Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader
Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical violence, flashback, blood and injury, swearing
Word Count: 3.2k
A/N: Part Twenty-Two of Ink & Needle
Simon relives the past. Evie goes to Simon for help. Price and 141 come for another visit.
Chapter Twenty-One // Chapter Twenty-Three
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist
It’s raining.
Simon can hear it pattering against the steel roof. He stands on the edge of a fracted concrete slab, staring down into darkness. Even the rain collects here, falling from the opening in the roof several stories up.
This is the only light Simon has. The rest of the building is utterly dark.
Walsh is here. Somewhere. Slinking through the inky blackness like a tentacled beast awaiting its next meal.
The fucker is cornered, and he knows it. Walsh blew the goddamn fuse box, shoving the abandoned construction site into complete darkness. It’s not ideal—but Simon has worked in far harsher conditions.
Simon had the advantage—the element of surprise. He seized it, only for Walsh to run when one of his conspirators shot off at Simon suddenly and without warning. The bullet only grazed Simon’s upper arm. Nothing more.
They’re all dead now.
All but Walsh.
Simon made sure of it. He did it slowly, using the shadows to his advantage, becoming a violent mist that struck with sharpened blade. Those men are just puddles of blood and vacant eyes.
Twirling his knife end-over-end, Simon considers his next move. Walsh’s only escape is on foot, and even in that the man is fucked. Simon managed to nick the back of Walsh’s leg just before he disappeared. Best case scenario, Simon struck a tendon. Unlikely—but Walsh isn’t going to make it far on foot, not with this rain and an injured leg.
Simon’s cold gaze surveys the building around him.
It’s just one of many properties Walsh owns, but knowing which was always the hard part. The man hides behind fake companies and even faker names. Connecting them back to him took the most effort. This place is just storage—a building to conceal what you don’t want found.
“Where are you?” murmurs Simon, cleaning the blood off his blade against his pant leg.
Walsh is unpredictable when he’s cornered. The man turns into a wild animal. All raised fur and sharpened teeth. This is the Walsh that’s dangerous. The one that will do anything to escape.
Stepping away from the edge, Simon submerges himself into the shadows. He backtracks, stepping over bodies along the way, boots silent as he walks. The rain picks up as Simon enters a partially completed stairwell. There are walls and stairs, but no roof or railings.
He is unprotected from the rain, and the water soaks into his clothes, the fabric sticking to his skin. Most of his body is unprotected, but this isn’t an infiltration, and backup is far away. The opportunity appeared suddenly, and Simon seized it with both hands, ready to choke. Simon made himself a false friend to Walsh, and that is the only reason Simon is this close to victory.
Three years.
Three fucking years since Simon started tracking this fucker.
Three years of endless searching. Endless infiltrations. Endless missions. Simon got close. Moved in. And now he’s fucking here, ready to finish the job.
And he will.
He fucking will.
Simon exits the stairwell and returns to the slim light trailing in from the hole in the roof. There’s a sharp illumination, a flash of white, followed by the cracking boom of thunder. The metal around him lights up, soaking up and reflecting the lightning.
Simon inhales, the scent of rain seeping through the soaked balaclava.
He glances upward, and squints just as another flash of lightning illuminates the space.
Above him—four levels up—is a shadow of a man.
Simon doesn’t wait for the next bolt of lightning. He turns back into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. His heart pounds in his chest—adrenaline spiking. Blood rushes through his limbs, muscles tense and poised for action.
The next flash of lightning comes, but—no. Not white. Not bright.
This is hot. This is heat.
This is flame.
The building shakes and Simon slips, sliding down the stairs, eventually landing on his knee as a resounding boom vibrates his bones.
“Fuck!” cries Simon as his knee strikes concrete. It’s a sharp crack that shoots up his leg and goes right to his head.
Rolling to the side, Simon presses himself against the wall, protecting his head as everything shudders around him. The rattling tapers out—and the moment Simon’s teeth aren’t rattling around in his head—he pushes to an upright position.
The first step is agony. He can hardly bend his fucking knee.
Hissing sharply with every step, Simon continues to climb, emerging onto the fourth level as a rising wave of nausea hits him.
The wispy tendrils of smoke come first before the heat. Simon cautiously walks forward, circumventing a slab of slanted concrete.
Behind it is fire. There is so much of it. Climbing the walls, complete undampened by the rain.
What the fuck did Walsh set off?
Simon’s intelligence said that this place might be storing chemicals, not weapons. But it didn’t say what kinds of chemicals.
A nearby beam falls from its mooring and crashes to the floor. Simon takes a step back, and then the world is tipping. Spinning.
Simon didn’t hear him. Didn’t see Walsh coming.
There are strong arms around him, shoving him down.
Simon’s training clicks into place, and he surrenders to the push, falling into it. When Simon’s back hits the ground, he rolls with the momentum, shoving Walsh off of him. Walsh tumbles away, rolling through a small patch of fire, before skidding to a stop on his side.
Simon pushes up to standing just as Walsh regains his footing. His black hair is a soaked mess, lips a snarl. Simon always thought that Walsh looked like a crow. All sharpness and talon.
“You fucking betrayed me,” screams Walsh, spittle flying from his lips.
He takes a step, staggering slightly. The sleeve of Walsh’s jacket smokes. In his right fist is a crowbar.
“Always planned on it,” replies Simon coldly.
The crowbar gently swings with Walsh’s swaying form. He hefts the metal up, pointing the bent end at Simon. “I’m gonna kill you. Take your eyes. Feed them to my fucking dogs.”
Simon says nothing. He remains still, knife clutched in his fist. It’s the only true protection he has.
“And then I’m going to kill every person you love,” continues Walsh, eyes widening slightly as he talks. “Everyone you’ve ever cared about.” Walsh lowers the crowbar. “Even the dead ones.” He laughs, the sound manic and high. “What’s a bit of graverobbing, yeah?” Walsh grins. “You can add it to the fucking list of grievances.”
“You’re not walking out of here alive,” says Simon, keeping his tone calm.
Price and the rest of the team are on their way with additional forces. Simon can kill the man, but it’ll be much easier once everyone else arrives. He just needs to play this right, to keep Walsh occupied for a bit or until the wanker tires himself out.
Either way, Walsh is a dead man.
Walsh shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, mate.” He starts walking forward, the crowbar swinging. Walsh twists his wrist and the metal bar comes upward for him to grasp it like a bat. “I always fucking win.”
Simon steps to the side as Walsh brings the bar down. The man grunts. Staggers. Turns back in Simon’s direction.
Pushing the advantage, Simon shoves the knife forward with a quick slashing gesture. Walsh dodges, the metal of the blade harshly sliding against the crowbar. Sparks fly as the two metals meet.
Walsh swings again. Simon grabs the crowbar just above Walsh’s hands, holding it at bay.
“Fuck you!” screams Walsh, kicking out.
He connects with Simon’s injured knee. Simon staggers. His hand slips a bit on the crowbar.
“Fucking bastard,” spits Walsh, kicking out again, striking Simon in the chest.
Simon’s hold on the crowbar remains but he goes down, the two men stumbling to the concrete floor.
They are a tangle of limbs. Walsh gnashes his teeth, chomping at Simon as if to tear away flesh. Simon’s elbow connects with Walsh’s jaw. The man’s head snaps back and Simon slices the knife through the air.
The blade tears up Walsh’s neck, drawing blood. It isn’t much. Not nearly enough.
Walsh pushes off Simon, clutching his throat as he takes up the crowbar and swings again.
This time, the bent end connects, digging into Simon’s leg. Screaming, Simon lunges for it, intending to rip it out of his leg.
“No you fucking don’t,” snarls Walsh, yanking on the crowbar.
Simon scream again. Muscle and tendon are tearing. Nerves severing as Walsh drags Simon’s by his leg across the floor.
“I’m not done with you,” growls Walsh, yanking again.
Simon growls and lunges forward, grabbing onto the crowbar. The two men fight for dominance and control.
Walsh lashes out with his fist. Simon jerks to the side, and then thrusts his head forward, cracking his forehead against Walsh’s nose.
Blood bursts across Walsh’s face. The man stumbles back, falling on his ass.
With a guttural cry, Simon changes his angle on the crowbar, tugging it free. A black pool begins to form beneath Simon’s leg.
Groaning, Simon turns onto his side, pushes up to sitting with both hands. Grabbing his knife, Simon staggers to his feet just as Walsh steadies himself.
Simon charges, knocking into Walsh, blade pointed forward.
The knife goes in clean. Perfectly slips between ribs, missing bone, and meeting tender flesh.
Walsh screams, and then laughs—fucking laughs. The sound is choked. Garbled. But it’s not just Walsh who screams. They’re both screaming, staring into each other’s eyes as all that pent up rage and anger emerges like a storm.
A knee shoves into Simon’s stomach, and then the two men are up again. Simon’s knife is still lodged in Walsh’s chest.
The rest is all fists. Blurry. Bloody.
At some point Simon’s back and arms burn, the clothes singed and partially melted. He’s not sure when it happens. Everything is growing fuzzy, and his leg doesn’t want to move. It drags behind Simon with every swing of his fist.
Walsh’s hands slide around Simon’s throat. Using his weight, Simon drives forward, moving like a rugby player, pushing Walsh closer and closer to the edge.
Walsh’s mouth is moving, but there are no words.
It’s a buzzing. Like an alarm.
Like—
Simon’s eyes snap open. He’s greeted by the ceiling. The burns beneath the tattoos are warm as if the dream renewed the long-forgotten pain.
And that buzzing.
“Fucking hell,” groans Simon, sitting up, and grabbing his phone off the bedside table.
Bravo whines and places his head on Simon’s leg, his large dark eyes tinged with worry.
Simon opens up the doorbell app on his phone, checking to see who is out on the street wanting entrance. He checks the time and balks.
“Shit,” mutters Simon, swinging his legs out of bed. Bravo grumbles his annoyance but doesn’t move from his spot.
The quality isn’t great but there’s a woman standing outside. All he can see is a coat and her figure. He can’t tell if it’s you, but it might be.
Simon hits the button that unlocks the downstairs door and shuts off his phone. Standing, his bad knee stretches, resisting movement. He stretches a bit, and then heads for the front door.
Someone is banging on it before Simon even makes it across the living room.
He unlocks the deadbolts, and swings the door wide, expecting that it might be you and you’ve simply lost your key.
But it’s not you. It’s—
“Evie?” breathes Simon, his sudden excitement dimming to an extinguished flame.
She is rain-soaked. Trembling. Her brown eyes are large and round. Simon tastes fear and desperation in the air.
Something is wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know it’s late. But I have no one else to turn to. The police aren’t doing anything and I—”
“Come inside,” says Simon, softly, taking a step back.
Evie swallows hard, her hands clasped in front of her chest as she takes a hesitant step into Simon’s flat. He shuts the door behind her, locking the deadbolts.
“Sit here,” he instructs, gesturing toward the kitchen table. “I’ll make tea.”
“Simon,” she starts.
“Tea first, and then we’ll talk.”
Evie only nods, removing her coat to hang on the back of the chair. Simon fills the electric kettle and turns it on. Striding into the living room, he snags a blanket off the couch, and offers it to Evie.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, unfolding it slowly to drape over her shoulders.
Simon returns to the kitchen, preparing what he can for the tea. This concerns you. He knows it deep in his bones. But as much as Simon wants answers—craves them like a cigarette after sex—he needs to be fucking calm about this. He needs to be the clear-headed one.
When the kettle goes off, Simon makes each of them tea, spooning the perfect amount of milk and sugar into both. Simon sets a mug down in front of Evie and then decides to settle in the seat across from her.
“What happened?” he asks.
Evie’s mouth opens. Closes. She bites her lips and stares down into her cup.
“Start wherever you need,” says Simon. “Take your time.”
Time is never on anyone’s side. He is fully aware that time is your greatest friend and enemy. Even a few seconds are crucial.
Evie takes a deep, shuddering breath. “She should have been home yesterday. It’s not like her to not call if she’s running late.” She pauses, taking a moment to drink some tea. “I called. Texted. Nothing. Would go out to the house but I have Lillian to think of.”
“What time was she supposed to be home?”
“Around dinner,” answers Evie after a few seconds. “Still no word. No phone calls. No texts.” Evie sighs. “I went to the police station this morning but they shrugged it off. Said it’s too soon to file a missing person’s report.”
“Have you tried contacting anyone else?” asks Simon. His grip on his cup is the only thing grounding him right now.
Evie nods. “I contacted the estate agent. She said she’s go out there and check.” Tears begin to form in the corners of Evie’s eyes. “Haven’t heard anything. When I call her it goes straight to voicemail.”
Evie glances up from staring into her mug. “I’m worried. That’s why I came.”
“You did the right thing,” replies Simon. “I’ll go check.”
Her sigh of relief is palpable, as if the burden of it is a physical thing. “Thank you, Simon. I—”
“Finish your tea,” interrupts Simon. “I need to make a few calls.”
Glass crunches under Simon’s boots. Some of it shines in the morning light. Other pieces shine red.
The patio door is completely shattered, the glass strewn over the living room and lawn. In the middle of the floor is a deep pool of dark red liquid. And in that pool are two bodies.
Neither of them is you—thank fuck, but it’s hardly reassuring.
You are not here. You are—wherever you are.
Simon stares down at the two dead women. There’s a hammer near the blonde, the bludgeoning end covered in brain matter and gore. This is the estate agent and her assistant. They came to check after all at Evie’s request.
And they walked right into their deaths.
“Fucking hell,” mutters Captain Price, bending at the knees, observing the two lifeless women.
Kyle and Johnny are near the kitchen. Gaz is slowly shuffling through the paperwork on the kitchen counter while Johnny slowly walks the entryway with a torch. Simon doesn’t think they’ll find anything important.
This doesn’t have to do with Evie at all. Or Archie.
Not at the moment anyway.
This is about Simon. This is about Walsh.
It is about revenge, and the spirit of the chase in pursuit of that excellent vengeance.
Simon walks the perimeter of the dark pool, coming to a stop next to Price. He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze downward.
“Good thing you called us,” says Price, voice gruff. He comes to a standing position, a frown on his face. He turns to Gaz and Johnny. “Found anything?”
“Nope,” comes Soap’s response as he shines his torch up and down the staircase.
Gaz shrugs. “Not sure,” he replies. “This is mostly paperwork about selling the house. Don’t think Walsh is after that.”
“He’s not after the house,” growls Simon.
Price glances at him. “Simon.”
He’s trying to remind Simon to be calm—to chill the fuck out. But Simon is anything but calm. He’s fucking fuming.
“Walsh is after me,” says Simon, gaze locking with Price’s.
“Then why didn’t he come after you?” counters Price, shrugging. “You’re a civilian now. Why not surprise you in your home?”
Simon snorts but it’s not with amusement. “Think Walsh wants to make this quick?” He gestures toward the dead women.
Price doesn’t even glance at them. “These two were in the way. Likely surprised them.”
“Sure,” agrees Simon. “But he wants to hurt me first. To cause pain before he strikes.”
“We’ll find her,” sighs Price. “Maybe she escaped?”
“She would have turned up somewhere. Made contact with someone.” Simon shakes his head. “Walsh has her.”
“We don’t know that, Simon.”
Simon is ready to snap a reply, to show some teeth. This is about him, but it’s also about you. Walsh can have anything, but he can’t have you. You are the only thing Simon has ever truly wanted. The only person he’s craved to the point of obsession.
Life does not seem complete without you.
Letting you go is not an option.
“Captain!” calls Johnny.
Simon and Price snap to attention, their bodies shifting in Soap’s direction. There are solid footsteps, and then Johnny appears around the corner, coming to a stop next to Kyle. He clicks off the torch and places it on the kitchen counter. In his other hand is a large stack of mail. He gently sets the mail down, and spreads them out, making sure each envelope is on full display.
Simon takes a step forward. He’s not sure why he’s moving. Something is telling him to, wrapping around him like a string, and tugging.
Johnny lifts an envelope and holds it up. Frowning, he turns it around. “It’s addressed to Simon.”
He closes the distance in seconds, snatching the letter out of Johnny’s hand. It’s simple parchment. Slightly faded and weather-worn. There is no postage. No address. Just Simon’s full name.
“Simon,” says Price, almost cautiously, as if he doesn’t want Simon to open it.
He ignores Price, tearing it open.
There is a single piece of paper inside. It’s thin—nearly translucent. With slightly shaking fingers, Simon withdraws it from the envelope.
Come and find her. – KW.
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