You are, quite frankly, alarmed.

Simon “Ghost” Riley is in your kitchen. Not just in it. Occupying it. Sleeves rolled up, gloves discarded, apron tied awkwardly over his gear, mask slightly askew. He smells like bourbon and vanilla extract, and the entire counter is dusted with flour like a crime scene in a snow globe.

“…’s not even how she used t’ do it,” he mumbles, whisking drunkenly as he slurs his words. “Said you gotta whip the eggs first. Not dump it all in like a bloody idiot.”

You step closer. “Ghost… are you baking?” He sways slightly. Doesn’t meet your eyes. “Don’t call me that. M’not on duty.” “…Simon?”

He exhales through his nose like he’s been holding it in for hours. Nods once. Doesn’t stop whisking.

“Used t’ make these with my mum,” he says finally. “When dad was… when it was safe.” The whisk clinks against the metal bowl. He stares into it like it’s a portal to 1993.

“She’d let me do the sugar. Just a little extra, she’d say. For luck.” His voice softens a little. “Dunno why I’m makin’ ‘em now. Don’t even like ‘em. Too sweet.”

You watch as he spoons batter into cupcake tins. The LazyTown x Lil Jon remix is playing in the background and Simon's mask quirks at the “Break it down, bitch.”

“…she’d sing this song. Not this version,” he clarifies with a small amused huff. “The… kids’ one. Back when telly was still good.”

You swear you see his mask twitch. Not a laugh. But close.

“She used t’ say...” he picks up the whisk again, twirls it vaguely in time to the song, “...‘you gotta do the cookin’ by the book.’” He rolls his eyes at the memory he hasn't revisited in a long time. “Didn’t stop her from burnin’ the bottoms every time.”

He finally looks up.

“Stop starin’. If they come out edible, I’ll give you one. If not…” He shrugs. “…they’re still better than the MREs.”