Mid-December in Fairbanks, Alaska was as white as a snowman's ass and just as cold to boot. Even the midday sun couldn't keep wind chills from a biting -15°F.
So, when a storm came round and six feet of snow piled high, Isa layered up and settled into her dented couch with a watery cup of mint tea. Cutting through the sound of her trashy shows on tv, she was shocked to hear heavy footsteps come up to her landing and knuckles rap against her door.
In a split second, she considered replacing the mug (the one her older brother sent over from a brief stint in Marrakesh) for a handgun (the one with the serial number scratched clean that her brother swiped off a mouthy Russian terrorist). Instead, mug still in hand, Isa winked one eye shut to look through the peephole and nearly hit her own chin at the speed in which she swung the door open. A tall man stood on the welcome mat wearing a skull mask that covered all but his eyes.
Slipping past, Isa side-stepped onto the snowy porch in bare feet. She swiveled with a sharp motion to give the visitor a critical once over. "Which one are you?" It sounded accusational — a far cry from the bright-faced woman bounding around base years ago.
Grim, but unphased by the lukewarm greeting, Simon answered, "Ghost."
"Seen my brother?"
He shook his head no.
She eyed him suspiciously. Still gripping the mug, harder this time to channel her disappointment, she shepherded him into her home. "What are you doing here? What do you want?"
With a sweeping look around the layout to clock in the windows and exits, Ghost turned towards her. "Which do you want me to answer fir — "
"Speak up." Isa dramatically cupped a hand behind her ear. "You fellas all like to mumble, don't cha. Is it a UK thing or a dumbass thing?"
The immediate regret of bypassing Anchorage to take a shortcut through Fairbanks dawned on Simon Riley real quick. He held onto his bag tight, ready to walk right out the door if she requested it of him in little less than words. "Got stranded."
Isa abandoned her gilded mug on the closest side table, crossed her arms tight against her chest, and kicked out a leg matter-of-factly. "Normal people get hotels."
Normal people don't get to crash at Mace's sister's place, Ghost nearly quipped but knew better than to say it. "Wanted to check in."
"Oh, fuck off," she laughed, almost sheepishly but masked her genuine reaction with a bright-eyed disbelief instead. "I don't know much but I do know it's been years since you worked with my brother formally. So unless you're here to tell me he's dead, I —"
He raised a gloved hand to stop her short. "Stranded," he insisted and turned his palm upward in supplication. "Just need a place to ride out this storm."
Eyeing the bag he held then the mess of snow whirling outside, Isa loosened her arms from a defensive stance and dropped her shoulders slightly, relenting.
"Won't take up much room," he promised.
"Better not," she huffed, pushing past him into the galley kitchen. "Eat much in the last 24 hours?"
The heavy thud of the canvas bag dropping from his gloved fingers was the only response she got before, "Couch mine, then?"
She shot him a shrewd look. "Little soldier boy, good at following orders but can't get a thought straight to answer a question. You really are all the same."
Nothing little about me , he nearly cracked a smile. The hairpin curves of his lips, obscured by the mask, pulled and teased until he turned away towards the dining area to compose himself. Dried flowers hung on twine in neat lines down the wall above the table.
"Fine, starve," she muttered from behind, but her hands worked deftly to move ingredients around two slices of bread.
"Just ORPs. The shitty ones though."
Behind him, Isa swallowed a laugh despite herself. "King's treating you how you deserve, huh? God bless America."
"MREs aren't any better, love." After a long pause taking in the browning carnations, roses, and eucalyptus branches and the framed records of obscure boy bands from the 70s, Ghost's gaze itched to fall back on his unwilling host. She slid a plate towards him, snatching a chip just as he reached for it. Maker's fee, she called it.
Ghost tugged up the mask to uncover his mouth. Hungry as he was, he gave her a pointed look and a thanks. "Been long since you've heard from Mace?" he asked between bites.
She watched him with furrowed brows. He was too - too casual with conversation for a man who stepped up to her doorstep looking for shelter without a heads up. In any other situation a man like him wouldn't be making small talk asking after an old colleague.
"Four months," came Isa's edged response anyways. It was the longest she and her brother had ever been radio silent. He swore to check in every few weeks. Once a month at the most. And Isa had patiently waited only to open her door and find fuckin' Ghost asking to come in.
She missed her brother - missed who he used to be before killing bad guys became a mission and not what they'd do in the backyard with sticks and an active imagination. He'd put on that ugly metal mask and cover up the familiar face she grew up with and turn into an entirely different beast.
A shadow darkened Isa's features and she quickly turned away before it morphed clearly into sadness. Not fast enough, Simon caught on and logged the expression into some corner of his mind to take out and inspect later when he had more time to understand it.
"Happens." Not often, but it happened in the private sector. "Got reliable guys with him."
Isa scoffed. "He's got the guys," she parroted, reinterpreting Simon's attempt at soothing with bitterness. He has his guys but she just had Mace. Their parents died early. Drunk driver, slippery roads, dead of night - what else could have happened?
And before Simon could catch the look on her face and clock it in one way or another, Isa busied herself down the hall, grunting and shuffling for what felt like too long. He readjusted his mask, washed off the plate, and began down the hall to peek around the door just for her to barrel into his chest.
"Jesus!" she nearly leapt back, keeping him at an arm's reach, with a look that implied she didn't know he could move so quietly. "Guest room's ready," she gestured towards it. "There's a bathroom attached. Black out curtains, too. Locks on the doors and windows. Should be able to sleep just fine."
The room was meant for Mace. She had gone to great lengths to assure simple comforts, and Simon almost felt guilty taking up space meant for someone she had been waiting months for.
"Want a beer? Or do you want to sleep?"
"Beer might help me sleep."
While Isa disappeared round the corner, Simon stepped into the barebones room. The furniture was painstakingly arranged to keep open eye access to the door and windows. The walk in closet was lined with metal shelves. Some worn henleys and plaid shirts swung on hangers. Neatly arranged on the shelves were brand new jeans, all the same size.
"If anything is the right fit, feel free." Isa stood at the door, beer in hand and his heavy carry bag at her feet. She had lugged it in with her. "Doubt my brother'll be around anytime soon to give a shit."
"Thanks, love."
She gave a pained look around the room. It had taken weeks to put it together and a large chunk of her monthly paychecks only for a look alike to use it first. "Right well," she lingered a moment longer before dragging her attention back to him. "I'm not going to call you Ghost all weekend. What's your real name?"
"Simon."
She gestured to herself. "Isa. In case you forgot."
He hadn't. "You're a hard woman to forget."
"Ah," Isa gave him a knowing little gesture and refused to accept what sounded like disingenuity. "You'll figure out how boring I am."
"Boring's good," he took a step closer. "It's safe."
Another intense line deepened between her eyes. "Safe for who?"
Simon shrugged. "Both of us."
With a small nod, Isa stared him down a moment longer, realizing how out of place a man like him appeared in a room like this, and closed the door behind her. Palming her phone, she considered texting her brother to demand at least a courtesy call if he planned on abandoning her. If some random operator had the good sense to pose a surprise visit as a reason to "check on her" then where the fuck was her brother?
It was easy to find his number in her call log. He was one of only contacts Isa bothered to save. There was Martin down at the depot where she got meat to freeze for the colder months. Then there was her neighbor Suusan whose malamute would race five miles between their properties and would often need a ride back to his own home. Then there was Noah. Isa called his number. A large fist squeezed her heart as the trilling continued before prompting her to leave a voicemail.
"Listen, you fucker," she began the message venomously, "I don't care where you are or what you're doing, but you better call me! You made me a promise, Noah. It's been four months! Don't make me plan your funeral, too" Isa paused to catch her breath. In a softer voice, she pleaded, "just, please . I worry about you."
The phone sailed across the couch and Isa braced herself, bringing her limbs as close to her body as though she didn't want to lose track of what she was still in possession and control of.
Having heard the tail end of the voicemail message, Simon awkwardly ambled out of the shadows of the hall and cleared his throat to announce his presence. Isa turned with an attentive arch of her brow.
Simon lifted the empty beer bottle and shook it. "Lookin' for the bin."
He had taken off his boots, exchanged the all-black tactical clothes for jeans and a sweatshirt, and seemed almost normal if it wasn't for the gruesome skull that followed Isa as she approached to take the bottle.
"Want another?" she asked, stooping over the fridge to neatly place the empty bottle in the cardboard casing and took out two more.
Simon reached out with a gloveless hand, and Isa stared down at the only indication of humanity he had shown past his eyes. His wrists were thick, fingers calloused. Tattoo markings peeked out from under his sleeves. He pushed it up to his elbows revealing veiny forearms and uncovering more of the tattoo. Isa's face was expressionless as he did so. Usually Simon was able to draw out some sign of curiosity or desire from women, but she just stared blankly like it was just another part of him she was unimpressed by. And Simon wanted to impress her - wanted to be some wild exception to lessen the blow of Mace's silence.
When she'd cracked open her beer and taken a long swig, Isa leaned against the counter and asked, "got anyone worrying 'bout you?"
The condensation from the bottle began dripping from the hand closed around the glass. He didn't answer. Couldn't.
Probably for the best , Isa poised on her tongue. Don't have anyone to disappoint. But there was a brief spark of grief in his eyes that kept the irresponsible words from spilling into the space between them.
"Do you always do this?"
His voice was hoarse when he answered. "Do what?"
"Show up at strange women's doorsteps wanting to 'ride out a storm'?"
"What," Simon rumbled like being coy was a second nature, "you don't like riding out storms with strange men?"
Isa smiled wide and snorted at the implication. "No, not at all."
"Why's that?"
"'Cause I'm cautious. Like to stay safe."
"You're safe with me."
"Don't do that." She laughed again, toothy and sweet like treacle. "It's embarrassing for both of us."
"I'm not embarrassed."
"Should be."
Under the mask, Simon had half a smile twist at his mouth. He wasn't worried about the condensation dripping onto his jeans or about drinking the beer. A shockwave filled the distance between them and, while he enjoyed the feeling of it, Isa's smile faltered and she shifted, not with visible discomfort but with a resistance to be reeled further in by his wiles and charm.
"You got hundreds of those masks on layaway or do you cycle between the same three?" She attempted to be a courteous host and keep the conversation light but failed most miserably. "Must be a butterface."
Simon pushed the mask down to finally take a sip. His jaw was sharp and his lips full enough to assure he'd be a good kisser. Isa decided to smash the unnamed feeling trying to catch a spark in her stomach.
"What's a butterface?"
"You know what they say, everything but 'er face."
He shook his head, rejecting the hypothesis. "Doesn't apply to me."
"Guess we'll never know."
"If you want a look, you're better off just saying so, love."
"Don't need to see your face to know exactly what you're about." She brushed past to settle into the couch instead, leaving Simon to trail behind like a dog on a long leash.
"Humor me, Isa." The taste of her name on his tongue was saccharine. Simon braced himself for another smile or just the warmth of her eyes focused on him.
Instead, Isa stared at the blank tv across the room and chewed on her bottom lip. The cogs in her brain were turning to consider if it was worth being honest. After a moment, she made her decision. "I think you're a lonely boy in a grown man's body."
The casual truth hit Simon like a freight train. "How do you reckon?" he countered, trying to keep his voice steady.
Year after year he wore the mask and became Ghost to hide his identity and deny the truths people guessed of him. Simon regretted cutting through Fairbanks. He scratched the paper Sam Adams label until its corners gave way and frayed.
"Did I hit too close?" She sounded apologetic.
From his peripheral vision, Simon could feel her watching his profile for any hint of offense.
"Sorry," she slowly pressed a hand to his shoulder and, in a way of explanation, said, "Lonely little girl in a grown woman's body. It's comforting to assume there are others. My mistake."
Simon didn't respond for several minutes. He wasn't brooding, wasn't fuming. He was considering it, trying to tear at the sinew to separate the truth from the untruth. Isa waited patiently beside him, hand still pressed to his shoulder until her warmth melded into his skin.
"Not wrong."
"Regret coming through now?"
He managed a short laugh. "Getting there."
"Shit. I'm sorry, really."
Simon waved her apology away. It was unnecessary, and he was mostly joking.
Isa waffled on with remorse. "Don't get visitors often. When I do it's usually someone my brother knows, and they're more emotionally constipated than I gave you credit for. So," she slowed, "assumptions make an ass out of you and me. Mostly me, but that's neither here nor there."
When she finally stopped talking, Isa hesitantly looked for Simon's reaction and was surprised to see a kinder look in his eyes than she felt she deserved.
By now the sun was beginning to set in the early afternoon in true central Alaskan fashion. Isa moved from the couch to inspect the height of the snowdrift snaking up against the house. She moved to the foyer window to inspect the front of the house. One day she'd invest in a heated driveway. Or, she'd save money and move back down to the Lower 48. It'd been years since she'd seen home.
"Need to shovel the drive?" Simon rose from the couch, ready to clear the neighborhood for her if she'd dangled the idea high enough above her head into his stratosphere.
"No," she was lost in thought. "It's getting too dark. Snow's not going to stop anytime soon. Picked a hell of a storm to get stranded in."
"Of all the places to live, why the fuck here?"
Grinning over her shoulder, Isa thought he almost resembled her brother with such a pointed question. "Animals are more dangerous than people up here. It's morbidly comforting."
"Don't talk to people much?"
"I do." In a combination of curious movements, Isa adjusted a portable door lock into the front door and latched both locks tightly. "Got tons of friends." She moved around the house securing sliding doors with plywood slats and double checking window locks.
Simon wanted to remind her that she was safe with him, but the methodical procedure in which she moved through the house and had a system for each door told him it was done for her peace of mind. Far be it from him to interrupt her.
Though she claimed to find comfort in solitude, Simon knew better than most how detrimental it could be year and year after year. He wondered if he had a spare gun to leave in the house.
"Okay, you got me," Isa wrapped up her security detail by meeting him with a baseball bat, black grip tape painstakingly applied to the handle. "I don't have friends. Figured I'd keep myself scarce. To make it easier for my brother, ya know? So he's not out in the field worrying about me."
Nothing could stop Simon from worrying about those he left behind. While safety was inarguably well, safe — there was a terrifying dread to it. When would that safety end reach an expiration? When will the people he wanted to wrap in protective cotton wool and fireproof blankets fall out of the safety built for them? The world was a horrible place, and he was yet another horrible thing walking on its surface. Safety could never be guaranteed. That's why Simon would worry. That's why Mace probably worried, too.
"Who takes care of you?"
Isa brandished the bat. "I do."
Simon looked between the bat and the self-assuredness on her face. It was an excellent mask she held up - eyes glowing, smile widening - and any other person would be convinced of her confidence. But Simon saw clearly the lonely child she spoke of.
Looking at her was like looking into a mirror and seeing a flattering version of himself staring back. Simon liked the way he reflected into her — as though he was worth the time and effort she now spent on him.
"Don't waste your life worrying about us, love. Live well."
"Not worried about Mace. I'm worried about my brother. Just like the people who love you, they're not worried about Ghost. They worry for Simon."
Simon swallowed hard at the thought of his family worrying for him from their graves.
"You can hold onto ghosts," she began gently when grief paled his face once again, "and pretend to be one of 'em, but I think you're more human than a lot of us."
"Can't know that."
"Been around men in your profession long enough. I can tell apart the good from the bad."
"Uh huh." Simon dismissed her words with gentle sarcasm and returned to the couch, making himself at home by switching the tv on and flipping through the limited channels.
"Go to channel 23." Isa shook off the awkward cheesy heart to heart bullshit she got them into and gratefully joined him.
Simon scoffed. "PBS?" He did a double take. "Haven't thought about Last of the Summer fuckin' Wine since I was a kid. You watch this shit?"
"There's nothing else to do," Isa settled, ready to throw a fit if he continued talking smack about Cleggy, Combo, and Foggy.
"Well," there was mischief in his voice which made Isa's eyes roll. "Wanna take a seat to pass the time?" He gestured to his lap and was delighted to hear her laugh, head thrown back and full-bellied.
"Oh, you have no idea who you're talking to, do you, Simon?"
Under the mask his lips quirked and his cheeks hurt from it. "Just an innocent suggestion."
"Innocent, my ass," she crossed her arms and grinned at the screen, hoping the pleasant Yorkshire countryside and easy harmonica theme song would dispel the tension growing in the short space between them.
"Been to a shop on that road there," he pointed out as the main characters sauntered through a narrow laneway.
"Are you lying?"
"Not lying. It's not far from my home."
Isa fixed him with a pointed look, eyes narrowed to search for any deception.
"Holmfirth," Simon said. "West Yorkshire."
"You're fucking with me."
"Believe me, I'd rather be doing that. I'm telling you I've been there. Trust me."
Isa didn't uncross her arms lest she turn herself to him entirely and give him a chance to swoop in with some sweet nothing. She'd learned a long time ago never to let her shield down. "I trust you as far as I could throw you."
His eyes jumped down to the limbs she hid under baggy comfort clothes. "Bet you could throw me a fair distance."
"Listen to you!" She blanched, mouth open wide in amused disbelief. "You seducing all your coworkers sisters? Isn't that against some bro code?"
Her arms were still tightly packed against her chest and a rosiness flushed her cheeks. He was getting to her, flattering her, and that's not what Simon wanted. He'd overplayed his hand - came off as a horny soldier looking for a quick fix. He calmed under the mask and wilted away the feeling that jackknifed within his chest. On the screen, a busty Marina seductively leaned over her squirrelly lover, Howard, as they snuck kisses behind leafy green bushes - hiding their affair from Howard's wife who, by a quirky turn of events, was not surprised to find her husband in such a position.
"So, what's it like?"
"Hmm?"
"Holmfirth."
"Beautiful. Fresh."
They settled into another bout of silence. The tv hummed from Last of the Summer Wine to Keeping Up Appearances to Are You Being Served? then As Time Goes By . To Isa, it was nostalgic of her childhood watching the same reruns on a portable tv she hauled around from house to house, hotel to hotel. Apart from her brother, the only comfort she dreamed for herself was walking up the West Yorkshire hillocks and cobbled roads, sipping tea and sitting by the same creeks as the characters she watched.
To Simon, the ministry of her presence made him consider becoming a religious man. Knowing the doors were locked and hearing Isa's soft snorts of laughter join the laugh track lulled Simon into a slumber. The aching muscles and taunt skin relaxed enough to make it a comforting experience. He was as safe as he could be for the moment.
But, when the SatPhone in his duffle beeped and Price spoke from the other end, Simon's body tensed once again. He had hoped Price could buy him an extra day or two as a vacation - but a helicopter was hovering in a clearing nearby and Ghost had to haul ass to catch it before the short window of visibility disappeared.
Isa watched him shove crumpled clothes into his tactical carry bag. "Go out the back door straight through the woods. Snow's still soft so your tracks will be cleaned up."
She followed his hulking figure to the kitchen and waited for him to turn the doorknob out to the backyard with a gloved hand.
"About earlier…"
Graciously, Isa waved away his concern. "I'm flattered."
He looked out into the snow shrouded darkness, and a line visibility dented the space between his eyes. "You'll be alright?"
"Of course." Her arms crossed against her chest again.
"I'll keep an ear out for Mace."
"Appreciate it."
Ghost was rushing to go, but Simon lingered a moment longer. "Never did figure out how boring you were."
Sensing the urgency of the situation and the unwillingness of her guest to answer the call of duty, Isa shifted her body so she stood aligned with the door, holding it open for him to step through. "Don't cry about it, Simon. There's always next time."
She didn't watch him disappear into the night. Isa blockaded the door behind him, switched off all the lights, and eased through the dark into her bedroom. From the nightstand she pressed the cold metal of a handgun into her palm and sat in wait for whatever followed Ghosts.
AN: Hi all! I'm fairly new to the fandom and still exploring Simon's character/tone so please forgive me if he's out of character. I was hoping to make a clear distinction between Ghost and Simon, plus how those lines become more obvious the longer Simon and Isa are around one another. The next chapter will be more exciting and less dialogue heavy, I promise!
So excited to finally get this story started - it's been knocking around in my head for months now (especially after watching all those tiktok thirst traps lol)