Chapter Text
Your first meeting was nothing eventful. Ghost had leave for the first time in months, so he returned to his apartment in Manchester. It wasn't really coming back home, the apartment was never a home for him, just a convenient place to sleep, eat and wash. The only personal touch was the few books he had accumulated to pass time. And as he was making the trek up the stairs to the sixth floor because the elevator was “Out of order” (it hasn't worked a day in the past six years, he'd been living there), he remembered why he hated the place so much.
He paused in his tracks as he made it to his door. There was a silly doormat with a cat in a cowboy hat in front of the neighbouring apartment. Now usually, this would be nothing out of the ordinary. Usually he might even appreciate the pun (Meowdy! hehehe), but this apartment was empty the last time he was on leave. And the time before. And the time before.
From what he'd heard from Ms Thomas (an old woman who lived alone on the second floor) when she cornered him by the bins to share the latest gossip under the guise of catching up and inviting him to tea, the landlord had a problem with finding any potential renters because the apartment was barely the size of a shoebox, with leaky pipes, a leaky ceiling, and electricity that wasn’t exactly up to code. So a shithole. And if Ms Thomas was to be believed, an even worse shithole than the rest of the building.
Ghost snapped out of his thoughts by the loud creaking of the neighbour's door as it opened. He quickly turned to unlock his own door, his exhaustion and unwillingness to socialise winning over his curiosity to see what poor soul ended up as his neighbour. Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough as he was greeted by a polite and friendly voice.
“Oh, hello! You must be my mystery neighbour,” you said and introduced yourself. “Ms Thomas said you aren't around much, because you're in the army or something? Well, anyways, it's nice to finally meet you.”
That old bat. He's never coming around for tea ever again. (Yes, he is. The biscuits are to die for.)
He turned to you with a stormy expression.
Oh. You were very pretty. Wait-
He shook away those thoughts, it was probably just the sleep deprivation speaking, and awkwardly cleared his throat. “Uhm, yeah. That's me.” You both just kind of stared at each other in silence for a few seconds before he remembered how to function as a normal person. “I'm Simon Riley.” he held out his hand. You shook it. Your hand was warm and soft. He quickly let go of you.
“It's nice to finally put a face to the front door. Or well, a half of it at least.” You joked. He was a bit confused before he remembered he was wearing a simple black face mask. “Oh, yeah.” he chuckled awkwardly. Thank god, he remembered to swap out from his skull balaclava. It's hard staying anonymous if you get the cops called on you. There was silence again before you decided to put him out of his misery.
“Well, I better get going. It was nice meeting you Mr Riley. Knock if you need anything!” you waved as you left. He made a halfway aborted motion to wave back. He thought to himself to tell you next time to just call him Simon. He wanted to hear how'd it sound in your voice. Then he scoffed at himself and finally went into his apartment.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?! Get yourself together.” he muttered as he put away his things. A memory flashed in his mind. “Meowdy.” he said to himself, standing in his empty apartment, holding his pajamas. “Hehehe.”
For a while his leave went as always. He woke up, went on a run, made himself something to eat, obsessively checked his phone to see if Price was calling him back already, and watched reruns of Midsomer murders. The only thing breaking up his routine was the occasional glimpses he caught of you in the hallway. You always smiled and greeted him warmly, asking about his day. He did his best to be friendly and polite back, and he quickly noticed how exhausted you looked. Dark circles under your eyes, a worry line between your eyebrows, a heavy weight on your shoulders. He knew it was none of his business and it wasn't like he cared, but he found himself keeping a close eye on you. Just in case. Maybe you were tired because of some suspicious reason, he had to be prepared for everything. Yeah. Definitely that.
What surprised him most was how accustomed he became to your presence. Your shoes next to your doormat, your “Hello!”s in the hallway, the sounds of you moving around your apartment he could hear through the paper-thin walls, the smell of your cooking. It felt…nice to know there was another human being just a few meters away, that he wasn't alone.
Sometimes when he woke up from a less than pleasant dream, shaking, covered in cold sweat, desperately trying to catch his breath and failing, he would sit by the wall that separated his bedroom from your living room. You were often up late, your TV faintly playing in the background. Or maybe you needed the noise to sleep. It didn't matter. What mattered to Ghost (Simon, he was always just Simon on those nights) was knowing you were there. He clung to the faint clues of your presence and life. Sometimes he imagined he could hear your calm deep breaths, following them. He knew it was just a grounding technique, and a bit of a creepy one at that, but in the dead of night, with his past clawing at his mind, he didn't care much. You brought him comfort without knowing and he was self-aware enough to find peace wherever he could.
You just seemed to radiate life, and whether he wanted it or not, it started to seep into his barren home.
(There was a funky green mug covered in cartoon frogs sitting on his counter. He impulsively bought it after it made him smile in the shop. He saw you once drinking tea out of a similar one with mushrooms on it. You insisted it made the tea taste better.)
It was week 8 of his forced banishment from base (“No need to be so dramatic, Simon,” said his therapist, barely holding back a smile. “Aren't you supposed to be on my side?” He grumbled defiantly. “Not quite how that works.”) when he got a call from Price telling him he should pack up and be ready to leave in 24 hours. He was packed and ready in 15 minutes. His apartment was deep-cleaned in 45. By the hour mark he was back to sitting on his couch, staring at his ceiling. What the hell was he supposed to do now…
Against his will, his mind wandered to you. You'd be home soon. You were always back home by five on Thursdays. You almost always stuck to your schedule so it was easy for him to learn it. He knew the habits of almost everyone in the building, it came with the job. And his friendship with Ms Thomas. That woman knew everything about everyone, he considered telling Kate to give her a call.
Maybe he could come by when you'd come home. Just to tell you he'd be leaving in a tomorrow. No, it was a stupid idea. Why would you care anyway? No, best not to bother you. But what if he brought some of the pastries he bought this morning? He was planning on eating them in the evening. On his own. In front of the TV. Rewatching Midsomer murders. He got up from the couch to pack the pastries.
He was in the middle of arranging a serving plate (it had to look perfect but effortless, it would be weird if you could tell how much time it took him, right?) when he heard your apartment door creak and shut. Now he had a different predicament. When was he supposed to come by? Not immediately, that's for sure. You'd think he was just waiting and listening for you to come home and well…he was, technically speaking, but no need to creep you out. So how long should he wait? 20 minutes? 40? An hour? In the end, he just grabbed the plate and left before he could chicken out.
He knocked on your door, his palms sweating. He couldn't understand why he was so nervous, he got into life or death situations on a weekly basis for Christ's sake! He took a few deep breaths. “I'll be there in a sec!” sounded from your apartment. He relaxed his shoulders. He could hear footsteps coming to the door. He recalled something his therapist told him a few months ago. When you fight for your life more often than you have a casual conversation with an acquaintance, social interaction becomes scarier than the battlefield. It's unfamiliar. Unpredictable. There is no shame in facing it with fear or apprehension. What is important is to face it at all. His heartbeat resumed its normal rhythm. And you opened the door.
“Mr Riley! To what do I owe the pleasure?” To his surprise you looked genuinely happy to see him. He shifted from one foot to the other.
“Uhm, hello. I just, uhm,” he cleared his throat. “I wanted to just come by and tell you that I'd be leaving. Tomorrow.” He said. “For my job. In the military,” he added quickly upon seeing your confused expression. “And I brought this.” He handed you the plate of pastries. That went well, he thought to himself, smiling under his face mask.
“Oh! Thank you! For the food, and for telling me. It'll be a bit empty around here without you.” you said with a smile but it didn't reach your eyes. “It's nice having a buddy. Even though I barely see or hear you. You're almost like a ghost.” You laughed softly to yourself. You stared at each other in silence for a bit. There was a worry line forming between your eyebrows again. Ghost quickly shook away the thought of reaching out and smoothing it out.
“Well, I'll get-” he started saying.
“Would you like to-” you said at the same time.
You both stumbled over your words and laughed. He gestured for you to go first.
“Would you like to come in? I doubt I'd be able to eat this all by myself. And I have a bottle of wine I've been saving up.” You said, smiling.
“Uhm, sure. Yeah, if- if you don't mind.” Nailed it. Super calm and casual. Total nonchalance.
“Great! Just leave your shoes by the door!” You said, already turning around and walking deeper into your apartment. He followed suit.
The apartment was definitely…cozy. Or the size of a broom closet. There was water damage on the walls and ceilings and the hardwood floors were creaky and scuffed to shit. But it was definitely yours. The couch was covered in an assortment of random pillows and blankets, some of them he recognised as Ms Thomas's (unfortunate looking) knitting projects. Your mushroom mug sat on the coffee table.
You were apologising for all the mess as you brought him a plate for the pastries and a glass for the wine and sat down next to him on the couch. He waved it off. He came over unannounced and besides. He's seen worse. Soap's room was a fucking pig sty. For someone named after a cleaning product he sure as hell wasn't tidy. He shared that anecdote with you, making you laugh. He liked your laugh.
“So you have a team? What are they like? Are you like their leader or something?” You asked curiously.
“No, not really, but I am the second in the chain of command, so my sergeants should listen to me. They're insubordinate little shits though.” he said with a chuckle and launched into a story of how Roach and Gaz had managed to hide and raise a whole chicken in one of the unused maintenance rooms. You listened attentively with a smile. He awkwardly cleared his throat as he finished his story suddenly uncomfortable with the attention.
“And what do you do?” he asked, lowering his eyes to his plate. You started telling him about your work, light-heartedly complaining about your co-workers, though he could tell there was a great deal of truth in it. He particularly felt his blood boil when you described how one of the men keeps asking you out even though you keep rejecting him. Somewhere halfway through the story he lowered his mask to take a bite of his food. Your eyes quickly flit to the half of a Glasgow smile carved into his skin. His heart stopped. The scar was old but no less ugly, he knew it made people uncomfortable. He met your eyes, expecting (fearing) to find disgust in them. Or pity. But you just smiled and continued what you were saying. You looked at him the same as before. His heart resumed its rhythm and he took a bite.
You spent hours talking, you finally stopped calling him Mr Riley (his name sounded just as good coming out of your mouth as he'd imagined), sharing stories, getting to know each other. Well, you did most of the talking and he listened. But he felt himself opening up more than he was used to. It shocked him. It took Price months of effort and multiple shared near death experiences before they became something that resembled friends more than reluctant acquaintances. But here you were, a few weeks of brief “Hello”s in the hallway, some cupcakes and a bottle of wine later and he was telling you dumb jokes and talking about his favourite books and music. He couldn't even remember the last time he had a favourite book or type of music. Strangely he didn't mind.
It was getting late and your pauses were getting longer and your eyelids heavier. Throughout the evening you've somehow gotten closer to each other on the couch and now he could study your face in the warm light of the candles scattered on your coffee table. It suited you. He raised his hand and brushed away a stray strand of hair that had fallen in your face. But he didn't pull back. Instead he traced his fingers along your cheekbone, counting the few freckles scattered there. His touch traveled to your cheek and jaw, featherlight and almost reverend. As if he has to touch you to make sure you were real. His fingers stopped at your lips. Your eyes met. It wasn't clear who leaned in first but it didn't matter because all your mouth was on his and it felt electric.
Your hands made their way to his hair, burying your fingers in the dirty blonde strands. His hands were on your waist and hips, pulling you closer to him. You gasped when he bit your lip, which he quickly took advantage of, pushing his tongue into your mouth. He couldn't think, his mind was full of just you, your mouth, your touch, your smell…only you.
All of a sudden you pushed him away and he looked at you with confusion in his eyes. Your lips were spit-slick and puffy, your cheeks red, pupils dilated. You were the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.
“I'm sorry, Simon. I- I can't do this.” Your voice was shaky and you weren’t meeting his eyes. His heart broke. He read this wrong. What was he thinking?! Oh god, he must have made you so uncomfortable. He pulled immediately to give you some space. He opened his mouth to apologise but before he could you continued. “I'm not a one night stand. I can’t…I can't do that. You're leaving tomorrow so I get you wanted to get some action or something but I just, I just can't. You're too… I like you too much for that.” Your words were firm even though your voice wobbled a bit. He thought he might have even seen a hint of tears in your eyes.
“I'm…” he started, unsure how to continue. He looked at his hands and then at you. You were looking back, patiently giving him the time to find his words. “I don't want to sleep with you,” he blurted out. “No! Fuck. I mean I do but not, I just…” he groaned in frustration. “That's not why I kissed you.” he said finally. “I kissed you because… I don't know why, but not just to sleep with you,” he took your hands in his, “I don't want this to be a one night stand either. And I know I'm leaving and I have no idea when I'll be back. Or if I'll be back at all. But,” he looked at you with determination in his eyes. “Will you go out with me? When I get back, I mean. I'm not perfect, I'm not sure if I'm even good, but I promise I'll-” he didn't get to finish his sentence because he was interrupted by you kissing him. It was different from the first one, less heated, sweeter, more tender. You pulled back with a smile on your face.
“Yes. Yes, I'll go out with you.” You said and watched as his cheeks turned red.
In the end you did end up sleeping together that night. Literally. You fell asleep holding each other on the couch which was decidedly not good for Simon's back. You made fun of him as he groaned and complained in the morning.
You had breakfast together and he walked you to the bus stop when you left for work. You gave him a kiss on the cheek as a goodbye and made him promise to come back in one piece. He wiped away your tears and told you not to worry. He was one of the best after all. Which at least made you smile.
He carried that smile with him on his journey back to base. Along with your number in his phone. For once he was sad that his leave had come to an end.