joel miller x fem!reader, 18+ mdni
romance at the end of the world is this: flowers, lazy nights in bed after long days, and savoring every moment | or, joel makes you something.
jackson!joel au, fem!reader, fluff, maybe a bit cheesy but idgaf, ellie cameo cause i can't do a damn thing without her, tommy gets some page time here too, smut (riding, unprotected p in v sex, some finger sucking lol), tenderness, gift giving | 5.7k
a/n: i think this is the last part of the just and just as series for the foreseeable future. thank you for reading about this little au and these two lovebirds! i adore them. thank you @frannyzooey and @macfrog for your eyes and support on this. and thank you everyone else for being patient. <3
Spring sweeps into the valley seemingly overnight. The peaks remain snow-capped but the bare branches of trees between the evergreens begin to bud. Chilly mornings lose their bite and frost turns to dew and every day there is more light.
You've always thought Jackson looks its best in winter, but it's a damn sight to see as life and color return. And the latter is your favorite part -- the rolling hills outside the walls and the forest patrol paths are dotted and then overflowing with flowers.
It makes you feel more alive. Patrol isn't a freezing ordeal anymore -- it's an opportunity to see the remaining beauty in the world.
Today's shift is short and easy but you find yourself lingering, running your hands through pine needles and turning your face to the sun. Your horse is happy to munch on a patch of grass in a clearing just off the main trail, but your patrol partner is less than impressed.
"Are you serious?" Ellie moans. "You're stopping again? What the fuuuuuuuuck."
She sags in the saddle. The pout on her lips makes her look like a kid sent to bed without supper rather than an almost-twenty-year-old forced to spend some extra minutes in the fresh air. Shimmer has no problem chewing on some weeds despite her rider's moaning.
"Let me enjoy the sun," you say. "When you get older you'll appreciate the little things, too."
You hop off your horse and Ellie sighs loudly.
"Jesus, you're not that old," she mutters. "Seriously, what are you doing?"
You sweep your arms around you, gesturing at the meadow. "These flowers are nice," you tell her, pointedly. She adjusts the rifle slung over her shoulder. "I think I'm going to pick some and bring them home."
She snorts. "Oh, is Joel suddenly into flowers?"
You ignore her bait and crouch, gaze sweeping over the array of colors in front of you. You tried to learn the names of flowers years ago when you found a book on them in an old bookstore but they never stuck. Purples, pinks, and yellows, large petals and small ones, delicate yet hardy to survive the world past its end.
Joel isn't a fussy man. Young fathers don't get to be, and anyone alive these days sheds that impulse just as quickly. He's happy to wake up every day with you by his side, his kid in the garage out back and walls around everything he loves, keeping it all safe.
It makes it both easy and hard to please him -- you want to give him everything but he seems to want nothing. A perfect paradox, a puzzle to solve.Ā
God, you love him. You love spring, you love Joel. Everything feels good.
So, you start to gather stems, snapping them at their bases, humming as you work.
"How do you choose which ones to pick?"
"Fuck," you gasp, careening forward onto one palm and looking over your shoulder. Ellie is off her horse and much closer than before, standing directly behind you. "Jesus, you're stealthy."
She shrugs, her smirk a pleased slash across her face. "You're oblivious as fuck."
You roll your eyes at her.
"Seriously," Ellie says, crossing her arms. She jerks her chin at the small bouquet you've got in one hand. "How do you make it look so nice?"
"Oh, so we've moved on from the making-fun-of-me part of this?"
She crouches next to you, elbows on her knees.
"I, uh -- " Her cheeks go pink, freckles standing out against her blush. "Dina likes flowers."
You bump her shoulder with yours. "I'm going to be so nice and not tease you."
"Fuck off," she scoffs, tucking her smile into her shoulder.
It's quick work. Ellie follows your lead, balances out the blooms she picks with some leafy weeds. She ties them together with one of the minimum four spare hairbands she has on her person at all times -- bits of cloth, occasionally a rare unused elastic from before if she's found some on patrol.
"Isn't it kinda shitty?" she muses, nimble fingers turning her bouquet this way and that to admire it. "We're killing them. The flowers, I mean."
"Little late to have a conscience about killing," you say lightly. The two rabbits she pulled from Jackson snares hang from her saddle. You've seen her in action, too -- gun raised, hands steady, blood splattered across her cheek. It's not an accusation, far from it. Violence is a language you both speak, one she's known for most of her still-short life.
She rolls her eyes, every bit a teenager. "Whatever."
You sigh. "You're right, though," you say. "There were whole shops dedicated to this before. Selling flowers, making bouquets and centerpieces and all that shit."
She probably knows this, but she lets you describe it. Ellie soaks up bits of the old world like it will materialize before her if she listens hard enough. Joel says it was much worse when she was younger, right after they settled into Jackson. She wanted details about everything and watched every movie she could get her hands on. You think she was satisfying her curiosity, sure, but also that she was trying to understand him better -- but didn't know how to say so.
"Weird," she mutters. "And you just...bought them for other people?"
"Or yourself." You pat her shoulder and stand. Your horse tries to nibble on your flowers before you haul yourself back in the saddle. "It was just a nice thing to do, I guess."
"Killing something to make someone else happy," Ellie says with a dry laugh. She tucks her bouquet in the crook of her arm once she's back in the saddle. "I guess everyone does that these days."
It's absurd when she puts it that way, but it's true. You've all got blood on your hands. You would kill for this girl, for Joel, for pretty much anyone in Jackson. And you have.
The flowers are for Joel, they're for your house, they're for you. Something beautiful to bring home alongside your dirt stains and scarred hands, your haunted eyes and nightmares. No one is spared those.
It's only mid-morning by the time you get back to the wall. You and Ellie left at dawn, short sticks drawn for the early shift. She leaves you in the stables with a mock salute and a shout of thanks, practically jogging to Dina's to give her the flowers.
You're untacking your horse when you hear familiar laughter, a deep chuckle and Ellie's faint indignant protest.
"Mornin'," Joel says from behind you. "Was hopin' to catch you at the gate."
"Can you hold these?"
You blindly extend the hand with the flowers. His fingers carefully extract the bouquet and you return to brushing out your horse.
"Does this have somethin' to do with Ellie runnin' out of her with flowers of her own?"
"Never let anyone say you're unobservant, Joel Miller."
He snickers. You leave your horse with a final pat on the neck and thanks for a job well done.
When you face Joel, he looks tired -- he's been pulling extra long days replacing windows and roof tiles after the winter's damage. God knows that man never seems fully rested, but it's a little worse when the seasons change.
He's told you time and time again that standing two stories off the ground is a hell of a lot safer than fighting some Infected on patrol, but you still worry. Just like you know he worries about you beyond the walls, how he's a little tenser whenever you're not in sight, whenever he hasn't seen Ellie for a few days ācause they're both busy. It's just how he loves. It's how you both love.
You make no move to take the flowers from him, instead brushing some sawdust from his shoulder.
"Did you have a job already?" you ask.
"Small one. Fixin' a crooked over mailbox." He looks pointedly at his full fist. "You gonna explain now?"
"They're for you."
Joel blinks once, twice, brows furrowing like you're speaking a different language. Maybe a few years ago you'd start to feel self-conscious, unsure of your romantic gesture and insecure in his reaction. But now, as fully in love and connected to this man as you are, you lean in.
"If you're too manly to carry flowers through town --"
You make to take them from him but he snaps out of his daze and wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest in a smooth motion.
He also holds the bouquet in the air and out of reach.
"Hey, now," he says. "Hands off. These ain't your flowers."
"I picked 'em," you remind him, poking him in the ribs for good measure.Ā
He flinches just a little but doesn't move. His embrace is warm and familiar and you sink into it. "Gettin' romantic," he mutters and brings the flowers back down to eye level to examine them.
"I'm just trying to catch up to you," you say into his jacket. He huffs and his palm rubs a slow line up and down your arm.
You wiggle out of his embrace to shoulder your pack.
"I am pretty romantic," he muses.
It's true. Even if he's joking and even if no one but you gets to see it, Joel has always made sure you feel loved. Courtship and romance look different these days, but it still comes naturally to him -- loving. Dinner dates, jewelry, and trips to the airport have become a battered paperback, a sharpened knife, and bloody knuckles, but it rings just as true. He loves you and he loves his family the best way he knows how ā by keeping you all safe.
And you do your best to convey the same thing. You tell him, of course, but you also mend his shirts and chop wood when his back is acting up, and you look after his kid like she's your own.
Joel deserves to know that he can receive all that he gives, too ā the protection, the tenderness, the beauty. Moments of softness and rest where he knows heās taken care of, thought of, that he matters beyond the things he can do for everyone else.
So, you also do things like bring him flowers.
Sometimes you feel like it will never be enough. You will never have enough time to show him how much he means to you, how he's saved you, how important and cherished and loved he is. How good he is.
Joel reaches for your face with his free hand. He traces the line of your cheekbone with his thumb and smirks when you inhale sharply. Another patrol returns and the stables are suddenly louder and more crowded than before. If you're both free for the rest of the day, you want to drag him up to your bedroom and spend the hours there. You want to show him, for the millionth time, how much you love him.
"Okay, Mr. Pretty Romantic," you say, grabbing his hand and tangling your fingers together. "Let's go home."
___
Joel is hiding something from you.
The flowers last for a week and you watch him eye them and smile every time he enters the kitchen.
But after they droop and go in the compost pile, something shifts. Something subtle, sure, but you spend most of your waking hours looking for or at Joel, so you notice.
He starts keeping his workshop door closed. Normally you'll sit and watch him work, or he'll teach you a few chords here and there on the guitars he's making, but your lessons move to the porch and the upstairs hallway loses the scent of wood glue and stain.
In fact, he actively steers you away from the room altogether. He's all just needs a deep clean and it's messy, is all. It's not rocket science -- he's making something for you, clearly. But giving him a hard time is too fun to pass up.
One night, you and Ellie wait at the bottom of the stairs. There's a dinner and movie night in the old church and you're taking the opportunity to make it a family outing.
"You coming?" you holler up the stairs. You hear the door creak open.
"Gimme a second," he calls back down.
"Jesus," you mutter. You tap the side of Ellieās sneaker with your boot. "You know anything about that?"
Honesty is important between all of you, but you know Joel and Ellie need to have their secrets. There is too much tangled history between them for you to understand it all. It's important to you that they have a relationship all their own, even if it means they scheme.
Ellie is examining her switchblade with intense focus. "I might," she says with a smirk. "He's a lovesick loser, I'll tell you that."
You lean on the banister and raise your eyebrows. "Do you remember when you asked me how to embroider so you could put Dina's name on her jacket?"
The knife swings closed with a snick and she rolls her eyes at you, cheeks pink.
"Shit, dude," she says. "Why do I tell you anything?"
"She liked the flowers, though, didn't she?"
Ellie crosses her arms and smiles at whatever memory she's seeing in her mind. "Yeah," she says. "She did. Jesse gave me so much shit, though --"
The door upstairs closes and Joel's heavy footfalls cut her off.
"Finally," you grumble. He trods down the stairs, arms half in his jacket when he catches sight of the two of you. "Are you hiding state secrets in there?"
"What the fuck does that mean?" Ellie asks.
"Might be," is all he says. He's got that twinkle in his eye that means mischief but he looks proud of himself. You can let him have this, whatever this is. You trust him and you'll find out eventually.
"Alright," you say, pushing off the banister and heading for the door. "You're going to breathe toxic fumes with the door closed."
"No, seriously," Ellie says. "What kind of secrets would a state be keeping?"
"Ain't nothin' toxic in there," he says lightly. He bumps Ellie's shoulder with his. "C'mon."
She throws her hands up in the air. "You know, it's shitty when you ignore me."
"Did you hear somethin'?" Joel says to you.
You shake your head, swallowing your laughter. "No," you say. "Nothing."
"Assholes." She pushes past you and down the steps onto the street. "I'm going to make sure there are no mashed potatoes left when you get there."
__
You don't mind letting Joel do whatever he's up to in all of his spare moments. It does mean you have more time to yourself, so you pick up some extra wall shifts.
And when one of those shifts is with Tommy? Well, you can't help but needle him a little bit about it all.
"Do you know what your brother is up to?" you ask him.
The wind today carries some lingering winter bite, so you've got the collar of your coat pulled up around your ears. Tommyās hair whips around his face when he raises his eyebrows at you.
"Gonna have to be more specific," he says. "My brother is always up to some shit."
"I think he'd say the same thing about you."
Tommy laughs. He's got the reputation for being the more easy-going of the Millers, but you know he's more a match for Joel than most think. Out in the world, they work as one, silent and deadly, always in step when it counts. They still speak a language all their own with just a look and you see so much of them in each other when you pay attention.
"Well, I learned it all from him," he says. He adjusts his grip on the rifle and sighs. "I happen to know what you're talkin' 'bout, though."
"Is he just telling everyone but me?"
"Nah," Tommy scoffs. "Asked me and Ellie for help, s'all. And you know he tells that girl everythin'."
You both smile for a moment at your fondness for them.
Tommy clears his throat. "Does it bother you? Him keepin' a secret?"
You know Tommy won't let your answer get back to Joel. He's asking as your friend, as your kind-of brother. He's asking because he cares.
A patrol crests the hill, green flag waving in the air. They whistle and shout for the gate to be opened.Ā
You step closer to Tommy so he can hear you. "No," you say. "I just like to gossip."
"Don't I know it," he chuckles. "You two are the eyes and ears of this damn town. Knowin' everything."
"Except what happens in my own home," you tease.Ā
He shrugs. "You'll like it, if that helps," he adds.
"I know I will."
You look out at the world beyond the wall and smile to yourself.Ā
Joel has made you a few things over the years. He works wonders with his hands all the time: Beautiful, intricate carvings for the house, for Ellie, for new babies in town. The wall of guitars, not to mention the ones he's made for kids to learn on in school. You're better at sewing than he is, but he's pretty damn good ā fixing up pillowcases and blankets and clothes of all kinds. Joel is a craftsman.
Hands that hold you can also pull a trigger, punch until there's nothing left, and craft a work of art.
And he knows you. He pays attention -- there is a reason behind everything he does. If he's making you something, you know you'll love it.
"Strange, aināt it?" Tommy says. You turn to him, a question on your face. "World ended and here we all are, happy. Makin' shit for each other. Gosspin'."
You sigh. āTook a lot to get here.ā
āDamn right,ā he says with a long whistle. āLotta shit behind us.ā
āDo you ever regret it?ā you ask.Ā
Tommy considers your words. You two talk plenty, but youāve never really spoken about the past. Joel tells you whatever you want to hear about the years before you knew him, so youāve got a pretty good picture of their lives after the outbreak.
"Can I tell you somethinā?ā Tommy asks. You nod. "Alright. I ā I never thought I'd see my brother this happy again. And I wish every damn day that Sarah was here to see it. To know him this way, to meet Maria. To know you and Ellie."
Joel has said the same thing before and itās an honor greater than you can ever explain.
"When I saw him and that girl a few years ago, I thought --" Tommy clears his throat. "I thought maybe heād made it through all the shit we did. And I was right. She brought him through it. And now heās here, doinā stable life shit we dreamed about before."
"Ellie is a force," you say, a little surprised to find your voice watery. The love between Ellie and Joel is fierce and powerful, evident to anyone who witnesses it. They would do anything for each other, even though they're mending.
"She is," he says. "And so are you.ā He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. āShit, I donāt know where Iām goinā with this. Point is ā seein' him love you, too, shows me heās through it. He's alive again, you know? And Iād do all the shit we did over again just to get us all here. So, no. I donāt regret it."
Itās nothing you havenāt thought before, but the words work their way into your heart and sit there, heavy and warm.
āDamn,ā you say. You swallow and give him a wide smile. "If you keep going, Tommy Miller, I will start crying and that would embarrass us both."
He laughs and blinks a few times. You join in, wiping your eyes.
"Alright, I won't," he says. "Jesus, all you did was ask what he's doin' in that workshop."
You clap him on the shoulder. "I won't tell anyone you started blubbering on duty."
He snorts. "Ain't that generous of you.ā
__
Days pass. A week. You almost forget about Joel's project because he spends less and less time in the workshop and more on tasks around town as the days get longer. You're both busy -- chopping wood, planting bulbs for the fall, helping de-shed the horses. There's always work to be done.
After a particularly long day on your feet, you come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel to find he's gotten home while you were in the shower.
"Hey, stranger," you say. You're mostly dry but some water drips down your back and you shiver. Joel is leaning against the headboard on top of the sheets without his shirt, reading whatever book he's onto now.
"Didn't hear me come in?" he asks. He sets his volume aside and pulls off his glasses.
"I was too busy coming back to life under some hot water." He probably heard you singing off-key to some long-lost song stuck in your head for the millionth time. "And you're quiet as hell, Joel."
He shrugs.
You just look at each other, the intimate gaze of two people who know every inch of each other and never tire of it.
The sleep pants he wears to bed this time of year are lightweight, thin enough that you can see the outline of him from here. His stomach is soft where he's bent at the waist and the trail of hair above his waistband is dark, darker than the rest of what's on his chest.
The golden expanse of his skin just begs to be touched, so you make your way over to him in your towel. He makes room for you to perch on the edge of the bed, the bare skin of your thigh pressing into his pants. His palm rests on your knee.
"I haven't seen much of you lately," you say softly. "āCause of that damn thing you're working on."
His fingers press into your skin.
"Ain't patience a virtue, or something like that?"
"Whatever magic you're working better be worth waiting for," you tease.
Joel's hand resumes its path up your leg and he smirks.
"I can work some magic right now," he says.
You laugh, throwing your head back as his fingertips edge under the towel.
"That was awful," you say. "I should get dressed in all of my layers right now and go sleep on the couch."
You pull away from his touch so you can straddle him, your towel only held on by one hand at your breasts.
Joel snickers. "But then I wouldn't be able to do this."
Nimble fingers find your cunt between your spread legs and you gasp a laugh, one hand on his shoulder to balance you in his lap.
"Smooth," you manage. His other hand tugs on the towel and you release it, your slightly damp skin breaking out into goosebumps in the air of the bedroom.
Joel drags his lips between your breasts and you feel his smile.
"Christ," he says. "You comin' outta there in just a towel and you expect me to go to sleep?"
He pulls his fingers from you and frames your face with both hands to drag it down to his in a lazy, thorough kiss, like he's savoring each moment.
His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you let him in readily, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you grind down on the hardness you can feel through his pants.
"I've missed you," you say, dragging your tongue along down his jaw. His fingertips press into your bare hips hard enough to bruise, but it's a grounding touch rather than an urgent one. You want to take your time because you have missed him, and you think he feels the same way.
"Sorry, sweetheart," Joel groans, dragging your lips back to his. "It'll be worth it."
You pull back to look him in the eyes. The hazel-grey is almost totally taken over by his pupil, but his gaze softens when you cup his cheek and smile.
"I know," you say, and mean it. Naked in his lap in your bedroom, you mean it. You always mean it. You always trust him.
Joel kisses you once, twice, and you pull on his lower lip with your teeth when he pulls away. His nostrils flare and before you can tug his cock from his pants, he holds two fingers out to you.
You laugh, circling his wrist and bringing the digits past your lips. You swirl your tongue around them and really take your time with it, laving at his knuckles before releasing them with a pop.
His cock twitches beneath you and he huffs.
"You're an easy man to please, Joel Miller," you tell him, tugging down his pants and letting his shaft spring free. You stroke him root to tip and he hisses.
"Nah," he manages. "It's ācause it's you."
He follows his words with a circle of your clit from his spit-slick fingers.
"See?" you gasp. "Romantic."
It's a bit crowded, his hand rubbing your clit and yours slowly jerking him, but neither of you rush it. You pant together, dotting lazy kisses on any piece of bare skin you can reach. You breathe him in, the combination of sweat and gun oil and fresh detergent that's just Joel. A rush of tenderness hits you so suddenly your nose stings.
"Joel," you say, a bit ragged. "Joel, can you --"
A gentle hand on your face brings your foreheads together, his eyes on yours.
"Whatever you want," he groans. "Whatever you want, it's yours."
You can't help it -- you laugh. Brightly and happily, almost in disbelief that this man is yours. Real and solid under you right now, beside you every night. Yours to love and cherish and all the rest.
"You laughin' at me?" he grumbles, though you can tell he's fighting a smile.
"I just love you, is all," you say. You probably don't say it enough. You and Joel show each other every day, so much so that you can't imagine he doesn't know. As it is, you feel loved by him with every move he makes, every time he looks in your direction, every time he says your name.
"And I want you to fuck me," you add.
It's Joel's turn to laugh.
"Now who's the romantic one?" he says.Ā
You rise from his lap and settle onto your back on the other side of the bed, stretching with your hands above your head.
His eyes follow the line of your bare body, fondness and hunger recognizable in his gaze.
"Always so damn pretty," he grumbles. "Prettiest thing I've ever seen."
"Flirt," you tease.
He rises to his knees and pumps his cock a few times with his fist. You spread your legs for him, knees bent up against your chest.
He settles between your knees and you lock them around his hips. Joel honest-to-god winks at you before dragging two fingers through your folds to make sure you're slick enough.
"Ready?"
You nod. He enters you in one practiced move and you groan in unison as you adjust. It takes some shuffling but he finds a position he can hold, and you wrap your arms around his neck.
Joel fucks you slow and deep. Each drag of his cock against your walls curls your toes and drags whines from both of your throats. He keeps up his usual babel -- doin' so good, feel like a dream, so damn tight, cunt's a fuckin' miracle -- and you press your hands into his bare back like he's a life raft.
Sweat beats on your brow, your chest, everywhere, and you suck bruises into his neck as his thrusts get a little frantic. Your own orgasm sneaks up on you, the pressure building and building and building until it snaps without warning.
"Joel -- Joel, fuck, I --"
You clench around him and he chants your name, that's it, baby, come on my cock, and buries himself to the hilt to finish inside you.
He hovers above you on trembling arms long enough to press a sweet kiss to your lips before rolling off of you.
"Now I'm ready for bed," you say, panting.
You fling a hand out lazily and it lands on his chest. He intertwines your fingers and his gaze finds yours. You smile as you get your breathing under control.
Joel smooths your brow with a thumb. "Don't forget to --"
"I know, I know," you say. "C'mon, you know this isn't my first rodeo." You get up from the bed and head to the bathroom.
"You sayin' I'm a bull?" Joel calls after you.
"Save a horse, ride a cowboy!" you holler back, cleaning yourself up. "Didn't people used to say that?"
Joel doesn't answer you but you laugh at your own joke. You make your way back to the bed in old pyjamas and find him back in his sweatpants, feet flat on the floor like he's about to get up and go somewhere.
"Joel?"
He sighs, his shoulders moving up and down like he's bracing himself.
"It's done," he says. "Your surprise."
The confession stops you in your tracks.
"Oh?"
You know Joel better than mosty, but sometimes he's still a puzzle. The hesitation, the slight air of anxiety about him as he says it confuses you. Because Joel is good at taking care of people, and he has to know it -- those years he and Ellie didn't speak you know he left her things, know that he took care of her from afar as much as she would let him. It's just what he does, he uses his hands to beat and shoot and bloody ā but also to carve and hold and love.
They're the same thing, really.
And he's made you something ā one of countless gifts he's given you, tangible and not, throughout your relationship.
But he's nervous. As if you wouldn't love anything he made, anything he does. As if you're not gone over every part of him.
"Hm," he says. "Yeah. Let me --"
Joel gets up from the bed and pads over to the dresser to rummage around in a drawer. You meet him back on the bed and he's holding a square-ish parcel wrapped in cloth.
You gingerly take it from him.
"This is what you've been working on?" you ask softly. He nods.
You unwrap the cloth and find yourself holding leather-bound journal. The hide is smooth under your fingertips, scraped clean by hand and tanned a dark chestnut.The spine is about an inch wide, the whole thing swen together with neat stitches of what can only be catgut. A thinner strip of leather is wrapped around the cover and tucked into itself carefully. It must have taken him ages to make.Ā
"Joel," you gasp. "It's...god, it's beautiful."
He tells you how he found it on patrol a few weeks ago. The cover was fucked but the paper was somehow fine, so he dried out the pages and rebound it with a hide he tanned himself. You run your hands over it again almost like you can feel his fingerprints all over it, the hours he poured into the pages.
The inside cover falls open easily when you undo the tie and you see letters in the bottom left corner of it. Your eyes sting.
Joel has carefully burned your name into the leather, each letter perfectly lined up with the next. You haven't had something with your name on it in years.
He clears his throat. "Ellie said she'd give you some of her pens. Show you how to refill 'em."
You look up from your gift and find so much love on his face you can hardly stand it. He was inside you not that long ago and somehow this is more intimate. You surge forward into his space and wrap an arm around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck.
"I don't know what to say," you confess. "Just -- thank you."
He runs his hand along your spine.
"S'nothin'," he says. "Just saw it and thought of you, is all."
You release him and shake your head in disbelief. This man.
"What should I write in it?"
Joel's cheeks darken a little. Of course he's thought of everything.
"Figured you could write about...all this." He waves a hand in the air like that explains anything.
"All what?"
He shrugs one bare shoulder.
"Life," he says. "Jackson. Folks here. Might be nice, havin' the memories."
You scoot closer to him so you're almost in his lap again.
"You want me to write down the gossip?" You mean it as a joke but Joel nods.
"You pay attention," he explains. "Someone's gotta."
You're not much of a writer anymore, haven't had cause to be in twenty years. But you do like to tell stories. You both do.Ā
The pages are soft under your fingertips as you flip through them again. You're going to fill them with stories -- about this town, about Joel and Ellie and Tommy and the people you love. The people you've lost, too. The memories that hurt like bruises, like fresh wounds. But the good stuff, too. The gossip, the love stories, the plants in the yard and the flowers on the trails.
Joel has given you the ability to record your lives.
You reach over him to set the journal on the nightstand before you frame his face with both of your hands.
"I'm going to write pages and pages about you, Joel Miller," you whisper.
He huffs, cheeks warm under your palms. "That's borin'."
You shake your head and lean in until your lips brush and your eyes flutter shut.
"That's the story," you say. "That's my life. This is my life. You are."
āI love you,ā he breathes. āSo damn much. Yāknow that?ā
How could you not? You say so and kiss him firmly but without hurry. Youāve got lots of time. Youāve got forever.
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 12.8k (oops)
Just because you were bonded, Ghost was all too aware, didn't mean you would stay together.
this is part 2 to faultlines in which Ghost didnāt want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didnāt want him either.
cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, abandonment issues, loneliness, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, description of torture, canon typical violence, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection and communication, making out, two people being so weird and intense about each other
Simon was not familiar with comfort.
It was unsettling, to be sat among cushions and piles of blankets, soft white light from the lamp heād flicked on for you hours ago. Outside, the sun was beginning to rise, a spill of dusky, deep purple lightening the horizon, like someone had overturned a paint can.Ā Ā
His hands were curled into fists; his mask lay abandoned on the arm of your sofa. There was a basket of knitting to his left, a sweater sleeve unfurled over the side. Books lined several shelves, plants were gathered in the same terracotta pots as the ones in your office, in a neat fist beneath the window that overlooked the street.Ā
It looked and felt like a home.Ā
Simon couldnāt remember the last time he felt truly at home somewhere. He stayed on base when he could; his flat was little more than a bed and a kettle.Ā
He was watching the front door and listening to the domestic sounds of you puttering around the kitchen one room over.Ā
āPlease,ā you had said when he started to stand to follow you, fingers careful against his jaw, cradling his face as though he were something that deserved to be cradled. āYouāre exhausted. Just stay here.āĀ
So he did. So he was.Ā
Patiently waiting for you to return, replaying the last few hours. Unwilling to admit it was with anxiety.Ā
Your presence was a tug behind his navel, an urging to relocate closer to you, a glowing point of light he needed to seek out, swallow.Ā
Simon wished things had gone differently. His own fucking fault for leaving things as they were, for thinking he could remain close to you, deal with the ancient pain in his chest because it was just another ache to add to the collection, with you never the wiser.Ā
It wasnāt fair to you.Ā
He had never particularly cared about fair before.
He wondered what it felt like to you.Ā
He couldnāt imagine you felt warmth.Ā
Ghost was a lot of things. Warm was not one of them.Ā
But he had spent the last several hours with you in his arms, your lips against his, tracing scar for scar, memorizing each of the marks you had given him somewhere in the chaos of his own.
Simon might not remember where every scar on his body originated, but he was going to know all of yours. He wanted to know where you laid on his skin, every mark heād ever overlooked. He would have a perfect catalogue of knowledge.Ā
It was odd to be touched, and not exactly comfortable, not after so many years of covering his skin, insulating himself from any touch.Ā
Touch meant harm.Ā
It was a fact heād learned very young, a lesson learned again and again, only compounded by life in the military where even friendly touch was tinged with roughness out of necessity.Ā
Your hands on his skin felt like being peeled apart, unzipped, insides poked at. He didnāt mind.Ā
Nothing could have made him pull away from you.Ā
Your fingers had traced the back of his neck, the soft, vulnerable space behind his ear. The touch was tentative. If he shifted even a little, you had retracted your hand.Ā
A floorboard creaked, he glanced up as you appeared in the doorway.Ā
āSimon?āĀ
You held out a hand.Ā
He stood and took it before his brain could catch up, all instinct.Ā
He had meant it, when he said you deserved better. But it was a commitment, a promise, too, when he said he was all you got.Ā
.
.
.
Captain John Price was standing in your office.Ā
You halted in the doorway with a cup of coffee, hot ceramic searing into your fingers. āCaptain Price,ā you said. āGood morning, sir.āĀ
āGāmorning,ā he answered with a nod.Ā
āIs there something I can help you with?ā You asked, crossing the room to deposit your cup at the edge of your desk. āWould you like a cup of tea? Coffee?āĀ
He shook his head, āThank you. Take a seat.āĀ
It felt wrong to sit behind your desk, so you dropped into Simonās usual seat, tugging the black and blue blanket youād knitted for him months ago into your lap. Price took the opposite chair. It had so often gone unused, aside from the odd analyst debriefing a too long meeting, until Kyle and Johnny began frequenting your office too.Ā
Price didnāt say anything for a moment, brows lowered, mouth a considering line. You fidgeted beneath his piercing stare.Ā
āGhost told you,ā you guessed after a few beats of painful, weighted silence.Ā
He nodded after another long moment. āWe knew,ā he admitted, eyes finally flicking away as he adjusted in the chair.Ā
āI guessed as much.ā
āBut,ā he continued, sitting forward. āNow you know.ā
You felt, suddenly, as though you were about to receive a lecture or a reprimand. You swallowed thickly, and nodded, chewing your lower lip. āItās not ideal,ā you acknowledged. āI know how bad it is.āĀ
He was quiet again, watching you. You shifted, uncomfortable under his scrutiny, not sure what you were being evaluated for or how to pass muster. āHe had to tell you,ā Price said eventually, not unkindly, āIt was only a matter of time.āĀ
The words had to landed perhaps harder than Price meant them to. It had only been a few days since you saw Simonās face, since you bonded, and you still felt wrong about how it had happened. You werenāt sure if you ever wouldnāt feel wrong about how it happened. You shouldnāt have kissed him; you should have been able to let him go.Ā
The knowledge hung like an invisible weight around your neck, that you were not something Simon wanted, but an unwelcome inevitability.Ā
The memory of his touch, his extended presence in your apartment that weekend, made you feel a little ill on reflection. You should not have touched him, shouldnāt have kissed him, probably should not have seen his face at all. It all felt like a choice he wasnāt allowed to make.Ā
You werenāt quite sure where you and Simon stood now. Inextricably linked but to what end? What were you to him but something to manage?
I didnāt want to tell you. I never wanted you to know.Ā
Your belly clenched at the memory of the words, the heavy weight of the admission in his mouth.Ā
Maybe that was all soulmates ever were, an inescapable obligation and nothing more. Maybe the whole thing had been romanticized to the point of becoming something amorphous and unrecognizable.Ā
But when you thought of what he was to youā
Mine, you thought immediately and unhelpfully, possessively.
It stung like salt in a wound.Ā Ā
He was anything but.Ā
The warm glow of the newly stitched bond in your chest was accompanied by a different ache, a more mundane one. A bleak cloud of heartache.Ā Ā
The cruelty of it, the unfairness, smarted. Youād always assumed that discovery would mean an end to the lonely isolation youād felt your whole life, not an evolution of it. There was still nowhere for you to go, no safe place for you to settle, no person that wanted and accepted you.Ā
You thought of the torment of the untethered bond. It had been excruciatingly painful, and you had only bore it for a few hours. And Simon had hidden it from you for months. His dedication to keeping you out, at a distance, spoke louder than any words could.Ā
It was akin to sitting next to a muzzled dog. He was chained to you. On a leash he could never escape.Ā
But youād gladly keep your loneliness, if it meant he wasnāt in pain. You just wished you didnāt have to; you wished you belonged.Ā
Maybe heād left the bond too long and it had corroded, shorn down into a jagged point. It could never cause anything but agony between you.Ā
You pinched your palm. āYeah,ā you agreed. āHe had to.ā
Price cleared his throat, sighed. āItās not just Simon,ā he said, āthat has to worry about you now. Youāre a vulnerability to all of us, to my team.āĀ
āI know,ā you said again, because it had already occurred to you. That you now knew exceedingly dangerous information, how easy it would be for someone to make the leap of logic that you were important.Ā
āBetter, for now, that it stays between us.ā His eyes met yours, intense, serious and steady.Ā
Though you knew he was right, though youād already had a similar conversation with Simon, it still hurt somehow, still felt like what you imagined having a knife stuck through your ribs must feel like.Ā
The discovery of a soulmate was supposed to be something that was celebrated. Announced to family and friends, parties thrown, congratulations given.Ā
It was also, by nature of the rarity, something to fixate on. It had led to pairs being featured in the news, followed by throngs of people convinced that their proximity to a bonded pair alone would aid their chances of finding their own.Ā
You did not want that, but it would be nice to tell your cross hall neighbor that had become a friend, or your sister. It would be nice to be able to tell anyone. The pride you should feel was replaced instead with something closer to shame.Ā
You would only ever be a liability. Something to manage, something to hide. Not just for Simon, but for his team as well.Ā
You were holding something so rare, something most people searched for their whole lives, and instead of letting it lie in the palm of your hand like the extraordinary sun soaked pearl it was, you had to close your fingers around it, relegate it to the dark cave of your fist.Ā
āI understand, sir. I havenāt told anyone. I wonāt tell anyone.āĀ
Price relaxed a little then, leaning back in his chair. āGood.ā
You fiddled with the blanket in your lap, calmer for the scent that lingered in the fibers and sloughed off it in waves from all the time it spent behind Simonās shoulders, tea and tobacco, the faintest hint of summer grass lingering between. All those times youād laid on it in the sun, inhaling his scent blooming in the air around you, soothed, flashed through your mind.Ā
Those summer months seemed a lifetime ago. A different you. A different Ghost.Ā
You glanced out the window.Ā
The world beyond the glass was gray with autumn drizzle; the bright red and orange fan of changing leaves raked at low hanging clouds. The air was chilly, and already threatening a cutting, winter iciness. With luck, you wouldnāt be stationed in England for much longer, and then none of you would have to worry about your inconvenient bond.Ā
āIf the lads havenāt said yet,ā Price began as he stood, one broad hand landing on your shoulder heavily, āCongratulations. Glad Simon finally pulled his head out of his arse. I was beginning to worry.āĀ
You glanced up in surprise, lips parted. The small smile on Priceās face faded. āSimon. . .ā he started, then stopped. He contemplated his next words carefully before he continued. āSimon is more sensitive than he appears. Youāll take care of him.āĀ
The notion of Simon needing anyone for anything, should have been a laughable one, but coming from Price, it felt like the world tilting onto your shoulders. The 141 were a strange little family in their own right, one you were now an unfortunate interloper of.Ā
They looked out for each other, now you were being tasked with the same.Ā
Price wasnāt asking a question.Ā
You answered anyway.Ā
āOf course I will.āĀ
He squeezed your shoulder once and let his hand fall away.Ā
Ten minutes later, your coffee cold and abandoned at the corner of your desk, you were still sitting in Simonās chair, picking at the blanket and anxiously worrying at your bottom lip.Ā Ā
It had just started to bleed, the tang of copper dripping onto your tongue, when Johnny and Kyle appeared at your door, Simon looming large and imposing behind them with Price in tow.Ā
You stood, wondering if youād been that lost in your thoughts that you hadnāt noticed the hall outside lurching into motion around an op, when you noticed the cake box in Johnnyās hands.Ā
You frowned, glancing from the sergeantsā open faces to the box in Soapās hands.
āWhatās going on?āĀ
āThink we wouldnāt congratulate the pair of ye, lass?ā Johnny said.Ā
He slid the box onto your desk and opened his arms which you found yourself readily stepping into.Ā
Your throat closed, a heavy knot choking you suddenly. You didnāt look at Ghost over Johnnyās shoulder, couldnāt. āOh, wellāthatās notāyou didnāt have toāāĀ
āItās not nearly enough,ā Kyle interrupted, āBut itās the best we can do. Considering.āĀ
You had to blink back tears as Soap released you and guided you forward to flip open the lid. The cake was lavender, like your headphones and blanket. Words were scrawled with dark icing, along with misshapen blobs you supposed were meant to be flowers. The words were an illegible heap but it didnāt matter what it said; it mattered theyād gotten it, even if it was bittersweet.Ā
Perhaps you were being afforded a little celebration after all.Ā
āHad to do the writinā ourselves, yeah? Itāā
āItās perfect.āĀ
You felt small, safe.Ā
It was not a bad feeling, even if it was a false one.Ā Ā
You still didnāt look at Simon, afraid to know how he felt about it as he stepped into the room after Price.
āTheir idea,ā he would tell you later, softly, when half the cake was gone and all but Simon had departed your office.Ā Ā
You could only nod, and wonder if that meant he hadnāt wanted it acknowledged at all.Ā
You didnāt ask, the answer would probably shatter your feeble feelings.Ā
Soulmates, ultimately, were supposed to be the thing their pair needed most, be it romantic, platonic, familial, even adversarial, in rare instances. There was no guidebook on figuring out which, or what came after, or what you were supposed to be.Ā
For so long, you had held onto hope. A romantic, dramatic hope that you would find your soulmate and be granted that. Understanding. Feeling like there was one place you actually belonged. Someone who could see past the scars that kept everyone else at an armās length, that made them believe they could never fit into your life.Ā
Not even, really, you thought, were you hoping to find that feeling with your soulmate. You hadnāt been delusional enough to think you would ever really find them.Ā
You had justāwanted someone who saw you, looked past the scars and decided you could be home, anyway. The many failed dates you went on were proof enough of that, proof of your hope and longing.Ā
But maybe this was why fate had stuck you and Simon togetherāyour ability to understand that what he needed most was to be left alone. And you were already so good at being alone.Ā
You could give him the security of someone who needed nothing from him, of letting the bond lie dormant and cold, maintain his anonymity and the walls heād built so carefully around himself.Ā Ā
A sentinel fate, a sword of his name.Ā
You could give him that peace.Ā
Your fate, it seemed, was as youād once guessed.Ā
You were meant to be alone.Ā Ā
.
.
.
Simon adjusted your hips with a sharp jerk and then pushed his palm between your shoulderblades until you tilted them into an angle he was satisfied with.Ā
āEyes forward,ā he grunted.Ā
But you were giggling again, glancing over your shoulder with bright eyes and a genuine smile. A rare sight recently.
Had been sinceā
āAm I holding it right?āĀ
He glanced at your grip on the blade in your hand, and nodded. You turned back toward the targetāa thick plastic training dummy littered with stab wounds. You had made steady progress over the last few months.Ā
Simon liked training you, it settled some latent anxiety heād never admit to, to know that you could hold your own, at least temporarily. Just long enough, as he always stressed to you, to escape danger, not face it.Ā
But you were proving yourself to be surprisingly adept at sparring.Ā
You were fast, and seemed to enjoy running. Cardio didnāt seem to burn you out. He wasnāt sure heād ever seen anyone do as many jumping jacks in a row as heād seen you do, seemingly just to do it.Ā
You took quickly to instruction, minor adjustments in form.Ā
You could wriggle out of ropes and zip ties. You could effectively parry, knew where the major arteries were and how to sever them.Ā
And, after a few failed attempts earlier in the week, youād learned to compensate for the weight and balance of the blade, and seemed to be comfortable with throwing knives too.Ā
āWonāt have this much time to aim, bird,ā he reprimanded when you only stood there, unmoving, your eyes sweeping over his face, brows knitted and serious.Ā
Your skin shimmered faintly with the dew of sweat. A faint gossamer sheen. He wanted to slide his fingers over the pulse in your throat, just to feel it kick. Maybe his teeth, too, to carve it out, hold the thread of your vein in his mouth.Ā
The soft murmur of your lips against his skin, babbling nonsense.Ā
The space between your shoulder blades was bare, the delicate lacing of a tattoo scrawled there. You didnāt share tattoos, that pain must not count as scars in the cosmic bind of the universe.Ā
The memory of that weekend together haunted him. How easily youād fallen into each other, just to have it wiped away as soon as it was done. You bare legs in the kitchen, making tea, leaning against him as though it were natural, where you belonged. You stripped down to almost nothing, letting look at your scars as you carefully wiped the eyeblack from his skin, hands cradling his face.Ā
He was perhaps plagued by those moments when he wasnāt with you, the soft give of your body beneath his on your bed for two blissful nights, beneath him on the sparring mat, something of a distraction, something to sink his teeth into when sleep invariably would not find him. The memory of your safe touch.Ā
He still wasnāt used to being looked at so openly, directly, didnāt understand what you got out of it anyway. He couldnāt imagine what you saw, when you stared like you were trying desperately to preserve something as vital to you as air. He was right there, within reach and not moving away for once in his life. Not going anywhere. Never.Ā
This, bound to you, was where he belonged.Ā
But you seemed to keep skirting away. Pulling away from his hands, from him.Ā
He wasnāt built for this, relationships and emotions, for things that required a gentle touch and not the cold metal of a gun.Ā
Wasnāt good at it. He didnāt know if he had done something wrong, crossed some invisible line, and didnāt know how to ask either.Ā
Was this another thing he had to figure out how to earn? Was this just another thing he was destined to lose, had already?
The stiff concentration melted from your face, replaced with a smile, amusement he missed seeing the last few weeks sweeping over your face, softening your features. āBut I have time now,ā you said, before you suddenly pivoted and flung the knife, all in one fluid motion. Just as heād taught you.Ā
The blade buried itself deep into the throat of the target.Ā
He raised a brow. āWhat were you aiminā for, sweetāeart?āĀ
āThe head,ā you admitted, sounding surprised yourself.Ā
āNot bad, that.āĀ
āThank you, LT,ā you said sweetly. āMaybe one day Iāll be able to take you on.āĀ Ā
He grunted, pressed another throwing knife into your hand and lifted your arm into position, cupped your elbow and drew it down a little.Ā
You were liquid gold in his arms, warm and trusting, allowing him to adjust the angles of your body without complaint. He could feel you breathing; not just the physical rise and fall of your lungs, though he could feel that too. Ghost could feel the tight, corded line of your soul stitched to his, the warm voracity of it like a glowing line of light, a thin strip of aurora borealis. This close to you, he could feel the softness of your breath, the delicate beat of your heart through it.Ā
He would probably never admit it to you, but Ghost missed the pain. He missed the watery, drowning ache in his lungs that meant you were on the other side of the glass, alive, waiting. The pain had been a constant reminder of your continued life. Being alive hurt, it only made sense, then, that the bond ached with your life.Ā
The warm glow it had transformed into was nice, but it was placating, an illusion that things would always be all right. The comfort and safety of it itched, made his fingers curl with the urge to peel up his skin, pinch the pain alive again with his own bloodied fingers just so he was sure you were there.Ā
You leaned back into his chest, the length of your spine laid against the bow of his body. Simon folded his fingers around yours, adjusted your grip on the handle, angled your wrist down a fraction.Ā
Your hand was small in his, the fragile bones of your wrist like a bird's hollow wing. He thumbed at your pulse, wished he had taken his gloves off.Ā
His nose brushed the shell of your ear, inhaling the sweet scent of your skin lavender and oak moss threaded with the animal salt of your skin.Ā
You shivered.Ā
āNot in this life or the next.āĀ
You laughed, a breathless catch in your throat. The vibrations of it again his chest like a half remembered song stuffed between his ribs. You turned your head and pushed your forehead against his jaw gently. He felt the shush of your breath against his throat. He wondered, not for the first time, why it couldnāt always be like this. Why had things felt like one stumbling block after another since you saw his face?
Wasn't it supposed to be easy? Wasnāt that the one thing soulmates were promised?Ā Ā
Heās not particularly good at wanting things. Wanting meant asking for something he could lose, and heād lost too much.Ā
But now he had you, he wouldnāt let go.Ā
The half completed residency paperwork in his, until now, underutilized office, was proof enough of that. It had been almost a year. You and Laswell had promised a year. A contingency, a plan for you to stay.Ā
You would stay.Ā
He wasnāt sure you would stay.Ā
Probably, he should talk to you about it.Ā
Simon wasnāt good at this.Ā Ā
How hard could it be to ask his bloody soulmate to stay in the same country as him?Ā
Very, apparently.Ā
Heād rather almost anything else.Ā
Heād rather present you with the residence permit like a cat with a dead mouse, wordless and hopeful.
Unfortunately, there was a lot of red tape that required him and you to go through, not limited to slicing his skin open in a court to prove his scars showed up on you.Ā Ā
All the fucking ones heād already given you, wouldnāt count.Ā
Just because you were bonded, he was all too aware, didn't mean you would stay together. You could leave, die. Simon was the one to endure, he knew which of you would remain.Ā
The closer he got, the further you seemed to drift away, something tender and self actualizing in your gaze. But heād had a year to come to terms with it.Ā
Maybe you just needed time to adjust to the idea of your soulmate being him. He wasnāt the kind of person anyone hoped for.Ā
āYou wouldnāt let me win?āĀ
Simon didnāt want to imagine a world where you were on the opposing side of anything, where winning mattered.Ā
āTogether this time, yeah?ā He said instead, squeezing your wrist.Ā
āNot like Iāve got much of a choice.āĀ
āWant me to let go?āĀ
āNo,ā you answered quickly. āNo.āĀ Ā
āAiminā for the head again?āĀ
āThe eye,ā you clarified.Ā
He raised a brow. āAmbitious, that.āĀ
You nudged your temple against his cheek again, the flicker of your lashes through his balaclava like the delicate, furred wings of a moth. āIām trying to be the best.āĀ
āAverage might be a more achievable goal,ā he said wryly.Ā
Your laugh echoed inside him again. āAffirmative,ā you grumbled in a poor imitation of his accent.Ā
He squeezed your hip in slight reprimand.Ā
āBut I think I can do it,ā you continued in your own voice, leaning into his hand. āI just need practice.āĀ
āMm.ā He rubbed your wrist again, felt the steady flutter of your pulse against his fingers. āJust aim at something you can hit if you ever have to, yeah?ā
Something youād been over plenty, he still felt the need to repeat it. What do you imagine is going to happen to me? Youād asked once. A question with far too many answers. Bad things happened to people he cared for.Ā
āPromise,ā you said easily. āI know where all the important arteries are, after all,ā you murmur, teasing.Ā
He grunted, unimpressed. āLot of good thatāll do if youāre aiminā at the eyes.āĀ
You rolled your eyes and settled back into him, but you were laughing, reciting the names of said arteries under your breath. āAll right, enough of thaā,ā he muttered as he moved your arm through the motion once, before you swung hard and released the knife on the second pass.Ā
This time it was at the right height, but off center. It hurtled by the targetās ear and clattered to the floor.Ā
āYouāll be turning enemy combatants into regular Van Goghs,ā he said.Ā
āVery funny,ā you nipped, digging an elbow into his ribs, but you were giggling again. āIt was close.āĀ
āWas. Nice work.āĀ
You made a soft, self-satisfied noise, something near a purr in your throat. āThank you, Ghost.āĀ
He nodded as he released you and stepped away to retrieve the fallen blade. Cold seeped in as he did, a bone deep chill where you had been touching him. A thready, pulsing warning to stay near.Ā
Moving away from you was no longer painful, but not exactly comfortable either. It was nice to be within the warm bubble your soulmate provided.Ā
He felt it now, the retraction of that pulsing sweetness, like the petals of a flower furling closed. The bond was dynamic now, malleable and yielding, nothing like the taut, fragile, painful thing it had been for so long.Ā Ā
Simon felt it stretch, loop slippery coils around him as the tension popped like stiff joints.Ā
When he turned, you were across the room, sitting on a weight bench as you pulled on a hoodie and kicked off your trainers. Not his hoodie, though heād left one at your flat, thinking, maybe, you might want something of his, the way you had given him the blanket.Ā
Done for the evening, then. The tightening in his chest he felt now had nothing to do with the bond; he could admit that.Ā
You were no longer smiling, and the permanent stitch that had sown itself between your brows shortly after you bonded, had appeared yet again.Ā Ā
He collected the knives, approached you slowly, out of your sight line, watching the slant of your scarred cheek, the downward tilt of your mouth. You had been worrying at your lower lip with your teeth recently, and the crease in the middle of the plush bottom curve of broken skin was wet with the tiniest well of blood.Ā
Simon remembered what it had felt like to touch that soft flesh, kiss you, lick into your mouth. It had felt likeāhe couldnāt say what it had felt like. He didnāt have the vocabulary, the understanding of the tangled mess of emotions in his chest, snarled and guarded as a nest of snakes. Unraveling it seemed unwise, a foolās errand.Ā
All he knew was that it hadnāt happened, that he had been safe with you, whether he could name the emotions or not. He also knew that it had not happened again, and didnāt know why.Ā
And wanted it to happen againāfor you to stick your hands beneath the edge of his mask or shirt or anywhere at all and ask can I?Ā
He wanted you, he thought numbly, stupidly, to hold his fucking hand.Ā
It was sort of like being a lovesick teenager, only Simon wasnāt sure heād ever been that. It was all new.Ā Ā
If he could feel the weight of your proximity, you were able to feel the heft of his. But you didnāt turn as he approached, head bowed over the laces of your shoes as you coiled them around your fingers and tucked them under the tongue.Ā
The space beneath your eyes was swollen, discolored with sleeplessness. There was a bruise beneath the edge of your hoodie collar, more on your forearms and the sides of your knees. Defensive marks, sparring marks.Ā
To see them brought him a kind of fucked up satisfaction.Ā
Simon pulled off his gloves, slipped his hand into place on the back of your neck.Ā
You flinched just a little, and then settled.Ā
The memory of you lying in the grass behind the barracks in the summer sun surfaces quickly. How badly he had wanted to reach down and touch you then, touch his own faint, paper thin scars on your skin, the side of your throat, the hook of your collarbone, all those shining little reminders.
Now he could, he did, and you still felt far away, like there would always be something holding you at a distance. As though you were behind unbreachable glass, seen, but not heard, not touched.Ā
What had Johnny called all that pain?Ā
Bond corrosion. Erosion.Ā
Maybe heād let it go on for too long, really had damaged something vital, by denying it for so long. Maybe Ghost had inadvertently taken the one thing that was supposed to be a solace to you, and twisted it beyond repair. Maybe there was no comfort on your side, just a rusted lock that could never be pried opened again.Ā
You tilted into his palm.Ā
He hoped it was voluntary.Ā
āGhost,ā you said softly.Ā
āBird,ā he answered, drawing the word out lazily, letting his hand slide away.Ā
Your mouth twitched into a half smile. āHey,ā you caught his hand and tucked it instead between your palms.Ā
He sat next to you, pushed his shoulder against yours. You fell against his side slowly, almost reluctantly. You laced your fingers with his.Ā Ā
Maybe you were just disappointed. Once the shock of finding your soulmate faded, once that restless, prodding first night together was overāhe wondered if you felt cheated, let down. Maybe the distance was protective.Ā
Maybe he should just ask.Ā
You sat together quietly, fingers threaded. He waited, hoping that if he waited long enough you would look up and smile and talk to him.Ā
But the well of your incessant chatter over the last year seemed to have finally run dry.Ā
Not only were you quiet, it was like you were lost, unsteady. āAll right?āĀ
When you met his eyes, your features softened. āYouāre not a bad teacher.āĀ
āReckon thatās a compliment, yeah?āĀ
You smiled, settled more firmly against his side. Yours was a warm, welcome weight. Heād not relished the thought of anyoneās touch in a very long time, maybe hadnāt ever. Kind touch was never something in high supply. But if you never let go, itād probably be all right, that.Ā
āYes,ā you agreed. āVery generous with compliments.āĀ
Ghost wasnāt sure those words, in that order or otherwise, had ever been applied to him before.Ā
He palmed your cheek, tilted your face toward his, peering into your eyes like he was examining you for injury. āYou hit your head?āĀ
āLike you wouldnāt have noticed.āĀ
āMm.āĀ
āSimon,ā you said, his name careful and curling in your mouth, safe there. Your fingers were at the edge of his sleeve, the soft pads of your fingers against his bare wrist, sliding over the scars on his palms, defensive wounds that his mind refused to remember earning.Ā
He nodded and you pushed his sleeve up.Ā
āI think I found another,ā you said. āCan I show you?āĀ
Simon didnāt remember how he got every scar on his body, but he was trying to become familiar with all of yours. Youād had trouble, though, deciding which actually belonged to you. Some of your scars were buried beneath his own, others were scoured so deeply on Ghost, that they appeared as though they could be yours on your skin.Ā
It was odd to be touched, and not exactly comfortable, not yet, but he held still and let you have your fill, because he wanted you to. His body wasnāt his in these moments, but belonging to you was all right.
Your fingers traced his forearm, sending skittering sparks of warmth along his skin, curled like shaved gold into his stomach. It was horrifying, really, the way you made him feel. Not like himself, too much like himself, or someone he should have been.Ā
The touch was curious, and cautious.Ā
āHere,ā you pushed a finger into the middle of his forearm. The scar was barely visible on his skin, and buried beneath the black of tattoo ink. āI think I burned myself taking something out of the oven. It probably wouldnāt have scarred but I kept picking at it.ā You held your arm alongside his. The mark on your arm was deeper, puckered where his was flat. But they matched.Ā
Your fingers wriggled inside his rolled sleeve and you traced a particularly deep gouge along the side of his bicep.Ā
Shrapnel, he thought, but you didnāt ask.Ā
He waited for you to ask.Ā
You both sat there cloaked in silence.Ā
He watched the side of your face, the way your mouth twisted to the side, the downward sweep of your lashes fluttering against your scarred cheek.Ā
āAnymore?āĀ
You shook your head and slid your hand up his chest instead, to the base of his throat. āCanā?ā
The word hasnāt even left your mouth yet. Pathetic, he thinks, as he yanks the fabric over his head. He smelled of desperation, a deep need to be kept.Ā
You smiled, touched his cheek, his ear. Your fingers scraped over the close cropped sides of his head into the longer hair at the top.Ā
When your face tilted up, lashes fluttering closed, he met you halfway, tasted blood on your mouth. It was like coming home. Simon could feel his scar on your mouth, like you were echoes of each other, calling across something vast, receiving an answer anyway.Ā
His tongue slipped into your mouth as your hands fisted in his hoodie. You groaned quietly when he threaded an arm behind your back, pulled you into his chest.Ā
āSimon,ā you mumbled, mouth traveling from his down his jaw and back, nails digging into his bicep. Heād never get tired of his name, known and coveted, in your voice. You made it sound real, almost sweet.Ā
He touched your jaw, your soft skin so different to his, the small of your back beneath your shirt.Ā
The knot in his chest seemed to unravel, flatten out like a dog showing its belly, deeply satisfied, asking to be pickedā
You pulled back suddenly and sucked in a sharp, awful breath. āJesus, Iām sorry,ā you said. āIāāĀ
Simon shook his head, cupped the back of your skull to bring your forehead to him. You breathed, eyes closed, for a long time.Ā
Eventually you blinked and met his eyes, searched until you found something that made your gaze close. A door shut in his face.Ā
āWell,ā you said, retracting your touch slowly, fingertips drawing down his jaw. He told himself it was reluctance, even if he knew better. āItās late. I should probably get going.āĀ
He wanted to hold you gently, but was afraid he might crush you instead. His unwieldy hands were not suited for this kind of work.Ā
āMm. Walk you to your car.āĀ
Your smile flickered a little. āWhat if I said no?āĀ
Then he would follow you anyway. He would make sure you got there safely, anyway. He might not be built for care, but he was built for that. For teaching you violence, for making sure you were safe.Ā
āThen you go alone.āĀ
āLiar,ā you said with a huff as you stood, bracing your hand on his shoulder. āI know your shadow now, Simon.āĀ
He just stood and held out a hand for your bag, tugging the mask back on with the other. He wasnāt sure how he felt about that declaration.Ā Ā
You needed time, that was all, he thought again, for the disappointment to abate, for him to make himself useful to you.Ā
Eventually, he would see your flat again. Heād stand in your kitchen with a cup of tea and your smile would be real.Ā Ā
Simon should know better, by now, than to hope for anything at all.Ā
.
.
.
The orders arrived one innocuous morning in November, passed to you by an administrative assistant on your way to your office, who smiled like the envelope was not essentially a live bomb. She was new to the base, her eyes bright and watchful. She had been in your office a fair few times, to pick your brain, she said. She wanted to work in intelligence some day, too, in more than a strictly secretarial role.Ā
You took it from her with great trepidation.Ā
āYou alright?ā
āFine,ā you smiled tightly as your stomach clenched.Ā
Her smile turned sympathetic. āDonāt want to leave?ā
āI donāt know,ā you answered honestly, flipping the envelope over in your hands.Ā
āCome now, Iād wager Ghost will be none too happy.āĀ
You furrowed your brows and glanced back up at her.Ā
Ghost was Ghost. You hadnāt realized any of the others noticed him in your office. They were a nosy, gossipy bunch, such were the ways of intel, and you were sure one of them would have mentioned it, even passively, at some point.Ā Ā
āDonāt know what you mean.āĀ
She smiled and rolled her eyes as she turned back to her desk. āSure.āĀ
You walked back to your office slowly, distracted, telling yourself it was somethingāanythingāelse.Ā
You were not being stationed elsewhere; you were not being sent home.Ā
You closed the door behind you and stood staring down at the all too familiar seal stamped next to your name. It didnāt feel like your name, like your hands curling around the edges of the paper, claws that were already starting to dig in, so you couldnāt be dragged howling away.Ā
For a long time, you could only stand there, vision tunneling, mind sluggishly trying to catch up to what your heart already knew.Ā
Eventually, you realized you were not drawing breath, and choked as you inhaled, the air thick with the scent of tobacco and black tea. Ghost, when you glanced around, was not there, but he had been. A cup of coffee was at the edge of your desk, steaming, still hot.
Because you still preferred coffee in the morning, despite having developed a taste for tea, and he knew that. He seemed to know everything about you.
It made you want to cry, but you crossed your office to your desk instead and sat.Ā
Delicately you slit the letter open along its seam, and read what youād already known would be within.Ā
Home.Ā
Only the shape of home had long ago shifted.
Home was here.Ā
Home was the base and your softly lit office; it was your flat that youād worked hard to make your own; it was tea with your coworkers and baking with your neighbor.Ā
Home wasā
Home wasā
It would be better for everyone if you went home, but the notion of leaving behind the little life you created so painstakingly over the last year tied your stomach in knots. You liked your apartment and the base and your neighbors. You liked your coworkers and hot cups of tea on rainy afternoons in chilly offices. You liked Soap and Kyle and Price.Ā
And Simonā
You liked having him in your life, in whatever way he let himself be. You liked when he visited you. You liked being close to someone, even if it wasnāt exactly in the way you wanted. You liked the quiet surety of your routine with him, even if it was unfair to both of you for you to be comforted by it.Ā
Your chest ached; your throat closed.Ā Ā
It would be better for you to go.Ā
You did not want to go.Ā
You carefully pushed the letter back inside the envelope and thrust it into a desk drawer.Ā
It felt more like an execution notice.Ā
.
.
.
You managed to keep the information to yourself for two days.Ā
The tender bruise it left on you only seemed to deepen, that well in your chest that was meant to bring you comfort only serving to pinch.Ā
You wondered, again and again, if something had gone wrong. If you were not properly bonded, if Ghost had frayed the bond beyond repair like a dog chewing through its leash, if, perhaps, you had done something wrong. Maybe your disbelief has sown rot into your soul, an infected tether that poisoned both of you.Ā
It was raining again, a chill passing beneath the frame of your window, the lights dim and low. The last of your coworkers had long gone home and night had long ago fallen.Ā
You were curled in your office chair, your blanket and Simonās tucked around your shoulders, when a gentle knock caught your attention.Ā
When you glanced up and found Ghost in your office doorway, you smiled, you forgot for a moment about that letter in your desk and everything it meant.Ā
āGhost,ā you greeted, unfolding your legs, blankets sloughing off your shoulders and into your lap. āHey.āĀ
āBird.āĀ
āItās late.āĀ
āIs,ā he agreed with a nod.Ā
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him and the knowledge that you would be leaving thisāhimāsoon clamped around you, seized something in your chest and squeezed. Fear and loss welled like twin heartaches, pooled in that hollow beneath your ribs that should only know warmth.Ā
He paused for only a moment before he rounded your desk, cupped your face between his ungloved palms and tilted your head up. He didnāt say anything, gaze trailing slowly over your features.Ā
Your chest tightened with the examinationābright, painful hope. To be the focus of your soulmateās attention was like being buoyed, like sitting in the sun. It made you feel deeply settled. It was nectar sweet and confusing. You wanted to kiss him and felt as though you should ask for nothing and receive even less.Ā
And guilt.Ā
You felt guilty for not telling him as soon as the papers were handed to you.Ā
You expected the contact to be brief, but when he pushed his forehead against yours, he left it there for a long moment.Ā
He didnāt usually and it gave you pause. His eyes were closed when you opened yours again. You felt as though he were asking for something but you couldnāt understand the question. Exhaustion curled off him in waves.Ā
āAre you okay?ā His eyes flickered open, confusion swirling in when he found you already looking at him.Ā
He tilted back and didnāt answer.
āYou look tired,ā you said carefully. āMore tired than usual, anyway.āĀ
āWhat are you still doinā āere?āĀ
āWaiting for you to come make us a tea.āĀ
He made a soft huffing sound that you took to be a laugh. āAye?ā
āMm.āĀ Ā
He made a discontent noise and pulled away entirely. āShite liar for someone who works in the shadows.āĀ
You smiled. āYou just know me too well.āĀ
āAlright?āĀ
A heavy hand closed around your throat and you glanced away. āYeah.āĀ
When he dropped into his usual chair, he tilted his head. You could read the words in his eyes before he said them. āWant to try that again?ā
āI would actually like a cup of tea,ā you said.Ā
āIāll make you a cuppa if you tell me.ā
You smiled, āNegotiating now?āĀ
āAlways seem to be.āĀ Ā
You frowned, not sure what he meant by that as you let your head fall back, wondering if you could put off telling him awhile longer. But Ghostās suspicion was raised now. He looked relaxed, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread wide. His chin was tipped down, brows knitted together. You knew he was ready to go home, by the simple mask he was wearing and the dark hoodie he was swaddled in.
You thought of pushing the hood back, tugging the mask off, raking your nails through his hair as you had that day in the guy, and banished the image with a shake of your head.Ā
You fidgeted, plucked at the edge of your sweater with nervous fingers. He wouldnāt care, you thought, and you werenāt sure what would be worse: apathy or relief.
Simon said your name slowly, a dangerous warning hidden somewhere in the back of his throat.Ā
The sound seemed to take up space in your chest.Ā
He watched you, waiting for you to spit it out, shoulders stiffening, brows an unyielding, lowered line.Ā
You took a deep breath, bravely plucked the letter from its place in your desk drawer, and slid it across the tabletop toward him.Ā
Simon went very still, staring at the unassuming little envelope. You waited and watched him, watched his eyes and the slope of his unmoving shoulders.
Tension bled into the air so thickly you felt as though you might choke on it. You clenched your jaw so tight that pain lanced down your neck and into the top of your spine.Ā Ā
Minutes passed and he didnāt so much as twitch. You werenāt sure he was breathing.
āSimon?ā You said quietly, gently, as you could. āYou okay?āĀ
He blinked, seemed to come back into himself, gaze locking onto yours as he reached for the letter with large, ungloved hands. His eyes only slid away from yours again when he pulled the letter out of its sleeve and glanced down to read it.Ā
āThatās all right,ā he said after a moment, his voice even.Ā
Your belly lurched. So apathy it was, unmoved by the prospect of you leaving.Ā
āI know,ā you said quietly. Your voice cracked under the pressure in your throat, as you willed yourself not to cry. āNothing to make a big deal about. Just thought you should knowāā
He shook his head and abruptly stood. āGhostā?āĀ
He crossed your office in two strides and wrenched open the door before he disappeared through it.Ā Ā
You frowned, wondering if you were meant to follow him, knowing that you never were. You settled back in your chair, tucking your legs in again, staring at the frost slowly creeping across the window glass, obscuring the fat yellow moon peeking from between parted winter clouds.Ā
Simon returned, to your surprise, a few minutes later, with a file folder.Ā
You felt a sense of dread as he dropped it on your desk.Ā
āWhat is this, Simon?āĀ
āIāve already started it.āĀ
That did not answer your question.Ā
You sat forward and pulled it toward you, flipped it open and found a half completed residency application. Your fingers froze before you thumbed through the myriad pages. Forms filled in in chunky block handwriting.Ā
āWhat is this?ā You asked again, attempting to quell the rising panic in your chest. āWhat did you do?āĀ
āThe bond has to be officially recognized first,ā he said, still not exactly answering your question.Ā
You swallowed. Youād heard about formal bond recognition and frowned at the last several instructional pages. Required photographic proof of bond pairing, and, an in person demonstration of proof of said bondā
You imagined it for a moment, the two of you before some faceless judge, Simon carving out another part of himself for the sake of you being able to remain when he didnāt even want you. Didnāt want you around, never wanted you to know who he was. And yet he was willing to shackle himself to you, toss the key away.Ā
Nausea welled, a heavy hand closing around your throat. A date was scratched in red at the bottom of the page for mid-April next year. Distantly, you realized it meant he had been working on this, thinking about it, for much longer than you had. It was. . .sweet.Ā
It should be sweet.Ā
You were suddenly aware of how much you did not know about him as you read through the pages. His birthday. His last name. If asked to fill out his half of the forms, you would not be able to. But it was all there in his own hand writing, information freely given for you when he had only given up his name by accident. He was giving up everything he kept close to the chest, that he kept from everyone.Ā
But your horror and revulsion won out when you turned the next page and found a scan of his military ID. His naked face stared blankly, uncomfortably out at you.Ā
What it all meant crashed down on you with the force of a toppled building. You saw yourself demonstrating the bond again. Simon unmasked, a wolf without its teeth, because you knew he would never let you be the one to prove the bond. He would stand there and carve himself up, wrench out a bone and lie it down as proof.Ā
Years of wishing you could protect the soulmate you didnāt know from further harm curled fingers through the bars of your ribs, prying loose that desperation.Ā
Now you could.Ā
His name, his face, his privacy, his sense of safety.Ā
You slammed the folder closed and shoved it away. āNo,ā you said, horrified. āNo. Absolutely not.āĀ
His brows softened when you glanced up at him. His voice was maybe the gentlest you have ever heard. āI would do it, loveāā
You made an involuntary, distressed sound. āJesus Christ, Ghost. No.āĀ
All this effort was not his choice, and you couldnāt take anymore from him. It was pity and harm rolled into one. It was self flagellation; it was locking a weight around his ankle and jumping into a deep lake.Ā
You couldnāt keep burdening the people around you, anyway. Simon with the bond he had no interest in and was plagued and bound by, the rest of the 141 being vulnerable for it.Ā
Price had asked you to take care of him and you could.Ā
Ghostās gaze was hard when you met his eyes. āWhy not?āĀ
There was a dangerous edge in his voice, a fissure that said tread carefully.Ā
āWhy would I ever want you to do this?ā You fired back.Ā
Your voice was panicked and louder than you meant it to be.Ā
He shrunk away, at the same time that his shoulders seemed to widen a few centimeters.Ā
āI canāt do that to you,ā you said, pushing the file back toward him. āI wonāt do that to you.āĀ
āYou arenāt going to try to stay.ā His voice was flat and far away.Ā
Something lurched behind your breastbone. You rubbed at the spot but the pain didnāt fade. āI will not let you scar yourself for nothing!ā You snapped.Ā
He was so still, his body a coiled spring. āNothing.ā His voice was hollow.Ā Ā Ā
You swallowed. āItās easier this way, Simon,ā you said after a long beat of silence. āItās safer, if I just go.āĀ Ā
He sat back, like youād punched him and was struggling for breath.Ā
You watched the wall come down in his eyes, protective distance, that blank, far away, unreachable look he always used to wear when he first started visiting your office.Ā
āThatās what you want, yeah?ā
You closed your eyes for a moment, and when you opened them again, he was gone, as though heād never entered your life at all.Ā
The room seemed to reverberate with the loss of him. A warning in the still, cold air, a tragedy leaching into your lungs.Ā
You fucked something up, but you werenāt sure what or how. You paced circles around your office until you felt ill. You knew he wouldnāt come back, that you might have broken the fragile peace that existed between you.Ā
Maybe it was for the best.Ā
The pain didnāt recede.Ā
.
.
.
You used to have nightmares.Ā
Each night you would lie down, close your eyes, and drown for a few hours. Long, looping gray halls, faint outlines of fists knuckled into drywall. You would search, thread your way up and down staircases without end, flinging open doors that led to the same bruised walls.
You could trace the trajectory of Simonās life through your scars. The child abuse heād clearly endured, the abrupt way the regular tracery of pain vanished, and then slowly appeared again. In starts and fits, enough for you to know that he had endured and finally escaped, and perhaps had a dangerous job, or lifestyle. You imagined a boxer, an MMA fighter. You imagined a construction worker, a welder, a fire fighter, a soldier.Ā Ā
For awhile, you were content, the dreams receded like nothing more than a bad memory. Mostly, he seemed to be safe, and that was enough. A new mark would occasionally be added to your skin, but it always seemed incidental, an accident or mishap. That you could handle.Ā
Then those awful months had come, where each morning there were fresh marks. Your fear was like a fist in your throat. You rarely slept, afraid of what your mind would conjure, afraid of all the ways you could never help. Your soulmate was being tortured, of that you were sure, and you could only watch.Ā
You would wake upāa plethora of new scars seared into your flesh, and a sense of pain, the impression of pain you should feel, lingering around you like a malignant cloudāand plead with anything, anyone that might be listening to help where you couldnāt. Your throat, chest, and back saw the most damage then. No more defensive scars on your palms, but thin circlets had formed around your wrists. No more bite marks but that awful corded scar had roped its way around your throat.Ā
The nightmares returned with vengeance clutched in their fists. Bloodier, more violent.Ā
Now, dreams of perpetual, unending silence. A life lived alone. Those same looping, gray halls filled with doors that you could hear other people behind, just out of reach, all locked. Most times, though, the dreams were more violent than that, blood on concrete, endless replays of dreams past, torture past.Ā
It filled you with a type of horror you thought long past you, that you thought couldnāt be felt anymore.Ā
But it was worse, now, knowing it was Simon that had inspired those dreams. It had been bad enough knowing only that it was the abstract concept of someone meant for you on the receiving end.Ā
Youāre sure your dreams were only a whisper of what he experienced.Ā
The dreams seemed to be arbiters, harbingers of some tragedy, rewritten lines of a play long acted out.Ā
You missed him.Ā
Didnāt know how to check on him.Ā
How to apologize for ever having shown up in his life.Ā
It made you wish youād turned down that transfer last year, that you had never gotten the one thing you always wanted.Ā
Soap, when he appeared in front of you, assessed your sleeplessness with an astute, bluntness you only felt numb to.Ā Ā
āYe look like shite.āĀ
āThank you for that, John MacTavish,ā you said, swerving around him and down the hall toward your office. āIs there something you need?āĀ
He followed you, situated himself as comfortably as he always did, firmly in Ghostās chair.Ā
āYou okay, lassie?āĀ
You clutched at the files as you hovered in the doorway and took a wincing breath. The pain hadnāt gone away. āYes. Just tired.āĀ
āGhost has been tired, too.āĀ
āItās a good thing you arenāt a spy, Soap.āĀ
āAye, but am not tryinā to be.āĀ
You huffed, tightened your hold on the files and tablet. The pressure against your chest helped. āIām getting transferred home.ā You smiled but it felt awkward and false. āGood news.ā
He tilted his head. āFor who?ā
āSimon,ā you said easily. āAnd all of you. Iām a burden the rest of you have to bear,ā you attempted to joke.Ā
Neither of you laughed.Ā
Johnny was uncharacteristically quiet, the silence like a shroud.Ā
āAnd you talked to the Ghost?ā He asked after a long moment.Ā
āYeah.ā
Johnny frowned. āAnd heās alrighā with thaā?ā
You frowned back at him, fidgeted, plucked at the edge of your sweater with nervous fingers. āI canāt ignore orders,ā you said simply, though you both knew there was a solution. The one Ghost had already thought of.Ā
Soap was still watching you, his head tilted to the side. āWhat dāye want?āĀ
A strange choking feel raked up your chest, bound itself over your heart. If you could, youād slip into Simonās bloodstream. To be carried there, to belong. You wanted so badly to be wanted, to have somewhere safe.Ā
You shook your head. āI donāt think it matters what I want.āĀ
It was unfair, though, that it didnāt.Ā
That you have never mattered.Ā
A sudden, intense burst of anger welled up in the back of your throat. āIām starting to think the whole fucking thing is foolās gold.ā You ground your teeth together, āI think itās all bullshit meant to give you hope. And nothing else. It never meant anything at all.ā
Johnny looked pained. āAch, birdāā
āNo,ā you interrupted. āNo. Iām sorry. Thatās not fair of me. I think I am uniquely fucked up.āĀ
A burst of warmth made you whirl toward the hall but no one was there.Ā
.
.
.
Once, Simon, without preamble, before you knew what he was to you, had abruptly asked one afternoon if youād ever gone through RTI training.Ā
āYes. I might not do field work, but I still know too much,ā youād answered and tilted your head curiously to the side. āWhy?ā
He had not answered, but looked marginally more at ease.Ā
āWere you?āĀ
āWhat?āĀ
āTortured?āĀ
His eyes had flicked over you. āThink you know the answer.āĀ
You had nodded.
āThey say to compartmentalize,ā you said, curious. āThat you buy time instead of trying to avoid talking. But I was never good with pain. What did you think of?ā
In an odd bout of truth sharing he had said, āDead now, what I thought of.ā He settled into his chair more firmly. āDonāt think of anything you care to lose.āĀ
And that had been that.Ā
.
.
.
Simon didnāt say goodbye.
You werenāt exactly speaking, anyway.Ā
Silence had unspooled between you and him, thick and cloying, a rope that wrapped tighter around his throat with each coil.Ā
Ghost still checked on you, watched from the shadows as you began moving through preparations to leave your post. Cases handed off to other intel officers, your office slowly depleted of the things that made it yours.Ā
The potted plants in their terracotta shells disappeared and reappeared in other officesāin the break room, on a filing cabinet in the hall. The bug lamp vanished and so did your blanket and the lavender headphones, the stack of books in the corner. Your scent faded, that oakmoss and lavender that permeated the air seemed to falter more with each passing day.Ā
When he peered into your office, a wraith at the edge of your life once again, you worked in total silent stillness in the cold room. You had not touched his blanket, slung over the back of the chair as it always was.Ā
Things were moving too fast, and he was wasting time. You would be gone by the end of the year; it was already the middle of December. He knew, when he looked in on you before they left, that it would be the last time. He would return to the base and your office would be empty, bereft.Ā
Soap was staring at him from across the transport plane, his brows drawn down, fists curled loosely around the straps of his vest. His sergeant looked angry.Ā
The air was cold.Ā
Simonās skin ached. That bloody pain was under his ribs again.Ā Ā
He couldnāt stop thinking of your blanket. Why would you remove it first when you needed it? You were always cold, always sun seeking. Your blanket abandoned, his hoodie you wouldnāt wear. It was like you were abandoning comfort.Ā
āThe lass seemedāā
āThatāll do, Sergeant,ā Ghost cut Soap off quietly, a warning in his voice. If Gaz and Price were listening, they didnāt show it, huddled over a tablet together at the far end of the hull.Ā
Soap glanced away. āWas cryinā before we left.āĀ
Ghost jerked his gaze back up.Ā
āEnough,ā he snarled, and then felt exhaustion tug his anger back down.Ā
He closed his eyes and leaned back, letting the heaviness of his gear fall against his body, crushing even as his spine loosened.
It was enough.Ā
He didnāt need to be reminded of your misery, or your rejection.Ā
Domestic conflict didnāt suit him. He was afraid of it, had only ever watched it end with a bruised cheek, tears, a voice like knives. He already swore that he would never be that kind of man, that he wouldnāt become his father.Ā
Conflict that couldnāt be swiftly ended with a gun or a blade was out of his bloody purview.Ā
You deserved better, and that truth had never been more apparent or that you knew it too.Ā
Why would I ever want you to do this?
Fair enough question.
Mapping his own fear wasn't easy. It didnāt come naturally.Ā
He wanted nothing more than to scoop it out with a rusty spoon, put it on offer to you.Ā
But you didnāt want that, and heād known that all along.Ā
The plane hummed and shook like it was in the fist of a giant, shuttling them through the sky, an overgrown child with a toy.Ā
āAye,ā Soap said, an unusual snap in his voice. āMaybe you were right, LT.ā
Ghost opened his eyes.Ā
It was bait.Ā
They both knew it.Ā
Ghost asked anyway, his voice low and dark. āUsually am. Care to tell me what about this time?āĀ
āMaybe she deserves better.āĀ
.
.
.
Task Force 141 was deployed on an emergency op. They left three days ago, chasing some nightmare that they had dealt with before. Intel that you had pooled and passed off to Laswell without too much thought about it, turned out to be something theyād long been searching for.Ā
Price checked in with you. Kyle and Soap said goodbye.Ā
Ghost disappeared without a word.Ā
You caught a glimpse of his shadow disappearing down the administration wingās hall before they had gone, warmth fading around you, and knew he had been outside your office. His involuntary monitoring only served to make your chest ache.
You knew that you werenāt likely to see any of them again. Your apartment was a sea of boxes; your office was bereft. It was unclear how long the op would last.Ā
You werenāt likely to see Ghost again, anyway, who had become as good as his namesake over the past few weeks. It was terrible, the way you waited and hoped that he would come back to you, just so you could say goodbye. He was impossible to hunt down when he did not want to be found.Ā
As it stood, you were alone, your office was empty for all but the equipment you were given on your first day and Simonās blanket. You werenāt sure what to do with it. It wasnāt yours but leaving it behind to be tossed in with the trash or thrown in storage somewhere to rot, festering alone, eaten by moths, seemed wrong.Ā Ā
Still, you had left it over the back of his chair. Maybe he would see it when he returned and finally take it with him.Ā
You did, however, keep the hoodie he had left in your apartment. No one had to know that you slept in it, felt comforted just by touching something that was his.Ā
Were you especially pathetic, or was that something all bonded soulmates felt? You couldnāt imagine Simon feeling that way about something of yours. It was hard to imagine him being comforted by anything besides a gun, a knife, his own violent hands.Ā Ā
Maybe if you werenāt so upset, maybe if things had gone differently, you would have noticed you were being followed long before it was too late to do anything about it.Ā
You were walking from your car to your apartment, gym and work bags slung over your shoulder, sweat still drying between your shoulder blades when the unease settled around you. You felt watched, not in the way that you had become accustomed to.Ā
The back of your neck prickled, some long buried sense warning you that danger was near. When you glanced over your shoulder, the street was empty and blue in the waning winter light, the barest fanning of snow shimmering, fans of yellow puddled down the sidewalk behind you.Ā
But you could hear footsteps.
You didnāt change your pace, slipping your hand into the front pocket of Simon's hoodie instead, feeling the comforting weight of the switchblade gifted to you all those months ago. Cold, solid metal.Ā
It felt a bit like safety, wrapped in Ghost's fading scent, the knife he'd given you in your palm.
All those nights you stayed late on the base, Simon waiting patiently for you to leave, eyes closed, arms crossed before he walked you to your car flicked through your mind.Ā
The irony struck you now, of all those careful wanderings to your car, no one had ever been there along this route. The path from your car to your front door was barren, the moment of your day that you were most alone.Ā
When you glanced behind you again, still no one was there.Ā Ā
You told yourself it was nothing, though every instinct was telling you that wasnāt true. Cold bled between your shoulders, snaked down your spine in a warning drip.Ā
The footsteps faded but the watched feeling didnāt.Ā
Once inside you locked the door behind you and made a beeline for your bed side table drawer where youād stored Simonās half completed residency application. You started to shred it with your hands before you realized that would not be enough.Ā
A thud on the landing outside made you jump, confirmed your worst thoughts. You were on your way out, all the case files and hard drives you had been trusted with handed back over to Laswell, debriefed a million and one times. There was only one thing someone could be looking for.Ā
You calmly carried the documents to your kitchen and threw them in the largest pot you had. It only took a moment for it all to go up in flame after you dropped a lit match in, suffocating his name and yours, the edges of the copy of his military ID going at the corners and then swallowing his face.Ā
You wanted to dig your hands into it, scoop the ash into your mouth, just to keep it all safe.Ā
For half a moment, as smoke curled around your kitchen, you felt stupid. It was probably nothing and youād just erased the only memory of your soulmateās face you had been allowed.Ā
Then, the front door exploded inward.
You were slammed into the counter, scattered remnants of the meager combat training you had received flicking through your head.Ā
But your body was faster than your brain, you wriggled loose and stabbed upward with the blade suddenly in your hand.Ā
You both seemed surprised when you made contact, slicing a long stripe along his cheek up to the corner of his eye. The point of your knife sunk into his eye, and when you ripped it back, blood sprayed across your ceiling.Ā
You had been drilled not to linger though, yanking back when he released your elbow, screaming and clutching his face.Ā
You dodged two more men whose fingers grazed you but didnāt catch. They seemed more surprised than you were that you avoided it, that maybe Ghost had been telling the truth when he said you were unreasonably fast.Ā
You flung your knife at the one in the foyer, and watched it sink to the hilt into his throat.Ā
You didnāt pause, flew down the steps to the road and wrenched down a black street and then a tiny alley that you hoped you could lose them in, that you could get lost in. The irritated crash of voices followed you as you zigzagged through the streets of the town that had become your home, and now had turned into a maze.Ā
Distantly, you realized they were speaking in Russian, footsteps pounding against the pavement behind you. The wind was bitterly cold, snow burning down around you.Ā
Ghostās words fanned across your mind, you just had to be fast enough to run away, to hide, that was all. You held onto his voice, the memory of him guiding you.
All you had to do was run away.Ā
But you turned down another street and found the narrow close ended in a brick wall that you were not tall enough to scale.Ā
This time when you were pushed forward, your temple connected with brick, stars bloomed across your vision. Your arms were pinned immediately to your sides.Ā
You threw your head back, skull connecting with a crack against someoneās nose.Ā
āYou fucking bitchāāĀ
Thick fingers against the back of your neck, slamming you forward into the brick again. This time nausea crawled into your throat along with pain and a thin trickle of blood, stars blooming across your vision.Ā
āEasy, easy! Nothing that will scar. Not yet.āĀ
You were shoved harder against the wall, an uncomfortable, heavy weight bowing your spine, but your captor was careful not to let your face rasp against the brick again.Ā
Blood licked warmly into the corner of your mouth, dripping lovingly into your mouth. A nerve throbbed behind your eye. You grunted, air squeezed out of your lungs when the man behind you leaned harder on you. āCareful, little rabbit,ā he said.Ā
Footsteps sounded behind the pair holding you captive, slow and measured, a brutal, unhurried pace that eventually stopped to your left.Ā
āI donāt have to wonder what you were burning, but I think I can guess,ā he said by way of introduction. āLetās see her face.āĀ
The hand on the back of your neck cupped your jaw instead, yanked your face around so violently you felt it in your neck.Ā
A manās face swims into your peripheral vision. Dark, sharply intelligent eyes met yours. Predatory, like looking into the teeth of a fox. You had seen his face before. And if he was here, the op the 141 was currently on was a decoy.Ā Ā
Fear swam into your gut, adrenaline sweeping down your spine.Ā
āAh,ā he said, reaching out to stroke the back of his pointer finger down your cheek. āYou must belong to Ghost,ā he said. He drew a blade slowly from his trouser pocket. It sung as he flipped it open and held it to your throat, drawing it shallowly over your flesh. āNo one else has so many scars.āĀ
You shivered and the blade bit deeper into your skin.
You felt blood pool warmly in the hollow at the base of your neck. āYes, I think if I had Simon Riley here, youād match, wouldnāt you?ā His eyes flicked over you, watching you closely.Ā
You didnāt blink, despite how irked you were that he knew Simonās name. Didnāt acknowledge the implication of your scars. āHe wonāt come,ā you said, voice hoarse. āIf thatās what this is.āĀ Ā
āHe will,ā he said, withdrawing the knife, wiping it clean on a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket, swiping it neatly clean. āSimon Riley,ā he said again, drawing out the syllables of a name you wanted to rip out of the air, stuff in your own mouth. āHe tends to have this kind of bad luck with things he cares for. Donāt you agree?āĀ
You didnāt move, didnāt breathe. The lancing pain in your head was growing and thinking was a failing battle. The pressure on your spine was intense, your lungs crushed beneath the weight of the man holding you in place, a mouse beneath a paw.Ā
You closed your eyes. āHe doesnāt care about me.āĀ
āThat is not how soulmates work.āĀ
You laughed, a choked horrible sound to your own ears.Ā
The world tasted like blood.Ā
Like the copper tang of a penny pressed beneath your tongue.Ā
You could taste it on your teeth.
āThen you donāt know Ghost very well.ā You said. āHe doesnāt want me.ā If anyone could overcome that instinct, that taboo, it was Ghost. He would not come for you, of that you were sure. It would be easier. āHe wonāt come. Itās the tactical choice.āĀ
āI suppose we will see, will we not? We will have fun together, you and I, in the meantime.āĀ
He disappeared from your view, footsteps disappearing back down the close.
Panic settled hard and fast in your stomach, what you were about to endure whether they killed you eventually or not.
You squirmed as the weight eased off your back, kicked backward desperately. Your sneaker connected with a shin before you were jerked around and slapped. You lunged forward, not sure what you were about to do when a sharp pain bloomed in the side of your throat and the world went dark.Ā
There was one thing you were certain of, though, as your consciousness faded and your body was hauled through the dark, the thickening snow.Ā
Makarov was wrong.Ā Ā
Simon was not coming.Ā
And you, as always, were alone.Ā
.
.
.
Ghost couldnāt shake the feeling that something was wrong.Ā
The base felt eerily silent as he tracked through it, hauling his kit, beelining for your office, the failed op like a warning bell in the back of his mind that he couldnāt ignore.Ā Ā
It was your intel, Laswell said, that led them there.Ā Ā
Your office was empty, dark.Ā
The only personal item left in the room was the blanket you had knitted for him all those months ago, left across the back of the chair he always sat in.Ā
He pressed gloved fingers against it and a chill curled in his gut. Your office, for so long a comfort, a warmth, a haven, felt barren, vacant. It smelled of dust, and he knew you hadnāt been there in a few days. The scent of your perfume no longer lingered in the air, your presence as faded as if youād never been there at all.Ā
It did not help the feeling that something wasnāt right.Ā
An indescribable, irrational fear gripped him. Like talons hooked around his lungs, pulling them slowly from between his ribs. The pain had returned, settled as neatly behind his breastbone as if it had never left.Ā
Nausea wound tight in his throat. He pressed a hand against his chest but it didnāt ease. It lingered, seemed to pulse worse than it ever had before. He had heard you and Johnny, once, talking about the pain. There were cases where it had returned, when soulmates were separated against their will, or, if one was in danger, dying, hurt.Ā
Usually it meant the pair was dying, it was a warning, an easing into the snap of the bond being severed forever.Ā
Simon dropped his kit, kicked the door shut and yanked up his sleeves, the hem of his shirt, searching fruitlessly for a needle in a fucking haystack.Ā
It was faint, at first, because it was yours and not his, buried beneath pain and thick scarring and years of not taking care of those scars.Ā
He watched, for the first time, as a scar that wasnāt his bled into his flesh.Ā
A deep one, puckering the meat of his forearm in a new and disturbing way. It was not an accident. A message was being writ in your skin for him to see.Ā
It didnāt hurt, and that was the worst part. The ghost of pain seemed to linger in the air above it, pain he should feel and didnāt, the suggestion of torment like an electric current he desperately wanted to stick his fingers into, wrap around his wrists and yank away from you.Ā
An involuntary, nearly inaudible sound wrenched out of him.
It wasnāt just one. The more he stared, the more faint, flicking lines he saw, across his arms, his stomach.Ā
He knew what it meant.Ā
He didnāt know how to process what he was seeing, or the feeling that accompanied it.Ā
The uncertainty and fear youād once described to him, of knowing that his soulmate was hurt but not how, of being helpless to watch, washed over him in a violent wave.Ā
He took a deep breath.Ā
Then another.Ā
Simon was gone.Ā
Price, he knew, would still be in his office.Ā
if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!
Hey hey, as a librarian, can I just say donāt pace yourself at the library. I get a lot of customers saying āoh I shouldnāt get too many books out at onceā but like you should!!!! Max out your card, take everything we have on a subject youāre interested in, make a book fort in your home. We love that shit! It doesnāt matter if you read them or not; just take them for an adventure and bring them back whenever theyāre due!
For public libraries, one of the ways we secure funding year to year is lending. Governments donāt want to fund more books if theyāre not being used and the way we measure use is by issues. Regardless of whether you read it or not, whether you have it for a day or a month, if you issue it to your library card, we get the stats! It makes the library look good!
Help your local library; get books out even if you know you canāt read them all!
I think we are focusing on the wrong thing when talking about mainstream romantasy adult books, instead of shaming straight cis women for reading kinky books, we should tralk about how most of the newer books aimed at that demographic are just conservative propoganda, rebranding patriarchy as a kink.
There's nothing inherently wrong about liking the types of kinks that are present, control, power imbalance, dark themes, but when you really look at the top performing novels (which they are mass prodicing at questionable speeds) it's hard to ignore the ever present morally grey man, who's posessive over the heroine who starts off as otherworldly different from the 'regular woman' aka damsel in distress), is cruel to everyone except her, and the fantasy world revolves around the control of women, especially when it comes to forced pregnancy.
I'm seeing a lot of responses to this saying "this is why I read queer stories" but you're missing the point! You can relate to queer media because you're queer, cis straight women should also have material that aren't turning their opression into kinks in almost every. single. book. If they want to choose to read those stories, that's absolutely fine, again nothing wrong with exploring those dynamics, but the concerning part is how fast they're being made with the rise of booktok, and the looming threat to women's autonomy.
Remember when all mlm stories were borderine assault stories in the early 90s-2000s? and how long it took for other queer stories to be made? we all used our voices to make a change, it didn't magically stop we fought for it to not be the only type of story.
And the solution to this, for people who are wondering, isn't to try to suppress romantasy books because they're not "good for women." That's an old, old game and never goes anywhere good. The solution is not less kink and less porn. The solution is more kink and more porn.
Because when you think about it, the problem isn't that you can go to your chosen bookseller and find a story where Sparklia Special gets semi-forced to have babies for Broody McDarkenfay (it's okay, she's into it). The problem is that it is unnecessarily difficult to look a little further down the shelf and find a vampire princess domming the hell out of the hunter who knows he shouldn't love her. Reducing people's choices always serves the reactionary agenda one way or another. Expanding choices. That's where it's at.
(If this sounds like I am making a pitch that we should write porn to defeat fascism, that'sā¦not entirely a mischaracterization. I mean, of course it won't defeat fascism, but I do feel that while we work to defeat fascism, we should at least have diverse and satisfying porn.)
Ive never thought about it this way but you're so right!!! The reason the romantasy books are all narrowly focused on submissive woman who makes babies for aggressive dominating dude is that this kind of fantasy is the most acceptable form of erotic fantasy for a patriarchal society that still broadly disapproves of women's sexual desires
Like there is kink, but it still ends up with the characters in a husband/wife type of relationship and the woman being submissive and birthing children and other stuff that follows the pattern of patriarchy... which makes it appear more "normal" and acceptable
Actually, I'm not even sure control and possessiveness as a kink has to be specifically patriarchal. you could have that dynamic for other reasons than one character being male and the other character being female
Joel takes off your boots, and you make out. Isn't life great?
warnings: fluff, kissing, established realtionship, lovesick musings
a/n: I promised y'all some Joel, and here he is. Be gentle with me -- it's been a while! A love letter to my red cowboy boots and how fucking hard they are to get off.
--
The orange fingers of tonight's summer sunset reach across the valley and tangle in the clouds. It's a damn near perfect evening to walk home.
Home.
Your boots click with every step. They're a real find, hand-stitched genuine leather in a muted red. Someone else owned these a long time ago. Stiff from disuse when you found them, but worn in enough to tug on comfortably, to walk into town for some dancing. To run in, if you had to.
But tonight you don't have to.
Joel didn't come with you. He does, sometimes, but dancing isn't really his thing. His knee bothers him more days than not, and he's hell-bent on avoiding being too likable so he doesn't go and get himself voted onto the town council. God forbid he be appreciated for everything he does around Jackson.
But you don't mind. He'll dance with you in the living room if you ask.
He'll crawl on his hands and knees through fire if you ask.
Devotion is rooted deep in him. It wraps thick vines around his battered heart and guides his steady hands, always looking for the next way to take care of you. Of the people he loves. The dying world is a hard place for a man like him -- he can't fix everything. Some days you know he feels like he can't damn near fix anything.
But he does more than enough for you. And you try your hardest to take care of him in return.
Joel is a dream you've had your whole life. A home to return to at the end of every night, someone you love on the other side of the threshold. Safety, comfort, belonging. Things you thought were long gone for so many years, ripped away just like everything else at the end of the world.
You and your boots stroll the rest of the way through town, around the corner and down your street. The summer breeze makes the familiar wind chimes on your porch sing, their sweet song reaching you and quickening your step until the house comes into view.
Home, home, home.
The outside light is on, but the chair out front is empty. On a night like this you'd expect to find Joel with his guitar, often with Ellie at his side. Sometimes he just sits, takes it all in. Rest remains shiny and new, a daunting and unfamiliar state of living.
But he's not on the porch tonight.
His absence doesn't worry you.
And what a thing that is -- not worrying. It's a muscle you forgot you could relax. Maybe not totally, never again totally, but this life you've found yourself in is good.
Joel is good.
You thud up the stairs and through the door he's left unlocked for you. There's hardly reason to lock doors in a place like Jackson, but some habits are hard to break, so you latch it behind you.
The lights are off, but you hear humming upstairs. He's working on something, probably, maybe folding laundry. You were at ease before, but now everything in you really relaxes, slots back into place. You just stand in front of the door for a moment, overcome with gratitude.
There's nothing special about today. But after so many years of waiting for death, of sometimes wanting it, having a life you want to fight for and hold onto with both hands is nothing short of a miracle.
"That you?" Joel calls from upstairs. His drawl sets you alight, a tether that brings you back to reality. The gratitude remains, but it simmers.
"Sure is," you reply. "I need your help with my boots."
"I'm comin'. Just gotta --" There's a thud above you. "Shit. Gimme a second, sweetheart."
You can wait. Joel is worth every second.
The kitchen still smells like the herbs you used for dinner hours ago before you went dancing. Joel seems to have done the dishes and put everything away. You pour yourself a glass of water from the faucet -- another novelty of this life you'll never get used to. Fresh water from pipes! You just about fainted when Tommy told you Jackson had running water when you arrived.
That's one of the positives about living past the end of the world, you suppose. The smallest things are marvels. Flicking on a light switch and knowing it'll work, storing the elk Ellie shot over the winter in a freezer, sleeping in a bed with clean sheets. Waking up every day with a little less fear than before, a warm, breathing, beloved person next to you.
You hop up on the counter and wait for said beloved. You're careful not to scuff the cabinets with your heels.
Joel's footsteps can be heard above you, the gentle creaks of the house as he moves around and eventually makes his way down the stairs.
"Alright," he sighs, finally coming into view. "Hey, there."
He's got his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he's wiping his hands on a rag. It's only been a few hours since you saw him last, but even so, it's the last piece of the puzzle. Now you're home.
"Did you get bested by the laundry?' you ask him. "Sounded like you were fightin' a battle up there."
He scowls. "Was oilin' laces on your boots," he says. "Knocked over the tallow pan. Cleaned it up, though."
You tilt your head slightly, and he presses a kiss to your cheek as he rounds the kitchen island, his beard lightly rubbing against your skin. He smells like fresh wood and the soap you make for your bathroom.
"I was going to do that tomorrow," you remind him. You told him so just this morning. This is his way -- he's always clearing the path for you. Making sure you have everything you need.
Joel shrugs. "I had time." He stands in front of you and you spread your knees to make room for him. He taps the outside of one knee and you extend your leg. "Y'always need help with these damn things," he says. "Ain't they hurtin' you?"
You shake your head, cheek pressing into your shoulder as you lean back on your hands and admire him. If they were, you're sure he'd find a way to stop it. Joel is in the business of keeping you safe, even if it's from something as small as shoes rubbing the wrong way.
"Nah," you say. "They're comfortable. The angle is just weird. But they're cute, right?"
Joel chuckles as you wiggle your still-booted leg, heel tipping forward and back like you're line dancing in midair.
"Mighty cute," Joel echoes.
He slides his hands up under your jeans until he finds the edge of your boot. His fingers curl around the top of your calf, warm and gentle, and his other hand tugs the heel.
These boots are easy to get on, but hell to get off by yourself. Maybe it's by design. A deep nudge by someone long-dead to find hands gentle enough to help you. Loving enough to welcome you home, to pull off your shoes with care and keep you safe. Maybe you found them for this moment right here.
"Did you have fun?" he asks.
"I did," you tell him. "The band played way too much Dave Matthews, though."
Together you tug in opposite directions and the boot comes off smoothly. Joel sets it gently on the floor and scoffs.
"Dave Matthews?" he says. "Who the hell requested that?"
"Some kids," you say. "Think they found a tape, or somethin.' Must be going through a phase."
"Hell of a phase," he mutters. "Christ."
You tell him more about it as Joel tugs off your other boot. The line dancing, the warmth of the whiskey, the gossip you heard along the edges of the hall. He listens with warm eyes and a small smile, like he's exactly where he wants to be.
"They're probably still at it," you say. "Felt like folks had a lot left in 'em."
Joel drags his palms up and down your thighs.
You would touch him all the time, if it was practical. There's nothing in the world that grounds you more, that makes you feel safer, than Joel's hands on you.
"Not you?" he asks.
You smile at him, fondness radiating out of you.
"Wanted to come home," you tell him.
He ducks his chin and clicks his tongue. He's not a shy man, but sometimes you know he's just as surprised as you are that you've found yourselves here. Safe, happy, together. That you love him so much. It's your mission to make sure he never doubts it.
"We goin' upstairs?" Joel asks.
You hook your legs around his thighs and pull. He goes easily, willingly, hands pressing into the counter on either side of you.
"In a minute," you whisper, so close to him that your noses brush. Joel readjusts his hands, sliding one wide palm over the curve of your waist and down your thigh. He hitches your leg higher on his hip. The other hand goes to your face, thumb tracing a line down your cheek to the corner of your lips.
"A minute," he huffs. "Wonder what can happen in a minute."
He clears your path, but he's also always by your side, ready to go where you want to take him.
You tuck your fingers in the waistband of his jeans and he leans forward. Your lips slot together.
There are countless romantic ways to describe kissing someone you love. They're all true, and they're all not enough.
Joel knows you. All of his touches are certain, practiced. He holds you just right, your pulse thrumming against his palm. His kiss is unhurried. He knows very well he's got more than a minute. He's got all the time in the world.
But your want has only grown over the years. Being close to him both relaxes you and sets your body alight. Safety and desire wound together in their own embrace. So when Joel pulls back for a breath you chase him and are rewarded with a low laugh.
"Got somewhere to be?" he teases.
"I like kissing you," you tell him. "Sue me."
He huffs, eyes crinkling the corners from his pleased smirk.
If anyone asked, you'd say he gets more handsome every day. He's lighter, too. The weight he carries around all the time is still there, but you know he breathes easier in this town, this house, you arms. Everyone he loves is here. His kid, his brother, you.
Life looks good on Joel Miller.
You could stare at him forever, admire the warmth in his eyes and the strong line of his jaw. You know he'd let you drink your fill.
Even now, he waits for you to make the next move, to take whatever it is you want from him. He'll always give it freely.
"Are you flirtin' with me?" he asks.
You scoot closer to the edge of the counter so he's not leaning over quite so much.
"Is it working?"
Joel hums as you drag your hands up his chest and drape your arms over his shoulders.
"Might be," he drawls.
You've had enough. You kiss him again, this time tracing the seam of his lips with your tongue. He makes an amused noise but opens for you, palms finding your hips as you lick into his mouth.
Your fingers sink into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug a little. Joel presses his fingers harder into your flesh in response. It makes you gasp and he takes control of the kiss, taking his turn to explore you like it's the first time all over again.
Joel kisses you like you're an answer. Like this is the end of a long road.
And the thing is, this is hard won. From the world, but also from the man in your arms. You'd swear on your life that he's easy to love, but refused for a long time to see it. To see that he's more than a protector, than a father, than a partner. That he's a man, a man who can be held and helped and loved. A man who deserves to have someone make his coffee on slow mornings so he can sleep later, a man whose long-healed wounds are allowed a tender touch, a man who does not have to look over his shoulder and see no one at his back.
You're here, now. And will be here by his side as long as you can.
You kiss and kiss and kiss. You could probably do this forever, the familiar scratch of Joel's beard on your skin, the noises you can pull from him with a tug of his hair, the firm weight of his hands on your hips, your back, your jaw.
But the counter is cold and firm, and there's a soft bed upstairs.
Joel drags his lips down your cheek and laves at your pulse point. You let him leave what will certainly be a bruise come morning before leaning back from him and pressing one hand over his heart. He ceases his attentions immedietly.
"You okay?" he murmurs, a mouth full of gravel.
His pupils are blown and his lips are swollen and spit-slick. You must look much the same.
"Now we can go upstairs," you say. He huffs and squeezes your hip before stepping back.
You hop down from the counter. Joel makes to pick up your boots, but before he can you catch him in the circle of your arms. He makes a low noise of surprise but lets you hug him and wraps his arms around you.
"Thank you," you say into his shirt. You can feel his heart beating.
You're thanking him for helping you with your boots, but also everything else. Oiling your laces. Cleaning up the dishes. Making this house a home for you both.
He'll rarely allow it, your gratitude. Not for the way he watches your back, trusts you with his. Not for the things he does for you, the books he brings back from patrol and the nights he holds you when you can't face what's behind your eyelids. Not for the way he loves you, the way he lets you love him.
But tonight he just presses his lips to your hair and breathes with you.
i donāt even know what to say. iām actually getting emotional because i loved this so much.
ājoel is a dream youāve had your whole lifeā
my god. reading this felt like coming home, like someone reached into my deepest feeling and expressed it in words. genuinely in awe of your talent and so grateful you shared this ā„ļø
Joel takes off your boots, and you make out. Isn't life great?
warnings: fluff, kissing, established realtionship, lovesick musings
a/n: I promised y'all some Joel, and here he is. Be gentle with me -- it's been a while! A love letter to my red cowboy boots and how fucking hard they are to get off.
--
The orange fingers of tonight's summer sunset reach across the valley and tangle in the clouds. It's a damn near perfect evening to walk home.
Home.
Your boots click with every step. They're a real find, hand-stitched genuine leather in a muted red. Someone else owned these a long time ago. Stiff from disuse when you found them, but worn in enough to tug on comfortably, to walk into town for some dancing. To run in, if you had to.
But tonight you don't have to.
Joel didn't come with you. He does, sometimes, but dancing isn't really his thing. His knee bothers him more days than not, and he's hell-bent on avoiding being too likable so he doesn't go and get himself voted onto the town council. God forbid he be appreciated for everything he does around Jackson.
But you don't mind. He'll dance with you in the living room if you ask.
He'll crawl on his hands and knees through fire if you ask.
Devotion is rooted deep in him. It wraps thick vines around his battered heart and guides his steady hands, always looking for the next way to take care of you. Of the people he loves. The dying world is a hard place for a man like him -- he can't fix everything. Some days you know he feels like he can't damn near fix anything.
But he does more than enough for you. And you try your hardest to take care of him in return.
Joel is a dream you've had your whole life. A home to return to at the end of every night, someone you love on the other side of the threshold. Safety, comfort, belonging. Things you thought were long gone for so many years, ripped away just like everything else at the end of the world.
You and your boots stroll the rest of the way through town, around the corner and down your street. The summer breeze makes the familiar wind chimes on your porch sing, their sweet song reaching you and quickening your step until the house comes into view.
Home, home, home.
The outside light is on, but the chair out front is empty. On a night like this you'd expect to find Joel with his guitar, often with Ellie at his side. Sometimes he just sits, takes it all in. Rest remains shiny and new, a daunting and unfamiliar state of living.
But he's not on the porch tonight.
His absence doesn't worry you.
And what a thing that is -- not worrying. It's a muscle you forgot you could relax. Maybe not totally, never again totally, but this life you've found yourself in is good.
Joel is good.
You thud up the stairs and through the door he's left unlocked for you. There's hardly reason to lock doors in a place like Jackson, but some habits are hard to break, so you latch it behind you.
The lights are off, but you hear humming upstairs. He's working on something, probably, maybe folding laundry. You were at ease before, but now everything in you really relaxes, slots back into place. You just stand in front of the door for a moment, overcome with gratitude.
There's nothing special about today. But after so many years of waiting for death, of sometimes wanting it, having a life you want to fight for and hold onto with both hands is nothing short of a miracle.
"That you?" Joel calls from upstairs. His drawl sets you alight, a tether that brings you back to reality. The gratitude remains, but it simmers.
"Sure is," you reply. "I need your help with my boots."
"I'm comin'. Just gotta --" There's a thud above you. "Shit. Gimme a second, sweetheart."
You can wait. Joel is worth every second.
The kitchen still smells like the herbs you used for dinner hours ago before you went dancing. Joel seems to have done the dishes and put everything away. You pour yourself a glass of water from the faucet -- another novelty of this life you'll never get used to. Fresh water from pipes! You just about fainted when Tommy told you Jackson had running water when you arrived.
That's one of the positives about living past the end of the world, you suppose. The smallest things are marvels. Flicking on a light switch and knowing it'll work, storing the elk Ellie shot over the winter in a freezer, sleeping in a bed with clean sheets. Waking up every day with a little less fear than before, a warm, breathing, beloved person next to you.
You hop up on the counter and wait for said beloved. You're careful not to scuff the cabinets with your heels.
Joel's footsteps can be heard above you, the gentle creaks of the house as he moves around and eventually makes his way down the stairs.
"Alright," he sighs, finally coming into view. "Hey, there."
He's got his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he's wiping his hands on a rag. It's only been a few hours since you saw him last, but even so, it's the last piece of the puzzle. Now you're home.
"Did you get bested by the laundry?' you ask him. "Sounded like you were fightin' a battle up there."
He scowls. "Was oilin' laces on your boots," he says. "Knocked over the tallow pan. Cleaned it up, though."
You tilt your head slightly, and he presses a kiss to your cheek as he rounds the kitchen island, his beard lightly rubbing against your skin. He smells like fresh wood and the soap you make for your bathroom.
"I was going to do that tomorrow," you remind him. You told him so just this morning. This is his way -- he's always clearing the path for you. Making sure you have everything you need.
Joel shrugs. "I had time." He stands in front of you and you spread your knees to make room for him. He taps the outside of one knee and you extend your leg. "Y'always need help with these damn things," he says. "Ain't they hurtin' you?"
You shake your head, cheek pressing into your shoulder as you lean back on your hands and admire him. If they were, you're sure he'd find a way to stop it. Joel is in the business of keeping you safe, even if it's from something as small as shoes rubbing the wrong way.
"Nah," you say. "They're comfortable. The angle is just weird. But they're cute, right?"
Joel chuckles as you wiggle your still-booted leg, heel tipping forward and back like you're line dancing in midair.
"Mighty cute," Joel echoes.
He slides his hands up under your jeans until he finds the edge of your boot. His fingers curl around the top of your calf, warm and gentle, and his other hand tugs the heel.
These boots are easy to get on, but hell to get off by yourself. Maybe it's by design. A deep nudge by someone long-dead to find hands gentle enough to help you. Loving enough to welcome you home, to pull off your shoes with care and keep you safe. Maybe you found them for this moment right here.
"Did you have fun?" he asks.
"I did," you tell him. "The band played way too much Dave Matthews, though."
Together you tug in opposite directions and the boot comes off smoothly. Joel sets it gently on the floor and scoffs.
"Dave Matthews?" he says. "Who the hell requested that?"
"Some kids," you say. "Think they found a tape, or somethin.' Must be going through a phase."
"Hell of a phase," he mutters. "Christ."
You tell him more about it as Joel tugs off your other boot. The line dancing, the warmth of the whiskey, the gossip you heard along the edges of the hall. He listens with warm eyes and a small smile, like he's exactly where he wants to be.
"They're probably still at it," you say. "Felt like folks had a lot left in 'em."
Joel drags his palms up and down your thighs.
You would touch him all the time, if it was practical. There's nothing in the world that grounds you more, that makes you feel safer, than Joel's hands on you.
"Not you?" he asks.
You smile at him, fondness radiating out of you.
"Wanted to come home," you tell him.
He ducks his chin and clicks his tongue. He's not a shy man, but sometimes you know he's just as surprised as you are that you've found yourselves here. Safe, happy, together. That you love him so much. It's your mission to make sure he never doubts it.
"We goin' upstairs?" Joel asks.
You hook your legs around his thighs and pull. He goes easily, willingly, hands pressing into the counter on either side of you.
"In a minute," you whisper, so close to him that your noses brush. Joel readjusts his hands, sliding one wide palm over the curve of your waist and down your thigh. He hitches your leg higher on his hip. The other hand goes to your face, thumb tracing a line down your cheek to the corner of your lips.
"A minute," he huffs. "Wonder what can happen in a minute."
He clears your path, but he's also always by your side, ready to go where you want to take him.
You tuck your fingers in the waistband of his jeans and he leans forward. Your lips slot together.
There are countless romantic ways to describe kissing someone you love. They're all true, and they're all not enough.
Joel knows you. All of his touches are certain, practiced. He holds you just right, your pulse thrumming against his palm. His kiss is unhurried. He knows very well he's got more than a minute. He's got all the time in the world.
But your want has only grown over the years. Being close to him both relaxes you and sets your body alight. Safety and desire wound together in their own embrace. So when Joel pulls back for a breath you chase him and are rewarded with a low laugh.
"Got somewhere to be?" he teases.
"I like kissing you," you tell him. "Sue me."
He huffs, eyes crinkling the corners from his pleased smirk.
If anyone asked, you'd say he gets more handsome every day. He's lighter, too. The weight he carries around all the time is still there, but you know he breathes easier in this town, this house, you arms. Everyone he loves is here. His kid, his brother, you.
Life looks good on Joel Miller.
You could stare at him forever, admire the warmth in his eyes and the strong line of his jaw. You know he'd let you drink your fill.
Even now, he waits for you to make the next move, to take whatever it is you want from him. He'll always give it freely.
"Are you flirtin' with me?" he asks.
You scoot closer to the edge of the counter so he's not leaning over quite so much.
"Is it working?"
Joel hums as you drag your hands up his chest and drape your arms over his shoulders.
"Might be," he drawls.
You've had enough. You kiss him again, this time tracing the seam of his lips with your tongue. He makes an amused noise but opens for you, palms finding your hips as you lick into his mouth.
Your fingers sink into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug a little. Joel presses his fingers harder into your flesh in response. It makes you gasp and he takes control of the kiss, taking his turn to explore you like it's the first time all over again.
Joel kisses you like you're an answer. Like this is the end of a long road.
And the thing is, this is hard won. From the world, but also from the man in your arms. You'd swear on your life that he's easy to love, but refused for a long time to see it. To see that he's more than a protector, than a father, than a partner. That he's a man, a man who can be held and helped and loved. A man who deserves to have someone make his coffee on slow mornings so he can sleep later, a man whose long-healed wounds are allowed a tender touch, a man who does not have to look over his shoulder and see no one at his back.
You're here, now. And will be here by his side as long as you can.
You kiss and kiss and kiss. You could probably do this forever, the familiar scratch of Joel's beard on your skin, the noises you can pull from him with a tug of his hair, the firm weight of his hands on your hips, your back, your jaw.
But the counter is cold and firm, and there's a soft bed upstairs.
Joel drags his lips down your cheek and laves at your pulse point. You let him leave what will certainly be a bruise come morning before leaning back from him and pressing one hand over his heart. He ceases his attentions immedietly.
"You okay?" he murmurs, a mouth full of gravel.
His pupils are blown and his lips are swollen and spit-slick. You must look much the same.
"Now we can go upstairs," you say. He huffs and squeezes your hip before stepping back.
You hop down from the counter. Joel makes to pick up your boots, but before he can you catch him in the circle of your arms. He makes a low noise of surprise but lets you hug him and wraps his arms around you.
"Thank you," you say into his shirt. You can feel his heart beating.
You're thanking him for helping you with your boots, but also everything else. Oiling your laces. Cleaning up the dishes. Making this house a home for you both.
He'll rarely allow it, your gratitude. Not for the way he watches your back, trusts you with his. Not for the things he does for you, the books he brings back from patrol and the nights he holds you when you can't face what's behind your eyelids. Not for the way he loves you, the way he lets you love him.
But tonight he just presses his lips to your hair and breathes with you.
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