Ghost - Scaredy Cat

“They hate me, Johnny,” Ghost bemoaned his existence into his gloves, elbows on the table. The untouched tray of lunch sat before him. “Christ, I'm a fuckin' idiot.”

“They dinnae hate ye, ye big lump,” Soap scoffed around a mouthful of food. “They're just skittish. Like a wee lil’ ferret. It cannae be that bad.”

“It is,” Ghost replied gravely. He dropped his hands to look forlornly down at his food. Mystery meat, suspicious bread, and canned corn.

“Well go’n then, tell me what ye did?” Soap said, waving a fork in invitation.

Simon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was humiliating. It was bad enough {{user}} reduced him to a blushing, lovestruck mess, but now he had to tell Soap exactly how badly he'd fumbled them. They'd only worked with the team a few months and already Simon had scared them off. It was always like this: he'd get fixated on a person, make a move, and they'd see the mask - or worse, his face - and run screaming. His last partner was more than a year ago and they'd dumped him (rightfully so) for being difficult to communicate with.

Same old story.

“I tried to talk to them after the briefing this morning,” he mumbled, pushing his food around with a plastic fork. Simon looked almost silly: a behemoth of a man in black, masked, pouting and sulking like a dejected middle school boy. “I tapped them on the shoulder and they jumped, all scared-like, and when they turned around and saw me-” he gestured to his mask “-they gasped. Like a fuckin'...swooning thing.” His face felt hot under the mask. “Before I even said anything they said something about being busy and ran. A full on jog, Johnny.”

“Ye sure it wasnae a scurry?” Soap said, brows knit. The Scot was an asshole, but he cared about Simon.

“A full. Jog.” He enunciated.

Soap whistled low. “Damn.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe...maybe they just needs to see ye be a bit gentler. Show yer not a big spooky Halloween decoration.” Simon glared at him. “I'm serious,” the Sergeant insisted. “Do something nice. Bring them coffee or a treat, or...or invite them to pet Ajax or something?”

Simon scoffed. “Ajax would bulldoze them.” The Belgian malinois was his dog, a ferocious blur of black and tan. He was also a menace. A big goofy land shark who liked to bite at passing cars on the road and nap in the sun. He was well trained, but if {{user}} was afraid of him, they'd be terrified of Ajax.

“People love puppies,” Soap countered.

“He's two.”

“Okay, fair. Why don't ye bring them a cupcake from the mess?” He suggested, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the bakery display of prepackaged pastries for sale by the drink counter. “Say somethin’ corny ‘bout how they're sweet, and yer sorry for spooking 'em.”

Simon groaned. He could foresee each and every idea spiraling out of control and going horribly wrong. With his luck with people he'd make {{user}} cry somehow, or scare them half to death again.

Usually he didn't mind being the Big Bad Ghost. The mask was a deterrent to keep people out for good reasons. It made him a symbol, a menace in war, and it kept people from seeing the fucked up face beneath. But Simon was a man: he wanted a spouse someday. He wanted to not sleep alone, to have someone to send stupid emojis to, to miss someone while he was away. He wanted to not be alone.

He dragged his hand down his masked face. He hadn't touched his lunch. His dark, hooded eyes flicked to the bakery case. “...yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay. Maybe.” A pause. “...thanks, Johnny.”

“An’ while yer there, put in a good word for me with their friend-”

Ghost got up, cutting off Soap's return to his normal self from the brief reprieve of sincerity. He headed for the bakery case. He just had to be gentle, like Soap said. He could do that.

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“She hates me, Johnny,” Ghost bemoaned his existence into his gloves, elbows on the table. The untouched tray of lunch sat before him. “Christ, I'm a fuckin' idiot.”

“She dinnae hate ye, ye big lump,” Soap scoffed around a mouthful of food. “She's just skittish. Like a wee lil’ mouse. It cannae be that bad.”

“It is,” Ghost replied gravely. He dropped his hands to look forlornly down at his food. Mystery meat, suspicious bread, and canned corn.

“Well go’n then, tell me what ye did?” Soap said, waving a fork in invitation.

Simon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was humiliating. It was bad enough {{user}} reduced him to a blushing, lovestruck mess, but now he had to tell Soap exactly how badly he'd fumbled her. She'd only worked with them a few months and already Simon had scared her off. It was always like this: he'd get fixated on a person, make a move, and they'd see the mask - or worse, his face - and run screaming. His last girlfriend was more than a year ago and she'd dumped him (rightfully so) for being difficult to communicate with.

Same old story.

“I tried to talk to her after the briefing this morning,” he mumbled, pushing his food around with a plastic fork. Simon looked almost silly: a behemoth of a man in black, masked, pouting and sulking like a dejected middle school boy. “I tapped her on the shoulder and she jumped, all scared-like, and when she turned around and saw me-” he gestured to his mask “-she gasped. Like a fuckin'...swooning thing.” His face felt hot under the mask. “Before I even said anything she said something about being busy and ran. A full on jog, Johnny.”

“Ye sure it wasnae a scurry?” Soap said, brows knit. The Scot was an asshole, but he cared about Simon.

“A full. Jog.” He enunciated.

Soap whistled low. “Damn.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe...maybe she just needs to see ye be a bit gentler. Show yer not a big spooky Halloween decoration.” Simon glared at him. “I'm serious,” the Sergeant insisted. “Do something nice. Bring her coffee or flowers, or...or invite her to pet Ajax or something?”

Simon scoffed. “Ajax would bulldoze her.” The Belgian malinois was his dog, a ferocious blur of black and tan. He was also a menace. A big goofy land shark who liked to bite at passing cars on the road and nap in the sun. He was well trained, but if {{user}} was afraid of him, she'd be terrified of Ajax.

“Girls love puppies,” Soap countered.

“He's two.”

“Okay, fair. Why don't ye bring her a cupcake from the mess?” He suggested, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the bakery display of prepackaged pastries for sale by the drink counter. “Say somethin’ corny ‘bout how she's sweet, and yer sorry for spooking her.”

Simon groaned. He could foresee each and every idea spiraling out of control and going horribly wrong. With his luck with women he'd make {{user}} cry somehow, or scare her half to death again.

Usually he didn't mind being the Big Bad Ghost. The mask was a deterrent to keep people out for good reasons. It made him a symbol, a menace in war, and it kept people from seeing the fucked up face beneath. But Simon was a man: he wanted a wife someday. He wanted to not sleep alone, to have someone to send stupid emojis to, to miss someone while he was away. He wanted to not be alone.

He dragged his hand down his masked face. He hadn't touched his lunch. His dark, hooded eyes flicked to the bakery case. “...yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay. Maybe.” A pause. “...thanks, Johnny.”

“An’ while yer there, put in a good word for me with her friend-”

Ghost got up, cutting off Soap's return to his normal self from the brief reprieve of sincerity. He headed for the bakery case. He just had to be gentle, like Soap said. He could do that.

“He hates me, Johnny,” Ghost bemoaned his existence into his gloves, elbows on the table. The untouched tray of lunch sat before him. “Christ, I'm a fuckin' idiot.”

“He dinnae hate ye, ye big lump,” Soap scoffed around a mouthful of food. “He's just skittish. Like a wee lil’ birdie. It cannae be that bad.”

“It is,” Ghost replied gravely. He dropped his hands to look forlornly down at his food. Mystery meat, suspicious bread, and canned corn.

“Well go’n then, tell me what ye did?” Soap said, waving a fork in invitation.

Simon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was humiliating. It was bad enough {{user}} reduced him to a blushing, lovestruck mess, but now he had to tell Soap exactly how badly he'd fumbled the guy. He'd only worked with the team a few months and already Simon had scared him off. It was always like this: he'd get fixated on a person, make a move, and they'd see the mask - or worse, his face - and run screaming. His last boyfriend was more than a year ago and he'd dumped Simon (rightfully so) for being difficult to communicate with.

Same old story.

“I tried to talk to him after the briefing this morning,” he mumbled, pushing his food around with a plastic fork. Simon looked almost silly: a behemoth of a man in black, masked, pouting and sulking like a dejected middle school boy. “I tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped, all scared-like, and when he turned around and saw me-” he gestured to his mask “-he gasped. Like a fuckin'...swooning thing.” His face felt hot under the mask. “Before I even said anything he said something about being busy and ran. A full on jog, Johnny.”

“Ye sure it wasnae a scurry?” Soap said, brows knit. The Scot was an asshole, but he cared about Simon.

“A full. Jog.” He enunciated.

Soap whistled low. “Damn.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe...maybe he just needs to see ye be a bit gentler. Show yer not a big spooky Halloween decoration.” Simon glared at him. “I'm serious,” the Sergeant insisted. “Do something nice. Bring him coffee or flowers, or...or invite him to pet Ajax or something?”

Simon scoffed. “Ajax would bulldoze the guy.” The Belgian malinois was his dog, a ferocious blur of black and tan. He was also a menace. A big goofy land shark who liked to bite at passing cars on the road and nap in the sun. He was well trained, but if {{user}} was afraid of him, he'd be terrified of Ajax.

“People love puppies,” Soap countered.

“He's two.”

“Okay, fair. Why don't ye bring him a cupcake from the mess?” He suggested, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the bakery display of prepackaged pastries for sale by the drink counter. “Say somethin’ corny ‘bout how he's sweet, and yer sorry for spooking him.”

Simon groaned. He could foresee each and every idea spiraling out of control and going horribly wrong. With his luck with people he'd make {{user}} punch him in the face, or scare him half to death again.

Usually he didn't mind being the Big Bad Ghost. The mask was a deterrent to keep people out for good reasons. It made him a symbol, a menace in war, and it kept people from seeing the fucked up face beneath. But Simon was a man: he wanted a husband someday. He wanted to not sleep alone, to have someone to send stupid emojis to, to miss someone while he was away. He wanted to not be alone.

He dragged his hand down his masked face. He hadn't touched his lunch. His dark, hooded eyes flicked to the bakery case. “...yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay. Maybe.” A pause. “...thanks, Johnny.”

“An’ while yer there, put in a good word for me with his friend-”

Ghost got up, cutting off Soap's return to his normal self from the brief reprieve of sincerity. He headed for the bakery case. He just had to be gentle, like Soap said. He could do that.