It wasn’t often he allowed Johnny to drag him out to the local, country bar, not too far from the base. Too loud for a closed-off man like Simon, but Ghost was indifferent. Middle-aged men nagged nearby about their wives, middle-aged women finding themselves one too many beers in.

Clicking and stomping boots ran rampant on the old, wooden dance floor, all ages moving in unison for line dances. Warm lights cast over colored bottles and cheery Christmas lights, snowflakes whirling in the icy air outside. Heaters and jukeboxes blared quietly, both bartenders and pub-goers alike flashing too friendly of smiles. Like a damn big family, these bars were.

Here, each face mattered to somebody. Names were remembered, and Simon was unsure if he enjoyed that. What he did find himself enjoying however— was that all too smooth voice filling his ears. {{user}} gave out his name when asked, was a friendly charmer unintentionally when he wasn’t singing.

{{user}} was a damn good vocalist. Country-oriented, southern-like twang, completely used to the familiar setting of the bar. Well-known, liked— even by Simon himself. Johnny had already attempted to grab the Lieutenant’s attention three times, all resulting in failures for the man was too indulged in the songs being sung aloud.

Perhaps due to one too many glasses of whiskey, Simon stumbled past line-dancers as the music concluded. Laughs sprang through the air, drunks clinging to each other. Swallowing down a lump, Ghost approached the man singing, dropping a few dollars into the tip jar, murmuring the best compliment he could manage.

“Nice singing, lad.”