Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ocean is beautiful in its silence. 

John equalizes his breathing, a practiced rhythm as he begins his slow descent, the world above dimming with every kick of his fins. The pressure builds, a familiar squeeze against his ears, but he adjusts, exhaling gently as he sinks deeper beneath the waves.

He’s always enjoyed the quiet, the silence that surrounds him, an escape from reality, from the bustle of life. 

Down here there are no expectations, no demands.

Only the gentle thrum of his heartbeat, the warm embrace of saltwater, and the distant flicker of sunlight from above.

 He drifts further, body streamlined and easy, arms tucked close to his side. The deeper he goes, the more the world slips away, the ocean having always called to him, even when he was a small child. 

John has spent his whole life in the water, his small Scottish village where he was raised, nestled along the coast. His father was a fisherman, John later learning the family trade as well, yet he soon learned that he loved to be in the water, rather than above it.

He was a fish himself, as his parents called him, always more at home beneath the waves than on land, John growing up with sun-kissed skin and the taste of salt on his lips. And now, as an adult, he’s using that love of the ocean to help him propel further, today’s dive nothing more than practice to break the record for freediving. 

These dives are to strengthen his body, to sharpen his lungs, and for John there’s no other feeling quite like this.

The weightlessness, the feeling of slipping through the water, soundlessly. A peace he’s never been able to describe in words, and yet a peace he feels each time he slips beneath the waves. One he craves, one that settles that constant ache and tug in his chest, the one that makes John feel drawn to the water, a compulsion he’s never been able to ignore.

John’s eyes flit over to a school of silverfish, mirrored blades as they pass by him, catching the bits of light that reach this far down. But it’s still not far enough, John knowing that if he wants to beat the freediving record, he’ll need to continue these dives, daily at this point. And thankfully John has been able to go a little further each day.

John watches his depth gauge flicker past fifty, not his personal best, but he’s getting closer each time, knowing he still has a long way to go if he wants to break the record. But down here, efficiency is what matters most, every movement John makes, calculated and precise, John knowing full well that any wasted effort is nothing more than a stolen breath. 

He stays close to the dive line, connected to the boat above, a tether to Price and Gaz who are waiting for him. It’s the one fail safe of sorts in free diving, John running his fingers over the line, reassured always that if he were to truly get into trouble, he’s not alone.

Not really.

He pauses as he feels that familiar tightening in his chest, lungs pulling tight, feet angled downward, nothing but darkness below him.

But John has never feared the deep.

He craves this feeling, lost in the solitude that surrounds him, a tug in his belly, bright and sharp, urging him to go further, to surrender fully to the blue, to the shadows that wait just beyond. But John knows he can’t push himself, knows Price will never let him hear the end of it if John goes for longer than he said.

He has just enough air to make it back to the surface, and with a resigned sigh that only he can hear, he begins kicking toward the flickering sunlight, the shadow of their boat, something that John keeps his eyes trained on. 

Yet, something flickers at the edge of his vision, drawing John’s gaze away, eyes wandering across the dusky blue that surrounds him. It’s not a fish, that much John can tell, eyes roving to the schools that swim by him, lazy, deliberate movements that wouldn’t normally catch his attention in such a way.

John has spent his entire life surrounded by marine life, and for something to draw his attention this way, it has to be big.

Maybe a whale, or a stray turtle that he sometimes sees this far down. The water blurs around the thick shadows that fold into themselves, the sunlight from above not able to reach this depth as well. 

John tries to dismiss it, knows he’s already going past his time limit, but that nagging feeling in the back of his mind won’t leave, a word echoing over and over, one he can’t quite make out. It feels familiar, almost comforting, like clinging to the remnants of a dream even as it slips away when waking.

It’s a feeling that John has never felt this deep below the waves, the sensation of being watched. But he can’t tell from where, or more so, from what. He should feel unsettled, should feel like a piece of prey, ripe and open for the taking, especially out in open water like this.

But for some reason, he doesn’t, and John doesn’t know what to think of that.

John shifts, fully aware of the burning in his lungs, the need for air becoming a heightened concern, yet he allows his eyes to drift across the expanse of water, fingers fidgeting with the camera he keeps at his belt. If he can capture something, anything, maybe Price won’t give him such shit for going a few minutes over.

But the water remains calm, fish passing with relative ease, nothing out of the ordinary that could spook them like a shark or creature looking for a quick bite to eat, and John knows he really is out of fucking time now.

It’s just the pressure, he thinks, playing tricks on his mind. There’s not actually anything out in the water besides the usual marine life. 

Of course not.

He kicks to the surface, equalizing his breathing as he does so, his lungs burning more than he had intended, especially given the fact that he hadn’t meant to stay under this long. John pulls in a gasping breath as he breaks the surface, the sunlight shimmering against the waves, a relieved laugh ringing bright and free, Gaz, if John can tell, but right now he can’t see, his mask entirely too foggy.

He reaches blindly toward the boat, a hand closing around his forearm, water cascading off his body as John is pulled onto the boat.

He’s barely halfway onto the deck, before a voice cuts through, sharp and disapproving. 

“John.”

John can’t stifle his laugh, flopping onto the deck like an overgrown starfish. “Jesus,” John murmurs, yanking his mask off to toss a cheeky grin at his trainer and coach, John Price. “You sound like my mam.”

“Your mam would have your arse if she knew you were done there for fifteen minutes and not the five that we discussed,” Price says, crouching low, Kyle or Gaz as he was known and Price’s partner, tossing John an equally cheeky grin, a shake of his head as he smacks Price’s shoulder.

“Leave him be you grumpy bastard, you know our boy Tav always manages these dives just fine, yeah?”

“He’d manage them a lot better,” Price grouses, fingers pulling on his beard in annoyance. “If he followed the damn plan we spent days making.”

“Well,” Gaz says, offering John a wink, “He’s always been a slippery one. A clean in and out dive, no matter how deep he goes, isn’t that right, Soap?”

John groans, dragging the offered towel over his face as if it might muffle the embarrassment. “Thought we agreed you’d stop calling me that.”

Gaz just grins wider. “No fucking way. You earned that one.”

“Yeah,” Price adds dryly, folding his arms. “Doesn’t follow regulations for shit, dives past his limits, and still somehow comes up breathing. If that’s not Soap, then I don’t know what is.”

“Mm,” John grumbles as he sits up properly. “Yet you’re still here, aren’t you?”

“Don’t remind me,” Price scoffs, watching as John begins pulling off his fins. “Started a dive team with the two people in the world who can’t listen for shit.”

“Oi!” Gaz complains, smacking his partner on the shoulder. “If I recall, I seem to listen to you and your shit just fucking fine.”

John chuckles low under his breath as he stretches out on the deck, the bickering fading into nothing but white noise, because he’s still reeling over what Price just told him.

Fifteen minutes — he really is getting better. 

Time barely seemed to pass down there, John tossing a look at the side of the boat, half tempted to go for another dive, but he knows Price will have absolutely none of that.

“... could have blacked out,” Price is saying, John squinting up at him, the sunlight beating down on their small boat, a small thanks as Gaz hands him a bottle of water. “And then where would we be? Don’t let that head of yours get too fucking big, Soap. We have a record to break.”

John offers a non-committal hum, Gaz bending low to knock his shoulder against John’s own. “You alright, Tav? Pressure get to you?”

John sees the furrow of Price’s brow, the way the man lets his anger go for a moment to properly assess John, eyes roving over his face, a hand darting out to wrap lightly around his wrist. “Is your pulse —”

“I’m fine,” John grunts, yet he doesn’t yank his wrist away, letting Price check his pulse, even though he’s wearing an oximeter on his wrist that tells them both the numbers are within a safe range. “Just —” he trails off, a small shake of his head, Price and Gaz exchanging a long glance.

Gaz raises a brown brow, short wiry curls catching the sunlight as he cocks his head. “Just, what? Is there something we’re missing?”

John is quiet for a long moment. Maybe the pressure did get to him.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. But still, he can’t shake the lingering feeling that he wasn’t alone down there, that something was watching him, something unnatural — a feeling that lingers against his skin, one he can’t seem to shake, despite John feeling a bit woozy at the thought. 

“I guess yer right,” John says, almost sheepishly, pushing his damp mohawk away from his forehead. “Just the pressure is all.”

Price doesn’t look convinced. 

He releases John’s wrist, apparently satisfied with the numbers himself, yet stays close, eyes narrowing from under the brim of his cap. “You’ve done dives in worse conditions than this, stayed under for longer too. Never seen you come up quite this rattled.”

John scoffs, taking a large sip of water. “M’ no rattled.”

Gaz fumbles around with something on the side of the boat, pulling free a food bar that he shoves against John’s chest, enough of an indication that John needs to eat, to help settle his body after such a dive. “I don’t know about that mate,” Gaz says quietly, tossing a glance at Price. “Came up looking like you’d seen a ghost.”

John rolls his eyes, taking a bite, these damn things always tasting faintly like chalk and chocolate combined, but he won’t complain. Price pats John’s shoulder as he stands, crossing his arms, concern and annoyance etched into every feature of his face.

“I’ll get the logs written,” he says, nodding his head toward the shaded area of the boat. “Go cool down, take a fucking nap you menace.”

John offers him a laugh, letting the easy chatter between Gaz and Price wash over him, the familiar background noise steadying that frayed nerve that doesn’t seem to want to settle. He scooches over into the shaded bit of the boat, the metal warm under his legs, the engine humming beneath them as Price raises the anchor. 

Maybe he is just tired. He didn’t sleep well the night before, and as John lays his head back against the worn seats, he feels the exhaustion pull heavily at his body. His muscles are sore, an ache beneath his skin that’s both satisfying and insistent.

A feeling that makes his head swim in the worst way, one that pulls and tugs. One that tells John he needs to think harder about all of this. 

But he doesn’t want to. His mind is racing with thoughts he doesn’t even want to consider, because none of it makes sense.

It’s the same feeling he gets when walking out the door, only to stop cold with the realization that he’s left the stove on. That sharp, gnawing wrongness that tells you that you’ve missed something.

That something is wrong.

That something is waiting.

But that’s impossible, John knows that. He’s been diving for years, and if he’s feeling anything now, it’s just the nerves of wanting to perfect his dive for the world record. 

That’s all.

There’s nothing there, nothing at all, and yet as John closes his eyes, as the roar of the boat pulls him into a dreamless sleep, he doesn’t know why those thoughts taste like ash on his tongue.

Ghost stopped missing the light years ago. 

His eyes have adapted to the dark; his other senses have become more keen with time. 

He doesn’t need the light. 

As he glides across the silent ocean floor, he’s reminded that there is light here, just not for human eyes. He startles a small group of squid and they burst into various shades of bright flashing colors as they zip away from him and then wink out in the darkness. 

It only takes a moment for him to realize the squid aren’t running from him. Loud clicking perforates the silence and Ghost moves to the side as a pod of sperm whales glide past him, on the hunt for giant squid. A juvenile whale rolls onto its side, and Ghost can hear the litany of clicks and squeaks it lets out, studying him. 

The older whales don’t slow, don’t act as if they’ve seen him at all, but the young whale circles him a few times, curiosity evident in the way it rolls, trying to get a view of him from all angles. After a few moments it lets out a satisfied squeal and then rushes off to catch up with its pod. 

Ghost does smile at that because while he left the light and humanity behind years ago, he’d found a world richer in life than he could have imagined. 

Slowly, Ghost allows himself to drift upwards. He’s in no real hurry today, knowing he’s early and will likely reach the depth he hunts at before his prey does. Like the sperm whales, Ghost is also on the hunt but, instead of squid, he’s after snapper tonight. So he lazily swims, enjoying the different species of fish he encounters at different depths. 

He holds around what he feels is a hundred meters deep, judging from the pressure. 

In the distance, something catches his eye and, as usual, his curiosity gets the best of him. He slowly circles in that direction, gliding closer and closer to the object he can see in the water with each pass. It doesn’t take long for him to realize it’s an anchor line, but as he approaches, he sees that there are depth tags attached every ten meters. 

It’s not just an anchor, it’s a dive line. 

Ghost hovers there a moment, listening, but he doesn’t hear the awful gurgling of scuba tanks, doesn’t hear the wet inhales of divers or the noisy way they try to talk to each other even underwater despite their mouthpieces. Reaching out, he takes the line in a clawed hand, considers cutting through it, but doesn’t for reasons he can’t explain. 

Instead, he looks up, and there, outlined in the water about ten meters above him, floats a man. 

Simon plans to dive, to get deep enough that the man can’t see him, to simply let the darkness swallow him back up and leave no trace. But something holds him in place for just a moment and then, he swims closer, intrigued. 

He makes sure to stay far enough away that the man shouldn’t be able to see him, and he stays silent as the man pauses at depth, then turns and begins his ascent. His movements are strong, slow–calculated. He moves well in the water, better than most humans, and Ghost can’t help but watch in silent appreciation as he slowly circles the man. 

Most humans believe they have excellent body awareness until they get in the water. Then they become oddly buoyant, clumsy sacks of flesh. They splash and buoy at awkward angles, shriek at each other for help, and just in general would be better off staying on land. But this one. . . there’s something different about this man. He moves with a power and grace that Ghost hasn’t seen a human accomplish before and it’s only when the man’s head snaps his direction that he realizes he’s drifted too close. 

John watches his gauge meter as he continues his descent, slow and steady, controlled breathing the entire while. It’s been two days since his last dive, Price recommending they take a day off, give John some time to decompress since he’d seem so ‘rattled’, and John couldn’t really disagree with him.

He’d slept most of the day yesterday, tossing and turning, but when he’d woken this morning for his sunrise dive, John had felt refreshed, ready to go. And now, back here in the water, he feels rejuvenated in a way, telling himself that what he felt the other day was likely the anxiety about breaking the record coming to bite him in the ass.

John has been stressing about it for weeks, and while he knows that doesn’t help the situation at all, he also can’t help it. He sighs, blowing out a small stream of bubbles, the tightening in his chest lessening, his ears equalizing to the pressure around him. He can’t lose focus, can’t worry about monsters lurking in the deep. His mind is playing tricks on him, and John’s determined to shake those thoughts loose. 

To focus on what’s really important, and that’s training his body. Doing what he knows best.

And nothing else.

John has spent his entire life in the ocean, he craves the feeling, salt on his tongue, sand in his hair, the way his mind forever silences beneath the waves. He’s always felt a connection with the water, a healthy respect, John aware of the amount of divers who have drifted beneath the waves only to never surface again. 

But that won’t be him. He’s not going to allow his delusions from the other day to distract him from what his real goal is. John has been training his body for years. Time spent in compression chambers, countless hours at the gym. He’s honed his body, fined tuned for his sport, and he won’t let anyone down.

Price and Gaz, the three of them make up the entirety of Dive Team 141, and if John breaks this record, they’ll finally get the notice they deserve. Sponsorship opportunities, money pouring through the door, more instructors, a place for divers to come and learn from one of the best instructors John has ever worked with.

Price knows the water better than most, Gaz, his long time partner, right along with him. John was blessed in many ways, not only that they were his team, but his family as well. He loved them both, respected the hell out of them. 

He wanted to break this record not just for him, but for all of them.

John pushes further down, a slow descent. He feels good this morning, the darkness and shadows surrounding him, eyes darting to the array of fish that swim by, the faint outline of whales in the distance, a small calf following closely next to his mother. 

This is where he feels the most alive, the most free, that tug in his chest subsiding the further down he goes, small controlled kicks that propel him downward.

His fingers curl lightly around the dive line, a small tug to let Price know he’s okay. It’s the only way to communicate really, their system consisting of one tug for check-in’s and two tugs if something’s gone wrong.

John’s never needed two tugs, and hopefully, he doesn’t ever need to.

He checks his gauge, a smile curving his lips when he sees he’s passed the 100 meter mark, the pressure around his chest definitely becoming noticeable. This dive is already going better, no shadows looming in the dark, only the normal marine life, a few schools of fish passing idly by.

Yet, the further he goes, the more he begins to notice that subtle feeling of being watched. It begins slowly, traveling down the length of his spine, an awareness that makes him want to turn his head, to search left and right, but he doesn’t, steeling himself, knowing he needs to stay focused, because this is what matters.

Instead he glides his fingers over the dive line, allowing the familiar feel to settle his nerves.

John can’t allow his heart rate to spiral, he has only a precious amount of air, and he will absolutely not fuck this up by hyperventilating over literally nothing. Yet that does little to settle the unease, a prickling feeling against his skin, clinging to the wetsuit that molds to his body. It’s the feeling of eyes on the back of his head, watching him from the shadows, from the murk just beyond where the water obscures his vision.

John can’t huff in frustration despite the want to do so, and slowly releases more controlled bubbles. He needs to get to 110 meters today, that’s as far as he told Price he’d go, and he’s really not in the mood to piss the man off further. 

He watches the numbers slowly tick up, 103, 104 — and yet that feeling remains, John half tempted to offer a one finger salute to the shadows, wondering if the pressure really has sufficiently fucked with his head.

He’s never wanted a dive to go faster, the need to break the surface, to suck in lungfuls of air. To feel the sunlight on his face and remind himself that there is absolutely nothing this far down. John is just tired, and maybe is suffering from compression sickness, but he’s reaching 110 meters today damnit, shadowy figures lurking in the depths or not.

Another few meters and the gauge clicks to 110, John feeling an elation bloom in his chest. The world record is definitely more than this, but the dives are becoming easier, John knowing he could go deeper, but he’s already decided he’s not going to push his limits, at least not today. 

He tugs once on the rope, and with one more look back toward the shadows, slowly begins his ascent, unaware of the eyes that follow his every movement.

The dive line is still there, cutting through the water column, silently mocking Ghost. 

He should just cut it, send it to the bottom to decompose and let the buoy floating at the top drift away on the current. But he doesn’t. An insatiable curiosity nags at him, has him waiting at the base of that line for a full day, wondering about that human, thinking about how his eyes are the color of the water at the surface. 

It has him drifting slowly up the line when he feels vibrations travel down it. 

It could be other divers, there are no guarantees it’s the same man, but still he goes. The depth tags get shallower and shallower as he ascends, drawing him closer and closer towards the light; towards the surface. A place he said he would never visit again.

Ghost is shocked when he sees the man above him, at a hundred meters. 

The human’s movements tonight are tense, tight; less graceful than they were the day before. With every kick he wastes a little energy by holding himself so stiffly instead of letting the water cradle him. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, back behind him, his movements becoming inefficient the deeper he gets. 

He reaches out and grabs the line at the marker that reads ‘110m’. He gives it one hard yank, and then turns as if he’s going to ascend. But he stops, hovers there for one long moment looking beneath him, then turns. 

Ghost follows. 

He’s not close enough that he risks being seen, but he follows all the same. It’s closer to the surface he’s been in years, closer to full sunlight than he’s been. So he stops around thirty meters, unwilling to risk being seen openly, in broad daylight. 

Above him, he can hear the thud of someone being pulled into a boat, can faintly hear the footsteps in the boat, the hull of the boat bumping in the small swells. After about ten minutes of this, the motor starts, and the boat heads towards shore. 

Ghost follows. 

About five minutes into his swimming does his rational brain catch up with him. What is he doing? Why the fuck is he following this boat to shore? He isn’t thinking straight. Maybe he’d come up from the depths too fast. To remedy this lapse in judgment, he begins to dive again, to let the darkness envelope him, protect him. But the deeper he goes, the more wrong it feels, until the darkness becomes a tangible pressure against his skin.

There’s a tug in his chest, one he’s never felt before. But it feels the same way he’s heard humans in the past describing the need to breathe. It’s an urgency, some biological impulse pushing him towards. . . something. 

Ghost decides to run an experiment. He ascends again and the tug lessens slightly. He descends and the tug becomes more severe. Turning, he begins swimming away from shore, and it noticeably becomes worse. 

Confused, and more than a little curious, Ghost follows the disturbed trail of water the boat’s motor has left towards shore. 

He takes his time, not putting too much energy into his movements as he swims. Ghost knows where this boat is headed. He’s seen it before, years ago. . . the last time he was on land. So he swims slowly, letting the dark of night envelope him. 

It’s a joke really, the dark of night cannot compare to the darkness at the bottom of the sea. That darkness is absolute, all consuming. What the humans consider to be dark is paltry in comparison. But still, it will provide Ghost with the cover he needs, craves, so he isn’t seen. 

By the time he arrives at the docks, it’s well after midnight. The moon is a thin sliver in the sky, affording very little light. So, for the first time in years, Ghost allows his legs to emerge as he pulls himself onto the wooden planks of the dock. 

John doesn’t often dream. He’s usually too exhausted from the day's events that every time he closes his eyes, he’s pulled into a dreamless, blank void for hours on end.

But tonight is different.

He dreams of the ocean, of the warm water surrounding him, the sway and flow of the current. That same sense of peace washing over him, and yet, like many dreams do, the scene shifts, the blue, crystalline waters shifting to nothing more than shadowed murk. 

John can’t see, thrashing wildly, a tightening in his chest, the need for air, yet he can’t tell which way is up, can’t see where the bubbles leaving his mouth are rising to. He looks frantically left and right, searching for the dive line, for the two tugs he needs to give for Price to know something’s wrong.

But it’s not there.

He’s alone.

He’s — alone.

The pressure is too much, too fucking much —

He reaches blindly through the murk and fog surrounding him, grasping for something, for anything, his mouth opening in a silent scream when something grabs him back. It’s not gentle, John’s body stiffening as fingers curl around his forearm, pulling him forward, his thrashing useless against the strength that guides him forward.

The last of his air is burning bright hot in his lungs, and just before he goes under, he sees them.

Those eyes that have been watching him take form, an amber fire in their depths, cutting through the dark with an unnatural clarity.

And John can do little except scream.

John sits straight up in bed, sucking in lungful's of air, his shirt plastered to his skin, hair damp against his forehead. His heart races in his chest, wild and erratic as he tries to calm his breathing, scrubbing a hand down his face as he puffs out shaky exhale after shaky exhale.

He’s on his feet before he can think it over, the sheets tangled around his legs, John quickly shaking them off before they fall into a crumpled heap on the floor. But John can’t be bothered to care, feet padding quickly to the back door of the small apartment he’s been renting while he trains for the record break, a small studio that sits right on the edge of the water. He throws open the sliding glass door, pushing out onto the small deck, if you could even call it that. Not more than one person can stand here, the wooden boards creaking under his feet, a shabby set of stairs leading to the sand below.

It’s quiet, the ocean breeze cooling his overly heated skin as Soap grips the wooden banister, eyes roving over the water, the hint of dawn on the horizon in the distance. Fuck, he hasn’t had a dream like that in years, his entire body trembling, legs like jello beneath him.

He knows he’s scheduled to meet with Price in a few hours, knows the man is only in the next apartment over with Gaz, and is probably awake, but John won’t bother him with this. He can handle a nightmare, he’s a grown ass man.

John knows his paranoia over the feeling of being watched during his last two dives led to that dream, yet what he can’t shake is the image of those eyes. A golden fire, so haunting, yet so — familiar, that it makes John’s chest ache. 

He would know if he’d seen eyes like those before, unnatural in a way, reminding John of the way the ocean looks first thing in the morning, when the first rays of light wash the surface in a light golden hue. Beautiful, yet — there’s always been something about it that’s made John a little uneasy, the beauty of it masking the dangers lurking beneath.

He scoffs, shaking his head, deciding to go back inside, to try and sleep for another hour despite knowing it’ll be useless.

And when he closes the door, John is too distracted to notice the wet footprints that catch the light of the rising sun on the deck, the trail leading to the sand below before disappearing completely. 

John knows he looks like shit.

He sees it in the stares that Price and Gaz offer him as John zips himself into his wetsuit, a loud sigh passing his lips as he adjusts the creases around the legs. 

It’s only after John has the entire thing on does he level a glare at the both of them, a hand cocked on his hip.

“The fuck is wrong with you lot this morning?”

“Nothing,” Gaz says immediately, eyes roving down to John’s arm, a shit-eating grin. “Is our teapot a little testy this morning?”

John drops his arm in an aggravated snarl, sitting on the edge of the boat to pull on his fins, more than ready to dive down beneath the waves, already sick of the pair of them and the sun isn’t even fully risen into the sky.

“Real fucking funny,” John grumbles, the loud snapping of rubber as he puts on the first fin, Price handing him the second, eyes hardened as he stares at John for a moment longer.

And John is really in no fucking mood for this.

Price sighs, John opening his mouth, ready to tell the man to spit whatever he has to say, out, when the man begins speaking, “John, we’ve talked about how important it is to get a full night's rest.”

“Aye,” John murmurs, eyes darting to the water, the dive line already in place. He’s been getting plenty of rest, Price should know that. 

“If you keep staying up late you’re never going to —”

John scoffs, interrupting the man before he can go further. “I had a nightmare you daft bastard,” John spits, Gaz handing John his goggles. “And before you ask. I’m fine. I can still do the dive.”

Price’s shoulders seem to relax some at that, the man tossing a glance at Gaz. “A nightmare? That’s a first for you.”

John only nods his head, remembering those strange golden eyes, the way they’d watched him from the depths. He glances toward the water, the waves a bit choppy, but nothing to be too concerned about. “Just —” he scoffs, a small shake of his head. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“If it’s bothering you —” Price begins, John tossing him a soft smile. He can see the concern, his coach and trainer, the one man in the world who sees through John a little too well. He doesn’t want to tell Price about the feeling he’s had beneath the waves,  doesn't want the man to worry him, or even worse, try to delay their record attempt.

“I had a nightmare, Price,” John says, tossing the man a grin. He can’t let Price or Gaz know how rattled he is, how much John has been thinking about the — creature, he supposes, that he feels is watching him. 

John furrows his brow, not sure why calling it a creature seems wrong. He doesn’t know if there’s actually anything there, and for all he knows his mind could just be playing tricks on him.

But he won’t elaborate, knowing full damn well if Price catches wind of John imagining something down on his dives, Price will definitely scrub the record attempt until he feels like John is ready.

He is ready.

He is.

“Dreaming about creatures in the deep,” John plays off, a half truth of sorts. “Stupid shite really.”

Gaz makes a sound in his throat, but Price is quiet for a moment longer, a contemplative look on his face. Something that John can’t quite get a read on. “Price?”

“A creature,” Price says finally, lifting a hand to stroke idly through his beard. “Anything I need to be concerned about?”

John shakes his head, “If you think some spooky golden eyes staring at me from the murk is something to be concerned about, then sure.” He scoffs, a small laugh. “Just a dream Price,” John chides, tossing a glance at his coach. “Nothing to be worried about, aye?”

Yet, the man doesn’t return a smile, blue eyes glancing toward the waves, a furrow in his brow that John doesn’t understand. “Yeah,” Price says finally, standing to clap John on the shoulder. “Just a dream.”

Ghost stands over the human’s bed again, watching his eyelids flutter as he dreams. He hadn’t intended on ending up back here, despite that damned pulling in his chest. But nevertheless, he’d climbed the water column, watched the human dive that night, and followed him back to shore after dark. 

The instinct gnawing at him is quieter now that he’s so close to the man, dominates his thoughts less. But it’s still there, quietly seeking more. Of what, Ghost doesn’t know. 

The man in front of him begins to squirm, face contorting as his dream seemingly turns into a nightmare. Ghost takes it as his cue to leave before the man’s brilliant blue eyes snap open and find him. He always seems to look directly at Ghost underwater, even if he knows the human can’t see him in the dark. He always seems to know somehow. 

Ghost slips from the room, down the short hallway and outside on silent bare feet. It’s just a short walk from the little hostel to the water and Ghost is nearly at the water when an orange glow pierces the darkness and lights up a face. 

“Fuck off,” Ghost snaps as John Price emerges from the shadows he’d been enshrouded in. The man always had an uncanny ability to hide. . . for a human at least. 

“Good to see you again, Simon,” the man chuckles, despite Ghost baring sharp teeth at him. 

Ghost ignores him and keeps walking, the water now splashing at his ankles and getting deeper as he marches. Frustratingly, irritatingly, Price follows. He’s wearing a loose pair of swim shorts and, once the water is waist deep, he turns and flops onto his back, cigar still in his mouth, and kicks along beside Ghost. 

“Figured you were still around here,” Price continues. “Hoped I’d run into you, at least get to see you’re alive and well.”

Allowing his tail to shift, Ghost continues on, swimming faster but. . . his curiosity begins to get the best of him, and he slows to a pace Price can keep up with. The man is a capable swimmer, and isn’t even breathing hard yet. He slows as Ghost does, simply floating on his back and irritatingly, still smoking his cigar. 

“Infuriating, isn’t he?” He mumbles around it. 

“Don’t know what you mean,” Ghost says, too fast. He cringes inwardly. 

Price just chuckles. “Soap has this effect on people. Draws them in, even if it’s kicking and screaming. Haven’t met a soul that doesn’t like him. Have met plenty that pretend not to, plenty that are jealous. But they do all like him.”

Ghost just sneers, allowing his body to wrap around Price, preventing the man from getting too far from shore in the dark. He gives Ghost a knowing look, but doesn’t say anything about it. 

“Why are you back here?” Ghost eventually manages. Speaking in a human tongue is unnatural for him, and his mouth feels wrong as he forms the words. 

Price hums, taking another drag from his cigar before removing it from his lips and blowing out a large smoke ring. 

“Hoped you were here,” he says again, but then he sighs and continues a little quieter. “Soap pushes himself. So I brought us here. Conditions are perfect for him to practice–he’s going for the record–and I’d hoped you were here.” Price turns and regards him with gentle eyes, always gentler than Ghost ever deserved. 

“Why?” Ghost asks again, growing impatient. 

“Because, despite your insistence that you’re not, you are good, Simon Riley,” Price says. “My hope is that if. . . when he pushes himself too far, you’ll be nearby. That if I can’t get to him, if I can’t protect him, you will.”

Ghost scoffs. “I’m not a charity.”

“He’s seen you,” Price looks over, a little too smug for Ghost’s liking. “He’s seen you and he’s dreaming of you.”

“Fuck off,” Ghost says for the second time that night. 

Price just chuckles and lazily turns and begins kicking towards shore, still on his back. “See you soon, Simon,” he calls. 

The dives don’t get better.

Each time John surfaces he can see the look in Price’s eye, the way the man can see right through John, see the way he’s not focused, the way John is ruining his own chances by allowing this distraction to consume him.

He’s being reckless, John knows that. But he has to know. 

There’s something watching him from the gloom, and John knows he’s no longer imagining it. It’s real, and John is determined to find out what it is.

“I’m scrubbing the attempt,” Price says as John pulls off his fins on the deck of the boat, the sun beating down hot and aggressive from up above. “You’re clearly not ready for this yet, John —”

John is on his feet, struggling to yank his other fin off, hair wet and matted to his forehead. “You can’t do that.”

“I can,” Price says, the tone firm and grounding, but John won’t hear it, tossing the fin to the floor of the deck. “And I will,” Price continues. “I won’t risk your health. I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to take a break. We can come back to this in a few weeks —”

“No,” John snarls, teeth gritted, chest heaving. “You have no fucking right. For weeks I’ve been working toward this. My dives are getting deeper on every attempt, why the fuck would you mess up this progress?”

“You’re not focused.”

“I’m fine,” John snaps right back. “I’m doing the dive.”

Price scrubs a hand down his face, irritation marring the lines of his brow. Behind them, Gaz prepares the boat, shooting John a sympathetic look, the vibration of the motor rumbling beneath their feet. “This isn’t up for negotiation.”

John scoffs, balancing himself as the boat hits a wave, fingers gripping the siding of the boat so hard that he’s sure he’s drawing blood. “You don’t make those decisions, Price.” He steps forward, vibrating in anger, the older man refusing to back down, holding his guard. “This is my attempt, do you understand me? Do ye fucking hear yerself? After all of this, you’re just going to give up?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Price grits, voice raised over the roar of the engine. “I just want you to take a break, we can try again next month —”

“Next month is entirely too late,” John spits. “If this is what you want then fine, I’ll do it without you.”

The words land sharp and fast, slicing through the heated tension between them. For a moment everything quiets, the boat, the roar of the engine, all of it silences, as if recoiling from the force behind John’s words. But he doesn’t care.

Not now. Not when this is what Price is suggesting.

“Careful,” Price warns, voice low but tight, words clipped at the edges. “You don’t get to threaten walking away from the person who is trying to keep you alive, Soap.”

“I don’t need your saving, Price,” John spits. “I have been training my entire adult life for this record. I won’t have you stop me now.”

Price throws up his arms, pure frustration. “Why are you being so fucking difficult, John? You can see, just as well as me and Gaz, that these dives aren’t going well. You’re distracted, you’re fucking sloppy, and until that bubble around your head pops, I don’t want you diving. I’m trying to help you.”

John doesn’t want to tell Price about what he thinks he’s seen deep below the water. Those golden eyes from his dream haunting his every waking thought. He knows it sounds crazy, knows that if Price really knew what was going on in his head, he would ask for more than just a month off.

But John can’t give up now. He feels like he’s so close to discovering what it is, that creature in the murk seemingly moving closer to him during each dive. He can’t lose his progress now, not when he’s so close to finding out what it is.

And suddenly John doesn’t know if his anger is about the dive anymore.

“I—” John starts, his voice cracking with the weight of everything he can’t say. His mouth opens again, then closes. He shakes his head. “Can’t.”

It seems like a foolish answer, yet John doesn’t know what else to say.

Price is quiet for a long moment before he speaks again, resignation heavy in his tone. “Whatever you’re chasing, John, it won’t end well.” His eyes drift toward the sea, squinting into the shimmer of sunlit waves, the light scattering across the surface like broken glass. “There’s nothing beneath those waves but Ghosts, and if you keep pushing yourself, you’ll end up one too.”

Chapter Text

Ghost doesn’t initially swim to the surface the next evening. He stays on the bottom, thinking about what Price said to him. 

The man had found him years ago, washed up and mostly dead on a deserted beach halfway between fuck all and nowhere. 

“Heard of you scaly fucks,” he’d grumbled as he hauled Ghost’s listless body into his boat. “Didn’t know if you were real though. Looks like you are.”

Ghost had been too weak to fight back, was so dried out and had lost so much blood that he couldn’t even move. He was totally at the man’s mercy. 

Price had tended to his wounds though, hands never straying anywhere they shouldn’t; touch firm but gentle. He’d even stayed gentle when Ghost got back the strength to bite him, drag him from his little bungalow on the beach down to the water and threaten to drown him. 

He’d just gone limp, gone along with it, never screamed or cursed. Price certainly could have gotten away considering Ghost had been too weak to shift his tail into legs, but he didn’t try anything. By the time Ghost had gotten him halfway in the water, he’d run out of energy. 

Surely the man would beat him then, would make him take responsibility for the pain Ghost had just caused him. But he merely hooked his arms under Ghost’s and dragged him back to his bungalow, bandaged his own arm up, and then made them dinner as usual. 

He’d spent a few more weeks with Price, learned he was from Birmingham, that his grandmother swore her husband had been a mer after her mind began to slip. Price said none of his family believed her, chalked it up to old age and dementia. But later, after she’d passed, he’d helped his parents clean out her home. 

He’d stumbled upon her journals from when she was younger. Parsing through them felt like a violation at first, but the further he got, the more she’d written about merfolk. 

Price had quietly tucked the journals away, never letting the rest of his family see them. He’d never quite known if his grandmother had been delusional or if she just happened to know a secret, but he hadn’t wanted to disrespect her memory. 

“Turns out, she was right,” he’d chuckled around a cigar in his mouth one night. “So you want to tell me how you ended up beached?”

And. . . for some reason, Ghost told him. He gave him a very abbreviated version of events, but he’d grown to understand that Price may very well be a good human. He’d frowned as Ghost talked, ran his hand through his beard thoughtfully, and then promised it wouldn’t happen again. 

Ghost isn’t sure how he could make such promises, especially concerning other people, but he drops it. Several days later, Price went out for supplies, or that’s what he claimed. He was out late, didn’t come back until well after midnight and when he did he’s covered in blood and gore. 

“It’s not mine,” he grunts as he shoulders the door shut behind him. “Not much of it, at least.”

It was silent as Price showered, then patched up the two small cuts he had. 

“You’re free now,” he muttered, looking out the open window he sits in as he smokes. “Really free. If you ever need anything again, you come find me, yeah?”

A few days later, Ghost slipped back into the sea without a word. He’d left a dive knife on Price’s nightstand as thanks, an old sterling silver one he’d found on the bottom. He’d polished it up, crafted the handle out of mother of pearl. 

It’s a gorgeous knife, and one he still sees Price carrying when he dives over the years. They don’t talk. Ghost only sees the man when he dives deep, with tanks. Price only ever gives a nod of respect, a small smile around his mouthpiece. 

He never pushed Ghost. 

Now, Ghost looks down over his scars. Over the wounds Price helped him heal all those years ago. He has always been bothered that he'd never found a real way to repay the man. So, irritated, he shoves off the bottom and searches for the dive line. 

Soap’s movements are tight, his kicks jerky, and his hands are balled into tight fists as he dives. He’s wasting a lot of energy and air moving like that. 

Ghost watches from the darkness, well below where the human could possibly see him. He makes several attempts, each dive worse than the one before. Then he doesn’t come back down. Ghost wastes several minutes before allowing himself to float towards the surface. He can hear muffled shouting, Price and Soap. Then the boat engine starts and they go tearing off back towards shore. 

*****

Ghost can’t tell if the human is sleeping fitfully, or if he’s fully awake. He crouches outside, by the window to his room and listens as the bed and sheets rustle again. There’s faint grumbling, one that’s decidedly not from a man who’s awake, so Ghost stands and pulls himself silently in through the cracked window. 

He hadn’t planned to end up here. Hadn’t planned to stand over Soap one more night and watch, enraptured. 

Annoyance claws at him, at this human who has cast some sort of spell on him to have him trailing along behind like a pathetic pup seeking validation. Ghost can’t figure out what’s different about this one, why this one has him struggling to sleep himself, struggling to focus when he hunts. 

Eyes and mind always straying back towards shore when Soap isn’t in the water. 

Curiosity gets the best of him, and he reaches out, trailing fingers over Soap’s bare collarbone. He’s warm to the touch, and as soon as Ghost’s fingers grace his skin, he settles. The furrowed brow he’d been wearing smooths out, his chin tilts back slightly, and a long sigh leaves his lips as he falls still. 

Intrigued, Ghost lowers his hand until he can place his palm and fingers flat against the center of the human’s chest. He has a generous amount of hair covering his skin, and Ghost allows himself just a moment of brushing his thumb into it before he catches himself and stops. But he doesn’t pull away because Soap doesn’t stir. So Ghost stays where he is and simply allows himself to feel the heart beating underneath the skin of his hand; steady and strong. 

For the first time since he first laid eyes on this confounding human several days ago, the nagging in the back of Ghost’s mind quiets. The tugging in his chest eases, and Ghost finds his eyes drifting closed, able to relax for the first time since. . . since he doesn’t remember when. 

A door slamming closed somewhere else in the bungalow startles his eyes back open, and he’s slipping back out the window just as he hears Soap rustling in his sheets again. 

John knows he has a temper.

He’s heard it his entire life, his mam chiding him more times than he can count about having a short fuse, like a fucking firecracker, she called him.

And perhaps he can give Ethel MacTavish that.

Because John knows, she would certainly have a lot to say about what John is doing now. Starting the engine to Price’s boat, looking over his shoulder, and feeling like nothing more than a common criminal.

He’s not stealing his coach’s boat, not at all. He’s simply borrowing it while Price and Gaz are out of town for a few hours, their weekly supply run, and John doesn’t want to think about how well he has this entire situation timed out.

He knows he can give himself at least an hour for the dive, knows he needs thirty minutes total to drive to the diving site and back.

But mostly, John knows if he keeps to the schedule he’s been plotting in his mind for a few days, he’ll have finished the dive and be back before Price and Gaz know any better.

So technically, at least according to John’s slightly frantic mind, he’s not really doing anything wrong.

Technically.

He pulls out of the harbor, one more glance toward the dock, as if Price will appear out of nowhere and attempt to run down John with his car. But thankfully, John is greeted by nothing but silence, most people having gone home for the night.

And before he can really consider if this is the best choice, the boat is speeding away from land.

***

It’s easier than John expects to get everything set up for the dive. He’s done it countless times, has been the spotter for Price on more than one occasion, and while John briefly considers whether he should bring down an oxygen tank, he quickly dismisses it.

He isn’t planning to make a long dive. He just needs to see.

One last time.

If John can prove to himself that nothing is there, then he’ll be able to drop this foolishness. He won’t wreck his career over this, and despite Price scrubbing the dive attempt, the man hasn’t bothered John since their argument on the boat three days ago.

But that’s fine, because John is making the right choice now.

And before he can talk himself out of it, he’s doing his breathing exercises, deep inhales and exhales, releasing the pressure from his lungs. It’s the same thing every time, John fully aware that in order to free dive to the best of his ability, he needs to make that final breath of air last for as long as he can.

He lowers the ladder on the boat, moving into the water easily, the cold biting through despite the wet suit he wears. John adjusts his mask, blowing out through his nose several times, and with a few more inhales and exhales, John takes his final breath and slips beneath the waves.

He’s familiar with night dives, having done them on more than one occasion, but still, the eeriness is there, the quiet feeling as John moves further down, a hand gliding over the dive rope as he descends.

Without the sun above, the water is nothing more than gloom, much darker than usual, and while John does have a little light attached to his mask, it does little to illuminate the water around him as he descends further, blowing out small bubbles to keep the pressure to a minimum.

It’s easier than he thought, his mind blank and quiet for once, John feeling that pressure that constantly lingers in his chest begin to subside. It’s a constant ache, a dull pull that draws him to the water each time.

But tonight he’s not worried about record breaks, about Price and Gaz waiting for him on the boat. He’s not worried about the weight he put on his shoulders by telling Price he wanted to break the record.

He does, but breaking the record isn’t easy, and while John wants to do it, it still doesn’t take away the fact that it’s stressful.

Yet now, as he slices quietly through the water, a few fish and sea creatures darting around him, John doesn’t think about any of that. Instead he’s here tonight of his own volition, because despite everything, he wants answers.

He needs to know what’s been watching him.

Needs to understand why he can’t stop thinking about it, why every waking moment something calls him to the ocean, a piece of John that he doesn’t understand. Because only here, with the silence surrounding him, does John finally feel complete.

John checks his gauge meter, feeling pretty good about his progress, his lungs not even beginning to protest. John isn’t going to go down as far as normal, just to around 100 meters, which is usually where he starts to get the feeling of being watched.

He knows he’s been risky, some might even call what he’s doing a little dumb, if John was choosing to be mean to himself. But he’s not. This is fine, he’ll be fine.

Another release of bubbles and he’s sinking a little further, a little faster, his gauge steadily ticking up, nearly at 100 meters. Yet, he doesn’t have that tingling feeling against his skin, that tell-tale sign that he’s been watched noticeably absent. Which in this case, is decidedly not a good sign.

If he could groan he would. He was so sure coming here tonight would solve everything, and John hates how fucking foolish he is.

Because maybe, John thinks, feeling his shoulders sag in resignation, this creature isn’t here now, because it’s nighttime.

And John never dives at night.

John grips the dive line tighter, damn near cutting into his fingers. What did he expect? For this creature to sit around idly waiting for John to show up?

Did he really think so highly of himself that he thought he might be special —

Something darts in the gloom ahead, drawing John’s attention. His head snaps in the direction, not even bothering to check his meter as he releases the line and follows suit, kicking harder than he should.

He should be worried about conserving energy, but right now that looming shadow draws him in, like his own lure, the entire reason he’s here, because John is determined for this madness to end tonight.

John swims toward the murk, ignoring the beginning signs of needing air, the faint burning in his chest, fully aware he doesn’t have too much longer before he’ll need to rise to the surface.

But he has to know.

He has to.

He feels drawn toward this entity, a siren’s call he can no longer ignore, and John pushes deeper, releasing a streamlined breath, bubbles clouding his vision for one long moment. He sees what looks like an outline of a tail, massive, something so big John can't wrap his head around what it could possibly be.

There shouldn't be anything this big this far down. 

John just wishes he could feel normal, wishes that his world would stop spinning. It’s like a ride that won’t stop, one that leaves John wishing he could go back to the before, when his life was predictable, when everything was going as it should.

But nothing has been normal for weeks, these dreams, the ache in his bones each time the sun graces the horizon, the phantom touch of wet fingertips lingering on John’s skin each time he wakes. 

He wants something, can feel it in his very bones, and yet, he doesn’t know what it could be.

And yet, there’s nothing here. John swims a little further, glancing back at the dive line, John noting that the damn thing is sufficiently far enough away that he should stay where he is, and not venture any further. He shouldn’t push himself, shouldn’t put the strain on his body when he is more than 100 meters below the surface without anyone waiting for him up top.

He waits another thirty seconds, his lungs becoming noticeably irritated now, and just before he turns, he sees it, a ripple of shadow in the gloom, the reflection of something, like scales catching the light of his head lamp.

And it’s enough for John to know it’s not a simple trick of the mind.

John moves without thinking, immediately swimming closer, fins cutting swiftly through the water. He sees another ripple, the creature definitely trying to move away, to go further into the gloom, but John is tired of this back and forth. He doesn’t give a shit if this creature doesn’t want to be found.

Because John knows it exists, and he’s tired of this game.

He doesn’t stop, cutting through the water like a blade, a voice in the back of his mind, one that sounds entirely too much like Price, telling him how foolish he’s being, how reckless. 

And John can’t help but agree.

It’s only after he loses sight of the shadow, does he realize how far he’s swum, but mostly, how deep he is. John’s chest heaves, the breath in his lungs burning with the need for more. Yet, he used too much energy chasing after this thing, so despite knowing he should get back to the dive line, the only thing he can do is swim up.

John checks his gauge meter, realizing he drifted even further down in his attempt to chase literal shadows, and kicks harder. He knows he shouldn’t use his energy, knows tiring himself out will only lead to disaster, but if he can, John needs to make it to the surface.

Yet, even as he kicks, he already knows he’s a man out of time.

John feels his body tiring, black dots at the edge of his vision, but there is no Gaz and Price waiting for him. 

If he drowns, no one will know.

No one.

John’s vision blurs, kicking his fins harder, trying to find the will to keep going. But he’s too far, entirely too far, and he’s nearly out of air.

It’s like those dreams John used to have when he first started diving, the nightmare every freediver seems to get — kicking toward a surface you will never reach.

Only this time it isn’t a dream. He’s not going to wake up warm and safe in his bed.

Because he’s not going to wake up at all.

He kicks again, weakly, his body convulsing in small spasms that ripple across his chest, desperate for air. And here, in the middle of the ocean, miles from shore with nothing but Ghosts for company—John will become one of them too.

It should be poetic really, except John has never believed in such nonsense.

His eyes droop shut, the warmth in his body dulling into nothing more than a mild ache. Death is kind, his mother always told him, quiet and peaceful. And John supposes for a man who has always loved the quiet of the ocean, this type of end is suiting.

He only wishes he could tell Price he was sorry, that he never meant to yell, to take the boat in anger.

John wishes he could see Gaz’s bright smile one more time, his best fucking friend in the entire world, one of his biggest supporters.

He wishes he could tell his mam that she was right, that maybe John’s temper really does get the best of him. 

John wishes, and he knows he shouldn’t. 

His head bows forward, arms extended on either side of him, drifting toward the bottom of the ocean. 

This is fine.

This is —

Warm hands close around him, pulling him close, and John sighs, knowing that the worst is over. He’s never really been a religious man, never really understood what to expect after his life on earth was over. 

But this is something he doesn’t mind. Death really is kind in the end.

Calloused fingers cup his jaw, careful as they guide him forward, and John leans into the touch without thinking, his mask bumping against something warm. It takes a beat too long for his mind to catch up to the moment, to recognize that there’s something wrong with this picture, because why would he still be wearing a mask if he was dead?

His eyes snap open, panic flooding at the realization that he is absolutely not dead. 

Not dead at all.

John tries to focus on the now, but his brain is fuzzy, likely from the lack of oxygen. He wants to make sense of the situation, but any form of rational thinking flees when John realizes what he's looking at. 

Something massive. That same something from the shadows that is no longer hiding.

And those eyes that have been plaguing John's every waking thought are locked onto John's own. 

Honeyed whisky to icy blue.

Golden and haunting. Ethereal in a sense, and now so close that John knows whatever he dreamed before, whatever flashes of gold he saw through the gloom, none of it could compare to this.

To the way they stare at him, peering through flesh and bone. Beautiful, John thinks, in the same way a wildfire is, dangerous and all consuming, and yet John has never craved the burn more than he does now.

And John realizes this entire time he’s never been alone.

Because these eyes aren’t that of a creature or a monster.

No.

They’re the eyes of a man.

John’s mouth falls open before he can stop it, his last breath fleeing with it.  He gasps reflexively, a choking, helpless gesture as cold water rushes in to claim the space where air once lived.

The man moves with liquid ease, his body folding and turning through the water like he belongs to it, or more so of it. His hair, pale and golden, drifts in slow, hypnotic waves, catching the glow of John’s headlamp in flashes of molten light.

Framing his face are markings of black and white, stark and precise, giving the appearance of a bone mask, delicate, inhuman, and John can’t tear his gaze away. The man’s face reminds John of a fish bearing its markings, a pattern of its own kind.

Beautiful.

And yet, as the darkness begins to close in around him, John can’t help but notice the vast, muscular shape that coils and snaps in the darkness surrounding them.

A tail.

John’s head spins, he knows he has only seconds, but everything around him slows, a honeyed, tacky syrup, the oxygen deprivation already beginning to shut off his brain. He’s not sure if he imagines it, yet, John’s eyes flit to the massive fin curled around him.

If John was in the right state of mind, he would feel very small, like prey caught in a predator's waiting trap. But, in this moment he doesn’t care, allows the tail to curl around him like a ribbon of shadow, pulling him forward.

John’s chest collides with the man, those golden eyes roving slowly up the length of his body, a curious gleam, and while John should feel scared, he feels anything but. He leans forward instead, his temple hitting the man’s jaw, strong arms looping around his waist, keeping John steady. 

But death is already here. 

John can feel it, cold talons raking across his skin, curling into his chest, beckoning him forward, and he's done fighting it. His body spasms, one final revolt, lungs burning, limbs twitching in a last, desperate plea for air.

And just as the edges of his vision begin to darken, the man leans in.

Their mouths meet, gentle and deliberate, a warmth pooling low in John’s belly, that tug he’s felt for so long finally silencing. Feebly, his hands grip the man’s waist, the smooth feel of scales and skin beneath his fingertips, the kiss turning hungry and seeking, tasting the last bit of breath from John’s lungs.

John feels the hot slide of fingers travel lazily down the length of his spine, as if memorizing every divot and curve, pulling John infinitely closer, a tongue demanding entrance to his mouth, the rush of cold water and salt on his tongue.

He’s dying, but right now, John has never felt more alive.

And despite it all, his vision darkens, the man leaning back just slightly, a hand cradled against John’s jaw. He speaks, quietly, a single word not carried through sound, but through the water itself, like a current threading through John’s bones, sinking into his skin.

Comforting and familiar.

Home.

“Johnny.”

The first afternoon after the fight, Soap doesn’t return to dive.

Ghost hunts in shallower water that night as usual. Or he tries. He can’t focus; can’t get close enough to any of his prey to actually snag anything for himself to eat. He’s distracted, thoughts consumed by crystalline blue eyes. His gaze keeps slipping back towards the direction of shore, and more than once he catches himself drifting that way instead of even trying to scrounge for food. 

Angry with himself, he dives back down to the bottom and stays there. 

Or he tries to stay there. 

He drifts up in the water column when he isn’t actively thinking about staying away from shore. Ghost can’t sleep, can’t focus enough to hunt for food or eat, can’t do anything without thinking of Soap. 

What a stupid fucking name Soap is.

He breaks the second night. He swims towards shore, intent on waking the infuriating human up, throttling him, and telling him to stay the fuck out of Ghost’s head. 

But when he gets to the dock, there’s the light of a cigar being smoked there. 

Price, undoubtedly waiting for him; probably to lecture him again. 

He goes back to the depths, intent on staying away, on waiting until Soap leaves him alone in his darkness once again. He’d been perfectly happy before all this, at peace, living a simple life; forgotten by the world. 

Just like he wanted. 

Right?

That tugging in his chest is back. It feels like someone’s tied a rope around his rib cage and is trying to pull him towards shore, towards Soap. 

Ghost doesn’t even come off the sea floor the third day, resigning himself to this being his own special form of torture for the rest of his life. He escaped Mexico, escaped Roba, only to have befallen some sort of fucking curse. 

The next night, the aching and tugging in his chest eases ever so slightly, and he decides to try again to hunt for himself. As other forms of life around him begin their nightly ascent towards the surface, he does too. Slowly he glides upward, allowing himself to drift along next to creatures much smaller than himself. He passes through a large shoal of squid, already whipped into a feeding frenzy. 

It’s kill or be killed down here; eat or be eaten. 

There’s a brutal simplicity in it. On land with humans, Ghost had never quite been able to grasp who was a predator and who wasn’t. Down here though, it’s easy. Violent but efficient. He finds a certain relief in the certainty of it all. Allowing himself to slow, he does hunt some squid for a bit, managing to catch a few stragglers and eat his fill for the first time in a few days. 

He’s nearly ready to turn and head back to the bottom ,content to rest now that his belly is full and the nuisance in his chest has eased slightly when he hears the bumping of a boat hull against the small swells above him. 

Ghost instantly begins ascending, swimming towards the sound of the boat which he realizes too late is taking him towards the dive line. He hears a splash above him just as he reaches the line and if he looks up, he can just make out a pinprick of light flicking around in the water. His first thought is to dive, to escape whatever prying eyes are in his waters at night looking for him. 

But Ghost knows who it is; somehow he knows. 

He drifts towards the light, as helpless as many of the fish he preys upon—drawn in by the promise of a glimpse of light, of something beautiful. Ghost makes a wide circle, giving himself some space away from the dive line as he ascends and sees that it’s Soap. Frowning, Ghost allows himself to slip closer. 

Soap doesn’t dive at night, and this high in the water, Ghost should be able to hear Price and the other human that’s usually with them on the boat above. But all he hears is the consistent knocking of the boat’s hull against the gentle swells. No footsteps, no other voices. 

Nothing. 

Has this fool of a human come out here alone, at night?

Soap’s descending rapidly, letting out too much air too quickly. Even Ghost knows that he’s going to overextend himself at this rate, but the twat doesn’t stop. He continues his rapid descent until he’s at one hundred meters and then just keeps going, descending faster and faster as the pressure increases, pulling him under faster. 

Suddenly Soap’s eyes snap in Ghost’s direction and he realizes he’s allowed himself to drift too close to the circle of light cast by the little lamp on the human’s mask. The utter fool releases the dive line and swims away from it, towards Ghost, squinting in his direction. He wishes he could yell at Soap, wishes he could tell him how much of a moron he’s being by swimming into the ocean by himself this late at night, this far down. 

Soap keeps kicking in Ghost’s direction, letting out even more air as he does, still continuing to descend as Ghost dives, half-heartedly trying to stay out of his line of sight. He manages to get just far enough that he doesn’t think Soap can see him anymore and the man stops, looking back towards the dive line, his lifeline. 

Ghost mentally urges him to go back, to take hold of the dive line and ascend. He’s let out far too much air and humans aren’t supposed to be this deep, especially not this long. 

But again Soap’s eyes snap towards him, and the cursedly determined man kicks towards him again for a brief moment. Ghost pushes himself away quickly, before this man kills himself trying to get a look at him. 

He dives, determined to get far beyond the barest possibility of Soap being able to see him. 

But that damned pain in his chest is back; feels as if it’s ripping him apart. Ghost’s hands come up to feel at his chest, to be sure he hasn’t been foul hooked and is being reeled towards the surface by a physical line. But he finds nothing; no hook, no spear, no line. . . nothing. 

Above him he hears a faint strangled grunt, and it has him rocketing up towards Soap. 

He’s still managing to kick towards the surface when Ghost gets to him, but only barely. Without any hesitation, Ghost reaches out, allows his tail to wrap around the human’s smaller form and pull him close, until he’s in his arms and Ghost can begin swimming towards the surface. 

But Soap’s out of time. 

He lets out his last bit of air as Ghost grabs him and his eyes roll back as his body goes limp, crashing forward into Ghost. Taking Soap’s face in his hands, Ghost pulls him in close and without any fanfare, seals their lips together so he can transfer air into the man’s empty lungs.

Ghost manages to get the man to take some air, enough, at least he thinks, to get him to the surface. And that’s all he intends to do. 

It is. 

Until the human’s hand comes up and ever so tenderly wraps around his wrist, body melting against him. He presses against Ghost’s lips with his own and Ghost. . . 

Ghost is weak. 

He’s been unable to sleep, eat, or think without that tugging in his chest eroding at his sanity every waking moment of every day. But it’s stopped; it’s silent now with Soap in his arms, trying to kiss him with his dying breath. Now is certainly not the time, but Ghost kisses back, allows himself to drag a wandering hand up the human’s spine, feeling the smooth skin that must lie beneath the wetsuit that’s such an oddity to him. He cradles Soap’s jaw in one hand tenderly, lost in the feeling of their tongues pressed against each other. 

A name comes unbidden to his mind, a name he’s wrestled with, told himself he wasn’t allowed to utter, allowed to feel or think. 

And yet, it’s a name that tastes sickly sweet on his tongue, comforting and familiar, that tug in Ghost’s belly telling him that this man is his.

This —

Johnny.

He only pulls back when they’re about to break the surface. Using his hands, he propels Soap up ahead of him, holding him above Ghost so his head breaks the surface first. As soon as Ghost's head is also above the water, he’s ripping the human’s mask off, tossing it aside, uncaring that it will sink to the bottom with millions of others all over the globe. Pulling Soap on top of his body, he shakes him roughly then brings his flat palm down on his chest hard when that doesn’t work. 

Ghost smacks him so hard across the chest that his body jolts, and then he’s coughing, dragging in huge breaths of air as he does. 

But coughing is breathing, so Ghost will gladly take it. 

He gets them to the edge of the boat and unceremoniously tosses Soap in before clambering in after him. Ghost sets him up in the back of the boat, propped up against one of the walls on his side so he won’t aspirate on any vomit or seawater he manages to cough up. With a sigh of resignation, Ghost allows his tail to shift into legs and stands. 

It’s been years since he’s driven a boat, but it’s simple, and he finds everything he needs easily. Turning to look at Soap one last time, Ghost throttles up and heads towards shore. He catches quiet mumbles and the occasional cough from Soap as they near the docks, but otherwise the man is still and quiet. 

Price is standing on the end of the dock. The man doesn’t even wait for the boat to fully come to a stop before he’s jumping aboard, a man with dark skin following quickly after, but giving Ghost a wide berth. 

“I told you this would fucking happen,” Price snaps, kneeling to take Soap’s face in gentle hands. He peels his eyelids open, using the flashlight in his mouth to check his pupils before letting them slide closed again. “Fuck it all, John,” Price grumbles, running an affectionate hand through the man’s wet mohawk. 

“Is he?” The other man asks, sidling closer but keeping wary eyes on Ghost. 

“He’s alive,” Price says. “Probably just a little hypoxic. But his color’s good.”

The dark skinned man lets out a relieved sigh. “Not to sound ungrateful, but who’s the naked fuck driving your boat?”

Everything hurts.

John blinks slowly awake, head throbbing, nausea churning in his gut as he slowly sits up. He feels like he’s been driven over by a damn tractor, his chest bruised, sucking in a deep lungful of air proving to be painful.

The world around him is fuzzy, but he recognizes the meager decorations dotting the walls, the sheets beneath his fingertips comforting and familiar. 

Somehow, despite all odds, he’s home. In his bed. Alive. 

He struggles for a minute trying to piece together what happened, how he could have possibly ended up here when the last thing he remembers is —

Death. 

He should have drowned beneath those waves. John felt the cold, icy pressure of water filling his lungs, the way his body convulsed as the darkness closed around him. And yet, there’s something else there, something his mind doesn’t know how to piece together, hazy and unrecognizable, something that shouldn’t exist.

But it does.

Golden eyes staring at him from the murk, the fleeting moments of safety he’d felt curled in the arms that banded tightly around his waist.

The man who saved John, the man — with a tail.

But John knows without a shadow of a doubt it’s the same man who has been watching John for weeks, the man whose pull John hasn’t been able to ignore, an insistent tug, a thread dragging them together.

The man that’s haunted his dreams.

And it’s not a creature or a predator like John first imagined.

No, not at all.

The one who saved John beneath the waves is something that shouldn't exist, something spoken about in old shanty’s, written about in books.

Because that man is a merman, and John doesn't know how those words can even be real.

John raises a trembling hand, pressing them to his lips, parched and dry, and yet he remembers something else. A simmering roil in his belly, lips against his own, possessive and wanting, igniting a type of need that John hasn’t felt in years.

And that word, that name, the feeling of familiarity, of comfort —

Johnny.

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

He scrambles from the bed, socked feet slipping on the fake hardwood flooring, barely making his way to the bathroom before he’s spewing his guts, breath hitching tightly in his chest, an ache so deep, so profound, that John doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to take a full breath again.

John must make enough noise, because after a moment, he feels a hand, warm and soothing against his nape, soft, murmured words, and John reaches blindly, flushing the toilet, eyes watering, tears leaking down his face.

He doesn’t understand, doesn’t know why this is happening, or how he’s alive.

“You’re alright now lad,” Price’s soft voice says, hands gentle and soothing against John’s nape. “You're safe, yeah?”

John doesn’t even think as he turns, the man kneeling beside him, his coach, his longtime friend, and someone whose trust John broke. Yet when John launches himself at the man, Price doesn’t turn away from the hug, instead he holds John tighter, allowing John to soak his collar with tears, soothing gestures as he murmurs soft, encouraging words to him.

“I’ve got you, John,” Price murmurs, John gasping into broken, strangled sobs. “I’ve got you.”

John takes the steaming cup of tea from Gaz with a small nod of thanks, John curled up on his ratty brown couch, a blanket draped across his shoulders, knees pulled to his chest.

His entire body feels heavy, and John supposes that's what nearly dying will do to someone. They haven’t discussed it yet, John unsure what to say, how to explain to Price why he’s not dead, or why he was out there in the first place.

The man had held John close to his chest, allowing John to break, to shatter in a way that had no beginning or end. John had cried until the tears ran dry, and yet he didn’t feel better for it, fingers clinging to Price’s soaked shirt, John wishing he had the words for the gnawing ache that was lodged tight in his chest.

Because John doesn’t have the answers, he doesn’t know what happened. He doesn’t know why he’s sitting on his couch on a Tuesday afternoon nursing a cup of tea.

He should be dead. 

He should be fucking dead. 

John’s off his feet before he can think it over, Gaz’s voice ringing loudly, the cup of tea clattering loudly on the table as John hastingly sits it down. He knows he’s being an utter and complete asshole, especially after everything he put Gaz and Price through — but right now he needs air, needs to feel the sun on his skin, needs a reminder that he’s alive, that he made it.

He throws open the back door that leads out to the deck, yet what John doesn’t expect, is for the door that normally would swing out into an empty space, to instead swing out and hit someone directly on the side of their head.

There’s a solid thunk, followed by a sharp curse, low, raspy, thick with an accent John vaguely clocks as English, or some shit. John’s not really sure.

He yanks the door back, stepping to the side, to avoid shutting it on himself. And every word, every threat that he was about to mutter to what he assumed was some random beach goer making use of his deck, dies on his tongue.

Because this isn’t some random person who stares back at him, a hand raised as he rubs at his head, messy blonde curls shifting at the movement.

No, John knows this person. 

Amber eyes stare back at him, the man’s gaze widening, his hand falling loosely at his side. He’s dressed simply, a pair of loose fitting blue jeans and a black hoodie, his feet bare on the deck below. 

And yet John can’t help the way he stumbles forward, the man’s hand darting out, a gentle grip against John’s hip, as if steadying him. But John knows this touch, knows the feeling of the man’s skin against his.

He thought it was a dream, a hallucination from being close to death, and yet, somehow this man, who was with him below the waves is real, tangible, staring at John, a pink tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Those same lips that had been against John’s own, kissing him, stealing the very breath from his lungs. John had been close to dying, had felt that whisper like caress beckoning him forward, tempting him to cross to the other side, and yet he hadn’t.

Because of him.

“You,” John begins, his voice hoarse, salt and grit on his tongue.

“Me,” the man says casually, fingers tightening just a fraction from where he touches John, the barest press against his hip, a graze of fingers against the faint bit of bare skin from where John’s shirt has rucked up some.

“How are you —” John begins, the words falling flat, a huff of frustration. The man regards him for a long moment, a small shake of his head, a dismissive gesture, one that John can read better than any words the man might say.

“Go inside, Johnny,” the man says, low and soft, the sound of it tugging at something in John’s chest. His hand falls away, cold rushing in to replace its warmth. He turns toward the sea, jaw clenched like he’s holding something back. “You should be resting.”

John scoffs like it’s the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever told him, the man raising one blonde brow. “Is something amusing to you?” he asks dryly, sarcasm thick in his voice, and John thinks he might very well lose his fucking mind.

“Is something amusing?” John parrots right back, a step forward, this stranger, that’s most definitely not a stranger taking a step back, legs bumping into the railing of the deck. Yet John doesn’t stop, a hand rising to poke him directly in the chest. “You have an awful lot to say for someone who pulled the shite you did.”

An incredulous expression before, “The shite I pulled? What the absolute fuck are you on about?”

“You kissed me,” John grits, wishing he could ignore the toned chest beneath his fingertips, his mind willing away the image of the man shirtless beneath the waves. 

That’s a whole other problem.

People don’t just live under the water. And John’s had more than enough weird shit for one day, thank you very much.

“Is that your issue here?” the man asks, a confused laugh, eyes darting back toward the door leading to John’s little flat, as if expecting Price or Gaz to join them outside. “There’s not a more pressing issue you’d like to discuss, like maybe why you were doing an unsanctioned dive in the middle of the night.”

“Unsanctioned?”

“Alone, might I add,” the man continues, ignoring John’s complaints. “Very fucking alone, Johnny.”

John pokes the man’s chest harder, like a damn marble statue. “You keep calling me that.”

The man rolls his eyes, actually rolls his eyes, the fucking audacity. “I didn’t kiss you,” he begins, John scoffing again, feeling a bit mad. They should be addressing the very pink, large ass elephant in the room, which is why this man had a tail and was 100 meters down with John without issue.

But, because John is a very rational, sane person, he focuses on the kiss, which apparently wasn’t a kiss. “Felt like a kiss to me.”

“You made it one,” the man grits out, attempting to smack John’s hand away. “I was trying to give you air.”

“Oh aye,” John says. “I think I know what a kiss feels like.”

He attempts to turn away, very much done with this conversation, and yet a hand darts out, wrapping around his wrist. John finds himself being yanked forward, his entire body colliding with this massively tall blonde’s chest, John telling himself he doesn’t care that the man is a damn Adonis walking around in a ridiculous hoodie, yet every thought he has is thrown from his mind when two calloused hands cradle either side of his jaw.

“Do you, Johnny?”

John’s breath hitches tight in his chest. He should be angry, should be shoving this stranger, this man who is not really a man, away.

He shifts closer instead, pulled like the tide to the moon. Like something in him has been restless for years, and only now is it settling. It’s the same pull that dragged him into the sea, made him dive without hesitation, desperate to find whatever was watching from below.

But it wasn’t a creature.

It was him.

John should be afraid. Stories, legends, things that don’t belong in this world, they’re not supposed to be real, yet John finds he doesn’t care, because he wants more, wants everything this man is willing to offer.

The man leans in, breath warm against John’s cheek, voice low and sure as he repeats, “Do you, Johnny?”

And John, fuck he wants to close the space between them. Wants to taste the sea on the man’s lips, wants to know if salt still clings to his tongue. None of this makes sense, this man shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t have saved him below the waves. John doesn’t have a rational explanation for what happened, and he’s starting to realize that maybe he doesn’t care. 

None of this should be happening, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is. 

But when the man leans in, when his lips just barely graze John’s own, he knows he’s done for. There’s no recovering from this. He might as well be drowning beneath the waves, because he’s utterly helpless against this pull.

John doesn’t know this man, doesn’t have a name, yet it’s a name he hears regardless, spoken to him with every beat of his heart, every hitch of his breath, said in the words they dare not say, unspoken but loud in the silence.

Simon.

His name is Simon.

“John?”

John squeaks like a teenager caught snogging, which is what he nearly was doing he supposes, jumping an entire foot backwards, nearly bumping into Gaz who stands in the doorway of the flat, a brow raised as he looks between the pair.

“I —” Gaz begins, the frown deepening as he looks at John, the telling sign of a smirk just begging to break free. “Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“M’ fine,” John responds, hating how fucking wrecked his voice sounds.

“I can see that,” Gaz responds, cocking his hip on the door jam, John groaning low in his throat, not daring to glance at the man behind him, despite being able to feel those amber eyes burning a hole in the back of John’s head. “Didn’t mean to disturb,” he adds, a small huff of laughter.

“I’ll show ye something disturbing,” John mutters, mostly to himself, but Gaz barrels on, ignoring it like he always does.

“Come inside,” Gaz says, more pointed now, his eyes flicking behind John to the figure looming there. “The both of you. Price wants to talk.”

Also, Piranha, Murphs and I cackled over creep naked Ghost standing over Johnny's bed. Please enjoy this lovely extra sketch that we three howled about. You can tell we had lots of fun working together. <3 

Chapter Text

Simon follows Johnny inside; drawn by some unseen force to stay in the man’s orbit. 

Price is sitting in the living room, in a chair that’s very clearly been taken from the kitchen. Gaz, who has since introduced himself to Simon, settles in the armchair next to the man, leaving only the small sofa for Simon and Johnny. 

“Bleeding fucking Christ,” Soap grumbles as he sits down with a huff, arms crossed over his chest. 

Simon sits on the cushion next to him and has to hide his smile when the couch dips and Soap leans slightly in his direction. He rights himself, huddling the arm of the couch opposite Simon and shooting him a nasty look. 

Cute. 

“Alright,” Price sighs, dragging a hand through his ridiculous beard. “Can someone tell me, what exactly happened?”

He and Gaz both look towards the sofa. Gaz eyes Simon skeptically, dark brown eyes traveling the length of him with palpable suspicion. Price only glances at Simon before shifting his gaze over to Soap. He’s too busy scuffing his bare toes in the carpet petulantly to notice everyone’s attention has shifted to him. Several long moments of silence drag by before he looks up. He glances from Price, to Gaz, then to Simon. 

“What the fuck are ye all staring at me for?” He grumbles the question, wrapping his arms even more tightly around himself. 

Several more minutes of silence stretches on before Soap throws his hands up with an exasperated huff. Simon thinks this will be it, when Soap will show his true colors and throw Simon to the wolves. He’ll talk about him being a mer, about what he’s apparently calling their “kiss”, and point fingers and blame at Simon, the outlier.

It would be a good survival tactic, Simon thinks. It would also solidify his opinion that all humans, except maybe Price, are traitorous, greedy, and self-serving. So he steels himself; mentally prepares himself for that possibility. Simon isn’t sure why he knows he’ll be disappointed if Johnny answers that way, but he knows in his soul he’ll never really recover from that. 

“I just went for a little swim,” Johnny eventually mumbles, looking at the floor. 

“Soap.”

“Tav.”

Price and Gaz speak in unison, but he ignores them. 

“Just didnae go according to plan,” Johnny shrugs. “Simon helped out. That’s all.”

He scratches at the back of his head and won’t meet the eyes of anyone else in the room. Simon looks up and finds Price looking at him, a quizzical expression on his face. 

Simon never told Johnny his name. Now that he thinks about it, Price only ever referred to Johnny as Soap. 

Simon never knew Johnny’s name. 

And yet. . . 

Simon stands so quickly the sofa jolts with the force. He’s out of the room, slipping out the door onto the porch and is hopping over the railing before he hears someone giving chase. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps going towards the sea even as he hears feet hit the sand behind him and run to catch up. 

“Not so fucking fast,” Price says, snatching the hood on the sweatshirt Simon’s wearing and yanking. 

Turning, Simon manages to slip it off and over his head, leaving Price holding the empty fabric as he continues to make his way towards the water. But Price is not a man that’s easily deterred. Next thing Simon knows, the waist of his jeans has been grabbed from behind and Price, who is far stronger than any other human Simon’s encountered, plants his feet and effectively halts him. 

“I said not so fucking fast. I know even fish have ears,” he snaps. 

Simon whirls, placing a hand flat in the center of Price’s chest and pushing, but the man only grabs him by the forearm and digs into the sand further. “You told him my fucking name,” Simon growls out. 

“I didn’t!” Price pushes a hand against Ghost’s sternum and gives an equally hard shove. “You know better than that. I haven’t breathed a single word about you to a soul, not even Kyle!” Price points back towards the little bungalow where Simon can see Johnny and Gaz watching from the porch.

“He can’t know my name,” Simon growls through clenched teeth. 

“But he does, doesn’t he?” Price sighs, expression softening slightly. “I never told you his name, only his nickname. But you were calling him ‘Johnny’ when you brought him back to me, weren’t you?”

Simon can’t breathe. He feels too exposed on this beach, the sun’s too dry on his skin, the air too dry in his lungs. His legs feel stuck where they are; he can’t move fast enough on land, can’t maneuver properly. 

Can’t escape. 

“His life’s turned upside down and he doesn’t even know it,” Price mumbles, where the other two can’t overhear. “He’ll always try to find you, you know. If you run from him, he won’t be able to stop chasing you and you won’t be able to stay away.”

“You can’t know that,” Simon wheezes, trying to break free of Price’s hold and get to the water. 

“I do, Simon,” Price insists gently. “It’s what happened with my gran. You know it’s what will happen.” 

Simon feels sick. This never should have happened to him. He never should have allowed his curiosity to get the best of him. 

“Let go,” he growls, baring his teeth at Price. 

“All right,” Price soothes. “I will. But please. . . consider giving him a chance. He’s a good man, Simon. One of the best I’ve ever met.”

His thumb rubs over the skin of Simon’s forearm where he’s been holding him, but then, true to his word, he releases Simon. 

Simon can’t get to the water fast enough. He stumbles as he hits the small breakers that lap at shore. With clawed hands, he reaches down and tears the jeans from his legs, allowing his tail to shift out freely. He swims as fast as he can, hugging the bottom until the darkness swallows him. 

Soap glances toward the door that’s still wide open. He can hear Price’s voice in the distance, the shouting that’s happening between them, because something, and John doesn’t know what, has shifted. 

He tries to ignore it, but that same ache is back in his chest. The one he rubs absently at, a feeling he wishes he could bury low. Yet, he’s almost compelled to rush after Simon, to close the gap between them, because each step away from the other is another pang he can’t ignore.

“Look a little love sick, Tav,” Gaz says from beside him, John’s eyes snapping to the man. Usually Gaz is all cheeky grins and lopsided smiles, but right now, he looks at John with an expression of caution, shifting to come take up space next to him on the couch, the spot still warm from Simon’s body.

“Yeah.” 

John swallows thickly, trying to find his words. It’s quiet outside now, John no longer able to hear Price and his shouting for Simon to stop running.  “It’s fine,” John finishes blandly.

But it’s not fine.

Not at all.

He’s not love sick, he doesn’t even know Simon, and yet he can’t ignore the hurt in his chest, the way the man had rushed off. Maybe, John thinks, it’s because John had said his name.

A name John has never been told, and yet a name he knows regardless, spoken to him in the deepest recesses of his heart. 

Which should be impossible, something that doesn't happen to normal people. This was the type of shite from books and movies, it didn’t happen in real life.

And yet somehow it was, and it was happening to him.

“You ready to start talking now?” Gaz says quietly from beside him, shifting just slightly, his hand reaching for John’s own, a reassuring squeeze, his best fucking friend in the entire world. 

And John hates how his eyes burn some, the guilt weighing heavily on him, but he squeezes back, a small nod of his head. “I was angry,” he begins softly, not raising his head as he hears footsteps approaching, knowing it’s Price, the man’s gait, something John would always recognize.

Which means Simon is gone, and John hates the way his heart aches at the thought.

“When Price told me the dive was being scrubbed, I decided that day that I was going to take the boat. Knew I would go back out when you two went on the supply run. I lied to you, made you both think I was fine, but —” he hesitates, raising his gaze as Price settles across from him, those blue eyes so soft and understanding, a feeling John doesn’t feel worthy of right now. “I haven’t been fine. Not at all.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, willing himself to continue. “You were both right,” John says, letting loose a shuddering sigh. “I have been distracted during my dives. It was no’ about the record, hasn’t been in a while.”

“Not about the record?” Gaz asks, his knee bumping into John’s own on the couch, the man sitting up straighter. “Tavvie, you’ve been training your whole fucking life for this, what do you mean it wasn’t about the record anymore?”

“Because there was something more important,” Price adds quietly, John nodding his head, jaw clenched hard. “Wasn’t there, John?”

“Yes,” he says quietly, the admission bringing with it the guilt, the heartache, the throbbing need inside of John from some wordless emotion he doesn’t understand. “Yes there was.”

“I don’t understand,” Gaz adds in. “You two are speaking in fucking riddles and I’m sick of it. What’s going on? Whose Simon? And why the fuck was he naked?” He’s quiet for a moment, chest heaving in indignation, a feeling that’s well deserved, if John is being honest. “And why John —” Gaz continues, Soap frowning over the fact that Gaz is using his real name, which means he’s plenty serious. “— was Simon with you for your dive?”

“He wasn’t,” John adds in slowly, a glance at Price, the man nodding, encouraging him silently to continue. “At least, not at first.”

***

“You’re telling me Simon is a —” Gaz makes a noise in the back of his throat, eyes wide as he looks between John and Price. “You know that’s absolute bollocks, right?”

“Kyle —” Price begins, but Gaz is already waving him off.

“People aren't just mermaids, mate.”

“And Simon isn’t just a person, Kyle,” Price continues, voice soft, soothing almost. John understands Gaz’s hesitancy and reluctance, it’s the very same feelings he’s been wrestling with for hours. 

John tries to think of a reason as to why Simon being a mer would bother him. It should, and yet the shock doesn’t come, the fear, the worry, John doesn’t care.

“And what, you’re friends with him?” Gaz asks, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, for John and Price to look at each other and begin laughing, like this is nothing more than some big inside joke, and they’re just pulling his leg.

But that’s not what’s happening here.

“Friends is a bit of stretch,” Price says, a wry grin. “But I guess you can say Simon is someone I’ve known for years.” He looks at John, a small shake of his head. “I just got done telling him I wouldn’t share all of this with anyone, but because things are a bit more complicated than it seems, I think we all deserve the truth.”

“He didn’t do himself any favors by up and disappearing into the sea either,” John mutters, a bit bitterly under his breath, but Price ignores him, clearing his throat, a knowing look in his eye that tells John he’s about to find out a lot more about the man who has been haunting John’s every waking thought for weeks.

Like a ghost. 

“I found Simon about a decade ago, beached and mostly dead. I was down here doing my own training. Took a night off to go fishing and brought home more than I bargained for. I knew merfolk were probably real, thanks to my gran. Never imagined I’d see one though. Much less find one washed up like that.”

Price is quiet for a long moment, blue eyes far away and distant before he continues. “He was in rough shape. I thought he was dead when I found him. His skin was dry, scales coming off every time I touched him.” He scoffs, a bit of laughter as he pulls up his shirt sleeve. “Fucker bit me real good. Didn’t like me poking around like that.”

Gaz opens and closes his mouth before he spits out. “You said that bite was from a shark!”

“The fuck else was I supposed to say, Kyle?”

Gaz crosses his arms, frowning as he does so. “I don’t need your good points right now, Jon.”

“Anyway,” Price continues, offering his partner a scowl. “People in this world are cruel to the unusual, to the unnatural. Simon was just a means to an end, used by the Zaragoza cartel to smuggle goods. Threatened his existence, Simon did what he needed, to ensure his kind survived.”

“Is that why he’s —” John begins, but finds he can’t finish the words out loud.

Scarred. 

Is that why he’s scarred?

John hadn’t missed the twisted, cruel lines across the expanse of Simon’s chest, his neck, even his arms. Some of the marks more pale than others, some raised and angry looking, ones that clearly healed the wrong way.

“This isn’t my story to tell,” Price says, meeting John’s gaze. “But Simon made sure he paid them back for every ounce of kindness they ever showed him, yeah?”

John hears the threat in those words, the implication, and it makes a heat blossom low in his belly. He can only hope that whoever hurt him, whoever carved those marks into Simon’s skin, was dragged to the bottom of the ocean and left for the fucking sharks. 

“Good,” John says, eyes darting to the door once more, to the glint of the ocean beyond. “Did he say when he would be back?”

“He didn’t,” Price says after a moment, John’s shoulders sagging at the words. “But he will be, John.”

And then again softer, words doing little to settle the ache that won’t leave John’s chest no matter how hard he tries. “He will be.”

John doesn’t know why he goes to the shoreline each night. He walks quietly, the sand cool beneath his feet, the waves lapping gently at the shore. That ache in his chest hurts, one so tangible and real, that if John didn’t know any better he would think he had a cracked rib, a bruised lung. Something physically wrong with him.

But, he knows this isn’t the type of pain that medicine and bandages can cure.

He sucks in a sharp breath, the tang of salt on his tongue, that ache resounding behind cartilage and ribs, behind sinew and bone. 

He thought it might settle being closer to the ocean, that he could finally drag in a full breath, that his discomfort would ease. But nothing, apparently, can be that simple.

The waves are calm tonight, a gentle back and forth, breaking across the the top of John’s feet, skin covered in seafoam before the water drags the sand out from beneath him. It’s quiet out here, a way for John to settle his racing thoughts, the only place he wants to be these days, by the ocean waiting for something that simply won’t come.

Or more so, someone. 

He supposes, he shouldn’t be surprised when footsteps sound softly behind him. He cranes his head, only able to see the cherry tip of a cigar cutting through the darkness surrounding him, John offering a small scoff, because no matter what, Price always knows where to find him.

“You’ve been out here,” Price begins softly, nudging his shoulder lightly against John’s own as he comes to stand beside him. “Every night for the past three nights, John.”

John makes a noncommittal hum. He wants to argue with the man, wants to tell him that somehow this is his fault, because Price knew about Simon, knew that he might be there somewhere in the water.

And Simon was, John half wondering if the reason Simon stuck close to this shoreline for so many years, is because he was also waiting for something.

Waiting for him.

He knows Price said Simon would come back, but right now, John can’t be sure. He hates this feeling, like he’s incomplete, a piece of him missing. 

John MacTavish has never needed anyone but right now he does.

Price’s voice is low when he speaks next, “You and Simon —”

John shakes his head, turning fully to Price, water splashing around his ankles. “You don’t need tae say it,” John murmurs softly, jaw clenched hard, words strained. “I already know.”

Price raises a brow, but he doesn’t look shocked or surprised, both of them letting the silence settle around them, the waves splashing on shore, the sand beneath their feet giving away. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but this— this is rare, John,” Price says quietly, John’s breath hitching tight, unsure whether he wants to hear what Price says next. “What you two share is something very special, yeah?”

John makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Special? I don’t think Simon thinks any of this is special, Jon.”

And foolishly he feels his eyes burn with the tears that won’t shed, the ones that won’t come, because John MacTavish is not a weak, love sick fool. 

He’s not.

“You should have died that night,” Price says quietly, eyes trained on the water. “But he didn’t let you. He wouldn’t. The way you explained the story, to me, the way he said the same. Even with him giving you air, you should have died.”

“So what? Yer saying that our fucking fated mates bond is what saved me, aye?” John kicks at the sand, a small shake of his head. “I’m tired of this shite, Price. I don’t know what’s going on. I want to be angry at him, but mostly —”

I just want him to come back.

John doesn’t need to say the words, doesn’t need to explain anything, because he knows Price hears what he can't manage to say out loud. 

The man lifts an arm, pulling John close to his side, the familiar scent of bergamot and smoke, ash and comfort.

And those tears that John didn't want to shed, finally come.

The tug in Simon’s chest morphs into a painful gnawing he can’t ignore. He rises towards the surface in the late afternoons, like he’s tied to a line that’s dredging him up from the deep against his will. He hovers near the surface but for the next few nights, Soap doesn’t dive, the boat doesn’t arrive, and Simon’s left to float there. 

Alone. 

It’s what he wanted. 

It is. 

He lays there and stares at the sky, all the while his chest feels as if it’s being ripped apart, torn asunder in his dogged determination to avoid...

To avoid his mate. 

His fated mate. 

Angrily he slaps his tail against the surface and dives rapidly, hoping the darkness and pressure of the deep will ease his suffering. 

It doesn’t. 

He barely even makes it to the bottom before he turns and is rocketing towards shore, following the bottom as it slowly slopes upward; the rocks becoming fewer and farther between, giving way to gently undulating sand bars. As he swims, he thinks about how warm Johnny’s skin had been underneath his fingers. He thinks about how he could feel Johnny’s pulse faintly in the air around him; strong and steady. Simon thinks about how, in that moment, where they’d leaned together and shared space, where he’d almost given in and kissed the human, the noise in his head and the tugging in his chest had silenced. 

It’s late when he approaches shore, well after sunset, and he’s prepared to shift and storm into Johnny’s room and demand the man leave off and never come near this area again. To move somewhere landlocked, preferably the Sahara, and never so much as touch another drop of water again. 

But as his head pops up at the end of the dock, he freezes. Because there, sitting with his legs dangling in the water is Johnny. He looks horrible; about as horrible as Simon feels. 

“You look like shit,” Ghost snaps. 

“Aye,” the man sighs. “Feel like shit.”

“Why are you here?” Simon demands, allowing a little more of himself to rise out of the water, until his shoulders just crest the surface. 

“Listen, big man,” Johnny scoffs. “You approached me, yeah? I should be asking the questions.”

“You followed me.” Simon argues, raising a little more out of the water. “Nearly killed yourself doing it too. Like a twat.”

He can see the thoughts flicker across Soap’s face before he takes the hem of his shirt in hand and pulls it off over his head. Then he slips off the end of the dock, into the water, and tiptoes his way across the sand to stand in front of Simon in water that’s up to his collarbones. 

“You were lurking. Hunting me from the dark like a creep,” he snaps, pushing a finger into Simon’s chest. 

“I was trying to stay away from you,” Simon growls, baring his teeth as he does. “Could tell you were a problem from the bottom of the sea.”

“And what about now?” Johnny goads. “Don’t seem to be trying too hard to stay away.”

“I can’t!” Simon says, much louder than he intends to and grabs Johnny by the upper arms. “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, all because of you.” He shakes the human slightly with each word. 

To his credit, Johnny doesn’t seem scared and returns Simon’s stare with much more confidence than he should after finding out merfolk were real mere days before. Simon could drag him under, could drag him to the bottom where Soap would never have a hope of making it to the surface again; where the pressure would crush his fleshy human body like it’s nothing more than a thin sack of blood and viscera. But Soap doesn’t look away. He’s unafraid and Simon finds himself unable to look away from those beautiful blue eyes. 

“Do ye want to stay away?” He whispers the question, blinking a few times before he does finally look away, bracing for the answer. 

Simon allows his head to hang in defeat, still holding on to Soap for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on. 

“I can’t stay away from you, Johnny,” he mutters, looking down at the water. 

Soap’s skin is still so warm under his fingers. He can feel his pulse in the water, can feel how every expansion of his chest as he breathes shifts the water around them slightly. 

“Do ye want to?” Johnny asks again, both hands coming up to trail along Simon’s wrists. His touch is feather light and sends a shiver down Simon’s body. 

Instinctively his tail slowly wraps around them, forming a protective circle, keeping Johnny close. 

“I can’t stay away,” Simon repeats, this time as an admission, his head hanging low.

Johnny’s head drops, until their foreheads just barely press together. 

“I don’t want ye to stay away,” he whispers.  

“You don’t even know me,” Simon growls, looking for any reason he can find for Johnny to call this off, though he isn’t sure why. . . if that’s what he really wants. 

“But I do, don’t I?” Soap’s hand releases Simon’s wrist, coming forward instead to press in the center of his chest. It startles Simon so badly that he uses his grip on Johnny’s arms to push the man back until his hand isn’t on his chest anymore. 

But Johnny doesn’t react to that. Doesn’t press forward insistently, demanding Simon let him touch him. He doesn’t even seem put off. He simply stays where he is, soft in Simon’s hold with his hand still in the water between them, open and inviting but not demanding. Johnny’s blue eyes stay gentle as he watches Simon war with himself for what seems like minutes. 

Without even realizing, they drift closer. Johnny’s fingertips ever so lightly brush against Simon’s sternum. A shiver wracks his body, but he doesn’t pull away again. He allows Johnny to cautiously press his hand closer, until everything from his palm to the pads of his fingers is splayed out in the center of Simon’s chest, providing a comforting pressure and warmth. 

Johnny smirks slightly, gaze locked on his own hand now. “You’re warmer than I expected,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Simon. 

Simon moves his own hand from Soap’s arm to the center of his chest, mirroring his hand placement. His middle finger reaches to the dip in Johnny’s collarbone, and he finds himself pressing his finger in there slightly, feeling the man’s breath and heartbeat. Johnny doesn’t pull away, instead presses forward just slightly, arching into the skin of Simon’s hand until there’s no space left. 

His eyes flutter closed, long dark eyelashes dusting the tops of his cheeks as the human lets out a long sigh. Simon can’t help but do the same. After weeks of this bond tormenting him, it’s finally silent and still, replaced by a gentle warmth blooming from under the skin of Johnny’s hand. Simon allows his own eyes to slip closed. 

He isn’t sure how long they stay that way, but they drift closer still, until their foreheads are pressed together and their noses just barely bump. Simon feels Johnny let out another contented sigh, but neither of them press any closer. They allow each other the space to be while waves gently lap at the shore in the distance and cicadas buzz loudly in the warm summer air. 

The moment is shattered when a door to the bungalow closest to the water opens and loud voices from inside carry across the beach. 

Simon pushes back slightly, eyes darting over to the small house and the rectangle of orange light spilling from the open door. He looks at Johnny, but his expression is still soft as he releases Simon and takes a step back. 

“It’s okay,” he smiles. “Ye can go. You know how to find me.”

Simon gives his arm one last squeeze, toys with the idea of staying. But then he hears a drunken group of people from the bungalow making their way to the beach. He doesn’t look at Soap again as he turns and disappears beneath the water. 

Simon swims past the breakers and a few sand bars until he’s deep enough that the receding tide won’t be a worry. But he can’t bring himself to go any further from Johnny. So he finds some rocks along the bottom that he can wedge himself between so he won’t drift in the current. 

And there, for the first time in weeks, Simon sleeps soundly as the phantom warmth of a hand on his chest soothes him. 

THREE WEEKS LATER

John releases a small puff of air as he dives a little further. Not too far, but far enough that he can feel the pressure against his lungs, a feeling he’s been missing for weeks, Price only allowing for small dives not far off shore.

He checks his gauge meter, not even fifty meters down, and yet, he can’t help the way his heart begins beating a little faster in his chest when he catches a glimpse of a large, black tail flitting through the murk.

Of course Simon is here with him, the bastard now entirely too protective of John to allow him to do anything alone.

It had been a damn near fight to get Simon to allow John to do these dives again, the stupid mer insisting that for the first few, John use an air tank, as a just in case. The doctor said John’s lungs were bruised, that he should take a break before attempting free dives again, and John had. 

He’d laid on the couch for three weeks, bored out of his fucking skull, tired of everyone hovering over him as if they thought he could combust at any moment. But also, John hadn’t minded, mostly because while he was healing, Simon had stayed by his side the entire time.

John knew what it meant for the mer to live among humans for a short while, Simon opening up quietly about his distrust of them, of what happened to him when he lived in Mexico, when he worked for Roba.

The reason why his body is littered in scars. 

John knew what it cost Simon to say those words, the vulnerability he laid bare, and yet, Simon had told John everything, allowing John to trace his fingers over the curving lines and raised keloids.

There was a trust between them, one that couldn’t be severed, and John knew no matter what, he was safest when Simon was by his side.

John also knew that he would never actually ever be in any real danger. Not when Simon was nothing more than a grumpy, broody mother hen who worried entirely too much, and too loudly, if John has anything to say about it.

An aggravated flip of Simon’s fin, his handsome face scrunching up as John presses a little further than he should, John subtly raising a hand, a one finger salute that has his possessive, dumb ass of a mate, swimming over and grabbing John around the waist. 

John doesn’t even fight it, arms wrapping around the top of the man’s shoulders as Simon propels them toward the surface. Simon would never actually interfere with a dive, knowing how important it is for John to get these things right, to train his body again, to work up to the record break attempt he’s still going for.

John hurt his lungs when he nearly drowned three weeks ago, and while he knows it will take some time to get back to normal, he doesn’t mind this. 

Doesn’t mind the feeling of his mate wrapped around him, John tucking his masked face into the crook of the man’s throat, fingers gliding softly against the short hairs at Simon’s nape.

They break the surface a moment later, Simon’s hair wet and matted to his forehead, a scowl on his face, and John can only laugh as he pulls off the mask, the boat with Price and Gaz a few meters off, their voices carrying out over the water.

“Yer such a protective bastart,” John grumbles, brushing damp hair from Simon’s face.

Simon only growls in response, but his hands clutch tighter at John’s sides, possessive and grounding. He leans in, breath hot against the column of John’s throat, clawed fingers tugging down the top of the wetsuit to reach the skin beneath.

“Mine.”

That word makes a heat blossom low in John’s belly, Simon lifting his face, wet skin sliding against wet skin. It’s easy to float here, tucked tightly against Simon’s chest, the man’s tail wrapped protectively around him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” John murmurs softly, Simon leaning forward, lips grazing over his temple, over the indents left by his mask, salt and sea and Simon. “I’m yours, yeah? Just like yer mine, Simon.”

Their lips find one another, Simon’s tongue flicking urgently against John’s mouth, a fevered desperation that makes John shiver with need. Simon kisses him freely now, small bites and claims littering John’s body, the mer’s teeth a lot sharper than the average humans, and something John can’t get enough of. 

He craves the feeling of his mate, of his mouth, his hands, the way he pulls John closer, the way he kisses him like John is the very air he needs to survive.

And maybe, John thinks, his breath catching as Simon sucks claiming bruises into the soft skin of his throat, he is.

When they’d accepted the mating bond, when they’d decided they weren’t going to stay away, something shifted between the two. John doesn’t know how to explain it, but that ache in his chest is gone, that feeling that was missing, that incomplete half of him, is filled in every way.

It’s the way that no matter when, or what time, Simon is by his side each night in bed, the mattress shifting with his weight, the feeling of warmth, of safety, of soft words murmured against sleep-warmed skin. Of legs tangling together beneath the sheets as John fits his body against Simon’s own.

Two weathered pieces of a puzzle that fit in just the way they should.

It’s the way Simon holds him, kisses him, the way their bodies tangle together in the most intimate of ways, when nothing separates their bodies except for gasping pants and mingled breaths.

When Simon swallows every moan and cry, promising John that he’ll always keep him safe, that they’ll always be together.

Like they’re meant to be.

It’s the way John always has a sense of where Simon is, can almost feel him in a sense, knows when he’s close, that thrumming in his bones, a feeling that has John moving toward the shore, waiting for Simon’s head to pop above water.

For that beautiful smile he tosses John, lopsided and perfect. For the way it feels when John rushes through the breaking waves, how Simon lifts him with ease.

Because somehow, impossibly, they fit.

This Ghost beneath the waves, this specter, becoming everything John has ever hoped for, ever wished for.

And John doesn’t know if he could ask for anything more than that.

Two nights before Johnny’s record attempt, Simon catches the man on the dock late at night, waiting for him. 

Simon’s been spending more and more time on land these past few weeks, unable to resist the pull he feels towards Johnny. He spends his nights wrapped around the man, more comfortable in a bed on land than he’s ever been in his life. 

He still feels called to the water, though it’s less powerful than his call to be near Soap. It’s usually satisfied by supervising the man’s dive attempts each day. Simon doesn’t interfere, simply watches Soap as he dives. 

Usually

But Soap didn’t dive today. Price wouldn’t allow it, insisting he rest, eat, and hydrate today instead. So just before dinner, Simon had quietly slipped from the little bungalow on the beach, back into the water for a few hours. 

He watches Soap from under the surface now. His legs dangle off the end of the dock, the water halfway up his shins. He doesn’t kick his legs, but he is rolling his ankles and flexing his feet; Johnny ever in motion. Simon is aware that Soap knows he’s there. The bond tells them of the other’s presence. Simon doesn’t know how it works, only that he always has some innate knowledge of how far away Soap is, and a general sense of what the man’s feeling. 

Simon always found the idea of a bond horrifying; always having someone else in his head? 

No. 

But Johnny just fit, slotted into Simon’s consciousness like he’d always been there. There’d been no acclimation period, no major disruption in Simon’s mind. It all felt natural, right. Soap glances down and gives a fond smile, kicks a tiny splash that doesn’t even reach Ghost as he surfaces next to his legs. Johnny leans back on his hands, looking up at the starry sky above him while Simon floats in a lazy circle for a few quiet moments.

“I was raised as a human,” Ghost says quietly, drifting slowly on his back, looking at the stars above. “My mother was a mer, my father was human. He pauses, unsure what’s prompting him to speak so freely about things he’s only ever told Price. 

But then he glances over at Soap, at those ocean blue eyes, and he knows why. 

“Old man was a cunt,” he continues. “My mother. . . tried to make a better life for us, for me. At least for a while. Towards the end she was no better than him.”

Soap doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask questions or offer information of his own. He merely listens, looking over at Ghost for a while and then turning to look up at the sky, brow furrowed in thought. 

“Ran away, first chance I got. Decided I’d get myself somewhere tropical and ended up in Mexico.”

Simon heaves out a huge sigh that has Johnny looking down at him. Simon doesn’t look back, just stays where he is, floating on his back and looking at the stars above them, feeling Soap’s eyes wandering his body, picking out the many scars that litter his skin and scales alike. Eventually the man’s eyes leave him, and he also sighs, looking up at the stars. 

Johnny talks, almost constantly. But one thing Simon hadn’t expected was how well Johnny listens. He hangs on every word Simon says to him and remembers everything. When Price gives him instruction before a dive, Soap’s eyes are fixed on the man’s face, focused on retaining every bit of direction he’s given. When Gaz speaks to him, Johnny leans ever so slightly closer, hanging onto his friends words as if they’re a precious commodity. 

Maybe that’s why Simon feels so comfortable telling him these secrets that he swore would never leave the depths of his mind. 

“Spent a lot of time on land as a human back then,” Simon continues. “Needed money. Was no stranger to drugs thanks to my mum and Tommy.” 

Johnny’s eyes find him again and Simon belatedly realizes he never told him he had a brother. A story for another time, he thinks. 

“The cartel killed all the mer in the area so nobody could snitch on their trafficking. Had a few run ins with them,” he sighs heavily at the memories. “Then their boss came out here. Offered me a trade. My life and more money than I could ever spend for my silence and. . . my help,” he admits. 

“I’d imagine it wasnae that simple though, no?” Johnny asks quietly, feet kicking little splashes in the water. 

“No, it wasn’t. Eventually I wasn’t doing enough to keep them happy. Roba became paranoid that buying my silence wasn’t enough. So they captured me. Drugged me somehow so I had to stay like this,” he gestures towards his tail. “Kept me in some dry room until most of my scales fell off.”

Johnny slips his shirt off and eases himself down into the water, into the center of the large circle Simon’s body and tail are forming. Simon turns on his side slightly to face him and watches as Soap gently takes one of his tail flukes in calloused hands. 

His fingers trace over the inky black scales surrounding his fin gently, until he reaches the fin itself. One hand gently wraps around the tapered end of his tail, just before his tail flares out from there. The other hand traces a deep rip in that fluke of his fin. It extends from the bone of his tail all the way out to the edge of his fin, dividing it. 

“Had to learn to swim again properly after that one,” Simon mutters. 

Johnny’s frowns, and makes a little wounded noise before his hands roam up Simon’s scales, pausing over scars to feel them, rubbing over them with a touch far gentler than Simon ever dreamed he’d be on the receiving end of. Johnny continues this, continues gently exploring the expanse of black scales and scars until he reaches the skin of Simon’s torso, and his hands pause to hover over two scars. They’re both round keloids, the raised skin of them forever swollen, even after so many years. One rests just under his armpit, the other lays just over his hip. 

Simon hears Johnny’s breath catch at these as he presses his warm hands to them. 

“A hook,” Simon whispers, shifting to a more upright position and placing his hands on Johnny’s hips. 

Johnny shakes his head. “If I ever find them,” he says quietly, eyes down as he looks at the scars. 

“You won’t,” Simon reassures, rubbing his hands up and down Soap’s arms soothingly, careful with his claws. “Price killed quite a few of them, then helped me find the rest.”

Johnny nods. “Hope they’re all in hell,” he admits as his hands move up to take Simon’s face in his hands. 

He gently traces the markings there, the ones that look so skeletal, so resemblant of a skull. 

“Always wanted to ask,” Johnny begins. “If these are why you went by Ghost.”

Simon leans his cheek into his hand, reveling in the warmth. “It’s what Price called me when I wouldn’t tell him my name. Just stuck with it after that.”

Johnny laughs and the sound does something to Simon, heals something inside of him. 

“Two stubborn fucks, you are. Wish I could’ve seen the two of you bickering,” he grins. 

“We did not bicker–” Simon starts. 

“We didn’t do anything but bicker,” a voice behind Soap says. 

They both look up to see Price standing on the dock, smiling down at them. 

His hands are in his pockets and he looks relaxed, more relaxed than Simon knows if he’s ever seen him. Gaz has been good for the man, he reckons. 

“Kyle’s made dinner,” Price says, tossing a pair of swim trunks into the water next to Simon. “If you both don’t get up to the house to eat before it’s gone cold, he’s going to fillet all of us.” 

Simon grumbles at him but Johnny just laughs before giving his hip one last squeeze and moving to pull himself up onto the dock. 

Simon watches the two men playfully shove at each other before turning and heading towards the bungalow. Johnny radiates a quiet contentedness through their bond and the warmth it spreads through Simon’s chest is unmistakable. 

Later that night, after dinner, he lays in bed wrapped around Johnny whose fingers are once again tracing the outlines of the scars on his chest. 

“How’d ye get through it all,” he whispers, nuzzling into the space under Simon’s chin. 

Simon thinks for a while. “Had something to live for,” he finally whispers against Johnny’s temple. “Just didn’t know it yet.”

“You are the most stubborn fuck I have ever —” John smacks at Simon’s hand, the mer scowling at him in return as John finishes zipping up his wetsuit, nearly catching his chest hairs in the process, because Simon can’t stop complaining for one moment. “I am fine, Simon Riley, and if ye don’t stop yer fussin’ I will make you sleep on the fucking deck.”

“You’re supposed to shave your chest, Tav,” Gaz remarks from behind, John turning to offer a scowl to the man as he zips the suit all the way to his neck. 

“I’ll shave yer eyebrows off, ye fuck,” John barks in return, Price cackling like a hyena as he cuts the engine to the boat, the silence settling around them. 

At least until —

“Did you do your breathing exercises this morning?” 

John blinks up at Simon, the man’s hair spun gold in the pale morning light reflecting off the water. The ocean is still, save for a few whitecaps breaking in the distance, the boat rocking gently beneath their feet.

He’d woken early, the bed cold beside him, only to find Simon already sitting on the edge, fingers clenched in the comforter like it was the only thing grounding him.

John realized that despite everything Simon was nervous for him, because today wasn’t a normal day.

Today was the day John was attempting to break the record dive.

Six months have passed since that moment beneath the waves, since that moment John nearly drowned.

Since Simon dragged him up from the dark. 

Since everything changed.

He’d spent those months training, pushing his body, his lungs, his limits. Compression chambers. Gym sessions. Early mornings and aching muscles. And Simon had been there through it all, grumbling, scowling, and yet never leaving his side.

Simon wasn’t comfortable around humans, and yet he’d still gone with John, there with him for every bit of the strain the training placed on his body, the failures, the small wins, the road to getting his body back to what it had been before that night in the water.

And yet through it all, John doesn’t regret his decision.

He doesn’t know if he and Simon would have kept circling one another, if they would have never made that final push, that leap to discover what the other was, despite John later learning that Simon had indeed visited John in the middle of the night several times.

Something that John had laughed about so hard that he’d nearly turned blue in the face when Simon had sheepishly told him he’d watched John sleep a few times.

“You watched me sleep while you were as naked as a bairn?” John had barked, tears streaming down his face, Simon glaring at him the entire while.

“Well, when you say it like that,” Simon had tried, but John had only laughed harder, which had led to Simon smothering John with his large body on the bed, warning John that he’d fuck up his lungs all over again, and then where would they be.

The stupid fuck.

And despite Simon most definitely being a naked creep in the night, John loved him more for it.

Both of them drawn to one another, a tug neither of them could escape. Mates in every aspect of the word.

Fate, maybe, if John believed in such things.

But as he looks at Simon bathed in the early morning light, that worried smile, the way his amber eyes rove softly over John’s face, he thinks he might believe in fate a little bit more.

Yeah, maybe so.

“Hey,” John murmurs softly, pulling Simon gently forward, the man in a thin black tee and swim shorts, his mate lifting hands to cup either side of John’s jaw. “I’ll be fine, Simon. You know I will.”

“I know,” Simon murmurs, leaning down, their lips finding one another. It’s a feeling John will never be able to get enough of, the way Simon kisses him, the way he can settle every doubt, every lingering thought in John’s mind.

The way he always knows what to say and do, how he completes John in a way he didn’t think was possible.

“I love you,” Simon murmurs, the words brushing against John’s lips like a prayer, like devotion and supplication, a man in worship for the one thing that he would lay his life on the line for.

For them.

For him.

John hums quietly, letting the words settle the cord of nervousness twisting low in his belly. It’s not customary for mer to speak words of affirmation, but Simon learned them, for him. And to John, that means everything.

To be seen, to be accepted.

For what he is. For who he is.

They came together from two different worlds, and yet somehow, they’ve built one of their own.

Together.

“I love you too,” John whispers against the man’s lips, salt and sea, but mostly, Simon. “I’ll see you at the bottom, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Simon tells him softly, a lingering kiss to John’s brow, to his temple, fingers a tight grip around John’s waist, as if worried to let him go. But if there’s one thing John has learned about Simon Riley, is that the man trusts him, no matter what. “Be safe, Johnny.”

Simon glances once at Price, words unspoken but loud in the silence. Price nods once, Simon’s shoulders relaxing a fraction before he moves, diving off the deck, the water barely disturbed before he’s slipping beneath the waves, silent like a specter.

Like a damn Ghost.

Price steps forward, his eyes scanning John’s gear with practiced precision. He checks each strap, each valve, his fingers brushing over the depth gauge clipped to John’s chest, the very device that will log the record-breaking dive.

“The dive line has the tag at the 254 meter mark. Remember to grab it and bring it with you,” Price says, something John has heard multiple times, but he doesn’t tease the man, only nods his head, a small smile. 

John knows how this works. The entire dive will be filmed, by the camera mounted to his chest. For the record to count, he’ll need video evidence of his attempt, and the depth tag clipped to the bottom plate of the dive line.

Without both, the attempt is invalid, and John isn’t looking for any of that today.

“I know,” John says softly, clasping his coach on the shoulder, Gaz coming close, leaning down to bump his forehead into John’s own. They stay quiet for a long moment, the three of them allowing the moment to settle over them.

They know what this means, not only for dive team 141, but for all of them. The blood, the sweat, the tears, the way this small group of three has not only been John’s team, but his family.

The 141, and now with Simon by John’s side, they’re together, complete and whole.

And with one final squeeze to Price’s shoulder, John moves to the edge of the boat. He feels their eyes on him, both Price and Gaz wearing soft smiles, but John sees the tension underneath, the nerves they’re trying to hide, but John knows them better than anyone.

He tosses them a dazzling smile as he fits his mask onto his face, “Stop being worried ye bastards,” John chides, Gaz groaning as he scrubs a hand down his face, Price rolling his eyes. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

John sucks in a breath, in and out for a few moments, preparing his lungs for the dive, and with one final wink to the pair, John flips off the back of the boat, allowing the water to swallow him whole.

The ocean is beautiful in its silence.

John closes his eyes, adrenaline thrumming in his veins as he makes his descent, his body feeling alive, like a wire buzzing beneath his skin. There’s no other feeling in the world, the faint sense of pressure against his chest, the small bubbles he blows out to equalize his breathing.

It’s perfect really.

The water cradles him in a silence that feels almost sacred, the world above fading into nothing but faint shimmers of light. His movements are smooth, efficient, honed by months of relentless training.

After a few more minutes, he opens his eyes and checks his depth gauge.

150 meters.

The number glows back at him, steady and strong. The pressure curls around his chest like a vice, but it’s nothing he can’t handle, a dull ache and a reminder of where he is, of how far he’s come.

John grins behind his mask, a quiet thrill sparking in his chest. Everything’s working. His body, his training, his mind. All of it aligning, steady and focused.

He’s never felt more in control.

From the corner of his eye John catches the flicker of movement, his smile growing wider, because he knows it's Simon, can feel that tug in his chest, the one that calls to him beneath blood and bone, reminding him that his mate is near.

A warmth blossoms low in his chest, one that has nothing to do with the pressure as John keeps descending, his focus going back to the task at hand, releasing bubbles at streamlined intervals, keeping fins kicking just lightly to keep his movements streamlined.

Around him, the pressure begins to push in on his ribs, and John knows he’s about 650 feet below the surface, or 200 meters or so. It’s the furthest he’s ever been able to take himself, despite his countless training, and yet to make the record, he has to go another 54 meters. 

Yet, the burning in his lungs is absent, just a dull ache, and while it’s noticeable, John can definitely keep going, knowing that if he gets in a bind, Simon isn’t far. 

Still, this moment isn’t about needing anyone.

Right now, it’s just him, the water, and the quiet determination that’s carried him this far.

He’s spent his whole life preparing for this dive, pushing his body, testing his limits, and now, John’s ready to see it through.

He’s going to do this. 

For himself.

John pushes deeper, the darkness curling in around him, shadows dancing with the faint light that filters through the gloom. Another shimmer catches his eye, Simon’s iridescent scales, a steady presence just beyond reach.

Close enough for comfort, but far enough not to interfere. Not that Simon ever would. 

John has spent the past six months rambling to Simon about how much he loves what he does, that he found his one true passion, a job he didn’t know existed, and yet one he couldn’t imagine living without.

He found his purpose, and beneath the waves, he found the other half of him. John’s mother joked he was part mer when he was growing up, and in a way Ethel MacTavish was right.

Because the other part of John is the sea and the waves, the darkness and the pressure, the shadows and the light.

It’s the salt and the grit, the way his body relaxes, the way the silence envelops him. The way John has always known peace beneath the waves.

It’s those golden eyes that find him through the gloom, the love, the acceptance, the way John knows the ocean has called to him this entire time—because waiting beneath was his home. A specter lost in the darkness, one who lived in the darkest recesses where no man should have been able to reach. 

But John had.

And somehow, through all of this, they found one another.

John exhales slowly, controlled, and his body sinks faster, slicing through the water with practiced ease.

A quiet thrill builds in his chest as he glances at his gauge—234 meters. He stays focused, jaw clenched as he continues his descent, the burn in his chest starting to become more noticeable, but it's nothing he can’t handle.

Especially now, when it dulls in comparison to the burn John feels building behind his eyes, the way he knows he will remember this moment for the rest of his life.

Because he's doing this. He really is.

He’s going to break the world record.

John tilts his body, head first as he swims the rest of the way down, the orange dive marker just in reach, and when John’s fingers close around it, he can’t stop the tears that mix with the seawater around him.

He's done it. 

John’s broken the world record for freediving.

He looks down, his mask foggy as he checks his gauge meter — 255, just a hair over what he told Price he would do, because John MacTavish has never done anything the easy way.

And from the darkness a shape emerges, massive and looming, curling protectively around John as he holds the marker close to his chest. John keeps his body angled just so, keeping the camera tilted away as Simon’s handsome face moves from the shadows, the skeletal markings, a Ghost beneath the still blue.

John’s gaze drifts over the length of him, over thick muscle and jagged scars, over the torn edge of a fin that still cuts clean through the water. 

But it’s Simon’s eyes that hold him still, just like they did so long ago, cutting through the murk and the gloom, finding John even when he hadn’t yet known what he was searching for.

And yet somehow, they found one another, through it all, they came together, just like they were meant to be.

Simon reaches out, knuckles skimming across John’s jaw, reverent and adoring. They don’t need words to express what this means, and not just to John, but to them both. 

It’s a culmination, a full circle.

John began this journey with the record in mind.

But it ends here, suspended in this single moment, Simon by his side, the marker pressed tight against John’s chest.

He’s won.

And not just the record — but something far greater.

Something that needs no words.

Something eternal. Timeless.

Something that’s theirs.