Work Text:
Old and New Friends
. - . 🏪🥾 . - .
The only reason you notice the man following you is because you were clumsy enough to stumble over a loose brick in the sidewalk. Your phone slips out of your hand and as you frantically try to catch it, you somehow manage to smash your knuckles against one of the corners. With a loud clatter it smashes against the ground, bounces back up into the air and falls onto the rough bricks of the sidewalk. Your music cuts off abruptly.
A string of curses erupts from you as you rush forward and see the damage. Dead. Busted. A passerby winces in sympathy. Somewhere further down the road you can hear a group of teens laughing, though you are not sure if it's because of your misery or something else. Cradling the remains of your phone in both hands you let out a whiny groan and allow your head to fall down in despair.
That's when you see him.
You only catch a glimpse of the man before he ducks away behind the corner of a building, but you recognize him instantly. He's a regular at your work. Always appearing when you're out front, always seeking your attention, smiling just a bit too brightly, talking to you with just a bit too much familiarity in his tone. One of your older coworkers finds him charming and regularly tries to convince you to give the man a chance, but despite how much you attempt to reason with your gut feelings – repeatedly telling yourself that you are overreacting – you simply cannot warm up to him. Something about that man just rubs you the wrong way. And now-
You weren't imagining things.
He was following you.
He had been following you for over 20 minutes as you idly strolled through the city, enjoying the ambiance of the high street by night.
A cold shudder runs through your body as you realize that you can't possibly go home now or else you'll lead him straight to your flat. The grip around your busted phone tightens. You can't stay here either. It's late enough that the streets are pretty much empty, and staying here will do you now favors. You have to keep moving.
You continue forward on shaky legs, eyes flickering across the space in front of you as you simultaneously try to listen for footsteps behind you. On the other side of the street two men are drunkenly stumbling towards the park. A small voice in the back of your head tells you not to judge them too quickly, but your already high-strung nerves scream at you to keep going.
The teenagers you heard laughing earlier come into view and you silently prepare to ask them for help, but your heart stops the moment you realize that it's a group of three girls, barely fifteen years old if you had to guess. You can't get them involved in this. You simply can't. The mere idea of something happening to them because of you, scares you so much more than the thought of having to face your stalker alone.
Salvation comes around the next corner in form of a small privately owned corner shop that's still open despite the late hour. You don't hesitate.
The woman behind the counter gives you a tired, mostly uninterested look as you dart between the shelves and angle your body in a way that allows you to glance through the window front and into the street.
Holding your breath, you pretend to shuffle through the items on the shelf. Biscuits. Yes, you tell yourself, you have suddenly developed a newfound interest for the ingredients listed on the back of biscuit boxes.
And then-
He's there. Standing outside the shop, pretending to look at a flyer that's plastered against the dirty glass. Quickly, you avert your eyes, put one of the boxes back into the shelf and pick up another one.
Your mind is racing.
You're a good fifteen minutes away from home but you really, really don't want the man to know where you live. Calling the police wouldn't do any good either. As far as you know, this is the first time he's been following you. And technically... Technically he hasn't even done anything wrong so far. You have no proof, no grounds to stand on other than your gut feeling. The police's appearance would scare him away, sure, but it would also tell him that you're now aware that he followed you.
And that- That simply cannot end well for you.
The spider web of broken glass that sits on top of your useless phone stares up at you. If only you hadn't dropped it. You could have called one of your friends to pick you up and stay the night at their place. It wouldn't necessarily solve your stalker problem, but at least you would have been safe for the night.
Wracking our brain, you try to remember any of their numbers but the only ones you come up with are your own and the long-since disconnected landline of your childhood home. Those and....
Oh.
Your eyes dart to the women behind the counter. Out of your peripheral you see the man outside turning away from you, concealing his face as he pretends to tie his shoes. Clearly, he has no intention of leaving.
Collecting every bit of bravery you can muster in a situation like this, you walk up to the register and give the woman your best apologetic smile. "Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but would you mind lending me your phone for just a minute?" She frowns at you but before she can say anything you show off your broken screen and quickly continue. "I just completely busted mine and I really need to make a call. I'll be very quick and standing right over there," you point to the magazine rack that's easily visible from the counter, "so you can see me. Promise, it'll just be a minute or two."
You'll never know whether it's your trustworthy face or your desperate rambles that convince the woman to give her phone to you but soon you stumble over your 'thank you's as your fingers type in a number you haven't called in years.
Walking over to the magazine rack you face the shop's big window and cross your fingers, silently begging to whoever might be listening that your call will go through.
It rings once. Twice.
The man is now standing on the other side of the street, head bowed, pretending to be busy on his phone. It isn't a coincidence. It's not your mind playing tricks on you after watching one too many true crime videos. He's waiting for you to leave the shop. You don't want to think about what will happen if you do.
Moments after the third ring, someone picks up on the other end of the line.
"Who is this?"
You let out a shaky breath and squeeze your eyes together. "John? John, it's me. Can you please come and pick me up? I need your help."
If John Price is surprised to hear your voice, he doesn't show it. Overall, he seems rather calm and collected as you quietly explain your situation – apologizing multiple times for bothering him so late in the evening – and where exactly you're hiding from your stalker. You can hear rustling and quiet voices in the background and honestly feel horrible for bothering a man you haven't talked to in years, especially since you're somewhat aware of the fact that John holds a pretty important position in the military.
He and your father used to be tight friends, and were often shipped out together until their career paths lead them into separate directions. You have vague childhood memories of him and your father sitting side by side in the living room, telling what must have been heavily watered-down, kid-friendly versions of their 'adventures'.
When you were young, you had never really bothered to ask why John's visits slowly became a rarity. There never seemed to be any animosity between them, so you just assumed that they drifted apart over the years. And yet your father had always insisted that should you ever need it, John would be there to help.
He used to say, "Johnny's a good boy, that one. Loyal to a fault, you'll see," and then make you remember John's phone number whenever it changed. (Which happened quite often for a couple of years, much to your annoyance.)
You have never been more grateful for your father's paranoia than you are in this very moment.
"Take a breather, love," Price interrupts your anxious thoughts and the old nickname makes your eyes burn. "You did good, calling me. Sit tight and I'll be there in 20 minutes, can you do that for me?"
"Yeah," you breathe out with relief, pressing your free hand against your rapidly beating heart. "I'll have to return the phone I borrowed, but I can stay here I think."
"Good. Stay inside and stay within the shop assistant's line of sight at all times. I'll be there before you know it."
"I- Yes. Thank you, John."
"It's no trouble, love." He hangs up, leaving you once again alone with your thoughts.
The man is still outside. Still waiting.
As you return the borrowed phone to the woman with a fake smile, you silently wonder what on earth must be going on inside his head. Surely, any sane person would have gotten bored by now and left? But then again, his motives have obviously been questionable from the very beginning.
You busy yourself with browsing the shelves, making sure to follow Price's instructions and never stray too far from the women behind the counter even though she gives you a weird look every now and then.
You're honestly surprised at Price's willingness to come and get you. Sure, your father had always sworn on his loyalty, but how many men would actually go out of their way to pick up their former best friend's kid whom they haven't talked to in forever?
You stare at the colorful row of energy drinks in front of you as if they hold the answers to all your questions. Three different shades of neon pink stare back at you and you're almost tempted to buy one just to feel the artificial sweetness trying to cover up the underlying acidity. Radiating Raspberry Rush. Blossoming Berry Bomb. Cheerful Cherry Cherish? Clearly, someone in marketing had lost themselves in the joy of alliterations. Your fingers tap against the can absentmindedly.
"Hey!"
Startled, your head snaps towards the woman behind the counter. She's frowning at you with suspicion. "Stop faffing about. If you're not going to buy anything you have to get out."
"I'm sorry," you rush to explain, not quite sure where her sudden irritation is coming from, "I'm actually waiting for someone to come and pick me up, it shouldn't be much-"
"Does this look like a bus stop to you?" Your heart sinks as she raises her voice at you. Does she think you're trying to steal something? You haven't been acting that strangely, have you?
Your eyes nervously flicker towards the window. He's still there. Should you try to explain the situation to her? She doesn't really look like she'd hold a lot of sympathy for you.
"Hey," she impatiently snaps her fingers at you when you don't answer quickly enough. "I'm talking to you. I said buy something or get out of here. Are you deaf?"
You can feel your cheeks burning from embarrassment as she calls you out so openly. She's terribly rude about it, sure, but she kind of has a point. Any other day you would have said something rude yet dismissive and left the shop in a huff, but now your already frayed nerves are about to snap.
Before either of you get the chance to say anything, the door of the corner shop slams open with a bang. The sound is so loud and unexpected as it cuts through the tense silence, that it has you flinching back in surprise. You dart around, expecting to see your stalker in the doorframe, and you're ready to make a run for it when you hear the familiar sound of John Price's voice.
"That'll do."
Out of the corner of your eyes you can see how the shop assistant's back straightens instinctively. He's always carried that natural authority with him, no matter where he goes. Out on the battlefield during active fire or in a small corner shop in England; Price commands the room easily.
Your heart is thundering inside your chest and you openly stare as John approaches you.
He looks nothing like you imagined and yet it's so painfully him that I takes your breath away. The John you remember – the one that used to buy you ice cream on hot summer days and carried you on his back after you had scraped both of your knees on the playground – was a young soldier in his early twenties, with bright eyes and a cheerful grin on his face.
The man standing in front of you now is in his early forties. His eyes are tired and slightly red, like your own get after too many hours spent staring at a screen, but they haven't lost any of that gentle kindness you remember. They simply gained a set of crow's feet.
Most of his hair is hidden underneath a fisherman beanie but you can tell from the sides that it's probably kept in the familiar short style most military men prefer. What catches you off guard are the mutton chops that are clearly there by choice and not due to a shaving accident. Strangely enough, he makes it work. It actually looks quite charming on him.
He's in uniform. Long cargo pants made from that tough fabric that can handle the wear and tear of active duty. Reinforced knees, extra pockets and a belt wide enough to hold the weight of a holster. You blink twice, not fully realizing how open you are with your expressions. Unbeknown to you, the corners of John's mouth twitch upwards.
Your father hasn't owned a gun since he was discharged. Your mother had hated the idea of having weapons in the same house her children lived in and your father hadn't bothered to argue with her.
And even tough it makes sense that he is armed, seeing Price openly carry a gun in a public space still feels strange to you. Not scary... just strange. You can't quite place the feeling.
Your eyes wander up, take note of the windbreaker he's casually thrown over his combat shirt, and then your eyes finally meet. "Hi," you say a bit lamely, unsure how to start the conversation.
Given how long you've taken to familiarize yourself with this new version of John Price, you're sure he had more than enough time to do the same with you. The last time the two of you had been face to face you had been – quite literally – a child. Heat rises to your cheeks. For some reason that thought fills you with embarrassment.
"Evening, love," he grunts out not unkindly. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine, I guess?" Even to your own ears it sounds more like a question than an actual answer. "I'm not hurt or anything, just... a bit frazzled. I'm really sorry for bothering you this late, but he's still waiting outside and I didn't know who else to call." You know you're repeating yourself, but you also can't stand the idea of Price thinking you're taking his help for granted.
"White shirt, blue jeans, standing across the street. He's hard to overlook," John comments dryly and nudges you further into the shop. "Don't worry about it. We got it handled just fine."
You make a questioning noise as he picks up a bag of crisps and two energy drinks. (Lion's Roar and Bear's Strength. "The energy drink for working men," it says on the shiny black cans.) Feeling quite awkward in your own skin, you follow him back to the register where you can see the woman's narrowed eyes following your every step.
"The muppets insisted I don't leave empty handed," he tells you as if that explains anything at all. You look up at him, quietly wondering how a commanding officer like Price could possibly be connected to the Cookie Monster, as the woman scans in the items.
If he notices you staring – and you're sure he does – Price doesn't mention it. Instead, you find yourself once again caught completely off guard as the hulking figure of a man throws his arm over your shoulder and pulls you in. "What-," you gasp bewildered as you stumble against Price's broad chest. If you thought your heart was beating quickly before, you're now sure it's about to jump out of your chest. You wouldn't exactly call yourself a small person, but next to Price you feel absolutely dwarfed. You can't help but notice how heavy the arm around your shoulders is. You might not have been able to see it because of to his jacket, but there's no doubt in your mind that Price has biceps like tree trunks. You're... not quite sure what to do with that information but your utter confusion must show on your face because you can feel Price chuckle.
Instead of explaining anything, the man only winks at you and leads you out of the shop where you are suddenly met with the cheerful sounds of catcalls.
You can feel the heat rushing into your head as your cheeks flush in a deep red.
Price, who doesn't look like he's keen to remove you from under his arm anytime soon, leads you to a group of four men. They're standing in front of a black vehicle. Some sort of military-grade SUV that probably costs more than you'd ever earn in a lifetime, and yet one of them is perched on top of the car's hood as if it was solely made for him to sit on. Price throws one of the energy drinks his way and the man catches it easily with one hand. "You boys better behave now," Price chides the soldiers in front of him and then proceeds to introduce you to them.
You give the four men a bit of an awkward wave, unsure how they'll react to the fact that you're practically cuddling with Price. John seems unperturbed as he continues with the introductions.
"These are my Sergeants; Sanderson," he points to the man on top of the car, who gives you a friendly mock-salute, "Garrick and MacTavish."
Sergeant Garrick is happy to shake your hand and reintroduce himself as "Gaz" and Sergeant Sanderson as "Roach". MacTavish follows suit as he takes the second energy drink and the crisps from Price's hand and tells you to call him "Soap" with a wink.
You repeat the names under your breath, doing your best to memorize them when the fourth man turns his head away from the group. His face is hidden under a black balaclava that has the white markings of a human skull printed on it, and he's standing far enough away that you cannot make out the color of his eyes.
Something about him makes you uneasy. It's not just his appearance, you think. It's that too quiet aura around him, the way he's standing just a little bit too still. Like a predator waiting to pounce. His gaze is clearly fixed on something you cannot make out.
After an agonizing long moment in which none of you seem to breathe, the man turns his back towards your little group. His eyes meet Price's and he nods. "Target is gone. Bastard has fucked off as soon as he saw you being all handsy with your darling snookums over here."
You-
You're pretty sure your face is about to burst into flames.
A round of choked out laughter and loud guffaws reaches your ears as you stare at the giant masked man with wide eyes.
At your side, Price coughs and removes his arm from your shoulder. "Right," he grunts as you silently beg the heavens to open a sinkhole under your feet and swallow you whole. "Well then, meet my Lieutenant. Ghost."
No first name. No last name. Just Ghost. The words 'redacted' and 'classified information' hang in the air between you. Your eyes flicker up to the skull balaclava, and you decide that it might be smarter to let sleeping dogs lie. At least the name fits him.
Soap sends you a warm grin and slaps your shoulder in what you assume was meant to be camaraderie. "Alright then, Snookums, let's get you home, aye?"
Your face falls. "No. Absolutely not. I will not be 'Snookums'."
Gaz sends you an apologetic look, "I'm afraid that's not up to you, Snookums, darling."
"No!"
