In the midst of my ongoing health issues, I've been replaying the dragon age games, and getting a new appreciation for these stories (and the ways things have aged for better or worse lol)
this is a website full of SINNERS, SICKOS, and HOMOS!!!!!
So tell me .... what sins of the past still haunt you?
Did you do hamilton discourse? Become the most popular jonas brothers rpf writer on AO3 when you were 13? Did you make a fake post on tumblr about owning the homophobes? Did you spend 2 years roleplaying as a middle aged mom who writes letters to serial killers in the true crime community before eventually deleting the 10,000 follower blog in shame? Did you do hamilton discourse?
Father Strange is here to offer a comforting ear and absolve you of your guilt. You many now unburden yourself anonymously in my inbox.
Clarification: The sins need not take place on tumblr so as long as they feel sort of tumblr-y. Anything fandom/fanfic related definitely works. writing fake stories on reddit would work. The twitter discourse trenches would work. Sometimes tumblr is a state of mind, u know?
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)
Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.
cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection
Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body.
The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception.
But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.
There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way.
They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.
Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.
They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.
Stamped, more like. Branded.
Survived.
And soulmates shared scars.
Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.
He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way.
It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one.
There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing.
Better he was alone.
The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance.
A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.
A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.
Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.
And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate.
Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would.
But, sometimes, he wondered.
He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing.
It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again.
He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.
It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him.
Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.
If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already.
He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable.
It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent.
He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.
Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear.
It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.
The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.
Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land.
A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.
“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.”
Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?”
Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”
Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head.
Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was.
No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him.
But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds.
.
.
.
The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices.
Each place had caveats.
The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it.
Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there.
The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day.
The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors.
The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone.
A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty.
He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.
Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators.
It was a regular, routine, quiet place.
So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted.
Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.
The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck.
The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air.
Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward.
There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp.
Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to.
It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it.
You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?”
Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs.
Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere.
He would know his own face anywhere.
He would, apparently, know you anywhere.
Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat.
Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it.
You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs.
His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart.
Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone.
The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain.
Nausea swept into the back of his throat.
“Are you okay?”
He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes.
You saw him.
Simon was not to be seen.
Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze.
Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked.
Not anymore.
He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—
The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace.
Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Sir?”
Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat.
Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.
As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency.
You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire.
You hadn’t recognized what he was.
And he was going to keep it that way.
.
.
.
It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it.
He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it.
Better yet, through you.
Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery.
One sure way to free himself was your death.
It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them.
Simon understood the urge.
He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides.
Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this.
It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse.
It was wrong.
He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.
The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.
Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up.
Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it.
Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.
Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light.
Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp.
Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were.
Fuuucking hell.
Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room.
Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal.
He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache.
Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders.
You yawned, eyes still closed.
He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would.
Ghost backed away, left you to your peace.
The weight in his chest intensified again.
He hated you for it.
He went back the next day.
And the day after that.
.
.
.
Anchor might be a better descriptor.
Hook was too violent.
Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that.
He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things.
You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t.
You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin.
You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it.
You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night.
You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else.
They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in.
Absolutely bloody foul.
Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile.
And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed.
You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers.
You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you.
He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous.
You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough.
Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them.
He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him.
The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important.
That used to be more important.
Now his every thought was asterisked by you.
Distracted.
He didn’t do well with it.
He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it.
Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.
He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly.
After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk.
Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest.
It was enough to be where you had once been.
That was as close as he cared to be.
He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again.
.
.
.
He went by Ghost, you learned eventually.
His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely.
It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith.
It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut.
Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true.
Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request.
It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception.
It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.
When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.”
The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.”
Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.”
You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note.
There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.
You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way.
Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it.
You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.
You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back.
“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?”
This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands.
The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.
“Have I passed?”
His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?”
“Your test?”
“Think I’m testin’ you?”
“You moved my desk.”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it.
It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.
You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.”
“Should.”
“Maybe.”
“Especially in the field.”
“I don’t do field work.”
He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond.
“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”
He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office.
Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company.
All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone.
Ghost was strange, slightly off putting.
You liked him.
Maybe, you thought, he’d come back.
.
.
.
Ghost visited regularly after that.
Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work.
His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling.
You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.
But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.
Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind.
The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.
You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.
The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others.
Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it.
You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain.
He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag.
In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently.
But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him.
If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said.
“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.
Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle.
He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.
“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.
“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“
“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”
“Yep. Got something for you, too.”
He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?”
You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”
He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”
“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”
“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”
Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway.
When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed.
It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.
.
.
.
When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.
You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor.
It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window.
In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift.
He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier.
“It’s for you. I knitted it.”
He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”
Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?”
“Who else would have?”
He grunted. “You knit?”
“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”
His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck.
“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.
You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.”
Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.”
“What?”
“Silly.”
The way he grunted the word made you laugh.
“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”
“Reckon you just did.”
You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?”
“Just two.”
It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.”
“And out of questions.”
You laughed again.
He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.”
“Where are you from?”
The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?”
You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.”
He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer.
The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back.
“Why do you come here?” You asked instead.
This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.”
“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.”
He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.”
You decided not to take offense at being called noise.
You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch.
“Hungry?” You asked.
“Tryin’ to see my face?”
You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.”
The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.
“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.
You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.”
He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.”
You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.”
“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it.
When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.
“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.”
Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?”
You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”
His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all.
“From somewhere warm?”
“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.”
“Must be nice, that.”
“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.”
“One you enjoy.”
“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.”
He snorted again.
You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle.
When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.”
“Hm?”
“Where I’m from.”
His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead.
“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“
You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”
“It’s your fucking accent.”
“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?”
“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered.
You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”
“Suppose it does.”
“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.”
He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?”
You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”
“They make it wrong too.”
You groaned. “Not you too.”
Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container.
“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.”
You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?”
“I love tea.”
It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.”
He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called.
Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.”
He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.”
“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.”
Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone.
.
.
.
It should be a good thing.
You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other.
But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.
The thought festered, burrowed.
“Laswell.”
She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead.
“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.”
Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?”
“What do you mean?”
“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”
Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that.
“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?”
Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall.
You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.
As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working.
When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working.
He walked you to your car around midnight.
“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you.
“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered.
You just laughed.
.
.
.
“Tea?”
You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain.
It would need remedied.
But first, this.
It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Unfortunately not.”
You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.”
“What’re you still doing ‘ere?”
“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?”
Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.
“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.”
“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.”
“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.”
“Hilarious, you are.”
You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?”
He nodded. “C’mon then.”
You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.
Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain.
The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.
“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”
“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.
“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.”
He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”
“Got a head start then.”
You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it.
If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody.
The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged.
Simon ignored it.
When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw.
“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off.
He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?”
“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it.
“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?”
Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.”
“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.”
He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it.
The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.
“To hide my face.”
“Your identity, you mean.”
“My identity,” he agreed.
“Why?”
He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop?
Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.”
You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead.
“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.”
“Part of the job.”
Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.”
Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.”
“I take offense to that.”
You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.”
“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.
When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not.
“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.”
“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time.
He huffed. “Better all the time.”
“And I have you to thank.”
Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check.
Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his.
“Thanks, Ghost.”
“”S just tea.”
You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation.
“What’s tha’?”
“I know how to make tea for you now.”
“Like it?”
“I love it.”
You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.”
He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.”
You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well.
“Noted.”
Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so.
.
.
.
Things settled into a pleasant rhythm.
A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in.
You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach.
People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond.
You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary.
It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.
It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes.
“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?”
“Oh,” you said. “I—”
It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest.
You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.
Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door.
“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.”
“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?”
Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.”
“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.”
“Okay.”
His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office.
So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there.
And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work.
“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.”
“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.”
“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated.
Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life.
You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all.
.
.
.
Monday.
There was a knife in Simon’s pocket.
Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot.
The one in his pocket, though, was for you.
A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one.
The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over.
It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays.
And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away.
Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away.
When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished.
Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”
Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't.
“All right?”
“Hm?”
“You’re quiet.”
“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.
There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?”
You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.”
“Try again.”
Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.
Simon waited, but you did not reemerge.
He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—”
“Nice weather.”
“I can see that.”
“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.”
Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”
“C’mon, then.”
You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm.
“Lunch.”
You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow.
Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right.
Just his luck.
Didn’t matter though.
He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled.
The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain.
“So, what are we doing?”
“Walking.”
“I can see that.”
“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?”
You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway.
The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply.
He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter.
Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.”
He didn’t deny it.
“What are we doing back here?”
Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.
You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?”
“Sometimes.”
“Secret’s safe with me.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”
He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own.
They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish.
Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.
He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him.
Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved.
Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own.
He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking.
He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too.
He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed.
Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.
When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms.
“What ‘appened?” He asked.
Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?”
“Affirmative,” he said.
You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.”
“Stalling.”
“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.”
Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?”
“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.”
“He’s a prick.”
“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.”
You looked very small, and alone at that moment.
“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”
The chill spreads outward.
It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life.
He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this.
You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again.
And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands.
You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves.
“Have you found yours?”
Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.”
You nodded. “Me either.”
.
.
.
He walked you back to your office.
You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find.
Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs.
Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair.
You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way.
Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk.
Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch.
A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges.
He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.
“A knife.”
“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.”
“Why?”
“In case you need to.”
“Is this about me staying late?”
“No.” He did not elaborate.
“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—”
“But you don’t carry a gun.”
“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”
He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.”
You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.
“Okay.”
His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” you agreed.
.
.
.
If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well.
You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began.
You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.
What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic.
Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.
This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow.
On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope.
You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?”
Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud.
You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?”
“Better to be prepared, yeah?”
“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh.
After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison.
His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours?
Rough, warm. Safe.
It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing.
Stupid, silly.
If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask.
“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate.
“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”
“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.
“Not a game, bird.”
“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.”
“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.”
“Is that it?”
You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.”
It wasn’t easy.
For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back.
Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.
Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in.
“On your feet.”
Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good.
It didn’t feel like you were doing good now.
By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands.
“You’re hurting me,” you gasped.
He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion.
But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way.
“Shit.”
.
.
.
The window was open and you were not in your office.
Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently.
He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.”
Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds.
When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.”
“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.”
“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.”
Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”
“Forgot it.”
Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it.
“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“It’s okay—“
“Wasn’t a suggestion.”
“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.”
He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity.
“Gonna rain,” he commented.
You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget.
When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again.
“I can see you won’t leave it alone.”
“Affirmative,” he said.
You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours.
Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted.
You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.”
He grunted, followed you closely back inside.
As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen.
He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”
Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.
“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled.
“Who’s this then?”
You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.”
“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”
“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.”
Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?”
“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice.
But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?”
Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.
“Very becoming, lass.”
You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?”
“Aye, all mine.”
“Ah, luck.”
“Lucky indeed.”
Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.
“Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat.
“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.”
“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.”
“That’s for sure, bonnie.”
“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?”
Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”
“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.”
Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—
“It’s need to know,” he snapped.
Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”
Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess.
“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”
Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into.
Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold.
.
.
.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!”
“She doesn’t need to know.”
“Yer name?”
Ghost leveled Soap with a stare.
Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?”
“Stay out of it, MacTavish.”
Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.”
He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”
“It won’t.”
Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“
“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.”
“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”
Simon ignored him.
But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.
Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him.
.
.
.
Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it.
He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too.
Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged.
Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.
The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you.
But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender.
You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends.
Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.
Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it.
Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date.
He didn’t know what to do with any of it.
One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.
You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see.
Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?”
A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.”
“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?”
“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.
Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.”
“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—”
“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”
“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.”
“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.”
“You sweet on me or something, bon?”
You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match.
The silence was suffocating.
“All right?”
You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little.
He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?”
You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—”
“You’re apologizing for Soap?”
Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”
“No.”
“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.”
He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.”
“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—”
He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”
“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.”
“Mm.”
“I’ll make space.”
He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him.
“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.”
“Aye, LT.”
He chuckled. “Take care of that.”
“Teach me how?”
He nodded.
“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.”
“I know.”
Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier.
“‘Course you do.”
.
.
.
Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain.
His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain.
The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to.
He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.
You said he didn’t, after, but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry.
You’re hurting me.
It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable.
You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over.
He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain.
His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls.
There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins.
Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little.
“Johnny.”
Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—”
“Does she feel it?”
“What—”
He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”
“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.”
Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Deserves better.”
Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.”
Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father.
Fucking perfect.
.
.
.
Two months deployment.
The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it.
He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore.
Maybe, he didn’t really want to.
Maybe, Johnny was right.
He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with.
Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle.
Not as empty as they thought.
Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward.
Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise.
When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her.
The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang.
Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes.
“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked.
“What?”
“Soulmates.”
Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes.
“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—”
Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again.
It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence.
“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side.
It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you.
All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers.
Just to be sure.
It took them a long time to get her to leave the body.
.
.
.
Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months.
September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag.
You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of.
You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together.
Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day.
But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—
Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.
You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.”
“That disappointed to see me?”
No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.”
He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.”
You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.”
“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.”
His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong.
You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?”
He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained.
He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand.
“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”
Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question.
“Scars.”
You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales.
It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before.
Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them.
“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”
He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”
You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”
He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.”
His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.”
“What?”
“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?”
Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly.
“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.”
“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—”
But Simon was determined, his mind set.
“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.”
“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?”
Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed.
“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall.
You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you.
He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—”
“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be.
The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly.
You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck.
“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.”
You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught.
You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they.
It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet.
You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.
You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold.
You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like.
“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind.
You opened your eyes.
“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand.
He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.
You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap.
But if he was yours—
If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him.
He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear.
You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“You don’t understand,” he rasped.
“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.”
The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.
“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”
He finally returned his gaze to yours.
“Did it hurt?”
“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.”
He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.
“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.”
Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.
You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.”
His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.”
Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.
“It’s not fair to you.”
“What isn’t?”
“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?”
You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?”
He made a pained sound. “Don’t.”
“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”
“You’re supposed to need things from me.”
He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—”
“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.”
You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.”
“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat.
“Can.”
Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours.
You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.”
“How long?”
“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.”
“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—”
“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.”
You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?”
“No.”
“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—”
He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin.
You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul.
You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you.
In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss.
When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.”
“Just turning on the lamp.”
He released you.
As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair.
“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”
When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa.
Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly.
“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?”
“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth.
He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.”
Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped.
“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers.
“You don’t want me.”
It wasn’t a question.
He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours.
“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.”
“Obviously it’s not, bird.”
Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”
“Simon,” he corrected.
“Simon,” you echoed.
He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.”
You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—”
“No.”
You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.”
His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.
It didn’t feel close enough.
You wished it were all different.
That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted.
“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?”
He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded.
“Go on, then.”
Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head.
You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling.
Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic.
Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—”
You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together.
“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Good.”
“Can I touch you?”
“Can do anything you like to me, bird.”
You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.”
He made a content noise of agreement.
You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.”
“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?”
“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.”
His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little.
Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.”
“What—”
He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.
“No more pain?”
“None.”
“Good.”
You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.
“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”
His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins.
It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips.
“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly.
He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples.
Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.
“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.
The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.
if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!
Summary: After hanging up the ghost mantle, Simon struggles integrating with civilization, leading to him buying a house near a beach and catching more than he bargained for.
Fish.
That's all he smelt standing on the rusty old excuse of a dock. Watching the waves as they slammed against dark rocks that lined the overgrown beach.
This is the last place he thought he'd end up at, he was sure his life would end in whatever third world country he was deployed to- but what was he supposed to do? Say no?
Disobey his captain when he passed over the documents? That damn piece of paper stating that his run is over, that he's unwillingly forced into retirement.
He didn't have a choice. Fate always had a cruel way of punishing him day by day after all.
"Tried to talk with Laswell but we both know your head isn't here Lieutenant."
"Sir-"
"After recent events... you haven't been the same." Price sighed, "I can't risk putting you or the team in danger."
"So I'm a liability now?"
He knew he was being a prick.
They all had been going through it. Including Price- who was trying oh so hard to keep everything togheter when he was rotting on the inside.
"Ghost-"
"I can still serve-"
"Simon."
The air was tense, every breath they took feeling like water was being filled in their lungs instead of oxygen. The harsh lights of Price's office making his already red eyes sting.
"It was an honor serving with you soldier. Take care of yourself."
So that's how he found himself back in his dingy run down flat in a rather unpleasant neighborhood in Manchester.
After years devoted to serving for his country, one wrong call and circumstance cost him his brother. Another person he thought of as home gone because he wasn't there to have his back.
It wasn't obscure to think that he would lose his mind- yes he was considered heartless and untouchable in the eyes of new recruits that would enlist- hell even his colleagues and higher ups thought the same. In reality, Ghost was only ever a facade to mask his hurt.
So how does one, who spent so long being a soldier, a machine built for war, go back to being a civilian?
He can't.
Simon Riley died a long time ago.
As much as he hated to admit it... Price was right.
He is a liability- became lost in his own rage and pain, blacking out and going on a rampage, killing multiple men like they were going to bring him back.
Months of him not sleeping, taking unnecessary risks, causing outbursts and overall punishing himself- ultimately leading to the death of Makarov. Killed by a bullet going perfectly straight through his skull.
Ghost made sure he put ten more for good measure and a few stab wounds before he was eventually pulled away.
He wasn't himself and he knew that.
Long gone was the calm and collected lieutenant.
Sounds of traffic, beeping horns, yelling, construction workers- drowned out by his own thoughts. Some random football game played in the background while he was on his... God knows what bottle of bourbon- he stopped counting after the tenth one.
Gaz and Price visited, took him out for a pint or two, went grocery shopping for him- but they still had work. Still had six months of deployment ahead of them. He doesn't blame them for losing track of time.
Just how he lost track of when he was supposed to pay his rent, the eviction letter pilled up next to the other useless junk mail.
So what was a man who was unable to integrate into society supposed to do? Pack his measly half empty suitcase and buy a house somewhere off the coast of course.
A two story beach house swallowed inside the overgrown forest that opened up to an unkept beach. Forgotten.
It was perfect.
So he got to work, started repairing the interior, plaster that had fallen off or old windows needing to be replaced by better insulated ones. Bringing in his minimal furniture from his flat after he finished repainting the whole house. He was slowly clearing out the outside as well, cutting down some smaller trees and tending to the grass.
It was sort of nice, he had something to do instead of live on his miserable couch, drinking and wallowing in self pity- I mean he still did that but that was time reserved for after he had finished working.
He even started a small garden for vegetables- mostly potatoes- considering the closest town was a relatively small one that was a 10 minute drive from where he was. He went once a week for basic supplies and food, even started selling fish on the market.
There was an old fishing boat that came with the property, he scraped off the algae and bought himself some new gear... Finding the whole experience quite relaxing.
Watching how the serene water shifted ever so slightly, the sunlight bouncing on the surface as he cast his fishing line once more.
It was familiar, yet...
No matter how much he enjoyed being out on his little boat, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.
Call it paranoia.
But years in the military have taught him to be aware of his surroundings and he knew when there was a pair of eyes on him. He could tell when he was being hunted.
Yet he could never pin point exactly where it was coming from.
He finished up for the day, deciding to head back to his humble abode. Not before looking at the water and gazing at his reflection, his scarred and burnt face staring right back at him.
Yeah... Enough for today.
Soon, the weather got warmer- almost six months since...
The water was frantic that morning, small waves moving and splashing due to the slightly windy weather. He had been fixing up the deck, sure it worked fine but it was a question of when it wouldn't. The screws were all rusty and crooked, wooden planks moldy and rotting away- so he bought some new ones from town and began unloading his truck. No doubt there was going to be a storm coming in so he just piled the wood and covered them with a tarp.
Good thing he already fixed most of the leaks in the attic, he was going to redo the entire roof at some point but it worked for now- before he had placed a multitude of different pots and pans to catch each individual leak.
He enjoyed it here far more than the city. There wasn't any loud banging or yelling, no nosy people, only the soft melody of crickets, waves and occasionally rain letting him go numb.
Fishing helped as well, it was a quiet past time.
No ghosts are coming to haunt him here.
Well...
Almost no ghosts.
He narrowed his eyes toward the window overlooking the water, taking a long drag from his cigarette. No matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't help shake that feeling that someone was watching him.
It had started weeks ago, a little after he moved in. Little things at first. Tools moved when he swore he'd left them elsewhere, or the occasional glimpse of movement beyond the rocks offshore.
Every instinct he had screamed he wasn't alone out here and every time he grabbed a rifle to check, he found nothing.
"Bloody losing it," he muttered under his breath.
The storm worsened by evening.
Waves crashed violently against the shore while Simon pulled on his jacket and headed outside with a flashlight. One of his spare fishing nets had come loose near the waterline, dragged halfway towards the rocks littering the beach.
He could've left it for tomorrow morning, could've stayed in the warmth of his living room instead of stomping across wet sand, boots sinking deep.
Then the beam of his flashlight caught movement, his muscles tensing up and seemingly all of his senses being on high alert.
Something thrashed inside the tangled net.
Not something.
Someone.
For some time his brain was struggling to take into account what exactly he was seeing. Skin slick with seawater. Long strands of hair tangled with rope. Wide terrified eyes reflecting in the light.
And below the waist- a fish tail.
Massive. Powerful. Covered in dark iridescent scales that shimmered a sort of turquoise color beneath the rain.
You jerked violently as Simon approached, claws catching uselessly in the netting.
"Easy," he barked automatically like he was giving an order, that only made things worse.
You hissed at him, sharp teeth flashing as you desperately tried to drag yourself backward toward the sea. The net tightening around your tail, cutting into the scales hard enough to draw blood.
Simon stared for another second.
Any normal person would've probably panicked.
But he had fought beside highly trained men, wearing a skull mask while missiles fell from the sky. His scale for "impossible" was far from broken.
He crouched carefully, slowly approaching you while drawing a dagger from his belt. Your eyes widening at the metal.
"Oi," he said gruffly, holding one hand up slightly. "Not gonna hurt you."
The words sounded ridiculous considering they were coming from him, six foot something, pure muscle of a man with a knife in his hand.
Of course you didn't trust him.
The moment he moved closer, you snapped at him hard enough that he jerked back on instinct.
"...Right. Fair."
Rain dripped from the edge of his hood while he studied the mess of rope wrapped around you.
The fishing line had dug deep between the scales of your tail. Every movement tightened it further.
Simon clicked his tongue, patience running thin.
"Hold still unless you fancy losing the whole bloody fin." He grumbled, left to only assume that you don't understand the words, but maybe you had understood the tone.
Barely.
Your breathing remained sharp and panicked, but you had stopped fighting long enough for Simon to start cutting through the net. The knife worked carefully between ropes, severing one knot at a time.
Up close, he could see details that made his chest tighten strangely.
Scars.
Old ones.
Across your shoulders. Along parts of your tail, not natural and definitely not accidental. Something had hurt you before.
"There," he muttered after cutting another line loose. You flinched when his hand brushed against your tail accidentally. The scales were colder than he expected.
Human enough to look fragile.
Not human enough to feel real.
One final rope snapped and the net fell loose entirely.
For a second neither of you moved.
Then you surged backward fast enough to splash seawater across his boots, dragging yourself toward deeper water, strong fins treading through the rough waves.
Simon stood slowly, knife still hanging loosely in his grip as he watched you swim away- only to stop and turn around to gaze right into his eyes.
Rain poured between you in silver sheets while your eyes stayed fixed on him- cautious, frightened, curious. Like you'd been watching him for far longer than he realized.
With a flip of your tail you disappeared into the waves while Simon remained there alone on the shore, soaked to the bone.
After a long silence, he looked down at the shredded fishing net beside his feet.
"...The hell just happened?"
If Simon couldn't sleep before, he sure as hell couldn't now. Sitting on his worn out mattress with a cigarette on his lips, taking deep breaths of it as he stared with wide eyes through his window. His wet clothes thrown in the laundry hamper while he contemplated whether or not what happened was real or not.
A fucking mermaid.
He truly has lost his mind.
Surely it's the lack of sleep, maybe even a rusty old pipe burst and he's getting high off of gas because there is no way in hell that what he saw was real.
The storm had long since passed, wind clearing out the nasty clouds as sunlight found its way and crept through his windows.
He must be crazy.
So why the fuck is there a torn up fishing net where you had been? Why did he find shiny scales around it and deep groves in the sand where you had dragged your body when you jumped in?
And most importantly- why were there missing fish in his catch from the day before? You have bloody claws and teeth and yet you chose to take his? He spent a few solid hours using his heavy duty equipment to catch those. Not to mention his perfectly good net that he had to tear up in a million pieces since you got yourself tangled up in it.
The nerve of some people- or fish.
A part of him wished it stoped then and there. But of course it didn't and you were still around.
He could still feel your eyes on him, frankly he isn't sure if it's better now that he knows who is stalking him- might've been better to live in paranoia instead of delusion.
You weren't being slick either, he could see the slight ripples on the water when there was no wind, or the silhouette sitting by the rocks at dawn.
When he was fixing up the house though? Yeah, that was apparently peak entertainment for you. Curious eyes staring at him from the water while he worked on the deck, trying to finish it up before another storm rolled in.
He got used to the staring.
It meant he wasn't alone.
Your voice was soothing as well. You'd spent nights perched up on your rock, singing a soft melody that lulled him to sleep whenever he was restless- which was almost every night but your songs made him get at least two more hours of sleep to his measly none.
So what if he accidentally left a fish on his deck?
It's not like he purposefully placed the biggest one and stayed perched on his window waiting for your little webbed hands to find it- or how his chest filled with pride when he noticed that it was gone.
Meaningless.
Just like the pretty shells and smooth sea glass he would find after accidentally misplacing a fish every morning. He doesn't miss the little pleased click you'd do when he picked it up, glancing unamused at your general direction and watching you plop back into the water like a child getting caught stealing.
Sure it was embarrassing, but he was so fascinating to you- humans were always afraid of your kind, hunting and poaching you for god knows what sort of imaginary tale they spread about you. Forcing your kind to retreat into deep water just to be safe, turning into a myth or legend that was told to young children.
But he was different. He could've easily taken you, practically served on a silver plater for him since your already caught yourself... he didn't though.
Simon soon realized you had been watching for far longer than what he thought.
You've had your eyes on him since the very first day he'd set foot on the property. Seen him open the door to the house and watch in amusement when the handle was left in his hand. Seen him drunk on his porch at 3am. Seen him awake pacing on the beach after a gruesome nightmare. Seen him sitting on the ground of that same beach and talking to ghosts that weren't there.
You've seen him entirely and saw yourself.
Weeks spent at a distance, knowing of one another and yet scared to get close- because for both of you, getting close meant nothing good.
Though, you couldn't help but sit closer and closer to the shore.
Who could blame you? That man had the most treasures you've ever seen- simple work equipment had you in awe whenever he would use it. Surely he wouldn't mind if you tinkered with them, holding them and mimicking what he did. And yeah, it did annoy him to find his tools wet and not where had left them- but he drew the line when he saw that his pack of cigarettes were gone.
He heard you laugh for the first time that day. Your sweet voice giggling behind a rock while holding his things hostage.
Slowly that giggle turned into words.
He'd sit on the now sturdy and well built deck while you were perched up on your rock. Listening to him speak, about his day, the fish he'd catch or the nosy townsfolk that make up stories about him. In time he started to open up about his childhood, the rare but fonder memories- then some of his time serving.
You loved his voice, gruff and raspy but soft when he spoke to you... Nothing like the fishermen you'd listen in on whilst you got curious and swam up to the surface. Their voices were loud- but you did learn a few words here and there just by observing them.
Eventually you became more comfortable around Simon, swimming closer to him and trying to form your own sentences. You could understand most of what he was saying, having him explain new words to you as you tried your hardest to remember them.
You in turn, would teach him about tide patterns, giving him insight on the underwater life and how they react to them- along with how to identify and stay away from dangerous currents.
Now, whenever he'd go fishing you would be trailing close behind, telling him what time of day it was best to go out. His eyes just followed you while you were herding up some fish and leading them directly to his net, careful not to catch your own fins since you already cost him one.
He'd reward you by giving you the biggest fish to eat, and you'd give him the shiniest shells you could find.
For a while he was just referring to you as Fish. An annoying fish that would meddle with his stuff. He learnt your name of course, it was as beautiful as you- also having him hear you say his name for the first time was something to say the least.
Doesn't stop him from continuing to call you fish.
You were by far the first living thing that made this place feel less empty... First thing to make his lip dare to lift up in a poor attempt at a smile.
His drinking started to decrease as well, the nightmares still haven't left but your singing helped him keep them at bay.
One night in particular he woke up after drinking a whole bottle of bourbon. He wasn't proud of that but if the hangover wasn't a big enough punishment, having a nightmare of him screaming Johnny's name whilst he sees the life drain from his eyes and blood pool around his head. Having his hand firmly pressed to his chest, desperately searching for a heartbeat only for him to turn into ash and dogtags.
Clenching his fist against his own heart, he found himself standing in the water instead on his own bed, the cold salty water to his knees as he lets out a frustrated scream.
Your ears pick up that sound and before you knew it you were moving your tail frantically, looking for him and thinking he drowned but he was just sitting there... Letting the waves hit him as he held his knees to his chest, red eyes filled with tears... Desperately trying to keep them from falling.
"Si...?"
"Couldn't save him."
Oh...
You didn't say much after that.
Just carefully swam up next to him and gently laid your head on his knee.
You've seen how this played out before, he'd have that same nightmare and believe whatever awful things his subconscious thought up to torture him that night. Although you didn't know what atrocity had woken him up or the extent of what he had endured... Pain is something you sadly recognized easily.
The only thing you could do is offer your presence to him, wishing to take or at most share his hurt.
That was the first physical comfort he'd accepted in years.
You stayed like that for a while, the soft waves hitting the both of you as you sit in silence, not wanting to move an inch in fear of startling him. Simon, whose ragged breathing had slowed down a bit, just stared out into the open sea.
"Cold" you mutter, feeling how cold his skin was. Humans weren't built like mer, he was going to get sick if he didn't go.
As much as he hated the thought of leaving, once he looked into your worried eyes he slowly got up. Your hands dropping to the wet sand as you looked up at him.
He just gave you a nod. Making his way to his house where a warm shower would do him some good.
The morning after he sat by the dock and waited for you to pop up, not uttering a word before giving you the fish he would've otherwise left.
You couldn't help the happy clicking coming from the back of your throat when you snatched the fish up, biting into it as if you were given the best meal ever- because you were given more than just food.
Since then he's made an effort to always greet you when the sun rises with breakfast. Started bringing his own food because last time you'd insisted on sharing the raw bloody fish with him and he almost took your offer. Food poisoning be damned.
On the other hand you always show up early, a shiny treasure in your hands and waiting for him to make his way down when you pop up from the water. He gave you a pleased grunt whenever you'd present them to him. Not nearly as much excitement as you but when it came to him, that was enough.
Well, the first time you'd had the pleasure of hearing him laugh- more like a small chuckle but it still counted- was when you tried getting up on the dock with him.
It wasn't that high.
But it wasn't that low either.
You could've pulled yourself up, sure, it would've been easier- but you decided to jump instead. Landing face first into the planks and bruising your cheek. Shrieking and flapping your fins like a fish out of water.
It's safe to say that whatever pain you felt was momentarily forgotten once you heard him scoff and saw the tiniest hint of a grin. Stilling yourself as you gazed at him, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards.
He pushed you back in the water for staring too long. Much to your protests. He watched you for a good five minutes just flapping around glaring at him before hauling you up next to him.
You huffed, taking a big bite from your food.
From this close you could make out more of his features, every line, scar and mark. You'd trace them all, your interest peaking at the ink that lined his arm. Asking him about his tattoos and looking closely at them- you didn't ask him about his scars though. You had your own share of them to knew how painful it is to remember how you'd gotten them.
Eventually you'll open up to him, once where you noticed how he let his eyes wander before looking away as to not make you uncomfortable. Painfully respectful- yet he couldn't shake the feeling of dread whenever he'd see your wounds.
"My kind dislikes yours," you'd start quietly. "We were driven away by fear, forbidden from going near the surface."
Your fingers ran absentmindedly along your scales as you stared out at the dark water. "I was a curious kid. Always sneaking away, always asking questions. I wanted to see your world." A small, bitter smile tugged at your lips. "Paid the price for it."
Simon followed your gaze before his eyes settled on the scar stretching across your back. Unlike the others, it was clean and deliberate, the kind of wound that hadn't come from an accident. His expression hardened almost instantly.
"Did they..."
You nodded. "They made an example of me. Said i didn't belong among them."
The waves rolled under the wood bellow you, filling the silence that followed. You expected questions, maybe even pity, but Simon only stared at the scar for a moment longer before looking away.
"Wasn't right of em"
Your head turned toward him.
"They were our rules-"
"Don't mean shit."
For so long you've tried to justify what they did to you, to see reason within the truth... Swimming alone near the surface you once dreamt to see, running away from hooks and nets as the sharp blades pierced your skin.
Humans who would hunt you and whenever you'd tried to make a friend they would only care to have your tail on a line. You knew Simon was different. A human like them but he hadn't harmed you.
Hesitantly, you take his hand in your own and bring it up to your cheek, holding it there as you closed your eyes.
"Thank you."
For a moment, Simon only looked at you, the walls he kept around him were suddenly not so solid. He only grunted in response, yet he didn't pull his hand away.
Days started to blur togheter from that point on. He would wake up early to have breakfast with you, then do some work around the house as you watched him whilst you sunbathed on your rock. Once you gave him the clear on the weather, he'd set off on his fishing boat while you swam next to him.
You made sure to gather only the best fish for him, climbing on the boat once you were done to have some lunch. Giving him a playful splash from your tail before he heads back for town to sell his catch.
So what if he stopped by the small jewelers shop, the shiny necklace on display catching his attention. So what if he bought it for you? You seemed to like that sort of stuff anyway.
Judging by your reaction you more than loved it.
He helped you put it on as you held your hair up, only to look down and see how the light reflected off of it. The sun setting in the background as you laid down on the shore next to him.
It felt natural how he had somehow revolved his entire schedule around you.
He woke up thinking about you, worked around the property just listening you talk about everything and anything. Whenever he was in town he'd think of how you'd react to life on land, all of his mundane reactions would be tainted with thoughts of how excited you would be to see this. He'd spend the ends of his days watching the sun set peacefully with you by his side.
Which makes whatever emotions that built up hit harder when he shows up one day on the dock, carrying a sandwich for him and your favorite fish. Expecting to find you waiting there for him, either you'd be plopped on the deck already or hiding in the water trying to scare him- but you weren't there. Not when he scanned the entire area or called out your name. Maybe you just overslept. Didn't stop him from sitting there waiting for you. Telling himself you're fine.
But he wasn't fine.
Breakfast came and went without a glimpse of you. Simon told himself it didn't matter, carrying on with repairs around the house, an old plumbing leak he'd been putting off doing.
Yet every time he straightened up, his eyes drifted toward the water. By midday he'd checked the shoreline more times than he cared to admit, his tea long gone cold beside him. The afternoon passed no easier, each movement in the waves caught his attention only to turn out to be nothing.
By the time evening settled over the coast, Simon found himself standing on the porch with his arms crossed, staring out at the darkening sea. The realization that he'd spent the entire day waiting for you sat heavily in his chest, irritating him far more than your absence ever could.
To anyone else he would've seemed mental. Staring out into the open sea waiting for a damn mermaid to show up.
"Bloody fish." He muttered under his breath, feet already taking him away from the shore.
Then he heard it, a small splash in his direction and when he turned around- there you were. The second your head broke the surface of the water, Simon was already moving down the beach.
"Where the hell were you?" he barked, frustration getting the better of him. "Been gone all bloody day without a word-"
The rest died in his throat.
You'd stopped a few feet away, and only then did he notice the water around you wasn't just dark from the evening shadows.
It was red.
His eyes then dropped to your tail. A deep gash ran along one side of your fin, fresh blood slipping between the scales and disappearing into the sea.
The irritation vanished instantly, replaced with a feeling he knew all too well.
"What happened?"
His voice came out lower this time, sharper in a different way. He was already crouching at the water's edge, reaching for you before he even realized he'd moved.
"Current took me farther out..." you let him pick you up from the water, "Some fishermen managed to hit me-"
You hesitated before adding "I'm sorry."
Simon's expression darkened immediately as his eyes stayed focused on the blood staining your fin.
"Don't apologize."
The words came out sharper than intended. He crouched beside you, inspecting the wound before muttering a curse under his breath.
"Stay here."
Without another word, he turned and headed for the house, returning minutes later with a first aid kit, clean cloths, and a bucket of fresh water. By the time he knelt beside you again, the irritation from earlier had vanished completely, replaced by a focus you were beginning to recognize.
"Let me see it."
You pulled your hands away from your wound and hissed in pain when he started working on it. His hands were precise, cleaning and disinfecting, later wrapping you up in some waterproof gauze.
He finished tying off the bandage and sat back with a quiet grunt. The cut would heal, eventually. He told himself that was all that mattered.
Still, the image of blood in the water refused to leave his mind.
The silence stretched between you as the sun dipped below the horizon. Simon kept his gaze fixed on the waves, jaw tight. He told himself the anger twisting in his chest was directed at the fishermen, at the carelessness of it all. It had nothing to do with the way his stomach had dropped when you hadn't shown up that morning.
Not at all.
For the next two weeks, your visits became shorter while the wound healed. Simon insisted it was to keep pressure off the injury, though you suspected he was simply looking for an excuse to keep an eye on it. Even so, the beach felt strangely empty whenever you disappeared beneath the waves, leaving him alone with the sound of the sea and thoughts he stubbornly refused to examine.
Your fin had eventually healed enough that Simon no longer had an excuse to fuss over it, though that didn't stop him from glancing at it every now and then whenever he thought you weren't looking. The two of you had slipped back into an easy routine. You sat nearby, talking far more than he ever did, filling the quiet with questions about human life while he hammered boards into place or sanded down old wood. Most of the time, he answered with various grunts, but you'd learned how to translate those by now.
"What was your family like?" you asked, watching him work.
Simon paused briefly before continuing. "Complicated."
You accepted the answer for what it was. Some subjects were harder than others. Instead, you traced patterns into the sand with your fingers, thinking for a moment before looking back up at him.
"Do you ever get lonely?"
The question seemed innocent enough.
Yet the hammer stopped.
For a few seconds, Simon didn't move. His shoulders stiffened, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the half-finished porch as if he were looking at something only he could see. You waited, expecting one of his usual dismissive answers, but none came.
Eventually, he set the hammer down with more force than necessary.
"Don't."
The single word caught you off guard.
"What?"
"Don't ask questions like that."
Confusion flickered across your face. You weren't trying to upset him. It was just another thing you wanted to understand, another piece of him he rarely spoke about. Yet something about the question had struck deeper than you'd intended.
"I was only curious."
"Well stop."
The sharpness in his voice made the air between you suddenly feel colder. Simon scrubbed a hand down his face before looking out toward the ocean, avoiding your eyes entirely.
"It's best if you stay in the water."
The words landed heavily.
You stared at him. "What?"
"Your world's out there." His gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "The sea's where you belong."
The confusion in your chest slowly gave way to hurt. For months he'd welcomed your company, taught you about his world, sat beside you for hours without complaint. Now he was acting as though you'd crossed a line you couldn't even see.
For the first time since you'd met him, the silence between you felt uncomfortable. Simon knew it the moment it settled over the beach, knew he'd said the wrong thing, but the thought of taking it back terrified him even more. Because if he did, he'd have to admit why the question had bothered him in the first place.
For a moment, you simply stared at him. The hurt on your face was immediate, impossible to hide no matter how hard you tried. Simon felt it like a knife between his ribs, especially when your eyes began to shine with unshed tears.
"Oh."
The quiet response was somehow worse than shouting.
You lowered your gaze, fingers tightening in fists as sand dug into them. For a second, Simon thought you might argue, might tell him he was being an idiot. Instead, you only nodded.
"Okay."
The word barely rose above a whisper.
Without another look in his direction, you slipped back toward the water. Your movements were slower than usual, lacking the excitement that normally accompanied your visits. Simon watched you go, every instinct screaming at him to say something- to stop you, explain himself, take the words back- but he remained rooted where he stood.
When you disappeared beneath the waves, the beach felt unnaturally quiet.
The first day passed easily enough. Simon threw himself into repairs around the house and convinced himself the silence was for the best. By the third day, he found himself glancing toward the water whenever he stepped outside. By the fifth, he was standing on the porch long after sunset, staring at the empty shoreline. A full week passed without so much as a glimpse of you, and the realization settled heavily in his chest.
The beach hadn't changed.
The house hadn't changed.
Yet somehow everything felt emptier without you there.
Days passed by in silence. Like they were before he met you... It's the same sensations he had when he lost-
He missed you.
No matter how much he denies it, the heaviness in his chest is enough to drown him.
Almost two weeks had passed.
The weather had been clear that morning, the sea calm enough that he'd decided to take the boat farther out than usual. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to stop himself from looking toward the shoreline every five minutes expecting to see someone who wasn't coming.
The engine hummed steadily beneath him as he cast his line overboard. He told himself it was for the best. You belonged to the sea. He'd only said what needed to be said.
Then why did he feel so empty?
A gust of wind cut across the water as the horizon darkened.
What had been clear blue skies less than an hour ago were now swallowed by heavy clouds rolling in far too quickly. The waves began to swell beneath the boat, rocking it hard enough to make him grab the railing.
"Shit."
The storm hit fast. Faster than he could ever anticipate.
Rain lashed against him as the sea turned violent, tossing the boat like driftwood. Simon fought the wheel, trying to turn back towards shore, but another wave slammed into the side making the boat jerk violently.
Something cracked.
Then another wave hit.
The world seemingly flipped as if the ocean was punishing him.
All he could feel in that moment was the cold biting at his skin.
Simon barely had time to suck in a breath before the sea dragged him under. He kicked toward the surface, disoriented, only for another wave to crash over his head. Saltwater filled his lungs as he struggled against the current, his soaked clothes dragging him deeper.
For the first time in years, genuine fear gripped him.
Not of dying.
Of regret.
The last thing he'd said to you echoed in his head.
It's best if you stay in the water.
His chest burned.
Another mouthful of water.
Another failed attempt to reach the surface.
And as darkness crept into the edges of his vision, all Simon could think was that if these were his final moments, then the last thing he'd ever given you was a reason to leave.
Miles away, beneath the crashing waves, something made you stop. You'd been drifting through the empty sea, wishing to go back and see him but you knew better. He didn't want you and that broke your fragile heart in a million pieces.
Suddenly a foreign feeling crept its way to you.
A disturbance in the water.
Something familiar.
And suddenly, without knowing why, your heart dropped as your tail cut through the murky water- frantically swimming like your life depended on it because it wasn't your life on the line but his.
The moment you found him, he wasn't fighting anymore.
His body drifted beneath the surface, dragged by the current as the storm raged overhead. Panic seized your chest as you shot through the water, reaching him just before he disappeared into the darkness below. You had one arm hooked beneath his shoulders while the other struggled to keep his head above the waves whenever he broke the surface. More than once the sea tried to pull him from your grasp, but you held on, ignoring the ache in your muscles as you forced both of you towards the shore.
By the time you reached the beach, you were exhausted.
"Simon."
No response.
You dragged him onto the sand, hands shaking as you pressed against his chest the way he'd once shown you after you'd asked about it. Nothing.
"Simon."
Your voice cracked.
Then suddenly seawater spilled from his mouth. He coughed weakly before falling still once more. Relief flooded through you so hard your vision blurred.
He was alive. Barely holding on but alive nonetheless.
Your gaze snapped toward the distant house.
You couldn't carry him there.
Not like this.
The wind howled around you as you looked down at your tail. Every warning you'd ever been given echoed through your mind. Every story. Every lesson. Every consequence.
There would be no going back.
Not after this.
For a moment, fear rooted you in place. If you did this there would be no taking it back, you'd be forced to live a life unknown to you- but one look at Simon's nearly lifeless face had your doubts wash away.
The choice disappeared and pain exploded through your body.
Your vocal cords burned as you yelled out, your tail thrashing violently against the sand as your sparkly scales split apart beneath your skin. Bones cracked and shifted into unfamiliar shapes. Every nerve in your body felt as though it were being torn apart and rebuilt. All while you could only manage to claw against the wet sand, desperate for relief that never came.
The transformation seemed endless, but when it finally stopped, you collapsed beside him, gasping for breath.
It was over. The relief washed over your body as you forced yourself to look down... What once was a powerful tail had become legs.
Human. Fragile. Permanent.
Tears mixed with rainwater as you stared at them. The sea no longer called to you the way it once had.
You had given it up.
Given up the ocean.
Given up your home.
Given up the only life you'd ever known.
For him.
The realization hurt almost as much as the transformation itself.
Yet when you looked at Simon, unconscious and shivering beside you, you found you couldn't regret it.
Not even for a second.
With trembling limbs, you forced yourself upright. The first step nearly sent you crashing back to the ground, feeling as you were walking on shards of broken glass. The second wasn't much better. Your legs felt wrong, unsteady beneath your weight, but somehow you managed to hook Simon's arm around your shoulders.
The brute was fucking heavy, making the walk to the house slow and miserable.
By the time you reached the front door, every muscle in your body burned and your legs felt ready to give out beneath you.
Still, you kept moving.
Because Simon had freed you from the net once. Shown you the type of kindness that you've forgotten from a life full of loneliness.
Now it was your turn to bring him home.
You'd set him down on the soft couch, started removing his drenched clothes. Drying him off and wrapping him in a thick blanket. The red flickers of coal in the nearly dead fire caught your attention, making you grab some of the logs and arranging them in the same way Simon once did when he showed you how good cooked food could be.
The house is much warmer now. Lulling you into a peaceful slumber as your eyes fell heavy.
A while later, consciousness returned slowly to him.
Everything hurt.
His chest burned with every breath like it was bleeding from the inside, his muscles ached, and there was a pounding headache lodged somewhere behind his eyes. For a moment Simon simply stared at the ceiling, confused by the warmth surrounding him. The last thing he remembered was the storm.
The boat.
The water.
The regret.
Then nothing but darkness.
A crackle drew his attention towards the fireplace. Someone had built a fire. Fresh blankets had been piled over him.
Then he felt it.
A hand.
His gaze dropped.
Your fingers were loosely intertwined with his own, your head resting against the edge of the couch where you'd apparently fallen asleep. For a second, relief hit him so hard it was almost painful.
You were here. Like an angel sent from heaven- was he in heaven? Sure seemed like it if you were next to him.
Then his eyes traveled lower.
And froze.
Legs.
His breath caught as the realization struck with the same force of the wave that knocked him out.
How the storm took him, or the fact that there was absolutely no way you could have gotten him home otherwise. A thousand questions rushed through his mind.
Slowly, carefully, Simon pushed himself upright. The movement made you stir, your brow furrowing as you began to wake.
The second your eyes met his, relief flooded your face.
"Simon."
His grip tightened around your hand before he could stop himself.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then his gaze dropped briefly to your legs before returning to your face.
"What did you do?"
The question came out rough.
Not angry.
Not accusing.
Just afraid of the answer.
Your eyes welled up with tears and you brought his hand to your cheek, "Don't belong in the water anymore."
The weak smile you offered him did nothing to ease the sick feeling twisting in Simon's chest.
Instead it made it worse because only now was he beginning to understand what you'd done.
You'd given up everything for him.
"Jesus Christ..." he breathed.
Your smile faltered.
Before you could say anything else, Simon's hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you forward. The movement was sudden, almost desperate. One second you were sitting beside the couch, the next you were wrapped in his arms.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
You could feel the way his grip tightened around you, as though he were afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
"Dumb fish," he muttered hoarsely into your hair.
The insult lacked any real bite.
Slowly, your arms slipped around him in return.
"I thought you wanted me gone."
The words were barely above a whisper as Simon's chest tightened painfully.
"No."
The answer came immediately.
"No, sweetheart."
The endearment slipped out before he could stop it. You pulled back just enough to look at him and for the first time since waking, Simon met your gaze fully. There was no mask now. No distance. No convenient excuse he could hide behind.
Only relief.
Relief that you were here next to him, and that he'd been given another chance.
His hand rose to cup your face.
"I'm sorry."
Your eyes widened.
It was probably the first genuine apology you'd ever heard from him.
"You don't have to-"
"I do."
His thumb brushed away a tear before it could fall, and for a moment neither of you dared to move.
You were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, close enough to see every scar and line on his face. Simon's gaze dropped briefly to your lips before immediately returning to your eyes, as though he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.
You didn't.
Slowly, carefully, he leaned in and you felt the brush of his lips against yours.
It was tentative at first, almost uncertain. Simon's hand remained against your cheek while yours found his wrist, holding on as if grounding yourself. It wasn't dramatic or desperate, just soft and lingering, years of loneliness and unspoken feelings finally finding somewhere to go.
When he pulled back, it wasn't far.
His forehead resting against yours as he let out a shaky breath, eyes closing for a moment.
"You belong with me," he murmured quietly, squeezing your hand.
This time, when you smiled, it didn't hurt.
Nuzzling your face closer into his neck as his hands hold you impossibly tighter- making you feel safe. This is your home now. Simon is your home and you wouldn't have it any other way.
You also couldn't help the way your heart skipped a beat when your eyes drifted to the little basket under the window, every little treasure you've gifted him was neatly tucked into it and it was the only thing in the house that didn't have a layer of dust covering its surface.
Yeah.
You don't regret one bit of it.
Not when you finally feel wanted.
Not when he'd finally taken you to town, shown you the life you'd yearned for all this time. Or how he'd let you decorate the house in different hues of blues and plants reminiscent of the kelp you'd once swam through. A big aquarium was stationed in the corner along with an assortment of shells and shiny rocks you'd collected with him whilst you walked along the beach hand in hand.
It was safe to say that Simon was right about how you'd react to human life- except for watching tv. You were cursing so much it would make a sailor blush because of the sheer amount of incorrect statements being said about underwater life.
Months later he'd surprise you with a shiny ring, asking you to marry him. You were confused to say the least- you were under the assumption that you were already mated. C'mon, you've given him almost hundreds of shiny treasures and he'd shown himself as a capable mate when he'd presented you with the biggest fish he'd caught.
Were you not mates?
It took a while for Simon to explain human customs and marriage over your hysterical crying, by the end of it you somehow ended up tangled in bed together- he ended up with a multitude of bites and purple hickeys, not like he complained.
You also didn't get the whole wearing white to a wedding. What was the point of wearing such a dull color to a special day? Simon made you cry once again when he showed you a custom made mermaid gown that had the exact hues and shades that once adorned the scales on your tail.
The wedding was small. By small it was just you two accompanied by Price and Gaz to sign as witnesses. The grateful look on their faces didn't go unnoticed by you. You decided it was best not to tell them what you were.
The only person you told was Johnny.
You held Simon's hand tightly as he knelt on the ground where they had once spread his ashes. He still has that nightmare from time to time, but now he has you to help him. A part of him believes that he had sent you to him. A guardian angel to make him die a happy man.
Because he is happy.
Especially the night where you were cuddled up close to him, taking his hand in yours and instead of pressing it to your cheek you lowered it to your stomach... Wordlessly telling him that you were having a little fry of your own.
Now, Simon Riley stood not as a dead man, but as a lucky bastard that was given a second chance at life- a life with you in it. Call it a fairy tale if you will but he is beyond grateful to whatever being there was that gifted you to him.
a/n: Oookay this was a bit of a long one on my part, do I think it could use a bit more flushing out and if given to the right writer it could sound so poetic and beautifully written? Yeah, a lil bit- but it's my lil story and I love mermaids this time of year- hope you enjoyed reading it tho <3
umm not sure if i like this but omegaverse kinda-neglected reader! x tf141 (ghost focus), angst, good ending, gn!reader, SFW
You’re a beta. That should come as a relief, many tell you every day they wish they were your designation instead. No heats, no ruts, not even stinking up a room when you got a bit too overwhelmed by an emotion.
Just in the middle: a nice calming scent, a decent paying job— never too high, a beta CEO wouldn't be able to control anything— and the lack of any crazy season that would get you all flustered. Your sense of smell was incredibly different to theirs, but you werent given much chances to complain considering all they went through in heats.
So naturally you were taught your life revolved around alphas and omegas, all the way from secondary school when you were sat next to the reactive Alpha’s to “try and make them behave better”. In biology class your designation was skimmed over very quickly in favour of understanding how to react to their emotional changes and the like, and anything else you had to figure out for yourself.
It’s not like getting out of school into the workforce was much better. Omega’s rights had changed greatly in the past century, and no one would bat an eye at them being in most jobs— so applying was even more impossible. Even when you did get into the workplace, it was like alpha’s would immediately stop listening when there was an omega in the room, or vice versa. Truthfully you were jealous of their natural pull to each other, like the relationships you’d read in books or see in swoon worthy movies.
“There’s all sorts of jobs— chefs, mechanics, cyber analysts, engineers, dont just have to be a soldier.” The army recruiter outside your local supermarket rambles, clearly trying to get at least one recruit today at the minimum. Otherwise he’d definitely get in big trouble. “And you’re a beta, so you can do both work with Omega and Alpha jobs! You’ll be fine!”
“What?” You look at him, that mention perking you up and he looks at you with glee. You were only listening in hopes he’d get you off his back, but that was certainly news to you.
“I bet you’re sick of fighting with even more people for jobs now, huh? In the military omega’s and alphas are kept very seperate, even so, they’re required to be on suppressants so everything’s very easy.”
—————
So, that’s how you ended up here, bullied and forced into the shape of a soldier, something you still feel fake about even after countless deployments. It’s quickly forgotten though when you have the thrill of finally finding your place in society.
Your first team was mostly alphas, a beta here and there, but it felt great to have them treat you equally, slapping a hand on your back and grinning at a job well done. The omega team wouldnt even bat an eye when you were assigned to them, just as welcoming. Truly the best of both worlds, you could be anything you wanted in this system— it was like it was built for you to thrive.
Then the taskforce got established, and by a stroke of luck, you got transferred on. “You always run this early?” A hand lands on your shoulder, and you jump just to meet Sergeant Mactavish’ grin. After completing your demolitions course with flying colours, you soon got assigned under him. His hair is wet, mohawk flat for once, and you can only assume he just washed off. Still, his scent washes over you, easing your momentary shock and you nod, smiling. “Yeah, isn't the water too cold this early?”
“It’s alright. C’mon, let’s go meet the others for breakfast.”
You follow him, the faintest happy scent trailing off of you as you do so, and spiking just the miniscule amount when you sit down at the table.
“Please please give me your bread roll, i love the jam they use for it.” Gaz pleads, clasping his hands together and you can't help but roll your eyes, letting him trade it for his fried egg. “I love you so much-“ He mumbles, already taking a bite out of it that Price rolls his eyes as he takes a seat.
“Almost thirty years old...” He mutters and you giggle, eyes moving to where Ghost comes with his tray, sitting next to Price.
“I saw you on the track, you looked tired.” He says, giving you a pointed look, and making your cheeks flush. Oh, right. The night prior you’d been suddenly awaken to help deal with a feral omega, forced to give up hours of sleep to soothe them to submission..
“Just didn’t get the best sleep. I’ll feel alright after a coffee.” You give him a small shrug, eating more of your food. His eyes linger on you for a moment longer before nodding and carrying on.
The sergeants were more than happy to include you in all their plans, barely batting an eye when your scent wasn't as strong as theirs or in combat training you couldn't hold as much of an intimidating presence. Nor did the Captain and the Lieutenant care either, always praising the fact you could slip by unnoticed, with no chance of wavering from the other two designations and such.
It felt almost like a pack.. and it was perfect. So perfect.
“Johnny, just spill it!” Gaz groans as the Scot dances around the subject for the tenth time that morning, making you all roll your eyes at the breakfast table.
“I got an omega!” The whole table falls silent, and then Gaz lets out a low whistle patting him on the back whilst the Captain nods approvingly.
“And you wont show us a photo?” Ghost chimes in, making Soap stumble to get his phone out, excited as he passes the phone around. A sweet, soft omega. Round cheeks, a bright smile, hanging off his arm like it was the key to her heart. A perfect match to him.
“She looks perfect with you, good on you, son.” The Captain says, giving him a gruff smile and Gaz snickers at his father-like praise. Then they turn to you, as you sit in shock, fork gently clattering on the plate.
Your jaw hurts from how you physically have to force a wide enough smile, standing up and coming around to congratulate him properly. It’s even worse when Kyle insists he should show more pictures and so you stand there between them, making fake ooo’s and aaah’s in hopes it would hide the slightest change in your scent.
It changes everything.
“Soap, me and Gaz are going to the pub later—“
“Ah… cant, omega wants me to watch a movie with her. What about friday?”
“Oh— do you mind if we do some sparring today?”
“Uh.. okay, sure. Just gotta finish up this text to my omega. Ye know she’s getting stronger by the day! I’ve been helping her keep fit, yknow, to stay safe and all.”
“Do you want to go grab lunch?”
“Oh— sure. Feels like i havent seen you in forever.”
You smile wide when he finally agrees to hang out with you again— after all, it’s not like he was acting like this with Kyle. So you both enter the mess, going to grab your plate.
“Ahh.. the ‘mega loves chicken like this, makes hers a bit more seasoned though. Bloody good.” You smile weakly, trying to start your own conversation about work, and the mission you’ll be going with him on.
“Oh ye havent heard yet.” He falls quiet and you tilt your head in confusion, about to place the dish on your tray.
“Havent heard what? Was there a new brief?”
“You should talk to the Captain.”
Confused, you do stop by his office later that evening, gently tapping on the door with your knuckles and announcing yourself. With a weaker scent, he couldn’t tell you apart from the alpha’s across base with their scent blockers on, unlike the rest of the taskforce.
“Come in.”
“Soap said i havent heard something about the mission im going with him on soon? Did something change?”
“Ah, right. You dont need to go anymore.”
You blink in surprise, suddenly really confused by all of this and you step forward a bit more, scent souring. Not that he’d pick up on it.
“He’s a claimed alpha now, there’s no need for a beta to mediate.”
You stand there, the contents of your stomach in your throat as you process his words. Mediate. You werent there because of skills.. the CO who encouraged you to take a demolition course didn't even think you were good at it either. They just needed a beta to mediate in a field lacking them.
“Oh. Right.”
A month passes by of you watching Soap slip away from you, barely talking to you if not about his omega, never joining you on a morning run until you’re sure he’s forgotten about you altogether. At first you had chalked it up to him just being busier with mated life. After all, you’ve witnessed the pull of an omega first hand many times, how it makes them change. Though, his relationship with the alphas didn't change in the slightest.
With his protective instincts he was drawn to the alphas more now, always hanging around Gaz and and Ghost when they weren't busy, beelining straight past you unintentionally. You cant really blame him either, no one remembers the beta’s faint scent.
It was Gaz next. One evening you were leaning against him on the couch, unable to hide your despair and luckily he’d been nice enough to let you sit there without explanation. It was nice, you thought that if you had no Soap, at least you had your other best friend. He always made you smile, and he was the reason you even got a slice of attention from Soap these days.
And then it came.
It started small, just hanging around Soap more often than not. Really you hadnt thought much of it, but it did feel rough when you sat also on the rec room couch just to watch them fully invested in something you could never join in on. You figured it was about Soap’s omega again, not something you particularly wanted to hear about.
Then it turned into turning down bar nights altogether. They would both cancel, Gaz excusing it with ‘plans’ whilst Soap was always honest. Sure you had the whole team, but being in the vicinity of four alphas in an alpha only bar was enough of a scent overload to give any beta a headache.
Then you saw his lockscreen on accident, just wanted to check the time really. It was unmistakably obvious though, the smiles, calmer than Johnny’s one, but just as gorgeous and adorable. A real treat for the eyes.
“Congratulations.” You mumbled when he came back to the couch with his can, raising a brow at you.
“What..?” He knew, of course he did. You knew his lying look.
“Got yourself an omega, when are you gonna tell the others?”
He seems embarrassed, quickly grabbing the phone off of you, cheeks burning. “How did you see that?!”
The next morning he announces it to the team and you join in with congratulating again, only too aware of the cycle that was soon to repeat. Only, it wasn't too bad with Gaz. You were grateful, so grateful when he still would spend a lunch or two with you, or even just talk to you.
“Hey, we going on our usual grocery run this week?” You two were put together on the rota for stocking the rec room and so you both head out, riding shotgun in Gaz’s car.
You both had a copy of the list, walking around the store together, until you eventually got them all. “Oh! Just a second, need to grab some scent stuff.” In the small beta section they allowed, there were really good products to clear out scents from others that’d stick to betas and linger around. After all, you had a keener sense of smell, so being around the taskforce meant it racked up pretty fast on your clothes and on your room.
Kyle was the first you confided in after you suddenly fainted once, at a bar, the scents too much for you to handle. Though you managed to quell it pretty quickly with these. Some you could just spray in your nose and go— perfect for getting rid of the oncoming dizziness.
“You know you dont have to get the fanciest things, just get the base ones. It’s at the back of the store and they’re expensive.”
You pause, he never questioned this before, not even the first time you had nervously told him— afraid to be undermined.
“There’s no base ones..” You say with a raised brow, but you cant bring yourself to be too rude to him. Even if his tone was almost sharp, scolding, as if you were being selfish. Right now it feels like you’re reduced to your designations, and that’s it. Not humans, not friends, not even teammates. Alpha and beta. “There’s only one brand that ever does it.”
“Really? And what about the cheap scent clearers? The ones you used to use before.” He gives you a firm look, challenging, and you swallow, unsure where this hostility came from.
“..They got pulled off the shelf, Kyle. Thousands of beta’s got chemical burns— i couldnt smell properly for a week.”
He pauses for a split second, like he’ll acknowledging the truth in your words and his wrongs, then just huffs, turning to scan where the empty checkout is. “Fine. Get what you want then, but I'm going to pay. I’ll meet you at the car.”
When you return with the small plastic bag, he puts his hand out for the receipt so it can be handed to you at a price for expenses on the card. “I paid for it myself.” You mutter back, your scent tinging sour and in the close proximity it might be noticeable this time. He pauses, and then puts his hands on the wheel, choosing not to comment further.
———————————
The sergeants are on a mission, one you were supposed to be on, but now you’ve been shoved into another with unclaimed alpha’s who need a bit of extra settling. Or rather someone lesser than them they can secretly believe they’re higher than. It doesn't feel much different to secondary school now, and you find yourself with less will to argue about it.
Thankfully, Lieutenant Ghost is here with you. He’s always been alright— not exactly friendly but not rude either. You were quite intimidated by his rank at first, convinced he’d be strict and unforgiving but he’s content if you get the work done.
“Handled that bomb in record time.” He comments beside you on the way back to base. There was another demolitions expert on the team but when news came up that there was another bomb they had not suspected, he immediately put his trust in you to disarm it.
“Thanks for the chance, Lt.” You smile up at him and he nods, acknowledging your hard work. After all, you really did always put in more than your best. Even so, he cant help but notice you sink as soon as he shifts his attention to someone elsewhere, the conversation falling quiet. He’d be blind to notice the gap between you and the sergeants, even if you were a beta and them having omega’s shouldnt even bother you. Him and Price had to regularly reminds them to not walk around in clothes stinking of their partner.
“The sergeants are back from their mission, could hit the pub tonight. Whole team can come”
You feel too bad to decline now, so you just nod. “Okay. Yeah.”
—————
The Alpha only pub is bustling and you offer to grab the third round just so you can escape the thick scents building around you. It doesnt help that you’re basically rationing your scent-refresher as of right now.
“Omega’s doing good.” Soap responds to Price’s questions.. At least you’ll miss this mandatory conversation while you go. The bartender already knows you, greeting you with a welcoming smile as you start your order. It’s all going on Price’s card, so you take the opportunity to get a sundae instead of alcohol. He did owe you one after an explosive you caught right by his position. Besides, it was less than a tenner, and you’d savour it for life.
“Heat’s coming up though. It’s only three days long usually, but should go smoothly. The store almost ran out of supplies too.” Soap sighs loudly, shaking his head and Kyle nods along, also probably having similar issues.
You’re not exactly listening, carefully holding the plate of drinks so you don't accidentally spill it with the countless bodies in this crowd.
“If they got rid of the beta section, they’d have more to spend stocking on the omega stuff.” A soldier hanging around elbows Soap, but he doesnt disagree. If anything the buzz of alcohol just makes him want to finally speak his truth now.
“Right? I mean really? Beta period products? Beta scent enhancers? Like those would actually even work to attract an alpha let alone an omega. Those scent refreshers cannot be real either, i mean, you’d think they’d want to smell us, ya know? Not like they get anything else— ”
The table goes silent, Gaz obviously kicking Soap in the leg until he looks up and meets eyes with you. The other soldier doesnt bat an eye, raising a brow at you. “Oh, your drinks are here. Can you order me two aswell?”
“I’m not a waiter” You snap back, and the Captain stands quickly, taking the tray from your hands and placing it down on the table.
“Think your team wants you back over there.” He motions for the soldier to go with his eyes, and he quickly leaves. “Thanks for grabbing them, i’ll get yours. Come, sit.” He turns to you but you freeze, shaking your head, and turning back into the crowd. “I’ll get it myself.”
“You idiot!” Gaz puts his head in his hands at the very obvious tension from Soap’s words.
“I didn't know they was there!” He retorts, though also slumps into his seat a little more. “It’s true. What do you want me to say?”
“Enough.” Price sighs, pinching his brow, he should’ve stopped the sergeants earlier but he hadnt known he’d be stupid enough to say that. Even if it was something that they were all thinking.
They take their drinks from the tray you brought, Gaz and Soap downing theirs immediately as if that’ll get rid of the dread hanging on their head. Price begins to sip his light chatter starting up again until Ghost suddenly speaks up.
“They still haven't come back.”
It’s been five whole minutes, and there’s no sight of you to be seen anywhere.
—
You’re sitting at the back entrance of the pub, empty at this time with the game roaring inside the pub. The alleyway it leads into is dirty, a few football decorations here and there, but mostly just black bin bags spilling out the large bins. There were two guys who had been staring you down for a while, like you were something that needed saving. The second one of them approached and caught your lack of omega scent, they immediately groaned and just turned away.
You just stick your spoon back in your sundae, not even lifting your head the entire time, just letting the cold sweetness try and keep you together.
There’s a small noise as someone sits down beside you, a rustle of clothing, and then the soft click of a lighter. You turn your head, slightly surprised to find Ghost there instead of a random drunk bloke hoping to score a sweet thing. He meets your eyes but neither of you say anything as you go back to eating your sundae.
“Should’ve got the other one.”
“What?”
“The bigger one.” He shrugs, the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. “Price told us to order whatever.”
“This is the only one that can come in a takeaway cup.” You mumble and he doesn't say anything further, not even when you lick the spoon clean.
“Why are you here?” You ask, unable to keep silent anymore. It’s not like he actually came to see how you were, and you’re suddenly glad he didn't come ten minutes earlier when you were on the verge of bawling your eyes out.
“S’posed to be a team night.”
“Maybe for the Alphas.” You grumble and he cant help but hum alongside you, not arguing with you on that fact.
“Cant stand the smell, can ya? Got the takeaway cup cause you knew you’d need to go regardless.” Of course he figured it out immediately, though you’d think it’s impossible to read you given how some people treat you.
“You mad i’m not fawning over your scent?” You scoff and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, making sure no chocolate sauce lingers— especially with how he’s watching you right now.
“Johnny is a stupid drunk, ‘lright?.” He mutters, a bit of bitterness in his tone that always lingers, but it’s not directly at you. “Price’ll convince you it’s just his instincts and all, looking after the omega.”
You look over at him and give him a deadpan look, the most honest you’ve ever been with the man. Usually you’re pretty agreeable, in fact the only time you’ve had a conflicts was when they got injured. Turns out you’re the only voice of reason whenever that happened, as the smell of the blood sent the rest of them into a spiral of worry.
And well, after that, he can't really blame you for being like this.
“I’m going.” You mutter, standing up and throwing the plastic cup in the bin before wiping your hands on your jeans.
To your surprise, he doesnt hesitate to follow you as you round to the front, heading to the little bus stop. It’s not the first time you’ve left early, but it is the first time someone’s made sure you’re alright by the end of the night.
————————
Soap only makes a quick apology which you’re forced to just accept,, because what else can you really do? Mess up a whole team because of one thing he said which wasnt that far from the truth?
As predicted, Price did try and tell you it was due to protective instincts, wanting the best for his omega. Right, the same instincts that made him leave you like you were dirt on his shoe.
Besides, life was getting busier for you as you now got passed between two teams. Either working with Ghost and Price or a different group of alphas. Passed around like a damn stress toy in your opinion.
“So we’re going to the one in the highstreet?” Gaz and Soap are chatting on the couch, not that you’re listening, just getting your things out the cupboard to make yourself a hot drink.
“My ‘mega loves it, craves the food there all the time. She’s gonna love meeting yours.”
Whatever, it wasnt the first time they’ve discussed plans in front of others. Wouldn't be the last.
“I’ll text the Captain and Ghost.” Soap adds, humming as he starts tapping away at his phone, opening their group chat you assume. One that you’re clearly not on, given that they dont invite you.
“You think he’ll even come?”
“He’s not that antisocial.”
“Yeah but he’s only one without an omega dumbass.”
The container you're holding clatters against the table and they both back to stare at you with the exact same wide eyed look you’re giving them. If he’s the only one then Price..
You walk out like nothing happened, even if you can feel the tears start to burn your eyes. It was all going so well, you were all happy together— werent you? So why?
The cycle repeats for the third time. You’re taken off another team, not deemed useful enough anymore. You congratulate Price when you next see him, and he doesn't say more than a thank you. Somehow it hurts more that he didn't purposefully tell you— he just forgot, like everyone else did.
You stopped coming by the rec room the last time the sergeants had a movie night without you. The texts between them and you ran dry, and after skipping one breakfast, you just never came back again. That’s just how it was now, and they didn't even reach out once. In fact, all of the last messages were from you. An unanswered question, a conversation cut short, or a text that just never even got opened.
Except for Ghost. He still spoke to you— well, as much as he’s known to anyway. A hello in passing, a chat between sets in the gym, maybe when you’re queuing for food. As much as you wanted to take the opening, you just couldnt, too terrified to. After all, it was only a matter of time until Ghost left you aswell. You should know that you should savour every last moment, cling onto it tight, but you just can't. It’s not like you two were ever the closest anyway.
——————-
You’ve been moved to an omega team this time. It’s not the first time you’ve worked with one, but usually they can balance each other out easier since they aren't as explosive as Alphas. It also means this is a mission you can't slip up on from the months of work they’ve put into this.
They welcome you immediately, and you grasp the ropes of it all fairly quickly, until it’s finally the day. The prisoners are right where you expected them, and just as told, the one in the middle has explosives strapped all over.
They evacuate the rest out whilst you kneel down before the explosives, watching the wires and where they turn and twist intently whilst the person tries their best not to squirm too hard. Even with your best efforts, nothing seems to match what you know but you frown as you notice the wire reaching towards the chair they’re bound to. Down to the floor.. a weak floorboard. The weight of the chair.. essentially a mine.
One hostage on that chair— you move her off and everyone dies. What do you even do?
“Do not stand up at any point, okay? I’m going to get you out, but you have to trust me.” Shrugging all the gear off, you cut the straps that locks the person to the chair.
You hand her your gear carefully and step back, just enough to reach the doorway. There’s no telling how large this bomb is, but you can assume it cant be enough to seriously damage the ship you’re on.
“Okay, you need to shuffle forward just slightly and place the gear behind you, okay? Then, when you’re ready, cover your head with your hands and run towards me.” The woman trembles, doing as you told and the weight of the gear seems to be a good enough trade off for the mine to not set off.
After that, she bolts, and you pull her through the doorway and as far away as possible, shielding her as the shockwaves rattles through the ship.
———————
Ghost hadnt expected to see his phone buzz at this time, by the infirmary no less. But when they relayed what happened, he had made his way there immediately. You had just come out of surgery, a high enough dose of anaesthesia in you that you just werent acting right. He intended to wait outside until you stabilised, that is until the nurse rushes out suddenly.
“Would you mind coming in, sir? We need someone to restrain them.”
He steps inside to see you squirming against another nurse, slurring and trying to escape your bed, clearly panicked.
“Stop that, you’re going to hurt yourself more.” He reaches for your flailing wrists, forcing the nurses out the way as they stand at the back and watch you get manhandled by the alpha.
Something in his gut feels uncomfortable with the stains of red across the bandages across your body, burns peeking out of some. So he carefully restrains your wrists against each other, holding them firmly.
“L-lieutenant?” You stammer out, dazed eyes searching for him intently until you manage to focus on his mask. Finally you stop freaking out for a moment. He turns but the nurses are already gone, probably called to another patient— the operation you were on had quite a few injuries for different reasons.
“Yeah, it’s me. Y’just came out of surgery, you’re okay now, alright?” He carefully lets go of your hands, helping you reposition yourself after you had tried to squirm off the bed. “I’ll grab the nurse, then we can see when we can get y’outta here.”
The nurse?
You blink at him, looking around at your surroundings, the sterile smell of the place attacking your nose. Simon was an alpha.. and the nurses, well specifically in this wing.. your eyes glance to the sign outside the door, the familiar writing.
“No- no you cant!” You barely manage to grasp his arm as he pulls away and he looks at you in confusion. The beeping in the room starts getting even louder than before, almost incessant and you feel like your chest is going to explode.
“Your heart rate is rising, sarge. You need help—“
“Lieutenant— no, please-“ You whine pathetically as he pulls away from you, leaving him stunned until he reluctantly steps closer again before you throw yourself entirely out of the bed to reach him.
“I wont let ‘em hurt you, promise.” He can only assume you must be scared of needles or something, a fear of medical care surely. He never knew that about you, and it spikes something in his chest, a cog in his head. The fear radiating off of you is palpable, and he can smell the faintest change of your scent in the air.
“No- no! The nurse— she’s an o-omega, you cant—“ You choke out, head getting dizzy from all the sudden movement as you desperately clutch his sleeve. It forces him to stay right there, not the grip on his sleeve but the desperation in your eyes.
“Sarge— i’m not gonna act like a wimp in rut from talking to an omega.” He huffs but he knows you’re out of it. It must be the anaesthetic getting to your head, making you say all these silly things.
“You’re going to leave me- you’re going to—“ A sob escapes you as grip loosens on him and he freezes, watching you curl into yourself. Your forehead gently hits his arm, tears wetting his sleeve.
“I’m right here.” He says, voice quieter and it makes him breathe relief when the beeping settles down to a steadier rate, even if it is still high and you look even worse like this— so lost and terrified.
“You are..” You sniffle, pressing your nose further against his arm. “t-the omega nurse- she- she’ll come and you’ll leave with her. You’ll leave me- a-and never speak to me again, please- lieutenant please.” Your hands tighten and he swallows sharply, letting your words sink in.
It was never about envy, not even the way you stared at them whenever they spoke about omegas. It was pure fear. And this feeling in his chest, it was tightening with each soft sniffle from you, instincts flaring. He’s never felt like this in his life, infact he was convinced he never would. But he just cant stand the sight of you like this— the bloodstained clothes, the fear in every small movement, your vulnerability.
He steps forward without thinking about it, his free arm gently prying you off of him until you fall back against the pillows. “Not leaving you for some random omega, you silly beta.” He scolds, picking you up off the bed until your head rests on his shoulder, sniffling into his shirt.
“Gonna take you where you belong. Gotta tell me if i hurt you, though.” Warmth spreads through him now that he has you against him like this. It clicks something in his brain he didn't know was waiting for a stimulant.
All that leaves your lips are the sobs that keep coming, staining his shirt, but finally settling now the dizziness has settled. “Dont go.. don’t, please, you cant..”
You’re right, he cant keep you around these omegas and all of this. No, he needs you to be healing properly around things you like— you want. He needs to look after his beta.
He grabs your duffel off the chair where it’s left, checking the corridor twice before marching through the quiet corridors towards the barracks.
you make like. five slightly brown smoothies. just five! only five! and your wife starts calling them "your shartinis." well guess what? there is more to a great smoothie than color! and you know what, blending all produce that wouldve just wilted in the fridge together is a great way to avoid wasting it. so many bags of slightly wilted spinach! so many slightly bruised strawberries! so, so many brown bananas and overly mushy apricots and slightly wrinkly knobs of ginger! all saved! saved by the power of blending! and if it looks a little brown then so be it! more for me. im nutritional as fuck rn.
always funny to remember darth vader is anakin skywalker. the adrenaline junkie chucklefuck who used to dive head first out of speeders and built a pod racer in his yard when he was like six is now upper-middle management for the evil empire. half of his appearances in the original trilogy are Meetings. vader spends like 80% of his time dealing with bureaucratic bullshit. status updates. team meetings. holo-Zooms. budget rundowns. anakin betrayed the jedi and caused the fall of the republic and his punishment is being CC'd on every email forever. and you know what. he would hate that. the punishment fits the criminal
I HC that Sidious put him in upper management specifically to make that hate flow. He looked at Jedi Anakin and thought to himself: what does this guy like? Jumping out of moving vehicles at 30,000 feet? Well, we won’t be doing *gestures at all of Anakin* that. Put this guy in an office.
i think we should be ridiculing them more for this. you don't get to try and go all "queer website" when your staff likes to go on nuking sprees targeting the trans fem users
would be remiss not to mention that the rainbow notably straight up just removed the trans flag colors from it. like they’re gone. it’s the progress flag minus the trans flag colors.
for @physics-of-op-main aka Fizzy. This was... a weird one to write XD
Next
-X-Bond Awakening-X-
The roar of the sea from beneath the waves has no real comparison above water. The moment one’s head is submerged, the struggle begins. As violent as the body can be, it will never match the tons of water that continuously throw a person under, smothering any hope for air.
The ocean becomes a muffled rumble all around you, and far worse is that it allows no words from a drowning body. Desperately one tries to climb an impossible ladder, only to be pushed back down again and again, while whatever energy remains is slowly drawn from the limbs.
As carbon dioxide expands like a balloon in the chest, it will eventually reach a breaking point. And a person, without choice or thought, will gasp for breath, only to swallow seawater. The lungs will contract in revolt, but the disorientation and dizziness are usually too great for any real strategy.
And finally, slowly, it begins to fade.
The urgency. The panic. The will to live. It all relaxes, and the world grows dark until there is only a tunnel of light from above.
A light that reveals each and every other person from the boat, all of them finished drowning.
Father is there in the distance, wholly still, staring into nothing as he slowly drifts away. Mother is nowhere in sight. Perhaps that is for the best.
Because in the distance, small shapes are moving.
Sharks. Or something similar.
There is the captain who had poured champagne only a few hours ago. But he had been shot by the pirates first, and blood is blooming around him in dark, spreading clouds.
Piece by piece, he disappears. Then the swarm chooses its next prey. Closer and closer they come to you.
The seas were a dangerous place. On that point, most humans could agree.
This was a world locked by water, shaped and ruled by it, where the greatest danger a person could face also carried the promise of freedom, wealth, and legend. The ocean was a blessing and a curse in equal measure. It fed nations and swallowed them whole. It built empires and erased them without apology.
Those who ruled the sea ruled everything.
Men chased it relentlessly. Sailors chased honest wages and horizons that never ended. Marines chased order, lines drawn on maps that the ocean had never respected. Pirates chased freedom, fortune, infamy, and the thrill of daring the world to stop them. Entire lives were given over to the pursuit of conquering its vastness and uncovering its mysteries, even as it claimed more bodies than it ever rewarded.
You knew, in a way that had nothing to do with reason, that the ocean was vast enough to hold both mercy and cruelty without caring which it dealt you. That it did not hate those it drowned. That was the part that frightened you most. It felt nothing. It simply was—an Endless queen, an indifferent ruler of realms, watching for a single misstep.
And drifting into the endless black below you, creatures circling closer, you think that this must surely be the end.
-X-Job Offer-X-
Becoming a diplomat had not been your first choice. Perhaps not even your fifth. But you came from a long line of them, your mother, her mother before her, and before that, women whose names had been signed to treaties that still held. One does not argue with that kind of inheritance. Especially not when the ones who built it are no longer alive for you to disappoint.
So you had said yes. To the title, the table, and everything that came with it.
Even if it meant your brothers, who had made an art form of disagreeing with you since childhood (and showed no signs of stopping), would be a permanent fixture in your professional life as well as your personal one.
Even if it meant dealing with pirates. Which was, somehow, a sentence your life had required you to take seriously. Even if it meant ships. Water. The open sea stretched out in every direction with nothing to hold onto and nothing looking back.
You had said yes anyway.
Your parents had loved this work with their whole hearts, and they had died for it, and they had died legends. So now you were expected to be a legend too.
But this was going too far.
“This is unfair.” The words came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. The papers on the desk laid it out plainly, your next assignment in black and white, and no amount of staring at them was going to change what they said. “I cannot go to Marineford.”
Across from you, your eldest brother said nothing. He didn’t need to. He was a seasoned Marine commander, and you had stopped using his name years ago, defaulting to his title the way you would with any superior officer, because it was easier than remembering he was your brother when he looked at you like that, like this was funny. The Marines had apparently agreed, because whoever had decided to assign him as your joint liaison had done so with what you could only assume was a profound sense of humor.
He took a slow drag, letting the silence expand, and the faint curl at the corner of his mouth told you everything about how much he was enjoying this.
“Yer the closest liaison and the Admiral’s Office specifically requested women.” He tapped his cigarette and let the ash fall. “Shit outta luck.”
“My contract specifically states I am exempt from travel in the Grand Line except in cases of extreme importance.”
He barked a laugh, short and without warmth.
“Like I said. Shit outta luck.” He leaned back, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. “Word is HQ wants to meet with the warlords. And you know how that tends to go without someone in between. Donquixote alone looks for any excuse.” A pause. “Besides. Tsuru likes you.”
“She doesn’t.”
He leaned forward then and blew smoke directly across the desk.
You held your breath and said nothing, waiting for it to pass, your hands flat and still against the papers you very badly wanted to throw at him.
“Call her. Change it. I know you can.” Your voice came out low and even, the way it always did when you were close to losing the thread of it. “She owes you.”
The Commander sighed. He flicked the stub of his cigarette onto the desk between you, where it smoldered against the wood like he wanted you to notice it, and didn’t move to put it out.
“Listen, little sis. And try not to take this personally.” He met your eyes. “But it’s about time you got over your… water issues.”
You grit your teeth so hard you felt it in your jaw.
“You don’t exactly get over drowning.”
The words landed flatter than you meant them to. Or heavier. You weren’t sure which was worse. The cigarette kept burning between you, a small dark eye in the wood. Your brother did not look away from you, and you did not look away from him, and for one long moment the office was very tense.
Then he reached out, pinched the stub between two fingers, and ground it out against the desk without breaking eye contact.
“You do,” he said, “if you want to keep your job. ‘Sides, it’s the least you could do, seeing how it was because of you…”
You flinched.
Because of you, Mom and Dad died.
He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to, as it still had the same effect as throwing a grenade. The sentence hung in the air between you the way the smoke had, but slower to clear and harder to breathe through. Your hands curled against the papers without your permission. You could feel the edge of one against your palm, sharp enough to remind you that you were still here. Still in this office with an asshole you shared blood with. You were not in the endless open water on that day, slowly sinking—
No stop.
It took you too long to compose yourself.
“That isn’t… fair.”
“No.” He waved a hand. “It isn’t.”
He went to his pocket and pulled out another cigarette. The flame caught, and his face went briefly orange, and for one strange flickering second, he looked like the older brother you remembered from before. The one who used to tuck a coat around your shoulders on the dock when the wind came up. The one who had stood beside you in black and held your hand so hard it bruised. The one who liked you before you killed his parents.
Then the flame went out, and he was the Commander again.
“But it’s true.” He exhaled away from you this time, a small mercy you did not thank him for. “And you’ve been hiding behind that contract for six years. Tsuru knows it. I know it. You know it.”
He tapped ash into the tray he had been pointedly ignoring before.
“Get on the damn boat. Go to Marineford. And find Squirt and tell him to stop ignorin’ my calls. Just because he’s an officer now doesn’t mean he can be an ass.”
Squirt was your middle brother—also the one who actively refused to speak to you without cussing. And yes, he worked at Marineford as an officer under the notorious Akainu, and how he had not been lava'd to death by now was a mystery to you, to the Commander, and quite possibly to Squirt himself.
Regardless. The Commander was quick to shoo you out of his office once he had made his point, and his secretary gave you a worried smile as he handed over the paperwork and the instructions for the posting. He had almost certainly heard everything. The walls in this place were paper-thin, and Marine bases this far into the South Blue were not exactly state-of-the-art, a fact you had been grateful for exactly once. Once, today, when you needed to know your brother was actually in his office before you walked in, and had resented it every other day of your career.
You took the paperwork. You thanked the secretary. You did not look at it until you were outside.
The Ballywood Kingdom had been a kind position. A quiet one. It had been one of the reasons you had said yes to the title in the first place, that the post barely required you to leave land, that the work came to you instead of the other way around. Visiting officials, royal envoys, the occasional merchant captain with a grievance and a hat in his hands. You met them in gardens. In drawing rooms. On stone terraces that did not move.
You had built a life that did not require you to step onto a deck.
And now, it seemed, you were being asked to wade into much deeper waters.
-X-Through the Looking Glass-X-
You took a Marine convoy across the Grand Line, the safer route, avoiding Reverse Mountain and the worst of the sea beasts. To say you spent most of the voyage alternating between dry heaving over a bucket and having quiet, methodical panic attacks in your assigned quarters would be accurate, all within the confines of your single room.
To say you did either of these things gracefully would not.
The first day was unbearable. You had to leave in the early dawn, which was not in itself a problem; you had been awake for hours by then anyway, sitting fully dressed on the edge of your bed in the small dark of your rented room, staring at the trunk by the door as though it might decide on its own to go without you. The early hour was, if anything, a mercy. Fewer people. Fewer witnesses. A thin gray light that made the sea feel less visible and, therefore, you hoped, less able to hurt you.
Forcing yourself to step onto the docks was torturous.
The wood of the planking gave slightly underfoot, the way wet wood does over water. That small soft give that is nothing at all on a sturdy pier and everything in the world to you, and you felt it travel up through the soles of your boots and into your knees and into your stomach, and you had to stop. You had to actually stop walking, in the middle of the marina, with a porter behind you carrying your trunk and a junior officer ahead of you looking politely over his shoulder, and breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The way the Guru therapist in Ballywood with the soft hands had taught you to. The way you had practiced for six years for exactly this moment.
You started walking again. You did not know how. You did not look at the water.
Waiting on the marina for the ship to finish its approach almost caused an episode. That was not a metaphor. Your hands went cold first, and then numb, and then your jaw locked, and then your vision narrowed at the edges until the world was a long bright tunnel. The hull of the convoy at the end of it, growing larger, growing closer, the rope thrown to the cleat. Slowly, the gangway lowered, the dark water slapping against the pilings beneath you in a rhythm that did not match your breathing and would not be persuaded to. You stood with your hands folded in front of you in the posture your mother had taught you, and you smiled at no one in particular, and with strange, detached clarity, you remembered that if you fainted now, you still would be carried aboard.
You did not faint. You were not sure if that counted as strength or being more terrified of waking up on the water.
Boarding the ship took every therapy lesson you had ever had. Every grounding exercise. Every name-five-things-you-can-see. Every breathing pattern with a number attached to it. You walked up the gangway one foot in front of the other, and you did not look down at the gap between the dock and the deck, and you did not look down at the water moving beneath that gap, and you did not, did not, did not think about how easy it would be to slip. You handed your credentials to the officer at the rail.
You inclined your head at the captain. You said the correct things in the correct order. You did not hear yourself say them. And then you went straight to your cabin and hunkered down for the trip.
You did not come out again for any reason that was not strictly required of you. When the door closed, you sat down on the bunk with your back against the wall, your knees drawn up, and your hands pressed flat to the mattress on either side of you. Then you stayed there for a very long time, listening to the ship cast off, listening to the shouts of the crew, listening to the water beginning, at last, to move beneath you.
The voyage commenced.
The second day was worse than the first, and then you stopped counting because counting required a clarity of mind you no longer possessed. You learned the shape of your quarters by the path you wore between the bunk and the bucket. You learned the smell of your own sweat soaked into the collar of a coat you could not bring yourself to take off because taking it off would mean acknowledging you were going to be here long enough to need to. You only slept the minimum amount to avoid the even worse fate of dreaming. Without fail, when you were on water, you had nightmares.
The crew, to their credit, pretended not to notice. Whether out of professional courtesy or because the Commander had sent ahead some unflattering and very specific warning about his little sister's constitution, you did not know and did not ask. They left trays outside your door. They knocked twice and walked away. The food went mostly untouched. You could not bring yourself to eat anything that required you to think about your stomach, and your stomach, in turn, refused to think about anything else.
One of them, a young ensign with kind eyes and the good sense not to use them on you for too long, started leaving a folded cloth beside the water pitcher each morning, damp and cool, without comment. You used it. You pressed it to your forehead and to the back of your neck and to your wrists, where your pulse had been running too fast for so many hours that you had started to feel it in your teeth. You did not thank him as you could not yet trust your voice to do anything but shake. And a shaking voice from a woman of your station and your moniker was something you had been trained since childhood not to give away for free.
The worst of it was not the nausea. It was not even the fear, though the fear was constant. The nausea rose in waves with the ship and fell with it, and somewhere around the third night, it stopped having a beginning or an end and simply became the condition of being awake. You sat on the edge of the bunk with your hands braced flat against the mattress, white at the knuckles, and waited for the next swell, and the next, and the next, and each one came, and each one passed, and each one left you exactly where you had been before.
The worst of it was the sound.
The endless, thudding sound of water against the hull. Day and night. On every side of you. A slow, steady whispering you could not muffle, no matter how many pillows you pressed over your ears, no matter how tightly you wound the blanket around your head, no matter how many hours you spent humming under your breath to drown it out until your throat went raw. It was always there. It was the wall, the floor. It was beneath your bunk and above your head when you lay down, because somewhere on the other side of that ceiling was another deck and above that was the sky and below you, below you, below you was the thing itself, the deep, miles of it, dark and indifferent and waiting.
You did not sleep so much as lose consciousness in short, ragged stretches. You woke gasping. You woke certain the bunk was wet. You woke once with your hand clamped over your own mouth without remembering putting it there, and you lay in the dark for a long time afterward trying to work out whether you had been screaming or whether you had only dreamed you were, and which answer would be worse.
At the end of the month, you finally arrived at Marineford.
The second the boat docked, you were down the gangplank with what you hoped passed for diplomatic composure and what was, in fact, expeditious speed bordering on flight. Teeth gritted. Spine straight. Face arranged into the careful neutral pleasantness your mother had drilled into you before you could read. You looked, you thought, mostly put together. Thinner than you had been at departure, certainly, your coat hanging a little looser at the shoulders than it ought to, but presentable. Functional. The sort of woman one would not ask any questions of.
You were, after all, a diplomat. One good at bullshitting. Which was exactly what you would be needing to do, because the first thing on your agenda was a meeting with the Fleet Admiral himself.
You had only met Admiral Sengoku once, a long time ago, when you were still small enough to be presented in a row with your brothers like a set of matched silver. Your father had introduced you. Your mother had set a hand briefly on your shoulder. You remembered very little of it, only the height of the room and the warmth of the hand and the sense, even then, that the man in front of you was already tired in a way that adults did not usually let children see.
He looked, when you walked into his office, just as hassled now as he had then. Perhaps more so. As though the intervening years had simply added to the pile on his desk and the gray in his hair without offering anything in exchange. He was mostly the same. A little softer through the middle, perhaps. A little slower to rise. There was a small permanent furrow between his brows that you did not remember from before.
He did not recognize you at first glance.
But then he opened the file on the desk in front of him, and his eyes moved down the page, and you watched the precise moment he reached yours. The pause. The slight lift of the brow. The way his gaze rose from the paper to your face and stayed there a beat longer than protocol required.
“Ah,” he said. “You must be my new diplomat.” A small, weary thing that was not quite a smile crossed his face. “It is good to see a familiar name. A good lineage. A good record.” He glanced back down at the file, then up again. “And, mercifully, one I will not have to yell at.”
You allowed yourself the smallest tilt of acknowledgment. He was, indeed, well acquainted with your brothers. Squirt in particular, you suspected, had contributed more than his fair share to the Fleet Admiral’s gray.
“Fleet Admiral.” You inclined your head. Your voice held. A small miracle. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“I appreciate your quick arrival.”
He gestured to the chair across from him, and you sat with a gratitude you hoped did not show on your face. Your legs, which had carried you through the docks and the corridors and the long flight of stairs up to this office on what could only be described as borrowed courage, were very pleased to be no longer required to hold you up.
“As you are no doubt aware,” he said, settling back, “the Marines occasionally find it expedient to outsource certain matters to select …privateers. Men and women whose reputation, shall we say, assists us in keeping the more enthusiastic elements of piracy in line.”
Privateers. The polite word. The one used in reports, at podiums, and in rooms where the Den Den Mushi might be listening.
You knew, as he knew, and as everyone in this building knew, that he meant the Warlords. The Seven Warlords, each of whom ruled their respective domains.
Of course, you knew of them, which is to say you’d seen their bounties and memorized the ones that caught your interest, who might one day cross your path.
You folded your hands in your lap and prepared, as you had been raised to do.
The Admiral nodded once, more to himself than to you, and turned to the long desk lining the back of his office. He pulled a folder from a stack you suspected had been organized that morning specifically for this conversation, and laid it open in front of you with deliberate care.
A list of the Warlords, their pictures clipped neatly to each page.
Attached to several of them, in the small, precise hand of whoever kept these records, were the names of other diplomats. Familiar names. The big ones. The kind you had read about in dispatches and heard murmured at functions, the kind your mother had once spoken of long ago with the respect she reserved for people she had barely outmaneuvered. This job, it seemed, was not the lateral move you had been told it was. This was a promotion. This was, in fact, a leap. And it would undoubtedly require a great deal of sailing.
Your nerves, which had only just begun to settle from the voyage, climbed back up into your throat.
Well, you thought, with a clarity that surprised you. Shit.
You looked down at the faces arranged before you. Some of them looked back, in the flat unsettling way photographs sometimes do. Dracule Mihawk positively glowered from his, his odd eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, and you offered up a small private prayer to whatever was listening that he would not, under any circumstances, be the one assigned to you. You were not sure your career, or your composure, or your remaining stomach lining, could survive him.
And looking at the others did not bring much comfort either. Crocodile, who looked at the camera as though it had personally offended him. Bartholomew Kuma, expression so still he might have been carved. At the end of the pile was a picture of the infamously beautiful Boa Hancock, and the simple fact that she was a woman immediately, embarrassingly, made her your top choice.
“Currently,” the Admiral said, not kindly, “I have assigned several other diplomats. One to each Warlord. Based on compatibility, gender, personality, and combat ability.”
God, you hoped your brother had not lied on your file.
You could do basic martial arts. You had been made to, every summer of your childhood, by tutors your parents had hired because they did not want their daughter to die in a back alley over a misunderstanding. You could throw a punch. You could break a hold. You could, on a good day and with the wind behind you, draw a knife from your sleeve without cutting yourself.
But the average marine would far surpass you, and a Warlord would squish you.
Gecko Moria, you noted with a fresh wave of unease, looked like he could simply sit on you and turn you into soup. You moved his picture quietly to the back of the pile, as though that would somehow remove him from consideration.
The faintest crease appeared at the corner of his mouth.
“As a Marine diplomat, your duty concerns negotiating treaties, protecting the citizens of allied nations, and conveying delicate information through the appropriate channels. With the Warlords, however, the balance is more particular. We frequently need to send them certain information, and we need that information to be received in a way that does not compromise the original terms of their arrangement with the World Government. As you have no doubt observed in your career, some of these individuals can be… difficult.”
He tapped one picture in particular. A blonde man in pink, grinning, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Donquixote Doflamingo. A notoriously huge asshole, if the rumor network was to be believed.
Sengoku’s sharp tap said more than the file did. The tap said: You have heard the stories. The tap said: The stories are conservative.
“To be frank with you,” the Admiral said, settling his hands on the desk and meeting your eyes directly, “these are not like your previous postings.”
Yeah. You had figured that out immediately.
“Of course.” You nodded politely, because you had a reputation to maintain, and because the alternative was to let your face do what it very badly wanted to do. You sent up another small private prayer to whatever was, by now, surely tired of hearing from you. “To whom will I have the pleasure of becoming acquainted?”
Sengoku gave you a small smile.
It was, in retrospect, your first warning.
“Boa Hancock,” he said, and your heart leaped with a relief so pure and so total that you could have sung. You could have wept. You could have leaned across this desk and kissed this kind, gray, harassed man on the forehead. “Was my first choice.”
The relief did not so much fade as evaporate. Past tense. He had used the past tense. You had been a diplomat for six years, and you knew exactly what the past tense meant in a sentence like that one.
“Until your brother,” the Admiral continued, with the serene unawareness of a man who did not know he was holding a knife, “the one working under Admiral Akainu, was kind enough to inform me that you have an exceptional love of water. And, even more uniquely, a long-standing debt of gratitude toward fishmen.”
Your mouth fell open.
You closed it. You opened it again. You closed it.
The Admiral, still smiling, reached into the file and drew out the very last picture. The one you had skimmed past as quickly as you could manage, with the same instinct that had made you set Moria’s photograph to the back of the pile.
The one you knew you wouldn’t be able to see without bringing tears to your eyes.
A fishman. Broad-shouldered to the point of absurdity, shoulders that filled the frame of the photograph and threatened, somehow, to keep going past it. A jaw built like the prow of a ship. Tusks. Actual tusks, set into a mouth that was not smiling and did not, you suspected, smile often for cameras. The blue-patterned skin across his face caught the light in a way that made it look less like skin and more like something polished and very, very scary. His eyes were dark and steady and gave away exactly nothing. He looked like a damn shark, and you nearly fainted.
“So,” Sengoku said warmly, “I have placed you with Jinbei. I think it will be an excellent fit, since out of all the Warlords, he is the most reasonable. Compared to Doflamingo, he’s practically a saint. Certainly more reasonable than Boa Hancock. Due to fishmen's general reputation, the majority of other diplomats have refused to work with him.”
All color fled your face. And then, for good measure, your soul.
Your fucking brother.
Your fucking, lava-adjacent, smirking, traitorous middle brother who had not spoken to you in three years without a cuss word attached, who had eaten the last of your favorite candy when you were nine and never apologized for it, had picked up a Den Den Mushi and called the Fleet Admiral of the Marines, personally, to inform him that you, his baby sister, the woman currently sitting in this office trying not to faint, loved water.
Loved.
Water.
You were going to kill him. You were going to find him on whatever rock Akainu had him chained to, and you were going to wring his neck with your own two hands. You were going to look him in the eye while you did it, and you were going to say his real name, the embarrassing one, the one he hated, just before you finished the job.
And as pernicious as it was, there was no saying no because you had a reputation to maintain and a promise to keep, even if it killed you.
Which was looking, from where you sat, like a very distinct possibility.
“What a wonderful match,” you heard yourself say. Your voice was perfectly even. Your training had, against all reason, held. “I look forward to meeting him.”
The Admiral beamed.
“Excellent. As luck would have it, he is in the area. I will have the details worked out by morning, and you can meet tomorrow.” He glanced down at the file with the small satisfied air of a man crossing a difficult item off a long list. “I expect he will be traveling to Fishman Island before long. Convenient timing all around.”
Shit. Shit shit shit shit.
Of fucking course. Of course, he would be. Because as a diplomat assigned to a Warlord, you would be expected to travel with him. On his crew. As a de facto third party representing the interests of the World Government, present at all relevant meetings, embedded in the daily rhythm of the ship, the way salt was embedded in the wood of it. There was no other way the job worked. You knew this.
And Jinbei was a fishman.
Which meant his destinations were not, as a rule, terribly land-based.
Which meant Fishman Island.
Which meant down.
Down through the water. Through miles of it. Through the great black dark of it, the deep where the light did not reach, where the pressure pressed in on every side and the only thing between you and all of that water would be a hull no thicker than a man’s arm and a coating of resin and the goodwill, presumably, of whatever sea creature happened to be towing you.
You felt the blood leave your hands. You felt your fingers go cold where they were folded in your lap. You felt, with a clarity that bordered on the religious, that you were going to have to do this, and that you were going to have to do it without screaming, and that you were going to have to smile. You would do it because your name was on the file, and your reputation was on the line, and it might be the only way your brothers stop harassing you.
You smiled back at the Admiral.
And behind your teeth, with the readiness of a fighter who had nothing but time on the long voyage ahead, you began to plan a murder.
-X-Unexpected Sights-X-
You spent the rest of the day in a state that could most charitably be described as functional. Less charitably, you were alternating between a pending panic attack and a manhunt, and the only reason you did not give yourself over fully to the first was that the second required you to be upright.
You were going to find your cunt of a brother.
You found him, eventually, in a small, loud bar two streets off the main thoroughfare that catered to off-duty officers and the people who tolerated them. He was at a corner table. He was not alone. The woman across from him was laughing at something he had said, which told you a great deal about the woman, and he had that easy slouch in his shoulders that he only ever wore in places his Admiral could not see him, which told you a great deal about the bar.
He had not noticed you yet.
You took a moment, standing just inside the door, to appreciate this. To feel the full weight of the rage you had been carrying like a hot stone in your chest since the Fleet Admiral’s office, and to let it settle into a cold anger.
Then you picked up a beer from the nearest unattended table.
You crossed the room.
He looked up just as you reached him, his face going through a brief sequence of expressions, recognition, then alarm, then a tight-lipped resignation of a man who knew exactly what he had done and exactly why his sister was standing over him with a stranger’s drink in her hand. You tipped the entire glass over his head before he could open his mouth.
The woman gasped. Beer ran down his collar. The bar, which had been loud, became briefly and gloriously quiet.
“Hi, Squirt,” you said pleasantly.
He stood up.
He was, you remembered too late, significantly taller than you. He had also been training under Akainu for years, which meant that whatever basic martial arts your tutors had drilled into you as a child were going to be approximately as useful here as a teaspoon against a tide. You did not particularly care.
You swung first anyway.
He caught your wrist. And this time, there was nothing soft about it. No held-back strength, no brotherly indulgence, no echo of the boy who had once let you hit him because he could afford to. His fingers closed, and you felt the bones in your wrist move, just slightly, the way they were not meant to.
“You called Sengoku,” you hissed.
“So what?”
“You told him I love water—that I have a debt of gratitude to fishmen.”
“Yeah.”
You tried to knee him. He turned his hip, and your knee hit nothing. You tried to stomp on his foot. He moved his foot, and your heel came down on the floorboards hard enough to send a jolt up your spine. He was not even looking at you while he did it. He was looking past your shoulder, at the door, calculating, and his nonchalance was worse than if he had hit you back.
“Squirt—”
“Don’t Squirt me.” His voice had gone flat. “You don’t get to come in here and throw a drink on me and use that name like we’re still kids.”
“You told the Fleet Admiral I love water—How could you?”
“I told the Fleet Admiral whatever it took.” He finally looked at you, and there was nothing of your brother in it. There was a marine officer looking at an obstacle. “You think I did this for fun? You think I sat in my office and thought, what would really ruin my sister’s week? Grow up. You’ve been a coward, and somebody had to do something about it.”
You hit him in the chest. It was not a real hit. He did not let you do it. He caught your other wrist before it landed, and now he had both of them, and his grip on the first one tightened, deliberately, until your fingers went numb.
“Ma and Pa,” he said, “would be ashamed of you.”
It landed exactly the way he meant it to.
“I hate you,” you said. Your voice cracked on it. “I won’t ever forgive you.”
“Good,” he said. “Then I don’t have to keep being nice about it.”
His hand slid from your wrist to your upper arm. He turned. He started walking. You went with him because the alternative was to be dragged with him, and his fingers were dug into your bicep as if he knew exactly which nerves to press to make a body cooperate without needing to be persuaded.
“Squirt—Squirt, where are we going?”
He did not answer.
But you knew where he was taking you.
You knew the moment the road began to slope downward, as the gulls got louder, the haze the air thickened with wet weight that only ever meant one thing. You started to fight him in earnest then. You twisted in his grip, and he tightened his fingers until you gasped. You dropped your weight, and he hauled you upright without breaking stride. You said his name. You said his real name. You said the name your mother had given him in a voice that should have stopped him cold.
He laughed.
A short, ugly sound. Not the laugh of a brother. The laugh of a man who had been waiting a long time to hear your pitiful begging and was glad he’d discovered it didn't work anymore.
“Try again,” he said.
The planking of the marina came up under your boots.
You felt the give of it. The wrong give of wood over water. Your knees tried to lock. He pulled you forward. The lamps at the end of the pier threw long yellow lines across the black water, and the black water moved, the way it always moved, the slow, patient breathing of a thing that had been waiting for you, and your brother walked you toward the edge of it without slowing down.
“Squirt. Squirt, please. Please, please—”
“Be quiet. People are sleeping.”
“I can’t—” you cried.
“You can.”
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, please—” Tears rolled down your face, mixing with snot. Your nails broke as he tugged you off a pole.
“You did it once. Do it again. Maybe this time it’ll stick.”
The cruelty of it took the breath out of you before the water could.
You were ten steps from the edge. Then seven. Your free hand had come up to claw at his wrist and you were begging him in a voice that did not sound like yours, high and thin and stripped of everything you had spent six years building, and he did not stop, he did not slow down, he did not even look at you, and you closed your eyes because you could not look at the water and you could not look at your brother’s face and you—
He stopped.
A shadow fell across both of you, blocking out the nearby lantern.
Squirt’s grip on your arm did not loosen, but locked. Like he had just realized he was no longer the largest thing in the immediate area.
You turned and froze.
There was an enormous figure between you and the edge of the pier.
You had not heard him arrive. A man of that size should have made noise, should have shaken the planks, should have announced himself in some way. He simply appeared there, between you and the water, vast as a wall, and the lamplight behind him did not so much fall on him as decline to.
It took you a moment, longer than it should have, to realize he was not human at all.
You could not see his face. His back was to the light, and the light, what little of it reached him, broke around his outline in strange ways. He was shaped oddly. Rotund through the middle and impossibly thick across the shoulders, broader than any man you had ever stood near, but it was the height of him that finally caught up to you. The lamppost behind him, which had towered over you a moment ago, was dwarfed by him. The top of his head was not visible from where you stood. You had to tilt your chin up to find it, and even then, in the dark, you could only guess.
“The fuck you want?” Your brother said, with far more bravado than real backing. He straightened, hand gripping your wrist tighter, and you whimpered.
“Marine.” The voice came from somewhere above you, deep and low and unhurried, like the slow turning of water under a hull. “It is rude to harass a woman. Especially to the point of tears.”
He paused. The kind of pause that was, you understood, a courtesy he did not have to extend and was extending anyway.
“This is family business, fishman.”
The fishman straightened at his words, sharp and ready for such a pathetic response.
“Do the captains of the Marines know their officers enjoy risking the lives of citizens by throwing them into the harbor at night?”
“Don’t pretend you give a shi—”
“At best, you would have injured your own kin.” The voice rolled over your brother’s the way a tide rolls over a stone, without effort, without raising itself. “At worst, and far more likely, she would have drowned. Are you not ashamed? Where is your chivalry, hm? Your warrior’s code?”
Your brother opened his mouth.
And said nothing.
Your brother, who had a mouth on him that had gotten him written up twice this year alone, who had backtalked a Rear Admiral, and who had been assigned to Admiral Akainu because he was the only admiral meaner than him.
He said nothing.
His hand on your arm had gone strange. Still locked, still keeping you upright, but no longer pulling. As though he had forgotten, for the moment, what he had been doing with you. As though the part of his brain that handled threat assessment had taken over the controls and politely informed the rest of him to shut up and hold still.
“You are the one they call Squirt, are you not?”
Your brother went rigid.
“It seems,” the figure above you continued, with the calm of a man reading off an inventory, “your reputation precedes you.”
Your brother looked close to snarling. You could feel it in his hand, the way the muscle along his forearm tightened against your arm, the small involuntary tell that he was choosing, in this moment, not to do something he very much wanted to do.
“So what, big guy. It’s family. Joke between family. You can just—”
“This is no joke, Marine.”
The figure shifted his weight, a small adjustment, and somehow the dock felt smaller for it.
“There are raptor sharks in this harbor. They feed at night. They are drawn to noise and to splashing. You were about to put family into the water. Knowingly.”
A pause.
“Do you imagine Admiral Akainu will ignore a formal complaint of attempted murder by one of his own? One concerning the attempted murder of an innocent woman by family?”
You felt your brother’s hand go slack on your arm. Not deliberately. Not as a kindness. The kind of slack that happens when a man’s brain has just performed a piece of arithmetic it did not want to perform and has arrived at a number it cannot argue with.
The grip on your arm loosened by one finger. Then another.
Then he let go.
He stepped back, chin lifted, chest pushed out in the cheap false bravado. One who had been about to do something terrible and had only just been talked out of it by an audience he could not afford to ignore. The instant his hand left you, your legs went. You did not fall so much as fold, every muscle that had been holding you upright giving up at once. You half-scrambled, half-dragged yourself across the planks toward solid ground, away from the edge, away from your brother, until your shoulder found a wooden pillar. You wrapped both arms around it and clung to it the way a drowning woman clings to whatever piece of wood the sea has not yet taken from her.
You did not let go. Your hands had decided, without consulting you, that this pole was the only thing on the planet keeping you from the water, and they were not in the mood to be reasoned with.
“She started this shit,” He said, behind you, somewhere behind you, a little too loud like he was trying to walk a thing back without seeming to. “So complain all you want. Akainu won’t give a damn.”
The fishman did not answer, his silence doing the work for him. Your brother, who had spent his whole life filling rooms with noise to keep anyone from looking at him too closely, broke under it within seconds.
He turned and walked quickly. His boots struck the planks too hard on the way back up the pier, the gait of a man who needed everyone within earshot to understand that he was leaving because he chose to and not because he had been made to. You listened to him go without lifting your head from the wood you were holding onto.
Your face pressed against the pillar, and your eyes were closed, and you were breathing in for four, hold for four, out for four, the way the woman in Ballywood had taught you.
Then the footsteps faded, and the dock went quiet, save for the sound of lapping water.
There you were, hugging a pole on a strange pier in a strange port in the middle of a strange night, with your gallant rescuer whom you had never met, whose face you had still not seen. Who was, you remembered with a fresh small lurch of nausea, a fishman.
For a long while, he made no move.
You were grateful for it without being able to say so. He simply stood where he had stood, with his back to the lamplight and his face still hidden from you, and gave you the space your body needed and your pride could not yet ask for.
Your shoulders shook against the wood of the pillar in a small, tight rhythm you could not stop, and the sounds coming out of you were not, strictly speaking, sobs, because you had been trained out of sobs in childhood, but they were close cousins of them, and they were ugly, and there was a witness, and you could not make them stop.
The fishman did not stare at you.
You noticed, dimly, through the noise inside your own head, that he had turned slightly away. Just enough to give your tears the privacy of his shoulder rather than the audience of his face. It was such a small mercy. It was such an old-fashioned mercy. You did not know what to do with it.
A long time passed. Eventually, the shaking eased to something you could pretend was over. The cold of the night air found you through your coat and reminded you that you were a body, and that the body was on a dock, and that the dock had not yet been left.
And then, finally, far more gently than anyone else had spoken to you in a long time, he said, “Are you well, miss?”
His deep voice had a rumbling tone, gruff and inhuman, but the edge that had been in it for your brother was gone, scoured clean out. He sounded genuinely distressed for you.
You were terrified. You were exhausted. You were still wrapped around a pole like a child, and you could feel the salt drying on your face in stiff little tracks. Somewhere inside the wreck of you, there was a still functioning diplomat who knew that you could not, under any circumstances, fail to answer a creature who had just been braver and kinder to you in five minutes than your own blood had been in six years.
You unstuck your cheek from the wood.
You did not let go of the pole. You were not ready for that yet. But you turned your head, just enough, and you made your voice work.
“I am.” It came out cracked. You tried again. “I will be. Thank you. Thank you, sir, I am, I am sorry you had to—”
You did not finish the sentence. You did not know how. There was no diplomatic phrasing for thank you for stopping my brother from killing me, and you had not, in all your training, ever been given a script for it.
“Truly, miss,” he said. “It is not a problem.”
He had not moved. He was still turned that small considerate quarter away from you, still letting the lamplight fall where it would, still standing between you and the water without making a point of it.
“I was not far. I heard the disturbance. I would have been a poor man to walk past it.”
A pause.
“I am sorry,” he carefully added, “if my arrival frightened you. I came faster than perhaps was wise.”
You shook your head against the pole. You did not trust your voice yet for more than a syllable. He did not press. He simply stood and waited, the way he had stood and waited before, and after a moment he spoke again, lower this time, the voice he might have used to talk a spooked horse down off a wall.
“There is no hurry. The dock is quiet now. Take what time you need.”
You took it.
You took, perhaps, more time than was dignified. You pressed your forehead to the wood. You worked your hands open and then closed and then open again, watching the fingers obey you, taking small private comfort in the fact that they still would. You felt your pulse begin, at last, to climb down out of your throat and resettle in the place it was supposed to live. You unclenched your jaw, which you had not realized you were clenching.
He did not look at you while you did any of it.
That was the part that, more than anything else, let you do it at all. You could not have managed under the gaze of a fish-like stranger.
“There,” he said quietly, after a long while. “Steadier. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“I am sorry,” you said. The words came out steadier than the last time you had tried them. “I am not usually—”
“Miss.” Soft, but it cut you off cleanly. “There is no apology owed. Not for this.”
Your eyes stung again. You pressed your face harder into the wood until the sting went away. You waited until you were sure you could speak without breaking, and then you spoke.
“It is not you.”
It came out before you had decided to say it. He straightened, and you stammered.
“It is not, I mean. I am not, personally, afraid of you. Of… of fishmen. I want you to know that. I know how it must look, the way I am, the way I, but it is not. You. It is the water.”
It was like you couldn't stop—couldn't help making sure he knew you'd seen what he risked, that what he was mattered less than who he was.
“—I had an accident. A long time ago. On the water.” Your voice wavered, and you steadied it. “I have not been right since—”
You stopped. You closed your eyes.
“It was not about you,” you said again, more quietly. “I did not want you to think it was about you.”
For a long moment, he did not answer.
When he did, his voice was somehow gentler than any of it.
“I did not think it was about me, miss.” A small pause. “But I thank you for the kindness of saying so.”
He shifted his weight. Not toward you. Slightly back, in fact, as though some part of him had been considering offering something and was now reconsidering it on your behalf.
“If you will permit me,” he said, “to see that you make it back safely. Even just so far as a tavern. Or a shop where there are other people. I would not feel right walking away and leaving you here, but I—”
He trailed off.
You realized, with a small painful flush, that he had stopped because he had heard himself. Because he had imagined how it might land, a fishman offering to escort a shaking human woman down a dark dock at night, after the night you had clearly just had, and had decided, on his own and without you having to say a word, that it might be more than you could be expected to accept.
He did not finish the sentence. He gave you the room to refuse without ever having to refuse out loud.
And part of you wanted to take it.
The cowardly part. The ashamed part. The mean, tired part that just wanted to be alone in a dark room with a locked door, that did not have any more diplomacy left in it tonight.
But that would have let him think you were the same as your brother. And for all the cruelty Squirt had done, if he made you turn cruel and petty out of fear, you would actually disappoint your parents. Because they had no prejudice for any species, which was part of their enormous success.
You needed to be better, to learn how not to be so afraid, even if it was only because you needed to make them proud. And because you could not let this enormously patient stranger walk away from this dock believing for one second that you saw him the way your brother had.
You let go of the pole.
It took both hands and most of what you had. Your fingers did not want to release the wood, and you had to pry them off one at a time, and when you turned to face him, you kept one hand braced flat against the pillar because your legs were still not entirely reliable.
You did not, at first, look up. You looked at his feet, which was as much of him as you could take in at once. Then his middle. Then, with a small deliberate act of will, the dark shape of his face, still cast in shadow, still unknown to you.
“I would,” you said, “be grateful for your company, sir. If you are willing.”
The large figure followed quietly behind you. Not close. Not at the heel, the way an escort might. Just behind. Far enough that you did not feel the size of him at your back, near enough that you would know, without having to turn, that he was still there.
He did not breach the gap.
The cobbles of the road came up under your boots, and the dock fell away behind you. In the lit windows of the buildings ahead of you, people were laughing, eating, going on with their ordinary evenings, unaware that anything had happened on the marina at all. It seemed they hardly noticed the two of you at all.
The lamps of the town grew brighter as you climbed. The smell of salt-thinned, and the smell of woodsmoke replaced it, and somewhere ahead a door opened and closed, and a burst of warm sound spilled out into the night and was cut off again.
The lamplight reached out into it for a few yards and then fell away into the dark, and the dark gave back nothing. No shape. No silhouette. No enormous patient figure waiting at a courteous distance for you to find your composure.
The road sloped back down toward the marina exactly the way you had come up it, and it was empty, and it was quiet, and there was no sign that anyone had been walking behind you at all.
-X-Strange Happens-X-
The next morning came too early and yet too slow.
You had slept in fits, surfacing each time with your heart in your throat and the half-memory of a hand on your arm. But mostly you had lain awake. Staring at the ceiling of a strange room in a strange port, eyes adjusted to a dark that did not, on land, frighten you, turning the night over and over in your mind until it had worn smooth.
It was not your brother who kept you awake. He had earned his place in your head and would keep it for a long time, but he was not the thing that bit at you in the small hours.
It was your rescuer.
That he had gone before you could properly thank him. That he had slipped away into the dark without a word, without waiting, without giving you the chance to speak the gratitude you had spent the whole walk up the hill arranging in your mouth. That he had, you suspected with a slow climbing shame, expected this—That he had walked you to the edge of the lamplight and turned back into the night because he had assumed, on some level deeper than reason, that a woman of your station and your kind would not want to be seen standing in a lit doorway thanking a fishman where other humans could watch.
That he had spared you the embarrassment in advance.
Guilt pooled in your chest and wrung your conscience until you could not lie still under it.
He had not believed you. And, of course, he hadn’t. Why should he have? You were a human woman in a bad situation, and he’d helped, but that had not made him fanciful. Humans, generally, disliked Fishmen. And even if your fear was not dislike, it came off the same. There could be no real friendship between such species with so much prejudice.
By dawn, you had given up the pretense and risen. You washed your face in cold water. You dressed slowly and carefully. You pinned your hair, and then you took it down, and then you pinned it again. And by the time the summons came from the Fleet Admiral’s office, you were already dressed, already pinned, already wearing the face you had been raised to wear.
You walked to headquarters with your hands folded in front of you and your spine very straight, and you did not look at the harbor on the way. You took the long route, in fact, the one that wound up through the residential streets and away from the water, and you told yourself it was because the morning light was nicer there.
Sengoku was waiting for you as you neared his office.
He cleared his throat and gestured for you both to walk together, indicating with a small tilt of his hand that the conversation would be moving to the adjoining room down the hall.
“Thank you for showing up today,” he said, and there was something in the way he said it that suggested he meant it more than the words themselves carried, as though he had been mildly uncertain, until you walked through the door, whether you would.
You said nothing but inclined your head.
“I am sure you are aware,” he continued, “that the Warlords rarely deign to appear at Marineford. Or near Marines at all, if they can help it. This is the nature of the arrangement, and we have long since stopped attempting to alter it.” A small dry note entered his voice. “Pirates. You understand.”
You allowed yourself the smallest smile.
“However. Your contract stipulates that you are required to check in monthly via Den Den Mushi and to present yourself in person at Marineford biannually, so that we may verify your safety and your well-being. These are not negotiable terms. They are for your protection more than ours.”
The corridor was longer than it should have been, you thought, or perhaps you were walking it more slowly than you had intended.
“Of course, Fleet Admiral.”
“We have also taken the liberty of arranging several months of supplies, already loaded aboard Sir Jinbei’s vessel. Specifically with your comfort in mind. Clothing appropriate to the climate. Foods you are likely to prefer. Reading material. Certain personal items we believe you might find difficult to procure where you are going. Any reasonable additional requests will be accommodated. You need only ask.”
You nodded, but your brow struggled not to raise.
It was a generously odd amount of preparation.
Months of supplies, specifically for your comfort. Foods you were likely to prefer. Personal items difficult to procure. A vessel already loaded by the time you set foot on it, as though there had been no question of whether you would be sailing. As though the question had been settled.
For a diplomat who, by the terms of Sengoku’s own contract, would most likely be parked on Fishman Island, probably one of the most despised positions in the Diplomatic Corps.
A wave of nerves moved through you, low and slow, and passed. It seemed the small mercy of the situation was that you had no more emotional baggage to give. Whatever the day asked of you, it would have to ask of an empty cup, one devoid of tears.
“In return,” Sengoku said, “the Marines ask that you ensure Jinbei answers our calls and our requests in a timely fashion. As part of the Warlord system, we must ensure, to some degree, that they are not privateering at the Marines’ expense.”
It was the polite phrasing. You translated it in your head as you walked. We need you to confirm, on a regular basis, that the pirate we have legitimized is still pretending to be on our side.
“Of course, Fleet Admiral.”
As you both reached the meeting hall, a petty officer stepped forward and opened the door. Sengoku entered first, as rank required. He paused just inside the threshold and nodded you in after him, and you stepped through.
The room was bright, with east-facing windows. The morning sun came in long and warm across a polished table, and on the far side of that table a figure stood, already risen, already waiting, the size of him registering before any of the details did. Large. Very large. The kind of largeness that belonged to a doorway before it belonged to a person.
A flood of trepidation filled you, slow and sinking, and with a wariness that was almost an invocation, you thought, surely not. Surely not. He could not be the same person.
You did not, yet, look fully at him. You held your eyes on Sengoku, who was the safer object, who at least could be looked at without confirming or denying anything. You arranged your face with neutral pleasantness, breathed in for four and held for four and out for four, and you waited.
Sengoku turned with ceremonial weight and raised a hand.
“Allow me,” he said, “to introduce you to Jinbei. Warlord of the Sea. First Son of the Sea. Former captain of the Sun Pirates.”
He turned slightly, including you in the gesture.
“Sir Jinbei. May I present your assigned liaison from the Diplomatic Corps.”
And he spoke your name.
You finally, properly, looked up.
And in the light, you could make him out.
The figure across the table turned, fully, into the light.
Jinbei was enormous. Taller standing in a sunlit office than he had seemed silhouetted against the lamppost, broader through the shoulders than seemed reasonable for a body to be, with a chest like a gunpowder barrel and arms that ended in webbed hands that could, you suspected without strain, encircle your skull. He was dressed in fine cloth of a foreign style, a long open garment in colors and patterns you did not recognize, the sort of cloth that came from somewhere that took its weaving seriously and its dyes more so. A red tattoo peeked from the cross of his robes.
His skin, in the light, was a beautiful, deep blue.
His face was broad. His hair was mostly dark, save for fairer streaks at the sides and top. He had huge tusks set into a strong, closed mouth, a long dark scar running down the left side of his face, and behind the closed mouth, when he parted his lips even slightly, you caught the suggestion of teeth that almost made you turn around and walk back out the door.
Most alarming were his eyes.
They were dark, pitch black. Steady and a touch reflective in the morning sun, the eyes of something that had been built, originally, to see in deep water. Not the eyes of a human man.
However, they were not unkind, either. They were simply themselves, the eyes of a creature looking back at you. Someone who seemed to recognize you.
And when he inclined his head to you in greeting, and when he spoke your name in the warm formal cadence of a first introduction, the voice that came out of him was familiar, and undeniable, and impossible to mistake for anyone else’s.
“I look forward to working with you, Miss Diplomat.”
for @physics-of-op-main aka Fizzy. This was... a weird one to write XD
Previous
-X-Home Invasion-X-
You weren’t sure how you made it through the next hour. The years of training and therapy probably helped, but some gut-deep part of you couldn’t quite reconcile the fishman in front of you with your savior from the night before. And honestly, you wouldn’t have been surprised to find yourself admitted to the hospital before the hour was out.
That might still happen. Because on top of the panic, you were now mortified beyond measure. His face was unexpressive in a way that felt distinctly inhuman, and as far as you could tell, Jinbei didn’t recognize you from the night before. Or he had a fantastic poker face and simply preferred to keep things formal.
Either way, you were completely out of your depth trying to read him. Which was a terrible start for you as a diplomat, considering your entire job was to mediate the relationship between him and the World Government. If you couldn’t get even a basic sense of the man across the table, what hope did you have of navigating something so delicate?
But to your surprise, it seemed you were more fortunate than the cruel twist of fate had any right to allow. Because, as far as warlords went, Jinbei seemed friendly. Almost too concerned with accommodating you, in fact, which was its own small puzzle you didn’t yet have the pieces to solve.
Sengoku had brought your first meeting to a close with brisk finality, clearly looking like he had a dozen other crises waiting. Papers were gathered, salutes exchanged, and the marines filed out until the room felt suddenly, gapingly empty. Which meant it was time. Time for you and Jinbei to finalize the last of the preparations before the two of you sailed off together, on his ship, for who knew how many weeks.
You were still arranging the documents in your case, mostly to give your hands something to do, when Jinbei spoke.
“May I ask you something, Miss Diplomat, before we begin?”
You looked up. He had folded his arms, but the gesture read as thoughtful rather than guarded.
“Of course,” you said, clearing your throat and trying your best to stare at the space between his eyes.
“Are you… truly comfortable with this assignment?” He said it plainly, without accusation, but you almost jumped out of your skin regardless.
“Pardon?” You kept your voice as polite as you could manage without fainting. “Have I offended you, sir?”
It was one thing to fail at a task half-done. But to already be called out like a coward, before you’d so much as left the harbor? Was your fear truly that obvious? You’d thought you were doing so well.
Jinbei gave a small hum, his expression arranging itself with visible care, like a man trying hard to remain neutral. Or, more mortifying still, like one trying not to spook a skittish animal.
“Of course not, my dear.” If another had said such a thing, you might have found it off-putting, but his imparting of the endearment was so gentle it made your chest ache for some reason. “But I am well aware of how my brethren and I are regarded. Most of the diplomats your government sends would sooner resign than share a vessel with a fishman. If you would prefer to withdraw, I will not take offense, and I will see to it that no blame falls on you.”
It would have been so easy to take the exit he was holding open.
You felt the cowardly part of you lunge toward it before he’d even finished speaking. It already had the excuses lined up, polished and reasonable, the kind no one would fault you for. The assignment came too suddenly. You weren’t given adequate time to prepare. Surely a more senior emissary would serve the negotiations better. Every one of them was true enough to survive scrutiny. You could be off this damned base within the hour, back to the familiar, back to rooms full of faces shaped like your own, and no one would ever have to know how close the panic had come to swallowing you whole the night before.
And he was offering it so kindly.
Which meant he had almost certainly put two and two together. He knew you were one and the same, the woman he’d saved. He had known, perhaps, from the moment you walked in, he had been thinking of how to quietly hand you a way out that would let you keep your dignity intact.
You had always had a keen sense for people’s bullshit, an instinct for the self-interest tucked beneath polite words. And it was clear that Jinbei, despite the sliver of him you’d seen, possessed a genuinely gallant sense of chivalry. One so gracious he would make his own life harder to spare you a moment’s discomfort. Some small, ungenerous part of you almost resented him for it, because his decency made the easy way out feel less like rescue and more like surrender.
And you almost did.
But then you thought of the years. The training. The therapy. The countless mornings you’d promised yourself you would not let fear be the thing that decided your life for you.
You might not disappoint him by walking away. But you would disappoint yourself, and worse, you’d let down a person of such rare and phenomenal decency, and somehow that second thing was unbearable in a way the first wasn’t. That was the moment you knew, with a finality that settled something in your chest, that you could not accept his offer.
You closed the case instead. The clasps snapped shut with a sound louder than you intended.
“No,” you said. “I’m not withdrawing.”
Whatever he heard in your voice, it made him tilt his head slightly. “You’re certain.”
“I am.” You weren’t entirely, but you’d made the choice, and you intended to stand on it.
He was quiet for a moment, studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes. You expected him to argue, or to press the offer again, the way your superiors always did when they wanted you to talk yourself out of something. He didn’t.
“Very well,” he said, and there was something in the lowness of it, a warmth that hadn’t been there in the meeting room with Sengoku watching. “I will not ask you again, then. I only wished you to know the opportunity was there.”
“Thank you.” You weren’t sure what else to say.
“It is no trouble.” He said it as though he’d heard the thought itself, and then, more gently, like he was being careful with something fragile, “A great many things are decided for people like you, I think. It seemed only right that this one should be yours.”
You didn’t know what to do with that, so you said nothing, and he let the silence sit rather than filling it. He was very good at giving you space. Maybe it was a side-effect of encountering so many humans that he had become hyper-aware of certain things, of how easily humans startled, of how much could be conveyed or destroyed in the gap between one word and the next. Or maybe it was simply him. You didn’t yet know him well enough to say which.
He shifted then, settling back, and the movement drew your eye to the sheer size of him, the way he had to be mindful of the furniture in a room built for people half his measure. He did it without complaint, you noticed. Folded himself smaller, kept his hands where you could see them, and never once let his bulk loom. You wondered how long he’d been doing that, making himself less so that others would feel more at ease, and whether anyone had ever thought to thank him for it.
“Then is there anything I can do to put you more at ease?” he went on, when he judged you’d had a moment. “Anything I might arrange, or bring aboard, that would make the journey more comfortable for you. You need only say.”
The kindness of it nearly undid your careful composure. You almost laughed, except you weren’t sure it wouldn’t come out as something worse.
“Honestly,” you said, and made yourself meet his eyes, “I’ve never been the only human somewhere. Not once. I’ve always had others of my own kind around me.” You swallowed. “So if I do something wrong, some custom I don’t know, something that gives offense, I’d ask that you tell me. Quickly, and plainly. I would rather be corrected than spend the whole voyage offending you without knowing it.”
For a moment, Jinbei said nothing, and you braced for the worst. You’d shown him the soft underside of your fear, handed it over freely, and there was always the chance a person would take such a thing and press on the bruise just to watch you wince.
Then something in his face eased, the closest thing to warmth you’d seen on it yet. It changed him entirely, that small softening, and you comprehended for the first time how the man could have saved a stranger in the dark without a second thought.
“That,” he said, “is a far more considerate request than most beings would have the capacity to make. You have my word. I will tell you plainly, and you need never fear that I am laughing at you behind it.” A pause, and then, quieter, almost to himself, “We will manage one another well enough, I think.”
You managed to crack a grin, and you must have been out of your mind, because the next words just slipped out of you before you could stop them:
“Surely much better than whoever got stuck with Donquixote Doflamingo.”
Shit.
The grin died on your face. You didn’t know all the internal dynamics of the warlords, the web of who tolerated whom. Still, you knew enough to know that many of them kept tentative alliances, favors owed, and grudges held in careful balance. Badmouthing one of his colleagues, a man he might count as something near an ally, was not a great way to begin a partnership built on trust. You’d let your guard down for one single moment, and your mouth had gone and undone all the careful ground you’d just won.
You opened your mouth to apologize, to walk it back, to do something.
But you were immediately rewarded with a warm smile instead, his eyes crinkling into happy half-moons that transformed the whole stern broadside of his face.
“That should not be very hard at all,” he said. “I know, from personal experience, that he is very annoying.”
A beat.
“Truly. Insufferable. You have my deepest sympathies if you must work alongside him at all.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could think better of it, surprised and genuine, and the knot that had been sitting in your chest since the night before loosened just enough to breathe around. Some of the tension drained from your shoulders. Across from you, Jinbei looked quietly pleased with himself, as though coaxing that sound out of you had been the precise thing he’d been angling for all along.
Yeah. You were going to get along very well.
-X-Emotional Turning Point-X-
Jinbei gave you a day to pack and organize your luggage, which was unnecessary, as you have only a few suitcases, already packed. Rather, you spent a good deal of time enjoying the fresh air and sun, which also may have been a reason he gave you the day. To prepare yourself. The entire ordeal remained unsaid, but every gracious action of his pointed to his knowledge that he was well aware that you were the damsel he had saved.
You were honestly shocked he hadn’t demanded a better diplomat, but you supposed fishman often took what they got and tried not to complain, lest they be accused of being ungrateful.
The next morning, the docks at Marineford were a churn of noise and salt and shouting, marines hauling crates and barking orders, gulls wheeling overhead, and you’d half expected to spend a miserable quarter hour searching the crowd for him.
You needn’t have worried. Jinbei was, after all, somewhat difficult to miss in a crowd.
He spotted you first and lifted one broad hand in greeting, and the press of marines seemed to part around him without his having to ask, a wake of careful, wide-eyed space. When you reached him, he inclined his head with a courtesy that felt almost old-fashioned.
“Good morning. I trust you slept?” He didn’t wait for the polite lie. “I will escort you to the ship. The lower docks are a maze, and I would rather not have you wandering them alone on your first day.”
You hadn’t asked him to. You suspected he knew you wouldn’t have.
So you walked together, and the size difference was, frankly, a little absurd. The top of your head reached somewhere around the middle of his ribs, and you had to take roughly three brisk steps for every one of his unhurried strides, until he noticed and, without comment, shortened his pace to something you could keep up with.
“You should know a few things before we are at sea,” he said as you went, hands folded behind his back. “Small matters, but they smooth the way. May I?”
“Please.” You were already mentally reaching for the little notebook in your coat.
“Fishmen are a people of the water, first and last. We do not make idle promises, and a vow given is considered a serious thing, not to be offered lightly nor broken without grave cause.” He glanced down at you. “So if I tell you that you have my word on something, you may take it to the bank, as your people say. The reverse also holds. Be careful what you swear to me, for I will remember it.”
You filed that away with some care. “Noted.”
“We value directness. Among ourselves, dancing around a thing is thought a small insult, as though we believe the other too fragile to hear plainly.” A faint wry note entered his voice. “I have learned to soften this for human company. But you, I think, asked me for the plain version. So I will not coddle you.”
“I’d prefer it.”
“Good.” He sounded genuinely pleased. “Then a few practicalities. Touch is not casual among us, particularly the gills and the fins, which are tender and not to be reached for. Do not be alarmed if my crew seems to keep their distance at first. It is courtesy, not coldness. And we are accustomed to a great deal of water, so the ship will be kept damper and cooler than a human may like. We have modified your quarters accordingly, but let me know if you have a problem, and I will see that you have what you need to stay warm.”
The crowd thinned as you reached the lower berths, the great hulls rising on either side like canyon walls.
“And the most important thing,” he added, and you looked up to find that crinkle returning at the corners of his eyes, “is that you ask me when you do not know. I would far rather answer a hundred questions than watch you worry silently over the hundred-and-first.” He paused. “I find your people do a great deal of silent agonizing.”
“That,” you admitted, “is distressingly accurate.” This was mostly pointed inward.
“Mm.” He looked terribly satisfied. “Then we are already making progress. Only true honesty can beget the trust that is required between us. We are, after all, a unique pair. There are very few who have what we do.”
It was a funny way to put it, an oddly intimate framing for two strangers walking to a ship, but you found you didn’t mind it, and you nodded. As a matter of fact, it was less and less alarming to look directly at Jinbei.
And all this conversation had carried a real benefit you hadn’t been clever enough to plan for. You’d been so thoroughly occupied with your new warlord acquaintance, so busy parsing his words and minding your manners and trying not to gawk up at the sheer height of him, that you’d reached the gangplank of his ship without the usual panic. No gritted teeth, no white-knuckled internal bargaining, none of the quiet warfare you normally had to wage with yourself just to set foot somewhere new. You’d simply arrived.
And before you could register your alarm at the steep, salt-slick board and the dark water gulping between hull and dock, Jinbei lifted his hand. Just enough to offer it. Palm up, unhurried, leaving the choice entirely yours.
“If you wouldn’t mind?” he said. “My ship is more slippery than most. It is built for those of us less troubled by a wet deck.”
You put yours in his almost without thinking, more reflex than decision, and his hand swallowed yours nearly whole, warm and rough-skinned and astonishingly careful, as though he were handling something he’d been entrusted not to break. He guided you up the plank at a measured pace, his grip a steady anchor against the sway, and set you down upon the deck.
Where you ought to have been white-knuckled and counting your breaths, working through every technique a decade of therapy had drilled into you, you instead found yourself entirely, helplessly preoccupied with a single absurd fact.
You were holding the hand of a renowned fishman pirate warlord.
And he had lovely manners.
And his hand, you registered with a kind of startled, dreamlike wonder, hadn’t been slippery or goopy or anything else your imagination had braced you for. His skin was oddly cool, but not freezing, more like the pleasant chill of a stone that had sat in the shade. And the texture of him was smoother than a human’s, with none of the dry creasing of a palm, more like suede than scale. Not unpleasant in the slightest. The opposite, if you were being honest with yourself, which you were apparently in no state to be.
You realized, a half-beat too late, that you were still holding on.
He didn’t seem bothered, only waiting for you to register it yourself rather than pointing it out and shaming you for it. Remembering, abruptly, how he’d said fishmen kept their distance until trust was earned, you withdrew your hand expeditiously and thanked him with as much grace as you could muster. He hummed, low in his chest, and his own hand flexed once at the lost contact, fingers curling slightly inward.
Because now, aboard his ship, came the next and arguably most important step of your assignment: earning the respect of his crew.
A crew that had stopped dead at the sight of you being led up the plank.
The Sun Pirates, by their known moniker, consisted of a great many fishmen, and you would be lying to say the sight of them didn’t strike something ancient and animal in the back of your skull. Any one of them, met alone in a dark alley, would have had you fainted clean away before you could so much as scream. They were enormous and strange and watching you now with expressions that ranged from open suspicion to flat, unreadable assessment, a wall of folded arms and narrowed eyes and teeth that had not, evidently, been designed with reassurance in mind.
And yet.
Compared to Jinbei, somehow, the edge of the fear had dulled. Maybe it was his presence at your shoulder, broad and unbothered. Maybe it was the seamless courtesy that had walked you all the way from the docks to here without your noticing the dread that should have come with it. Maybe it was simply that you had now, in the space of a single morning, learned that a fishman’s hand could be gentle. Whatever the reason, you found yourself standing a little straighter than you had any right to.
For some reason, you weren’t as afraid as you should have been.
So you did the only thing you knew how to do well. You bowed. Low and proper, the formal courtesy of an emissary, and you introduced yourself by name and title in a voice that came out steadier than you’d feared it would.
The deck stayed quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, the wall of suspicion began to give.
It was the courtesy that did it, you thought. They had braced for the usual government appointee, the kind who curled a lip and spoke to fishmen as one might address a particularly clever dog, and instead they’d gotten a small human bending nearly double on their deck. It threw them. One by one, grudging or curious, they offered their names back.
A broad, dignified figure with a swordsman’s bearing inclined his head first. “Aladine,” he said simply, and there was a steadiness to him that reminded you, faintly, of his captain.
Then came a voice from somewhere alarmingly far above, and you looked up, and up, to find an enormous half-fish creature beaming down at you with guileless delight. “Wadatsumi!” he boomed, evidently thrilled to be included, and you nearly laughed at the sheer earnestness of it.
Others followed. A lean, sharp-finned fishman who gave his name with a faintly bored drawl. A spotted, eel-like fellow called Vermni who loomed but did not glower. A small, quick one named Remo who punctuated his own name with an enthusiastic “REMO!” as though it were a sound effect. A few of the women, too, sleek and watchful, one offering a clipped “Praline” with an arched look that was more curiosity than malice.
They were, against every expectation you’d carried up that gangplank, surprisingly kind.
But not all of them.
A knot of crew near the mast stayed exactly where they were, arms crossed, jaws set, offering nothing. They looked at you with a cold flatness that needed no translation. To them, you were not a guest, nor even a curiosity. You were the World Government wearing a polite face, and they’d clearly met that face before and learned to hate it.
When Jinbei caught it, he turned his head and leveled a long, stern look at the cluster by the mast, the silent weight of a captain’s displeasure, and the scarred one held it for a beat too long before grudgingly looking away.
And so the journey began.
You white-knuckled your way through the casting off, bracing for some alien, terrifying method of fishman travel, only to discover that they used boats for very much the same reasons humans did. It was faster and far safer to travel above the water than beneath it, especially across the great stretches of the Grand Line where a compass alone could not be trusted. The ship rode the swells; the crew read the wind; and apart from the fins and the gills and the sheer scale of everyone around you, it was not so different from any voyage you’d taken before. The rules, at least, were familiar.
Jinbei kept you especially close for the remainder of that first day. He never made it feel like supervision, but you noticed all the same how he arranged things so that you were never far from his side, never left to drift alone among a crew still deciding what to make of you.
“You’ll forgive me if I keep you near today,” he said, as he steered you away from a coil of rope you’d very nearly tripped over. “It is not that I doubt your competence. It is only that my crew and you are still strangers to one another, and a strange deck is an easy place for misunderstandings to happen. I would rather they not happen to you.”
“I’d assumed you were keeping an eye on the government’s spy,” you said, only half joking.
“That as well,” he allowed, and there was a dry warmth to it. “I am a practical man. But mostly I find it is harder to mistrust someone you have spent a day beside.” He glanced down at you. “We have a great deal of trust to build, you and I, and not much time to do it idly. I would rather not waste a single day of the voyage pretending we are not in want of it.”
“A working relationship,” you said. “Rapport before the real negotiations begin.”
"Just so." He sounded pleased that you'd grasped it. "Though I will confess, I had hoped for something a touch warmer than working." A beat, that crinkle returning to his eyes. "Call it optimism. I am told it is a flaw of mine."
You were finding that the more you learned about Jinbei, the more certain you became that you did, to some degree, want to be friends with the captain.
But it did surprise you at the end of the day when it was revealed that your new quarters had been set near his own, down what could generously be called the officers' hallway, if pirates kept such things. It was either a sign that he wished to keep you safe or that he felt you might prove a problem for his crew. Or, knowing him, both at once.
"You know," you ventured, when he walked you to your door, "this is rather a lapse in caution on your part—quartering me beside the captain. I could be an assassin. The World Government has sent worse to less promising targets, and you've taken me almost entirely on faith."
He regarded you with that eternal calm of his, and something close to amusement surfaced beneath it.
"You could be," he agreed. "But you are not."
"You can't possibly know that."
"I have seen a great many people sailing in my life," he said. "You learn to read a soul in the moment they realize the water is the only true ruler. There is no hiding what a person truly is, then." His gaze held yours, steady and certain. "I have seen what you are. An assassin does not bow on a hostile deck or ask to be corrected kindly." A pause, gentler. "And besides. I would sooner keep a potential threat close enough to watch than far enough to forget. If I am wrong about you, I would rather be the one who answers for it."
You had no argument for that. You were clearly not a threat to him in any way. Though it still didn’t answer why he had been so considerate to you.
"Goodnight, Miss Diplomat," he said, and inclined his head with that old-fashioned courtesy. "The sea is calm tonight. You will sleep well, I think." Then, already turning toward his own door, almost as an afterthought: "Don't let her singing bother you."
You paused, one hand on the frame. "Her?"
"The ship." He said it as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "She talks to herself on quiet nights. The old timbers, the water against the hull." A glance back, that warmth flickering. "You may find it unsettling at first. Give it a night or two, and I expect you will come to find it a comfort instead. The sea enjoys lulling her children eternally with lullabies."
You weren't sure why such a fantastical notion should comfort you. But as your door shut softly behind you and the lamp burned low, the ordinary noise of the sea did seem to soften, to shift into something else entirely.
You lay in the dark of a fishman pirate's ship, listening to the low groan and sigh of timber settling, the endless hush of the water sliding past mere inches beyond the wall, and you found that if you simply listened, if you loosened your grip on the old reflexive fear and let yourself sink into the sound rather than brace against it, there was a melody in it after all.
For the first time in years, the sound of the sea did not frighten you.
Or perhaps it was knowing that just a few doors down slept a fishman who could take the fiercest rumble of the ocean and turn it into the sweetest of songs. One who’d already rearranged a family dispute, a treaty, a hallway, and the better part of his own caution to keep one frightened human safe.
Whatever the reason, you slept well that night. Truly well, for the first time since the accident.
-X-Branching Out?-X-
The first days at sea, you'd expected the worst. Bad food. A hostile crew, a slippery mess of a ship, and a borderline maniacal warlord nursing some private grudge against everything your government stood for.
All of these proved to be wrong.
The meals turned out to be fairly standard fare, if heavily weighted toward seafood. As it happened, while human cooking wasn't strictly necessary to a fishman's diet, it was perfectly edible to them, and often outright preferred. More than one hardened pirate, you noticed, went quietly soft-eyed over a properly baked loaf of bread.
As Jinbei had predicted, in those first several days, the crew kept a careful bubble of space between you and themselves, polite but never inviting, neither warm nor cold. Much like the ship itself, they hadn’t been built for your coming, but weren’t outwardly hostile.
Jinbei continued to keep you close at his side, which proved more useful than you'd first understood. It gave the two of you the long, uninterrupted hours needed to lay the groundwork of how you might best communicate, what you each needed, where your customs would chafe, and where they'd align.
But on the third day, rather than have both your meals delivered to the relative safety of the captain's quarters as had become habit, Jinbei brought you to the joint mess hall. A largeish space in the belly of the surprisingly clean boat, if not a bit humid, to keep the denizen's skin hydrated.
You felt the eyes on you the moment you stepped in. Conversation didn't stop, exactly, but it dipped, the way water dips before a swell.
You were halfway through deciding whether to be afraid when Aladine, Jinbei's first mate, rose from his bench and crossed the room toward you. He came to a stop directly before you and simply stood there, broad and silent and unreadable, and your pulse gave a nervous little lurch despite everything.
Before you could so much as ask whether he needed something of you, he reached out, set a calloused hand over his own heart, and bowed.
"You bowed to us," he said, straightening, his deep voice carrying just far enough that the nearer tables could hear it. "You, a human. On a deck full of strangers who had given you no reason to expect a welcome, you bowed first." He regarded you with grave, deliberate respect. "It is not a thing your people often do. I did not forget it."
And then, to your quiet astonishment, he stepped aside and gestured toward an open place at the crew's own long table. Not the captain's side, but theirs.
"Sit with us, Miss Diplomat," he said. "If you would honor us."
The bubble, you realized, had just broken.
One look at Jinbei, a silent question, and he gave you the smallest nod, something proud flickering behind his eyes. Go on. You've achieved this.
So with all the courage you possessed, which felt at that moment like a thin and trembling thing, you crossed the mess hall and sat yourself down between the two most terrifying shark-like beings you had ever laid eyes on. Praline on one side, all sleek menace and watchful poise. Aladine on the other, broad as a doorway, settling onto the bench beside you with surprising care, as though mindful that one careless motion of his bulk might unseat you entirely.
You waited for the dread to come.
It came. But then it ebbed, because the moment you'd sat, Praline pushed the sushi toward you without a word. Aladine asked, in a grave, deep voice, whether the government truly made its diplomats study six languages or if that was only a rumor. The whole frightening tableau dissolved into something that felt, impossibly, like camaraderie.
The crew, for all their fearsome appearance, turned out to be among the kindest company you'd ever kept. And so, you slowly were absorbed into the crew.
Wadatsumi appointed himself your unofficial guardian within hours, delighted to lift you over puddles and point out passing seabirds with the enthusiasm of an overgrown child. Aladine took it upon himself to teach you the names of the rigging, patient with your every fumbling question. Even the sharp-tongued ones thawed; Manikin pretended not to care that you’d learned to bring him his tea exactly as he liked it, and Betani began saving you the choicest cuts at supper without ever once admitting she’d done it on purpose. Even the coldest fishman gradually began to thaw.
And Jinbei himself, you were beginning to understand, knew exactly how to help you. He never made a production of it. He simply noticed you: The way you tensed at the rail when the swells grew high, the way your eyes went distant when the deck pitched, and he adjusted the world quietly around you until the fear had nowhere to take root. A steadying word here. A hand offered before you knew you needed it. A conversation struck up at precisely the moment your thoughts threatened to spiral inward.
So when he mentioned a stop, you didn’t immediately think to be afraid.
“There is a notable island near here, one the crew likes to visit,” he said one morning, the two of you at the rail watching the sun bleed gold across the water. “A coral reef. Most humans will not have seen its like. The colors are beyond anything your painters have managed to capture, and the fish that live there are small and bold and entirely unbothered by visitors.”
It sounded lovely. You said as much.
He glanced down at you, and there was something almost boyish in it. “I should like to show it… to you. We have a bubble coating that would let you breathe beneath the surface as easily as you do up here. Perfectly safe. I would not let any harm come to you.”
Then you thought, with a lurch, shit.
Beneath the surface. Underwater. Down where the light went thin, and the pressure pressed, and there was nothing, nothing at all, between you and the old black weight of the thing that had nearly killed you as a child.
Your hands went cold. Your breath shortened all on its own, your body reacting before your mind had even caught up, and you sat very still on the edge of your bunk and made yourself breathe the way you’d been taught, in for four, hold for four, out for four, until the worst of it passed.
It didn’t pass entirely. You tried to hide it. You were, you’d long flattered yourself, very good at hiding it.
You were not good enough to hide it from Jinbei.
Your face must have done something, because Jinbei’s expression shifted at once, and here was where it all went sideways.
“You are alarmed,” he said, and you watched him misread it entirely, watched his features arrange themselves into something carefully, painfully neutral. “I understand. Forgive me, I overstepped.” A pause, and his voice went quieter, more formal than it had been in days. “It is one thing to share a table with a crew. It is another to don a fishman’s craft and put your very breath in our keeping beneath the waves. I should not have presumed—”
No, you thought, that isn’t it at all, but your throat had gone tight, and the words snagged.
“Jinbei—”
“It is no insult.” He said it the way a diplomatic man says a thing precisely because it has reopened an old wound. “Humans have their limits. I had only hoped, perhaps foolishly, that—” He stopped himself. Inclined his head. “It does not matter. We need not go. I will tell the crew to set a course past the island.”
And he began to turn away, retreating behind his courtesy like a door swinging shut, certain he’d found the edge of your tolerance for him at last.
You caught his sleeve before you’d decided to.
“It’s not you,” you said, and the desperation in it surprised you both. “God, it isn’t any of you. Please don’t think that.”
He went still, looking down at your hand fisted in the fabric of his sleeve, then at your face.
“Then what is it?” he asked, gentler now, the hurt giving way to confusion.
You drew a breath that shook on the way in.
“I—” you stuttered, embarrassment flooding hot up your neck as you let him go. “—well—it’s the—”
“You needn’t,” Jinbei said quietly, his own hand hovering above you, near but not touching. Just that door, held open. “I understand—”
And maybe it was that, the offered grace of it, that finally pried the truth loose.
“It’s the water.” You said it sharply, wrongly, the words coming out like an accusation aimed at no one.
He didn’t look surprised so much as concerned, his attention sharpening at the edge in your voice.
“I can’t swim,” you said. The words came out thin. “That’s not—That’s not quite it. I could, once. I learned as a child, the same as anyone.” You stared down at the bright water below. “There was an accident. When I was young. I went under, and I didn’t come back up for a long time, and I watched my parents drown, and an entire crew was eaten by sharks—” You stopped. Started again, forcing it. “Ever since, water and I have not been… compatible. I haven’t put so much as a finger in open water since. It wasn’t a problem while I was in the therapy center, all those years. But six years ago, I became a diplomat, and now—” your voice cracked despite you.
It was the first time you’d said it aloud to anyone but a therapist.
“But it was all my fault.”
The silence after felt enormous, even as the pressure built hot behind your eyes. You stood there with your secret laid bare on the deck between you, tears ready to spill no matter what came next, and you cursed your own weakness. Of all the foolish things. This being was a fishman warlord, a creature of the very element that had destroyed you, and now he knew. Now he knew you were nothing but a pathetic human terrified of the water.
Jinbei was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, there was no pity in it at all.
“Was it your fault?” he asked evenly.
You flinched, because you’d braced for comfort, for the reflexive ‘of course’ it wasn’t that everyone reached for, and he’d given you neither. He’d simply asked, as though the answer mattered. As though he intended actually to weigh whatever you said rather than wave it away.
“I—” The word stuck. “I was the one who wanted to go out that day. The sea was rough, and the captain said we should wait, but I begged. I was a child, I wanted to see the islands, and my parents could never tell me no, so we went.” A tear broke loose, and you scrubbed it away furiously. “If I hadn’t asked, they’d have stayed in port. They’d be alive. So yes. It was my fault.”
Jinbei did not rush to contradict you.
“How old were you?” he asked.
You blinked. “Six. Nearly seven.”
“Six.” He let the number sit. “And it was a child of six who read the weather, and crewed the vessel, and chose to set sail against a captain’s judgment? A child of six who commanded grown sailors and seasoned parents to follow her wish over their own sense?” His voice stayed gentle, but there was iron beneath it now. “Tell me. In all your years as a diplomat, have you ever once met an adult who would let a small girl’s wish overrule their duty to do what was sensible? And if they did—” he tilted his head, “—whose failing would that truly be?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
“The sea may have taken them,” he said, quieter now. “But it was certainly not a young girl’s fault. A rough day, hard luck, and a hundred choices made by grown souls who loved you took them. You have spent the years carrying a weight that was never yours.” He held your gaze, unflinching. “I do not say this to comfort you. I say it because it is true, and you asked me to always to tell you the truth. So I am keeping my word.”
The tears came properly now, and you let them, because there was no hiding anything from this man, and you found, to your shock, that you no longer wanted to.
You nodded.
“I appreciate your logic, and I know it’s true, but…” You pressed the heel of your hand to one eye. “Knowing a thing and feeling it are two very different countries. I’ve known it for years. It’s never once made the water any better.”
“No,” he agreed softly. “I would not expect it to. The heart keeps its own counsel, and it is slow to be argued with. Grief and fear are not problems to be solved with a clever sentence.” He let that settle. “But it helps, I think, to hear it said aloud by someone other than yourself. Even when you already know it.”
You huffed something that was almost a laugh, wet and unsteady. He was right, of course. He had an irritating habit of it.
“So that is the shape of it,” he went on, carefully, almost to himself. Then, with dawning understanding, “You have been terrified this entire time. From the very first day. And you said nothing, and you boarded my vessel regardless.” He looked at you as though you’d quietly rearranged into something he hadn’t expected to find. “Every harbor. Every meeting upon the waves. You walked into the very thing that hurt you.” Something like wonder moved beneath the words. “You’re a very brave human.”
“Brave or foolish?” you said again, quieter.
“Is there a difference when it comes to courage?” He considered it with mock seriousness, and the warmth crept back into his eyes, easing the heaviness between you. “The only difference is whether it works out. And history is kind enough to sort them into the proper columns afterward.”
That did surprise a real laugh out of you, small and watery though it was.
“Besides,” he added, gentler, “I think a truly broken woman would have taken the exit in that meeting room. You did not. Whatever that is, I would not call it mere foolishness.” He paused, regarding you with something almost grave. “I do not think you understand the impact you have had on this entire crew. How few people treat us well. How rare it is for one of your kind to bow on our deck, to break bread at our table, to fret over giving us offense. You have done all of it, and carried your fear the whole while, and never once made it our burden.” His voice lowered. “My crew would gladly skip the reef entirely if it meant your comfort. You need only say the word, and we sail on.”
You looked up at him, alarmed. “No! Please—I mean—” The words tumbled over themselves. “Being here, with you. With all of you. It feels like I’m finally seeing the water the way it was always meant to be seen. Not as the thing that took everything from me, but as… as somewhere people live. Somewhere there’s a whole world I was too frightened to look at.” You swallowed. “I don’t want you to stop because I’m a coward. I’d never forgive myself if you turned the ship around on my account.”
“It is not cowardice to fear the thing that nearly took your life,” he said plainly, in the direct way of his people, so that it landed as fact rather than reassurance.
“It is when it affects the whole crew—” you started, and he cut you off, though not unkindly.
“The crew who were born in the water?” he finished, with the faintest arch of amusement. “We are surrounded by it always, by its beauty and its bounty. We will hardly suffer for missing one reef among thousands. And if accommodating one brave human is the price of her company, I assure you, it is no price at all.” He paused, considering. “But here. Let us compromise. We will dock and drop anchor near enough that you might see it, yet close to the shore, so that the choice remains entirely yours. To get in, or not. Today, tomorrow, or never. No one will so much as look at you sideways either way.”
You nodded quickly, grateful beyond words to be handed a middle ground, somewhere to stand that didn’t demand you choose all at once.
You stared up at him, and your throat went tight all over again, but for an entirely different reason this time.
It might be strange of you, but was Jinbei almost… handsome? You turned the thought over with a kind of cautious bewilderment. With everything your life had been, you’d never really had a boyfriend, never had the room for one, and your brothers’ cruelty had managed to put you off the whole notion of romance entirely. How they would mock you, you thought, for finding a fishman attractive. You could hear it already, the curl of their voices.
But you supposed it didn’t matter, really. You’d long ago given up the fantasy that there was anything you could do to soften them. They had decided, when you were six years old and dripping seawater, that the deaths had been your fault, and that was simply that—nothing in the years since had moved them an inch.
In comparison, Jinbei was like something out of a storybook. A prince in the body of a monster, the world had taught you to fear, and the irony was not lost on you.
“You make it very hard,” you managed, “to remember you’re supposed to be a fearsome pirate warlord.”
“Mm.” That crinkle returned to his eyes, deeply pleased. “Do not tell the others. I have a reputation to maintain.”
It was not long before the ship reached the island, a small and desolate place, but beautiful for it, and even from above the surface, you could tell the wilds below ran deep and extensive, a whole hidden country submerged beneath the calm.
When the ship slid into the shallows and dropped anchor over water so clear you could see the reef glowing beneath it like a sunken garden, you stood at the rail with a smile pinned firmly in place and your knuckles white on the wood. The crew were already slipping over the side in twos and threes, whooping, surfacing, and diving with the careless joy of creatures finally comfortable. Most of them almost naked or wearing as little as possible. At home in the water in a way you would never be.
And you looked down at that bright, beckoning, bottomless-seeming blue.
Jinbei quietly came to stand next to you.
“What do you think, Miss Diplomat?" It was a valid question, seeing as you had tried to dress to match them, though your swimsuit and wrap were far more conservative. It seems that Fishman enjoyed clothes more above water, unless it was a special blend of kelp-woven wear.
“What do I think?” You said, eyes trained on the sea.
He turned to face you fully, and the broad stern lines of him had gone gentle again. “I hold your thoughts in high esteem.”
You looked at him, more and more realizing that your first initial thoughts of him had almost entirely transformed into an unexplainable fondness.
“I think it should be easy to enter the water, especially when it’s this beautiful. But I know…” You trailed off.
He placed his giant hand next to yours on the railing, the sides barely touching.
“You need not enter the water at all. Perhaps one day you will sit at the edge and let it touch your feet, and perhaps you will not, and either is acceptable. The reef is not going anywhere. Neither, for the moment, am I.”
You didn’t know what to say. There were a hundred reasons why your particular weakness was an inconvenience to be managed, but Jinbei somehow managed to make it feel like a wound to be tended.
“Why?” you asked, before you could stop yourself. “Why go to the trouble for me?”
He considered the question with seriousness.
“I have met a great many of your government’s representatives in that time. Most of them looked at my crew and I, and saw only what we could be made to do for them.” His gaze drifted out over the water. “It happens more often than I would like, and I have grown wearier of it than I tend to admit. But finding such a brave, open soul—” He stopped abruptly, then looked away. “—A kind soul. I find I would much rather take the trouble. It is worth a great deal more than that, in truth.”
The water glittered below. The reef glowed its impossible colors. And for the first time in longer than you could remember, the sight of the sea did not look like a trap, but like a potentially beautiful adventure.
Your heart seized even as the small, hard-won store of courage you’d gathered these past days bolstered you, carrying you toward the thing you said next before fear could talk you out of it. You pressed the sides of your hands together, fingers twisting, and glanced up at him with your ears burning hot.
“…Would you go with me?”
He froze for half a second. Just half. But you saw it, the way the question caught him somewhere he hadn’t braced for, the faint widening of those dark eyes before he mastered himself again. The skin of his face turned an almost violet color before he cleared his throat.
“You,” he said slowly, as though making certain he’d heard it right, “wish to go into the water now? With me?”
Was asking a fishman to go into the water some sort of innuendo? Some custom you’d blundered into without knowing? Your cheeks stung with fresh embarrassment, the old familiar certainty that you’d crossed a line you ought to have seen coming flooding through you all at once.
“I mean—only if you’re comfortable,” you said quickly. “It just feels like you know the water better than anyone alive. If I’m overstepping, if it’s some—if I’ve said something wrong—” You cut yourself off, cursing your own impulsivity, your ears burning. “Forget I asked. Please.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer, and you felt the old panic begin to whisper that you’d asked for too much, made yourself foolish—
Then Jinbei smiled. Not the crinkle at the corners of his eyes you’d grown so fond of, but something fuller, something that broke across the stern architecture of his face like sunrise over water, and you understood all at once why sailors wrote songs about the sea at dawn.
“It would be,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges, “the single greatest honor anyone has done me in a very long while.”
You blinked up at him, the apology you’d been assembling dissolving on your tongue.
“You have not overstepped,” he went on, more gently, reading the worry still creasing your face. “Quite the opposite. Do you understand what you are asking of me? To trust me, the very thing you fear most, with the very thing you fear most.” He shook his head slowly, something like wonder in it. “There is no innuendo, my little diplomat. There is only the largest piece of faith anyone has handed me in years, and I would sooner beach myself than be careless with it.”
He extended his hand, palm up, unhurried, the way he had at the gangplank that first morning. Leaving the choice entirely yours.
“Come, then,” he said gently. “We will go slowly. One inch at a time. And I swear to you, on every vow my people hold sacred—I will not let you drift alone.”
You looked at his open hand. At the bright water waiting below. At the reef glowing its impossible colors, a whole living world that had been there all along, beneath the thing you’d spent your life fleeing.
You put your hand in his.
Jinbei took his time. He did not lead you to the ship’s edge where the crew had vaulted into the deep, but walked you the long way round, to where the island’s gentle shore sloped down to meet the shallows, so that you might enter the way a child first learns the sea. Hand in hand, you stepped down onto wet sand, and then to where the water lapped warm and clear at your ankles.
You were shaking. You couldn’t help it. But his hand around yours was an anchor that did not waver, and his voice stayed low and steady beside you.
“One step,” he murmured. “Only one. And when you are ready, one more. The sea is not going anywhere, and neither am I.”
So you went. One step at a time, the water climbing slowly, ankles to shins to knees to waist. Each new inch of it sent a fresh tremor through you, and each time you stopped, he stopped with you, never once tugging you forward, simply waiting until your breath steadied and your grip told him you could manage the next. By the time the water reached your chest, it barely brushed the upper bend of his knees, and the sheer scale of him beside you was its own strange comfort.
When you’d gone as far as you could standing, he lifted the resin helmet, turning it once in his great hands so you could see it.
“This will let you breathe beneath the surface as freely as upon it,” he said. “It holds perhaps three hours of air before it thins and gives way on its own. More than enough. We will not be down nearly so long.”
“And if it pops early?” Your voice came out thin. “If something—if it breaks while we’re under—”
“Nothing will break it.” He said it with the flat, unshakeable certainty. “I have watched these helmets carry our own children through waters far rougher than this. And even if the impossible happens, you would not be drifting in the open sea. You would be in my arms, a breath from the surface, with the fastest swimmers on the Grand Line.” He held your gaze. “You will not go under alone. There is no version of this where you are alone. Do you believe me?”
You searched his face for the lie everyone else always carried. You found none.
“I believe you,” you whispered.
He settled the helmet gently over your head. The world went muffled and strange, the bright surface shimmering above, and then, with his hand never once leaving yours, you both sank beneath the water.
The panic hit like a wave breaking.
It came all at once, faster than thought, and suddenly you were not in the warm, clear shallows at all. You were six years old. The light was going thin and green above you, the cold was closing its fist around your chest, and somewhere in the churning dark were shapes you would spend the rest of your life trying not to remember, and the screaming, and your mother’s hand reaching and missing and—
But there was another hand. A real one. Giant and cool and smooth as silk, closed around yours and around your shoulders both, and through the roaring in your ears came a voice, deep and solid, threading through the terror like a rope thrown to someone going down.
Jinbei had pulled you against him. You discovered it slowly, through the haze. He held you the way you imagined he must have held a hundred drowning souls, secure and certain, your back to his chest and his arms a fortress around you, and he simply let the storm move through you without trying to stop it.
“I have you,” he was saying. “I have you. You are here, with me, and you are safe, and you are doing so well. So very well. Breathe with me. There. Again.”
Slowly, amazingly, the past loosened its grip.
The green dark resolved back into bright blue. The cold became warmth. And the shapes in the water were not predators at all but small bold fish in every color imaginable, darting curious circles around the two of you, and the reef bloomed below in colors no painter had ever managed to capture, exactly as he’d promised.
You were breathing. You were beneath the water, and you were breathing, and you were alive.
“There she is,” Jinbei said softly through the water, and you could hear the pride in it. “There is the bravest soul I have met. Look at what you have done. Look where you are.”
You turned in the circle of his arms to look up at him.
And that was the mistake.
Because the light came down through the water in long golden shafts and caught him there, gentle and improbably kind, the warlord the whole world had taught you to fear, holding you as though you were something precious and breakable, and your heart did a slow, terrible thing in your chest.
You wanted to kiss him.
The realization arrived with undeniable vigor, and it frightened you more than the water ever had. You wanted, very badly, to close the small distance between you and press your mouth to his and stay there in the warm, bright deep for as long as the helmet’s air would hold.
You pushed it down.
You pushed it down hard because you knew exactly what this was; you’d read enough and sat through enough therapy to recognize the shape of it. He was helping you through the worst wound of your life. Of course, your foolish, starved heart would reach for him. Of course, it would mistake the safety he offered for something more. It was the oldest trick a frightened mind played, attaching itself to the hand that pulled it from the water, and it would be the height of foolishness, of unfairness to him, to mistake gratitude for anything else.
So you smiled at him instead, behind the resin glass, and let him think the brightness in your eyes was only the wonder of the reef.
But your heart, traitorous thing, had already decided it knew the difference.
You were falling in love with this being. A fishman you had been terrified of, a warlord you’d met less than a month ago, a creature of the very element that had stolen everything from you. It made no sense. It made all the sense in the world. You loved him, and the knowing of it settled into you as quietly and completely as the water itself.
There was nothing to be done about it now. So you let yourself simply have this instead.
Jinbei swam out toward the heart of the reef, slow and smooth, and you held tight to him with both arms, your earlier terror dissolving into something closer to awe. The world unfolded around you in impossible color. Coral in branching golds and violets, anemones swaying like meadow grass in a breeze, and everywhere the fish, schools of them turning together like a single living thought, scattering and reforming in flashes of silver and blue.
“The yellow ones, there,” Jinbei murmured, his voice carrying clear through the water, “are banana-narcissius fish. Vain creatures. They will follow their own reflection for hours if they see a mirror. And those, the blue with the black mask—” he nodded toward a knot of darting shapes, “—Romeo-fish. Harmless, though they would have you believe otherwise. They posture a great deal.”
You noticed it slowly, then all at once. The creatures did not flee him. They parted around him, yes, but with something almost like deference, the way the marines on the dock had parted that first morning. Fish drifted close to inspect you, bold and curious, then glanced toward Jinbei as if seeking permission before coming nearer. Even the reef itself seemed to lean toward him. He moved through the water not as a visitor but as something the sea recognized as its own, and you understood, dimly, that you were being granted passage through a kingdom by its rightful king.
Then the first shark came.
It slid out from behind a coral shelf, lean and grey and silent, and every cell in your body seized. Sharks. The shapes in the dark. The thing that had picked the crew apart one by one while you watched. A scream built behind the resin bubble, and your fingers dug into him—
Jinbei simply pursed his lips and blew.
A single gentle bubble rolled from his mouth, drifting outward, and the reef shark veered off as though it had run into a wall, melting back into the blue with two others you hadn’t even seen. Just like that. No violence, no fear. Only a quiet word in a language the sea understood.
“Easy,” he said, his arm tightening around you, steadying. “They mean you no harm. I know what your heart tells you, and I know why it tells you so. But the creatures of the sea are not cruel. They are innocent, mostly, and curious, like children. They must eat, as all things must, and that is the whole of it. There is no malice in them.” He turned his great head to look down at you. “What took your family was not evil. It was only hungry and following its nature. I do not say that to wound you. I say it so the water might one day stop being a place full of monsters in your mind, and become only the sea again.”
His steady presence made it possible to actually hear the words. To let them in. With anyone else, in any other water, they would have been unbearable. But wrapped in the certainty of his arms, with the reef glowing peaceful all around and the sharks already gone as though they’d never been, you found you could hold the thought without it shattering you.
The sea was only the sea.
And for the first time in twenty years, you believed it.
The rest of that day was nothing short of glorious. You and Jinbei lingered beneath the surface for the better part of three hours, until the helmet’s air grew thin and warm, and in all that time, the fear never returned. He showed you the secret places of the reef, the cleaner shrimp at their work, the octopus that changed color to scold you for peering into its den, a sea turtle ancient enough that Jinbei greeted it the way one greets an old acquaintance.
You laughed so much your cheeks ached against the resin glass. When at last you broke the surface together and hauled yourselves back aboard, dripping and breathless, the entire crew erupted in a roar of delight at the sight of you. Wadatsumi wept openly, and it became clear that they had all been quietly holding their breath for you the whole while.
The year that followed was the finest of your life.
You sailed the Grand Line with the Sun Pirates through every wonder and tempest it could throw at you, and somewhere in the salt and the sun and the endless blue horizon, the frightened diplomat you’d boarded as quietly ceased to exist.
You went to Fishman Island, not once but many times, descending ten thousand meters beneath the waves in a coating of bubbles without so much as a flicker of the old panic. You were presented at court, and the royal family, gracious beyond measure, wept to meet a human who treated their people with such open warmth. They embraced you as one of their own.
It was there, through stories told over long suppers, that you came to truly understand the man you’d fallen in love with. You learned of Queen Otohime, and her impossible dream of a world where fishman and human might stand as equals, and the petition she’d gathered, name by patient name. You learned of Fisher Tiger, who had broken the chains of Mariejois and freed his people, and died refusing the very human blood that might have saved him, so deep ran the wounds your kind had carved. And you learned what Jinbei had carried in the wake of both the grief and the duty and the stubborn, unkillable hope he’d inherited from them, that the two peoples might one day be reconciled.
He was, you discovered, even better than you had imagined. And you had imagined a great deal.
-X-Love’s Fervent Trials-X-
Your happiness carried only two shadows.
The first was the love itself, and the guilt that came stitched to it. You never spoke of it, and neither did he, and neither did the crew, though they could not possibly have missed how close the two of you had grown. The way he kept you near him always. The way his hand found yours at the rail was as easily as breathing, and neither of you ever thought to let go. The way you’d taken to falling asleep against his side on the long, quiet nights, listening to the sea sing its lullaby through the hull. If it troubled him, he never showed it. If anything, he seemed to seek it out. But you held your tongue all the same, still half-convinced it was gratitude wearing love’s face, still unwilling to risk the most precious thing you’d ever been given by asking it to be something more.
The second shadow was your work.
Both of these ordeals were manageable. Difficult, yes, but manageable, the kind of quiet ache you could carry while still rising each morning glad to be exactly where you were.
That changed the day Marineford called about a pirate named Ace.
You took the transmission alone, as was required, the den den mushi’s small face contorting into the stern, weathered features of someone high in the chain of command. The message was brief. Clipped.
A famous pirate named Portgas D. Ace had been captured. He was to be executed publicly at Marineford, and every Warlord of the Sea was hereby summoned to attend and to fight, should Whitebeard come to reclaim his man. Attendance was not a request. It was, the voice made clear, the precise sort of obligation that justified a Warlord’s title in the first place.
You set the receiver down with a hand that had gone cold.
You didn’t yet understand the importance, not the way you would.
When you found Jinbei and told him, you watched the news land on him like a physical weight. And immediately, you know the bottom had dropped out of whatever peace you had.
His face went very still. Stiller than you had ever seen it, stiller than the day you’d first met him in that meeting room a lifetime ago. And in his eyes, you saw something you had never once glimpsed there in all your months at his side, not in the worst of storms, not in the deepest water.
You saw alarm and anger. And beneath it, the first dark flicker of a hard decision being debated.
“Ace,” he said quietly, and the name came out of him like it cost something. “You are certain. They mean to execute Portgas D. Ace.”
“That’s what they said.” You searched his face, suddenly afraid in a way that had nothing to do with the sea. “Jinbei. Do you know him?”
For a long moment, he did not answer. He looked out over the water, toward a horizon only he could see, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of every chain his people had ever worn.
“A friend,” he said. “A good one. And the Government has just made me choose between the title that keeps my people safe and the life of a man I will not abandon.” He closed his eyes. “They have always known I would have to choose, one day. I think they have been waiting for it.”
Shit.
Jinbei retreated to his quarters with the slow heaviness of a man walking toward something he could not avoid, and it was left to the crew to fill you in on the rest. They spoke in low voices, gathered close around you the way they had since the bubble first broke. Ace, they explained, was no ordinary friend. Jinbei had fought him once, head to head for five days straight, and the two had emerged from it bound by the strange brotherhood that only such a battle could forge. More than that. Ace was Whitebeard’s man, and Whitebeard had extended his protection over Fishman Island after Otohime’s death, a shield against the slavers and the worst of the world. To abandon Ace was, in a sense, to spit on the only thing keeping their home safe.
You understood, then, why his face had gone so still. There had never been a choice in it at all.
Later, alone, you called Sengoku.
You weren’t even sure what you meant to say. Perhaps to plead Jinbei’s case. Perhaps to buy time. But the Fleet Admiral spoke first, and what he said knocked the wind clean out of you.
You were being recalled. You were to return with Jinbei and be reassigned, effective immediately.
You protested before you could stop yourself, the words coming out sharp and unprofessional. But Sengoku cut you off, not unkindly, in the weary tone of a man with far larger fires to fight. You had done excellent work, he said. Mediating with Sir Jinbei had gone better than anyone had projected. But it was becoming plain that the diplomat program as a whole was not functioning as intended, that the Government had never truly meant for it to bridge anything, and with war now on the horizon, the entire arrangement was being dissolved.
And then, almost as an afterthought, he added the thing that made your stomach drop.
Your brothers had come forward. They had confessed, apparently, to some old trick they’d played, some manipulation that had landed you in this post in the first place. They’d had word that you’d grown friendly with the fishman, and it had shamed them enough to admit what they’d done.
You barely heard the rest of it.
You found him at the very front of the ship, perched atop the great carved fish-head that crowned the prow, a vast silhouette against a sky thick with stars. The night was clear and windless, the sea below smooth as black glass, and the heavens had thrown down every light they had, so that he sat wreathed in them, this enormous, gentle creature alone with whatever was waging war behind his eyes.
You climbed up to him without a word. He shifted to make room, the way he always did, and you sat beside him in the starlight with the whole quiet ocean spread out before you.
You didn’t know what to say. There was nothing in a decade of diplomatic training that prepared you for this.
But he spoke first, and he had already guessed.
“They have recalled you.” It wasn’t a question. He kept his eyes on the horizon. “I suspected they would. The moment the program had served its purpose, they would have no further use for it.”
“…Yes,” you admitted. “Effective upon arrival at Marineford. The whole arrangement is being dissolved.”
He nodded slowly, and the sorrow that moved across his face was deeper than anything you’d seen on him, deeper than the day you’d told him about the drowning, deeper than the moment he’d heard Ace’s name.
“Then our time has run shorter than I hoped,” he said quietly.
“Jinbei—”
“My fate is more or less set.” He said it gently, the way he said the hardest truths, the way he’d once told you a six-year-old could not be blamed. “I will go to Marineford. I will stand before them, and I will try, with every word I possess, to negotiate for Ace’s life. I am not without standing. They may even hear me out.” A long breath. “But I know how this ends, in my heart. I will refuse to raise my sword against Whitebeard, who has protected my home when no one else would. I will lay down my title. And a fishman who defies the World Government does not walk free afterward. They will put me in chains. Impel Down, most likely. The deepest level they have.”
The words went through you like cold water. “Then don’t go. Jinbei, you don’t have to—”
“I do.” Just that. Two words, unbudging as the sea itself. “You know that I do. You have known me a year. You know I could no more abandon a friend than I could stop breathing.” He finally turned to look at you, and his eyes in the starlight were unbearably soft. “Would you truly respect me if I were the sort of man who could?”
You had no answer for that, because he was right.
He looked back to the horizon.
“I am not afraid for myself,” he went on, lower now. “I made my peace with prison long ago. A cell cannot hold what matters most to me, and I have lived a life I am not ashamed of.” His great hands tightened where they rested. “But I am afraid. More than I have let any of them see. I am afraid for my crew, who will be left captainless in a world that has never been kind to our kind. I am afraid for Fishman Island, for every soul down there who will lose the small shelter my title provided.” He paused, and his voice dropped to something barely above the sound of the waves. “And I am afraid for you. God help me, I am afraid to lose you most of all, and I have no right to be, and I cannot stop.”
The stars wheeled silently overhead as your head spun. Was he…was he confessing?
“Me?” you asked softly, and though he didn’t look at you, your heart lifted to heaven.
“You.” He said it like a confession he’d been holding under his tongue for the better part of a year. “A foolish thing for a man in my position to admit, on the eve of all this. But you asked me, the very first day, to always tell you the truth. Quickly, and plainly.” A breath that shook, just slightly, at the edges. “So I will not be a coward about it now, when it may be the last chance I am given.”
He turned to you at last, and the starlight caught the gentle roundness of his face, and you saw that the fearsome warlord the world trembled at was, in this moment, simply afraid.
“I have not… while I have not been dishonest, I must confess that I have kept something from you. Something that will reframe my own actions, from the good you think of me, to reveal my own selfish desires.”
Your brows drew together, trying to imagine just what a being so honest could possibly have done to make him look so forlorn.
“I have spent my life as a creature your kind has often hated and oppressed,” he said. “I had little use for humans. I made my peace with that long ago, too.” His gaze drifted from yours, out to the dark water. “But one day, nearly twenty years ago, when I was a young man, I had an experience while sailing under my former captain. I was navigating the ship for some time, felt…drawn to a certain place.”
He paused, brows furrowing.
“Our crew, somehow, came upon a ship that had overturned in a storm. I immediately felt something was wrong, and insisted we check. A human ship, with a flag of red and green.”
You froze.
“There was no soul alive upon the wreck above the surface,” he went on, his voice slow and careful now, as though each word were a stone he had to set down precisely. “But my captain agreed we should dive and search for survivors. So we went down into the dark, and we found the bulk of the people had already been lost.” He closed his eyes. “Many in the crew did not care for humans. They felt the dead had gotten no worse than they deserved. We very nearly gave up the search. But there was something about that wreck that would not let me leave it. A feeling, in my head, insistent as a tide, that something important waited in the dark and I had not yet found it.” A pause. “And I was right.”
The world had gone very quiet. You could hear your own pulse, loud and strange in your ears.
Jinbei continued.
“There was a single girl who had somehow not drowned. She had caught her dress upon a beam, and it had held her under, and by every law of the sea she should have been gone. But she was not.”
“I brought her up,” he said. “I held her the whole way to the surface, and I breathed for her when she could not breathe for herself, and I did not let her go until we reached a human port where her own kind could take her in. I do not think she ever knew it was a fishman’s hands that carried her out of that water.”
He opened his eyes and turned them, at last, back toward you.
“That should have been the end of it,” he said. “A generous rescue, like a hundred others by Fisher Tiger. A girl delivered to her own kind, never to be seen again. But I knew, even then, that she had become something to me I had no name for.” His voice slowed, careful with the impossible weight of it. “Because upon her waking, my mind, which had always been only mine, suddenly held two voices. Mine. And hers. A fishman. And a human.”
You could not speak. You could not move. The starlight blurred and swam.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady the thing reeling inside you. Jinbei had never lied to you, would never lie to you. You knew that the way you knew the tides. And yet what he was laying before you was fantastical, impossible, the stuff of the old stories your nursemaid had told you before the sea took everything. Because two minds joined across an ocean, one soul hearing another, a bond that crossed even the gulf between fishman and human—
That only ever happened to one kind of pair.
Your eyes widened as the full gravity of the confession came down upon you, slow and enormous as a wave you’d watched approach from a great distance and only now understood would break.
“That we were—” he hesitated, as though the word itself frightened him, as though saying it aloud might shatter the fragile thing the two of you were balanced upon, “—soulmates. And that I could hear her thoughts, on occasion, though it seemed the bond only ever ran in one direction. From her, to me. Never back.” His eyes searched yours, raw and unguarded in the starlight.
You reeled, turning away from him.
A thousand small impossibilities were rearranging themselves in your mind all at once. Him saving you that first night, appearing out of nowhere exactly when you needed him. The space he gave you, especially in the beginning, that uncanny instinct for precisely how much room your fear required. The way he had always seemed to answer the thought before you’d voiced it. It is no trouble, when you’d only thought your thanks.
And then a colder realization, creeping up beneath the wonder.
All the humiliations. The shame. The torturous, sleepless nights spent hating yourself, replaying every cruelty your brothers had ever spoken, every private and ugly thought you’d never meant another living soul to witness. Had he heard those? Your rudest, most secret, most defenseless moments? The night you’d lain against his side and thought things about him, you’d have died before speaking aloud?
Even now?
Was he truly as good as he seemed—or had he simply known, from the inside, exactly which words would reach you? Which kindnesses would unlock you? Had a year of feeling, finally, miraculously understood, been nothing but a man reading the answers off the back of your own heart?
The tears filled your eyes before you could stop them, and your hands came up to cover your face. Beside you, his own hands rose in alarm, hovering near your shoulders, your arms, desperate to comfort and not daring to touch.
“You could… hear my thoughts?” you choked out. “This entire time?”
“I assure you, I tried to guard your privacy and your dignity above all else.” The words came fast, pained, a man watching the most precious thing he had begin to slip from his grasp. “It was never a window I could fling open at will. It came and went, faint and unbidden, more often a feeling than a voice. And I was so often in the water, where the bond goes quiet, that it was not often an issue. I turned away from it when I could. I did not go looking. I swear this to you, on every vow my people hold sacred.” A shudder ran through him. “I have spent twenty years ashamed of how much of you I was given without your leave. I would have given anything to make it run both ways. To let you hear me, so that it might be fair. So that you might guard yourself against me, if you wished to.”
You were crying in earnest now. You hadn’t decided to. The tears simply came, and you made no move to stop them. It made a great deal of sense why the crew had been so quick to be kind to you. Most of them knew and had wished Jinbei’s happiness despite your humanity.
“I will tell you the rest,” he said, very low, “and then you may hate me, if you must. After Fisher told me of his human soulmate, right before his death—After Otohime’s passing, when the talks first opened, I asked the Government to send me someone to mediate. I told myself it was for my people. But some buried, foolish part of me hoped—” his voice cracked, “—I knew the chances it would be you were slim. Impossible, truly. There was no reason on earth the sea should be so kind twice. And yet when they handed me my own soulmate, I was not being noble in keeping you close, and safe, and near.”
His great hand trembled where it rested between you in the starlight.
“I am a selfish creature,” he said, “who found his soul’s other half after twenty years of grieving her from afar, and could not bear, not for a single instant, to let her go again. So you see. I am not the good fishman you believe me to be.” He bowed his head. “I am only a fishman hopelessly, helplessly holding onto an innocent woman. And I will understand, now that you know the whole shape of it, if you cannot forgive that you were never given the choice.”
The silence stretched between you, extensive as the sea itself.
And then, because your heart had run ahead of your fear the way it had on the deck a year ago, you whispered the only thing that mattered.
“Did you get close to me, help me, because I am your soulmate… or—?”
The question died unfinished, because you didn’t know how it ended. To use you? Because the bond had bound him to you whether he willed it or not, an obligation worn smooth over twenty years until it only looked like love? Because he’d felt guilty for all the years of listening uninvited, and wanted to make it right, to balance some private ledger? Because a soul that hears another long enough simply learns to ache for it, the way a man grows fond of a song he can’t stop hearing, with nothing underneath but habit and proximity?
You truly had no end to that question. And worse, you weren’t sure there was any answer he could give that would soothe the hurt of it. If he said because you are my soulmate, then how would you ever know the warmth had been freely chosen rather than fated, written into him before you’d ever drawn breath? And if he said it had nothing to do with the bond at all, how could you believe him, when he had listened to a voice in his head for two decades before he ever saw your face?
There was no shape to the question that led anywhere comfortable. You had spent your whole life being told what you were—a curse, a cause, the girl who’d killed her family with a child’s selfish wish—and now even this, even the one good thing, threatened to dissolve into something that had been decided for you long before you arrived.
You wrapped your arms around yourself against the night air and the larger cold beneath it.
“I need to know if any of it was mine,” you said, and your voice came out very small. “If you would have looked at me twice, that first day, if I’d been a stranger with no thread tying us together. If the kindness was for me, or only for the girl you’ve been carrying around in your head since before I can remember.” You finally turned to look at him, your eyes raw. “Because I don’t know how to tell the difference anymore. I don’t know which parts of this last year were real and which were just… the bond, wanting what it was always going to want.”
Jinbei was quiet for a long moment. He did not rush to reassure you, did not reach for the easy comfort, and you loved and hated him a little for that, because it was exactly the thing that made you believe him when he finally spoke.
“I cannot untangle the bond from the man,” he admitted softly. “I would be lying if I claimed to. I have heard you for twenty years, and that is woven into me now, the way salt is woven into the sea. I cannot show you a version of myself that never knew you, because no such creature exists.” He met your gaze without flinching. “But I can tell you this, and you may weigh it however you must. The bond told me you were frightened, and alive, and somewhere in the world. It did not tell me to admire you. It did not tell me to laugh when you insulted Doflamingo on our first day, or to feel my chest go tight watching you bow to a crew that frightened you, or to be proud, prouder than I have been of almost anything, when you put your head beneath the water and came up still breathing.”
His voice dropped.
“The bond gave me a stranger’s grief. You gave me everything I actually love. The wit, and the courage, and the stubborn gentleness you show to creatures the world told you to fear. None of that came through any thread. All of it came from sitting beside you, this past year, the same as it would for anyone.” A pause. “The sea brought you to me. But I fell in love with what I found when you arrived. And that, I swear to you, was no one’s doing but your own.”
You stuttered, though your soul flooded with warmth.
“You love me?”
He lifted one great hand, slowly, leaving you every chance in the world to pull away. And he cupped the side of your face, impossibly gentle, his thumb brushing the tears from your cheek, and you leaned into the cool, suede-soft warmth of his palm as though you’d been waiting your whole life to.
“Yes.” The single word carried twenty years inside it. “But I have no future to offer you. By this time next week, I may be in chains, and you deserve far more than the memory of a man in a cell. You could be happy with someone else. Someone whole, and free, and able to give you the life you have earned a hundred times over.”
You almost laughed at that, the idea of it, as though anyone else in the world could be what he was to you.
“No,” you whispered. “I don’t want a future that doesn’t have you in it anyway. I just want now. Tonight. Whatever’s left before…before it ends.” You turned your face and pressed your lips to the center of his palm, and felt the great shudder that ran through all that extensive strength at the touch. “Let me have that much. Please. Don’t make me spend the time we have left pretending I don’t love you too.”
He went very still.
“You—” His voice failed him. For once in all the year you’d known him, the eloquent, unhurried captain had no words at the ready.
“I have for longer than I knew how to admit it,” you said, the confession spilling out now that the dam had finally broken. “Since the reef, maybe. Since before. I kept telling myself it was gratitude, that it wasn’t fair to you, that I had no right. But it was always you, Jinbei. Bond or no bond. Future or no future. It was only ever you.”
For a long moment, he simply looked at you, this creature of the deep and the woman the sea had nearly killed, sitting together in a crown of stars at the edge of the world.
And then, with infinite care, as though you were something the ocean might snatch back if he moved too fast, he leaned down to close the distance you had both been too frightened to cross for a year.
It was a faintly silly business, in truth, to kiss someone shaped so differently from yourself. You had to tilt your head, and he had to angle his, and there was a moment of fumbling negotiation that nearly undid you both into laughter. But between the tusks and the sharp teeth, there was only consideration, and a patience that spoke of a suitor determined to get this one thing right, and his mouth was unexpectedly lovely, warm where the rest of him ran cool, gentle in a way that made your chest ache.
You must have kissed for the better part of an hour, there in the crown of stars at the prow, slow and unhurried, as though you had all the time in the world rather than the precious little the world had actually allotted you. And if any of the crew wandered forward and caught sight of the two of you, they were wise and kind enough to retreat without a word, leaving their captain and his human to the quiet and the dark and each other.
But even such a kiss was not enough, and you both knew it. You felt the moment your decision settled, and you saw him catch the thought the instant it formed: the slight widening of his dark eyes, the faint purple flush rising under his skin that you’d come to know meant he was flustered.
“This ship is a hard place for privacy,” he said softly, a little breathless. “And I would have you comfortable for such a… venture. You are quite small, and I am—” He didn’t finish, and the embarrassment in it was so unexpectedly endearing that your heart turned over.
You shifted closer and looked out at the dark water, the water that had taken everything, the water that had given him back to you twice now.
“Then take me where there’s space,” you said.
You didn’t hear his answer aloud. But the way he gathered you close, careful and reverent as though you were the most precious thing the sea had ever surrendered, was telling enough.
That night, you did the most fearsome thing you had ever done. You let him take you down into the deep water, the dark you had spent twenty years fleeing, with nothing but a resin helmet and his arms around you. And somewhere below, he tipped back his head and bellowed, a sound that rolled through the black like distant thunder, older than language. For a moment, nothing answered.
Then they came.
Whale sharks. Huge and slow, drifting up out of the dark one after another, their spotted flanks catching what little starlight reached so far down, until the two of you hung suspended in a slow-turning galaxy of them. They circled without fear and without menace, the largest creatures you had ever seen, and they had come simply because he had called.
You gazed in awe inside the helmet, and you laughed, and you held onto him in the heart of that gentle drifting multitude, and for one perfect suspended hour, the world above with all its chains and summons and war simply ceased to exist.
Fishmen did not have marriage ceremonies the way humans did, not unless they were born to the royal caste of Ryugu. And Jinbei had come into the world an orphan, with no court to stand before and no priest to bless him. So there were no flowers, no paper, no vows read from a page by someone who’d never met you.
Instead, you made a different kind of promise, down there in the dark with the whale sharks turning slowly above you like a procession of patient groomsmen.
He spoke, and you felt each one land warm against the cold. A vow of eternity, of warmth, of water. A promise that the very things that should have kept you apart, his fins and your frailty, his depths and your fear. The ocean that had tried to take you both, and all those things that were the precise things that made the bond between you stronger than any joining of two of the same kind. That a love built across so wide a gulf had to be deliberate, chosen, fought for inch by inch, and so was worth more than any love that came easy.
You gave your vows back the only way you could, thinking it as clearly and fiercely as you knew how, hoping against everything that this once, just this once, the bond might run the other way.
And though you would never know for certain whether he heard the words themselves or only the shape of the love behind them, he pulled you against his chest, the great shudder that moved through him, the way his arms closed around you as if to make a shelter of his whole vast body, told you that something had reached him.
You were married, then. Not by any law that the World Government would recognize. Not by any custom your own people kept. But by the sea, and the dark, and twenty years of a voice carried across an ocean, finally answered.
-X-Honeymoon-X-
There were difficult times ahead.
Jinbei went to Marineford alone and, as he'd foreseen, did not return. He laid down his title, refused to fight Whitebeard, and they put him in chains for it. It went worse still that he'd "failed to return" their emissary. No amount of insisting fixed it. You sent word again and again that you'd resigned, that you'd chosen this, that no one had taken you. Your brother, hearing you'd stayed with fishmen willingly, refused to believe it and cried kidnapping to anyone who'd listen.
You found you couldn't care. They'd stopped being your family long ago, somewhere in the cold years after the wreck. Let them think what they wished.
Because you had more important things to hold now. Not long after Marineford, you learned you were expecting. And with the child came something you'd given up on: the soulbond, so long pressed shut by fear, had reopened. You couldn't reach him often, bound as he was in chains too heavy for any freedom, but occasionally you brushed souls. After twenty-one years, it finally ran both ways.
The Sun Pirates would not hear of leaving you anywhere. They kept you with them, sailing the safest waters they could chart, the whole crew arranging itself around you like a fortress with fins. Aladine took up as the temporary captain and watched the horizon. Praline made sure you ate. Wadatsumi appointed himself guardian of your growing belly and announced to anyone listening that the captain's child would be the most protected creature on the Grand Line. You waited among them, growing round and slow and stubbornly hopeful, while the world above caught fire.
You felt it when Strawhat Luffy tore open Impel Down and set him loose, the chains falling away through the thread that bound you, the bond flooding suddenly bright and close. You watched the rest unfold from afar. Marineford burning. The doomed fight to save Ace. The loss that broke even the men who'd come to win. And through all of it, the steady pull of him on the other end of the bond, alive, fighting, turning at last toward you.
When the day finally came that his ship met yours on the open sea, you were waiting at the gangplank, exactly where you'd first put your hand in his.
-X-Epilouge-X-
Cosmic Joke Status: Hydrophobic Diplomat Weds the Literal Ocean. Government Confused.
You are now bound, body and soul and stubborn fate, to Jinbei. Knight of the Sea, former Warlord, full-time gentleman, part-time bringer of very polite catastrophe. He looks like a calm and courteous elder statesman right up until he removes his coat and reminds you he can reshape the ocean floor before breakfast. His hobbies include drinking tea with hardened criminals, mediating disputes nobody asked him to mediate, lecturing pirate emperors on their manners, and pretending he is far too dignified for trouble while quietly wading into the largest trouble available.
He flirts like an old-time suitor, fights like a tidal wave with a conscience, and loves you with the immovable devotion of a man who heard your voice across twenty years of ocean and decided, somewhere in the dark, that he would move every current in the world before he ever lost you again.
And you wouldn't change it for anything the sea could offer.
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