Chapter Text
So fucking loud.
Ghost's head was pounding. The cacophony of conversations and cheering, the heat of all of the bodies around him, the smell of cheap beer and sweat. He hadn't known that there was a game tonight when he had forced himself to leave his flat for the first time beyond necessity since he got back. He'd have stayed in if he did. Price demanded he make something of his leave this time, it would take months to assemble a team to take on Hassan and even longer to find the bastard himself. Ghost was grounded until further notice.
A cheer erupted through the crowd, someone scored. It didn't matter who, didn't matter who was playing or how many poor sods were losing or winning money on this game. Every single one of the bastards in here was wandering through life clueless to the true monsters lurking in the shadows of the world. Ghost finished his beer and dropped a note on the table, not caring much if it covered his tab or not, he wouldn't be back anyway.
He slipped out the door and around the corner to the dark alleyway. He threw a cigarette between his teeth and lit it, sighing heavily as the smoke invaded his lungs.
"Get the fuck out of here, you mutt!" Some young lad, couldn't be older than 25, shoved at a body that landed heavily near Ghost's feet. He glanced down, another young lad was pushing himself up from where he landed face down. He had a tall mohawk, slicked up to stand upright on his head, and a leather jacket adorned with spikes, buttons, and patches. Ghost almost laughed, he didn't see punks on this side of town very often and it seemed neither had the two arseholes who'd taken personal offense to the kid's presence.
The punk was laughing as he pushed himself to his knees, shaking his head. One of the boys kicked at his back and made him pitch forward again.
"I said," he growled, but to Ghost it sounded more like a mewl. "Go." He grasped the punk's head and yanked it back sharply, eliciting another laugh from the man on the ground. At the sound the stupid git slammed his face into the asphalt, making a dull, wet sound as flesh met concrete.
Ghost caught the glint of a blade in the kid's hand and he shifted, pulling his own from its sheath on his belt. He held it loosely in his palm and grunted quietly, enough to catch the attacker's attention but not enough to call any more curious eyes to their silent standoff. The lad looked up at him, and had to keep looking, Ghost easily had a foot on him and was about twice the width. Even if both of them had knives this was a fight they'd lose.
"Leave, kiddos."
The boy with the knife dropped the punk and took a step back. "I've no problem with you, Sir. Just don't like mutts dirtying up our streets."
Ghost took one step forward, drawing his form up tall and holding the knife out to catch the light from the lamps on the street. "Get the fuck out of here 'fore I make your mums plan your funerals."
The boys leered at him, stepping back and placing a swift kick to the punk's leg. Ghost lunged forward on a bluff and they scrambled out of the dark alleyway and into the safety of the street. The punk pitched upwards, rolling back on his heels to land with his back pressed against the brick wall behind him. Blood was gushing down his face from a cut over his eye and what could have been a broken nose.
"Oi, you're a big bastard, ain't ye?" The kid looked him up and down, fingers pinching his nose to stop the blood. "Coulda handled 'em myself," he grumbled.
Oh, he's Scottish.
Ghost grunted in response. "They had a knife."
The kid laughed, pulling a switchblade from the pocket of his jacket and flicking it around in his hand. "So did I."
Ghost hummed, a laugh tickling the back of his throat. He flashed his knife again before sliding it into its sheath. "Mine's bigger." The Scot chuckled, but it was cut off by a cough. Clearing his throat he spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. Ghost glanced to the street, spotting a vendor with bottles of water lined up on the ledge of their truck. "Stay here."
He strode to the truck, skipping the line to grab two bottles and a handful of napkins, tossing a tenner at the man at the counter who barked at him. "Keep the change," he growled, daring the chap to argue. When nothing came of it he returned to the dim alley, pleased the Scot hadn't run off as he met the kid's eyes.
If Ghost was anyone other than himself he'd acknowledge that the punk was cute. Baby-faced, blue-eyed, with a stubborn set to his jaw that dared anyone to make a comment about his hair, his clothes, even his attitude. He had piercings adorning his face, two in his lip, one like a bullring through his nose, and a barbell in his eyebrow. It…worked for him. Ghost suddenly wondered how the rings in his lip would feel pressed against his.
"Here," he grunted, shaking the thought from his head and holding out the stack of napkins and bottle of water. The punk immediately dabbed at the blood on his face, holding another handful under his nose.
"Thanks, mate." Ghost grunted again in acknowledgement. "Ye don't talk much, huh?"
"Not when there's nothing to be said."
"Well, name's John by the way. Thank you for, uh, saving me? Even if I didn't need savin'. Woulda been rough explainin' why I ended up back in A&E already." Ghost chuckled, taking a seat on the ground next to John and dropping his head back against the cold brick.
"You make a habit of gettin' in rows in this part of town?"
John chuckled, pulling his jacket and shirt away to reveal a ragged patch of fresh, pink scar tissue spanning his side from hip to rib cage. "Work accident."
Ghost uncapped his own water. "Must be a nasty line of work."
"Ye don't know the half of it." Ghost doubted that, but didn't press it. He wouldn't have told John what he did either. "What's yer name?"
Ghost was on the tip of his tongue before he bit it back and forced "Simon" out instead. It felt odd to offer his real name so freely, but going around telling people he called himself Ghost would have him in a loony bin faster than he could correct himself.
John hummed, "Nice tae meet ye, Simon." His name sounded pleasant wrapped in a Scottish drawl.
They sat in silence for a moment before a question started gnawing at Ghost. John had accepted the blows without complaint, letting two sniveling wankers hurt him without care. He found it a bit worse even that John was apparently barely recovered from a nasty injury.
"Why were you lettin' them have at you like that?"
John shrugged, fiddling with the cap of his water. "I can handle it, they won't kill me. Am no pacifist, just don't think I need to fight back unless they deserve it."
Simon scoffed, "They didn't deserve it?"
The Scot sighed heavily, the kind of noise a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders would make. Ghost knew it intimately. "Not compared to some of the bastards I've seen." Simon left that alone, it never bode well to prod at a sensitive wound.
"Why'd they come after you anyway?"
"Ah," John grimaced. "People 'round here don't take too kindly to the likes o' me." He took a long gulp of water and Ghost ignored the way his adams apple bobbed with the movement. "Don't take too kindly to the likes o' them either. Too posh, too Bri'ish," he scoffed.
Ghost grunted, knocking his boot against John's. "Watch it."
"Oh nah, not you mate." John smirked at him. "Ye look more like my type than any of them."
"Shuddap." Simon ignored the pleasant flip in his gut as John's pretty blue eyes trailed from his face down his torso, snapping up to meet his gaze again with a bright fire behind his eyes.
"Let me buy ye a drink, least I could do."
Ghost grimaced, tipping his head towards the bar. "I'm not going back in there." As if on cue, the door opened to the street and the loud chaos of cheering and yelling filtered out.
John tipped his head to the side, thinking. "Can I take ye somewhere else? S'little bit more my speed and I bet it'll be something you'd like too."
Simon forced himself to consider it for a moment, an affirmative at his lips much too quickly for it to appear anything other than overly eager. "Sure," he grunted as he pulled himself to his feet and offered a hand out to John. The Scot took it gratefully, standing up with a soft groan that Ghost filed away for later when he had time to be a filthy, depraved mutt. The kid was nice, if a little hard-headed. Ghost didn't need to be a filthy-minded pervert just because he hadn't gotten any in a while.
He followed John out of the alley and down the street, conveniently towards his own flat. The punk chattered incessantly, about everything and nothing at all. Somehow Ghost found that he didn't mind the noise.
They approached Anarchy, a bar Simon often scoffed at. It looked edgy and performative. He didn't think he'd find it to his liking but let John lead him inside anyway.
It wasn't packed, but it was busy. People lined the bar and tables around the front of the room. The music was loud but Simon was pleased to find he recognized the band, one he liked.
Ghost followed John towards the back and rounded the bar to see a smaller, recessed alcove tucked along the far wall. Down here the walls were lined with plush sofas and side tables, the music was quieter, and very few people milled around. He glanced over to John who was watching him already, a pleased grin on his face.
"Like it?" Ghost nodded, humming as John led them to one of the unoccupied sofas. As he sat, the Scot ducked down to be heard over the noise. "What's your drink?"
"I'll just take a beer, whatever ale they've got."
John smiled, "Ach, you're no fun." But minutes later he returned with two ales, clinking his glass against Ghost's before taking a sip.
John fiddled with the rings on his fingers, spinning one idly. "Can I ask ye what ye do for work?"
Ghost ignored the odd phrasing of the question, guessed it was due to the Scot's own line of work. "Can I ask you the same?"
John chuckled, "Aye, but you first."
Ghost leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees and looking back towards John. "I'm in the military, spec ops."
Simon was surprised by a soft smack to his shoulder. "You aren't."
"I…am?" Normally when Ghost said he was military the general consensus was 'You look like a soldier,' not extreme disbelief.
"I am too!" Johnny was smiling broadly, excitement shining behind silver eyes. "SAS, not spec ops, although I've been in consideration for task forces before."
Ghost grumbled into his drink, "Don't do it. When there's nothing to do they'll send ya home for 6 months and insist you should be happy about it."
John's knee bumped against his. "That why you're here?" He nodded, jerking his head in a question of his own.
"Aye, medical leave. But I'm base locked here anyway until something in the works gets finalized. Cannae talk about it, but I hope it works out."
"How'd you get injured?" John sighed, palm running against the wound over his shirt.
"Ye dealt with AQ before?" Simon nodded, a frisson of annoyance running up his spine at the mere mention of the name. "IED during the liberation of Al Mazrah. I was downed before the real fight even started." John grunted, clearly annoyed he didn't get to see the action.
"Be glad you didn't," he mumbled, eyes downcast. "It was a bloodbath."
John hummed, rings clinking lightly against his glass. "You were there?"
"I'm one of few in my squad that made it. Thirty in, three out." He heard the Scot's sharp intake of breath. Simon kept his eyes on his glass, it wasn't that he didn't want to talk about it. In fact he found he actually wanted to speak about the things that plagued him, somehow already knew that John would understand. But the Scot still had this excitement, this spark about being in the military. The horrors of war hadn't broken him yet and Simon found himself wanting to preserve that.
"Holy hell, Sir."
Ghost groaned, leaning back into the soft cushions and downing the rest of his beer. "Don't call me sir, I'm not on duty."
"Yes Sir," John prodded with a grin and Simon found himself smiling. They had another drink, sinking slowly into the cushions and just enjoying the light conversation. They talked about how they ended up in London in the first place, how John had managed to get away with having his hair as long as it was, the Scot even took him on a tour of his jacket. He excitedly pointed out each patch, explaining where he got them and what they meant. Ghost could listen to John explain the maintenance on an M16 in excruciating detail and he'd still enjoy the lilt of the Scotsman's voice. He let his eyes wander, taking in the swell of John's biceps, the veins that stood out along his forearms, his tattoos and scars littered across every inch of bare skin.
Simon would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't attracted to John. It had been a long time since he'd interacted with someone who could hold a conversation up even when Ghost didn't have a response.
He liked John. He hoped to see more of him.
They talked until the bartender called out for closing time, looking at each other with wide eyes as they realized that nearly four hours had passed in each other's company. They left the bar, leaning in to each other slightly as the drinks and late hour caught up to them. Once outside, Simon looked at John. Blue eyes still shining bright, although half-lidded and sleepy. His cut had stopped bleeding a while ago, now just red and purple like the bridge of his nose. "I'm that way," he gestured over his shoulder. John nodded, pointing the opposite way. "Nice to meet you, John."
The Scot smiled at him, "Likewise, Simon." He started stepping away backwards, not breaking their stare until Simon laughed and turned away with a small wave. "Get home safe," John called out as his footsteps retreated.
Ghost made it a few paces towards his flat when a thought struck him and made him pivot to look down the street. He had no way of contacting John, of seeing him again. He didn't even know his last name. He looked for a hint of leather, a mohawk, anything, but the street was barren and John was gone.
"Stupid fucken bastard, Ghost. Didn't even ask for a number. Fucken dafty." He berated himself as he trudged to his flat. He kicked off his boots at the door and dumped his jacket next to them, heading directly to his room and flopping onto the bed without bothering to undress.
He'd been at Anarchy for over an hour now, there was not hide nor hair of John and Ghost mentally kicked himself again. He knew it was unlikely that the Scot would frequent the same place two nights in a row but it was all he had. The only place they now had in common. Maybe he'd try again next weekend, maybe look more carefully around his neighborhood to see if he could spot John in a crowd.
He grumbled to himself as he pulled out his phone, anything to distract him from the frustrating and empty feeling of missing out. He didn't feel it often, he didn't like it. He opted ask Price for another update on their movement.
Ghost: Any word?
Captain: Take a break son. Haven't even been able to cut through the red tape yet. They haven't given us clearance to assemble the task force, I'll bring you back as early as I can.
Captain: But even then we're looking at 6 months at least. Go to a park, watch a movie, find someone to talk to that's not me.
I'm fucking trying to. But he didn't say it. Ghost growled and dropped his phone on the table. He leant back and let his head sink into the soft cushions, at least he knew this bar wasn't too bad. He could come back if he ever felt like venturing out again.
He was trying. He enjoyed John's company, he could count on one hand how many people he'd actually felt like that about. The Scot had gotten to him already and he found that he didn't mind. He wanted to dive deeper, even.
"Got ye hooked, did I?"
Ghost broke his staring contest with the light fixture and looked down as John spoke. He looked slightly more dressed down than he had the night prior. A black tee, sinful leather trousers that very well might have been painted on, the same black boots. His mohawk was down, he had braided it to lie flat on his head. He looked fucking good, despite- or maybe because of- the small bruises on his face cutting across his features and making his piercings stand out. Ghost understood why John had figured they'd get along considering they already looked like they'd belong together.
His resolve strengthened the longer he looked at John. "Maybe you did. But not on the bar." He smirked as a slight blush painted the Scot's face.
John glanced back towards the tables by the door before leaning down towards Simon. "That's a conversation I'd really like to continue," he drawled. Then he pouted and Ghost fought not to smile. "But I came with friends tonight. Would ye mind if I asked them to join us over here?"
Simon shrugged with a nod, anything to be able to spend more time with the Scot. John all but sprinted away, coming back with two other men and a woman in tow.
"Right, this is Daniel, Mickey, and Charlotte." He leveled them all with a look that Ghost couldn't quite decipher before continuing, "This is Simon."
The tallest of the men, Mickey, grinned widely. "Simon, eh?" He looked over at John who'd already buried his face in his hands as he dropped onto the sofa next to Simon, their legs pressed together lightly and Ghost ignored the heat it ignited.
He looked between them, confused. "That's- that's right."
Mickey cackled, dropping down onto Ghost's right side. "Johnny here-" he laughed as he dodged a blow from the Scot over his head. "Couldn't stop talking about his savior last night. How he fought off a group of ruffians and came to his rescue." John was nearly in Ghost's lap, trying to get Mickey to stop talking.
Daniel chimed in, "Oh dear Simon, my knight in shining armor." Charlotte smacked the back of his head but she was grinning too.
"Fuck tae fuck off, the lot of ye!" John fell back against the back cushion, flinging an arm dramatically over his eyes. "I told ye exactly how it happened. It was two little shites with a knife that Simon scared off with a bigger knife. I said he was a soldier not a knight. And don't fucken call me Johnny for fuck's sake! Ye know I don't like it."
Ghost chuckled, leaning a bit into the Scot's side. "I dunno, Johnny has a nice ring to it." John's arm slipped from his eyes as he gaped at him, face flushed red.
He pointed an accusing finger in Simon's face. "Okay, you can call me that. The rest of ye can haud yer wheesht." A pleasant wave of warmth washed over Simon at the permission. He was determined to make the most of it. He didn't miss the look that passed between Johnny's friends.
Daniel made a wounded noise, "I've known ye since birth!" He was also Scottish, equally as loud and boisterous as Johnny. "Even I haven't earned the privilege." John made a lunge for him over Ghost's lap, growling as Daniel stepped just out of reach.
"Guess I'm something special then," he teased, secretly enjoying the weight Johnny had thrown over his legs.
"You must be, considering I've heard your name about twenty times since this morning." Johnny lashed out for Charlotte next who smacked at his hand like he was a child reaching for a cookie.
Simon chuckled and Johnny scoffed, "Don't encourage 'em, they'll never stop." He got the same look in his eyes that he did the night prior before suggesting they go to Anarchy. Ghost stifled another laugh. The Scot started singing, "Oh Danny boy, the pipes the pipes are calling."
Johnny laughed as Mickey and Charlotte took over, continuing the song as Daniel yelled and growled at them to stop. He caught Simon's eye and held two fingers to his lips, raising his eyebrows in a question. Simon nodded, standing quickly to follow Johnny out to the street.
He pulled a cigarette out of his pack, offering one to Johnny who shook his head and held up his own. "I'm picky."
Ghost chuckled, bumping against his shoulder. "Coulda fooled me with the company you keep."
"Ach, you lot are gonna get along well. Bonding by takin' the piss outta me," he scoffed, smoke pouring from his lips as he spoke. Simon chuckled.
They smoked in silence for a moment before Ghost decided to continue his uncharacteristic streak of taking chances. "I'm glad you're here tonight. Didn't know if you would be."
"Came here for me, did ye?" Johnny smiled, eyes trained on his boots.
"What if I did?"
The Scot's eyes flashed up to meet him, expression surprised. "I'd be happier than I 'ave any right to be. Felt like a right idjit when I got home and realized I had no way to ask to see ye again."
Simon hummed, letting the pleasant surprise wash over him. "Likewise."
"We should fix that."
Wordlessly Ghost pulled out his phone, unlocking it and pulling up a blank contact. He handed it to Johnny.
The Scot tapped out his number quickly and handed the device back. He was beyond chuffed to see he'd put his name as Johnny. The pleasant buzz of knowing it was a nickname only he'd been permitted to use vibrated through his veins.
"You available tomorrow?" Johnny flushed pink, like he didn't expect the question.
"Have something early on but after that I can be all yours." More blushing, it was a lovely look on the Scot.
Ghost smiled, reaching out and settling his hand on the back of Johnny's neck. "Good." He squeezed his neck once before dropping his hand and stepping away. "I'll see you tomorrow then, Johnny."
The punk looked up at him, confused. "Not gonna come back in?"
Ghost held up his phone, smirking as he walked backwards. "I got what I came here for. Don't let me intrude on time with your friends." He watched Johnny's expression soften as he understood. "I'll throw you a text when I'm home." Johnny's smile lit up the night sky, Ghost was hard pressed to keep walking away. "Goodnight Johnny."
"Night Simon," the Scot called after him as he finally turned and headed towards his flat. He felt lighter than he had in months.