Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Saturday: 17:55

The place is a shithole. Really, it is, and Mark’s sure he’s said so fifty-something times by now. They’ve got money- stupid amounts of it- so why the hell is he still doing his dealing in a dump like this? There are cracks in the walls wide enough to wedge fingers into, the roof’s got a hole the size of a football, and honestly, would it kill someone to run the heating for five bloody minutes? Apparently, yes- he can still see his own breath fogging the air.

He checks his watch. Then checks it again. The thing’s been temperamental for months now. Should probably get it replaced- he saw a nice silver-blue number in a shop window the other day while strolling through Glasgow. Nice place. Shame he’s not sticking around. Sometimes he wishes he were in town for different dealings, but life’s life. That’s what Dad used to say. Now it’s what he says to little Rosie.

18:16

“Ah, well- gotta feel bad for the lad, haven’t you?”
Silence.

Mark meets Coleman's eyes, but it’s a waste of effort. The man’s stare gives nothing away.
“No?” Mark prods, tone lighter than he feels. “I think it's a shame. I mean, he really-”

“Enough of that.” Coleman’s voice is clipped, final. “That mindset’s what gets you out of the job. You want out?”

Of course. Mark almost smiles. Classic Coleman. Would almost be affecting- if Mark cared.

“No. ’Course I don’t want out.”

He can feel himself rocking slightly, heel to toe like a schoolboy. He’s done this song and dance twice before, and Coleman still lets him off with just a slap on the wrist. When he meets the boss’s eyes again, Coleman’s already watching him.

“Then call the number when I tell you. Say what I tell you. Capiche?” The little tilt of his head makes Mark feel like a toddler being scolded. Still, he smiles, nods, even gives Coleman a patronising clap on the shoulder. Can’t help but mouth off a little:

“And for the record, you said it was abandoned. Not my fault there was a bloke there-”
He fishes a wad of cash from his breast pocket mid-sentence, making a show of counting it before the boss' watchful eyes. “The lad was pure confused. Said he inherited it off his dad. And to be honest, it looked a bit lived-in… but I dunno. Farm land getting passed down? Sounds like a fairy tale these days.”

Coleman clicks his teeth in annoyance. Mark stops talking and passes him the cash. The boss counts it, gives a curt nod, and clearly couldn’t care less about Mark’s excuses.

“Believe it or not, people do still farm, son,” he drawls, voice thick with sarcasm. “I believe him. Probably just a mix-up. But that’s how it goes. I’ll forward the number. Don’t be too rattled if the guy’s a bit... off.”

“Off?” Mark lets out a short laugh. “Isn’t that a given? I think only a handful of well-adjusted men take up hitman work.”

Coleman levels him with a flat look. “I’m trying to help you, Mark. Worked with him a while, and maybe this one’s got a few screws loose when he's dealing with an unfamiliar name. So keep the chatter to a minimum- which I know is hard for you. Give him the address, give him a time if he doesn’t set one himself.”

“Got it, sir. And what do I call him, if he wants to make sure I've got the right man?”

“I’ve already told him to expect your call. So don’t fuck it up.”

Coleman pulls a pen from behind his ear, scrawls a number on a crumpled scrap of parchment lying on the side table. His handwriting, once sharp, now looks like chicken scratch. So much for standards.
“They call him The Ghost,” he adds, bit of an afterthought.

Mark snorts, snatching the paper. “Yeah? And will he haunt me if I miss the payment deadline?” He tucks the note alongside the rest of the cash in his suit pocket.

“You won't,” Coleman says calmly. “And… haunt you? No. I think it’d be much worse than that.”

19:42

“State your business.”
Christ. He's been on the job all day- has been staring at the scotch on his mantel for longer, though, if you ask him. Friday, so he'll get to unwind after this.

Late for a call.

“Uh—Coleman’s man. Name’s Mark. I was told to dial this number. Ran into a bit of a-” Fuckin' hell. He hates the talkers. Life’s never plain sailing.

“Get to the point, mate. It’s late, and I’m looking to get sloshed. I'm sure any man could appreciate that.”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry, sir. I was told you could do some cleanup for me?”

“Mh-hm. How much we talking?”
As the man on the other end rattles off the mess- something about a safehouse, a big mix-up, and a price- Simon picks at a hangnail on his pinkie, half-listening. He gets a few of these jobs a year. Always the same. Always tedious.

"And this was where?” He asks eventually, voice flat.

The bloke keeps yammering. Simon clears his throat, irritated. “Didn’t ask for his life story, mate. Does he live there full-time or not?”

“No, no. John’s his name. Says he inherited the place. His dad passed too recently for the paperwork to show occupancy, and he isn't living there full time, besides. Place looks maintained, not lived in. Bloke said he comes by to check in on the place every week or so. I figure he stays overnight, maybe two days, max. Probably one of those sentimental types.”

Simon sighs through his nose. “And when do you reckon he’ll be back? You even got an address, or am I doing all the legwork here?”

“He lives in the city. Glasgow, I mean. John MacTavish. That’s all we’ve got- figured we didn’t need to dig deep. I’ll send both addresses. Farm and flat.”

Simon scratches at his chin. Another mess dumped in his lap. Another name to cross off.

“Fine,” he says. “Send ’em through. And next time, do your fuckin’ homework.”

Monday: 22:47

The flat’s dark, save for the flicker of a football match playing on mute. The screen casts shifting shadows across the room- a dim, green wash that pulses every time the picture fuzzes, like it’s tired of keeping itself together. The match is in overtime, or maybe it’s a replay. Doesn’t matter. Simon hasn’t looked at it in half an hour. Probably more.

He sits low in the old armchair near the window, half-slouched with one leg pulled up, the other planted on the floor. The cushion underneath him sinks tiredly, as if sighing under his weight. A beat-up side table sits beside the chair, layered with the detritus of someone who moves through life like a ghost: a stained mug, the sharp tang of leftover gun oil, a chipped lighter, a phone screen lighting up every so often with no name and too much implication.

There’s a cigarette in the ashtray, half-burned and forgotten, grey ash sloping sideways. Another one’s perched between his fingers, dead. He hasn’t lit it yet. Hasn’t decided if he wants to- this brand isn't his usual, but it's all the off-license stocked this morning; L&B silvers. Staler than he likes them.

The quiet of the flat is the kind that seeps into your bones. The kind he prefers, on long nights like these. Outside, the wind whines low against the building’s frame. Inside, there's just the creak of old wood and the soft, methodical click of metal on metal- he’s been reassembling his sidearm by touch alone. Not because it needs doing. Just something to keep his hands busy as his mind drifts to the last job he worked: an old man, dealing arms way above his pay grade in supply to something sinister. Smelled like cheap booze and something metal- too much like his dad as he pulled the trigger. Easy, when it gives him that sort of detachment- the man was scum, besides, but he'll take what he can get.

His phone buzzes, sharp and clean. It cuts through the stillness like a needle tearing cloth. There's no name- just a number. He said he wouldn't deal with the man again, but something in him had him taking the job on Saturday.

Simon picks it up without ceremony, cradles it to his ear with a kind of worn ease. “Yeah.”

“There's been a ping at the farmhouse,” Coleman says, brisk and businesslike- like he’s calling about a lost parcel, not a man. “Orders came through this morning- paint, lumber, some tools. Someone’s getting cozy.”

Simon’s already shifting forward, elbow digging into his knee as he reaches for the drawer. Inside, everything’s lined up just so: a pen, a notepad, folded maps, an old burner phone. His fingers move like they’ve done this a thousand times.

“The lad?” he asks, already scribbling down the date.

“Looks like. Routine checks were one thing. This feels like a move-in.”

Simon writes that down too. The sound of pen on paper fills the space. Bold of the kid to start moving in now, after just catching dodgy men on his land. Ah well. Not his concern.

“So it’s happening sooner than expected.”

“Exactly. Sooner he gets too comfortable, the more this becomes a scene. We don’t want a scene. We want silence.”

Simon leans back again, eyes half-lidded. There’s something like a smirk hovering at the edges of his mouth, but it never quite makes it. “You said he didn’t live there.”

“Things change,” Coleman replies, curt. “People get sentimental. Maybe he’s playing farmer now. Point is, I want him off the board before he starts planting fuckin’ petunias.”

Simon exhales through his nose- not quite a laugh. “You always this poetic?”

Silence, then: “You’ve got the address. If you’re quick, you’ll catch him mid-project. He’s not living there full-time, but now's your window. Do a drive-by. Watch. Don’t engage. Not yet.”

“Copy that.”

“Keep it clean. We don’t need questions. This kid isn’t supposed to exist- not after what he saw. My men are getting sloppy, I tell ya."

The line goes dead. Coleman never says goodbye.

Simon lowers the phone. Stares at it for a second. Then sets it down, lets it skid slightly on the scratched surface of the table.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move, and instead just listens to the quiet reclaim the room. The football on the screen flickers again- some slow-motion replay of a goal. It casts a bright burst across the glass, then dims just as fast, replaced by the flashing blur of red and blue jerseys. He doesn’t look.

Instead, his gaze flicks to the pile of gear in the corner- a duffel bag, the butt of a rifle peeking out beneath a rolled-up jumper, a folded tarp, a knife still tucked into its sheath. He never really unpacked from the last job, but he never does.

He rises, fluid and unhurried. The floorboards under his feet creak with the weight of him. He stretches briefly- back stiff from sitting too long- then crouches to zip open the bag. He checks everything: rounds, knife, gloves, balaclava. There’s no checklist, but it’s all muscle memory. Everything has its place.

The gun, once in pieces on the table, is now whole again- polished, oiled, gleaming dully beneath the low light. He snaps the slide back, loads a round with the mechanical efficiency of someone who finds no thrill in it anymore; just order.

The cigarette still isn’t lit.

He flicks the TV off with the remote- a short, sharp click that plunges the room into darkness. The only light now comes from the hallway, a faint orange stripe through the cracked door. It stretches toward him like a line waiting to be crossed, and he makes quick and quiet peace with the fact that he'll be surrendering sleep tonight to a long, slow drive along the M6 and A74.

He picks up the bag, slings it over his shoulder. Heavy, but familiar. Then, without ceremony, he steps out and into the dark.

Chapter Text

Tuesday: 07:10

The car rolls to a quiet stop just shy of the tree line, tyres crunching over gravel like bone underfoot. It’s not much of a road, more a suggestion of one- overgrown and barely used- but it’ll do. Simon cuts the engine, lets the quiet settle in before opening the door. The cold greets him like an old friend. Grey skies overhead, that flat kind of light that makes everything look washed out and half-dead. He exhales, and his breath fogs the air. It's been a long drive– he doesn't see Scotland often, though he's been holed up near the border for quite some time. All looks the same when you drive so long, and it's not like he's paying particular attention to the scenery.

He sits there a moment longer, hands resting on the steering wheel. Just listening. No birdsong this far down the track. Just the wind through the branches, that high, keening whistle you only get when it’s this cold. He stretches one arm over his shoulder, vertebrae clicking into place. Then he steps out, boots crunching on the frostbitten ground.

The bag comes with him- worn canvas, zip already half-undone, revealing a flash of matte black steel. He slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. Locks the car. It’s not his car. Doesn't matter.

The walk starts slow. He skirts the edges of the property, never walking straight, never getting too close too fast. He doesn't care that the lad- John- won't see him, and isn't due to arrive for some time now. Plate pinged once on a motorway speed camera, and again on a bypass. It's best to be thorough, he finds, and it's not like he has anything else to occupy himself with this far off the beaten track.

The trees thicken here, tall pines that lean inward like they’re gossiping, and he slips between them like water, body low and careful. He knows this rhythm. Knows how to move without breaking a branch or tripping on the bones of something long-dead and buried beneath moss. Dead leaves cling to his boots, and the air bites at the skin where his gloves don’t reach. He doesn’t mind- prefers it to the stifling, oppressive heat of midsummer.

It takes him fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to find the spot. There’s a ridge- natural, perfect- a gentle rise in the land just northeast of the barn. From here, he’s got a decent view through the thinning trees.

The house is visible in pieces, tucked around the bend of a gravel path and partially obscured by an old maple. The barn’s clearer: weather-worn wood, one side patched with fresh planks that haven’t had time to fade yet.

He crouches at first, testing the ground beneath his feet. Damp, but solid. A bramble catches at his glove as he kneels, thorns small but sharp, and he swears under his breath as he frees himself. Shrugs the bag off his shoulder and lays it flat in the dirt.

The rifle comes out in parts; barrel, stock, scope. He works fast, quiet. Nothing clicks or clacks-everything’s oiled. Once it’s assembled, he lays prone, elbows dug into the ground, body low and still. Bipod legs snap into place, angled just right and nestled into dewy grass. He peers through the scope, the glass cold against his cheek; checks the wind with the tip of a wetted finger. Not much to account for. Still, he likes to be thorough. He's got his NVGs tucked into a side-compartment of the old bag, more spacious than it looks, and a set of binoculars, too.

No movement yet. Good. He adjusts the focus anyway. Counts the windows. Tracks the door. Notes where the shadows fall, where the sun hits- weak and wintery though it is in the early spring.

Then, he waits, breathing and blinking and being very, very still.

He can do still.

He presses his cheek a little closer to the scope, just enough that he can feel the rhythm of his own pulse in his jaw. The wood of the stock is cool beneath his fingers, and the pine needles beneath him stick through his jacket in sharp little points, but he doesn’t shift. Doesn’t flinch. He just watches.

The cold presses in, patient as ever. And Simon—well.

Simon knows how to be patient.

10:24

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other draped over a brown paper bag resting in the passenger seat. The bag shifts with every turn, its contents rustling- a box of nails, a sandwich from the petrol station, a pint of milk, and some overpriced oat biscuits he doesn’t even like. He bought them out of habit. His ma always keeps a tin full of them in the pantry, and now he can't seem to leave a shop without a packet tucked under his arm.

The road narrows as he leaves the main route, dissolving into gravel and packed dirt. Trees press close on either side. Pine, mostly. The kind that crowd together and blot out the sun if you let them. His headlights flash through the undergrowth, catching on the occasional pair of eyes- fox, deer, maybe something smaller. They vanish before he can see clearly.

John exhales slowly and rolls his shoulders. The drive’s long, but he doesn’t mind it, not really. Gives him time to think. Or time to not think, which is more his speed lately.

He glances in the rearview mirror. Just empty road. He knew it would be, but still. Habit.

It’s been only two nights since the last time he made this trip. Felt longer. The silence on the property had stuck to him, clawed its way into his chest and sat there like damp. Not that he’d admit it. Not to anyone.

Especially not after what happened.

He shifts in his seat, jaw tightening slightly. He tries not to remember the figures on the land- their heavy boots, the way they'd looked at him like he was the intruder. He hadn't told anyone about it. Not the solicitor, not the police, not even his sister. And not because he was scared- he's not- but because he didn't want to deal with it. Didn't want to explain the men he'd seen lingering on a patch of inherited farmland in the middle of nowhere from a father he had a rocky relation with.

Besides, they'd cleared out. No sign of them the next hour. Just some scuffed footprints, a beer can in the grass, and the lingering sense that he'd arrived a bit too late to something that didn't concern him anymore. So he told himself he was imagining things. Told himself they’d wandered in, took a wrong turn. Told himself it didn’t matter.

Now he’s back. Groceries, paint (hopefully, if the delivery driver found their way), and all. The plan is to patch the place up. Stay a few days. See if it feels like something worth keeping, or if he should just hand the keys back to the bank and let the place rot, 'family ties' be damned.

He rounds the final bend in the road, the treeline thinning. The house appears slowly, like it’s still deciding whether to show itself. The roof’s still intact. Mostly. That old maple out front has dropped a few more branches since he left. One of them’s caught on the edge of the barn roof, like a hand reaching down.

He slows the car, kills the engine, and just sits there a moment. Window down. Cold air drifts in, fresh and sharp. Smells like damp earth and woodsmoke, though the latter’s probably just his imagination.

The silence is… heavy. He grips the steering wheel tighter than he needs to. His palms are dry. There's no reason for them to be sweaty, he reminds himself.

No one’s here. He tells himself that, too.

But still, his eyes scan the property the way you look at something that once bit you.

He clears his throat, shakes it off. Grabs the bag and steps out of the car. His boots hit the gravel with a crunch that sounds too loud. The wind picks up, tugging at his coat. He pulls it tighter around him and starts toward the front steps.

The house groans a little as he approaches. It always does. Wood shrinks and swells with the weather, and this place has weathered a lot. He sets the bag down on the porch and fishes the keys from his pocket. The lock sticks, as always, but then gives with a click that feels final.

He pushes the door open and steps inside.

The smell hits him first. Not musty, not anymore. It smells… lived-in. Faintly of dust and pine cleaner, from the half-hearted scrub he gave it a few visits ago. The floors are cold, and the hearth is crowded with char and firewood cut too neat to be honest. His footsteps echo in the front room, where the furniture still sits, heavy and solid and wrong somehow- like it belongs to someone else.

Which, technically, it does.

A layer of dust still sticks to the surfaces and throw cushions, though he sits on the settee and uses the worktops. He kicks his boots off near the door and carries the bag to the kitchen.

There’s a cup still drying on the rack beside the sink. A tea towel slung over the back of a chair. One of the lights flickers when he flips the switch, buzzing faintly before settling. Everything's exactly as he left it. Exactly as it was before that.

“Place needs work,” he mutters to himself.

Still, he moves a little slower than before. Eyes drifting to the windows more often than they should. It’s not fear, not exactly. Just… awareness. Old habits die hard, so they say.

18:12

The sun’s low now, bleeding orange through the treeline and throwing long shadows across the yard. Dust hangs in the air, stirred up by John dragging a busted engine block out from the back of the barn. He’s already ditched his jacket, shirt clinging to his back with sweat, sleeves rolled high. His hands are raw from rope burn, dirt under his nails, a smear of grease across his forearm.

He grunts, braces a boot against the wooden threshold, pulls. Metal scrapes against concrete, a sound that sets his teeth on edge. It shifts maybe an inch, then nothing. Stubborn as hell.

“Shit,” he mutters, breath shallow. Not loud. Just enough to fill the silence.

He tries again, strain in his shoulders, jaw tight. The rope snaps back and burns a line across his palm. He stumbles, catches himself on the barn door, curses under his breath. Blood’s already welling in a thin cut across his hand, stinging. He doesn’t even look at it. Just wipes it on his jeans, smearing red into denim and dust.

He stares at the engine block a moment. Sizes it up like he’s about to go again. Then thinks better of it.

“Alright,” he mutters, quieter this time. “You win. For now.”

The sun’s down far enough to bring a bite into the air. He leaves the barn open, lets the cool roll in, and heads back to the porch. A rusted metal cooler waits for him by the steps. He cracks it open, pulls out a beer- still cold enough to count- and pops the top with a flick of his thumb.

The bottle sweats in his hand. He sits on the second step, boots planted in the dirt, arms resting on his knees. Watches the last of the sun dip behind the hills.

For a while, there’s just wind in the grass and the low creak of the barn settling behind him.

He lifts the bottle, not to anyone in particular. Or maybe to someone.

“Hell of a welcome, Dad.”

Drinks. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Place is a mess. Figures why you never stuck around."

He leans back, bones aching more than he lets on, eyes on the darkening sky.

“Should’ve sold it. Should’ve let it rot.”

A pause.

“Guess that makes two of us.”

He finishes the beer slow. Doesn’t move to get another.

20:37

Simon doesn’t move.

He’s crouched low beneath the tree line, the rough bark cold against his back, one knee to the dirt. He’s barely breathed for the past few minutes. Not since the shirt came off. Not since John sank back into the sagging shape of the sofa, lit by the low flicker of the TV, moving like this was just another chore at the end of the day.

Simon should’ve looked away. Should’ve turned the scope, done the smart thing, the professional thing- lord knows he's got plenty of intel to feed to Coleman, and more than enough to plan the hit.

Instead, he’s still here..

Watching.

The scope is set just right, now- tight frame, clean view. John’s right hand is wrapped around his cock, slow and unhurried. There’s no sound, but Simon can imagine it- the rustle of denim kicked halfway off, the faint wetness of his palm sliding over skin, maybe the low rasp of a groan slipping out before he catches it. The guy looks like he tries not to let things escape. Tries to keep it all buried under the surface. But his hips still rock, subtle, instinctual. Like it’s something he needs, not just something to do.

Simon shifts, just slightly, a small adjustment to relieve the tension winding tight in his gut. His pulse is steady but low, heavy. The kind that sits in the base of the throat. It’s instinct. The human reaction he’s trained himself to ignore, that only creeps in when the mask slips. It shouldn't slip.

But this- this feels different.

He tells himself it’s the situation. Just the isolation. Just the quiet and the cold and a man in a window moving like he’s alone in the world. It’s not about the guy. It’s never about the guy.

But he doesn’t look away. He must be fucking... slipping, or something. Getting old for the job, old enough to get hung up on things that don't matter. He presses the back of his hand to his eye, grumbling quietly to himself.

John is leaned back now, one hand behind his head, the other still working between his legs. He’s lazy with it, like there’s no rush. Like this is the one thing he doesn’t have to do for anyone else. His thighs spread wider. Simon can almost see the tension in them, the way they flex under skin and shadow. Can see the edge of his stomach tighten every time his hand moves down, down again, toward the base. There's a little twist of his wrist near the top, something practiced, something that looks like it works every time.

Simon bites down on the inside of his cheek.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t adjust. Doesn’t let his hands drift.

The pressure doesn’t go away.

It sits there, dense and quiet in his chest. A heat that simmers in the background- something that feels dangerous not because it’s physical, but because it isn’t. Because it’s playing tricks with his head, and that's a rare case. He thinks about his bed back home, in the spare time he can collect his thoughts together. Fucking knackered, he is.

He braces a hand in the dirt beside him. Breath fogs the air in a slow stream. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t let himself feel too much, but the edges are already fraying. He'll sort himself out tonight; the conversation with Coleman will get his head back in the game, if he doesn't manage himself beforehand. It's dangerous to get like this, and he knows that. But it's not like he could've taken the shot tonight, anyways. Not like he's hurting anyone.

He will, though.

John’s got a rhythm going. It's not performative, not for anyone else. Just slow and methodical. Eyes half-lidded, jaw tight. One of his fingers brushes lower, absently, and Simon's breath catches. He doesn’t know why that part gets to him. Just that it does. He's watched the man slave away all day, Simon only taking breaks to briefly relieve himself and fill his belly. John's been non-stop all day; moving heavy shit, painting here and there, eating ready-made sandwiches for lunch and a lazy salad for dinner. He hurt himself on something metal in the evening.

All in all, the man's fucking harmless, by the looks of things. Big, sure, and packed with working muscle, but he doesn't look mean. Doesn't look like the men he's usually paid to execute- doesn't have that ever-present scowl laid into his features, doesn't curse at everything and spit and shout. Is.. quiet, rather. Or maybe he isn't. What's Simon to know?

He stares like it might tell him something. Like watching this man unravel could offer answers he couldn't possibly answer.

John’s close now- he can tell by the way the guy shifts, the way his mouth falls open, the slack in his chest and shoulders.

Simon closes his eyes for three seconds. No more. The image is still there behind his lids, burned in. The tension is still there, coiled behind his ribs, sharp at the edges. Just a moment. Just a view. Just a man, and a man who he's meant to be watching. So he's not in the wrong here- not in the slightest.

But even when it’s over- when John’s hand drops limp to his stomach and his chest rises, slow and easy- Simon stays exactly where he is.

Still crouched in the dark. Still watching the light fade.

And when he finally slides the scope off his eye and leans back against the trunk of the tree, he doesn’t let himself think about what he’s feeling.

He's got a call to make, and a pub to visit, and hopefully a pretty bird to end the night with. Best hop to it.

21:15

Simon kicks the door shut with his boot, the sound flat against peeling wallpaper and stained carpet. The room’s what he expected- thin mattress, burnt-out bulb in one of the lamps, a bathroom that smells like it’s been cleaned more out of obligation than care. Old smoke in the walls. The kind of place people pass through, not stay in. Perfect.

He tosses his jacket onto the bed, shrugs the holster off next. Gun unbuckled, placed on the nightstand like it might be a glass of water. He doesn’t bother to sit. Just pulls the burner from his back pocket, thumb already tapping in the number. He doesn’t need to check it. He’s dialed it too many times.

One ring, then:

“Talk to me.”

Simon doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Target’s on-site. Arrived late-morning. Alone. No tails.”

“You get eyes on him?” Coleman’s voice is rough with static, but focused.

“I got more than that. He’s settling in. Groceries, manual labour, paint under his nails. Looks like he’s planning to stick.”

“You confirm it’s him?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “It’s him.”

There’s a long silence on the other end. Not dead air- just Coleman thinking, which somehow always feels louder. Simon can picture him already: somewhere comfortable, expensive scotch in hand, leaning back with his head tipped like he’s listening to jazz. Simon scratches his jaw and waits.

Then: “Time?”

“I could do it tomorrow,” Simon says, eyes flicking to the thin curtains drawn tight against the window. “Could’ve done it tonight, but I figured I’d make the call first.”

“You’re not wrong.” Coleman exhales like he’s disappointed to agree. “But don’t move yet.”

Simon frowns. Not because he’s eager- he isn’t- but because it doesn’t track. “You said quick in and out.”

“I did. Plans changed.” Coleman’s tone shifts still calm, but edged now. “Cleanup crew’s delayed. Boys in Durham got into a tussle with the Glenhouses. Again. They won’t get to you before Friday.”

“That’s three days.”

“You can count.”

Simon rolls his neck, the vertebrae popping. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“Exactly. So stay put. Watch. If he twitches funny, you tell me.” A beat. “End of the week, we move.”

Simon nods to himself, gaze drifting to the cracked mirror above the dresser. “Copy that.”

“You sleeping there?” Coleman asks, voice casual now.

“What do you think I'm gonna do- cosy up in the barn? No. Local village, few miles out. Auchinloch, or something else I can't pronounce."

“Good. Don’t get comfortable.”

Simon smirks faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

There’s a click, and the line goes dead.

Simon drops the phone on the dresser, lets it clatter. Rubs the heel of his palm into his temple like he can press out the tension that’s started to build behind his eyes.

Three days.

Not a problem. He’s had longer sits before. Quiet ones, out in the middle of nowhere. But something about this one already feels different-maybe it’s that Simon’s been watching too long already, caught himself paying attention to things that shouldn’t matter, because there's nothing else to do in that quiet countryside but watch. And besides, the man seems like an innocent- doesn't check the boxes of a killer type, or even an arms dealer or narcotic.

Doesn’t matter. He’s just got to ride it out.

He checks the time: barely past nine. The pub down the road had lights on when he rolled into town. Pool table. Locals. Cheap drinks. Could be a good way to kill a couple hours, bleed off the edge.

He grabs the phone again, sets it face-down on the nightstand beside the gun, and stares at both for a long second.

Then, with a low grunt, he shoves himself up and reaches for his coat.

Still time to forget what he saw.

21:28

The pub’s a two-minute walk down the road, tucked between a liquor store and a launderette with busted signage. It smells like fryer oil and spilled beer. Wood-paneled walls, old Wham! song low on the speakers. Locals clustered in twos and threes, eyes flicking up at the stranger before drifting away again. No threat. No interest.

Simon orders a whiskey. Neat. Takes it to the corner booth and sinks in like he means to stay.

He watches.

Old man at the bar nursing a Bud Light. Pair of women playing pool. The bartender with a half-sleeve tattoo and a practiced smile. Same rhythm, different town.

He’s halfway through his drink when she slides onto the stool across from him. Blonde, tired eyes lined with too much black, denim jacket with the collar popped. Pretty, but in that hard-lived way. Like she’s been here before- maybe a dozen times. Like she knows what she wants.

“You look like you could use some company,” she says.

Simon glances up, offers a vague tilt of his head. “Do I.”

“Something like that.”

He doesn’t answer. Just takes a slow sip of his drink.
She lets the silence stretch, then leans forward, arms on the table.

“You passing through?”

“Something like that.”

“Right.” She grins, easy and warm, not entirely unkind. “Look, I’m not trying to marry you. Just figured- long day, quiet bar, nothing better to do."

He watches her. Noticing the chipped nail polish. The way her left shoulder lifts higher than the right when she leans. A small scar on her cheekbone, half-covered by makeup. She’s real. Grounded. Something about her cuts through the haze of the job, just for a second.

And yet.

He sets the glass down. “Not tonight.”

She blinks. Not hurt- more surprised. Like she’s not used to hearing it said that way. A clean no. No game. No excuse. Nothing owed. Then he adds, “Got an early morning. Rain check?”

He never says that. Doesn’t owe that, either. But the words fall out easy, almost like apology.
She studies him for a beat. Then nods, soft.

“Sure. Rain check.”

Simon slips a tenner on the table and stands. The air outside is colder than it should be, or maybe he just feels it more now.

Back at the motel, he kicks off his boots and lies on the bed without undressing. The sheets smell like old sweat and bleach. He stares at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded, mind drifting.

He could’ve had her. Could’ve lost a couple hours in warmth, distraction, the noise of skin and breath. But something in him twisted at the thought.

It’s not guilt. He doesn’t deal in that currency. And it’s not fear either. He’s slept with women in worse places, with blood under his nails and obsolete names still hot on his breath.

No, it’s something else.

Something like… a thread pulling taut beneath his skin. A pressure he hasn’t named yet.
He closes his eyes. Forces his breath to slow.
Sleep, when it comes, is shallow and without dreams.

Chapter Text

Wednesday: 07:25

The shop is quiet this early in the morning. The only noise is the low hum of the freezer units and the soft shuffle of feet against the polished floor. John’s been wandering the aisles for a good ten minutes, checking expiration dates and glancing over prices. A few things from yesterday morning's shopping trip didn’t make it- some sour cream, a bunch of grapes, a bag of carrots and by proxy some lettuce. He didn't realise the fridge was on the fritz until the evening- after he'd piled everything in, but fixing it was an easy feat. The now-bad produce, on the other hand, was more relentless with its grudge. Nothing major, but enough to warrant a second trip, after he'd used the leftovers of the greens to make a sad-looking salad for yesterday's dinner.

He picks up a small carton of eggs and glances over at the nearby bread shelf. He’s still getting used to the routine of being out here- no longer stuck in Glasgow, no longer surrounded by the noise and clutter. The farmhouse has its own rhythm, and he’s finding himself settling into it more than he thought he would. Maybe more than intended.

He hears the faint shuffle of feet behind him. He doesn’t think much of it- free country- until something brushes the edge of his trolley, and he looks up. It’s a bloke— blonde, tall, a little scruffy, wearing a dark jacket, cap and a pair of jeans that're well-worn. He’s maybe five or six years older than John, his expression unreadable, but there’s something about the way his eyes flicker to John that makes him pause. The guy lingers for just a second too long, eyes flicking from John to the trolley, then back again. He pulls back abruptly like he's already apologised in his head.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to-” the guy mutters, stepping back, though he’s still standing a little too close. English. Weird. The words come out in a strange, hurried way, like he’s trying to get them over with as quickly as possible.

John just shrugs it off and moves to the next aisle, focusing on his list.

The checkout line is short, just one woman ahead of him, and she’s paying for her things. He sets his purchases down on the conveyor, fingers deft as he places a divider behind the lettuce. A few seconds pass, then the cashier looks at him expectantly. John glances at his wallet, the few bills inside not quite enough for everything. He can already feel the heat crawling up his neck.

He digs in his pocket, pulling out the spare change he keeps tucked away for moments like this. It’s barely enough to cover the eggs and the milk, and the cashier gives him a polite but tight smile when he apologises for not having his card with him.

It’s then that the guy from the bread aisle steps up behind him, putting his basket on the counter without a word. He’s got a few random things—energy bars, gum, some trail mix and a couple bottles of water. Looks like the hiking type, on second thought. Early enough for it, that's for sure. The clink of his change fills the quiet space between them.

John doesn’t expect it when the guy speaks. “You’re good,” he says, barely audible. “I can cover the rest.”

For a second, John just looks at him, blinking. The awkwardness is palpable, thick in the air. He doesn’t know why, but something about the guy makes him feel uneasy, even if he can’t put a finger on it. Maybe it's the fact he has to physically crane his neck to look up at the guy. And John's not a short man. Still, he shakes his head and quickly reaches for his wallet again.

“No, I’ve got it,” John says, a little too quickly. He doesn’t want the guy’s help—not like this, not when it’s this… weird.

The guy just gives him a small nod, unloading his goods without another word. He keeps his eyes on the counter, clearly trying to avoid the awkwardness that’s hanging between them. But as he grabs his bag and moves to the door, John notices his hands are shaking ever so slightly. He has got to get out more.

08:00

Simon sits in the car with the engine off, parked just outside town in a gravel layby overlooking a thicket of pine. The morning’s cool but the sun is already high enough to burn the dew off the grass. There’s a sandwich he hasn’t touched on the passenger seat, still in its crinkling paper, along with a bottle of water and a protein bar he grabbed out of habit. His coffee’s gone lukewarm in the cupholder. His fingers tap against the steering wheel.

He watches the sky for a while. Then he pulls out his phone. No label on the number. He never saves it. Never needs to

He hits Call.

It rings twice before Coleman picks up. No greeting.
“You still in town?”

Simon stares out through the windshield, eyes tracking the bend in the road where the trees start to thin out.
“Yeah. Just about to head back toward the house.”

A beat. Coleman’s quiet, waiting.

Simon shifts. “I ran into him. John. Just now.”

That gets Coleman’s attention. “What?”

“In the shop. Tesco Extra just off the main road. Early enough it was mostly empty.” He exhales. “He was a few quid short at the till. Nothing major.”

“You spoke to him?”

“No,” Simon says, fast. “Not really. Just enough.”

Coleman’s voice cuts in, sharp now. “Did you have your mask on?”

Simon closes his eyes briefly. “No. Just a cap. Hoodie.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and then Coleman lets out a quiet, amused breath.
“You feel bad for him now?”

Simon doesn’t answer.

“Come on,” Coleman says, voice sharpening. “You’re not losing your nerve, are you?”

“He’s just a guy.”

“Yeah, well, that ‘guy’ got a look at some faces he shouldn’t have on his property.” Coleman’s voice stays cool, professional. “That’s not nothing.”

Simon’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “He hasn’t gone to the cops.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve been watching. He hasn’t made any calls, hasn’t left the place since he got there, 'cept for this morning. You said you’d know if something pinged- well?”

“Nothing’s come up,” Coleman admits. “But that’s not the point.”

“He didn’t see anything,” Simon mutters. “Not really. Your boys were already headed out by the time he showed. You said it yourself."

“That doesn’t matter. You know the rules. Loose ends get tied off.” Coleman’s voice is steady, clipped. “And we don’t leave questions behind.”

Simon leans his head back against the rest and closes his eyes. The sunlight’s just starting to creep in past the tree line, warming the dashboard.
“Then give me a date.”

“What?”

“I want a day. You said end of the week. I want something solid.”

Coleman doesn’t respond right away. Simon can hear something on the other end- a muffled voice in the background, maybe traffic, maybe someone in a hallway.

“Thursday’s too soon,” Simon adds. “Since you said our boys in Durham got tied up. I want this as clean as you do. I'm not doing this on maybe-s.”

“Yeah,” Coleman says eventually. “It’s Wednesday now. You’ve got until the end of Friday.”

Simon exhales, slow and controlled. “End of Friday.”

“Not a second later.”

“What about the cleanup crew?”

“They’re coming out from Leeds. Heading up Thursday night. Should be nearby by midday Friday, just in case.”

“Thursday night?” Simon’s brow furrows. “They gonna make it up in time?”

“They know the roads,” Coleman replies. “They’ll be parked somewhere close by. They’re pros, same as you. You know this. Just get it done.”

Simon is quiet a moment, running the math in his head. Two days to plan, sort of. To pick a time. To find a place to pull the trigger that doesn’t make a mess. Doesn’t risk any loose strings.

“They’re not going in unless I call it, right?”

“They’re backup. Disposal only. You finish it clean, they sweep in after. Simple.”

Simon nods, mostly to himself. “Right.”
A beat of silence.

“You’ve done worse, Ghost,” Coleman says then, voice low and pointed. “Don’t get soft on me now.”

Simon doesn’t respond. Just ends the call.

The phone sits face-down on the center console. Outside, a truck rattles by on the distant road, its sound fading quickly into the hush of the trees. Simon sits still for a long moment, letting the silence fill up the car.

He starts the engine. The sound breaks the stillness. Gravel crunches under his tires as he pulls onto the road, heading east again—back toward the hills. Back toward the house.

11:32

The sound of footsteps on gravel hits John’s ears before he spots her. He turns to see his grandmother, quicker on her feet than most people would expect. Her house isn't far, a small stone cottage just up the hill. He'll visit her soon. She’s wearing one of her knitted cardigans—a soft blue that brings out her eyes and compliments the grey in her hair.

“Morning, Johnny,” she calls out, her voice warm despite the chill in the air. She doesn’t wait for a response before stepping up onto the porch, taking in the view. “Haven’t seen you much lately. Figured you’d still be sleeping in.” She leans on the porch railing, head resting quietly on her arm.

“I was up early,” John mutters, glancing back at the farmhouse. “Just… getting used to things.”

“Mm.” She tilts her head to look at him, gaze sharp as ever. “Used to it, eh? Or still trying to figure out what to do with it?” Makes you feel like an animal tacked to cork, ready to be studied.

John rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “What do you mean?”

“The house. Your pa's place. The land. You’ve been here a couple of days now, and it’s clear you’re not in a hurry to sell it,” she says with a small smile, though there’s a hint of something less light in her tone.

“Not in any rush,” John repeats, trying to sound casual as he looks out at the horizon. “Just feels… weird.”

“Hmm. I’m sure it does,” she replies, nodding slowly. “Your father didn’t exactly leave you a legacy to be proud of, did he?” She lets that hang for a moment before adding, “but it’s your family, John. And it’s the last thing you’ve got left of him, even if I know the two of you had your disagreements. Think that’s worth something?”

John looks at her, his words coming out quieter than he expected. “Not sure it is. I don’t know if I want to keep it, but I don’t know if I can just sell it either.”

She chuckles softly, affection in her voice. “You always were one to make a decision a decade too late. Don’t let it fester. There’s no rush, but don’t waste time either. Not like there’s much else around here, is there?”

John manages a laugh, but it’s thin. “Guess not.”

She walks over to an old rocking chair near the edge of the porch and pats the spot next to her. “Come on, sit with your old nana. Tell me what’s on your mind. And don’t think I’ll let you off the hook about this place.”

John hesitates but eventually sinks into the chair beside her. He exhales slowly, then shrugs. “It’s not just about the house, Nana. It’s everything. I came here thinking.. that it’d be different, somehow.”

She raises an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten all sentimental now. I know you, John-boy. You’re not the sentimental type.”

He shrugs again, feeling the weight of the conversation settling in. “Maybe not. But it’s strange. Feels like I’m stuck between what’s mine and what's not.”

Her gaze softens, but she keeps her tone steady. “You can’t keep running from what you don’t want. It’s your call, though. You’ve always been a stubborn one.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” John says, managing a wry smile.

“Don’t mention it. But you might want to figure it out soon. Before it figures you out.”

John doesn’t reply. He just stares out at the hills. The silence stretches between them, broken only by the distant rustling of brush, probably a fox.

She leans back in her chair, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she looks over at him. “Just don’t make a fool of yourself, alright?”

“Never do."

With that, she pats his hand lightly before standing. “I’m going to make a cuppa. Want one?”

John shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, though.”

She nods and heads back up the porch steps. John watches her go, the weight of her words hanging over him. He turns back toward the house, but something catches his eye again- movement near the treeline, where the thicket gets sparse.

He blinks, squints, but there’s nothing there now. Probably just a trick of the light.

Shaking his head, he turns back to follow Nana inside, trying to shake off the unease creeping in.

12:36

John's on the move.

Well, not really. But he's going somewhere. Deeper into the brush, land that most likely is his, but is off the beaten track and thick with neglect.

A stroll. That’s all it is. Simon’s been trailing him for the last twenty minutes, mostly out of boredom. The lad doesn’t seem like someone attuned to the land at all, which checks out- he’s had that flat in Glasgow for four years, and it looks like he never had any real plans to come back here.

Well. That's how it looked, anyways.

He keeps throwing curveballs– or, as much as a man Simon's known about for a few days can. He doesn't need to know anything about him besides an address, but curiosity has him plugging his name into logs anyways. Call it a clean job.

He's got family. An older sister, Maisie, and a mother who lives by the coast. Divorced parents, and have been since before John was born. No grandparents on his maternal side, and only his grandmother on his paternal.

Her. He'd watched, idly, as the woman had clucked about the place like she owned it. John seemed used to it, as she'd insisted on spraying persistent weeds, and thrusted into his hands a spare pair of gardening gloves with an instruction she seemed to know would fall on deaf ears. Pretty woman, same nose as John.

He has her blue eyes.

They'd seemed to get on well, and that's just another hurdle for Simon. Just someone else he has to make sure is out of the way when it comes to take the hit. Feels like eons, now, but it's only two days. What Simon doesn’t like, though, is the doubt creeping in about the cleanup crew. Coleman never leaves anything to chance when it comes to avoiding a mess, and a random civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time is not something he’d sacrifice everything for- especially not because of a logistical screw-up.

And it's Simon's head, at the end of the day. Sure, he's doing the work for the man, but it's still his work. So call him paranoid, but he's rightly justified to feel a bit iffy about the situation surrounding the boys heading from Leeds on fuckin' Thursday. Coleman must be slipping.

He doubles back after another ten minutes of following John, deciding there's no point in hovering like a dog waiting for scraps. John had just wandered further into the woods, some half-aimless trek, and Simon had let him go. No sense in following a man kicking through brambles for no reason. Couldn't keep following, anyways- he'd stopped when John had reached a kind of clearing, the kid looking like he knew his way around a bit better around the area.

Curiosity sated, Simon cuts a wide circle through the brush, retracing steps with the kind of slow, deliberate pace that says he isn't in any rush to get back to anything important. No need to get sloppy now, anyways.

The car’s parked a good half-mile away, tucked off a quiet lane where no one but the occasional dog walker would think to look. He slides into the driver’s seat, shuts the door, and sits there for a minute, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming out an uneven rhythm on his thigh.

He checks the time. 13:04. Wednesday.

Still two full days of this.

He flips the burner open and dials.

"Yeah?"

Simon adjusts the phone slightly, glancing through the windscreen at the shimmering light bouncing off a piece of shattered glass.
"Still nothing. He's just... knocking about. Huggin' trees. You want me to keep babysitting him, or what?"

A pause. Then Coleman's voice, low and dismissive: "Keep an eye. Friday's the day. You know that."

Simon rubs his thumb against the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah, I know. Just..." He trails off, lets it hang there a second too long.
"Grandma's about. Saw her this morning. In and out like she owns the place."

Coleman doesn’t say anything right away. Simon hears papers shifting on the other end of the line, the faint click of a pen.

"I'll handle it," Coleman says finally. Like it’s that simple.

Simon exhales slowly through his nose, tightens his grip on the phone.
"Right," he mutters. "Just making sure we’re clear."

"You are," Coleman says, and hangs up without waiting for anything else.

Simon snaps the phone shut and tosses it onto the passenger seat. He sits there another minute, staring out at the empty stretch of road, before reaching for the thermos wedged by his feet. He takes a long drag, one hand pressed idly in a weak attempt of a massage at his browbone.

Clear as mud.

18:25

The diner’s seen better days.
Probably seen worse ones, too.

Simon sits in a booth near the back, shoulder to the wall, the seat’s vinyl cracked under him. The overhead lights buzz faintly, adding a constant whine to the air already thick with the smell of burnt oil and old fryers. A laminated menu sits ignored at his elbow, edges curling from years of greasy fingers and stained with sauces that'll never scrub off.

He pushes a piece of chicken around his plate with the side of his fork, watching the skin wrinkle and tear under the pressure. Barely warm now. Barely food. Coffee sits heavy in his stomach, adding to the general sense of restlessness that’s been dogging him since the afternoon. He wonders if John got back in time to miss the rain.

There’s a handful of other patrons scattered across the place- truckers, mostly, a few local pensioners- all moving slow and steady, like they’re part of the furniture. Nobody looking at him. Nobody noticing.

It should feel anonymous. Safe.
He wonders why it doesn’t.

The spring rain’s started up again after a misleading bout of dry, drumming soft against the windows and tracing long, snaking lines down the glass. He watches it, listens to the low hum of it above the clatter of cutlery and the half-hearted chatter of the waitress behind the counter, telly beside the screen menu relaying the six o'clock news. Crash on the M90 and heavy traffic backup on connecting sliproads. Woman, 27, found dead by mother in family home. Another protest. Another business about to go bust.

When his phone buzzes, it’s so sudden it feels like a snap of static. He flinches before he can stop himself.
Simon wipes his palm on his jeans before picking it up. "Yeah?"

"You good?" Coleman’s voice cuts through, loose and easy like he’s calling about the weather. "Just checking in. The boys are on the move."

Simon watches the rain run in sheets down the outside of the window, warping the view into an ugly, shifting blur. "I thought Friday."

"It is. Mostly. They had a bit of hassle on the motorway. Nothing major. They're pushing through. Should be tucked away by morning."

Simon presses his thumb against the edge of the table, feeling the tacky stick of it. Digs a piece of chicken skin out of a molar with his tongue. "You want me still watching him, or what?"

"You’re still on him. Just means you can breathe a little easier come Friday."

There’s a faint laugh on the other end. Like Coleman thinks he’s being reassuring. "Can see the finish-line now. Still don't know what's got you so uppity about this one."

The line goes dead.

Simon stares at the phone a long moment before setting it face-down on the table. His coffee’s gone cold. His food’s congealed into something unrecognisable.

He sits there anyway, letting the minutes crawl by.
Outside, the rain keeps falling, steady and patient, blurring the world into grey.

He gets back to the Travelodge around eight.

The motel room is worse in the light, so Simon doesn't bother turning on the overhead; he just dumps his jacket over the back of the single cracked chair and pulls the curtains half-shut. They don’t block much. Thin polyester, the colour of a pensioner's teeth.

He sits on the edge of the bed for a while, still glutted from the diner, thumb worrying at the corner of his phone. Nothing to do but wait. Coleman’s call still rattling somewhere in the back of his skull, like a rat skittering behind the walls.

Nothing wrong with it, not really. Boys got held up, boys are on the way, everything’s handled. Didn't even think to bring up the mother, nan or sister, but it doesn't matter to him- not after he got that feeling. Gut's as good as it gets in this game, and it doesn't feel like a simple cleanup. Sure, he doesn't doubt the job is wrong- that he is meant to kill MacTavish. It's the logistics, rather. Coleman's insisting on this being a near five-day job when it could've been one.

He has ties to cleanups everywhere. Simon knows he has a contact in Glasgow- no need to bring the boys stationed in Durham. It's slow. Paced unlike Coleman, and everything feels horizontal in the way it did when he got near-fucked over before. Loose ends.

It never used to be like this. Coleman was clean, once upon a time. Or, as clean as a man in this scene can get. Simon had joined him early-on; a few stints supplying arms for local steel protests, a raid on a government building for valuable intel.

It hadn't felt much different to the Task Force. Until it did.

Coke started moving. Coleman told him it was just minor, just to prop up the coffers while the real work stalled, so that they could keep fighting the good fight. But it never stopped moving. Then they started making more of the shit- and Simon found himself covering for oxy clinics that had popped up around North England like the plague. Near impossible to stamp out.

He'd told himself it was none of his business. He wasn't killing for the man unless it was justified. And Coleman promised him- he'd stop the drugs, go back to how things used to be. But that never happened. They fell out a few times, and then for a little while, it was good. But now? This hardly looks clean. John's an innocent, but he can't exactly turn around and tell Coleman he's off the job. Not unless he wants a slow, gruelling death.

So he tells himself it’s fine. Tells himself again. It doesn't help.

The room smells like mildew and cheap cleaner. A different kind of rot. It settles into the back of his throat. He palms at the front of his jeans, half-thinking he might wank, just to pass the time. Maybe sleep a little easier.

He tries.
 Not really into it. The bed creaks every time he moves, loud in the stillness.

He lets it go halfway through, hand sticky, frustration prickling along the back of his neck.

It didn't help. If anything, it made him feel worse — more aware of the sweat sticking under his arms, the greasy press of the evening on his skin. The wrongness of it all.

Simon showers after. Lukewarm water, slow drainage, the soap refusing to lather properly. Shit pressure that's more of a trickle than it ever could be a spray. He scrubs at himself harder than necessary, dragging the cloth over old scars and faded bruises until his skin stings pink.

Still doesn’t help.

By the time he steps out and towels off, the moon's up proper.
 The shadows outside the window stretch longer than they should.

He lies on the bed in nothing but his shorts, staring up at the ceiling, watching the cracked paint swim in the half-dark. His phone’s on the nightstand, face-down. Silent.

Waiting.
Always fucking waiting

Chapter Text

Thursday: 08:22

The phone rings twice before Maisie picks up, voice already warm with sleep or coffee. Probably both.

"Morning," she says, that lilt in her tone that always makes her sound half-smiling, even when she isn't.

John leans his hip against the counter, cradling the phone between shoulder and ear. He watches the sparrows dart around the gnarled maple just beyond the kitchen window, wings flashing in the weak light. A thin grey sky presses down on the fields behind them. A starling joins the fray, iridescent wings beating as it furrows between the branches. He's up early- surprised Maisie hasn't said so off the bat. Must be something on her mind. Always is.

"Morning," he says, first word of the day soft. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"Bit late for that, Johnny. Been up since six. Sam was sick in the car. You know how it is."

He smiles, a quiet thing she can't see. "Still think you lot are mental, having kids."

"Cheers for the support." Maisie yawns audibly. "Anyway, how's country living? Gone all feral yet?"

"I'm not sure," he says, stretching his toes inside worn socks, trying to summon some circulation back into his feet. "Settling in well enough. Quiet, though."

"Nothing's quiet if you're there," she says, automatic.

He huffs a laugh. "Yeah, yeah."

"Got any mates out there yet? Barmaid you’re secretly engaged to?"

"No barmaids," he says, shifting his weight to the other foot. The floorboards are cold enough to make his ankles ache. "But there’s a stray cat that's started coming by. Think she's capitalising on my kindness."

"Aye, well. She’s got you pegged. Going soft, I keep telling you."

John watches a fat robin land awkwardly on the fence post, feathers fluffed against the cold. He presses his hand against the windowpane, feels the chill bleed through. "You still off work?"

John sighs through his nose, shifting his weight. Uncomfortable, a bit. Hears that question too many times after what happened. Dad.

"Yeah. You know Kate. She said- 'take as much time as you need.' Near clawed my own ears off." He snorts. "I said: 'I don't need time, put me on the next case,' and she told me she'd have Kenneth barricade the door if I tried to walk into the office. She says I can do remote work, too, if I'm not going back to the city. Need to get the Wi-Fi sorted, reckon."

She hums. Doesn't give a response, and John is glad. It'd be something scolding about him wanting to work, for sure. 'Everybody needs time for something like this,' or some shite. And she knows John. Knows he has to keep busy, or that's when it gets bad. But she's a hypocrite, anyways. He knows she still hasn't found a way to break the news to her daughter.

"I miss you, John," Maisie says, suddenly softer. Doesn't sound like her, not really.

"Miss you too." His voice tightens, a reflex he doesn’t bother fighting. "You can always come out here, y'know. Got spare bedrooms. Plenty of room for Sammy, too. Found a box of our old toys in the cellar. Still in good nick, if I wash off the mold." He tries at a smile.

He knows even as he says it that she won't. Work, husband, kid, the strong gravitational pull of a whole life elsewhere. He hasn't seen his niece in what feels like too long. Probably has only been a couple of weeks.

"I will," she lies gently. "Just not right now."

"Right."

There’s a pause. The easy kind, not uncomfortable — like when you’re both looking at the same view and don’t need to fill the air.

"You alright?" she asks, after a moment.

John’s hand slips from the window, falling back to his side. "Yeah," he says. "Just... tired, I think. Been running around trying to fix things. You wouldn’t believe the state Dad left the place in."

"I would. Was never one for the DIY, except for that make-your-own-booze kit Nana got him for his fiftieth."

"He left a hammer wedged in a load-bearing wall, Maisie. I still can't figure out if he was trying to tear down the wall, or just wanted somewhere convenient to keep it."

She snorts. "Course he did."

Another pause. John shifts, socked feet making faint scuffs against the warped floorboards. He should probably sort the heating, before the heating sorts him. It's March, but uncharacteristically cold.

"You’re not lonely, are you, Soap?" Maisie asks, quieter now. Had asked her not to call him that, but it seems to slip her mind all the same.

"Nah," he lies easily, the way you do about a sore tooth you can still chew on. "Nana visited yesterday. She wants me to handle the weeds out front, keep the flowers alive. From where I was looking, might as well kill off the flowers and let the weeds take over. No hope for the poor things. I never got mam's green thumb. Not sure how Dad managed to keep them alive, mind." He knows he's talking just to talk now, but he is a bit lonely. Feels nice to speak to something that can actually understand the human language. Like oiling a greasy hinge.

"Hmm."

A car rumbles by somewhere distant- just a single drone of noise swallowed by the open land.

"You’re not drinking too much?"

John rolls his eyes at the window. "Jesus, May. I’m not Dad."

"I know," she says. "Just checking. You... you sound tired."

"I am tired," he says. "That’s all. Promise."

She lets it hang there, the mutual understanding. Neither of them bring up the funeral. Or the days before it. She couldn't get John out of bed, told him herself that he'd scared her more than ever, and to never do that again.

"Make sure you take it easy on that knee, John. You're still not meant to be doing too intense labour-"

"It's been four years, Maisie. It's fine." His voice is too quick, too insistent. His leg doesn't hurt- not bad, anyways. Not nearly enough to stop him from patching up this old place.

"I should go," Maisie says eventually, voice brightening back into something almost casual. "Mam’ll have my head if I’m late to pick her up."

"Give her my love."

"I will. And John?"

"Yeah?"

"You’re allowed to be happy out there, y'know. S'yours, now."

He swallows down the knot forming in his throat. "Yeah," he says again. "I know."

Another soft goodbye, Maisie says something that makes him smile. Always has a way, she does. The line clicks dead.

John stays standing there a while longer, staring at the sparrows through the glass. The house creaks around him, slow and familiar, like an old dog shifting in its sleep.

His toes are freezing.

He rubs a hand over his face, then pushes off the counter, grabbing his slippers before padding toward the porch door with the grim determination of a man about to lose a fight he picked himself.

The lad’s harmless.

Simon shifts the binoculars against his face, elbows braced in the dirt. The weight’s lighter than a rifle but the habit’s the same- still and steady, body folded tight into the scrubby embankment overlooking majority of the MacTavish place.

He watches John pad stocking across the warped kitchen floor, one hand cradling the phone to his ear, the other absently rubbing at the small of his back, working out some stubborn knot like he doesn't even realise he’s doing it.

Unless it was the police he was on the line to- and Simon doubts it, seeing the way the boy’s face softens, the way his shoulders drop- he’s no concern to anyone. No threat. No trouble. Just another poor bastard trying to patch together some kind of life in the ruins someone else left behind. He could've tapped the phone if he wanted- has his laptop in his ruck- but there was no need. Harmless.

Maybe just a threat to the cat, Simon thinks, lip curling faintly. Poor thing’d been spooked clean off the porch earlier when John bent down low in his tattered dressing gown, cooing and rattling a handful of dry biscuits. Man’s got no sense of his own size- or his volume. The cat took one look at him and bolted, tail a fat bottlebrush.

John’d stayed crouched there anyway, mumbling nonsense, grinning at the empty air like a right idiot as if he was expecting trust to just... happen.

The image sticks: John, hair still sleep-mussed, slippers half falling off his heels, trying to lure the animal close with soft nonsense and persistence. The cat, skittish as a paper bag on the wind, darting under the steps.

Simon adjusts the binoculars slightly, focus tightening. It’s not as boring as he thought it would be. Watching John.

Like watching a TV show with the volume turned off- no script, no score to tell you how to feel. Just... The way John leans a shoulder into the kitchen counter when he laughs. The way he chews the inside of his cheek when he's thinking hard. How he forgets to move a sock off the stairs, and doubles back for it two minutes later, muttering something under his breath.

He’s soft, in a way that’s not stupidity.

Soft like an old jumper. Like something worn in and familiar.

Simon drops the binoculars down for a moment, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. There's nothing dangerous about it. Nothing dangerous about him.

When he lifts them again, the view’s shifted- John’s finished on the phone, apparently, and is stepping out into the small stretch of garden with his dressing gown hanging off one shoulder like a shit knight's cape, slippers scuffing along the cracked patio stones. He's carrying an empty beer bottle like it’s something precious, brown glass catching a faint glint of light through the thickening clouds.

Simon narrows his focus.

John’s picking flowers.
Not proper flowers, like the few stragglers out the front- just stubborn little wild ones that've sprung up along the broken fence line. Crocus, bluebells and forget-me-nots, dandelions and the bigger daisies. Tiny white faces and tangled stems, half crushed by the spring rains and the tread of boots.

Still, John gathers them with a kind of serious care, lips pressed together in concentration. Like it matters to him- like it’s worth doing right.

He pauses sometimes, studying a cluster, picking out the least battered of the lot. He stoops every few steps, plucking one or two between his fingers. Looks almost guilty about it, like he’s stealing. Holds the stems delicately between his fingers, the beer bottle gripped awkwardly in the other hand.

It should look ridiculous.
It should look pitiful.

It doesn’t.

Simon watches him for a long while, the binoculars heavy against the bridge of his nose. The boy's not posturing for anyone. Not hiding, either.

Maybe he doesn’t know how.

By the time John turns back toward the house, his beer-bottle bouquet is half full, a mess of bent green stems and drooping petals that look absurdly bright against the washed-out grey of the farmhouse.

Still in his slippers, still dragging the trailing hem of his dressing gown through the damp.

Simon lowers the binoculars again, resting them in his lap.

Breathes out. He brings his sights back to the kitchen.

The bottle-bouquet sits lopsided on the windowsill. Bright against the peeling paint and the long stretch of empty land beyond.

John steps back to admire his work. Crosses his arms, weight shifting onto one hip. There's a certain pride in it, ridiculous as it is. Like he’s made something important.

Nothing dangerous about him.
Nothing at all.

He knows he should be bored. Should be annoyed at the waste of his time. Instead there's a strange... quietness to it. Like being inside a snow globe, world muted and slowed, all noise kept outside the glass. And in that muted quiet, it's easy for his mind to drift.

Simon’s been doing this long enough to know when a job’s crooked at the root. Long enough to know that Coleman’s cheer over the phone yesterday hadn’t sounded right. That if everything really was "handled," he wouldn't be out here babysitting a grown man who thought feeding stray cats and picking flowers was a morning well-spent.

He flicks the binoculars back up just in time to catch John talking to the cat again, crouched low on the porch, one hand outstretched.
This time, the cat edges closer. Suspicious, tail twitching- but closer.

Soft bastard.

Simon exhales through his nose, the warm air fogging the binoculars for a second. He wipes them clean on the hem of his jacket.

If he was smarter, he’d stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about what’s coming.

He thinks about it anyway.

Simon watches until the first spits of rain darken the driveway, until John scoops the cat up (finally victorious) and carries it inside against his chest like a contraband prize. Watches the door shut behind them, leaving the windows dull and streaked.

His phone buzzes in his bag, the canvas material vibrating against the tree he's got it propped up against. He grabs for it, thumb swiping across the cracked screen- main phone, not the burner.

Crew's in. Standby for green light.

Simon stares at it for a long second, the weight of it pressing down in his gut. He tucks his phone back into the bag without replying.

The smell of damp rises in the air, clinging to the birch and pine around him, thickening the air until it’s hard to breathe properly. Humid. He should go- drive into town, grab a coffee, debrief with the cleanup boys- but he stays prone there, staring at the farmhouse through the rain; through the window at the man he'll make a corpse in 24 hours as he sits perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, reading over something that could be a manual as he fumbles with a battered pair of reading glasses.

The rain's thickened into a steady drizzle by the time Simon pushes himself off of the embankment. He slings his ruck over one shoulder, hand already cold on the strap, boots slipping slightly in the churned mud. His car's parked a ways off, tucked under a clutch of scrub trees, half-hidden from the road. Same as always.

Except.

He slows a few paces out. Something’s... not right.

The earth around the front tires is softer than it should be- trampled, pocked with prints. Not just his, either.

Someone else’s boots.
 Wider tread. Heavier step.

Simon scans the treeline automatically, mouth tightening. No one there now. Nothing but the wet hiss of rain on leaves and the distant cough of a tractor engine from the far fields. Still, his hand drifts toward the pistol tucked low in his waistband, a quiet muscle memory.

Could be nothing. Just a farm boy too big for his britches, or a local hiker with unchecked curiosity.

Still.

Simon crouches near the driver’s side, fingers brushing the edge of the wheel well. Finds a small smear of fresh mud where there shouldn’t be any. It wasn't raining when he left this morning. A faint scuff on the passenger door too, low down. Like someone had leaned a hip against it while talking, or checking something.

He stands slowly, jaw working.
Watches the farmhouse windows again- quiet and fogged and utterly unaware. Light on in the living room.

Probably nothing, he tells himself.
But the thought doesn’t sit right. Not the way it usually would.

Simon tosses his bag into the footwell and climbs in, but he doesn't start the engine right away. Just sits there, letting the rain drum against the roof, the scent of wet earth bleeding in through the cracked window.

Sometime around 12.

The gravel crunches under boots as Smith paces a lazy circle around the Mazda. Dust on the paint, a few dead bugs on the windscreen. Old, inconspicuous. Sits wrong with him somehow, like everything else about this job.

Phone wedged against his ear, he keeps his voice low.
"Car's old. Mazda Atenza?"

On the other end, the Boss's voice comes sharp, decisive.

"That's the one."

Smith thumbs a flake of rust off the wheel arch, watches it spiral down into the dirt.

"You're sure the bastard won't figure it out?"

"Not if you're clean with it," Coleman says. A pause, like he's re-lighting a cigarette. "Hired you for a reason, Smith. But I hired him for one, too. Though I think I've forgotten why, now."

Smith grunts, noncommittal. He pockets his phone.

Around him, the others mill. Five of them in total today, and a sixth potentially joining tomorrow- enough for this kind of cleanup. More than. Murray leans on the bonnet of the beat-up Transit, tossing pebbles and trying to hit a rat that scurries about in the scrub grass. Ellis laughs about something, a quiet, smoker's laugh, while Finch and Daly jaw over whether you could kill a deer with a shovel if you really had to.

It’s half a joke. Half not.

Murray watches Smith. Must've been eavesdropping. "Heard The Ghost killed a bloke in Prague with a spoon. Think it's true?"

Smith just glares.

"Pack it up," he says finally, giving the Mazda one last glance. "Nothing wrong here."

Murray straightens up, brushing dust off his jeans.
"You think he knows?"

Smith shrugs. "Doesn't matter. Job's still on. We wait until the boss gives us green tomorrow."

The five of them file back toward van, boots whispering through the weeds. The day is mild, sun high and bright in the sky.

Tomorrow.

15:22

"Signal's bad. Hang on." Simon shoulders the brittle door open, stepping through the hallway and out the door. "Better?"

"1900's your window. Everything goes down then, close to the hour as possible. Capiche?"

Simon huffs. "Yeah, sorted." He brings the phone from his ear, but not before he hears a:

"Oh, and Simon?"

"Yeah?"

"Make sure you're in fuckin' position."

20:46

John's hands are cold, fingertips stiff as he fumbles with the manual. It’s an old one, worn around the edges. It smells faintly of dust and grease, like something that’s lived in the house longer than he has. The heating’s been on the fritz since he started making trips here- nothing major, just an annoying habit of cutting out when it gets too cold. And right now, the farmhouse feels like it's doing its best to make him aware of every inch of its aging bones. Wreaks havoc on his knee, too, damp cold settling in so deep he can feel it in his marrow.

Doesn't help that he's between rooms, either. The house's got an abnormal floorplan that took a while to get used to even as a kid, and it places the boiler in a strange sort of under-the-stairs cubby between the living room and porch- not quite spacious enough to stand in, but big enough that he's got to lean into it.

He pulls his jumper tighter; a thick, faded grey wool thing that feels like it’s seen more winters than he ever will. The sleeves are a little too long for him, the cuffs rolling over his hands like they’re trying to swallow him whole. Beneath, his joggers are baggy, one leg tucked up under him while he kneels on the cold wooden floor. He’s got tools scattered around him- some new, some from when his dad likely tried to fix the same issue years ago. There’s an old spanner, a polished wrench, and a pair of pliers that probably aren’t supposed to be used on anything other than wires.

Ex-fucking-demolitions expert, but can't fix a broken boiler? Someone must've pressed the wrong button while he was being designed, for sure.

John lets out a slow breath, glancing at his phone. The signal’s crap. Just a few bars of nothing. Typical.

He thumbs through a few articles, trying to make sense of the broken parts, but the information’s as sparse as the cell service. Some of it’s useful, some of it isn’t. It’s enough to get him to poke around with the bits and bobs he’s got, but he’s far from sure of what he’s doing. The pipes are just old metal, twisted and creaking in places. He thinks he’s found the problem- a clogged valve or something- but the more he tries to loosen it, the more he suspects it’s going to be one of those things that’s always half-finished.

There's a record playing in the background.

It’s a song he’s heard a thousand times, but today, it’s different. The needle scratches along the vinyl as the opening notes of "Blue Moon" drift through the house. The sound fills the silence of the hallway, the only noise beside his occasional muttered curses and the soft clink of tools. It’s his dad’s music. John hasn’t played it in a while. It always seemed like something from another time, one he’s not sure he has a place in, but today, it’s somehow comforting. He can almost picture Dad, standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, tapping his foot to the rhythm.

Not sure he wants to.

John’s fingers tighten on the wrench, and he gives the valve another twist, hoping it’ll hold. His stomach rumbles, but he doesn’t move to grab dinner. Not yet. The record skips a little, then clears itself up, the vocals coming through cleaner.

He starts wondering about the last time he spent time with his dad. It was years ago, after he got discharged and before everything got weird between them. Must've been a medal ceremony, or something. They didn’t get along at the end, but sometimes, when he’s working on something like this, it’s hard not to think back on the days when they were more alike than he’d like to admit.

John lets his mind wander, the rhythm of the record seeping into his thoughts. The house creaks and groans as if it’s alive, settling into the space like a creature trying to get comfortable. He hears the wind outside, the sharp gusts rattling the window panes, but inside, it’s warm enough. Not comfortable, but he's not dying, especially if he digs out some of the knitted blankets he knows are around here somewhere, courtesy of Nana. He glances at the boiler again.

His fingers stiffen around the wrench, and he tries another twist. The valve groans, and then- finally- it loosens. He pulls it free, holding it up to the light like it’s a piece of treasure. His dad used to talk about these kinds of moments. Simple. Quiet. Satisfaction in fixing something broken. But John’s not sure if that satisfaction ever really belonged to him.

There’s a certain distance between the man his dad was and the man John has become. Not a wide gap- just a thin line of time and difference, but it’s there. And for the first time in a while, he’s not sure whether he’s fixing the house or just trying to fix something inside himself.

He rubs his face, the old wool scratching against his stubble. The heating can wait. For now, he’s content with the slow, steady hum of the Elvis record spinning, the quiet inside the house wrapping around him like a blanket he didn’t expect.

John lets the wrench fall to the floor with a quiet thud. The record finishes, and the turntable clicks softly, then spins up again. He doesn’t bother to skip tracks. Just lets it play. It’s good background noise. There’s something to it- something about letting the familiar sounds fill the silence that makes him feel like maybe he doesn’t have to rush through everything. Like maybe, for a moment, he can just stay here, in this small room, fixing a broken pipe, listening to old music.

After a minute, he picks up his phone again, scrolling through the articles with no real aim. The heating isn’t fixed yet, and maybe it never will be. But the house is warmer now, and the day feels a little more settled. A little more like it’s his. If it gets too cold to bare, he can always light the fire, anyways.

The record skips again, and he doesn’t care. He looks up, seeing a bit of moonlight filtering through the window, the silver glow of the early night. There’s no rush. He’ll get to it all when he’s ready.

Chapter Text

Friday: 13:46

John lets the kitchen door crack open a little wider, fresh air mixing with the staleness of old furniture and older workspace. The sun’s creeping through the window, a brief patch of light before the clouds decide to change their mind. He stands at the counter, looking at the old loaf of bread. Not much else in the fridge. Some cheese. A couple of eggs. He takes the eggs out- nothing fancy today. He cracks them into a battered frying pan, the sizzle a faint sound against the quiet hum of the house.

He stirs the eggs around, slow and disinterested, but it keeps his hands busy. It’s not like he doesn’t know how to make this shit. It’s just... it’s always been like this. No one ever bothered teaching him much beyond the basics. He never cared enough to learn, army taking up his formative years, and when he got out he never kept a bird long enough for it to matter.

A splash of whiskey goes into his coffee. Just a little, just enough to take the edge off. The day feels like it’s crawling, and he’s crawling right alongside it. He rubs his face with one hand. It’s a little cold inside, but the heat’s just not worth fighting for yet. The pipes are still a mess, and the boiler is temperamental. But that’s all part of it now.

He knows Kate’s going to be pissed if she finds out he’s still waiting on a case. His freelance gigs aren’t really moving forward, and she's already said she doesn't think he should take on anything new. "Focus on the things that matter," she said. Well, the thing is, John’s not sure what “things that matter” are anymore. He feels more useless by the day, and that only adds to the weight in his chest. She's still trying to convince him to grieve Dad, as if she wants him to mourn. To hurt.

The eggs aren’t burning, but they’re not great either. He pushes them around the pan again, grinds some pepper on top- a half-hearted attempt to make them something close to edible. The whiskey, though, that helps. He takes a sip, letting the warmth spread through him. Maybe that’s the real problem. He’s waiting on something. Just stuck here.

The door’s still open a crack. The breeze, soft and cool, feels like it’s doing its best to remind him that there’s something outside. But the kitchen’s the same as it ever was. Not much of anything to look forward to, not much to shake things up.

He woke up too late this morning to feed the cat, and he's guilty. Hoped she found something to fill her belly elsewhere, as he sat on the bottom step of the porch, sun already high in the sky. He's not used to waking that late, and never intends on making it a habit. He'd been shaking when he woke up, perspiring face clear in the warped bathroom mirror as he went to shave. Doesn't get bad dreams often, and remembers them even less so.

He didn't shave.

His phone buzzes.

He doesn’t pick it up immediately. Instead, he stirs the eggs again.

Another buzz. Then a third. Still nothing important, though. Probably something from Kate again. Maybe it’s time to turn it off, just for a little while. Time to breathe.

A soft click from the door as it jostles from the wind. It's sunny and almost cloudless, and the breeze is still there, still teasing with the thought of something else. He nurses his spiked coffee. He can't bring himself to step out.

The wind’s shifted by the time John stirs himself. Still crisp, still cold, but there’s a weight to it now- wet and green, carrying the smell of the fields and the faint sweetness of the trees starting to bud out. Not quite spring yet, but trying.

He leaves the coffee cup on the workspace, whiskey glass tucked behind it like he’s hiding it from himself. The floor creaks when he moves, old wood shifting underfoot, but he barely notices anymore. It’s just another sound in a long day of sounds.

The porch door sticks when he shoulders it open. Everything sticks in this house. Windows, doors, even the bloody drawers in the kitchen. His trainers scuff the warped wood as he steps out into the weak sun, and he stands there for a second, blinking against the glare.

It’s warmer than it was this morning. Not properly warm- just enough to pretend. The kind of false spring that tricks the trees into budding too early. John leans against one of the porch posts and feels it shift slightly under his weight. Rotten- a hairline crack bisecting the length of it like a bad infection. Probably been rotten for years. Like everything else around here.

He drags a hand over his hair, short and uneven from when he hacked at it himself a few weeks back. Couldn't be arsed going into town for a proper cut. Can't be arsed to do much of anything these days, really.

The fence creaks in the wind. The swing chair taps lazily against the porch rail, chain links rattling every so often. He eyes it. Thinks about sitting, then thinks better of it. Knowing his luck, he’d go right through the bastard thing.

He lights a cigarette he’s been pretending he’s quit, draws a lungful of smoke so sharp it makes his eyes water. It’s not the cold that makes him shiver. It’s everything else.

The cat’s gone off somewhere, too. Little ungrateful sod. First day it hasn’t been lurking underfoot like a ghost, even when it pretends it hates him. Probably found somewhere better to be. Wishes he could do the same.

John huffs a breath, tasting smoke and resentment. Kicks a loose board by the stairs. It clatters off into the yard, thudding into the patchy grass.

"Fuckin’ stupid house," he mutters, voice cracking rough in the middle of it. He doesn't know why it does. Doesn't feel like he's about to cry. Doesn’t feel anything big enough to warrant it. Just... done.

He glares out at the field like it's personally insulted him. The sun soaks through his jumper but doesn’t warm him the way it should. He hasn't changed his clothes since midday yesterday. Nothing feels how it’s meant to.

Kate’s voice echoes sharp in his memory- take some time, John. grieve properly. Don't rush back to work- and he wants to tell her to shove it. Wants to tell everyone to shove it. It's been almost a month now. Grieving’s not something you schedule, like a bloody dentist appointment. It just sits on you, heavy and pointless, and no amount of sitting around in an empty house is going to make it cleaner.

John grinds the cigarette into the porch rail and flicks the butt into the brittle grass below.

The swing chair taps the railing again. Tap, tap, tap. Like it's laughing at him.

He stays standing there for a long time, fists jammed into his pockets, jaw tight enough to ache.

16:15

The truck is parked a little too close to the edge of the tree line, the engine idling softly, giving off that heavy, metallic scent. The air’s thick with anticipation, the kind that sits heavy in your chest and doesn’t quite let you breathe easy. It’s past 4pm, and the boys are scattered across the back of the van, not quite relaxed, not quite tense either. Just waiting. Waiting.

Smith leans back in his seat, flicking the cigarette butt out the window and watching it disappear into the dust. The end glows red for a second before the wind takes it, carrying it off into the grass. His hand hovers over the radio for a beat, fingers tapping in that rhythm only someone who’s been on edge a long time can get.

Ellis, the new one, doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He keeps checking his phone, like the next notification’s going to change the situation, like it’ll tell him he’s out of this.

"You think he’s still out there?" Ellis asks, his voice careful, like he’s testing the waters. He’s not asking for reassurance; he’s asking to see if anyone else feels the same gnawing uncertainty twisting in his gut.

Smith doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick to the treeline, where Ghost's supposed to be. He doesn’t know where exactly, but it’s close enough that he could be on the other side of the hill or tucked behind one of the old oak trees, just waiting for the right moment. They don’t need to see him to know he’s out there. But that doesn’t mean the waiting feels any less like a dead weight in the car.

“Yeah, he’s out there,” Smith says, voice flat. It’s not an answer- it’s a fact. He can’t imagine Simon would be anywhere else.

“Sure?” Ellis presses, flicking his phone screen on again, like maybe the message he’s been waiting for will show up if he just checks one more time. His eyes keep darting to the others, but none of them offer anything more than what’s already been said.

Smith blows out a long breath, his finger tapping on the radio mic. He reaches for it, holding it in his hand for a second longer than he needs to. He doesn’t like waiting, but this part, the sitting around, not doing anything- that’s the real killer.

The radio crackles to life, cutting through the silence like a shot to the chest. Coleman’s voice comes through sharp, clipped.

“Report,” he barks, no room for small talk.

Smith tilts his head down, voice steady despite the frustration twisting in his gut. “We’re in position. Eyes on the farmhouse. Ghost is in the trees somewhere. Can’t get a bead on him, but he’s out there. Fool if he isn't."

A beat of silence stretches on the other end. Smith doesn’t know what’s going through Coleman’s head, but he knows it’s probably not good. After a moment, the Boss's voice returns, cool and firm.

“Stay put. Don’t engage unless necessary. We’re waiting on Ghost to finish. When he’s done, you go in. Understood?”

There’s no room for anything else, no room for questions or second-guessing. Just follow orders.

Smith doesn’t hesitate. “Understood.”

He mutes the mic, the click loud in the quiet of the van. His eyes flick to Finch, then to the others. None of them seem surprised by the order. They all know the drill by now.

Nothing more to do but sit tight.

Ellis shifts in his seat, his face still pinched with that low-grade anxiety that comes from not knowing whether you’re waiting to go in or waiting for something to go wrong. The others just look out the window, hands in their pockets, faces unreadable. No one says a word.

It’s always like this, the waiting.

It stretches on for what feels like hours, even though it’s only been a few minutes. Smith’s fingers tap against the steering wheel. He can feel his pulse in his throat. He wants to be anywhere but here, but the clock’s ticking, and nothing’s moving except the wind through the trees.

And somewhere out there, in those trees, The Ghost is waiting too.

18:56

The sky's a muted grey, the last stretch of daylight folding into itself as Simon adjusts his position on the embankment. He’s got a clean shot lined up, but it’s not enough. He needs more. Always more.

He finds the gap in the window where John was just moments ago, fingers tapping the rifle’s barrel, the cold of the metal biting through his gloves. His breath is steady, controlled. He can see the house through the scope, John’s figure moving behind the curtains. A flash of greasy hair, an unsteady stumble as John walks back into view. Still in yesterday’s clothes, beer bottle swinging loosely in his hand, like he’s got all the time in the world.

7:00. That’s when it’s supposed to happen. His pulse picks up at the thought. Not yet. Not yet.

John moves out of the frame, stepping further into the house, and Simon’s finger hovers over the trigger. He waits. John’s not in his line of sight anymore- probably just going to the bathroom or down into the cellar.

It’s stupid, this feeling creeping in. It shouldn’t matter that John’s out of sight. Shouldn't even be thinking about it. His gut tells him to wait, but it’s not a matter of waiting- it’s about keeping the shot clean.

The rifle’s scope shakes slightly in his hands, just enough to make him focus harder. He hears the wind rush through the trees, the low hum of distant traffic barely reaching his ears. Everything is still. Almost too still.

He’s about to check the time again when his phone buzzes in his pocket. The screen lights up with Coleman’s number.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, flat. Calm.

"You still on track?" Coleman’s voice is thick, a bit more clipped than usual. When he doesn't get an immediate response, there's the cream of a chair and a low murmur like he's talking to someone else in the room. "Where the hell is he?"

Simon doesn't answer immediately. John’s nowhere to be seen. His instinct is to wait.

“I’m still here,” he says, eyes still trained on the window. “I’m taking the shot from here. Want to finish it clean, stay out of sight.”

“Simon, you don’t have time for this shit. You know how this works, we don't play with our food. He’s a goddamn witness.”

Simon exhales through his nose, the weight of the phone pressing into his ear. “Yeah, I know. I’m staying put.”

He doesn’t want to go inside. Doesn’t want to get caught in the mess. The house is too close, too full of corners, too easy to screw things up. He doesn't even have the blueprints for the floor plan. The rifle’s scope feels safer. Farther away.

“Don’t fuck around. Just finish it,” Coleman snaps, but there’s a moment of hesitation before he adds, “Lads'll be there to clean up the mess."

Simon’s eyes flick back to the window, but the frame is empty. His finger twitches on the trigger, but he doesn’t move. Doesn't want to get close. Doesn't want to see John up close, doesn't want to risk everything he's worked for to make it easier for the cleanup crew.

Simon swallows, tries to ignore the urge to do anything other than wait. The feeling of impending chaos tugs at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

"Fine," he mutters. "But I’m not going in. I’ll finish it clean."

He ends the call before Coleman can reply, and his finger moves over the rifle again. Every second dragging. The house is still quiet. Too quiet. It’s only a matter of time now.

19:06

The radio crackles, and Smith glances at Murray, the second-hand guy still fumbling with the gear. Fucking hell. It's past 7, and Ghost's still not moving. No one's seen John in a few minutes either, and it’s just dragging on. Smith can feel the shift in the air- the kind that comes with a job that’s starting to sour.

Then the radio crackles again. He takes the receiver and holds it close.

“Smith, you there?”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s up?” He answers, even though it’s obvious.

Coleman’s voice comes through—sharp, irritated, distant. “I’m sick of this. We don’t have time for games. Take them both. Don’t care how, just get it done.”

Smith freezes, hand tightening on the radio. Even Finch and Daly have stopped their yapping, heads craned to listen with furrowed brows.

“The Boss said-” Smith’s voice trails off as he hears Coleman’s order again, more blunt this time. He lets out a breath, and the weight of it settles in.

Take them both. Ghost and John. All in one go.

He nods, unsure how to even approach it. “Fuckin’ hell.”

Murray just shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “Can’t be serious. He said both?” Most of the van's packed full of cleanup supplies. Tarp, more glove than you could count, acids and bleaches and bucket-fulls of nameless powders. There's a few rifles, sure, but not enough for five of them. Not even camo, and Finch is wearing that bright red hoodie Daly swore he'd burn if he saw again.

Smith’s eyes flick to the treeline, where they last saw Ghost when he'd got up to take a piss. He knows the guy’s still out there, hiding in the trees, but this? This is different. This is moving off-book.

But orders are orders.

“You heard him,” Smith says, quiet but steady. “Get your shit together. We’re going in. Dark. Ellis, leave your fuckin' phone behind. No torches, radios off. The man's a trained operative."

The boys all nod reluctantly, checking their gear again, as if trying to figure out the best way to go about it. Smith’s already plotting the route. They’ll head in from the back- no need to make a scene at the front.

“Any idea where The Ghost's at?” Finch asks, breaking the silence as they make their way toward the woods.

“Far as I know, he’s still in the trees. But who the hell knows now,” Smith mutters, glancing back to the treeline. The hitman's been out of sight for a while. The waiting game never sat well with Smith, but Ghost? The guy is cool under pressure. Too cool.

Then, another thought creeps in. What if Ghost's got other plans? Maybe he’s just waiting for a reason to leave- pulling out, cutting his losses.

But no. No. Coleman gave the order, and that’s all that matters.

Smith moves through the woods like he’s done a thousand times, barely making a sound as he’s learned to step over twigs and rocks. Murray's a bit shakier, more nervous, but that’s to be expected. It’s his first time on a gig gone astray, and he’s got the jittery hands to prove it. It's lucky they even had rifles packed, and not just their sidearms. Just an in and out clean-up job. Fat luck of that happening, these days.

The air’s colder now, the sky dimming into evening. It’s past seven, and the shadows are long. March weather still bites, but it’s that stillness in the air that has Smith’s senses tingling. They’re close. Real close. They’ve got Ghost in the trees ahead, behind the house, and the kid’s out of sight, but they know he’s there. Somewhere.

They’re moving in for the kill. One shot. Just one clean shot to take out Ghost, and then John will be no problem. The guy’s just a civilian. He’s not even a threat.

But it’s slow going. The brush here is thick. There’s a lot of debris underfoot, dead leaves, brittle bones, broken branches. Too much noise to make for a clean approach.

Ellis, the rookie, is trailing behind. He’s too eager, too loud, eyes only on the house instead of at his feet. His boots are scraping over the ground, and the last thing Smith wants is for them to make any noise. They need to be quiet, like ghosts. Especially if Ghost is still in the trees watching. The guy’s good at spotting movement.

Smith looks over his shoulder, catching Ellis’s eye. The kid’s sweating. His fingers twitching on the handle of his peashooter.

“Keep it down,” Smith hisses under his breath. “You wanna blow this?”

Ellis shakes his head quickly, but it’s already too late.

A branch snaps. A sharp crack that cuts through the air like a gunshot. Ellis freezes, foot on a thick damp-rotted branch, his wide eyes darting to Smith. Smith curses under his breath, head snapping up.

“Shit,” Finch mutters, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Doesn't even try to console the rookie.

Smith’s hand tightens around the radio, but he doesn’t say anything yet. That mistake has already put them on edge, and that’s enough to make him wary. He knows how The Ghost operates. The guy will be methodical, cold. He won’t be caught off guard, not in an area he's been prowling for the best part of a week.

The rookie’s fingers are shaking now, and the air feels thicker. Slowly, he lifts his foot off the branch. A beat of silence hangs between them before Smith speaks again, voice clipped, low. “We keep moving. No fucking around.”

They push forward, but it’s not the same now. There’s no quiet, no stealth. Every crack of a twig, every shift in the leaves makes them feel louder, like they’ve already been spotted.

Smith’s eyes flick to Murray, who’s got his rifle raised, but there’s a hesitation in his movements. No one says it, but they all know. Simon knows they’re coming. It’s just a matter of how much longer they’ve got before things go south.

"You see Ghost, you take the shot. I don't need any fuckin' hesitation. Not now."

They move faster now, pushing through the trees, trying to close the distance, but it’s not the same. The tension’s thick enough to cut. Smith’s mind races as the shadows around them close in, tight and suffocating in these dense woods.

19:14

The silencer clicks into place, a sharp snap breaking through the quiet. Simon doesn’t blink. The weight of the rifle is familiar in his hands, the cold metal fitting into the contours of his grip.

He’s waiting.

But the plan was clear: cleanup moves in after he’s taken the shot. Not before.

They're here for him.

He hears it first- a crack of a branch somewhere ahead. Too heavy-footed for a fox. Not a deer either. The kind of sound you can’t miss, even at this distance.

His eyes flick to the scope, adjusting it automatically, scanning the treeline. Nothing yet. John's in the right-side upstairs window, already in his sleep clothes, thumbing bored through a book in a cushioned armchair.

The glint of red laser cuts through the dark like a warning. He catches it just as it blinks out, some fool fumbling with it in the darkness. Stupid. He'd rolled with these guys twice before, hated them the most out of all of Coleman's contacts. Too brash, too cocky- even the two rookies, who've been in the game less than a year.

By the time they split up, it's clear they've abandoned all attempts at being quiet.

He spots Finch, slinking around the back of the house with Murray a few steps ahead, too far off to realize that Finch’s movements have become more erratic. They don’t know it, but Finch is already out of play. A clean shot, a fast fall, and Murray continues up towards the embankment, sights set on Simon though he's unaware.

Pop. Murray's an easy one to put down- big head, bald and stout. Hardly even flinches as the bullet lodges right though one eye. It leaves Ellis, Daly and Smith. Easy, when the time comes to it.

Simon adjusts his position, lowering himself further into the underbrush. He’s not going anywhere for now. The wind shifts slightly, and in the distance, he sees movement.

A flash of Ellis’s outline. He’s already making his way around the east side, presumably heading toward the porch. Must've had orders to take John. His footsteps are careless- too loud- and his rifle’s sling is scraping against his radio like he's banging pots and pans. Dumb, but still dangerous.

He adjusts the rifle again, recalibrating as he watches. They’re all too close now. Too many mistakes. It doesn’t matter who Simon hits first- it just matters that he hits.

Ellis climbs the porch, foot catching on one of the rotted steps before he rights himself.

Shit.

Simon’s lips tighten into a thin line. Ellis doesn’t know what John’s capable of, but Simon does. Ex-military. Likely still has his service weapon, if there's any sense about him. Even with a little alcohol in him, he’s a threat.

As Ellis edges closer to the door, Simon’s finger hovers over the trigger, but he waits. He watches the shadows outside, feeling the air close in.

But he stays still. No rush.

He tracks Ellis. The younger man’s footfalls grow louder, but he’s moving too fast. The distraction is enough for Simon to breathe easier- he doesn’t have to worry about this particular idiot yet.

The cleanup crew is closing in. Every sound they make is a clue. Every wrong step is an opportunity. But the longer they take, the more Simon’s patience wears thin.

19:20

There's someone in the house.

There's someone in the house.

John doesn't hear the footsteps, but he knows. Call it instinct, muscle memory- but that's certainly not Nana with a plate of fresh shortbread.

It’s been a minute since he’s felt the weight of the M1911, but it fits in his hand like it always did. He hasn’t held it right since the forces- he hasn’t needed to. But here, in the moment, everything falls into place. The safety's off with a smooth click as he checks the chamber.

It’s easy. Natural. No real panic, just that creeping sense of muscle-settlement, his body falling back into the rhythm of what he used to know.

He’s halfway down the stairs when the man bangs around in the kitchen. God, he thanks whatever’s left in the universe for the maze this house is. Too many walls torn down, too many odd little rooms that make no sense. Not even he knows how to navigate it all- couldn’t guess the floor plan himself.

But this guy? Sounds like a fucking rookie. Or maybe just unprepared. Doesn’t matter. John’s already in that headspace- squared shoulders, deep breaths.

The pistol at his side feels solid. Like it'll save him, maybe. Or at least give him a shot.

The noise is moving into the hallway now, too loud, too messy for someone who knows what they’re doing. That’s good. He likes it messy.

Last step, and then he's rounding the corner, just in time to see the intruder slip down into the cellar.

Too fuckin' easy. Dead end, besides, even if the man were to get a hit in on him.

He closes in quick, quiet, willing the floorboards into silence with pure luck as he slips through the doorway.

The man is down in the next minute.

Managed to get a hit on John when the floorboards creaked- third step down, like fucking clockwork- and the kid lunged. Got a few shallow scrapes in from a measly pocket knife, before John got a bullet through his chest- center mass, and another in his brain for good measure.

He stares at the corpse of the man for a bit. Can't will himself to move, after its done. The possibility of more hostiles treads the back of his brain muddy like a caged dog, but he still doesn't move. His eyes are open, striking green in the faint light spilling through the open cellar door.

Just a kid.

He's killed kids before. All over; ones that spoke other languages, ones that spoke his too well. It's jarring, though, on his own property. On a quiet night, on a lifeless day.

He didn't think four years would make such a difference when it came to pulling the trigger.

It takes three more minutes before John moves. Slips back up the steps and into the kitchen, makes peace with the fact that it was likely a kid who got too boisterous. Was wealding a gun, but...

What will he do?

John takes a sip of the vodka-lemonade he'd been nursing late afternoon, steadying his breath. His nerves are raw from the adrenaline, but the alcohol helps, dulls it just a bit. He’s still standing there in the kitchen, mind caught on the dead body of the kid who broke into his house. No real grief, not yet. The reality of it still hasn’t sunk in. There might still more coming. He isn’t stupid.

There's a figure at the door.

He blinks, blinks again, is convinced he's seeing things. He didn't hear the man appear, didn't see the blur of movement in his peripheries.

It's like something out of a fever dream. He freezes for a second, unsure if he's seeing things through the faint haze of inebriation. The man's tall, wide like an ox and dressed down in dark colours. Hoodie. Jeans. Balaclava. Gun in the waistband, likely. Trying to play innocent; doe eyes but wolf's fur.

John’s heart skips, and instinct kicks in- before he even thinks about it, his hand is gripping the pistol again.

He raises it, steadying his aim on the bloke, heart pounding like it’s ready to break free of his ribs. A breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t have time to second-guess.

The man freezes too, but not in a startled way- more observational. Slow, as his gaze trails down John's body to the pistol he once was keeping neatly out of view, and then back up to his face. Vaguely unimpressed. His eyes are half-lidded, almost bored, like it's just another day on the job. It rattles John to his core.

The barrel of John’s gun wavers slightly, but he doesn’t pull the trigger. His voice cracks, sharp and tense.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

The man doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he steps into the doorway, eyes scanning the room with the precision of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. When his eyes settle on John's blood-stained clothes, his face shifts, like a brief flicker of recognition.

John's grip tightens, his trigger finger itching. But he’s still staring at him- waiting for him to explain. He can’t figure it out, can't make sense of this whole situation. The man doesn't look like a fucking cop. And he's definitely not someone John has any reason to trust.

“I-” the man begins, but his voice is bored, like he can't even bothered afford the decency of explaining the situation. He pauses. His gaze flicks to the gun, back to John. “You need to get out. They were after both of us.” It's like he knows how unbelievable it sounds. How weird.

John isn’t hearing him. His mind's still racing, trying to reconcile the figure in front of him with the chaos that’s suddenly unfolded in the last twenty minutes. They? Us? What the fuck? The man must be in some kind of delusion. John's never seen him before in his life.

The bloke steps forward just a little, barely noticeable, but John sees it- the guy's foot shifts and the softest rustle of movement follows. He’s more dangerous than he looks, no doubt about it. Too calm, too controlled.

"Take it easy," the man continues, more forcefully this time. "You're not in danger from me. But you will be if you don’t trust me right now. You're a liability."

John laughs, short and tight, and it’s not funny at all. He lowers the gun slightly but doesn’t let go of it. It’s still there, close to his side, ready for whatever. His pulse is too fast. He’s not used to this.

“Why the fuck would I trust you?”

The man looks down at the gun in John's hands, then back to his eyes. His own narrow as if he’s trying to gauge whether John even understands the gravity of the situation.

“Because I just killed the rest of your attackers. And you were next on their list,” he says, voice cold but blunt. “You weren’t supposed to be part of this. I was supposed to kill you. Plan changed. So either you get your arse into gear, or you die.”

John’s mind races. He doesn’t know what to do with that. Part of him wants to pull the trigger and make sure none of this is real- make it all stop. But another part of him, the part that’s always felt the weight of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, trusts that maybe he's right. That maybe this man is his best fighting chance. He'd caught those men outside the barn, a few days back. Had almost cleared it from his mind- the lingering glances, rough voices and rougher actions as they'd prowled down the gravel. Maybe the kid had been one of them.

It’s too late now.

“Who the fuck are you?” John asks, the question barely above a whisper.

The bloke's face hardens slightly, and he shifts his weight. “You don’t need to know. But I’m not your enemy. A few days back, you saw something you shouldn't have. Faces. Right here, on your land."

The room feels smaller now, closing in around them. John’s eyes flick to the door, his mind going through the motions of escape. But where? Out the back? Through the window?

John exhales slowly, dropping his gun hand down but keeping it close, ready. “You’re really gonna help me? After all this?”

The man nods, just once. “I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to get us out. Whether you trust me or not.”

A beat of silence hangs between them, thick and heavy. John doesn’t trust him. Hell, he doesn’t trust anyone anymore. But what other chance has he got? Try to kill the man? Run and hope he doesn't get hunted down?

Finally, John speaks, his voice sharp with an edge of disbelief. “So, what now?”

The man tilts his head toward the stairs, eyes flicking over the stillness of the house. "Pack a bag. There'll be more men heading in if we don't get going."

John fumbles, setting the gun down on the workspace as his shoulders shake. Everything shakes. What the fuck?

"I don't-"

"Get a fucking move on, mate. Do you think I'm taking the piss?" The man's voice is sharp, eyes steady as he watches John watch him.

"No. I'll-" It's weird. Not being in control. Years ago, this would've been simple. Hands steady, breath calm. In for four, hold, out for four. But John's rattled- undeniably so- and the man in the doorway isn't fucking helping.

Breathe. Move. Not getting anywhere by being stationary.

"You got a name, at least?" He calls over his shoulder, climbing the stairs two at a time. The man is hot on his heels.

"You can call me Ghost."

John snorts, muscles eased slightly as he digs out a duffel bag from the moldy bedroom wardrobe. "Don't think I want to, but alright. I'm-"

"John. I know." Ghost watches him, thumb spinning a knife idly and fuck is that spooky- John hadn't clocked that particular piece when he scoped the man with his eyes.

Not as weird as him knowing John's name.

"Right. Hired to kill me, yeah." He mutters under his breath, almost convinced he's going mental as he tucks another of his warmer jumpers into the duffel, folded military-neat atop an anorak and a fleece.

John spins around, task abandoned as he thumbs with the zip of the bag. "So- why haven't you?"

"Get a move on," Ghost snaps, but it's not as threatening as it should be. He only responds when John makes a show of tucking another old switchblade into one of many of the bag's compartments. "Why haven't I what?"

"Killed me."

"I'm not so good at cleanup, so I've been told," he responds simply. "And, if they find your body but not mine, they're going to double down on the search, and I'm not exactly keen on that. As you can imagine. If we're lucky, they'll see the bodies and think you're spooked. Guilty."

John's hand hovers over a pack of socks, stops. The red's still there, dried stiff into the sleeve. He shoves the shirt deeper into his bag.

"Who's 'they'? The men I saw the other night?" John frowns, back to idly thumbing with the bag's zipper. They're wasting time, he knows this, but for some reason- Ghost lets him stall. They must have more time than he's letting on.

"Sort of. It's.. c'mon, we've gotta go." John shoulders his bag, heads downstairs to start packing some food, cash, his journal, guiltily. "Friends of the guys who were on your land. Dangerous men, but I don't need to tell you that."

John spins around, tin of soup in hand. "And you work for them?"

"Not... this isn't 20 fucking questions. I'm doing you a favour here. Let's get on the road."

John scowls, shoves a pack of trail mix too roughly into a side pocket. "Why should I trust you? How do I know you won't kill me when you get me into your car?"

"Have I tried to kill you so far?" Ghost drawls, tired. "There's your answer. And besides; it's messy. Hang on- is that your card?"

John holds it up for Ghost to see, confused. "Yeah. Why–?"

It's snatched from his hands one moment, and snapped in two in the next. "Hey- what the fuck!"

"Are you daft? You can't use that. Not unless you want to give the guys trying to kill you an easy in on your location."

"You could've said that. You didn't have to go all.. John Wick on me."

Ghost frowns- or, it looks like it, as much as he can see past the skull balaclava. "John Wick."

John zips his bag up, finally, and shoulders it with a cursory glance back at the rest of the house. Sad, a little bit more than he'd like to admit. But he doesn't want to die. Not yet, anyways. "I said what I said."

21:05

Motorway's moving slow for this time of night. He'll have to stop to fuel up soon, but right now traffic's crawling, and Simon eyes the upcoming slip road with something like envy. They'd joined the A9 after crawling out of Auchinloch in a different car, and now have been the A90 north-east for what feels like hours. Probably been only 40 minutes.

Lad's quiet. Probably compartmentalising, now that the adrenaline's worn off. Quieter than he was earlier, when he'd found him; tears in his jumper that he forgot to change before they left, where Ellis had got a few nicks in, likely. Eyes wide. Stance defensive, even if his face sung something like fear.

He'll come around. How long it'll take, Simon's uncertain, but it seems like John's a talker from how there was little Simon could say to get him to back off, stop asking questions. Maybe he was just stalling, trying to save time before he could bolt.

But he didn't. Smart boy. That kind of thinking's what'll keep him alive- if he doesn't become too much of a liability to Simon.

He's not sure when he started considering the man's wellbeing. Well, he wouldn't put it like that, seeing as the lad is more asset than man where Simon stands. He could dump John right here- on the side of the road- leave him for someone else to find and make it overall easier to sort the fuck out of this muddy situation. But he doesn't. John's seen him. Not his face, no- he'd certainly be dead if that was the case- but he's seen Simon. Knows he was hired to kill John, too.

It's a small risk of him phoning the police- that's if Simon had let him go- but it's a risk nonetheless. And Simon doesn't do half-jobs. He doesn't know what he's going to do with John, the more he thinks about it, but he's always been good at improvising on the job, and has managed more dangerous shit with less of a scowl on his face than the one he's sure he's sporting now. He just has to keep a phone away from John, for the time being. Long enough to lull him into something as close to trust as he can manage.

It's shit. Shit situation, shitter job, and an even shitter attempt at a betrayal on Coleman's behalf. Could he even call it that? It's not very Coleman-esque at all, sending the Durham boys in as a weak afterthought, take Simon down as well as John, presumably. Two of the boys had only been in the game for a year, and Smith was in way over his head as far as Simon was aware, from what little he could observe when he met the man a while back.

Must be onto bigger shit. Must have his sights set elsewhere. Must have a better hitman than Simon, by the looks of things- eager to cast him aside like an old toy for something shinier, newer. Must not ask as many questions as Simon. But that's what gets you killed.

He was getting sick of it, anyways. Isn't so eager to murder innocent civilians, despite having probably done so in the past. Is 34 too old to start forming a moral code? Who cares.

John shifts in the passenger side, and Simon's brought briefly back to the present. Glowing taillights ahead, beaming headlights behind. They've made progress up the sliproad, but the traffic lights ahead are certainly doing him a disservice, slow to change over as they are.

There's a rustling off to his left, and then John's holding Simon's sidearm- it'd been resting haphazardly in the middle console, half against the gear stick and half in the ashtray. Glock 17. Swanky, custom piece that he commissioned years ago off an old friend as an overdue favour. It's a matte black, small SAS logo embellishing the side of the grip, guilty little feature Nik had slipped in, despite Simon's refusal. It's reliable, gets the job done. Looks natural in John's hand, oddly enough.

"You were in the Forces?"

His hand has found the insignia, thumbing it with quiet attention, shoulders tucked up and neck folded down into the collar of the jumper, as wide an worn-in as it is.

"Mh-hm. Special Air Service." The light changes green, and Simon begins the slow crawl upwards, before red takes over once more and everything is stock-still, cars subtly shifting as they brake again. He doesn't mind offering this small-talk to John, if it'll get him to ease up a bit. Make this overall journey more endurable.

"Well, shit. I never went Special, but.." John's voice is filled with a small amount of awe, like he's reluctant to offer Simon that much. "I was going to. Medical discharge. My CO had put the papers though, and all."

He doesn't tell him that he knows all of this, that he'd read it sometime during Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday, all the days a congealed blur of the farmhouse and that shitty Travelodge. Doesn't need to.

It shocks Simon that John's even talking at all, and not about the situation at hand, at that. Brave, though his hands still shake as he handles his sidearm, clicking the safety on and off as an idle fidget.

"Mm. That's rough. What happened?" Simon tries his hardest not to make his voice sound bored. Maybe he is a little interested to hear the reason from the source, but certainly not enough to outweigh the distaste for the sob-story he's likely about to receive.

"Fucked my knee up. Building fell while I was inside- someone detonated too early, or something like that. Egypt."

Hm. Simon scratches his jaw idly, stubble itching against the balaclava he's got on. Hasn't had the chance to switch to a cotton one during all this mess, and it's not nearly a top priority right now. But really, he's starting to forget what is.

He grunts in response, shifting into first gear before he finally makes it past the traffic lights, joining a dual carriageway headed somewhere. Should pick up a map- if he remembers- when he stops for petrol.

John sets the handgun back down, fingers now busying with a loose thread on his joggers. Idle hands. He'd tell the boy to cut it out, if he was sure he wouldn't lose his nerve again. "How long did you serve?"

Fucking hell. Maybe he does regret entertaining John's curiosity, because this is getting unnecessary. He tilts his head, aiming to flatten John with a shut up sort of look, but all he finds is tired but inquisitive eyes already on his.

"'Til I was thirty."

"30? Wait- how old are you now?"

Simon grunts, hitting the indicater to turn off at a junction. The car cruises easily, and it must be fairly new- he hadn't gotten a good look at it between tracking it down- isolated enough- and doing a shitty job at hotwiring that had John fixing his mess.

"That's enough questions, don't you think? Maybe you should sleep."

"You're old, aren't you? That's why you're all.. snippy." John grins, pointy canine catching on his bottom lip like a dog before it tucks away again, grin slipping- a little disheartened, if Simon could be so bold- when Simon doesn't humour him.

Simon doesn't respond. Already annoyed, already regretting ever opening his mouth. He's doing John a service here, so it's not like he's obliged to talk to him. Not that Simon has ever been particularly bothered with social standards. He lifts his eyes briefly from the road to level John with a small glare, and that settles him neatly. Just a little rough around the edges, the boy is. The way you get after years of discharge, if you let yourself go enough.

Simon didn't. Isn't sure he ever could, not that he plans on it.

He indicates despite there being no-one behind when he spots a Texaco sign glaring some meters out, and slows to turn in as he hears John speak up.

"Can I come in?"

Jesus Christ. He must think Simon is thick. He slows the car into park next to a pump, hand on the door as he slides out with a mocking "No. Look after the car."

John bristles, but Simon's already stepping out, the door swinging shut between them. He hears the dull thunk of John unlocking it almost immediately. Christ. Kid's not subtle.

By the time Simon rounds the bonnet toward the pumps, he hears John's voice, clear through the half-open window.

"You think I'm gonna run, or something?"

Simon doesn't look at him. Doesn't break stride. "Don't care what you do. Just don't be stupid."

He leans on the pump handle, notes rustling as he jabs them into the slot. Petrol fumes hit him sharp, heady, but John's still carrying on behind him.

"I'm not stupid," John mutters, more to himself than anything. "Just don't fancy myself a sitting duck, s'all."

Simon squeezes the handle harder than necessary, watches the numbers climb. "You'll live."

Silence, for a moment. Then the door opens. Slams. Footsteps crunching across the forecourt behind him.

Simon exhales slowly through his nose.
"You deaf, or just thick?" he says, low and sharp.

Simon glances at him finally. John’s standing there, arms crossed over his chest, still wearing that ratty jumper with the tears in it, small drips of blood in half-assed blotches, cuts drying over before they could really form. Still looking like he might bolt if Simon so much as twitches wrong. They'll start getting looks, if Simon doesn't sort this out.

"You want to go?" Simon says, almost conversational. "Go."

He jerks his chin toward the dark stretch of road beyond the station. "Plenty of good places to die out there."

John's mouth opens, shuts. His jaw flexes like he's working up to something bigger. But then he shoves his hands deep into his pockets instead and stalks back toward the car without another word.

Simon watches him go, waits for the door to slam again, then turns back to the pump, the number ticking past fifty quid. Maybe it's a mistake, dragging the lad along. Maybe he's already made too many mistakes tonight.

Doesn't matter. What's done is done.

Simon pockets the receipt without looking at it and heads inside to pay.

23:56

John’s thumb slides absently over the map, tracing a line between two towns, his finger slipping off the edge of the paper every few seconds. He hasn’t looked at Ghost since he'd thrust the thing into his lap like a command. His eyes are bleary, and the map’s not helping- it’s not like there’s anything to really see out here anyway, just road after road, empty as the air between them. Doesn't help that he's without his reading glasses, either.

Ghost's hands grip the wheel with more tension than necessary. He shifts gears with the faintest hint of irritation, every sound louder than it should be in the silence.

They’re still on the A90, the road ahead dipping and winding in long, monotonous stretches. If the night weren’t so dead, John might've noticed the occasional flicker of headlights in his mirrors. As it stands, all he can focus on is the glow of the dashboard.

“There's a safehouse up north,” Ghost mutters, his voice low and gravelly, almost lost to the hum of the engine. He doesn’t look at John, but he doesn’t need to. The words just hang there, heavy.

John doesn’t respond right away, his thumb still brushing against the map without purpose. He’s trying to figure out why Ghost is telling him this now, in the middle of nowhere, at nearly midnight, with nothing but a pilfered car and a half-busted plan to get them through.

“Not a safehouse, exactly.” Ghost glances over at him then, lazy suggestion of exhaustion in his eyes. “I’ve used it once. Two years ago. Might be someone else’s bolt-hole by now. We won’t knock. But we can’t keep moving like this. We get there, we reassess. Tomorrow morning, if we’re lucky.”

John nods without thinking. He knows Ghost's right, but the idea of a “safehouse” built on whatever flimsy intel Ghost has only settles a fresh knot in his stomach. There’s no real plan. No backup. Nothing more than Ghost's word for it. But he’s not about to argue. Not now.

“Sounds good,” John says, though it tastes like surrender. Might as well be flipping a coin. Heads, they get shot. Tails, they freeze to death in whatever ratbox Ghost is banking on.

Ghost is still watching the road, his hands steady on the wheel. John feels the tension in the air, thick enough to slice. Maybe it’s the silence, or maybe it’s just the constant movement, but John can feel the weight of being stuck in this car. Stuck with Ghost.

Ghost flicks his eyes to the rearview again, then back to the road. “You need to sleep. There’s nothing to see out here.”

John shakes his head, though he knows it’s pointless. “I’m fine.”

“Right. You’re fine.” Ghost's tone is sarcastic but not cruel. “It's not like you're doing any good with the directions, anyways."

John glances down at the map, which has now folded into itself in a heap of creases. He can’t even focus on it anymore.

He rubs a hand over his face, feeling the stubble that’s starting to grow in- itchy and unfamiliar. His eyes burn. He should sleep. He wants to sleep.

He wants to sleep, but he doesn’t like the idea of Ghost being the one awake while he isn’t. There’s trust, and then there’s foolishness.

John fidgets in his seat, half turning toward the man. “What about you?”

Ghost shrugs, his hands still tight on the wheel. “I’ll be fine.”

John knows that answer means nothing. He’s been fine before, in the worst situations. He doesn’t need to ask Ghost to explain, doesn’t need the usual shrug or the ‘don’t worry about me’ routine. It’s enough to know it’s probably true.

After a moment, Ghost lets out a low breath, like he's made a decision. “You sleep. I’ll drive.”

"That a threat?"

Ghost glances at him. "Only if you keep asking questions."

John hesitates, looking out the side window at the blur of dark landscape passing by. His throat’s dry, his body stiff from sitting so long. It's easier to say yes, easier to lean back against the seat, his head slipping against the worn fabric.

“Alright,” he mutters, pulling his jumper tighter around himself. “Wake me in an hour."

Ghost doesn’t respond to that. Just flicks on the indicator and takes the turn onto a smaller road with a bit more speed, and a bit less streetlights. John doesn’t even bother checking the map again. His eyes feel too heavy to keep them open. The engine hums like a lullaby. Or maybe like a warning- something repetitive, dull enough to lower your guard.

The last thought he has before he lets the darkness take him is just how fucking weird this is. That’s all.

Chapter Text

Saturday: 06:09

It’s surprising how fast those military-honed instincts fade, if you let them. Let go. Build a life that doesn’t hinge on watchfulness. Start thinking in terms of weekends and appointments, not exits and angles.

John's living proof of that. Beside Simon; head lolled back awkwardly against the leather upholstery of the rest, hands loose and limp in his lap, trainers toed off in the footwell. Only defensive part of him is his legs, knees angled half-away from Simon in slumber, though he's not sure even that's entirely deliberate.

Simon hadn’t expected him to sleep. He’d told him to- offhand, half to shut him up- but hadn't meant it. Civilians don't sleep easy in stolen cars, after shootouts, next to the man who was sent to kill them. But John had. Had had been fidgeting nonstop- foot bouncing, chewing a nail down to the quick, fogging up the window with his silence. And Simon needed to think. Needed quiet.

And John had been good, once. Simon knows his record. Sergeant, Air Force. Young to rank up, the kind of career that usually ends in someone else’s obituary. Demolitions. Deployment after deployment in places nobody officially admits to being. Medals. Commendations. The kind of person you’d expect to keep his head.

So, he figured John would resist. Sit upright out of pride or paranoia. Instead, he'd folded like a paper thing, asleep before the hour turned. Fitful, sure. But two, maybe three hours under his belt, stirred only by hunger and the blaring of a horn when Simon had drifted too close to someone on the motorway, sleep dulling usually watchful senses.

It surprised Simon- not only that he slept, but how easily. Not with resistance, but with something worse- resignation. Not fear, not compliance, just a sort of exhausted acceptance. Like he already knew the score.

And maybe Simon's being a little harsh. Clearly, the lad had been spooked- was getting ready for bed and instead was met by a man clattering about his house, wielding a gun- and with no obvious reason about it, too. Had killed him there and then, too- so he's clearly not stupid. Just.. weird. Unfamiliar. Had nearly shot Simon, when he finally made it to the house, but didn't. Another unanswered question.

Simon had been close to killing John.

He'd stood there in the doorway, sidearm in his waistband, breath stilling in his lungs, and thought: It would be so easy. But learning how to deal with mess is a problem Simon's never gotten around to fixing, and John didn't seem like the reason to start.

Killing John would’ve solved the immediate problem, but left a bigger one behind: questions, clean-up, more heat. Letting him go would’ve been worse. Unpredictable. Uncontrolled.

So he waited. Let the moment pass. Let the plan shift and buckle, because the lad didn’t scream. Didn’t run. Didn’t even beg. Just stared at him, like maybe there was still a chance of walking away.

So Simon kept him. Like he might keep an unpinned grenade- dangerous, but only if he looks away too long.

John’s unpredictable, but not irredeemable. Manageable, if Simon keeps close. If he doesn’t let him out of reach. And that, Simon’s always been good at- managing things. Containing problems.

John’s a variable now. One Simon can manage. Letting him go would be unpredictable. Killing him would be wasteful. This- this is control.

Simon’s good at control. And for now, that’s reason enough.

07:12

The sky starts greying out around the edges like a bruised eye, low clouds thick and colorless, light bleeding in slow and stingy. John wakes to it, not all at once but in stages- the stiffness in his neck first, then the cold of the car creeping into his spine, the smell of cheap leather and road dust hanging in his nose. His mouth tastes like sleep, bitter and dry. He doesn't open his eyes yet.

The car’s engine is still running, low and even, a soft thrum that vibrates through the seat. They’re not moving. That’s the first thing he notices. No swing of turns, no climb in speed. Just idle.

Ghost is still behind the wheel, one hand resting lazily at twelve o'clock, the other curled around the gear stick. His posture hasn’t changed, except for the tight set of his shoulders- slightly looser now, like arriving here has knocked something out of him. Or maybe into him.

John shifts upright, pushing his hand back through his hair. It's greasy with sweat and pillowless sleep. His neck protests with a dull ache. The car windows are fogged around the edges from breath and damp, offering only a suggestion of trees outside- dark pines and leafless birch.

“This it?” he asks, voice hoarse from disuse.
Ghost doesn't answer. Just kills the engine, lets the silence spill in like water, like that's explanation enough.

John doesn’t trust that answer, not really. But he nods anyway and reaches down to pull his trainers back on, wincing at the pins and needles screaming through his ankles. There’s a silent exhaustion that screams behind his eyes, the kind that goes bone-deep. Not just lack of sleep- something more. Something slower.

They don’t talk as Ghost kills the engine and opens his door. The cold hits immediately, sharp and damp. The smell of pine and wet earth rushes in with it. John follows, his knees locking as he unfolds himself from the passenger seat, boots crunching softly on the gravel drive.

The house is small, squat, half-swallowed by overgrowth. Moss thickens the edges of the slate roof, and one of the windows has a hairline crack spidering through the glass. It doesn’t look like much, but John knows enough to recognise the quiet design of purpose: isolated, angled toward the trees, stone thick enough to deaden sound. One road in. No lights.

“Used to belong to a guy I worked with,” Ghost says. “Dead now.”

John glances sideways at him. “Sorry," he mutters, half-sarcastic and wholly uninterested.

Ghost doesn’t react. Just steps up to the door, metal key already in hand. “Don’t be. He was a prick.”

There’s a short silence as the lock gives with a stubborn click. The door swings open on a groan of hinges, and they step into cold.

Inside, it’s dust and dark and the ghost of cigarette smoke. The hallway yawns open, narrow and wood-floored, lined with a row of coat hooks and the long-gone suggestion of someone’s life. There’s a pair of boots by the wall, scuffed down to the leather. A broken umbrella. A fuse box with the cover hanging off by one hinge.

John stands in the threshold for a moment, unsure of where to put himself.

Ghost drops the bags by the door and checks the windows one by one, fingers quick and methodical on the blinds. The ritual of it is almost comforting, in a way John wishes it wasn’t. Familiar. Professional, in a way that makes him feel like he's just stumbled into a half-formed trap orchestrated by the man who was supposed to kill him.

John sinks down into one of the chairs, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. He feels wrung out. Used up. Like he’s been rinsed through and left out to dry. His thoughts don’t move right. They slip and turn without settling on anything real.

Ghost finishes his check and doesn’t speak right away. He stands in the middle of the room like he’s measuring something.

“We stay here today,” he says eventually. “Rest. Eat. Regroup.”

John lifts his head. “And then what?”

Ghost's eyes flick to him. “Then we move.”

“Right.” He exhales slowly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Great plan.”

“I don’t have a better one,” Ghost says simply.

John doesn’t argue. Because he doesn’t either.

They spend the next hour in silence, moving like ghosts in someone else’s life. John finds a can of beans in the cupboard and eats them cold with a spoon, sitting cross-legged on the floor like he’s twenty again and halfway through a deployment. Ghost disappears upstairs for a bit and comes back damp from a sink wash, balaclava dark with damp where his hair is. He tosses a towel in John's direction without a word and a look that screams you smell worse than you'd think.

By midmorning, the adrenaline has finally worn off enough to leave space for the rest of it—grief, confusion, fear. John feels it all settling into the hollows of him. He watches Ghost from the far end of the room, the way he paces like a man too used to tight spaces, too used to danger curling at the edge of his vision.

He doesn’t look like a killer, not exactly. Not now. Just someone pared down to the barest bones of function.
John doesn’t trust him, but reluctantly, a small part of him does. Part of him has to.

He shifts in the arm chair he settled in a half-hour ago, wincing at the way his back protests. The adrenaline’s well and truly gone now, leaving everything feeling heavier. Slower. The cold is seeping in through the stone floor, numbing his feet through the rubber soles of his trainers.

Ghost’s crouched by the duffel bag now, hands moving with mechanical precision as he checks through supplies. Not hurried, not sloppy. Efficient. Like he’s done this a thousand times and expects to do it a thousand more. The same motion over and over until the world forgets his shape.

John watches him for a moment too long. Clears his throat.

“So,” he says, “got any other surprises waiting for us? Traps in the woods? Claymores under the porch? Spare passports tucked in the cistern?”

Ghost doesn’t look up. “No.”

John rubs a hand over his face. “You’re a real comfort, you know that?”

That gets him a glance- brief, flat. Not even annoyed. Just measuring.

John leans forward, elbows braced on his knees again, same as before. “You always this good with people?”

There’s a pause. A heartbeat and a half.

Then: “People aren’t usually my problem.”

The words hang there. Not a threat. Not exactly. But they shift the air in the room, just enough to feel like a warning if you’re looking for one. John doesn’t flinch. Just nods once, like that settles something.

“Fair,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

Ghost goes back to his methodical rummaging, like the moment hadn’t even happened. Like none of this is strange, or like maybe he's done this more times than John could imagine.

John exhales sharply, scrubbing both hands over his face. The cold, the stillness, the not-knowing - it’s starting to itch under his skin.

"You know what I don’t get?" he says, voice low but sharp-edged. "You’re clearly good at this. The whole dead-eyed mercenary bit. Efficient. Clean. But you didn’t pull the trigger."

Ghost doesn’t respond, still bent over the duffel, repacking a box of ammo with mechanical focus.

John keeps going. "You had your shot. A clean one. And then you just… what? Changed your mind? I don't believe that shit about mess. You've had more chances to kill me than fingers to count them, since."

Ghost zips the bag shut with a controlled pull, slow and deliberate. "Timing changed. That’s all."

"Bullshit," John snaps, the word quick and brittle. "That’s not timing. That’s a choice."

A pause. Ghost stands. Looks at him, but doesn’t say anything.

"And don’t act like it didn’t cost you," John says, getting to his feet now, pacing just to burn the heat building in his chest. "You let me live, and your boss- or whoever the fuck- sent his whole bloody pack of dogs after us. You made that call."

Ghost shrugs, maddeningly calm. “Not my boss. And it is better than leaving a mess.”

"Oh yeah? Well, it looks pretty fucking messy from where I’m standing." He throws out a hand, gesturing to the cracked windows, the cold, the empty house that smells like someone else’s life rotting in the walls. "I had a life. I had plans. And now I’m some loose end in a country I barely recognise anymore, with you as my babysitter."

"You’re alive."

"And whose fault is it I nearly wasn’t?"

That should land like a slap- but Ghost doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

John laughs, bitter. "Jesus. You knew I was innocent, didn't you?"

Ghost doesn’t answer.

"Don’t look so surprised. I’m not stupid. I walked in on something I wasn’t meant to see. That’s why I’m here, yeah? That’s why they want me gone?"

"Yeah," Ghost says. Quiet. Flat.

John stops pacing. Stares at him. "That it? That’s all you’ve got for me?"

Ghost's jaw works for a second before he replies. "You came at the wrong time. Saw faces you weren’t meant to. Coleman doesn’t like uncertainty."

John blinks, files the name away for later. "So he sends you."

Ghost nods.

"And you just do it? No questions?"

Another pause. Then, "That’s the job."

John stares at him for a long moment, breath catching in the back of his throat.

"You're a fucking prick, you know that?"

Ghost doesn’t rise to it. He’s gone still again- not passive, but composed in that eerie, careful way that makes John feel like he’s speaking to a locked door.

"I’m not your friend," he says eventually. "I’m not here to make you feel better about it."

"Don’t worry," John mutters. "You’re doing a bang-up job of that already."

The silence that follows is thick. Ugly.

John sinks back into the chair like the argument pulled the air out of him. Rakes a hand through his hair.

“So what now?” he says, quieter. "We sit here till they burn us out? Hope your ex-mates don’t have a better plan than you do?"

Ghost glances at the window. The grey light's gone harsher, flattening the trees into silhouettes.

“We stay ahead,” he says. “That’s the only plan.”

John leans back, eyes closed, voice raw. “Brilliant. Sounds foolproof.”

Ghost doesn’t reply. But his shoulders are tense again. That flicker of unease is back. And John sees it, finally- not fear, exactly, but doubt. Like even the man with all the answers is still waiting for the ground to drop out from under them.

13:21

There’s a certain kind of stillness in the woods that makes movement obvious- the kind that amplifies anything out of place. John stands in the narrow kitchen with a chipped mug in hand, lukewarm piss masquerading as coffee inside, staring out through the tiny pane of smeared glass above the sink. The trees are bare-boned silhouettes, rattling with a light wind. No birdsong. No distant dogs.

Then: movement. A glint of sunlight catching on a windscreen, just visible between two trees. A car. Nondescript. Small. Grey, maybe silver. It rolls past slowly on the single-track road, tyres whispering over the wet gravel. John sees it just long enough to clock the boxy shape, a scrape of rust near the front wheel. Then it’s gone, swallowed by the bend in the lane.

He doesn't think much of it- at first. Just a local. A farmer. A lost tourist.

But ten minutes later, it comes again. Same direction. Same sluggish pace. Slower, if anything. The car doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull in. Just cruises by like it belongs there, and something in John's chest itches.

He sets the mug down. Walks to the front room, pretending to stretch, to pace, to shake out the stiffness in his back. There's a narrow slit in the curtains there. Just enough to look out without being seen.

Nothing, for now. The woods are still.

Ghost's got his head tilted against the back of the settee, eyes shut in what must be his first bout of sleep in over a day. John watches him a second before speaking.

"That car’s gone past twice now,” he says.

Ghost looks up, blinking. “What car?”

“Grey hatchback. Boxy shape. Didn’t catch the plates. First time, I figured it was nothing. Second time, it slowed.” He doesn't say too much. He knows how that sounds. Knows Ghost is likely the one used to being paranoid on schedule. "Can't ride on coincidence."

Ghost is still, for a moment. Then he stands, strides over, peels the curtain back an inch and glances out like he already knows what he’ll see. Nothing, of course. But the shift in his weight says he’s listening now.

“You sure it’s the same one?” Ghost asks, voice low.

“Not a hundred percent,” John says, “but-” He hesitates. “It feels off. The timing. The route. No one local makes that loop twice in ten minutes. It's about the time it takes to perimeter the area, though I doubt I have to tell you that."

Ghost doesn't argue. Just exhales, sharp through the nose. That’s answer enough.

John swallows. His pulse hasn’t quickened yet, but something inside him’s started counting time. Mapping the roads. Remembering the weight of a rifle in his hands and how long it takes to empty a house in silence.

Something old is waking up inside him.

Ghost mutters, “Alright. We’re on a clock.”

13:41

They move out before the hour changes. Packed down to bare bones- just rucksacks dug from the attic- it's light work slipping out through the back of the house and into dense brush bracketing the local surroundings. John kept the map, has drawn a neat little route- approved by Simon- with a nicked biro, that leads them northeast.

Its a nice hike, in all honesty. Wind in your hair, and all that- but it's just past midday and the sky has brightened up a bit, and John's been blissfully quiet since they set off. Makes the odd comment about a bird, or a rock that looks like a rabbit, but he's not nagging like he's gotten so good at over the past however-many-hours.

Simon doesn't ride on the possibility that it was that simple to ditch Coleman. They'd slipped out without fanfare- car had just left to make another circle- and they disappeared, started heading upwards. Through this undulating terrain, it's easy to think you're safe; off-grid, no sound of vehicles though they've only been on it 30 minutes or so. Simon would know if they were being tracked- hunted, rather- now. Nowhere to hide.

Naturally, Simon doesn’t trust silence. Not the quiet of the woods, not the stretch of empty path behind them. He’s learned- violently, repeatedly- that the world doesn’t go quiet unless something’s coming.

But he walks like nothing’s wrong. Doesn’t hunch, doesn’t rush. Just lets his boots chew through the half-frozen peat and pine needles, one careful foot after another. John’s up ahead by a few paces, map folded twice into a square, held like it means something, because Simon knows John's already got the route memorised. And maybe it does. Ex-army or not, the man has decent instincts. Better than Simon last lent credit to so far, at least.

Still. Simon checks his six every so often. Glances off the slope, listens for branches cracking where they shouldn’t, birds going quiet. So far: nothing.

Doesn’t mean anything. Could just mean the thing meant to kill you hasn’t tripped yet.

He adjusts the strap on his shoulder. The rucksack’s packed neat: medkit, two knives, spare balaclava, Glock, gloves, a steel water flask, enough cash to vanish with. And the weight of everything else- the job gone sideways, the faces dead, John still breathing beside him.

They walk.

Simon watches John move, tracks the line of his spine through the jacket, the way his trainers land clean and steady. Filmsy things, although John refused to wear the combat boots Simon had found tucked under the sofa, John's size. The man’s quiet now. Alert. Like something’s ticked over in him too. Not just scared anymore. Aware. Wary. Maybe he’s remembering who he used to be, before flats and laptops and scraping by on half-rate contracts.

Simon recognises that. The snapping-back instinct. It’s how people like them survive long enough to get tired of it.

Still, it’s a nice hike, for what it’s worth. Sun through the high branches. Moss slick on the tree trunks. Air tastes clean, faintly metallic, the way it only does up in the hills. No houses in sight. No power lines. Just a lot of sky and room to run.

They crest a small ridge and pause. John shades his eyes with his hand, looking eastward toward the tree line, where the terrain gets meaner; rocky and craggy before teetering off into a bisecting valley, streams making the sedge and rushes glisten blindingly, caught by midday sun. It's beautiful.

Simon stops beside him. Lets the silence stretch. Watches the rhythm of John's breathing, the subtle tilt of his head. He's scanning for movement. Good. That means he’s listening too.

“Still think it’s paranoia?” Simon says, voice low, could be teasing. Could.

John doesn’t look at him. Just says, “No.”

Simon nods once. That’s all he needed.

His eyes cut toward the horizon. “We keep pace. Two clicks more, then we head east proper. Lose the track.”

John doesn't argue. Just folds the map again and starts walking.

It's getting cold by the time they start to descend the ridge slowly. Slope’s steep enough to command care, but not dangerous- not yet. Simon takes it sideways, knees flexed, letting gravity do the work. John does the same without needing to be told, though it's clear he tries to conceal the way his limp tests his knee.

Halfway down, the treeline thickens. Pines, mostly. Gnarled, old, knotted into one another like the skeleton of something long dead. Simon likes it. Fewer lines of sight, but fewer lines on them too. If someone’s watching, they’ll have to get closer. He’s good at catching things close.

They cross a stream, water cutting fast and shallow over sharp black stone. John steps wrong and gets a foot wet, mutters a curse, and Simon almost smiles. Almost. There's something oddly familiar about the way John takes it without drama- just a grimace and a squelch, and then he’s moving again.

They stop for a water break twenty minutes later, when the incline turns unforgiving. Simon picks a perch against a flat slab of granite and slides the rucksack from his shoulders. John does the same, slower, a soft wince catching in his throat like he’s trying not to show it.

Simon tosses him the flask.

John catches it one-handed, uncaps it with his teeth.

“You’re shit at keeping dry,” Simon says, deadpan.

“Just wanted to test the waterproofing,” John mutters, wiggling his sodden foot. “Spoiler: they lied.”

Simon hums. The edges of his wariness start to round off- not gone, just pressed into a manageable shape. This is how lulls worked, back on an op in an undisclosed country. They feel clean. Untouched. But you watch, anyway.

Still. There's peace here. In the filtered light through tree limbs. The cold tang of metal against the roof of his mouth as he drinks. The scuff of John’s shoe as he adjusts, leans back against the rock beside him like they’ve done this before.

They haven’t, of course. But it’s starting to feel like maybe they could. Maybe.

Simon’s eyes track the canopy for movement. Nothing. Wind, maybe. A raven, a high wheeling hawk. The forest doesn’t seem to notice them.

“You reckon they’re behind us?” John asks, voice low, no urgency in it.

Simon doesn’t answer right away. Just takes another pull of water, screws the cap back on, pulls his mask back down. He turns the flask in his hands, fingers tight around the steel. Then he says, “Yeah.”

John nods.

“Right,” he says, and looks off toward the slope ahead. “Then let’s make it hard for them.”

They walk for a long time.

The light starts to bleed gold around half-five. By six, it’s started to go pink at the edges- soft and slanting, long shadows cutting the forest floor into ribbons. They haven’t stopped again. Simon’s let John set the pace for the last hour, partly to keep an eye on him, and partly to see if the man would flag. He hasn’t.

They’re near the edge of what the map had marked as old forest- more moss, more moisture, denser canopy- but the trees have begun to thin again now, sloping toward a flatter stretch that’ll make decent camp if it holds dry.

Simon does the math in his head. Distance travelled. Calories spent. How much water they’ve got left, how much daylight, how long they could stay hidden without pushing too far east too fast. They’ll need to find a place to hunker down soon. Somewhere with cover, maybe a rock face or a cluster of bracken deep enough to disappear into. Sleep in shifts, wait till first light.

He watches John adjust his straps ahead. His shoulders roll a little too stiffly. He’s sore. That’ll catch up overnight.

Simon’s just about to call a halt when John speaks- out of nowhere, voice low, not strained, not loud.

“My sister probably knows I’m gone, by now.”

Simon doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.

John keeps walking. “She’s got this way of texting me when she’s worried. Just a question mark. Nothing else.”

He huffs, but it’s not quite a laugh.

“She’ll’ve sent five by now.”

Simon listens. Keeps his eyes ahead, scans the treeline, but he’s listening.

“My nan definitely knows,” John adds. “She’s sharp like that. Gets feelings. That's if she hasn't already tried to visit."

Still no answer. The silence, somehow, isn’t cold. It just is.

“I should’ve said something,” John murmurs. “I should’ve-”

“You couldn’t,” Simon says, quiet.

John turns slightly, catches his eye. He doesn’t look surprised that Simon spoke. Just tired. Honest.

“Still,” he says. “They’ll think I ran. Or got into trouble.”

Simon breathes in through his nose. The air’s different now- cooler, crisper. Night coming.

He says, “You did get into trouble.”

John snorts. “Not my trouble, though.”

Simon watches the line of John's jaw, tight with exhaustion. Something about the angle of his face against the sinking sun hits him sideways- bruised and tender, bitter cold like the wind rustling wavy brown hair.

“We’ll find a spot up ahead,” Simon says. “Eat. Rest. Then we talk about next steps.”

“Yeah,” John says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright.”

They keep walking, steps quieter now under the hush of incoming night. The birds have started to still. The air carries a scent of old wood and frost.

It doesn’t feel safe- but it feels close. Like something real’s been edged toward, just out of reach.

They find the overhang just as the light gives out entirely- halfway up a knuckled rise of land, shaded by a few leafless birches, their branches brittle as bones against the dimming sky. The rock face juts out like a broken lip, just deep enough to squat beneath if you stay low and keep your knees close. There’s a bed of pine needles half-frozen underfoot, a scrap of dry earth where water hasn’t seeped in yet. Dry's important.

Simon nods once. It'll do.

John sinks down first, easing his pack off with a soft grunt, then stretches his legs with a wince. Simon stays standing a moment longer, scanning the treeline for movement. Nothing. Just wind and the far-off sound of the flowing creek.

He drops beside John a moment later. The space is narrow, shoulder to shoulder, their thighs nearly touching, though Simon does his best to make space. Cold seeps through every layer of cloth. No fire. No heat, but they've both fared worse.

They bed down without speaking much. Simon kneels to clear a spot, lays down a thermal blanket like muscle memory. John follows suit, slower. His breath fogs in the moonlight.

Outside, a nightbird shrieks, loud and alone.

They eat from their packs in silence. Jerky. Nuts. Two swigs from the same steel flask. Simon watches the way John cradles it, hands stiff, knuckles pale. Doesn’t ask if he’s alright. Doesn’t need to.

When John finally lies down, he curls toward the rock wall, rucksack under his head, one knee drawn up like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Wet shoe toed off, sock discarded somewhere beside his pack. Simon sits watch a while longer, pistol unsnapped at his side, ears tuned for footfall or branches snapping or the hum of an engine. Nothing. Just the wind.

Eventually he slides down beside John, careful not to press too close- but the space forces them near, shoulder to thigh. Body heat is body heat. That’s what he tells himself.

John speaks just before Simon lets his eyes close.

“If I die out here, tell my sister I was sorry.”

Simon says nothing.

A beat passes.

“She’ll know what I mean.”

Simon exhales, slow. Then: “C'mon, soldier. You’re not dying out here.”

John doesn’t respond. But he shifts just slightly. Closer.

They fall asleep like that. Not touching, but near enough to feel every breath. Simon lets himself have this moment, before he starts first watch.

22:57

The dark is heavy. The kind of dark that makes you feel like you're drowning in it, where every corner of your mind goes sharp and tight.

John’s never liked the quiet. Not this kind. Not the kind that creeps up on you and smothers your breath. He’s used to the silence of the hills, of the woods, the air crisp and cold. But this- this is different. This is the kind of silence that pulls at your nerves like a thread you can’t cut, like it's unraveling your skin, piece by piece.

He wakes with a jolt.

The sound is guttural. A sharp, strangled noise that scratches its way out of his throat. He doesn’t know it’s coming until it’s already out, the panic lancing through him, his chest tight, heart pounding in that sick way he used to get after drills. The kind where you think you're still in the moment, still in the fight, but you're not. The adrenaline’s already there and now it’s too late.

Then, something cold and hard presses against his neck.

He freezes.

Everything’s still.

It’s then that he realises it’s not a dream anymore. He’s awake. It’s real. The weight of the metal. The heat of someone’s breath near his ear. The pulse in his throat racing under the barrel.

"For fuck's sakes, John!" Ghost's voice is raw, low, pissed. "Do you want me to put a bullet in you? Shut the fuck up!"

John’s pulse thuds in his temples. He can feel Ghost's presence so close, like a shadow pressing in on him. The weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the sharpness of that threat.

John doesn’t answer. He can’t. His tongue feels too thick, his mouth too dry as he works his teeth around the tail end of a howl. His heart’s hammering against his ribs, like it’s trying to escape.

The thing about John’s nightmares is that they always end the same way. He never remembers them. Never. It’s like there’s some part of him, locked away in the dark, that refuses to let him hold on to the memory.

It’s worse, really. Because if he could remember, maybe he could make sense of them. Find some closure. But he doesn’t. And so they come again, the same thing every time: faces he’s never seen, places he’s never been, blood that’s not his own. But he wakes up just the same- fingers shaking, sweat pooling under his shirt, stomach lurching.

His mind’s still foggy, but he’s awake now. Awake enough to feel the bite of the barrel against his throat, the way Ghost's hand is still gripping the gun, his fingers wrapped tight around it like he’s not sure if John’s about to turn into a threat again. Like he’s not sure what’s real either.

John finally swallows. Feels the dry scratch in his throat. It takes too long to speak, and when he does, it’s barely above a whisper.

"I didn’t mean to…" His voice cracks.

"Didn't mean to what?" Ghost growls, not moving. Not relaxing his hold.

John’s body is stiff as a board, every muscle locked in place. “Scream,” he says, the word barely making it out of his mouth. It’s a confession.

Ghost is silent for a long time, still holding the gun in place, but he doesn’t pull the trigger.

"Yeah, well," Ghost says finally, voice rough, like he’s holding back a growl. "You do that shit again, and I won’t wait for you to wake up."

John doesn’t reply. Can’t. The words won’t come, because there's nothing he can say that’ll make any of it okay. Not now. Not here. His pulse won’t slow.

The nightmare’s still in his head, all the disjointed images and sounds, faces that slip away as soon as he tries to hold on to them. But now it’s worse, because Ghost's too close. The gun’s too close.

John closes his eyes, trying to breathe through it, but the tightness won’t leave him. It never does. Not after a bad dream.

He doesn’t speak again. Just stares at the dark, the pressing weight of Ghost's presence at his side, feeling the thrum of every heartbeat in his throat.

Somehow, Ghost lowers the gun after a minute. Maybe it’s because John’s stopped struggling. Maybe it’s just that it’s easier not to pull the trigger.

But that doesn’t stop the cold, the silence between them.

It’s all too much. Too tight.

The pressure against his throat eases. The sound of Ghost's breathing is still there, steady, but it’s distant now. Like the noise is just one more thing to be swallowed by the dark.

John’s hands are shaking, but he doesn’t reach for anything. Doesn’t try to move. Just breathes. One shaky breath after another.

“Just…” John starts, but the words choke him. He’s not even sure what he wants to say. His mind’s still spinning.

Ghost doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

The night stretches on, thick and heavy, but it’s quieter now.

Maybe it’ll be a while before John can sleep again.

Chapter Text

The bathroom light is dim, but it does the job. Fluorescent hum overhead, the smell of bleach and someone else’s aftershave clinging to the grout. John stands in front of the mirror, bare toes curling against the cold tile, hand buried in his hair. It’s wet, overgrown, small half-curls sticking out at odd angles like it doesn’t know what it wants to be. He doesn’t know what he wants it to be either.

They’d kept east after sunup, kept going until the land started to flatten out and the trees gave way to scattered houses. The first village was too clean, too watched. The second was quieter. A little run-down inn with sun-faded lace curtains and ivy on the bricks. Homely. Lovingly kept. Inconspicuous. They paid in cash and kept their heads down.

He squints at himself. There’s a streak of dried mud along his jaw that he missed washing off earlier. The towel around his waist is still damp, and the air in the room’s turned tepid now that the water’s run cold.

Behind him, through the cracked door, he hears the low creak of mattress springs and the rustle of a page turning. Ghost, stretched out on one of the twin beds like he owns the place. Probably reading one of those paperbacks he scavenged from the motel’s tiny lobby- some old spy thriller with a peeling cover and someone named Jack on the front with a gun.

John eyes himself again. Lifts a chunk of hair off his scalp and lets it drop.

“Think I should change my hair?”

There’s a beat. Then, from the other room, “What, finally admitting it’s shit?”

John huffs, half-smiling. “Don't be a dick.”

A pause. Then, slower, “You’re the one asking.”

John leans closer to the mirror, peering at the uneven mess. “Used to have a mohawk. Back in the Forces. Real short on the sides. Kept the rest tidy.”

“Right,” Ghost says. He sounds amused. “Because nothing says ‘inconspicuous’ like looking like you play bass for a punk band.”

John grins. “Better than looking like I sell knockoff speakers out the back of a van.”

There’s a faint snort. John doesn’t have to turn to know Ghost’s got that near-smile again, the one that shows in the corner of his eyes more than his mouth. Not that he sees any of Ghost’s mouth anyway, under the skull-print balaclava and hoodie he keeps pulled up.

He tugs a little at the hair near his temple. “Just thinking. We’ve been walking around looking like ourselves. Or- me looking like me. Could stand to change it up a bit.”

“We are being hunted, mate,” Ghost says. “Change can’t hurt.”

“Exactly.”

Silence.

John doesn’t mean to hang on the words, but they stretch out in the space between them anyway.

The thing is, he knows it’s not about being recognised. Not really. It’s about the way the days are starting to blur together, how it feels like something snapped open in the woods last night and now he can’t close it again. He still hears the snap of twigs under boots that weren’t his. Still feels the metal at his throat.

It’s quiet now. Safe enough. Room paid in cash, names left blank. The air outside smells like peat and damp stone, and the nearest shop’s run by a woman who didn’t even blink when they asked if they could pay for everything with coins and folded notes.

But it still itches under his skin, the sense of waiting.

“I just want something different,” he mutters, more to himself than anything.

He reaches for the scissors he found in the room's tiny sewing kit. Not great, but sharp enough. He studies them for a second, then glances toward the other room.

“Gonna laugh at me if I fuck this up?”

Ghost doesn’t answer right away. Then, a quiet, “You really want to do this here? Shit mirror and dodgy scissors? Sure there's a barber 'round here that'll do it better for cheap."

John shrugs. “Not like I’ve got a date later.”

There’s a shuffle, then footsteps. Ghost appears in the doorway, arms crossed loosely. He leans against the frame like he’s been watching the whole time and just now decided to step in.

John meets his eyes in the mirror. They’re dark, unreadable, but not unkind.

“Alright,” Ghost says. “Lemme see the clippers.”

“Don’t have clippers.”

Ghost sighs, long-suffering. “Jesus. Gonna be a right fucking hack job, then.”

John grins. “You offering to help?”

Another pause. Then Ghost steps in, holds out a hand.

“Give us the scissors. You fuck it up, you’ll regret it every time you look in the mirror.”

"And you won't?" Still, John hands them over without thinking. Something quiet stirs low in his chest- an odd, unexpected trust. He sits down on the toilet lid, towel still wrapped around him, leans forward a little.

Ghost stands behind him, silent for a long moment. Then the sound of metal slicing hair fills the bathroom.

It’s uneven. Shit, probably. But each snip feels like shedding something old, something heavy.

They don’t talk much as Ghost works. Just the quiet scrape of metal and the occasional muttered curse when John shifts too much.

When it’s done, Ghost fluffs up the short strip left standing down the middle. “There. Now you look like a proper degenerate.”

John turns to look in the mirror. It’s rough. It's him, or maybe someone new, as reluctant as he is to admit that Ghost did a decent job.

He smiles. “Ta.”

Ghost shrugs. “Don’t thank me. You’ll hate it tomorrow.”

“Probably,” John says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ghost’s eyes meet his in the mirror. There’s something soft in them, something brief.

They stand there a moment longer, both of them reflected side by side in the cracked mirror. Then Ghost turns and walks out again, leaving the scent of metal and skin and stale air behind.

John looks at himself once more. Tilts his head. Grins.

Not bad.

Not bad at all.

The click of the lock is soft but final.

John hears it over the distant hum of traffic, the wind rattling weakly against the windowpanes. He’s alone now, properly alone for the first time in what feels like days. No footsteps beside his. No breath that isn’t his own filling the air. Just the small, worn-down room, its crooked lampshade and floral curtains, and the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat ticking through his chest.

Ghost had said he wouldn’t be long. Out for groceries, something proper to eat for once, and probably a better look at the area while he’s at it. John doesn’t blame him. They’re both running on fumes and corner-shop biscuits, and the quiet woman at the local shop hadn’t blinked once at their cash or mismatched stories when they'd stopped earlier for bottled water. That kind of apathy buys comfort.

Still, the door is locked. Ghost had done it without a word, a subtle twist of the knob before disappearing into the morning light, John looking on like a left dog.

He sinks down onto the edge of the bed, towel replaced by a loose shirt and boxers. The bedding smells like cheap detergent and dust. His fingers brush the hem absently, rest there, then still.

It’s too quiet.

Not uncomfortable, not yet- but still. The kind of quiet that lets thoughts come in where they shouldn’t.

He leans back, presses both hands over his face. Exhales into the stale warmth of the room.

They’d only just found this village. Kept east on instinct, followed the road as it curled along fields and low stone walls, and skipped the first place they saw- too neat, too many eyes. This one was quieter. Smaller. The sort of place people passed through without asking questions. Ivy-covered inn at the edge of town, run by an old man with thick glasses who hadn’t looked up once while taking their cash. One key between them. Twin beds. Faded curtains. No internet.

Perfect.

And it's all happened too fast- all of it, down to what stripped him of his home and dragged him weary into the woods.

Ghost is part of it now, somehow. Lodged into the chaos like a puzzle piece that shouldn’t fit but does anyway. Quiet, brutal, unreadable Ghost with his slow voice and steady hands.

John drops his hands, stares at the ceiling.

The thing no one tells you when you leave the Forces is how fast instincts fade. You don’t forget them- just get slow. Softer in the middle. Four years out, you don’t think like a soldier anymore. Not until you have to. And even then, it feels like trying to jam a gearshift you haven’t touched in years. The motion’s there, but it grinds.

Now, in the quiet, his body doesn’t know what to do. The stillness isn’t a break; it’s a waiting room. Muscles held too tight. Shoulders hunched. No threat, not right now, but his nerves don’t believe that.

His eyes flick toward the window. Curtains drawn, shadows slanting on the floor.

He doesn’t expect to see anything. But part of him checks anyway.

There’s a shape left in the bathroom mirror. His new silhouette. Harsher now. That crude strip of hair running down his scalp, the sides cut short and patchy- but surprisingly close to the scalp with those shitty scissors he had. Ghost’s handiwork. He’d pretended not to care, but he’d taken his time. Balanced the angles. Didn’t say a word when John flinched at the cold metal. Just worked.

It’s strange, trusting someone like that. Even stranger when he realises he didn’t hesitate.

He stands after a while, restless in the legs. Pads barefoot over to the window and lifts the edge of the curtain just enough to peek through. A stretch of street. No cars. A row of cottages, one with a washing line full of children’s clothes. A dog barking somewhere far off. Nothing sharp. No glint of glass or blacked-out vehicles.

They’re not safe, but they’re safer.

He lets the curtain drop.

On the table, the paperback Ghost had been reading lies facedown. John flips it over. The cover is sun-bleached, edges curling. A man with a gun in one hand, a woman in the other.

John smiles faintly. Can’t picture Ghost reading this kind of shit, but maybe that’s the point.

He picks it up, weighs it in his hand, then sets it back down.

It’s all a bit unreal. The mundanity of it. A room. A haircut. A paperback thriller with lines underscored in faint biro. Two toothbrushes by the sink. None of it should feel normal, and yet it’s starting to.

He isn’t sure if that’s good or not.

He sits again, this time further back on the bed, legs crossed loosely in front of him. His back aches, finally noticing the bruise from the last scuffle. He doesn’t touch it. Just breathes.

No sound but the ticking wall clock, faint rumble of distant traffic. No movement but his chest rising and falling.

He lets it all catch up. Just a little.

Lets it hit- not hard, but enough to rattle something loose.

They’re not safe. They’re being hunted. They’ve got hours, maybe a day or two, before someone else turns up with a gun and too many questions.

But for now? There’s quiet. And no one in the world knows exactly where they are.

So he breathes. Lets his eyes fall closed.

Just a minute. Just to feel it.

The door creaks soft on its hinges as Simon slips inside, bags in hand. Cold air from outside follows him in- a thin breath of mist and peat- and the scent of distant woodsmoke caught in his jacket.

The room’s warm by comparison. Not much, but enough. The old radiator in the corner wheezes and ticks like it’s trying its best. Morning light has shifted; the clock on the nightstand says just past half eleven. He kicks the door shut behind him, turns the lock. Bolts it too, though it'd never stop someone from getting in if they really wanted to.

John’s asleep, curled up sideways on top of the bed closest to the wall. No socks, now in damp boxers and a rumpled t-shirt, one hand half-fisted in the pillow. The mohawk- God help him- sticks up in a jagged tuft against the cotton. Face slack with sleep. Calm. The first time Simon's seen him properly still, aside when he stirs lazy like a cat stretching for a warmer sunbeam.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move too loud either. Just steps around the bed and into the kitchenette, sets the plastic bags down with quiet hands. Bread. Pasta. Tinned tomatoes. A pack of mince, some onions, a bulb of garlic. Cheap stuff, but enough to make something hot. He even managed a chocolate bar from the wire rack by the till- bought with coins and crumpled notes, just like everything else.

He pulls out a pan, fills it from the tap. It rattles faintly as he sets it down on the electric hob. Doesn’t turn it on yet.

Instead, he leans on the counter, arms folded, eyes drifting back to the bed.

The haircut had turned out alright, all things considered. John hadn’t flinched when he handed over the scissors. Hadn’t second-guessed it. Just sat there, vulnerable as anything, towel damp around his waist, like it was no big thing to hand control to a stranger with a blade. Simon had done it careful, not even sure why. Something about the shape of John’s neck. Something about the quiet. Important that the lad trusts him early on, especially in downtime without threat.

John hasn’t moved.

There’s something odd about it. Not suspicious, just strange. The calmness of it. The trust. Four days ago the bloke was in a farmhouse, making toast and scratching his arse in front of the window. Now he’s here. Sleeping again like there’s nothing coming for them.

And maybe there isn’t. Not this hour, anyway. But it’s not safe, not really. They saw the car at the last place. Enough to make them move. Enough to remind Ghost who might be out there, watching the roads.

He should wake him. Should get a meal going, sort out next steps, figure out what they’re doing after tonight. But he doesn’t.

Just stands there.

Watches the way John’s fingers twitch slightly where they curl into the pillow. The way his shoulders rise with each breath.

It’s the quiet, Simon realises. That’s what’s throwing him.

Not silence- he’s used to that. But this kind of quiet. Domestic. Still. The kind that slips past your guard and starts whispering shit you’d rather not hear.

He rolls his shoulders back. Turns to the counter. Starts unpacking the rest of the food.

The knife he finds in the drawer is blunt. He tests it against his thumb, sighs, then sets to peeling the onion anyway.

He doesn’t think about the kid, except he sort of does. Keeps catching himself glancing back, just to make sure he’s still breathing like that- easy, steady.

It’s not that he’s soft. It’s not that he cares, exactly. But there’s a part of him that keeps remembering the look in John’s eyes when he handed the scissors over. That wordless, wary trust. The kind you don’t expect from someone who knows you were meant to kill them.

He starts the burner. Lets the oil heat slow.

There’s a scar behind John’s right ear. Faint, silvery. Could be from anything- a fight, a fall, some moment he never thought twice about. But he notices it now, with his hair shaved. Just a thin mark across skin, quiet. Like the way he sleeps.

The room smells like onion now, sharp and earthy. Simon stirs the mince in, listens to the sizzle.

He thinks about how quick it all turned. Days. That’s all it’s been. Just days.

And he hasn’t even told John his name.

He doesn’t have a good reason why.

He could make something up. Give him any name he wanted. It wouldn’t matter. John wouldn’t know. But it’s become this thing now. A space between them. A line not yet crossed.

Simon grips the handle of the pan tighter. Stirs the meat again. Adds the garlic. Tomatoes. Salt.

The radio on the shelf clicks softly as he cycles to another station- static, then a swell of slow, down-tuned guitar and blues. Simon leaves it on. Doesn’t know why.

There’s no future in this. That’s the truth of it. There’s a car out there that could’ve followed them. There’s a man with a voice like gravel who knows Ghost’s patterns. There’s a job he didn’t finish and a price on John’s head.

And yet.

He opens the packet of pasta. Tips it into the boiling water with care. The smell of the sauce fills the room, warm and rich. Something that smells like a kitchen, not a safehouse. Not a hideout.

Something like a home.

He glances toward the bed again.

John still hasn’t moved. His hand is still clutching the pillow. His face is peaceful.

Simon turns back to the stove.

The pasta’s nearly done by the time he moves.

He kills the burner, lets the steam settle, and gives the sauce one last stir. The smell’s filled the room now- tomato and garlic, browned meat and oil clinging to the air like a coat. Familiar enough to anchor things.

He dishes up without ceremony. Two chipped bowls, two mismatched forks from the drawer. The pasta’s a little soft. Doesn’t matter. The sauce is decent. Hot.

He sets one bowl on the small table by the window. Pulls out the other chair. Then crosses the room, slow.

“Oi.” Simon's voice is low, like he doesn't even intend to startle. He clears his throat repeats himself, louder this time.

The lad shifts slightly- fingers twitching, mouth slack with sleep- and Simon rests a hand against his shoulder. Warm under the fabric. He gives it a light press.

“Up. Food’s done.”

It takes a second. He makes a soft sound, not quite a groan, then rolls halfway onto his back. Blinks up, bleary and unfocused. The mohawk’s sticking up half-heartedly, a wilted flower. One side flattened where he’d buried it against the pillow.

Simon steps back. Gives him space.

John squints. “What time is it?”

“Gone noon.”

He watches the thought land. John exhales through his nose, then sits up slow, rubbing his face with both hands. The t-shirt’s rucked up slightly at the hem, revealing a line of pale hipbone, faint freckles on tan skin. Nothing he hasn’t seen before, but Simon still looks away like he hasn’t.

By the time the lad swings his legs off the bed, Simon’s back at the table, setting the second bowl down.

John joins him without much else, after pulling on some joggers. Moves like he's still halfway in a dream, slow and quiet. Drops into the chair with a grunt and a glance at the bowl.

“What is it?”

“Pasta 'n sauce. Not poisoned.”

John snorts, grabs the fork. “Shame. I was hoping for a quick out.”

They eat.

The room stays quiet, save for the scrape of metal on ceramic and the soft tick of the radiator behind them. The radio’s still low, blues murmuring through the static like it’s playing in another room. Outside, wind presses at the window, but doesn’t find a way in.

Simon doesn’t speak. Doesn’t see the need with both their mouths full. He eats slow, fork turning lazy through the pasta, eyes half on the door, mask rolled up just enough.

Johnny finishes half the bowl before he says anything more.

“This’s good.”

Simon shrugs. “Basic.”

“It wasn't a complaint.”

A pause. The kid lifts the bowl a little, nods toward it.

“...Thanks.”

Simon nods back, tongue stuck on a piece of mince embedded between two molars.

It’s easier like this, with something in their hands. Something to focus on. He can watch John without really watching him- see the way the food seems to ground him, mouth moving slow like he’s trying to figure out if this is real. The haircut’s holding up fine. The shape of his face looks different without the fluff- sharper in places, more open in others.

Simon finishes his bowl, sets the fork down. Leans back in the chair, eyes on the dark grain of the table. The old laminate’s bubbled near the corner. Burn mark near the edge.

“You sleep alright?”

John shrugs one shoulder. “Guess so."

“Dream?"

Another shrug. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Simon nods again.

There’s a long moment where neither speaks. Not tense. Just full. Then John scrapes the last of the sauce from his bowl and pushes it back slightly.

He leans forward, forearms to the table.

“So what now?"

Simon meets his eyes.

It’s not that he doesn’t have an answer. It’s that none of the ones he’s got are good.

But he says, “We sit tight for now.”

John tilts his head. “That’s it?”

“For now, yeah.”

The wind hums against the window again. A branch knocks somewhere outside, soft and irregular. John leans back in the chair, exhales slow.

Simon doesn’t add anything else. Doesn’t say: I’m thinking. I’m watching the roads. I’ve got a burner in my bag and a route in my head and a knife tucked under the mattress just in case. Doesn’t say: I don’t sleep when you do.

He just collects the bowls. Carries them to the sink.

Behind him, John mutters, “Bit anticlimactic, innit.”

Simon snorts.

“You want climactic, you’re free to step outside."

Another quiet beat. Then John says, “Nah.”

Simon rinses the bowls in lukewarm tap water. No soap. Just enough to keep the place from smelling like meat. He dries them on the corner of a towel, then sets them back in the cupboard like they’ve been here a week instead of a night.

It’s domestic. Stupidly so. But it passes the time. Keeps his hands busy. Keeps him from thinking too hard about the shape of things- about what comes next, or what came before.

He turns back to the table.

John’s watching him. Not weird, not intense. Just... watching.

Simon meets his eyes. Doesn’t flinch from it.

Eventually John looks away.

“Thanks for the food,” he says again. Voice quieter this time. Simon nods.

There’s a deck of cards on the table.

One of the drawers in the nightstand had coughed them up, miraculously intact. No jokers missing, no dog-eared corners. Just old and plasticky and printed with some Highland Games tartan that made John laugh when he flipped the box over.

“Found treasure,” he’d said.

Ghost had only looked. That unreadable way he does, like he’s either thinking about something else or nothing at all.

Now it’s evening. The light through the curtains is the colour of weak tea. Pale and low. They’ve left the radiator running and it clicks on and off every few minutes, never quite enough to keep the chill from settling into the walls.

The table’s been cleared. Two mugs sit cooling on the edge- one tea, one coffee. A pack of biscuits opened between them. The cards are shuffled in John’s hands, quick and steady, a rhythm he doesn’t have to think about.

“Gin rummy?” he'd asked, and Ghost had nodded easily.

Now, he fans his cards, sorts them slow. Low run of hearts. Pair of eights. One useless queen of spades. He moves the queen to the back, out of sight. Hates having her in the middle.

Ghost lays a five of clubs on the discard pile.

John doesn’t look at him. He draws.

“Always been good at this?” he asks, casual.

Ghost doesn’t answer right away. Rearranges something in his hand. His fingers are thick- more used to holding a gun than a jack of diamonds- but they’re precise.

“Not really,” he says eventually. “Played in barracks. Kept people from scrapping.”

John hums. His hand’s not good, but not hopeless either. He lays down three sevens with a little click of satisfaction.

“Not much difference between cards and fighting,” he says, flicking one nail against the table. “Just more rules.”

Ghost doesn’t smile, but there’s a shift in the air like he nearly did. He draws, tosses back a ten.

The game moves slow. Neither of them seems in a rush to win, and neither’s bad enough to end it fast. They take their turns quiet. Not tense. Just... dulled around the edges. The kind of tired that sinks low, not deep. Still moving, but only because stopping would mean thinking too much.

John lays a new run of low diamonds down. Four, five, six. He picks up Ghost’s discarded three and adds it in without looking up.

“Didn’t peg you for a cheater,” Ghost mutters.

John smirks. “You didn’t need it.”

“Still mine.”

“Should’ve kept it, then.”

Ghost draws without looking. Doesn't argue further. They go back to the shuffle and shift of cards between them, a rhythm that doesn’t ask for speech.

The telly's changed now, post-advert round. Some soap playing out with the sound too low to follow, everyone’s faces full of expression and none of it making sense. John’s vaguely aware of a kettle boiling somewhere, maybe the room next door. The wind outside has died down.

He watches Ghost draw again, watches the way he holds his cards low against his chest. Careful. Like someone might shoot him for flashing a king.

He discards a jack. Ghost raises a brow slightly.

“Giving me points now?”

“Just being generous.”

Ghost snorts. Draws it anyway.

John watches him rearrange his hand, then lean back slightly, like he’s lining something up.

“Fuck,” John says, seeing it before it happens.

Ghost lays down a long set of three runs, neat as anything. Clears his hand.

“Rummy,” he says.

John stares. “Bastard.”

“You kept feeding me.”

“Did not.”

Ghost shrugs. “You gave me the jack.”

“I was bluffing.”

“Shit bluff.”

John tosses his cards down and leans back in the chair. His body’s still running on last night’s adrenaline, buried deep in the muscle. He hasn’t moved fast in hours but still feels wired, shoulders tight under the collar. The buzz of being chased hasn’t worn off, not really. This- cards, low telly, dry biscuits and tap water- it’s all surface tension over a current he can’t shut off. He'd murder for a drink.

“Another round?” Ghost asks, already collecting the cards into a single pile.

John considers saying no. But then what? Stare at the wall? Pretend the room is any kind of comfort? He nods.

“Go on then. I’ll win this one.”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

Ghost shuffles. Fast and practiced. The cards slap sharp against each other.

“Cut,” he says, offering the stack.

John cuts the deck clean. Lets his fingers brush Ghost’s knuckles as he does, just to see if he’ll flinch.

He doesn’t.

The cards are dealt again. Seven each. Ghost leaves the rest in a stack, turns one face-up to start.

It’s a king. Of course it is.

John stares at it. “You do realise this is war, now.”

Ghost doesn't look up. “You keep talking. I’ll keep winning.”

They fall back into it. Another round. John’s hand this time is better- two fives, two tens, a low run just waiting on a two. He draws careful, discards cleaner.

They don’t talk much. They don’t have to. Everything that needs saying has already been said- some of it in words, the rest in looks, in the way Ghost hasn’t put his gloves back on since the morning. In the way John hasn’t asked about the future, or the plan, or how long they’ll keep running before someone finally catches up.

The telly flashes another round of dramatic music and bad acting. John doesn’t glance at it once. Outside, the last light is starting to drain away, dusk pooling low across the floor.

Ghost heads for a wash around eight. Pipes moan somewhere in the walls- old ones, fat with rust- and a second later the shower kicks in. John hears it through the plaster, a steady thrum like static. He stays at the table a moment longer, watching the steam begin to blur the corner of the mirror above the sink, before the door snicks shut.

Then he gets up. Wanders.

Not for any reason. Just because sitting still is beginning to feel like waiting. Waiting’s what he’s been doing all day. Might as well stretch his legs, even if it’s only a half-dozen paces to the kitchenette and back.

He picks through the drawers again. Opens the fridge just to close it. Ghost’s kit is stacked neatly by the door- bag zipped, boots aligned. Jacket hung up on the door hook. That’s what draws his eye. The jacket.

He doesn’t mean to. Honest. Just- well. It's there.

John crosses the room and checks it. One hand in the pocket, casual. More habit than intent. He expects nothing. A gum wrapper maybe, or nothing at all. Ghost doesn’t strike him as someone who carries things loose.

But then: jackpot.

Benson & Hedges. Half-crushed pack. Silver foil half-torn. He feels a laugh rise in his chest but doesn’t let it out. Just lifts the pack out like he’s doing something sacred.

Cracks the window. It sticks halfway, but he forces it higher with a grunt. Cold air slides in, licks up his arms. He doesn’t bother finding a lighter- there’s one tucked in the cellophane beside the fags, loyal as anything. Flame catches first try.

The taste of the smoke hits like memory. Heavy, warm, bitter.

He exhales out the crack, shoulder braced against the sill, elbows resting easy. Shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms bare to the breeze. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t think much, either. Not really. Letting the drag slow him down.

It’s been years since he properly quit. Or tried. Months, maybe. Always slips back eventually. Stress, travel, cold fingers, shit sleep. No great philosophy behind it. Just a vice that fits his mouth.

Another drag. The sharpness on his tongue feels good, like salt on a cut.

Behind him, the telly’s still on, settled on a rerun of Die Hard once Ghost had found something better than Animal Planet or Top Gear. He hears voices swell and dip. Doesn't watch much though he knows the film's a classic.

The cigarette burns low. He taps the ash out the window, watches it vanish in the wind.

The radiator kicks back on, sputters once before settling. Doesn't make a difference. The cold’s already on him, clinging fine and tight to the skin. His arms are starting to goosebump, but he doesn’t shift, nor go for a jumper.

Lets his head tilt, spine curve.

He’s tired now. Not bone-deep, not aching, just that fuzzed-over tired that says the day’s done all it can and anything past this is just waiting for sleep. His legs feel steady, but the thought of lying down sounds good. Just flat on his back. A cheap pillow. Somewhere warm, ideally.

He smokes down to the filter. Flicks it out the window and watches it spiral out of sight.

Closes the window halfway. Leaves the rest for any lingering smoke to dispense through, then stretches, limbs long and loose, and heads for a glass of water. Drinks it half-empty when the bathroom door creaks open.

John doesn’t turn right away. Just hears it- hinges sticking, steam rolling out in a soft puff- and takes another sip of lukewarm water. The telly hums behind him, light bouncing dim off the windowpane. He’s halfway through setting the glass down when he finally glances over.

Ghost stands there in the doorframe. Towel low on his hips, mask still on, faint glint in his eyes. The rest of him-

Well.

He’s built like an ox. Shoulders wide enough to fill the doorway. Pale skin sheened with leftover heat. Chest thick with old muscle, the kind that doesn’t come from the gym. Left arm inked to the shoulder, dense with black and greys- coils of barbed wire, grim skulls, maybe scripture, though the steam’s still clinging and it’s hard to make out detail. The right’s bare. Just flesh and light hair and a long scar that curves from bicep to elbow, old and pale as chalk.

John doesn’t mean to stare. But he does.

Just a second too long.

Ghost doesn’t say anything about it. Just meets his eye- calm, flat- and moves past, crossing the room without hurry. There’s something solid about the way he walks, like everything he does has weight behind it. The wind blows harsh again, and the room cools half a degree.

John leans back against the counter, arms still bare. Lets the silence hold.

“You find what you were looking for?” Ghost asks.

His voice is quiet, level. Rougher with steam. He doesn’t look back as he kneels to unzip the duffel, towel shifting with the motion. John watches a line of water trail down his spine and vanish under the fabric at his waist.

“Didn’t know I was looking,” John says through a swallow.

Ghost hums, noncommittal. He straightens up, rifle-quick, and tosses something onto the bed. Fresh boxers, new socks, t-shirt and bottoms tucked away still. All that methodical kit routine. His body catches the low light again, all hard lines and the occasional healed gouge.

He turns toward the table, eyes landing on the open window. The faintest scent of tobacco still lingers on the air, ghost-thin. Barely there.

“Didn’t see you pack any,” he says.

John’s brain catches up half a second later. Fags.

He huffs a soft laugh, rubs the heel of one hand against his jaw. “Found ‘em.”

“That right.”

“Mm.” He lifts his glass, shrugs. “Didn’t steal. Borrowed.”

Ghost nods. Crosses to the kitchenette, towel riding his hips, a second slower now that the chill’s hit his skin. He opens a cupboard and pulls down a mug, unbothered.

“I don’t care,” he says. “You could’ve asked.”

“Thought maybe you’d say no.”

Ghost glances at him. “Would’ve.”

John smirks. Sips again. “Then I was right.”

Ghost snorts, low and sharp. He fills the mug from the tap and drinks standing up, one hand braced on the counter, the other holding the cup. John’s watching his knuckles now, the slight twitch of a tendon under skin. His forearms are nearly as thick as John’s thighs, ropey and scarred, dusted with light hair.

He looks away.

The room’s quiet again. Just the telly murmuring about hostages and broken glass, and the faint drip-drip of water from the bathroom tiles. The scent of soap is in the air- nothing strong, just clean, cheap, forgettable.

John sets his glass down and pushes off the counter. His shirt’s clinging to his back where the cold air’s caught him, and the tips of his fingers feel a little numb.

He heads toward the table again, half to sit, half to shift the air.

“Nice ink,” he says as he passes.

Ghost doesn’t answer right away. Just lifts his head, eyes on John like he’s trying to decide if that’s small talk or something else.

Then: “Cheers.”

John drops into the chair, legs splayed. His knee bumps the underside of the table. “Bit grim though, innit?”

“Was supposed to be.”

John grins. “Yeah, you strike me as the subtle type.”

Ghost drinks the last of the tap water, sets the mug down with a soft clink. “Subtle’s for people who want to be asked questions.”

He walks over to the bed, picks up his shorts, and turns his back. The towel drops.

John looks away this time. Not out of shyness- he’s seen enough arses in shower rooms to last a lifetime- but more out of instinct. A kind of courtesy. Still, the image burns behind his eyes a bit longer than it should. Broad back, pale thighs, a constellation of old bruises scattered high on one hip.

When Ghost pulls the shorts on and turns, John glances up.

“You sleep in the mask too?” he asks.

Ghost blinks at him. Then: “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I have company."

He doesn’t say it mean. Just flat.

Ghost sits opposite him again. Chest still bare, that web of ink across his arm easy to track in the TV’s blue glow. The radiator starts its cycle again, ticking faint behind them. The wind’s picked up outside.

John exhales through his nose. Shifts in the chair.

The window’s still cracked. The smoke’s gone. Only the cold remains.

Simon waits until John’s breathing evens out.

It doesn’t take long. Ten minutes, maybe. Maybe twelve. He watches from the corner of the room, sat half in shadow, half in the telly’s flicker. John’s curled on the settee, one arm tucked under his head, the other limp over the side. The blanket’s bunched at his knees. He didn’t bother pulling it up.

Fell asleep with Bruce Willis still bleeding on the screen.

Simon’s eyes stay on him another moment. Just a moment. Then he shifts, slow and quiet, rising without sound.

He’d picked up the burner that morning. Off-license a village back while John had headed inside a pub to piss. Was behind the counter with the scratch cards and painkillers. Cash only. SIM included. No ID. He hadn’t powered it up until now- best to wait, stay cold as long as he could.

He pulls it from his coat pocket and lays it on the table, fingers brushing the pack of fags John has taken from. Doesn’t touch those. Just the phone.

Old plastic. Grey buttons. Tiny screen with a greenish tint. Prepaid.

He powers it up.

It boots with a tinny chime. Bright, too loud, even on silent. Simon lowers the volume quick, thumbs through the setup with muscle memory. He’s done this before. Always the same routine: fake name, blank contacts, location off. Wipe the history even before you make any.

The signal’s weak. Better that way.

He scrolls through the options, checks for tracking toggles. Nothing obvious- these models are too old to be clever. No apps. No GPS. Just calls, texts, and a shit camera

He scrolls to the contacts menu and adds one number from memory. Doesn’t label it. He doesn’t trust it, not really. But it's a possible way out if this all turns inside out. Rather figure it out himself before he starts bringing others into it, though, God forgive him for what he's dragged John into.

The phone goes dark in his hand. He stares at it for a moment longer than needed, then tucks it deep in his rucksack. Buried under socks, spare rounds, a map folded in four. One last check of the lock, the window catch, the stove dial. Then his eyes drift back to the settee.

The kid's out cold.

Stretched on his side, head sunk into the cushion. One arm dangling over the edge, fingers twitching slightly like got a question to ask. The blanket’s fallen low, caught at his hips. The telly’s flickering soft across his face- Die Hard’s done, now it’s some home reno show with bad lighting and worse music. Doesn’t matter. John’s not watching.

Simon crosses the room.

He crouches low, one knee down beside the couch. Close enough now to hear John’s breathing, see the curve of his lashes. He smells like clean sweat and cigarette smoke. Like someone he shouldn’t know.

He hesitates.

Then, voice low:
“Johnny.”

A beat. A twitch.

Then he shifts, groggy and half-there. Eyes blink open, lashes clumped together. He squints at the light, then at Simon, and frowns like he's confused to see him there.

“You’re drooling on the upholstery,” Simon says.

The lad huffs something that might be a laugh. Rubs a hand across his face.

“Go to bed,” Simon says, quieter now. “Proper bed.”

He sits up slow. Doesn’t argue. Just nods once, still blinking himself back to the world. He swings his legs off the couch, bare feet padding soft against the floor as he stands.

He pauses nearby. Doesn’t look back, but his voice comes small over his shoulder.
“You mind if I leave the radio on?”

Simon’s brows lift. “Radio?”

“Noise,” John says. “Helps me drift off. Just low.”

There’s a pause. Then Simon jerks his chin, barely a nod.
“Window’s shut?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then. Just keep it down.”

John hums, grateful but quiet. Moves to the bed without another word.

Simon waits until John settles in. Then turns the telly off. The silence folds in tight, thick around the edges.

He pisses, watches his hands. Gets into bed without brushing his teeth, without double-checking the window this time. He’s tired. Not just body-tired- mind-tired. Like something’s gone soft in him and he doesn’t know when it started.

From the corner of the room, the radio plays music, quiet and low like the sea held in a box. A meter away from him, slow breaths already even and the occasional ruffle of sheets.

He lies back. Closes his eyes, and hates that it helps.

Chapter Text

Halfway through the night, Simon stands.

No sound prompts him. No nightmare. No creak or buzz of alert. Just that slow-burned restlessness in his limbs, that wire-tight coil behind the knees that tells him he won’t be sleeping again for a while. Happens sometimes. Too many years in too many strange beds. Too many nights with one ear tuned to every shift in the dark.

The room is black but not blind. Moonlight slips through the window, pale and wet across the floorboards, catching on the edge of the table, the chair back, the curl of a cup’s handle. The radio’s still on, faint music threading through the silence. Piano, maybe. Soft strings of a late night station.

His eyes adjust fast.

He glances across the room.

Johnny's asleep, arm flung over his head, one wrist bent inward on the pillow. The blanket’s kicked low, bunched around his waist. His chest rises steady. Hair mussed. Neck bared. Lips slack with whatever dream he's managed to find.

Simon watches him too long.

Doesn’t mean to. Doesn’t stop.

It’s a habit now, tracking his breathing. Marking the rise and fall. Not because he expects anything- just because it anchors him, somehow. Makes it real. He's still here. They're both still alive. Everything else can wait.

He drags a hand down his face, then steps barefoot to the window. Stands there a while, shoulder against the frame, arms folded loose.

The trees out back are shadows against shadows. A flick of silver where the moon catches. Somewhere far off, something moves- a fox or badger maybe- but the world doesn’t stir. It’s quiet in that way only a dead-hour night can be.

His stomach growls.

Not audibly, but he feels it. Cold air always makes him hungrier than he expects. He peels away from the window, heads for the kitchenette with slow, soundless steps.

Opens the cupboard. Finds the folded-over pack of Rich Teas. Rolls his mask up, breaks one in half and eats it standing up, one arm braced against the counter, letting the sugar settle his gut.

Behind him, sheets shift.

A voice, groggy. “You nicked my biscuits?”

Simon turns, smile that caught on his lip quickly smothered. Johnny’s eyes are half-open, lashes catching what little light there is. Not his biscuits, but he had asked Simon to get them before he popped to the off-license yesterday.

“You want one?” He asks.

John nods, a vague little dip of the chin. “And a drink, if you’re up.”

Simon fills a glass from the tap. It runs cold straight away. He brings it and the rest of the pack back across the room.

Johnny’s sat up, arms around his knees, blanket pooled at his hips.

Simon hands the glass over. Holds out the half-eaten biscuit, before folding his mask back down.

“Generous,” Johnny mutters, but takes it.

Simon leans back against the wall beside the bed. Lets himself sink into the posture. Moonlight paints a dull streak across his bare arm. Simon's still in his T-shirt and boxers, nothing else. Skin cool to the touch. He should’ve put on something warmer before moving, but it hadn’t seemed worth it.

Neither of them speak for a while.

The music on the radio hums along, light and unassuming. John chews quietly. Sips his water.

Then, low, like it costs him something:
“Am I ever going to get to go back?”

Simon doesn’t answer straight away. Not because he’s weighing anything complicated- just because the question’s too fucking honest to dodge, and he feels it settle in the ribs.

He doesn’t know what to say.

There’s a part of him that wants to lie. To say yeah, course you will. Paint something nice with his mouth. Pretend like they aren’t holed up in a freezing cold inn with too many dead men behind them and not enough safe days ahead.

But he doesn’t lie.

Doesn’t really tell the truth either.

“Dunno,” he says finally.

John stares at his glass. Knuckles tight around it. He nods like he expected that answer. Maybe even respects it more than a softer one.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he says. “Feels like that place is already gone.”

Simon thinks about the kitchen tile in the farmhouse. The wallpaper peeling in corners. The light bulb in the pantry that flickered when the wind hit the side door. John in the doorway with that cracked mug of coffee, squinting into the weak sun.

“Still standing,” Simon says quietly.

“Doesn’t matter,” John murmurs. “Not if I never see it again.”

The words sink, thick and certain.

Simon shifts. Folds his arms. Watches John like he’s trying to read the pattern in the shadows under his eyes.

There’s something here. Not grief. Not quite. But close enough to catch.

“Drink your water,” Simon says eventually, quiet.

John does. Finishes it in two swallows and sets the glass on the bedside table.

“Sorry I woke you,” Simon adds.

“You didn’t. I was only half under.”

“You get back to it.”

John tilts his head. The moon catches his jaw, pale as bone. “You gonna sleep?”

Simon shrugs. “Eventually.”

John huffs a breath. Lays down again, rolling onto his side to face the wall.

Simon watches the tension slide out of him in degrees. The way his spine eases. The way his hands stop fidgeting.

The radio plays on, another soft melody. The night goes with it.

Later, he wakes with a jolt.

Not dramatic- just a sharp inhale and the clean, abrupt sense of wrong. Like the air’s changed pressure. Like something’s missing. He doesn’t move, not at first. Just breathes in stale motel oxygen, a taste of synthetic fibres and sleep grit on the roof of his mouth. He’s lying on top of the covers, clothes rumpled, back sore from the awkward twist he must’ve ended up in. His neck aches.

Something’s off.

It takes him a second to piece it together. The motel room is quiet. Still. The kind of stillness that doesn’t track.

Because John isn’t in bed.

Simon sits up fast, hand automatically reaching for the weapon tucked down the side of the mattress. The shape of the blade grounds him. Heavy. Familiar. He blinks once, twice, forcing the blur from his eyes, and then sees the sliver of the room beyond the peripherals his balaclava allows.

TV’s on.

Soft hum of voices, something about floorboards and damp rot, punctuated by the occasional tinny laugh. And John’s silhouette: hunched at the small table, a mug cupped between both hands, hood up, sleeves pulled over like he’s a kid.

Simon frowns.

He didn’t hear him get up.

Didn’t hear the bed creak, or the kettle boil, or the chair scrape against the laminate floor. That’s the part that lingers. Unsettles.

He swings his legs off the bed slowly, then pulls on a pair and joggers from the bag beside the dresser. Pads over, careful not to startle.

John doesn’t turn around. Just shifts a little, curling his socked feet tighter onto the seat rung beneath him. There’s a patch of brightness near the window but it’s a dull, washed-out kind- clouds heavy and grey like the sky forgot how to move.

Simon stands there, watching him. Watching the slope of his shoulders under the hoodie, the steam rising off the mug. One of those daft ones from reception, with a cracked handle and some advertising bullshit printed along the side, because there'd only been one mug when they got in despite this being a twin room.

“What time is it?” Simon asks, voice rough.

John doesn’t jump. Doesn’t even blink. Just replies, quiet:
“Half six, I think.”

The kettle’s full. The mug beside it is clean, waiting.

Simon moves to the kitchenette, runs water over his hands just to do something. He doesn’t look at John again until his own cup is full and the sweet scent of sugared tea fills the room, merciful in its comfort. The spoon rattles once against the ceramic. That’s all the noise there is. The TV chatters on about woodworm and scaffolding and ceiling joists.

“Didn’t hear you get up,” Simon says eventually. He’s not trying to accuse. But it comes out that way- gravel-thin.

John shrugs without turning.
“Didn’t mean to sneak.” Beat. “You were out cold.”

Simon doesn't respond straight away. Just sips, burning his tongue on the tea. The residue at the bottom of the mug makes it taste like dust. His eyes flick to the door, then back to John, whose posture hasn't shifted. Hood still up. Hands still curled.

“How long’ve you been up?” he asks.

“Not sure.” John's voice is low, fatigue stretched thin. “Long enough. Couldn’t sleep.”

Simon nods slowly. The room’s cold, even with the heater ticked up. The kind of chill that creeps in around your ankles and settles in the gaps between your ribs. He takes the chair opposite, feels the scrape of it through the floor, and watches John’s hands tighten around his mug like he’s trying to warm the bones inside.

“You should’ve woke me,” Simon says, finally.

John glances over then. Eyes rimmed red, expression unreadable.

“You looked like you needed it. And besides, you let me sleep plenty.”

Simon doesn’t have an answer to that.

Because maybe he did need it. Maybe that’s what’s digging at him. That he let himself sleep through noise. Through movement. Through John up and wandering the room. Vulnerable. Exposed. And Simon didn’t flinch. Didn’t stir.

It doesn’t happen.

It can’t happen.

“You always sleep like that?” John asks. He tilts his chin, studying him. “Dead to the world?”

Simon scoffs under his breath. “Never.”

And that, too, just hangs in the air for a beat.

John looks away first. Back to the TV. There’s some bloke tearing up laminate with a crowbar now. Too much energy for this early.

Simon studies him, really studies him. The socks, thick and pilled. The faint tremble in one knee where his legs are tucked under. The slight puff of his cheeks when he exhales into the mug, like it helps him hold the heat in. And the look in his eye- quiet, but far from peaceful.

John’s still spiralling. Just quietly now. Sinking into it. Maybe the silence gave it permission. Maybe Simon did, when he didn’t get up and stop it.

The thought doesn’t sit right.

“You warm enough?” Simon mutters.

John shrugs again. The hoodie shifts with the motion.
“Fine.”

Simon leans back. Watches the TV for a while. Doesn't register a word of it.

They sit like that for a long moment. Drinks cooling in their hands. The room a pocket of static, everything suspended. A moment between moments. Too quiet.

Too still.

And Simon doesn’t know what’s worse- that he slept through it, or that part of him wanted to.

They sit in silence long enough for the mugs to cool in their hands.

The telly drones on, voiceover rolling into a segment about restoring Victorian sash windows. Simon stares past it, seeing none of it. John hasn’t moved. Still got his hands wrapped around the mug like it’s the only thing tethering him to the room.

Eventually, Simon shifts. His legs are stiff. He needs to do something or he’s going to crawl out of his skin.

He stands, pushes the chair back with a dull scrape, and mutters, “I’ll make something.”

John doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even nod. Just stays curled in on himself, hoodie swamping his frame, feet tucked beneath the chair like he’s trying to disappear.

Simon picks through the supplies he bought yesterday. Loaf of bread. Couple of eggs in a plastic carton. In the fridge, some butter in a foil wrapper that looks like it’s been kicked around a corner shop stockroom for a week. Beans in the cupboard, likely.

The hob takes ages to heat, one of those coil ones that stinks faintly of burning electrics. He cracks the eggs into the pan, careful not to break the yolks, and tosses bread into the toaster. Watches the curls of steam rise from the butter when it hits the pan.

“Fuckin’ cold,” he mutters, half to himself.

John doesn’t respond, but he hears it. You’d have to be dead not to feel it. The kind of cold that seeps into old bones and shitty walls. Mid-March, but Scotland doesn’t give a toss what the calendar says. The heater’s rattling with effort, and it’s still not doing more than chasing its own tail.

The eggs cook fast. Simon plates them with the toast, drops a slice in front of John with a clink of ceramic. He doesn’t dress it up. Just sets it down, then settles back in his chair with his own plate, flipping the knife over and over in one hand before digging in.

John stares at his food for a second like he forgot what it’s for. Then finally picks up a fork.

“You look pale,” Simon says, not quite looking at him.

John glances up, fork still hovering.
“Cheers.”

Simon doesn’t mean it like that, but it’s out now.

“You eat enough yesterday?” he asks, mouth full.

John chews slowly. Swallows. “Yes.”

Simon lifts a brow. “When?”

Another long pause. The kind that says don’t.

“I said I did,” John mutters.

Simon shrugs one shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

“It’s cold.”

“You're pale and shaking.”

“Drop it.”

Simon watches him across the table, jaw ticking. He doesn’t mean to push. But something’s tightening in his gut, and it’s not just the shit instant coffee. John’s off. Slower than usual. Unsteady in a way that’s not just tiredness or cold. And Simon’s seen enough to know when someone’s running on fumes.

“Could be coming down with something,” he tries again, tone lighter. “You run warm normally?”

“Jesus, Ghost.”

John shoves his plate forward a few inches, scraping toast against ceramic. The egg’s barely touched. His hands are tense now, curled into the sleeves like he’s bracing.

Simon stays quiet.

John doesn’t.

“You’re not my fuckin’ doctor,” he snaps. “Or my ma, or whoever the hell else you think you are. I said I’m fine.”

Simon nods slowly, eyes on his food.

“Alright.”

He doesn’t apologise. Doesn’t push again. Just goes back to eating, jaw working steady.

The telly shifts to a segment about calving season. Somewhere, a farmer’s elbow-deep in a heifer. Simon watches that instead.

Across from him, John exhales sharp through his nose, like he’s trying to blow steam off something that’s boiling over.

Simon doesn’t look at him. But he notices the way John goes still again, posture drawn up tight like he’s angry at himself for snapping. Doesn’t take the plate back. Doesn’t touch the food.

Simon wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He just finishes his toast, sets the plate aside, and listens to the static hum of the TV fill the space they’ve carved out between them. Cold seeps in under the door. Dust drifts in the glow of the cheap overhead light. It's cold.

After finishing his food, John doesn’t say anything. Just stands up, grabs his jacket off the back of the chair, and shoulders past Simon on his way to the door. The latch sticks for half a second before it gives, creaking open like it resents the effort.

The cold hits him straight in the teeth. Proper mountains chill, wet and heavy, curling in around the sleeves of his hoodie and the open collar of his jacket. He shivers without meaning to. Mutters, “Fuck’s sake,” under his breath, and fishes a crumpled pack from his pocket. That's where it was.

The lighter takes two tries. His hands are shaking a little, fingers dumb with cold. He tells himself it’s just that- the cold. Nothing else.

The cigarette catches and flares. He inhales deep, lets the smoke sit in his lungs until it stings, then exhales slow. It fogs with his breath in the morning air, curling away like it’s trying to outrun something.

He leans against the damp wall of the building, concrete seeping chill through his jacket. The sky is one long slab of grey. Could be five a.m., could be nine. Time feels bent out of shape lately.

He doesn’t like the way Ghost looked at him. Like he was a problem to be solved. Like he needed managing. He's got it under control

He's not sick, no. But he can only say that with confidence because he knows what's wrong. Felt the telltale signs all too familiar when he'd woken cold and shivering, pain dancing from the mottled tissue and bone of his knee right up to his skull. Tried to fight it off, but it's useful without the meds.

Still, knowing what's wrong doesn't help. The way his stomach turns feels wrong. Not nausea, not really. More like he’s hollowed out from the inside.

He grinds the cigarette between his fingers, thumb scraping ash from the filter. Doesn’t drop it yet. Just holds it, burning low, and stares out at nothing.

He hears car passes at the end of the lane. A barking dog echoes up from somewhere behind the buildings. The air smells of wet stone and petrol and faint, familiar woodsmoke. Could be back at the farmhouse if he half-closed his eyes. Could be anywhere.

His shoulders settle after a while. The tension bleeding out into the cold. The fight’s still in him, but the edge has dulled.

Maybe he shouldn’t’ve snapped like that. But he’s sick of being picked apart. Of people acting like they know better than he does how he’s feeling.

He drops the butt, watches the embers gutter out against the frost-nipped gravel, and grinds it under his boot.

Doesn’t go back inside right away.

Let Ghost wait a minute.

Simon watches from the window, the grey morning light casting long shadows on the inn's small courtyard- likely a beer garden when the weather's warmer. John’s out there, leaning against the wall, smoking. The thin plume of smoke rises and disappears into the chill air, curling like some fragile, unspoken thing. For a second, Simon’s hands itch- he’s always aware, always alert. But today, the usual edge is dull, worn thin. He watches John with a strange, frustrated stillness, like he's waiting for something to break.

John's out there longer than he should be. Longer than Simon wants him to be.

He exhales, fingers gripping the window sill until the wood creaks beneath his palm. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with John- doesn’t know how to get to the bottom of it. But he knows the kid's running low on something. Energy, patience, whatever else he’s trying to hide.

Simon waits, a coldness creeping into his bones, despite the warmth in the room.

After longer than it should take, the door creaks open with the same reluctant groan it always makes. John's steps are softer now, almost hesitant as he steps back into the room, shutting the door behind him like he's trying to block out the world.

Simon’s at the table now, still turned toward the window, arms folded. He doesn't say anything at first, lets the silence sit. There's something to be said for not rushing in- sometimes a word can change everything.

John moves toward his bed, drops his jacket onto the chair. His posture’s a little off- stiff, like he’s trying to hide the limp that’s always there but sometimes dulled. That little hitch in his step that Simon’s been seeing since he started observing him.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch long.

"Something’s wrong," he says, voice low and steady.

John pauses, glancing over his shoulder but not meeting his eyes. His lips press together, like he's already preparing to shut it all down. But Simon's not having it.

“Tell me.” Simon doesn’t soften the command. Doesn’t make it a suggestion.

John lets out a sigh, dragging his hand through his hair like it might pull the tension from his neck. He takes a couple of steps farther into the room, but doesn’t sit down. Just stands there, shoulders drawn tight.

“I’m fine,” John mutters.

“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.”

John laughs, but it’s tight, forced- like he knows he’s not fooling anyone, and that only makes it worse.

"Johnny."

Simon’s voice cuts through the quiet again, sharper now. The word is simple, but something in the way John's eyes change suggests it lands heavy. Simon feels that same frustration from earlier, that hunger to get to the fucking truth of it, because John’s not fine. Not by a long shot.

"You’ll be no good to anyone if you fuck this up for us just by being poorly," he continues, his voice steady, but there’s a faint edge. "We could give you a day or two to sleep it off. Rest. We’re not exactly on a clock right now, are we?"

John’s fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t reach for anything. Doesn’t snap back. He looks away, eyes fixed somewhere in the corner of the room, his jaw tightening.

Simon watches him for a moment, waits, then sighs. “You’re not useless. But you will be if you don’t start giving a shit about yourself. If you’re not gonna tell me, then I’ll drag it out of you however I need to." He doesn't really mean it. But still.

John’s silent. But the walls are starting to crumble, just a little. The quiet stretches for long moments, and then, finally, he gives in.

“My knee,” John mutters, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.

Simon doesn’t respond immediately, just tilts his head, waiting for more. His instincts flare up at the nonchalance in Johnny’s voice.

The lad sighs, the sound heavy in his chest, and walks over to the settee, sitting down gingerly. He pulls his hood down and leans forward, one hand moving to rub at the back of his knee, the motion slow and deliberate.

“The scar,” he adds, voice quieter now, “and all the tissue, and shit. Ache gets worse. Cold days like this, humid air. It flares up. Always has.”

Simon watches him, his brow furrowing, the pieces clicking together. This explains the limp that comes and goes. The way John always seems to have that edge to his movements when he doesn’t think anyone’s watching.

“Didn’t pack the meds,” John adds, shrugging like it’s no big deal. But the tightness in his throat betrays the words. "Or they got lost somewhere on the way. I don't know."

Simon’s gaze sharpens. "What meds?"

John looks up, not meeting his eyes. "Prescription painkillers. Strong ones. Had 'em ever since the injury. It's what got me discharged." His voice is distant, like it’s all just part of something he can’t change. “I don't have 'em."

Simon watches him, calculating. "You used to take them daily?"

John’s jaw clenches. “No. Just when the flare-ups started. Could go months without needing them. But when they come... it’s like everything just locks up.” He gestures to his knee. "It’s not just the scar. It’s the ligaments. The bone. It never healed right after they tried to put it back together."

The silence between them settles again, but now there’s a weight to it- a knowing. Simon nods slowly, processing the new information. His eyes stay on John’s knee for a moment, then shift back up to his face, reading the lines there.

“You should’ve said something earlier.” The words are blunt, but there’s no real anger in them, just a matter-of-fact tone that John can’t seem to shake.

“Didn’t think you needed to know,” he mutters. “I’m fine, Ghost.”

But even as he says it, Simon knows better. Knows what the difference between ‘fine’ and ‘actually fine’ looks like. And the kid's not fooling anyone. Not even himself.

There's a bout of quiet filled only by the telly and the cyclical tick-tick-clack of the radiator. John scratches at the buzzed side of his head, and finally meets Simon's eyes.

"Codeine phosphate. The 30s."

Simon stores it away like a target description. Doesn’t comment. Doesn’t tell him it’s serious, or that he should’ve said something sooner. Doesn’t ask how many he used to take, or whether he ever overdid it. Just says, “Alright,” and stands like he’s already got a plan.

But he doesn’t go straight for the door.

He watches John another minute, studies the way he’s sitting now- back hunched, one hand braced against the mattress while the other presses low against his thigh. His fingertips twitch every now and then, like the nerves are misfiring. The pain is visible, sharp around the edges. There’s a fine sheen of sweat above his lip, matching the thin one along his brow.

Simon’s seen pain. Real, bad pain. And this- this is quiet, miserable, lived-in pain. The kind that wears a man down over years instead of hours.

He heads into the bathroom first, says nothing.

The layout's old but merciful. There’s a shallow tub under the wall-mounted showerhead, yellowed at the edges but intact. Ghost twists the taps, waits until the water’s warm enough to sting his fingers, then plugs the drain.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t call John in, doesn’t say this’ll help. Just walks back out into the main room, stands in the doorway with steam curling behind him, and nods toward the bathroom.

John looks up like he’s not sure what he’s seeing.

“It’ll help,” Simon says.

“I don't want to- ”

“Come on. I'm not leaving you when you look like death."

There’s a beat. John doesn’t move. Not because he’s being stubborn, but because moving right now looks like it might break him in half.

Simon walks over, crouches in front of him. He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t even reach. Just says, low: “Get in while it’s hot.”

John doesn’t thank him. He just looks away and says, “You’re a prick,” with absolutely no heat behind it.

Simon huffs, a low sound, and straightens back up. He turns his back so John can lever himself upright without an audience.

The floorboards creak behind him, and a sharp breath escapes John as he limps toward the bathroom, hand dragging along the wall like a lifeline. The door shuts soft.

Simon lets out a breath and finally sits, arms crossed over his chest, watching the steam drift beneath the door.

He’ll wait. Then go out for the meds once he knows John’s not going to slip under and drown.

The bathroom smells of damp grout and cheap soap, old metal and something vaguely fungal that clings to the curtain folds. John peels off his hoodie with stiff fingers, wincing as the motion jostles his knee. What doesn't? It feels like the joint is packed with broken glass. Every angle wrong. Every nerve too loud.

He doesn’t look in the mirror. Doesn’t need to see the sweat-slick hair or the gray tinge crawling over his cheeks. He already knows how he looks- he can feel it. Hollowed out and wrong.

Steam curls thick in the air, clinging to his skin like sweat.

The moment he lowers himself into the tub, the pain swells. White-hot. Dagger-deep. For a few seconds it’s like being scalded from the inside out. The warmth should help, he knows that, knows what the doctors said and what the physios taught him. But theory and reality are different beasts.

His whole body shakes, jaw clenched until his teeth ache. The water laps around him, his limbs half-floating, and it still hurts. The bath isn’t deep, but it feels like it’s swallowing him. Not enough air. Not enough room to breathe without tasting mold.

His knee pulses, a sick heartbeat in the meat of the joint. He stares at it under the water. Pale skin. Raised scar tissue. Ugly, knotted lines from the debris that crushed it, and the surgeries after. Four years and it still doesn’t look like part of him.

He presses a hand over his mouth, breath shuddering through his nose. His head is swimming now. The ache has crawled upward, behind his eyes. Pressure building like a migraine. Like he’s hungover from nothing.

His stomach turns.

"Fuck," he breathes, barely above a whisper.

The tub’s not big enough to stretch out, not really. His legs are bent at an awkward angle, the bad one trembling just beneath the surface. The heat's supposed to ease it. Supposed to soothe the inflammation, soften the tissue. But right now it’s just another sensation layered on top of too many others. Too much.

The pain isn’t just in his knee anymore- it’s radiating. His shoulders. His spine. The base of his skull. The headache’s blooming behind his eyes like a bruise under too much pressure.

He leans forward, elbows to knees, forehead to palms. Just breathes. Just tries to stay above it. Tries to find a stillness inside the noise. But all he can hear is the drip of the tap, the buzz in his ears, and the thick hum of the extractor fan above the mirror. His mouth tastes sour.

Maybe he should’ve said something earlier. Taken a break. Asked for the fucking pills before now. But that’d mean letting someone in. Even just a crack. And Ghost-

Ghost's seen enough already. Drew him a bath like he was an old man or a sick kid. Like he couldn’t handle it.

And maybe he can’t. Not like this. Not right now.

He swallows down the lump in his throat. Tries to make himself smaller in the water. The heat’s helping- barely- but it’s enough to keep him from keeling over. Enough to loosen the worst of the locked-up tension in his leg. He can almost feel the muscles giving up the fight, inch by inch.

But the shame settles heavier than the pain. That Simon saw him like that. That he knows. That he’s caring. Quietly. Steadily. Without saying it.

And that’s somehow worse than the knee.

Then it comes on sudden.

Like something deep inside tears loose. A hot spike of pain from the core of his knee all the way up his thigh, catching the base of his spine like a live wire. It arches him forward with a broken sound- half gasp, half sob, loud in the cramped bathroom, swallowed by steam and tiles and the roar of blood in his ears.

“Shit- fuck- ”

His hands scrabble uselessly at the edge of the tub, wet fingers leaving streaks on the enamel. Water sloshes, some of it spilling over the side. His whole leg’s seized up now, rigid and screaming, and the pain’s gone past sharp- it’s deep, like it’s boring into the bone. A memory pain. A ghost of the blast, the surgeries, the weeks of rehab where he begged for less.

He can't catch his breath. It stutters, staccato, rattling around the edge of a cry.

And then the tears come. Hot, sudden streaks cutting down his face. He tries to blink them away, grit his teeth, bite the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood- but it doesn’t stop them. Doesn’t stop anything.

He presses both hands over his face, and he can feel the sweat there, feel the snot now, too, feel the whole humiliating wet mess of himself.

Not from fear. Not from weakness. Just the sheer weight of it. The pain and the helplessness and the fatigue of carrying it too long alone.

His chest hitches once. Then again.

He stays like that. Curled over. A wreck. Legs drawn in as far as they’ll go. The bathwater cooling fast, and the steam thinning.

Eventually, the pain dulls enough for him to think again.

Enough to remember where he is.

What if Ghost heard- ?

The thought sends a new flush of heat up the back of his neck, worse than the bath ever was. He drags a hand across his face, wipes it all away quick, mechanical. Water’s gone tepid now, clinging to his skin in slick patches. A small tuft of hair’s stuck to his forehead. Every breath rattles in his chest.

But it’s done. The worst of it, maybe. For now.

He sits back, leans his head against the damp tile. Closes his eyes. And waits. Just a few more minutes. Then he’ll get out. Dress. Pretend none of this happened.

Simon waits until John’s out the bath before he makes a move.

Not because he’s hovering. Not because he’s soft. But because he heard the fucking state of him in there.

He hadn’t meant to listen. Hadn’t wanted to. But those sounds- that sound- carved right through the paper-thin walls. Not just pain. Pure, helpless agony. Guttural, unguarded. It hit like something physical, stopped him in his tracks as he stood just outside the bathroom door, pretending to tidy up the room. He hadn’t moved a muscle the whole time, just stood still and listened, jaw clenched so hard his back teeth ached.

It’s not the first time he’s heard pain like that. War zones. Interrogation rooms. Extraction ops gone sideways. But there’s something worse about it when it’s coming from someone like John- someone who holds himself tight, keeps the world at arm’s length with a sardonic quip and a defensive slouch. Watching that man curl in on himself, trying to stay upright under the weight of it, had already made something in Simon flinch.

Hearing it break loose behind a closed door felt like betrayal.

So he’d stayed still. Let John have the privacy of a separate room, even if it scraped something raw in him.

And now- it’s quiet again.

Water draining. The creak of the bath as John eases out. Towel hitting skin. Everything careful, deliberate, like he’s walking on fractured glass. Simon doesn’t look when John emerges. Just rises to his feet and shrugs on his jacket like it’s any other morning.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says.

Outside, it’s colder than expected.

A wet sort of cold, the kind that seeps through fabric and skin and into the blood. Rain hasn’t started, but it’s there, hanging heavy in the air, soaking into the grey light above the rooftops. The clouds crowd low, muting the sky until it feels like the world’s been tucked under a damp wool blanket. Simon pulls up his hood and starts walking.

The streets are mostly empty at this hour- just a couple of delivery vans grumbling past, a bin lorry making its slow, juddering crawl, and one old man in a flat cap walking a stub-legged terrier that barks at Simon’s boots. He moves fast. Not rushing, but with purpose. He’s done this kind of thing before- moving through strange towns at stranger hours, looking for something under pressure.

No ID. No papers. No script. Just a name and a number and the tight memory of John’s face, pale with pain.

The first place he tries is too clean. A chain pharmacy just off the high street. Blue signs. Automated tills. A teenage girl behind the counter who barely glances up from her phone when he asks.

“We need a written prescription,” she says, already reaching for the next customer. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t bother pressing it.

The second is smaller. Tucked between a betting office and a vape shop. Dingy signage, dusty windows. Lettering flaking off the glass. There’s a handwritten board out front in felt-tip marker that reads WE CAN HELP WITH YOUR PAIN in wonky capitals. It might be bollocks, but it’s a start.

Simon pulls his mask off and steps inside.

The shop smells like TCP and aniseed. Cheap antiseptic and the kind of herbal shit they flog as natural remedies. Shelves are stacked with a mix of familiar brands and unlabelled boxes. No cameras that he can see.

Behind the counter is a woman in her late forties with bottle-black hair scraped back into a bun and a cigarette voice. She looks like she’s heard every excuse in the book- and seen through most of them.

“Bit of a long shot,” Simon says, pitching his voice into something between weary and matter-of-fact. “My mate’s got a longstanding prescription- codeine phosphate, thirty milligram tabs. Had a flare-up, but we lost the pack during travel. Just looking to tide him over ’til we get 'im back home. I can pay cash.”

She eyes him. Doesn’t blink.

“You got proof?”

Simon holds her gaze and shakes his head, playing up the somber look on his face.

“No, but I’ve got a man back in the room half-crippled by a cold snap. Doc’s wouldn't... I’m not asking for morphine- I just need him walking."

He lays two twenties down on the counter.

A pause.

Then she sighs. Says, “Wait there,” and disappears through a bead curtain into the back.

He doesn’t move.

When she returns, she’s holding a plain white bottle with no label. Shrugs as she sets it down like she’s already washing her hands of the decision.

“It’ll cost you sixty.”

Simon adds another twenty. Doesn’t blink.

"Thanks."

“No need to thank me,” she mutters, already turning away. “But if he’s still bad off in a few days, take him to a GP. Some things don’t heal easy.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just tucks the bottle into the inside pocket of his jacket and steps back out into the grey. Stops in two more shops on the way back; one useless, and one more useful than expected.

That low-hanging damp has sharpened into something closer to spit- mist edging into drizzle. Simon walks for a bit, maybe a block or two, before he lets himself stop.

Small alley between two shops, just before the inn. Recycling bins. Poster for some local band peeling off a brick wall. Empty chip box underfoot.

He fishes out a cigarette, lights it with a practiced flick. First drag burns in his chest. Not in a good way. His fingers are trembling, just slightly, and it pisses him off. He clenches the lighter tighter than he needs to.

It’s not about the meds. Not really.

He’s done worse runs for worse reasons. Had to chase down adrenaline for gunshot wounds, antibiotics in warzones, fuck, even insulin once- siphoned out of a cooler in a bombed-out outpost with no roof. This? This was easy.

But something about it- something about John- twists under his skin in ways he doesn’t want to name.

He’d heard every second of John falling apart in that bath. Not words. Not pleas. Just those raw, involuntary sounds. The kind that don’t lie.

And yeah, maybe Simon’s good at compartmentalising. Maybe he’s trained for it. But that doesn’t mean he’s fucking stone.

He kicks the bin. Not hard enough to tip it, just enough to feel the impact in his heel, the jolt up his leg. Sharp and stupid. The pain helps.

Another drag. The cigarette’s burning too fast. He’s not even tasting it.

He can still see the look on John’s face- sweat beading on his lip, hands braced like he was holding himself together by muscle memory alone. That effort not to let Simon see too much, even when he was obviously drowning in it.

Stupid fucker.

Simon rubs the back of his hand across his mouth and breathes out through his nose. Smoke spirals out into the cold.

He’s not angry at John. Not really. He’s angry at everything else. The system. The weather. The fact that someone like John- young, stubborn, barely managing- gets spat out and left to fend for himself with a broken knee and a bottle of pills that went missing somewhere between the farmhouse and here.

Simon flicks the cigarette down, grinds it under his boot.

Then he squares his shoulders and turns back toward the inn. Time to get back. Time to see what kind of state John’s in now. Time to stop letting it crawl under his skin.

He’s got the pills.

That’s the only part that matters.

The door clicks softly behind Simon as he slips back into the room.

The air inside is stale with old steam. Damp clings to the windows, misting up the corners of the glass. The bathroom door’s open just a crack- beyond it, the bath is drained, a towel limp on the tiled floor. The smell of cheap soap lingers, faint and clean but worn thin.

John's on the settee, stretched out awkwardly with one leg propped up on a pile of folded towels Simon doesn’t remember seeing earlier. Might’ve dragged them in himself from the reception. The hoodie’s back on, sleeves still tugged down over his hands like before. Hood up. Blanketed over him like armour. Or maybe camouflage.

But it’s the stillness that snags Simon’s gut.

Not sleep.

John’s eyes are half-open. Blink slow, slow again. There’s a glass of water on the floor nearby, mostly full. His journal's beside it, but looks untouched.

Simon shrugs off his jacket and kneels to unlatch his boots. Doesn’t speak yet. Just watches him. Watches how John's not watching him back.

“You alright?”

John doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes out- like the question is too much effort to field.

Simon stands, crosses to him in a few strides, crouches to be level.

“You take anything?” Simon asks. Doesn't think there's anything in the vicinity to take, but he's not going to risk endarngering John just because h failed to ask a simple question.

Another pause. Then, a small shake of his head.

Simon exhales slow. Reaches into his coat and pulls the unmarked bottle from the inside pocket. Shakes it just enough to rattle.

John’s gaze tracks the sound. Focus returns in a flicker.

Simon sets the bottle down within reach, then crosses to the sink to grab the water glass. By the time he turns back, John’s pushed himself up, slow and uneven, and taken the pills without a word. Washes them down when Simon hands him the water. Breathes through his nose.

“You’re fucking pale,” Simon says, not harsh.

John shrugs, though it barely registers. “Takes the edge off,” he mutters, like it makes sense what he's talking about, like he doesn't sound half-mad. “Usually.”

Simon doesn’t press the ‘usually’. Doesn't press anything. What the fuck is Johnny talking about? The pills, maybe? He just watches him sit there, hoodie sleeves half-soaked from dressing straight after the bath, hair sticking in small damp curls in a strip down his forehead. A faint sweat has already begun to rise again across his brow, though it’s freezing in the room. Thin sheen catching the light, betraying more than John would ever admit.

The silence stretches.

Simon sits back on his heels, arms resting on his thighs. Doesn't look away.

“You gonna let this knock you flat, or you gonna be smart?”

“Depends,” John says, head lolling slightly to one side like a dumb dog. “You gonna start spoon-feeding me soup next?”

Simon snorts. It’s dry. Almost fond, but he'd say relieved. Yeah.

“No,” he says. “But I’ll knock you out if it comes to that.”

John closes his eyes again. Not in a dismissive way. More like he’s run out of things to say, for now. Maybe he has. That bite Simon’s come to expect- always simmering beneath the surface, even when John’s being soft-spoken or glib- is dulled to something thin and tired.

It hits Simon again, that cold, weighty thought: he’s not doing well.

And worse- he’s used to not doing well.

Simon stays close. Doesn’t speak. Just listens to the hum of the telly, still tuned to something bland and bright, the canned laughter filtering through the static. Watches John's chest rise and fall, slow and uneven. Doesn't move far.

Just shifts back until he’s leaning against the side of the settee, one arm looped over his bent knee, other hand fidgeting with a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve. The TV murmurs nonsense into the space around them- some rerun of a garden show now, all bright morning cheer and shoddy audio, presenters dressed in too many layers for spring.

John’s breathing is still rough, but it's evening out. Bit by bit. No longer tight, no longer hitched through the teeth. Just slow, steady inhales. The kind that say he’s not asleep, but close.

Simon glances back, checking. John's head has tilted slightly toward the cushions. The knee’s still up. Hood half slipped from his crown, exposing one ear and a faint red mark on the side of his cheek where he'd probably braced his hand earlier, trying to ride the pain out.

Simon settles his gaze on the telly again. Lets the white noise take over.

Time trickles by.

Then, quiet, barely more than a breath-

“Think the police are looking for us?”

Simon’s eyes flick over. John isn’t looking at him- just staring vaguely toward the far wall, but awake now, more lucid than he’s been all morning.

He waits a second before answering. Then:

“No. We'd've seen it on the news, and besides-"

A pause. Then he shakes his head once, definitive.

“Coleman’s too thorough,” he says. “He’d know the job went sideways the minute the clean-up crew went dark. He’s probably already sent someone in to wipe the place down, clean the blood, get the bodies out. It’ll look like no one was there."

John shifts slightly, his brow ticking low.

“No trace?”

Simon shrugs. “Maybe a missing persons report. If someone you know called it in. But even then- it’ll go nowhere. No witnesses. No last known locations. Your phone’s gone. And your family...”

“They don’t trust the cops.” John says it with the flatness of fact. “Never have.”

Simon nods.

“I clocked that. You mentioned it once.”

“Da did time. Took the fall for someone else. Didn’t rat. That’s where the honour ends, though. He was a shit parent.”

There’s no venom in it. Just the quiet resignation of a well-worn story. One Simon doesn’t prod at- he knows the score all too well.

He tilts his head back against the settee, eyes trained on the TV.

John speaks again, slower this time. “So. We’re not fugitives, then.”

“Not yet,” Simon says.

John lets out a low breath. “Lucky us.”

They lapse into silence for a bit.

The screen shifts to a bright exterior shot of a sheep farm- early lambing season, the caption reads. Someone in wellies is talking about feed rotation, the sort of topic neither of them gives a shit about, but neither turns it off.

It’s almost calming. The banality of it.

Simon listens as John’s breathing settles more, more rhythm than ragged. The tension seems to drain from his limbs. There’s colour creeping back into his face, though faint.

He thinks, he’ll be alright.

Not immediately. But they’ve got time now. And time is something.

“Thanks,” John says, eventually.

Simon doesn’t look over. “For what?”

“You know.”

Simon exhales slowly through his nose. He does know. But he doesn’t like to name things too quickly. Doesn’t feel the need.

“Just don’t let it get that bad again,” he says. “You’re no use to either of us if you can’t walk.”

There’s a pause. Then: “Didn’t think it’d flare up like that.”

“It’s March. It’s cold. You’re running off adrenaline and caffeine. That’s a cocktail for disaster.”

A beat. Then, light:

“Plus, you’ve got shit joints.”

John laughs. It’s thin, but real.

Simon doesn’t let himself smile, but there’s something easy in his chest that hadn’t been there when he left the pharmacy.

They fall quiet again.

Simon gets to his feet after a while.

Not in his usual, fluid way. Not the kind of movement that comes from instinct or muscle memory. This is slower. More hesitant. Like there’s weight behind the act of standing.

He drags a hand down his face, then rubs the back of his neck. Paces the stretch between the kitchenette and the window once. Stops. Turns. Does it again.

John doesn’t say anything, but Simon can feel his eyes.

Finally, Simon stops near the door. Hooks a hand into the side pocket of his coat where it hangs on a battered peg. Pulls out a small, folded paper bag. Not branded- dull white, folded flat.

He walks back over, slow, and sits on the coffee table before the settee. His knees crack, and he pretends not to notice.

“I got you something,” he mutters. Voice a little rougher than usual.

John lifts his head slightly, brows drawn. His eyelids are still heavy, but there’s a flicker of curiosity.

Simon hands the bag over. Doesn’t look at him.

“Saw an advert on the main street after I got your script filled. Figured- figured it might help. Bloke at the till started rattling off about supports and adjustments. Didn’t catch half of it. Just asked for one for long-term joint damage or.. something. Hope that's right.”

John is quiet. Unfolds the bag slowly.

Inside, padded and a little bulkier than it weighs, is a compression knee brace- black neoprene, reinforced with supportive strapping and a stabiliser bar. Mid-range. Durable. Designed to be worn under jeans or joggers without much bulk.

Simon doesn’t know any of that. But he’d picked it up anyway. Gut instinct.

He watches, wary, as John stares at it.

And then- John’s whole face shifts.

Softens like Simon’s never seen.

Not just the brow relaxing or the corners of his mouth twitching. It’s deeper than that. An unguarded, aching sort of quiet. A flicker of something raw and grateful beneath it.

“I had one like this,” John says, voice hoarse. He swallows, and doesn't elaborate.

“It’s not perfect,” Simon says after a beat. “But it might take the edge off. Give you some support.”

John doesn’t move to put it on yet. He’s just holding it, fingers light at the edge of the material like it’s something precious.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

And Simon had known, when he paid for it. He didn’t buy it to earn points or soften a moment. He did it because it was needed- and because seeing John like that, broken down and sweating, had made something in his chest twist hard and mean.

Still does, just thinking about it.

He clears his throat, starts to shift to stand-

“Wait.”

Simon stills. Looks back down.

John’s gaze is steady now. A little damp still around the eyes, but focused. Earnest.

“Thanks.”

It’s not hollow. Not something tossed off like an afterthought.

Simon nods again, a little slower this time.

“Just don’t bloody argue with me next time I tell you to take a break.”

John huffs a faint laugh. It fades quick, but it’s there. He looks back down at the brace.

Simon rises again, stretches his back, and turns toward the kitchenette. He’s got movement in him now- no more pacing- but he’s still got to burn it off. Maybe tea.

Behind him, he hears the soft rustle of fabric as John shifts on the settee, adjusting his leg. Pulling the hoodie tighter.

The TV drones on.

It’s past ten now. The clouds haven’t lifted, and the cold’s still settled in the bones of the building.

Simon doesn’t mean to look.

He hears the faint shuffle behind him, just the soft drag of cotton against rough upholstery, and glances over instinctively- expecting John to be resettling, maybe turning onto his side for another stretch of sleep.

But John’s up. Sort of. Slouched forward on the edge of the settee, his bad leg bent stiffly, foot braced awkwardly on the floor. One hand's trying to hold the edge of his joggers up past his knee, the other fumbling with the brace. Fabric bunches. Velcro peels. His fingers aren’t steady.

Simon watches the tremble- barely there, but constant. Not just from pain. Not just the meds working through his system either. It’s the kind of shaking that comes when the body's run too long on reserve power. When you start to feel the crash before it hits.

John mutters something- quiet, frustrated. The curse gets swallowed into the cotton collar of his hoodie pulled up over his mouth. He tries again to loop the first strap but misses the fastening tab.

Simon moves before he can talk himself out of it.

Crosses the short space. Drops to one knee without ceremony and reaches, wordless, to help.

John stiffens.

Not in protest, exactly. More like surprise. His hand freezes where it’s halfway through the motion of folding the strap. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at Simon right away either.

Simon focuses on the task. Small, mechanical movements.

The brace isn’t complicated, but it’s fiddly if your hands won’t stop trembling. He gently pulls the jogger leg up a little further- reveals tan skin, scarred and marred with a long, ridged mark that cuts across the kneecap and slightly off-centre down the inner side. The kind of surgical scar that wasn’t stitched up clean. The kind that says: this injury changed things.

He tries not to react to the look of it- isn't hard. He has more than he could count. Just eases the brace into place.

First strap across the top. Pulled snug, but not too tight. Checks in with a small that alright? all the same. His thumb brushes John’s thigh. Warm under his fingers, even through the cold in the room.

John exhales, slow and shaky. Still not looking at him.

Second strap. Bottom edge. He smooths it around behind the knee, watches the stabiliser bar hug close to the joint. The brace fits well. That’s luck.

Simon presses the last velcro tab down. His hands linger for a second too long, fingertips curved against the hinge of bone and wrap. He could say something- could make it clinical, toss in a muttered, “There you go,” and move back.

But the silence settles between them. Stays.

It’s the first time he’s touched John like this. Not the accidental or practical kind- no brushing shoulders or handing off a cup or cutting hair. This is skin on skin. Intentional.

Johnny’s hand finally lifts from where it’d been hovering, uncertain. Rests over the brace, fingers grazing the edge where Simon’s knuckles still sit.

His voice is low when he speaks. Hoarse.

“Thanks.”

Simon looks up at him.

His eyes are heavy-lidded but clear now. Tired, yeah. But aware. And something else sits under that awareness- something pulled taut, like a wire strung up between them.

Simon swallows. Forces his hands to pull away gently, one at a time. Stands.

He doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe nothing.

But John exhales again, softer this time. Shoulders sag slightly. Some of the stiffness bleeds out of his frame.

The silence stretches on, and Simon doesn’t fill it. He just reaches for the blanket at the back of the settee and lays it down across John’s legs, careful not to jostle the knee.

Then, before he can think better of it, he brushes his hand- brief, featherlight- over the top of John’s head. Over the mussed strip of hair still damp at the roots from the bath.

A gesture so instinctive it nearly startles him. But he doesn’t take it back.

John’s head tilts infinitesimally into the touch. He doesn’t say anything.

Simon backs away a step. Turns. The kettle hasn’t boiled. The telly hums on.

Rain taps against the window now, light and fine and almost gentle. But the sky still hasn’t brightened. The inn breathes cold through the floorboards and into the walls, even with the heater rattling softly in the corner.

Simon leans his weight against the countertop and lets his eyes close for a moment.

The brace is tight around his knee like a ghost of something worse. John drifts.

Sleep creeps in sideways, in stuttering bursts that don’t feel like rest. The telly drones on, some softly-spoken bloke talking about fertiliser ratios and last frost dates. The words blur. John sinks. And then he’s there again.

The light’s all wrong. Dust in the air, too thick to breathe. Heat pressing in from all angles, rippling off crumbling concrete. Everything’s sharp and bright and ringing. Static in his skull. He’s yelling, or someone is. He’s on a rooftop. Cairo- no, Alexandria. The yellow building with the blue shutters. He’d been clearing it. There’d been a tip-off. Weapons cache. Maybe insurgents. Then- flash. Not fire. Pressure. A roar that lifts him from his feet and slams him back down.

His knee goes first. It takes the angle wrong. Lands twisted. White heat rips through bone and tendon, tears straight up his thigh and into his spine. He tries to move, but something’s snapped. Not just the joint- something deeper. He can taste blood. Hear screaming. Might be his own. Someone’s calling his name, far off. But the world’s narrowing to that pain, that blinding edge of it. Something wet slicks under his fingers when he tries to push himself up. He doesn’t get far. The building groans. Another boom somewhere distant. He thinks: This is it. This is where I’ll die.

But he doesn’t.

It cuts, jerks forward. Cold sheets under his back. A hospital bed. His leg raised and immobilised. A tube in his arm. Someone asking about his pain, his mood, his sleep. He lies. Every time. The knee’s fucked. Screws in the bone. Torn meniscus. Muscle wasting and rotten-smelling. They tell him he may not walk again and start him on meds- big orange pills that knock him sideways. Another bottle with a label he doesn’t read until weeks later: sertraline. Doesn’t take those long. Doesn’t like what they do to his head. Too flat. Too dull.

Physio is worse. He cries, once. Only once. In the shower after they bent his leg too far and he threw up from the hurt. He hits the wall, ribs-first. Sits there for hours with the water cold and the lights off.

He hasn’t worn a brace like that since. Not since he was discharged. Not since the docs told him he’d walk with a limp on most days and need prescription painkillers for the rest of his life.

He left that shit behind.

Didn’t he?

The brace is snug now. Warm under the blanket. Soft hum of the telly. But his chest feels tight. And when he stirs again, half-waking, there’s a wetness at the corner of his eye that he wipes away before it becomes something else.

Just a dream. Just a fucking dream. Only it wasn’t.

Eventually, the weight of it all makes him stir. The ache’s still there, dulled now under a heavy cushion of painkillers and the quiet pressure of the brace. It anchors him, somehow. Hurts like hell, but it anchors him.

He swings his good leg down first. Moves careful, slow. No use rushing, not when everything feels a hair from spinning. The air is still stale and warm from the bath. His clothes cling, damp with sweat. But he’s upright. That’s something.

Ghost’s at the window. Hasn’t said a word in a while. Just stands there, arms crossed, half in shadow. Watching the empty road like he’s waiting for a sign that won’t come.

John pads over, socked feet near silent on the floorboards. Stands next to him, leaning slightly on the sill. The glass is cold. Outside, the sky’s still crowded with grey. Looks like it won’t ever clear.

“What’s going to happen?” he asks.

Ghost doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t have to. John’s voice says enough. Tired. Frayed around the edges. Honest, maybe for the first time in a while.

“We can’t keep doing this. Running.”

Ghost’s jaw shifts. Something tight working there. He waits long enough that John starts to wonder if he’ll answer at all. But then-

“I’m going to have to kill him,” Ghost says.

It lands heavy between them. No flourish. No pause for reaction. Just the truth, plain and hard.

“Coleman?” John asks, already knowing.

Simon nods once. Still not looking at him. “There’s someone waiting in line behind him. Doesn’t like the way he runs things. Probably has people ready to jump ship soon as the old man’s out the picture.”

John swallows. “So it’d go clean.”

“Clean enough,” Ghost says. “Cleaner than this. Living on the run is no life at all.”

Silence for a while. The kind that settles into the bones.

John’s eyes flick to the duffel Ghost's had since he hauled John into his car, then another one to hot wire after he realised Coleman had his plate number. Full of cash, probably. Enough for him to disappear with. Fake passport. New life.

“All this,” John murmurs, “You could disappear so fast, leave this mess. You've been doing your job a while, I can tell that much. It's not like you can't

“Not just me anymore.”

The words hit something John isn’t ready to look at. Not fully. Not yet. So he focuses on the grey sky, the road, the cold press of the window glass.

They stand in the quiet for a long time.

John couldn't finish the pasta.

It sits in his stomach like a fist. Too warm, too solid. A salt-heavy lump from the tuna and clingy overcooked starch. Ghost had made it without saying much- just dropped the bowl in front of him and sat nearby, not watching but not not watching either. Said something about food with meds. John had eaten only because arguing felt like losing. Stomach churning, he still thinks it was a loss.

Now the room feels smaller than before. The walls a little too close. The air a little too still. His knee’s propped up, the brace snug under his joggers, but the ache hasn’t gone away. Just settled into something low and constant, like a lit fuse.

Ghost’s at the sink, rinsing the saucepan he used. Calm as you like.

John’s fingers twitch.

“I want to go out,” he says, too fast, too sharp.

Ghost doesn’t look up. “No.”

“That’s it? Just ‘no’?”

Ghost glances over his shoulder. Shrugs. “You can barely stand.”

“Can stand, though,” John mutters. “Didn’t say I’d be running laps.”

He pushes himself up, mostly to prove a point. Doesn’t work. His leg twinges and he bites back a sound, but Ghost is already back to the pot like he hadn’t noticed. Like John’s not even worth the scolding.

It pisses him off. Worse, it needles.

He leans against the table, crossing his arms. “Christ, maybe I’ll just piss myself right here. Think we’ve reached that point in the hostage situation yet?”

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

John’s jaw tightens. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Yeah,” Ghost says mildly. “Loving every second of your whiny arse.”

The words should rile. They do, but there’s no heat behind Ghost’s voice. Just the same easy steadiness he always carries. The same calm John’s starting to recognise as dangerous. As comforting.

He’s getting nowhere.

And that- more than anything- makes him bristle.

He keeps going. Doesn’t know why. Keeps snapping, little shit comments about Ghost’s minging accent and stupid mask and how maybe he’d be better off on his own if this is what laying low looks like.

Ghost listens. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t bite back. It makes it worse.

“Seriously,” John says, pushing off the table, arms gesturing, “you’ve got me drugged up, pinned down, stuck in this shithole with nothing to do and no idea what’s happening next, and you expect me to just sit here and breathe through it like I’m in some fucking yoga class?”

“You done?” Ghost asks.

John groans. “Fuck off.”

Ghost finally turns. Leans his hip against the counter, arms folded. Unbothered. He looks taller like this. Broader. Doesn’t even have to try.

“You’re not pissed at me,” he says. “You’re pissed it’s out of your hands.”

John’s mouth opens. Then shuts.

“The brace. The pills. The pain. You’ve been through worse. But it’s not your plan anymore. That’s what’s crawling under your skin.”

John looks away.

Ghost steps forward. One boot, then another, slow and measured. John doesn’t flinch, but his chest goes tight again, breath hitching at the steadiness of it.

“You can bitch and whinge all you want,” Ghost says. Voice low. “I’m not letting you fuck this up.”

It shouldn’t land like that. Shouldn’t hit that particular chord. But John feels it right in his sternum- sharp and grounding. His hands curl around the edge of the table.

Ghost leans in, just a little. Not close enough to crowd him. Just enough to fill the air between them.

“Sit down,” he says quietly. “Before you fall.”

And John, lips parted and not knowing what else to do, listens.

He lowers himself slowly. Doesn't meet Ghost’s eye. Didn't realise his leg was doing that strange twitch-jerk until he catches it out of the corner of his eye.

The chair creaks under his weight, or maybe that’s just his knee complaining again. Either way, he sits. Hands flat on the table, knuckles pale, jaw set. Still angry. Just not loud about it now.

Ghost goes back to rinsing dishes like nothing’s happened.

John watches him. Not directly, not head-on, just… side-eyed. Tracks the methodical scrape of metal on ceramic, the rhythm of his movements. Everything Simon does is deliberate, and John hates it- how fucking steady he is. How nothing shakes him. How he can wade through blood and stay clean somehow. It’s annoying. Smug. Comforting.

It’s comforting.

John exhales through his nose. Leans his elbow on the table, rests his forehead in his hand. His skin’s clammy again. Stomach still rolling. Ghost was right about the food, he knows, even if it makes him feel like shit in the meantime. Doesn’t mean he’ll thank him for it.

Doesn’t mean he likes the part of himself that wants that steadiness nearby.

“Pills working?” Ghost asks, still not looking.

John nods, then realises he hasn’t said anything aloud. “Yeah. Bit.”

“Brace helping?”

He shifts. The firm grip of it around his knee makes his skin crawl, but in a familiar way. Tolerable. Safe.

“Yeah,” he says again, quieter.

Ghost dries his hands on a towel and finally turns. Walks past John to the small window again, and stands like he always does- shoulders squared, head tilted, as if watching for something just beyond the horizon.

John watches him from behind, biting down on a breath that feels too close to shaky.

He tips his head back against the chair, eyes half-closed. The pain’s still there, dull now, manageable. But what’s worse is the twitch in his limbs. The itch in his gut. The part of him that wants to test Ghost again. Not to win. Just to feel the resistance. To know he’ll be caught before he slips.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t need to.

Ghost glances back once, then turns his eyes to the road again. Watching. Waiting.

Ghost doesn’t speak for a while. It comes slow, like everything with him- measured, deliberate. The kind of slowness that means he’s already thought it through, weighed the risks, planned the fallback.

“We’ll go out tomorrow.”

John blinks at him, slow. The words sound wrong at first. Unreal. He opens his mouth, halfway to a bite or a joke or a challenge- but Ghost cuts him off with a look. Quiet. Steady.

“If I think you’re up to it,” he says. “If I see it myself. Not just hear it.”

John tenses, lips curling faintly. “Thought you said I wasn’t your problem.”

Ghost’s gaze doesn’t flicker. “You’re mine to deal with until this ends.”

It’s not meant to be gentle, buit lands soft anyway. Takes the bite out of John’s throat.

Ghost turns back toward the window, arms folded, shoulders hulking in the faintest light.

“There’s a park just outside the village,” he says, like he’s describing terrain, not scenery. “Lake too. Saw the signs directing to it earlier while I was out. Quiet. Remote enough. If we go before sunrise, no one’s around.”

John tries to picture it. Trees. Grass. Water. Fresh air that doesn’t smell like mildew and plaster. His jaw clenches, and he doesn’t know if it’s from the ache or the want.

“Doubt anyone’s followed us this far,” Ghost adds, like he’s speaking to the wall. “But we’re not getting sloppy.”

“No,” John mutters. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But there’s something soft behind it now. Like he believes it- just a little. Like maybe the idea of walking around in the cold morning air, beside a lake, away from these four walls and his own festering thoughts, might actually feel like breathing again.

Chapter Text

It’s cold, but not brutal. The kind of cold that creeps in quiet, sinks low in the floorboards and settles in the walls. Early spring still pretending to be winter. Simon’s been up for an hour already, maybe more. The clock on the wall is too loud, too slow. He ignores it.

He moves quiet in the kitchenette, boiled kettle steaming in the dimness. The sky outside is still inked over, but it’s softening. Not quite sunrise yet- probably close to half six, maybe a little before. March mornings take their time.

Tea for himself. Coffee for John. Two mugs, mismatched from the cupboard. One has a chip on the handle. He slides a splash of milk into the tea and none into the coffee. No sugar. Not after what he’s learned about John’s taste, watching him drink it bitter and fast even when his stomach could barely hold a thing.

He places both mugs on the small table. Hovers a second longer than he means to. Watches the way John’s curled on the cot- leg tangled amongst themselves, hoodie half-zipped, his mouth slack in sleep but not snoring. No faint sweat like the day before. No pinched expression. Face's got some colour back to it. Arms curled in toward himself, like something small.

It’s the best he’s looked since the flare-up.

Simon exhales slow, rubs his jaw. He’s been waiting for this- watching it like a fuse. The meds have done what they needed to. The bath, the rest, the brace. But that doesn’t mean he’s just going to let him jump out the door like nothing happened. Not nearly.

He crouches beside the bed. Reaches out, fingers closing gently around John’s arm. Warm under his touch, despite the thick layer of fabric between them.

“Johnny,” he says, low.

John stirs like he’s been peeled out of something heavy. Eyes blink open slow, lashes tacky with sleep. Takes him a second to come back to himself.

“Mm,” is all he manages. Then: “Why’re you always the one waking me up?”

“Because I’m always the one who gets up first.”

John grunts, but there’s less venom in it today. Just tiredness, bleached through at the edges.

Simon lets him sit up slow. Offers the mug of coffee once he’s upright enough to take it without spilling. John holds it with both hands like he’s afraid it’ll vanish.

Simon watches him for a moment. Then asks, voice still flat and level, “How’s the leg?”

John rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue. “Better.”

“Better how?”

John sighs into his cup. “Not hot. Not stiff. Can move it plenty. Just feels.. dull.”

Simon nods once. Mental checkbox ticked.

“You tired?” he asks.

Another exhale. “No more than usual.”

“Stomach?”

“Fine.”

Simon sits back on his haunches.
“Headache?”

“No.”

He gestures toward the brace. “Put it on.”

John raises a brow. “You want me to do a fuckin’ dance, too?”

Simon just looks at him. Calm. Waiting.

After a beat, John snorts. “Fine, fine. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

He shifts, setting the coffee down on the bedside table with a sigh. Pulls up the leg of his joggers and starts strapping the brace on. It’s slow going- still a bit fumbly with the buckles and adjustments- but he gets it done. Simon watches closely, noting how his hands aren’t trembling now, how he doesn’t wince when he moves.

When John’s done, Simon stands. Points at the middle of the floor.

“Go on, then.”

John blinks. “You serious?”

“Want to go out, don’t you?”

“You’re making me walk like a dog to prove it?”

Simon shrugs. “You were certainly begging like one yesterday, so this should be easy. Up you get.”

The look John gives him is pure murder. But he stands anyway.

Simon tracks every shift of weight, every hitch of his step. John limps, sure, but it’s not bad. Favouring the leg slightly, but not dragging it. No sign he’s pushing too hard. He walks the length of the room and back, jaw tight, eyes narrowed- but not in pain. Just stubbornness.

When he reaches Simon again, he lifts his chin.

“Well?”

Simon doesn’t answer right away. Lets his eyes linger on John’s posture, the brace, the way his breath isn’t catching in his throat like it did yesterday.

Eventually, he nods. “Good enough.”

John’s shoulders ease a fraction, and Simon knows better than to say anything about it.

He moves back to the kitchenette, picks up his tea- gone lukewarm now, but it doesn’t matter. He drinks it down in a few swallows.

Behind him, John sinks slowly onto the couch and cradles his coffee like it’s sacred.

Simon sets his mug in the sink, rinses it out. His shoulders stay tense even though he’s said yes. Even though he’s sure enough now. He’s always sure, or he doesn’t move. But still. There’s a current running under his skin. That twitchy edge that says don’t trust it, don’t soften. That quiet voice in his gut that’s kept him alive longer than he should’ve lasted.

He glances at the window. Still no light on the horizon. It’s close, though. The sky’s thinning at the edges.

John’s a little excited. Not that he’d ever say it. Wouldn’t give Ghost the satisfaction. But it’s there, humming somewhere behind his ribs like a warm motor, low and steady. It’s not just getting to go outside, though that’s a part of it. He’s spent days cooped up in this half-damp room, dragged down by his knee and the pain and everything else weighing him still. He needs the air, the feel of ground under his feet. Something other than this bloody settee and the constant haze of not-quite-pain, not-quite-sleep.

He watches Ghost move around the room in that quiet, efficient way of his. Making the bed, collecting a stray sock- still fussing in small, silent ways. Ghost’s never exactly loud, but this morning he may be softer. Fewer edges. Could be the early hour, or just the relief that John’s not ghost-white and sweating through his clothes anymore.

John’s got colour back, apparently. Ghost had said so, unprompted, once John had settled down proper with his coffee. He'd said it with a stare that felt like it had been fixed on him for a while. Like he’d been waiting.

Now Ghost is digging around in one of the bags by the table. “Layers,” he says, gruff. “Don’t want the cold getting in.”

“Didn’t know you were my mam,” John mutters, but he’s already tugging on the fleece Ghost has handed over.

“Didn’t know you needed one,” Ghost grunts back, deadpan.

John snorts. It’s too early to argue proper, and he’s too used to the rhythm of this back-and-forth now. It’s the sort of thing that makes the silence easier- filling in the gaps with low bickering that doesn’t mean anything.

Ghost’s already dressed to go. Wears his usual bulk, jacket zipped up to the collar and gloves on. What catches John’s attention, though, is the balaclava. No skull today. Just plain grey, well-worn and faded at the edges. It’s a small thing, but it strikes John sideways.

“Different mask?” he asks, sipping at the coffee. Still hot. Bit too bitter, but he’s not complaining.

Ghost shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Bloke walking around with a skull on his face tends to draw eyes. I don't fancy myself a moving target, for now."

“Yeah, but what a shame. I’ll miss seeing your lovely smile.”

“Piss off.”

John grins into his mug, not bothering to hide it.

They’ve got leftovers, barely anything, but Ghost offers breakfast like it’s a proper meal. John knows he should probably eat, and he’s not nearly as nauseous now. Stomach’s still not thrilled about food, but at least it doesn’t twist at the thought. He offers to help, mostly out of spite.

Ghost looks at him long and slow before stepping aside. “Don’t burn yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

The food’s shit. Tin of baked beans and the heel of some half-stale bread. But they toast it in a pan and heat the beans, and it’s warm, and that’s enough. They eat by the window with the curtains drawn open just a crack, letting in the pre-dawn light. Everything’s blue-black out there- soft and hushed and still. A few birds chirp far off, and it’s quiet enough that John can almost forget what they’re running from.

Almost.

Ghost watches him close while they eat. Like he’s still tracking something, cataloguing every blink and bite. John knows he’s being evaluated. Doesn’t say anything about it. He’s done his little test walk, the brace holding firm, no tremble in his steps- not outwardly, anyway. The ache is still there, sure. It probably always will be. But it’s dull, manageable. Not the firestorm it was.

After the plates are cleared and rinsed in the cramped sink, John leans against the wall and watches Ghost shrug into the last of his outerwear. Gloves adjusted, balaclava tucked in proper, coat pulled close at the collar.
John pulls on his own coat- one of Ghost’s, really, too big at the shoulders- and wraps a scarf twice round his neck. Had found it, dusty, in one of the chest of drawers. Ghost had taken the piss when he went to chuck it out, said there's a launderette downstairs for a reason, know that?. He finishes off, socks thick and shoved into boots that pinch slightly on his left foot. He doesn’t say anything about it.

Ghost turns, eyes flicking down to his legs.

“Pain?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

Ghost gives a low hum. Not approval, not disagreement. Just acknowledgment. He steps close, fiddles with the scarf.

“Wind’ll pick up,” he mutters, adjusting the fabric just a bit higher.

“You worried I’ll get a chill?”

“I’m worried you’ll fucking keel over again.”

John snorts but doesn’t push it. He’s learned by now that some things aren’t worth needling, especially when Ghost’s got that look in his eye- focused, fixed, serious. Protective in a way that makes John’s chest twist.

“Right,” Ghost says, grabbing his keys from the side. “We’ll go slow.”

“No need to go slow for me,” John replies, lifting his chin a bit.

Ghost’s hand pauses on the doorknob. He glances back, unreadable behind the mask, but there’s something in his eyes. Not quite fondness. Something adjacent.

He opens the door.

The hallway is dark, empty. Not that John expected anyone to be up at this hour. Most of the village is still asleep, tucked in warm beds while the two of them sneak out like ghosts.

Fitting.

They move quiet. John’s breath fogs faintly in the air, and the stairs creak in that familiar way that makes him grit his teeth. Ghost leads, every movement economical, careful. He watches John without turning his head, like he can feel the way John moves behind him.

John doesn’t stumble. He walks steady, hand on the banister, knee braced and warm under all the layers. And outside, there’s space. The sky’s lightening, bleeding out into soft greys and purples. The air is crisp, wet with the promise of frost.

Ghost slows when they reach the door. Turns to him, waiting.

“You alright?” he asks, low.

John nods. “Yeah.”

“You say that a lot.”

“And I’m usually right.”

A pause.

“Usually,” Ghost repeats.

Then he opens the door, and the cold sweeps in sharp and immediate. John shivers once but steps forward anyway. The ground’s damp underfoot, sky wide and open overhead.

The cold bites, but not badly. Not like yesterday. The air’s lighter this morning, fresher somehow- less weight to it. Doesn’t cling to his clothes or settle into his lungs like wet cotton. John blinks into the grey-blue of it all as the door clicks shut behind them. Ghost is already a few steps ahead, hands in his coat pockets.

John follows.

The village is still. Sleepy. Not empty in the eerie sense- just quiet, like it’s holding its breath. Main street’s just ahead, narrow and cobbled in a way John’s seen in postcards and old films. The shopfronts are all shut tight, blinds down or windows fogged. No one about yet. No cars. Just the hush of early morning and the clack of their boots against the stones.

The sun’s not quite up, but the sky’s lightening fast now- edges of rose-gold creeping in under the heavier grey. Clouds, yes, but not much. And none of them swollen with rain. A good sign.

John walks slowly. Not out of necessity, though his knee still tugs at him if he steps too sharp. But because he wants to. The pace is easy. Unrushed. For the first time in… he can’t remember how long, he’s not moving toward anything. Not on the clock, not escaping or chasing or searching. Just walking. Just… out.

He breathes in deep. Crisp and cool, fresh in a way that clears the remnants of sleep from his lungs. Smells like woodsmoke and wet stone, like spring clawing its way up from the thaw. His boots scuff faintly along the edges of the pavement, and Ghost’s are always just a few steps ahead. Not too far. Just enough that John feels it- follows him.

It’s faint, the sensation. But real. Ghost’s pace isn’t dragging him along or holding him back- it’s leading. Subtle, smooth. John finds himself falling into step without meaning to. Eyes fixed on the broad line of Ghost’s shoulders beneath the jacket. The way his head stays slightly turned, like he’s tracking for movement with every step. John finds it easy to follow him

The thought hits, sudden and inexplicable, and he nearly laughs at himself: dog on a leash.

That’s what it is, isn’t it? He’d begged to go out yesterday- like a pet whining at the door- and Ghost had held firm until he was sure John wouldn’t collapse in the middle of the pavement. Had watched him eat, drink, test the weight on his leg. All of it. Then, and only then, given permission.

And now John’s got it. The walk. The cool air and cobbled path and the shifting light of dawn across the rooftops. He’s got it because Ghost allowed it.

That should bother him. Should itch more than it does. But it doesn’t. Not really- not when it's this simple.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. Keeps moving.

They don’t talk. Don’t need to. The main street slips by in stretches of shuttered shopfronts and tight terraced flats with moss blooming at the edges. A butcher’s sign creaks on its hinge. Somewhere, a bird calls sharp and reedy from a rooftop. The world’s waking up in small, careful increments.

It’s peaceful. Even with the shadows they carry.

They round a bend at the far end of the street, and it opens up. Just a little. Trees now, scraggly and bare-limbed, leaves not quite in yet. A patch of green spreads wide ahead of them- public, a sort of common ground- and beyond that, water. Wide and still. Not quite a lake. Not really a canal. Something in between, probably manmade, framed by stone on one side and reeds on the other.

Swans float along the surface like slow white commas. Ducks cluster further along, heads low. Geese stand guard near the bank, all long necks and suspicion. Here and there, little fluffballs bob- fresh spring hatchlings sticking close to their mothers.

John stops. Not abruptly, just enough to take it in.

They’re not near the water. Just at the edge of the green, still on the footpath. The lake stretches out beyond, silent but not dead. Water sloshes faintly at the edge, lapping at mossy stone. The sunrise has caught up to them now, soft orange and faint lilac threading through the clouds. It turns the water gold at the edges. Makes the damp bark on the trees glisten.

Ghost slows too, just a step or two ahead, then stops without turning back.

John takes a breath.

“You ever think,” he murmurs, low, “about just staying somewhere like this?”

Ghost doesn’t answer.

John doesn’t expect him to.

Instead, they both watch the water, the birds, the slow rippling of the surface under the first stirrings of morning.

The bench is damp when John lowers himself onto it, but he doesn’t care. Not even a little. The wood’s cold through his joggers, but his blood is warm and settled in a way that feels unfamiliar from time passed. The sun is finally rising- slow and syrupy over the rooftops, orange staining the undersides of the thinner clouds. His breath fogs when he exhales, but there’s a warmth to the air that wasn’t there yesterday. He’s not shivering. Not sweating either. Just… okay.

Ghost stands beside him instead of sitting. Always that way. Upright. Vigilant.

John huffs and leans back against the bench’s slats. There’s a patch of green between them and the canal- or lake or reservoir or whatever it is- and on the other side of it, swans drift across the water like proper tourists. Little black ducks dive beneath the surface and pop up again near the bank, where the water barely sloshes. There’s even goslings- small and bobbing, clustered tight between two geese. Spring’s properly come, even if the air hasn’t caught up to it yet.

It’s peaceful, in a strange sort of way. The kind of moment you’d never expect to have with someone like Ghost. Like maybe if they weren’t who they were, and hadn’t been through what they’ve been through, they’d just be two men out for a walk, watching birds and talking about how shit the coffee machine is in the office breakroom.

John taps the toe of his boot lightly on the gravel. “Could murder a proper coffee.”

“No.”

“Didn’t say I was going to. Just said I could murder one. Jesus.”

“You’re not getting one.”

He sighs through his nose. “You know, you’re just as insistent as I suspected a hitman would be.”

Ghost doesn't respond. Just keeps watching the water.

After a beat, John adds, “You’re being quiet.”

“Quiet’s good.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like it.”

Still, nothing. He turns his head, catching the tension in Ghost’s shoulders now. Stiff. Set like concrete. John nudges his knee outward and lets it knock gently into Ghost’s leg.

“You alright?”

That gets him something. A breath, drawn in slow and careful. Ghost shifts, weight moving from one foot to the other.

Then: “I’ll be leaving later.”

The words come clean and low. No explanation. No weight added. No softening the edges.

John straightens up just slightly. “Okay,” he says, cautious. “You mean we’ll be leaving later.”

Silence.

Ghost doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t answer.

And John feels the cold again, sharp and mean, creeping up the back of his neck. He doesn’t flinch at the silence. Doesn’t fill it, either. The breeze slides over the lake and carries the weight of it off his shoulders for a beat or two, letting him breathe before he looks back at Ghost.

“You aren't going on your own,” he says, voice firm. No stammer or flinch, no hesitance. “So if that’s your grand plan, you’d better rethink it.”

Ghost’s eyes are still on the water. He doesn’t look at John. “You’re still not a hundred percent.”

“What, just because I got my knee chewed up four years ago?” John snaps, sharper than he means to, but not wrong. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare decide for me.”

That gets Ghost’s attention. His eyes lift, slow and even, and there’s that tick again in his jaw. “You’ve been limping since we left the inn.”

“Still walked fine, didn’t I?”

Ghost exhales. It's not a laugh, not even close, but it’s the same soft puff of disbelief. “You think walking a couple of streets's the same as going in after Coleman?”

“I think it’s my fight, too.” John leans forward, elbows on his knees. “It was my house they set up in. My name on the property. My fuckin’ face that saw theirs. I was the one supposed to die.”

“Which you didn’t.” Ghost’s voice is low, almost too calm. “Because I got there first. I did my job.”

“No, you didn't." John scoffs. There's quiet for a moment. "And now what? You finish it off and I just… stay here?” He gives a bitter huff. “Sit back and watch you take the final shot some helpless maid?”

Ghost says nothing, but the silence is heavier now. Not cruel, not cold, just tired. But it sits under the skin like splinters.

John softens. Only a bit. “You’re used to going it alone. I get that. But that’s not what this is.”

Ghost’s mouth presses into a flat line. He still hasn’t moved.

“You think I can’t hold my own?” John asks, quieter this time. “That I’m just some deadweight you’re dragging behind you?”

Ghost glances at him now. Just a flick of his eyes. “I think you’re strong.”

John blinks. That... wasn’t the answer he expected.

“You killed one of ‘em. I got the rest. You didn’t panic. Didn’t fall apart. That’s rare.” Ghost turns slightly, angling his body toward him. “But you’re still recovering. And I’m not sending you into something unless I know you can handle it.”

John sits with that. It’s not condescension. Not really. It’s closer to concern. Like he’s a soldier getting reviewed for fieldwork, not a civvie being humoured.

“Then tell me what you need to know,” he says. “What’ll make you trust I can do this.”

Ghost watches him. And finally- finally- he speaks.

“You do what I say. No deviation. No arguing. If I tell you to move, you move. If I tell you to stay down, you stay down.”

“Alright,” John says, without pause.

“If something happens to me–”

“It won’t.”

“–If it does,” Ghost says, sharp now, “you don’t play hero. You finish the job or you get out. Whichever keeps you breathing.”

John swallows. Nods. “Okay.”

Ghost stares at him a moment longer, like he’s waiting for the protest that never comes. When it doesn’t, he sits back, shoulders unwinding a touch.

“You ever done anything like this before?” he asks, voice flat.

“Not exactly like this,” John says. “But I know my way around a gun plenty. Joined the Air Force as soon as I could and served until the knee blew out. Been in dicey spots. Sure, nothing like your world, but… not green, neither.”

Ghost nods once. Like a mark passed, just barely. “We’ll go over it later. Run by the layout of the place, get you familiar with it.”

“Where is he?” John asks.

“North England. Estate outside of Penrith. Remote. But not impenetrable.”

John processes that. “You’ve been there?”

“Once.” Ghost’s tone is clipped. “Long time ago.”

“Friends in low places?”

“Something like that.”

The quiet stretches again. Not hostile. Not strained. Just... full.

Eventually, John says, “Thanks.”

Ghost gives him a sidelong look. “For what?”

“For not shutting me out. For not tying me to the bedpost and buggering off without a word.”

Ghost huffs. “Wasn’t off the table.”

John smiles, faint and real. “You’d have regretted it.”

Another flicker of silence. Ghost doesn’t smile back, but there’s something in his face that reads almost like approval.

“C’mon,” Ghost says after a beat. “Too cold to sit here all morning.”

The village is beginning to stir by the time they turn back.

A slow sort of waking. Pale gold catching the edges of rooftops, windows fogged and glittering with condensation. Somewhere, a radio hums from a cracked second-storey window, old pop carrying along the breeze. The street’s still quiet, but not empty- early risers with dogs or shopping bags, eyes down and heads tucked into scarves.

John walks a step behind Ghost. The path crunches gently beneath their shoes, a mix of frost-burned grass and damp stone. There’s still the aftertaste of their conversation lingering on the back of his tongue.

He doesn’t press now. Not with others about. Not when there’s the soft noise of the town blooming around them like a film slowly spooling forward. They cross the high street. A corner shop ahead opens with a soft ding. The scent of fresh bread and warm pastry trails from a bakery with a crooked sign above the door. An old man smokes outside the post office, nodding at them as they pass. Ghost gives a slight tilt of the head in return, unbothered. Unreadable.

John’s more aware of it now- how careful Ghost is. How still. Doesn’t speak, barely shifts his weight unless he has to. Keeps his face down but alert. Left side angled a little forward, like habit, like shield. Not hiding, but never exposed.

They walk in silence for another minute before Ghost murmurs, “One sec.”

John stops. Watches him disappear inside the corner shop with the dim little bell above the door. His hand’s already reaching into his coat pocket to fiddle with the lighter there, but he doesn’t take it out. Doesn’t light anything. Just waits, shifting his weight carefully to keep pressure off his knee.

Ghost reappears after a minute, paper cup in hand. Holds it out wordlessly.

John takes it. The warmth is immediate, and stupidly comforting. “You spoil me,” he says lightly, glancing over the lid as he takes a sip. Burnt, overbrewed- cheap and perfect.

Ghost shrugs. Keeps walking.

They fall into step again, slow and steady. John takes another sip. “Thought you were feeling all ‘let’s keep a low profile,’” he says.

“Corner shop’s got no cameras. Didn’t talk to the bloke. In and out.”

“Christ,” John mutters, “you ever do anything halfway?”

Ghost just glances over, impassive behind the fabric of the balaclava.

“Only when I’m tired,” he says eventually.

John huffs out something between a laugh and a scoff. “You tired now?”

“Getting there.”

They walk a little farther, and John sips at the coffee. Heat pools in his stomach, a bit nauseating, but better than nothing. He’s eaten, he’s slept, he’s walked, and yet his chest still feels tight, like a too-small jumper he hasn’t figured how to pull off yet.

“Hey,” he says after a pause, voice carefully neutral. “You always plan things this far out?”

Ghost doesn’t look at him. “Always.”

John nods to himself. “Right.”

He doesn’t poke again. Not right away. They’re back on the quiet road now- the one that leads to the inn. The air’s still cold, but not biting. He adjusts his jacket and tries not to limp too obviously. Ghost doesn’t say anything, but John knows he’s noticed.

The silence this time feels different. Not soft. Not comfortable. More like a held breath.

So John fills it, the only way he knows how.

“You know,” he says, “I used to think I’d be better at this kind of thing. Being on the run. Living on edge. Always figured I’d take to it. Like one of those blokes in the films. Y’know. Charismatic, dirty knuckles, pistol in the waistband.”

Ghost lets out a quiet huff, just barely there.

“But nah,” John continues. “Turns out I’m soft. Need a proper mattress. Like hot food. Whinge too much when I’m in pain. Shit at staying still, though, so maybe I’ve got something going for me.”

Ghost finally glances his way. Just a flick of the eyes. “You’re doing fine.”

“That a compliment?”

“Observation.”

John takes another sip. The coffee’s cooling quickly in the cup. “You ever gonna tell me what your plan is, really?”

“When I’m sure it’ll work.”

“You’re a right cagey bastard, you know that?”

A noncommittal shrug.

John shakes his head. “Just saying. If we’re partners now- ”

“We’re not.”

That stops him cold. Ghost doesn’t say it cruelly, but it lands sharp all the same. John swallows hard. He adjusts his grip on the coffee and keeps walking.

“Right,” he says, quieter. “Noted.”

Another stretch of silence. Their boots echo faintly on the stone.

They’re almost at the inn now. He can see the old sign hanging at an angle from the side of the building, see the way the light spills out from the front window, warm and flickering. Makes it look inviting, even if he knows it’s got drafty walls and a shit boiler.

Ghost finally says, “Didn’t mean it like that.”

John doesn’t answer.

Ghost sighs, just a soft push of air. “You’re useful. I suppose.”

John’s mouth twitches. “That the nicest thing you’ve ever said to someone?”

“Maybe.”

They step up to the door. Don’t go inside yet.

John finishes his coffee. Tosses the empty cup into the bin just by the door.

Ghost’s standing a little too still beside him. Shoulders tense. Not all the way relaxed like earlier on the path. John glances over. Watches the set of his jaw through the stretch of fabric.

“You worried?” he asks, keeping it low.

Ghost doesn’t answer straight away. Doesn’t even pretend not to understand the question.

Instead, after a long moment, he says, “Coleman’s not stupid. But he’s sloppy when he’s emotional. He’ll be emotional about this.”

John nods. “About you going rogue?”

“About losing control. He knew I'd go rogue eventually, I'm sure. That's why he did what he did.”

“Those men.”

Ghost doesn’t nod, but it’s clear.

They don’t speak again. Not yet.

John reaches for the door. Ghost stops him, one hand lightly brushing his shoulder.

“Let me go first,” he says.

John doesn’t argue. Just steps aside and lets him. Lets him check the small lobby, lets him lead up the creaking stairs, lets him open their door first before nodding him in.

Only then does John exhale and follow. He closes the door softly behind him and stands there for a moment. Watches Ghost shrug his jacket off and drape it over the back of an oak chair. Watches the way he moves. Not unshakable. Not infallible. But steady, still. Steady enough to bear them both.

It’s quiet when they step inside.

Not the charged quiet of yesterday- no dread, no heavy breathing under the floorboards of the mind. Just the kind that clings to small rooms after the world’s begun to stir elsewhere. Light spills pale through the single window. Somewhere outside, a bird chirps half-heartedly, like it regrets waking up this early.

Simon closes the door behind them. He waits, listens, like someone will have materialised from the landing floorboards. John moves automatically- slips off his coat, folds it over the back of the nearest chair. His knee clicks faintly as he crouches to unlace his boots. Simon watches the small wince at the bottom of the movement.

John doesn’t complain.

Simon shrugs out of his own jacket, tosses the balaclava on the table again. There’s not much left in the room to fuss with, but John fiddles with the kettle anyway, sets it boiling again like they might need a second round. Doesn’t say much. Neither does Simon.

The silence is companionable now. Worn thin by familiarity.

He takes the chair by the window, where the light’s best. A few seconds later, John drops into the opposite one and starts cleaning up the remnants of breakfast- the crust of a roll, the foil packet of some pre-packaged biscuit thing, the empty tin can. Simon hadn’t eaten much, but he takes the remaining protein bar from the table and slides it into his coat pocket. Never leave calories, even shit ones.

He watches John move. Careful but steady. His limp is mostly gone, though Simon’s eye catches the occasional subtle hitch. A rhythm he’s adjusting to. That’s something.

They don’t talk.

Simon breaks the silence eventually. “We’ll leave today.”

John nods. “Thought so.”

He doesn’t ask where yet. Doesn’t ask how. Just says it like it’s understood. Like the decision’s already made- mostly because it is.

Simon stands. Walks to the battered duffel in the corner and starts unzipping, checking contents. Pulls the Glock from the side pocket, pops the magazine, checks the round count. Fully loaded. One in the chamber. One of the few things that feels properly his anymore.

John shifts beside him, glancing over. “You want me to- ?”

Simon tosses him John's bag. “Check if we’ve got everything.”

He catches it and gets to work. He’s not flashy about it, but he is methodical. Lays things out on the bed, counts each item twice. Bandages, water tabs, spare socks, iodine, protein bars. His own service weapon. Not nearly enough. Just enough to get them started.

Simon watches in silence.

The boy’s good. Precise. Takes instruction without bristling. Not a pushover, not at all- but there’s something in the way he slots into place here that makes Simon’s chest tighten, then settle.

John sets the final kit beside the bag. “We’ll need more.”

“Yeah.”

“Ammo?”

Simon nods. “Stopping at my flat first.”

John pauses, lifts his head. “You have a flat?”

Simon smirks. “Not homeless, am I? Crate in a quiet block, North side of Manchester. No one’s ever traced it. Not worth the effort.”

“You’ve been planning this long?”

Simon gives him a look that says no, but if you keep yapping I'll plan something else.. John holds up his hands in mock surrender, though his smile’s thin. “Just asking.”

Simon turns back to the bag, starts repacking what John’s laid out. It’s clean now- ordered. He works the zipper over with one hand, glances toward the window.

They’ll need to steal a car. Something quiet, something bland. Preferably not diesel- louder on cold starts. That part won’t be hard, considering they've already done it once.

John’s watching him again. He can feel it. That quiet stare. Not hostile. Curious. Still trying to figure him out.

Simon doesn’t say anything more. Just checks his sidearm again, then folds the duffel and sets it beside the door.

They don’t leave the room again that morning.

Noon crawls in with a thin stripe of sun across the wooden floor, but Simon keeps to the desk, arms crossed, back to the chair. John paces now and then, restless in that way he gets- twitchy from too much stillness- but he doesn’t complain. Just sips slowly at a second cup of coffee and waits.

Finally, Simon speaks.

“We’ll go tonight.”

John doesn’t answer at first. Just glances over, then nods once. “How late?”

“After dark. Proper dark. Twenty-one hundred or so.”

John takes that in. “Alright.”

Simon watches the set of his shoulders, the tension in them, the way he masks it with that easy-going shrug. He’s not hiding it well. But he’s listening, and he hasn’t balked. That’s something.

“We’ll head South. Straight through till we reach the ring road. I’ve got a flat on the outskirts, near Middleton. Quiet block, no CCTV outside. No one watches it. We’ll stop there. Pick up what we need. From there, we head to the estate. Coleman’s country place is east of the city. Remote. You’ll see it.”

John nods. “You’ve scouted it?”

“Once. Year ago.”

“Still accurate?”

“Likely.”

It’s all matter-of-fact. No edge to it, no bravado. Simon doesn’t deal in guesswork, and he doesn’t offer comfort where there’s none to give. But John needs to know what they’re walking into, so he gives him what he has.

“Big gate. Electric. Rear access is wooded, single service track, cameras on the southern path. Security light sensors, but only on the drive. Front's a no-go. We breach at the back.”

John’s tapping a thumb against his mug, thinking. “What’s the layout inside?”

“Two floors. Ground’s open plan- kitchen, dining, lounge. Offices upstairs. Coleman should be there, depending on what time we do it. Two or three men minimum. Maybe more.”

“And the point is to get him. Just him.”

“Just him.”

A pause.

“Why now?”

Simon looks up.

John holds his gaze. “I mean- I get it. I do. But I’ve been thinking. All morning. You’ve had a dozen chances before now. You didn’t pull the trigger then. So why now?”

Simon’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Because now there’s no line left to walk.”

The words settle between them like dust.

“You said it yourself,” he continues. “There's no life in running forever. We don’t disappear. Not really. They always come back. And he likely won’t stop till we’re dead or buried, even if we aren't top priority by that point.”

Simon shifts, the wooden chair groaning beneath his weight.

“I knew what he’d do when I didn’t take the shot. Knew he’d send someone in. Knew he’d burn the trail clean. Didn’t expect you’d hold your own like that.”

John doesn’t speak. Just watches.

“He’s got no reason to leave you breathing, and every reason to make an example of me. That’s not changing. So either we stay hiding and wait for the next team, or we end it ourselves.”

A beat passes.

John looks down at the rim of his mug. “You think they’ll just give up once he’s dead?”

Simon exhales, slow. “No. But it’ll shift things. There’s always someone waiting to climb up the corpse. The next one’ll be eager to secure power, not revenge. Clean slate.”

“Still a gamble.”

“Always is.”

They fall into a silence. Not cold. Just settled.

Simon takes a moment, dragging a hand over his jaw. The scrape of his fingers across the week-old stubble is loud in the stillness.

“Plan’s simple,” he says at last. “We break perimeter. Kill Coleman. Get out clean. No extras. No heroics.”

John nods once. Then, more softly: “What if it goes loud?”

“Then we adapt.”

“And if I get hit?”

Simon looks up. “You won’t.”

“Not what I asked.”

Simon doesn’t blink. “Then I get you out. Or I finish it, and you run. Either way, it ends.”

The silence returns.

Eventually, Simon shifts to stand. He checks his watch, flicks his eyes to the window, the strip of gold climbing the far wall.

“Rest up before we go. You’ll want your strength.”

John still doesn’t say anything. But he watches Simon like he might.

Mid-afternoon creeps in through the thin curtains, golden and dull. The telly’s been on for hours. Low volume, some shite rerun of a police drama with too much talking and not enough plot. The kettle’s boiled twice, left to go cold both times.

John lies stretched across the bed, socked feet hanging off the end. His cards are a mess in his hand. One bent in the corner, probably from when he’d tossed them too hard onto the blanket earlier and then sat on them by mistake.

Simon sits by the window, legs spread, one boot tapping. Watching the telly but not really. Watching the door. The light outside. The clock.

He’s always watching something.

John exhales through his nose, glances down at his hand. A pair of eights and a face card. It means nothing. They’re not keeping score.

It’s just something to do.

Eventually, Ghost speaks. “Smoke?”

John blinks up at him. “You offering or asking?”

Ghost gives a shrug. Noncommittal. He stands, fishing into the inside of his jacket for the crushed pack he keeps tucked behind the lining.

They step outside together. Door shut behind them, a quick glance down the corridor before they exit fully. Still cautious. Still sharp.

The air’s colder than it was this morning, but not biting. Damp’s gone out of the sky, and the village feels like it’s holding its breath. Like the hush before a storm, except there’s no clouds.

Just quiet.

Ghost lights his cigarette, then tilts it toward John. Offers it without a word.

John takes it. Lips brush the filter faintly, the way that would mean something if this were anyone else. It’s not. He inhales slow. The burn settles in his chest like old memory.

They stand near the edge of the car park, backs to the building, watching nothing. A flock of terns cry overhead and the sound feels out of place. Too coastal for how inland they are, but the breeze must carry far this time of year.

John passes the cigarette back. Ghost takes it, brief touch of fingers, and then silence again.

John shifts his weight. “You think we’re gonna pull it off?”

Simon doesn’t answer right away.

John glances over, half-smiling. “That a no?”

“It’s a maybe.”

John nods. That tracks.

The cigarette’s passed again, paper crinkling faintly in the quiet.

John leans back against the wall. Eyes the cracked tarmac underfoot, then the field beyond the trees. “Feels strange.”

Simon raises a brow. “What?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs. “This. Waiting. Playing cards. Watching the worst telly I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s like we’re just... normal. Until we’re not.”

Simon exhales smoke. “Wouldn’t know what normal is.”

John hums. “Don't get all brooding on me now, big boy.”

It’s said soft. More thought than words. Still, Ghost glances over at him- quick flick of his eyes, unreadable as always.

John looks away again, scanning the treeline. “I keep thinking- what the fuck am I doing?”

Ghost doesn’t interrupt.

“I mean- I’ve fought before, obviously. Served. Had to make calls in the field. But this?” He laughs under his breath, sharp. “This isn’t a field op. This is personal.”

Ghost nods slowly. “You could stay.”

John snorts. “Don’t be thick.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

They go quiet again.

John shifts, taking the cigarette one last time. It’s nearly down to the filter. “Feels right, in a weird way.”

Ghost tilts his head.

John shrugs. “Coleman sent men into my home. Used my land. I know they’d have shot me if I’d gotten there ten minutes earlier. Or if I’d seen the wrong face. They nearly got me anyway, because of you.”

Ghost watches him.

“It’s not just about payback,” John mutters, flicking ash off into the breeze. “It’s about not being scared anymore. About not waiting for someone else to pull the trigger.”

Ghost takes the cigarette, stubs it out against the wall. “Hm.”

They linger a moment longer.

Then, without a word, Ghost shifts slightly, reaches up, and pulls John’s jacket hood up over his head. The movement is small. Practical. But there’s a stillness in it that makes John blink.

“Wind’s picking up,” he says. “Don’t want catching the lurgee before we even leave.”

John stares at him. Then huffs a short breath, no real heat behind it, glad for the cold to hide the red likely fanning across his cheeks. “Mother henning again.”

Ghost shrugs one shoulder. “One of us has to.”

John lets the hood stay.

It’s dark by the time he finishes the checks.

The room’s quiet save for the low shuffle of movement- zippers drawn, straps tugged tight. No conversation, just the quiet rhythm of packing, repacking, and laying gear out across the bed like an altar.

Simon moves methodically. He’s not nervous, but there’s weight to the prep. Final checks aren’t for peace of mind. They’re for discipline. You forget things when you’re too confident. Too cocky.

He’s not either. Not tonight.

He lays out the contents one last time. Their bags- simple, black, nondescript. Unbranded. Worn enough to pass for forgotten gym kits. Inside: weapons, medical kit, cash, protein bars, bottled water, one spare change of clothes each.

His sidearm’s already loaded. Safety on. He double checks it anyway, not because he doubts himself but because routine is how you live.

John’s sitting across the room, his own bag by his feet. One knee up, arms draped across it, like he’s trying not to fidget. The light overhead buzzes faintly. Ugly, yellow.

“You ready?” Simon asks, voice low.

John nods. “As I’ll ever be.”

Simon doesn’t say that’s not good enough. Because it is.

He crouches near the foot of the bed, pulls on his boots one at a time. Ties them slow, tight, looped twice. Then stands and checks his jacket. Then his underlayer.

Layers are important. Heat escapes fast this time of year, and cold makes your limbs clumsy. He’s wearing thermals beneath a black hoodie, then a lightweight tactical jacket overtop. Dark jeans, durable, burner tucked nicely into the pocket. Gloves. Balaclava.

He sees John watching him in the mirror. Their eyes meet for a beat.

John rises, slow but steady. He’s got that brace snug beneath his trousers, Simon’s sure. Wore it the last few hours to settle the joint in advance. He’d said nothing, just limped to the bathroom earlier and returned with his expression set and unreadable. Now, as he grabs his coat- military issue, lined, bulkier than Simon’s- he moves smooth. Controlled.

It’ll hold.

Simon steps past him and kneels by the bed, unzipping the soft side pocket of John’s bag. He slips in two extra gauze pads. A pair of gloves. A small box of ibuprofen in case the codeine runs out too fast and he's not there to do anything about it.

He doesn’t say anything. Just zips it closed again.

John pretends not to notice.

They leave the room in silence, lights off behind them. The hallway’s quiet, carpet muffling their footsteps. Most guests are likely already in for the night, tucked into their rooms with bad telly and weak tea.

At the landing, Simon glances down the staircase. Still clear. No movement.

They descend slow. Intentional.

Once outside, the cold settles immediately over them. Damp in the air again, despite the dry afternoon. Not raining, not yet, but Simon tastes the shift in pressure. Wind’s moved east. They’ll feel it more on the road.

They cross the small car park. The same cracked tarmac as earlier, but now shadowed and slick. Streetlights haven’t flickered on here- too rural, too forgotten. Good. One less thing to give them away.

John adjusts the strap of his bag. The metal on his zip rattles faintly.

“Left or right?” he asks, hushed.

“Left,” Simon replies. “Not too far.”

John nods. Doesn’t ask more. Doesn’t question. Just falls into step, one pace behind and slightly off to the side. Not quite military spacing, but close enough that Simon feels it. Noticed it earlier in the room too- how John packed his gear with quiet precision. How he didn’t need to be told where to place things. Where not to.

It’s there. Still under his skin.

Simon breathes it in like muscle memory.

They walk for a while. Quiet roads, only one car passing in the opposite direction. He waits until the lights disappear completely down the bend before they cross to the other side.

By the time they reach the small side alley Simon scouted earlier, the sky’s gone thick and dark. Low clouds now. He checks his watch. Just past nine. Still early enough to move fast, late enough to disappear into the gaps.

The car- he’d spotted it the day they'd came. Unlocked, likely unused. Same rust along the bumper, same cracked rear window with tape holding it in place. Old model. No GPS.

Simon doesn’t say what he’s thinking. Doesn’t say he’d rather they have more time, more tools, more backup.

Doesn’t say he hates working like this- low to the ground, off the grid, hands full of ghosts.

He just nods toward the alley, and John follows. The night swallows them both.

The road’s quiet at this hour. Dark, save for the reach of the headlights and the occasional blur of orange from a sodium streetlamp. Trees slide past in skeletal rows, their bare branches snatching at the sky.

Simon drives one-handed. Steady. Right hand on the wheel, left resting near the gear stick, relaxed but ready.

He’s not tired. Doesn’t feel it, not really. The kind of buzz that lives behind his ribs before a job- that hum like static. He’s riding it now, leaning into the silence between them. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s thick. Heavy.

John’s in the passenger seat, bundled in his coat. He’s got a paper brochure folded in half, one of those badly printed tourist things- “Walking Trails of the Dales”- tucked between his fingers. Must’ve pulled it from the glovebox earlier. He’s not reading it, just turning it over, creasing the corner, smoothing it out. Again and again.

Simon watches the road. Lets it breathe for another few miles.

Then: “You never asked for my name.”

His voice is quiet. Flat, but not sharp.

John shifts. Still fiddling with the paper. He doesn’t look over. “Thought you wouldn’t give it.”

“You didn’t ask.”

A beat. Then John huffs, a soft sound, almost a laugh. “No, I didn’t.”

They pass another layby, empty. No lights but theirs.

“You never asked to see my face, either,” Simon says.

He hears John’s thumb slow on the edge of the paper.

“Would you’ve told me?” John asks.

Simon doesn’t answer straight away. He thinks about it. Thinks about the night before- John half-dead with pain in a twin bed, mouth dry with laboured breaths, curled toward the wall. Thinks about how many times he’s watched that face turn in sleep, checked for breath, temperature, colour. The weight of those quiet hours, heavier than anything he feels he's carried in years.

“I would’ve said no,” Simon says finally. “Back then.”

“And now?”

Now.

The road opens out ahead, long and wide, an empty stretch with no curves for a while. He takes one hand off the wheel to turn the dial on the heater, lets it click up half a notch. Doesn’t answer.

John exhales, turns the brochure over again. “Guess I didn’t need a name.”

“Most people do,” Simon says.

“Yeah, well. Most people aren't spending their week with a hitman, or looking over their shoulder every next breath.”

Simon glances at him. John's not looking at him, just out the window now. His face is lit by the faint green wash of the dash display. There’s something tired about his posture, but not defeated.

“I figured,” John goes on, quieter now, “either you’d tell me, or you wouldn’t. Didn’t seem like something I should try to beg for.”

Simon hums. Noncommittal. But it sits with him.

John tilts his head. “It’s not that I didn’t care. Just didn’t think I had the right.”

Simon lets the silence stretch again. Not long. Just a moment.

Then, like he’s saying something mundane- like he’s commenting on the time or the weather:

“Simon.”

John blinks.

Simon doesn’t look over, eyes on the road, but he can feel the shift in the air between them.

“No last name?” John asks around a small smile. It thickens his voice.

Simon’s lips twitch. Almost a grin. “Greedy. You don’t get both.”

John laughs, quiet and surprised. “Hm.”

They drive a little while longer. The road narrows again, dipping into a dark patch of trees. Simon flicks the high beams on.

John folds the brochure and tucks it back into the glovebox. Doesn’t speak for a minute.

Then: “Thanks for telling me.”

The miles pass. The world outside grows darker, just the white lines on the road and the occasional flicker of streetlights.

After a while, John’s starting to get antsy again. Fiddling with the seatbelt, tapping his fingers on his leg. Simon knows exactly what that means- he's got too much energy and nowhere to put it. It’s not even ten minutes before he starts making small noises, shifting in the seat like he’s uncomfortable.

Simon doesn’t look over, doesn’t acknowledge it right away. Just lets him stew for a bit. There’s a subtle satisfaction in watching John get restless. Feels like he’s the one who’s got a hold on the situation. But he’s not going to drag this out.

“Something wrong?” Simon asks, deadpan.

John makes a noise that might be a chuckle, or a groan. “Yeah, only bored out of my mind.”

Simon glances over, just enough to catch John looking at the dashboard like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “Thought you’d be used to it by now. You can be good at waiting, can't you?”

John shoots him a side-eye. “You really think I’m good at waiting?”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

That gets him. John huffs, rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve got patience. Just don’t make me sit in this car for hours on end without something to do.”

Simon lets a smile pull at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t let it show. “You could always stop talking. I’m sure that’d pass the time.”

John opens his mouth to fire back, but Simon’s already keeping it moving, leaning into the curve of the road.

“I’ll tell you what,” Simon says, slowing down as they approach a small village sign. “You sit there, be quiet, and I’ll let you drive until we reach the border.”

John’s head whips over, looking at Simon like he just offered him a thousand pounds. “You’re kidding.”

“I don’t kid.”

John makes a show of considering it, tapping his fingers on the door. “Nah. I’ll pass. Don’t trust you not behind the wheel.”

“Wise man.” Simon keeps his eyes on the road, just letting that settle. He can feel John’s gaze boring into the side of his face, but he doesn’t look.

Then John shifts again, slumping back in his seat with a dramatic sigh. “Well, I guess I’ll just sit here then. Suffer. Like you said.”

Simon’s lips twitch. He wants to tell him to shut the hell up, but it’s not even worth it. They’re both itching for something to change the pace, but the road’s a long one, and they’re both getting too comfortable in it.

A few more minutes of silence, and Simon knows he’s going to get something else out of him.

John sighs again, louder this time. “You know, if I had any bloody idea what the actual plan is, I might be able to focus better.”

Simon can’t help it. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Yeah? What does that mean, then?”

Simon eyes the rearview mirror, watches a van pull in behind them. He keeps his response slow, controlled. “Means you’ll do your job when it matters. I’ll do mine.”

John’s face twitches with that smirk of his, the kind that gets under Simon’s skin. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what you meant.”

“I meant you need to trust me, like you have been.”

John’s eyes narrow. He leans forward like he’s about to challenge Simon, but then stops. His hands are moving again, fingers drumming on the armrest. That restless energy.

“You really think I trust you?” John asks, his voice quieter this time, more thoughtful.

Simon lets a beat go by before answering. “I think you trust what I do. What I can do.”

John snorts. “Yeah? Maybe. You sure don’t make it easy.”

“I’m not here to make it easy.”

“No need to tell me that.” They fall into another stretch of quiet, only broken by tyres on the road. John clears his throat, not looking at Simon but staring out the window. “You’re really gonna let me drive, though?”

Simon glances over at him. He’s still got that look on his face- the one that says he can’t quite decide whether to keep pushing or just let things slide for once.

“I said I would,” Simon replies, voice low but firm.

John doesn’t say anything for a long while. But Simon feels it- the way the silence stretches thin.

Then John shifts in his seat and mutters, “Then I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Simon smirks, waits a beat. "I'd expect nothing less of you, Johnny."

Chapter Text

The outskirts of the city rise slow and flat out of the mist.

They’ve been driving south since dawn, pale light creeping along the motorway behind them, and now the sky hangs low with cloud- a dull, heavy grey that seems to mute everything beneath it: the road, the cars, the outlines of warehouses and red-brick terraces that begin to cluster more densely the closer they come in. The horizon’s still sleepy, reluctant. John watches it slant past the passenger window, bleary-eyed and sleep-sore, a travel blanket Simon had mercifully picked up at a Texaco bunched in his lap from where he’d dozed off again an hour or so back.

The car's heater is blowing lukewarm air now, humming softly beneath the engine’s steady thrum. It’s not much, but it takes the edge off the cold that clings to the windows and seeps in through the seams of his coat. Outside, everything’s damp. Trees slick with dew, hedgerows dark and dripping. Patches of roadside grass are flattened, like they’ve been pressed down by the weight of the fog. The occasional sign flashes by- yellowed, streaked with grime, unreadable until they’re almost past.

He’d woken earlier to the tail end of some bastard laying on their horn at a junction, long and angry, somewhere near Chorley. Not Simon’s fault, but Simon had responded with a string of swearing that definitely was. Colourfully specific in their details. Not loud, but sharp enough to pull John out of his half-sleep, the rest of the motorway smearing by as he blinked himself back into awareness.

Now, silence.

They’re not speaking. Simon hasn’t said much since Preston. Hasn’t looked over, either. He’s got that look to him again- tight-jawed and straight-backed, as though someone’s pressed a button and now he’s shifting into something colder. Like the closer they get, the more the city works its way under his skin.

John doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press.

The roads start to change. Roundabouts grow more frequent, signage denser. Lanes split and merge again without warning. They pass a big grey retail park where a B&Q squats behind wire fencing like an old dog- hulking, familiar, indifferent. It’s still closed, but the lights are on inside, humming in long, harsh lines. Ghosts of fluorescent tubing buzz faintly behind condensation-streaked glass. Nearby, rows of shuttered shopfronts roll by, some sprayed with tags, others bearing signs for cheap electronics and “We Buy Gold.” Further along, there’s a stretch of old mill buildings with new glass fronts bolted on, a token attempt at gentrification that doesn’t quite land. John watches them slip past like teeth in a broken jaw.

North Manchester.

It’s not pretty, but it’s not wrecked, either. The streets aren’t crumbling. There’s wear, but not ruin. The estates they pass are a mess of pebble-dash and red brick, but someone still cares enough to grow big, green plants on balconies, to paint murals on shop shutters- bright animals, thick-lettered slogans, cartoon faces smiling through layers of weather. Outside the local garage, tyres are stacked in orderly towers, each one scrubbed clean of mud. A man in a tracksuit leans against a shutter, smoking, arms folded. He watches them pass with the same expression as the pigeons lined up along the power lines: impassive, unreadable.

There’s movement, life. Two stray cats trotting purposefully across the pavement green. Buses wheezing out of stops. A little girl in a puffy jacket tugging at her mother’s arm, pointing excitedly at a billboard that’s been half-peeled away to reveal another underneath. The sort of grey matter that fills in the gaps between extremes- neither posh nor dire, more lived-in and left alone.

He cranes his neck a little, stretches his legs as much as the meagre space that this car’s footwell allows. Catches his blanket as it begins to droop sadly downward.

The car rattles over a speed bump. Ghost’s foot barely lifts off the accelerator, though he does check the mirror with a flick of his eyes. There’s something measured about the way he drives. Not cautious, but practiced- like he’s following a pattern he knows by rote. Lane changes. Shortcuts. Avoiding certain turns even when they appear faster. Learned familiarity that comes from years of threading through a place you don’t want anyone to know you call home. Not out of fear or shame, but self-preservation.

They cross under a graffitied rail bridge, tags layered thick over brick, and John scrubs a hand roughly over his eyes and digs the sleep-crust out with one nail.

“Nearly there?” he says, quietly, on the tail end of a throat-clearing grumble.

Simon grunts.

It’s not much of an answer, but John figures belatedly that he doesn't really need one. Instead of thinking too hard about anything this early, he lets his head tip against the window again, watches as the world narrows. The buildings crowd closer now. Low-rise flats. Metal fencing. A Chinese with its shutters down and a rain-faded menu flapping in the wind. A corner shop with crates stacked against the door and a woman sweeping the step in a sherpa hoodie two sizes too big.

It’s different, somehow, to Glasgow. It’s different to Auchinloch. Different to the places they’ve been in between there and here. There’s noise, even at this hour. A constant hum under everything. Rubbish lorries grinding their way along narrow roads. Someone shouting for their dog. A car radio too loud through closed windows.

Simon slows at a junction, waits for a van to pass. His knuckles flex on the wheel, one thumb tapping against the rubberised grip. Habit, maybe. Or nerves. John doesn’t know which.

The street they turn into next is narrower. Rows of council flats with stairwells open to the outside. More fences. A few CCTV cameras with plastic domes, half-pointed at nothing. The buildings are close enough that their reflections double in the car windows, distorted by the curve of the glass.

John glances at Simon again.

If he were bolder, he’d venture that maybe Simon is a little drawn in on himself, shoulders a tad higher, jaw locked. The mask’s coming back. That old, expressionless shield Simon wears when he’s thinking too hard. It’s not anger- John can read that well enough by now- but it is something. A kind of hardness. Like every step closer to this place is another brick on a wall he’s spent years reinforcing.

They pass an alleyway between buildings, bin bags stacked in a lopsided pile. A cat darts out and vanishes into the undercarriage of a parked estate car.

And then-

“There,” Simon says, quietly.

He steers them into a car park behind a concrete block. Four storeys. Square, forgettable. The kind of place no one notices unless they live there. Its walls are the colour of overboiled porridge, stucco patched in places with darker grey where damp’s been painted over. Metal railings run along each level, rusting at the joints. A single light flickers above the bottom floor’s doorway.

John doesn’t need to ask which flat’s his.

He can tell- it's unbearably obvious, type of man Simon is. Top floor. End unit. One window half-covered by blackout lining. Clean glass. A small dish aerial mounted neatly outside.

The car idles.

Simon doesn’t move right away. Just sits, hands still on the wheel, gaze fixed forward. John waits. Lets the silence stretch.

Then, eventually: “You alright?”

Simon exhales. Not quite a sigh.

“Don’t usually come back,” he mutters.

That’s all he says, but John doesn’t push further. Doesn’t need to. Whatever this place is to Simon, whatever history sits pressed into the corners of the flat above them, it’s not something that needs talking through now. Won't serve any purpose, won't get them any closer to the end goal. Would hinder, more likely, with John’s track record of being far too nosy to do any good.

So he sits still, knee stiff and hand resting on the door handle, and waits for Simon to kill the engine.

They don't speak for a little while.

The sky isn't brightening. If anything, it’s darker here- closer, somehow. Like the city stacks the weather tighter. Concrete swallowing light. The morning smells faintly of damp brick and old exhaust, pavement still holding dawn’s cold. John hitches his coat up higher as he steps onto the tarmac, the motion automatic. His bad leg’s stiff again, travel tightening the joint, but he doesn’t say anything. Some warmth will have it sorted in no time. Simon doesn’t look back, but he slows half a pace as they approach the stairwell.

The stairwell smells like dust and rust and faint detergent- clean, but not so much you’d bend to the floor and kiss it. Steel underfoot, metal banisters painted an institutional blue, chipped in places where boots or keys have scraped them over the years. Four flights. Simon starts climbing, steady and unhurried, boots echoing up the well like he’s used to hearing them alone.

John follows.

It wasn’t hard to guess which flat is Simon’s, even before they stop at the top of the stairs. There’s nothing but a number marked on the door, brushed steel slot for post, and a lock that’s been swapped out for something newer, heavier. Not even a doormat, or something to give the place a little life. John scoffs inwardly.

Simon unlocks the door without ceremony, lets it swing open on its own weight. Then he stands aside, barely a flick of his fingers, and John steps through first.

The flat is… not what he expected.

Not quite.

Clean, yes. Spare. Walls painted a pale, nondescript grey, scuffed faintly at the corners but free of anything like pictures or posters. There’s no clutter. The shoes by the door are lined up; the hooks above them hold a single coat. Even the air feels still- undisturbed, like the whole space has been folded shut and left untouched between uses. John supposes it has.

But it’s not cold. Not completely. And the place smells faintly of soap and something herbal- maybe a room freshener. There’s a throw blanket folded on the back of the sofa, neat as a hotel room, and the armchair beside it has the sort of sag you only get from long, consistent use.

Lived-in, John thinks. But like someone who’s always ready to leave.

Ghost closes the door behind them, deadbolts it with a quiet flick. Then he moves past, shouldering out of his coat and tossing it over the back of the kitchen chair like he’s done it a hundred times before. Makes sense. Still checks weird in John’s brain, though, to see the man move so causal, habitual. Like he should close his eyes or turn away or undress so that they’re on the same level of vulnerability here.

But no, it's not vulnerability. Simon seems a little uncomfortable, sure- at John seeing him here, seeing him in this place- or simply because Simon is back here, John can't tell. But it's not vulnerability, no. It’s more normalcy.

John shrugs his own coat off slower, skin still creased from where the seatbelt pressed too long, exposed before he rights the pulled-down neckline. His knee aches briefly as he bends to untie his boots.

The space isn’t large. Kitchen and living room share an open plan, divided only by a low worktop. A hallway branches off to the right- bathroom, presumably, and a bedroom beyond. It’s mostly in neutral tones, stripped down to essentials: kettle, toaster, a few pans stacked beside the hob. The only thing close to decorative is a small, square clock on the wall above the fridge and a fake-looking plant on the windowsill. The clock ticks quietly, just audible above the hush of traffic outside.

Simon disappears into the hallway. There’s a rustle, a cupboard door. After a minute, his voice, low and unreadable:

“You didn’t shower yesterday.”

Hm.

John looks up. Simon’s returned with a towel folded over one forearm, plain white, faintly worn at the edges. He holds it out. John takes it.

There’s no reason to feel embarrassed. He knows that. They’ve slept in the same room. He’s pissed outside in front of the man, for Christ’s sake. But something about the gesture lands strange in his chest. It feels more like instruction.

“Bathroom’s on the right,” Simon adds, stepping away again. “You’ll find it.”

No please. No order, either. Just that same clipped inflection- go, clean up, as if it’s already decided. As if this is part of the rhythm now, a piece of the routine they’ve fallen into without discussing it.

John doesn’t argue. The towel’s warm from the radiator.

The bathroom is small. A single bar of soap on the edge of the sink, a bottle of three-in-one in the shower caddy. There’s a threadbare mat on the floor, soft beneath his bare feet. The mirror above the sink is slightly smudged at the middle from past breaths.

He undresses the rest of the way with stiff fingers. Steps into the shower.

Hot water. Too hot, at first. He hisses under his breath, shoulders tightening, but doesn’t turn the tap. Just leans into it, lets it strip the ache from his limbs, steam coiling up into the silence like smoke. There’s no window in here. The light’s artificial, soft and yellowish, like the overheads in the barracks.

He washes slow, will always appreciate the way the pressure-heat grounds him. There’s grit beneath his nails, sweat-salt dried into his hairline, but it washes off easy enough.

When he steps out, the towel’s still warm.

He dresses in the clothes Ghost must have left folded on the bathroom shelf: a clean black t-shirt, thick joggers, both a little big. Smell faintly of laundry powder, sunless and reassuring.

When he returns to the main room, Simon’s already working.

The coffee table has been cleared. The surface is lined with gear now, laid out with surgical precision. Weapons, cash, bundles of ammunition wrapped tight in elastic bands. Burners, too- three of them, all different models, all face-down . A pair of knives. Gloves. A proper black balaclava John hasn’t seen before.

And in the centre of it: a rifle. Compact. Sleek. Dark steel and matte polymer, stripped and laid open like a diagram in a manual.

Simon’s crouched beside the kit bag it came from. Old thing. Military issue. Canvas faded to a sun-washed grey, the name patch long removed, a strip of velcro exposed where it used to sit. He’s sorting through the side pockets now, setting aside items one by one- suppressors, scopes, rolls of gaffer tape, zip ties.

John hovers near the armchair. Doesn’t speak.

Simon’s Glock sits to the side, neatly cleaned and reassembled. Next to it, John’s service pistol that he’d tucked safety into his bag. Nosey. But it’s heavier than the Glock. Slightly longer barrel. Old army standard. Reliable. A bit beat-up, but it’s always done the job.

Simon doesn’t look up when he speaks.

“We’ll take something slightly heavier.”

His voice is calm. Unhurried. Hands moving as he checks the sights on a different weapon- another handgun, compact but solid. Polymer frame, aftermarket grip. Could be a CZ, could be a Walther. Whatever it is, it’s undeniably satisfying to watch the light sluice off of.

“We’re not running again,” Simon adds, after a pause. He raises his eyes to meet John’s own. “This one’s final.” As if there was any other option. As if he wouldn't die trying.

John watches the line of his shoulders as Simon works. Folds his arms loosely. His shirt clings faintly to his skin, still damp from the shower.

“What about him?” he asks, after a moment.

Simon pauses. Slots a mag home. Doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “Like I said. Penrith. In the old place.”

John nods. He doesn’t know what that means, not exactly, but Ghost says it like it matters. Like the shape of the space will make a difference. Like knowing the floor plan will be enough to make it clean. They’re both smart enough to know otherwise.

They don’t talk tactics yet. Not this morning.

Simon works until everything’s back in order. Then he sets one of the pistols aside- a spare, maybe- and gestures vaguely toward the kitchen.

“There’s coffee still warm, if you want it.”

It’s nearly midday before Simon remembers food.

Or- not remembers, exactly. Just feels the shape of it. A dull burn in his gut, present enough to demand attention. He hasn’t eaten since that petrol station sandwich yesterday, and that hardly counted. Neither of them have.

The fridge is nearly empty. A few bottles of water, half a jar of mustard, something in a tupperware container that’s likely fossilised by now. He closes the door again, drums his fingertips against the counter.

Cupboards, then. He creaks one open and finds exactly what’s expected- stacked tins, packets of noodles, and a bottle of brown sauce he figures has been here since he moved in. He’s more of a ketchup man, himself. There’s a can of ravioli at the back that looks fairly appetising.

From the living room, he hears the shift of weight- John’s still curled up on the armchair like he’s lived here for years. He hasn’t said much since the shower. Been quiet, thoughtful. A different quiet than the car. Less braced. It’s good- that Simon can disarm Johnny so easily, so smoothly. And it eases the nerves more than he’d ever admit, besides.

The tin opens with a wet crrk, spatter of tomato juice landing on his wrist. Yum.. He dumps the contents into a saucepan, lights the hob. He doesn’t bother stirring yet. Just stands there, hand braced to the counter, watching the slow, sluggish heat begin to rise.

He scrubs a hand over his head, over the black fabric of the plain balaclava he’s taken to wearing around Johnny. No reason. Sighs deep and long and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Starts to stir the ravioli.

Being back here allows him to take stock of the situation more than he’d like. It's been fine so far. Not optimal, but they can do this. He’s never needed comfort or even 100% success rates. It's when he gets in his head that things go awry. Easier to drift and follow the current so deeply imbued in his marrow he might as well call it DNA.

Footsteps behind him.

Simon doesn’t turn. He blinks, says, “You hungry?”

There’s a pause. Then: “You cooking for me?”

It’s teasing, but mild. Sickeningly warm for the way it settles him. Simon glances back and finds John barefoot, hair still damp at the ends. His borrowed t-shirt hangs a bit loose, collar stretched. He’s leaning on the wall, like he’s waiting to be called over.

Simon says, “There’s more in the tin,” and turns back to the stove. “I’ll start my portion now.”

“You’re dodging the question.”

“I’m feeding you,” Simon sets the spoon down. “That’s what you asked.”

“Mm.” Johnny’s voice lifts a little, speculative. “You do this for all your dates?”

Simon snorts. “Only the ones with shit haircuts.”

John scoffs on the tail end of a laugh, and steps closer. Not by much, but near enough to peer into the pan and make a face.

“You’re kidding.”

“Oh, yeah. My bad. Let me dump this out and make us beans, instead.” Simon grunts.

“That’s tinned ravioli, mate.”

“It’s carbs and protein.”

“You’re telling me you’ve got a whole plan to kill a man and this is the fuel for it?”

“We aren't killing him today.” Simon stirs the pan. “You’re welcome to cook instead.”

John doesn’t move.

“Didn’t think so.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a quiet laugh from behind him- low and sudden, close enough to brush at the back of Simon’s neck, felt faintly through the fabric of the balaclava. It’s not mocking. More like something caught off guard.

“You’re fucking weird,” Johnny says.

Simon doesn’t reply. He shifts the pan off heat.

Plates are in abundance because he can never be arsed to do the dishes until they’ve piled up exponentially, so he keeps a healthy stock of them to fund his laziness. He sets one down, ladles half the mess onto it. The ravioli slaps wetly against porcelain, orange and too-thick and with that cloyingly sweet smell. He thinks about apologising, decides against it. Hands John’s plate off.

John takes it, still smiling faintly. That quiet amusement, curled in his mouth like a secret he’s not in any rush to tell. It suits him, that easy happiness. Makes Simon want to crack a joke. Makes him feel sick.

They sit on opposite ends of the sofa, plates balanced on their laps. The television is off. The silence is easy, not thick.

“So,” John says, voice casual. “If I finish this like a good boy, do I get a reward?”

Simon doesn’t move.

His fork stalls half an inch from his mouth. The sauce drips slowly from the prongs, cooling in the air.

He blinks. Then lowers it.

John’s looking at him sideways. Not coy. Not flirting, exactly. Just… interested. Like he’s nudged a toe over a line to see what it does. It could mean he’s simply asking if Simon has any dessert. It could.. fuck. Why did they have to stop back here again? Why did Simon keep Johnny alive again?

He makes a small sound. Not quite a laugh. “What?”

John shrugs. “Only asking.”

Simon stares at him for a second too long. Not meaning to. Not prepared for that. It’s not even just the words- it’s the tone. Offhand. Pleased with himself. Unbothered. It's so disgustingly arousing and Simon has never felt so out of his depth in all his life. Not even when he was stuck dangling by his hands from a balcony for half an hour in a foreign country with no friendlies on the comms.

His mouth is dry. That’s new. He coughs and swallows to try and stimulate the saliva. His brain supplies, unhelpfully, that at least something else is stimulated.

He shifts in place, crossing one leg over the other to cover the problem beginning to make itself known. Slow, heady weight behind the zip of his jeans. Fucking great. Not helpful. Not appropriate. When has any of this been appropriate, though?

“Eat your food,” he says, quietly.

John just grins, fork scraping against his plate.

Simon finishes his ravioli in absolute silence and at a record speed that'd rival even the greenies back in the mess. He doesn’t look up again. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t trust himself to.

A few minutes later, he excuses himself to the toilet.

It’s not urgent. He doesn't slam the door. Just pushes it, quiet, turns on the tap to mask the nothing-silence of the flat.

He presses his palms to the edge of the sink. Breathes out through his nose. Cold porcelain. Damp air.

Fucking hell.

He turns the tap off. Lets the quiet sit.

Not peace. Not calm. Not even stillness. Fuck. This is his flat. He shouldn't be feeling so out of his depth just because his hostage decided to play up on the flirting.

Was it flirting? Is it his stupid fucking hindbrain wishful thinking? Who’s to tell. Not like he can just saunter out and ask the first fucking person, because, oh, that would be Johnny. Great stuff.

He stands for a moment with his hands braced either side of the sink, breathing in the weight of the room. A flickering light from the mirror- cheap bulb, loose in the fitting. He doesn’t let himself look at his reflection as he yanks the balaclava off.

Doesn’t want to.

He’s painfully hard. Proper dull ache behind the zip now. Incredibly persistent, like he’s fourteen and constantly horny again.

He can hear the rustle of John outside, faint through the walls. A fork scraping ceramic, maybe. The picture of a lopsided smirk still lingers behind his ribs, right where it shouldn’t. Right where it shouldn't have bedded down for the night, tucked in with a thick travel blanket and clad in boxers that aren't his.

Fuck!

Simon slams his hand down a bit too rough on the porcelain for John not to have heard it. Oh well. He shifts, catches himself pressing against the counter’s edge, testing the friction. Doesn’t help.

He exhales through his nose. Focuses.

Then his eyes catch a pile of something near the shower- near the towel rail, crumpled where it must’ve been tossed without thought.

Clothes.

Johnny’s. What he wore all of yesterday, through the evening, into the car, past the border. Grey boxers curled inside his jeans, shirt half inside-out, one sleeve tucked into itself like he’d pulled it free in a rush.

Simon stares. Long enough that it becomes conscious. His mouth is wet.

There’s a moment- barely a flick- where he could step away. Could stop. Not because it’s wrong, really, but because it’s stupid. Because it’s too much.

He doesn’t think there's any timeline where he musters the courage to.

He crouches instead, slow, and pries the boxers free by the waistband. Fabric still warm from where the jeans rested against the radiator. Smells thickly like skin- clinging sweat and grime, the faint sour trace of a day unwashed. Not really clean sweat. But nothing about this is clean enough to justify.

Simon lifts them closer. He breathes in.

Fuck. Something animal curls in his chest, low and tight. A growl that doesn’t reach his throat. He drags another breath. Deeper. The scent clings to him, slips up into the cracks of his brain where sense doesn’t reach, molasses thick and drooling like his cock into pants. There’s musk, salt, the thick iron tang of a body without the time to be tended to. And underneath- something else. Something Johnny.

It shouldn’t work. But it does.

His cock throbs behind denim, straining now. Simon clenches his jaw. He slides the boxers into the edge of the counter, anchoring them there with one hand, then unzips with the other.

He strokes slow, hand tight, cock flushed hot and wet and heavy in his fist.

His brain doesn't need any quasi-fantasy or image of a warm, wet hole or body. The smell, disgustingly, is more than enough. He closes his eyes, lets the rhythm carry. Shallow breath. A pulse behind his teeth.

It’s been over a week. Maybe more. He hasn’t counted. Everything’s been motion since he took the job, one day bleeding into the next. He didn’t notice until now how tightly wound he’s been, coiled up so firm in his own spine he forgot what it was like to need. To sate the need.

He shifts again, bracing himself better. He comes embarrassingly fast, hard and warm and spurting over his fingers. He only just manages to catch it in his palms. It feels like something’s been yanked free by the root.

He wipes his hand clean with toilet paper, tosses it into the toilet, flushes. Washes his hands properly with soap.

Boxers back where he found them. He wills himself not to think too hard about the fact that he’s shoving them into the crotch of his jeans. Jeans he wore for maybe 24 hours. God.

He takes a few more square breaths before he allows himself to slip the mask back on, unlatch the door and step out. Expression blank. Cock quiet again. Body obedient.

John’s voice reaches him before he rounds the corner.

“Chopin.”

Simon glances over. The television flickers with colours too bright for the room’s low, grey light. Some daytime quiz show, another that pretends to be clever by keeping questions short and the timers shorter. John’s sunk into the end of the sofa, plate long since cleared, arms folded, remote somewhere under his thigh. The show buzzes onward.

He sees Simon and nods. “You were in there a while.”

Simon doesn’t answer. He moves toward the armchair to pick up the plates. They clink faintly. The sauce is already beginning to crust at the edges. He carries them into the kitchen.

Behind him, the host on the telly rattles off another question. John calls out, “Banff!” like it’s obvious, even though the timer’s already ended.

Simon rinses the dishes, easy. Hot water, a touch of fairy liquid. He wipes them clean with a faded towel and sets them out to dry. His hands move without thinking, but his mind is full of sharp fragments. Namely, the smell still clinging faintly to his philtrum. Likely in his pores by now, and he wouldn't have it any other way. The weight of what he just did sits heavy in his belly. What it meant- or didn’t. What it said.

Back in the living room, John shifts on the sofa and winces slightly as he draws his leg up.

Simon crosses over, spurred on by that persistent part of him that always moves first. The one that checks a man’s dressing before he’s asked, that keeps count of a squad’s footsteps in pitch dark. The part that sees John’s knee and knows it’s not in the right position.

He slides a pillow beneath it. Elevates it without comment. Hand firm behind the back of John’s calf.

John glances down, then up.

“Don’t fuss.”
His tone’s soft. Not a reprimand- just a nudge. He doesn’t push the pillow away, though. Just settles again and lets Simon work. Probably knows he’d be fighting a losing battle, besides.

Simon nods once, then moves past him. Picks up the tin from earlier, drops it in the bin with a hollow thunk. Wipes the counter down where the sauce left a faint, sticky mark.

His thoughts trail him.

He doesn’t know. He won't know.

Simon watches the window for a moment- glass smeared, the sky behind it a dull, washed grey. Damp in the air, concrete leaching cold through the walls.

He sets the cloth down. Runs a hand through his hair.

He shouldn’t be thinking like this. About Johnny. A man who shouldn’t even be here. Who’d be six feet deep and rotting, if Simon had pulled the trigger like he was meant to. And now- this? As if he couldn't get more disgusting.

He swallowed the feel of John’s sweat in his lungs like it belonged there.

That’s not care. That’s not kindness. That’s filth. Undeniable and rotten to its very fucking marrow, to the thing that built it up and let it seep into Simon’s pores until it knew his breath.

He wipes his hands dry, mouth tight, and goes back to pretending to be the kind of man who only means what he says out loud.

Behind him, the television rattles on. John's voice lifts again, half-laughing: “It’s definitely fish paste, come on, mate.”

The light's gone soft. That quiet, pewter tone that turns buildings into silhouettes and windows into mirrors. Manchester below them hums like it always has- cars dragging past, a siren somewhere distant, someone yelling over nothing two streets over. All of it flattened by the hour.

They sit out on the fire escape, legs stretched, backs to the cool metal railing. Well, Simon’s are. John’s got his dangling through the slats, reaching down for the floor.

Simon’s got one cigarette lit, another between his fingers before he decides against it, slips it back into the foil. John’s halfway through his, the tip flaring orange-red every time he breathes in. He’s been pointing out a bat that flutters by for hardly a second each time, that Simon keeps on missing, and he’s wearing Simon’s hoodie.

Simon had thrown it at him earlier with a grunt about the cold. Didn't think much of it at the time.

Now- now he sees the way it hangs loose around John’s frame, sleeves rolled back, hem almost hitting his thighs where he sits. John’s collarbone peeks out from where the fabric’s dragged too low. The cuffs are damp from when he insisted to dry the dishes.

He takes another drag. Pointedly does not look at him.

Mine, something disgusting in Simon thinks. Something loose and feral and unwelcome. Mine, in that hoarse, half-sung tone that doesn’t feel like thought at all. More instinct than idea.

The air's cold. John shifts backwards a little, so that he can meet Simon’s eyes.

“You ever gonna tell me,” he says, slow and thoughtful, “how you ended up in bed with a bloke like Coleman?”

Simon’s first reaction is silence. Eventually, a low sound, not quite a laugh. More breath through teeth.

He wants to say no. Wants to say don’t ask things you don’t want to know. But the cigarette's half burned down, and the wind’s picking up, and they might be dead in forty-eight hours if they’re unlucky.

What’s the harm?

“Friend of a friend,” Simon says, eyes on the skyline. “Back when he still gave a shit.”

John glances over.

Simon shifts his weight, pulls his hood tighter over the balaclava. He exhales smoke slow.

“He used to run logistics for protests. Big ones. Anti-austerity stuff. Immigration raids. Sent money where it mattered, I suppose. Moved kit, medics. Never figured him for the moral type, but he was smart. Knew where to push.”

“You involved in all that?” John asks, brows raised.

Simon huffs. “Fuck no. Didn’t care either way. Didn’t have the politics for it. But I knew how to move people, and I owed a mate a favour. So I helped out, once or twice, where it suited.”

John nods, thoughtful.

“What happened?”

Simon tips ash off the edge of the railing. Watches it fall.

“He got greedy.”

That’s the barest shape of it. The thing that matters most.

“Started running powder. Said it was just to fund the protests. That it’d stop once they were in the black. Never did. Didn’t want to stop. Started branching out. Pills. Gear. Guns.”

“And you couldn’t just… walk away?”

Simon shoots him a sidelong look. He doesn't expect John to get it, not really.

“You know it’s never that easy.”

John holds his gaze for a moment. Then looks down at the butt of his cigarette, ashes blooming across his fingers.

“No,” he says finally, “I guess not.”

They sit like that for a bit longer. Watching the city lights blink slowly awake as the sun drips from the sky. Headlights start to spill through the streets below. Streetlights slowly blink on.

Simon feels the urge to speak again and doesn’t. It rests heavy on his tongue, thick like tar. The things he could say. About what it cost to stay in Coleman’s orbit. About what it made of him. About what it changed, and what it didn't, and how it made him sick. How he wanted to be better, but he couldn't be. How fool that made him.

But Johnny’s shoulder is brushing his, body-warmed and soft. He smells like home, and Simon tells himself it’s simply because the fabric has been scented from months untouched in his wardrobe.

He leans back, smokes the last inch of his cigarette, and says nothing more. Watches the butt sail a golden arc downwards when he flicks it.

John chuckles quietly, hooks his legs back up and through the railing so they're no longer dangling. He scoots back, brings his knees to his chest, and rests his head on his bicep.

“I’m.. I’m tired, y’know? Not, like, drowsy. But.. fuck.”

Simon hums. Doesn't know what to say that won’t expose some vile, soft underbelly that he never really had in the first place. Couldn't. There’s quiet for a moment, before John clears his throat.

“Did I ever tell you that I was living in that place because my dad died?”

“Johnny-”

“Wait.” John takes a breath. Simon scrubs his eye, resigns himself to listen.

“I inherited the place, for some reason. I don't think my older sister could've coped with it- she'd have just sold up. I used to tell my dad, when we were still speaking, that if he left it to me I would sell it. I didn't, of course. Spineless like that.

“Anyways. I’m telling you this, because.. fuck, I don't even know. I think that.. I was a little too miserable, for lack of better wording. Before you were hired to kill me, and whatnot. And I’m not the pour-you-heart-out type of lad, so this could definitely be said better, but…

“I think you reminded me of something. I’m not quite sure what of, exactly, yet. But I just know that it’s important. It's silly, I know, to say that to your kidnapper. But.. I wanted you to know. Not that it means anything, but I thought..”

Johnny trails off.

Simon can't meet his eyes. Can't exhale a breath from where it’s sat in the pit of his belly. Can't do anything but sit there, stupid, staring at the concrete below him. Out of the corner of his eye, John’s hand fidgets.

He reaches out to still it.

There’s nothing to say- or if there is, then he’s entirely fucking out of his depth in that regard. No surprises there, of course. But he wants to.. fuck, reassure Johnny? Can he do that? Has he ever reassured someone besides confirming his Captain’s head counts, or handing an extra mag to a rookie after too many missed shots?

Doesn't matter. None of it does when they could be dead by the end of tomorrow. He settles one hand over both of Johnny’s, meets the lad’s bright eyes. Nods once. He can meet John’s level on whatever kind of fucked-up playing field this is, because it's so unbelievably calling. He wants to. No, scrap that, he needs to.

“You never asked about my mask. My face.”

“I never thought it was any of my business. Or that I’d get anywhere if I did ask. Same with your name.”

Simon nods, and in the same breath, decides, fuck it. If they die, none of this will matter. If they don't die, they're both criminals in this life. Not that there would ever be a timeline where he wouldn't take all of the blame for Johnny, but, still. Point is, does it really fucking matter if John knows what he looks like?

He reaches up and pulls the mask off.

There’s a beat of quiet, where nothing stirs. Not even the fucking bat. John’s gone incredibly still, hands still blanketed by one of Simon’s own.

Then, John nods, and that's it. Simon sets the mask down in his lap, and takes his hand back from John’s. They've stopped fidgeting now, a small mercy, but Simon won't pretend he didn't feel how cold they were.

His mouth is bee-sting thick. He swallows and picks up his lighter and fags from where he tossed them between him and Johnny. “We should.. head inside.”

John nods. “Yeah. S’cold, isn't it?”