Chapter 12: The Homecoming Storm
The stairwell of James's walk-up had always smelled like someone else's dinner—cabbage and old grease and the faint, sweet rot of garbage bags waiting for pickup. Ghost took the steps two at a time, his boots echoing off the narrow walls, Price close behind him. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say that wouldn't sound like an excuse.
Three weeks of silence. No calls, no texts. The last thing James had heard was that promise in the dark of that crumbling farmhouse, and then nothing.
Ghost reached the third-floor landing and stopped. The door to 3B was closed, but he could hear music thrumming through the wood—something with a heavy bassline and a screaming guitar. James's anger playlist. The one he blasted when he was trying to drown out his own head.
"Is that—" Price started."Yeah." Ghost ran a hand over his face. "He knows we're here."
"Of course he does." Price moved past him, rapping his knuckles against the door."James. Open up."
The music didn't stop. If anything, it got louder.
Price looked at Ghost, one eyebrow raised."Your turn."
Ghost swallowed. He pressed his palm flat against the door, feeling the vibration of the bass through the wood."Jimmy." His voice was low, barely carrying over the noise. "Love.Open the door."
A pause. The music cut.
The silence that followed was worse. It stretched, taut as a wire, and Ghost could feel his own pulse hammering in his throat. Then—the deadbolt clicked. The chain rattled. The door swung open.
James stood in the middle of the room, not by the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing that same oversized band tee, the one Ghost had left behind, and nothing else. His feet were bare against the cold floor. His hair was a disaster, tangled and sticking up. He was red-faced and shaking, a pillow clutched in his white-knuckled grip.
"You're a week late." His voice cracked on the last word. "A whole week. No calls. No texts.Nothing. I called your phones—I called both of you—and it just rang and rang and rang until it went to voicemail, and then I—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I convinced myself you were dead. I convinced myself I was gonna get a call from some lieutenant telling me you were gone, and there was nothing I could do about it, and I was just gonna have to—"
The pillow hit Ghost square in the chest. He caught it, more out of reflex than anything.
"You said soon!" James hurled another pillow—this one aimed at Price's head, and Price let it bounce off his shoulder. "You said we're close! And then you just—" His voice broke again. "You just disappeared. Both of you. Like you didn't matter. Like I didn't matter."
"James—" Ghost tried.
"No! Shut up! It's my turn to talk!" James grabbed another pillow from the couch—a sad, lumpy thing—and threw it. It missed entirely, hitting the wall behind them. "I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. I just sat here, staring at my phone, waiting for a call that never came. Do you know what that's like? Do you have any idea how insane that drove me?"
Price stepped forward, his hands raised, palms open. "We fucked up."
"Obviously you fucked up! I haven't seen you in a month—"
"A month and two days," Ghost corrected quietly.
"OH, THANKS FOR COUNTING!" James's chest heaved. He threw the last pillow—there was nothing left to throw but a throw blanket, which he flung with surprising accuracy, hitting Ghost in the face. "I was so scared. I was so fucking scared, and you weren't there, and I couldn't do anything about it, and I just—I just—"
The fury crumbled. His shoulders sagged, his face crumpled, and the first sob tore out of him like a wound breaking open.
Ghost moved before he could think. Two strides across the room, his arms wrapping around James's shaking body, pulling him into a crushing embrace. James's fists came up against his chest, beating weakly against him, but the fight was gone. All that was left was grief.
"I hate you," James choked out, his face pressed into Ghost's shoulder. "I hate you so much."
"I know." Ghost's voice was rough, his hand cradling the back of James's head. "I know, love. I'm sorry."
"Don't you ever—don't you ever do that again—"
"Never." The promise came out low and fierce, a vow carved into bone. "Never again.I swear it."
Price wrapped around them both, his arms spanning wide to pull them into the circle of his warmth. For a long moment, the three of them stood there, tangled together in the flickering light of James's apartment, the weight of the past month pressing down on all of them.
James's sobs quieted. His fists unclenched, his fingers curling into the fabric of Ghost's tactical vest. He was still shaking, but the storm was breaking.
"I thought you were dead," he whispered. "I thought—I was gonna have to go to your funerals. Both of you. And I wouldn't have even known where they were buried—"
"We're not going anywhere," Price murmured against his hair. "We're here.We're real. We're alive, lad. And we're not leaving you again."
James let out a wet, shaky laugh. "You better not. I'll—I'll haunt you. Both of you. Forever."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," Ghost said.
They stood there for a long while, the silence settling around them like a blanket. The apartment was a mess—worse than before, if that was possible. Mismatched dishes stacked in the sink. Books and papers scattered across the coffee table. The faint, metallic tang of something that had burned and been abandoned in the kitchen.
Price was the first to move. He pulled back, his hands settling on James's shoulders, his gaze sweeping over him with quiet intensity. "When did you last eat?"
James blinked, like the question was in a foreign language."Uh. Yesterday? I think? I had some cereal."
"Cereal," Price repeated, flat.
"Fruity Pebbles. It's, like, vitamins."
Ghost snorted. "Fruity Pebbles is not vitamins."
"It was really good." James's voice was still scratchy, but there was a hint of his old spark returning. "You're not my mom."
"I'm not trying to be." Price's thumb brushed over James's cheek, catching a stray tear. "But I am making you something to eat. And then we're going to talk."
James deflated. "Johnny—"
"John." Price's voice was soft but unyielding. "You've been alone in this place for a month. I'm not letting you go another hour without something real in your stomach."
James looked at Ghost, a plea in his eyes. Ghost just shrugged.
"He's got a point. You've got the color of a man who's been living off caffeine and spite."
"Spite's a great motivator."
"Not the kind that keeps you alive."
James let out a groan, but he allowed Price to steer him toward the kitchenette. The stove was cold, but the burner hissed when Price lit it, and he started pulling ingredients from the fridge—eggs, butter, a sad-looking carton of milk that was one sniff away from doom.
"You've been sleeping?" Ghost asked, leaning against the counter.
James's silence was answer enough.
"James."
"I sleep. I just—" He ran a hand through his hair. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw like—like you guys getting shot. Or a helicopter going down. Or—" He shook his head. "All the worst things. All the things I couldn't stop."
Ghost's jaw tightened. He crossed the distance between them, his hands coming up to cup James's face. "That's not on you."
"Feels like it."
"It's not." Ghost tilted his head, forcing James to meet his eyes. "It's not on you. It's on us. We didn't call. We didn't check in. We left you alone with nothing but your head, and that's a cruel thing to do to anyone." He paused. "We won't do it again."
James's gaze softened. He opened his mouth, maybe to argue, then closed it again. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Ghost's chest.
"I was so scared," he repeated, quieter now.
"I know." Ghost's arms wrapped around him again. "But I've got you. We've got you. And we're not letting go."
The eggs sizzled in the pan. The coffee maker gurgled to life. And, slowly, the tension eased out of James's shoulders, replaced by something softer. Something like safety.
Price was quiet as he worked, his hands steady, but he kept glancing over—watching James, watching Ghost, a quiet ache behind his eyes. He knew this wasn't over. The fear, the doubt, the echoes of abandonment—they wouldn't fade in a night.
But they'd start.
Later, after the food was eaten and the coffee was drunk, they moved to the couch. James was sandwiched between them, his legs thrown over Ghost's lap, his head resting against Price's shoulder. The lamp cast a warm glow across the room, and the apartment felt less like a tomb and more like a home.
"I missed this," James said quietly.
"Missed what?" Price asked, his hand stroking through James's hair.
"This.You two. The—" He gestured vaguely. "The togetherness. The quiet. I hate sleeping alone. I hate waking up alone. I hate—" He stopped. "I just. I've been so lonely."
Ghost's hand tightened on his ankle. "We're here now."
"Yeah." James's voice was barely a whisper."Yeah.You are."
The silence settled again, but it wasn't heavy this time. It was content, peaceful, filled with the sound of three people breathing in sync."Hey, Simon?" James said, his eyes already drifting closed.
"Hmm?"
"Your boots are still on. On my couch. And they're covered in mud."
Ghost looked down at his boots, then at the faint trail of dirt across the worn leather cushion. "Do you want me to take them off?"
"No." James smiled, small and sleepy. "Leave 'em. It means you're home."
Ghost's chest ached with something warm and unfamiliar. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to James's forehead.
"I'm home," he said. "We both are. And we're staying."
The promise hung in the air, fragile and fierce, as the night deepened around them.
In the morning, it would be about hard conversations and tighter promises. It would be about rebuilding trust and learning to carry the weight together instead of apart.
But tonight, there was only this: three people, tangled together on a battered couch, breathing as one.
And that was enough.