Chapter Text
Simon hates the smell of ichor.
The coppery tang, the way he can feel it clinging to his clothes and skin even hours after a kill, a feeling he can never seem to wash away no matter how many times he tries.
But he supposes in this line of work, it’s just part of the job description.
Simon pulls his knife free, the blade catching the light from the moon above, a wicked glint of steel streaked with the ichor from the beast whose chest rattles with its final gasping breath.
It’s been two weeks of this — tracking these monsters through the woods, their path marked by downed trees, trampled grass, and carcasses torn wide open. It’s nothing new in Simon’s line of work, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating.
He sighs, adjusting his shoulder plate on his armor, feeling around with gloved fingers to make sure the hit he took earlier hasn’t damaged it too badly, seeing as Pigeon is decidedly not in a good mood.
Simon stares down at the mutt, irritation brewing low in his belly. These damn things have been on a wild rampage for the past few weeks, and Simon can't help but wonder why?
What the fuck has changed that these normally docile creatures are now tearing through the woods like a kid let loose in a sweets shop? It’s driving Simon mad, and he, not for the first time, wishes he could take a fucking nap.
It makes his brain rattle, his fucking teeth rattle, and despite Price telling Simon on more than one occasion not to ponder the motives of these creatures, Simon can’t really help himself. He’s always been interested in monsters, something that sparked his interest early in childhood.
He runs a hand over the hard shell of his bone mask, fused seamlessly into the black fabric of the gaiter and hood he wears. It’s a reminder of his first real kill; the only time in Simon's life that he remembers his father looking at him with pride.
Simon had been nearly twelve when he'd made the kill, a large beast that his father had insisted he take down by himself. And Simon had, his father carving down the skull for Simon, sharp canines on either side of the mouth, a trophy for a boy who had become a man.
Simon's father had smiled at him, told him he was proud and despite what came only a year later, Simon held onto those words. Repeated them over and over in his mind, until he hated the sound of it. It was that bitter resentment that morphed him into the man he is now.
A man who works alone, someone who didn't need his father then, and someone who sure as hell doesn't need anyone now.
Simon bends, sitting on his haunches, brow furrowed from beneath his mask, a subtle tick in his jaw as his eyes rove over the mutt.
He's always imagined that in the parallels between the world of monsters and the world of men, these particular beasts would be something close to a dog, nearly endearing in their own fucked up way.
Simon’s always been more of a cat person though, so while these giant mutts might be endearing to some, they were just another beast to hunt for him.
Yet, Simon knows in the scheme of things, he’s lucky. Not all monsters are this easy to track.
Monsters, just like humans, come in all shapes and sizes, those who resemble beasts like the creature before him, and others completely different, the world filled with wraiths, with hulking beasts who live in the barren mountains to the north. And of course, the one creature who Simon has never really had an opinion on.
Hybrids is what they were called, said to be human in form, yet able to shift into a monster on command. It's something that has peaked his interest over the years, Simon having heard tale of them from his travels, yet like all myths, that's all Simon could believe, that hybrids were in fact, just a myth.
Price is the only person who has ever claimed to have seen one, drunkenly telling Simon over a pint of beer a few years back that the damn thing had disappeared right in front of him. A plume of smoke and the fucker was gone, having traveled half a mile in a matter of seconds.
Simon still isn’t sure if the story’s true, especially given how deep Price had been into his cups that night, and also considering that in all his years hunting he's never seen a hybrid.
Not once.
He stretches his arms above his head, his armor already beginning to reek like rot and decay and Simon can only hope that the inn where he’s set to meet Price has a proper tub. He's been traveling for weeks, the only way of bathing, dunking himself in the freezing rivers dotting the countryside, the water a questionable color. But Simon knew he couldn't really complain, not when the life of a hunter was anything but glamerous.
He rucks his mask up, tearing off a glove with his teeth, before he uses two fingers to call for Pigeon, the sly bastard likely lurking in a tree nearby, watching Simon with those beady little eyes of his.
It doesn’t take long, the shadows shifting around Simon, his raven seemingly popping out of nowhere as he lands grumpily on Simon’s shoulder, a huff of aggravation as he ruffles his feathers, talons biting hard into Simon’s shoulder guard.
“I really liked that barrier you cast during the fight, Pige,” Simon begins, sarcasm heavy in his tone, Pigeon crucking low in annoyance as Simon pulls out a small roll of paper, scribbling a note down with the spare bit of graphite he keeps tucked away in one of his many pockets.
Carefully he rolls it back up, reaching toward the small carrier Pigeon wears around his neck, the raven pecking at Simon’s hands, a long cr-r-ruck, that tells Simon all he needs to know about what type of mood his familiar is in.
“Pigeon,” Simon growls. “I am in no mood for your shit. Did you not see the hit I took? Where the fuck were you?”
Pigeon pecks at Simon's mask in irritation, Simon not wasting a moment before he curls a large hand around the bird's beak. It's a gentle hold, but the raven crucks in annoyance regardless, feathers flapping wildly.
So damn dramatic.
"Pige," Simon warns, meeting the raven's glare head on. "I will cook you for fucking dinner, do you understand me?"
Simon points to the carrier, his message to Price tucked inside. “Just take the message to Price, yeah?”
Pigeon blinks long and slow, contemplative and Simon might very well throttle the damn thing, especially since his raven decided he wasn't in the mood to help Simon in this last fight.
He supposes he shouldn't be surprised, seeing as Pigeon has been the same since the first moment he came into Simon's life, an uproar all in its own right, yet Simon doesn't really want to spiral down that fucking rabbit hole right now.
Yet, despite their arguing, Simon knows he shares a deep relationship with his familiar, it's a bond that can't be severed, despite Pigeon being nothing more than a twat half the time.
He tries again, his voice softening. “Price, Pige. Let him know I’m headed back. That’s all.”
"Price," Pigeon responds, that deep, raspy voice a perfect mimic of Simon's own. It's a trait of all ravens, the mimicry, yet even after all this time, Simon can't help how disconcerting the sound is to hear his own voice thrown back at him in such a way. He nods his head, lifting a tentative finger, stroking the top of the raven's head, feathers silky beneath his touch.
“That's a good lad, yeah?” Simon mutters, already regretting the way his voice softens just a touch. He feels like a proper fucking idiot, coddling a bird who listens for shit.
But Simon knows how this goes. Pigeon is picky as hell, only willing to expel a bit of energy if there’s something in it for him. “Bring this to Price and he’ll give you those treats you like, yeah?”
The bird tilts his head considering the offer for a long moment before he adjusts his position on Simon’s shoulder, those dark eyes glancing down to the spaulder he’s sitting on, another ruffle of feathers before he smacks his beak roughly against the torn leather, a clean rip, one that will need to be repaired sooner than later.
“I know,” Simon murmurs, more to himself than anything.
He does know, that’s the problem.
Simon's fully aware of the strain his body is undergoing to track these beasts alone, the recent number of them keeping Simon running ragged, and when the beast had lunged tonight, Simon had nearly been too slow.
He's irritated with himself; tonight was sloppy and Simon doesn't do sloppy.
Although, Simon also supposes that's the only word he can call himself after getting smacked in the chest with the mutts spiked tail, the hit hurtling him across the clearing and fucking up his damn armor in the process. Something that Pigeon is less than thrilled about.
“We could fix this problem now,” Simon offers with a tilt of his head. “Price isn’t the only one who carries treats.”
At the word treats, Pigeon looks up, head cocked with mild interest. Simon knows if he could just pluck a few feathers, he’d have everything he needs to repair his armor, Pigeon’s feathers carrying the type of magic that could mend the damage.
But that would be the easy route, and Pigeon has never once in Simon's life made anything easy.
The raven won’t give them up willingly. Especially not now, when he’s clearly blaming Simon for getting injured in the first place. It’s a double-edged sword really—being bound to a magical raven with more attitude than any human Simon’s ever met. When he’s in a generous mood, Pigeon usually casts a protective barrier over Simon during fights. And while Simon is a skilled hunter, monsters aren’t exactly small, and solo hunting doesn't make the job any easier.
“Pige,” Simon coos, hating himself for stooping to damn near groveling to get his damn familiar to listen to a word he has to say. “I had to, yeah? You can’t blame me every time this —”
Simon’s not even finished with his sentence before the bird is pulling on his mask, an aggravated squawk before Pigeon’s large wings are fluttering open, a few flaps, hitting Simon square in the jaw before he’s off, disappearing into the shadows and leaving Simon without an easy route back to the inn.
He groans, throwing his head back with a long, slow exhale, knowing it’s at least a five-mile hike to where Price wants to meet up with him, and says the only word that can possibly sum up the entirety of this very lovely evening.
“Fuck.”
By the time Simon throws open the doors to the 141st inn, the sun is beginning to lighten the sky. The pinks and gold catch on the blood stains marring Simon’s mask and clothes, the few patrons out and about this early in the morning giving Simon a wide berth as he moves into the main portion of the inn, the smell of freshly baked bread and some type of spiced meat hanging heavily in the air.
And despite the early hour, Simon isn’t surprised when he sees Price sitting at a small table with a steaming cup of tea, Pigeon perched idly on his shoulder. The man speaks quietly with the bird, Simon gritting his teeth, more than ready to pull a few fucking feathers from the bird to patch up his armor.
Price barely acknowledges him as Simon sits down, his leather cracking with the strain. Pigeon ruffles his feathers, beady little eyes darting to Simon for one long moment, and while Simon knows birds can’t really carry expressions, Simon can’t help but think of the word smug, as Pigeon regards him.
“You look like shit,” Price says in greeting as he pushes over the steaming cuppa, Simon nodding his head in thanks, gloved hands wrapping around the handle, the warmth seeping through to his chilled skin beneath.
“Mm,” Simon tells him, rucking up his mask, damn near groaning in approval as he takes a long sip. “I wonder why that would be.”
Price offers a wry smile. “Did you tag the beast’s location? I’ll have Gaz survey the area, come up with a fair price. You know how particular he is.”
“I’m well aware,” Simon scoffs, Price and his long-term partner, Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick, a staple in Simon’s life. He’d met them years ago, bloodied and bruised, Simon damn near on death’s door at the time, bleeding out on the ground after he’d gotten a little too close to the monster he was tracking.
Simon hadn’t expected anyone to swoop in, to even know where he was, since Simon was hunting beasts far off the main roads, trying to thin the herds before it became a bigger issue.
And yet there Price was, all flame and glory, a fire elemental whose sigils had been the first thing Simon had seen. The man hadn't wasted any time, hurtling a ball of flame toward the monster, Gaz right behind him, his crossbow already fired, the bolt between the creature’s eyes before Simon could register what was even happening.
It had been over before Simon could even offer a word of thanks, his body in shock over two strangers ready to drop everything to help defend somehow they didn't even know.
Simon had been younger than, less experienced. Yet, he made a promise that day, a vow — he would put everything in repaying Price for all he’d done, saving him when he didn’t have to.
It didn’t hurt that the three of them had grown close, Simon never one for friends or family, but Gaz and Price were the closest semblance of ‘family’ Simon has ever known, his own nothing more than bad memories and empty promises.
“Gaz won’t have a hard time missing it,” Simon continues. “About five miles from here, fucker knocked over every tree in the surrounding area when he charged at me. I’m sure we’re going to have to come to a settlement with the farmer whose land it died on."
“Mm, Gaz will love that,” Price murmurs, a small thank you nod as one of the barkeeps drops off another mug of tea, a basket of freshly baked bread. He stays quiet, a guarded expression in his eyes as Simon reaches for a roll, still piping hot, Pigeon watching with mild interest.
And then. “You can’t keep this pace, Simon. You’re killing yourself.”
Simon breaks off a small piece of bread for his familiar, the bird making a small clicking sound with its beak as it accepts the offering before Simon pops a piece in his mouth. “I don’t really have a choice, Price.”
He chews thoughtfully for a moment, feeling exposed in this setting, the room bright enough that Simon knows the prominent scars around his mouth and chin are on full display.
But Price has seen Simon before, the man behind the mask, the famed monster hunter, the only one Simon has willingly taken his mask off for. Price knows it's easier for Simon to remain Ghost, never wanting anyone to peer too closely, to see the horror etched into his face, the brutality of what it meant to be in his profession, and what it meant to have decisions made for you as a child.
A child who’d paid the price for doing nothing wrong.
“There’s no pattern to this,” Simon explains softly, Pigeon moving off Price’s shoulder, small clacks against the table before the bird ruffles around for a long moment, two feathers dropping gracefully onto the table.
It’s a peace offering of sorts, one Simon won’t turn down. “These mutts are coming out in droves, acting reckless, venturing close to homesteads and villages.” Simon pauses, lifting a hand to trace mindlessly at the deep groove on the bottom of his chin. “You know they don’t do that. Something is making them act strange, and I can’t figure out the reason for it.”
Price hums, tearing off a small hunk of bread before popping it into his own mouth, crumbs scattering in his beard, the man’s short brown hair covered by a woolen cap. “Can’t save everyone, Simon.”
“Don’t remind me,” Simon grumbles. It's an argument he’s heard before, Price telling Simon to stop focusing on the why of monster hunting, that there was no rational reason why these beasts went from peaceful to vicious in the span of a few days.
It was just in their nature.
But Simon knows plenty about the nature of beasts; he’s seen them up close—bloody, snarling, dying. And at the end of the day, he knows exactly who the true beast is.
It's the beast that finds Simon in the middle of the night, the one whose claws sink in, refusing to let go until he wakes in gasping pants, skin drenched in sweat, heart racing in his chest.
The one that sounds like the echo of screams, the one that feels like the sharp steel of a blade slicing through skin.
The one that looks like his father.
“You are spread too thin, if you would consider a —”
“I take it, you have a room for me?” Simon interjects, watching the frown on Price’s face, the man knowing a losing argument when it’s staring him in the face. Price nods his head, a small, resigned sigh as he ruffles around in his pouch for a long moment, pulling out a small silver key.
“Third floor,” Price tells him, Simon reaching forward, and yet as he grabs the key, Price’s hand closes around his, jaw set as Simon meets the steely blue of his gaze. “We are going to talk about this, Simon.”
“What is there to talk about Jon?” Simon pushes, pulling his hand away, ignoring the heat that lingers on his skin, Price’s temper already getting the best of him. “I am going to find out why this is happening. What happened to that logical sense of thinking of yours? Don’t tell me coin has replaced it.”
“You very well bloody know this isn’t about coin,” Price says, a scrunch of his nose, the sigils on his skin beginning to ignite in small bursts of red warmth. “You’re out there risking life and limb day after day, you need a partner, Simon. You know that as much as I do.”
Simon clicks his tongue, Pigeon flying to his shoulder. “Get some rest, Price, and calm the fuck down before you burn down the place”
Simon doesn’t miss the small puffs of steam rising from the man’s skin, Price clearly having trouble keeping that temper of his in check. “I am plenty calm.”
Simon says nothing, only moves swiftly toward the stairs, his boots sounding loudly on the hardwood beneath, shoulders stiffening when he hears Price clear his throat, the man never one for being able to drop a subject.
“And Simon,” Price says, his voice nothing more than casual indifference. But Simon hears that tone, knows the man is a stubborn bastard that won't stop until Simon relents. “We can discuss this later.”
Simon groans the moment he closes the door behind him, the quiet of his room, small as it is, a welcome distraction from the pounding headache making his ears ring. Pigeon flies off his shoulder, settling on the desk on the other side of the room, Simon reaching into his pouch, grabbing the feathers his familiar dropped for him earlier.
He trudges forward, a broken, dirty mirror above the wash basin, Simon wiping it with one his gloves, able to get a good enough view of his damaged armor, the large hole from the spikes that had ripped through.
He was lucky tonight, he knows that. But he’s not about to spiral down that path, already bleary-eyed, and wanting nothing more than to collapse into the bed.
Simon lifts the black raven feather, pressing it against the armor, a flash of light, the feather melding with the armor as it closes around the hole, reinforcing it once more.
He repeats the process, Simon knowing he’ll take as many feathers as he can, and that Pigeon must have been feeling generous if he was willing to drop two in one go. He inspects it one last time, running his hand over the smooth spaulder, not a single indication it’s been damaged.
Thank fuck.
He doesn’t waste any time stripping out of his armor, his mask coming off first, running a hand through his messy red curls, dirt and grit beneath his hands as he scratches at his scalp. Simon tosses a glance toward the door of the room, only hoping someone in this inn has the ability to conjure hot water.
There’s a metal tub on the other side of the room, small, but Simon can squeeze himself into it if necessary, knowing that much wasn’t made for this world for people who were over six feet tall.
Simon peels off his cloak, the raven feathers swaying with the movement, his armor and chest plate coming with it. His entire body is sticky with sweat, Simon inspecting his arms for any stray cuts or bruises, fingers brushing over the swirls of black covering the expanse of skin from his shoulder blade to his wrist on his left arm.
It’s a canvas of black ink, a new tattoo for every monster he kills, etching itself onto his skin each time. Simon turns his arm left and right until he spots the latest addition, frowning when he sees it’s nothing more than a spike.
“Hilarious,” Simon groans, running his hand over the ink. It’s nothing new, these tattoos, something that’s been happening to Simon since he came of age. He’s never understood the science behind it, and it gives him a headache every time he tries, but over the years he’s stopped trying to make sense of why things happened the way they did.
He's learned it's better not the question the why of things in a world filled with magic and monsters.
Instead, he keeps his tattoos covered, not really enjoying the stares they seem to attract. He already gets enough stares as it is, his bone mask being the reason for that most of the time, and as Simon has learned over the years, most people are not as quiet as they actually think they are.
Simon’s gaze darts to the door when he hears a knock, a muffled voice from the other side before Simon shrugs his mask back on, sighing damn near in relief when he sees it’s a house maid on the other side, her eyes widening as she stares directly at the bone mask, her voice timid and shy.
“Would you like a hot bath, sir?”
Simon nods, making space for the woman as she squeezes by him, the blue sigils on her arms like a homing beacon Simon can’t tear his gaze from.
A water elementalist, and from the way the steam begins filling the room as she approaches the metal tub, a talented one too. He watches her quietly, the fluidity of her movements reminding Simon of those dances he would watch in the village square of his hometown each year. It’s the same way his own body moves during the hunt, the pivots and turns, the way his body reacts without thought or reason. A dance of death he supposes, if you were comparing the two.
Yet now, this dance is anything but, a gentle calm filling the space as a ball of water appears before the girls outstretched hands.
“I’ll get this filled for you straight away.”
Simon only nods, the sound of water striking the tub filling the silence. He owes Price a thank you for this, despite Simon suspecting the reasons as to why he sent Simon a mage.
Ten minutes later, Simon is sinking into the water, not bothering to stifle his obnoxious moan, gritting his teeth as the water comes into contact with tonight’s wide array of cuts and scrapes, maybe one or two that might need stitching, but that’s a problem for another time.
He looks over to where he laid his armor, Pigeon walking over the padding, beak pecking in aggravation at several spots, and Simon can only smile. His familiar might be the grumpiest little shit in the entire English countryside, but he did care enough to keep Simon’s armor in tip top shape.
He lays his head back, the metal basin uncomfortable against his scalp, his body relaxing further into the water, Price’s words floating in his mind as he attempts to close his eyes. It’s something the man has been telling him for years, the need for Simon to have a partner, to ease the burden of his job.
Monster hunting was in his blood. His father had been one of the leaders of the largest guild in England, and despite memories that Simon rather not recall, he was taught to be the best, to track monsters, to sniff them out.
He’d been approached about a partner in the past, but it was something Simon always turned away. It was easier to work alone, to avoid the questions that people always seemed to have on the tip of their tongue.
Simon didn’t want to give reasons as to why he wore a mask, why he hid his face.
He didn’t want anyone peering too closely, because he knew it was simply easier to be a Ghost.
When Simon wakes the next morning, he can already tell he’s overslept. The sunlight that fills the room is bright, telling of early afternoon. He groans, moving off the small bed, his feet hitting the floor with a thud.
His head aches, Simon running a hand through his ruddy curls, as he blinks slowly, trying to gain his bearings. It’s nothing that a cup of tea won’t fix, and makes quick work of getting dressed, choosing to ignore his armor in favor of a soft pair of pants and a long-sleeved tunic, not in the mood for the stares that his entire getup usually earns him.
He stares at his mask for a long moment, hesitating as he runs his fingers over the white bone, over the elongated teeth on either side of the jaw. It’s a piece of him that he relies on more than he’s willing to admit, and yet Simon knows it isn’t needed right now.
In this quiet inn where people pay him little mind, he can shed that skin he wears, that persona of Ghost, allowing for a bit more of Simon to peek through.
It’s a vulnerability, one that prickles with unease against his skin, yet as he pulls his gaiter up to just beneath the bridge of his nose, he knows it’s something he needs to learn to deal with, despite how naked he feels like this.
He sees the way Price looks at him when Simon dons the skull mask in public settings, the furrowed brow, the worry burning in the crystalline depths of the man’s pale blue eyes. It’s the same reason Price wants Simon to adopt a partner, his worry and complaints a constant companion for Simon over the past few years, a reminder that despite Simon’s competency with his job, Price doesn't approve of him working alone.
But despite the promises Simon made to the man the day he saved him; this was not one Simon was willing to make.
He wouldn’t change his stance on the situation. He did work better alone, whether Price wanted to complain about it or not.
The inn is mostly empty at this time of the day, Simon in no mood to look for Price as he heads downstairs, the silence of the inn only broken by the occasional squeaky floorboard, the murmur of voices coming from the direction of the kitchen, and Simon’s thankful for it. He likes the quiet.
Prefers it actually.
He sits down at one of the small tables, a house maid coming over immediately, her fair cheeks flushed pink as she offers him a shy smile, setting down a bowl of stew in front of him, a steaming yeast roll accompanying it.
Simon thanks her, the girl’s gaze lingering for a long moment on the scars Simon knows she can see despite the hood he wears before she scurries off. He sighs, rucking the bottom of his gaiter up before spooning a hearty serving into his mouth, groaning low in appreciation, the first hot meal he’s had in days.
He eats quietly, knowing it’s only a few hours before sundown, and he won’t be surprised if Price wants to go out to the site where the beast fell, if he’s not already there.
Simon looks toward the rafters, trying to catch sight of Pige, but his raven is nowhere to be found, the bird likely with Price, which meant for now, he was keeping out of trouble.
Simon eats quickly, deciding to hide out in his room until Price likely comes to fetch him, spending the extra time polishing his armor, using the smallest bit of his own energy to repair the last few bits he missed with Pigeon’s feathers last night.
It’s not exactly magic the way Simon is able to repair these small bits of frayed leather, but it’s the closest someone like him is going to get to it. Magic was a staple in their society, despite some not being born with the ability to wield the elements, Simon being part of those ‘some’.
And while Simon was able to tap into a small amount of Pigeon’s magic, it was only because of the connection he shared with his familiar, nothing else.
Simon knew that despite the somewhat strained relationship he shared with his familiar, at the end of the day, he could rely on Pigeon. Their connection was strong, something Simon could feel humming beneath his skin, a piece of him that was bound to the raven in ways Simon still didn’t fully understand.
It was that same connection that allowed Simon to make small adjustments and reinforcements to his armor, enhancing it in a way that allowed him to withstand the type of hits he’d been taking out in the field lately.
Because, as much as Simon hated to admit it, the number of monster incidents was increasing.
There was something shifting, some reason as to why monsters were acting so differently, and Simon wouldn’t rest until he figured it out, Price’s bitching be damned.
It stays quiet for the rest of the afternoon, Simon fully dressed, his skull mask resting on the bed when Pigeon flies in through the open window of his bedroom, Simon casting the bird a look as he settles onto Simon’s shoulder, snagging a bit of Simon's messy red curls with his beak.
"Yeah, yeah," Simon says with a sigh, bending low to grab his mask, Pigeon ruffling his feathers as Simon pulls it over the top of his head. "Took you long enough, didn't it?"
The bird makes a sound low in his throat, knocking his beak against Simon’s head. “I see it,” Simon grumbles, attempting to reach for the small slip of paper that was left for him in the carrier around Pigeon’s neck, the bird attempting to snap at his hand, clearly aggravated and Simon truly does not have time for this shit.
He lunges forward, grabbing the scrap of paper, Pigeon biting hard on his pinkie in the process.
Simon curses under his breath as he unrolls the paper, immediately recognizing Price’s messy scrawl, telling Simon to meet him at the town gate.
“Lazy bastard,” Simon mutters, hands skimming over his leathers to check every knife is tucked where it should be. “Couldn’t fetch me himself, could he?”
He sighs, tightening the last few straps of his gear, adjusting his mask once more, feeling more like himself than he has all day.
The weight of the armor like a second skin, grounding him in a way nothing else does.
The Ghost once more.
England is fucking cold.
John pulls his coat tighter around his frame, a curse under his breath as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his large brown coat, chasing what little warmth he can find. The cold bites at his skin, settling into his bones, familiar but no less unwelcome.
It’s not much different from the weather he left behind in Scotland, miserable grey skies, damp air, the kind of chill that makes John’s bones ache, leaving him shivering for hours, always having a problem keeping warm, no matter how many layers he wore.
But he’d received a message yesterday morning, a type of energy transference he’s seen only a few times in person, burn marks appearing right on his fucking desk, something John was still unhappy about, a message, asking for John to meet in England.
And John knew there was only one person who had enough power to send that type of message.
John Price, a fire elementalist, and one of the strongest John had ever met in person. John had known Price for years, meeting up with him from time to time, telling John he wanted to make a small task force in the future, monster hunters from across the world.
A team.
It was something John craved to be a part of. Something he’s wanted for years.
Especially because the last time John considered himself a part of a team, he had —
Fuck.
He swallows thickly, refusing to spiral. He wills the images clawing at the back of his mind to flee.
He doesn’t want to remember the blood that painted his hands, the sound of her gasping breaths, as she'd told John it wasn't his fault.
But it was. It was his fucking fault, because he'd failed the one person in the world he always swore to protect.
John shoves his hands further into his pocket, his fingertips frozen despite the heavy gloves he wears. He takes a shuddering breath, determined to keep his mind on the task at hand. He can't spiral, not now. Not when he's so close to making a fresh start for himself.
John wants to work with a team, wants this so much he can practically taste it. It’s not that he hasn’t worked in small group stints over the years, he has — short-lived hunts that allowed him to earn enough coin to rent an apartment not far from his parents’ house in Scotland.
But it’s not the life he wants, not the one he envisioned for himself.
John’s alone, and despite having his parents close by, it’s a type of loneliness that he can’t shake, one that drags at his bones, tearing through skin.
Reminding him that this is all his fucking fault.
But maybe this is the change he’s been seeking, and can’t help the way his steps increase, heart thudding in his chest, wondering if this is why Price called him all the way out here. Because if Price is putting together the task force like he mentioned, and he asks John to join, he knows without a doubt what his answer will be.
John moves through the town square, dawn not far off, the faint trickles of red and gold already beginning to lighten the horizon. Price’s message was brief, only stating that he would be in Sterling, the town John moves through now, already a few vendors setting up booths on the side of the road, the morning market only a few hours out.
John isn’t exactly sure where Price will be, the message vague enough, yet he has a feeling it’s something he doesn’t need to worry about. Price knew John wouldn’t turn down coming to see him, which meant that Price would seek him out.
Eventually.
For now, John moves toward the inn, a good starting point if any, and a place where at least John can get a meal, hopeful that the town’s proximity to the river would mean they’d have fish on the menu.
He spots the 141st Inn up ahead, a few lamps glowing in the windows, and quickens his pace, ready to get inside, to plant himself in front of a fire, to thaw out his damn near frozen body. John can only fucking hope Price arranged some kind of room for him, especially after the bastard ruined his desk.
John yawns, stretching his arms overhead, tilting his head left, then right, a satisfying crack reverberating down his spine. He’d traveled all damn night to get here, and he’s more than ready to—
A sudden squawk nearly sends him flying out of his skin, massive black wings smacking him square in the face. John stumbles, blindly swatting at whatever the hell just hit him — a bird, he realizes, and a massive one at that, before two hands clamp down on his forearms, steadying him.
“Pigeon,” the voice snarls. “Get the fuck off of him.”
Another flap of those large wings, and John is blinking slowly, completely disoriented by what just happened in a matter of seconds, his eyes darting over to a large black raven that sits on the fence in front of the inn, dark eyes regarding John thoughtfully.
“M’ sorry. I don’t know what came over him,” that same voice sounds, and John realizes someone is still holding him, his face turning toward the man in front of him, John’s reassurance on the tip of his tongue —
And.
Oh.
Whatever John expected, he certainly wasn’t prepared to be greeted by a man wearing a skull mask. The stranger takes a step back, dark leather armor shining in the feeble bit of sunlight from where the sun is just beginning to crest the horizon, a large black cape is draped over his shoulders, one that looks to be made entirely of — feathers.
It’s intricate, designed in such a way that John nearly longs to reach out, to feel the silky touch beneath his fingertips, a hidden strength in their design, one John knows keeps the man safe when he’s out in the wilds.
Trickles of sunlight catch on the material on the cape, and for a moment, the darkness blooms with a quiet iridescence, subtle flashes of indigo, green, and violet shimmering like oil on water.
John cranes his head, meeting the man’s stare head on. The mask is sewn crudely onto a black hood of sorts, sharp canines on either side of the jaw. A monster skull, if John had to guess. Which probably means, this man is a hunter.
And he’s built for it. Tall, easily three inches on John, broad through the chest and shoulders in a way that speaks of long hours spent moving through the wilds, John suspecting that the man is all sharp planes and muscle beneath all those layers of armor.
Not that John is paying attention to that type of thing.
And while John knows he's not a small man by any means, next to this man he feels small for the first time in his life.
Yet what bothers him most is the way John can't get a read on him, the man's face entirely covered aside from those honeyed whisky eyes that peer down at him now. They pin John in place, not with aggression, but with something colder. Measured. Like he's being catalogued.
Or hunted.
Black grease paint rims his eyes, smeared roughly over the bridge of his nose, the only visible skin beneath the mask, and John can't help his curiosity, eyes flitting over to the raven, the bird watching him with that same calculated measure. As if John is the oddity here.
And maybe, John thinks idly, he is.
It could also be the fact that John hasn't been able to break his stare, knowing full damn well it's rude to do such a thing, his mother Ethel teaching him that rule from a young age. But there's something about this man, a tug in John's stomach, one he can't ignore. Like something brought them together.
But that would be foolish, and John MacTavish isn't foolish.
“It’s uh —” John begins, not knowing what’s more strange at the moment, the massive raven staring him down, or the man in the skull mask, who is equally staring him down. John takes a large step back, needing space, smoothing down the front of his large jacket. “It’s fine,” he finishes dully. “Needed a bit more excitement this morning I suppose.”
“A bit more?" the man pries, John getting the suspicion he’s raising a brow from behind his mask, but he can’t be too sure. “It’s barely morning as it is now, isn’t it?”
John furrows his brow, glancing toward the horizon. “I suppose that’s true. I’ve been traveling all night,” he says in explanation, pulling his jacket tighter around his frame with a shiver. "Just arrived, so if you'll excuse me —"
The man exchanges a glance with the raven, and John is too fucking tired for this, making to step around him, yet the man’s hand darts out, gloved fingers curling around John’s forearm.
“Where did you say you were from again?”
“I didn’t,” John spits, attempting to shove the man off, but his grip is like iron steel, unrelenting, and John feels his temper rise, hot and biting.
"I would suggest you get your hand the fuck off me," John warns, his voice low, the serrated edge of a blade. He doesn't care if this man is someone he probably shouldn't cross, he isn't going to let some asshole in a skull mask tell him what to do. John is competent, a skilled hunter in his own right, and when it concerns him, people have died for less.
The man snarls, pushing forward, the pressure on John’s wrist tightening, not enough to break it, but close enough to remind him that he easily could. “Answer the question.”
John smiles, defiant, challenging. Never one to back down. “And if I don’t?”
It’s a standoff, tension thick and heavy in the charged space between them. John doesn’t know who this man is, or more so what his problem is, but this fucker started it, and if John needs to, he sure as hell will end it too.
The stranger tilts his head slightly, eyes gleaming beneath the bone-white mask. “Stubborn little brat, aren’t you?”
John pats his thigh, the knife he carries secure and tucked away beneath his palm. “You don’t know the half of it.”
The man watches John for a long moment, and despite John not being able to see his mouth, he can tell the man is smirking, canines bared. Predatory. Dangerous.
“John!”
The tension snaps between them at the sound of John’s name, the man beside him stiffening, eyes boring a hole into the side of John’s head as he slowly turns on his heel. Across the road, the familiar form of John Price cuts through the fog, his partner Gaz by his side.
Price strides forward, clasping John on the arm, pulling him in for a quick hug. “You got here fast.”
John scoffs, yet returns the hug, nodding his head at Gaz, the man offering him a bright smile. “If I’d waited any longer, my desk would have burned down. Nice placement with your message, you ass.”
Price pulls away, a cheeky grin. “Ah, apologies. It’s a bit hard to get that particular trick down to an exact science.”
“A trick he says,” Gaz grumbles from off to the side, John offering the man a wry grin.
“Do you two know each other,” the masked asshole spits out, so silent that John had forgotten about him for a moment, those dark eyes darting between Price and John, a seething rage burning in their depths.
“Ah I see you’ve met our Ghost,” Price murmurs, a placating hand on Ghost’s shoulder, seemingly unaffected by the icy stare the man is offering him. “And Pigeon, of course.”
“Yeah,” John grumbles, rubbing at his scalp, still sore from that damn bird. He’s half-tempted to ask what kind of name Pigeon is for a raven but thinks better of it. “He’s just a ray of sunshine, isn’t he?”
“Just Pigeon’s way of showing affection is all,” Price says, nodding his head toward the inn. “Let’s get inside out of the cold, get a hot meal into your belly and then we can discuss —”
“Why is he here, Price?” Ghost growls, voice low, the serrated edge of a knife. “The fuck is this about?”
“Ghost, mate —” Gaz interjects, but Price can only grab his partner’s arm, a small shake of his head.
"He’s going to figure it out anyway," Price murmurs, guilt flickering across his face. "I wanted to ease you into this, Ghost, but seeing as you two have already met—" he exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "There’s no point avoiding it further."
“Avoiding what?” Ghost hisses, tension thrumming in his voice, his stance rigid “Spit it out, Price.”
Price blows out a sigh, blue eyes darting to John’s own. “John is here on my invitation. I wanted to ask him to join our team.”
John’s breath catches, a rush of heat surging through his chest as he straightens, eyes widening. This is the entire reason he made this trip, why he trudged through the cold, taking every mode of transportation possible before resorting to walking just to reach Price in time.
He’s desperate to be part of a team again, to feel useful.
To allow himself to remember that he is worthy of this career, that his past doesn’t have to define him.
John opens his mouth to accept, to tell Price that he won’t let him down — except Price isn’t looking at him anymore.
And John feels a rock lodge deep in his belly.
Price’s gaze is locked on Ghost, the man standing rigidly still, hands curled into tight fists at his side, animosity radiating from every inch of his body.
John can see the fight in the man’s gaze, the denial.
Because this can’t be happening.
“As Ghost’s new partner.”
And —
Oh fuck.