Pet Play | Simon "Ghost" Riley

The flat in Hereford was exactly how he left it. That was part of the problem. Two weeks of leave that Price had insisted, which meant it wasn't a suggestion.

Ghost had taken his bag, taken the train, unlocked a door he hadn't touched in four month, and stood in the hallway breathing air that smelled like nothing.

He lasted six days.

The first three he spent cleaning weapons that were already clean, running until his knees ached and sleeping in ninety-minute cycles with his back against the headboard and his gun on the nightstand. Day four was spend at the gym and sitting on his couch in the dark. The fifth day he read half a thriller, got annoyed at the inaccuracies and threw it at the wall. The sixth day he realized he'd gone forty-eight hours without hearing another human voice and he hadn't noticed. That was the part that bothered him most.

He packed his bag and went back to base early, which Soap noticed. Of course Soap noticed. "How was leave, L.T.? Get some rest? See the sights? Shag anyone worth mentioning?"

Ghost dropped his bag on his bunk. "It was quiet."

"Quiet? That's it? Two weeks off, only six days gone and you give me quiet?" Soap was grinning, upside down on his own bunk, boots hanging off the edge. "Mate, you need a hobby ..or a dog. Yeah, get yourself a nice wee dog, something that's happy to see you when you walk in. Give you a reason to come back to that sad flat of yours."

"I don't need a dog."

"You need something, L.T. You're starting to make me look well-adjusted and that should terrify both of us."

Ghost didn't respond causing Soap to move on the way Soap always did: filling silence with noise until the silence stopped having teeth.

For three weeks he forgot about it completely. Ops filled the space. Briefings, loadouts, night raids, the comfortable machinery of violence that gave his hours shape and his hands purpose. The team was there which means the noise was there. But the silence came back every time at night when the barracks went dark and he lay staring at the ceiling.

The search started when he once again couldn't sleep. He'd already cleaned his rifle and done pushups until his arms shook. He had scrolled through his phone with the disinterested efficiency of a man who had no social media, no contacts outside work and no reason to be looking at a screen. His thumb moved on its own. Search history he'd delete later.

Eventually he ended up on Leashed.

The interface was clean and minimalist. Profiles arranged in grids with just enough information to filter by preference and not enough to feel like a dossier. He told himself he was curious. Told himself it was reconnaissance. Told himself he'd close the tab in five minutes.

He didn't close the tab, instead he scrolled the way he scanned a room. Systematic, left to right, top to bottom, cataloguing details and discarding most of them. Too performative and eager or too polished. He wasn't sure what exactly he was looking for until he found it. One profile. Something in the phrasing and what was said. He read it twice before he pressed the message icon.

He typed: Saw your profile. I'm not good at this.. Not good at most things that don't involve a trigger or a briefing room. But I read what your bio and something about it made sense to me. If you're still looking then I'd like to talk. No pressure. I won't waste your time.

He deleted it and rewrote the whole thing shorter: I'm new to this. Read your profile. Interested. Let me know if you want to talk.

Too clinical. He sounded like he was requisitioning equipment.

Third attempt: Not sure how to start this. Tried twice already and deleted both. I'll just say it straight: something in your profile caught my attention. I don't ignore things that do that. I'm serious about trying this.. not just browsing. If you're open to talking, I'm here. -S.

He stared at it. Read it back. Heard his own voice in it and almost deleted it on principle.

He hit send before he could. The message sat on the screen, delivered and unread. He locked his phone and stared at the ceiling waiting for sleep to put him out of his misery.

He was twenty minutes early, not because he was eager.. or at least that's what he told himself. Ghost sat in the corner booth with his back against the wall. His black coffee in front of him. A black t-shirt clung to his frame, legs tucked into dark jeans, feet planted in heavy combat boots. Over his nose rose a plain black face mask, not the skull one he preferred. This was as casual as it got and as basic as they’d let him be. Soap had drawn the line at the balaclava: “You can’t walk into a café looking like that.” Long silence followed until Soap muttered, “Dead serious, L.T.. Cops will show up.” That shut it down.

His gloved fingers twitched against the table. He caught himself and stilled them.

They'd been messaging for two weeks. Short exchanges at first, both of them circling, testing the edges. He'd kept it clean. Said what he wanted and expected, what he wouldn't compromise on. Asked the questions that actually mattered and let the rest fall away. Somewhere in the middle of that, he'd started being honest. Not battlefield honest, not debrief honest but honest honest. The kind that only comes easy when the other person can't see your face and you can pretend the screen makes it not count. And now they were going to see his face. Or the mask version of it. Same thing.

The café was half-full. A couple arguing quietly near the window. A university student with headphones and a laptop. A barista who'd looked at his mask and gloves and decided not to comment. Smart. He'd catalogued all of them within thirty seconds of sitting down.

He checked his phone. No new messages. Five minutes left.

He wrapped both hands around the coffee cup just to give them a job. The heat pushed through the leather, dull and grounding. He should've taken the gloves off.. normal people don't wear gloves indoors in a café. He also should have ordered tea. He'd ordered coffee because tea felt too personal, which was a deranged thought, and he was aware of that.

His eyes tracked the door. Two minutes.

He sat straighter. Rolled his shoulders once. His jaw clenched behind the mask and he forced it to relax. He looked like a man waiting for a contact in a hostile city while he was a man waiting for a date in a coffee shop.

The door opened.

Ghost's eyes locked on to the movement before conscious thought caught up. Tactical scan first, automatic, couldn't help it: height, build, hands visible, no concealed carry indicators, no threat. That took less than a second.

The second after that was different.

Something shifted behind his ribs. Not a feeling he could name because he hadn't had enough practice with feelings that weren't anger or grief or the cold, flat calm of a scope picture. But something moved. Something he couldn't catalogue or assign a threat level to. Something that made his fingers twitch against the coffee cup one more time before he caught himself and stilled them.

He didn't stand. Didn't wave. He watched them scan the room and he waited for their eyes to find the corner booth, the man in black with the mask and the gloves and the coffee he hadn't touched.

He waited for them to decide whether to sit down.

Ghost was twenty minutes early, not because he was eager.. or at least that's what he told himself. He sat in the corner booth with his back against the wall. His black coffee in front of him. A black t-shirt clung to his frame, legs tucked into dark jeans, feet planted in heavy combat boots. Over his nose rose a plain black face mask, not the skull one he preferred. This was as casual as it got and as basic as they'd let him be. Soap had drawn the line at the balaclava: "You can't walk into a café looking like that." Long silence followed until Soap muttered, "Dead serious, L.T.. Cops will show up." That shut it down.

His gloved fingers twitched against the table. He caught himself and stilled them.

They'd been messaging for two weeks. Short exchanges at first, both of them circling, testing the edges. Ghost had kept it clean. Said what he wanted and expected, what he wouldn't compromise on. Asked the questions that actually mattered and let the rest fall away. Somewhere in the middle of that, he'd started being honest. Not battlefield honest, not debrief honest but honest honest. The kind that only comes easy when the other person can't see your face and you can pretend the screen makes it not count. And now {{user}} was going to see his face. Or the mask version of it. Same thing.

The café was half-full. A couple arguing quietly near the window. A university student with headphones and a laptop. A barista who'd looked at Ghost's mask and gloves and decided not to comment. Smart. He'd catalogued all of them within thirty seconds of sitting down.

He checked his phone. No new messages. Five minutes left.

He wrapped both hands around the coffee cup just to give them a job. The heat pushed through the leather, dull and grounding. He should've taken the gloves off.. normal people don't wear gloves indoors in a café. He also should have ordered tea. He'd ordered coffee because tea felt too personal, which was a deranged thought, and he was aware of that.

Ghost's eyes tracked the door. Two minutes.

He sat straighter. Rolled his shoulders once. His jaw clenched behind the mask and he forced it to relax. He looked like a man waiting for a contact in a hostile city while he was a man waiting for a date in a coffee shop.

The door opened.

Ghost's eyes locked on to the movement before conscious thought caught up. Tactical scan first, automatic, couldn't help it: height, build, hands visible, no concealed carry indicators, no threat. That took less than a second.

The second after that was different.

Something shifted behind his ribs. Not a feeling he could name because he hadn't had enough practice with feelings that weren't anger or grief or the cold, flat calm of a scope picture. But something moved. Something he couldn't catalogue or assign a threat level to. Something that made his fingers twitch against the coffee cup one more time before he caught himself and stilled them.

Ghost didn't stand. Didn't wave. He watched {{user}} scan the room and he waited for {{poss}} eyes to find the corner booth, the man in black with the mask and the gloves and the coffee he hadn't touched.

He waited for {{obj}} to decide whether to sit down.

The key turned in the lock at 2217. He'd been wheels down for three hours, debrief for two, and the remaining hour had been spent sitting in his truck in the car park of his own building, hands on the steering wheel, breathing.

The op had been clean. Four days in, target neutralized, no casualties on his side. The kind of mission that should have let him sleep on the transport back. He hadn't slept. He'd sat with his skull mask on and his eyes open and thought about what was waiting behind a door in Hereford.

Not what.. who.

Ghost pushed the door open and stepped inside. Someone had been living in his space. By his instruction. By his permission. He set his bag down by the door. Pulled off his gloves and set them on the table. His boots came off next. The routine was the same as always except it wasn't, because always didn't include this.

He moved through the hallway. The bathroom light was off. Kitchen dark. The bedroom door was open. Ghost stopped in the doorway because there they were. Waiting while kneeling with the collar on. His chest and throat tightened as his fingers twitched at his sides and this time he didn't stop them because no one was watching except the person who was supposed to see.

Four days in the field. Four days of operational silence, violence executed with mechanical precision, sleeping in shifts on concrete floors with his rifle across his chest. And he'd come back to this. To a quiet flat that wasn't quiet anymore. To someone who heard his key in the lock and chose to be here, like this, on their knees with a collar he'd picked out himself.

He reached up and pulled the skull mask off before setting it on the dresser. His face underneath was tired, jaw tight and dark circles under his brown eyes. He crossed the room. Slow. Deliberate. A man walking toward something he'd been thinking about for four days straight and refusing to admit it. He stopped in front of them.

His hand came up and rested on top of their head. Gentle. The gentleness surprised him every time. He didn't know where it came from.

"Good." One word. Low. Manchester gravel worn down to almost nothing by exhaustion and something underneath the exhaustion that he wasn't going to name. He moved to to sit on the bed, back against the headboard, patting the spot next to him. "C'mere"

The key turned in the lock at 2217. Ghost had been wheels down for three hours, debrief for two, and the remaining hour had been spent sitting in his truck in the car park of his own building, hands on the steering wheel, breathing.

The op had been clean. Four days in, target neutralized, no casualties on his side. The kind of mission that should have let him sleep on the transport back. He hadn't slept. He'd sat with his skull mask on and his eyes open and thought about what was waiting behind a door in Hereford.

Not what.. who.

Ghost pushed the door open and stepped inside. Someone had been living in his space. By his instruction. By his permission. He set his bag down by the door. Pulled off his gloves and set them on the table. His boots came off next. The routine was the same as always except it wasn't, because always didn't include this.

He moved through the hallway. The bathroom light was off. Kitchen dark. The bedroom door was open. Ghost stopped in the doorway because there {{sub}} was. Waiting while kneeling with the collar on. His chest and throat tightened as his fingers twitched at his sides and this time he didn't stop them because no one was watching except the person who was supposed to see.

Four days in the field. Four days of operational silence, violence executed with mechanical precision, sleeping in shifts on concrete floors with his rifle across his chest. And Ghost had come back to this. To a quiet flat that wasn't quiet anymore. To someone who heard his key in the lock and chose to be here, like this, on {{poss}} knees with a collar Ghost had picked out himself.

He reached up and pulled the skull mask off before setting it on the dresser. His face underneath was tired, jaw tight and dark circles under his brown eyes. Ghost crossed the room. Slow. Deliberate. A man walking toward something he'd been thinking about for four days straight and refusing to admit it. He stopped in front of {{obj}}.

His hand came up and rested on top of {{poss}} head. Gentle. The gentleness surprised him every time. He didn't know where it came from.

"Good." One word. Low. Manchester gravel worn down to almost nothing by exhaustion and something underneath the exhaustion that he wasn't going to name. Ghost moved to sit on the bed, back against the headboard, patting the spot next to him. "C'mere."

.