, three. Time doesn’t seem to matter much. Nothing seems to matter much. When your feet start to prickle with numbness, you curl your fingers around one of the doors and open it. Cool air belts you. You reach in, grab a small bottle of skim milk. Take it to the counter. Purchase it.

When you leave the store, you think about going back. You imagine going to the bus stop and seeing Simon there. Telling him what’s happened. Mumbling some apologies and somehow managing out a goodbye. But something tells you that this wouldn’t be fair on him. When you move, it’ll be easier. Maybe he’s right about that. You hope he is. So instead, you take the train out to Southport. It takes just over an hour. You spend it jostling in your chair, taking mouthfuls of skim milk until the bottle’s finished.

By mid-morning, you’re wandering along the shoreline. Holding your wellies, you trace along its edge until other people are dots in the distance. Ocean seethes white over sand. Shells and pebbles shimmer wet. Billowing waves crash and tumble out beyond the break. The wind spits salt and water on your skin, and your feet are stinging from the cold. Eventually, you come to a stop. In a place where there’s nothing. Nothing ahead and nothing behind. The beach stretches on and on, golden miles of isolation. Your fingers go to the bug tag dangling around your neck, and you look out to the sea. It’s so private here that it feels like time stops. There, with the sun in your eyes, you can almost picture your dad. You imagine him tugging a shirt on over his inked skin, complaining about how the swell’s not good enough for a surf. You imagine muttering some sort of tease about how he’s rubbish at it either way, and he’d laugh. Long and full of life. And you imagine two lads dredging through the water just behind him, their blond hair glittering gold. Just chatting, maybe, with nothing to worry about. The whole thing makes you smile.

It’s been one day since your dad’s been gone. You wish you could stay here, in this pocket of imagination, forever. But you know you can’t. You will keep fighting, like he wants you to. So, you bring yourself out of your reverie. Turn. And let life whir back into motion.

Chapter Text

Ten Years Later

Rabbit wakes up at seven.

He wastes no time in coming down the staircase, bare-footed and chest parading a dark thicket of hair. Draped over his shoulders is a white towel, which he grips tight. Like a fighter, striding into the ring. You wait in the pool room, hands crossed in front of you. The second he walks in you push back the bifold doors. Morning light cascades across the beige tiles. It glares over the pool too, the water still and gleaming. Rabbit doesn’t say a word. He drops his towel on the stone, stretches his arms, and dives. The surface splits, clean. He’s enveloped under. Then, it’s a rhythm of waves. Water lapping at the edges of the tiles.

You linger, watching his arms slice through a lap. You’ve seen this routine long enough to know the number of strokes he takes to reach the other end. Twelve. Always twelve. Sometimes, when he gets there, he wants you to get his towel or put music on. So, you wait. He might need something from you. Maybe one day, he might even realise who you are. What you are, hiding beneath that plain, black uniform. But not now. Now, rabbit continues cutting through the water. So, you get back to work.

There are several things to be done while rabbit’s taking his morning dip. First, grind a handful of coffee beans. Brew it in the press. Put some oats and water on the stove until it simmers thick. Then you go upstairs and fix up rabbit’s room. It’s an old Italian villa, so the master bedroom is beautiful and timeworn. Tanned wooden floors, with darker veins etched into the grains. Large windows and thin white frames. Gold, embroidered curtains bunched together with decorated pins. Old, intricate furniture to match – a chest of drawers, dressing table, and a bed with posts that reach the ceiling. Everything smells like old wealth in here. The wood. The leather. The dust.

Your cleaning routine is simple. Make the bed. Pick up rabbit’s clothes. Dust the furniture. Wipe down the benches in the ensuite. It’s a grim job, but you do as you’re expected. You do as you’re told. And when all falls silent, and the room is in perfect order, you lock the door.  

There are three bugs. In a way, these bugs are like rabbit’s fleas. Small, discrete receivers with little wires that poke out like antennas. Each are perched in their own private nesting place. One under the ceiling light, another behind the power switch plate, and the last inside the smoke alarm. You check each, making sure he hasn’t come too close to them. But like always, he hasn’t. Each are undisturbed, cocooned in shadow.

By the time you’re back in the kitchen, rabbit has finished his swim. He’s leaning against the countertop, hips wrapped in a sopping towel. Behind him are a trail of damp footprints. He’s staring into his coffee, brows all pinched, listening to someone mumbling in Italian on the phone. The device sits nestled between an arched shoulder and a crinkled earlobe. Whatever conversation he’s having – it’s proper tense. He doesn’t seem to care he’s dripping pool water everywhere. In his world, being uncaring like this is almost a kindness. People with ties to terrorists and syndicates aren’t always so level-headed. But even if rabbit has no interest in treating his subordinates with malice, he likes the power of indifference. Power. That’s all men like rabbit want. They’ll do anything to get it, too. Arms trafficking, drugs, extortion, fraud. Pick a crime, he's done it. He’s stamped out the fucking bingo book.

As quiet as you can, you creep over to circle a wooden spoon through the oats. Thick but not gluggy. Brilliant. You transfer it into a bowl and top the whole thing with ribbons of maple syrup. Rabbit nods for you to leave it on the bench. But then, as if remembering something, he muffles the phone with his chest and summons you back with a hand. You halt.

“Jelena,” he addresses, in English, “You weren’t in your bed last night.”

“Sir?”

“I went to your room last night,” explains rabbit, pressed. He’s watching your reaction with care- a stare that feels longer than usual. “There was a glass smashed in the kitchen. You were nowhere to pick it up.”

“My mistake,” you manage, bringing a hand to your chest for emphasis. Under your palm, you can feel the dull thud of your heart. “I wasn’t aware a glass was broken-”

“That’s because I cleaned it myself,” he huffs a laugh, as if this proves his point. “So where were you, Jelena?”

“Out near the street,” you lie, putting on a nervous voice. Jelena is the type to act meek. “Speaking with my son on the phone. I – I didn’t wish to wake anyone in the house.”

Thinking this over, rabbit walks over to the kitchen island, where his oats are. His reflection is mirrored in the pristine, black granite. The ceiling light hits the surface too, like yolk split on a pan. Plucking up a spoon, he pokes into the bowl, testing the consistency of his oats. Almost - suspicious.

Your eyes wander to the locked window behind him. Sitting under the sill are a set of kitchen knives. There’s about six – tucked into a wooden block, all different shapes and sizes. Thick, silver handles just begging to be taken. Begging to skin a rabbit.

His eyes snap to yours. “And?”

There’s a pause.

“And sir?”

“Your son,” he says expectantly, rotating the spoon. Slow, painful. Metal scraping ceramic. The kitchen clock ticks overhead. “You spoke with him last night, no? Well, how is he?”

Your fingers go to the old bug tag sitting under your shirt. You flatten it beneath the fabric, tracing those familiar grooves. The truth is, there is no son. Having a child makes you more relatable, though. And rabbit can’t know that last night, you were outside giving a sit-rep to Fox.

“He’s having trouble getting to sleep,” you frown. “My mother does her best, but it’s difficult to be separated for so long. As you must know being apart from your own, sir.”

This is the one topic he hates. Family – an utter headache for him. Just like you expect, rabbit drops his spoon into the oats like he’s realised his breakfast is spoilt.

“Very well Lena,” he says, bringing the phone back to his ear. “From here on, you take your phone calls in the house.” He’s already turning away, dismissively. “Go on.”

Sucking in your breath, you leave.

---

Morning wanes.

You tug on a jacket and go to finish up in the garden. It’s bright, small, quiet, which you like. In the centre is a gravel roundabout, where the Mercedes is parked. Around it, shrubs are flowering with sprigs of white myrtle, and bees whizz between green, leathered leaves. You’re adjusting the sprinklers, dragging them over to different spots to make sure everything gets watered the same amount. The air’s warm – melting in droplets down your neck and soaking the hem of your shirt. Black clothes trap the heat, but it’s all you own. This is deliberate. Necessary.

“You burnt the coffee,” mutters a voice behind you, in Serbian. “It’s put him in a bad mood this morning.”

Slipping on a smile, you turn to see rabbit’s driver leaning against the boot of the car. He’s nothing too threatening. Big shoulders but about average height. Olive, sun-tanned skin. Hair that’s curled, dark and short. Like always, he’s wearing that brown corduroy jacket, the heel of a pistol peeking out from his inner breast pocket. You do your best not to look at it.

“Is that so?” you ask, arching a playful brow. “If I’m lucky, he’ll replace me.”

“You think you're so easily replaced?”

“Aren’t we?”

The way his shoulder bounces means he doesn’t want to speak of that. “I heard you were out late last night, talking to your boy.”

Turning back to your task, you lower yourself down to push one of the sprinkler heads further into the brush. Pebbles dig into your knees. “So, he’s sharing my secrets again.”

“We’re not allowed secrets, Lena,” he tuts.

Even with your back to him, you can tell that he’s teasing. Driver’s been doing more of that lately. Just last week, you had been wiping down the front gate. It was about dusk, the night siphoning all the colour in the sky. Driver had come out and offered you a cigarette. You’d accepted. Several minutes passed, smoke wafting around the garden. Between puffs, driver had talked about his hometown and the sweet crepes his mother used to make. You had spoken a little about growing up in the mountains and raising a son as a single parent. He'd listened intently because he likes Jelena the housekeeper. That much is clear. He thinks there’s a real person there, behind the feigned smiles, the black uniform, the callouses encasing your palms. He sees someone he can joke with. Feel kinship with. Someone who shares his past.

You might have understood that once. A long time ago, you had wanted nothing more than to feel seen. To be in one place and one time and maybe let yourself feel - attached. But time’s a strange thing. It doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. Doesn’t discriminate. It strikes out the seconds with relentless ambition. No hesitation or falter in its beat. It doesn’t care if you catch up with it or not. It'll take you, kicking. Dragging. Screaming. But not you. The daft girl that wanted those things died in Manchester when your dad did. Perhaps she's buried six feet under too. And since then, life has been constant motion.  Chapter after chapter. Faces and places rotating on a carousel. You cannot get off. You know that now. Everything else was just childish fantasy. There was never a point in fighting it. So, you have learnt to adapt. Become flexible. Move where you’re needed. Become whoever is needed, for the mission. Your name, your face, your past. None of it matters. It is instinctual behaviour now, to be invisible.

Sprinkler in place, you crawl out of the garden bed to flick them on. There’s a sharp hiss, then water spits and sparkles in the air. Driver is watching you work, arms folded.

“Don’t you have things to do?” you joke.

“Ah,” he wipes a hand over his forehead, collecting sweat. “Boss mopes around in the house. I wait until he needs me. The work never ends, eh?”

You scoff, setting your hands on your hips. “If only we could switch places.”

“You couldn’t do the things I do, Lena.”

“No?”

Driver’s expression is focused. “No.”

“Don’t let him hear you sound so miserable,” you chide, nodding back at the house. “You never know, maybe tomorrow he learns our language." You count out your fingers. "Hears how miserable you are. Hears how miserable I am. Hears how we gossip about him. Then you and I will both be fucked, eh?” 

“Gossip?” driver laughs and spits on the ground. “It’s conversation, Lena. What else is there to talk about out here? In the middle of nowhere, where the wolves fuck?”  

You don’t get the chance to respond, because the front door is thrust open. Striding outside is rabbit, dressed in smart slacks and a thin, linen shirt - the sort of attire reserved for business meetings. He’s fixing his sleeves, darting down the steps, ducking in through the car door that driver dutifully opens.

Nodding farewell, driver steps in behind the wheel. The engine stirs. Rocks grind and crunch. Driver spins the steering wheel, inching the car toward the gate. You go to open it, pulling back the iron with a shriek. Slow and careful, the tyres ease onto the bitumen. Rabbit’s window glides down, and he peers at you from within.

“Jelena, take the dogs out while I’m gone. And the towels-”

A small smile grows on your lips. “Yes, sir.”

It takes a moment for the exhaust to stutter awake. From the gate, you watch, attention sharp. The car shrinks down the street, blinkers indicating right. Then it whirls around the corner and you’re alone.

There are several things to be done while rabbit’s out. First, you’ll take the dogs for a walk. Wash and hang the towels. Iron the clothes. Disinfect, here, there. Cover up all the imperfections; the grime and the mould of something that must have rotted in the bathtub, and the carpet stains that won’t budge without bleach. It’s a grim job, but you do as you’re expected. You do as you’re told. And when it’s all done, you collect what you can. Photographs, samples, recordings and anything that can be used under the magnifying glass of a court. All undetected. All under the guise of a simple, polite housekeeper. It's perfect, really.

Because no one knows just how good housekeepers are at hunting rabbits.

Chapter Text

Assets maintain control.

Always. It’s a cardinal rule. One of the first lessons you learnt when you were spotted for secret intelligence. You have a particular knack for it. The scout who pulled you from basic training said that’s why you were chosen. That, if you wanted to, you could sharpen it. You did.

Control is the fulcrum. It’s in everything. In the precise squares of tucked, folded linen. The consistent hum of the vacuum. Flour, measured to the exact gram. The timer on the oven, shrill and half-deafening. It’s in your voice – the accent, the cadence, down to the fucking pitch. You control the details you choose to give. Curated, deliberate. You match expressions. Language. The number of sugars someone takes in their coffee. You strengthen one trait and suppress another, like fine-tuning an instrument. Perhaps control is what binds you together, cell upon cell. Perhaps it burns through your veins like a sedative shot. You don’t know if that’s restricting. Or freeing. Doesn’t matter, either way.

It takes ten minutes to walk to the supermarket. No more, no less. Scattered, sunburnt clouds glide overhead; sparrows peck at bugs from the grass. The street crests, giving you a glimpse of the ocean. You pause just a moment. Sailboats are dotted over the water, which wavers with the wind into millions of crinkles. Cheeks cold, you spend just a minute taking it in. No more, no less. You can’t fuck around. You have a job to do.

You cross the street to head into the store. Like it’s welcoming you, the doors sweep open. Inside, you’re saturated with stimulation. Cans, packets, price tags demanding attention. People dropping and picking up things on the scanning belt. Clinical, forgettable music on the speakers. A toddler shouting in a pram and his mother looking around, flustered. No one seems to notice them, like she thinks. The shoppers just wander idle, pushing along carts or holding crates in the crook of their arms. Each of them keeps to themselves, absorbed in their task.

You do too. It makes most sense to start in the produce section. It’s quiet there. Spaced-out enough that people aren’t stumbling over each other. There, a simple, good-natured housekeeper could chat with an old friend on the phone. You yank a trolley from the stack. Stub your earpieces in. Flick your pocket radio on.

“Fox, this is Bug.”

Nothing – the line’s quiet. You give it a moment, picking up a sprig of celery and placing it in your trolley. When it’s been long enough, you try again.

“Fox, this is Bug. You hear me?”

Another long second passes. You stop in front of a row of broccoli, waiting for an answer. At last, there’s a thin crackle in the swell of your ears.

“Yeah, yeah comin’ through, Bug.”

Exhaling, your pace resumes. “Hell took you so long?”

“Lot o’ shit goin’ on my way,” explains Fox, ripe with frustration. “Been a bit preoccupied, if you know what I mean. By the way, anyone ever tell you that patience is a virtue?”

“Once or twice.” You stop to inspect a packet of blueberries, then put them back. “Is there anything I should know?”

“Few communication errors between departments on our end,” she levels, but it sounds like she’s caging the extent of it. “Bloody gurt migraine all around, that’s for sure.”

Part of you wants to ask more. Prod and poke and see what else could be bothering her. But you know you can’t. Fox is an intelligence officer, with a caseload of rabbits and a pack of assets chasing them. You don’t know much about her. She’s been the shapeless voice in your ears - nonchalant and unhurried, with a round, full accent that you reckon is Bristolian. You like to think she’d be the type to comment on politics at the dinner table, nibbling coolly on an almond between sips of white port. You never let yourself imagine more than that. It’s better not to know. Better to be distant. Better to look in the other direction if you ever heard that voice in civilian life.

“Took some pain killers, I hope?” you ask, running your eyes over a shelf of herbs, swathed in cellophane. Most of them seem browned and wilted, so you wheel on.

“Don’t need anyone t’rock my cradle, Bug.” She laughs a bit, but it’s humourless. “S’good now, mind you.”

“How reassuring.”

“So, wha’s the status on your Siberian friend? If he goes informant, I could pull you. Relocate you for somethin’ else. Somethin’ better.”

If you’re honest, you’re not sure driver will turn informant. He likes Jelena, sure. Rapport can help with that too. But he has a kind of respect for rabbit, even if he doesn’t always show it. That doesn’t mean his head can’t be turned, but these things need time. If you make an approach before you’re certain, all the seeds you’ve been planting will rot.

“I’m working on it,” you sigh. “Just need a bit more time to work on the approach, alright? Patience is a virtue.”

There’s a snort. “Ah - so they say.”

You side-step nearer to the cold section to avoid a slender old man. Goosebumps tickle at your forearms. You don’t want to stop at the fridges. Don’t want to look at them - the glass doors, the milk cartons, the ache that they always bring. No, you need to maintain control. So, you veer back to the fruit. Strawberries, bananas, pineapples, and specks of flies whizzing around them. You stop at a wicker basket filled with plums. Each are deep purple, though pockmarked. Piled together in a cautiously placed house of cards.

“I’ll be on the trail tonight,” you continue. “Rabbit’s going to a friend’s for dinner. He’s informed me that I’ll be helping. Can you be on comms around twenty hundred hours?”

She hums, as if she’s a parent deciding whether you’re still grounded. “What for?”

“I’ve got a good feeling he’s gonna lead me to wonderland. More rabbits than you can count, that sorta thing.”

Fox whistles. “Lush fuckin’ music to my ears, that.” You can hear the faint thud of a keyboard typing. “You gonna need a hound t’help you out or?”

You contemplate that, clasping the handles of your trolley. There’s a bit of unease writhing in your stomach. You’re not opposed to it. Hound fixes problems - that’s what he’s good at. He’s helped you in a bind. Been there when you needed a second pair of hands. Steps in when accidents happen, or when things need to look like an accident. But Hound’s moral compass is a little off kilter.

“Oi,” prods Fox on the radio. “You still there or what?”

You pick a plum up to inspect it. Wax-like skin yielding under yours. It’s clean. Perfect, round, unmarked. Smells somewhere between sweet and tart. Decided, you place it in your trolley.

“I don’t mind dogs,” you tell her. “But keep him kennelled tonight.”

There’s a pause on the other end.  “Suit yourself, then.”

---

On the ride to the villa, you keep silent.

You jostle against the leather, your cold fingers knotted in your lap. Driver sits in the front seat, coaxing the steering wheel with little effort. You can see the slip of his brow in the rearview mirror, but you don’t get to see his expression. His black-tinted window is cracked a bare inch - enough to make wind whistle through the car. The noise irritates your ears, but you tolerate it. Like always, rabbit is on the phone. He’s beside you, an elbow on the sill, muttering to his wife. I’ll be back in a few weeks, no I won’t be gone so long next time love, tell him I’ll buy him a race car if he’s good. Just a load of meaningless, empty promises. You’ve heard it all.

When the car rolls to a stop, it’s half-light. From the window, you can spot stars beginning to peek through the clouds. Driver clicks off the engine, as smooth as he can. You wait for rabbit to climb out before you do, retrieving a basket of fruit from the floor-mat. Doors thump, footsteps crunch.

The villa is much larger than rabbit’s. Stucco walls; a mosaic of terracotta tiles. Large, iron gates and hedges around the side, arranged in a decorative maze. Solar lights peep out of the garden, brightening by the minute. Coming down the front steps, a hare opens his arms to greet rabbit. There’s no hug, though. The pair stop short of an embrace, choosing to shake hands instead. Clinging to the fruit basket, you hang back and watch. Driver does the same, pulling out a cigarette as he leans against the car. It’s always odd to see rabbit with his superiors. When he’s with them, it’s as if all his power gets stripped off and he’s quivering without a pelt.

Thankfully, the pleasantries are kept to a minimum. Rabbit follows his host through the house, abandoning you at the door, directing his eyes up like he’s taking stock of the place. Alone, you navigate the labyrinth of rooms before you eventually find the kitchen. There, a woman is chopping peanuts on the bench. Sun-warmed skin and a similar black uniform to yours. She looks so concentrated that it almost feels wrong to disturb her. When she notices you, she wipes her hands on her hips like this is some sort of greeting.

“Is that for tonight?”

“Yes,” you answer. You surrender the basket of fruits to her. “Is that alright?” 

She doesn’t confirm or deny, just takes the fruit and slides it on the bench. Towering over it is a cake tier covered in miniature marmalade tarts. Edges burnt amber, just the right amount. Their tops layered with strips of pastry – in criss-cross patterns.

“We’ll serve them with dessert,” she decides, already fetching another cutting board. The wood is pushed into your stomach. “You can prepare them yourself; I hope.”

She stares at you then, expectant, as if she wants you to demonstrate you can listen. This is a result of bad experiences with other housekeepers, you think. But still, it stings. Feeling a bit like a child, you line up an apple and slice it into chunks. Satisfied, she returns to her work.

The two of you chop in silence, side by side. Knives pounding on wood. Every so often, she goes to check on the chicken sizzling on the pan, keeping a safe distance from the crackling oil. She has no idea how much your attention is trained on her. How much you’re learning about her. Putting the pieces together. Her red, sleek nails. Slight clicking in her wrist – maybe an old injury. Black stockings. No wedding band on her finger. When she comes back to cut up something else, you can see she’s wearing a lot of makeup. It clogs in her middle-aged wrinkles, like a tide washing over parched ground; seeping into all the cracks and fissures, giving it another life.

Swallowing, you put on a conversational tone. “Will there be others helping us tonight?”

“Two or so more girls are expected to join us,” she answers, turning the chicken with tongs. “Late, as usual.”

You pluck the plum from the fruit basket and set it on the cutting board. “What’s so special about tonight?”

Her brows contort, and you sense it’s because she’s just realised your Italian isn’t native. That you’re different, somehow. Maybe she can’t be bothered with correcting you, because she shrugs. 

“Negotiating,” she tells you, grinding salt over the pan. “My employer is hosting an important guest here.”

You cut into the plum, piercing its perfect, slick skin. “Oh? Who?”

Rather than answering, the housekeeper thinks about this, chewing into her bottom lip. “He’s Russian,” she says, enunciating the words like she’s keeping them in line. “That’s all I know.”

Russian?

Something about that makes your skin spike. You realise you’ve been staring and switch your gaze down to your hands. Your knuckles are wet, stained and sticky with the plum’s blood. Its uneven halves lie there on the wood, like a dissected animal with its pitted heart on show.

You hum with feigned casual interest, “So have you gotten a peek?”

A dainty smile forms on her lips. “I brought him coffee this morning.”

“And?”

“What?”

“Well,” you shake the knife toward her. “Is he handsome or what?”

This is a gamble. But intelligence work always is. Holding and folding without knowing what’s in the pot. But it seems to work, because she tips her head back and laughs.

“Well,” she returns, trimming off her giddiness. “Yes, I think so.”

“You must know more,” you beam. “Is he married?”

Considering this, she looks down the hall to check that no one is coming. It’s a wise thing to do. Gossiping like this is a risk. If anyone were to walk in – or hear–

After a moment, she abandons the chicken and sweeps over to you. “I didn’t see a wedding ring. All I’ve heard is that he’s the leader of a group of men,” she whispers, a pleased wrinkle in her nose. “Ex-special forces in Russia.”

You gasp, then make a concerted effort to look around as if you’re scared of being heard. You aren’t, though. You just want her to think that you’re in this together.

“So what’re these Russian supermen planning?”

“Their leader moves from place to place,” she murmurs, and you think she’s enjoying that she has the inside scoop. “Apparently, tonight, the bosses are helping him make arrangements to travel to-”

There’s a loud pop. Her head whips to the pan of chicken. Oil is spitting against the splashback. Cursing, the woman hurries over.

This all feels wrong. This feels bad – like you’ve just unknowingly stepped in fucking shit. Your eyes fall back to the plum and its ruptured, purple membrane. Your throat feels strange and constricted. Then, you see it. A small, brown worm wriggling out of the plum’s pale-yellow flesh.

“Sorry,” you ask, “But where’s the bathroom?”  

She points with her tongs. “Down the hall, the second door on the right.”

Muttering a thanks, you shake the plum juice from your hands and follow her directions. Your legs move fast. Pace eager. You elbow the door open. Lock it behind you. Rush to the sink, screwing your eyes shut. Your turtleneck collar feels suffocating, so you tug at it to get some air. Breathe, you think. Just breathe. It takes a moment for your lungs to respond. Inhale. Exhale. Rising and falling. Shoulders moving with flow, in your reflection. It takes some time, but you regain composure.

There’s no need to be a fucking bellend. No need to lose your head. Sure, these rabbits are a little bigger than expected, but you can handle it. There’s nothing you can’t handle. You’re breathing even again. Relieved, you clean your hands and then get out your radio. Switching it on, you bring it to your lips.

“Fox,” you whisper. “This is Bug. I’m in the villa.”

“Bug-,” she blurts, immediate. “Fuck - I couldn’t get through. You shut off your fuckin’ radio or somethin’?”

“I was gonna check in soon,” you defend, startled. You lean a hand against the sink. “It’s safer for me to-”

“Listen, it doesn’t matter anymore,” she cuts. “You need to get the fuck out o’ there. Get off the X.”

You’re not sure you heard that right. “That could fucking compromise me, Fox.”

“Too late for that, mate,” she laughs, insistent and cold. “You’ll just have to abandon it. D’you understand me?”

Your fingers tighten around the sink. “Tell me what I'm dealing with here.” 

“Fuck’s sakes, you don’t have time for this,” she barks, getting frustrated now. “I’m trackin’ armed blokes – about eight of ‘em coming up on the house. Kitted to the fuckin’ teeth-”

You go still, heart ticking. “Rival gang?”

“Honestly, looks like some sort of special ops.”

“Fuck-”

The word catches in your throat. You pace backwards, eyes darting around the bathroom, looking for something useful. There’s not much jumping out at you. A shower. Mirror. Exhaust fan. Lights. Sink. Toilet. Above it, a small slip of a window that you’d never fit through. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You’ll have to go back through the house. Somehow, you’ll have to sneak out.

“Are they Italian? Russian?”

“Can’t tell,” she responds, a bit steadier. “The satellite’s not clear enough. Italian, I assume. Pricks look ready for a fight. Must be raidin’ the house.”

Yeah, you can’t blame them. It’s a fucking farmhouse. Rabbits. Hares. Russian fucking terrorists. The lot.  Scrambling over to the door, you lean a shoulder against it. There’s no sound coming from the other side. Fuck, your temples are throbbing.

Fox sounds impatient. “What’re you doin’?”

“Trying to fucking think.”

“Look, whatever you do, don’t let ‘em take you in,” orders Fox, serious. “If it’s mafia, you’re fucked. If its government sanctioned, we’re fucked.”

She’s right. You know she is. Assets can’t get caught. Can’t get compromised.

“Alright,” you breathe, steeling yourself. Your sweated palm goes to the handle. “I’m gonna have to go dark. If I don’t respond in ten minutes-.”

“Copy. Good luck, Bug.”

The radio goes silent.

You uncurl your turtleneck and drag it up above your nose, like a balaclava. Luck. Bunch of fucking bollocks. You don’t need it. Assets maintain control. Always. It’s a fucking cardinal rule. Control binds you together, cell upon cell. It burns through your veins, adrenaline beating in your blood. Maybe that’s restricting. Or freeing. Or maybe that’s just what it takes.

Doesn’t matter, either way.

Chapter Text

It’s a puzzle.

That’s what you tell yourself as you ease the bathroom door open. Getting out of this fucking villa is just a puzzle. The sort you’d solve when relaxing, sunken in some cheap camping chair, toes wet with soil and a rolled-up magazine balanced over your knee. It’s just like Sudoku, you think. Except, the villa is the grid. Its halls and passages the columns and rows. The people, the numbers.

Some numbers are set in ink – the housekeeper in the kitchen, rabbits in the entertainment room, drivers out the front. But others are unknown. You don’t know what direction the soldiers are coming from. You don’t know when or what their strategy will be. You’ll just have to guess your odds. Trial and error.

When the door’s wide enough, you duck your head through the gap to look down the hall. Your nose shines the same yellow hue of the ceiling light. You check left. Right. Left, again. No movement. You keep crouched. Low. Tug your collar higher up your nose and move. You retreat down the hall. There’ll be some forgotten room with a window you can fit through. And if you keep moving – light, quick, eager – you might make it. Might.

Wind soughs around the villa. Then there’s a gentle pecking on the roof that sounds like the start of rain. That’s good. Rain suppresses noise; covers tracks. Inherits the trail of breadcrumbs you might unintentionally leave behind. Somewhere behind you, there’s a metal clamour. It rings down the hall, makes you pause to pulse check. It’s coming from the kitchen. Clinking, as if the housekeeper could be rummaging through a box of silverware. You regain your focus and keep going. You won’t be able to help her now. Even if you had more time, the risk would be too high.

At the end of the hall, you pass a window. It’s small and rectangular, with a view of the side of the villa. The outdoor lights are off, so all you can see is a strip of gravel. Tassels of grass. Specks of rain sparkling atop delicate, flat pebbles. Your chest feels tight with anticipation. Running your fingers along the window frame, you search for a latch or a handle. Nothing. You search again, just to make sure. The thing’s welded fucking shut. Maybe you could break it open. Force it. Christ - no time. Frustrated, you pivot.

Before you can get far, you’re stopped.

Beaming through the glass is a searchlight. It stuns you, bathing you in sickly blue. You have to clinch your eyes shut. Spots of brightness dance behind the curtain of your lids. You feel your eyes twitching but you find the courage to open them again. For a fleeting moment, your sight is wet and jumbled. Like a distorted reflection. It takes a few blinks to recover. And when you do, the flashlight’s gone. There’s just gravel. Rain. The black chasm of night.

But you know someone’s seen you.

Fuck. Blood thumps in your throat. Time’s running out. There’s no need to be careful now. Half-standing, you rush down the hall. It merges with another corridor, several old doors on either side just screaming to be tried. You choose the first door on your left, fingers coiling around the knob. Thank fuck, it’s unlocked. The wood rasps. You slither through the narrow opening and into the dark, shutting the door behind you.

You’re in a bedroom.

The air’s cold – smells of dust. It must be for guests, because there’s not much furniture. In the corner is a plain, quilted bed. Near the window, an armoire looms tall. Window. You cross the room fast, hoping to hell this is a clear exit. Your hand draws back the curtain, folds of velvet crushing together. And fuck – instant relief. The window’s already half open.

Poking your head out, you feel your face go cool. Droplets spit from above. Beyond is some sort of nature strip - the edge of a forest. Your eyes flit to shadows moving amongst the trees. Looks like two men – but you can’t see them well. The most you can gather is that they’re clad in black, kitted in gear. Their weapons are poised as they scan the perimeter of the post-card perfect villa. You drop back down, curling beneath the windowsill to hide. Your mind is racing. Thoughts zipping round a bitumen track. You’ll need to time this well. Wait until the two are gone. Wait for a distraction of some kind.

You don’t have to wait long.

Glass shatters from the other end of the villa. You freeze, listening to the swell of noise. Muffled shouts. Crashing. Thumping. Gunshots pulsing through your palms on the floor. Death. You don’t see it. But you can feel it. You dart up again to see if you’ve got a clear path now. You don’t. The men are still there, dutifully keeping the perimeter in check or watching for runners. Either way, it’s a proper fucking problem. If you run now, you’ll be shot on sight. You take a moment to find your breath. This puzzle has no fucking answer. No cheat-sheet.

Now, someone’s trailing down the hall. Their footsteps are distinct and urgent, like a drumbeat thrashing in your skull. Closer and closer. Your skin trembles. You move. The armoire creaks as you rip it open. You climb inside, huddling into the throng of old coats in there. Course wool rubs against your skin. Several hangers squeak and the whole thing wobbles under your weight. Varnish and dust stuff your nostrils – making you want to choke, but you have the nerve to swallow it down. Pressing yourself small, you drag the doors shut. You have time to slip a pocket-knife out of your shoe before the door bursts open. You hold your breath.

Someone enters.

Their pace is wild. Impatient. The confidence of a hound on a hunt. Through the thin crack in the doors, you squint. You can make out a silhouette. A man. From his build, it’s obvious that he’s a soldier. He’s wearing a denim-coloured uniform, with an olive tactical jacket and a radio to boot. Plain black gloves grip a rifle, attached with a blue battle torch.

You’re itching to see his face, but you can’t. Most of his head is covered by a helmet, and he’s wearing fitted night vision goggles. The lens of his goggles glitter as he turns, checking the corners so thoroughly you suspect he’s looking for something specific. Maybe you. 

“Clear?” someone says over his shoulder, perched in the doorframe. It’s another soldier, but this one’s wearing traditional green camo. Stitched to his chest is the Italian flag, worn like a badge of pride. When there’s no response, the man repeats, “Clear, Sergeant?”

The man with the goggles doesn’t bother to answer just yet. He’s still completing a circuit of the room, the bulb of his torch flaring with practiced grace. It lands on the armoire, light spilling in through the gap of the doors. You retreat backwards, pulse hot. For several seconds, you hear nothing but your heartbeat echoing in the cave of your chest.

“Aye,” responds the man, at last.

The tone’s disappointed or frustrated, though you can’t tell which. Whatever he’s come here for must be important. Urgent, even. In one motion, he pushes his goggles up and drags the helmet off his head. Blue eyes glide to the door.

“Clean as a fuckin’ whistle.”

It’s the voice that attracts your attention. Rough and with grit, punctuated syllables that move between chopped and rhythmic. Scottish. No, that can’t be right. That makes no sense. He can’t be SAS, can he? Those dogs wouldn’t stoop to a small-time gig like this.

Curious now, you shift to get a better angle on him. Head uncovered; you can see he’s sporting a mohawk. Dark brown hair striping from the edge of his forehead to the base of his skull. His face is smudged in war paint too. Three black stripes that cut across dark, bold brows. The strong bridge of his nose. The sharpness of his cheek bones. It feels a bit dramatic, but you have a hunch he likes the attention.

“Steamin’ hell,” he exhales, tossing his helmet onto the bed. “Slippery fuckin’ bastard must’ve got the drop on us.”

“I’ll have my men search the area,” responds the Italian, checking the ammunition in his rifle to keep his hands occupied. “He can’t be far.”

“Eh, you don’t know Makarov,” laughs mohawk, bitter.

Makarov. You earmark that name. The Russian.

“You think he’s already gone?”

“Bawbag’s probably gettin’ pished on the other side o’ the country.” Mohawk lowers his own weapon. There’s a recklessness to the movement, the barrel dangling dangerously near his knee. “We’ve been trackin’ the prick for fuckin’ weeks. Whenever we even think o’ goin’ after him, he leaves us with nothin’ but a steamin’ pile o’ shit.”

It’s almost amusing that he’s referring to such a grand villa as a shithole. Almost.

The Italian offers an uncomfortable, strained nod. “Then we talk to the neighbours. See if there’s any useful intel.” 

“Eh, no one rats on Makarov.”

As if plagued by thought, mohawk paces closer to the armoire, shadow warping along the floor. Near you, he sighs, rather loud. Several beats pass, where you can’t see a thing. Then, finding renewed resolve, mohawk clicks his tongue with importance.

“Go on,” he decides. “Have a wee chat with the neighbours. We’ll squeeze what we can outta that lass in the kitchen.”

The pair share an understanding nod. Then, Italian gladly departs. You lean forward, expecting mohawk to collect his helmet – fiddle with the straps or pull the thing back on. But your vision sharpens between the doors, and you stop dead.

“Ye can come out now.”

Oh. Fuck.

He’s speaking to you. Staring at the armoire, one hand on his rifle, brows raised like he’s not fucking about. He must have seen you in the window in the hall, the deer clocked in his headlights. You’re not sure how to respond. Even if he were SAS, there’s no good reason for him to be here. Fox would’ve alerted you to their presence. She would’ve known. Right? Then again, she mentioned something about communication problems between departments. Sure, that could explain things. But mohawk’s working with Italian special forces. If you surrender – get caught – that could be a headache for your higher-ups. You’re meant to be covert. Unseen. Invisible. Below the books.

You decide to keep quiet, just to give yourself time to think.

“Out, lass,” he tuts, beckoning you with a gloved finger. “I know yer in there. Don’t think I’m daft. Not waitin’ around ‘til the fuckin’ cows come home.”

Face blanching, you grip your knife hard. You’ve fucked this game of Sudoku. You had the pattern, but now it’s gone. There’s nothing left to do but scrunch up the paper and burn it to ash. Your lips shut tight, and you don’t move a single muscle. He continues to stand there, frowning and stewing in impatience. When he’s had enough, mohawk takes a few strides over, hand reaching for the armoire’s handle. This is it. You suck in a breath, preparing yourself. You can’t get caught. Fox said so herself. He opens the door.

You shove forward.

Hard. Wood bashes against his shoulder. Mohawk’s startled. He curses, landing on his back like an upturned lizard. Your legs lengthen, heels planting on the floor. You make for the window. One foot on the sill –practically there. And your leg yanks back. A vice grip. Shit.

Mohawk’s reeling you in like a fucking fish on a hook. You skid, face-first, along the floor. Cheek burning raw from the contact. You twist, kicking out. Elbow. Face. Something. He grouses. Gives a little – enough for your legs to scramble free. You’re up, now. Sprinting for the window. Mohawk bangs a frustrated fist on the ground and searches for his rifle. You don’t have time to see if he finds it. You’re thrust out the window, cold air whipping against your stinging cheek.

“Fuckin’ Christ-,” barks mohawk from behind you. “Lt – 3 o’clock, fuckin’ do somethin’!”

You don’t stop to find out what he means. You can’t. Your legs are moving on muscle memory alone. Running so hard, soil and grass swallowed beneath you. Trees a blur. Cold air ripping through your lungs. Your limbs scorching with unbridled adrenaline.

Someone’s following, you think. You can hear leaves crunching behind you. They’re close, though you’re not sure which side they’ll come. You don’t want to look over your shoulder to check. Don’t want to stop. Or hesitate. Don’t want to give them the chance at a clear shot. Don’t want to invite them to wedge a bullet in your spine.

Suddenly, everything whirls.

You land hard. Gasp. Sticks and rocks dig into your skin, and you swear you’ve been dropped down three fucking flights of stairs. Whoever’s tackled you is big. Tall. Keeping your legs down with his weight alone. He crawls off you a bit, chest heaving. You take the chance to ease back on hands and knees, feral, eyes darting. The knife’s gone. Nothing sharp to use either. Exhaling, you lift your face and get the first glimpse of his.

Except, it’s not a face at all.

It’s - a mask. Hard and pallid, like a skeleton, stitched to a balaclava that shells his entire head. Thin white stripes are painted down the fabric on his chin, seeming to disappear down his jacket. He’s wearing a similar uniform to mohawk. Large, navy windbreaker that climbs up to his neck. Black tactical vest filled to the brim - ammunition, flares, a radio. A sheathed knife on his chest and a pistol at his hip. Pinned to his shoulder is the Union Jack. SAS, then. Guess you were right.

Your eyes slide down to his hands, which he’s using to keep himself fixed in his knelt position. White patterns of skeleton bones run down to his fingers. When your eyes return to his, you realise he’s observing you too. Dark, lidded eyes staring from the deep black sockets carved into his mask. Freckles of rain on bone.

And you think he looks - tired. Lifeless, harsh, austere. Strange, too. You’re not sure what it is, but you feel the spurs of your curiosity spin. His head tilts. Not questioning. Assessing. Perhaps he’s weighing up what a housekeeper is doing out here, clearly desperate to escape. Honestly, you must look deranged – dust covered uniform, and hair mangled with rain and sweat. Fuck it. The distraction’s all you need. You stand, spine lengthening, about to run.

But the skeleton’s fast.

He extracts the knife from his vest. It throttles for you, tip driving into the trunk of a tree beside your ear. The fabric of your collar wets with your startled breath. You glance at the handle of the knife. Back at him. He’s just watching. Missing was no accident. He wants you alive. He wants to see what you’ll do.

You wrench his knife out.

It fits well in your grip - the hilt snug against the heel of your palm. Perhaps he’s accepting the invitation, because the skeleton begins to circle you. He keeps hunched, bony fingers extracting another knife from the strap on his thigh. Something tells you not to let that out of your sight. You keep your gaze fixed to the weapon, mirroring each of his steps with your own. The careful distance between you grows and recedes, like waves oscillating in perfect time.

You look him over. The way his fingers keenly flex around his knife. The calm, patient demeanour. The way he’s examining you – deciding whether you’re worth a real fight or a quick end. You know his type. Precision and power. No wasted movement. Except – for the slight drag in his left shoulder. Probably unnoticed by most people. Never you. He’s been wounded there, you think. Nothing too fresh. Yet recent enough that he might go for offence first. Just to make sure you don’t nick his weak spot. Just for good measure.

Your intuition’s right. Always fucking is.

The skeleton darts forward. Shoves you back with a vicious sweep of his knife. You inhale. Duck beneath his arm. Curl into his shadow. Your knife flips and you catch it just right, pummelling it toward his calf. But fuck, he’s more than fast. Skeleton grabs your wrist. An unceasing, solid hold that stops you dead mid-motion. His hold on you is tight. The pressure of it makes your fist peel open. The knife clatters to the ground; metal teeth chewing on damp mud.

Your eyes go from the place he’s got you, to his uniform. With your free hand, you struggle to beat him off you. It doesn’t work. But it’s not meant to. Skeleton edges out of your range, manoeuvring right where you want him. Your fingers close around his sidearm. You steal his pistol. He tracks the movement, brings his knife to your throat, but he’s too late. You press the muzzle into his bad shoulder. The jacket crinkles. He flinches.

A standstill.

His knife at your throat. His own pistol in your hand. Temples pounding, you take a long breath and inspect his face. If you can read him, you might be able to gain the upper hand. Perhaps skeleton hears your thoughts. Or predicts your strategy. Because he lifts his head and your eyes touch.

You tense.

So does he.

For a long time, you stare at each other. Searching. Silent. So consumed in that pocket of closeness that you forget there’s a weapon biting at your throat. Everything about it feels strange. Like he’s chased you through some portal, and all the doors to the world have locked behind you. Like time’s stopped. The seconds sucked under quicksand, hundreds of granules vanishing at a time. You don’t like this - whatever this is. Blood throbs hot in your veins and the pistol falters. And then-

It’s brief. Slight and subtle, but there. His brows, puckering together. Almost as if he’s – confused. Like he’s working through some puzzle in his mind. Part of you yearns to know what it is. Part of you wants to dig into his skull and worm out his thoughts, one at a time.  

“Steamin’ fuckin’ hell-”

You’re snapped awake. Mohawk’s jogging over, slinging his rifle behind his back to fish out a zip tie from his vest. Neither you nor skeleton move.

“There’s our lass,” appreciates mohawk, rounding the back of you. “Fuckin’ fast one, eh? Still no sweat for the ghost.”  

You clear your throat. “You restrain me, I bite.”

Mohawk lets out a low whistle, like he’s cooing a dog. “Lt?”

You glance back at skeleton. He holds your eyes for another tick. Blank. Devoid of emotion. Whatever had been there a moment ago has now been extinguished. Snuffed out. Again, he cocks his head. Looks you over as if he’s pretending to size up your level of threat.

“Restrain her.”

Chapter Text

You can’t move.

It’s too fucking uncomfortable. Your hands are looped around the back of your chair; zip tied, nice and tight. Pins and needles prickle and itch up your arms. There’s not much you can do about it, though. You slide your eyes around you, examining the room. The wooden furniture, furred with a layer of dust. Bookcases built into the walls – hundreds of books arranged in their bellies like innards. Ceramic busts observing from the corners of the room. Dim lamplight mottling the rug. Outside, the night is listless. Rain falls all around. Tree branches scrape against the villa. Curtains rattle around open windows, fabric ebbing on the wind. Bats chirp, sheltering under the roof. The echo of a toad squelching in a drainpipe.

You’re in the villa’s office– where hares and rabbits discuss business. It makes you wonder about the evidence that must be hanging around. Fingerprints, receipts, documents. But you’re in no shape to collect anything. You’re just a helpless bug, caught beneath an upturned glass. No radio. No weapon. Not even a pair of shoes - mohawk made sure of that.

The pair of them plan to interrogate you. That has to be why mohawk’s dragged four chairs in from the dining room, facing you. For now, they remain vacant. And you remain alone. Special forces aren’t known for gathering intelligence. From what you’ve heard, most resort to pseudoscientific methods like torture or psychological coercion. Piling question on question. Conversations that go on and on like a hamster on a wheel, no real direction in sight. Those sort of tactics extract false confessions and unreliable bollocks. 

The floorboards groan, stiff. Your head whips to the door.

“Weren’t pishin’ about, were ye, lass,” grouses mohawk, winding a bandage around his arm. He drops into an empty chair to inspect the ringlet of blood that’s sodden through the cloth. “Yer teeth are proper fuckin’ sharp.” 

Calm, your eyes flicker to his. Your tongue still tastes like rust, but the feigned accent comes easy. “How does it feel?”

“Emasculatin’” he mumbles, using his teeth to knot the end of the bandage. “Hate to be the poor bastard ye cosy up with at night. God fuckin’ help whoever tries.”

“I’d apologise but-,” you put on a frown, “I did warn you.”

“Ach-,” dismisses mohawk, wriggling his arm in mock demonstration. This close, you can see the curve of a plum-coloured bruise forming above his eyebrow. Must have been where you kicked him. Explains why he insisted on taking off your shoes. “Good as new. B’sides, the scar’ll be pure dead brilliant.”

He beams, teasing. You sort of like how it engages his entire face. Dimpled cheeks, bright teeth, almond eyes, rounded chin. It tells you things about him. How he might’ve grown up. How he’s hopeful for the future. You think you could like him, if he hadn’t just tied you to a fucking chair.

Soap drums his fingers on his knees. “What’s yer name, lass?”

“Look, you have the wrong idea,” you breathe, voice small. “Whoever you’re looking for, I can’t help you. I’m just a housekeeper. Do you understand?”

“Well, housekeeper,” he says, clapping once. “I’m soap.”

“Is that some sort of metaphor?”

He huffs a laugh, “S’what my mates call me, lass.” 

You level him with confusion. “Oh.”

Soap is gauging your reaction now. Perhaps he’s feeling sympathetic. You test the theory, stretching your neck left and right in dramatic discomfort. He doesn’t bite. He smiles again, now we’re even.

“Where’s your friend?” you venture. “The big one.”

“Callin’ our other friends in,” he explains, looking at his thumbnail. “Gonna introduce ye to the whole family.”

“So, is he your boss?”

“He’s a big dog, aye,” reflects Soap, picking his forefinger along the edge of his nail bed. “But Captain’s the one we kiss arse to.” Hearing footsteps, his hooded eyes shoot to the door. Soap doesn’t bother to stand. “Eh, speak o’ the devil-”

A pair of thick-soled combat boots stride into the office. Your eyes trail up to see a pair of grim eyes already on you. There’s no shadow of a doubt he’s the captain. It’s in his walk – direct and fast, like dawdling’s a capital fucking offense. He’s a man of average height and solid build, with a bold moustache. The gear he wears is similar to his teams’. But in place of a helmet, he wears a beanie that screams cock-level confidence.

“What you got for me, sunshine?” he directs at Soap, voice so rough his lungs have gotta be fucked from tobacco. “She talk?”

Soap shrugs in answer.

“What’s a housekeeper armed for, huh?” the captain wonders, displeased. He lowers himself into the chair across from you, gaze piercing yours. “Bit fuckin’ odd, innit?”

There’s no warmth in him, like there is with Soap. This man’s as grudged and jagged as rock. You wonder if he’s as immovable too. If life crashes around him in violent, savage waves and does nothing to break him. Best to tread careful with this one, you decide.

“Us women learn to be street smart,” you tell him, putting on a gentle tone. “When you grow up in a village like mine, that’s how you learn to survive.”

Taking this in, the captain slants back in his chair, stomach elongating. One uncaring leg crosses the other, so close to yours it’s an invasion of space. It’s meant to intimidate. If it were anyone else, it would. But you can see it for what is. You pretend to flinch, hoping your discomfort will put him at ease. It does.

“Who’ve we got then?” the captain sighs, searching for someone who he’s just realising isn’t in the room. “Where the fuck’s Gaz?”

Like an obedient dog, Soap gets to his feet and goes to duck his head out the door. He swings his head, motioning for someone to come in. Several beats pass, while the captain sizes you up. Lightning crackles outside. The windows flicker white. Thunder rolls.

Then, two men saunter into the office. One, you don’t recognise. His black hair’s shorn in a well-kept buzz, complementing his burnished, copper brown skin. When you clock the other, your breath halts. Skeleton idles in, thumbs hooked in his vest straps. The marbled mask catches the half-light. His eyes sweep the room, slow and lidded, drowning in disinterest. He doesn’t take a chair, like the others. No – he drifts to the back, preferring to wade in the shadows. From this angle, you can see him inspecting the books on the shelf. He takes one out, flipping through the pages, too fast to read.

His cold entrance makes your stomach writhe. Skeleton is the reason you’re here. If it weren’t for him, you’d be on the home straight. You’d be radioing Fox and figuring out how to pick up the pieces of a cover that’s been blown to shit. Instead, you’re here, twitching under the hot magnifying glass of four dangerous men. Bruises swelling on your elbows, sore wrists, and a rug burn striping down your cheek. Yet he can’t seem to find it in himself to care that you exist. Or maybe he thinks talking to you is just a pointless waste of time. You’re not sure which is worse.

“Jelena,” announces the soldier you don’t know. He’s talking to his senior more than anyone else, a diplomatic expression. “The driver I spoke to reckon’s she’s Serbian.”

You find yourself inspecting him from scalp to toe. He’s quite normal looking. You can picture him at a bar, cheering on the football, skin of froth clinging from his plump upper lip. That’d make for a good intelligence officer.

“Got a son too,” he adds, a bit sarcastic. “Single mum o’ the bloody century.”

The captain whistles a long, mocking note. “That right?”

You don’t confirm or refute. There’s no point – it’s obvious none of them believe your facade. Something tells you skeleton’s ticked them off that there’s something off about you. And maybe it’s mental, but you feel the exact fucking same about him. There’s something about the man wearing the skeleton mask. Something familiar. Something that sets your teeth on edge. But fuck, for the life of you, you can’t work out what it is. Fucking maddening. The thought is there, skirting on the tip of your tongue. You’d burn for a hundred years just to know what it is.

“Funny,” huffs Soap, breaking your train of thought. “Jelena doesn’t seem to fit.”

“D'you hold all your interrogations like this?” you ask, dropping your accent. You tug your attention back to the captain. “Four on one? Bloody terrible for rapport.”

The captain’s moustache quivers into an unamused smile. “Give us a real name.”

You exhale. It’s almost fascinating how clueless these bellends are. Hammering people with questions goes nowhere. Intelligence is patient work. Intelligence is siphoning information out with gentle, tender hands. Lovingly, like an artist carves and chisels from a block of wood. If you’re good, you win details. Often, these details are just small, delicate wood shavings. It’s only when you have a handful that you can piece the clues together into something useful. This is a consoling idea – that you know better than them. Fuck it, might as well throw them a bone.

“I haven’t used my name in a long time,” you say honestly. “Just call me Bug.”

Something drops.

Lifting your chin, you send your eyes to the back of the room. Skeleton is staring. Head tilted, in sudden interest. Eyes sharper in a way you don’t understand. The book he was examining is spread on the floor, forgotten. Pages stuck mid-air.

“Bug,” repeats the captain, a new dark appreciation to his tone. When your eyes glance back to him, his own seem to twinkle. “I’m Price.” A hand rubs against his stubble. “So, you speak the Queen’s English, eh?”

“Better than you lot,” you return, flexing your fingers. Your hands are getting numb, wrists burning. You point at them with your forehead. “Price. Soap. And-?”

Price tips his head to the soldier on his other side, not taking his eyes off you. “This is Gaz.”

Gaz nods a contemplative greeting.

Price sniffles. “An’ the big geezer in the back’s Ghost.” 

Ghost. That’s fitting, you think. He’s got the composure of a man who’s been to hell and back. There’s a strange pressure in your chest in knowing something about him, even if it’s just a callsign. You want to look at him again, but you can’t. You don’t think you could handle it if you catch him staring again. Maybe it’d be better if he went back to acting like you don’t exist. 

Price rallies your attention by clearing his throat. He's regarding you like you’re something he might scrape off his boot. “So, Bug. What’re you doin’ on our doorstep?”

Their doorstep? You want to laugh.

“Like I said,” you inhale, turning your head out the window. You’re gagging to get out of these fucking restraints. “I was working-”

“What d’you do for work?” cuts Gaz.

“The usual,” you start, tone turning a darker colour. “Wake around seven. Make coffee. Clean the boss’ room-”

“Need to know,” interrupts a dark voice.

Goosebumps prickle your neck. It feels like the entire room stills. Ghost is speaking, you realise. Directly to you.

“S'need to know,” repeats Ghost – a gravelly murmur. “Yeah?”

You consider the words, analysing what he means. The rain quickens on the roof. Wind swirls and the curtains howl. And oh. He’s referring to your line of work. Inviting you to negotiate, maybe.

“Are you asking?” you reply, throat thick. “Or informing?”

Ghost straightens. Takes a few cautious steps nearer. Bounces one shoulder with an air of indifference. “Take your pick.”

You swallow a lump. “I’m listening.”

Thunder beckons overhead. It conceals his footsteps. He stands in Price’s shadow, thumbs lazy around his vest.

“One question,” Ghost offers coolly. “Each.”

You consider that. On its face, it’s a good proposition. He’s picked up on the fact that you can’t divulge much. Picked up that this conversation is a meaningless waste of time – that you won’t budge if you’re pushed. Picked up that you’re curious about him, too. In so little time, he’s been gathering these microscopic details. Now that he has his handful, he’s executing a plan. 

“Deal,” you decide. “But as long as we’re alone.”

The tension in Price’s jaw tells you he despises this condition, but he stands all the same. “Guess we leave ‘em to it,” he concedes, gruff. On the way, Price pats Gaz on the shoulder with the force of a freight train. His junior doesn’t seem to mind. “Out, the lot o’ you.”

“Ach-,” complains Soap, stretching to his feet. Yawning, long and languid. “Trust Ghost to ruin a good fuckin’ thing. Was jus’ gettin’ good.”

Pausing in the door, Price turns. Shares a pressed look with Ghost. Neither nods or says anything. Then, he leaves the two of you alone.

---

Ghost sits across from you.

Knees wide apart. Hunched forward. Skeletal hands tangled in his lap. The rug crushed under his boots. For a long time, no one speaks. You are tuned into each other, separated by one seemingly endless metre. Rain and thunder roil around you. Wind wrestles the curtains, making shadows waver on the ground. You’re holding your breath. But you don’t feel nervous. You’re just - curious. That’s all. It’s hard not to be. He’s constructed of contradictions. Eyes vacant but harsh. Demeanour bored but focused. Quiet but direct. Tall but fast. Even how he fights - tired but with brutal conviction. He is so alien. Yet – familiar. So, so familiar. You get this strange sense that when you look at him, you’re remembering something. Dusting off an old, crippled thought.

Suddenly, Ghost leans back. Lamplight shines down the edge of his mask. Your brows pinch. One skeletal hand digs into his chest pocket. He could be reaching for anything. A weapon or pliers or a vial of bloody acid. But to your confusion, he extracts what looks like a crumpled packet of smokes. Without speaking, he extends it toward you.

You shrug your shoulders in emphasis to remind him your hands are tied. “Can’t exactly accept that.” 

Heavy eyes go thin, like he thinks you’re a bit daft for pointing that out. Ghost gets to his feet and drags his chair over. The legs scrape wretchedly. He towers over you, shadow swallowing you whole, hand drawing closer to your face. Your instinct is to turn your jaw, brace for the hit. But it never comes.

You crane your neck to check what he’s doing. Ghost’s dark eyes are peering down at you, though his head hasn’t shifted to match. With his mask on, it’s a strange angle. He’s holding a cigarette to your mouth, expectant. It dimples your lip.

“Reckon there’re better ways to muzzle me,” you point out.

“That so?” he asks, dry.

You open your mouth, reluctant and sceptical. Heat prickles at your neck. The cigarette slides, inch after inch, between your lips. Satisfied, Ghost sits back down in his chair, right in front of you. He fishes a metal lighter from the cigarette box. Holds it out. You lean in. His fabric-covered thumb clicks at the spark wheel. Blood red fire spits. The butt of your cigarette blackens; the paper curls. The two of you part.

The first drag makes all the soreness and aches and bruises so much less important. You sigh, throat lengthening to blow a cylinder of smoke out the side of your mouth. You’re so consumed that you don’t notice Ghost circling behind you until he’s gone. There’s a click. Warmth coating your palms with sweat. Until at last, your hands glide free. Burning off the zip tie is a bit unorthodox, but you’re not complaining.

It takes a few moments for you to rub your wrists. Roll your shoulders. Twist your spine. Crack your fingers, all at once. While you do, Ghost returns to the chair in front of you. For a brief moment, you expect he’s going to take his mask off and light up his own smoke. But he doesn’t. He just returns to his chair. Returns his gaze to you.

“So, we share intel,” you suppose, thumb tapping the butt of your cigarette. Ash dusts to the floor. “Then what? Throw me off a cliff? Accidental drowning?”

“That your strategy?” Ghost asks, tipping his chin at you. “That what MI6 does?”

You relax against your chair, one leg crossing the other knee. “You get to the point faster than your mates.”

“No point makin’ you work overtime,” he supposes.

It comes out flat and mechanical, but you swear it’s some sort of attempt at a joke. Maybe it’s the cigarette, but the tension in your shoulders melts a bit. You’ve never done an interrogation with someone wearing a mask before. That’ll make it much more difficult to cold read. But you suppose you can focus on other things. The intonation of his voice. The length of his pauses. The direction of his eyes and how long he keeps them there. Things you never quite think to ask until someone shows you.

“I like what I do,” you admit, honest. You gesture around the room, smoke pirouetting with the turn of your wrist. “Even here, I watch an’ learn. S’pose it’s habitual now. Don’t feel the need to punch off the clock, if you know what I mean.”

He considers that, eyes drifting down to your lips, like you've posed some important philosophical question. “Got a lot o’ time on your hands, do you?”

“More than spec ops do, I’d wager.”

“Ha,” he deadpans. “Out here, you stop countin’.”

Taking another pull of your cigarette, you exhale a mouthful before locking eyes with him again. You decide to take a stab. “You’re from Manchester.”

There’s a hesitation. Ghost’s brows twitch - you almost don’t catch it. Uncomfortable, cautious silence. Then his fingers, entangled, tighten. You take another drag, soaking this all in. Delighting in the details he’s giving away so freely.

“It’s the accent,” you elaborate, thinking it best to diffuse whatever fire you’ve just lit. “I have an ear for ‘em.”

Another pause. This time, his head cocks. “That your question?”

“It’s a hypothesis,” you clarify. Cigarette perched between two fingers; you point the butt at him. “I’ve got a few going about you.”

Ghost seems mildly interested in that. “Take your aim then.”

Sucking on your cigarette, you drink in smoke. It's bitter on your tongue. Your chest rises and falls. A white veil bends between you.

“You’re SAS,” you begin, ashing your cigarette right over the rug. “From Manchester. Smoker. Got tagged by a bullet on the shoulder, maybe in the past month, just based on how you flinched when I nicked it. And you an’ your mates are out in the middle of nowhere tracking some Russian terrorist, coming up completely shit outta luck.”

Ghost leans back, legs extending long. “Not quite.”

The comment sends you a little off-balance. It’s rare that you get things wrong. Rare for someone to be able to point it out, so blunt and indifferent. You’re meant to be interrogating him here. Aren’t you? That’s what you’re good at.  

“Grenade then?” you guess, aloud.

“Negative,” he says simply. “Not what I meant.”

“Then what’d I misstep on?”

“‘Bout bein’ unlucky.”

“How so?” You don’t want to frown, but you can’t help it. Your heartbeat cannons in your head. “Far as I can tell, you’re here talking to me. That git you’re looking for’s probably a hundred clicks away now.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow with an odd hint of amusement. “T’night dealt a good hand, Bug. Luckiest I’ve felt in years.”

“I’m not tracking,” you mutter.

He dismisses the entire thing with a lazy shrug. “Tell us about Makarov.”

“I don’t know much,” you admit, pausing to flick your cigarette. “Just that the mafia’s helping him move from place to place. That he was a guest here. I got wind tonight was about deciding where he’d go next. Before you lot showed up, that is.”

He weighs up your words, scrutinising them with care. You can practically see the gears turning, whirring in his head.

“That all?”

“That’s all.”

Ghost’s chair creaks as he stands. He's retreating. Withdrawing from the faint sense of intimacy that's been tethering you to him. You let out a breath, trying not to make your disappointment obvious. Rooted in your chair, you track him to the exit. Price must hear that you’re done, because he steps into the doorframe, eyes skiing from Ghost - to you. Brow raised.

“You didn’t answer a question of mine,” you remind Ghost, making him slow to a halt. You take another drag, buying some time, huffing the smoke in his direction. “My handler had no warning anyone of you'd be passing through. Why?”

“Makarov’s makin’ hell across the continent,” Price answers, instead. “Had a few inside muppets that’ve been turnin’ the agency on ‘emselves. Your lot’s in chaos.”

Your stomach plummets. You sink in your chair.

“Shit,” you frown, grinding your knuckles into your eyelids. “Sounds like a fuckin’ mess.”

For the first time, Price looks like he agrees. “So help us clean it up, housekeeper.”

Chapter Text

There’s an old man that sits on his porch.

You see him when you walk into work. Thin singlet, shoulders bared, skin marked by too much sun. He carries his age in his curved posture and his hair, flecked white and growing duller each morning. When you tip toe up the stairs past him, he doesn’t flinch. The creaking of wood must be familiar enough. That, or he’s absorbed in his book. You never catch a glimpse of what he’s reading, but you wonder. If it’s new. Or if he’s scanned those same words a hundred times, traced them with the pencil of his finger, bookmarked favourite pages with a careful fold. Maybe he’s memorised the best lines – stored them in the library of his heart.

In the mornings, you see cans of quick oats and a vase of fresh tulips through the open windows of his home. In the afternoon, a plain work jacket hung out to air. These things are his routine, just like the strangers that pass him on the stairs. And on rare occasions, he lifts his eyes and nods at you.

He never learns your cover. He must think you’re just the neighbour’s maid. But you’re Marie, the tutor. Here on exchange, teaching English to the five-year-old lad of a drug-trafficking rabbit. And it’s two months deep that a power struggle burns the building to the fucking ground. So, you never find out what happens to that old man. You never find out what happens to all the nameless, unseen people you come across in your work. Yet sometimes, when you sleep, you see him. Reading on his porch. Nodding, as you pass.

---

Something thumps. You hiss awake.

It’s pitch black. Late. You ease up, glance around, the meagre mattress squeaking beneath you. The room is a landscape of black, meaningless shapes. Boxes of supplies, packets of rations, cartons filled with gear. Warm air from the heater rolls over your cheeks. Rain slips down the window in pearls, which cast warped shadows on the wall. You touch the back of your neck, greased with sweat. You don’t remember falling asleep. But your head feels so full of sludge that you know you’ve been out cold for more than eight hours.

Sleeping in a safe house full of armed strangers isn’t new for you, but proper stupid all the same. This isn’t about trust – trust’s a gambler’s ruin. You just needed a place to figure out your next steps and Price was there to offer you one. Sure, you can admit there’s a sort of comfort in the familiar. Familiar accents, slang, flags sewn to their uniforms. And then there’s that confusing familiarity that’s attached itself to Ghost. Like a parasitic infection. You can’t let it fester for long. Nothing good comes of that. If he’s a good bloke, Price will give you a ride back to London. Then, you’ll move on like you always do. Forget what happened here. Focus on the next job. Next name. Next background. Next place. On and on and on. Like shedding shrivelled skin and slipping into another.

There’s another faint thump, but this time you can tell it’s someone knocking.

Scrambling to your feet, you pick up your turtleneck, managing to tug it on before you get to the door. Dread tightens in your stomach. It could be Ghost, with a knife or a cigarette or worse. Doesn’t fucking matter. It’s his mask that you can’t shake, smooth like bone but sharp in your mind. Inhaling, you push it down. Bury it. The doorknob clicks. Light slithers into the room. Blue, eager eyes come into focus.

“Got a minute, lass?”

Soap. Standing just outside the door, fist still mid-air. He’s dressed down in a plain shirt, in jeans, with the bandage wrapped loose and careless around his forearm. In civilian clothes, he’s more intimidating. Short-sleeve cotton shirt stretching around his muscles, purposefully one size too small. Soap’s hand uncurls into a sheepish wave, and you realise he’s doing this because you’re staring.

“Eh sure,” you croak, tugging the door open. Wanting to seem indifferent, you let your attention wander down the hall. “What’s up?”

Soap clicks his fingers, “That’s it.”

You frown. “What’s it?”

“Dinnae know why I didn’ think of it,” he muses, the scar on his chin an upturned crescent. “Was rackin’ my brain wonderin’ what it means, but aye. Makes sense.”

“You’ll need to fill me in here-”

“S’Bugs Bunny,” he elaborates, roughing his hand through his mohawk. Pricks of hair poke between calloused fingers, and it makes you think of grassroots shooting from the ground. “Yer callsign. Bug. Righ’?”

“Oh,” you understand, tapping an uncomfortable finger on the doorframe. “That’s not-”

You reach for another explanation, but the real one is just as juvenile. He’d laugh if he knew it was just some dumb, childhood nickname. One you couldn’t let go of no matter how much you tried. No matter how much you wrapped your memories of Manchester in rope and stone and dumped them to the bottom of your brain.

“Y’alrigh’ lass?”

“It’s a long-,” you scratch your collarbone, tired. “Just a uh- long story. Wouldn’t make much sense if I told it now.”

When he smiles again, you can tell it’s more probing than teasing. He’s clocked something about you; filed it off for later. You draw a controlled breath, eyes falling to the pistol holstered at his thigh. You can make out the heel of it; black and textured, worn down where his hand must fit. Christ, that’d be nice - to have a weapon. Comforting. You allow your eyes to linger on it a tick before you recollect yourself.

“What was it you wanted, again?”

“Shite,” curses Soap, running a hand down his pink-tinged face. He’s consciously remembering his task. “S’Price. Old geezer wants a wee word. Downstairs.”

“What - now?”

“Ten minutes ago,” he estimates, glancing at his watch, “Reckon now’s better than never though, lass.”

You level him with a dramatic face. “It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

“’Bout stupid o’clock,” he nods with a laugh, “aye.”

As he waits for you to decide, Soap’s hand drifts to his pistol, fingers drumming on the grip. It’s not a threat – more like a restless habit. He gives off the air of a lad with bounds of life still left in him. So much that he doesn’t know what to do with it. You knew someone else like that, once. Someone with blond hair and brown eyes, and who said what he was thinking with the same carefree ease as Soap.

“Alright,” you nod, urging him forward so you can shut the door. “I’ll bite.”

Soap’s palms shoot up with complete seriousness. “No more bites.”

“I’ll behave,” you promise. Then, noticing he’s not following, “Not coming?”

“Think ye can handle yerself Bugs Bunny,” Soap says, still in surrender. “Long as ye keep yer head.”

---

Captain Price is standing at one end of the room.

You can see half of his face, illumined in the orange glow of the corner lamp. Like Soap, he’s in civilian clothes. Beanie, jeans, a black sweater with a collar that creeps up his unshaven neck. He’s staring out a window, concentrating hard. The creases in his forehead tell you he’s problem-solving or mapping out his options. That he’s felt the need to wake you up and let you in on it, makes your stomach lurch. Taking a few tentative steps over to him, you half-expect he might turn around and greet you. But he doesn’t. He keeps staring and staring as if he’s gazing into another dimension. It’s only when you’re standing beside him that you realise, he’s not looking out a window at all.

It's a speckled mirror - one of those transparent ones. On the other side, a four-by-four room. Bright lights that bathe the tiled floors in yellow light. Walls peeling like crepe paper. Plain, plastic table in the middle. And sitting there, tucked in like he’s about to eat dinner, is rabbit.

Rabbit’s dishevelled. His suit, which you’d spent half an hour ironing, is unbuttoned and covered in a white sheet of dust. There’s an unwashed quality to his face. Bags gathered beneath his eyes. Clearly, he hasn’t showered or slept. He’s eaten though – you can spot crumbs trailing down his crumpled, unknotted tie. You watch him for several minutes, cataloguing the pace of his breathing. Not fast enough to be exhilarated, but with a depth that tells you he’s more than stressed.  The longer you watch, the more you wonder if you could almost feel bad for him. Almost.  

Suddenly, Price gestures a hand at the room. “Can you get him to talk?”

You give him a hard look. “What d’you want to know?”

“We need a location,” he answers, moustache twitching. “On Makarov.”

“Can’t make promises,” you shrug, licking the inside of your lip in thought. “He could like that I’m a familiar face. Could also go mental knowing what I really am.”

Price measures his tone. “Say he goes mental.”

You can picture it. Rabbit slumped in his chair, watching you enter the room. The emotions that’ll mar his face as he adds it all together. Shock turning to disbelief. To denial. To rage. Yeah, he’ll refuse to speak to a filthy fucking rat like you. Not without making his own terms known. But you’re not interested in cat and mouse games, or making deals, or the meaningless tug-of-war of power that rabbits always want to pull.

“If he clams up on me, then we run MI6 as the big bad,” you suggest, folding your arms across your chest. “You come in acting like the hero. Promise him you’ll scratch his back if he scratches yours.”

A one-sided smile dimples his cheeks, though it doesn’t quite feel sincere. “An’ what’re you suggestin’ we promise?”  

“Nothing generous,” you emphasise. “I’ve gotten enough evidence on the git. Guarantee, his own country’ll lock him up a long time. We just need to make that sound like a better outcome than what MI6 wants to do.”

“That’s funny that.”

“No harm in telling a white lie,” you level. “We convince him to want to be in the custody of his countrymen. He’ll make the request because he needs control. We agree.”

Lips pressed flat; Price takes a long, deep breath. You suspect he’s taking a fine-tooth comb to your plan, assessing the risks with the meticulous precision of a surgeon. Neither of you speak while he does this – he just turns, paces and calculates on his own time.

After a minute or so, Price pinches his lower lip in decision. “This better work.”

“Like I said. Can’t make promises.”

The captain heaves a sigh as if this could bring on an oncoming headache. His expression strains and it crosses your mind that he’s got a strange collection of features. Long face, broad forehead, daggered nose with a button for a tip. Not much of an upper lip, since his facial hair is so dense. Then there’s this small, perpetual crease tailing the corners of his eyes. He seems irritated a lot of the time, you think. Not impatient, but as if life itself can be irritating. The exasperation of a person who just wants to relax. Hiss open a beer. Watch the football. Yet can’t.

Done with this conversation, Price pivots toward the stairs and starts climbing them two at a time. You hesitate, at first, casting a stray glance back at rabbit. Then, follow.  

It shouldn’t surprise you that Price’s stride is fast and unapologetic. For someone like him, cardio must be his breakfast, lunch and tea. You reach the top of the stairs, panting and unsure of where he’s buggered off to. Sweat gathers in your fists. You’re about to fuck off back to bed before you hear a racket in the kitchen. Following, you find Price, opening and shutting the kitchen cupboards with determination.

You don’t want to interrupt his train of thought. Being in the crosshairs of someone like him screams all sorts of bad fucking news. But - then. Then, Price curses in relief. Unearths a stash of tea bags he’s found on a top shelf. Rattles the box around to check it’s not empty. And now you’re wondering who the fuck this man is.

“Tea?”

You could laugh. “What kind?”

“Peppermint,” he reads aloud, gruff. Price slides the box onto the counter, and with his other hand, switches on the kettle. “Want one or not?”

Refusing feels like a mistake you shouldn’t make, so you nod. Satisfied, he takes two mugs hanging from hooks on the splashboard. One at a time, the captain dumps a delicate teabag in each. Steam curls from the kettle’s whistling mouth. The whole thing’s so domestic it’s jarring. Unsettled, you drag out a chair from the two-seater table and take a seat.

“How long’s it been?” Price nods in your direction, leaning against the counter. “Under cover.”

“This time?” you check, like you haven’t heard him. Really, you just need a moment to figure out how to respond. “About six months as Jelena. Give or take.”  

Price whistles, though the sound is lost in the kettle’s easing wail. Unfolding his arms, he circles back to the mugs. “Milk?”

“Don’t drink it.”

He nods in approval, picking up the kettle a touch before it’s done. Forearm tensing, Price pours. There’s a beat of focus. Hot water bubbling. White fog drifting toward the ceiling. Mist glimmering on his forehead. Rain battering at the window. After it passes, Price comes over. Hands you a cup. Sits. He leaves his tea bag to brew. You fish yours out. Silence settles in.

For some time, the two of you drink your tea in private, contemplative thought. Liquid burns down your throat. You stare beyond the window to the hedgerow, where moonlight glitters from waxed leaves. Steam clings to your upper lip and everything smells like the earth. The tea, the particles of soil in the air, the dried mud on your unwashed uniform. Price is mulling too; one hand coiled around his tea, the other raking thumb and forefinger down the edges of his moustache. You don’t like the sound. It grates your eardrums and makes you think of cattle chewing at bales of hay. You clear your throat to get his attention.

“Last night,” you murmur, reeling his thin eyes toward you. “Soap said you’ve been after your target – this Makarov - awhile.”

Price leans back, chair creaking. “Same as you, eh? Six months, give or take.”

“What’d he do?”

“S’what he plans to do,” says Price. “Let’s leave it at that.”

You return the mug to your lips, the ceramic warm and hard. Price is watching you now, perhaps expecting another question. He’s a fast learner. Like it or not, you want to know more. You can feel it - that curious lump steeping in your chest. Thick as the fat, soaked tea bag sitting at the bottom of his mug.

“Is he a bigger rabbit?” you ask. “Bigger than the one downstairs?”

“Pests are pests.”

“So what makes you want to-,” you trace a finger around the edge of your mug, searching for the words. “I mean, what makes you dedicate six months to going after him?”

He gulps a mouthful of tea, throat bobbing. “Someone has to.”  

It’s so direct and honest, that you can’t help but scoff. Price squints at you, head tilting forward. There’s a glow of intentional amusement in his eyes, as if he’s telling you to be careful, and he seems to want to burn that into your brain.

“What makes you wanna be a spook, eh?”

Another sip of your tea. Your eyes falter down to the smudges on the table. A strange image sharpens in your thoughts. That old man – the one you used to pass on the walk to work. It’s not hard to picture him. Hunched over his chair, enraptured with his book, with no inkling of the things happening around him. No idea that he’d be caught in the crossfire of some local fucking war. It’s these strangers, who you do it for. The forgotten signs of life that no one else seems to notice, except you.

You swallow down the lump in your throat and look at him. “Someone has to.”

Price leans back, an elbow balancing on the back of his chair, brows pulling together with some new perception you can’t quite pin down. It almost looks like – recognition. Understanding. Seeing something in you, that he hadn’t noticed before. Whatever it is, he must like it. Because one corner of his mouth rises.

“I meant what I said,” he mutters, a commanding voice. “About helpin’ us clean it up. This is a taskforce. 1-4-1.” He dabs a finger on the table, thrice in emphasis. “Those muppets in there, I hand-picked myself. I could use someone who can tag along an’ read the ground. Give us a hand gettin’ actionable intel. Pick up the bollocks we don’t have time to see.”

“You said MI6 has a rat problem,” you point out. “How d’you know I’m not one?”

“Look, the rest of MI6 is knee-deep in shit thanks to this fucking twat. Our usual contact – Laswell-”

You blink, “Laswell?”

“You know her?”

“Worked with a Laswell,” you tell him. “One stint – across the pond. Real solid. Got me out of a tight bind when I was in cover in South America. 

“Sounds like Laswell.”

“Small world.”

He exhales a laugh, raw and full. And you find it in yourself to smile. Small but genuine. Because you’re thinking about your dad. The rough edge of his beard. The beanie. His piercing, knowing eyes. His laugh. How warm he used to feel. And fuck, it’s been so long since you’ve let yourself think about him. But maybe – just for this moment – you don’t mind.  

Price washes down his laugh with a mouthful of tea, then pins you with a more serious expression. Brows rise, forehead puckering. But his shoulders have dropped. Relaxed.

“So?” he prompts. “What’ll it be?”

You contemplate the thought, fingers going for the bug tag around your neck. You pinch it, grounding yourself in its grooves, weighing the idea over. Sticking around, helping, being around Ghost. You shouldn’t want to. You don’t want to. This is a balancing act, and you need to be fucking careful. Besides, it sounds like a shitload of paperwork. Dangerous, too. Plus, you’d need to run it past Fox. Get permission. Convince her to transfer you, just for a while. You could call her now to sort out the details. She might still be awake. You hope she is-

Decided, you set the mug down on the counter.

“Lemme talk it out with my handler.”  

“So do it then,” Price eggs on. “Don’t have all fuckin’ day, do we?”

Chapter Text

Albania.

It takes just over an hour for rabbit to sigh out the location. The next details he gives are small and tentative. Spoken with the hushed hesitance of a vicar violating his vows. There’ll be a debt to reckon with in doing this. He knows that, in his soul. He does it all the same. You listen, unfeeling. This is work. This is a challenge. This is the juncture, where the dam breaks and information start becoming difficult for him to contain and far easier for you to gather.

Three hours later, you’re collecting a list of traffickers willing to harbour a global terrorist. He scribbles the names down, the faded gel of his pen as reluctant as he is. When he’s finished, rabbit slides the note across the desk and massages the stiff side of his neck. You retrieve the crumpled bit of paper, not taking your eyes off him. This is the final image you’ll have of him. His dark hair, the bagged eyes, the now ill-fitting suit. Hands stacked over the cold plastic table, compliant in a way that he hasn’t yet realised. You know so much about this person. The vitamins he takes, his allergies, the music he listens to, what his dogs eat, even how long it takes him to swim a lap of the pool. Six months tracking his movements, and now it all comes to an end. He'll be free of you, but he won’t be free.

Standing, you clutch the list in your sweated hand and leave. It’s once the door’s shut that you glance down. Black, smudged names written over the printed lines in the wrong direction. Doesn’t matter – you have what you need.

---

Fascination.

That’s the word for it, you think. The team are fascinated with how you handled rabbit. No pain or torture - just conversation. You can feel the fascination in Price’s toke of his cigar. Soap’s half-smile of disbelief. The impressed fold of Gaz’s arms. In Ghost, too. Interest burning in his dark, confining eyes.

While the rest of them bullet into action, Ghost keeps you in his line of sight. The team radio for transport. Organise rabbit’s collection. Gear up. Restock supplies. Head out, at noon, for the extraction point. Through it all, Ghost watches you. Holding you with such fixation, you think he must be able to read your mind. You wish you could do the same. Or at least, read his expression. But his mask is forever there, cold and distant. He never takes it off, not even for a second. It erases his real self, like a hole singed through a photograph.

The afternoon ticks on. All five of you trudge through fields. It’s a suffocating sort of place. Waist-length weeds and sloughs of footprints in the mud. Straw-coloured crickets zipping between stems. Overhead, the sun spreads its golden arms in a twisting dive. It’s proper hot. Thick and humid, thanks to the recent rain. Sweat coats your face and the fucking turtleneck itches so much, you’re desperate to strip it off. You almost do. But then, you remember the sloshing of Ghost’s boots behind you.

He’s there. One metre back, maybe two. With him so close, there’s not much you can do without being seen. It’s clear that he likes to observe. To linger and scan for the threats he seems convinced is there. He must think of you as a threat. After all, you’re an unknown - one that’s earnt some sort of reputation in that interrogation room. No one likes the unknown. No one wants to sit with the unpredictable, no matter how discrete or harmless it turns out to be.

After a few minutes of walking, a helicopter emerges. It’s resting on a shorter crop of grass, slender and black, blades nudged by the wind. The grass around it is stained with its crimson lights. There’s a pilot in the cockpit, wearing a leather jacket and a set of headphones. He doesn’t get out. He just waves, starts clicking switches. As Price climbs in, he thumps his palm on the helicopter’s metal skeleton. Gaz copies, jumping up. Soap goes next.

You’re about to follow when your elbow bumps into something hard. You stop, realising its Ghost. Standing close. Towering over you. Peering down from his mask. The muscles in your neck clinch but you gesture, polite, for him to get on first. Ghost doesn’t move. He tilts his head. Countering, after you.

Fuck it, you pull yourself up. The door sails shut behind you. Rotor blades begin to whir. Your feet vibrate as the helicopter eases off the ground. Keeping to yourself, you wobble over to the furthest jump seat. Sink into the leather. Breathe. You look out the window. Down there, you can see an angle of the dense, wet grass. Red, green and white strobe lights. The earth, shrinking. Now, it’s acres of field. Sprawls of hills and cloisters of trees. The stretch of a coastline reaching further than you can see. Total blackness. Then, Ghost’s reflection in the plexiglass. You don’t want to see him, so you fall back against your chair and screw your eyes closed. The ventilation hums. Consistent and lulling. And you glide, willingly, into your thoughts.

---

Half an hour later, you stir awake.

The helicopter shudders, pulsing with turbulence and the battering of wind. You clutch your seatbelt, searching out the black crevasse of the window. You can’t make out much, other than the navigation lights beaming red and green. Something shifts across from you. Your eyes chase the sound.

Ghost is sitting in the seat opposite you, inspecting his sidearm. He’s turning it over in his gloved hands, seeming like he wants to pull it apart. It’s strange for him to sit here. From what you can tell, Price is still hunkering down in the cockpit, and Soap and Gaz must be sitting on the other set of jump seats where you can’t see. It would make more sense for Ghost to sit with his team, even if the lot of them would need to budge together. But here he is, hovering near you. He doesn’t seem to notice you’re awake. He’s so absorbed in his task, dismembering bits of the weapon and putting them back together. Perhaps it’s jammed or not working how he wants it to. Perhaps this is just something he does to keep his mind occupied. Distractions can be helpful like that, you suppose.

You watch him, a moment, eyes half-closed in case you need to pretend to be asleep. He’s taken off his tactical gear and changed into a simple, woollen jacket. It’s got collars that seem to spill from his balaclava-clad neck, and zippers that run down his arms like bones. It’s not quite civilian clothes, but rather a compromise for someone who doesn’t like to be caught off guard. Observant, calm, cautious – these are his most palpable traits. But the rest, unknown. Christ, that fucking irks you. There must be more underneath.

He smokes. He’s committed to his job. He's good with knives. Got some experience in espionage. From Manchester. Manchester. That’s the common thread between you. You could exploit that, somehow. Bring up your own experiences to see if you can pinpoint where he grew up or if he’s got friends or a family waiting back there. Turning your attention back out the window, you imagine what you’d ask. How the questions would feel between your lips. How he might form his answers, voice muffled.

The helicopter shudders again. Tilts. You brace yourself, stomach turning. Sliding along the floor, a crate collides with the wall.

“Alrigh’?”

Your eyes flit back to Ghost. He’s observing you, now. Calm, deep in thought. Chin tucked, dark eyes lifting through the chasms of his mask. Shadows sweeping over hard boned cheeks. There’s a pixel of white in his gaze – the slightest reflection from the dimmed reading light. It looks like a beetle caught stranded in a lake of black ink.

“Yeah alright,” you breathe – though it comes out more flustered than it sounds in your head. “Just can’t sleep. You?”

Ghost tilts his head like this is obvious.

Narrowing your lids, you divert your stare. You’re good at reading people. Brilliant at it, if you bold enough to admit. But it’s hard to read someone who seems curious about you one minute and indifferent the next. It feels like it’s purposeful. Bordering on malicious. If this is some clever fucking game he wants to wage, you’ll learn the rules and you’ll do whatever it takes to win. Still, you can’t help yourself but glance back in his direction. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of having the last unspoken word.

“I uh – never apologised,” you swallow, a shallow tone. “For the other night.”

Elegant, skeletal fingers click his weapon back together. “Need to be more specific, Bug.”

“Does coming at you with a knife ring a bell?”

“Depends,” he considers, setting the rifle down near his leg. “Lot o’ people have taken a shot in the dark.”

Blatant confidence – delivered with the same careless ease when he threw the knife near your head. You offer him a bitter expression.

“Guess a lot of people have died trying.”

Fist over his knee, he runs his thumb over the edge of his forefinger. Back and forth in instinctual, mindless habit. “Kill or be killed, Bug.”

“Spoken like a true soldier, eh?” you snort. “Cutthroat.”

He thinks about that, eyes gliding to his hands like he doesn’t like you thinking it. But then, he shrugs, agreeing.

“So to speak.”

“Well,” you frown, realising how needlessly prickled your tone is, “For what it’s worth-”

“You were defendin’ yourself,” he cuts, anticipating the end of your sentence.

“I’m apologising,” you explain. “If you’d just let me-”

“Don’t.”

Either, he's shutting you down or just fucking hates apologies. Both possibilities sting your ego. You wipe your nose with your sleeve, piecing together different topics you could raise. Before you can, the helicopter dips. Your hand lurches for your seat buckle. Eyes shut. Unease simmers in your stomach, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the turbulence of the flight or whatever’s there between you and Ghost.

“Does he always fly like this?” you complain. “Think I might chuck in a minute.”

Ghost exhales, in what you think sounds like amusement. “Welcome to the army.”

You could laugh at that, if you had it in you. Convincing Fox to tag along with 141 had come easier than you predicted. In the end, she’d pushed some papers to give you the go-ahead, but she didn’t like it. Two months off the books. More than you expected, less than you hoped. Now, here you are, about to throw your guts on the fucking floor. It’s only taken ten fucking years to do it. Ten years to fall in with a unit, if you can even call it that. Maybe this is how the domino pieces were meant to fall. Maybe time was meant to spin you up in its bundle of threads just to bring you back where you started. The greatest gag of the cosmos.

“Believe it or not,” you laugh, “I enlisted once. Didn’t make it past basic, though.”

Your eyes lift and you find him staring at you, decoding what you’ve just said. “You got scouted?”

“Yeah,” you admit, shrugging to make it seem less important. “Never wanted it but I guess – in the end – sorta gave me a purpose.”

Leaning forward, he knots his fingers together. “That was Selection for me.”

“Selection,” you repeat, bringing your legs up onto your chair. Thighs pressing to your stomach, an elbow on your knee. “They make it sound so apocalyptic. Not far off though, right? From what I’ve heard.”

“Has to be,” he says, dull. “When push comes to shove, needa learn to push.”

“How long’ve you been doing this?”

“Years.”

“Since you left school?” you ask, conversational. Best to tug on the Manchester thread. “I’ve always wondered- I mean, how d’you meet anyone or get married or have kids when there’s no time in between school and deployment?”

He takes a moment, perhaps to pick through the questions and figure out which one he wants to answer. A hand reaches up and shifts the jaw of his mask.

“Are you?”

Your brows pinch. “Am I what?”

“Married.”  

Heat rushes up your neck. All the amusement in him has emptied. He’s concentrating on you, quiet and intense. 

“No.” You inhale. “Are you?”

He cocks his head and soaks in the question. Mask glinting under the reading light. “Negative.”

There’s a long, awkward pause. You nod a lap around the helicopter, unsure of how to respond. Wind rattles the glass windows. The crate eases, scraping, back into the centre of the floor.

“If I was a bettin’ man,” Ghost ventures. “I’d put quid on bein’ in this line o’ work as long as you.”

“Kinda presumptuous to guess a woman’s age,” you comment, resting your jaw against your curled-up arm. “Shame I can’t do the same to you. Unless the skeleton’s an indicator?”

Lidded eyes go softer. “How old are you, then?”

“However old I need to be,” you reason. “For the right cover.”

“Ha,” he deadpans. Ghost leans back, casual, elbows jutting out. “Spoken like a true spook.”

“Don’t look so disappointed,” you sigh, tapping your cheek. He tracks the movement with the barest flicker of his eyes. “You wear a mask. I wear a cover. What’s the difference?”

“Chalk an’ cheese, Bug.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Ghost tips his chin at you. “I wear a mask to hide my face. You make covers to forget who you are.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

One bone-patterned hand flexes in his lap. “S’just a shame.”

Shame?

You’re so taken aback that you realise you’re grimacing. You wrestle your face into submission and look down at your thumbnail. He has no clue what you do. What it takes. What it costs. He has no idea how you have shaped and kneaded and moulded yourself into your work. How you’ve separated yourself. To keep safe, at first. Then, to avoid. Escape or run, until that became – normal. Detachment from who you used to be is a side-effect that you were willing to bare. Who cares if you don’t know where you begin or end or what slivers of you still exist in the in-betweens?

“So,” you test, “You’re gonna pretend you’re not forgetting who you are behind that thing?”

“Trust me," he answers, flat. "I’ve tried.”

“Then what’s the point in hiding?” you point out, “If you can’t forget?”

You watch how he absorbs that. The subtlest hitch in his brows. His gaze, slow and tired, retreating out the window. For several beats, he becomes cold. Lost and distant. He’s not looking at the air or the clouds or the lights pulsing in the dark. It’s as if he’s suspended in some distant thought or world or regret. Something stirs in your chest. Makes your fingers tingle and yearn to reach out. To apologise again. Though that’s absolute bollocks, seeing as he probably won’t let you.

You let out a weak sigh. Getting so defensive was childish. The truth is, he’s right. When you joined MI6, you severed yourself in two. You left that girl back in Manchester. You left her with him. Simon. Simon Riley. And you can’t get her back because the ghost of her is happier there. Always will be. Because Simon could protect the image of her, as hopeful and wide-eyed as she was. Like he always wanted to. Like he couldn’t.

At last, Ghost brings himself back, attention sliding from the window to you. Eyes, touching yours. He’s regarding you with a strange sort of softness that you don’t quite understand. Yet there, in that moment, there is nothing else. Nothing but the tightness in your throat, and the bob that slides down his bone-patterned throat. Nothing but the two of you. Until-

You let go.

Threading your hair back, you break the eye contact and feign interest out the window. You feel like you can breathe again. Like you can think again. Like you can detach again. Even if the tingles – or the beats – or whatever it was between you still looms in your chest.

“Go back to sleep,” Ghost advises, composure returning. “You’ll need every minute.”

He’s right, again. You should sleep. Shuffling around, you tuck yourself against the window, where it’s a little more comfortable. Use your hand like a pillow. Lean your head again the shivering metal. Close your eyes. And yet-

“Are you?” you decide to ask. “A betting man, I mean?”

Ghost thumps his head back and shuts his eyes. “He who dares, wins.”

Chapter Text

When you wake up, Ghost is gone.

You’re alone in the passenger cabin, curled up stiff in your jump seat. Neck aching, lids clogged with gunk. You don’t remember falling asleep. Ghost is the last, sharp thing prodding at the front of your mind. How he’d sat across from you. Coaxed you to drift off. You suppose you should thank him. Getting even a wink is a proper fucking miracle. You unfasten your seatbelt. Wipe a sleeve down your face. Peer out the window. The helicopter’s landed and it’s dark out, but you can still see the sun. Faint and golden, like the bud of a marigold sprouting up from the earth. Must be about dawn.

“You sleep alright?”

The voice is deep and thick. Unfamiliar enough that you’re forced to turn your head to register who it belongs to. Someone’s climbing over the chairs in the cockpit. Legs first, then the rest of them. Their boots land with a decided thump. Dark, round eyes land on you.

Gaz’s. He looks wide awake, as if he’s just skulled a shot of coffee. Cropped hair smothered beneath a hat – the brim of it curled over his forehead. He’s kitted out in his tactical gear, which he must have worn through the night. Perhaps it helps him sleep, to have it on.

“Can’t complain,” you sniffle, drawing your elbows behind you in a stretch. “How long ago’d we land?”  

“Round half an hour,” he supposes, turning to look out the window. He braces an arm on the glass, the sleeve of his uniform crinkling around his forearms. “Boss thought it’d be kinder to let you sleep a bit.”

“I don’t wanna slow anyone down,” you tell him, but it feels more defensive than it’s meant to. “Next time, just wake me up.”

He catches your eye, brows half-hidden under his hat. “Rog.”

“So, where’d everyone go?” you ask, sitting up taller. “Price and the rest.”  

“Just went to have a smoke. Do a perimeter check,” he answers, matter of fact. “Figured I’d wait here. Keep an eye on the bird.”

“You mean the helicopter or the spook?”

His lips tug up into a full-toothed smile. “Both, innit?”

Part of you wants to make some joke. But you don’t. It'd never land. Your tongue tastes bitter, as if your throat’s burning on acid. The truth is, none of them speak the same language as you. None of them pretend. They know themselves. Understand themselves. They’re not built from feigned smiles, like you are. Mirrored body language. Lies. All of it – data, files, false compliments through clenched teeth. Suppression. Erasure. Becoming what you most fear - forgettable.

If he’s bothered by your silence, Gaz doesn’t show it. Seeming to remember something, he paces over to a pile of assault rifles, their noses leaning against a vacant jump seat. Casual, he picks up two. Holds one up to you.

“What’s your aim like with one o’ these?”

Standing, you crack your knuckles. “Not abysmal,” you admit. “Not great either. Been awhile since I’ve had to-”

“You’ll pick it back up,” he decides, tossing you the rifle. You almost fumble on the catch. “Jus’ like riding a bike.”

Turning it over, you smooth your palms around the pistol grip. Rough and cool to the touch. It strikes you then that you’ll need to fall back into muscle memory in front of them. Proficient, practiced soldiers. Miserable fucking business.

“Think the fire rate’ll take getting used to,” you start to explain, though you’re not sure what compels you to. The rifle suddenly feels strange to hold, like some foreign object. “Might be a bit off until I get the hang of it.”

Gaz unclicks the magazine of his, checking its loaded. “What’s your go-to then?”

Thinking, you fill your lungs with a careful breath. “Small and quick,” you tell him. “Pistols. Sidearms. Anything that can be concealed.”

You half-expect his face to give some hint of judgement. The raise of a brow or a scoff that’s not quite meant to be heard but undoubtedly is. To your surprise, he just smiles. Not a sarcastic, self-indulgent smile. Not with some vague intention that takes several seconds to decipher. But genuine and sincere. Wide with appreciation. All but saying, yeah? That’s mint.

It disarms you a moment. Takes longer than necessary to fill the silence. Scratching the tip of your eyebrow, you turn. Sit down. Set the rifle on your knees. Point at him with your forehead.

“So, what about you?” you manage. “What’s your go-to?”

Gaz’s taps an affectionate palm on the metal barrel of his M13. “Can’t go wrong with the classics.”

“Needa be more convincing than that.”

“Alright, picture this,” he says, rubbing his nose with his shoulder. You offer a small nod, to show you’re listening. “I’m just out of basic, still green and pretending I know what I’m doing. On an assignment in the jungle an’ of course, take a piss break at the wrong time. Next thing I know there’s a pinch-”

“Jesus-”

“Turn around to see a bloody huntsman's bit me,” he breathes a laugh, shakes his rifle. “Used the one thing I was holding to get it off-”

Leaning back, you shake your head. “Sounds like your M13 was just in the right place at the right time.”  

He squeezes his hands over it, like he’s covering the rifle’s ears. “Keep it down, eh? Don’t want her to hear you.”

The corner of your mouth twitches and you almost let yourself smile. “Maybe you can show me the ropes when you get a minute.”

“If there’s time,” promises Gaz, “But I reckon you’ll learn on the job.”

“Roger that,” you taste, drumming your fingers, one at a time on your knee.

“So, who’s Simon then?”

Your fingers freeze. “Sorry?”

“Simon,” he repeats, very certain. Reaching up, Gaz twists his hat an inch by the ridge. “Called for him in your sleep. Figured you had a lad back home. Or-”

For several seconds, the wind sounds deafening in your ears. You press your lips shut, awkward. You couldn’t have. It’s not possible. He’s full of bollocks. Has to be. But then again, how else would he know that name? Unless he's peeled back the skin of your brain. Fleshed out the deepest kernel. Planted it, so off-the-cuff, mid-conversation.

You exhale, stomach pressing into your rifle. “You winding me up or something?”

Confusion mars his face. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, it’s just-,” your hand squeezes your knee. You can feel your heartbeat in your chest, chopping hard and fast as a rotor blade. “Just strange that you’d ask that. Seems like something that’d be sorta private.”  

He rubs the soft lobe of his ear, thinking about it. Christ. You’re desperate for him to look anywhere other than your face. You’ll shoot yourself in the foot if that’s what it takes.

“Sure,” he concedes, at last. “I’ve got a mate called Simon, is all.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t,” you insist, sharp. Keeping your face in careful order. “You must’ve heard something else.”

“Strange,” he agrees, yet the colour of his tone tells you he’s not convinced. Perhaps Gaz knows when to pick his battles, because he drops it with a sort of shrug. “You’re probably right. Could’ve heard something else. Reckon that’s bound to happen on two hours of bloody sleep.”   

With that, Gaz digs a scope out of his vest pocket and starts to fit it to his rifle. You’re not sure what else to do other than look outside, finding the sun. It’s behind a curtain of trees. Larger now; golden entrails spilling into the bloodied sky. You watch it grow for a few minutes, feeling a little numb. Wind sings through the grass. The field shudders and bends in rhythms. Birds scatter from lopsided trees. The longer you watch, the more you think you’re off-balance too. Out of sorts. Like a coat worn inside-out.

“S’pretty, yeah?” he comments.

You can’t tell if that’s another joke. You check, brows gathering. It doesn’t take long to work out what he means. His forehead’s leant against the window and he’s looking outside. Expression soft and relaxed, as if he’s taken a scenic train and has gotten off just to bask in the place. Just to admire the world. How it spins, in its own time, at its own pace.  

Like you used to, once.

He leans back. Sighs. “Don’t you think?”

“I s'pose so. Yeah.”

---

Later, when the team hikes into the mountains, you keep to yourself.

The walk’s a fucking trek, which oddly makes things easier. Slopes, jagged rocks, no time for breathers – the perfect distraction from your mind. Twelve hours of uncomfortable conversation has left you feeling fucking knackered, and you don’t think you could keep up the mask. There’s something comforting about being back here, at least. The air tastes fresh. Familiar. Trees wearing layer upon layer of snow that melts into morning dew. Tastes just like the last time you were here – when you learnt the language and weaselled an arms-trafficking rabbit out of his den.

When your calves start to ache, Price picks a spot to set up field camp. He chooses somewhere isolated. Tactical, you suppose. The site’s a small, unassuming clearing. It’s nestled between rough outcrops, with a barricade of firs that drop pinecones now and then. Between their trunks, you can see mountains. Miles of slopes. Oceans of green. In the dirt, the team pitches the bivi shelters. Five of them - camouflaged, low to the ground, made with the kind of canvas that’ll endure anything. Rain or shine.

When the work’s done, Price fetches a dead log. Kicks it into the space between the shelters. Sits down, boots making patterns in the mud.

“First order of business,” he declares, hoarse. “Let’s brief up, shall we?”

Dropping your pack into your tent, you zip it up. Price waits for the team to huddle around him. He checks his watch, as if he’s timing them. Doesn’t dish out another order until Gaz is kneeling beside him. Soap’s sat on the ground. And Ghost’s standing, thumbs in his vest, nodding for the captain to go on.

“We need to be ready,” informs Price, dropping his hand. A lick of sunlight glares from the lens of his watch. “Once Laswell’s run through our intel, it’s all hands-on deck.”  

“Thought Laswell was occupied,” Soap thinks aloud, picking up a stick to draw a shape in the mud. “Isn’t that the whole point o’ bringin' Bugs Bunny along?”

“Bug,” you correct.

“Let’s think of it as a parting gift, eh?” reasons Price. He smiles then – somewhere between polite and fucking hellish. “Laswell’s hunting for more rats at MI6. So while we’re out here, it’s just us.”

“No one knows we’ve got a scent,” Gaz points out, taking off his hat. He tips it upside down as if he’s shaking out dirt. “That gives us the up.”

Price points a digit at him in agreement. “If Laswell reckons our intel’s good, Makarov’s at four possible drop points, all in arm’s reach. We’ll move down the list. Keep hunting ‘til we find him.”

There’s a short pause as the team absorbs the instruction. Then-

Ghost lifts the chin of his mask. “Capture or kill?”

Considering the question, Price licks his teeth. Takes his time, the furl of his moustache twitching at the crooks. “Better if he’s alive.”

“So, we’re playin the long game,” understands Soap, snapping the stick in two.

“Surveillance,” you realise.

Price looks at you then, thumping his fist on his knee.

“Bug will be taking point,” he announces, and you blink a few times, unsure if you’ve heard that right. If he wants your opinion, he doesn’t wait for it. “Two of us’ll plus her up. The other two’ll hold field camp an’ watch the supplies.”

“So, we’ll rotate around her?” checks Gaz. He screws his hat back on and looks over his shoulder at you. “Looks like you’re gonna earn your blisters this week, B. Better pull those socks up.”

You wipe the back of your neck, irritated. “It’s Bug.”

---

It’s just after six when you leave field camp.

Price grants your request for a cigarette break, thank fuck. You keep within reach, finding a spot just behind one of the cliffs, sitting against a boulder. Getting far away would feel better, but it’d be daft to venture too far down the mountain. Besides, you’re not about to embarrass yourself on the first fucking evening. Some time passes, long and silent. Trees shiver overhead. Feathered leaves swirl with the wind. Owls shriek, hidden in their hollow, barked coves. You don’t even light a smoke. You don’t feel like it. The wind chills your cheeks, and you mull on your thoughts. Seeking space isn’t normal for you. You know that. In any other world - in any normal world - you like people watching. You find interest in hovering, observing how people tick. Talk. Work. Potter around. Relax, in their natural environments. Just like animals in a zoo. But there’s something different about 141. Something different about you.

Behind you, a twig cracks. You don’t have to look to know who it is. Ghost seems to like lingering in your orbit. So quiet in how he moves. Weightless, almost. Like smoke or dust – you never quite know where it’s come from. But like it or not, it’s there. He does this with everyone, you suppose. Keeps a close eye on the people he doesn't trust. You can't fault him for that. 

“I didn’t need a smoke,” you confess. “Was just an excuse.”

Boots pace closer, slipping into your peripheral. After a moment, Ghost drops down beside you. Sets his elbows on his knees. Knots his gloved fingers together, between them. Bones tangling.

His voice sounds dull. “What’re you avoidin’?”

“People.”

“Me?”

When you cast a glance his way, you almost don't recognise him. He's not wearing the hard-bone mask. In its place is a simple, black balaclava with a skeletal grin printed where his mouth should be. It’s an odd, pleasant smile. Doesn’t suit him one bit. You inhale, deep. Perhaps the sound makes Ghost feel self-conscious, because he lifts a hand and draws the hood of his jumper tighter over his skull. It hides all his hair.

“Would that make you happy?” you ask, crossing your legs. “Me being scared of you?”

“Negative, Bug.”

Ghost’s eyes return to yours, intense now. You can see them better without the mask. The skin around his eyes is dark, smudged with black war paint or ink. Somehow, it makes him look wearier. Makes the thin rim of his lids pinker, too. His brows twitch.

Cheeks warm, you divert your attention straight ahead. “Is this your first time?” you wonder. “In Albania?”

You hear him draw a breath. “Reckon I’ve dirtied my hands all over the world.”

“Bit of a biohazard risk,” you deadpan.

“Ha,” he exhales, but it’s a little muffled beneath the mask. “Keep that between us, yeah?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Don’t make veiled threats,” he returns, and it comes out sort of chiding. Playful, almost. “That’s proper soft.”

“Well, you can trust me,” you joke, sarcastic. Cradling your knees with your elbows, you smile. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”  

He flexes the fingers of his left hand. “That, I believe.”

There’s a silence that follows, which you don’t rush to end. Neither does he. The two of you sit there, watching the sun. Just the edges of it, since it’s too bright to meet face to face. You like how it glows, soft and pure, along the tops of dark and dense clouds. It makes you think of chalk drawn on the pavement. Like hopscotch grids near the beach.

“I wanna ask you something.”

It takes him a moment to answer. “Shoot.”

You put on a warning tone, “This time, I just - I want a proper answer. Yeah?”

Ghost’s eyes sweep to you, thoughtful. He tilts his head, a half-repressed sign that he agrees to your terms. “Go on then.”

This is easier than you expect, so you spend a moment touching the rough edge of your thumbnail and thinking about how to articulate it. Fuck it.

“Did you ever go to the beach?” you croak, kicking the toe of your boot in the dirt. “I mean, when you were in Manchester?”

Something flickers in his eyes. This isn't the question he was expecting. The motherboard of his brain re-calculates.

“When I was a lad,” he answers, a touch cautious. “Why?”

“I don’t know – I guess it just came to mind,” you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’ve been thinking about Manchester, for some reason. I didn't tell you this last night but I uh - used to live there. It’s been a long time. Think I might miss it.”

Ghost contemplates this, a far off look in his face. There’s a subtle tension to him now, but you get the feeling he’s trying to hide it. He likes to do that, you think. Retreat, into his head. Like diving in a lake so black and deep, it could kill you. Whether he finds solace or pain there, you can’t be sure. He must know how you’re reading him, because his hands tighten, fabric squelching.

“There was a pier out there,” he muses, quiet. "You remember that?"

“Yeah,” you nod, stomach binding in knots. “Did you go there much?”

"Sometimes." Ghost tugs the balaclava higher up his nose. “Been a long time for me too."

Several beats pass.

Craning your neck, you smile up at him. “I find it hard to imagine you at the beach.”

“Yeah?” His eyes soften. Flicker down to your lips. Then up again. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Do you ever miss it? Sometimes?”

"All the time, Bug.”

Ears prickling, you pull away. Turn back to the view. Release your breath, chest giving that dull ache. Ghost must do the same, because he doesn’t say more. He doesn’t need to. Whether he realises it or not, he’s  given you something. Willingly. No interrogation needed. How simple it is - to trade one small thing for another. How complicated you made it seem, in the torture chamber of your mind.

Wind rustles through the trees. Bugs chatter. Sunlight warms your forearms, and you have an odd sense of being held. That the world itself is holding you. Knitted to this moment in time, right where you’re supposed to be; all the threads and fibres of choice and possibilities coming together in the tapestry of this. Of now. 

It's then that a flock of starlings whisk above the canopy. Their wings melting together in murmuration. Beating in your ears. Twisting, turning; scattering, folding, like the crest and crush of a tide. You wonder, in that moment, what Ghost is thinking. If he’s thinking anything at all. Or if he’s just admiring. How the world spins, in its own time, at its own pace. You wonder if you could admire it with him. Lose yourself, like you used to. If you could let yourself.

And maybe – just once – you will.

Chapter Text

It’s a house, not a home.

Three storeys of red brick, isolated and ragged. Roof tiles in tatters. Gutters stuffed full of leaves. Buried in the coldest part of the mountain, as if it’s got something to hide. And yeah – it does. Bad things have happened here. Secrets live here. That’s why the fence out front is iron black, crowned with curled wire. You'll pull out the secrets, though. Extract the truth like taking broken teeth. If Makarov’s here – you’ll know.

Rain pelts the hood of your jacket. You’re hiding behind a tree, ankle-deep in grass, peering through a set of binoculars. It’s cold. Miserable. Your spine tingles. Weeds itch up the hem of your pants, but you keep still. You’re never more composed than when you’re birdwatching. The instinct comes natural to you - swallows you whole. When you’re in that state, you do what you can to learn about a rabbit. Their habits. Their crimes. The weak spots of their cage. Like the rust on the fence that could be pried open. Or the motion detector with the north-east blind spot. Or the guards. Two of them: one on the terrace and the other in the yard. You earmark these things so you can become part of this world – a roach slipping into a cabinet to sample and spread and infect. 

Inside your jacket, your radio crackles.

“Bug, roger up.”

Fishing out your radio, you hold it near your chin. “Go for Bug.” 

“We’re clear this side,” announces Gaz, voice wavering with static. “What’ve you got?” 

You crawl along the perimeter of the house again. Nothing’s changed. Same guards. Same gate. Same red sign, printed in Latin, death to trespassers.

Lowering your binoculars, you suck in your breath. Slinking around without being seen isn’t hard. The constellation of raindrops covers your tracks, and you’re dressed in clothes nicked from a stranger’s washing line. Charcoal-coloured trousers, a thin woollen jumper and a rain jacket - local clothes that help you blend in. Gives you an out too, if things turn into a right mess. Lost tourist. Birdwatcher. New neighbour who doesn’t know better. Excuses. Your mind’s an encyclopaedia of them. Even so, better to be on the safe side.   

“Two on watch – armed,” you tell him, licking your bottom lip. “No visual on our target or the git that owns the place. Both could be inside.”

“Probably cosying up by the bloody fire, eh?”

“Must be nice,” you jest, but it sounds wooden. Then, without thinking, “Where’s Ghost?”

There’s a slight pause. “You prefer talking to him over the radio, B?”

Embarrassment needles down your neck.

“I just mean-,” you grit your teeth together. “Sounds like he’s not with you anymore.”

More silence – about as uncomfortable as you imagine his stare. He must be thinking you’re interested in Ghost, which if you’re honest, is proper close to the truth. You’re losing grip on yourself. Your control. You want to divert the conversation somewhere else, but your tongue feels odd and loose in your mouth.

“Changing position,” he advises, casual. For some reason, he’s decided to let you off. But there’s a new radiance to his tone. Like he’s finished a jigsaw and is admiring his own work. “Wanted to split and move to higher ground.” 

“Right,” you nod to yourself. Daft git. “I’ll move in a bit when he’s green.”

“Rog. Out.”

Ten minutes pass. You wait, huddled behind a tree decorated with tart, sopping apples. The rain’s fogged up your binoculars a bit, but you don’t bother wiping them. You slide your vision along the gate, lashes pressing into the glass. Wet gravel. Puddles. The lawn. A football.

You backtrack.

The football's just sitting there, half submerged in mud. Rubber sagging, rain battering the plastic, water pooling on top. Maybe a lad kicked it over the fence. Left it there or forgot about it. You find yourself staring at it, eyes suddenly aching. Maybe the lad that owns it has been left behind too. Or maybe he’s there in the house now. Bored and miserable, watching the rain out the window. Maybe his old man’s passed out on the carpet in the next room, legs askew and fingers choking a beer. Maybe his mum’s in bed, a vacant expression, wishing it was all different.

“Bug.”

Startled, you reach for your radio, shivering when the too-cold antennae stings your fingers. “Send traffic.”

“Nothing to report,” admits Gaz, a touch awkward. “Just had a thought-.”

You frown, “So spit it out.”

“You went with me an’ Ghost for your first op,” he continues, as if he’s trying to make sense of it in real time. “What made you pick us?”  

Narrowing, your eyes go to your radio. “Does it matter?”

Gaz gives a sort of laugh. “Think I’d pass the chance to have somethin’ over Soap?”

That doesn’t make much sense. Soap’s not your mate. You’re not his. He wouldn’t care that you didn’t pick him. Would he? For some strange fucking reason, your stomach turns.

“You’re a bit calmer than the others,” you offer, wary. You shuffle in your spot, easing onto a knee. “Ghost too. That helps when I’m working. Feel free to take that however you like.”

“Calm,” he echoes. Tasting it. “Yeah, what I take from that is you’re watching more than the target.”

“That a problem?”

“Negative,” he returns, sincere. “Long as you give us your deep dive on Price.”

You wipe your binoculars on your sleeve, thinking it over. “Middle-aged, middle-class, married to his job,” you list off. “Proper morals and believes in his men. But - likes control. Needs it. Wears his old man’s watch but not for sentimental reasons. More of a motivator, if you know what I mean.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” exhales Ghost through the radio. “Keep it tactical, yeah?”

There’s a skitter in your chest, like a live wire. “So he’s alive,” you goad. “Proper rude to eavesdrop, though.”

“Speak for yourself.”

You lift your knee to brush at the dirt, suppressing a smile. “Can I force up now?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. He could be sweeping the perimeter. Checking for hostiles. Searching for – maybe even hovering on - you. Your neck prickles with shivers.

“Move fast,” he decides.

Stuffing your radio into your pocket, you assess the distance to the closest bundle of trees. Ten metres. Eleven at most. Nothing too precarious. You draw a long breath. Steel yourself. Sprint. It’s several strides later that you dip behind the new cover.  Your shoulder crushes against bark. You ease, slow, to the ground. A rustle in the thicket snatches your gaze. Darting across the field is a fox. Tail slick with rain, spine taut, eyes glinting.  It pauses mid-stride, like it knows it’s being watched, before vanishing nimbly into the brush. You roll out your shoulders.

“Heads up,” cuts Gaz. “We’ve got movement in the yard.”

Digging out your binoculars, you hold them up to confirm his visual. Gaz is right. The guard on the terrace has skipped down a spiral of stairs and is strolling through the gate. He shuts it, behind him. One rough-handed tug.

It’s impossible to see his face under the balaclava. But you can make out the outlines of him. Tanned, young, a bit relaxed or tired from the lag in his step. Broad, rounded shoulders and head shorn neat. Rifle hanging from his neck, the barrel pressed to his stomach. He spends several moments checking both directions, like he’s about to cross the road. But he doesn't go far. He paces out nine or ten steps from the gate. Then, fumbles for something in his pocket. Your fingers dial the focus of your binoculars. Sharper and sharper. It clicks, winding tight. The guard too turns his fingers, a cigarette poking out between them. He jerks his balaclava down and sticks it in his mouth. 

Something reels in your mind.

“If I can draw him out a bit-,” you thumb your radio, “Could plant a mic on the gate. Listen to see if Makarov’s on-site.”

Gaz’s tone is disapproving. “Say again?”

You’re already thinking a few steps ahead, eyes falling to the rocks scattered around your boots. There’s an assortment of them. Different shapes and shades and sizes. You pick some of them up, testing the weight, discarding the ones that are too flat.

“Will take me six seconds,” you promise. “I throw a rock. He checks it out. I mic the gate. Done.”

 “Yeah,” says Gaz. “No chance.”

You find a good rock. Flip it up. Catch it. Perfect. “You got a better strategy, I’m all ears.”

“If you get compromised,” warns Gaz, sounding like he’s realising you’re serious. “We could fuck this whole thing up.”

“Except we won’t,” you dismiss. You dig into the back pocket of your trousers, plucking out the pouch of equipment you’d packed that morning. Earbuds. Lockpicks. Pocket knife. Submerged at the bottom, a bug. You pick it up, rolling it between your fingers. In your other hand, the rock. “I’m careful.”

“You could be invisible an’ it’d still be a risk, mate,” complains Gaz. You hear him scratching the back of his neck, stalling for time to think. “What if it comes to a fight?”

“Good thing I’ve got a sniper watching my six,” you point out. “If he’s still eavesdropping, that is.”

There’s no immediate response. Just static. Dread crawls up your throat. You imagine Ghost listening, judging that you’re talking bollocks. Christ, he might brand you as some daft, incompetent sod that should be taken off the field. You’re about to take it back. Eat the plan and choke on it. When at last, Ghost murmurs.

“Six seconds?”

Sceptical. Curious, too.

“Six seconds,” you confirm. “I’ll RV when I’m done.”

Another beat. Rain spits on your nose. Wind ripples through the trees. Ghost must be going over things in his mind. Sifting through the contents of your words like he’s checking a bullet wound for shrapnel. You can almost feel the jagged bits of metal, sharp and sore, puncturing your lungs.

“Better get your blood up then,” decides Ghost. “0-5, keep your gun on that gate. If Bug makes it, head back. Debrief with Price. I’ll keep watch here.”

There’s a clink on the line, like Gaz could be adjusting his rifle. “Copy that.”

Exhaling, you sling back your arm. Further. Throw. It clamours against the fence. Flinching, the guard’s head shoots up. He paces over, cigarette lit, to investigate.

You move. Sprint. Low, quick, careful. Mud squelches. Grass cuts your legs. Wind numbs your ears. The iron’s cold and wet as you plant a bug on it. You don’t stop there. You run. Fast. Counting the seconds in time with your strides.

Six, to be precise.

 ---

This time, Ghost doesn’t find you. You find him.

He’s chosen a smart position. It’s an elevated cove carved into the mountain, shuttered in with trees and rocks. There’s a view of the house, but it’s obscured with branches and soaked, overgrown plants. You sidle through a throng of bushes to get to him, twigs scraping your jacket. You have this sense that you’re plunging into some other time or place. Going deeper and deeper. Where the rain’s muffled and the arched rocks seem to make the space intimate and small.

When he hears your approach, Ghost dismantles his mount to make room for you. Standing, he slings the sniper rifle over his shoulder. It’s sleek. Long-limbed. Part of him.

“Not bad,” he mutters, low.

You hold up the earpiece that’s connected to the mic. “Told you I’m careful.”

His eyes go from your hand to you. “Never doubted it.”

Sniffling, you huddle a little closer. It’s cooler here. Quieter. The shrubs seem to push you closer, fluttering with the wind. There is something unsettling about this. You feel a bit like a child, going to a stranger’s house. Frustrated, you drop to the ground. It’s damp, but you don’t care. You just can’t stand to potter around like that.

“We’re not done yet,” you say, setting the earbud on the dirt. It vibrates with muffled conversation. “I reckon we give it an hour. See if there’s any mention of our Russian friend.”

Seeming to agree, he leans the rifle on the mossy rockface and lowers himself next to you. This close, you can see his uniform is wet in places. Elbows and knees and boots caked in mud. He doesn’t wipe it off. Just looks at you. From behind the mask, you can tell his face is smooth - ironed flat of any emotion.

Ghost points with his forehead at the earpiece. “You understand that?”

“The language?” you wipe your palms on your thighs. “I had to learn. For work.”

For a half-second, Ghost follows your hands with his eyes. It makes you stop mid-motion. Fuck, your train of thought’s gone.

“You pick up a lot o’ things in this line o’ work,” he says, like he’s helping you back up.

You nod that one out, relieved you haven’t lost complete function of your body parts. “Knife-work. Long range. You have any other special talents?”

“Several.”

“You’re one of those, huh?” You cock your head. “Good at everything.”

Maybe he’s a little amused, because he tilts his in the other direction. Tips his chin at you. “Pot.” Then, gestures to himself with a lazy, gloved hand. “Kettle.”

Unless you’re fucking mad, you’re certain that’s meant to be a compliment. Ghost is complimenting you. Whatever he’s written about you in the file in his head - whatever he’s still writing – is good. Deep down, thudding in the grotto of your chest, you’re sure you feel the same.  

Voices erupt between you. It’s the microphone. On instinct, the two of you retreat into professional silence. Ghost rips a bit of cloth from his tactical vest and begins scrubbing mud from his rifle. You bring the earpiece closer to your ear, listening very carefully. The guards are sharing football scores. Mindless chatter.

“Just noise,” you explain, putting it back down. “Nothing important.”

Ghost doesn’t respond. Part of you itches to continue the conversation where you left off, but you can’t think of how to get back on the topic without seeming idiotic. By the time you pluck out something to say, he breaks the silence.  

“Been thinkin’ about what you said.”

“About football?”

“Manchester,” he elaborates flatly. While you watch, Ghost leans the rifle against his shoulder to rinse out the rag. The material gathers in his hands. Twists. Droplets drip into the soil. “Said you’d lived there awhile.”

“Oh.”

Your eyes fall down into your lap a moment, and you see that your pants are stained with mud too. Telling Ghost about Manchester was careless, but it’s done now. You suppose you could lie about it. Tell him some background that doesn’t quite match. Let the half-truths flow and flow, just to throw him off scent. And yet, it seems unfair to do that. To him.

You take a long breath. “S’pose we would’ve been there round the same time.”

Ghost’s brows twitch in interest. He lies the rifle on the ground where it’s the driest. “Thought we weren’t guessin’ ages.”

“I’m not guessing. Just following your lead.”

Far in the distance, lightning splits a dark stew of clouds. Ghost’s mask flares brighter. The briefest flicker of white in his dark eyes. Lashes pale and bright. Blonde, you think. That’s fitting, somehow.

“What was it like then?” he tries again, tone dull.

Your shoulder bounces, dismissive. “Reckon you’d know more about growing up there than me.”  

“Not what I meant,” he says, controlled. “Throw us a bone, yeah?”

Faint thunder rolls. “It was – short,” you admit. “Fast.”

Ghost observes something in your expression. “But?”

“But - it didn’t feel like that.” You rotate out your wrist to give you time to think. “Even though I was just there for a bit, it was the one time in my life where things felt slow.”

“Slow,” he tastes, like he wants to dissect that word. Tear apart the letters. “Slow, how?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “Slow like torture.”

“You hated it.”

He’s stating this like a fact, and you think there’s a deeper meaning there but you can’t tell what it is. Ghost is like a manuscript written in another language. You’re doing what you can to understand each of his movements and words and the subtle twitches in his brows. But something’s getting lost in translation.

“S’just how it was,” you land on. “Never rains, but it pours, y’know?”

He exhales, as if about to laugh. But doesn’t quite get there. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

Agreement. Yet, now you feel like he doesn’t understand. He couldn’t. Hell, you don’t even understand it yourself. You search your palms, scraping a bit of mud from the grooves there. All the words in your head feel so disjointed.

“It wasn’t always bad,” you clarify, brows knotting. You keep your gaze fixed down. If you look at him, the words might slip away. “It was probably the happiest I’ve ever been too. But then I lost it. I lost people. So, I moved, and I guess that makes it all turn sour. Haven’t been back since.”

Ghost thinks about that, like it’s very important. Like he’s hanging on the edge of your words. His throat bobs. “You said you wanted to go back.”

Another prod. He seems to want to poke you full of holes. You feel a bit like a worm, wriggling around on a hook.

Your face turns robotic. “Is there a reason you’re digging into me like this?”

Finally, he looks out into the tree line. Chest expanding. Falling. When he meets your eyes again, he's collected himself. “I’m curious.”

“Curious,” you repeat. Your heartbeat patters in your ears. “About what?”

Instead of responding, his arm reaches out. Long, skeletal fingers cross the threshold between you. Slow and careful, he touches your knee. You’re so taken aback that it takes you some time to notice the moth he’s collected at the end of his thumb. Marbled white, with thick woollen wings. Rather gingerly, Ghost brings it to the other side of him. Sets it down on the ground. Lets it go. Heart hammering, your fingers are coiled around your knee, where he touched you. You wonder if it’ll ever stop burning. Maybe you don’t want it to.

He leans against the rock, voice cool. “Everythin’, Bug.”

“You know,” you say, before you can stop yourself. “I have this weird feeling about you.”

Your eyes drift to his, cheeks so hot you’re sure it’s obvious. For a tick, it feels like he sees something. Knows something, about you. Which is strange, seeing as you never let anyone know much about you at all.

“Go on.”

You inhale. “D’you ever get that feeling that you know someone? Like you've met them in a past life?”

Ghost looks off. Flexes his hand. Says nothing. You wonder if you've said something wrong. Misstepped or offended him. You must seem superstitious. Fucking mental. Thunder tolls again. The trees stir. Branches shiver above and shed their wet coats.

“You said you missed it too,” you venture softly, wicking the wetness from your face with a nervous hand. “Being back home.”

“Was never a home for me,” he draws out, long enough that he must have to wet his lips to find his words again. You can almost imagine the shape of his mouth, beneath the balaclava. Beneath the mask. “Jus' - wish I had more time back then. Think I’ve always wished that.”

The rain sighs. Silent, you look out into the haze. Something about that makes your chest hurt, deep and unreachable. You dip into the collar of your jumper, fingers fiddling with the bug tag. And you’re pulled into memories of your old place. That stupid, hideous house. That ill-beige colour. The ever-growing tallies on the whiteboard that marked your dad’s absence. Listening to storms on the tin roof. Shadows of raindrops on the wall, sliding down the window. Simon kissing you. The soldiers sitting on the couch. Salt in your red, tender eyes.

For so long, you thought you had contained those memories there in that place. Locked the door. Boarded the windows. Left them all behind. But that was just a house, not a home. Maybe it’s like your dad said. You just have to shut your eyes. If you do, you'll find them. Right there, with you. Your dad. Tommy. Simon.

“That mean somethin’ to you?”

The break in his voice catches your attention. Ghost’s eyes are fixed to the bug tag, full of confusion. Or thought. Or something else that you can't quite read. Your hand clasps around the metal and you slip it back where it belongs. You smile.  

“Everything.”

Chapter Text

Ghost has rules.

No mistakes. No hesitation. No attachments.

Rules keep things simple. Controlled. Keeps his head clear. Keeps his thoughts as actionable orders. Emotion, weakness - meaningless things he shoves to the back of his skull. Like the bastards he leaves to rot. Nothing personal, just part of the job.

At least, it was.

Finding you hits him. Hard. He has spent ten years becoming Ghost. Drowning himself in the noise of war. Gunshots. Grenades. Sirens wailing. Bullets sparking on muddied, metal helmets. Bones cracking on concrete. Blokes spluttering for air. His own blood beating in his temples, constant and deafening. He’s found some bleak purpose in executing missions on the field. Pushing himself past his limits. Sweating and bleeding for bellends who’ll be murdered tomorrow. Helping his captain like a good old dog. It’s made him strong. He wants to be strong.

Except, he’s not immune to you. The minute he hears your callsign, you wheedle into his brain. Like some terminal parasite. He should try and dig you out. Take a knife to his skull and make an incision. But it’s no fucking use. He’s softer than he thought. Weaker. In one second, years of Ghost disintegrate – and he’s back to that boyish lad he once was.

It’s not long before Ghost’s head becomes an orchestra of pain. Each night, he has no choice but to listen. He lies on his sleeping bag, staring into the starless dark. In his ears, a bottle hisses open. Metal shovels dirt. Blood spits on the pavement. He chokes. Someone laughs long. His mother’s bare feet get quieter down the road. Tom weeps and weeps and weeps in his crib. Then there’s you - asking him not to forget about you. He never did. He never does.

Ghost’s trapped in a stalemate with himself. He shouldn’t break his rules. The last time he did, it all went to hell. He needs to be disciplined. The soldier in him follows orders to the fucking grave. But when it comes to you, Ghost’s nothing but a mutt. He decides the least he can do is protect you. From war. From the truth of who he is. From the fuck up that he is. So, he lingers. Steels himself enough to keep you alive. Asks you questions. Harmless things, at first. He learns you’re colder. Tougher. You must have rules too. Similar to his, maybe. He learns that even with a decade between you, he still knows you. The real you. His questions become riskier. Because he wants to know if you have a home. If you think about him. If you hate him. You should hate him.

He doesn’t blame you for leaving back then. You were bound to. Still, he'd been determined to keep that promise to you. Told himself he’d find you after moving out and making something of himself. He wanted to be the sorta man you’d respect, like your old man. Part of him hoped you’d enlist too - timing must’ve been off. When he got back from basic, he tried looking. But choices have consequences and he left it too long. By then, you’d vanished. No trace. No record of your existence. So, when things got fucked, he stopped. He had to keep a grip. Had to focus on keeping Tom on the straight and narrow. Had to escape when he failed. It's all cowardice. No mistakes. No hesitation. No attachments. Not that fucking hard, is it? Only, he never gets it right. Never gets what he wants. Never deserves it.

But then he sees it. The tag that he made for you. How you hold it and tell him it’s everything. In that moment, he knows all his rules go out the fucking window. And Simon dares to wonder if you could ever love him too. Just for a minute.

Chapter Text

Snow thickens overnight.

It’s a good excuse to get up late. You don’t spend the extra hour sleeping. Instead, you lie awake in your sleeping bag, wrapped in blankets and socks, staring at the roof of your tent. There’s a light sprinkle on the canvas, as if snowflakes are continuing their gentle fall. Other sounds come and go. Boots crunching, wood cracking, the crisp snap of a tree dropping a dead limb. Forks and mess pots tinkling right outside your tent.

The others must be awake. If you wanted, you could listen hard to piece together the bits of their conversation. But you’re a bit too tired for that. Hands flat atop your sternum, you let yourself glide along sleepy thoughts. First, just little things like needing to contact Fox and how long it’s been since you’ve properly listened to music. Before long, other things drift along the river of thought. Blond lashes. Molten eyes. Gloved fingers touching you. Your knee burning and the secret wish it’d go on and on and on.

Your stomach gives a roll. It’s been doing that all night, making you toss and turn, twisting any time it feels you sinking into sleep. You can’t remember the last time you felt like this. You don’t even know what this is. The truth is you feel something for Ghost. Nerves or reluctance or quiet understanding – it’s all tangled and looped together; impossible to tease apart. You can admit you like his dull eyes and his sullen looks and the dark humour that sometimes catches you off-guard. You like how he doesn’t mince his words and that he’s curious and knowing all at once. And the way he watches the world and christ, it’s like being a suppressed bloody teenager all over again.

When the warmth in your face has doused, you crawl to the door of your tent. Unzip its metal jaw. Scramble to your feet. Outside, the camp is quilted in white. Crows call in the trees. Pinecones laze in cold, bone-white dunes. Your boots leave footprints across the snow. Price is hunched forward on a damp rock, staring into a charred mess tin. He’s working a spoon through some sort of food with thick fingers, gloves chopped at the knuckle. Steam lifts around his dark, unshaven jaw.

“Alright?”

He frowns into the tin. “Shit tastes like dog piss.”

You coast over, chomping the snow with each step. He tips the food to show you the contents. Dried muesli turned into apricot-coloured sludge. Still bubbling with powdered milk.

You cross your arms, nostrils twitching at the poignant smell. “You considered not eating it or?” 

“Course I have,” he defends, scooping for more. Without hesitating, he sticks it in his mouth and swallows. Licks the spoon shiny-clean. “Like to finish what I start though, don’t I?”

That’s so fucking ridiculous, you laugh. The  reflex happens so quick; you fail to stifle it in time. His brows shoot up, like he knows you’ve slipped. That makes it worse somehow. After a second, you manage to beat your chest into submissive silence. While you do, Price extends an unopened bag of muesli to you. You take it, ripping it open with a plastic gasp.

“Good fuckin’ mornin’.”

Your head whips up to see Soap strutting into camp, donning an arctic-camo jacket and a wise-ass grin that he won’t let anyone ignore. Following close behind is Gaz, who seems considerably more miserable.

Soap claps. “Braw weather, dinnae we think?”

Price resumes his stirring, metal scuffing metal. “Score?”

Soap says ten to one the same time Gaz mumbles yeah, fog was too thick. There’s a meaningful glance shared between them.

You kick a log, trying to shake off the snow. “What’re we talking about?”

“Gaz’s a sore fuckin’ loser, that’s what.” Soap catches the hat Gaz throws at him. Whips it back, much harder. Bright, blue eyes round on you. “He’s upset I beat him at knife throwin’ again.”

“Knife throwing,” you repeat, in a surely-you-know-better sort of voice. Sitting, the log wobbles under your weight. “Out here, in the snow.”

“Ice ups the challenge,” nods Soap, very serious. “Makes things more slippery.”

Another involuntary laugh. This time you turn it into a hacking cough.

Gaz leans in, checking your pupils with the concern of an old nan. “You alrigh’, B?”

“She did that earlier,” Price dismisses with a jerk of his head. The movement makes his beanie tug up a little. Round, pink earlobes peek out of the wool. “Think the spook’s broken.”

Soap drops down on the log beside you, like he’s talking eye to eye with a drunk. “Guess there is a live lass in there,” he muses. “Whod’ve fuckin’ known?”

Grimacing, you shake your packet of muesli, oats rattling around. “Yeah, well can’t let her out of the cage too long, can I?”

That earns a mix of laughs, all different in pitch. Soap gestures for Price to toss him a bag of rations too. To your disbelief, the captain waves a hand to say don’t bother – shit’s rubbish.

It’s as you’re watching them, that Gaz kicks a lump of snow in your direction. “Ghost’s gone off to eat. Mate likes to be alone."

You’re not sure how to feel about him telling you this. Obviously, Gaz expects you to want to know. And well, you do. But you don’t want it to be so fucking obvious.

“Thought it wasn't advisable going off alone,” you give an unhappy smile. “Or was that rule reserved for me?”

Soap unwraps the energy bar that Price tosses. “This is Lt we’re talkin’ about, Bugs Bunny.” He pauses for emphasis. “Lt’ll be solid.”

“Not sure I follow.”

“Easy on the details sunshine,” warns Price coolly. “You know how bloody private he is.”

“Lt’s a gun,” Soap starts, scrunching up the wrapping. There’s a brief hesitation. Perhaps he’s thinking of how to articulate what he wants to say without giving away too much. “When he’s not with us, spends most o’ the time behind lines. Infil. Sabotage. All that shite.”

“And he does all that-,” you mindlessly crinkle the packet between your hands, “Alone?”

“Old dog’s loyal to cap, but he’s always itchin’ to go back to the lone wolf,” frowns Soap. “Much as we’d miss the bastard.” 

Price whistles like that’s enough, and Soap doesn’t add more. You’re not sure what to make of this new intel. Honestly, it makes no sense. Ghost’s tendency hasn’t seemed like solitude. This whole time, he’s been approaching you with total confidence. In fact, he’s been proper insistent on being in your space. So much that it’s bordered on fucking inappropriate. Yet if Soap’s to be believed, that was all - out of character.

Soap starts banging on about how his Ma makes a crowdie to pure perfection. Cream, ribbons of gold, toasted oats and sour raspberries when the garden’s overgrown. You listen politely, contributing with the occasional nod or hum. But for some reason, the whole thing’s unsettled you. If you read this wrong about Ghost, there could be other things you misjudged. Things you didn’t see. All because of a fucking crush.

Like Price’s spoon, your stomach churns. Simmering, thickening slop.

—-

As the week passes, the team hits a series of dead ends.

Each of them more frustrating than the last. You flick through a stack of files, thumbing the cardboard corners with a black latex glove. Birth certificates. Car registration. Deeds. Stock-standard bullshit. Finding something on Russian terrorism is looking more doubtful by the minute. That’s the thing about intelligence. Following leads is a game of roulette; blank click after click until finding that thunderous shot.

The consolation is that this house has been an easy tickbox. The rabbit that owns the place has conveniently whisked away on a month-long vacation with his family. So, breaking-in was the quicker tactic. Whoever this rabbit is, the clever old git’s been in the game long enough to know not to leave incriminating documents, which is disappointingly wise. Leaving one guard was proper daft, though. Ghost had made simple work of that.

You reach the end of the cabinet, hoping there might be something concealed in the back. No luck. The drawer eases to a squeaking shut. Beside it, you spot a metal basket brimming with rubbish. You kneel, sift through quietly for a minute. Bubble wrap. Crumpled receipts for a champagne-dinner and another for a collection of hardware supplies, dated three months ago. An old, empty box of cigarettes that’s been purposefully crushed. Nothing useful. Your breath melts into a sigh. At the least, three possible locations can now be crossed off the list. No closer, no further.

Soap creaks into the office, reflection shone on the hardwood floor. He’s doing his own sweep. In one go, he tugs open a drawer, rummages around with the tip of his rifle and knees it shut. His movements aren’t as clinical as yours, but he’s got his uses. For Soap, there’s no such thing as half-assing through life. He’s always on full blast, like he’s cranked the music to the loudest volume. When he channels that energy, he’s unstoppable. Can clear a house in less than five minutes flat. Fucking impressive.

Giving Soap a second to look around, you peruse a row of elegant glass cases. The ceiling light vaults from the glass, so you shift to find the best angle. In one of the cases lies a collection of dried butterflies. You lean in to examine, adjusting the hem of your glove. It’s an assortment of colourful little creatures. Spotted, striped wings. Wired antennae. On closer inspection, you notice a nail protruding through one of the butterflies. The others, too, are pinned to the backboard. Their soft velvet thoraxes split right through the middle. Something about that feels sad.

The sound of Soap clearing his throat stirs you. You make eye contact with him, shrugging to indicate you’re finished here. His curt nod suggests he’ll take your lead. Together, you head into the living room. Your footsteps alternate on the wooden panels.

Ghost must be finished searching his side of the house, because he’s already waiting. It’s a familiar picture of him. Large frame, bulky vest, rifle hanging limp from his shoulder. He leans motionless against the wall, smudged eyes boring a hole into the snow outside. You think he almost looks like a hound - ears pricked as it tracks an intruder, canines preparing for an iron-toothed bite.

Hearing your approach, his jaw turns. He pushes off the wall, skeletal thumbs curling around his vest. You flex your fingers near your thigh. Latex squeaking. Ghost’s gaze goes to you. Then Soap. Then continues, leisurely, to trail around the room. Soap begins a debrief.

Now that you’re aware of it, you suppose Soap is right. Ghost is different in the field. Detached and cold and focused on one thing. Things change when you’re alone. When it’s just the two of you, he’s warm with contemplation. Questions and answers coming and going like a tide. In those moments, it’s like no one breaths or even exists for miles. In those moments, he seems to know you, in and out, like his pattern wefts and weaves with yours.

But maybe that’s wrong. Maybe that bollocks he gave about not forgetting who he is behind the mask was just that - pure bollocks. It’s not unreasonable to suppose he’s pretending or playing a role. You’re an asset. In your world, everyone is a liar. Even you.

When Soap paces off to radio back to Price, you wander closer to Ghost. Part of you wants to inspect him, read his fine print with a magnifying glass to find out his real intentions. He doesn’t seem to mind the shrinking distance - doesn’t move away or flinch. His attention’s locked to something in the corner of the room, high up on the ceiling. You follow his line of sight, curious. There, tucked into the wall, is a security camera. Black and glossy, a light blinking red in rebuke. You must have missed it when you entered, which is fucking irritating.

Without a second thought, you pluck out the handgun from his vest. Ghost watches you cock the weapon. You squeeze hard. One dry click and the camera bursts. There’s a shower of plastic, glass, metal. Expression steeled, you tuck the weapon back where it belongs. Your eyes drift over his vest. Then, further down to the bunched-up sleeves that you hadn’t noticed before. To his forearms, which are exposed. That’s when your heart stutters.

His arms are black with faded ink. Tattoos, elbow to wrist, at the least. The pictures are familiar. So familiar it reminds you of something you drew once. On an arm. In a bus.  

Skulls.

---

“Fox, this is Bug.”

You pace out a circle, one hand on your hip. Seconds tick. There’s only silence. Impatient, you thumb the microphone again. 

“Fox-”

The line spits to life. “Fuckin’ hell, you learn that lesson on patience or what?”

Your jaw tenses. “Unfortunately, not.”

“Do one, Bug,” curses Fox, no hint of a laugh. “What d’you want?”

You drag a woollen, gloved hand through your hair. “You wanted regular updates, right?”

This plucks at her interest. “Affirm. Heard you’re holed up in Albania.”

That shouldn’t surprise you. Fox keeps intelligence on her assets. Tracks them, maybe fox hunts their radio transmitters. It’s meant as a measure to keep assets safe. To maintain control. Still, you don’t like the idea that someone’s keeping tabs on you. No matter who it is.

The snap of a twig stops you cold. Your narrowed eyes dart behind you, searching. There’s nothing there. Snow and twigs and trees, but no living thing. You take a second to collect yourself.

“Word travels fast.”

“Not that fast,” she amends, and you can hear her fingers drumming on her keyboard. “Your dogs find that Makarov prick yet?”

“Dead ends,” you explain, wanting to get to the point. Your fingers are tingling from the vibrations of her voice, so you swap the receiver into your other hand. “Two possible locations left.”

She stops typing to whistle, “Hunt’s almost over, eh?”

“Hypothetically,” you chew the inside of your lip. “What’s the farm look like back home?” 

A long sigh. “More of an abattoir, Bug. That’s wha’ you get when there’s a rat in-house. Can’t even go t’ the toilet without bein’ watched. Real invasive shite.”

Your snort is sarcastic. “Bunch o’ monsters.”

Fox laughs in a voice that seems to say fuck off. “Want me t’ run those two addresses through satellite?”  

This makes you pause. Of all the time you’ve known her, Fox isn’t the type to go out of her way to help you without being asked. You run a finger over your bottom lip, drawing together a response.

“Think Price had that sorted,” you say, carefully. “Said he asked Laswell.”  

“Laswell?” she repeats with distaste. Then, catching herself, pivots to a tease. “Well, if that’s not wha’ you called me for, spit it the fuck out.”

You inhale, lifting your eyes up. Snow twirls all around, fluttering with the wind, stinging your cheeks. This is a risk, but that’s the thing about intelligence. Sure, maybe it’s paranoia, but you need to check. You won’t end up like those butterflies in the case. Bare, exposed, metallic nails pierced through your chest.  

So, you bring your lips to your radio and mutter, “I need a file.”

“Name?”

“Callsign, Ghost.”

Chapter Text

The sun’s going down.

All the trees are backlit with molten gold. Shivering, you stub out your cigarette. It sizzles.

This is fucking bullshit. Your radio has been on for ten minutes, droning with false mechanical life. You could wait a bit longer, but part of you knows there’s no point. Fox isn’t there.

It’s been two days since you last made contact with her, when you asked her to dig out Ghost’s file. There must be some reason for her newfound absence - crossed wires, administrative error, bureaucratic nonsense. Whatever the excuse is, you won’t hear it tonight. The radio hisses off. Frustrated, you shove it in your pocket and head back.

Walking calms you. As isolated as it is, there’s so much to see in the mountains and it smoothes out the wrinkles in your nerves. Even as the sun dies, everything feels alive. Icicles hang from stiff branches. Grass struggles up through their winter graves. Stars blink awake. Even the drops of snow tapping on your jacket make music. 

Five minutes go by. When you reach camp, you spot Soap hovering over a portable burner stove. He’s alone, dressed in a thick jacket with a collar that makes his face look rounder than it is. You suspect he’s not cooking anything. His fingers are spread, gloves and all, catching the smoke rising from the stove.

You crouch near him. “That actually helping?”

Soap wriggles his fingers, as if this somehow helps him assess his own temperature. “Maybe,” he says, mouth flattening into muted indecision. “I’m so numb I can’t fuckin’ tell. Have a crack, Bugs Bunny.” 

Nothing to lose, you hold your hands out. Smoke coils around your woollen gloves. You give it a minute, hoping to feel something. Nothing comes.

“Times like these, I wonder why I don’t quit,” you complain, sniffling. “Literally bloody arctic up here.”

Soap cups his hands to his mouth, exhaling long. “Not sure what yer on abou’ lass. S’just a wee draught.”

You laugh, finding you don’t care to let him hear it. When he does, his blue eyes soften. 

“Ye actually think ye could ever quit?” he wonders, palming his mohawk. The gel in his hair has started to crust. “Leave all this behind?” 

Your brows knot. “You say that like you’re doubting I would.”  

Shrugging, Soap lowers his hands and sets them over his knees. That wasn’t his meaning.

“My ma hopes I’ll quit,” he explains, studying the burner stove. “Thinks I’m an absolute bampot for bein’ out here, but she’d never tell me tha’.”

“Must be nice,” you mumble. “I mean, having people who want you to come home.” 

“S’pose so.” His lips grimace, scarred chin twisting. “Sometimes tha’s the worst bit. Bein’ away from ‘em. Not knowin’ if they’ll get a coffin delivered to their front fuckin’ door.”

That makes you want to change the subject. You look out into the bales of snow, suddenly aware of how dark it’s gotten. The last bits of light are receding below the treeline and the smoke is doing nothing to warm your hands. Sucking in a breath, you pull out another cigarette. It’s while you’re fishing for a lighter, that Soap goes to get a tarp. Flapping it out, he lets the plastic square drift onto the snow.

Together, you sit. Soap watches you coax a flame from the lighter, his eyes beading crimson when it catches. The tip of your cigarette singes hot.

“I did wanna quit once,” you decide to say, tilting your head back to blow a column of smoke. One leg folds over the other. “Took a job on human trafficking once and wasn’t sure I had the stomach to come back.”

“Why didn’t ye?” he asks, curious. “Quit?” 

“Feel like civvie life would be boring, don’t you?”

“Depends how ye spend yer time,” considers Soap. With that, he leans over, holding out an expectant hand. You’re feeling generous, so you pass him the smoke. “See, when I go home, it’s steamin’ chaos. Everyone in the neighbourhood wants to pin me down for a bloody pint.”

“Poor wee Soap.” 

“It’s John,” he says, taking another drag. He rakes his fingers down his stubble, the cigarette loose in his grip. “Same as Price. An’ Gaz’s real name’s Kyle.”   

You press your lips together. Honestly, you like the sound of Kyle better than Gaz.

“And Ghost?”

Soap hesitates, taking his time to exhale a lungful of smoke. He seems to think this is a dangerous topic, but he’s polite enough to not downright refuse. When he does speak again, flicking ash with his thumb, he sounds more earnest.

“Lt’s a lot more private than the rest o’ us bastards. If Cap dinnae make that obvious already.” 

You grind a frustrated heel in the snow. “Does he ever take that mask off or?”  

“No idea.” Soap gives you a strange look that borders on impatience. “Never shows his face to us. Think Price’s seen it, though.” He brings the smoke back to his lips but seems to get distracted in thought. “Why’re you so interested in Lt?”

Tense, you look down at your thumb, picking at a loose thread on the glove. Sure, you’re interested, in more ways than one. You might even be going absolute mental over him, to be fair. But you can’t help it. See, there are glimpses. The accent, the skulls, even how he stares into his gloves when he’s adjusting them, as if he believes those hands have dug his own grave. Fucking glimpses. They stir something in you, old and blurred, like polaroids growing dust in a box. Pictures that haven’t fully developed, that won’t - no matter how hard you shake them.

You pluck the stray thread out, knowing you can’t say any of that to Soap. Not unless you get something in return.

“Tell me his name,” you pitch, “An’ I’ll tell you why I’m so interested.”

From his expression, you know he doesn’t like this proposition. Yet he’s not the type to reject it flat, either. That’s the thing about Soap. Growing up around people that love him has made the poor bastard sensitive to social pressure. He’ll do what he can to avoid disappointment - that’s normal to him. Even so, he respects Ghost more than anyone. Looks up to him. You have to be clever about this. Careful.

Deciding something, Soap returns your smoke. “Yeah an’ who’d go first?”

You take the cigarette, roll it between thumb and forefinger. “Flip a coin?”

Another pause. Then Soap holds out a fist, like he’s challenging you to a game of scissor, paper, stone. For a minute, you think he’s about to laugh it off. But it dawns on you the sod’s fucking serious. Piss it. You tuck the cigarette between your lips and extend a fist. You thud it into your other palm.

One, two, three. 

Mirrored stones. Fuck.

Another count. You throw scissors. Soap chooses stone again, tucking his thumb just before it lands. He cheers in triumph.

You make another fist, signalling you want to go out of three. The cigarette dangles from your lips, smoke spiralling between you. He copies, silent agreement. Your attention sharpens on his thumb.

One, two, three.

Just like you expect, his thumb tucks. You throw paper. Smile. Soap frowns. He retreats, eager to go again, serious now.

There’s a sudden crunch. Both of you stop. Your eyes shoot to your left, listening for more. It’s dark. Too dark to see, now that the sun’s been snuffed out. But you can hear boots, chomping closer and closer. You wait, hand still mid-air. Finally, Ghost emerges from the black.   

“Steamin’ hell, scared me half to death, Lt.”

Dark eyes move from Soap’s hand to yours. For the first time you realise how close you’re sitting. How close your knuckles are. You’re filled with a sudden itch to jump up. But you can’t move. You just sit, paralysed beneath this new attention. Ghost almost looks like he’s about to speak. Like the words are there, burning on his tongue. Except, he doesn’t. He turns to the ammunition cache, starts sorting through it.

“Cap give us the green, Lt?” asks Soap, heaving himself to his feet.

“Affirm,” levels Ghost, flicking on a lamplight.  The edge of his mask flares electric blue. “X is in town. Some fancy flat.”

With the toe of his boot, Soap spits snow into the burner stove. He paces over to his lieutenant, letting the smoke billow around you. “So when’re we headin’ out?”

“Now,” murmurs Ghost. “Dark’ll give us cover.”

You stretch to a stand, tarp curling into itself without your weight. Your thighs prickle with pins and needles. Stretching them out, you pace over, tapping the end of your cigarette. Ash dusts into the snow.

Distracted, Soap peers over to see what his superior’s doing.

Ghost halts. “Gear up, sergeant.”

Realising himself, Soap jolts to life. He’s already punching his arms through a tactical vest, ripping velcro to stuff supplies in his pockets. “We takin’ thermals?”

“Finally learnin’,” mutters Ghost, resuming his rummaging. “Good ol’ pup.”

“Lemme finish this?” you ask, sucking on your cigarette. “It’s proper fucking cold. Needa warm up a bit.”

Ghost seems uninterested. “Won’t help.”

“What d’you mean?”  

“Narrows your blood vessels,” he explains, dull eyes lifting to yours. “Makes you bloody colder, Bug.”  

You look down at the cigarette, unable to muster up anything other than, “Oh.”  

Several seconds tick by. Maybe he's had enough, because Ghost roughly discards whatever he’s holding. A skeletal hand reaches for you. Plucks the smoke out of your hand. Crushes it into the lid of a box. Done. The cigarette lies on the tin, crinkled and pathetic.

You expect that’ll be it. That Ghost will go back to work with this detached, professional mask. But he doesn’t. He takes your hand. You’re so thrown, you just let him. Just watch as he nurses your limb in the cave of his gloves, like this is the most natural thing in the world. In your peripheral, Soap drops his med pack.

He’s just warming you up. Just helping. And it must work, because your cheeks are fucking incinerating now.

Ghost breathes, “Better?”

You meet his gaze, not daring to look away. If you do, you’re certain you’ll crumple. Wilt, like the stubbed-out cigarette.

“Yeah,” you croak, almost feverish. “Better.”

---

You peer into your scope.

The flat is on the third floor, set on the corner of the street. Patient, you scan its windows. Wooden arches, tinted glass. Amber glows from the bathroom vent, which tells you the lights are on. You notice one of the windows has been left open, velvet curtains bucking back and forth with the wind. No real visual there. Inside is a rabbit,  relaxing in his burrow. You just can’t see him. You hope to hell Soap’s got better luck.

Taking a shallow breath, you let your scope drift down the street. It’s a nice town. More built-up than you expected. Bigger. Full of tall, wooden buildings wearing hats of thick, pearl snow. On the frosted bitumen, cars beam their headlights. Shop doors clang in greeting. Couples in thick coats idle down the thoroughfare. Two mates tussle on the pavement, shoving each other off the curb and shouting with laughter.

Fingers wrapped around your rifle, you glance over at Ghost. He’s beside you, flat on his stomach, same as you. His sniper pokes through the metal railing, nose narrow and long. One bony finger rests lazily on the trigger. The other tightens his scope. Holing up here with him was a fucking daft idea. For the past hour, there’s been a constant, dull thud in your chest.

After a few more minutes of surveillance, you sit up. Your wrist is branded with marks from the riveted floor, so you rub a thumb into it. It feels like ages ago that Ghost had held your hand in his, not hours. You wish you had the bollocks to ask him to do it again. You wish you could be bold enough to touch his skin, beneath all the layers of gear. Touching you lit some wick inside you. Now all you can think about is melting into him like pooling wax. If he’s thinking about the same thing, he doesn’t show it. He’s focused, as always.

You decide you can’t tolerate the silence.

“What sorta things d’you do?” you ask, “I mean, when you’re not working.”

“I’m always workin’.” 

“Sure,” you grant, frowning. “But you must have to take leave. Don’t you have hobbies or something?”

Ghost must think that’s a childish thing to say, because he takes on a dry tone. “Hobbies?”

“Yeah, like snowboarding,” you offer, quite pathetically. You pull your rifle into your lap, its barrel scraping steel. “Or I don’t know, football. Or going to the pub with your mates. You know, that sorta thing.”

Ghost lifts his head, jaw angling toward you. In the chasms of his mask, his lids thin. “Goin’ to the pub’s a hobby, is it?” 

“For some people, I s’pose.”

He slips back into position. “I’m not that sorta bellend, Bug.”

That prods your attention. “You mean you don’t drink much?”

“I drink,” he answers coolly. “Just don’t lose control.” 

There’s an odd atmosphere when he says that. Control is important to him, you understand that. But there’s something inscrutable about how drained he sounds, just thinking about it. You can almost taste the bitter tang of beer on your tongue. Can almost smell it.

Somewhere below, a car door slams. You lean a little over the railing, glancing down. Three men are loading musical equipment into different vans. Black, glossy cases. Amplifiers. Dismantled drum parts. Crates full of tangled cords. One of them stops to pat snow from the ankle of his jeans. You draw a breath through your nostrils, searching for something else to say.

“You seem to like Soap.”

“Do I?”

“And the others,” you continue. “I can tell you like working with ‘em. Which is strange actually, because Soap said the other day you were practically gaggin’ to go back to the lone wolf.”

That earns a pause. His haunted eyes slide to you, and he seems to be trying to read your mind.

“Better chance o' winnin’ when you’re not on your own, yeah?”

“Maybe,” you sniffle, calm. “You don’t seem like the type to follow people you don’t respect.”

“That’s for sure.”

“So you must like Price then.”

Ghost’s brows twitch. It’s obvious he doesn’t understand what you’re getting at. Neither do you. You sigh. Maybe you should laugh it off or pretend you don’t care.

“Price is different,” he concedes, sounding conflicted. “Old dog knows what he stands for.” 

Thinking, you turn your chin up, searching the black abyss above. Sheer clouds. The hanging, blanched moon. Stars fading like ghosts. There’s a strange lump in your throat that you can’t seem to swallow down.

“Do you ever regret it?” you lick your lips. “This life, I mean?”

His answer takes time. 

“I made choices,” he says. “Have no choice but to live with ‘em, do I?”

“I wouldn’t know,” you admit, looking over your rifle in your lap. “To be honest, I feel like I haven’t made a real choice for myself in ages.”

“How so?”

“Well, I get to be whoever I want," you explain. "Pretend as much as I want. I could be a teacher, or a nurse, or a fucking detective, and people would believe me.”

Ghost lifts his head again, interested. Maybe he’s trying to analyse you. Distinguish what’s real and what’s performance. He doesn’t know how honest you’re being. How surprisingly easy it is to be honest with him.

“So it’s an illusion,” he surmises.

“You see my dilemma.”

You continue inspecting your rifle, trailing your fingers along its spine. Wind swells, brisk and cool. The fire escape groans. Snowflakes flutter, melting on the glittering metal. Goosebumps whisper up your arms.

At last, he murmurs. “So, choose somethin’.” 

“Like?”

“Whatever you want,” he says, matter of fact. “That’s the point, yeah?”

It’s not that easy, you want to say. Nothing in your life has ever been that easy. You’ve had a lifetime of pure fucking disappointment. The last thing you need is more of it. You wipe a sleeve over the tip of your nose. It’s numb now.

Pushing down your thoughts, you nod your head at the apartment. “This isn’t working. We need a better visual.”

He must be thinking the same thing, because Ghost lifts his shoulder to thumb his radio, “Johnny, how copy?”

Immediately, “Crickets, Lt.”

You touch your own receiver. “Someone needs to get in there,” you suggest. “Poke around.”

“Under cover,” agrees Soap. “Wouldn’t mind havin’ a peek. Find out what these wee bastards are really doin’.”

“Find out if Makarov’s inside,” you confirm.

“I can do it,” volunteers Soap, voice crackling on the line. 

“Not without Price knowin’,” warns Ghost. “You’d stick out, Johnny.”

“It needs to be me,” you cut. “We run it by Price an' come back tomorrow. I’ll nick some clothes on the way back. Copy?” 

Ghost drags his sniper out of the railing. “Copy.”

---

Later that night, the tide is out.

What’s left is wet sand, shimmering like shed snakeskin. There’s no wind. No sun. Just wisps of clouds and metallic waves that dissolve in the distance. You stand on the beach, grit between your toes. The ocean shrieks in your ears. Somehow, you don’t feel like yourself. Your skin is fragile and intangible, as if you’re see-through or going invisible. Between two places. Half here, half there. 

Across the flat is a shadow. Small and slight, growing ever closer. It passes everything. Crabs slithering in their shells. Birds gliding above the swell. Pebbles dusted with salt. You wait for the shadow to reach you, because you’re certain it will. You just don’t know how long; all your bearings are gone with the tide. Seconds. Hours. Years. Time is strange in this liminal place.

Suddenly, he’s there.

Just like you remember him - dirtied sneakers to neat, ironed tie. Things go quiet. He has that sullen expression, the air of someone that’s just woken from decades of sleep. But there’s something else too. The quiet burn of relief or hope or courage that might wisp out at the slightest bit of wind. You open your mouth to speak, yet nothing comes out. All your words have anchored to the bottom of your mind. Depthless, out of reach. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear it - the lies, the excuses, the apologies you know better than to give.

Your heart thuds. Water ripples past your ankles. And time is strange here. Time is a living, breathing thing that has pulled you apart, piece by piece. It sweeps you in its path, taking you somewhere or nowhere or-

“Bug-” 

You gasp awake.

Struggle. Something pushes you back. It’s Ghost. He’s leaning into your shelter, holding up a hand to calm you. There’s a jagged, blue light cast across the tent roof. Must be his flashlight, rolled somewhere near your thigh.

“Fuck is it?” you grouse. “Contact?” 

“Negative,” he answers, voice a little muffled. “Just heard you talkin’ in your sleep.” 

“Oh,” you mutter, raspy. He gives you a minute to rub your eyes. “Been told that happens sometimes.”

“Bloody heart’s racin’-”

It’s then that you can feel his uncovered thumb, pressed to the soft skin at your wrist. Your attention falls to the place you’re connected, flesh to flesh, where he must have rattled you awake. There, over his knuckles, you see scars. Silky-smooth and as flat as his expression.

He seems to remember himself, hand shooting back. Then the rest of him retreats too, finding the opposite side of the tent. Like clockwork, Ghost sinks to the floor, threads his glove back on. Composed, he sends his attention outside.

You use the distraction to examine him. Knees cocked, legs long, boots outside in the snow. He’s not wearing the hard, bone-white mask. Instead, he’s got the balaclava with the toothed grin pulled up the ridge of his nose. There’s no hood this time. His hair is on show - blond, cropped, but a little messed-up. You think you could sit there forever, watching him. You wish he would let you.

“D’you mind?” you mumble, gesturing to the tent door. “Shutting that, I mean. Don’t really wanna wake the others.”

Ghost hesitates, uncertain. You get the sense that he’s warring it over in his mind. One part of him resistant and the other curious. The curiosity wins. Silent, Ghost kicks off his boots, one at a time. Crawls in further. Zips the door shut. 

“Bad dream?” 

You wipe your palms over your sleeping bag, embarrassed. “Sort of. Next time, just let me have the heart attack. Die in my sleep.” 

He exhales sharp, and you’ve heard that enough to know it’s his expression of amusement.

“Quieter that way.”

“Make sure I’m cremated?”

“I’ll remember to spread your ashes. Somewhere nice.” 

“The bin?”

“Gutter’s better,” he deadpans, relaxing. “Keep the rats company.”

You snort, “Real poetic.”

When his eyes meet yours, you can see they’re rimmed red. Tired. Black war paint streaked over his lids, which he hasn’t bothered to clean off for night watch. 

“What was it about?”

“The dream?” 

Ghost levels you with a pointed look that seems to say, what else?

The idea of telling him makes your stomach turn with dread. No matter who he is, dreaming about someone you knew ten years ago is a bad look. Still, some fucked up part of you wants to get it out. To reach in and pick the thoughts from your brain, like splinters that have tunnelled deep.

You shut your eyes. “It was about this lad I used to know. I’ve been - dreaming about him.”

Several seconds pass. You allow your eyes to ease open. Ghost’s shoulders move in the slightest rise and fall, as if he’s suppressing a deep breath.

“What’s he doin’?” 

“Nothing, really,” you admit, wetting your lips. “I s’pose we’re just sort of looking at each other. But it just feels so real, you know?”

He says nothing for a long time, adjusting the balaclava so that it sits up higher. Then, “You asked if I regret it.”

“Do you?”

“My life’s full o’ regret, Bug.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that. How to tell him that you feel the same. If you make the wrong move, he’ll shut down. Withdraw behind that vacant expression and order you to go back to sleep. You cross your legs - a feeble attempt to curl into yourself.

“You don’t have to tell me all of it,” you rub the back of your neck. “Just tell me one thing. Please.”

“Like what?”

“Whatever you want,” you say. “That’s the point, right?”

Ghost looks a little unimpressed at that, but he covers up his expression with a hand. He’s thinking, hard. Wondering what he can - what he should - reveal. When he talks, it’s quiet. Reluctant.

“There was a - girl.”

Oh.

You wait for him to continue, careful not to interrupt his train of thought. Whatever he wants to confess, it needs to be in his own words. Unfettered and free.

His throat bobs. “Met her when I was a lad. Was just a - just a soft fuckin’ coward back then.” 

“Did you-,” your voice cracks. “Did you leave?”

“No.” His brows pull into confusion. “Guess I pushed her out. Wasn’t honest-”

“You lied?”

“Not exactly.” Ghost lowers his hand to his knee to look into the hollow of his glove. He seems frustrated with himself. “The last night I saw her, I should’ve said somethin’. Never had the spine to.”

A memory comes to the front of your mind, of that night you went drinking. Of lying down in bed, face to face, and saying goodbye.

You take a careful breath. Ghost can’t mean you. That’d be too easy. Too fucking unfortunate. It would ruin everything. It would force open that mausoleum of hope inside you. All those forgotten hours telling yourself you could go back and visit him when things got better. Or when you enlisted, wondering whether you should send him a letter. Or in those first years as an agent, when you’d drive out to some abandoned street, imagining yourself going back to that butcher shop. Doorbell ringing, tiptoeing up to the counter, smiling at him.

It takes some nerve, but you find it in yourself to speak. “Maybe you could say it now.”

Caution flickers in his eyes. “What d’you mean?”

“You could say it like she’s here,” you offer. “You could pretend.”

Ghost doesn’t respond right away. Doesn’t break eye contact, either. Just sits there, weighing up the idea, attention fixed to you. There’s a special kind of torture in it - sitting in this cramped tent, no escape. It’s like an emotional tomb. No distractions. Nothing else to look at or talk to. The whole thing feels so exposing, you might as well be out in the cold. Waist-deep in snow and wind-harrowed to the bone. You’re not sure you can stand it. You need to break the silence somehow. Perhaps he’s thinking the same, because Ghost runs a ragged hand through his hair. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, looking down at your sleeping bag. His hand goes to his forehead again, eyes shutting. “No bloody different, am I? Still that same fuckin’ coward.”

“I don’t believe that,” you exhale. “It’s just – it’s harder, right? When it’s been in there for so long-“

“Righ’.”

“You don’t have to-“

“I’m in love with you,” he gets out, irritated. Curls his hand into a fist. Thumps it on his knee. “S’what I should’ve said.”

Part of you begins to think that you shouldn’t have pushed him. That you’ve gone too far. That you don’t deserve to hear something so - private. And honest. And sacred. Words that don’t belong to you. Ghost glances away, to the door of the tent, like the thought of disappearing is consoling to him.

“She knows,” you tell him, soft. “Wherever she is.”

Ghost’s eyes return to you. “Maybe.”

You offer him a faint smile. It turns into a yawn.

“You should sleep.”

He’s right. Soon, Price or Kyle will take over night watch and he’ll need to rest too.

“Want me to take over?”

“Negative,” he dismisses, a little wooden. The tent zip whizzes open. As he tugs on his boots, flecks of snow drift in. “I’ll be out here.”

Nodding, you brush back the hair sticking to your forehead. “Think I’ll sleep better now.” 

Ghost starts to get up, “Sweet dreams, Bug.”

“I wouldn’t pick something different,” you manage to blurt out, before you can think twice. Ghost pauses, listening. “If I got to choose. I’d choose this work again. Meeting you-”

The two of you lock eyes. He must understand your meaning. How you feel, toward him.

You swallow, gathering your courage. “I won’t tell anyone your secret.  Long as you don’t tell anyone mine.”

Unthinkingly, Ghost touches a solemn hand to his chest. Holds it there in wordless promise.

You go still.

Somehow, it feels as if you’re looking through time. Like the two of you are staring out cracked windows, in trains that just ease past each other, but never quite stop. Then it’s gone. Wind swirls. The tent quivers. Your pulse beats in your ears. Ghost steps out into the cold, unaware of his own mistake. Unaware that the jigsaw’s come together, neat and perfect.

There he is – Simon Riley.

Chapter Text

There are clear differences.

He’s about an inch taller now. Bulkier all over. Much more self-assured, too. Confidence. Fearlessness. There has to be some reason behind it. The past decade has taught Simon what sort of man he is. Insight he’s earned between blind exhilaration and raw, sweltering wounds. That’s the thing about life. It teaches you things. Changes you - gradual, tectonic shifts that distort you at the core. You don’t need a magnifying glass to see how he’s different. He trusts his captain, gives orders the others follow, teases the lot of them like he considers them mates. Maybe he’d never admit it, but he’s no stray dog anymore. He’s special forces now; a lieutenant. Respected and needed, unlike you.

Life has dismantled you and you can’t tell if he’s recognised whatever is left. Your face. The callsign. The bug tag. There are enough clues that he should have pieced it together. Yet, if he knows, then he’s let you embarrass yourself. Let you scramble for answers. Let you get close to a lie. That’s fucked, that. But the thought you hate the most is that he’s just half forgotten you. Like remembering a song without the music or lyrics. Your real name burning and burning on the tip of his tongue.

You’ll need to tell him. Fuck, there are so many things to tell him. And things to ask: what he likes or the mistakes he’s made or if he ever fell in love. If his brother’s still causing trouble, banging on his tin cans. If the lot of them ever got out from underneath his old man’s thumb. But you can’t ask these things now. Better to wait.

At least, until the mission’s done.

—-

Around mid-morning, the team comes together to brief up.

You don’t have to ask them to wait. Price makes a point not to speak until you’ve joined the circle, thermal mug warm between your fingers. When he does start, it’s nothing good. There’s a storm’s due to hit the mountain, from midnight or so. Miserable fucking news, which Price stresses. He pinches his temples, pacing in and out of a wedge of sunlight. Thin eyes glinting. Boots pacing patterns in the snow.

Gaz is the first to chime in. Bloke always wants to be the tool that welds the problem shut, so he suggests breaking into a farm truck to hunker down for the night. Soap thinks that’s bollocks and starts detailing that time he was stranded in a blizzard for three days with nothing but his tent, and came out pure dandy. Gaz makes a sarcastic promise to sever Soap’s toes if he gets frostbite. Price raises a hand in warning, fed up. You lift your coffee to your nose, bottom lip wetting with steam.

You’re not sure who to support. To be honest, it’s difficult to concentrate on anything other than Ghost. Because fuck, he’s just there. In the flesh. Black thumbs curled around his vest. Posture still and broad. Dark eyes, dull and indifferent. If he knows who you are, he’s a proper gun at hiding it. Better at deceiving than you, and you have a fucking knack for lies. Maybe he senses your attention, because Ghost decides to give his opinion then. Everyone goes silent to hear it. You can only hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Staring, you bring the mug to your lips. Take a careful sip of your coffee. From this angle, his mask looks grim. You concentrate on it, trying to picture the face underneath. If you think hard enough, you could draw the solid outline of him. Not the details, though. Ten fucking years have passed. Perhaps his skin is paler or scarred or prickled at the jaw. He could smile more. Or not at all. Or use that mouth with so much more - practice.

A hand waves in your face. You jolt, alert. Coffee spurts out the lid like vomit. Patting the flecks of it off your chest, you get the distinct feeling of being watched. One look up confirms it. Brown, blue, black eyes, pinned to you. Someone’s probably just asked you a question. Brilliant.

“Uh-,” you fumble, avoiding looking at Ghost. “Say again?” 

---

Price dismisses the team.

The plan’s simple. Divide and conquer. You’ll infiltrate the building to get a look at the flat, Price and Gaz watching your six. At the same time, Ghost and Soap will relocate the gear to an RV point. Everyone agrees the most ideal spot would be an improvised safe house. Best to keep out of the nose-numbing cold.

Clouds gather overhead. It takes time to gather your things. You fold your sleeping bag, dismantle your shelter, then hide behind a bracket of trees to change into the civvies you nicked last night: a black coat and a pair of jeans half a size too big. Unremarkable, which works well. Circling back, you drag a fleece beanie over your ears. Take a deep breath. Scan the half-disassembled camp. On one side, Gaz is crouched over a severed stump. He’s inspecting pieces of his pistol, scattered on the wood like an unmade jigsaw. His face is tense with confusion, as if he’s lost something important and can’t remember how.

You amble past him, rubbing your felt-covered elbows. There isn’t much left to pack, so you set yourself the task of sorting out the rations. Biscuits, muesli, coffee sachets, chicken and rice. You transfer them into one of the backpacks, separating them into different sections. The matches and mess tins get stacked on top.

Five minutes pass and Ghost comes back from patrol to take down his tent. He’s donned his winter gear: thick jacket, vest stuffed with supplies, helmet shelling his skull. Clutching the pack of rations, you spend a few seconds absorbed in how he folds up the canvas sheet. Meticulous and neat, four corners in perfect alignment.

“Alright, B?”

Jerking, your eyes shoot over to Gaz. He’s still hunched over his pistol, but he’s looking at you now. Like you’re the one he wants to dissect. One brow risen.

“Yeah,” you force a smile. “Fine, Kyle. Why?”

The brow doesn’t relax. “Seemed a bit distracted is all.”

He tilts his head to imply he knows what you’re thinking. Christ knows what it could be - your head’s a right fucking mess, even you can’t make sense of it.

You turn back to the pack, zipping it up. “Not sure what you’re on about.”

“S’just that you had this look on your face,” he presses, adjusting the bridge of his hat. “Like your head’s somewhere else. Thought you were about to bloody lose it.”

His cadence, pointed and rehearsed, makes your spine itch. You can’t be fucked with this right now.

“Gonna radio Laswell,” announces Price, coming up behind you. “Fall in, Gaz?”

Without another word, Gaz stretches to a stand. He doesn’t tip his hat or smile, like you expect. Just leaves. Long, surefooted strides. Thrown, you stare after his trail of footprints. Uneven shapes collapsing into slush.

“Sleep better?”

Your pulse thumps. Ghost.

Christ, you almost don’t want to look at him, but you have no excuse. You turn your jaw, seeing that he’s taken his knife out. Its teeth are bared to a braid of rope, which is wound around his sleeping bag. He must be chopping the excess length, only his hands have frozen mid-task.

“Loads,” you lie, scrubbing a palm down your face to disinfect any lingering nerves. “Cheers.”

Two words - both come out more distant than you intend. Ghost doesn’t react. He holds your eyes a moment, then lets his focus fall to his knife. The rope snaps, frayed.

“Good."

He doesn’t offer more. Ghost tucks the piece of rope in his pocket, then rotates the knife in his hands. You assume he’s inspecting its bite, debating whether to sharpen the steel. Silence stretches between you, wind flaring on your cheeks. You spend a few minutes going over your things, pretending to check your radio at least three times. Still no word from Fox, just that same recurring hum. You’re starting to think she’s been compromised. Somewhere above, a bird pecks at a tree. Bark flutters to the fog-thick ground.

In your periphery, Ghost has sheathed his knife and started boxing up a few rounds of ammunition. No matter what you do, you’re so alert to the distance between you. Last night was so – intimate. His hand. His heart. How the two came together like pen to paper, holding ten years of unwritten promise. For you. He had loved you, once. He’s admitted that much, loud and clear, with no room for interpretation. You wish you could do the same. Tell the truth, that it’s always been him. No one else. You want to know if he stills feels it, somewhere in there. No matter how different you are.

“You think we’re cursed?” you find yourself saying, fiddling with the recorder strapped to your waist. “The snowstorm, I mean.”

Fucking social skills. Here you are, unable to muster up a topic more interesting than the fucking weather. It’s like someone’s reached inside you and disorganised your thoughts. If he was here, your old man would be pissing himself laughing. Tommy too, brown eyes alight and mocking.

“Part of the job,” Ghost deadpans, clasping an ammunition box shut. He grabs another. “Bein’ cursed.”

You snort. “Guess your luck’s run out.”

A hand flexes in thought. “Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”

This feels so purposeful that you don’t know how to respond.

Ghost inhales. Continues, “Might not see you ‘til tomorrow.”

“Probably,” you muse, shifting the recorder closer to your hip. The idea he might be gone, when you’ve just found him again, doesn’t sit right. You glance at him. “Well, be careful, yeah? Don’t get compromised.”

He sounds interested in that. “You think I would?”

You never thought your dad would.

“Negative,” you straighten the ends of your jacket, so it sits nice over the recorder. “First time for everything though.”

His eyes have drifted back to you, contemplative and unflinching. You can almost feel something contaminating his mind. Leaking out - regret, shame, or something worse. It wouldn’t be the same ache you feel – always simmering there, set to low. Even now. Fishing for something to anchor yourself to, you find a pinecone near your rolled up sleeping bag. Its burnt needles are tipped in snow. Your nails prick the heels of your palms.

Deciding something, Ghost takes his knife out again. Flips it, catching the blade. He crunches closer until he’s in front of you, flecks of snow on his boots. For some reason, it makes you think about his sneakers. How he used to kick them off with a thud, landing on your tussled bedroom carpet. How he crawled into your bed, blond hair messed up on the pillow. Heavy quilt. Window cracked ajar. Rain rippling on the glass. Anticipating him, you pocket your hands.

“Here.”

It takes a second to process what he’s referring to. The knife hovers between you, pointing at your stomach. Handle-first.

“Take it,” he orders, jerking his wrist to turn the blade on its side.

Your brows furrow, “What for?”

“It’s a gift, Bug.”

“Oh,” you swallow, conscious of how strained your voice sounds. “You sure? I mean, you use that a lot.”

“S’why I’m givin’ it to you,” he insists, flat-toned. “You’ll need it. If you get compromised.”

He isn’t willing to back down from this, you realise. There’s not much else to do but take out a hand. Your fist unfurls, cautious. The first time he gave you something, you held onto it for ten bloody years. How long would you cherish this?

“You really think I’d get compromised?” you copy, mock offence.

Ghost slides the handle into the hollow of your palm. It happens slow and painful. Your eyes lock. His thumb swipes over your knuckles. The friction is near scalding, all the way up to your ears. You doubt anything could douse it.

“First time for everythin’, Bug.”

Somehow, he feels much closer than before. Like he could simply lean down and touch his forehead to yours if he wanted to. He doesn’t, though. After a long time, his hand withdraws, fingers hooking around his vest. Your grip tightens around the knife, rubber rough on your skin. It feels odd not to give him something in return. You want him to have a bit of you. Just a piece, even if it’s small or daft. Lips pressed together, you bend over. Ghost's knife pierces the bottom of your jeans. You tear a thin strip off.

“Here,” you announce, forcing him to take it.

Ghost inspects the patch of denim, dark blue. Tattered edges. Curled threads. The pad of his thumb circles over it.

“What’s it for?”

You pause to think, melting into a nervous laugh. “Luck.”

“Ha,” he breathes, eyes narrowing. “You mean sentiment.”

“Far worse sentimental shit than that," you defend.

He tucks the bit of fabric up his sleeve, head cocking in mild amusement, “Like what?”

“Lots of things.”

“Bit vague.”

Smiling, your gaze falters to his striped chin; white lines that descend into his jacket. On his collar are several creases in need of an iron. Back then, being out of order would have bothered him. For whatever reason, it doesn’t now. Without a thought, you lift your free hand. Thin, delicate fingers pinching at his collar, smoothing it out. Ghost goes very still, letting you touch him, searching your face. There is a sudden intensity between you.

When your hand comes down, he glances away. Draws a slow, shuddering breath.

“First times,” you tell him, so quiet he might not even hear it. “First kisses.”

Reluctant, Simon finds it in himself to return to your eyes. This time, there is naked emotion. Fear or longing, you don’t care which. You like him like this. Soft. Malleable. Senses tuned to nothing else but you. You’d do anything to make time stop here. On this mountain, in the middle of an oncoming storm. Here, with him, where everything else feels so unimportant. So far away. There and then, you decide you don’t care if either of you are different. Because even after everything, he’s still the same person that wanted to understand you - all the endless, boring chambers of you. The same person you used to know and belong with. And love. And fucking hell, you know you still do.

For a moment, Simon looks like he wants to say something. Like he needs to. You have an urge to trail a fingertip over his mask. Lift it up from the chin. But before you can, he eases back a touch. You exhale, long and white.

“Get back in one piece, yeah?” Ghost says dryly, tugging his sleeve down. “That’s an order.”

You sniffle, hands going back into your pockets, knife and all. “An’ if I don’t?”

“I’d find you Bug,” he answers, certain. “Whatever it took. Alrigh’?”

“Alright.”

Chapter Text

The door glides open.

Wind spills inside. You huddle out of the cold, looking around the foyer. It’s calmer in here. Brighter. Tiled in ceramic. Lit by sparkling chandeliers. Upscale, for a town like this. By the door, there’s an umbrella bin. Two rich-green velvet armchairs. A heater sighing hot, arid air. Snow and mud smeared on the long, welcome mat. You creep forward, letting the automatic door ease shut. Your hair falls limp around your neck.

“Hello.”

A man stands behind the reception desk. Plain, middle-aged, wearing a suit with shoulders so wide it has to be thrifted. The pattern of his hair almost reminds you of a badger. Pale, balding skin with dark patches on the sides. Just one look at him and Soap would piss himself laughing. You suppress a smile.

“Cold out there?”

He’s speaking in Tosk. You should probably do the same.

“Freezing. Thought I might die.” You wipe your boots. Three scrapes of rubber on the rough coir mat. “Have you been outside?”

“Not since this morning,” admits badger, sinking into a chair. He flattens a palm over an old book, which is split open on the desk. “Been stuck in here since nine. Doubt I’m leaving anytime soon.”

Christ. If he's been here since then, poor sod must be near-dead.

Turning your head, you glance out the window. It’s black out there. Distant headlights. Snow swirling. Wind trashing against the door, so hard it’s making the glass shudder. Part of you wishes you could radio Simon. He’d be tired too. Unbearably tired. Descending the mountain, moving the gear, locating the safe house. It doesn’t matter how capable he is or how far he can push past the brink of exhaustion. In this weather, life becomes a game of chance. Hypothermia, hazards, a snapped ankle. The slightest mishap and he’d slip through your fingers. Gone, just like that, again. The thought makes your stomach turn. Dread pulling and pushing and beating like the wind on the door. But you push down that bollocks fast. You need to be calm. Composed. And though it takes a moment, you manage to wade back to badger. Focusing on him, drifting over to his desk, like he’s your lighthouse.

“How long until the storm hits?”

He’s returned to his book, one finger curling around a page. “I’d say an hour or so. But in a storm like this, could be days before we see daylight.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Ah- I can think of worse things.”

You can’t.

Just then, the telephone on his desk rings. Turning his book upside down, badger answers it. The handset, curved and shining, smothers his earlobe. You watch his lips turn grim. Whoever is on the line is brisk and sharp, and badger fusses about with reassuring them he’ll check the garage is secure. And no need to worry. And yes, the roller door’s locked tight, no snow's getting in. Sure of it.

While he talks, you let your eyes trail behind him to a grid of mailboxes built into the wall. There’s around twenty of them. Small and metallic; envelopes like folded pastry clamped between teeth. One number pricks at your attention. 2-2. It’s stuffed to the absolute brim. Looks like it hasn’t been checked in weeks.

With a click, the phone returns to its bed. Badger takes a meditative breath, then remembers you. He leans forward, elbows planting on the desk.

“Sorry. What’s your business here?”

“I’m a real-estate agent,” you lie, fishing through your pockets. You extract a card and toss it to him. “We just acquired management of one of the apartments here.”

Thoughtful, he squints down at the card but doesn’t pick it up. A logo stares up at him, blue and gold with embossed lettering. You hope he doesn’t recognise it. The business or the name of the woman you nicked it from.

“It’s rather late for inspections,” comments badger, returning to your eyes. He draws the tip of his finger aimlessly around the card. “You’re lucky I was even at the desk.”

“Guess I am.” You rub the underside of your nose. “Do you usually lock up?”

“Most days,” he confirms. “The storm complicated things tonight.”

Fucking right.

“I realise the poor timing,” you say, shifting your weight between your feet. “It’s just that the owner was insistent. He said it’s been vacant awhile. Number two, second floor.”

“Oh.” He palms the back of his neck, stirred into discomfort. “The woman who lives there hasn’t been in for almost two months.”

“Two months?”

“I rang the police about it and everything.”

You chew on that, nodding. “Let me guess, no one came?”

His nod says yes. “Useless donkeys will tell you if you lose your ring, it’s your finger’s fault.”

Your mind starts to spin another cover. You could say you’re police, off-duty. Poking your nose in all the places your colleagues can’t be bothered to. It’s a risk, but that’s the game. Sometimes you have to roll the dice. Sometimes that's how you win.

If badger’s smart, he’d ask for identification. It would be simple enough to squirm out of that hole. But if he wanted to call the department, get some sort of verification, you’d have no choice but to incapacitate him. You could reach for the phone. Fast and callous - a cornered snake. One bash against his temple. Or two. The phone would shatter to bits. Wires spewing out the plastic membrane of the handset. Red and thick and spooling like blood.

A troubled expression slips over your face. “Well, that makes things more concerning. I’ve sent her three emails.”

“Let me guess, no response?”  

Instead of answering, you tilt your head. “Do you mind if I look inside? Check the place is in good condition?”

He inspects you then, probing for more. “Do you have the inspection form?”

“Ah, that’s the thing,” you frown, bristling. “I rushed over here and forgot to bring it with me. I do have a copy in my email, but the service is shit right now.”

With a long sigh, badger takes his own phone out of his pocket. Thumbs it awake with a single tap. The screen lights up, illuminating his face.

His brows crease. “Piece of shit. Mine’s out too.”

Good.

“I understand how inconvenient this is,” you go on, gesturing with your head. “Maybe you could come with me? I’d prefer not to go alone, anyway.”

Considering this, badger glances down the hall. You think for a moment that he might refuse. Kick you out. Tell you not to come back. Even for someone in your line of work, human behaviour can be unpredictable like that. Besides, he should. You’re a parasite. Wriggling inside, however you can.

Badger’s chair skates back. Suddenly he’s getting to his feet, jingling his fingers through his pocket.

“Quickly then.”

It’s an unpleasant, stiff walk. Plain halls. Citrus cleaner in the air. Tiles glimmering with the sheen of a recent mop. Bright lights, white and medical. No decorations on the walls, not even the odd painting. Just in front, badger walks with a slight, pained drag in his left foot. The rim of his shoe skims the ceramic, squeaking and squeaking. It’s an intrusive fucking sound. Irritating.

You get some relief at the end of the building, where an elevator waits. He knuckles one of the buttons and the chute responds with an electric hum. Seconds pass. The numbers over the door glow yellow, one by one. There’s a melodic beep. Metal doors swish open. Sweeping to the back of the cabin, you turn to find badger pressing another button. He isn’t looking at you, but his sleeve inches up. There, you glimpse it. The black, textured grip of a glock. Seems odd for someone like him to be carrying a weapon. Before you can get a look, the curtain of his jacket falls. Your fingers itch.

The elevator rises, graunching, gears vibrating up the soles of your boots. Overhead, chandelier crystals clink together. Your mind is on that gun tucked in his pocket. It might be a problem, if he works for the rabbit on the third floor. Might not. He doesn’t seem like the type to do dirty-work and he talked about ringing the police. Maybe he's armed because he has to be. To protect himself. You suppose the reasons don't matter much. Whoever he is, you can't risk being made.

When you reach the second floor, badger leads the way to the flat. He starts talking about how it’s unsafe for women to live alone these days. Keys chiming, he tests each of them in the lock. You hover in his shadow, listening. You have to time this well. With tact. With patience. Precision. Cold-blooded, like Simon would be. No mistakes.

At last, a click.

Back turned to you, he steps inside. You follow, tugging the door closed with a neat thud. Darkness envelops the flat. Badger turns, confused, just as your heel crushes his foot.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t shout. He inhales, startled, knees buckling. You bend. Scoop his thigh into the cradle of your arm. Lift him off-balance. He thumps on his back, pinned beneath your knees. You dig through his jacket and the pistol glides out. Cool and light. But you don’t get a good grip. Your wrist burns and you realise his hand is clamped around it. The gun clatters to the floor, useless.

The two of you meet eyes, arms still connected. You press your weight down. He thrashes. Clothes. Limbs. Flesh. Heat. Hair in your mouth. Struggling and writhing like worms in the dirt. Soon, he pushes you off. Manages to get onto his side. You don’t let him get far. Your arms slither around him. Embracing his throat. Elbows coming together. Constricting, like a leech he can't peel off.

His balding scalp presses into your cheek. From this angle, you can’t see his face. Or the panic ignited in his eyes. Or his lids fluttering as he grows weak. How his mouth looks while he pants, desperate for air. All you can do is choke. And choke. And choke, until the fire goes out. Until he slumps. And he does, head wilting. Out cold.

Sucking in a breath, you ease him off you.

There’s no time to fuck around.

You’ll need to tie badger up. Radio Price. Collect as much intel as you can, however you can, on the next floor up. You don’t have long. Less than an hour before the storm hits, when Price will order you to peel back. Mere minutes before badger wakes up.

You push yourself up. Get to work.

---

Dragging badger to the bathtub is tough fucking work.

Just getting him over the basin strains all your muscles. His torso goes in first, then the rest of him tumbles in. Limp limbs sliding to the bottom of the tub, like a rock sinking to a lakebed. His hands are wound behind his back, skin swelling around the duct tape. Bruises have gathered on his neck too. Raw and ripe like purple plums. He's starting to come to and when he's back on his feet, he'll feel like total shit. You should feel a little guilty about it. You don’t.

You take his keys. Shut the door. Secure the handle - duct tape and a jammed chair, for good measure. He shouldn’t be able to get out. At least, not until you’re gone. Rubbing a thumb into your shoulder, you venture through the flat.

It’s a fucking mess, as if someone’s ransacked the place. Crooked frames without pictures. Drawers ripped open. Hooks without keys or coats. All the benches are covered in shit, too. Rusted coins, food wrappers, dishes with skins of sour, mottled mould. Clothes are rumpled in random piles and a pair of sneakers, stripped of laces, have been dumped on the rug. Whatever made this woman run must have been bad. The whole thing makes your skin prick. Your mind is whirring through the possibilities of what's happened here, when you notice something.

Spread over the coffee table is an assortment of gear. Three different radios. A satellite phone. A large, crinkled map, with specific locations marked in vivid red ink. On the carpet is a transmitter too - rectangular and bland, humming with life. Weird. This isn't the kind of shit your typical civilian would collect.

Outside, the wind wails. Your eyes shoot to the back door. There’s a feeling brewing in your gut now. A fucking hunch. Instinctively, you go for it. The handle takes a few good heaves, but the door cracks open. Wind whisks through the curtains. Ducking between the fluttering fabric, you slip onto the balcony. Squint. Tilt your head up. Shivers barb up your spine. It’s as you expect. Direct above, is the rabbit’s flat.

Your pulse kicks. Or maybe it’s your radio, vibrating from somewhere in your coat pocket. Stepping back inside, you push the door shut and search for it. Price will want an update, no doubt. He and Kyle are hunkered down on overwatch, waiting to be advised of your status. You’re gagging to tell them about what’s upstairs – you’re fucking certain it’s Makarov.

Finding your radio, you hold it up. A finger slips over the receiver. There’s a distinct crackle.

“Bug. You copy?”

Fox.

“Christ,” you blurt out. “Where the fuck have you been?”

There’s a beat of silence. Waiting, you examine your reflection in the glass door. You look like a right mess. Crinkled collar. Damp hair sticking to your forehead.

“Been a while, eh?” she responds, tone a bit shallow. “Listen, didn’t wanna leave you in the blind, but wasn’t much of a choice. Whole team was uh - encouraged to take leave. This rat business has been a fuckin’ disaster.”

Brushing your hair back, you shake your head. “Christ, I thought you were bloody dead.”

Her snort is sarcastic. “Yeah, well now we’re even. Practically pissed myself when you went dark back in Italy.”

“I mean, I wasn’t keeping score.”

“Guess tha’s the difference between us,” she returns, cool. “Where are you, anyway?”

You back up against the kitchen bench. “Seems unlike you not to be tracking me.”

Another snort. “You know, I always figured the agency should jus’ chip our assets. Would be a lot easier to keep track o’ you lot.”

A distant thud snaps you to attention. It sounds like it’s coming from the bathroom. Badger must be awake, kicking a shoe against the tub. You wipe your nose with the edge of your sleeve.

“Look, I should go-”

“Wait a second,” she cuts, “There’s more.”

There’s something about how she says this. The immediacy, the impatience, the clipped tone. Like an insistent hand tugging at your elbow, begging you to hang around. It fills you with an urge to burrow out of sight. To check over your shoulder, even though you know nothing’s there. Down the hall, badger keeps beating on the tub.

“Alright," you breathe, half-listening. You crouch behind the bench. “Go ahead.”

“You asked for that file, right?” she tries. “The one on - Ghost. Took some digging but I found your bloke.”

Naturally, you're distracted by this. “Yeah, and?"

“Want me to brief you or not?”

“Fucking hell. Obviously I want the brief."

"That's what I thought." She clears her throat, and it feels premeditated. Stiff and rehearsed, like she’s anticipated each beat of this conversation. "So, turns out your bloke’s ex-demolitions. Born in Wales. Real name’s - Patrick West.”

You stop.

That’s not right.

Not one bit. You stare at the radio, wondering if you heard something else. Maybe you’re going mental. Or the cold’s gotten to you. Or your mind has gone numb. Because Ghost is Simon. Not some fucking bellend named Patrick. You know that, deep in your bones. In your muscles. In your marrow. You know him, from the inside out. You couldn’t burn him from your brain if you fucking tried.

“Patrick,” you exhale, measured. “West.”

“That’s him,” she confirms, casual and loose lipped. “Want me to read more?”

None of this adds up. Fox is thorough. Meticulous in the information she gathers. Careful. She’s never shared bad intel before. Never jumped the gun on shit she doesn’t know for certain. Unless-

Unless she's - lying.

You try to steady yourself, a hand gripping the edge of the bench. Suddenly, it all makes sense. The lack of contact. The gear in the apartment. The approval to work with Price. Even now, she's doing it with ease - stringing together fake intel, just to keep you on the line. Tracking you. Keeping Makarov one step ahead. She has no fucking idea that you know exactly who Ghost is. Rotten fucking rat.

Ears ringing, you drop the radio. It thuds on the floor. You lift a boot over it, about to crush it to bits. Right before you do, Fox speaks. Distant and rushed, like she’s talking to someone else in the room. The words make your blood throb hot.

“She's here. Somewhere in the building.”

Chapter Text

Perfect candidate.

Farmer said that, when he first recruited you. You still remember him: wool coat, black turtleneck, eyes narrow like a knife. How he sat, one leg over the other, reading your test scores like he was a hundred pages deep in his favourite book. The thing is, you had the full set - excellent pattern recognition, verbal comprehension, mental fortitude. But in the field, these skills are a house of cards. One error in judgement and the whole thing caves in. Doesn’t matter how much training you have or how good you are, soaking up intelligence like a blood-filled leech. True control is about focus. Severing distractions. Detaching. Because the truth is, love makes you weak.

Simon has made you weak.

This whole time, he’s been in the back of your brain, eating at the tissue, spreading all over like a metastatic cancer. You should hate him for it. For the lost time. For all the embarrassment when you were young and stupid, wanting to know him and his heart. You should hate how he looks at you too, eyes subtle and soft. Taking his time, as if there’s nothing better to do and nowhere better to be than with you. If it weren’t for him, you would have noticed something was off with Fox. You would have seen the clues. You would have found some way to turn her defection into an advantage. But here you are, trapped in this useless apartment like a proper fucking git.

You push your thoughts down, stumbling to the sink. Somewhere behind you, your radio lies dismembered on the floor. The faucet gives a rusted shriek, water bursting out its silver gullet. You cup a hand beneath it, letting the cold spurt over your fingers. It’s so bloody icy, it burns. Pain’s good, though. Pain helps you focus. And fuck, you need to focus. You drag your palm down your face, unflinching.

Something booms.

On reflex, you switch off the tap to listen. Someone’s knocking. Brisk, demanding strokes that seem to be coming from the front door. You take the handgun out of your pocket and wait. Several seconds pass until the sound fades into expectant silence. Wind pounds at the window. The kitchen clock ticks, its long limbs inching over the numbers. Down the hall, badger has stopped beating himself against the tub. Perhaps he’s assessing the new noise too. For his sake, you hope he doesn’t yell for help.

Suddenly, there’s a hard bash. The front door buckles inward.

You duck, creeping to the living room. Quick and quiet as a suppressed shot. When you reach the coffee table, you take what you can. The marked map and one of their radios, stuffing them into your pockets. The door thumps again, so loud you swear it could be hacking into your skull. Splintered wood scatters to the floor. Breath ragged, you retreat down the hall. Find a closet, twisting it open. There’s not much inside - old boxes, a bowling ball, a singed ironing board leaning against the wall. Smells like dust, but it’s good enough. Keeping low, you cram yourself inside. The door gives a soft click.

There are faint voices. Low, deep. Russian, from what you can tell. You keep quiet, folding into yourself. With your free hand, you reach for the knife in your boot. It unthreads, nice and slow. The men creak about the living room and you track them, alert. Two of them, you think. You wonder if the weight in their footsteps means a fight would be bad news. Smartest thing to do would be to separate them. Pick them off like a spider catching critters.

After a minute, the men head for the hall. One of them flicks a switch and the bulb glitches, flickering between yellow and black. Thin streaks of light pour into the closet. You press further back, lips taut. Knife in one hand, pistol in the other; crossed at the wrist. Their shadows warble on the wooden slats of the door. You can feel your heart working its gears. Your adrenaline’s picking up. Good.

The two men murmur something between them, deciding to divide efforts. The one that must be the superior sweeps on, heading for the bathroom where you know he’ll find badger. That’ll be a good distraction. His mate lingers in the hall to watch his six, just outside the closet. While the bathroom door opens, you keep your eyes fixed to the shape of the closer bloke's leg. You're biding your time. Taking measured breaths to gas yourself up. One. Two. 

You burst out.

The man jumps back, startled. You do your best to work the rifle from his hands, but his grip doesn’t budge. He holds on tight, yanking, looking like he wants to kick your fucking head in. The long, metal nose is trapped between you. Your eyes follow his finger slipping over the trigger. There’s no time to react. Your ears pop. The rifle jolts, spewing a line of bullets that puncture charred holes in the wall. Vibrations pulse up your arms and you falter. He swings, then. Bashing the heel of his rifle against your jaw. Your head snaps to the side, and you’re forced to see where the bullets have penetrated the wall. There’s an odd thought that he’ll do the same to you. It makes you shove your knife in his neck.

The tip sinks in. He gasps, but it comes out all strangled. Stuttering and coughing like the chamber of his rifle. Blood spits on your face. You hold his shell-shocked gaze, pressing deeper. Slippery, sticky, shaking. Until he slumps, chin to chest. You hold the knife there longer, just to make sure. No movement. Nothing but his pale, unblinking face. Exhaling, you wipe your nose on your shoulder. The blade slips out, wet and coloured. He thuds to the ground.  

You touch a bloodied knuckle to your lip. Must be a cut there, because it stings. You wince, just as the superior turns the corner. He skids to a halt, his frame filling the hall. There’s a moment. Half a second or less, where he sucks in his breath and takes in what you've done. An opening. On instinct, your arm whips back. You see the snapshot of his panic. The knife finds his throat, teeth splitting his pink-tinged skin. He doesn’t last long on his feet. You watch him brace against the wall, pained, looking up at you with confused wonder. Only, you get the sense he’s not seeing you. He’s somewhere else, in some other time or place. Perhaps he’s wearing his best suit with an arm around the woman he loves. Or perhaps he’s staring at the face of the first life he took. It’s impossible to tell the difference. Whatever he's remembering, it makes his whole body soften. You stalk over to him, expressionless, not feeling a thing. All you want is for it to end. It does.

Kneeling, you smear the blade against the dead man’s jacket, streaking red down his stomach until the steel runs clean. It’s a good thing you do, because you notice he has a handgun holstered beneath his armpit. One pat around his pockets and you find his spare ammo. You salute him in thanks.

Somewhere in the bathroom, you can hear badger thumping again, desperate. If he thinks you’re about to come finish him off, he’s wrong. There’s no time. You need to get out. Warn Price. The back door screeches open. Cold air strikes your face. It feels like the first sliver of relief, but you’re not quite there yet.

The storm’s here. Thick fog. Thundering wind. Snow showering like rain. Price should be somewhere in the tree-line, but you can’t see it. The closest thing you can make out is the ground below. It’s not a far jump, but there’s a chance you land wrong and break a fucking leg. Sure, the snow could soften it. But further down the bank is a slim river made of ice, glittering with specs of silver. If you rolled over it, you could crash in. That'd be sure-fire death. You’re not sure what to do. You could go back to the elevator, maybe. Get to a lower floor. Or use badger’s keys to reach the garage. But it’s a risk. It’s all a risk and you think your head could combust from the pressure of it. If you don’t make it back, the others might trudge through the snow to find you. Simon said so himself. Fox could anticipate that and ambush them or something. You can't let Simon die like that, in the field. Like your dad. You won't.

Fight. That's the only option. That’s all you can do now. Because if love’s your weakness, might as well fucking feed it. Might as well let it drive you. Might as well spend whatever life you have left getting back to Simon.

Without another thought, you slip through the railing. Clutching the iron bars, letting your weight hang over the edge. Dangling there, just a second. Drop. The landing is crooked. You fall back into a heap, cold and slick. Snow has seeped into your clothes, and it feels painful to breathe. You get to your feet, groaning. Everything feels like absolute shit – stiff muscles, tight lungs, the new throb in your shoulder. Before you have time to recalibrate, someone shouts. Standing a few steps away is a soldier.

He lifts his gun. You shoot.

The sound ripples through the air.

Now, you’re fucked. Entire fucking building would have heard that. Just as you expect, the exit door of the apartment block opens. Three soldiers come barrelling out into the storm. Their eyes are wild, trained to your raised weapon. Fuck it.

The first shot screams. One man goes down. Then another. You expel the mag. Reload. Punch the heel of your palm to clack it back together. Your arm moves on instinct, tracking the last man as he sprints down the bank. You fire. He staggers, head whipping back from the sheer force. Falls. Trembling, as his blood spreads.

There’ll be more on the way, you think. There’s always more. And you’re right.

You run, heart racing like an engine. You leap over the bed of ice and climb up the bank. Panting. Shots skimming into the snow around you. Your footsteps crunch and topple in the snow. But you keep running. Hard and fast, not looking back. Ignoring how the wind tries to pull you. How your hair waves in tangles around your face. How the snow pecks your eyes. You don’t stop. Not until you make it into the shelter of the wooded, creaking dark. When you’re sure you’re clear, you slow down to catch your breath.

Bending over, you search the distance. Price and Kyle should be here. No doubt, the two of them would’ve heard the gunshots. You open your mouth, straightening. You’re about to call out for them, but something makes you freeze.

A click.

Swallowing, you turn to the noise. There’s a rifle trained to your forehead.

Holding it, is Price.

Chapter Text

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking.

Half an hour. More? Without a watch, you can’t guess the hour. There’s no moon out. No sunrise. The sky’s dark, shrouded in fog as thick as volcanic smoke. Snow sprinkles like ash and it covers the earth in heaps. For a long time, you look around and see nothing. Miles of white, no matter which direction you turn. Even if you tried to make a run for it, there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

Inhaling, you adjust the balaclava higher up your nose. It’s gotten easier the further out of town. The wind’s stopped howling in your ears and you can breathe normal. Price is at your six, rifle nestled in your back. Whatever he’s thinking, he’s kept it to himself. So has Gaz, save for the occasional copy boss, and movement spotted, and negative – s’all clear.

Their flashlights sweep the snow, embroidering white with gold. You feel a bit like the stray dog no one wants to bring home. Tired, starved, stripped of everything but the clothes on your back. Sure, you understand the caution. The pistol. The map. The radio tuned to a hostile frequency. Not a good look, but you can explain. Easy. You know how to spin lies, telling the truth should be relatively straight-forward. Getting them to listen might be the hard part.

Price checks his compass, nods up a slope. Nothing needs to be said for Gaz to continue up on his own. You watch him disappear over the crest. Alone now, with Price. Neither of you speak. It’s so tense, part of you almost craves a bit of small talk. You consider striking up conversation about the storm – or making some light-hearted joke, but he’d probably tell you to sod-off. You smooth your palms down your pants, going over what happened. Rerunning the details like a record, checking for chips in the vinyl. You could blame it on Fox; say something real snide about her. But if you’re honest, you know the truth is simpler. You failed. Like a right git. And you need to make Price understand that you didn’t mean it. That the last thing you wanted was to let him down.

Minutes pass. Price tugs his beanie down past his ears, not caring that the wool is blotched and wet. Your toes are starting to go numb, so you wriggle them in your boots, desperate to warm them up. Finally, a whistle carries down the hill. All clear.

You go first and it’s a non-stop struggle. Slush collapses under your boots and you slide back down further than you climb. Price ends up having to strong-arm you up, and you use your hands to anchor you the rest of the way. Takes a while, but you manage to scramble up next to Gaz. Panting. Lungs on fire. Up there is where you see it. Standing amidst the fog is an abandoned building. Big and bricked, with smashed-out windows. Several piles of unopened sacks sit out the front. There’s a mining cart, too. Toppled on its side, coal cascading out in rivers of glittering black. This must be some old storage building for miners. Odd choice for a safe house. But fuck, at least it’s shelter.

“Move,” instructs Price, firm. He nudges you with the rifle. “Won’t ask again, ladybug.”

You glance over your shoulder, making brief eye contact. Price seems like he’s never been more inconvenienced in his entire life. Bit dramatic if you’re honest, though you’re too brain-dead to argue. Besides, he’s talking. It’s good that he’s talking.

You descend the slope. Scale a wired fence, hooking one leg after the other. Price and Gaz sling their rifles over their backs to follow. This close, you notice a light emanating from the building. Glowing, soft and orange, out of the yawning window frames. Somehow it makes the place look alive. Burning on the inside, like a jack-o’-lantern. You take eager paces up the entrance steps, almost slipping on the icy cement. Price is quick beside you, pounding out three tinny thumps on the door. Shadows. Rummaging. Your heart races. Then, the door cracks ajar. Light spills out in a precise, neat line. Peering through the narrow opening is Soap. Sidearm raised. His brow softens in recognition. Until-

“Steamin’ hell,” he breathes, elbowing the door wider. He points with his forehead at the rifle trained to your back. “Fancy tellin’ us what the fuck’s goin’ on?”

Price shoulders past him, bringing you into stride. “We’re about to find out, sunshine.”

It’s a mad rush to get inside. For a few moments, the team just soaks it up. Warmth. A forgotten luxury.   

Somewhere behind you, Gaz heaves the door shut. “Where’s Ghost?”

“Out for a smoke,” replies Soap distantly, as if this isn’t important. “We expectin’ company or somethin’?”

“Negative,” assures Gaz. “We sorted it.”

“Soap, sweep the perimeter an’ make sure,” Price decides, pushing you on. “Bring in Ghost. Garrick, you’re on me.”

Instinctually, they fall into line.

Inside, the safe house is just as grim and bare as you expected. Leaking roof. The smell of mildew. Old workbenches covered in boxes and books - a few odd plastic stools scattered underneath them. Not the most glamorous safe house, and you’ve seen a few. In the middle of the room is an oil drum, crackling with fire that smells like dried wood. Five sleeping bags have been set up on the floor near it. Five. The sight makes you feel sort of sick.

Price gestures towards the fire, setting his rifle down. You walk over to the oil drum, ripping down the balaclava so it pools around your neck. Warmth licks at your forearms. You fold them over your chest, pulse itching in your wrists. This needs to go well. You need to act natural. Turning, you find the captain perched on one of the stools, digging out a tin. Thick, calloused fingers slide it open. Inside are a bundle of pre-cut cigars, tucked in tight as if huddling together for warmth. He takes one out. Stuffs it in his mouth, dragging out a lighter.

“The truth,” he says, cigar bobbing between his lips. “You’ve got three minutes to tell it.”

“Or?”

Fire beads in his pupils. The foot of his cigar burns a deep cherry-red. He focuses, toasting the wrapper evenly, paper curling to scorched black. When he’s done, Price sucks hard. Lids thinning to slits as the smoke billows around him.

“Or you go for a little - walk.”

“Alone?”

A smile curves on his lips. “S’the idea.”

“Cold-blooded,” you murmur, though it sounds more like sarcasm than the joke you intended. You lick the swelling split in your lip. It stings. “Reckon I better behave then.”

Price checks his watch, bored now. “Two minutes.”

“I tried to tell you in the woods,” you start. “I was made.”

Curious, Gaz flanks his captain and cocks his head. You don’t appreciate the scepticism in his stare. Bloke is just as sharp and observant; he should have seen the signs too. You want to make a point of it, when the door bangs open. Their heads turn.

Soap huddles out of the cold. Behind him, Ghost. Just seeing him makes your breath quicken. He takes a few cautious steps, tugging snow off one of his gloves. You wait for him to find you. For him to read the room. You think you can guess the moment he does - chest rising and falling, those dark, lidded eyes drifting over to Price.

“What’s this?”

“An interrogation,” comments Price, not breaking his concentration from you. “I wanna know why the whole time we were out there, our little agent here went no-contact.”

Ghost tilts his head, as if examining the evidence. “Go on.”

“She brought a few mates with her when she came out,” finishes Gaz. “Had to pick ‘em off before we all got taken down. Found this, too.”

Gaz holds up the hostile radio in demonstration, then tosses it to Soap for further inspection.

You lift your hands. “It’s not how it looks.”

“So how is it?” questions Price, emotionless. He taps the cigar, silver ash crumbling carelessly into his lap. “We’re all ears.”

You clear your throat, searching for one of your rehearsed apologies. Drawing nothing but blanks.

“I made entry like we planned,” you land on. “Was all going fine. Made it to the second floor – sorted the witness - was about to update on comms. But like I said, I was made.”

Price thinks about that, drawing from the cigar like he’s sipping a glass of wine.

“How?”

“The rat-,” you exhale. “It’s my handler. She was fox-hunting my transmitter. I should’ve seen it coming but I - I fucked up.”

You brace for the dig-in, because you know you deserve it. Yet none of them jump the gun. When your eyes skate over to Ghost, you find him already staring. Brows tight and concentrated. Skirting around the crater that seems to exist between you, unsure of whether to cross.

Gaz arches a brow. “So why go dark?”

“To throw her off.” You make sure to add, “I know – I should’ve checked in first-”

“Bollocks.” Price stands tall, pointing the cigar at you through pinched fingers. Yeah – there it is. “You were bringin’ those pricks straight to us.”

You search his face. “What else was I meant to do? Makarov was there – so was my handler. I had to try and lose ‘em somehow-”

“Target was there,” he cuts, closing the space between you. “An’ you gave him a head start. That right?”

In your peripheral, Ghost inches closer. Like a hound sensing a fight.

You don’t know what to say. It’s getting harder to keep a level-head when he’s rubbing salt in the fucking wound. Towering over you, nothing to shield you but a curtain of smoke.

“Nothing?” asks Price, sarcastic. “S’convenient.”

Your cheeks are hot. This is fucking ridiculous. To him you’re just an insect beneath a magnifying glass, roasting in the sun. It shouldn’t bother you. There’ve been loads of times you faced interrogation. But something about this feels different. More personal or important. It pisses you right off.

“I nearly got shot point blank,” you find yourself saying. “Had to kill five men just to fucking get out. You know how much of a headache that’ll be if anyone back at the agency finds out? I’ll probably get fucking fired. Tell me how that’s so convenient.”

“Seems like a miracle you survived, eh?”

“Fucking hell.” You scoff. “How about you go an’ do one then, eh?”

You make a point to brush past him, to storm off. But Price doesn’t let you get far. His hand locks you in place, grasping your elbow, constricting tight. You’re about to peel him off – clock him even – when someone rips him off.

The cigar tumbles to the ground.

Wet flakes of snow patter in through the windows. You back up to the edge of the oil drum, stunned. Because Simon is there. Between you, fingers still flexing from having hurled his captain half-across the room. He has a hand on his pistol, grip loose. Reluctant, maybe. Like he knows this is wrong, but he can’t help it. Muscles moving on reflex. You think of a spider, guarding its web. Then your thoughts go to that lonely, lanky lad who used to play keeper on the oval. The one that used to protect his brother, for better or worse. Who clocked lads that so much as looked at you wrong.

Price finds his feet, shooing off help with a click of his tongue. His attention finds Simon. Chest lifting when he draws a breath. The concrete seems to stretch between them. Your heartbeat throbs in your ears.

A heavy moment passes. Then, Price leans down to pick up his cigar.

“You gone fuckin’ mad?”

“Probably,” deadpans Simon. “Nothin’ new though, yeah?”

“Lt,” mutters Soap. “Hell’re ye doin’?”

“What I have to,” Simon returns, even. “Isn’t personal, Johnny.”

“Personal,” repeats Gaz, his focus skating between you. “Mate, this is nothing but personal.”

Nerves slither in your stomach. Simon tips his chin up, like he’s saying spit it out.

“You know each other,” deduces Gaz, directing this at you. “That’s it, innit? The reason you asked for Ghost’s file.”

Fuck. You don’t acknowledge it. Can’t. If you do, it’ll break whatever buffer you have left. The silence goes on, expectant. Your mind races through lies, but you find yourself unable to do that to them. The best thing to do would be run. Exposure out there would be so much easier than feeling exposed in here. Where there’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

“In the woods,” insists Gaz, stepping closer into the firelight. His cheek turns amber. “Overheard you talking to your handler.”

You swallow.

“So that’s what ye wanted to know Lt’s name for,” realises Soap, roughing-up the stubble on his chin. “Some fuckin’ twist.”

Price seems to understand something, eyes going from you to Simon. He tucks the stubbed-out cigar in his jacket pocket. Nods.

“That her, Simon?”

Hearing his name from someone else is surreal. Or maybe it’s the fact that he seems to answer to it. Inhaling deep. A curt nod.

“Yeah. That’s her.”

---

You’re staring at the ceiling.

The plumbing is exposed up there. Long, dirtied pipes running around the building like veins. Scuttling in the roof are wagtails, black-feathered and small. There are about four of them, taking shelter from the storm. One lands on a pipe, and it loosens a leak. Water squirts to the concrete.

These past two days have felt interminable. Sleeping. Eating. Watching the weather in the hope the storm will die down enough to leave. Avoiding - Ghost. You haven’t been able to get back to sleep tonight. Tossing and turning has made you want to crawl out of your skin. Frustrated, you unzip your sleeping bag and get up. Tugging on your boots, not bothering to be too quiet. Soap’s snoring and the wind should muffle any noise. Without turning on a light, you slip through the back door. Out there is a platform – a curved roof that blocks out the snow. You wander to the railing, watching the swaying, wilted trees. Moonlight cuts shapes through their branches. Far off, a wolf howls. You sigh. It feels good to be alone. To think, alone.

“Alrigh’?”

It shouldn’t surprise you that Ghost is sitting there, leaning against the wall, but it does. He’s wearing the black balaclava, a hooded jacket, the usual bone-patterned gloves. Seeing him is like having the air sucked out of you. It always takes a good second to recalibrate. Maybe you never fully do.

Your breath is measured. “Yeah. You?”

“Livin’ the dream.”

You hunch forward on the railing. Ghost lingers, unmoving. For awhile, you share the view in silence. Strange, uncomfortable silence. When it stretches on too long, you get the urge to break it.

“So,” you cough. “Does Price still hate me?”

“Not enough to kill you,” he supposes. “Torture’s not off the cards.”

He’s making a joke. Putting you at ease, maybe. You don’t laugh.

“I didn’t mean to get so mad at him.” You scratch your temple. “What’s that saying? Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. S’pose I took a whole fucking chunk, didn’t I?”

“War’s ugly, Bug.” Ghost shrugs, tone flat. He gets to his feet, rising tall. After a moment, he comes over to the railing too. A safe distance apart. “Old dog likes you.”

You nod at the trees. “I’m a proper git.”

Perhaps he thinks you’re teasing. “You’re tellin’ me.”

“It’s not a joke,” you say, frowning. “I failed the team.”

Ghost leans over the railing too, gloves gripping the metal. He lets himself take in your features, assessing your mood. His own expression, unreadable. He swallows, the balaclava bobbing at his throat.

“S’different with Makarov-”

“You don’t get it,” you interrupt, impatient. “This isn’t about Makarov.”

“What, then?”

Your exhale is soft and misted. “I think you know.”

Thoughtful, Ghost’s pale lashes twitch to his hands, where he’s working a thumb into his other palm. He’s doing his best to avoid looking at you now, as if he can’t bring himself to do it. You want to reach over and make him because this can’t go on. This endless game of pretend. Wind surges through the trees. The building groans. Ice snaps off the roof and lands into the snow. 

Perhaps he's read your mind, because Ghost clears his throat. “When-?”

“Since the tent. How long’ve you known?”

“Your callsign,” he answers, slow. “That night.”

“So, this entire time?” You rub your temples. It’s all you can do to ease the headache brewing in your skull. “Christ, I’ve gone fucking mental.”

He absorbs this, pushing his hood back to scruff up his hair. The blond is near-luminescent in the moonlight. “Thought I’d gone mental when I first saw you.”

“You told Price?”

“Negative,” he murmurs coolly. “Told him awhile back - when he asked if I ever-”

It dawns on you.

“You kept it from me,” you intercept. Straightening. “This whole time you knew, and you didn’t tell me.”

One hand still on the ledge, Ghost stands taller too. He turns to face you. Detached, cold. The mask covering his mouth - the bony grin - is almost mocking. 

“Was better you didn’t know.”

Ha. Excuses. Burying shit. Pushing you out. He’s always been good at that. Later. Well fuck, he got what he wanted, didn’t he? Now, there's so much between you. Years of distance. You cross your arms to stop your hands from trembling. It’s not because you’re cold. There are so many emotions in you. Confusion, frustration, embarrassment – take your pick. You want to reach in and rip them out, like roots from the earth.

“That’s so you.”

Ghost’s pitch drops. “The fuck’s that s’pose to mean?”

“You avoid everything,” you bite. “Don’t you remember? Easier to avoid shit rather than talk about it, yeah?”

“Like you've been avoidin' me.” He returns, harsh. “Tellin’ you would’ve ruined everythin’.”

“It’s already ruined.”

“Bug-”

“I was fine without you,” you blurt out. “I was fine. I didn’t need friends. I didn’t need anyone. I don’t need anyone. But then you come in and my whole life has been fucked ever since. Maybe it’d be easier if I never met you – if I-”

“Bloody hell-,” he cuts, pushing off the metal. “You did this, you know that?”

“Me?”

Ghost crosses the platform, pinching the nose of his balaclava like he’s trying hard to control himself. Like he needs to. Except, it doesn’t seem to be working. Simon is spilling out of him. Fast. He returns to the railing. Hunches forward. Tired. So tired – of himself. Of life. Your eyes are stinging. The pressure in your head is intense. Like being submerged underwater, six feet deep. Clouded, blocked, unable to breathe. You can’t seem to swim to the surface because you don’t know which direction to go. And some darker part of you wants to push him down like he’s drowning you. To see how much he can take. You drift over to him, clutching your elbows. Your neck cranes up. Eyes touching his.

Simon is breathing ragged now, regarding you like a splinter he wants to cut out. “You get in my head-,” he mutters, wiping a hand down his face. “Make me think o’ you. Now I can’t fuckin’ stop.”

“So just push me out. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretend I’m dead, for all I care.”

Simon lets out a half-laugh, irritated. “Trust me – I’ve tried. Fuck, I’ve tried.”

“So did I,” you croak. “When I left, all I wanted to do was forget. And fuck, I just - couldn’t.”  

Faltering, he searches your eyes. Finds something in them that seems to make him soften.

“Should’ve known you’d leave,” he reasons. “Should’ve known a sod like me would never get to-.” A sharp inhale. “Should’ve never let Tom-”

He stops himself.

You bristle. “Let Tommy what?”

Simon just lifts his face and looks out into the fog. He goes somewhere. Far. Beyond the treeline. Beyond the dark. Lost. Somewhere in the museum of his mind, where you can’t reach. Even if you could, you don’t want to believe it. But the truth is there – in perfect, unpixellated clarity. Tom is gone. Dead, like your dad. And it makes so much sense. The reason he became Ghost. Trimmed all those tender, softer parts of himself like fat from the bone. Your eyes prickle wet. Hand going to his forearm, ginger and unsure. To coax him back.

“I never wanted to leave,” you tell him, and it feels stupid to say. “My dad too – he – I never-”

He must understand. He must, because he tugs you over to him. Presses his forehead to yours. Nose to nose. Holding you. Close. It is easy – so fucking easy to melt into him. To lower your head and press it to his chest. His warmth. His heartbeat thudding in the cave of your ear. Yours slowing to his rhythm. And you could exist here forever, you think. Huddling into each other, beneath the snow. For how long, you don’t know. A decade. More. Without a watch, you could never guess the year. There’s no clouds or stars or sunrise or anything else for miles. Just you. Him. In this private microcosm of time. Like always.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, into his jacket. “About Tommy. About leaving.”

“Please love," he warns, voice cracking. “Don’t-”

“I mean it, Simon. I don’t care if you hate apologies.”

Simon presses his cheek into your hair. Says nothing more.

Chapter Text

Ghost is haunted.

His skull’s a mausoleum - full of headstones for soldiers that are now six feet in the dirt. He hosts fragments of them. Faces. Dog tags clinking. A crushed photo in a pocket. The white crack of a flash bang. Gunfire. Ricochet. Ragged screams. Silence. That’s the thing about combat. No one really survives. His blood’s still in him yeah, but the evisceration is mental. Forgetting would be easier. Simpler. But no matter how hard he tries, he can never annihilate the past. So, he disappears instead. Carves off the useless parts of him. Knows the only way to quieten the ghosts in his head is to become one.

Before anyone’s awake, he threads on his jacket and heads out alone. Overhead, the sun cowers behind scattered clouds, pink and pale like raw, sliced fish. Ghost picks up his pace, losing himself in motion. Blurred trees. The cold sweat on his neck. Burning calves. Breath raking in through his nostrils. When he reaches a barbed wire fence, he decides this is a good place as any for a smoke. Ghost slows, patting his jacket pockets. The smokes are in his right one, half a pack left. Eleven odd cigarettes, once he takes one out. The disorder grates him. Fuck it, he’ll smoke two. Keep the number neat.

The mask gets pulled below his neck and he takes a deep, uninhibited breath. He lights up, returning the packet back to the cave of his pocket. Keeps his hand there. Then carefully, draws. The first inhale tastes like his old living room. Mum’s cigarette smouldering in the ashtray. That tired-green armchair he used to get swallowed up in. Tom stomach-down on the carpet, watching Funnybones on the telly. Ghost can almost hear his laugh. The whole thing is so vivid that for a minute, he can pretend his brother and their Mum are out there going about their morning like him. But his cigarette always dwindles. Goes cold. And Ghost remembers they’re both dead.

It’s been years since he spoke about either of them. Years of guarded silence. Now that he thinks about it, he doubts anyone even knows he had a brother. Not that polo-wearing shrink back at base. Not even Price. There’s no fear or anything holding him back. Ghost’s no weak pillock. Death’s been his trade all his life. Even as a lad, he had the stomach for butchering. Cleaving. Curing. Working knuckle-deep in brain, bone and blood. It’s just that he doesn’t need to talk about it. Doesn’t want to.

When he gets back from his run, he gathers the rifles to inspect them. Garrick checked them a week ago, but he gets the itching thought that something’s been missed. He takes his time, examining the barrels for dust or blocks. Thorough, as he tends to be.

On the third barrel, you push through the shrieking door. Ghost tips his chin at you, stiff. He hasn’t seen you since last night, when the two of you were tangled around each other in the snow. You shoot him an uncertain wave before filling up the canteens with boiled water. He watches you in his peripheral, your delicate fingers taking care not to spill a drop. He does his best to remember what he was doing. Succeeds, for a while. But all that practiced composure gets blended when you wander over to ask him about Tom.

He staggers a tick. Sends his attention back to his hands, throttling the barrel of the gun. Withdraws. Muses to himself that dragging up old shit is a pointless fucking exercise. What outcome is there? Compassion or pity - mental fucking torture. He’d much rather take it to the grave than bear the weight of that.

Still, this is you. His one anomaly. And come hell or high water, the rules have always been different for you.

So, Ghost briefs you.

He finished school. Enlisted. Qualified for Selection. Came back home to find his brother and his band mates knees-up on the bloody regular. Learnt about the gear. Tried to get Tom off it. Which worked, briefly. Until that first relapse. The second. The third. Rinse, repeat.

Eventually, he gets to that night.

The night Tom hadn’t been answering his phone, when Simon went round to his flat. When he found his brother slumped against a mattress; leather still strapped tight to his bicep. Skin mottled. Used-up. Vomit in the sheets. The whole room smelling sour like vinegar. Ghost retells it like it happened to someone else. Like he didn’t bash the door down himself, knuckles ripped open and bleeding. He gets through it much better than he expects. Much calmer. And the rest he delivers with clinical precision.

Simon buried that little skeleton. Buried his mum soon after. Beat his old man to a pulp and forced him out. Lost himself in work. Lost himself. Then eventually, met Price. Which helped. The whole time you listen, not asking much. Not weeping or fuming or anything. You just - listen. You've always been good at that. 

When it’s your turn to talk about your dad’s death, you give a lot more detail. Not how it happened, but all the shit that followed. You describe the funeral. The red and white flowers. The salutes to send him off. The bollocks one of them spewed about how he died a proper lieutenant - protecting his unit. Ghost knows better than to believe all that, but he doesn’t say so.

He just - listens.

---

Later that night, Price asks for a word.

Ghost has been expecting this. Opposing a commanding officer tends to be a punishable offence. No doubt, whatever sentence he’s about to receive will be harsh. Dishonourable discharge. Discarded like spoilt meat. Fuck it. There’s an order and predictability to it and Ghost can respect that. Choices have consequences. He made his bed. Time to lie in it.

The walk to the office feels like descending into a morgue. Price drifts over to the window and Ghost waits in the doorframe. He stands there scanning the contents of the room, with his hands buried in his pockets. Not much to look at. Concrete floor. Metal shelf. Boxes stacked haphazard under a workbench. On the wood sits a rusted oil lamp, casting orange light across a spread-open map. Someone has pinned the paper corners with rounds of ammunition, but he notices the rims are still curled up. Ghost suppresses the urge to flatten them.

“Sit, Lieutenant.”

Price continues to peer out the blinds, not bothering to point out the chairs. Ghost would prefer to stand eye-to-eye with his captain and meet his fate like a man. Discipline is familiar to him - its injured him more times than he can count. But this is different.

Ghost puts no stock in rank. Titles, badges, awards – he knows a smokescreen when he sees one. Eating a grenade would be easier than following a piss-weak bellend who demands respect. Price has never been like that. He knows how to take the gloves off. Knows that competence and grit are what bring a dog to heel. Bastard has gone and made a loyal hound out of Ghost.

He obliges, kicking out a box to sit on. His knee bumps the bench.

“I asked our little ladybug to monitor the hostile line,” Price says, turning. “She’s pinpointed our target.”

This is not the topic Ghost predicts. He slants his head, alert. “Where?”

“Cunt’s fled the border into Russia.”

“You sure?”

“Laswell confirmed it. Just spoke with her.”

Ghost makes a fist over his knee. “Bloody fuckin’ hell.”

They share a long look, oil lamp flickering between them. The thought that this whole thing has been for nothing is a bitter fucking pill. Ghost could almost laugh about it. Almost.

Price wanders over to the table to hover above the map. He has a stern, resigned expression as if this is some personal failure. Ghost knows every bloke has his own demons to contend with. Even a man like Price is no different.

“We did what we could, but it’s done.” Ghost gestures out the window. “Followin’ ‘em over the border’s suicide.”

“Don’t you think I bloody know that mate? Laswell would never sanction it, that’s for fuckin’ sure. He’s bought himself time, like it or not.”

Ghost hunches forward. “So what now then?”

Frustrated, Price lifts a block of ammunition off the map to flick it back and forth. Unburdened, the paper furls. “Now we deal with the intel we’ve got. An’ unless our ladybug’s getting lost in translation, Makarov’s left some of his men behind.”

“Why?”

“Split up to confuse us. Divide and conquer. Who knows what the fuck that git’s thinking.” His captain sighs. “Bug counts around a dozen. The rat’s with ‘em too.”

Ghost nods at the table, thinking. Twelve men would be simple fucking work. Fuck, he could probably do it single-handed. Get in real close. Quiet. Unnoticed.

His fingers steeple between his knees. “If y’ask me, sounds like we should take a detour.”

Price squints, assessing. “What’s your angle?”

“First we take out the rat,” proposes Ghost. “That’ll cut Konni off from their insider intel.”

“Capture or kill?”

“Alive’s more useful.” Ghost shrugs, a bit indifferent. “We’ve got an interrogator, yeah? Stands to reason we should use her.”

The ammunition is tossed back onto the map, skidding along the paper. Ghost has an urge to move it back to the corner, line it up neat and proper like the others. But he doesn’t. He lets his captain mull on the idea, connecting the dots.

“Off with ya then,” decides Price, at last. “Brief the lads. Let’s get it done.”

Just like that, dismissal. Let off. No anger. No punishment. Not even a verbal fucking warning. This must be some test.

Ghost’s eyes thin. “That all?”

“You heard me, lieutenant. Get the fuck on.”

Several ticks go by. Then Ghost finally stands. Paces to the door, fingers strangling the brass handle. The knob screeches as it twists. He should be relieved that he’s avoided the worst. But there’s a thickness in his throat now and he remembers what you said last night. Cowardice. Avoidance. He doesn’t want to be some terrified lad. He doesn’t want to run.

“The other night,” he murmurs. “I laid a hand on my CO.”

The response sounds uninterested. “Yeah? What about it?”

“You gonna bring that up, or should I?”

“Looks like you already have,” Price counters, annoyed. “You got somethin’ to say lieutenant, spit it out.”

Ghost wets his lips, thinking. He inhales deep, focusing on the floor. Hairline cracks in the concrete. Dried, crumpled leaves piled up in the corner. The buckled, flickering shape of his shadow. The words feel trapped under the balaclava, resistant. He has no choice but to exorcise them.

“Was blatant disrespect,” he manages to say. “That calls for discipline.”

From his peripheral, he can see Price cocking his head. “You want me to write you up, do you?”

“S’the least I deserve.”

The old dog’s expression falters, defensive. For a tick, Ghost wonders what his captain sees in him. If he sees a soldier or a file number or nothing at all. It takes time for either of them to speak or move. Then Price rises, coming over, breathing a disbelieving laugh. When he reaches the door, his hand falls lightly on Ghost’s shoulder.

“You’re a right muppet,” he says, nodding a bit. His eyes are going between Ghost’s. “You did the right thing, Simon. But you’re a right muppet, eh?”

Ghost’s brows twitch. Something about this doesn’t track. All things considered, his commanding officer should be livid, pushing him through the meat-grinder with unforgiving force. That’s how things go. That’s how order is kept amongst soldiers. There’s no tactical reason for lenience. None that he can think of.

Price shakes him encouragingly. “Laswell reckons she’s a good fit for the team an’ us lads are just as keen to have her stick around. Long as you stay focused, she stays. Just go easy next time, eh? That fuckin’ hurt.”

Ghost meets his eyes. He isn’t sure how to respond to something like that. All he says is, “Clear.”

---

It’s half eight in the morning.

The storm’s eased. Ghost tugs on a windbreaker for another run. This time, he ropes in MacTavish. Inviting another bloke is out of order for him. He knows that. When he asks, the scot pulls a face like he’s been directed to piss on an IED. Ghost can appreciate most men would be afraid to be alone with him. But he figures Johnny’s the sorta bloke who has a faulty perception of risk. He’s right.

They run shoulder to shoulder, keeping pace. Sun burns the back of their necks. Ghost moves with single-minded focus, sweating under his mask. The whole time, Johnny bangs on about christ-knows-what. Weirdly, Ghost doesn’t mind.

When they get back, Price and Garrick are smoking outside. He’d murder for a cigarette but the desire to change clothes wins. Nods are shared between them. Soap jabs Garrick in the gut. Ghost jogs into the safehouse, out of the cold. Inside, you’re crouching over your sleeping bag. Small, delicate hands rummaging through your pack.

“Think ye can keep up today Bugs B?”

You don’t look up. “More than you.”

Johnny picks up a tattered towel and flicks it at you. “Challenge accepted, lass. Captain should’ve put ye in charge o’ team morale.”

The towel lands in your lap. You hurl it back, harder. “Thought you’d prefer my bark to my bite. Saves you the scars.”

“Christ. Peas in a fuckin’ pod,” scoffs Johnny, draping the towel over his shoulders. He dabs his forehead with the corner, collecting sweat. “Just wanted to know how much babysittin’ yer gonna need tonight, lass.”

Ghost rips off his jacket. “Deep end. Let’s see if she floats.”

Johnny smiles. “You woo her with that sweet talk, sir?”

He can’t help but look at you, expecting a reaction. Nothing. You’re all concentration, fitting night vision goggles to your helmet. Ghost finds it odd how somehow so observant seems to conveniently miss the shit that might send him into cardiac arrest. He returns to Soap, spearing his junior with a blank look. The sergeant flinches. Grips his towel. Struts across the room. Ghost tracks him until the door bangs shut.  

Brief silence. Ghost throws his jacket on his sleeping bag. He peels his shirt over his neck too, careful not to adjust his balaclava. It comes off, crumpling in his hands.

“He looks up to you,” you comment. “I kinda like that about him.”

“He should.” He digs for a clean shirt. Finds one, at the bottom of his things. Folded nice and neat. “If he wants to live long.”

“You’re so-”

Something stops you dead. He lifts his head to see what it is. There you are, staring at him. Eyes as wide as a lamb about to be slaughtered. Only then does he realise he’s bloody half-naked. Bare skin, scars, moles on show. Along with his shirt, he pulls on a composed voice.

“Finished starin’?”

Just like that, you falter back into your lap. “Oh- sorry. Just weird, is all. You look so different to how I remember you. Much uh- bigger.”

Ghost notices blood pricking in your cheeks, even after you put on your helmet. It catches him off-guard. He musters a vacant expression – doing his best to look normal. Normal blokes would return the sentiment, he thinks. He searches for the right word.

“You look – older.”

You pause from your task, absorbing that. Face screwing into discomfort. “Older.”

Ghost knuckles his brow, feeling like a right git. He opens his trap to correct himself. Closes it. Busies his hands with dressing himself. Jacket. Vest. Helmet. If he looks like a coward, might as well act like it.

“D’you think we’ll take her in, tonight?” you pivot. “Fox, I mean.”

Elbow wiping his helmet, he collects dirt on his sleeve. “If we keep our heads.”

“I’m just glad we have a shot.” In your fingers, he can see you struggling with the strap of your own helmet. Feeble fingers working around the buckle. Failing. He has an urge to help you. Unburden you. Smooth out the crinkle in your forehead. “Probably would’ve done something stupid and tried to chase her if she crossed the border too.”

Ghost gives you a shrug that he hopes communicates understanding. If it’d come to that, he’d have followed you. He wants you to know that. Nothing could have stopped him.

Oblivious, you sigh and give up on the strap. It swings along the arc of your jaw, abandoned.

“C’mere.” Before he can stop himself, he drops his helmet and paces over. Takes the strap and deftly forces it into the buckle. Plastic clicking, secure. He gives your helmet a rough rattle. “Better?”

“Christ-,” you attempt, but you’re wobbling a bit too much for it to come out clear. “You know you don’t have to fight all my battles, right?”

“Logically speakin’.” Through the holes of his mask, he peers down at you. “But you were losin’. Can’t have that.”

“I’m just not an over-achiever like you.”

“Good thing I am, or we might’ve lost you.”

Laughing, your face falls into the space between you. It dawns on him that he is still holding the strap on your helmet, keeping you locked in with the barricade of his arm. He looks like an absolute fucking prat clinging on like that. Conscious of himself, he takes his hand back and adjusts the chin of his mask. Fuck, he’s grateful it covers his face.

“Do you think it’d be so bad?” you ask absently, swivelling your helmet to get it to sit right. “Dying?”

“There’s no such thing as a good death,” he answers flatly. “No point thinkin’ about it.”

He means that. Life is a meaningless game. Out here, war makes casualties of every man and his fucking dog. Illness. Infection. Bullet-scorched flesh. No cunts are hanging around dictating which men deserve it or not.

With a grim frown, you kneel beside your sleeping bag and continue sorting through your things. He considers for a minute that he might have said something wrong. Misstepped somewhere. He tries not to dissect your movements to test his theory, but he can’t help it. Something in him feels compelled to read you. Flip through your pages, front to back. Catalogue every word.

You interrupt his thoughts. “This might sound weird, but I think some sick part of me’ll actually miss this place.”

It bothers him that you’re eye-level with his belt, so he crouches next to you, elbows on his knees. “S’pose it’s not so bad.”

“I don’t mean the actual place. Well, yeah, it’s beautiful and all that, but it’s more than that.”

He tracks your meaning, gesturing vaguely to show he gets it. “The sentiment.”

“Yeah, exactly.” You point your tactical vest at him. “The sentiment of it. I feel weird about letting it go. Like, when you shut your eyes cause you don’t want something to be real.”

“D’you regret all this?”

“No. That’s not-.” You look frustrated, as if reaching a dead-end and wanting to turn back.  “What I want to say is impossible things happen here. I mean really, what’re the chances of us meeting like this again?”

When you start to punch your arms through the vest, he feels the need to glance away. There’s an irritating pulse in his chest and it reminds him of jagged spikes on a monitor. He wants to beat his heart flat. Straighten that luminous green line into one unceasing beep.

Ghost runs a hand down his face, exhaling. “Sometimes I think this is punishment, for everythin’ I’ve done.”

Guardedness. “Punishment?”

“Gettin’ what I want doesn’t tend to last, Bug.”

Your eyes reach for his. “What do you want?”

Ghost looks down at your face, the slope of your cheekbone and its warm-pink tinge. He imagines it. Closing those last inches between you, ironing a thumb beneath your ear. Leaning in to fit his lips to yours as he did all those years ago. This time he would know how it feels. Like a long-dead star, millions of miles in the past, burning back to life. One kiss. He could be satisfied with just one. You wouldn’t even have to love him. He knows you never could.

Ghost does the right thing. Kills his emotion. Stands.

“Let’s just get through this, yeah?”

---

Near midnight, the team breach.

The street is silent. Dark. The five of them keep tight along the back fence of a townhouse. Tonight, the gear is stripped down. Functional. Rifles, vests, and the tools to smash inside. Ghost lingers at the rear, weaving around the streetlights pooling on the pavement. Blood drums in his neck. He likes that feeling. Needs it.

Price pushes up to the wrought-iron gate. The rest fan around it. Ghost senses you at his elbow, but his concentration stays fixed on the perimeter. His rifle is trained to the floor, hands loose around it. On his left, Garrick crouches toward the gate, bolt cutters in hand. Steel jaws snap through the lock. Metal clinks on stone. Hinges rasp as the gate bores open.

“Check your shots,” reminds Price, directing them to file in. “We want our target alive.”

Their boots swarm up the stone path, crooked solar lights in the garden illuminating the way. Garrick moves for the power box mounted on a post. His knife draws, severs the cords. The lights in the townhouse are snuffed out. Wind beckons. Night vision switches on. It always takes a tick for Ghost’s eyes to adjust, vision rewiring to electric green. He follows four figures up to the back door. Price tries the handle. No luck. The captain nods.

Ghost unslings the breacher. Lines up his arms. Swings back. Heaves. The sledge pierces wood. Heavy, thunderous. Splinters cover his arms. One solid kick busts the door wide open. He steps back, letting the team pour in. Ghost waits for you. Enters last, stepping over pieces of wood. Upstairs, he catches faint thumping. Multiple hostiles, at least. There are some on the ground floor too, red shapes just further in. If the power cut wasn’t enough to stir them awake, he expects the door breach has finished the job. Ghost wonders if that could even the odds. He doubts it.

The team split to track different heat signals. In front, Price and Garrick make contact. Pops ring in his ears. The gunshots pulse in the floorboards. He leaves them to clear the laundry room, tracking down the hall. It opens into a kitchen, where three hostiles are shouting at each other over the counters. Soap snaps his rifle from one man to another, coaxing just enough bullets  to drop two threats.

On the right, the third git darts over. Ghost times himself. Beats his elbow into the bridge of a nose. It cracks. The git stumbles back, crashing into a row of kitchen cupboards. His rifle clatters to the lacquered wood. Unarmed now, but reaching for a kitchen knife. Too late. Ghost has unsheathed his. Like baring his teeth, as rabid dogs do. He slips it in, between collarbone and neck. Twists deep. The man throttles, wild and panicked. Then slackens, as if he’s drifting out to sea. Ghost lets him slump to the ground. Turning, he spots a fourth man at your six, rifle pointing at your spine. There is no hesitation. He hurtles the knife. It lands where he wants it to - throat splitting open.

You lift your goggles, toeing the geezer’s thigh to confirm he’s dead. “Can’t help showing off, can you?”

Ghost retrieves his knife. Flips it one-handed. Threads it into its holster. “Looked like you were about to lose. Can’t have that.”

Through his night vision, he sees you shake your head and grip your rifle tighter. The two teams converge. Reload. Breathe. Garrick and Price take stock of the dead. Seven down; six remaining. Even. Ghost likes even.

Together, the lot of them continue upstairs. Boots crush crusted carpet. Laid out before them is another hall, mirroring downstairs. Ghost takes a mental log of what to come back and poke around in – drawers, closets, cabinets. Up ahead, Garrick shoulders open a door. His rifle flashes. Bullets thud in rhythms.

Ghost drifts after you into an office. Two heat signatures wait inside. He hangs back at the door to see you drop one clean. Shots zip near his head, into the plaster. He ducks on instinct. The second hostile sprays wild. You take one in the vest, colliding with a desk. Your weapon skates along the floor, further than you can reach. Flat on its side like a fish on the sand. Ghost feels his heart thump. His rifle lifts, then he hears it - the metallic tinkle of a grenade. Stopping it with his boot, he hunches over. Collects it. Tosses it down the hall, barking for the other lads to steer clear. Braces.

It erupts. Red-gold clouds of fire. Splinters sprinkling around him. He hears one of the others hacking up dust. Without even thinking, Ghost scrambles back to the office. To his relief, you’re on your feet, brushing back your hair.  

Chest heaving, Ghost lifts his goggles. “Not bad.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” you frown, slapping in new ammunition. “I might be offended.”

He stops you from passing by, running a hand over your vest to test for a wound. There’s a tear in the kevlar where his finger sinks in. No blood, thank fuck. He has to strangle the urge to grab your arm and drag you with him the rest of the night. He could see himself doing it - taking a bullet or a knife. He could imagine himself doing other things too. Fixing your door. Changing your tyre. Standing in line at the bloody post for you. Stupid, boyish shit he shouldn’t be thinking about right now. Fucking hell.

Ghost looks between your eyes. “You good?”

You bat him off. “S’okay. Think it hit the plate.”

Price’s ragged voice cuts from the hall. “House is clean. Target’s secure.”

Head jerking up, you follow the sound. Ghost checks the room once more. Joins.

In the main bedroom, is a woman. Small and outnumbered, braver than he figures she should be. Her face is contorted in a frown, dark eyes flitting between the blokes towering around her. There’s a skittishness about her. Blood wells at the corner of her mouth, smeared up her chin like she wiped it before her wrists got bound. If she were free, he wagers she might jump out the fucking window or something. Scuttle out like a proper rat.

You crouch, level with her. “Nice to see you in-person.”

She spits. Blood stains her teeth. “Fuck off an’ get it over with.”

Your attention moves from the gear strewn over the duvet, to her face. “Patience is a virtue, remember?”

Price clicks his tongue in instruction. In understanding, Garrick hauls her upright. The two of them drag the rat out. Johnny goes too. Ghost lingers, hearing their footsteps fade, watching you.

Rising, you amble towards the door. Just as you reach him, you pause. He tenses. Tilts his head, unsure of what you're doing. Blood beats in his temples. He thinks you might speak, give him some sort of cheek that will make him soft in the head for at least a week. But what you end up doing is far bloody worse. You touch his chest. Lift yourself up on your toes. And gingerly, kiss the cheek of his mask.

It's brief. Less than a tick. But he feels it there, solid and real, even after you brush past him and go. He stands in the bedroom alone, sort of dazed. Like all his senses have dissolved. 

He touches his mask and breathes a laugh.

--

The team exfils.

Helicopter doors glide shut. Gears clunk and whir. Ghost watches their ascent through the window, hunching so his head is clear of the roof. The world outside becomes small and distant. Cool-purple mountains, carcasses of trees, glittering lakes shrinking until it’s nothing but dense cloud.

When he gets tired of the view, he slouches into the chair beside you. You angle your knees towards him, rubbing the heel of your palm into your eye. Lips curling into a sheepish smile.

He glances away a moment, to gather his thoughts. Returns – not a soldier or a skeleton or even a man. Just – Simon. Pathetic Simon. He never thought that could be a good thing. But fucking hell, the way you lean into him makes him wonder.

“What’re you thinking about?” you ask, sounding tired. “It looks serious.”

He swallows. “Why’d you do that?”

You sit up a bit, hearing his tone. “Do what?”

“I think you know.”

“You'll have to-”

“Bug-”

You look at him then. Sharp, piercing eyes pinning him in place. Those eyes that seem to know him so well - at a cellular level. It’s like you see him. Inside him. Past the bone-hard shell he’s built around himself and into whatever is still beating and raw underneath. Part of him has always felt like you could read his mind. Part of him always wanted you to. Maybe then you’d understand all the shit he’s never had the guts to tell you. That if he's a ghost, you're the house that holds him. The one thing that tethers him to the world.

“I just wanted to,” you say, adjusting your knees. “I don’t have a good reason or anything. I just - wanted to.”

“Don’t do that to me,” he says, and it comes out more broken than he likes. “Alrigh’?”

“Don’t what? Kiss you?”

He bumps his head back against the wall, examining the ceiling. “Give me hope.”

You say nothing. Simon can see you staring at him in the corner of his eye, gripping your knees tight. It takes time, but you lean back too, rocking against the seat until you wade into sleep. He links a hand through yours and keeps you propped up with his shoulder. Tells himself the contact is just to stop you from falling. Almost believes it.

The helicopter sails on, spanning miles of white. 

Simon watches the trembling ceiling. It reminds him of all those nights sitting on his bed. Staring at splits in the roof, imagining the cracks in those two headstones. His mother. His brother. He never visited those two granite blocks much. Never believed in talking to the dead. But sometimes he wishes he could talk to his brother again, curses and all. Tell him he regrets not making more time for him. Tell him he’s sorry. He couldn’t save Tom. Couldn’t save his mum. Simon can admit he used to think he didn’t deserve to be the last one left. But that feels so long ago now.

Now, he looks out the window into the depthless dark and he just - listens. To the chop of the rotor blade. The clink of the jump seats. His teammates bantering in the back. Your breath, soft in the folds of his jacket. Your slender wrist under his thumb, where he feels the beat of your heart. Constant and even, like you are.

And for the first time, maybe in his life, Simon feels grateful to be alive.

Chapter Text

Three Months Later 

The bed is ringing. Shrill and merciless, like cymbals smashing in your skull. You spring awake in a frantic search. Your phone is down the side of the bed, sandwiched between the mattress and solid wood. Stupid thing keeps slipping down there through the night, just desperate to be annoying. You prise it out with a sweaty hand, vibrations tingling up your fingertips. Brightness sears into your lids. Unknown caller. Whoever thinks it’s fine to call at three in the fucking morning is having a laugh. You could hang up. Just shove it back down the side of the bed. Ignore it. You want to. But on the off chance this is something important, you might as well answer.

Your thumb stabs accept. “Hello-?”

“Bug.”

You prop yourself up with an elbow, mind alert now. “Cap-? Shit. Is that you?”

“Thought you’d be sleepin’.”

“I am.” Your mouth feels suddenly dry. You swallow. “Or I was, I guess.”

“Living the dream, eh?” He punctuates that with an elongated sigh, as if he might be smoking. Even with a cigar in his mouth, he sounds just like you remember him. Rough-edged, shorn down. Wrinkles so deep you can hear them in his voice. “Civ life has perks. Listen, I won’t keep you long-”

“No, no, it’s fine.” You brush your hair back, sitting up, fluted headboard digging into your spine. The mattress springs squeak. “I’m awake now. I’m good.”

His response isn’t immediate, and you imagine him puffing the cigar, taking his sweet time. He must be knackered. Last time you spoke with him was months ago, around a week after your flight back to London. In a matter of days, he and the team had already been assigned to a new mission. Shipped out, like cargo. Information on their whereabouts has since come in through Kate. She keeps things professional.  Official. To be honest, the sudden disconnection has been jarring. You’ve felt yourself stumbling in the real world, gritting your teeth through annual leave that you never wanted to take. Fuck, it’s been so painfully boring. This phone call has been the first time in ages that your heartbeat has spiked so hard. Pathetic.

You feel a sudden urge to fill the silence, to make this conversation last. “I’ve been wondering when you’d call, actually,” you say, face in the hollow of your hand. “How’ve-”

“We got him.”

You lower your phone, staring at the glare of the screen. It seems to have doubled in weight, and you almost can’t reconcile its plainness with what you’ve just heard.  

“Shit.” You scramble for words. “Where? When?”

“Happened this morning,” murmurs Price stonily. “Cornered him at a football stadium. He was plannin’ to zero it. Full o’ fucking civilians.” 

“Wow.” You lean back. The headboard creaks. “Fuck.”

Silent agreement. 

You scoot down a little so that your head is the only thing upright. Something is getting picked up on the other end of the line, whirring. Price must be leaning against an air vent or something, pants rippling, a free hand combing a moustache that’s grown too thick in the field. Moving elsewhere, somewhere quieter, would never occur to him.

“So, I guess that means the intel Fox gave us was green,” you point out, then falter. “I keep doing that - should just use her real name-”

“Forget it.” Price makes a sound like he could be spitting on the ground. “What matters is it’s done. Good thing we had you, eh?” 

Reassurance. Comfort. Fuck, you hate that. He wants you to feel better about not being there with them, as if you actually contributed something worthwhile. The truth is, questioning Fox wasn’t some heroic feat. Anyone could have done it. Sure, it took almost a week. Hours of back and forth, backbiting, chess moves. And for the most part, she put up a proper good fight. Even had you thinking it was a hapless pursuit on more than one occasion. But interrogation is a test of patience, nothing more. It doesn’t matter how composed someone is or the extent of their knowledge on psychological warfare. None of that helps them when you chisel away at them, nice and gentle.  Peeling off the outer bits of hardened clay, sculpting them into whatever you like. Until, eventually, reluctantly, they crack.

“I hardly did anything,” you dismiss. “You’re the ones who’ve been out there, hunting him.”

“This win’s yours as much as it is ours. Understand?”

“All I did was ask questions.”

“Yeah, well – guess you asked the right ones.” 

You pat a hand over your chequered quilt, unable to deflect that. The fabric is a patchwork of patterns, a pale blue sort of colour that reminds you of snow.

“Is everyone-”

“Desperate for a pint? Always.” He takes a sharp breath, through his nostrils. “Once the brigade gets here, we’re on the next flight out. Plan to hit the pub when we land – near HQ. Can you meet us or not?”

You scoor a knuckle into your left eye. “Uh – yep. Of course. Wouldn’t miss it. Might take me awhile to get there though. S’like an hour on the train. What time d’you think you’ll land?”  

“I’ll buzz you the details-” He pauses, like he might be gesturing to someone in his space. When he returns to the phone, he’s found renewed purpose. “Anyway, how’s it on your end ladybug?”

The update’s so miserable, you don’t want to get into it. You run a hand absently over the side of the bed, grazing over a corner of the mattress where the elastic protector has come loose. He doesn’t need to know the boring shit, you decide.

“Fine, really.” You gesture around the room, even though he can’t see you. “You know how civ life can be.” 

“Fucking terrible?” 

“Yeah, fucking terrible.”

A sympathetic pause. “Kate talk to you about the proposition?”

“That you wanna poach me?” You try to control your beam. “Yeah, she mentioned you were looking for someone from the agency to have in your pocket.”

“And?”

You offer him a short, uncertain laugh. “You’re the one pulling the strings here, cap. I just follow orders.”

“Yeah, well here’s your first.” He’s all authority. “Get some fuckin’ beauty sleep.”

The line goes dead.

--

The routine starts the same.

Peel back the curtains. Make the bed. Get dressed. Sleeve some bread in the toaster. Pop on the kettle, twice because you get distracted slathering jam on your toast. Then you brew a coffee – one sugar, a dash of skimmed milk. The liquid swirls into a nice caramel colour as you blow off steam, fingers still sticky from the jam. You sip it in the kitchen real slow, thinking about the prospect of seeing Simon.

Overhead, the clock ticks. Your heart drums. The day turns too - morning to lunch to afternoon. You find yourself checking the time between tasks. Washing the dishes, hanging the laundry, mopping the entire flat, caking on a sheen of lipstick, frantically scrubbing it off. You can’t tell if you want the clock to go faster or slower. Maybe you just want it to stop. When Price sends the details through, it feels like being liberated from prison. You thread on your coat, the dark walnut one that drapes down to your knees. Manage one last crazed look in the mirror, tucking a few pieces of hair back. Then, you head out. 

It takes an hour to get there and three modes of transport. Train, bus, on-foot. The walk there is quite nice. You clack down an uneven brick path, passing old terrace houses. Spring has taken root here. Gardens in bloom. Corroded gates splattered with pigeon shit. Weeds weaving up through the metal bars, decorated with small, butter-coloured flowers.

You find the pub without much fuss, nestled at the end of the street. It’s a retiring grey building, not far from the SAS base nearby. Inside is just as run-down. Carpeted floors. Wooden bar. Cramped booths strangling a thin passage. Cheap neon signs that give off an insect-like hum. Pool cues clinking against resin. The smell of sweat and smoke mingling in the air. Bit gross, but most places like this are.

You spot the team. Tucked in the corner is Price, wearing a beanie and a woollen jumper that makes him look deceptively harmless. He nudges the lad beside him with an elbow, and once the bloke completes a full turn you recognise it’s Kyle. Deep, dark eyes lifting to the television set hanging from the roof to find what his captain wants him to see. They laugh. Off to the side, Soap waves for the bartender’s attention, an empty glass in hand. You check around them, wondering why you haven’t seen Ghost. After a minute of collecting yourself, you push through the crowd.

It goes quick. Banter, shoulder punches, glasses clanging together so hard you get worried one of them might smash. Somewhere over the evening, Kate shows up to celebrate too. Mission success. New friends. Seems like a lot of things to raise up and cheers to. Everyone’s in a good mood, relieved to be back home. You are too. Knowing they’re safe - alive - is difficult to describe.

Still, the entire time, you sit in a nest of your own jacket. Guts in knots. Now and then, eyes drifting back up to the clock above the bar. Those ticking, black hands mocking you. Part of you holds out hope that he’ll make it before 8. Then 9. Then 10.

But Ghost never comes.

---

Late that night, you walk to the bus stop.

It has a green frame and clear walls, roof arched like a tunnel. You cross the asphalt to get to it, stepping into a pool of streetlight to read the timetable. Fifteen minutes until the bus, which is fucking ages. You wish you’d taken one of the others up on their offer to drop you off. Dumb, social politeness has never worked in your favour. No real point complaining about it now though.

Your trainers scrape along the concrete. Horns bleat in the distance. A man wheels his garbage bin out to the curb. You look up, unable to see any stars. You miss that about being in the mountains. True darkness. Fresh, crisp air. No sounds except crickets and beetles and the lulling wind. Civilisation is inescapable here. It’s both comforting and irritating.

Minutes crawl on. You decide to sit on the bench seat, avoiding standing on the shards of a broken bottle. A car whooshes past, sending a cockroach darting into a drain. You feel like absolute shit. Catching up with the team was nice, sure. But you haven’t been able to shake the fact that Simon has purposefully chosen not to see you. You know you shouldn’t take it personally. He’s not the type of bloke who likes socialising under the best of circumstances. Still, you expected that after months, he’d be just as eager to see you. Guess not. 

You let your face fall into your hands, knuckles pressing into the round bulges of your eyes. Colours blotch behind your lids. Waiting here is just making it worse, you think. You should walk to the train station. It’ll take a while, but exercising could help clear your mind. Better than being here, stranded with your childishness.

The sound of footsteps makes you glance to your left. Coming up on the ash-washed path are a pair of dirtied sneakers. The shoes halt. Curious, your eyes slide up two long legs, a long torso, a long neck.

“Alrigh’?” 

Standing at the perimeter of the shelter, is Ghost.

You jolt like you’ve touched a live wire. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“On base.” Spoken matter of fact. Cool. Typical Simon. “Price said you’d be here.”

Lifting a hand from his pocket, he adjusts his mask higher up his nose. It isn’t the usual balaclava. More like a plain, white medical respirator - the sort that people wear on the tube when they’re sick or can’t be bothered putting a pleasant face on.

You gesture down the street, in the vague direction of the base. “Is that where you just came from? Isn’t that like – forty minutes to walk?”

He doesn’t seem to comprehend the problem with that. “Twenty. I ran.” 

“You’re mental,” you say stupidly. “You know that?”

The nod communicates he does. “Should’ve been locked up years ago, yeah?”

You pretend to think hard about that, “How d’you know you aren’t? Maybe this is all a dream. Meant to fill some existential pit of despair.”

“Negative,” he returns. “Pit’s still there.”

You laugh, locking eyes. For a silent beat, the two of you just stare at each other. Seeing him in casual clothes, deep in a civilian neighbourhood, feels alien. He has no tactical vest or rifle, or holsters stuffed with knives. Tonight, he wears a black shirt overlayed with a loose, denim jacket. Black, casual pants. A neat, black cap that covers his hair. Perhaps he remembers something, because his chin jerks around to check the perimeter. Now would be a good time to offer some sort of conversational chit-chat. Except, you’re suddenly feeling self-conscious. Compared to him, you must look like a right mess. Price was right: probably should’ve gotten some beauty sleep.

“You mind?”

He nods to the seat beside you, then walks over without bothering to actually wait for permission. You have no choice but to budge up for him, retreating to one end of the bench. Ghost drops onto the metal, spreading out casual like someone sunbathing in a pool chair. His thigh brushes yours, unafraid of what this might to do you.

“S’over for now,” he says. “Makarov.”

“Hard to believe,” you nod absently, keeping your focus ahead. In front of the shelter, the pavement soaks up the streetlight. Rocks shimmer like gold coins. Your eyes feel tired just looking at them. “You should go back to base. You must be so tired.”

His hands knot together over his lap, disciplined. “I don’t get tired.”

“He doesn’t get tired,” you narrate. You level him with a disbelieving look. “The lot of you have been out there for what, almost a year?”

“Somethin’ like that. Just part an’ parcel o’ the work. S’no different for you.”

“Yeah, but I spend most of the time inside luxurious houses, in the air conditioning. Eavesdropping.”

“That’s the supreme art of war, yeah?” He allows, eyes moving along the buildings on the other side of the street. Returning to you. “Subdue your enemy without a fight.”

You scoff, trying to seem unaffected by this. By him. “Figured you not going to the pub meant you were politely ghosting me.” 

“Was just-,” his resolve wavers. Ghost untangles his fingers, flexing them. You want to reach out and make them go still. “Was nervous to see you. Needed to walk it off.”

Impossible.

“Nervous. You.”

Dark eyes touch yours, almost self-deprecating. “Counterintuitive for me, yeah?”

That makes you laugh, sheepish. “That’s putting it mild.”

Headlights flare. Tyres clunk over a drain. A bus is winding down the road, passing beneath a canopy of powerlines. The driver must spot you at the shelter because he slows down, blinker switching on.

Ghost’s face glows red. “You got somewhere to be?” 

You don’t even have to think about it. “Nowhere important. You?”

The bus gears shriek to a stop.

“Negative.” 

Before the doors can even open, Ghost waves for it to move on. There’s a moment of brief confusion, like the driver feels obliged to tell you the next bus might not be here for some time. He ends up shrugging it off, uncaring. The tyres ease into a crunching roll, rocks spitting up the undercarriage. Panes of glass windows whisk past and you get a flash of your bright pink cheeks. Brilliant. The bus steers back onto the street. Picks up speed, brakes, rounds a corner. You lean back, shoulders contacting the shelter wall.

He would notice if you tried to fan off your blush. You’ll have to resort to distraction.

“D’you ever think about quitting?”

“What, life?”

Hook, line, sinker. “I meant the army.”

Ghost’s attention trails down the street, in the direction of the now-gone bus. Over there is a woman walking her dog. He observes her, deep in thought. You wonder what he thinks when he looks at people like that. If he yearns for a sense of normalcy that has always evaded him. Evaded you, too. In another world, life could have been as simple as a bus ride to work, dull conversation at the office, dinner thrown together with floppy vegetables you forgot to use, then taking the dog for a late-night walk. The weekends you would have saved for chores or fixing things around the house or lounging in bed – letting the sun spill over ravines of blankets and skin and cool, tangled hands.

The woman leads her dog to a block of flats, pausing to press a few buttons. After a second, the door flashes green and she disappears inside. 

At last, he breaks the silence. “Army’s the only thing I’m good at, Bug.”

“You’re good at everything,” you defend, a bit offended that he would think that about himself. “You always have been. You could’ve been anything you wanted to, y’know.”

“Bloody hell-”

“I mean it. That’s partly the reason I was so in love with you, I think.”

Fuck. It comes out before you can catch it. Your chest tightens. In your peripheral, he is studying you now, quiet and attentive. 

“You what?” 

Wind lances through the shelter. Grass bends with the current. You want to shut your eyes and burst into a thousand pieces. You avoid meeting his gaze, breathing deep, letting it fill your lungs until it’s so full your chest could pop.

“You heard me.” The next part comes out all in the same breath. “Don’t go taking the piss an’ act like you didn’t know.”

“I-.” Simon shakes his head, screwing his cap on tighter like he wants to cover his face. “The fuck did you see in me back then?”

He looks at the ground, keeps his thumb and forefinger attached to the visor of his cap. Shadows obscure his eyes. He’s just being rhetorical, but even now you couldn’t explain what it was either. That tall, private lad that he was never barged into your life, loud or brash. He slipped in, quiet as he is, like an ant crawling down a crevice. And you noticed. Life is about noticing, you suppose. Over the years, millions of things pass on and no one’s the wiser. But sometimes, two people might notice each other across a room and things click. Things make sense. Things become clearer, like giving in and looking at the cheat sheet of a crossword you can’t complete. That’s what love is, you want to tell him. Giving in. You’re figuring out how to express that, when he turns to you in earnest.

“Your old man encouraged me to enlist.”

You blink. “What?”

“When we went for that drive. That night you made dinner.” He scuffs the side of his nose with a knuckle. “He asked what I really wanted an’ I said – said that I wanted to enlist.”

“Right.” You sit with that a moment, thinking about your dad. “Sounds like him. He was good at that sorta thing. Wanting me to listen to my heart, all that bollocks.”

“Did you?”

“Did you?”

He glances ahead. “Why d’you think I’m here?”

You massage your forearm, feeling a sudden torrent of frustration. “I don’t know. I’m not a mind reader. I don’t know anything.”

Several beats pass as he considers that. Then, a hand goes to the hem of his mask, right where the cotton curves over his nose. He hesitates there, just a second, before giving in. The mask comes away, crumpled in his spidery fingers. So that for the first time in ten years, you see his face. 

He looks older, which is no surprise. But he looks more ragged too. Lips pale and sullen. Jaw with that grain-like texture of a recent shave. Shadows sloping beneath dark, austere eyes. New scars. One near his temple, the shape of a sickle. The other curving along his cheek like a dead, splitting branch. You take in the shape of him, your heart rocketing.

Simon wets his lips like he wants to speak, and you can’t help but stare at his mouth in awe. Moving. Shaping out gritty, raw words.

“You know me better than anyone, Bug.”

“Do I?” 

“Since I met you,” he continues, and he looks a bit pained. “I’ve wanted to do nothin’ but follow my heart. F’better or worse.”

This stuns you to silence. You’re so shaken, you can’t think. Wordless, your hand goes to the chain around your neck. You drag out the bug tag, rusted and marked like you are, letting it rest over your clothes. Maybe the feel of it makes you brave enough to say:

“Did you mean what you said that night?”

He looks from the bug tag to you. His chest swells, drawing in a deep breath. “I still mean it.” 

“So you love me.”

It’s his turn now to reach for something. He shucks it out of his sleeve, holds it like a pearl pried loose. The torn strip of your jeans, edges frayed, colour faded. The thought that he’s kept it all this time makes you lightheaded.

“Come with me,” you say.

Simon’ brows twitch, “Where?”

“I don’t know.” Thinking, you lick the inside of your cheek. “The train station, I guess.” 

He searches your face, tucking the fabric back up his sleeve. “Your place?”

Neck feeling hot, you elbow him to get some distance. Simon elbows back, ending up closer somehow. Shoulders touching. Knees crushed together. The flaps of your coat squished between you.

“How about Manchester? The night bus.” You find it in yourself to meet him, face to face, the tips of your noses close together.  “Been awhile since I’ve been back.”

Simon exhales, feigning mild exasperation. He lifts a hand to your jaw. Goes to stop himself. Doesn’t. Something in him is growing bolder now. He smooths his palm to the back of your neck. Brings you closer. Hovers there, less than a fingertip away.

“Train’s faster.”

“Yeah,” you agree, head spinning. “But the bus is like 20-odd quid difference. Besides, I wanna take it all in as much as I can. Pretend I’m on a real long drive home-” 

He’s concentrating on your mouth. “That so?”

“Is that weird?” you croak. “Wanting to take the long way?”

“Reckon we’ve got time, love.”

The inch between you dissolves, quick and eager. Your whole body melting, full of relief. He smiles through every kiss, holding you close to him. Unable to contain his emotion, unable to let go. Not that he needs to. You know you will be there with him, right there, as he is with you. Like two waves meeting in the sea, folding together, passing through one another, forever changed.

Overhead, tree branches swell and waver like kites. Nuts fall onto the bus shelter. Dust eddies in the air, bringing feathers and leaves in its swirl. The seasons are changing all around - you can feel it. Everything learning to let go. Soon, the days will get shorter. The green in the trees will brown until all of it is gone. Then, the leaves themselves will go too. Insects will burrow deep. Birds will flock and migrate and somehow know when to come back. The world is so temporary really. It changes. Moves on. Trusts time to finish its work. Maybe you do too.

Doors hiss open. You break apart, realising the next bus is here rumbling on the curb. Simon threads a hand through his hair, releasing a sort of laugh. The two of you rise, walking across the pavement. Your face grows warmer the closer you get to the door. Neither of you get on. Instead, he just looks at you. Soft and leaden. And even though his face is older, the way he looks at you has never changed.

You get the feeling he wants to ask if you’re sure about all this.

You just smile.

Chapter Text

Dad,

Soap agreed that these things are bad luck. But then Cap reckons it helped him once. So fuck it, here I am, knowing you won’t ever read this. 

It’s been almost fifteen years since I saw you. Mental, huh? I must look a lot different to that girl you’d remember. Maybe you wouldn’t even recognise me now. I couldn’t blame you - I made a lot of mistakes. I know. You probably don’t wanna hear that. But I feel like I should be honest with you. That’s the least I can do, isn’t it? You were always wanting to get in my head. Wanting to know what I was thinking. So here it is.

When you died, I forgot who I was. It just sort of happened. Like I reached in, took something out and let it go. And by the time I realised I needed it, I couldn’t get that part of me back. I tried to fill the time up with things. Tried to pretend I was someone else. But no matter how much I tried, I couldn't get rid of that feeling that I was missing something. It was just always there, like a phantom limb. I don’t think I would’ve ever gotten it back without Simon.

I’m doing well now. Maybe that’s why I feel like I can finally write you back after all these years. I should’ve done this sooner. Honoured your memory better. But there’s nothing I can do about that now. I just hope you haven’t been too worried about me. I know that’s easier said than done. That’s what parents do, right? Worry. It’s funny, actually. Lately, I’ve caught myself doing the exact same thing with bones.

This week he started walking. Can you believe that? I was on the phone to Kyle  when it happened. It was just a few steps at first. Of course, now bones is driving me mad. I’m chasing after him all the time, worried he’s gonna eat something from the floor or trip over and get hurt. Si makes jokes that scars build character, but I know he wants to protect him just as much as I do.

He’s just so small, you know? All skin and bones like his dad used to be. Got that same cheekiness as his Uncle Tom, though. I think Si likes that, but he doesn’t feel the need to tell me. Just like I don’t need to tell him that on the weekend, when we take bones to the beach, I’ll shut my eyes and imagine you’re there too. Out in the ocean, coming out from a swim. Just smiling at me, like you used to. 

It’s been 5479 days. Almost fifteen years. And even now, every day, I wish I could see you again. Just to talk to you, for a second. But I don’t let it bother me too much. Because I know you’re right here anyway. I can feel it. Watching. Cheering me on. You always have been, haven’t you?

Ah - Si reckons bones is ready for bed. Better go, dad. Promise I’ll write again soon. 

All my love.