Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The pet store on the corner of 14th and 1st had a name at one point in time. Probably wasn’t a very good one seeing as anyone and everyone just calls it 141 now. The store itself has remained the same for a decade (aside from, perhaps, the name). It’s jointly owned by a man named John Price and much like his store, everyone seemed to disregard that fact and called him Captain instead. As a retired army man he couldn’t exactly see the harm in it (he did spend a significant number of years answering to that title after all). The other owner didn’t spend much time on the floor- fewer people knew her and those that did gave her the respect of her actual name- Kate Laswell. 

Price has hired on quite a few misfits over the years, most of them didn’t stick, three of them did. 

Kyle Garrick, called Gaz (cause when the store is flooding again Garrick is just too bloody long); a dab hand at fish and any other critter that even dips its toe in h2o. The lad could probably taste your water and let you know the pH is screwy and exactly how to fix it. Doesn’t hurt that he’s got a pretty face and a smooth voice, it takes a special touch to break the news that people aren’t going to be walking out with a goldfish in a bowl for little Timmy’s birthday and an even more delicate hand to convince them to walk out with a tank and chemicals instead. He was a newer hire as far as the store went, Price had found him on a run to a big box store while he was scoping out the competition; bags under his eyes and beleaguered, shoulder deep in a sump system that looked as though it hadn’t worked in a decade. Joining up with the 141 had been the easiest pitch Price has ever made. 

Another character skulking around the corners of the store is their invertebrate specialist. Ghost, who refuses to wear a name tag and was himself the reason he is called that (a breath of fresh air, even if the lad is a tad off), is the closest thing to a spider whisperer this world has ever seen. Price had witnessed this man holding an OBT as nonchalant as if it were a daddy long legs, watched him pick individual baby scorplings off their mammy’s back, even seen him pluck a black widow out of the cellar and move it barehanded to a cup. If Price didn’t know for sharp, bleeding fact that the man had lived through worse he’d probably have had him committed a long time ago (ethically speaking probably still should). Ghost (or former Lieutenant Simon Riley to absolutely none but Price and Laswell) was a straggler from Price’s history, had followed him lockstep as always when he retired and showed up on his door asking for a job not long after (“What exactly do you want to do with a pet store Simon?” Price had asked, incredulous. “I like bugs well enough.” Ghost had answered with a secretive smile). As a result however, their little corner shop boasted the largest and healthiest selection of invertebrates in the UK, a niche John had sorely underestimated the dedication of.

MacTavish he’d found at an expo, beating the shit out of one of the vendors. John can’t remember the details for the life of him, probably just another arsehole being an arsehole. The why of it really matters pennies to him, only the outcome. He’d helped smooth everything over, covered for the Scottish lad with the gleaming eyes and the bruised knuckles. Hadn’t thought much about it till the lad himself found the 141 table to offer his thanks, watched his eyes get wide over the selection they’d brought to the show. They talked for a while after that, he discovered that John MacTavish was a dedicated hobbyist himself with a love for anything with two scales to rub together (and a passion for the mean buggers, Price deduced having seen picture after picture of blood pythons, retics, and bull snakes). It was an easy choice to invite him on. He quickly earned the alias Soap, for just how well he could ‘clean up’ an animal. As a store specializing in exotics, they see their fair share of surrenders, and a fair share of those surrenders are problem animals with a tendency to strike. Within a week of leaving the critter to Soap, whatever troublesome reptile would become puppy dog tame and ready to go home with even the most novice keeper (Gaz calls it “The Touch”, Ghost calls it “pagan witchcraft”). 

It’s a tight ship, a comfortable operation that pays well enough for everyone’s rent. A nice little home Price has carved out for himself and his boys, space to grow and chase passions wherever they may lead. 

“I’m telling you Cap, it’s a worthwhile investment! Once people see how they ought to be kept it’ll be that much easier to get them good homes.” Gaz jabs a finger into a stack of papers littering the cramped desk, the impassioned speech happening far too early in the morning for Price’s blood.

“Bloody go ahead then, just take what you need from inventory.” Price waves a hand, muttering the rest into his coffee. He knew this was a calculated assault, Gaz is clever enough to realize he’d be met with far more opposition later in the day, but Price hasn’t done negotiations at the crack of dawn in years and even then he was getting hazard pay. 

“Ta Cap!” He announces cheerily, seeing himself from the room.

“Christsakes.” John mutters into his tea and wonders just what fresh hell he’s unleashed upon himself. 

Any number of empty energy drinks greater than one starts to be concerning, Soap decides to stop counting after three. The back corner of the 141 looks to have suffered the landfall of an aquarium related hurricane; Drift wood, rocks, and sand litter the floor in between tubing and buckets filled with aquatic plants. Even the fish in the tanks lining the walls look concerned. Soap picks his way through the mire as delicately as he can, almost forgetting the rainbow boa draped around his neck until the wee bastard tries to go fishing (and misses, barely). Skittles, named temporarily (“If you name it you’re gonna want to bloody keep it! We do not need another store pet!”), sits, temporarily mollified and content to observe the school of bright guppies through the glass for now. 

Johnny nearly jumps out of skin when a hand lands on his shoulder. 

“Soap! Perfect timing mate, I need your help with something!” The natural disaster himself grins maniacally at him as he steers the scot through the back room of the store.

“Steaming bloody jesus Garrick, ye nearly sent me to see god!” 

“Not yet, I still need you.”

The back door of the store hangs open and Soap’s eyes take a moment to adjust to the bright light of the outdoors. When they do-

“Is tha’ Ghost’s fecking truck?”

“I borrowed it.” Gaz waves distracted, rounding the bed. 

“What the f- how big is that bloody tank?” 

“800 liters give or take, are you gonna be helpful mate? Cause I can just move this without you.” 

Soap scoffs. “In pieces maybe.”

Nonetheless he steps up to the truck bed to take his end of the truly behemoth tank. 

“What’s this for onywey? Price making you stock monsters now?” 

Gaz squints at him over the tank which might mean more if they weren’t about two meters away from each other. Kyle has waxed poetic over the ethics of keeping ‘monster fish’ on more than one occasion. The conclusion more often than not landing on ‘Laswell can keep monsters, the rest of these wankers can fuck right off’. It’s not that he doesn’t have an appreciation for the big bastards that inspire awe and terror in the tank, but keeping them right is hard and most decidedly a task that many of the people who want them are not up for. Soap had only ever seen Gaz place a special order for a monster fish once, a couple of diamond rays for a literal aquarium, the rest of the hopefuls he’d simply laughed out of the store. 

“S’ for goldies mate.” 

“You’re having me on, all this for goldfish?” Kyle looks as though he’s about to gesticulate passionately before almost getting his fingers squashed between tank and stand. 

“You’ll see, you’ll all fucking see alright!” His usefulness past, Soap is shooed back towards the main section of the store to “ Go throw bugs at something ”. 

Kyle works tirelessly on his mad project for the next seven and a half hours straight. Soap keeps half on eye on him as he goes through the motions of operating the store and caring for the critters. He’s half concerned that the damn fool won’t stop to eat or drink when Garrick finally breaks for lunch. It’s about this time that Ghost emerges from wherever he’d been lurking. The man has dirt under his fingernails and dusted over the sleeves of his shirt which could mean any number of things, but his demeanor is calm and unbothered as he meanders over to the register. Watching the last of this round of patrons filter out before he bumps Soap’s shoulder with his own and holds out a closed fist. 

“Ach nae, last time you did that shite Ah almost ended up in an ambulance.”

Ghost raises a single eyebrow. “What do a toddler and an invert hobbyist have in common?”

“You cannae trust what they hand you?”

That one earns a low chuckle.

“They both like rubber duckies.” 

Soap’s eyes go wide. “-Yer kidding!” 

Ghost turns out his palm revealing a fistful of moss absolutely infested with baby isopods. They share a moment looking over the little bugs before Ghost asks. 

“We still have those bowls Gaz about lost his mind over?” 

Soap hesitantly reveals their location, shoved away in a dark corner of the basement to be forgotten. “Dinnae ken if there are any left, Gaz wasnae gentle tossing ‘em doon there.” 

His companion grunts as the door chirps and wanders away back to his own business. 

Soap catches half glimpses of the construction project throughout the rest of the day, mostly hazy peeks at drift wood and stone. Every time Soap does a surreptitious pass by to get a look at the hardscape Gaz changes his mind and rips it all out again, it goes near to driving a man mad. The pile of empty cans has been joined by sports drink bottles, honestly shocking considering Soap doesn’t think he’s seen the man leave to piss once. 

When the sun’s gone down and Soap’s just finishing up his nightly rounds- turning off lights, misting enclosures, offering wee goodnight loves to his sweet babes- he decides to take one more round of the fish section. Gaz is usually solid as a rock when it comes to his closing chores but Soap’s the last one out tonight and taking one last round of the store is an old habit. The lights in the back corner of the store have all dimmed themselves to a dull blue, casting the walls with an almost ethereal glow. All except one. A monster LED light spans the length of the new aquarium, burning a stunning sunset orange. It bathes the tank in dynamic shadows that make it feel properly cinematic. 

Inside is a masterwork of stone, wood, and water. Gaz has truly outdone himself. The aquascape is natural but not mundane, busy but not overly so. Soap has designed a fair number of his own vivariums but he has to admit that something about adding the water just gives a certain breathtaking quality that can’t be replicated on dry land. The tank is barren of aquatic life for now but it hums with the steady workings of equipment (when did the mad bastard plumb a sump?), promising fish soon. In front of the tank, sitting only a small bit precariously on an overturned five gallon bucket, face smushed up against the glass- is the designer himself. Fast asleep.

Soap had been right that fish were coming soon, the next morning in fact. Gaz already had the filter media soaked in the shop sumps and ready for action when the wee devils were signed for. Well, Soap had assumed ‘wee’.

“Steamin’ jesus, that thing eat all the others in the bag?” 

Gaz raises an unimpressed brow as he hefts a black goldfish the size of his fist, setting it to float in the big tank. 

“I called in a favor with a mate to get some of his adults for the display. And that’s a lady you’re talking about, show some respect.” More follow the first. A scrappy calico fan tail, a ranchu with a truly enormous wen, and a panda oranda that looks traumatized from the flight. A few others with unique colors and patterns join the party but Soap doesn’t know them off the top of his head. 

Soap names them before the day is out. 

The ranchu is Boonie, earned it by trying to jump and eat Price’s hat when he came to inspect the tank. The big fucking black one is Banshee cause she’s a proper spooky lady, swims around with her mouth open like she’s singing and all. The fan tail is dubbed Bubbles, he loves to play in the airstones Gaz has set up, goofy little bastard. Last but not least the panda is called Bang, as Gaz’s favorite she gets to be named after the favorite energy drink. 

“Why’s it all have to be B names?” Gaz asks only half tearing his attention away from the goldies frolicking in their new tank.

Soap ticks the reasons off on his fingers. “S’ easier to remember, s’ a solid theme, I cannae think of anythin’ that doesn’t start with a B-”

The new display is an instant hit, it captivates the customers and drives fish and supply sales just like Gaz said it would. The stars of the show though are of course the inhabitants. The goldfish never miss a chance to show off: begging any passerby for food, spitting water at a lure (Bubbles, the genius lad, is the first to pick that one up), and just generally hamming it up for their adoring public. They even gain a small following on the shop’s social media (courtesy of Gaz), with almost as loyal of a fan base as Ghost. The man had been spotted in the back of a few of Garrick’s informational posts and was quickly adopted by the internet as a localized cryptid. Odd son of a bitch likes it too, will go out of his way to stand ominously in corners when Gaz is filming promotional content like a demon from a horror movie. The comments of the videos are wells of “Ghost sighting!1!” and “spooky bastard spotted”. Soap can’t help but wonder if they’d be more or less intrigued if they heard his shite jokes.

Chapter Text

He’s at the store late, can’t sleep. The drive is easy enough on deserted roads even sleep deprived with a license that’s been expired (read: revoked) longer than some twats have been alive. The quiet ambience of the store soothes his nerves; the chattering of crickets and frogs, humming filters and pumps, the benign rustling of nocturnal critters moving about their enclosures. The taste of humidity in the air takes him back to balmy jungles and long nights on watch. He props the door to his work station open, letting the soft light of the desk lamp stretch beyond the threshold, standing idle, hands cupped round a warm mug of earl grey (painted with designs of invertebrates from last year’s shop secret santa, Soap’s doing and the first mug his fingers grasp for each morning). There’s not work to do, not right now, he’s sure he’ll be able to justify his presence to Price if the old man ever checks the cctv; something about the mating habits of some fuck off huge centipede that’ll kill the flow of questions right quick. He sets the mug down to turn toward some vague idea of labour when the air changes. 

Ghost is being hunted.

It’s a feeling he’s intimately familiar with, and a feeling he much prefers visiting upon other people when he has the choice. It’s oddly out of place in this serene little slice of existence. 

A gun is in hand quicker than should legally be strictly possible. Footsteps quiet as he prowls through the dark store, hugging corners and counting on darkness to obscure his form. Rounding the corner to the register, Beretta sweeping the way before him in unshaking hands, Ghost nearly shouts. 

Gaz levels him with an unimpressed look from his seat on the front counter. 

“Bit late for all that innit?”

Ghost pointedly re-engages the safety. “Early to bed, early to rise or some rot.”

Kyle snorts. “Not exactly the picture of healthy, wealthy, or wise mate.”

“Devastating.” Handgun slipped back into the waistband of his joggers, Ghost pads back to retrieve his tea, ears pricked for Gaz’s following steps. 

“Have a proposal for you.” 

“I’ll only break your heart Garrick.” 

This earns him an incredulous laugh and a shove to the back of his shoulder. “Piss off man.” 

Earl gray in hand (he ignores the gleam in the other man’s eye as it touches on the maker’s mark on the ceramic), Ghost turns to lay the weight of his full attention on his friend, head tilted in invitation.

“Want to make videos with you.”

“No.” 

“Hear me out at least! I’m not about to-”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“I don’t know bugs man, they’re like half of all we sell! We need them on the socials-”

“Not. Happening.” 

“-no face, just hands and the creepy crawly, maybe VO-”

“In your bloody dreams.”

“Ok ok, we nix the voice over, good input. Yes and me come on!”

Ghost snorts. “If you asked me a decade ago about fuckin’ improv-”

“It was a good class!” 

By the time light starts to filter in the front windows the two have ironed out a loose plan for filming and posting schedule (Ghost walking away with homemade lunches every upload day ad infinitum and a bottle of good bourbon he plans to savor besides). Soap stumbles in around about 8 o’clock to find the two of them stock still staring at the door; Ghost leant over the counter (earl gray dregs cold and clumping at the bottom of his mug), Gaz sat on the floor propped back on his palms (first energy drink of the day half empty already). The scot mutters something about mad bastards and proper bed times before he shuffles off to turn on lights and and start feeding. 

The thing you have to know about running a pet store, is that the vast majority of it is not playing with cute animals. In fact a large part of it is getting bitten, at least for Soap. He supposes that’s what he gets for making the tricky ones his personal pet project, but it still stings like a motherfucker. The shop has been closed for about half an hour, Price has descended from the office and Ghost has just barely emerged from his cave (read: the shoebox closet full to the tits with shelves of bugs) to grab something or other. It’s feeding day for the snakes and Soap had been previously working his way around the display, offering orders of rats and mice to the discerning palates of his wee ones. It’d been going well, an easy routine that allowed him to mostly zone out and listen to whatever Kyle is saying about potassium and iron as he works to organize the new aquatic fertilizers. Which is of course his mistake. And how he ended up with a great fucking blood python hanging off his forearm. 

Gaz very helpfully started by laughing his ass off.

The stupid thing isn’t even constricting, just holding tight and hanging like a bloody toddler asking for a swing. It doesn’t take much to persuade him to let go, less to cajole him into locking onto the frozen thawed rat the son of a bitch was meant to strike in the first place. Still leaves Soap with a bloody arm and a sore ego. Thankfully the store first aid kit (closer to a first aid duffel in all actuality, and all of it military grade) is an old friend and Soap navigates it with irritated familiarity; dousing his arm in peroxide with a sour hiss.

“Bites like a german fockin shepherd.” He swears.

“Shepherds aren’t that bad really.” Ghost pipes up almost absent mindedly before wandering off, pilfered greens from the fridge in hand.

There are times that Ghost will say something so far removed from his image of the man that Soap has to seriously question if it’s a kernel of golden truth or previously unplumbed sardonic depths. Gaz meets his gaze with equal confusion and Price just snorts.

“You know something we don’t Cap?” Gaz asks over the display.

“A good many things I’d wager.”

“Care to share any of tha’ wisdom old man?” Soap fishes, the dripping bite wound on his arm now wholly forgotten in favor of perhaps learning something about their local enigma.

Instead of responding, Price opens his phone, slipping on reading glasses that he’ll deny needing till the day he dies. He scrolls for minutes, his employees dropping any pretense of actual work to gather round like primary school children ready for story hour. Just when Soap is prepared to vibrate out of his skin with impatience, Price huffs a short laugh and turns his screen.

In grainy clearly saved and resaved video, a young man runs across an open field. Tall and only starting to fill into the brick shithouse he’ll one day be. With an open face, shining eyes, and dirty blond hair cut high and tight (though Soap knows it curls when it grows out). After a second’s head start running shockingly gracefully in a big ass suit, a furry missile crosses the screen and nails him on the arm. The momentum of the dog is enough to take the man to the ground. The audio isn’t great, enough to hear whoops and cheers but just underneath that-

“Quit laughing Sergeant this is supposed to be serious!” 

The mad bastard is laughing, only redoubling as the dog gets a command and goes from attempting to rip his arm off to wagging her tail and laying wet kisses all over his face in a heartbeat. 

“Is tha’ really-”

“Classified, to the Nth degree.” For a moment Captain John Price shines through and Soap and Gaz stiffen in quasi parade rest. Then he softens. “Used to volunteer for it, had a soft spot for the dogs. Damn muppet snuck treats in his bloody pockets like a kid.”