#simon and ghost are two diff people

[postmortemnivis]

nobody knew simon’s name, his cold glances penetrating souls whenever someone on the force even dared to call him by his first name. he preferred it this way. he wasn’t the kind to blend personal life and work, he didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror without his mask and still see a murderer. his hands were clean, protected by the gloves ghost slipped on each time he reached base. it was soon that the other soldiers almost forgot his name, agreeing that their lieutenant was indeed a ghost.

that was until your worried voice called for him.

you didn’t know of the ghost identity, it had never even crossed your mind that your simon, your sweet and caring boyfriend’s personality would switch into a cold blooded killer as soon as he set foot at base or in the field. of course he never mentioned it with you, he sporadically talked about his job and his missions. you knew he was a strict lieutenant, but you had been kept away from more by the person with the skull mask and balaclava.

“simon?” you asked for the third time the receptionist. she apologetically looked up at you and shrugged. “oh cmon, simon riley. i know for a fact that he’s here. please, i need to see him.”

“i’m very sorry miss but…” the woman shook her head again, “let me call the captain.”

you sighed and sat down by the waiting area until a man walked in and talked to the woman.

“who’re you looking for?”

you stood up. “simon. simon riley.”

“ghost?”

you shook your head, almost clueless. “no, simon riley.”

“yeah, that’s him…” he said, “he’s training the recruits now. shall i deliver a message?”

“no, i need to see him personally. i wouldn’t have come all the way here if it wasn’t important, captain.”

you'd seen price a few times, simon's loyalty to the man was almost like a dog's one, always following orders and rarely complaining. he often talked about him when he was at home, all he shared with you about his threatening job was the friends he made along the way: johnny, kyle, price, gary, nikolai. he'd often go out for a pint –or two– with johnny and kyle, who also occasionally would come to your shared apartment for dinner with their temporary girlfriends.

"follow me." price sighed. you eagerly followed him, as close as his shadow, and the courtyard came into sight. dozens and dozens of soldiers in scarlet training uniforms were running laps of the immense open space under the pale sun, and that's when you spotted a tall and muscular man in black tactical gear. hell, he was hard to miss.

"another lap, smith!" his mancunian accent was stronger than his will to neutralise it. "if my gran was alive she'd be faster than ya."

you'd recognised the voice, of course, even if it was much harsher than usual, but you couldn't recognise him.

you realised, that was ghost. his cold eyes were studying each of the recruit's tired and red faces, his arms behind his back as he barked for five more laps for the ones who didn't look sweaty enough. even his voice was different, but what shocked you was the black balaclava with the white skull drawn on top.

you'd seen the mask once or twice over the years, shoved on the bottom of his duffle bag or drying on a windowsill, but you've never given it much thought, why would you?

"si?" you asked, standing directly behind him as price stood a few feet from you.

his head snapped in your direction at a worryingly fast speed, his eyes immediately becoming soft, then confused.

"what're you doin' here?" his voice spoke, much sweeter.

you kept staring at him, not recognising the man you loved.

he immediately grabbed the crown of the balaclava and yanked it off without a second though. holding the black piece of clothing in his hand, both of them came to cup your elbows, drawing you closer to him.

"love?" he called you.

still at loss of words, you reached to the balaclava and twirled it between your fingers.

"love, talk to me." his voice sounded worried.

"ghost?"

he shook his head. "simon, love."

"we'll talk about that at home." you raised your eyebrows, attempting a smile.

he looked at you impatiently, his fingers brushing up and down your forearms.

you fished in your bag a small plastic bag and gave it to him.

this wasn't like one of the times when he'd forget his lunch at home so you'd drop by and give it to johnny so he'd give it to an always so busy simon ghost; he could see it in your eyes that this was something more.

he unwrapped the plastic bag that you had rolled up on itself. his eyes looked brighter than ever when he took with shaky fingers the finally positive pregnancy test.

[postmortemnivis]

the ghosts of the past were the only thing that truly scared the ghost, the man who if someone'd seen him walking towards them from across the street at night, they would've started calling the first helpline number available and saying their prayers, even if they weren't believers .

in truth, ghost wasn't a troubled man, he barely was what was left of one, simon.

ghost wasn't a troubled man, but he was all that was left of one. every time the thick balaclava slipped on simons face, he'd turn off the few emotions that were still left in his body, mind running on autopilot as he coldly shut off his scarred heart. simon needed that, both a relief and a way to turn everything off, he needed to know it wasnt him killing people. it made his heart rest better to know it was ghost, not simon.

simon, who'd gone through hell and back, watching his friends, honourable soldiers, fall by the hand of a simple yet fatal mistake.

simon, whose family was slaughtered and he felt so helpless and unworthy, because why join the military and train to fight when he couldn't even protect his three years old nephew?

feeling so low he could barely keep his brown eyes open, he didn't think he was a man who deserved to live. why, when nobody was there to live with him? sure, johnny and kyle could try to cheer him up and distract him as much as they wanted, but they couldn't follow simon to his flat by the railways, in front of the man united stadium. price regularly called him: every other day to check up on him, ask him if he fancied a pint. simon rarely said yes, but he was grateful price didn't forget about him the moment they left base, it made him feel like he was, after all, someone. more than once even kyle booked a cheap hotel room near simon's place so he could spend time with him. forcing him to go outside and meet up with him and price. sometimes even johnny could make it, hopping on the first train from glasgow to see his lieutenant.

simon studied the pub. ironically, kyle always decided to drag him to the pub where simon spent his late teens with his mates from the time. that was, of course, before simon turned eighteen, and without speaking a word to anyone, left to join the military a week after his birthday. when he'd first come back, almost a year later, all his friends had either moved out of manchester or thought he'd moved out too, cutting off contacts. it was a shock for the few ones left to see his dog tags underneath his shirt when he first showed up again.

it was meaningless.

he was meaningless. flesh on bone, a heart pumping his veins full of life without him being able to stop it.

simons complete view of life was of suffocating suffering, a meaningless amount of time he had to spend on this earth for what he used to believe was for a greater good. there was not such a thing, simon was sure of it now, a bottle of beer in his left hand as his right one brought his cigarette to his chapped, pale lips. he looked down the river irwin, the city noise muffled out by the quiet and calm chatter of people walking past him. he felt almost envious. they had someone to talk to.

but he'd never been the loquacious type either, tommy always did the talking, simon usually dragging both of their arses out of the messes tommy brought them in. that's how it worked, their dynamic. his brother talked, too much sometimes, even for him, and he made sure nothing happened, as easy as that. simon was the one who stepped in when things got bad, in any situation: outside of the pub with a drunk man that tommy'd pissed off with his witty remarks, older boys at school when they were children, or at home, with their father. needless to say, simon got the most of the beatings, scars adorning the skin of his back even before stepping on the field. the cigarette burns on his arms and legs itched every time he'd think too much about it.

ever since finding his brothers corpse on the stairs of his own home, front door unlocked, his wife and son dead on the master bedroom's bed, he'd been craving what it felt like to love someone again. he craved loving someone, craved the feeling of something so strong it would change every fiber of his being, that would alter the chemistry of his brain. it was almost visceral, the need he had to satisfy. he despised everything good there was in life, anything that should bring happiness bothered him, but he was still a human being, and being human meant longing for someone else, another half.

throwing the cigarette butt in the river, he turned around, not ready to be home in less than fifteen minutes. the feeling of getting swallowed in the darkness and silence of his own home made him almost paranoid, he was driving himself crazy. simon would have chosen to throw himself in the river if given the choice to pick between that and going home, but the early rays of the dawn started blinding him, and the shadows under his eyes were becoming darker by the second. maybe he'd take a longer route.

simons restless nights became quickly part of his life, following him everywhere around the globe during the years. he found in the lack of sleep a way to control his life, he desperately needed control. when all was to shambles, control was all he needed. sleep, exercise, food, sex, attitude and performance were things he could control, and the less he let himself slip into, the more in control his tired body felt.

"five hours of bad sleep every two days won't keep you alive." price'd told him, and simon groaned.

"good then."

"we need you alive, simon."

"ya need a soldier, not me."

"we need you, simon." price insisted, shaking his head. "you're a good man, we need you."

"i'm not a good man."

until his seventh year of mourning, simon never thought he would find peace of mind, but he found it coming along with spring's sweet scented flowers and chilly breezes; you.