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"And it’s so lovely, you never let the pressure crush me.
I made you feel so low,
While you never put no one else above me,
I know the baggage in my trunk is ugly.
And yet you still choose to love me."
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There were few things Ghost enjoyed more than a nice mug of tea and a good book in the lampshade of his room at night. One of those things just so happened to be one Johnathan Price. For all his bluster and cockiness the man had a certain charm that was oh so hard to ignore. Especially when it got him brownie points on being the Captain’s favorite person on the team.
“Simon’s my favorite.”
Those words were ingrained into his brain, they’d been the words that had completely rewritten his brain chemistry, that or one too many concussions had. They were something he would kill for. He’d kill everyone in this godforsaken base just to hear them his every waking moment if he could.
There was nothing better than being able to love Price in the way he could. Nothing better than the way Price loved him, in his own gruff, smartass way that he did. Taking the broken pieces of Simon Riley and putting them back together painstakingly slowly.
Simon was easy to love, Ghost wasn’t. He knew that, he’d known it when he first picked up that mask and fitted it to his face so tight it felt like Simon was suffocating beneath the threadbare fabric. Yet John had never seemed to have an issue with pulling the mask off and letting Simon breathe the fresh air for once.
It was gratifying, resurrecting Simon and burying Ghost for the time that he could. There was never an oppressive need to hide away behind the mask when he was with John. Sitting on the couch together, thighs pressed close, one of John’s arms slung across the back of the sofa rubbing his shoulder in the way that was so strictly John.
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Leaves were easier too, breaks taken for the both of them that allowed for a cool down. A factory reset if you will. Something that worked for the both of them that didn’t involve weapons and fists. A gentle push in the direction they needed for Simon to resurface from his grave and Ghost to lay in rest.
This leave seemed different. There was a hollowness to Price that hadn’t been there before. Like a wound left festering too long, something hidden beneath layers of puss and blood and decay. Gaz hadn’t noticed, neither had Johnny, he thought he could leave it be. Surely if they hadn’t noticed then there was nothing to worry about… right? Right.
Price didn’t like to be coddled, didn’t like to be treated as something fragile. But that’s the only way he knew how to put it into words. Simon knew he shouldn’t have let it fester so bad before interfering. He’d heard the man on calls with Kate late at night, talking about retiring because “he was getting too old to be doing this shite.” He’d heard Kate tell John it’d get better, that he should see his therapist more often.
He wished he’d seen the signs sooner, now that he thought back on it. They were all there, just buried under the layers of grime and gunpowder that made up Price. The things he could have spare if he just looked closer.
The funeral had been over for hours. Just a small gathering at Price’s flat, Simon’s flat now. The paperwork had been signed over to his name a day ago. It didn’t feel like his flat anymore. It never would again. Not without Price’s infectious laughter, his stupid dad jokes, the place felt empty now. Like a vital part of it was missing when John had… left –died, he unhelpfully supplied himself–.
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Price had sent him an off sounding voicemail while he’d been at the gym a few blocks away from their apartment. He’d figured it was just the captain being lonely, nothing was given away in the way his voice had sounded besides just being off.
Simon’s workout had been done and over within the next hour anyway. The Thai takeout place that John had loved was open, it was nearing lunchtime. He’d made the stop and texted Price he would be home soon, that they could talk then. Their talk was overdue anyways, the talk about why Price had been piling on so many therapy sessions, the talk about why he couldn’t seem to properly look at him anymore. Just the talk, a debriefing. Nothing scary.
The time Ghost had been gone amounted to three hours. Not very long, but things could change in those hours. He knew that as well as anyone in their line of work did. The taste of the walls closing in seemed to get heavier the closer he got to the apartment. The door was still locked like it had been when he’d left that morning at four am like every other morning while on leave.
The takeout was set on the counter, shoes slotted neatly in the corner next to Price’s by the door. The air seemed still, not full of warm energy. A foreboding sense of unease slithered its way down his spine, making its home in his gut like it seemed to say I belong here now.
Strike one.
“John! I’m home.” Simon had called out into the space. Already fixing up two bowls, one for Price, one for himself. Settling the forks into the bowls and pushing himself away from the counter to lean back and look down the empty hallway where John should have walked out by now. In his baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt that was positively ridiculous to look at.
Strike two.
There was a second where he looked at his phone, checking to make sure that Price was, in fact, home. His location said he was. That he was there in the apartment somewhere. Forty seconds of silence greeted him again. The floorboards quiet as he stepped down the hallway, making his way to the bedroom.
Strike three.
The bedroom door was shut, it’s never shut. The cat, Price Jr as they affectionately called him, sitting right outside the door. Blinking his beady black eyes up at Simon as if to say “dad’s in there.” Simon merely pushed the cat to the side with his foot, apologizing with his eyes to the poor thing as he opened the door.
He'd found John. A gag leaving his lips as he stared down at the body, because it was a body. It couldn’t be John. Please, not his John.
The next steps don’t feel like his own as he walks over to the body. Kneeling down to check for a pulse, hoping against hope that something would be there.
Nothing.
Nothing. There was nothing there? But that couldn’t be true, John had just been laughing with him that morning over John Junior meowing for treats. Claiming the cat needed to go on a diet or risk becoming overweight, they’d never let that happen though.
The blood on the walls didn’t help the situation. It seemed to mock him as if saying “this would’ve happened one way or another.” The gore scattered across the hardwood until he had to look at the damage. A bullet through the brain. Positioned just right to end a life within a split second.
It felt like a haze had settled over his brain, blocking words and timing his connection to the world out. Johnny sitting at his side outside of the apartment, Gaz on his way. It wasn’t the same, he wanted his John here. Wanted to feel those arms around his waist, that chin resting in the crook of his neck, warm breaths puffing against his skin to remind him it was still real.
The safety net holding Simon Riley was gone. With it his pieces broke again and drifted on the wind. He could only hope John was happier now, wherever he was. Maybe he was back on the beach, John had always liked beaches.
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“Si. Time to go, yeah? Gotta meet Gaz at the pub.” Johnny called to him from his spot by the door, shrugging on his coat for the chill outside.
“Coming Johnny. Just finishing up here, yeah?” He’d grunted back, standing up from the desk and looking over the death report one last time. Gloved fingers trailing over the picture of John he kept on the wooden surface, gently placing it face down after a minute.
The jacket gleamed in the fading afternoon sun as he shrugged it on, the words Capt. Simon Riley emblazoned on the back as he clicked off the light to the office. The nameplate read the same words as his jacket as he closed the door. Giving the room a salute as if Price were still there, just inside. And in a sense he was, he always would be.
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FIN.