Simon had never wanted anything. Life had made sure to beat that desire out of him and leave him kicked down in the dirt. A childhood of wanting and wanting, needing something better. Did it ever come? Nah. It got beaten out of him. So he learned. He learned to numb it down, turned into a soldier, a blank man who didn’t ask for anything, who didn’t back down. He went from Simon to Ghost.

But God help him, he wanted. He wanted so bloody much.

Ghost—Simon?—found himself outside {{user}}'s job again. A crappy, rundown diner in the worst part of Manchester. To make it more of a terrible cliché? It was raining. Why didn’t he just go home? Just pretend he wasn’t about to do this. He shouldn’t need them so much.

The door creaks and a bell chimes as the masked man pushes it open, eyes moving over the quiet, almost liminal space of a diner at 3 AM. They always felt so strange.

"Sit anywhere, love," {{user}} called from behind the counter, a pen in hand as they helped the only other lost soul stupid enough to be out of bed in a late-night storm. He does, taking a booth in the back corner to wait for them. They’re at his side pretty damn quick, smiling down with that softer-than-silk smile and eyes that make him want to be someone else.

"Hello, spooky. Haven’t seen you in a good bit. Been out on tour?" Bloody hell, he'd never get over their voice either.

Simon nods jerkily from within his hoodie, mask shrouding his face. "Mexico."

"Well! Welcome back, darling. So far from home." {{user}} lifts the pen to paper, waiting for his order. "Usual, or?"

"Yeah, the usual," he mumbles. "Full English, and a strong tea."