Okay we saw new nurse who robby was chatting up.... but what about new nurse chatting up doc during shift change? Robby's hanging around and itching to go over there but it's Jack (who swans in outta nowhere) and manages to break up the duo. I don't think Robby would thank him for it but he might think Jack did it for his sake which he does bring up at some point but Jack wasn't even thinking about him.
And
Before the divorce (like right before) did doc tell anyone she was like one more bad night away from leaving him? Did that person encourage the sabbatical? Did it affect how they interact with Robby (or maybe they weren't his biggest fan to begin with)? Or maybe it was someone else (like a waiter at a restaurant they frequented who may have also been present for Robby in a previous relationship that also didn't last) who says something when reader comes in dejected and alone?
SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST(S) | PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART | INBOX ā
Ėāā® JACK and ROBBY'S EX!READER are fucking... the other new nurse also has no idea. andāback before the splitālouie lets you use his room to let it out. warnings include flirty unnamed oc, hypocrite!robby in denial, language, switching pov's, louie appearance (YAY), attending!reader in the present section/R4!reader in the flashback (not in italics), ANGST, dead spouse + child mention, comfort, unhealthy marriage, crying; 1.2k words, mdni
...AFTER ā¦
even though there shouldn't be, because it's you, a burning sensation is working it's way through robby's chest. he's also itchy all over, and just about five seconds away from breaking up whatever this is.
four timesāfour!ālooking at your lips. 'what's your favorite food? oh, i love that, too.' twice at your chest. 'i, personally, think you're cooler than robby, doc. but don't tell 'im i said that, yeah?' an exaggerated compliment of your earrings. 'y'know, i've been thinking of getting another piercing, but i'm not sure what to get next. whaddaya think, doc?'
oh, give him a fucking break.
this kid has known you for a few days, but is already calling you doc? and who gives a fuck what you think? you have a god damn teddy bear on your top.
"i'm serious, the scrubs are cute. not every day you see an attending wearing colorful stuff like thatā"
robby blinks at the call of your name. it's jack, swooping in with long, uneven strides.
see, now that's a good friend. a real one. knowing that robby can't fucking stand you, but that you're still his ex, and the last thing he needs to see is someone flirting with the reason he can no longer sleep at night.
"diaz needs you in chairs."
jack's words are short and sure, attached to a stare that leaves no room for the nurse to even consider negotiating. both you and the nurse hold your breaths at jack and the hands he has stuffed into his pockets.
"oh, uhā¦ y-yeah, 'course," the nurse clears his throat, eye flicking between yourself and jack's unmoving regard. "i'll see ya around, doc."
robby scratches his head when you actually give him a small-smiled, head-tipping goodbye. just touch the guys arm and kiss him away, why don't you? jeezā¦
knowing your ex-husband is still watching, jack keeps his back to him in a sturdy stand to send you two quick winks. of course, he gets to smirk while you have to force your lips to remain unmoved behind your pen cap.
"go away, please," you mumble, feeling a laugh trying to bubble up out of you. jack just huffs, which makes your facade even harder to maintain. any second, and you'll be breaking.
"'whaddaya think, doc?'" jack manages to dissolve the grin on his face, but leaves an amusing tease just behind the mimic. you bite your pin and hide your face from where robby can see, taking off for somewhereā¦ anywhere else but here.
over at the hub, robby sighs. not in relief, because he isn'tārelieved. but jack's little move has stopped the hest burning and itchy skin enough to stop robby's teeth from grinding.
robby hints something to jack before he departs for the night. something about being grateful for a friend like jack, how it's good to know that at least someone here has his back. ever since you returned, it's felt like almost everyone had been on your side, repping your colors; which sucks, but he'll take a team with he and jack any day of the week.
jack nods at the words while patting robby's shoulder, keeping the truth to himself. like you said, robby can think what he wants. jack wasn't playing hero, nor was michael robinavitch a mere thought in his mind after seeing the nurse with the piercings trying to leeean himself into you.
leaning into you is reserved for jack. that's his job. leaning and calling your scrubs cuteā¦ 'cause they are.
...AND BEFORE ā¦
"hey, uhā¦ doc."
louie's words hesitate out of him. his usual certainties and smiles have a hard time retaining their strength at the sight of your shaky hands and tears in your eyes. by the time you turn around, a few of them have escaped. from the bed, louie frowns at how you don't even try to wipe them away. the chil of the exam room fills with gloom.
for a long moment, the two of you look at one another. more tears fall, but you stay silent. louie takes a breath before speaking, all sobered up by now.
"you can let it out. i won't tell anybody." a true promise. one that wells more tears and catches your breath as you ease back toward the bed with slow steps.
louie gives you whatever time you need to gather your thoughts, the only thing stopping him from reaching for the kleenex the IV trapping his arm with flowing medicine.
"iā¦ i love him. i swear i do," your pause your thick-with-tears, quiet voice to swallow, resuming even softer, afraid someone will hear. that he'll hear. "but i don't think that's e-hic-nough f-for him. he won't talk t'me. i can'tāi can't, umā¦ get him to just talk to me, he keep saying i can't handle, hic, it. all i wanna do is be there for h-him, be happy with him like he said we would be. b-but if i can't do that, if he won't open up and let me by more th-than some kind ofā¦ pastime, then i don't wanna stayā"
your body interrupts itself with a loud gasp for air, and you rush to cover your mouth. more tears. even after you close your eyes, wanting to hide.
the cries into your palm only soften when you feel two hands grip your free one. wet lashes fluttering, your shoulders drop when you see louie clasping your grips together. there's something in his stare, something that tells you he doesn't quite know the same pain but has experienced a different kind that made him feel as broken as you look and sound right now.
"i'm sorry," you whisper out, but louie shakes his head while you wipe at your face.
"no way, doc. no sorry's. we both know you've seen me worse off than this, so it's only right i try to return the favor. here, sit down." louie ignores your sniffled no no no's when he shuffles at little to make room for you to settle just off the edge.
"louie, no. i can't, 'm so sorry. i shouldn't have evenā"
the way he's looking at you trails the rest of your sentence into nothing. with knowing eyes and a face that makes you want to cry harder.
it takes you a while nine seconds to surrender, and you perch on the side of his bed. biting the inside of your cheek just as another handful of wet spills over your lash line.
"ā¦you stay in here as long as you need, doc. we'll just tell 'em i got scared'a the needle, and wanted some company."
you release a short laugh after a long sniffle, accepting the hand louie offers up again.
the older man sits there as you work through it.
holding your hand.
watching you.
wondering.
he and his wife weren't perfect by any means. he doesn't expect you and robby to be, either, but the sight of you like thisā¦ it's so different from the way he saw you when he'd first spotted your ringā¦ so different from the usual happy, jokey doc he's used to seeing. the one that lights up the hospital, even after a steelers' annual thursday night football loss.
he justā¦ doesn't understand it. dr. robby letting it get like this, to where you're crying to other people about how bad it is. crying to him, ol' louie dang cloverfield.
maybe it's because he'd give anything to see rhonda again, to give her and their child the entire world and then some. but he couldn't imagine letting her feel like you're describing.
literally gasping for air at the mere thought of the person they married. the person they thought they married.
pairing ā ex!dr. michael robinavitch x f!reader; dr. brendon park x f!reader
rating ā explicit. minors dni
wc ā 1.9k
summary ā stupid, stupid robby broke up with you in the worst moment possible. now he has to see you being happy with the head of ortho, park the shark.
warnings ā tiny bit of angst, some fluff, SMUT. mostly on robbyās POV. robby is an emotional constipated idiot. jealousy, voyeurism, public sex, oral (f receiving), p in v, masturbation, a bit of pervy!robby.
she/her pronouns and afab!reader. no specific descriptions of body type, race or ethnicity. all lowercase for styling purposes.
a/n ā hellaur! i have no excuse for writing this other than woman by harry styles started playing and the first thing that came to mind was āwhat if robbyās ex got with park because he was an idiot? and what if he is creepy about it?ā and this came out. just a small little thing to get the feeling out. might be shit, who knows.
hope you enjoy it and thank you for reading š¤
dividers by @/uzmacchiato
michael robinavitch is a man of very little regrets in his personal life. if you were to ask him what those regrets are, he would say: not buying his dream brownstone that went on market a few years back and not going on more vacations. but there is a third one that he doesnāt dare to admit, one that he keeps locked away in his mind. and that is letting you go.Ā
you, his best soon-to-be-attending that arrived in his life six years ago. the over achieving, dual residency seeking (emergency and surgery) girl, too smart of your own good intern that did everything to get on his good graces. he pretended that it annoyed him, but his ego got the massage of its life.Ā
your personality bewitched him. how selfless you are, how you are always there for your friends and coworkers, how you let your fellow residents take charge and show their competency.Ā
he also loves how you loved him. the way you paid attention to all of his tells and how you were there when he needed. the company was great, and the sex even better.Ā
but michael being michael, fucked it all up.Ā
it happened three months ago. three or four days after your eight month anniversary, something you never dared to talk about with him, knowing very well what his reaction would be, robby took you out for dinner. nothing fancy, just that local restaurant the both of you liked going on weekends or on your days off to distress, with good food and silent enough to carry on a conversation without having to shout. and as usual, you went back to yours, rode him like your life depended on it, losing count of how many times he made you come. the last orgasm he gave you, a combination of his tongue and your favourite vibrator, shattered you, turned you into a clingy mess that only wanted to feel the weight of his body on you.Ā
you had embraced him, hugged him tight as he laid on top of you. with your ear to his chest, you counted his heartbeat. the thrumming inside his chest combined with the way his long, slender fingers softly massaging your scalp relaxed you.Ā
it relaxed you so much that the three little words you kept locked inside your heart for as long as you could remember, involuntarily came out. āgod, i love you.ā
his heartbeat probably went over the hundreds, his body stiffed on top of you, and his hands left your hair instantly, helping him get up.Ā
āmikey, where are yoāā
āi canāt do this.ā he interrupted you.Ā
āwhat?ā
āwe should break up.ā were the last words he told you before he left your apartment.Ā
over the next weeks, as expected, the only words you exchanged with him were restrictedly related to the cases you had to present to him.Ā
what he didnāt expect was how fast you got over him.Ā
he had noticed that you were happier by the day, noticed how your smile had slowly gotten back to you and how you were hiding a bruise or two under your shirt, just like you did when he was the one to mark you.Ā
didnāt take long for him to find out the culprit.Ā
it was just another wednesday. you had arrived with a pep on your step and more talkative than normal, what earned you a āgreat sex last night, huh?ā from santos. all you said was āamazing.ā
the day followed on the calmer side, triage was slow for once and barely any traumas were brought in by the EMTs.Ā
robby made his way to the bathroom, thankful that he didnāt have to hold his pee again. as he was about to reach the bathroomās door, something caught his eyes. you, with your back against the wall, all smiles as brendon park said something to you.Ā
he hid behind a wall, cursing himself for acting so childish. but curiosity got the best of him and he had to see who was making you happy now.Ā
park had lunch box in his hand, awfully pink for a man like him. michael made out the words āyou have to eatā coming from the ortho surgeon, as he handed you the lunch box. it made you smile and robby is pretty sure some joke left your lips, because seconds later, the ever so stoic park started laughing.Ā
that felt like a stab on robbyās heart.Ā
then, the other manās fingers traced the side of your neck, pulling your turtle neck down to see the work he did the night before. robby couldnāt see, but he bet it was the hickeys you loved getting so much.
something about ownership and feeling him for days after, you had told him once.Ā
brendon pulled the fabric up again, apologised to you like he had done something horrible, but promised to do it again. the bubble that embraced the two of you bursted seconds later when parkās pager went off, telling him the OR was finally ready.Ā
the tender kiss park gave you on your temple was robbyās last straw.Ā
he angrily made his way to the bathroom, peed, washed his hands so hard they were red after. unconsciously, robby made his way to the break room, only to find you there, happily eating.Ā
he moved around, found some stale coffee that he refused to drink and set a new one to be made.Ā
he was still twinkling with the coffee maker, with his back turned to you when he said āpark, huh?ā
āmhm.āĀ
ādidnāt peg him for your type.ā robby said as he turned around, taking a sip of his coffee.Ā
you smiled at him. āand what exactly is my type, michael?ā
me, he thought, but didnāt say it. he shook his head. āpark is closed off, brash, he isāā
āheās a really nice guy when you get to meet him,ā you cut him off. āheās really caring and attentive, never made me feel like i have to hide my feelings. besides, he doesnāt leave me alone when iām vulnerable after cumming god knows how may times because he isnāt emotionally stunned.ā
robby visually grimaced and nodded his head. āgot it.ā
after that day, robby only talked to you about work.Ā
something told him he should have gone home, but it was emeryās birthday and she had made a huge deal about him and abbot coming to their usual bar for some celebratory drinks.Ā
you arrived about twenty minutes after him, with brendon in tow. you have that glow you always get after being well rested after a day off. brendonās hand is on your waist and you smile when he leans down to whisper something in your ear.Ā
like you always do, you go around the table, saying your helloās and hugging your closest friends. robby earns a pat on his shoulder, and thatās more than what you have given him in months.Ā
the night goes smooth, except for the fact the only free seats for you and park are in front of him, forcing robby to either mingle or see how loving brendon is to you.Ā
so he sings a song or two on the karaoke with yolanda, trinity and dennis and plays countless rounds of pool and darts with donnie, jack, emery and shen.Ā
he wonāt lie, more often than not, he found himself looking at your direction, looking around to see what you were doing. only to find you laughing with park while victoria and samira told an absurd story, or slow dancing with your new boyfriend in a secluded corner of the bar.Ā
the last sight of you was ten minutes ago after he caught your irish goodbye.Ā
robby looks at his watch and sees it is almost eleven. he tells his friends goodbye, tells someone that he has a shift early tomorrow when a voice asked him to stay a bit longer, and wishes emery a happy birthday again.Ā
the cool breeze hits robby as soon as he is outside of the bar. it is a short distance to his house, only four blocks, and robby decides that walking will do him better.Ā
he needs to clear his head.Ā
his walk is cut short the moment he walks by the alley beside the bar. robby hears a moan, a too familiar one, that once called out his name and now stretches out a languid ābrenā.
he freezes, debating if he should keep on his merry way or snoop around. but it feels like his legs have its own set of brains and, next thing he knows, he is hiding behind a dumpster watching the way brendon is kneeled between your legs, his wide shoulders being used to support your trembling body up as he eats your pussy like a man starved.
part of him wants to chastise himself, tell him that he is too old for this, that he could go to jail if he got caught, but fuck, you let out another strangled moan, the one he knew it indicated that you were close to falling from the edge, and one thing led to another, and his hands were undoing his zipper and freeing his painfully hard cock from the confines of his pants.Ā
ābren, baby. please, iām soāā you beg and another tortured moan lives your lips.Ā
brendon obeys your silent order and swiftly gets up, pulls his pants down just enough to free his cock. without a warning, he thrusts inside of you, not giving you time to think twice as he relentlessly assaults your pussy.Ā
robby spits on his right hand and gives his angry red head the much needed attention it needed.Ā
the sight is overwhelming to him. you, being ferociously fucked by the head of the ortho department in a dark alley behind a dingy bar, something robby and you had done a time or two before.
you are a mess, no more coherent words leave your lips, only confused babbles and broken moans make their way out as brendon hits your cervix.Ā
robbyās hand timed its rhythm with you, caressed and pulled his painfully hard erection the same way brendon thrust into you. he was close, knew you were too with how silent you were getting. robby always laughed when you did this, joked that it was your body recharging itself for your release.Ā
brendon seemed to be close too, his movements were getting erratic, a little less controlled, and his grunts were getting louder.Ā
your head bobbed to the side, and robby felt his whole body chill, terrified of getting caught.Ā
āfuck!ā you whined, and one, two, three thrusts later, you, brendon and robby came.Ā
the air around the alley shifted. you and brendon were trapped in your lovers haze while robbyās post nut clarity hit. he wiped his spent on the wall, pulled his pants back up and went on his way back home, begging god and the universe not to get caught.Ā
robby hadnāt seen you all weekend and was thankful that you barely spoke to him after you arrived for the shift this morning.Ā
on a rare calm moment, robby goes to the break room for some much needed coffee, only to find you there, doing the same.Ā
you nod, acknowledging his presence. robby gives you a court one back, and stops by your side to fill out his mug. you nudge him, silently ask him to come down to your height with two fingers. you get closer to him, bringing your lips awfully close to his ear.Ā
āyou know, next time, if you ask nicely enough, you can join us.ā
domesticblisss 2026. comments and reblogs are appreciated.
Park the Shark x reader about anything please it's a drought out here ššš soft shark mean shark whatever shark GIVE ME SHARK
( gif credits to the lovely @parktheeshark for this crisp gifset ! )
ā¤ ā (UN)CHARTED WATERS ;
summ. An old haunt sails into the ED. Park the Shark becomes human, again.
pairing. brendon āsharkā park / f!ex!reader
w.count. 2.5k!
a/n. A new imagine! More sea-motifs for our boy. Exploring a softer vers. of him as per requested, & tried to remain true to his canon-personality of a biting asshole by weaving both together as naturally as I could for realism!
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā IT TAKES PLENTY to catch the infamous Park the Shark off-guard, let alone bait out any other reaction from him other than the routine glower he always wears to match with his glacial demeanour.
Not even the MCI that had the Surgical Department on their witās end working hand over fist and running amok had rattled him. No, heād been even-keeled in navigating that absolute shitstorm of a day with relative ease, and only further solidified his copper-bottomed reputation that his glasswater-calm is a borderline mythological feat.
ā¦Until today, that is.
Heās yanking a fresh set of nitriles from the wall as he slices through the trauma-bay after the third page of the day into the ED, face stygian-dark with pure irritation as Robby shoots him an apologetic look.Ā
āWhat now?ā he bites, tone raw and stripped of all expected politesse. āBetter be worth my damn time.āĀ
Itās been a shitty work day to say the least:
Heās been worn down to the marrow after captaining seven eventful surgeries on his feet, running on auto-pilot and fueled by an empty stomach to match, all while Gloria keeps trying to walk him down the plank and into another tirade of playing nice to your coworkers, because this is the second HR report in a month in regards to this infamous Shark attitude of yours, Dr. Parkā
ādoes a double-take.Ā
Feels a drop in his gut he hasnāt felt in years.Ā
A rusty yet familiar thump of his heart, resounding in the proverbial, abyssal deep of Davy Jones' locker.
There, seated upright on the edge of a gurney in Trauma-2, is a scratched up patient hooked into a tangle of IVās with one arm limp; unconsciously bracing her loose shoulder in what he can clearly diagnose in a beat as a dislocation. A pinched expression adorns her bruised face, where a spot of dried blood has been smudged from brow to hairline.
Park seizes, blindsided.Ā
Looks like the wind has just been ripped from his sails.Ā
ā¦You always had that effect on him, hadnāt you?
āDr. Park,ā Robby repeats, confused at the abrupt halt. Tries to decipher the windswept look on the surgeonās face.
It looks like an ironic combination of having been deep-plunged into the arctic chill of the sea by a rogue wave; and as if heād just breached a terrible whitecap to take the first breath of fresh air in his lifeā The permanent frown Park has on his face has given way into something impossibly subdued; something unrepentantly sentimental.
And you mustāve recognised him too, surely, because youāre meeting his blue, stunned gaze with this strangely profound gleam in your wide-eyes: Not malice or fear, but a certain wistfulnessā as if youāve accidentally sailed yourself back into charted waters again.
ā¦Oh, Robby susses, after following Parkās sightline. Casts a wayward glance at Garcia at the other corner of the bay, whose lips have also parted in slow realisation.
Is this the ex?
(As comes with all folklore or tales of a vicious monster is a backstory, after all. And the old word goes that: Park the Shark hadnāt always been this fantastical, beastly asshole of a characterā no, heād been transformed into it after heād lost his proverbial Heart of the Sea; turned into a spiteful man like some Greek tragedy.
But thatās as far as anyone dare speculate, of course.)
Park finally kickstarts himself into moving; resumes with snapping his gloves into place. Has to actively force himself out of being tidally-locked: You the anchoring moon to his turbulent seas.
The pause is fleeting enough that if nobody had been paying close attention theyād have missed his startled half-stepā But regardless, the shift in the air is noticeably different now: a lack of significant ripple in the room; No smooth, prow-of-the-ship momentum as he passes.Ā
Itās almost as if Park is warily measuring where his place is in here; if heās allowed to take up your space.
āWhat the hell happened?ā he grits out to Whitaker, voice riding a more specific cadence now than his usual growl of annoyance. It has the rest of the older, more senior staff that are known to him whipping their heads up in curious reaction.
A tone of neither concern nor alarmā No, Park sounded afraid.
Youāre still staring at him when he glances at you discreetly.Ā
Brendon, you nearly greet. He can read it in the flash of your eyes; hear your siren-like voice echoing sweetly in his head. The same instinct to call out the syllables of your name had lurched in him, tooā having only barely managed to swallow it back in front of everybody.
āOh, not her. The priority is in the other rooāā Whitaker begins, throwing a thumb over his shoulder only to get silenced with a pointed glare.Ā
āAnswer my question,ā he snarls at him. A glint of canines.Ā
(If you hadnāt felt like a walking, talking contusion you mightāve found it endearing that heās this fraught over you; mightāve teased him for lashing out at his coworkers.)
Dr. Robby swiftly rolls the portable X-Ray with Donnieās help. āAnterior shoulder dislocation,ā he presents quickly, letting him reckon the screen. āMVC case. She got clipped while crossing the street by our drunk driver next door over.ā
That raises the hairs on the back of Parkās neck. Canāt help but rundown the potential traumatic injuries like a narrative in his head. Drunk driver? comes the seethe under his breath.Ā
āWhoās got a posterior sternoclavicular displacement, by the way,ā Garcia points out curtly, only to be dismissed with a hiss of: Is he stable? Then he can wait, as long as he doesnāt move another damn inch and jams a vessel.
āShe cleared for everything else?ā he continues, after trenchantly ignoring Garciaās raised hands in defense.
āWeāre waiting on CT to queue her in,ā Whitaker says meekly. āBut so far sheās perfectly stable.ā
Park grunts. An undefinable muscle tics in his jaw. āCT wonāt give a shit about a dislocation. Call āem up before they have her waiting down here an hour. Tell them I personally requested.ā
Your voice is hesitant. āHold on, is something wrong that I need to be rushed?āĀ
āNo,ā he replies reflexively, in surprisingly soothing cadence and sudden unison with Robby.
It has Whitaker wondering if heās hearing things. Park snaps his mouth shut.Ā
āDr. Park here is just concerned. The quicker we get you in for a CT, the quicker we can rule out any potential internal injuries that the X-Ray might not have caught,ā Robby continues to clarify, by way of meaning: Youāre clearly special to him, since he wants to skip the line for youā and Iām not dumb enough to get in the Sharkās way, thank you very much.
āWill they fix my shoulder before, orā¦?ā Your eyes fall naturally to Parkās. Everyone notices it.
āIt would be wise to reduce it right now. Whatever is most comfortable for you,ā Robby offers, before turning to shoot an affirming nod at Park as he mumbles, We can take it from here, Shark.
And, well, itās probably best, isnāt it? Park ought not to stay. Ought to busy himself with more pressing matters and get out of your hair before he endures the anguish of you sending him out yourself for how heād cut you loose all those years agāĀ
āWait,ā you blurt, voice tenuous.
Park stops short.
So does the room: A deadwater stillness, freezing in terrified anticipation.
āIf it wonāt take too longā¦ Could you be the one to reset my arm?ā
A beat.
Whitaker, alarmed, stumbles out an excuse in a heartbeat; ever the one to save the trauma bay from that tension the Orthopods always tend to surround themselves with: an oceanic pressure, a temperamental current. That a case as minor as a displacement is, quite literally, beneath them.
āOh, uh, rest assured us Emergency Physicians are, are perfectly capable withāā
āThe patient is advocating for herself,ā Park reminds him stiffly. But the override tumbles outā tumbles, which is enough to earn him a curious lookā with less sting than anybody is used to. āMove.ā
Instantly, the juniors scuttle away from his shadow like hermits. Observe, astonished, as Park walksā walks, not glides, like a damn human being for onceā to settle charily in front of you.
(Gone, it appears, is the fabled Shark of Orthopaedics.)
The scant space between you feels strangely domestic despite the natural tension of the situation. You lock eyes. Hello again, he translates your rapt gaze.Ā
āPain meds?ā
Robby declares what EMS had administered enroute, and lists the other currently on board. His answer is a beat late; still taken aback by the odd scene unraveling before him.Ā
āGood. Those will have already kicked in,ā Park mumbles now to you, voice low. Grounding. You remember the tender bass of it as if it was just yesterday that youād last seen each other. āMight still hurt, though.ā
(A rare kindness, to those whoāve known the Shark long enough: heād never been the type to warn his patients unless absolutely necessary.)Ā
You shoot him a brief smile. āIām okay,ā you murmurā and he has to physically regather himself all over again at the earnest look youāre giving him; at the way youāre saying the words like you used to then: reassuring him, and not the other way around.
He blinks. Reconciles himself back into the role heād come down here to do, all while trying to stubbornly ignore the way youāre etching him into memory. Memorising the profile of his face and admiring the great lean of him. You made good, you canāt bring yourself to say. I wish Iād been there to see it.
The break-up, looking back, hadnāt been angryā let alone vicious. Itād rolled over as slow as an expecting tide; an ebb and flow of highs and lows. Park and you could both see the coming end in the horizon, wearily washing ashore as the relationship began to sour along with the anchor-drag of stress from his Surgical Residency.Ā
Then heād finally brought it up one dayā and itād been mutual. Amicable. Mature enough to not leave each other with lingering hate as your lasting words; not a drop of bad blood. A simple case of right person, wrong time. I want this to be a clean break, Park remembers describing, and the accidental pun had even made you laugh.Ā
ā¦Heās forgotten how that sounds, after all these years.Ā
(Itās why heād calcified into this hollowed shell of a man: brine-bitter and sea-weathered.)
Everyone owlishly watches him work. Clinically efficient, but uncharacteristically gentle as he checks mobility and rotates methodically. Completely bereft of that familiar gnash of jagged teeth heās fabled for, and more tenderly than they ever thought possible to have come from the boorish leviathan that is Dr. Park the Shark of all people.Ā
āOn three,ā he finally warns, upon positioning.Ā
You nod in readiness, wait for the countdown.
āThree.ā
---POP.
āAgh, you motherfā!ā
You bite back your yelp back in time. Drop your head forward in a startled choke as Park, instinctively, steadies you firmly against him.Ā
āEasy,ā he draws out, and very nearly tags a fond Honey at the end of it. Thereās a tentative smile threatening to surface across his face at the curse you mustered back, borne from a nostalgic memory.
(Again, an anomalous thing to hear from him: since when did he care for verbally comforting his patients?)
Witnessing the proximity is jarringly intimate, but experiencing it is another. Your forehead brushing the flex of his biceps from where you unconsciously followed his pull; Parkās chin and tense jaw ghosting the crown of your lulling head. The signature scent of yours from that same fragrant perfume you still use after all these years that leaves him yearning.
Candidly, he fancies if he turns to look down at your buried face, that he might relive the dusty, waterlogged memories of those early mornings with you, where heād wake to your warmth; curled languidly in his arms before his lips would press onto your brow for a doting kiā
A relieved, breathless laugh bubbles out of you. Washes over Park like the dizzying warmth of a sea-breeze. Drowns him with a terrible tidal wave of homesickness.
āNo countdown?ā you narrow, smile half-hearted from the pain thatās dulling down now.
āDidnāt want you bracing,ā he mutters, disguising his apology under the pretense of clinical explanation. He has his eyes still attentively fixated on you when he snaps his fingers for somebody to pass the sling. Not wasting a single moment to take you all in as you rear back from him.Ā
And if the startling sight of Dr. Park the Shark, Orthopaedic Surgeon, doing a task as menial as helping a patient into their sling, isnāt what convinces Garcia sheās in a fever dreamā then the chance moment she catches of him tarrying a spindrift-soft, indulgent touch on your wrist is definitely enough.
Itās been awhile, hasnāt it? It means to say, alongside the billion other unbidden thoughts rattling in his head. Iāve missed you dearly. Iām sorry I ended things. I still think of you. For all my mistakes and regrets in my life: losing you has been the greatest.
But just like that the moment ends. Dr. Park slides his grip away and straightens up, and with it returns the commanding presence that orbits around him and has the room deferring to the gravitas instantaneously. (Robby and Garcia know him long enough, however, to note the tightness of his jaw and the softened depth of his frown.)
āSend a Resident up with her. Iāll take her case,ā he orders aloud, in a tone that clearly meant: Expedite her CT, or Iāll rip your fucking head off myself.
Garcia purses her lips as he breezes past everybody. Doesnāt even bother with arguing on the potential conflict-of-interest. āYou got it, Shark.ā
He smothers the urge to stay. Internally tamps down the treacherous yen in his heart; the desire to glance over his shoulder for one final look. Instead he kindles the spark of bristling rage in his marrows again as he moves towards the patientā the drunken bastardā responsible for putting you in harmās way.
Garcia trawls after him as they make headway to pass through to the next bay over.Ā
Do you have anybody we can contact? comes Whitaker's distant question to you. Family?
Oh, uh, theyāre too far.
Okay. What about any partners, then?
Garcia notices Park slow down considerably. Eyes him hiding it with a deliberate switch of a new set of gloves.Ā
Ah, no, is your sheepish answer. None at the moment.
Had anybody caught the subtle relax of Park the Sharkās shoulders, they held enough sense not to comment on it.
(They probably shouldāve told him you had longingly watched him as he left, though.)
Summary: On his sabbatical, Robby makes a stop in a middle of nowhere town with more history than what it looks. Or Robby tracks down an old ghost.
WC: 4.6k
Tags: exās, Jackās little sister, implied age gap, reader was in her 20s when they first dated, now is late 20s-30s, their relationship is and was more than legal, best friends sister, angst, vet inaccuracies, rushed ending, might be a little OC, very lightly proof read. Let me know if I missed anything!
(Masterlist)
Robby didnāt really know why he took the last exit on the highway or why he took the last turn on an old dirt road that shouldnāt have led anywhere- except that it did.
The bar looked like it had been left out to rot. Rust chewed through the metal siding, and the neon Open sign flickered like it was reconsidering the offer. But outside, people leaned against the walls, laughing like nothing had changed.
A man with graying hair pulled a woman into his side- his wife, probably. She tipped her head up, smiling, and kissed his cheek like it was second nature.
Robby looked away.
Maybe, in another life, that couldāve been him. Maybe if he played his cards differently..
He cut the engine of his motorcycle and shoved the keys into his pocket. The heat wrapped around him instantly, thick and suffocating. His leather jacket clung to his back, damp already.
At least Jack couldnāt give him shit about not wearing protection.
He had heard enough about the helmet.
This was supposed to be his sabbatical. Time away from the hospital. Space to breathe.
Not this.
Not driving miles out of his way just to haunt old ghosts.
He was a glutton for punishment.
The old floorboards groaned under his boots as he stepped inside. For a second, it felt like he had walked straight into the past.
Same green bar stools. Same busted mechanical bull he had fallen off of one too many times. The pool table looked worse for wear, but it was still standing.
He had told himself he had come for the nostalgia. Maybe a beer or two.
He didnāt believe that now.
The walls by the booths were covered in old photographs- some faded from age. Moments frozen in time.
His eyes roamed over them, searching.
There you were.
Wedged between him and Jack in one of the booths, grinning at something he couldnāt remember anymore.
His chest tightened.
God. Heād aged more than he realized. The last few years had carved into him. And Jack-
Yeah. Of course, Jack still looked the same.
Must be genetic.
āHey, stranger.ā
The voice came from behind him pulling something deep in his chest he had ignored for years.
Robby stilled.
What was he expecting? He was practically begging to run into you. This was your town.
Then he exhaled, slow, and looked over his shoulder.
There you were.
Not a memory or a photo he had stalked on Facebook.
Real.
Older, yeah, but not in a way that took anything. If anything, it settled into you. Made you steadier. Not the wild girl he remembered from a few summers back.
His gaze lingered a second longer than he meant it to.
ā...Hey,ā he said.
Something in his expression softened, the tension easing just a fraction as he took you in.
āItās been a while.ā
Understatement of the decade.
His eyes flickered briefly to the bar, then back to you. He hadnāt exactly planned to see you. I mean he had hoped but didnāt plan this far.
āI didnāt know you were still around here.ā
Then he said, a little more honest and less guarded.
āYou lookā¦ good.ā And he meant it, even if he wasnāt sure he was allowed to.
āI always look good, Robinavitch.ā you laughed. Easy, like no time had passed at all.
It caught him off guard.
Not the words. Those sounded exactly like you.
It knocked something loose in him. Something that had been wound up tight for the past ten years.
Robby let out a quiet breath, the corner of his mouth lifting before he could stop it.
āYeah,ā he said softly. āYou always do.ā
His hand dragged over the back of his neck, a habit he hadnāt managed to break.
āDidnāt think this place would still be standing,ā he added, nodding vaguely around the bar.
A deflection.
A bad one.
Because his eyes flickered back to you almost immediately. It was like you were the only part of this place that mattered.
His jaw tightened just slightly, like he caught himself doing it.
He knew youād catch it too.
āI was passing through,ā he said.
Real estate convincing, Robinavitch.
ā...Figured Iād stop in.ā
You watch him for a second. Those eyes, heād never really been able to keep anything from you. Not then. Not now.
Your gaze traced the small changes in his face. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the greys in his beard. Still stubborn Michael.
āThatās what youāre going with?ā
āYep.ā He cringed at himself.
You held his gaze for a second longer, then huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head.
āYou gonna stand there all night or-ā you cut yourself off, rolling your eyes lightly and holding an accusing hand up. āYou know what? Youāre making this awkward.ā
You let the silence stretch just long enough to make him uncomfortable. He didnāt know if you felt pity for him or if you just liked making this worse. Probably the latter knowing you.
āCome on. Iāll buy you a drink.ā
āThey still let you buy here after all your fake ID attempts?ā
āGotta respect the determined.ā
Robby shook out his shoulders and let out a breath as soon as you turned your back to him. Be cool. He followed you to the bar and took the stool next to yours.
You ordered two beers. Something with a strange name and worse taste. It didnāt matter though; the cold bottle made his clammy hands cool off.
āWhatāre you doing here, Michael?ā You asked. āLast time I saw you, you were peeling out of here like a bat out of hell. Something about āwe canāt do this; youāre just a kid.āā
It didnāt sound great when you said it like that. I mean you were just a kid. Jackās little sister. God that sounds worse. You had been young, heāll admit. Freshly out of college and about to start vet school with your whole life ahead of you. Robby had been an attending at the time in his 40s. A more than inappropriate age gap between you. You hadnāt ever seemed to care though. He remembers the ways youād welcome him when he showed up at your familyās front door. In the swimsuit, dripping wet. In the hallway while your brother helped set the table. Fuck, in the laundry room.
Your hand snapping in front of his face pulls him from his thoughts. He jumps slightly then immediately tries to cover it.
āYeah, I remember,ā He murmurs and takes a pull from the cheap beer. Yeasty and bitter, a horrible combination.
āI know Jack didnāt send you. My brother meddles, but heās not quiet about it.ā
You had him there. Jack couldnāt keep a secret to save his life. A part of him always thought Jack knew what he was doing with his best friend's little sister. That didnāt make him feel better about it.
Robby picked at the label on his quickly warming beer can. āIām on sabbatical. I was driving in a random direction and saw the turn off for the town.ā
āRight,ā You scoff, not looking the least bit convinced. You take a swig of the beer. Robbyās eyes trace the way your throat moves as you swallow. āYou just happened to end up here.ā
Robby tears the mushy label into tiny pieces, letting the silence sit where it wanted to.
You take another sip; you eye him over the rim of the bottle this time.
āYou always were terrible at lying,ā you added, almost lightly.
āWasnāt trying that hard.ā
You hum at that. He always had that undeniable charm when he wanted to, thatās what attracted you to him in the first place. You know, besides the trouble of chasing something you knew you couldnāt have.
You set the bottle down, turning a little more towards him on the stool.
āNo,ā you said, quieter now. āYou never did.ā
Robbyās fingers stilled on his pieces of soggy label. You knew how that was going to land, but you had said it anyways.
He chewed on the side of his cheek, like he was mulling over his next words. He tipped his own bottle back and took another drink, buying himself time that didnāt really help. When he lowered it, his doe eyes found yours again- steadier this time, but not untouched.
āYou working out here?ā he asked.
It wasnāt what he was about to say.
You knew it.
He knew you knew it.
But it was better he didnāt voice it.
āYeah,ā you nodded, turning the bottle slowly between your hands. āTook over the small clinic in town when Doc passed. Mostly farm calls, some emergency stuff when the ranchers get desperate enough.ā
He nodded once; this was exactly where he always pictured you. Some small vet clinic in the middle of nowhere. Helping people out. The city life wasnāt really ever your speed.
āYou always liked fixing things.ā
āAnimals donāt argue,ā you said, a little dry. āThey donāt pretend theyāre fine when theyāre not. Makes the job easier.ā
It landed softer than it sounded. His mouth twitched again, but there wasnāt any humor in it.
āYeah,ā he said. āCan see the appeal.ā
Silence settled over you- not empty, justā¦ full.
You tapped your fingers lightly against the wood countertop, thinking, then added:
āHad a colt come in last week. Bad leg. Owner waited too long to bring him in- classic case of rancher stubbornness.ā
Robbyās eyes shifted to you, more focused now.
āDid it?ā
You shook your head once, rolling your lips together in that way you always did when you were thinking too hard.
āSounds about right.ā
You clicked your tongue and shoved the frustrations away.
āFor what?ā you asked.
Robby made a low sound in his throat. Like he was pulling the truth from somewhere deep in his chest.
āForā¦ things people think will fix themselves.ā
He was skirting around the answer. But it was something.
You watched him for a second, like you were deciding how much he could take before he ran off with his tail tucked between his legs.
āDo they?ā you murmur then clear your throat. āDo they ever fix themselves?ā
His jaw clenched, just slightly.
āNo.ā
The word sat between you. Uncomfortable and honest. But you both knew it was the truth.
You let out a small breath, leaning back a fraction on the stool.
āYeah,ā you tap the edge of the glass. āFunny how that works.ā
You took turns looking at each other. Both thinking the other didnāt know. Until your eyes finally caught. This moment felt different.
Less careful.
More aware.
Like if either of you leaned in a little more, something real might actually come out. You canāt play your strange game of cat and mouse anymore if it came out.
So, neither of you did.
Instead, you nudge your empty bottle with your finger.
āYou want another-ā
āListen-ā
Your phone buzzed against the bar.
Then again.
You knew better to ignore a phone call this late. You flipped it over, eyes scanning the screen- your posture shifted instantly. Subtle, but there. Focused and in work mode.
Robby noticed.
āEverything okay?ā he asked.
You were already sliding off the stool.
āYeah,ā you nodded, already running through the medications in your med bag. āJust- give me a second.ā
You stepped a few feet away, immediately answering.
Robby watched you, his eyebrows crinkling in the middle and his shoulders setting in the way they did before a trauma came in.
Your expression tightened, not in panic. Dialed in.
āHow long?ā you say into the phone, āNo, donāt pull. Iām on my way. Just keep her calm, Iāll be there in twenty.ā
You hung up and turned back towards him, already halfway between here and the ranch on the other side of town.
āSorry,ā you said, tucking your phone into you back pocket. āEmergency.ā
Robby straightened. āEverything okay?ā
āCows in labor. Not progressing,ā you said, like this was something normal he should understand. Because this was normal for you. He was a people doctor not a cow doctor. āIf I donāt get out there, weāre gonna lose one or both.ā
There was no hesitation. No softness that he was used to with you.
Just clarity.
A purpose.
You werenāt the kid who was trying to find her way anymore.
He watched you, something shifting behind his eyes.
āRight, yeah of course.ā
You reached for your keys, then paused- just briefly- looking back at him.
āI-ā you stopped yourself, this was a stupid idea, and you knew it. āYou want to assist on a calf birth?ā
You werenāt expecting him to say yes. Just like you werenāt expecting him to grab his jacket and hop into the passenger seat of your old truck.
The truck rattled to a stop outside an old barn in a wash of dust. You were out before the engine fully died.
āGloves are in the back,ā you called over your shoulder, already moving.
Robby grabbed the bag without thinking, falling into step behind you. The air was different out here. It sat heavy in his lungs. Thick, quiet, sharp, and distinctly animal. In another situation you would have made fun of the way his nose scrunched out. Then said some witty remark about how the smell of cow shit was āmoney.ā
An older man waved from the open barn, worry written all over him.
āWe got her in the pen doc, sheās been like this for an hour,ā he said, his voice thick with worry. These cows were the ranchersā livelihoods. A dead cow wasnāt a good cow, and a dead cow meant the families around here were going to be short money in the winter.
āYou did the right thing calling,ā you cut in, not unkindly, already snapping gloves on. He led you around the side of the barn to a small fenced in pen.
The cow was down on her side, side heaving, a low, strained sound pulling from her every few seconds.
Robby slowed, taking it in.
It was different from the trauma room.
Same urgency.
You dropped to your knees in the dirt beside the animal like it was second nature, one hand coming to rest firm against her flank.
āHey, mama,ā you murmured, āDocs here. I brought a friend too.ā
Robby had seen you many times when you were younger- laughing, pushing, pulling him into things he knew better than getting involved in.
Heād never seen this version.
āOkay,ā you said more to yourself than anyone else. āLetās see what weāre working with.ā
You glanced back at him briefly.
āHold the bag open.ā
He moved without hesitation. Of course he did. If you said jump, heād ask how high.
You worked quickly, efficiently- checking, assessing, your movements sure in a way that didnāt leave space for doubt.
āCalves not positioned right,ā you said, turning to the rancher. āThatās why sheās not progressing.ā
Robby nodded, even though you werenāt talking to him.
āWhat do you need?ā
The question came out automatically.
Like muscle memory.
You didnāt look up. You knew heād give you whatever you needed at that moment.
āJust stay with me,ā you said. āAnd donāt let her thrash. Sheās going to try to move. Sheās not like the pregnant woman you see in the ER, her instinct isnāt to let us help her. Sheās a bottle-fed baby though, so a little bit of pressure might keep her where we want her.ā
He stepped closer, bracing carefully, one hand steadying where you directed.
The cow shifted under him, a sudden jolt of movement that wouldāve thrown someone less prepared.
Robby adjusted instantly.
āGood,ā you said, quick, focused.
Not praise.
Acknowledgement.
It was like he was a med student again.
His attention snapped back to you.
Your hands were steady. Precise. No wasted movement.
Talking softly to the animal between instructions, like youād done this a hundred times.
Probably had.
āEasy,ā you murmured again, working. āMikey, wanna catch a calf?ā
Hell, yeah he wanted to catch a calf.
āOkay,ā you said sharply. You directed him to the hind of the cow. āGrab the hind leg just above the fetlock. Youāre going to pull downward on the contractions.ā
Robby followed your lead without question, adjusting where you told him, holding where he needed to.
And then it shifted.
The resistance gave.
The calf came free in a rush of motion and sound, hitting the ground with a heavy, living weight.
For a second, everything went still.
Then the calf moved.
Small. Unsteady. Breathing.
The farmer let out a sound that was half relief, half disbelief.
You didnāt celebrate. Not yet.
You were already moving, checking, clearing, making sure everything was right- efficient, calm, completely in control.
Only when you were satisfied did something in your shoulder finally ease.
Robby exhaled, not realizing heād been holding it.
His gaze stayed on you.
Not the scene.
You.
There was dirt on your hands, your clothes, some strange goo on your shirt- and none of it took away from what he was seeing.
If anything, it made it clearer.
āDamn,ā he said quietly.
It slipped out before he could dress it up into something lighter.
You glanced at him, a flicker of something crossing your face.
āYeah,ā you said, like it was just another night. āSheāll be alright. And it's a healthy baby boy.ā
Robby felt his cheeks heat, a breath of something like a laugh leaving him.
āThatās not what I meant.ā
You held his gaze for a second longer this time.
You didnāt look away.
Neither did he.
The truck was quieter on the way back.
No rush this time. Just the low hum of the engine and the occasional rattle when you hit a rough patch on the road.
Robby leaned back in the seat, forearms braced on his thighs, hands still faintly stained despite the quick rinse at the pump.
He hadnāt said much since you left the barn.
Your hands rested loose on the wheel, steady. Comfortable in the quiet. Comfortable in yourself.
It wasnāt something he remembered.
Or maybe it was.
Justā¦ not like this. You had always been cute and fun, but you had become this brilliant, beautiful woman.
āYouāre good,ā he said softly into the quiet of the car.
You glanced at him briefly, then back to the road.
āYeah,ā you said. āI am.ā
Just a fact. That did something to him.
āWasnāt a compliment,ā he added after a second. āJustā¦ an observation.ā
You huffed lightly through your nose but didnāt argue it.
āStill counts.ā
The corner of his mouth pulled faint.
The road stretched out in front of you. Empty and dark. He watched your hands on the wheel for a second. He checked your finger for a ring. Nope, no ring or tan line. That made him feel a little giddy.
āDidnāt think youād want to come do the dirty work.ā you said after a while.
He shifted in his seat.
āWould it be wrong if I said I just wanted to spend more time with you?ā
āYesā¦ Iām surprised you stayed.ā
āDidnāt seem like the thing you walk out on.ā
That was a safe answer after he had emotionally vomited right before.
You let both sit.
āYou used toā¦ you would have walked years ago.ā
Robby played with the hem of his shirt.
āYeah,ā he said. The truck rolled over a dip in the road, headlights catching the dust in the air. āI thought I was doing the right thing.ā
There it was. Small. Unprotected.
Your grip on the wheel shifted, not tense, but aware.
āBy leaving?ā you asked.
He grunted an agreement. āBy not staying. Thereās a difference.ā
That was enough for you to pull the truck off the road and throw it in park. You turn fully in your seat towards him.
āFor who?ā it was a pointed question.
He didnāt answer immediately. He didnāt have an answer ready this time.
āBoth of us,ā he settles on. It sounded like something heād told himself to make himself feel better.
You nod once, slow. Rolling your lips together.
āYeah,ā you grumble. āThatās what you said then too.ā
Robby leaned back, dragging a hand over the back of his neck.
āI didnāt think-ā he started, then stopped. Reworked it. āI didnāt trust it to notā¦ I donāt know, mess things up for you.ā
Your eyes pierce through the side of his face. āOr for you?ā
He huffed quietly. Not having an answer.
āThere it is.ā You threw the truck back into drive and merged back onto the road.
āBoth.ā
He couldnāt let you think that. He had spent all those years letting you think that. He had spent years letting you be mad. In a way, you had the right to be.
The truck slowed as you neared the edge of town, lights starting to reappear in the distance.
āI didnāt need you to decide that for me,ā you drawl. No anger this time. Thatās what made his throat catch.
āI know.ā
And he did. Now, at least.
You pulled the truck into the deserted parking lot of that old bar, right next to his motorcycle. Neither of you reach for the door, even long after you cut the engine.
āI came back for you.ā It slipped out before he could stop it.
No build up.
No deflection.
Robby went still the second it left his mouth. He was waiting for it to hit something. Or break something.
Your body didnāt move, but something in your eyes did.
Not shock.
Not exactly.
Recognitionā¦ maybe.
You didnāt answer him or let him take it back.
Didnāt soften it.
Didnāt deflect it either.
You just sat there.
Robby waited.
A second too long.
Long enough for the silence to start getting to his head.
His jaw tightened, something closed off behind his eyes.
āRight,ā he muttered, more to himself than to you. He nodded once, like that settled it. Then dug his keys from his pocket. āShouldāve known.ā
You turned your head towards him at that, the connections crossing too late- but he was already moving.
The door opened with a dull creak, the night air rushing in as he stepped out of the truck.
āMikey-ā
He didnāt stop.
He didnāt slam the door either- just shut it with a firm click. Like putting space between you could keep things contained in an old metal box.
He dragged a hand over the back of his neck as he crossed the lot, boots crunching against gravel, heading straight for his bike.
Fuck, you should have known heād read it like that.
Of course, heād leave before you could-
āMichael, wait.ā
You were out of the truck now, door swinging shut behind you as you hurried after him.
He slowed.
Not enough to stop.
You caught up a few steps behind him.
āThatās not-ā you started, breath catching slightly. āThatās not what that was.ā
That got him to stop. He didnāt turn around, but he looked over his shoulder.
āWhat?ā he asked. Flat. controlled. But not unaffected.
āYou not saying anything?ā he added. āThatāsā¦ new.ā
You ran your fingers through your hair, frustrated- not at him. At the timing. At the universe.
āI didnāt say anything because I didnāt know what to say,ā you shot back, stepping closer. āThereās a difference.ā
He held your gaze now.
Fully turned towards you.
Searching your face like he was trying to decide if he believed that. Using his own words against him.
āYeah,ā he said after a second. āThere is.ā
But he didnāt move closer. He just stood there. Letting you control how this played out.
Just stood there, looking at you like he was trying to recalibrate something that hadnāt worked in years.
You close the distance instead. Not all the way. Just enough that it changed the air between you.
āThatās not what that was,ā you said again. The front of your shirt brushed his.
Robbyās eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up.
āThen what was it?ā he asked.
There was less control in it now.
Less distance.
You hesitated.
And he saw it.
He always saw you.
āThatās the problem,ā you blurt. āI donāt- I donāt have a clean answer for you.ā
A tight laugh echoed from his chest.
āYeah, that tracks.ā
You let out a frustrated breath and reached for him before you could think better of it- your hand catching his. His gaze dropped to where your fingers were wrapped around his.
Too familiar.
Not familiar at all.
āI spent years being mad at you,ā your voice was steadier than you felt. āThat was easier.ā
His eyes lifted back to yours.
āAnd now?ā
You shook your head. āNow, you show up out of nowhere and say something like that and-ā you huffed, grip tightening just a fraction. āI donāt know where to put it.ā
Robby stepped closer then.
Careful.
He was giving you time to pull away if you wanted to.
You didnāt.
āI didnāt come back to make it harder,ā he said.
Your grip on his hand loosened before you let go- only to catch on the front of his shirt instead.
āFeels like you did,ā you murmured.
His hand came up, hesitated, then settled lightly at your side. Asking without saying anything.
You didnāt step back. Didnāt step forward either. Just stayed.
You could feel the heat rising from his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. If you tried hard enough you could feel his heart hammering in his chest.
Close enough that it wouldāve been easy-
Too easy-
Your eyes flickered up to his.
Then down.
Then back again.
Robbyās breath ghosted over your lips, his forehead dipping forward- stopping just short of you.
He remembered, even now, how to hold that line.
āTell me to leave,ā he whispered.
Your fingers tightened in his shirt instead.
Robbyās breath cough like that was all the permission he was going to get.
He pulled away just a fraction to search your eyes.
Then his hand shifted at your side, firmer now, and he closed the distance.
Your lips met his, and for a moment everything seemed to drop out- the road, the bar behind you, the years between.
The kiss wasnāt soft.
It couldnāt be.
There was too much behind it for that.
Your hand caressed over his chest and across his neck to his jaw, pulling him closer before you could stop yourself, and he responded immediately. Heād been waiting for it.
Like this was muscle memory.
That was the problem.
It felt familiar.
Too familiar.
Like something that hadnāt ever fully let go.
Robbyās grip shifted, almost pulling you in further-
And then he stopped.
Not all at once.
But enough.
The kiss broke slower than it had started, like neither of you were quite committed to ending it.
Your forehead hovered close to his, breathing uneven.
Neither of you spoke.
You didnāt know how to.
Robby placed a kiss on your forehead, savoring the moment.
āYeah,ā he murmured under his breath.
Not regret.
Not satisfaction.
Something in between.
Your fingers let go of his jaw but didnāt drop away completely.
āThis doesnāt fix anything,ā you said quietly.
He nodded.
āI know.ā
Neither of you moved.
Still too close.
Still there.
And somehowā¦ not where you were before.
J. Abbot:
Heard you assisted in child birth last night? Should I be concerned?š
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)
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, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection
Simon didnāt remember how he got every scar on his body.Ā
The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception.Ā
But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. Heād long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.
There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way.Ā
They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.
Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.
They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.
Stamped, more like. Branded.Ā
Survived.Ā
And soulmates shared scars.Ā
Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasnāt quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didnāt belong to him originally.Ā Ā
He didnāt like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way.Ā
Itās ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they werenāt just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadnāt been afforded one.Ā
There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe heād been left out of the whole thing.Ā
Better he was alone.Ā
The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance.Ā
A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldnāt be alteredāto know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.
A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.Ā Ā
Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.
And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate.Ā
Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would.Ā
But, sometimes, he wondered.Ā
He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing.Ā
It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again.Ā
He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.Ā Ā
It was a cruelty he couldnāt imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him.Ā
Simon didnāt want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didnāt want him either.Ā
If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already.Ā
He didnāt particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didnāt relish the thought of something he couldnāt control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable.Ā
It wouldnāt happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent.Ā
He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.
Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear.Ā
It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnnyās that he couldnāt stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.
The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soapās mind, not for the first time. Heād always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldnāt all come to nothing yet.Ā Ā Ā
Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land.Ā
A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.
āLucky that way, Lt,ā Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. āFindinā āem will be easier.āĀ
Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that heād acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. āWhat do you mean?āĀ
Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. āKnow āem straight away, wouldnāt I?āĀ Ā
Simonās own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head.Ā
Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was.Ā
No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him.Ā
But heād always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds.Ā
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.
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The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them allāthe field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices.Ā
Each place had caveats.Ā
The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it.Ā
Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there.Ā
The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day.Ā
The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors.Ā
The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone.Ā
A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty.Ā
He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.
Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilaritiesānames, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the buildingās irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasnāt information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didnāt often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators.Ā
It was a regular, routine, quiet place.Ā
So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted.Ā
Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.
The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck.Ā
The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air.Ā
Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward.Ā
There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp.Ā
Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to.Ā
It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it.Ā
You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. āSorry, sir. I didnāt see you there. Can I help you with something?āĀ
Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs.Ā
Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere.Ā
He would know his own face anywhere.Ā
He would, apparently, know you anywhere.Ā
Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat.Ā
Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didnāt ruin the brightness of it.Ā
You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs.Ā
His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart.Ā
Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone.Ā
The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain.Ā
Nausea swept into the back of his throat.Ā
āAre you okay?āĀ
He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didnāt avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes.Ā
You saw him.Ā
Simon was not to be seen.
Ghost didnāt get caught, didnāt freeze.Ā
Didnāt feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked.Ā
Not anymore.Ā
He was a ghost, a shadow, a silentā
The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace.Ā
Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing heād ever seen.Ā
āSir?ā
Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat.Ā
Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.
As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency.Ā
You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire.Ā
You hadnāt recognized what he was.Ā
And he was going to keep it that way.Ā
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.
.
It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it.Ā
He didnāt love you, thatās not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it.Ā
Better yet, through you.Ā
Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery.Ā
One sure way to free himself was your death.Ā
It was unusual, but it happenedāheadlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldnāt tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them.Ā
Simon understood the urge.
He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides.Ā
Which irritated him. Things like that didnāt bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this.Ā
It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse.Ā
It was wrong.Ā
He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.Ā Ā
The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didnāt know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.Ā Ā
Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and itād be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up.Ā
Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it.Ā
Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadnāt left him. It had never happened beforeānot on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.Ā Ā
Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light.Ā
Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp.Ā
Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were.Ā
Fuuucking hell.Ā
Couldnāt see, couldnāt hear, back toward the entry point of the room.Ā
Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal.Ā
He waited, but you didnāt turn, didnāt seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache.Ā
Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders.Ā
You yawned, eyes still closed.Ā
He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldnāt admit it then, but he half hoped you would.Ā
Ghost backed away, left you to your peace.Ā
The weight in his chest intensified again.
He hated you for it.Ā
He went back the next day.Ā
And the day after that.
.
.
.
Anchor might be a better descriptor.Ā
Hook was too violent.
Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that.Ā
He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things.Ā
You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didnāt.Ā
You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin.Ā
You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it.Ā
You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night.Ā
You didnāt drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didnāt show, but Simon could tell. He didnāt like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else.Ā
They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you werenāt going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in.Ā
Absolutely bloody foul.Ā
Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile.Ā
And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed.Ā
You nearly always had headphones onāwired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers.Ā
You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you werenāt being particularly loud. He didnāt need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you.Ā
He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous.Ā
You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough.Ā
Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them.Ā
He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once heād left you for the day, replaying things heād heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him.Ā
The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important.Ā
That used to be more important.Ā
Now his every thought was asterisked by you.Ā
Distracted.Ā
He didnāt do well with it.Ā
He didnāt like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasnāt near you, suffocating him. Heād felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it.Ā
Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.Ā Ā
He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly.Ā
After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk.Ā
Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest.Ā
It was enough to be where you had once been.Ā
That was as close as he cared to be.Ā
He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again.Ā
.
.
.Ā
He went by Ghost, you learned eventually.Ā
His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely.Ā
It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith.Ā
It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadnāt been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut.Ā
Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true.Ā
Fear, afterward, of course, that youād missed some kind of order or request.Ā
It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since youād felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldnāt have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmateās scars better than their own, and you were no exception.Ā
It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didnāt stand out.
When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. āThatās just Ghost. He probably didnāt say anything. You get used to it.āĀ
The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, āOkay.āĀ
Laswell had smiled. āYouāll do well here.āĀ
You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldnāt say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note.Ā
There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.
You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way.Ā
Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it.Ā
You sensed that heād been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.
You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back.Ā
āHi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?āĀ
This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands.Ā
The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didnāt leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.
āHave I passed?āĀ
His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. āPassed?āĀ
āYour test?āĀ
āThink Iām testinā you?āĀ
āYou moved my desk.āĀ
He didnāt answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldnāt answer at all. āPractically had your back to the door,ā he said eventually, as though that explained it.Ā
It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.Ā Ā Ā
You nodded and then shrugged instead. āI guess I donāt think about things like that.āĀ
āShould.ā
āMaybe.āĀ
āEspecially in the field.āĀ
āI donāt do field work.āĀ
He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond.Ā
āWelcome to sit,ā you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. āGhost.āĀ Ā
He didnāt sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office.Ā
Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company.Ā
All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone.Ā
Ghost was strange, slightly off putting.Ā
You liked him.
Maybe, you thought, heād come back.Ā
.
.
.
Ghost visited regularly after that.Ā
Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work.Ā
His boots were so silent that you often didnāt know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasnāt an uncomfortable feeling.Ā
You didnāt feel watched, so much as observed, minded.
But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.Ā Ā
Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind.Ā
The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things youād seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.
You were sure he wasnāt actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.Ā Ā
The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasnāt the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others.Ā
Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it.Ā
You didnāt comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain.Ā
He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag.Ā
In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweetsā which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently.Ā
But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him.Ā
If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didnāt eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. āDonāt have to,ā he always said.Ā
āWant to,ā you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.
Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle.Ā
He didnāt appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.Ā Ā
āSorry,ā he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.Ā Ā
āOh,ā you answered. āYou didnāt have toāā
āDid,ā he said simply. āāave you eaten?ā
āYep. Got something for you, too.āĀ
He settled back. āNeighbor still botherinā you?āĀ
You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. āOh. . .IāYou were listening.ā
He tilted his head. āāCourse I was, bird.ā He leveled you with a look. āSo?ā
āNot recently. Not in a couple days.ā
āGood. Let us know if he does, yeah?ā
Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway.Ā
When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed.Ā
It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.
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.
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When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.
You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor.Ā
It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window.Ā
In his usual chair, youād laid a gift.Ā
He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier.Ā
āItās for you. I knitted it.āĀ
He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. āJust in case you were cold. Youāre always so buttoned up after all,ā you joked. āAnd you fixed my radiator this winter. So itās a thank you, too.ā
Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadnāt expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. āHow dāyou know it was me that fixed it?āĀ
āWho else would have?āĀ
He grunted. āYou knit?āĀ
āWhen I canāt sleep,ā you answered. āKeeps my hands and brain busy.ā
His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didnāt want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck.Ā
āCanāt sleep?ā His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.
You shrugged. āMust seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.āĀ
Ghost considered this for a long moment. āItās not.āĀ
āWhat?āĀ
āSilly.āĀ
The way he grunted the word made you laugh.Ā
āCould I ask you something, Ghost?ā
āReckon you just did.āĀ
You rolled your eyes. āAm I allotted only one question?āĀ
āJust two.āĀ
It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. āGuess Iām shit out of luck.āĀ
āAnd out of questions.ā
You laughed again.Ā
He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. āGo on, then.āĀ
āWhere are you from?āĀ
The levity vanished. His brows lowered. āWhy?āĀ
You shrugged. āJust curious. Iām not good with all the accents yet. Just canāt place you.āĀ
He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer.Ā
The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back.Ā
āWhy do you come here?ā You asked instead.Ā
This question he answered readily. āItās quiet.āĀ
āThatās one way to tell me to shut up.āĀ
He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. āNot the kind of noise I mean.āĀ
You decided not to take offense at being called noise.Ā
You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch.Ā
āHungry?ā You asked.Ā Ā
āTryinā to see my face?āĀ
You smiled. āNever,ā you answered, āNot sure I want to see what youāre hiding under there.āĀ
The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.Ā Ā
āWhy are you here?ā He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.
You waved your fork, indicating the office. āFairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.āĀ
He sighed, a long suffering sound. āEngland, smartarse.āĀ
You smile and dig your fork into last nightās spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. āIām on loan to Laswell.āĀ
āOn loan?ā He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didnāt move it.Ā
When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.Ā Ā
āTemporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,ā you explained. āShe needed someone quickly, who she could trust.āĀ
Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. āHow long are you on loan for, then?āĀ
You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. āItās unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.ā You smiled, āHopefully not through another winter, though, I donāt think Iām cut out for the rain and cold.ā
His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it werenāt for all the hours heād passed in your office, you werenāt sure you would have caught it at all.Ā
āFrom somewhere warm?ā
āWarmer than here. Especially in the winter.āĀ
āMust be nice, that.āĀ
āHas its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.āĀ
āOne you enjoy.āĀ
āBut of course. I like feeling like Iām baking alive.āĀ
He snorted again.
You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle.Ā
When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, āManchester.āĀ
āHm?ā
āWhere Iām from.ā
His voice was low; he wasnāt looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead.Ā
āManchester,ā you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. āAnd do you all sound sort of likeāā
You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. āAre you laughing at me?ā
āItās your fucking accent.ā
āMy accent?ā You asked incredulously. āHave you heard yourself?āĀ
āGot a thick one, bird.ā He imitated your voice. āManchester.ā The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered.Ā
You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. āTakes one to know one, I guess.āĀ
āSuppose it does.āĀ
āFucking Brits,ā you said, without any venom. āI canāt do anything right according to you all.āĀ
He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. āWhoās tellinā you you canāt do something?āĀ
You sighed, long suffering. āMy coworkers. Canāt make tea, apparently. I donāt care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.ā
āThey make it wrong too.āĀ
You groaned. āNot you too.āĀ
Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container.Ā
āIāll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.āĀ
You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. āBig fan?āĀ
āI love tea.āĀ
It made you laugh. āOf course, English afterall.āĀ
He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. āGhost?ā You called.Ā
Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. āFor you.āĀ
He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. āDidnāt have to.āĀ
āI know.ā You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. āI always want to.āĀ
Ghost moved so silently that you didnāt hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone.Ā
.
.
.
It should be a good thing.Ā
You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other.Ā
But it didnāt sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume youād be stationed back in the US.
The thought festered, burrowed.Ā
āLaswell.ā
She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner ofĀ her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead.Ā
āGhost,ā she sighed, āDonāt do that.āĀ
Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. āHow long has she got?āĀ
āWhat do you mean?ā
āSaid sheās on loan. I want to know how long.ā
Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldnāt explain himself, and Laswell knew that.Ā
āMaybe as long as a year.ā She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. āWhy?āĀ
Ghost didnāt answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall.Ā
You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.
As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working.Ā
When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working.Ā
He walked you to your car around midnight.Ā
āTell us if youāre here this late again,ā he said, not looking at you.Ā
āGhost,ā you said. āItās almost enough to make me think you like me.āĀ
āDonāt get ahead of yourself,ā he answered.Ā
You just laughed.Ā
.
.
.
āTea?āĀ
You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didnāt go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain.Ā
It would need remedied.Ā
But first, this.Ā
It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.Ā Ā
āJesus Christ.āĀ
āUnfortunately not.āĀ
You laughed; his shoulders eased. āGhost,ā you said. āTo what do I owe the pleasure?ā You tilted your head. āIām starting to think youāre spying on me.āĀ
āWhatāre you still doing āere?āĀ
āWhat are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?āĀ
Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.
āOfferinā to make you a tea,ā he answered. āObviously.āĀ Ā
āObviously,ā you echoed. āOf course.āĀ
āYouāre supposed to tell me when youāre stayinā late.āĀ
āGhost,ā you said seriously, lifting your brows, āIām here late again today.āĀ
āHilarious, you are.āĀ
You giggled again. āAre you really offering to make me tea?āĀ
He nodded. āCāmon then.ā
You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.
Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where heād observed the many cups of tea youād politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain.Ā
The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.Ā Ā
āSo,ā you prompted, leaning against the counter, āHow does one make a proper cuppa?ā
āNot bad,ā he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. āLittle posh.āĀ
āIāve been practicing.ā
He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but heād make due with what was available.
āAh, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.āĀ
He involuntarily made a pained sound. āFucking hell,ā he muttered, āThat your usual method?āĀ
You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. āI scandalized a data analyst with that joke.ā You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. āI do know how to boil water, Iāll have you know.ā
āGot a head start then.āĀ
You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didnāt know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it.Ā
If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody.Ā
The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged.Ā
Simon ignored it.Ā Ā
When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didnāt mind the scrutiny in it. He didnāt mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw.Ā
āI like being able to see your eyes,ā you said, just as the kettle clicked off.Ā
He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. āWhy?āĀ
āYou have pretty eyes,ā you shrugged. āAnd itās hard to see you with the other mask.ā You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag heād dropped into it.Ā
āYou can tell me to fuck off, if you want,ā you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. āWhy do you wear it?āĀ
Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. āFive minutes,ā he nodded at the tea. āDonāt touch it. None of that dunking shite.āĀ
āYes, sir,ā you agreed. āFive minutes, no touching.āĀ
He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it.Ā
The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.
āTo hide my face.āĀ
āYour identity, you mean.āĀ
āMy identity,ā he agreed.
āWhy?āĀ
He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how youād take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop?Ā
Instead, he said, āThere are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.āĀ
You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead.Ā
āYouāve seen more of them than most,ā you said. āI would guess.āĀ
āPart of the job.āĀ
Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. āHm. But yāknow something? I think Iād know you anywhere,ā you said, without a hint of shame or irony. āItās all in your eyes.āĀ
Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. āEven if this is gross,ā you indicate the tea, āAt least it will keep me awake.āĀ
āI take offense to that.āĀ
You laughed again. āHm. Sorry, Lieutenant.ā You leaned in, āIt smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?āĀ
He rolled his eyes. āIāll make you a coffee if itās shit.āĀ
āYouāre kind.ā This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.Ā Ā
When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way youād take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not.Ā
āThere you are,ā he said, āCup of tea.āĀ
āA proper cuppa,ā you tried again. It was a little less posh this time.Ā
He huffed. āBetter all the time.āĀ
āAnd I have you to thank.āĀ
Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check.Ā
Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his.Ā
āThanks, Ghost.āĀ
āāS just tea.āĀ
You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. āOne good thing has come of this,ā you said after a moment of contemplation.Ā
āWhatās thaā?āĀ
āI know how to make tea for you now.āĀ
āLike it?āĀ
āI love it.āĀ
You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. āI mean that really.āĀ
He breathed out, through it. āI donāt take honey.āĀ
You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well.Ā
āNoted.āĀ
Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so.Ā
.
.
.
Things settled into a pleasant rhythm.Ā
A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in.Ā
You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach.Ā
People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you werenāt meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone elseās. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond.Ā
You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary.Ā
It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldnāt be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.
It had been proven to you time and again, and you werenāt sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes.Ā
āWould you like to go out sometime?ā He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. āJust round the pub for drinks?āĀ
āOh,ā you said. āIāāĀ
It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. Youād only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest.Ā
You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still werenāt used to.
Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door.Ā
āYeah,ā you answered firmly. āSure.āĀ
āBrilliant,ā he grinned. āHow about tonight?āĀ
Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. āIām free.āĀ
āBrilliant,ā he said again. āIāll text you.āĀ
āOkay.āĀ
His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office.Ā
So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadnāt gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there.Ā
And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasnāt just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldnāt work.Ā
āSomeone out there is really looking for you,ā he said. āYouāre lucky.āĀ
āNo more than anyone else,ā you countered. āYou know thatās not how it works.āĀ
āI know,ā he said, pulling on his shirt. āIām sorry.āĀ
āItās okay,ā you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated.Ā
Still, you didnāt sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life.Ā
You didnāt hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didnāt have one at all.Ā
.
.
.
Monday.Ā
There was a knife in Simonās pocket.Ā
Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot.Ā
The one in his pocket, though, was for you.
A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one.Ā
The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over.Ā
It wasnāt quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays.Ā
And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away.Ā
Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnnyās eyes hadnāt turned away.Ā
When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished.Ā
Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didnāt reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, āHey, Ghost.āĀ Ā
Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't.Ā
āAll right?āĀ
āHm?ā
āYouāre quiet.āĀ
āOh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?ā You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.
There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. āWhat āappened?āĀ
You looked up again, and shook your head. āIām just tired.āĀ
āTry again.āĀ
Frustration crept into your features. āWho said I want to tell you?ā With that, you ducked behind your monitors.
Simon waited, but you did not reemerge.Ā
He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. āJesus, GhostāāĀ
āNice weather.āĀ
āI can see that.āĀ
āAnd you arenāt out there sunninā yourself? Something horrible must have happened.āĀ
Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. āI. . .Iām just being dramatic.ā
āCāmon, then.āĀ
You blinked up at him. āWhere are we going?āĀ
He didnāt answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket youād knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm.Ā
āLunch.āĀ
You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow.Ā
Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right.Ā
Just his luck.Ā
Didnāt matter though.Ā
He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled.Ā
The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain.Ā
āSo, what are we doing?āĀ
āWalking.āĀ
āI can see that.āĀ
āWhyāre you askinā, then, bird?āĀ
You huffed but didnāt ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway.Ā
The sky was a flawless robinās egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply.Ā
He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter.Ā
Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. āYouāve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.āĀ
He didnāt deny it.Ā
āWhat are we doing back here?āĀ
Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.
You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. āA usual haunt?āĀ
āSometimes.āĀ
āSecretās safe with me.āĀ
āMind if I smoke?āĀ
āNo.ā Then, āI wonāt look.āĀ Ā
He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own.Ā
They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish.Ā
Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.
He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him.Ā
Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved.Ā
Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own.Ā
Heād like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldnāt have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking.Ā
He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too.Ā
He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed.Ā
Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage heād inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe heād hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didnāt know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.
When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms.Ā
āWhat āappened?ā He asked.
Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. āYouāre like a dog with a bone, you know that?āĀ
āAffirmative,ā he said.Ā
You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. āI brought something for you.āĀ
āStalling.āĀ
āPushy,ā you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. āI went on a date this weekend.āĀ
Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. āBad date?āĀ
āNo,ā you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. āNo, it went really well.ā You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. āUntil he saw myāā You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. āMy marks. My scars.āĀ
āHeās a prick.āĀ
āNo, he wasnāt,ā you shook your head. āItās happened before. They see the extent of it, and itās like something biological clicks. Iām off limits.ā You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. āEven though Iām no more likely to find mine than anyone else.āĀ
You looked very small, and alone at that moment.Ā
āI know itās not my soulmateās fault,ā you said quietly. āI know that. I know that. And I donāt blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I justāI wishāI wish I didnāt have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.ā
The chill spreads outward.Ā Ā
It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life.Ā
He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this.Ā
You glanced up and smiled tightly. āBut Iām a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.ā You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. āThis helped, though,ā you said. āThank you, Ghost.ā You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again.Ā
And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands.Ā
You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves.Ā
āHave you found yours?āĀ
Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. āDonāt think someone like me is meant for one.āĀ
You nodded. āMe either.ā
.
.
.
He walked you back to your office.Ā
You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find.Ā
Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs.Ā
Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair.Ā
You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way.Ā
Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk.Ā
Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch.Ā
A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges.Ā
He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. āWhatās this?ā You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.Ā Ā
āA knife.āĀ
āOh, really? I've never seen one before.āĀ
He rolled his eyes. āItās for you. Iāll teach you how to use it.āĀ
āWhy?āĀ
āIn case you need to.ā
āIs this about me staying late?āĀ
āNo.ā He did not elaborate.Ā
āYou know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isnāt a knife a littleāāĀ
āBut you donāt carry a gun.āĀ
āNo,ā you agreed. āI donāt.āĀ Ā
He nodded as though that explained it. āRight.āĀ
You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You werenāt sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.
āOkay.ā
His shoulders loosened. āTomorrow.āĀ
āTomorrow,ā you agreed.Ā
.
.
.
If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didnāt know Ghost very well.Ā
You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began.Ā
You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.Ā Ā
What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldnāt begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic.Ā
Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.
This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, youāve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow.Ā
On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope.Ā
You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. āWhat do you imagine is going to happen to me?āĀ
Ghost didnāt answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud.Ā
You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. Youād swear it was a blush if you didnāt know better. āGhost?āĀ
āBetter to be prepared, yeah?āĀ
āFor what?ā All the same, you turned with a sigh.Ā
After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison.Ā
His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours?Ā
Rough, warm. Safe.Ā Ā
Itās a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasnāt supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing.Ā
Stupid, silly.Ā
If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask.Ā
āWhatās the goal today?ā You asked, feeling a little like you couldnāt breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate.Ā
āSame as always,ā he answered drolly. āTo get away.ā
āHm. I keep thinking youāll challenge me,ā you teased.Ā Ā
āNot a game, bird.āĀ
āBut what am I meant to do? I canāt fight.āĀ
āGet out of the bindings. Get to the door.āĀ
āIs that it?āĀ
You would swear heās smirking. āSimple enough, aye.āĀ
It wasnāt easy.Ā
For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back.Ā
Ghostās weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.
Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in.Ā
āOn your feet.āĀ
Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. āYou wonāt be getting away from me,ā heād said once, āso youād have a chance.ā It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good.Ā
It didnāt feel like you were doing good now.Ā
By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasnāt fun; it wasnāt sparring. You couldnāt manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything heād taught you without your hands.Ā
āYouāre hurting me,ā you gasped.Ā
He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadnāt been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion.Ā
But you knew instantly that youād made a mistake, that he would not take it that way.Ā
āShit.āĀ
.
.
.
The window was open and you were not in your office.Ā
Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. Youād been wandering off without him recently.Ā
He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. āGetting sun, she said,ā he said. āSir.āĀ
Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds.Ā
When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. āGhost, youāre blocking my sun.āĀ
āNot much sun to speak of.ā You grimace and frown at the sky. āYou werenāt in your office.āĀ
āSorry, should have left a note.ā You patted the blanket next to you. āSit.āĀ
Simon sat on the concrete steps. āWhereās your lunch?ā
āForgot it.āĀ
Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it.Ā
āCanteen,ā he said. āLetās go.āĀ
āItās okayāā
āWasnāt a suggestion.āĀ
āYouāre bossy,ā you said but didnāt move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. āIāll have a big dinner.āĀ
He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity.Ā
āGonna rain,ā he commented.Ā
You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wristsāthatās a mistake he wonāt soon forget.Ā
When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. āReady now?ā He asked, pulling down his mask again.Ā
āI can see you wonāt leave it alone.āĀ
āAffirmative,ā he said.Ā
You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours.Ā
Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted.Ā
You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. āYour lead,ā you said. āI havenāt had the privilege.āĀ
He grunted, followed you closely back inside.Ā
As Simonās misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen.Ā
He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. āAch so this is where youāve been off to LT.ā
Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didnāt seem to notice.
āHavenāt been off anywhere,ā he grumbled.Ā
āWhoās this then?āĀ
You smiled and offered your hand and name. āItās nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.āĀ
āJohn MacTavish,ā Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. āCall me Soap.ā
āSoap,ā you giggled. āIāve seen you in my reports.āĀ
Soapās gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldnāt be in the canteen. āAre they yours?āĀ
āSergeantā,ā Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice.Ā
But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. āNo. None of them belong to me. Theyāre nice though, right?āĀ
Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.
āVery becoming, lass.āĀ
You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. āYours?āĀ
āAye, all mine.ā
āAh, luck.āĀ
āLucky indeed.ā
Johnnyās eyes shifted to Simonās, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.
Ā āAm I going to get food poisoning from this?ā You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat.Ā
āProbably not,ā Johnny answered cheerfully. āBeen mostly fine.āĀ
āYes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.āĀ
āThatās for sure, bonnie.āĀ
āBonnie,ā you said, giggling. āAre you calling me pretty?āĀ
Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. āYou wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.ā
āSimon,ā you said softly, glancing up at him. āI didnāt think anyone knew your name.āĀ
Ghost didnāt answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnnyās head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongueāĀ Ā
āItās need to know,ā he snapped.Ā
Your expression folded and you glanced away. āRight, of course. Sorry.ā
Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. āThis way, lass,ā he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess.Ā
āOh,ā you said weakly, āThatās all right. You donāt have toāā
Ghost couldnāt help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into.Ā
Soap wasnāt listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold.Ā
.
.
.
āFuckinā hell,ā Soap muttered when theyād safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. āDāya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? Youāve got yours right under your fuckinā nose and havenāt even told her yer name!āĀ
āShe doesnāt need to know.āĀ
āYer name?āĀ
Ghost leveled Soap with a stare.Ā
Soap gaped at him. āSteaminā Jesus. You arenāt planninā to tell the lass at all?āĀ
āStay out of it, MacTavish.āĀ
Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. āYou know it can kill you?ā Simon kept walking. āSimon.āĀ
He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. āDo ya?ā
āIt wonāt.ā
Johnny continues anyway, urgently. āThereās a pain, they say, under the ribs whenāā
āStay out of it, Sergeant,ā Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. āItās nothing.āĀ
āItāll corrode,ā Johnny said to his retreating back. āSheāll feel it eventually.ā
Simon ignored him.Ā
But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if youād feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.Ā Ā
Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didnāt sit well with him.Ā
.
.
.
Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it.Ā
He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gazās face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too.Ā
Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged.Ā
Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.
The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadnāt wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didnāt deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you.Ā
But the way youād tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender.Ā
You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends.Ā
Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.
Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it.Ā
Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date.Ā
He didnāt know what to do with any of it.
One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simonās chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.
You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which youād turned back so both of you could see.Ā
Your eyes found Simonās when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. āHi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?āĀ
A groan from Soap. āBloody Americans.āĀ
āSorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?āĀ
āHorrendous,ā Ghost said flatly.
Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didnāt quite reach your eyes. āYou should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.āĀ
āAye and you did lass,ā he said solemnly. āYehāāĀ
āSergeant,ā Ghost interrupted loudly. āArenāt you due for PT?āĀ Ā
āAch, right,ā he muttered, getting to his feet, āThanks for the reminder, LT.āĀ
āOh, Soap,ā you said, āHold on.ā You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. āYour favorite, as requested.āĀ
āYou sweet on me or something, bon?ā
You rolled your eyes and said, āOut of my office.āĀ
āYes, maāam.āĀ
Ghost took Soapās vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match.Ā
The silence was suffocating.Ā
āAll right?āĀ
You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. āI wanted to apologize.ā Your voice hitched a little.Ā
He blinked, taken aback. He didnāt like that you could surprise him. āFor what?āĀ
You bit your lip, fidgeted again. āYour name, I guess. You didnāt want me to know.ā Your mouth twisted to the side. āAnd your team bothering you hereāāĀ
āYouāre apologizing for Soap?āĀ
Your brow furrowed. āWell I encourage itāā
āNo.āĀ
āNo?ā You shook your head, āand that day in the gymāā You opened and closed your hands anxiously. āI think I upset you.āĀ
He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. Heād hurt you, and youād taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. āDidnāt. I should have been more careful.āĀ
āRight,ā you said carefully. āSo if itās not that, why are youāāĀ
He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. āI like you to myself,ā he admitted. āNot the best at sharing.āĀ Ā
āOh,ā you said, voice tender. āOh.āĀ
āMm.āĀ
āIāll make space.āĀ
He didnāt quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him.Ā
āYouāll come to the gym later, yeah?āĀ
āYes.āĀ
āGood.ā He stood, deposited your knife, which heād snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. āAnd donāt tell bloody Soap.āĀ
āAye, LT.āĀ
He chuckled. āTake care of that.āĀ
āTeach me how?āĀ
He nodded.Ā
āThanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.āĀ
āI know.āĀ
Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier.Ā
āāCourse you do.āĀ
.
.
.
Simon couldnāt stop thinking about pain.Ā
His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didnāt think could hold pain.Ā
The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to.Ā
He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. Youāre hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.
You said he didnāt, after,Ā but he didnāt relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry.Ā
Youāre hurting me.Ā Ā
It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable.Ā
You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. Heād rather die; heād rather be burned alive; heād rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over.Ā
He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain.Ā
His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men heād ever known, every bloody fist. Simonās scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls.Ā
There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins.Ā
Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little.Ā
āJohnny.āĀ
Soap jumped and glanced around. āSpooky fucker. Should put a bell on yeāāĀ
āDoes she feel it?ā
āWhatāā
He exhaled long and slow. āMy pain. If Iām shot tomorrow, would she feel it?ā
āNo, the lass doesnāt feel it.ā Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. āNot mine. Watched it fade in one morninā. Didnāt feel a thing.āĀ
Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. āThaā why you havenātāā
āNo.āĀ
āWhy?āĀ
āDeserves better.āĀ
Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. āThing is, LT. She doesnāt. Thatās the point.āĀ
Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father.Ā
Fucking perfect.Ā
.
.
.
Two months deployment.Ā Ā
The pain in Simonās chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldnāt sleep, pain meds did nothing for it.Ā
He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasnāt fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore.Ā
Maybe, he didnāt really want to.
Maybe, Johnny was right.Ā
He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because youād been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with.Ā
Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle.Ā
Not as empty as they thought.Ā
Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward.Ā
Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise.Ā
When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her.Ā
The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang.Ā
Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didnāt exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes.Ā
āI thought you said they couldnāt feel it,ā he barked.Ā
āWhat?āĀ
āSoulmates.āĀ
Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes.Ā
āThey canāt, LT,ā Soap said without glancing at him. āItās noā that. Itās justāāĀ
Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again.Ā
It wasnāt pain she was feeling, it was the absence.Ā
āGhost,ā Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side.Ā
It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you.Ā
All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers.Ā
Just to be sure.Ā
It took them a long time to get her to leave the body.Ā
.
.
.
Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months.Ā
September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag.Ā
You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldnāt pinpoint the origins of.Ā
You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together.Ā
Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day.Ā
But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps youād been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turnā
Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.Ā Ā
You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. āGhost,ā you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, āYou arenāt supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.āĀ
āThat disappointed to see me?āĀ
No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. āSurprised to see you. Glad to see you.āĀ
He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. āNice work.āĀ
You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. āYouāre making me paranoid, I think.āĀ
āGood. Paranoid keeps you alive.āĀ
His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldnāt be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong.Ā
You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. āGhost,ā you said gently, carefully. āAre you okay?āĀ
He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained.Ā
He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand.Ā
āWhy donāt you cover āem?ā
Your belly clenched. āCover what?ā you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question.Ā
āScars.āĀ
You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales.Ā
It wasnāt anything he hadnāt seen before.Ā
Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them.Ā
āWhy would I?ā You rubbed your wrist. āI donāt want to. They belong to my soulmate.ā
He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. āYou actually believe in that shite?ā His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. āItās a bloody childrenās tale.āĀ Ā
You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. āWell,ā you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, āthese arenāt mine, so I guess I have to.āĀ Ā
He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didnāt move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle andāanger? Irritation? You couldnāt tell. āWhat the fuck do you care? Maybe youāre ashamed of yours,ā you said roughly, āBut not all of us are.āĀ
His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. āOh, come off it.āĀ
āWhat?āĀ
āYouāre tellinā me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldnāt hate him?āĀ
Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. āYou donāt get to do that,ā you said lowly.Ā
āYou didnāt deny it,ā he said. āYou would.āĀ
āNo,ā you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. āNo, of course I wouldnāt. It wasnāt done to me, itāāĀ
But Simon was determined, his mind set.Ā
āHe hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. Youāll hate him for it, love.āĀ
āFor something he went through?ā You asked incredulously, defensively. āDo you know how scared I was?āĀ
Ghostās eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. āOf him,ā he said viciously, like something terrible heād always known had been confirmed.Ā
āNo,ā you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. āYou arenāt listening. For him.ā Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall.Ā
You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you.Ā
He blinked, looked down at you again. āHeyāāĀ
āI was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid Iāve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldnāt have meant that heāso that he wouldnāt have beenāā Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights youād sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be.Ā
The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly.Ā
You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck.Ā
āOnce,ā you continued shakily, āthey just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didnāt know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldnāt help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.āĀ
You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught.Ā
You arenāt sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they.Ā
It suddenly didnāt feel like you were talking about someone you hadnāt met yet.Ā
You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin youāve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.
You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold.Ā
You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after youād been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghostās face looked like.Ā
āNo,ā you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind.Ā
You opened your eyes.Ā Ā
āGhost?ā you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand.Ā
He jerked back. āDonāt do that,ā he warned.Ā Ā
You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap.Ā
But if he was yoursā
If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him.Ā
He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear.Ā
You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. āI see you,ā you said gently. āThatās all Iāve ever wanted.āĀ
āYou donāt understand,ā he rasped.Ā Ā
āYou survived.ā You backed away. āThatās enough. To know youāre okay.āĀ
The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you havenāt seen him. He has to let you in.
āWhen youāre ready. If youāre ever ready. I'm here.ā
He finally returned his gaze to yours.Ā
āDid it hurt?āĀ
āDid what hurt?ā You tilted your head but he didnāt answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. āOh, you wouldnāt know, I guess.ā You shook your head, āNo I was just scared. Just worried. It didnāt hurt. Youāve never hurt me.āĀ
He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.Ā Ā
āYou donāt have to. You never have to. I donāt want to take anything else from you.āĀ
Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. āDo I have any of yours?ā The question was quiet, almost reverent.Ā Ā
You nodded, āāCourse you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.āĀ
His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. āSee? Youāll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since youāre so pale.āĀ
Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.
āItās not fair to you.āĀ
āWhat isnāt?āĀ
āTo bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?āĀ
You didnāt admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldnāt help anything. āWhen have you ever cared about fair?āĀ
He made a pained sound. āDonāt.āĀ
āIām okay. I donāt need anything from you. I donāt want anything from you.ā
āYouāre supposed to need things from me.āĀ Ā
He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like youād been running a marathon. āGhostāāĀ
āSimon,ā he said. āPlease, call me Simon.āĀ
You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. āLook at me, sweetāeart.āĀ
āI canāt.ā Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat.Ā
āCan.āĀ
Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours.Ā
You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. āNo point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.āĀ
āHow long?āĀ
āThe whole time,ā he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. āFirst time I saw you.āĀ
āYou have had this pain for almost a whole yearāāĀ
āNot your fault,ā he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. āNot your fault.āĀ
You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. āIām sorry anyway.ā You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didnāt want to let you go. āIs there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?āĀ
āNo.āĀ
āWould. . . would you want to come to mineāāĀ
He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin.Ā
You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul.Ā
You werenāt sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you.Ā
In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss.Ā
When you started to step toward the lamp, Simonās fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. āNo.āĀ
āJust turning on the lamp.āĀ
He released you.
As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghostās self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair.Ā
āCome āere,ā he muttered. āSit down.ā
When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa.Ā
Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly.Ā
āGod,ā you muttered. He didnāt seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didnāt want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. āHow have you dealt with this?āĀ
āWorse now,ā he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth.Ā
He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. āIām sorry.āĀ
Simon didnāt answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped.Ā
āNothinā tābe sorry for.ā He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers.Ā
āYou donāt want me.āĀ
It wasnāt a question.Ā
He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours.Ā
āYou donāt have toāWe donāt have to bond,ā you tripped over the last word. āItās okay.āĀ
āObviously itās not, bird.āĀ
Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.
āIām sorry,ā you murmured again. āGhost, Iāmāā
āSimon,ā he corrected.Ā Ā
āSimon,ā you echoed.Ā
He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. āI didnāt want you,ā he said plainly. āI never wanted you to know.āĀ
You swallowed and nodded. āIām sāāĀ
āNo.ā
You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You donāt expect a speech and he doesnāt give you one. āYou deserve better,ā he said. āBut Iām all you get.āĀ
His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.
It didnāt feel close enough.Ā
You wished it were all different.Ā
That he didnāt feel forced, that you were what he wanted.Ā
āI deserve you. Isnāt that the point?āĀ
He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded.Ā
āGo on, then.āĀ
Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head.Ā
You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes youād loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling.Ā
Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic.Ā
Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. āShould be able to separate now. Shall we test itāāĀ
You didnāt get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together.Ā
āNo,ā he said, sounding, for the first time since youāve known him, breathless. āNo.āĀ
āI donāt want to.āĀ
āGood.āĀ
āCan I touch you?āĀ
āCan do anything you like to me, bird.āĀ
You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. āWell, I wonāt. Not anything.āĀ
He made a content noise of agreement.Ā
You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that youād never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. āYouāre beautiful.āĀ
āLookinā in a mirror, are you?āĀ
āSort of,ā you answered. āA little.āĀ
His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little.Ā
Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. āStop trying to bloody move.āĀ
āWhatāāĀ
He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours. Ā
āNo more pain?āĀ
āNone.āĀ
āGood.āĀ
You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.
āYouāre all I want,ā you admitted quietly. āI think I knew. I think everyone knew. Iām sorry,ā you finally said, āthat Iām not who you need.āĀ Ā
His hand squeezes your neck and then heās pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldnāt climb into his chest, nest among his veins.Ā
It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips.Ā
āYou are, sweetāeart,ā he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly.Ā
He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples.Ā
Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.
āSimon,ā you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.
The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed. Ā
if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!
blurb that i might turn into a full fic if people are interested
MDNI
Jack is grunting above you, skin slapping against skin as he drives himself impossibly deeper into you. You feel so fucking full you're barely able to breathe. When your moans start getting louder, that high-pitched whine that always makes you cringe, you bite down hard on your finger out of instinct. It only takes Jack a few seconds to realize that those pretty little sounds you'd been making are suddenly muffled. He slows his thrusts.
"Sweetheart? You okay?" he asks gruffly, peering down to look at you. You turn your head to face him with a furrowed brow, and he frowns in confusion at your teeth sinking into your pointer finger. You take it out and nod.
"'M fine, Jackie. Feels good."
He cocks his head to the side. "Why're you biting your finger? Somethin' hurt? You gotta tell me if it does, baby."
You shake your head quickly. "No, no, nothing hurts. Justā¦ was getting too loud." Your voice is shy and embarrassed; you can hardly look at him. His eyes widen at your confession.
"Too loud? What the hell do you mean, too loud?"
You pause like you don't want to say, tilting your head down. He pulls out of you carefully and sinks back onto his knees. You whine out a complaint, but the harsh look he gives you silences you. "Kiddo. Look at me. Why'd you think you were being too loud?"
"Wellā¦ Robby alwaysā¦ he was worried about the neighbors," you mumble, worrying your lip in between your teeth. "I could-could never help it, bein' so loud, so he said to bite my finger to keep quiet."
His jaw tenses. Christ, he could kill the guy. "Is that right."
"Yeahā¦ 'm sorry, I don't mean to make so much noise, it's justā¦ it feels too good, and I can't hold it in." In your vulnerable state, you look close to tears. So afraid of disappointing him. He rubs his jaw before leaning in close to you and setting his thumb on your lower lip. You look up at him desperately.
"First of all, I don't want you biting your finger anymore. Especially not when I'm fucking you. Got it? You could hurt yourself." You nod slowly, looking chastised. He smiles and kisses your forehead. "And second of allā¦ baby, I don't know what the fuck Robby's problem is, but I don't think I've ever heard anything as sweet as those noises you were makin'."
You roll your eyes and shake your head, still a bit sniffly. "You're just trying to make me feel better. It'sāI sound weird."
He sighs. "You don't believe me? Think I'm lyin'?"
You nod, lower lip jutting out in a pout that breaks his heart. He thinks for a minute before nodding. "Alright, we're gonna try somethin'." Slowly, he sinks into you again. You're well prepared for the intrusion now, but you still gasp when he's fully sheathed in you. His hand flexes at his side as he restrains himself from moving. "You feel me in there?" he breathes out. You nod, and he tuts at you. "Words, honey."
"Y-yeah, I feel you," you whine.
"Alright. I'm not gonna move. I want you to really focus on my cock in you. And if you feel like moaning, don't hold back. At all. Can you do that for me?"
Your eyes flutter shut. "M-mhmm. Yes."
When he reaches down to press the pad of his thumb against your swollen clit, drenched in your juices, you let out a loud, drawn-out moan of relief. A couple whimpers follow it as he pinches you, shockwaves of pleasure rolling through your desperation-laced body. And then you feel it. He isn't moving an inch, but he twitches inside of you. You even hear his breath hitch, and the hand on your hip tightens. Just from the sound of you moaning.
"Ja-ackie," you moan, pushing back against him. He chuckles.
"Yeah. You felt that? You feel what you do to me? Don't hold back, kiddo. Don't think I could withstand it."
āGod,ā Nina sighs, leaning over her desk. āHe just walks like itās heavy, doesnāt he?ā
You hum in agreement, one arm slung lazily over holster as you watch Simon Riley stride past.
The two of you stare after him appreciatively, like youāre admiring a prize stallion cross the pasture. His broad frame moves with such a fluid confidence, a quiet strength that makes his weighty kit look light as a feather.
āNo, seriously,ā you mutter, watching that slight pinch in his waist as he shifts his weight. Woof. āBody tea.ā
You both snicker to yourselves, but Ghost freezes mid-step. His mask whips towards you, silencing you immediately.Ā
āDāyou say somethinā about tea?ā
You snort, laughing again as you turn back to Nina. āFuckinā brits.ā
pope coming home from a long day and he looks oh so sad so u just sit at his feet and let him play with ur hair while resting ur face on his muscular thighā¦..yeah.
Not that he directly says it, but even an SAS operative is hard-pressed to hide the subtle flinch of touch from his fellow teammates at all times. Skin always covered, always positioned away from people, it's an unspoken rule that no one touches ghost unless mandatory.
So why the hell does he let you, the new secretary, get away with it?
"Oh, sir! Hey, I needed an updated copy of that fileā" you'll catch him in the hallway, hand on his bicep to get his attention before you lose him in the crowd. The strangest thing? Ghost actually stops and listens carefully. No tensing up or glaring at all.
Or when you happen to be next to him in line for dinner, you have no qualms bumping your shoulder into his side in lieu of greeting with full hands, already saying "hi, sir! Yknow, I was looking over those reports, and I really appreciate how youā"
It's an absolute mystery to the team. How you ghost is more than happy to be practically manhandled by you in crowded spaces or simply casually touched in conversation. There's only one logical explenation.
Ghost has a crush.
After that, it just becomes more obvious. How he angles himself closest to you in a group. How he subtly leans into your touch on certain days.
Curiously, gaz asks you about it one day. A casual water cooler ambush, designed to look purely coincidental when he interrogates "oh, you and ghost talk often, don't you?"
"Hm? Oh, ghost? Yeah! He's a great friend!" You smile, all wide and unassuming. of course you have no fucking clue, because ghost is damn difficult to read even to trained soldiers. You go on to smile to yourself, fidgeting with the manila folder held against your clipboard. "I'm honestly shocked he tolerates me so much, what with being just some secretary. But he's nice to talk to, yknow?"
...and it seems you are just as horribly enamoured by him. How the hell neither of you has figured it out is beyond the team.
They already have a betting pool going if you two will sort it out before or after next months ball.
In this post not only do I share talented authors, but also Iām so lazy that needed a fast way to find my favorite fics that i am currently reading, the ones I finished and those who I just want to read over and over again.
For context: this came out in 2011 in Australia. Same-sex marriage would not be legalized until December 2017.
It was only legalized in 8 US states (the 8th only a few months before), and wouldnāt be legalized nation-wide until 2015.
It was only legal in TEN COUNTRIES in 2011. We wouldnāt hit 20 countries until 2017. (Australia was 23rd)
As of today (April 14, 2026), I believe only 38 countries have fully legalized same-sex marriage. Out of somewhere around 200 countries in the world. Thatās only ~19% of countries.
If, when my toddler is, you know, toddling around saying āmama? Big ball?ā
If I were lean down and say āunfortunately the big beach ball for some reason fills you with such an unadulterated rage that is beyond human comprehension that you scream until you pass out, so mama had to remove the beach ball from the premises until you can better regulate your emotionsā she would simply stare at me like I had 3 heads full of equal betrayal.
So, for now, instead ābig ball went night night!ā
Few times in your life have you truly fought with your husband, simon riley.
Tonight is one of those nights.
"Simon, you fucking crossed a line! That is unacceptable!" You had told him two days ago after finding out he's put a tracker on you and has been sharing your location with his work buddies. That was your first big fight since the wedding.
Which leads you to now, fluffy comforter and favorite pillow in hand while you glare at the couch.
You didn't want it to come to this. You had hoped refusing cuddles and referring to him solely as "simon." Instead of your usual pet names would get the point across how serious this is. But ghost refused to budge.
So, you're sleeping on the couch. Because as pissed off as you are at simon and as much as you want to tear his face off, some silly part of you aches at the thought of him hurting his back sleeping on the couch.
So, you go tuck in and try to ignore how weird it feels not to have a warm body next to you.
When you wake up, you nearly trip over your husband sleeping on the floor by the couch.
"Whatā simon! What the hellā" all anger you'd initially feel is destroyed when you look closer at the wet lines down the scars on his face, the red tint around his eyes.
Oh. You've....You've never actually seen ghost cry.... not since the wedding.
"Please don't leave me loveā" are the first choked words out of his mouth, not even awake for a minute and already shifting closer to you "ahm' sorry. I'm sorry, I justā i can't lose you. Ifā if something happens to me Iā"
"Woah. Woah, hey, slow down si" You attempt to soothe, because pulling him up onto the bed. "I'm pissed off. You know that. But I'm not leaving you. What's going on?"
Ghost breathes for a second, looks at the window instead of you. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and raw "if I get captured. If I'mā compromised. The team needs to be able to find you. Keep you safe. I can't always be here."
Oh....oh.
The conversation that followed was long, painstaking, but necessary. You and simon struck a tentatively compromise, both mentally exhausted from it all. You could tell he was struggling not to shut down.
"....come to bed with me? I missed your cuddles last night." You smile, only to gasp and laugh when simon bodily hauled you over his shoulder to drag you to bed.
It's the best sleep you've had all week.
Astridās Safe Space @ladyriverasafespace - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
