Chapter Text
Simon still isn't entirely sure Laswell actually intended the invitation for him. But whether it had been meant for him or otherwise, he had gotten one, sitting in his email: an invention for dinner. Had it lacked her name in the address, it would have been marked trash before he finished skimming the subject line. But as it was, Kate Laswell had invited him and the rest of the 141 to Thanksgiving dinner with her family.
This didn't make it less doubtful that he was actually wanted there. Simon wasn't exactly what the mind's eye conjured when family dinners were thought of. He can't even remember the last time he had a family dinner, certainly not one for a holiday his country doesn't even celebrate. He had even double checked with Soap to confirm that his placement in the CC hadn't been some unfortunate accident.
That had earned him a bark of laughter and a sharp slap on the shoulder.
The memory makes him seethe, slightly, the distinct feeling that he's being mocked and the utter shame that it actually embarrassed him.
He shakes his head, cheeks heating, and hunches in on himself. Realistically, it can only mean Laswell has some horribly ill placed sense of obligation. He's learned, in all his years, that people feel off when they intentionally leave someone out, especially when that someone is a part of a premade group. Ghost is in the 141, therefore if there's a social outing with the 141, Ghost has to come along.
Simon doesn't pretend to understand it, but this rule has lended itself to far too many drinks after a "job well done", as Gaz continuously puts it. And he knows neither Gaz or Price, or even Soap want him, specifically, to be a drinking buddy. He's always who they ask after they've confirmed the rest are coming. It's a touch above being an afterthought, and while Simon doesn't actively dislike it, he's not sure he wants them to have to work to include him. It feels much too juvenile.
In primary school, Simon had spent it much the same way. Getting things simply because everyone else got one. Valentine's, party favors, and on and on. Gaz confirming with Price that they're good to go, before turning to Simon to ask if he wants to join along feels all too similar to getting passed a card after the rest of the class had gotten theirs. He's just not inclined to feeling like an obligation.
The pavement beneath him is solid, if damp from the recent rain, and Simon catches himself avoiding the cracks in it. He glances up and notes the growing overcast in the sky, it's probably going to rain again. He's still a few minutes out from Laswell's house, and he almost regrets walking. The weather is just this side of uncomfortable, even with his balaclava keeping his face warm, but it seems far too much work to own a car and the prospect of public transit sets his skin on edge. Still, he almost certainly could have gotten a ride from Soap.
But then, that too seems like too much, even if he knows the other would have given in in an instant. Soap has a tendency to lend favors to his friends without so much as a second thought, and in a way, that's the exact reason why Simon never asks. It would be too easy to push and before either of them notice, Simon has taken everything Johnny has to give. Or, worse, Soap ends up with a knife three inches deep in his vertebrae and didn't see it coming because of Simon's proximity. Simon would rather avoid both of those scenarios.
There's a sudden, if brief, breeze knocking against him and his fingers involuntary clench in his pockets. He's glad, then, that he had worn gloves, even if the skeleton motif occasionally feels childish as well. It, at least, has a point: one he understands. Wearing a skull makes sense, asking someone to come along when you don't want them there, doesn't.
Maybe it's unfair, to assume Laswell doesn't want him there. But, it's not just a quick stop at the pub. It's a dinner, in her home, with her family. Simon doubts she's looking forward to the prospect of a specter looming over her supper table.
Gaz, of course, makes sense there, and Simon knows her and Price have a history. Soap, too, seemingly belongs in a domestic life. It's far too easy to envision Johnny, hair bedridden and undone, standing over a stovetop making eggs. They all slip back into civilian life naturally, like shedding an overworn coat at the end of the day and shaking off the chill that comes with it.
Simon can't.
And with it, he can't imagine for the life of him what they could possibly hope the outcome is going to be. Best case scenario— he finds a corner to lurk in and hopefully doesn't traumatize her wife too much.
The wind continues to whip around him and he manages to furrow even deeper into his coat. He knows he's in a sour mood, and more than that he knows it's wildly unfair to unload that onto an unsuspecting family. Still, he can't quite shake it. He doesn't belong in this setting and yet, he got dragged back to it senselessly out of a pointless social obligation. Irritation needles away at him and he can only hope that he won't snap at anyone undeserving. Or, at the very least, anyone who can't handle a large, aggressive man.
Simon could, of course, bail. Soap would give him shit for it tomorrow, but he'd understand, too, if Simon told him to back off. He would have already backed out, wouldn't have even agreed to begin with, had it not been Laswell that had asked. Maybe it's because she's close with his boss, but it had felt rude, ruder than he was comfortable with, to turn down such a request.
She had asked, he agreed, and so Simon will go.
Simple as that.
He pauses, something he knows he'll regret in a moment as the weather begins to take a sharp turn for the worse, and collects his thoughts. Cold air fills his lungs and the drops of rain that are beginning to collect on his hood are grounding. He pulls his hands out and puffs warm air into them as best he can, if for no other reason than to take another breath of air. He rubs his hands together, the sensation of cloth over cloth pleasing, in that odd sort of way.
It's pathetic, to be this unnerved over something as small as a little get together. He's going to know everyone there, excluding Laswell's wife. It'll last a few hours at most. And, most importantly, he's going. Whether he understands, or not. Whether he enjoys himself, or not. It's pointless to let himself get this worked up over it.
And he should really get a move on, unless he wants to drench her floor in rainwater.
His boots kick up water as he moves to a brisk jog towards her building. It's a nice neighborhood, he thinks somewhat distantly, covered in rain though it is. Street lamps illuminate every inch of the walkway and he passes a covered bus stop. Simon was already nearly there before he stopped so within minutes he sees her street sign. He slows his pace, eyes searching the walls for her address.
A few doors down, movement catches his eyes and his head snaps that direction. It's a couple, he notes with quickly waning interest, walking up to a building with small red and green holiday lights surrounding its windows. The two move nearly in sync, the man's figure oddly familiar and— ah. It's Soap, and some… woman that he can't place. They're leaning into each other- just barely- before the girl tilts her head back, hand moving to cover her mouth as a soft laugh escapes. Soap leans forward, knocking with one hand, and there's something else in his other.
Simon steps closer, keeping his steps light, and realizes it's wine. The woman next to him seems to be holding a container of some kind. And as the door swings open, illuminating the couple in warm light and laughter that seemingly pours out of the flat, two unfortunate facts land heavy in Simon's stomach.
The first, they both brought some kind of gift whereas Simon has shown up empty handed. He hasn't even spoken, and yet has managed to fuck the interaction up before it's even begun.
The second, and far more imposing, is Soap has brought a plus one— a stranger, to boot. Instantly, the number of potential unknowns in that room has skyrocketed. He has no idea the number of people tucked in there.
Within seconds, this dinner has gone from a, if confusing, obligation to a near daunting task. Fucking hell.
He takes a breath, steeling himself, before he pushes himself up the stairs. Simon isn't about to quit now, better to get it over quick. He knocks once, twice, before leaning back and returning his fist in his jacket, knuckles clenched. Inside, he hears a woman's voice, "I'll get it!" and then he's greeted by a stranger's face suddenly in his eyeline.
The woman gasps, taking a miniscule step back. Her grasp tightens on the doorknob and she shoots a frightened glance behind her before locking eyes with him.
"Kate?" She calls over her shoulder, eyebrows knitted together in apprehension but never breaking contact.
It makes him itch, and he realizes he's scaring her but before he can open his mouth to speak, Laswell is moving in front of her.
"Ghost!" Her voice is elated, cheeks flushed. She's smiling, wide, "Glad you could make it."
She opens the door wider from where the other had held it, welcoming him inside. He gives a nod, ducking through the entryway, the sudden onslaught of warm air heavy against him. "Glad to be here."
"This is my wife, Andrea." Laswell places a hand on her wife's, on Andrea's, arm. She's still smiling, but Andrea doesn't share her expression, arms folded and mouth pressed into a thin, tense line.
Before he can spend any more time analyzing her mood, a voice catches his attention. "Ghost!"
He turns, instantly, and Soap is filling his field of view with seconds. The man is downright beaming up at him, hands clasping onto his shoulders. "Good to see you!"
Simon has to bite his tongue to keep from repeating his words from earlier, but Soap doesn't seem to notice— and if he did, he certainly doesn't care. He pulls Simon away from the others and deeper into the house.
As they walk, Simon spares a quick glance back at the women. Andrea has her fingers tight around Laswell's wrist, face full of concern over something. Probably the man who just showed up dressed as a cheap halloween decoration, if he had to guess. Laswell seems to be trying to soothe her, and something about it makes his skin crawl.
In front of him, there's at least two other people he doesn't recognize mingling with each other. He certainly miscalculated the number of strangers present and that, too, makes him tense. He feels exposed, in that distinctly unpleasant way, and he wishes he had his back up against a sturdy wall.
Instead, Soap drags Simon to the woman he had been with before he'd entered. She's small- he can't help but notice, towering over her- with long, black hair that falls down her shoulders and slightly obscures her face from how she's angled it downward. She's wearing a tight, deep red jumper tucked into dark slacks. Simon isn't sure why he notices that, but he does.
"Ghost, this is Jen. Jen, Ghost." He gestures between them.
She looks up from the cell in her hands, smiling. It seems uncomfortable. "Pleasure."
Something on her screen must catch her attention because she lets out a soft snort, before pulling Soap closer to show him. He laughs too, arm pressing into her's, and Simon needs to move. His back feels like it's crawling, clothes suddenly suffocating and, yeah. He needs to move.
He shoots a look around, there's now another face he doesn't recognize in the room that wasn't there before, and his fingers twitch, clenching and unclenching as he walks to the nearest wall to get a better scope of the room. The feeling of pin pricks on his skin stops the moment he's pressed against drywall, and he takes a measured breath.
Annoyance and guilt slowly seep into his thoughts, and he hates it. Laswell knows who he is and should have warned her wife. Let her know exactly who was being welcomed into their home but judging by that reaction, she hadn't. He had scared her, completely unintentionally. It makes his stomach do an uncomfortable flip.
It's the same for Soap's date, her name already escaping him, she had been uneasy too. And he can't help but notice, as he scans the room, that he stands out like a sore thumb. They're all dressed like people, in comfortable, form fitting clothes and easy, simple colors. Soap is wearing a dress shirt. Simon has a knife strapped to his ankle.
To his right, there's a loud, shrill bout of laughter, and Simon flinches, minutely, for it. He locks eyes with the offender and, somehow, it's Gaz.
Or more accurately, it's a child Gaz is holding upside down in his arms. There's a child here. She's grinning broadly, blond hair falling every which way, and laughing almost unbearably loud. She doesn't notice him but Gaz does, brows quirking up slightly. He sets the girl down and steers her in the direction of Laswell.
"Lieutenant! Great to see you." He's smiling, too, everyone is having a grand old time, it seems.
Simon works very hard to not comment on the repeatability of it all, though he's starting to feel like he's stuck clicking through dialogue options. "Glad to make it."
"Though, I have to be honest, I hadn't expected you to wear the mask." As he says it, expression light, he tilts his head slightly towards Soap who's somehow already looking at them, and Simon is instantly sure he's missed some… interaction between the two.
The suspicion is confirmed when not even a moment later, Soap appears at Gaz's side, and Gaz places ten pounds into his waiting hand. Before Simon can voice his quickly growing irritation, Soap speaks, lip pouting out just slightly. "Hey, that's only half of it. You still owe me for the other one."
Gaz groans, "You're bleeding me dry."
Still, he moves to hand another bill and Simon yanks it out of his fingers before Soap can.
"If you're going to be making wagers on me, I'll be taking a cut." He snaps, and hopes they can tell his anger is genuine.
Judging by how Soap laughs and moves to rest against the space next to him, he may have failed. That pisses him off too, and he can't even be properly pissed because suddenly there's a very small girl who just barely comes up to his waist right in front of him.
Large, brown eyes stare up at him, and he manages to resist the urge to take a step back. She squints, slightly. "Halloween is over. It was done weeks ago."
In his peripheral, Soap tenses, slightly, and he bites back his sudden anger at that. He's not going to snap at a child.
He crosses his arms, and gives a stiff shrug. "Never too late for some trick or treating."
He stubbornly ignores the muffled laughter, cheeks flushing, and focuses on the girl in front of him.
"Yes it is." She says, very matter of fact, and Simon supposes he doesn't have a rebuttal for that. Luckily, he doesn't need one before Laswell's wife, evidently every name he's been given this afternoon has been lost, is walking up to them.
"Sophia," She calls, voice scolding in a gentle sort of way, "Go wash up."
The girl huffs but does as she's told. Beside him, he can practically hear Soap's grin. "Thanks, Andrea. I was half convinced Ghost here was going to burst into flames."
Simon glares at him as Andrea speaks, "Sorry about her, she's… excitable, I suppose."
"It's no worry." He speaks before Soap can open his mouth. He doesn't want this woman to think he's some gruff, unspeaking monster.
Andrea gives him a small- if strained- smile, the corners of her mouth barely tilting upwards. "Well, supper's ready."
She gives a quick nod to an adjacent room, and heads off in that direction. Soap pats his arm before calling for Jen, and Gaz has already left. Everyone else has filed out as well, and Simon can't shake the inexplicable sense that he's being left behind.
Still, he dutifully follows the others into the next room. He spots Price near Laswell, and ignores how that makes the tense knot inside his chest unwind, if only slightly. He's sitting next to Laswell and the girl, who Simon can only assume is her and Andrea's daughter. Next to her, is Andrea, then Gaz. The other three strangers, whose names Simon has no intention of learning, are sitting themselves around the table. They're all chatting amongst each other, leaning forward to grab plates and helpings. Laswell is pouring Price a glass of the wine Soap brought, and Simon is—
Is caught in the doorway.
Again, helplessly so, he's reminded that this isn't his life. He doesn't fit in this world anymore. Not since he was dragged out of it by heavy hands and war and more cruelty than he can count. He can't just— sit down. Can't just sit down and eat a dinner with these people as Simon, certainly can't do it as Ghost because Ghost doesn't have the capacity for the casual nature needed to sit down at a table and fill a plate up with turkey. He knew that, coming here. And he still came.
His feet feel like lead weights, trapping him in the entryway.
What gets his ass moving is Johnny, somehow, catching his eye and wordlessly offering up the seat next to him.
The weight is still there, clinging to his skin, but he's no longer looming over them all so it's an improvement. There's a plate in front of him but he makes no move to grab any of the food, too many hands and arms blocking the way.
"Who made the turkey?" A man asks, his shoulders broad and Simon thinks he might be military of some kind.
"I did."
"Andrea did." Laswell and Andrea answer in unison, before Laswell continues, "I'm no cook, that's all Andrea."
Another voice, a touch louder than the rest, "Jen, you brought the cranberry sauce, yeah?"
And on, and on, Jen laughs, people talk, ask questions, the voices grating, like rocks pressing down against his chest. The knee jerk desire to just move hits him, and he grips his knee, tight enough to feel.
Soap shifts— shoulder barely brushes against his, touch feather light, as he leans forward to grab a roll. "Do you say grace?"
A small chorus of No, no, and Soap is sitting back down, and someone says something about digging in, then metal on porcelain joins the cacophony of noise. Simon ignores the building headache, fingers still stiff in the fabric of his jeans.
People are still talking, of course they are, why would they stop? They're here to enjoy each other's company, of course they're still laughing over each other. With each passing second, the messy sound of chewing fills the air. His breathing stiffens in response. It's all so— overwhelming, overpowering. There's a small girl's giggles, shrill and sharp, and he wishes he had his headphones.
"Gonna eat anything, Lt?" Johnny nudges him again, intentional this time. He looks amused, maybe. It makes Simon itch.
Still, he hums an affirmative. Turning back to the table, he reaches for the last thing he had seen Soap grab— a roll. He can help but feel stupid, seeing bones hover over the tablecloth, with it's simple maple leaves. He should have taken the gloves off. Too late for that now, though, and he pushes his mask up just enough to eat the bread.
"Would you like a drink? We have wine, or sparkling cider?" Laswell asks, leaning up against the table, elbows resting against it.
She has her hair down, framing her face in a way Simon has never seen before. She seems comfortable, it fits. He shakes his head, eyes flitting down the table at the other guests. He lets out a breath when he realizes they're paying no attention to him, too engrossed in whatever conversation they're having.
He can't help it, though, when he unconsciously pulls the fabric back down, shielding his face from view. The half eaten roll stares up mockingly at him from its center spot on the empty porcelain. He glares back.
"Here," Soap leans against him, picking the plate up. He nudges the roll to the side with his finger, and with his other arm reaches across the table. Within moments, his plate is returned to him, covered in turkey and mashed potatoes, gravy spilling down the sides. And the roll, still looking up at him, laughing that Johnny had to get him dinner like he's a helpless kid again.
He wants to be irritated, and he is, but before he can let Soap know, he's already walking out the room. The man humiliates him and then saunters off into the horizon. Simon is going to kill him, his glare following Soap's steps.
Soap seems to have something in mind though because when he returns, he's holding a bottle of Mitcher's. He's smiling at Simon, tilting the neck of the bottle up like Johnny is letting him in on a secret, and suddenly the irritation from before doesn't seem so relevant anymore.
Still there, of course, and flares up when Soap moves to pour a glass instead of letting him do it his damn self. "I have hands you know, could of poured myself a glass."
He can't see that bastard's grin, with how his back is angled towards Simon, but he knows it's there. The distinctly Soap shaped irritation simmers just below the surface.
"I know, I just like doing it." He hands the glass to him. It's a fine wine glass, but it feels wrong to drink bourbon out of it— wrong like walking next to the pavement instead of on top. He still brings the drink to his lips, he's not about to waste good whiskey.
"Why do you get your own special drink?" A jolt runs through his body, suddenly remembering that there are other people at the table and, on top of that, a child. She's looking at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously, and her hands are pressed into little fists on the table.
Price laughs, leaning over to ruffle her hair, "You wouldn't enjoy it."
She swats his hand away, "Let me be the judge of that."
"Absolutely not." Laswell glares over her own glass, lips tilting up at the corners. "Eat your asparagus."
Beside her, Andrea covers her mouth, laughing. In turn, the girl stabs her fork into the vegetable, glaring at Simon like he personally caused this turn of events.
He mirrors her, gently popping the asparagus Soap had given him into his own mouth. It's roasted, Simon's never had roasted asparagus before, but it's good. He doesn't understand why the kid would dig her heels in about eating it.
"Why do you wear a mask when it isn't Halloween?" Still glaring, it seems.
Price nudges her, gently, with his hand. "Just eat your supper, Soph, don't bother Ghost so much."
Him too, then. Both Price and Soap had acted like Simon was going to snap. It true, that he doesn't like being pressed about the mask, but she's a child. He wouldn't— the thought makes his stomach curdle. The idea that his own teammates view him as a threat that they have to navigate around.
He slips his mask back over his face and nudges his plate away, no longer hungry. He hadn't asked for it to begin with.
"Captain-" Gaz begins, and Simon chooses this moment to tune the rest of the conversation to the background. They certainly understand this isn't his field of expertise and he sincerely doubts any of them expect now, of all times, for him to carry a conversation.
Next to him, Soap's baritone rumbles on and Simon feels his eyes dip, if just slightly. He's tired, he realizes. It makes sense, he hasn't been sleeping well these past few weeks. Worse than usual. It's something he should speak to his therapist about, but he's never been good at actually talking to her.
A chair squeaks, and he turns slightly to face the noise.
"I'm going to step out for a smoke." Laswell says, already pushing her back chair in.
Andrea touches her arm with the back of her hand, "Just the one."
"Yeah, of course." She leans back into the touch, if slightly.
"I'll join you." Price says, standing, and as he walks past, he taps Simon on the shoulder, nodding after Laswell.
Simon follows after him, and pretends he can't feel the eyes on his back. When he turns the corner, they're both heading up the stairs. Simon follows, hand dragging across the rail. On the wall are family photos of Andrea, Laswell, and their daughter. There's a few with faces Simon can't recognize, but that's expected.
In front of him, Laswell leads them onto a small balcony. It's still raining outside but the awning should keep them dry, for the most part.
Flame flickers in Laswell's hand as she cups them around her cigarette. She jumps when she notices Simon, and she gives him a sheepish grin, "Sorry, I didn't hear you behind us."
"Wouldn't call him 'Ghost' if he was easily noticed." Price leans back against the railing, and holds out a cigarette for him, "You looked like you could use some air."
He takes it, and the offered lighter, and positions himself with his back to the wall of the house as he places it between his lips.
Laswell smiles next to Price, "I didn't know you smoked."
"I try not to make a habit of it."
"Don't we all." Even as she says it, she takes another drag, the smoke puffing out of her mouth moments later. Price watches her, grinning, and forms a small ring of smoke with his. Laswell rolls her eyes, but her voice is fond. "Show off."
She flicks her ashes off the side, grimacing as she does.
"You need to get an ashtray up here." Price is looking at her, elbows lazily resting against the metal handrail, certainly getting wet.
"Last one I had I knocked off the side, got broken to all hell." She looks at the ground below then, face scrunching up at the memory. Simon wonders if it was one of those little glass ones, she doesn't seem the type to settle for cheap plastic.
She inhales again, seemingly basking in the quiet. Price grins at something and turns to her, "Was it the crystal one my mum got for you?"
"Promise not to tell her?" She seems to be holding back laughter and Price's expression only brightens.
He drags a finger in an X over his heart, "Won't tell a soul."
The conversation lapses into silence and the sound of a car behind them fills the air. Simon can't see it past Price but he wonders what color it is. Statistically, it's probably black. Laswell turns to watch it pass.
A moment later she turns back around, rubbing a hand against her arm, before stamping out her cigarette. "I better head in, you boys have fun."
To her credit, there is a wet chill in the air and she's wearing several layers less than him. Price takes another drag, and speaks around the cigarette, "I'll be in after I finish this."
Laswell smiles, and closes the balcony door after her. She picked a good time too, because a second later the rain comes down harder. The sound of the weather hitting against the roof is calming, at least, and Simon finds himself relaxing into it. He looks back at Price, who's moved further away from the edge to avoid getting wet, and whose cigarette has almost burned itself down to butt. Simon has to admit, he's a bit confused why Price asked him up here.
"Do you have something for me, sir?" Price looks up when he speaks, expression unreadable. His always is, for Simon at least.
Price hands him another cigarette, and Simon pockets it, with zero intentions of actually smoking. Price shakes his head, "You just seemed like you could use some air, I know this isn't really your scene. Glad you came, though, I think it could do you some good."
"What could?" Simon rolls the lit cigarette between his fingers, watching the ash fall to the ground and form a gross, wet sludge. He tries to smudge it away with his boot, and cringes at the small smear he forms instead.
"Good food with good people." Price puts his out, rubbing the paper against the damp metal. He pats Simon on the shoulder as he moves to leave, "See you downstairs, Simon."
He watches Price open and shut the sliding door as he steps indoors, the sounds from inside immediately muffled once again. Simon moves away from the house, and rests against the banister. He pulls his mask down, hopefully for the last time that night. The rain is still coming down strong, and the smell of wet pavement fills the air in turn, the fabric pressed against his nose dulling it somewhat. He flicks an ember into the air and watches as it instantly gets snuffed out.
He holds his cigarette up, watching it burn. He really isn't much of a smoker, his mother was though. His father, too. That fact is probably the only thing that ties the two together, their only similarity, besides their relationship to him. His mother was kind in all the ways his father wasn't, but at the end of the day they'd still open a window and pass a cigarette between them, fingers touching. Simon wonders if that's how they met, a simple offering and then they stuck together, despite how much they differed.
He supposes it doesn't matter, much, anymore.
The wind howls in front of him, causing a soft whistling sound between the tree branches— the leaves long since fallen off, covering the ground as a second skin. Simon takes a deep breath, relishing the air in his lungs. He'll stay up here for a few moments longer before he excuses himself. He's long since had his fill and he's ready to be in his own space again.
He hears footsteps behind him, and a moment later he hears the scrape of the door. Soap steps next to him. Simon shifts under his gaze, and angles himself away, just slightly.
Soap's voice is light, with a teasing edge, "There a reason you're hiding out here in the rain, Lt?"
Simon takes a second, letting the sound of the rain engulf him, before he responds. "What's a skeleton's least favorite room?"
An eye roll, and then "This ought to be good."
"The living room."
It earned him a soft breath of laughter as he pressed his weight onto the rail next to Simon, metal digging into forearms, "You make a piss poor skeleton, sir. Got too much meat on you."
"Can't be good at everything, Johnny."
"That's for damn sure." Humor colors his voice, Simon hates how he basks in it and has to remind himself that he was pissed at Soap back downstairs.
He keeps his eyes trained on the horizon, "Don't make a habit out of betting on me."
He focuses on that, because repeats there are more likely than Soap making him a plate of dinner again.
"I always bet on you." There's an overwhelming softness in his tone, and yeah, Simon needs to put an end to that too. He reaches into his pocket and passes Soap the bill from before. "You can keep that, sir. You earned it."
"Don't need it," He speaks, forcing his voice to be slightly gruffer than it usually is around Johnny. "Just like I don't need the sergeants speculating on my personal life."
"That's not really what it was."
"Then what was it?" Simon closes his fists, clenching them.
Next to him, Soap shrugs, the movement causing his sleeve to brush against Simon's. "Just whether you'd show up, and if you did, if you'd wear the mask. I knew you'd do both."
Simon doesn't dignify that with a response, glowering out at the storm. He's not sure if he's actually angry at Soap, and Gaz, for making bets about him or if he's angry that Soap is so confident in knowing him. He's uncomfortable, at the very least, he knows that.
"It won't happen again." Soap's voice has gone soft and apologetic, and Simon gives him a nod in return. Soap makes no move to leave, though, somehow still comfortable next to Simon.
With each inhale and exhale, Soap's arm barely knocks against his. They're close, arms almost touching where they're pressed next to each other on the banister. Simon knows if he were to turn his face, they'd be inches from each other. He keeps his head turned away.
"Is that Laswell's kid?" He had assumed so, but Simon's been wrong before. Mostly he speaks only to break the tension he's halfway certain he's imagining.
"Yeah, Sophia. She's their daughter." Soap answers easily.
Simon hums, and while he's asking questions he might as well get them all out of the way. "And the woman who was with you?"
That has Soap grinning, maybe just a touch cheeky, "My girlfriend, Jen. We've been seeing each other for almost two months."
Simon nods, because he's not sure what else he should do. Maybe he should be embarrassed he hadn't known that about Soap's personal life, but he's not, not really. He tends not to pry, not really for lack of interest, but Simon sometimes forgets the others do have lives outside of their shared career. It's always jarring, getting reminded of that.
Johnny never seems to mind, and now is certainly no exception. "You should come back downstairs, they're serving pie."
"I don't have much of a sweet tooth."
"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" Before Simon can respond, a strong gust of wind spays them both in rain water. Soap takes a step back, sputtering as he does. "Christ."
Simon turns to face him, and reaches to pluck a leaf off of his shoulder. Somehow the wind carried it all the way up here off of the ground. Soap's body stills as he does, and Simon quickly removes his hand, dropping the leaf onto the ground. "Go eat your pie, Johnny."
"I'll save you a slice." Johnny takes a moment to turn around but he does and heads back inside, slightly damper than he was before. Simon watches him leave and disappear around the corner, before he leans back against the railing. He'll head out soon enough, but for now he's content to watch the rain fall.
It's Price's own fault, he gave Simon this out and Simon isn't about to just give it up. It's quiet out here, save for the steady sound of rain surrounding him, and there's no prying eyes, at least none now that Soap left. Alone, he can feel the exhaustion from earlier, pulling at his bones. He lets out a sigh, hes always going to be more comfortable out here, in the cold, than stuck in a chair across from a child.
On the road beneath him, a car drives past, headlights reflecting against the wet asphalt. He watches it, and tries to imagine where it's headed. It's unlikely it's someone headed home from their own gathering. Probably someone heading home from work, exhausted and ready to just relax. Maybe they have a spouse and kids, maybe they're a terrible parent.
That's the problem with people watching, very few of them are actually good. In Simon's experience, most are terribly complicated; messy, in that horribly human way. Everyone has skeletons in their closet, some more covert than others.
There's more movement below him, and it's Gaz leaving with one of the other faces from the party that Simon refused to learn. Gaz holds up an umbrella and that's his cue, he's mildly surprised that he wasn't the first person to leave and he definitely doesn't want to accidentally overstay. He opens the door, knocking his boot against the frame to get some of the excess moisture off, and walks indoors. He keeps his steps light as he heads down the stairs. Price is talking to Laswell at the door, and he hesitates, briefly, before he heads over.
"Leaving?" Laswell asks him, shifting to face him.
He nods, "Yeah, thanks for having me."
"Of course, we should do this more often." She crosses her arms, holding her elbows.
"We should." Price answers, eyes flicking over to Simon before they land back on Laswell. "You head out, Ghost, I'm going to hang back to talk with Kate."
He nods, again, and moves to head past them. Behind him, he hears the little girl again. "Bye skeleton man."
She's sitting on a couch next to Andrea, who looks like she's about to die from embarrassment. He gives a small wave to them both, and turns to leave. Simon steps quick, keeping his gait light and he moves down the pavement away from the house.
Before he can get far, he hears Soap call, "Ghost!" Simon turns to face him, eyebrows raised. Soap leans against the roof of his car, holding the door open and certainly soaking his upholstery, "Need a lift?"
"I'm good to walk," Simon answers with a shake of his head, even as the water already soaks through his clothes, "See you back at base, Johnny."