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Some tensions with the captain, some uncomfortable reminders and another train to catch.
Time for the first leave and some decompression, so let's just see the outside doesn't crack you down the middle, yeah?
Warnings: alpha!Kyle Garrick x alpha!Reader, omegaverse au, non traditional omegaverse dynamics, is it a situationship or a 22-night stand?, complicated relationships, yearning
Johnny doesn't call.
The thought sits at the back of your head all leave, occasionally reappearing in moment when your phone is right by your hand. Just lying on the table there.
"You waitin' on call from someone important?" Price asks you, eyes glimmering over the rim of his pint when he catches you checking it again.
Captain's around for the weekend before he's out to get back home, doing the usual pub outings Friday through Saturday, up until the farewell Sunday drink where he pretends that he's not trying anything new and grumbles that 'I don't drink this shite' while your order him a morning latte with more Baileys than coffee.
Trains make him nauseous and you found out soon that anticipation of it makes him snippy. Which is not a good combination, considering that he still has a gun on his person and first couple days off deployment you can see how it itches him to have a hand on it.
Bloody miracle no one bagged him yet with the thing, given that he always keeps one in the vicinity when he's not allowed to have one off base.
"No. Nothing like that. Sorry, sir." You quickly pull back from phone as if burned and shake your head.
You are not sure you want to tell him that you gave Soap your personal phone number when you were not supposed to.
If anyone finds sergeant, they will find you next by pulling the phone records first thing.
Makes you envy Ghost sometimes.
None of you have his phone number.
You aren't even sure he has a phone at all, since he only contacts Price through 'burners' and probably has team's flats bugged to keep himself in the loop. You wouldn't be surprised if he was, last time you came from leave, he somehow knew about everything you did while away — staring at you with unblinking eyes while he executed his version of friendly small talk.
As in, asked about how was the game you watched and noted that this much takeout's going to harm your liver. You decided not to ask how the fuck he knew that, instead poking in the dark and jokingly asked him whether he still talks to himself while cooking.
The long look Simon gave you and slow head tilt would have been a sign to sprint in the opposite direction if not a dry huffing sound, distantly adjacent to a chuckle.
Although, the thought passes, circling you back to the matter at hand, if someone gets Johnny's neck on leave, it would meant that l.t.'s already done for.
"Just…got my head in the clouds." You add after a beat and Price looks at you like you should know better and maybe you should. Kyle offered to teach you to lie better but you didn't take him up on that generous offer. Now's that catching up to you.
"You sure 'bout that?" John leans in, his scent — rum and cherries —hits you in the nose. Sharp and tooth-rottingly sweet.
John Price is omega and he has been your pack for years now. Almost as long as you've been on the job itself.
Yet, at times like this one, he still makes you feel like a rookie.
Greener than bloody grass, Johnny once shared, grumbling under his breath on your merry way to the heli. You get what he was complaining about now.
"Is there a way to know for sure that you are making the right choice?" You ask him suddenly and captain gives you a long look.
"This about the job?" He asks in return, short and quick, eyes focused on your face.
Shadows around his eyes lighten when you shake your head again.
Fuck, you wish it was just the soul-searching about the government-licensed permission to kill people abroad and write off casualties as an infelicity.
But you think about Johnny and your mind starts splitting into options and outcomes and variants of phrasing for the things that weren't said and might never be said.
You've told Kyle not to intervene, because Soap doesn't want that. But maybe he needed it, even if he wanted to deal with everything on his own. Sometimes we don't know how much we needed help till we get it.
Maybe you should call him yourself, just to check in. Say something came up so you are in the area and hey, what a chance to get that pint, mate, eh? Maybe you gotta take Kyle too — he knows Johnny better, he'd be on the same page as you and he could reach Soap where you won't be able to even if you want, right?
"Just…personal. I did all I can, but then I started wondering and it drives me down into metaphorical woods, brings metaphorical gun to my head and asks me to answer riddles three to prove if I have actually thought it through or if I'd like my call to the closest funeral parlor to arrange whether I am getting cremated the same date or whether I am getting a shovel to dig myself a hole. Makes me come back to it again and again to check if I did all I could."
"You did." Price says simply and signals bartender for another round. "Can't guess everything, you have to trust your gut." He continues and gives you a look when you open your mouth. "You do all you can, you give all you get and the result is what you get. Can't cheat the fate, certainly not by drivin' yourself up the wall."
When you first met your captain, he had plucked you out of the op where everything that could have gone wrong — went wrong. He never told you why. You knew better than to ask stupid questions, especially since you got your answer much later.
When you saw the familiar fridge-sized frame of your lieutenant, briefing you on the teamwork and who's in the squad. The only piece of pack that didn't really want a pack, but still let you follow him around the place as long as you kept your mouth shut and eyes off the back of his head.
If most judge by people's best, perhaps John Price preferred to judge by their worst and go from there. That one you can guess from how you and l.t. were scooped.
"I just…don't want to leave someone hanging when I could give a hand and pull them up." You murmur in your beer and John chuckles, his palm warm and dry when he pats your nape.
He has callouses on the padding at the base of his fingers, the rough skin there scratching sensitive skin along the back of your neck.
"I'd say you already threw down a bloody rope and lit the signal torch."
"What if they don't understand?" You whine and your captain gives you another look.
"Then they're gonna die daft." He says, tone dry, but his grip on your nape tightens just a fraction, his thumb stroking the side of your neck. "This about Johnny?"
"Yeah." You nod immediately, feeling your ears burn when Price huffs out air, shaking his head like he knew it.
You once heard Nik say that a chatterbox is spy's treasure chest. You are starting to understand real quick what exactly he meant by that in this moment.
"Stop beatin' yourself up, the lad's going to be fine." Price murmurs, his beard scratching your neck when he noses at your scent gland.
Makes a low satisfied click when your body goes pliant.
John is big and hot, he gets handsy when he drinks and knows that you like his scent on you. Drinks into your reaction when his thumb presses on the scent gland at the base of your neck, right where it meets your shoulder and you shiver.
Your knees widening under the table without a second thought.
"You need to stop tryin' to find reasons to suffer on account of others." John says, his knuckles nipping at the tip of your ear to tug on it playfully. Like a big dog toying, Price has always been a big appreciator of the endless push and pull when it comes to coming and conquering.
"I'm not trying anything. All I do is suffer on account of this team." You grumble, breathing through the nose deeper — head lolling to the side to breath him in more.
"You're a soldier, love. Sufferin's the job." John chuckles, eyes warm and hungry when he lets you catch his wrist to kiss the gland there.
Soft and reverent, not yet grazing it with your teeth or tongue.
The pub's dim and no one's going to say a word about that. No one's around to see how you rub your cheek on Price's scent gland, eyes dazed when his scent coats you like syrup, flows down the back of your throat to pool inside. Warms you up like a good liquor.
You can never bond with him and he will never mate you, which is nothing surprising - you both have knew it for a while on account of him not wanting a mate (like you) and you not being (enough) in love with him the way he maybe would have enjoyed it happening.
He's just a rough-looking omega off base, no one's going to question why you look at him like that. Why you lean into him like a big pup, worshipful and drunk on him.
Easily another young alpha with weak knees for an older omega that knows how to sink his hooks deep in and pull, unraveling your meat from the bone till you are soft and tender. Till you let him do exactly what he likes, kissing the hands that killed dozens. Nuzzling into a palm capable of snapping your neck if you ever decide to go rogue and leave your pack's lead omega in the dust.
No one's walking away whole from John Price. There is a toll to pay for each and every one of you for this special privilege, for the pack he is the head of, for the precious precious quiet in your head when he looks at you and your alpha no longer wants to claw through your gut.
It just wants to be good and useful. It just wants to make big omega happy, cause this is how it works. This is what alphas do, right? Provide, protect and care. Give endlessly so that your bones stop itching when someone else passes your captain his coat instead of you.
John Price is the pack's big bad wolf, the same one that fed Romulus and Remus, he is the one that built the Rome around your group. He is also the one who will burn it down if the system grinds to a halt. That has always been the deal.
You could love him, you think, leaning in so your captain can nose at your throat, hazy after drinks and hungry for connection, you do love him.
Perhaps, more than you should.
"Sergeant", he calls out, voice hoarse and fond, thumb rubbing your cervical vertebrae now, "stop thinkin'."
You bite down on the inside of your cheek, purr vibrating in your chest as you finish your own beer — his hand still wrapped around your neck. Like a collar.
"Yes, sir." You murmur, blessedly mindless when your captain makes another satisfied sound and drags the zipper on your jeans down right under the table.
Favourite part, you think to yourself, lids dipping down to cover half of your gone eyes, a carrot for the job well done and orders followed and throat shown. Good alpha, aren't you?
By the time Sunday rolls around you are wrung fry and sated, neck blooming with hickeys, your hair still smelling like rum and cherries.
"Safe trip, sir." You hand him his Irish latte on a train station at 8 in the morning to see your captain off.
John takes it silently, not at his most chatty first thing in the morning. Leans his shoulder on yours.
Warm and familiar, his scent smokier with your own. No one's going to look at him twice now on his long journey home. Not when he's smelling like an alpha been all over him, from top to bottom.
Makes alpha in you wag its non-existent tail, because it always feels good, seeing him satisfied. Almost happy with the state of things.
Knowing that he enjoyed your company.
"Aye." Price says, finally peeling himself off of you when his train drags itself up to the platform, the shiny 'Linkoln — Hereford' reminding him why he even let you wake him up so early on a weekend. "Thank you."
John leans in a fraction (you will not be admitting, even at gunpoint, that your pulse jumps, all attention zeroing in on his proximity), breathes in his own scent off of your hair and nods.
"Don't forget to shower." He says and you nod immediately, chest slowly tightening. Like someone pulls on the lace of some corset and its bone casing starts squeezing the air out of you. Stubborn and imminent, even as your lungs protest, trying to expand back. "And say hello to Garrick for me." Price adds, before he gets on his train, leaving you to watch him.
The shoulder he was leaning on before suddenly cold despite the warm sunny morning.
Right.
You'll need a decent shower before your evening train to London.
Kyle will spot the hickeys immediately, but you'd rather he didn't also realise who exactly bled you dry this weekend.
Back in the hotel you politely ask the staff to change the sheets, ignoring the pathetic urge to nuzzle in John's pillow and actually sit in the shower for a good hour. Until you stop smelling like anything, not just Price.
When you finally get out the room's clean and almost sterile.
Nothing smells like John anymore.
Part of you aches at that with more intensity that you'd like to admit to.
You order take out and sit on the edge of the bed for forty minutes, trying not to check your phone again now that you've got nothing to empty your mind or fill your bed schedule.
The first weekend off duty has passed and so far Johnny hasn't texted anything.
It's for the best, you suppose, probably means things are going decent or he's too busy to wallow in misery. Maybe his doesn't like company.
It's always worse when you've got nothing to do, you think, staring out the window. That's when even simple, almost routine loneliness becomes bone-straining.
Good thing you are used to being lonely.
Your food arrives ten minutes later and you tip tall beta who delivered it 20 quid for the inconvenience of seeing you in nothing but a towel.
You close the door before he asks about anything.
Your train's leaving at 9 p.m. which means you'll be in London sometime around 2 in the morning. Not the most convenient time, but you have texted Kyle to let him know about it and that you'll find your own way, meeting him around 10 the next morning.
Fingers crossed you won't get mugged, because frankly, you are not in the mood. Might end in some unfortunate way and you'll need to take another train to hole up in Hereford, closer to Wales, while the blood cools off.
Maybe l.t. can assist with pronouncing you legally dead as well. Then you both can be ghosts, if he's willing to share.
The thought almost cheers you up.
The evening is cool, breeze kissing your cheeks while you wait on the platform for your train, dark duffel plopped down between your feet.
There is a knot in your chest, right at the center of it. Gordian one, by the feel of it, you sigh, tilting your head from side to side. Trying to stretch a little bit, muscles aching up to your ear when you push a little harder and hear a soft pop from your neck. There we go.
You board your train with your backpack and stuff the duffel under the seat immediately, the entire carriage empty all around you.
Your ride isn't a very long one per se and you do like trains. You do like your space and your quiet and the extra leg room.
But sometimes you like to imagine someone sitting in a seat next to you, keeping you company.
Kyle, lazily trading quips with you, already planning the promised tour of London. His elbow nudging your off the armrest, because 'move, mate, I've got longer limbs' just so he can slot himself in your personal space and complain when you try to move away. His eyes laughing when you'd finally get annoyed and turn to tell him to settle already, so he'd pull back and nod you to lean on him instead.
Or Johnny, sketching in his journal, vibrating with the anticipation of getting home, his knee going up and down, shoulders hunched because he forgets to keep his back straight when he gets swallowed by his task. Always trying to curl himself into it. You never took a train with him, but you'd imagine that he can never sleep in transport. Not while it is moving, at least.
Or Ghost, thick thigh pressed to yours, pretending to nap, cheek propper on a fist. L.t. always manspreads wherever he sits, because apparently no leg room is ever enough and no, he cannot just stretch them out, because 'what if someone kicks me in the knee and then its broken, sergeant? You know what will happen then? Won't have a leg to stand on in the next argument with captain.'
Price, you think and the Gordian knot gets bigger, probably downing his entire latte so he can sleep through as much of his journey as possible. Head on your shoulder, arms crossed over the chest. When he falls asleep on someone, you remember, he usually presses his entire face into them.
'Which platform u arrive @?' Gaz texts you suddenly, phone buzzing in your grip.
The pounding in your chest getting abruptly settled when you see his name on the screen. Still not Johnny.
Right, you forgot that you asked Kyle the shortest way out of the train station, not really in the mood to wander all over it in the middle of the night.
'8', You reply quickly, knee jerking up and down. God bless him if he can actually get you directions out of King's Cross station.
Kyle 'hearts' your message, but doesn't reply for a while after that. Probably googling the actual map of the station.
Conductor arrives a couple minutes before the train's supposed to leave, checks the ticket — tossing a few phrases about weather being good for the first time in a while.
"Some rare sunshine did us some good." She huffs out and you nod, too tired and spend, back of your neck aching with tension that will start clawing up to the back of your head so it can pound inside of your skull later.
But it's true, the weather indeed has been lovely today. Made John's eyes an almost iridescent blue.
"Think it's the same in London?" You ask, more to keep the chat going rather than out of actual curiosity, but conductor perks up immediaetly.
"Oh, no, darling, the forecast promised nothing but rain for 'em. Hope you've got your umbrella with you." She helpfully shares.
You look down at your jeans for a very long moment and sigh.
No, no umbrella.
Let's just hope that the rain won't start till morning, giving you a small head start.
Warnings: alpha!König x omega!Reader, past sexual assault, noncon biting, slutshaming and denial, hurt/very little comfort, unhealthy coping mechanisms, omegaverse au
We parted more than a decade ago and you still haunt me. Now in person too, König thinks to himself and doesn’t know what to do or what to say, something mean and bitter in him rising before he catches it by the collar.
Now is not the time, but when was it then?
Where is he supposed to put this tightly squeezed yarn ball of his feelings?
Something hurt in him lashes out at the memory you unwillingly push him into, at the delusional presumption that you are finally back for him.
And he can't do that.
He can't growl at you.
Because it’s not your fault, because you are mortified the first time you see him and he knows humiliation oh, so well and because your lips tremble.
Because you are here.
Alive-alive-alive.
So real that König forces himself to let go of your wrist with all the will left in his big insane head because he can’t just go around grabbing people, because he is not Basti, not anymore, because you don’t recognise him.
Because you smell scared.
When he gets closer than he should have, your whole body locks up, not even preparing to run — you are not much of a runner, never has been, but you look at him and suddenly he is again 16 and disgusting for thinking dirty about his best friend.
Change in your scent doesn't help either.
Strawberries turn rotten, vanilla turns to bitterness that makes his head ache and your eyes…you look at him like he is just another alpha.
Like he is dangerous and unstable, like he has never been yours and you have never claimed him for good, like he is…
Like he is König.
You gave me this name, came to me in a daze and I built my life around it, Bastian thinks, frost in his own scent sharp enough to cut through the air and constrict your lungs, because this is not fair, this is never fair.
It isn’t supposed to be like this, not with you.
This meeting, the reunion, all of it…he was supposed to do better.
He was supposed to be better and instead he went out of his way to squeeze you until your seams started bursting, just like he did with every other thing that has thrown him off balance and left him hanging head down.
He doesn't really know what to do with this. With you.
Not anymore so it seems. But he cannot let you go either, that is not acceptable.
He is not letting go this time, not until it all starts to make some kind of sense instead of myriad questions he has for you and dozen excuses for himself.
“Tough adjustment, sir?” Nikolai asks in passing because he clearly wishes for his life to become suddenly much more complicated. “Working someone this closely.” He adds like a afterthought.
“How’s your alpha doing, still avoids you?” Bastian asks instead, going for the knees and not for the throat. “Seems like you suddenly have a lot of time on your hands. Let me relieve you of that.”
Nik sighs, picking up another stack of documents and shuffles away, making a point to drag his feet exactly as much as colonel's patience allows.
But he has been working with König enough to recognise that if he wants to complain too then best to do it out of his earshot. Hard to guess when the man is feeling benevolent given the constant sniper hood.
For many years now Bastian has been running from things that König kept breaking and maybe this is karma, some kind of retribution for all his unworthy prayers, but here comes the day when the Earth takes another spin and in his life back is the only thing that he never could run from.
And never got to break, Bastian in him notes, trying to sound encouraging, but König snuffs out this flickering candle immediately. Ja, someone did it before we got to.
"Frau, you've been engaged before?" He asks you out of the blue, eyes heavy and probing. The man has been staring at the side of your face for half an hour now, you were hoping he was just imagining all the ways he can leave you in the middle of the desert the next time they have to take you out into the active warzone for some in-field work.
But no.
Should have taken me to the desert, you think grimly, stamping the last report with more force than necessary.
Only your colonel doesn't take a hint and doesn't leave you alone and doesn't stop staring.
"That is the personal question, sir." You remind him, tone dry and König slowly nods, just to lean on his desk, his eyes now in the periphery of your vision.
"Ja." He says and you hope that this will be the end to it, only he has the gall to nudge the leg of your chair with his boot — taps it lightly against the wood to get your attention back.
Damn him and his ridiculously long limbs.
"No. I was not. Never married either, didn't have pups and do not plan on having any." You finally relent, voice level and head down. No need to get written up for insubordination given colonel's sensitive ego and even more sensitive nose.
Your damned patch came off exactly once and he looked at you like you could have dumped an entire bag of trash on his head, and some of it was sticky.
"No relationships either?" He still asks because of course he does. Because that's what alphas usually do, pry for more, feeling entitled to intimate knowledge that isn't for them. Because that's how it usually is with them and really, what a relief to see that the man is such a glaring stereotype for an alpha.
"Not a committed one and not as an adult." You say just to close this conversation and do not address the bite he must have seen. This is none of his business. You don't owe him details or your life story, you don't fucking know him. "I am devoted to my work, sir."
He stares at you for another very long minute, but despite your anticipatory dread does not ask anything else. Just watches you work in complete silence.
Small mercies, you suppose. That's something.
König is colonel through and through — he comes in first and leaves the last, briefs his team and checks that everyone are ready to roll.
That there are no messes. That everything is perfect.
He doesn't tolerate disrespect, negligence or routine stupidity, he eats at the same time every goddamn day and it is always the same thing that he has for dinner.
Coffee and stew.
'Coffee makes me sleepy.' He shares unprompted and you just nod, unsure what your response is supposed to be. Good for him?
You don't really talk to him outside of work, but in the mess hall he always sits next to you, effectively boxing you against the concrete wall.
With the main advantage of it being that you've never been late so far. Not when you leave breakfast when he does.
The first time it happened colonel just got up, returned his tray and then came back to stand over you in complete silence like a big slab of granite that has eyes and intends to bore a hole in the side of your face. That's just lovely.
Maybe, if you were braver, you would have ignored him completely.
Only the first time you glanced up at the towering alpha, all pretense of being dedicated to having slow morning before the start of your day evaporated immediately.
Because he just stared back down at you, his massive frame still boxing you in with no way to get out but through him.
He's waiting, you realised, swallowing your tea so quickly, you nearly choked on it.
You could have written it off as a one-time test to see if you are going to follow your superior, but the very next day, he finished his breakfast and did it again. Not hurrying you up, not barking an order, he just…stood there.
Silent and menacing, his ice thinning the air to maybe remind you not to take too long, because apparently, colonel does not want to start his day without his interpreter.
Because the biggest alpha on base made it his habit to eat with you, work with you and watch you take breaks from the distance of two feet — his eyes always in your periphery — always a weight on your skin.
Only when you looked back at him, the man was always reading a document or simply watching someone else.
Of course he would, you thought with a hint of envy, with that vantage point of his height, that's not even surprising.
König didn't talk much when you were in his office, nestled behind the desk adjacent to his. After that short interrogation, he didn't ask you about any alphas that caught your eye or if you were liking the place, he didn't make small talk other than saying his 'Guten Morgen' and 'Auf Wiedersehen', alongside with short 'Danke', 'Gut', 'Nein' and occasional 'Scheiße' let out through the teeth and usually hissed under his breath.
Given his size and his attitude to you initially, you expected him to show animosity. Maybe condescension.
God, even more annoying inquiries about your personal life or comments on your second gender.
But no.
König was quiet and almost unbothered — always listening when you spoke, always reacting to a request, always staying in your nearest vicinity.
Biggest alpha on base no longer was acting like the biggest dick this side of the hemisphere and that was puzzling.
"May I ask, sir?" You tried once, when the world behind the windows was dark, your eyes as dry as the desert of Sahara and his silence unnervingly peaceful. "Are you satisfied with my performance?" Was stupid to ask when this is not what you were interested in, but that was the first normal question your brain formed.
Colonel looked up from the stack of papers at you, his hood creasing with movement and blinked at you slowly. It's been a long fucking day, if he was being very honest.
You stared back at him, nail scratching at the inside of your wrist, unsure how to proceed. Did he hear you? Would he like you to repeat that again. You could—
"Those that can't reach the standard of our group usually do not get to ask this." He said finally, vague in his phrasing, staring you in the eyes as you give him a slow blink back.
Was that a compliment or…? "If you were bad, I would have fired you." König helpfully added and you nodded along, before your brain processed his words.
You take it all back.
He is still the biggest dick this side of the hemisphere.
"Are you satisfied with your work?" He asked suddenly and you nodded again, unsure how much detail he wants.
If he wants any at all.
But colonel kept staring back at you expectantly, which you take as your cue.
"I am. Very much so." You said and he nodded slowly, keeping the longest eye contact in your life, still completely silent. "I appreciate you giving me a chance, sir. This was a rare opportunity." You continue and he nods once again, finally looking back down.
[König: I totally nailed this social interaction]
He doesn't ask you why you even volunteered and doesn't ask you why would an omega with degree in linguistics come to work for the mercenary company in the smack of the dab of the gob when there are easier ways to make money.
König doesn't ask whether you are running from something. You are grateful for that.
"Do you enjoy it?" He asks you a little later, eyes again on you, attentive and bright blue. "The work."
"Do I enjoy being an interpreter?" You clarify, blinking at him, unsure where this is coming from.
But colonel simply nods and keeps staring. "I do. I like my field and I like being useful." You start slowly, glancing back at him to check whether colonel is listening. König gives you one more blink and the smallest nod he could've. Oh, so we are downsizing with these now, huh? "It was a long road to get where I am, but I did enjoy it then. Nowadays I tend to like it even more." You smile, looking away, eyes landing back on the unfinished transcript of the audiolog. "You know what they say, information is power. By that metric I suppose I have quite a lot of it." You finish, suddenly realising that it was a lot to say, but he asked so he must've wanted to know, right?
"Do you enjoy it?" You ask before you can change your mind and the man tilts his head to the side. "You've been a soldier for a long time from what I've heard. Do you like it?"
König hums, leaning back in his chair and pauses for a second before giving you a deep nod.
"Ja." Is a little hoarse, his voice surprisingly light when he looks at his palms lying on the desk. "The work is…rewarding." He continues and you just can't help yourself.
"And pays well." You smile waiver when he just stares at you blankly. Shit, maybe that was an overstep.
But König makes a small huffing sound, looking down all of a sudden.
A chuckle, you realise when his eye get a degree warmer.
"And pats well." He agrees, tilting his head again, some rigidity leaving his shoulders when you smile at him again. "I enjoy the discipline." Colonel shares after a beat. "Consistency is…gut."
"Not a big fan of change?" You asked, leaning a little closer and König looked at you for a very long moment, his voice coming out softer this time.
"Nein. I'm not."
He returned to his files shortly after, probably exhausting his quota for words spoken and didn't look your way for the rest of the night.
That day when he walked you back to your quarters, he stood by your door a little longer, long fingers curling in a fist before he nodded you farewell and left, sound of his steps echoing down the hallway.
It's barely noticeable, but something changes after that, because the cogwheel of your interactions starts finally moving, gears turning at a crawling pace. But turning nonetheless.
Colonel asks you about things and seemingly tolerates your own questions, always honest in his responses. Sometimes a little cocky and arrogant more often than not.
But he's a nice company, you realise four months in. It's unnervingly easy to talk with him around.
"You must be a joy to have at interrogations." You joke once and König's voice gets a little warmer, smile audible when he speaks.
"I'm really not." He murmurs, head tilted again.
Colonel never calls you by your name, instead saying 'Interpreter' when you are working or anyone else is around.
Couple weeks into your late night chats about nothing in particular he adds another petname to the list.
"Vögelchen." He calls out and you respond without thinking, brain catching up a second too late to translate it.
Vögelchen. Little bird.
"Vögelchen?" You echo him and König nods quickly, not looking you in the eyes this time. Fiddles with the pen he has been trying to snap in half for the last few minutes.
"Is that okay?" He asks slowly, head raising to take a peek at your reaction.
You look at him for a very long moment, heart hitching and it would be better to let him know right away that it isn't, that he's your superior, that you're not looking for anything—
"Ja." You say suddenly and he finally looks you in the eyes. "Why this one though, sir?"
"You talk a lot." Colonel shares immediately and you let out a startled cackle that makes his eyes crinkle. He made you laugh this time, huh?
He's smiling, you realise, under that hood he is smiling from ear to ear.
"I'm an interpreter. That's my job." You try to defend yourself, something warm coating your chest when he gives you half a shrug. Eyes soft like water.
Like Mediterranean sea in summer.
Like forget-me-not petals.
"You talk even when you aren't interpreting. And you always come back with the news. Like a bird. Kleine one." Colonel says, leaning a little closer. "I think you are interesting." He adds a little quieter, more at ease when you simply nod again, unsure what to say.
So you just blurt out without thinking.
"I had a friend who liked collecting dead birds." You don't know why you say it, but that's how it always is with the decade old memory of Basti in your head. He just resurfaces sometimes, like a big shark cutting the murky waters with his dorsal fin. "Made sort of keychains out of their bones." You share, looking away and colonel just stares at you like you dropped a sandbag on his head.
Oh, yeah, you are great at speaking about Bastian with the cadence of someone who lost a wife and not a best friend.
Sure felt like divorce, didn't it, Schatzi? Basti in your head inquires, comfortably nestled somewhere behind your third rib. He peaks out occasionally, drips through your tone and habits, the little beads of his personality you hoard, those you can put on your heartstrings so that whenever your heart beats, he is still there.
He is okay.
"Interesting hobby." Colonel says, voice hoarser than before, reminding you that he is still there and you snap your head to look up at him, for a moment not remembering what you were even talking about before old protectiveness rises its head in you.
"There are worse hobbies to have. He never hurt anyone with it." You say with more defensiveness than either of you expected and König blinks at you in surprise. "He used to bottle some of the creatures we found in formaldehyde and I will have you know the display shelf he had looked really nice."
He stares at you, blinking a little faster and gives you a slow nod.
"I meant no offense." He says, voice a little softer and you give him a jerky nod. That's probably true, it wasn't colonel's fault that you brought Bastian up and not on him the fact that your best friend had some morbid curiosities.
It's not anyone's fault that you left him behind and never came back.
Wasn't your fault either, you therapist's voice echoes in your head and you know that objectively. You were a teenager and your mother decided it was time to move you again. It wasn't anyone's fault, only Bastian was hurt and you remember the bottomless empty eyes of his, you remember the too tight grip and achingly tender stroke of his thumb on your pulse point.
You remember kissing all over his face and him just looking back at you, quiet and unmoving, already cracked in seven different pieces.
That was your fault, you still think in the night, he had every right to be upset with you after. He had every right to stay mad and not want to talk to you.
He had every right not to answer any of your letters.
You just wished it hurt a little less after all these years. That and the fact that you never got to say you are sorry.
Bastian was gone, you reason, staring blindly at the text that you can't read, rift stretching between you and colonel because you are just not wired to be good to people around you. You had Bastian and you left him.
You left him and had the fucking nerve to come back after getting away from your mother, trying to find the boy who used to smell like grapes and smiled with all his teeth.
You remember roaming that small town, asking around about the boy who lived in the house at the end of your street. A tall alpha with dark red hair and perpetual bruising.
You didn't find him.
You remember that month really well — the mounting desperation, the buzzing anxiety and the tears that you couldn't let out because why the fuck would you be crying, why would you be the one upset — it's your fault. It has always been your fault, you left and you didn't fight hard enough, you didn't say no and you didn't-
He was there, you know that he was — you've spent your warmest years tucked to his side, you've shared fruit and snacks and small cramped space of your blanket fort with him.
You remember the helpless anger and the way your grandmother said it to you, short and simple. Reminding you that Bastian wasn't her grandchild, wasn't her responsibility even though she tried to help him too.
You were always the priority, love, trust me it's for the best, she said, that boy has always been too attached to you, he wouldn't have given you a choice.
Your Basti, you thought, not giving you a chance?
That was laughable. That was fucking infuriating.
She saw him, she knew him too — she let you hang out with him from dawn to dusk.
She was supposed to understand.
The only family that you thought was safe and she just didn't fucking see it.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice gentle, "but you will understand me when you have children of your own."
You will understand, hit you in the head like a sledgehammer, the deep-seated fear that maybe she's right. Maybe you will.
Maybe this was her way of giving you back the freedom and the leeway of being a single omega without any alpha holding you back from what you wanted like it happened to her.
But what you wanted was Bastian and he was gone and you were supposed to be grateful.
You were supposed to be relieved.
Years later you think with desperate angry helplessness that maybe, if someone then let you, at least, grieve what you've lost, things could've been different.
If someone, anyone at all, told you that you had the right to ache all over, that it was okay to take your time, that you weren't messed up for spilling all around the place…maybe, you could've avoided it.
Maybe.
The bite still hurts on your neck sometimes, jagged ugly thing, there was no way to cover it up. No way to get rid of it once a man with red hair and blue eyes closed his jaws around you, his hips moving to thrust deeper in your hole — hot and heavy and deaf to your whimpers. Too high on his own pleasure.
Stupid stupid omega, grandmother always told you not to go somewhere with the alpha you did not know well. You knew better than that. You were supposed to know better.
But you were so lonely.
And he wasn't Basti, he wasn't what you needed, but he smelled nice and looked just close enough for you to pretend. He wasn't Bastian, but you were cold.
And fire is fire.
He kept you in that hotel three days, didn't he? Growling at your frantic hunger, your desperate unnatural insatiability.
You told him you wanted to forget, did you not?
You told him you want it to stop hurting, ass pressed to his pelvis, head stuffed with molten air and mist.
His cock filling you up so completely, fucking out every protest and rational thought out of you, because dumb, that was so fucking dumb to let him knot you.
Knowing that you won't be able to get from under him, knowing that he's bigger, knowing that he'll pump you full with your heat just a week away.
Orgasm crashed into you at the same time with his teeth sinking into your neck — traitorously good, blistering pleasure wiping you clean into nothing for one wonderful minute.
And the bond you didn't know even was there suddenly snapped around your neck like a rubbed band someone let go of.
The background coolness you missed more than you remembered it was suddenly freezing you from inside out — your head ringing with panic because no.
No-no-no-no.
Basti can't know, the hysterical, animal terror squeezed your throat, Basti can never know, he can't, no, I didn't mean to—
You didn't pray because you couldn't, out of your mind and heaving, head starting to spin and slowly, almost straining, the bond eased. Ice melting, ice turning to vapor, the rubber band around your neck snapping.
Bastian can never know and you won't let him find it out like that.
Many say that they don't remember their first times, most choose not to — it's rarely perfect, it's frequently painful, it's awkward and embarrassing.
You can confidently say that this was never the case for you.
You remember everything.
The hunger no one could sate, the chase of physical pleasure, the debilitating hatred that pulsated in your chest afterwards.
I didn't know you were already bonded, the guy told you after, perfectly apologetic and nice in a way that made your jaws cramp with nausea.
Neither did I, you tried to swallow and couldn't, gripping the bleeding bite on your neck, head ringing with terror the likes of which you haven't felt since your teens.
He wasn't a bad person, you thought at 20, it was an accident and you were stupid, you asked for it, you pursued him in a bar, it wasn't his fault.
"He had no right to bite you." Your therapist will say years later, her voice gentle.
Years after that weekend, after crippling shame and self-loathing, after corrosive disappointment in your grandmother's eyes when she said that she didn't expect this from you.
Years after the sense of sick petty satisfaction made home in your head.
She was so fucking worried about Basti, wasn't she? So concerned about your alpha best friend making you choose him.
No need to be worried now, huh?
"You have every right to feel that it was a violation. Mating bite is deeply personal — it requires concent of both parties." Your therapist catches your eyes across the room, her office clean and cozy, yellow lights and stim toys on the shelves. Her brows furrowed slightly when you chuckled, sound mirthless and self-deprecating.
You asked for it — it felt good, you even came.
No one assaulted you, you repeat, chest tight when she gently nods.
"You didn't ask for it and you didn't deserve it. No one does to have something like this happen to them. And I'm so terribly sorry that he didn't let go when you asked him to." She added, eyes softening when you blinked quicker, chest gurgling with sobs you have held onto for god knows how long.
You didn't cry when you came back and Basti was gone.
Didn't cry when that guy bit you.
Didn't cry in medical examiner's office, refusing to file charges while they tested you for STDs and bandages your throat.
Didn't cry when your grandmother told you how disappointed she was, even though your chest caved in.
Didn't cry at her funeral two years later either.
You deserved it all, you thought, it was your fault, you asked for it, Basti would've been disappointed too if he knew.
"I believe you." Your therapist says, when you finish describing what happened, palms clasped together you can't breathe and can't speak, her warmth snapping your rotting seams. "I am so sorry it happened to you."
Yeah.
Yeah, you are sorry too.
"What happened to him?" Colonel asks, snapping you back to reality and you want to smile at the question but don't know how because you've been asking this exact question for the last decade.
You still don't know.
"When I came back my grandmother said that he…wasn't well. I had to leave before I got to graduate highschool and out parting…" You pause, molding the feeling into one compact ball so you can toss it back deeper inside your head. "…it happened very quickly." You finally say, leaving out as much detail as possible.
You don't want to remember, but you can never forget that day.
God knows, you tried.
"It took a while before I was able to return and by that time it was too late. Got told he just disappeared one day — left and never came back."
I did it, you think and don't see the document in front of you, but Bastian's old bedroom. The one you broke into when his mother was out of it. It was my fault.
"You came back." König echoes, carefully pronouncing each word and God, this is not the kind of conversation anyone needs to have with their coworker.
"Yeah. Took me too long though. I was late." You chuckle mirthlessly and try to focus on the document below. "I'm almost done with the transcript, sir." You comment, changing the topic and colonel doesn't say anything, but you can see him nodding in your periphery.
You need to stop spilling your guts to people about Bastian. No one cares.
No one but you even remembers him now.
And honestly, if you were coming up with a punishment for what happened all these years ago, you wouldn't have come up with a better one yourself.
Denizens of my rivers, we might get another Beautiful fish AU chapter, I’m feeling the vibes again, life is going to be good, König is fighting for his damn life as we speak
Went to the beach today, because no electricity+sweltering heat means we gotta cool down somehow, so we are getting Simon Riley beach snippet
Simon doesn’t usually stare at people like that, he knows better than bother anyone on his own leave. No need to look for trouble when he’s trying to enjoy some bloody peace and quiet.
But you take him to the beach because you don’t wanna go alone, because ‘watch my bag while I swim, please’ because Simon Riley and his scarred mug are enough to deter anyone from bothering you when you too want to enjoy some peace and quiet.
Peace, Simon thinks, eyes trailing over your wet hair sticking to your nape, there is none for him given the swimsuit you are wearing.
Perfectly fitting and very much wet, it leaves just a bit to imagination when you walk out of the water back to the towel he’s sitting on in the shade — eyes dark and hazy.
“Are you bored? I’m hoping it isn’t too uneventful for you here, l.t.” You start, taking a deep breath in and Simon would love to say that his eyes did not dip to your chest when it expanded. Only that would be a lie and he isn’t good at it.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry ‘bout that.” Simon just tilts his head from side to side, stretching out, sweat shimmering on his shoulders and Lord knows he did not lie when he said that he can get an impeccable bronze when tanning.
“You sure? Cause we can leave in a few.” You offer just in case, but he shakes his head, glancing up at you from under the heavy hover of his brows. Enjoys the view maybe more than he should.
Definitely more than he should.
“No need. I like it here.” And that was as honest as he can get without going into detail because by God he does really like it here. “You up for another swim?” Is a little bit of a goading but you like swimming, right? And Simon likes watching the stretchy fabric of your swimsuit sticking to your skin — his throat working when you nod and turn back to the sea. His eyes dipping down your back and Lord, have mercy.
You are flushed with heat of the sun and grinning from ear to ear when give him a big wave, already waist deep in the water, stretching out a hand above your head so he doesn’t miss you and Simon simply raises his to give you one back.
He ain’t missing you for the world, definitely not today.
Simon doesn’t have as much discipline as people usually assume, mostly because he has bigger appetite than most expect.
Because you plop down next to him and he has to swallow the urge to lean down and lick a stripe up your neck. Ignores the impulse to burrow his nose between your tits, cooling his burning face with the perfectly wet skin there.
He isn’t much of a poet, but maybe that’s exactly how it would feel to kiss the sea itself when he can taste your heartbeat and salt on his tongue, soft flesh inviting to bite.
Simon doesn’t think much when he offers to help you with the sunscreen, because at this point his head is so empty that you could ring a church bell inside of it and the sound would echo.
It’s just a small favour, nothing…inappropriate, he’d say if he was a fucking liar because you sit between his thighs, back to him and when he rubs the sunscreen on your shoulders, his fingers slip under the strings holding the upper part of your swimsuit.
Strokes the skin under, massages the imprint left on your shoulders because heavy is the weight or whatever the fuck they say. Simon’s fingers squeeze and knead your shoulder till you are soft and pliant.
A little too quiet compared to usual routine, but that’s okay. Been hot out here today, yeah?
You are tired, he gets it. That’s why Simon even offered help, you know? he hums above your ear, thumb rubbing you nape so you’d hang your head lower — pulse thudding in your ears. Lieutenant is good with his hands, knows exactly where to press down or rub, learning what you like better as he goes.
Catches your shuddering intake of breath when his fingers catch onto the bow on your back and tug on it. Just getting everything covered, he’ll tie it back later, he promises. No one’s looking anyway.
There is something incredibly thrilling about massaging your bare back just like that, your heart just below his palm when he feels it thumping. You cross your hands over the chest, trying to keep your upper part of bikini in place while he does his work on your back.
You do your best not thinking about his fingers slipping to your lower back to massage all around it, about his wide palms stroking your love handles and belly so close to where he can’t touch that it feels embarrassing getting that excited.
He’s just being helpful. You can’t know if he’s even interested. He’s not like that.
Simon is exactly like that when he leans closer and presses his chest to your back — sticky with sunscreen and divine to the touch when he softly squeezes your belly. Rubs the sunscreen in, humming to himself as he goes.
“Arms down.” Simon says and doesn’t ask, knowing that the habit of obeying runs deeper than surface level embarrassment about the possibility of your top fucking slipping off of your tits. “Gotta be diligent about it, yeah? Don’t want you to get sunburned.”
You feel like you already has been with the way he just works his way from your shoulders down your hands — massages the softer flesh around your bicep, slides down to the forearm and then counts bones in your wrist and palm with his fingers. Leaves you slippery and smelling like coconut, breath fanning over your ear with “quit twitchin’.” when you try to look at him over your shoulder.
Simon’s palms finish each hand before he returns to your neck, curls a palm around it casually while covering it with sunscreen too. Taps your chin to tilt your head up when his other hand slides under the untied bikini and gives your left tit a thorough squeeze, massaging the sunscreen in.
Makes a disapproving sound when you open your mouth to say something and pinches your nipple. Tugs on it a little, rubs in the sunscreen at the tip of it too, clearly teasing.
Has the gall to murmur ‘Feels good?’ right in your ear, smile audible, because you are an open book, because you do exactly as he asks, because you let your lieutenant touch you out in the open.
“Good.” Ghost breathes out, his other hand leaving your chin and sliding down to get a hold of your right breast too.
He rubs and massages, pulls out the smallest sounds out of your throat — rubs his stubbled cheek against it, enjoying himself more than he perhaps should.
Simon shameless with his hunger, he toys with your nipples and takes a hand away only to return with more sunscreen, his smile almost unnerving when you hiccup at the cool feel of it.
Sensitive.
“Got the lower half to do too.” He shares conversationally in your ear, voice almost giddy when your throat works audibly, but you make no move to stop him. “Could get it later.” Simon offers, tugging on your right nipple now. Rolls it between fingers, almost absentmindedly.
Big and scorching hot, he wraps his whole body around your back, thick thighs bracketing you between his legs.
“Heard that beach’s emptier in the evening.” He adds and you are not proud of a shiver that runs through you, because you know he absolutely did feel it too. “Could also come back tomorrow early in the morning, get a head start.”
You are even less proud of yourself when you tilt your head back to look at him and your eyes almost close at his hands playing with your tits.
“Could do both.” You say, voice hoarse and barely above whisper, but his eyes crinkle and you can feel that the bottom of your bikini is sticky right between your legs. “If your schedule’s open, sir.”
Simon smiles, every inch of a Ghost and squeezes your tits one more time before withdrawing his hands from under your top entirely. Ties a neat little bow on your back, coarse-padded thumb stroking the line of your spine to get himself another shiver.
“I’m all yours. Got schedule open till we have to return back for another op.” He says, your stomach drawing hot and tight.
That’s two more weeks until you two have return to duty.
“Sounds good to me.” You say, voice cracking and turn your head to nose under his jaw. Mouth at the stubble there, lightheaded with hunger he stoked from ember to full blown bone fire. “My schedule’s all open too, sir.” You add, teeth grazing his jugular.
Getting the absolute satisfaction of feeling his own throat work under your lips.
There we fucking go.
“Was thinking, sir.” You start and Simon makes a low questioning sound, tilts his head to give you more access. “Can’t be the only one covered in sunscreen. We wouldn’t want you to get sunburned, yeah?” You paraphrase his own words to him and when you look up in his eyes again, Ghost is heavy-lidded and starved, lips wet from when he licked them.
“Yeah.” He says, voice sending a shiver down your spine because he squeezes you with his thighs, pressing you closer to his back and you can feel the thick outline of him against your lower back. Oh God. “We definitely wouldn’t want that, luv.”
Denizens of my rivers, we might get another Beautiful fish AU chapter, I’m feeling the vibes again, life is going to be good, König is fighting for his damn life as we speak
The thought sinks its roots down the depth of his brain when he watches you smoke with Johnny after one hell of a deployment. You two are sitting together on the roof, watching the setting sun — legs dangling in the air.
The air is warm and the evening is impossibly lovely, sundown bathing your frame in pinks, tinting tips of Johnny's hair golden and Kyle just stands nearby, in the closest shadow that the space has.
It's a couple days till Soap is off duty, once again coming back home with Simon in tow.
And the nerves are getting to him again.
You followed Soap on the roof, silently passing him a fag and not offering to discuss the issue at hand.
Given his state, who's to say that it wouldn't have agitated the sergeant further. And you know that if you were in his place, you would prefer to not talk for a while. Not much point in it anyway, when you don't want to ask for help and don't want anyone's pity and can't come to terms with letting it just be.
"Ye want tae ask something?" Soap relented after the first few minutes, shoulders tight and hardened, already bracing for the impact of the shock wave for the explosion that did not go off yet. At least, not anywhere other than his own head.
"Nah, mate. I'm good." You huffed out smoke and shook your head. What can you even ask him about in these circumstances?
You know he's not okay, you know that he's homesick, you know that he will take Simon home with him anyway and will not look in the eye to any of you as they get on the train.
You know he wants no "help" or whatever else you with Kyle might think that he requires.
"Want to hear my plans for our leave?" You offer instead and Johnny doesn't even think before nodding. "First, there will be a traditional pint with the captain before he's back to Hereford to dry out his old bones or whatever people of his age do in their spare time." You start, hiding a smile when Johnny chuckles, tilting his head to watch you speak.
Soap smells like cardamom and ginger. Like Christmas cookies, like warm kitchen after a dayful of baking, like mum's hands on winter evening.
Comforting, spicy and warm.
You think about the handkerchief sergeant keeps under his pillow for the first week after leave. The one that smelled like peaches, soft and worn from all the trips he made with it all over the world and you don't know what to do with the affection filling your mouth.
Like a broken nutcracker you can't bite through it.
Johnny and his omega probably smell like a desert together.
"Then I promised sergeant Garrick a short visit, because you know, I can't just not kiss his mums to let her know I made it safely back." You share and Johnny flat out cackles, eyes crinkling when you grin back at him. "What can I say? She's a beautiful woman, just look at Gaz — he's her carbon copy."
Soap bumps your shoulder with his, nodding back at Kyle right behind and you pretend to zip your mouth.
"Ye gonna get in trouble, mate." He says, shoulders shaking.
"Mrs.Garrick is a woman with a big heart, I know she will forgive me." Your grin widens and you dodge Kyle's cigarette butt that was definitely aimed at your head.
"Stop talkin' about my mum, eejit, I know where you sleep." Kyle plops himself down on the other side of Johnny and very demonstratively rolls his eyes at you, his boot kicking against Soap's when he swings his long legs over the edge of the rooftop.
"Whose mum can I talk about then? The rest of us are bloody orphans."
"And its obvious. Who raised you, mate? The wolves?" Kyle taunts, taking another cigarette out of the pack you extend to him across Soap's lap, but doesn't light it up, instead toying with it in his fingers.
"No, the British." Your tone is so solemn that Johnny nods once, almost sympathetic before it hits him and he doubles in half, laughing.
Kyle's eyes on your face are warm and amused, his smile growing when you wink at him and shuffle a little closer to Johnny.
"So much tongue in that cheek, its a bloody wonder you can even flap your tongue so frequently." Sergeant leans in against Soap's other side, satisfaction coating his face when Johnny doesn't twitch away.
There we go.
"Ye two sound like an old married couple." Johnny states, grinning wide enough to show off his canines when both you and Kyle shrug simultaneously.
Look whose enlistment became a great loss for the British synchronized swimming.
"And after some short sweet goodbyes to my favourite mate and his stunning mums, I'm going to return to my humble abode." You continue, outlining your plans and ignore Kyle's 'yeah, that rock that you crawled from under of, mate' for he is simply jealous and cannot hide it well enough. Your cheeks ache from the width of your smile when he flips you off without a second thought.
"Och! Why's he the favourite one?" Johnny reacts immediately and your grin turns diabolic.
"He is the only one of us who still has a mother, mate. You should meet her too — she is absolutely lovely."
"No one's meetin' my mum." Kyle huffs out, attempting to kick your calf with his boot. "Least of all you, mate."
"And here I thought we had something special. You are stone cold, Garrick." You shake your head ruefully, chest bursting with light you do not know what to do with, your skin soaking up the warmth of the setting sun and the laughter of your pack. Bottling it up inside for when the days turn long and cold, so you can portion it out for yourself till you see them again.
A teaspoon a day, so all that joy can last you enough.
You don't think much about the leave or about what you are going to do when everyone's are back to living their lives.
No need to sour the good mood and taint the sun-tinted bottle that you will drink from when the nights are going to get longer. Colder too, given that you still didn't call anyone to fix your heating and that will come back to bite you in the ass for sure. Probably on the first night back home too as a special welcome, back gift for your oversight.
Kyle follows you around when either of you has a minute. You don't ask why, but you are grateful nonetheless that he is staying close.
A shoulder against yours, a joke shared in the evening, some tea drank together every morning while you sit together and his knee grazes yours because like everything warm-blooded on a steamy day, Garrick loves him a good shade. Maybe that's what you are, you think.
If Soap was the benevolent sun then you are the shadow under his every candle, the reprieve from the heat and the light. The dark at the end of the tunnel.
Wonder that no one's tired of the shade yet, thought passes through your head when Kyle leans against you to show you one of the reports out of the stack at the end of your desk, his skin still hotter than usually. Rut's not letting him off easy this time, but seems like close proximity to the pack is just what he needs and...well, you do like making your pack happy.
If the sergeant needs some of that ducking under your wing to catch his breath and stop steaming in his own hormones, then why not? Kyle's your packmate and your friend, he'd do the same for you if needed and he's went with you through hell and high water.
You like Kyle, you think, breathing out air in his temple when Gaz tilts his head, inviting you to do just that, his eyes half-lidded and soft when he glances back up. Noses at your cheeks in return, purring when you let him scent you all over, one cool palm stroking his back. Sliding up to cup his nape again, massaging it slow and tight. Just like he likes it.
When he reaches to touch yours, you huff, pulling back. Less than subtle hint not to do that.
You know that Kyle never means anything that he does, not in a way people probably think. Maybe not in a way he himself thinks, because Garrick has always been like that.
Because before everyone he and Johnny already were a pack, glued at the hip and synched to a maximum, catching each other's moods and signs without anyone noticing. That's not the kind of bond he has with you or anyone else, you think. Because he and Soap were different. Family in a way very few alphas in military are to each other, packmates when the pack consisted of two and didn't have Ghost or captain. Or you.
You can guess why is that, you've met Soap after all, you know him as much as he let you to know him during these years. You understand why Kyle snaps his teeth at Ghost when he shouldn't look his way twice on a matter this personal. It has been personal for Kyle from the get go, because Johnny is...
Johnny is special, you think, watching the sergeant pack later, important to both you and Kyle.
Johnny's been there for everyone, Johnny's warmth and late night chats, he is the last fags shared and rations split down the middle.
But most of all, Johnny's family. Johnny is Kyle's pack and his best mate and his 'partner-in-crime'.
Johnny is different. Always has been.
"You know, mate, my schedule's going to be free all month after I'm done with visiting the lads. If you ever wanna have a pint or anything — just text me and I'll be there on a first train." You say to him afterwards, hovering in his doorway, when he finally gravitates to your awkwardly shifting its weight frame, you tuck your phone number in his scarred hands.
"Not saying you have to, I know you've got your hands full. But even if just for the evening — I'll be happy to be there. Honestly, never been to Scotland before, would love to see your stomping grounds proper." You add quickly and there's a look in Johnny's face, almost conflicted.
Hurt, in a good way. Like a drained abscess.
His arms wrap around you — sudden and tight, his nose presses to your neck for the first time in weeks, taking you all in, breathing in a lungful.
His nose too close to your scenting gland, hug uncomfortable, but it's the first time in months that he voluntarily touched you for this long since Simon's crusades to his pair have started. You just bury your nose into his hair, closing your eyes. Your whole body going pliant so he can squeeze tighter if he wants to.
Johnny is warmth and scarred fingers, he is the blast and the boom, the thunder and lighting of the skies that are this taskforce. Johnny's the necessary cogwheel that turned this whole pack around and sanded down the sharper edges so everyone could fit together. You aren't sure if you can even replicate what he used to do. You aren't the sun like him, you aren't as...vital, you think. You aren't different.
You are exactly like everyone else.
You don't know if this is the right decision, but you hug him back and breath out air in his temple.
His back shudders under your palms, his breaths heaving, only he doesn't let go this time, his hug only tightening. Your ribs straining when he squeezes until you breath in short controlled in and out, patiently waiting for the internal spiral of his to finally relax. Soap's been in tight coils for the last six months, you can take a little pressure to finally take some off of him.
"F'course." You murmur, squeezing him in return. "I'm your pack, mate. No matter what." You say and he makes a short pained noise. Like a dog kicked in the ribs all of a sudden.
Goes right through your chest, taking out a piece of your heart in the process, like a stray shrapnel.
Oh, Johnny.
"Tell your pair hello for me, okay? I'll see you when I see you." You nose at his mohawk, chest vibrating with purring that you don't want to suppress. Not today. "Don't be a stranger, mate."
"Never by choice." Soap says, pulling back finally, blinks quickly and his wide warm palms are still on your biceps, squeezing the muscle there. Like he is talking himself into finally letting go.
His eyes are red-rimmed and wet and you don't mention it.
Lads, ladies and lovely entities, it's getting tiring, so let me please remind you a little something that keeps slipping away from people.
You are adults, responsible for your own experience on the internet - it’s your job to curate what you see.
It’s not my or anyone else's job/responsibility to stop writing certain works for your personal comfort, even if you personally find it icky.
The world does not revolve around you, neither does the orbit of my writing.
The work that was properly named and tagged all around, which you proceeded to read willingly and disliked afterwards, isn't anyone's issue but your own.
You can always block/mute and move on, however coming into MY blog and MY comments and telling me about 'fucked up' and yada yada yada is plain silly. If the dove is dead then it is dead-dead.
You don't like non-con? Don't like incest? Don't like murder?
Take the door out and block, I don't need or want to know how upset you are at a fictional situation, no fictional police is coming to the scene of your fictional crime.
I don't know you when you pop up in my comments for the first time and I don't owe you guys more than basic courtesy.
The thought sinks its roots down the depth of his brain when he watches you smoke with Johnny after one hell of a deployment. You two are sitting together on the roof, watching the setting sun — legs dangling in the air.
The air is warm and the evening is impossibly lovely, sundown bathing your frame in pinks, tinting tips of Johnny's hair golden and Kyle just stands nearby, in the closest shadow that the space has.
It's a couple days till Soap is off duty, once again coming back home with Simon in tow.
And the nerves are getting to him again.
You followed Soap on the roof, silently passing him a fag and not offering to discuss the issue at hand.
Given his state, who's to say that it wouldn't have agitated the sergeant further. And you know that if you were in his place, you would prefer to not talk for a while. Not much point in it anyway, when you don't want to ask for help and don't want anyone's pity and can't come to terms with letting it just be.
"Ye want tae ask something?" Soap relented after the first few minutes, shoulders tight and hardened, already bracing for the impact of the shock wave for the explosion that did not go off yet. At least, not anywhere other than his own head.
"Nah, mate. I'm good." You huffed out smoke and shook your head. What can you even ask him about in these circumstances?
You know he's not okay, you know that he's homesick, you know that he will take Simon home with him anyway and will not look in the eye to any of you as they get on the train.
You know he wants no "help" or whatever else you with Kyle might think that he requires.
"Want to hear my plans for our leave?" You offer instead and Johnny doesn't even think before nodding. "First, there will be a traditional pint with the captain before he's back to Hereford to dry out his old bones or whatever people of his age do in their spare time." You start, hiding a smile when Johnny chuckles, tilting his head to watch you speak.
Soap smells like cardamom and ginger. Like Christmas cookies, like warm kitchen after a dayful of baking, like mum's hands on winter evening.
Comforting, spicy and warm.
You think about the handkerchief sergeant keeps under his pillow for the first week after leave. The one that smelled like peaches, soft and worn from all the trips he made with it all over the world and you don't know what to do with the affection filling your mouth.
Like a broken nutcracker you can't bite through it.
Johnny and his omega probably smell like a desert together.
"Then I promised sergeant Garrick a short visit, because you know, I can't just not kiss his mums to let her know I made it safely back." You share and Johnny flat out cackles, eyes crinkling when you grin back at him. "What can I say? She's a beautiful woman, just look at Gaz — he's her carbon copy."
Soap bumps your shoulder with his, nodding back at Kyle right behind and you pretend to zip your mouth.
"Ye gonna get in trouble, mate." He says, shoulders shaking.
"Mrs.Garrick is a woman with a big heart, I know she will forgive me." Your grin widens and you dodge Kyle's cigarette butt that was definitely aimed at your head.
"Stop talkin' about my mum, eejit, I know where you sleep." Kyle plops himself down on the other side of Johnny and very demonstratively rolls his eyes at you, his boot kicking against Soap's when he swings his long legs over the edge of the rooftop.
"Whose mum can I talk about then? The rest of us are bloody orphans."
"And its obvious. Who raised you, mate? The wolves?" Kyle taunts, taking another cigarette out of the pack you extend to him across Soap's lap, but doesn't light it up, instead toying with it in his fingers.
"No, the British." Your tone is so solemn that Johnny nods once, almost sympathetic before it hits him and he doubles in half, laughing.
Kyle's eyes on your face are warm and amused, his smile growing when you wink at him and shuffle a little closer to Johnny.
"So much tongue in that cheek, its a bloody wonder you can even flap your tongue so frequently." Sergeant leans in against Soap's other side, satisfaction coating his face when Johnny doesn't twitch away.
There we go.
"Ye two sound like an old married couple." Johnny states, grinning wide enough to show off his canines when both you and Kyle shrug simultaneously.
Look whose enlistment became a great loss for the British synchronized swimming.
"And after some short sweet goodbyes to my favourite mate and his stunning mums, I'm going to return to my humble abode." You continue, outlining your plans and ignore Kyle's 'yeah, that rock that you crawled from under of, mate' for he is simply jealous and cannot hide it well enough. Your cheeks ache from the width of your smile when he flips you off without a second thought.
"Och! Why's he the favourite one?" Johnny reacts immediately and your grin turns diabolic.
"He is the only one of us who still has a mother, mate. You should meet her too — she is absolutely lovely."
"No one's meetin' my mum." Kyle huffs out, attempting to kick your calf with his boot. "Least of all you, mate."
"And here I thought we had something special. You are stone cold, Garrick." You shake your head ruefully, chest bursting with light you do not know what to do with, your skin soaking up the warmth of the setting sun and the laughter of your pack. Bottling it up inside for when the days turn long and cold, so you can portion it out for yourself till you see them again.
A teaspoon a day, so all that joy can last you enough.
You don't think much about the leave or about what you are going to do when everyone's are back to living their lives.
No need to sour the good mood and taint the sun-tinted bottle that you will drink from when the nights are going to get longer. Colder too, given that you still didn't call anyone to fix your heating and that will come back to bite you in the ass for sure. Probably on the first night back home too as a special welcome, back gift for your oversight.
Kyle follows you around when either of you has a minute. You don't ask why, but you are grateful nonetheless that he is staying close.
A shoulder against yours, a joke shared in the evening, some tea drank together every morning while you sit together and his knee grazes yours because like everything warm-blooded on a steamy day, Garrick loves him a good shade. Maybe that's what you are, you think.
If Soap was the benevolent sun then you are the shadow under his every candle, the reprieve from the heat and the light. The dark at the end of the tunnel.
Wonder that no one's tired of the shade yet, thought passes through your head when Kyle leans against you to show you one of the reports out of the stack at the end of your desk, his skin still hotter than usually. Rut's not letting him off easy this time, but seems like close proximity to the pack is just what he needs and...well, you do like making your pack happy.
If the sergeant needs some of that ducking under your wing to catch his breath and stop steaming in his own hormones, then why not? Kyle's your packmate and your friend, he'd do the same for you if needed and he's went with you through hell and high water.
You like Kyle, you think, breathing out air in his temple when Gaz tilts his head, inviting you to do just that, his eyes half-lidded and soft when he glances back up. Noses at your cheeks in return, purring when you let him scent you all over, one cool palm stroking his back. Sliding up to cup his nape again, massaging it slow and tight. Just like he likes it.
When he reaches to touch yours, you huff, pulling back. Less than subtle hint not to do that.
You know that Kyle never means anything that he does, not in a way people probably think. Maybe not in a way he himself thinks, because Garrick has always been like that.
Because before everyone he and Johnny already were a pack, glued at the hip and synched to a maximum, catching each other's moods and signs without anyone noticing. That's not the kind of bond he has with you or anyone else, you think. Because he and Soap were different. Family in a way very few alphas in military are to each other, packmates when the pack consisted of two and didn't have Ghost or captain. Or you.
You can guess why is that, you've met Soap after all, you know him as much as he let you to know him during these years. You understand why Kyle snaps his teeth at Ghost when he shouldn't look his way twice on a matter this personal. It has been personal for Kyle from the get go, because Johnny is...
Johnny is special, you think, watching the sergeant pack later, important to both you and Kyle.
Johnny's been there for everyone, Johnny's warmth and late night chats, he is the last fags shared and rations split down the middle.
But most of all, Johnny's family. Johnny is Kyle's pack and his best mate and his 'partner-in-crime'.
Johnny is different. Always has been.
"You know, mate, my schedule's going to be free all month after I'm done with visiting the lads. If you ever wanna have a pint or anything — just text me and I'll be there on a first train." You say to him afterwards, hovering in his doorway, when he finally gravitates to your awkwardly shifting its weight frame, you tuck your phone number in his scarred hands.
"Not saying you have to, I know you've got your hands full. But even if just for the evening — I'll be happy to be there. Honestly, never been to Scotland before, would love to see your stomping grounds proper." You add quickly and there's a look in Johnny's face, almost conflicted.
Hurt, in a good way. Like a drained abscess.
His arms wrap around you — sudden and tight, his nose presses to your neck for the first time in weeks, taking you all in, breathing in a lungful.
His nose too close to your scenting gland, hug uncomfortable, but it's the first time in months that he voluntarily touched you for this long since Simon's crusades to his pair have started. You just bury your nose into his hair, closing your eyes. Your whole body going pliant so he can squeeze tighter if he wants to.
Johnny is warmth and scarred fingers, he is the blast and the boom, the thunder and lighting of the skies that are this taskforce. Johnny's the necessary cogwheel that turned this whole pack around and sanded down the sharper edges so everyone could fit together. You aren't sure if you can even replicate what he used to do. You aren't the sun like him, you aren't as...vital, you think. You aren't different.
You are exactly like everyone else.
You don't know if this is the right decision, but you hug him back and breath out air in his temple.
His back shudders under your palms, his breaths heaving, only he doesn't let go this time, his hug only tightening. Your ribs straining when he squeezes until you breath in short controlled in and out, patiently waiting for the internal spiral of his to finally relax. Soap's been in tight coils for the last six months, you can take a little pressure to finally take some off of him.
"F'course." You murmur, squeezing him in return. "I'm your pack, mate. No matter what." You say and he makes a short pained noise. Like a dog kicked in the ribs all of a sudden.
Goes right through your chest, taking out a piece of your heart in the process, like a stray shrapnel.
Oh, Johnny.
"Tell your pair hello for me, okay? I'll see you when I see you." You nose at his mohawk, chest vibrating with purring that you don't want to suppress. Not today. "Don't be a stranger, mate."
"Never by choice." Soap says, pulling back finally, blinks quickly and his wide warm palms are still on your biceps, squeezing the muscle there. Like he is talking himself into finally letting go.
His eyes are red-rimmed and wet and you don't mention it.
pls i’m begging PLEASSSEEEEEE more butcher simon x mother reader
Continuation to this little thing with Butcher!Simon and Single mom!Reader
Thinking about Butcher Simon slowly encroaching in your life, chipping away at the wall piece by piece, till he can fit his big head through the whole and take a good look around.
Simon likes how careful you are, how you don't let go of your boy no matter what, how even around someone as, now, familiar as Simon you are mindful to keep an eye on your lad.
Can't be too careful in a big city when you've got no one to look out for you, no one to soften the blow if it comes to knock the wind out of you.
You mention in passing that the father is not in the picture, only he gets a feeling that the dad was left in the other frame that you squeezed yourself out of the first chance you got, running.
Took your boy with you, took his things and his stuffed toy and his favourite book.
Took only a backpack of your own things.
Simon saw them, when he got into your apartment while you were out.
A couple sweaters, jeans, one good pair of boots and a coat.
He toys with the idea of rummaging through your underwear drawer, but it wouldn't be fair.
You don't have much right now, you are in no position to splurge for more than necessary even for your kid.
Not to mention new underwear.
(He’ll just have to buy you some on his own then. Something nice and comfortable, that he can later bury his nose in and take deep controlled breaths.)
You are a good mom, he thinks, stomach tightening hot and slow, when he lies on your bed for a couple minutes, nose in your pillow. Swallowing your scent, sleep-soft and a little salty with the hint of your sweat.
You must taste delicious, Simon noses at your pillow, hand snaking down to unbuckle his belt. He's been popping up here and there all over the narrow road of your life to offer some extra meat, a helping hand or a kind word. He knows the importance of making himself a safe unchanging fixture in your life.
You don't need no surprises, you need someone dependable. Someone you can rely on and someone who's not going to strain you any further.
Someone you can trust, Simon thinks, scarred palm wrapping around his cock when he presses his face into your pillow. It's hard to breath like that, air hot and cotton stuffing his mouth when he pants into it, stroking himself, calloused finger rubbing the underside of his head, till his hips twitch.
Till he's even hungrier, rocking his hips in the hand, cool air of your bedroom nipping at the hot sensitive skin of his. Your pillow smells like you and Ghost burrows his face in it, so he doesn't breath much, so his head goes light and empty - your careful glances up at his face imprinted on the inside of his eyelids.
You are so good, he murmurs, slurred and wet, drool filling his mouth, gums itching for him to sink his teeth in. Such a good mum, gonna be good to me too, yeah? Gonna let me take care of you in turn, luv?
Orgasm shudders through him, spills into the tight fist of his hand so it doesn't marr your duvet covers. He didn't bring you anything proper this time, can't go getting too greedy now.
Simon heaves into your pillow, wet spot of his drool forming and fucking hell, he'll need to do something about it before leaving.
You don't have to know that he was there, not yet. Not until he got an actual invitation in your home, marking another goalpost reached.
He tilts his head at you next time you walk into his shop, bundled up in your coat, eyes shiny with glee at the first snow and something in his chest warms up, like a faulty heater that finally got a proper kick to start working.
Maybe it was worth getting sent to early retirement and work right back where he started 15 years ago.
You smile at Simon for the first time since he met you, shoulders no longer as tight and the corners of his lips twitch. Pretty.
Wonder if you are gonna smile at him too when he's got his mouth on your-
"What can I get you today, luv?" He cuts his train of thought before it can reach the station, because the counter is high enough but there is no need to pop a boner out in the open. Can't afford to spook you before the teeth of the steel trap called 'Ghost' close above your head.
"The usual, please." You respond, no longer that scared exhausted thing from the first day in his shop, nowadays you have more and more smalltalk with your favourite butcher. "The weather's chilly today, but God, the snow's absolutely lovely."
He's got to be your favourite, Simon thinks, weighing the meat and like always throws in a little something in addition, no way you are going to any shop other than his.
Not like any other dimwit can feed you as good as he does.
"That it is." He just hums in response and glances at your son staring him up. "You take care of yer mum, lad?" Simon asks, eyes flickering to the way your smile widen's when your 3-year old nods immediately.
"He does." You respond instead of your son and the affection in your voice is so thick that Ghost in him tugs the air in, aching to stretch out in your direction and curl around like a big beast that he was. "Don't know what I'd do without him."
Your boy always sticks close to you, watching strangers with curious eyes, his hair disheveled when in the warmth of the shop you take his knitted hat off, tucking it under your arm so he doesn't sweat too much while you two wait.
"Think the feeling's mutual." Simon says, without planning too, but you giggle, short happy sound and something in his brain sparks to life.
So that's how you sound when you laugh.
"I sure hope so." You grin at him, eyes crinkling and Simon doesn't know what to do with the traitorous heat in his face when he passes you the meat, grazing your fingers as you take the bag.
How stupid is that?
Simon would like to hear you laugh at things he says for the rest of his empty life.
He watches you leave, eyes following you and your boy walking down the street - his hand in yours as he starts chatting your ear off about something immediately. A chatterbox when he's around his mum, huh?
You are warm in the best way possible, when you look at him and hold the elevator whenever you spot him in the entrance to your apartment building, eyes crinkling again. Like he's a friend.
Ghost in him itches to crack your locks and sink into the dark space behind your bedroom door so he can watch you sleep.
So he can stay there in close proximity to the light that you emanate, to the family that you have with that little boy, to the prospect of belonging someplace warm and soft.
Could maybe give you another baby, he thinks idly in the evenings, staring at the orange light of his oven, You’d look real good with another baby. There is beef inside, slowly baking until he knows it’s gonna be soft and tender enough for you to swallow without chewing.
Something else to sustain you, to fill out the hollowed out edges and bring some shine to your eyes.
Being mum is hard, Simon reasons, palms clasped together in his lap. His kitchen is small and dark, only light of his oven softening the shadows around him.
And you ain't taking any of his money, even if he offered, he knows that you won't.
But you'll take food.
Can't say no to a good bite and if there's something that Simon knows — it's meat.
He didn't cook much since he joined military, didn’t have the time nor the will, if he was being honest.
But nowadays he's gained a lot in free time and available space in his head that needs to get stuffed with something other than an occasional urge to sharped the knives again and get out in the dark to split someone's skin under his knuckles.
More of a habit, really, his bones aren't used to not getting strained and cracked every once in a while. It's been a minute since he's got an adrenaline crash and he'd like to say that he hates it.
He used to.
And then you walked in, nervous and tired, your boy on your hip - head tucked against your shoulder.
Being retired wasn't that bad after it, eh, mate? Ghost hums in the still quiet of his flat, deft fingers wrapping the cooked meal in tinfoil and packing it up for tomorrow.
Maybe he could talk you into eating with him if you go all shy on him all of a sudden, his mind continues the chain of thought, weaving a picture for him to press his face into. The almost of it stratching over his skin like saran wrap, tight around the misaligned bridge of his nose, pressing insistently over his cheekbones.
You probably ain't letting him handfeed you, but a bloke can dream, right?
For now he could settle for just watching you eat something he made. Cutting into bite-sized pieces for your boy if he'll be with you tomorrow.
Good thing Simon so used to being painfully patient, swallowing down every urge and every want, choking down the impulse to rush in and make a mess of a perfectly good timeline of this relationship.
Hell, was he even ten years younger, he would have probably already squeezed himself in your doors, inviting himself over to your dinner.
Would have taken all of the space and then some, would have molded his whole body against every corner of your life, smothering even the flicker of resistance.
Ghost would have moved in with you while you were sleeping, knowing that you aren't going to outright tell him to leave.
Ghost would have bitten off the entire hand if you gave him a single finger and then he would go for the throat, sinking his teeth in to rip at the carotid.
But Simon isn't Ghost anymore.
And Simon doesn't want to smother your flame. He'd like to warm himself up on it and for that you need to let him closer. For that, he'd need to be patient for you.
He sucks his teeth, inspecting the packed dish. Makes sure nothing's going to leak.
Gotta make a good first impression with this small offering, right? So when he comes back with more you wouldn't have the itch to pretend you've got to run.
He sighs heavily, eyeing the clock the next day, restless urge within him growing when you don't come at your usual 4 o'clock. Should've been here by now, he knows how long it takes you to get from your job to daycare to him and then home.
Simon walked the route a couple times, following you and your son, just to time it for himself. A little self assurance, can't be too prepared in matters of war and love.
When the bell above his entrance door sways, alerting him, Ghost in him is scratching slow and annoyed to go see what's wrong and what caused the deviation in usual routine when usually there isn't any.
"The usual, luv?" He calls out, walking out of the backroom, wipes his hands off on the towel before he turns to you (knows better than to come in with his hands bloody and shoulders tense). "You'r a bit later today." Simon points out, glancing at the spot you usually occupy by his cash register.
You aren't smiling at him, is the first thing that pops into his head before he assesses the situation and wordlessly opens the latch to herd you behind the counter.
Sits you down on a stool, murmuring 'come on, luv' so you'd let him help you out of the coat. Maybe the roast will come in handy after all.
Just not the way he hoped for.
You are quiet and glassy-eyed, your eyelids swollen and hands trembling when you let Simon tuck you behind the counter and silently accept the fork that he passes you.
"This is delicious, Simon." You say after another few minutes of chewing, fat tears welling in your eyes when you look at him and it's not his roast, Ghost thinks. He ain't that good at cooking to make you actually shed a tear because of it.
"Somethin' happened?" He just asks, looking you in the eyes and you look back down at the plastic tupperware he brought out for you. The meat is in fact good.
Really really good.
Your first meal of the day, you remember distantly and sniffle, taking another bite.
It isn't right to burden Simon with your problems, not when he has already been good to you since you walked into his shop. But you just...you just want to tell someone before you might have to run again.
You don't look at him when you do, words spilling about the man you have left behind, about the way money was never enough, about the yelling and the smashed dishes.
About him throwing the dish at you.
You've dodged it, you joke, fingers tight around the fork and Simon sits there, quiet, his eyes a physical weight on your nose.
But your boy was crying and then you noticed that he's got glass in his hair, you share after a moment, throat tight. You had to spend an evening just picking out all the shards to make sure he's not going to cut himself on it.
"Had to go after that." You murmur, swallowing another wave of tear and Simon nods. "We left before he came back and I just...small country, I suppose. He wants to meet up and says that its his son too, that I can't keep him from his child and-" You suck the breath in, lightheaded and ice cold with terror, voice cracking in half.
Simon makes a quiet affirming sound, his wide palm landing on your back and you blink through the tears, trying not to sob again when he slowly pulls you a little closer, giving you a hug.
It will be embarassing later how you just sob into his sweater, chest gurgling with tears and panic, arms wrapped around the big butcher who has been so nice to you and it's not fair, it's so unfair that you have to leave everything again.
"D'you want to see the bloke again?" Simon asks, tone calm as he hunches his shoulders to let you cry into him as much as you need to. "And do you want your boy to see 'im again, luv?" He adds, palm stroking your shivering back.
When you shake your head, hiccuping, Ghost nods and presses a small kiss to your hair, not tightening his hold on you because this is not what you need right now.
What you need is for the problem to go away.
"Where'd you leave the lad, luv?" Ghost murmurs, voice coarse and low when you finally look up at him and explain that you left your son with a friend from work because she lives nearby. That you didn't want to take any chances if you run into your ex outside.
If he maybe waits for you back at your flat.
"I feel so fuckin' daft." You mumble, suddenly angry at yourself and Ghost huffs out air, kisses your cheek then, eyes calm and dark.
"You'r not daft, luv. Go to your friend, okay? I finish in 'bout an hour. I'll walk you two home. Check for any...surprises." He doesn't offer, but state, wrapping up the rest of the roast for you.
Ghost kisses your other cheek as goodbye, knowing that you are too out of it to process everything right now. And that's okay.
You've got Simon, don't you?
And Simon's got a couple mates that still go all dark behind the eyes at the offer of doing some work in their spare time. Something a bit off the books for their lieutenant.
The phone gets picked up on the second ring, cheery voice on the other end familiar like his own right hand.
"Didn't pack yer bags yet, did you, Johnny?" Ghost in him humms, phone pressed between the shoulder and his ear. "Got a bit of a rush job for you 'nd Garrick."
Soap on the other end laughs like the mean bastard he is, promising to wake up Kyle and be there in ten, all too happy that their trip to Manchester isn't going to be boring after all.
"We goin' for a ride, l.t.?" Johnny asks like he knows the answer and Simon thinks for a moment.
"No rides." Ghost says, dragging his apron off. "Got an hour to get it done. I've got dinner plans."
Simon doesn't know much about how good families work, doesn't always know what's the right thing to say, but Ghost in knows what to do when there is someone breathing his sweetheart's air and dimming her shine.
"Tell Garrick he's on clean up tonight." He says and sergeant grumbles in the back of the phone call, audibly sleepy.
After all, Kyle did tell him a couple years back that he always wanted to see if anyone other than Ghost could get out after getting buried alive.
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