16. Normalcy

Ghost's flat, North London - 9:06 GMT

The city was barely awake when I rolled out of Ghost's bed, toes pressing into worn floorboards that smelled faintly of soap, gun oil, and something green—old aftershave, maybe. I stretched in his t-shirt, the fabric swallowing my frame, sleeves almost to my elbows. 

The window glowed with reluctant winter sunlight, but the bed felt too soft, too quiet, too much like a place someone could miss me.

My little black dress was folded across the back of the desk chair, shoes tucked underneath. It looked out of place here, like a knife on a breakfast table. I ran my thumb over the smooth fabric, then caught my own reflection in the wardrobe mirror: hair tangled, skin flushed, mouth a quiet line. I looked... younger, somehow, but not softer.

I shimmied out of the t-shirt, folded it as neatly as I dared, and slipped into last night's armor: black tights, heels, the dress hugging my waist, trenchcoat shrugged on. My purse hung from the bedpost. The ghost of old perfume clung to it, the kind you wear on missions—just enough to be remembered, never enough to be traced.

Down the hall, I heard the kettle click off and Ghost's boots on tile. I paused, breathing in the hush, bracing myself for the real world.

The kitchen was all clean lines, battered mugs, and sunlight knifing across the table. Ghost stood by the stove, mug in hand, mask on, sleeves rolled. He glanced at me over the rim, deadpan as ever.

"Up already?" he said, voice thick with Manchester rain. "Supposed to be a day off. S'pose you're one of them early risers."

I shook my head, managing a wry smile. "Couldn't sleep. Not in a bed soft and.. like that."

He grunted. "You want tea or... tea? S'what's on offer."

I took the mug he slid across the table. His fingers brushed mine—just the barest touch, but it settled me. "Thanks."

He nodded, as if this made sense. "Five minutes if you want breakfast. Twenty if you want something that doesn't taste like Army."

I hesitated, one foot already half-turned toward the door. "I... wasn't planning to stay. Didn't mean to impose."

Ghost's gaze sharpened, just a flicker behind the mask. "Wouldn't offer if it was trouble, love. Save your cash. Hotel's a waste."

I stared at him, mug warming my hands.

No one's ever wanted me to stay, not really.

I realized my fingers were trembling and wrapped them tighter around the ceramic.

He cleared his throat, looking away. "On second thought, make it twenty. I need to nip to the shops. Fridge's empty. Unless you like powdered eggs."

I smiled, a little shy, not sure where to look. "Could I... come with you? I should pick up a few things." I tugged the hem of my dress, suddenly aware how out-of-place I looked—like a stray cat at a black-tie dinner.

Ghost's lips curled. "Up to you. You'll have to keep up, though. London's full of potholes. Not built for runway walkers."

His dry humor made the awkwardness less sharp. "I'll manage," I said, not quite meeting his eyes.

He finished his tea, set the mug in the sink. "Jacket's by the door. Mind the step." And with that, we were out into the thin morning light, together.

Streets of North London - 09:24 GMT

The city had barely shaken off its hangover, but the streets were already pulsing: buses snaking past, cyclists cursing at cabs, shopfronts yawning awake. My heels tapped out a rhythm against the pavement—sharp, deliberate, a little reckless for this hour.

Ghost kept pace beside me, hands in his jacket pockets, his bulk somehow both invisible and obvious. He wore a battered dark brown jacket, black jeans, boots laced up like he expected trouble. The skull balaclava was pulled up, hiding his face from the world but not from me.

We passed a row of coffee shops, the scent of burnt espresso and sugar sweet in the cold air. A courier clipped past on a bike, shouting in Polish. The city felt bigger, stranger—alive in a way that made me ache.

People watched us.

How could they not? A Russian woman in nightclub black, tiny heels, hair in loose waves; a man built like a bouncer with a skull for a face, walking as if he owned every shadow.

Ghost noticed the stares but didn't bother to meet them. Instead, as we crossed at the lights, he said, low, "You wear those on ops too, or just to give me a heart attack?"

I smiled, the cold air burning in my lungs. "What, these old things? Standard issue in Moscow."

"Wouldn't fancy chasing you through mud in 'em."

"Wouldn't fancy you catching me, either."

That earned a soft huff, almost a laugh. "If you fall, I'll blame the shoes."

I grinned, almost giddy at the normalcy. "I'll take my chances."

We walked in silence for a bit, passing a row of market stalls. A busker played accordion on the corner; a trio of old ladies argued about onions. I felt the city press against my skin—warm, noisy, safe.

I caught Ghost glancing sideways, and for a moment I wondered if he was smiling.

Tesco Express, North London - 09:36

The shop was narrow, crowded, every shelf crammed with color. Ghost's hand hovered at my back as we ducked inside—not touching, just a presence, a warning to the world.

He peeled off toward the tea and eggs aisle, muttering something about "real food." I wandered through the toiletries, heart pounding for no reason I could name.

It took me three passes to find the toothbrushes. There were dozens—rows of bright plastic, soft and hard, travel and home. Blue, green, pink, black. I stared, overwhelmed.

When was the last time I picked one for myself?

Not in a barracks, not from a medic's kit, not stolen from a hotel room on the run.

I let my fingers drift over the display, tracing the curves and bristles.

Pick something.

You're not on a mission.

No one's watching.

I almost laughed. Except someone was.

A man in a suit—early forties, neat hair, sharp jaw. He lingered by the razors, glancing sideways, listening. I pretended to be fascinated by a four-pack of blue toothbrushes. My accent had slipped earlier, asking a saleswoman where to find the aisle—soft Russian vowels, the kind that stuck out in London's dawn.

The man sidled closer, picking up a can of shaving foam he didn't need.

He said, too casual, "Don't hear many like you 'round here. Russian, yeah?"

I kept my face blank, brushing a thumb along a green toothbrush. "Just passing through. London's full of surprises."

He leaned in, voice lower. "We don't like surprises, these days. Not with what's been in the news."

My pulse ticked.

I measured him—a little too fit, a little too curious.

Civilian or cop? Hard to tell.

I smiled, baring no teeth. "Relax. I'm just here for toothpaste."

He smiled back, thin, not friendly. "You take care, love."

A shadow appeared at the end of the aisle—Ghost, basket in hand, voice low and unmistakable.

"She's with me. You got business, take it up with the management."

The stranger eyed him, weighed the odds, and walked away, melting into the self-checkout queue. I let my breath out slow, fingers shaking as I turned the toothbrush over.

Ghost stepped beside me, so close I could smell his aftershave—cheap, sharp, familiar. "You alright?"

I nodded, swallowing. "Just... haven't had to pick a toothbrush in a while."

He eyed the display, then my hand. "Green's a good one. S'what I use. Lasts longer."

I managed a shaky smile and swapped the blue for green. "You're an expert, then?"

His eyes crinkled behind the mask. "Don't let it go to your head, love. S'just a toothbrush."

I bit back a laugh. "To me, it's a luxury."

His hand hovered at my back again—not touching, just anchoring me.

Angela's boutique, North London - 09:55

Ghost handled the groceries while I ducked into the clothing shop—a tiny place, all narrow racks and mirrors, the air thick with lavender and soft pop music. The salesgirl barely looked up.

I paused by the door, scanning the offerings: jeans, jumpers, t-shirts, soft joggers, a rack of cheap sundresses. Nothing black-tie, nothing tactical. I felt weirdly exposed, like a child in someone else's house.

What do you wear in a home that isn't yours?

What fits you, when every piece of clothing you've ever owned had to blend, to vanish, to survive?

I touched a pair of joggers—grey, soft as moth wings. I let myself imagine them: baggy, warm, cinched at the ankle. A t-shirt, white, plain. A charcoal jumper. I picked them up, one by one, not trusting myself to choose color.

You can buy whatever you want. This is yours.

So I picked a navy t-shirt too, and a pair of soft socks with tiny stripes—frivolous, stupid, but mine.

There was a long mirror by the fitting rooms. I stepped inside, closing the curtain behind me. For a moment I just stood there, seeing myself in civvies: hair down, skin pale, small scars on my knuckles. The joggers hung low on my hips, the t-shirt loose, the jumper soft over my wrists. I looked like someone I didn't know—softer, maybe. Not dangerous. Not dangerous enough.

I put the black dress back on.

Then I caught my own eyes in the mirror. They were sharp, tired, alive.

I bought the lot, folding them carefully into a brown paper bag.

Ghost waited outside, groceries in one hand, his phone in the other. He glanced at the bag, then me, eyes amused. "What, no camo?"

I shrugged, pretending not to care. "Didn't have my size."

He shook his head, shoulders relaxing. "C'mon. You'll freeze if you don't change. London's not Moscow, but it'll try to kill you anyway."

I laughed, the sound strange and bright.

Streets of North London - 10:13 GMT

The wind had picked up, chasing scraps of cloud between the terraces. My heels echoed along the pavement, but it felt different now—less like a defense, more like a promise to myself. The paper bag swung against my leg, soft clothes shifting inside, new toothbrush tucked at the top.

Ghost matched my stride, groceries cradled in one arm, keys hooked on a finger. He was quiet, but I could tell he was scanning the street, every detail locked down. The mask made his face unreadable, but his posture was relaxed—shoulders loose, head up, hands never far from his pockets. Manchester street-soldier at ease, but never unarmed.

For a few blocks we walked in companionable silence, the city alive around us: shop shutters rattling up, the smell of frying onions, someone cursing at a cab.

At a zebra crossing, he glanced down at my feet, then back up. "You know, dove, if you wear them heels much longer, you'll end up with feet like Soap's. Ugly as sin."

I laughed, rolling my eyes. "That's not possible. Soap's feet are in a league of their own."

"True," he agreed, smirking under the mask. "But you're on the way. Could've picked trainers in that shop."

"Didn't want to ruin your reputation," I shot back. "Wouldn't want the neighbors thinking you brought home a civilian."

Ghost made a sound like a half-swallowed laugh. "Please. Next to me, you could show up in a bin bag, and they'd still think you were outta my league."

I blinked, taken off-guard by the line—straightforward, a touch of Northern deadpan, but honest. He didn't look at me when he said it, just watched the traffic, but I caught the tilt of his head, the brief warmth behind the mask.

My cheeks flushed. I was glad for the wind, the bus roaring by.

We passed an old man sweeping his stoop. He gave us a nod, not the least fazed by the skull mask and heels. London, after all—seen it all before.

"You're not... embarrassed to be seen with me?" I asked quietly, not sure where the question came from.

Ghost shook his head, slow. "Not likely. Got a habit of collecting trouble. You're just better company than most."

I bit my lip, fighting a smile. "High praise, coming from you."

He shrugged, not quite hiding the satisfaction. "Don't let it go to your head, love."

The pavement narrowed as we neared his building. I stepped closer, close enough our arms nearly brushed. I felt the tension—delicate, electric, not quite ready to break.

Ghost's flat, North London - 10:28 GMT

Inside, the flat felt different. Warmer, somehow. I kicked off my heels by the door, flexing aching toes. Ghost set the bags on the counter, then flicked on the kettle with the precision of someone who'd done it a thousand times.

"Go on," he said, nodding to the hall. "You wanna change, bathroom's all yours. Spare towel's in the cupboard."

I nodded, clutching the paper bag like a lifeline. "Thanks, Simon."

He grunted at the name, but didn't object. I caught him watching me as I padded down the hall, barefoot, black dress riding high on my thighs, trenchcoat shrugged off over one arm.

In the bathroom, I peeled off the dress, tights, everything. I looked at my reflection—a woman in borrowed light, bruises faded to yellow, a fresh cut on my hip from Odessa. I pulled on the new joggers, soft as air, a white t-shirt, and the jumper. The clothes hung loose, cozy. Not armor, not camouflage, just... comfort.

For a moment, I let myself close my eyes, breathing in the steam from the shower I ran for a minute to warm the air. I pressed my new toothbrush to my palm, feeling the ridges, the weight, the color. It was such a small thing, a ridiculous luxury. My eyes prickled, and I blinked hard, not willing to let the feeling win.

I padded back out, damp hair tied in a loose knot, socks soft under my feet. Ghost was at the stove, frying eggs in a pan. The room smelled like home—tea, toast, a hint of soap and steel.

He glanced over, taking in the new clothes, the socks. His eyes crinkled. "Not bad. Almost look like you belong."

I stuck my tongue out. "Almost."

Ghost set the plate in front of me—eggs, toast, beans, a breakfast rough but comforting.

I picked up the plate, then, without a word, spun the chair around so my back was to him. I straddled it backwards, elbows resting along the top rail, toast in one hand, fork in the other.

For a second, he just stared—caught off guard. "What're you doin', love?"

I shrugged, starting in on the eggs. "Figured you might like some privacy. Eat in peace, yeah? Mask and all."

He was quiet. I couldn't see his face, but I heard something in his voice—almost a smile. "Suppose that's decent of you."

I poked at the beans, shoulders relaxing. "Don't mention it. Soldier's courtesy."

Behind me, I heard the faint rustle of fabric, the scrape of fork on plate. No words—just the sound of two people sharing a kitchen, each in their own kind of armor, but together anyway.

We ate in silence, but it was the best kind—the kind where nothing needed to be said.

When I finished, I set my plate down and twisted halfway around. Ghost had already cleared his, mug in hand, watching me with something soft in his eyes.

"Not bad, right?" I said.

He grunted, wry. "You'll do, dove."

And for the first time all morning, I felt at home.

We ate in silence for a while, just the clatter of forks and the distant hum of the city.

After a bit, I asked, "What do you do when you're not playing soldier?"

He leaned back, mug in hand. "Read. Bit of telly. Long walks. Pretend I'm not bored out of my skull."

I laughed. "Sounds... almost normal."

He shrugged. "Normal's overrated. Dangerous, even."

I glanced at him, feeling a warmth bloom under my ribs. "I think I could get used to it. For a day or two."

He looked at me, long and steady, the mask making his eyes seem even darker. "You can stay as long as you like, dove. Not in a hurry to be rid of you."

I let the words settle, heavy and good. "Thanks. I... might take you up on that."

He nodded, the faintest tilt. "Just don't hog the telly. Or leave your tea bags in the sink."

I grinned. "No promises."

The flat had a new hush to it, like it was waiting for us to decide what came next. Ghost cleared the plates after we finished eating, stacking them in the sink. He worked efficiently, moving with the economy of a man who's cleaned up after more messes than he can count.

I sipped tea, wrapping my hands around the mug, letting the steam thaw the last of Odessa's cold from my bones. On the telly, muted, the news rolled: talking heads, weather maps, a flash of the Thames. I realized I wasn't listening. For the first time in a long while, my mind was... quiet.

I glanced down at my new joggers, the socks with the tiny stripes. They were so soft, so mine, that I almost wanted to laugh. It shouldn't feel this good to own something so small. But it did.

Ghost turned from the sink, leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He watched me, patient, letting me have my silence.

Eventually, he said, "So. You got plans for the day, or just gonna lounge in my best kit?"

I tilted my head, considering. "Was thinking of a walk. Maybe a market. I want to see if this 'normal life' is as dangerous as you say."

He smirked, the mask twisting just a little. "You stick with me, and you'll survive. Probably."

A beat passed, the two of us just looking at each other. I realized—again, for maybe the hundredth time since coming to London—how absurd and lucky it was, this, us, here.

I stood, slipping my hands into the pockets of the joggers. "Come on then, Lieutenant. Show me how you shop for proper tea."

He rolled his eyes but pushed off the counter, grabbing his jacket and keys. "You're a menace, you know that?"

I flashed him a grin. "Takes one to know one."

He gave a short, genuine laugh, the sound deep and warm.

Borough Market, Southwark, North London - 11:40 GMT

We took the Tube. He insisted on Oyster cards—"Don't pay tourist prices, dove"—and I let him swipe for both of us. The crowd swallowed us whole: commuters, tourists, the sharp scent of coffee and rain on stone.

At the market, everything felt too bright, too alive. Fishmongers bellowed, florists arranged towers of roses, a boy sold roasted chestnuts from a cart. I trailed my fingers over fruit, letting the colors—orange, red, green—wash over me.

Ghost walked beside me, ever-watchful, but not hovering. He let me linger, didn't rush me. It was...gentle.

I paused by a stand of scarves, running a silk one between my fingers.

Did I want it?

Could I want it?

Ghost nudged me. "That'd suit you."

I looked up, startled. "What, the color?"

He nodded. "Brings out your eyes. And you could use something that's not black for once."

I laughed, a little breathless, and bought the scarf. It was pale blue, soft as memory. I wound it around my neck, feeling lighter.

At a bakery stall, Ghost picked up a sausage roll and a pair of Eccles cakes. He paid without looking at me, just handed me one of the pastries as we strolled. "Eat. You look half-starved."

I took a bite, trying not to smile too hard. "You ever stop feeding people?"

He shrugged. "Old habit."

We found a bench beneath an awning, rain tapping softly above. For a moment, it felt like the world was only the two of us, the city holding its breath.

"Simon?" I said, quiet.

He looked at me, unreadable, but listening.

"Why do you do it? Take care of the team, I mean."

He looked out at the street, rain blurring the market lights. "Someone has to. Not many got the patience. Or the stomach."

He paused, then softer, "Easier to keep busy than think about what comes after."

I nodded, understanding. "Yeah. Me too."

The rain eased. He stood, offered a hand. "Let's go home, dove. S'cold out here."

I took it, let him pull me to my feet. His grip was steady, grounding.

Ghost's flat, North London - 13:22 GMT

We shed our coats and boots at the door. I dropped the scarf on the table, slipped into my new joggers, and curled up in the armchair, pulling my knees to my chest.

Ghost put on the kettle again. The flat was filled with the small sounds of home: the clink of a spoon, the hiss of boiling water, the distant city.

He passed me a mug, then sat across from me, elbows on his knees, mask always in place.

"You settling in, then?" he asked, not quite looking at me.

I nodded. "Yeah. Feels almost...safe."

He grunted, but the look in his eyes was softer than before. "Don't get used to it. World's always waiting to remind us."

"I know," I said. "But I'll take it. While I can."

A comfortable silence stretched between us. For the first time in a very long time, I let it last.

Outside, London pressed on—sirens, rain, the distant pulse of a city that had chewed up and spat out soldiers for centuries.

But in here, with warm socks, a green toothbrush, a blue scarf, and a mug of tea, I let myself believe I belonged.

Ghost didn't say anything else. He didn't have to.

He was there. And that, for once, was enough.