18. Civvy hours

Ghost's Flat, North London – 10:22 GMT

The rain on the window had faded to a lazy drizzle, just the hush of London pressing at the glass. I woke to the warmth of soft joggers and the faint scent of Ghost's tea—malty, overbrewed, left just outside the bedroom door on a battered mug. On the rim of the mug: a sticky note, blocky handwriting crooked and all capitals—KETTLE'S ON. TOAST IF YOU WANT IT. – S.

I almost laughed. Wasn't much, but it was everything.

The flat was quieter than a safehouse ought to be, like the walls themselves had agreed to stand down for one morning. My old life pressed at the edges—sore ribs, tension at the base of my skull—but in this little bubble, I let myself breathe. When I padded out of the bedroom, hair a mess, I found Ghost in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, mug cradled in both hands. He was reading the back of a cereal box with the intensity of someone decoding enemy signals.

He looked up, mask in place. "Didn't know you could sleep past dawn, love. Learn somethin' new every day."

I rubbed at my eyes, but couldn't help the way my mouth curled. "Didn't know you knew what rest was, either."

He grunted—maybe approval, maybe just a habit. "Kettle's just boiled. Toast's in the rack. Try not to burn the place down, yeah?"

I made a show of buttering the toast, letting my eyes adjust to the slant of light. The flat felt lived in but neat, corners squared, every tool in its place. Ghost moved with that same soldier's order—efficiency wrapped in the world's best poker face, his balaclava.

When I rinsed my mug, cold water pooled at my feet. I frowned, crouched, and peered inside the cabinet. "Your sink's leaking."

He set his mug down and came over, dropping to one knee. "Bloody hell. That pipe's older than Price." He reached for the toolbox under the counter, sleeves riding up to the tattoos and old scars that marked his arms. He started working with the easy confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times.

I hovered awkwardly. "You...fix this yourself?"

He shot me a look, eyes crinkling. "You think I call a landlord? London's full of sharks, dove. Rather fight a Bratva hit squad."

I offered him a spoon—he took it, paused, then handed it back with a deadpan, "No, the wrench, not the spoon, Nina."

I grinned, honest, lingering in the doorway just to watch him.

He tightened a nut, wiped his hands, glanced over. "Oi. Quit starin', love. You're makin' me nervous."

"You're the one fixing sinks like it's nothing," I said, tossing the spoon in the sink.

"Gotta keep busy." He looked at me, mask unreadable. "World's less likely to fall apart if your pipes don't."

He fixed the world with his hands—one leak at a time. Maybe that's how you survived: not with grand gestures, but by tightening the bolts until nothing could slip through the cracks.

The domesticity was jarring, but I found myself charmed. If anyone had told me I'd ever find comfort in a leaking sink, I'd have shot them on principle.

Just then, my phone—a too-new model, still alien in my hand—buzzed. I glanced at the screen.

A text.

Unknown number: YOU TWO ALIVE OR WHAT? SOAP'S CONVINCED GHOST FINALLY TURNED YOU INTO A GHOST. HE WON'T SHUT UP ABOUT IT. — G

I blinked, thumbing a reply: Didn't know you had my number, Gaz.

Three seconds later: I know everything. OPSEC, mate. Welcome to the group.

Then another, this time from who I believed, Soap: Tell the mask to get his arse on the game tonight. You too, V. We need fresh blood.

I snorted. "Gaz wants to know if you've killed me yet."

Ghost, still under the sink, grumbled, "Don't get used to it. They'll be round here drinkin' all my tea next."

I texted back: I'll join if I get a mask too.

Soap replied instantly: Only if it's pink. Bonnie lass needs style.

I laughed, the sound escaping before I could swallow it.

Ghost just shot me a wry look, his balaclava intact. "Careful. Laugh too hard and they'll think you like 'em."

"They're not so bad," I said, settling on the couch. "Even Soap."

"That's debatable."

I let the moment linger, small and easy.

"Got milk in the fridge?" I asked.

He shook his head, straightening, tools away. "If you're gonna live here, gotta earn your keep, love. Go grab a pint. Shop's on the corner."

I hesitated—maybe too long.

Ghost's gaze softened, just a little. "S'just milk, Nina. Not a mission."

I slipped on trainers and shrugged into my trenchcoat, grabbing my purse. "Don't die while I'm gone."

"Don't shoot anyone at Tesco." he called after me, voice rich with laughter.

Streets of North London - 10:47 GMT

The door clicked shut behind me, and the city air hit sharp as a slap: cold, wet, the tang of bus exhaust mixing with sour coffee and frying onions from the caff on the corner. The drizzle hadn't let up—beading on my lashes, slicking the pavement. I tucked my hands deep in my coat pockets and tried to walk like I belonged.

Two blocks and I already felt the old edge creeping in.

Every sound too loud. Every face too close.

But this wasn't Moscow.

It wasn't Baku or Berlin or Chistilishe's shadowed halls.

No one here cared. Just a girl in joggers and trainers, trying to buy milk.

I ducked into the Tesco Express, breath fogging the automatic doors.

The place was bright, music too loud, shelves stacked with colors—cereal, chocolate, crisps. I made for the milk section like it was a waypoint on a patrol route.

Blue top, green top, red.

Which was which again?

Blue top, green top, red.

I froze for a second, realizing I didn't actually know which meant whole, which meant skim. In Moscow, milk came in bags. Here, it felt like a test I'd forgotten to study for

There was a queue at the self-checkout, a woman with a buggy, a man in a high-vis jacket.

I grabbed a pint—green top, safe bet—and joined the line.

I fiddled with my phone, feeling the weight of Gaz's group chat. New texts:

Soap: "Don't be late for game night, V. If you lose, you owe me a pint."

Gaz: "She'll wipe the floor with you, Johnny."

Price: "Don't break anything, all of you."

I smiled, small but real.

At the self-checkout, my hand trembled just a bit. I scanned the milk, fumbled the coins, hit the wrong button. The machine beeped, angry.

"Unexpected item in the bagging area." the robot voice scolded.

I cursed under my breath in Russian.

The woman behind me tutted.

A shop assistant, bored, leaned over. "First time?" he said, voice kind.

I flushed, nodding. "Sorry. Not used to this one."

He punched a button. "Happens to everyone. You're good, love."

I thanked him, barely above a whisper, and snatched the milk.

Outside, I almost forgot to pay. The assistant called after me. "Oi! Need your receipt!"

I darted back, cheeks burning. He winked. "Don't worry. S'only milk. We've all been there."

The relief was dizzying.

I walked home a bit taller, the milk swinging from my hand.

Ghost' flat, North London - 11:28 GMT

Ghost was still in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, reading the back of a tin of beans like it contained state secrets.

I plopped the milk on the counter. "Mission accomplished, Lieutenant."

"Any casualties?"

"Only my dignity," I said, sinking onto the arm of the couch.

He put the beans away, grabbed the milk. "You can shoot a rifle at two hundred meters but can't work a Tesco till. World's upside down."

I threw a tea towel at his head. "If you tell Soap, I'll deny everything."

It sailed wide, more a peace offering than a threat. He caught it anyway—soldier's reflex, or just kindness. His eyes crinkled. "He'll get it out of you. You're a terrible liar, Nina."

You'd be suprised.

"You're worse."

He leaned against the counter, looking at me. "Did good. It's harder than it looks, bein' ordinary."

I tried not to let the pride show, but it bubbled anyway. "I bought the green top, by the way. Hope that's not a diplomatic incident."

He grunted, approving. "Best for tea. Well done."

The flat was quiet again, comfortable. I curled up, flicked through texts, let the peace settle.

Ghost was a presence—quiet, solid, making the place feel like somewhere I could stay.

Soap's flat, North London - 19:33 GMT

Soap's place was chaos: piles of football scarves, empty cans, the faint smell of aftershave and crisps. Gaz lounged on the arm of the sofa, hoodie half-zipped, PS5 controller in his lap. Price sat in the corner, pint in hand, giving the television a wary eye like it might explode.

I'd changed—jeans, a dark blue top, black boots, hair down but neat. No armor. No mask.

Ghost led me there, silent as always, but let me lead the way upstairs. When I stepped into the room, Soap let out a wolf whistle.

"Bloody hell, V! You clean up nice. Didn't know Ghost let you wear civvies."

I rolled my eyes, hanging up my coat. "Not his call, MacTavish."

Gaz shot Ghost a look. "About time you stopped hiding her, mate."

Ghost just shrugged, dropping onto the couch beside me. "She's safer with me. Or did you want her teachin' you how to shoot straight?"

Soap grinned, sprawling on the other end. "As long as she's on my team, I don't care."

The banter was easy, warm, full of in-jokes and ribbing.

Price raised his pint. "To the ones who come home."

We clinked bottles, laughter echoing in the small flat.

The game was a first-person shooter—of course. Soap and Gaz teamed up, Price and Ghost on the other side. I drifted between teams, making chaos wherever I could.

Soap kept up a running commentary. "Vesper, you're meant to shoot the bad guys, not us!"

"I go where the action is, Johnny."

Gaz cackled. "Reckon you just like to keep us guessing."

Ghost grunted, low and proud. "She's better at this than you, MacTavish."

Soap: "She's better at everything than me. S'not fair."

Price grumbled, "Less whining, more fighting."

Rounds blurred by—pizza boxes appeared, empty beer bottles multiplied. I lost track of the score, but not the feeling: team, laughter, belonging.

Later, Soap put on some terrible Scottish music and tried to teach me a dance. I tripped over his feet, laughing until my ribs hurt. Gaz filmed it, promising blackmail. Ghost just watched, eyes crinkling above the mask.

By the time we stumbled out onto the street, it was late. The city pulsed with neon, wet and full of life.

Streets of North London - 00:14 GMT

We said our goodbyes outside the tube. Price clapped Ghost on the shoulder, gave me a steady look. "You take care, Vesper."

Soap grinned. "Walk her home, Ghost, or we'll never hear the end of it."

Gaz just winked. "You two don't get into trouble."

We headed off together, boots echoing on wet pavement. The night was cool, the world feeling oddly safe.

After a block, I nudged him. "You're quiet."

He shrugged, hands in his pockets. "Just thinkin'."

"About?"

He glanced at me, then away. "How easy you fit in with the lads. Like you've always been there."

I smiled, heart thudding. "You make it easy. For all your grumbling."

He snorted, but there was a warmth behind it. "You're dangerous, Nina. Make a bloke forget he's meant to keep his distance."

I shot him a look, playful. "Who said you're supposed to?"

He stopped, just for a second, turning to face me. In the streetlight, his mask was stark white, unreadable. But his voice was softer, northern vowels rough-edged. "World's full of lines, love. Sometimes it's worth crossin' one or two."

A pulse of something electric passed between us. I didn't look away.

"You're not so bad yourself, Simon."

He shook his head, grinning behind the mask. "Don't tell Soap. I'll never live it down."

We kept walking, arms almost brushing. The night pressed in, gentle and bright, and for once, I didn't flinch.

Ghost's flat, North London - 00:49 GMT

The flat was still, shadows pressed into the corners. We shed coats and boots at the door—his precise, mine haphazard, the two pairs lined up and almost touching.

Ghost flicked on the lamp. "You want tea or something stronger?" he asked, voice scratchy from the night air.

"Tea," I said. "If I drink anything else, Soap will show up and drag us to a club."

He huffed—a real laugh, low and rare. "You'd survive. Not sure I would."

I padded to the kitchen, bare feet cold on tile. I rummaged through the cupboards, trying to look like I belonged, and found tins of soup in the back. Tomato, something with lentils, a label in Arabic. I picked the tomato and set it on the counter, glancing over.

Ghost was rolling up his sleeves, filling the kettle, the mask in place but eyes soft. He watched me with something like curiosity—as if trying to figure out what I'd do next.

I popped the lid, sloshed soup into a saucepan, turned the heat high.

"You cook often?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Unless you count field rations. Or learning how to poison tea in Moscow."

He snorted. "This'll be better than rations. Lower bar, though."

The soup bubbled too quickly, burning to the bottom. I tried to stir, but the spoon stuck. I swore softly in Russian, scraping at the pot. Ghost leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

The smell of scorched tomato filled the kitchen, stubborn and shameful. I scraped harder, embarrassed to find that after years of learning a hundred ways to break a man, I still couldn't make a meal

"Need a hand, chef?"

"I'm fine," I lied.

He watched me struggle another moment, then grabbed a loaf of bread, slicing it with brisk efficiency.

I finally poured two bowls, the soup lumpy, scorched at the edges. I set them on the table, proud and mortified all at once.

He sat, spoon in hand, eyed the bowl, and took a bite. His eyes watered. "Had worse in Kandahar. S'not bad."

I lifted a brow. "You're lying."

He shrugged, swallowing heroically. "Wouldn't be the worst thing I've eaten."

I bit my lip, fighting a smile. "You don't have to—"

He cut me off, voice gentle. "Oi, it's hot food. Means you're tryin', yeah?"

The words were a balm. I took a spoonful, wincing. "I might poison us both after all."

He grinned behind the mask. "Wouldn't be the first time someone tried."

We finished the soup, more laughter than eating, and by the end, the awkwardness had burned away. I felt... good. Like I'd earned something.

He cleared the bowls, rinsed them out. "You want a biscuit? Or you want to talk about why you're staring at the floor like the world's about to end?"

I blinked.

I hadn't realized how quiet I'd gotten.

I pulled my knees up, wrapping arms tight. "You ever get traded for peace, Simon?"

He paused, looking at me, and the flat felt smaller. "Nah. They keep me around 'cause no one else'll put up with me. Why?"

I took a breath. The truth wanted out—small, bitter, necessary.

"When Russia sent me here, it wasn't a gift. It was a warning. They knew about the... episodes. The chest pain, the shakes. I was expendable." I laughed, bitter. "The officer who told me to pack my bag, he was smiling. Said, 'London wants a Russian asset? Give them a trembling soldier. Damaged goods.'"

Ghost was silent for a long time.

Finally, he said, "You ain't damaged, Nina. You survived. That's not the same."

I looked at him, desperate for something I couldn't name. "Doesn't make me a good operative. Sometimes I can turn it off, be what they need. Sometimes I can't. Makes the job...hard."

He stepped closer, standing behind my chair, his hands braced on the backrest.

"You get the job done," he said quietly. "You've got more grit than half the lads I've seen. World's full of people who act like nothing touches 'em. But you... you care. Even when it hurts."

I looked up at him. "That makes it worse sometimes."

He didn't argue. Just stood there, steady as a wall. "Might make it harder. Doesn't make you weak."

I bit my lip, looking down. "I've never known what to do with... safety. With quiet."

He crouched down, so we were eye to eye. "Learn it. Here. With me, if you want."

Something in me cracked—old fear, old hope. I let myself believe, just for a second, that maybe it could be true.

He tapped the table gently. "Now, about that tea. Don't burn it, yeah?"

I managed a real smile, standing to fill the kettle. "No promises."

He nudged my hip as I passed. "Go on, love. Try me."

We made tea together, quietly, hands bumping as we reached for mugs. It felt... ordinary. Good.

Ghost's flat, North London - 01:47 GMT

We settled on the couch, mugs steaming, the city outside silent except for the far-off drone of sirens. Ghost found an old movie—some black-and-white thing—and let it run on mute.

I tucked my feet under me, feeling soft, warm, open.

He didn't say much. He didn't have to.

I spoke first, voice soft as memory. "If you ever get tired of damaged goods, just say so."

He looked at me, mask unreadable, eyes kind. "Not likely. You're a pain in my arse, but you're my kind of trouble."

The silence that followed was the easiest of my life.

Eventually, he nudged me with his knee. "C'mon, chess or telly? Make your choice."

I grinned, heart lighter than it had been in months. "Chess. And I'm going to win this time."

He rolled his eyes, pulling out the board. "Not bloody likely, dove. But you can try."

As we played, laughter and warmth threaded through the flat. And for a little while, normal felt possible.

02:04 GMT

We played chess on the low table, hunched over the battered board, my knees tucked up, Ghost sprawled with one elbow propped, mug balanced on a stack of books. Rain painted liquid shadows on the windows, quiet enough that I could hear my own heartbeat—steady now, not frantic.

He was, as always, infuriatingly good at the game. His hands moved pieces with a soldier's precision, never hesitating, never betraying what he was thinking. I tried to read his eyes, but the mask made that impossible; all I got was the glint of amusement whenever I made a reckless play.

I sipped my tea, watching his hands. There was a steadiness to him, a stillness that I was learning to trust.

"Doesn't it get boring?" I asked, feigning casual as I moved my knight. "This much quiet?"

He shrugged, not looking up from the board. "Quiet's rare. Take it when you get it, love. Never lasts." He met my gaze, eyes flickering. "You get used to it. Not a bad thing."

I studied the lines of his shoulders, the way he fit in this place—like he'd carved out safety through sheer stubbornness. "You always make it look easy."

He snorted, a low sound behind the mask. "You ain't seen my first flat. Freezin' cold, half the roof missing. This is luxury."

I smiled, nudging a pawn. "I think your definition of luxury needs work."

"Not all of us grew up posh, dove."

I scoffed. "You've heard where I grew up. Luxury was dry socks."

He glanced at me then, something softer passing through his eyes. "Guess that's why we're both here. Survivors. Could do worse."

We played on in companionable silence, the clack of pieces, the low hum of the fridge. The game was tight. When I finally cornered his king, he let out a long sigh, exaggerated for effect.

"About time," he said. "Was startin' to think you'd never learn."

I gave him a half-bow, grinning. "Maybe you're just off your game tonight."

He shrugged. "Maybe I let you win."

"Liar," I said, but the warmth in my chest betrayed how much it meant.

He packed up the board, moving with that same quiet grace. "Next time, I pick the game. We'll see how you do with darts."

"Terribly," I admitted. "But I'm a quick study."

He started another pot of tea. I watched him move around the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, mask never leaving his face. I wondered if I'd ever see him without it—if anyone had, since.. ever.

The thought felt too intimate, so I looked away, focusing on the clink of mugs and the way the lamplight turned the steam to gold.

He came back, handed me a cup, and settled on the couch, legs stretched out. I took my place beside him—close, but not touching.

"Tell me something normal," I said quietly. "From before."

He was silent for so long I thought he'd ignore it. Then, softly, "Used to play football in the street with my brother. Mud everywhere. Mum yelling out the window to knock it off before we broke something."

A wistfulness in his voice, a far-off look in his eyes. "Mum made the best Sunday roast. No one's ever come close."

I leaned my head back on the couch, eyes closed. "I used to sneak out with Ember. We'd steal bread and feed the stray cats behind the commissary. Got caught once—spent the night cleaning latrines."

He chuckled. "Proper rebel, you."

"Not really. Just hungry."

He looked at me, and something passed between us—an understanding, the unspoken history of hunger and cold, of things taken and never given back.

We drank tea and watched the city blink through the rain.

03:03 GMT

The TV ran a late-night documentary about train robbers and old wars. I watched it with one eye, the other on Ghost's hands as he turned his mug, slow and careful.

I shifted on the couch, drawing my knees up under the jumper, suddenly feeling too exposed.

"You ever think about leaving the 141" I asked, not quite sure where the question came from.

He was quiet. "Some days. But I wouldn't know what to do with myself. This—" He gestured around the flat. "—this is the closest I get to peace. 'S enough."

I nodded, biting my lip. "Sometimes I think about running. Somewhere quiet. But I don't think I'd make it more than a week."

He huffed. "You'd be bored senseless."

I smiled. "You'd miss me."

He side-eyed me. "Don't get cocky, love."

I bumped his shoulder, just a nudge, careful and easy. "You're not that hard to read, Simon."

He turned toward me then, something new in his posture—guard lowered, just for a heartbeat.

"You think so?" he asked, voice almost a challenge.

I met his eyes, refusing to look away. "Yeah. I think so."

He leaned back, relaxed again. "Keep tellin' yourself that."

We sat there, the TV murmuring, the tea cooling, both of us quietly refusing to move. The city outside was quiet. The world, for once, felt safe.

04:11 GMT

Ghost yawned, stretching his arms over his head. "You need sleep, Nina. Tomorrow'll be here quick."

I nodded, suddenly heavy with exhaustion. "You taking the couch again?"

He smirked. "Wouldn't want to risk you stealin' the covers."

I gathered up my mug, pausing at the door. "If you get cold, you know where to find me."

He looked at me over the back of the couch, eyes soft. "Sleep well, dove."

I lingered, letting the words settle.

"Goodnight, Simon."

"Night, Nina."

I closed the bedroom door behind me, breath steady, heart lighter. For once, the quiet didn't feel dangerous. It just felt... normal.

And for the first time, I let myself hope it could last.

I changed into his baggy shirt, slipped beneath the duvet, and lay on my side facing the city's sodium light bleeding through the blinds. For a long while I just listened: to the hush of the hallway, to the faint creak of Ghost's boots as he settled on the couch, to the distant echo of laughter outside on the street.

Did I just... invite him to bed?

The thought made me flush, heat blooming under my skin. 

Was that what normal people did? Was that what I wanted—or just something I thought I was supposed to want?

I pressed my hand flat to my sternum, waiting for the panic that never came. Only a strange, twisting hope.

I'd meant it.

If you get cold, you know where to find me.

Had he heard the invitation, hidden under all my armor?

On the other side of the wall, I heard him turn once, settling. No footsteps in the hallway.

Not tonight.

But for the first time, it didn't sting. I smiled into the pillow, letting the city's noise fade away, heart steady and soft.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe soon.

Tonight, I could rest—knowing he was close, and that hope, like trust, was something you built slowly.

And that was enough.