And Simon was trying to pull himself out, but since you left he hasn't been thinking straight. Mind plagued with more darkness than his entire life complied into one single thought.
He hears you everywhere he goes, sees you in the corner of his eye like an angel; his salvation. But the crunchy static that is his grief is hard to overlook.
In the morning glow he would lay in his bed with you. His Manchester apartment has never been in heaven until you came. Wrapping everything around you in this soft golden light.
He hasn't cried since he was a child, but into his alcohol tainted hands he weeps like an abandoned one. He doesn't understand why he's at the bottom of a bottle or why hes thinking about his parents. He doesn't understand love, but he's getting an idea of why people call it heartbreak.
Humans have always been a little too influenced by love, no other animal would severe themselves like this; breeding the origins of desecration inside your own chest.
You opened up like a flower, and he kissed every inch of your naked skin. And when you took his hand he used to think you might float away - you were too damn dreamy to ever be real.
Like a desperate man he began to pray to anything that'll listen but his mouth is dirty and that is what's different about you and him, they always listen to you - he knows why they do; he'd listen to anything you say too.
He is nothing without your love.
But he can't find his voice to ask for mercy, to fall onto his knees and beg for some scrap of you. Everything about him is brutal, his voice harsh, his job violent, his metaphors about killing two birds with one stone; all he knew was that these are not what fairytales are built from.
You deserve a perfect life, one filled with with all the beauty you could imagine. Soft mornings with the scent of coffee swirling in the air, a pet that snuggles up with you, and a lover who would put your hand on his chest every night, whispering long promises of devotion, of safety, of his love.
And he can guess the ending.
You've always been on fire, and he's imagined a forever where your love cradles him. And he's spent long enough chewing his lip to try to understand why it's unconditional.
Why you still check up on him after everything; When he's broken and drunk you come into his apartment, holding your heart open and your eyes soft.
The place turns upside down, the murk and neglect painting silhouettes across the walls that never were actually closing in. And in its wreckage is one gentle dancing light - you.
And he can't touch it, because he's right back where he started. Deeply in love.
You speak as you have always done, it's so pretty - so destructive - and his eyes sting like there were rivers filled with sharp, crushed hearts, flowing behind them.
Words spill over your soft lips, asking how he's been, and he wonders, does he really have to say it?
It hung around around him in the shape of empty bottles and drawn curtains. It whispered in the corners of the room, it whined from inside his chest.
He hopes you don't think he's being creul just because he's silent; he's not angry. He is just quietly realising his disease, the one that lost him everything in his life.
He sometimes acts the wrong way, and you knew that, so you softly embraced him in arms that trickled it's warmth, feeling like a shiver down his spine.
And he held on because It felt like it always has, like the most precious thing he's ever touched in his life.
Scientists can forget about the study of time, lovers already know how to time travel In ways like how this embrace has teleported him back to the first time you touched him.
If he had the ability to, he'd never let you leave, but as much as his arms could be a cage, for you he wanted them to be comforting.
He won't hold you down, for he knows what it's like to be in a place where you don't belong.
[1] A/n: This idea was inspired by a similar plot I once read, but I can’t find it anymore :_) (NOT PROOF READ)
This is my interpretation of how Graves would react if Shepherd pushed him to his absolute limit. He’ll bow for no one except the woman he loves
-
The Shepherd seated behind his desk, like a judge waiting for a confession. Graves that stands the opposite of him, his rough hands at his sides as he tries to keep his temper low.
“Let me say it again, General,” he drawls, “No way in hell I’m signin’ that.”
Shepherd doesn’t answer at first. He just leans back and stared at Graves. Graves doesn’t look away. He’s stubborn, determined loyal and goddamn proud. Everyone knows it. Shepherd knows it better than most.
Shepherd exhales slowly. “You misunderstand, Philip. You think you have a choice.” He nudges a tablet across the desk with two fingers. “Take another look”
Grave’s gaze drops, only for a second… But enough to see what the was in the tablet.
A Sanction
An operation Graves has refused twice already. It is sloppy. It’s morally rotten. And Shepherd want his boots on the ground to make it happen. He pushes the tablet back. “I ain’t puttin’ my Shadows in that meat grinder. And I sure as hell ain’t puttin’ my name on it.”
Shepherd hums. A disappointed sound. Then he pressed a button on a small remote resting behind his hand. Then, a screen on the far wall appeared. Grave’s breath catches. Your living room, your couch, the warm lamp you would always forget to turn it off appeared on the screen. You’re there, sitting with your knees tucked up, reading something on your phone, completely unaware of the eyes that are on you.
Graves goes completely still.
“Turn that off,” he says.
Shepherd ignores him. “She’s quite peaceful, isn’t she?” “General..” His voice cracked, “Where’d you get that feed-?” Shepherd tilts his head. “Philip. You’re a smart man. You know better than to ask questions you don’t want answers to.” Graves takes one step forward, his temper wanting to burst out and a fear that he hasn’t felt in years.
“Don’t you dare put her in this,” he growls
“She’s not in anything. Unless you put her there.” Shepherd slowly stands up, walking around the desk as the screen keeps playing. You moved positions, brushing your hair over your shoulder.
“She’s innocent,” he snaps, “She’s not part of the Shadow Company. She ain’t part of this at all.” Shepherd steps beside him, hands behind his back. “Exactly. Which means she should stay far, far away from the consequences of your choices…”
Grave’s chest heaves. His voice drops, a low rumble trembling with fury. “You’re threatenin’ my wife.”
“I’m reminding you” Shepherd’s tone stayed calm “That your actions have domino effects. Some fall where you intend… Others… fall where you don’t”
Graves stares at the screen again. You laugh at something on your phone. A sound that he wants to hear everyday, a sound Shepherd now holds hostage.
The general steps back towards his desk. “Sign the approval, and that camera goes dark. No one else ever sees it. No one ever goes near her.”
Grave’s hands curled tight, his knuckles ache.
He imagines lunging across the room. Slamming the old man into the wall. Wringing that smug composure right out of him. He imagines what Shepherd’s face would look like in fear. On the screen, you stand up and disappear down the hallway. Humming a song you’ve recently liked.
“You always had a soft spot for her, commander. And… one must always push where the stone Is the weakest”
A shuddering breath slips out of Graves. When he looks again, he’s no longer the proud commander of the Shadow Company. He’s now just a man trying to keep the good thing in his life safe.
“You do this,” he mutters, “and you will regret it. I promise you that, General. You will regret ever even thinkin’ about touchin’ her.”
Shepherd picks up a pen and on the tablet.
“Well then.” He says pleasantly, “I suppose I should avoid giving you a reason.”
The screen keeps playing,
Graves stares at the pen.
He reaches for it.
“Damn you,” he whispers.
Shepherd smiles. “Good. Now sign”
Graves signs.
Not for the fucking general.
Not for the operation.
But for you.
Because you’re the only thing he will ever bow for.
And as the signature finishes, Shepherd click the remote again. The feed disappears.
Graves just stood there,
Only one thing is in his mind.
He will get you out of this. He will break the leash that the Shepherd just wrapped around his throat. And when he does, he will burn everything the General owns to ash.
As soon as he came back to town, Simon’s first stop wasn’t the pub, or even his own home.
No, he came to yours first, dropping his bag at the door like he lived here. He washed his hands, grabbed a muslin and asked to hold the baby.
He was haggard and shaking like an addict asking for his fix.
There was no protest on your part. Being overworked, with an agitated infant, you wouldn’t refuse help, especially if it meant being around someone who could actually speak back.
After only a few minutes, his mood had already improved. He was soothing your baby and himself at the same time. Your son was an adult pacifier.
He always looked out of place in the baby-proofed, gently decorated flat. Not to mention the neat soft yellow muslin patterned with little flowers covering his shoulder and chest, a jarring contrast with his muted clothes and bruised and scarred hands.
The two of you met when your son was only a few weeks old. You moved into the cheapest apartment complex you could find. You were a broken mess, alone, with a baby who did nothing but cry.
Simon was your neighbor, a man of only a few words.
So few, in fact, you thought he hated you, and your screaming baby.
It took a while for you to realise he wasn’t being rude, just curt. Besides, his silence made him a good listener and for someone who talked a lot, it was the best counterpart.
This man became your best advisor and friend.
“What do you think?” you asked after another of your long rants.
“I think he’s a baby,” he replied curtly.
“Well, we should have looked into it sooner,” you mumbled, picking another preschool pamphlet from the coffee table, questioning yourself on how you could manage to afford it with the little money you were making.
“The other mother at the park said she started looking for one when her kids were still in the womb, and that it’s important for socializing and entering you know…society—”
“He’s eight months old,” he reiterated, swaying the baby securely on his chest. It was comical seeing him so soft while speaking so sternly.
“Yes, that means I waited too long. Apparently the good ones are selective. Not to mention the cost. I’d have to sell a kidney to afford this—god, I messed up again,” you muttered the last part anxiously reading the pamphlet. “Maybe if I get another job.”
The paper was plucked from your view, leaving you to stare at your empty hand.
He shook his head, “No.”
“It’s okay, if I get someone to watch him a little longer until he enters preschool, then I’ll have more time and—”
“You won’t see him grow,” he cut in, “Don’t take his mummy away, he only has you.”
As you witnessed the gentle confidence with which he cradled the baby in his arms, it was clear you weren’t the only one here for him, but you’d never dare say it yourself.
“You’ll do as we planned,” he said, “despite what some nutter told you, kids who start school at four are just fine,”
His eyes were kind as they met yours, “and just so you know, you’re doing a good job.”
“You think?”
“I know,” he hummed.
Simon, a man of a few but meaningful words.
You watched him resume his pacing, going through the kitchen and back, gently rubbing the little boy’s back, as if covering more ground would lull the baby to sleep.
He strode to the couch, lowering himself so you could check on the baby’s status. You looked at your son’s bright, round eyes and let a tired smile slip.
“Wide awake,” you chuckled, the back of your forefinger brushing against his round cheek, “It doesn’t usually take this long…”
You glanced at your watch. It was already 2 in the morning and no sign of getting the rascal to sleep.
“Is he sick?” Simon asked, but you shook your head.
“Trust me, we would hear it,” you assured, “Remember his last colic?” You yawned.
Desperately trying to stay awake, you stood up, now getting a better view of the little man.
His slow, tired blinks made it clear he was fighting to stay awake.
You smiled blowing softly on your son’s face.
He was startled, blinking fast, his small fist clenched, gripping Simon’s shirt.
“Aren’t you, little headache?”
He let out a little fuss.
“Simon has to go home now,” you teased watching your little boy yawn, with the cutest exhausted whine.
“It’s okay, I can stay longer, it's fine,” Simon replied.
You shook your head.
“As much as I would love that, you just got back and you look exhausted,” you gestured to him and then spoke again, “I don’t know what happened over there, but you need rest, I’ll take him.”
You slid your hand under the little boy to take him but the baby started fussing again, soft little whimpers, rubbing his face into the soft muslin on Simon's chest and turning away from you.
“Aw, it’s okay sweetheart, it’s just mummy,” you hushed.
Simon's free hand came up to the baby's head as he gently rocked him.
“I can’t sleep anyway,” Simon reassured, “It’s okay, I got him.” He nodded towards your bedroom, “You go to bed. I’ll stay.”
“Don’t you think that'd be a bit exploitative of me?”
“No.” He frowned slightly. “I asked.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d done an all-nighter with you. However, today was different.
Simon had never been gone this long before. You thought his absence would settle the weird feeling that had been brewing in your heart. Instead, it made it worse.
As soon as you saw him at your door, your heart ached, your lips itched to kiss him and your arms longed to wrap around him.
It had been a month but it felt like an eternity.
Then he held your baby, like he did countless times before, but this time it was different.
It wasn't just helping or a passing greeting, like you had deluded yourself into thinking. For a moment it felt like this was where he belonged.
Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought. You crossed your arms firmly over your chest.
“If you love babies this much, shouldn’t you get one of your own?” You let slip.
His shoulders tensed up, but continued his lazy steps.
“Don’t have the time,” he muttered against your son’s head, not meeting your gaze.
Guilt simmered in the pit of your stomach, the fear you had been holding on for months now being true.
“That's because you’re here in your free time,” you pointed out following him into the kitchen. He raised a brow turning to you.
“Are you asking me to leave?”
You weren’t sure what you were asking, so you leaned against the counter, shaking your head slowly.
“No, I love having you around.”
“Then that settles it.”
“It doesn’t—Simon, the other day the old nosy lady asked me when my tall husband would be back.”
“Just tall? Not strikingly handsome? Hm.”
“It’s not funny, everyone in the building thinks that we’re dating!”
He didn’t seem to bother with this comment so you chewed on your lip. “Even the hottie on the second floor,”
He sighed, turning his back on you, and you knew he rolled his eyes.
“You know, the one who keeps eyeing you in the elevator. If the problem is lack of time, seeing someone in the same building would surely give you more—”
“You’re tired. Go to bed.” He replied.
“Oh come on, you have to want something for yourself,” you chuckled trying to play it down, chasing him back to the living room.
“This is good enough for me.” He shrugged,
“Well, not for me.” You admitted.
He stopped dead in his tracks, turning to face you again, carefully studying your face.
“Don’t you ever feel…trapped?” you asked, he stepped closer.
“Not when I’m here,” he replied matter-of-factly. After a moment, he added, “I looked forward to this.”
“To sleepless nights?” You scoffed.
He readjusted your son on his arm, “No, to see you. The both of you.”
Taken aback by the response, your gaze cowered to your son's face. His lashes were resting against his cheeks.
“He’s out,” you murmured, feeling Simon’s warmth now closer to you.
“And you?” He asked quietly.
You looked up, to meet his cautious gaze. “Me?”
He nodded once, his eyes flickering over your face. “Did you miss me?”
Your finger pinched the fabric of your baby’s onesies, just a few inches where Simon’s palm was spread widely between his shoulder blades swallowing his small frame.
You were not sure if it was alright to admit, but his breath against your face was enough to make you lose your senses.
“Yeah,” you said through a breath, your head tilted up again, shifting closer, “I did.”
He leaned down by instinct, startling himself before retracting, but you gripped his shirt.
“Simon,”
That was enough.
He pressed his mouth to yours, still too careful until you closed the remaining almost nonexistent gap between you, his free hand pressed to your lower back.
A soft cry startled you both.
“Shit,” you whispered.
“S’alright, I’ve got him,” Simon said, pulling back, adjusting his hold once again, hushing the baby gently. “I got him…” he repeated almost to himself.
You licked your lips, his warmth still vibrant on them. The gap between you was only two steps, but it felt immense.
“We’ll be here a while…” you nodded your head, “Coffee…I’ll make coffee...”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah!” you echoed, but didn’t move an inch, “no sugar?”
His lips curled up as he bit into them. “Mhm.”
“On it.” You said, giddy, finally heading to the kitchen.
Kyle is used to having game. He’s a good looking guy, no denying, and he’s polite! So when he sees someone he wants, he’s not shy about going for it. And most of the time he’s successful.
That being said, he’s used to being the one doing the flirting. He’s mastered his approach, has a million pick up lines, knows how to profile peoples favorite drinks to buy them, he’s practically a professional.
So when you swagger over to him, leaning against the bar where he stands, giving him an exaggerated once over and finally saying, “hi, pretty boy.”
…he’s a little lost. Pretty boy rings in his head. Is…is he pretty? Sure he’s been called hot or handsome but…pretty?
Something about that sends a zing to his brain and he just kind of turns off. He gapes, he can feel his skin getting hotter, he doesn’t speak.
“Shy, pretty?”
That didn’t help! You’re voice? Incredibly distracting when you talk to him like that.
“Uh, wha—no! No, I’m not!” He finally kicks back into gear, finding words again and trying to readjust to be his normally confident self.
“Really? Cause you seem kinda flustered…” you lean in and put a hand on his chest. You’re so close he can smell the fragrance you use.
“I’m…just uh…” he can’t think again. All of his blood rushing away from his brain to go to his cheeks…and further down.
You pull away, turning toward the bartender, blessedly giving him a moment to breathe and collect himself. “Can I buy you a drink, pretty boy?”
Fuck he’s never gonna survive you.
His companions look on from their booth in the corner. Laughing incredulously at the instantaneous affect you had on him. Kyle never acts like this. Also (and arguably more pressing) Kyle was supposed to be getting them another round.
“Oh, he’s gone.” Johnny shakes his head at the exchange.
John "6 ft on tinder" Mactavish who has always gotten the short end of the stick from the rest of the 141 for being 5'11". who has seen and heard beautiful women excuse all kinds of behavior just because they have to look up at Ghost or Price. who has had Gaz pat his shoulder one too many times and tell the bird he's chatting up, "man's lying about his height." and who is frankly, fucking tired of it. watching with barely disguised malice as Gaz (who is barely over 6'!! the nerve of that man!!) hits on you at the bar, strikes out. and is immediately replaced by Price, then Ghost, each man taller than the last. each one gauranteed the lay if only because of his height, sulking back to their seat after less than a minutes conversation with you.
"the height not workin' out fer ya, ya deciduous bastards?" Soap grumbles.
"bird doesnt date horses," Ghost grunts.
"they what?" Soap's mouth twitches.
"don't date horses," Price grumbles, his lighter sparking pathetically as he tries to light his cigar.
"and that means?"
"Anyone over 6 foot," Gaz slumps, tipping the last dregs of his pint back and forth in the glass.
Soap nearly vaults the table, scrambling to spin you from the bar and announce,
"Ahm 5' 11"!"
you bite your lip hard against your grin, its the sweetest thing he's ever seen.
"could wear tall heels around me and ah won't complain," he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, "the horses have me well trained lookin' up."
"how about from your knees?" you laugh, reaching to hook a finger in his belt loops.
On a mission briefing:
You and Soap are holding hands under the table.
Ghost, without looking: “Let. Go.”
Soap: “..How'd ye know?”
Ghost: “The silence was suspicious."
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