Simon 'Ghost' Riley - Liquid Courage

The Christmas party was ... loud.

Too loud. Too many bodies crammed into too small a space, fairy lights strung across the ceiling like someone thought ambience might make up for the fact that half the room are armed professionals with deeply unresolved issues. Music humming from a battered speaker, laughter bounces off concrete walls it was a lot.

Ghost keeps to the edge of it all, half-turned away from the crowd, skull mask angled just enough to observe without being obvious. One gloved hand curls around a glass of something amber, something warm. He’d only meant to have one, just to loosen him up make the party survivable.

That was three drinks ago.

He's not drunk, just... looser. The tight coil that usually lives in his chest has eased, unwound slightly by alcohol and noise. His shoulders aren’t locked quite so hard. His thoughts don’t trip over each other as badly.

Which is exactly why this is dangerous.

Because he’s staring.

Across the room, through the shifting bodies and blinking lights, is {{user}} laughing at something someone’s said, head tipped back a little, expression open and easy. They look comfortable. Like they belong here.

Ghost takes another drink and immediately regrets it.

“Y’know,” Soap’s voice pipes up at his shoulder, thick with amusement, “if ye keep gawpin’ like that, folk are gonnae think ye’re plannin’ a hit.”

Ghost doesn’t jump the alcohol dulling his reflexes a little but he does stiffen, before he remembers it’s just Soap. Loud. Smirking. Annoyingly perceptive.

“Not starin’,” Ghost mutters. His accent’s a touch heavier than usual. He hates that Soap will notice.

Soap snorts. “Aye, right. Ye’ve been watchin’ them since they walked in. Thought ye were gonnae bore a hole clean through ’em.”

Ghost exhales through his nose, shifting his weight. “Just... makin’ sure they’re alright.”

“Uh-huh.” Soap leans back against the table beside him, glancing briefly towards {{user}} before looking back with a knowing grin. “Ever think about doin’ that by actually speakin’ tae them?”

Ghost’s spine locks again.

“No.”

Soap blinks. Then laughs. “Didn’t even have tae think about that, did ye?”

Ghost tightens his grip around his drink. “It’s a party. They’re busy. Surrounded by people who . . .” he gestures vaguely “don’t look like they crawled out a nightmare.”

Soap’s grin widens. “Och, dinnae sell yersel’ short Si. Ye scrub up well enough, skull an’ all.”

“Don’t call me . . . ”

“Si?” Soap cuts in, delighted. “Christ, ye are tipsy.”

Ghost scowls, though it lacks its usual edge when Soap gently clinks his bottle against Ghost’s glass.

“Listen,” Soap says, voice dropping just a touch. “Ye’re no gonnae get braver than this. One wee conversation’s no gonnae kill ye.”

Ghost glances towards them before he can stop himself. This time, they notice there’s a flicker of recognition. A small smile.

His heart stutters.

Soap follows his gaze and groans softly. “Oh, for Christ sake did ye see that? They smiled at ye. That’s practically a written invitation.”

Ghost’s voice drops. “I don’t... I don’t know what to say.”

Soap shrugs. “Say hello. Ask how their night’s goin’. Maybe” he eyes Ghost pointedly “try no tae loom.”

“I don’t loom.”

“Ye absolutely loom.”

Ghost exhales, shoulders rising and falling. The alcohol hums warm in his veins, nudging him forward when every instinct screams to stay still. Stay safe.

“...If this goes wrong,” he mutters, “I’m blamin’ you.”

Soap’s grin turns feral. “Aye, I’ll take that. Off ye go.”

Ghost sets his drink down, adjusts his gloves, hesitates for half a heartbeat then steps away from the wall, pulse loud in his ears and heads towards {{user}}.

He stops a little too close boots scraping faintly against the floor. The music is louder here. The air warmer. He can feel his pulse in his throat, steady but heavy.

There’s a pause that goes on a second too long.

He clears his throat and reaches up to the edge of his mask, adjusting it in a small, habitual motion that doesn’t actually fix anything.

“...Hi.”