Work Text:
The Little French Bistro by Nina George, published in 2017, ISBN 0451495586, finds Ghost on a Tuesday.
Rather, the librarian finds him, and he happens to be carrying a stack with the book on top. But maybe that was the book's intention. Who can say? Regardless, the unassuming and enthusiastic Harry Stone bumps into the solid wall of Lieutenant on a Tuesday and the book careens right into Ghost's hands.
To Ghost, it looks like a lady's novel. The cover has manicured feminine hands cupping a small teacup and saucer, the bold title bordered in shiny gold. But a lady's novel is the kind his mother used to read in her chair when his dad was away. It gives him pause, makes him blink to Manchester before Harry's spluttering raises his head.
"I-I'm trying to set up a bigger literature shelf," Harry explains to Ghost's dead stare, apparently not hearing the snorting, astonished whispers of the other soldiers in the hallway. "Something in the front. Just got these in, thought I'd, you know, see if anyone wanted to borrow them before I put them up. A little human book mobile." He tries to laugh.
Ghost looks between The Little French Bistro and the little human book mobile. He wordlessly smacks the book back on the stack, ignoring Harry's surprised grunt.
The book whispers, Oh no you don't.
It resolves to haunt him for the rest of the week until, the following Tuesday, he storms into the base's cramped library and yanks it back with grit teeth. He can't remember the titles his mother read, but he remembers her offering them to touch. It was the gentlest thing he's ever known.
The Little French Bistro finds Simon Riley on a Tuesday. He clutches it with both hands.
Ghost sits down with the book and experiences it. Not its contents—he doesn't actually want to read it—but its self, a physical being.
It's a hardcover and definitely a hand-me-down from its worn edges and musty smell. Hereford's stamp has covered another library's on the inside cover. The laminated cover crinkles, oddly pleasant, with every movement, a little bumpy from scratches and whatever else clings to these things over the years. It has a barcode on the top left, Hereford's name in small letters above and a bigger, bolder string of numbers below. At the bottom of its spine is a label reading 813.6 in typewriter font, covering the publisher's name. On the back is critics' praises, which Ghost also doesn't bother reading.
His mother had hand-me-downs. Cheaper, easier to pay with cash. That way, she didn't have to use a card where it will show up on bank statements. Even if it was only ten or five minutes, Simon would watch her scuttle to her grandmother's chair in a house full of Mr. Riley and bury herself somewhere else. For those precious minutes, her sons watched her become Jenny Hills, the laughing girl from the corner they had never known.
When he remembers to blink, Simon finds himself, well. As Simon. Soap and Price call him that sometimes, but Simon rarely digests their warmth. But Jenny Hills is Simon's memory. The twinkle of a spirit in her eyes, a smile trying to rebuild itself, those existed long before Ghost.
Simon shudders with the burden of existence. His fingers fidget over the book, gaze darting away like he's an FNG and it's a General yelling in his face. He desperately searches for Ghost. He can't find him.
He can't put the book down, either. He doesn't want to put his mother away, not yet.
Which is a ridiculous thought. Jenny Hills, Jenny Riley, she's already put away. Cremated and buried with Tom, Joseph—fuck, where is Ghost?
The laminate crackles louder as Simon opens the book. Turns the page. Turns again. The title, the dedication, and finally—
Marianne is on a bridge, watching the water below, and Simon is standing next to her. He has stood next to her so many times, yet they've never met.
When Simon finally resurfaces to Soap knocking on his door, his mother has kissed roses into his cheeks and Marianne has stumbled her way back to life. And God help him, Simon Riley breathes.
It's a love story. Of course it is. Sweet like taffy, thick and sticky in Simon's mouth. And yet.
It is a love story with a woman who doesn't always recognize her husband. Her husband still pulls her in to dance in the kitchen, takes the towels from the fridge. It is a love story between a hopeless young man and a beautiful girl.
It is a love story of Marianne and herself. Yes, she ends up with a man who treats her much better than her husband. But she also treats herself better. It is a love story of life.
It is a love story Simon wishes his mother could have had.
Harry Stone does not look surprised when asked about another novel by the same author. He merely grins and offers the international bestseller about a lost man. Another little thing: The Little Paris Bookshop.
(The ISBN starts with 978. Why they have an American copy is a mystery for the pages. Why Ghost even bothers looking these things up is a greater mystery.)
It starts with a woman who ran from an abusive husband. Simon almost puts it down right then. But Jean Perdu—John Lost, bit on the nose—and his "book barge" reluctantly pulls him back in.
The man with a lost love, Manon, and a lost life—not just Manon's, but his own. Like Marianne.
Whenever he can, Simon curls up on his bunk and travels with him. Sometimes he dares to sneak Perdu into his office, locking his drawer and peeking in when he's absolutely sure no one's coming.
And then.
Saying those words. Actually saying them and listening to how they sounded. How the sentence hung there in Zelda and Javier's kitchen, among the salad bowls and glasses of red wine. And what it meant.
'She's dead.'
It meant that he was alone.
It meant that death made no exceptions.
Simon's so paralyzed he doesn't register Soap sliding in like his namesake.
"Ghost?" his voice is quiet. He's not supposed to be quiet. "You alright?"
Ghost can't cover him in time. Simon dives under the dirt, burying the book with him in his drawer. "What is it, Sergeant?" he snarls over the raw corpse.
Soap's eyes are a subtler sort of blue. They sneak up on you. One moment they're dark, another grey, then suddenly they're so shockingly in-your-face blue you almost believe the sky's exploded in his corneas. Simon's not supposed to see the sky anymore.
Why is Ghost doing this? Why is Simon choosing now to yearn for breath, to mourn, to—
Soap sits across from him and smiles. There's Ghost's answer.
It is all still there. The times we spent together are immortal, imperishable, and life never stops.
The death of our loved ones is merely a threshold between an ending and a new beginning.
Jean breathed deeply in and slowly out again.
Mum brushes Simon's hair and smiles. Her front teeth have maintained stubborn space between them no matter how much her husband complains. She won't let Simon's front teeth have the same feud. Tom's bottom teeth also need straightening out with the rest of his behavior.
From beaten up pages, she murmurs, "I love you, dear heart. You will never lose me."
Simon closes the book so his tears can't stain it.
Is this why people read? Simon doesn't know if he likes it. He's shaking, vulnerable. But he can also picture his mother so clearly in her chair his fingers tingle with the hot cuppa he's bringing to her.
Simon breathes deeply in and slowly out again. In the wake of his exhale, a thought forms: Mum would have adored Johnny.
Johnny. He's the embodiment of this author's work, a study in loving life and all its winding ways. Johnny loves to experience things like Ghost never has. Johnny himself is an experience.
Jean Perdu invites Catherine to uncover him. Maybe...
Who the fuck's Ghost kidding. Johnny's already knee deep in Simon's grave. He'd started with his hands, raking dirt under his fingernails and scoffing at the thorns and roots in his way. He'd found a shovel in Las Almas, and Ghost knows with terrifying, exhilarating certainty that he will thunk on Simon's coffin soon.
Simon can either help him or wait to be pulled out screaming.
His mother would have adored Johnny not just because it's Johnny. She would have adored him because her son adores him.
Adoration: Deep respect or affection; fervent admiration or love. Simon used to look up every word under the sun to piss off his little brother. That word's always stuck with him, probably because he'd never known it. Or maybe he had and he'd never realized. Sometimes you don't know what it is you're feeling because happiness is so unrecognizable in the dark.
Simon had adored, adores, will always adore his mother, his brother, his nephew. He adores and will adore Johnny MacTavish.
He finishes The Little Paris Bookshop, puts it on his bed, and feels the blood pumping from his heart when he stands. Not with a jawbone, but a determined hardcover.
On his way to taste Soap's coffee-strong lips for the first time, Simon decides: Yes. This is why people read.