I’ve seen posts where the Homeowner appologizes to the ohjects in their house when they bump into them even before they get the glasses but consider: homeowner who calls objects baby and darling before they get the glasses. STAY WITH ME cause I do this and have for so long so play in the space with me.
Bumping into a door or accidentally slamming the fridge shut and saying, “Sorry darling.” The lights flicks and they go to the breaker box with encouraging, “You can do it beautiful, you got this,” as they try and get the power back on. Throwing something away and absentmindedly saying, “Thank you, baby,” to the garbage for taking their trash.
Then the dateviators come and they suddenly become so aware that they probably shouldn’t call people they barely know pet names so it all stops. One day they put on the dateviators to see a small crowd gathered looking a mixed between annoyed, worried, sad.
Bev: “Did we do something to upset you?”
Dorian: “You can be honest. We just want to know if you’re alright.”
MC: ?????
Cam: “It’s been weeks.”
MC: “Since???”
Freddy: “Well… you know, Cool Kid.”
Cam (pissed): “Don’t act like you don’t know, baby.”
Thats when it clicks that everyone misses the sweet nicknames and wants to be doted on again. Its cleared up that the MC isnt mad and was just trying not to be weird, but clearly should go back to calling everyone pet names.
Bonus is when they’re giving Cam trash with the dateviators on he will just stare afterwards and not tell them to leave until they give him a “Thank you, Baby” even tho they now know cam likes trash and should be thanking them. Doesn’t matter though cause the light flush on his face is worth it.
summary: after waiting 24 hours for a plane that is seemingly never arriving, you embark on a road trip with an unexpected companion.
warnings: hurt/comfort (happy ending), brief reference to kidnapping/being trapped (perks of reader's fbi job), fear of bugs!!!, reader is shorter/smaller than jake, strangers to lovers, no use of y/n
word count: 11.8k
a/n: thank you for being so patient while i worked on this! had a hard time trying to really get in touch with jake emotionally here. i hope you all enjoy! (p.s. my criminal mind heart is showing here)
masterlist
"Attention passengers for the 539 flight to Washington D.C., we are experiencing another delay and have a new updated time of take off at 6 PM tonight," a voice announced from the intercom at your gate. You glanced down at your phone to check the time, and it read 10:32 AM. It was official, you were never leaving the Minneapolis airport.
"I'm gonna be stuck here forever," you muttered under your breath, slouching further into your seat at the realization that you had almost spent an entire 24 hours at this airport already.
The flight here had been no problem. No unexpected turbulence in the air, you got through the monster that was the Los Angeles airport with an hour to spare, and there were no crying babies or barking dogs on your flight. You had chosen to fly out a few days later than the rest of your coworkers, tying up a few bits and pieces of paperwork for the most recent case you had worked on.
But now you were regretting your decision to skip out on your Bureau-commissioned jet ride to fly commercial instead. Maybe it was the thrill of the upcoming weekend that had blinded you, but being in an airport didn't seem all that horrible just a mere day ago.
Now you were running on fries from the McDonald's within the terminal and the knowledge that maybe, eventually, you would be getting on a flight to D.C. within the next few hours.
From your left, you hear a low chuckle. Glancing over, you spot the man who had been on your same connecting flight from Los Angeles.
You noticed him almost immediately when boarding, his posture and demeanor screaming military. Even now, his hair was combed too neatly, and his expression was too bright to have spent the same amount of time here as you.
"You and me both," he told you with an amused smile and quirked brow.
"I just can't believe they haven't rerouted us or given us any more updates other than pending weather conditions," you told him, complaining freely now.
Maybe a few hours ago, you would've been more guarded, but after sitting in the same gate for the past day, your words now flowed freely.
"I understand a delay for a rainstorm, but it's been sprinkling since 3 in the morning," the man spoke with a disbelieving tone of voice that made you laugh a bit to yourself.
He looked at you as a wave of laughter consumed your body, soon joining in himself. The situation was absurd, and anyone in your position knew that. You shared a look that could only happen in a circumstance like this, an unspoken connection.
"I think I'd rather just get a car at this point and drive. I just don't think they'll refund my flight if I leave now," you sigh as the man next to you just hummed in agreement.
"Yeah, could've been there already. It's not too long a drive," he thought out loud as you laughed in disbelief again.
The familiar chime of the broadcasting system once again rang, leaving both you and the man sitting to your left looking over at the counter.
"Attention passengers for the 539 flight to Washington D.C., we are now offering a full refund on tickets and a $2000 voucher to those who are willing to give up their seats and find alternate transportation to their destination. For more information, please come talk to a representative for the airline."
People around you buzzed at the new information, but no one moved to get up. You glanced over the man next to you once again, trying to confirm something without saying it out loud.
He whistled at the total of the voucher, looking at you to see your reaction. "2 grand, huh?"
"And reimbursement," you said, nodding your head and jutting out your bottom lip.
Still looking at one another, you could tell the man next to you was having the same thoughts.
"My final stop is D.C., but I have to be there by Friday night," you offered up, hoping he would catch on.
"Same. What is it, only 17 hours on the road, should take 2 or 3ish days give or take," he reasoned.
"Perfect timing for us." You raised your brows at the man.
He smiled back knowingly, reaching to put away his charging cord and pack up his water bottle into his bag. You mirrored his movement, double-checking that you had your credentials tucked away safely.
Rising to your feet, the man next to you did the same as you walked over to the help desk.
"You're not like a creepy serial killer or anything like that, are you?" you questioned with a teasing look.
"Quite opposite, actually," he told you with a grin. "Decorated lieutenant in the Navy."
He smiled widely at this, but you just hummed and narrowed your eyes, looking him up and down. "I'll be the judge of that."
"Wow," he laughed, almost in shock, like he couldn't believe you hadn't swooned or lit up with amazement at his title. "Always so cautious?"
"Always," you affirmed with a shrug of your shoulders, like it was something that was built into you.
Jake's eyes now looked over you, trying to figure out where the certainty of your words had come from.
Before reaching the desk, you turned once more to the man whose name you didn't even know yet to confirm. "So, we're really going to do this?"
He smiled and nodded before speaking, "I've done a lot less for 2000 dollars."
You laughed at this, and his smile seemed to widen, more authentic this time.
"I'm glad we have 3 days on the road, because we'll need to unpack that," you said before turning and heading over to the desk.
જ⁀➴
Jake had snatched the keys from the rental car counter before you could even blink. You think it might have been his sharp smile or jests that distracted you, but as soon as you got settled into the passenger's seat of the car, you fell asleep within the first 15 minutes of the drive.
He opted to not disturb you, not even to turn on the radio. Looking over at your sleeping figure, he made sure to slow down during sharp turns and to keep a good amount of space between him and the cars around him on the freeway, not wanting any sudden stops to disrupt your sleep.
Jake would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed you on the first flight. Your seat was a bit in front of his on the opposite side, and while he was never one to people-watch or eavesdrop, he couldn't help but look as you talked across the aisle with an older woman.
You had a sweet smile on your face and nodded when she talked, and that was all Jake expected. But after 15 minutes of watching both of you, he noticed how engaged you were. You genuinely asked her questions and sat back to listen. He could tell she needed someone to talk to, and you were the perfect candidate.
Not to mention, you were beautiful. The fullness of your cheeks whenever you smiled, the softness of your lips, and your lashes batting every few minutes, had Jake on the edge of his seat, nothing else distracting him, not even the whirling of the loud engines.
Around the 5-hour mark of driving, Jake gently rubbed your shoulder as he pulled into a small diner.
"Ready to eat, Sleeping Beauty?" he asks in a soft voice, not trying to tug fun at you too much. He was happy you were able to fall asleep so easily in front of him after only a few conversations.
You hummed at the touch and words, stretching out a bit in your seat. Jake watched as the t-shirt on your frame tugged up, showing a sliver of your stomach in the process. Between the small huffs and exposed skin, Jake turned away to hide his blush.
It was an odd reaction from him; he was never particularly flustered when seeing some skin, but it was something about the intimacy of it. Watching the relaxed look on your face for the past few hours and seeing how you shifted around next to him made Jake feel like he knew you in a different way, in a way that most people didn't get to see.
"Thanks for not killing me. I was half expecting to wake up in an abandoned cabin in the woods, not Johnny's Roadside Diner." Your voice was quiet, but Jake could see the small smile that graced your face as you looked out at the stop he had chosen.
"What am I going to have to do to win your trust?" he asks, opening the door of the rental car as you did the same.
You hummed, contemplating your answer. But after a few seconds, Jake saw the way your face lit up before speaking, "Buying me a milkshake is a good place to start."
"I'll buy you a whole meal, sweetheart," he tells you with a smile, but you just roll your eyes playfully at him. Jake grabs the door, making you duck under his large frame to enter the small diner.
The host led you towards a small booth near the window. Jake watches as you take in the decor, your eyes lingering on the picture frames hanging on the wall of what looks like the owners and staff over time. Sitting on the bouncy plastic of the booth, you smile softly at the staff as they hand off the menus and leave you alone.
The diner was quiet, other than the low-volume classic rock music coming from a jukebox and the two older men talking lowly at the bar top; it seemed like you and Jake were in your own bubble.
Scanning the menu, you speak unexpectedly. "So, Jake Seresin. Tell me about yourself and your go-to diner meal."
He laughs a bit at this, the question loaded at the front and amusing at the end. Something that Jake figures is normal for you.
"Definitely the Steakhouse Burger with fresh jalapenos," he tells you as you hum. "And I'm a TOPGUN graduate with a Navy Corps Commendation Medal, a Navy Achievement Medal, a National Defense Service Medal–"
Before he could continue, you cut him with a laugh and bright smile. "Whoa. I asked about you, not your medals. Impressive, by the way, just not really what I was looking for."
You tilt your head to the side, looking at Jake, trying to see if he would open up to you.
"Right, sorry." He smiles sheepishly, and a pink dusting appears on his cheeks not long afterwards. "I grew up in Texas," he starts, a little quieter than before. Jake hopes that you take this piece of information and do something good with it, hopes you don't mock him for starting here.
"Texas?" you ask, a smile on your face as he just nods at your question. "Farm boy? No way you're from the city."
He laughs at this, eyes crinkling up at your accurate assessment.
"Yep, born and raised farm boy. Got three older sisters, all still in Texas," Jake offers up as you raise your brows.
"Do you want to move back out when you're older? Or happy with where you're at?" you ask, hoping this might open him up a little more.
He takes a minute, thinking before he gives you an answer. "I like where I'm at now, but maybe I'll move back when I start a family. Don't really get too much of a choice with my job, though," Jake says sincerely. You can almost see the sparkle in his eye as he talks about his future family; it's sweet.
"Family man, then."
"Yes, through and through," he says quickly, a soft smile on his face.
"Yeah, family's important. But, it's hard being away from them," you tell him, breaking eye contact to look down at your nails. "My job takes me away from my loved ones pretty often, too. Maybe not across the globe, like you, but still."
He hadn't said one thing about missing his family or being scared to leave them, but you had picked up on it almost immediately. And you did so by being vulnerable yourself, not putting the spotlight on him.
It freaked him out a bit if he was being honest. But another part of him wondered how you figured it out so easily.
Just as he was about to open his mouth and ask, your waiter appeared at the table ready to take your order. Telling him what you wanted with a polite smile, you handed the menu back to the younger-looking boy and then turned you attention back to Jake.
You watched as his fingers rubbed up against the edge of the table in soothing motions, back and forth. His eyes not quite meeting yours again.
"Do you do that a lot?" you asked him, breaking the tension once more.
At this, Jake looked at you, seeing a small smile on your face. He didn't know what you meant, but knew it wasn't supposed to be malicious. "Do what?"
"Answer questions without really answering them," you said, raising your brows, watching as his face twisted.
"I told you about my family." It was almost defensive in the way he said it, like he had given you information no one else knew about him.
You nodded, trying not to laugh. "You did. And your job and where you're from."
"Those are all normal things to tell someone," he argued back, arms now crossing over his chest.
"Maybe, but that's not what I asked for."
"You want to get to know me, that's me. My family, my job, where I was raised," he pushed back.
You shrugged, leaning back into the booth as Jake seemed to now be on the edge of his seat. "I don't know," you said, head shaking a bit.
"You don't know?" he repeated, eyes narrowing like he was studying you.
You bit down on your bottom lip briefly to contain your smile. "I guess it's just the difference between a biography and a person, y'know?"
For a moment, Jake just stared at you. But this time, his face had relaxed, and his shoulders had dropped, no longer looking to see if you were going to attack. Instead, he was now trying to figure out what to give you.
Most people were satisfied with the call sign, the medals, and the confidence. They liked the polished version. The one who knew exactly what to say and how to say it.
But you didn't seem interested in that at all.
"So, who's Jake?" you asked again, softer this time.
He looked out the window of the diner for a few seconds, eyes tracking the cars that sped past on the nearby road.
"I'm the youngest," he finally spoke. Hands still moving back and forth against the edge of the table, eyes not quite meeting yours yet.
Still, you waited.
"By a lot." A small smile tugged at his mouth at this, like he was recalling a memory.
You hummed, and he finally turned to look at you once again.
"My sisters used to drag me everywhere. Tea parties. School plays. Dance recitals." He shook his head. "They treated me like a doll half the time."
You laughed at his words, and he just smiled at your actions.
"I'm serious," he told you, hands raised like he was being interrogated.
Your laughter continued, head thrown back a bit before you added on, "I can absolutely picture little Jake getting his hair brushed and makeup done."
"That's classified information." His finger pointed out at you at this.
Your grin widened, and Jake found himself smiling too.
"My parents…" He paused, sucking his teeth a bit. "They were good parents. Still are. Worked hard. Expected us to work hard too."
It was quiet again, crackling from the kitchen and the whooshing of the overhead cooling systems in the background.
"There wasn't really room for failure." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Your expression softened at his admission. "That's a lot to carry when you're a kid."
He shrugged automatically. "It made me who I am."
"Maybe," you said, voice still soft and inviting. Your hand itched against your jeans, wanting to reach out to his from under the table. But you kept it against your denim-clad thigh even as you watched his fingers move tiredly against the table.
The answer seemed to surprise him, though, eyes narrowing a bit as he looked at you. "Maybe?" he repeated.
You nodded.
"Or maybe you would've become a good person anyway," you offered, like it was the easiest thing to say, like it didn't tear open a part of his heart.
Jake didn't know what to say to that. The idea felt foreign. His entire life had been built on earning things: good grades, flight school, his wings, TOPGUN, promotions, respect.
Every milestone was another box checked. Another expectation met.
He wasn't sure he'd ever considered who he was without all of it.
"You know," you said after a moment, "you don't have to be Lieutenant Seresin while you're with me."
Jake snapped out of his stupor at this.
You smiled gently before continuing. "You don't have to anybody's golden boy. I just want to know Jake."
He felt his chest tighten. For the first time since you'd met him in that airport terminal, Jake found himself at a complete loss for words.
And strangely enough, he didn't hate it.
જ⁀➴
"Please tell me we're stopping for the night," you groaned from the passenger's seat. Somewhere between the empty cups of coffee from the diner back in Madison and the annoying voice of the GPS announcing that you had reached Chicago, Jake and you had fallen into a comfortable rhythm.
Maybe it was the aching in your back or the pent-up energy you had from sleeping earlier in the day, but you were itching to get out of the rental car.
Jake laughed as you squirmed in your seat. It had been fun watching you for the past few hours, trying anything and everything to keep yourself entertained.
First, it was a game of I-Spy, but you got over that pretty quickly after Jake had beaten you almost every round. He swore he heard you mumble something about him cheating under your breath. Second, you read the car's safety manual for about five minutes, then put it away, saying you were going to get sick and Jake needed to pull over. His eyes widened at your claim, his mouth opening to ask if you were okay, but you quickly put up a hand to silence him as you huffed in the seat next to him. But most recently, you had been on your phone, doing what, Jake had no idea. But every so often, you gasped silently and jotted something down on a spare napkin from the diner he hadn't even realized you grabbed.
"That's the plan," he told you, eyes glancing over at your sprawled out figure just briefly.
Pulling up to the hotel in the heart of the city, you had practically cheered as Jake put the car in park.
You tugged on your backpack, but before you could grab your carry-on, Jake was hauling it out of the back, claiming it as his own. He had even opened every door from the parking garage to your hotel room, despite both hands being full.
Each time, you laughed and shot him a smile. "Thank you, Jake."
By the time you had reached the hotel room, his cheeks were dusted pink from your careful attention.
You flopped down on your bed face-first. Jake mirrored you, sinking into the desk chair near the entrance of the room.
"It's not even dark yet." Your voice was muffled, face still buried in the white covers.
Trying not to laugh too hard, Jake bit the inside of his cheek.
"Are you tired?" you ask, body rising and twisting to face him. Your hair was now ruffled and your eyes a bit glossy, something that made Jake's heart pound.
"Not really, no," he said honestly.
A smile crept up on your face at this. "Tourist stuff?" you suggested, bottom lip trapped underneath your teeth, trying to contain the grin that would surely light up your face when Jake inevitably agreed.
He raised a brow at your request, but you could see the hidden smile on his face before he confirmed your idea.
"Tourist stuff."
Sure enough, the apples of your cheeks rounded, and you bounced up from your place on the bed.
જ⁀➴
At the Bean, Jake quickly discovered that "tourist stuff" apparently meant being recruited into photographs. You were already approaching a woman holding out an old digital camera before he could protest.
"Would you mind taking our picture?" you asked her sweetly.
The stranger smiled immediately, nodding as you handed off the camera and walked back towards him.
Jake blinked.
Our?
You stepped beside him naturally, like it hadn't required a second thought.
The woman lifted the camera and smiled at the two of you.
Instinctively, Jake moved closer. The picture snapped.
Your hand snuck around his waist before the next one.
By the last click, his arm was draped around your shoulder, big hand landing on your smaller shoulder.
The woman handed your camera back, and you wished her a good day, saying thank you too many times to count.
You immediately started clicking through the photos.
Jake stared at you incredulously.
"What?" You looked up to meet his gaze.
"Nothing," he shrugged, lips pouting a bit.
"No, seriously," you pushed, chin now tilted up to meet his eyes fully.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Why'd you want me in them?"
You looked genuinely confused. You could hear the insecurity hidden in his voice, buried but still there.
"Because it's our trip," you offered, voice certain and firm.
He huffed out a laugh. "That's not an answer."
"Sure it is."
His eyes narrowed, still not willing to accept your answer.
"I scrapbook."
Jake snorted at this. "You scrapbook?"
Your brow furrowed, and you gasped dramatically, hand coming up to your chest in mock offense. "Don't sound so surprised."
"I just didn't peg you for a scrapbooker." The way his voice danced, and the grin spread across his face, made you roll your eyes.
"Well, Jake, sometimes people contain multitudes." You picked up your camera again and snapped a picture of him, a grin still painted on his face.
That earned a loud laugh.
"I take pictures everywhere," you told him, the smile on your face softened. "It helps."
Jake's face twisted with confusion at this. "Helps with what?"
You hesitated, shrugging and looking away from him for the second time since meeting. "When work gets bad."
Jake watched you carefully.
You rarely talked about your job beyond vague comments and carefully selected stories. When he had asked questions back at the diner, you had waved them off.
"What do you do with them?" his voice was careful now, no teasing lit in it.
"The pictures?"
He nodded as you looked back up at him.
You glanced back at the screen, clicking through the memories. "Sometimes life gets ugly," the answer came quietly. "And sometimes I need proof that it isn't always like that."
Jake felt something tighten in his chest. He wanted to ask you more, to push you to open up. What type of things were you doing that you needed these reminders? Had anyone hurt you? How could he help you with this pain?
A small smile found your face again after this, but Jake could tell it didn't quite meet your eyes. "This way I can remember the good parts."
The good parts.
His mind drifted to the photograph you had just insisted on taking. To himself, standing beside you. To the smile on your face.
And for a second, Jake couldn't stop thinking about the fact that you'd counted him among them.
જ⁀➴
Drifting around the city for what seemed like forever, you had finally landed in a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. Bright, neon red lettering read Bellissima across the brick patterning. You grinned at Jake as you tugged him into the small building.
Red checkered tablecloths and wine bottles decorated the interior. Old music played in the background. And at the end of the restaurant, there was a tiny black and white photo booth.
Of course, your eyes found it almost immediately, and you whipped around to look at Jake.
"Oh, my God."
"No."
"Oh, my God."
"Absolutely not."
Five minutes later, he was squeezed into the tiny booth beside you.
"Move over," he half-complained. You were perched up on his lap, one leg thrown over his. The warmth of your body seeped through his denim, making him want to melt into you.
You huffed, pushing up onto his lap even more. "There is literally nowhere to move."
The curtain slid shut as he huffed.
The first flash went off before either of you could prepare, painting a funny and honest picture where Jake was rolling his eyes, and you were scowling at him.
The second click caught Jake and you locking eyes instead of looking at the camera, a small smile on his face, while you bit down on your lip, grinning.
The third featured your hand covering your mouth as you laughed. Jake's smile now overtakes his face, his eyes still trained on you.
The fourth was completely ruined because neither of you stopped laughing in time. Blurry, but still capturing your hands coming up to brace against Jake's chest as his own poked your cheek teasingly.
The machine rattled as you stood outside of it, waiting for a single strip of photos to slide out.
But then, there was another that followed the first. You grabbed both eagerly as Jake laughed. He watched as you studied them, a smile growing on your face.
Without a word, you handed him one.
"For me?" he asked, surprised you had handed one over.
"Obviously," you told him, like it was a no-brainer.
He looked down at the pictures. A stupid little photobooth strip. Four grainy photos. Nothing special.
Except suddenly it felt very special.
"Thanks," he spoke sincerely, eyes still looking at the pictures.
Your smile widened at this, now carefully watching him. "You're welcome."
Jake folded the strip carefully before sliding it into his wallet.
જ⁀➴
Emerging from the steamy bathroom, Jake had a towel draped around his neck and was now changed into an old TOPGUN shirt and loose boxers.
He doesn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't this. Jake thought that maybe he'd find you reading a book or scrolling on your phone before bed. Maybe even scrapbooking. But the room was quiet and dark, only his bedside lamp dimly illuminating his surroundings.
For a moment, he thought you'd gone somewhere, maybe out to grab some ice from the machine down the hallway or off wandering around by the pool.
Then he spotted you.
Curled beneath the blankets, fast asleep. Your face was smushed into the soft pillow, mouth open just a bit. It was similar to the scene he had witnessed in the car, but now your entire body was relaxed and sprawled out across the bed. You looked peaceful like this.
And the colorful pajamas you'd changed into looked ridiculously comfortable. The pink fabric loose around your skin made everything about you seem softer.
To top it all off, there were little gel patches beneath your eyes, still in place despite your positioning. It made him chuckle a bit under his breath, and Jake couldn't help the smile that pulled at his mouth.
Cute.
The thought arrived immediately. Dangerously easy for only really knowing you for about one day. He shook his head, trying to shake away the feeling in his chest.
Crossing the room, he lowered himself onto the edge of his own bed. It was soft and cushy, but the sheets were cold when he slipped underneath them. Jake couldn't help but think back to how your arm felt around his waist or the weight of your body on his in the photo booth.
He wasn't sure why you had claimed the bed closest to the door. Jake had tried taking it, but you had claimed you'd sleep better this way. He didn't like the thought of you being the first line of defense if anything happened. Again, he rolled his shoulders, trying to push away those thoughts.
The city glowed beyond the curtains. It was surreal being in Chicago in the first place, but the circumstances made him smile. Walking down the busy streets with you today, hand finding yours if the crowds got too big or too pushy, was something that made Jake's stomach toss.
Traffic hummed somewhere below. He recalled you hailing a cab after dinner. It seemed like second nature to you. He remembers wanting to grab your waist as you stepped out into traffic. But with a raised hand and confident stride, a yellow taxi had pulled up next to you within 10 seconds.
His gaze drifted toward the nightstand. Toward the photo booth strip sticking out of his wallet. A souvenir from a day that shouldn't have mattered, shouldn't have even happened. A woman he should have only known for a delayed flight.
The people worth missing were always waiting somewhere else.
But sometime between Minneapolis and Chicago, his brain had apparently forgotten the rules.
Because when he thought about tomorrow, he wasn't thinking about Washington.
He was thinking about how many hours were left in the drive.
How many meals.
How many bad gas station coffees.
How many chances he'd have to hear that laugh again.
The realization settled heavily in his chest. Not because he wanted you, no, he couldn't want that. Those thoughts couldn't have a place in his heart. That part had become painfully obvious.
But something else tugged in his brain.
How you'd eventually leave.
And for the first time in a very long time, Jake wasn't sure he wanted to be the one left behind.
You shifted slightly in your sleep. The blankets rustled, then settled again.
A soft inhale and exhale.
Jake leaned back against the headboard and just listened.
For years, his life had been noise. Jet engines. Radio chirping. Big expectations. High pressure. Constant movement.
But here, in a cheap hotel room in Chicago, he just listened to your steady breathing.
Jake felt something he hadn't felt in a very long time.
Peace.
And it scared him a little how badly he didn't want the feeling to end.
જ⁀➴
By the time you left Chicago the next morning, you were feeling significantly more human. You had woken up before Jake, giving yourself time to get ready without disrupting him. By the time you had come out of the bathroom, he was changed out of his pajamas, but his hair was ruffled, and his face was still a little puffy. It was something so small, but it made your heart race.
Walking back to the car, you had now had your morning coffee. Jake had his too, matching cups in your hands. And the world seemed manageable again. Not life-ending like yesterday morning at the airport.
Which was exactly why you held your hand out for the rental car keys.
Jake looked down at your palm. Then back up at you.
"No."
"What do you mean no?" you asked, slightly taken aback by his response.
"No," he repeated, lighter this time, like he was about to laugh.
You scoffed at this. "Why? Because I'm a woman?"
Jake's eyes widened.
"What?" His voice rose to a pitch you had yet to hear. It was almost amusing.
"You heard me," you stated, hand snatching the keys from his grasp in this moment of weakness.
Before you could react, he plucked the keys directly from your hand again.
"No."
He started walking toward the driver's side.
"Jake!" you called out, but he didn't stop. "Why? I feel great. And you did all of the driving yesterday."
He looked over his shoulder. Your face was scrunched up, and your free hand was in a fist by your side. The sight was pretty cute.
Despite this, he decided to tease you even further.
"Because I'm a gentleman."
You barked out a laugh. "A gentleman?"
"That's right," he told you matter-of-factly as you rolled your eyes at him.
"You flirted your way into a free cinnamon roll at breakfast," you said, brows furrowed at the memory of Jake laying it on thick with the barista this morning. He had come back with a wide grin and two forks. You swore the woman shot daggers your way the rest of the morning.
He shrugged at this. "I never said I was a perfect gentleman."
Still, as you settled into the car, you couldn't help but feel a little useless.
"You don't always have to take care of everything, you know. I'm a grown woman."
Jake's grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel as he peeled out of the parking lot. "I know."
The answer came too fast for your liking. Too automatic. Like he had given it no thought at all. Like you couldn't take care of yourself.
You turn toward the window, no real malice in your actions, just the need for space. "Sure."
The car fell quiet.
For a few moments, only tires against pavement filled the space between you.
Finally, Jake sighs. "I wasn't trying to say you couldn't do it."
You shrugged, voice struggling to remain light. "Didn't say you were."
But he could hear it anyway. The frustration. His eyes jumped over to your form. He saw the way your body curled in on itself, hands wrapping around your waist like they would keep you safe.
Jake swallowed. He didn't want you to assume anything. He just wanted you to understand.
"Growing up, my sisters were always getting hurt." His voice was steady in comparison to yours earlier, eyes now trained on the road.
You glance over briefly and see the small grimace on his face as he continues.
"They climbed trees that were too tall. Rode horses without the proper gear. Ran straight into bull pens without thinking."
A small smile tugs at his mouth, like the memory outweighed the feeling of fear.
"And?" you ask, voice still a little small.
"And I got really good at worrying."
The confession hung awkwardly in the air.
It wasn't charming, just honest.
"Oh," you said, chest finally feeling a little lighter. "I guess that's slightly better than sexism."
His eyes flitted over to you again. This time, your knees pointed towards him and your arms were loose at your side.
"Slightly?" Jake scoffed, smiling at you.
"Slightly," you repeated, trying to hold back a laugh.
જ⁀➴
The first few hours passed comfortably. To your surprise, the roads weren't busy, allowing for a peaceful way ahead in your journey.
Quickly into the drive, the radio became your shared entertainment. Every few minutes, you'd switch stations, pausing and listening, then switch again.
After the 5th song, Jake eventually glanced over. "You know you can connect your phone, right?"
You shrugged, like you had known that already. "Where's the fun in that?"
"The fun?" he asked, voice laced with confusion.
"Yeah." You continued scrolling through stations, not offering anything other than the one word. Jake shook his head at your actions, still a smile started to form on his face.
A small gasp was heard as a familiar song started playing. "There."
Jake looked in your direction once again, unimpressed. "You could've listened to that song whenever you wanted," he argued.
"Exactly." You pointed toward the speakers. "But I didn't."
His face twisted at this, ultimately settling in a frown. "I don't get it."
You laughed at his words. Jake's brows were furrowed, eyes trained on the road in front of him. Smiling at the sight, you explained, "When you find a song you love on the radio, it's exciting."
Jake looked like he was trying very hard to understand. "It's the exact same song."
"Jake, no, it's not."
"It literally is," his hand gestured to the radio and then to his phone.
You shook your head. "Nope."
He laughed. "You are ridiculous."
"Maybe," you said, leaning back in your seat. "But it feels more special when you weren't expecting it."
Jake couldn't help but smile at this. There was something oddly endearing about the way you found joy in things most people ignored.
After a few moments of silence, he spoke, "What else?"
You looked over at the man again. Now it was your turn to be confused. "What else what?" you asked, sitting up a bit at the question.
Jake glanced over at you, meeting your gaze, making his smile grow wider. "What else makes you happy like that?"
"Oh." The question surprised you; it was obvious by the way you were now sitting upright, at full attention.
Jake noticed immediately. "What?"
"You've never asked me something like that before," you told him, voice softer like it had been when you were settling down before bed last night. The sound of it made Jake buzz inside.
He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. Like he asked these types of questions all the time. "I want to know you too."
A swirl of emotions settled in your chest. You were glad Jake couldn't look at you fully right now. Surely you were a mess, making a stupid, surprised face. Still, you looked out the windshield for a moment while thinking, giving yourself a little space to calm the raging pounding of your heart.
Then you smiled at the thought that crossed your mind almost immediately.
"The community stories." Your voice was quiet, and Jake almost didn't pick up what you were saying.
To confirm, Jake glanced over once more. He saw a bashful look on your face, which made him even more intrigued. "The what?"
"You know." Your face brightened a bit more as you explained. "The little stories they do on local news."
Recognition slowly crossed his face. "The feel-good ones?" he asked, voice lifting at the end of his question.
"Yeah, those ones," you confirmed, head nodding.
Jake hummed before continuing. "Those make you happy?"
You laughed a bit at that. "Happy, yes. But, they make me cry."
His eyebrows shot up at the image he was conjuring. You sitting on the couch at the end of the day, sobbing to the news. "Cry?"
"Every single time." The confession was immediate and unapologetic. He could see the way your body relaxed at this, sinking back into your seat with a happy smile.
Jake shook his head, laughing at your words. "You're unbelievable."
"I know." You grinned, biting down on your lip at the ridiculousness of what you had just said. But still, you continued to bare your heart to the man next to you. "There'll be some story about a neighborhood raising money for somebody's medical bills or a little kid helping stray animals or something, and I'll completely lose it."
Jake was openly laughing now. "You're serious."
"Dead serious." You pointed dramatically. "And before you judge me, I strategically watch them before I do my makeup in the morning."
His laughter got even louder, the whole car filling with the noise, the radio long forgotten. "Oh, my God. You schedule your crying?"
"I schedule my happiness," you defended, trying to stay serious. But the smile on your face said otherwise. "Those stories remind me there are good people everywhere."
Jake's grin faded slightly as he saw you turn back to the window, pine tops and leafy trees whirling past you.
"No matter what else is going on, they make me grateful," you told him, voice now soft again, more contained. The quiet was back, only the hum of the dashboard and the small melody of the radio filling the car now.
Jake found himself staring at the road. Thinking. He wanted to push, but he wasn't sure what the right questions were to ask.
Eventually, you nudged his shoulder with your hand. "Your turn."
"My turn?"
You hum at this. "Mhm, what makes you happy?"
The obvious answers came first. Ones that would be rehearsed and polished. Something about flying. About the feeling of completing a hard mission. Words came to mind about how he touched down on the tarmac; the feeling it gave him of being infinitely lighter, stronger.
But after Madison, after Chicago, and after everything you'd shared with him, this answer felt incomplete. Still, he gave it anyway.
"I like finishing a flight."
You smiled knowingly, like you had sensed the war raging within his mind. This time, though, you didn't push; you just laughed. "That tracks."
"It does," he said steadily. But you picked up on the way his breath hitched, like he was trying to get something else out.
Then there was another answer. It was a second thought, a memory he thought he had buried a long time ago. Not something he had told anyone, not even something he had admitted to himself
It wasn't embarrassing, but as the thought formed, his cheeks flushed. "I like hearing birds in the morning."
Your head turned so quickly that your neck would probably be hurting in just a few minutes. "What?"
Jake groaned at this; he could see the smile forming on your face. "See."
"No, no, keep going," you urged, excitement dripping from your words.
He smiled despite himself as he recalled the memory, the feeling. "When I was a kid, my dad used to take me camping."
Your expression softened at this, trying to control yourself at the honesty he was giving you.
"Every summer," he started, eyes stayed on the road. "We'd wake up before sunrise."
You laugh a bit at this. "That sounds awful."
"It was awful," he told you with a smile, words not matching his emotions. "I hated it."
He could practically feel the sleeping bag and cold morning air from those memories. The ache in his muscles from the hikes he had partaken in the days before. The caked feeling of dirt over everything he brought with him, no real way to clean it.
"But every morning there'd be birds everywhere," he wistfully recalled. "Different calls. Different sounds. And eventually I started expecting it."
A small smile appeared on his face at the end of his sentence. You watched carefully as the muscles in his cheeks twitched and the steady rubbing of his thumb on the steering wheel began to come to a halt.
"Now whenever I wake up somewhere and it's completely quiet…" he trailed off, like he was living his words. "I get disappointed."
Your heart squeezed at this confession. Because of course it did. Of all the things he could have said, giving you a half-assed answer about flying, something he gives everyone else, instead, he told you about birds. And somehow it felt more intimate than anything he'd shared so far.
જ⁀➴
Jake climbed back into the driver's seat. You had pulled up to a little gas station to refuel. While Jake pumped the gas, you had booked it into the convenience store.
But as he reached to turn the car back on, he stopped immediately, keys swaying from his fingers.
On the center console, there was a can of Coke Zero, a bag of jalapeño kettle chips, and —
"Herbert's Watermelon Slices?"
You smiled at the goofy look on his face. "Yep."
Jake just stared at you, utterly confused. "How did you know?"
You shrugged, cracking open the can of soda you had gotten for yourself. "I guessed."
"There is absolutely no way," Jake scoffed, his eyes lighting up as he looked at you.
"It was kind of easy," you told him, taking a sip of your drink and putting it down, moving to crack open his can too.
"Easy?"
"Yeah," you nodded. "The burger at the diner, the fruit this morning, the constant waters at every restaurant."
Jake opened his mouth. Then closed it.
"But how'd you get here?" he gestured to the array of snacks between the two of you.
You rolled your eyes at him, like you couldn't believe you were still having this conversation. "I just notice things. Put them together"
"Yeah, I see that now," his eyes narrowed as you just shrugged. "Maybe I should be worried about you being the psycho-killer."
"Hey," you pouted as Jake laughed. "I buy you all these nice things, and this is what I get."
"It's okay, you can be honest, sweetheart," Jake teased as you scoffed.
"I'm never doing anything nice for you again."
Jake burst out laughing at this. He took a swig of the Coke Zero, and you seriously should've looked away. The bobbing of his throat made you squirm in your seat. And the way he licked his lips after was almost criminal.
"I find it flattering," he told you while sending a wink your way.
"Shut up and drive, Seresin."
જ⁀➴
The hotel room had barely settled around the two of you before you were pacing.
Jake watched from his bed as you crossed from one side of the room to the other.
Then back again.
Then again.
"You okay there?"
You stopped immediately.
"No."
His laugh came easily now. "What's wrong?"
"I've been trapped in a car with you for two days," you told him, not thinking much about the words as they left your mouth.
"Wow, rude," he joked, but still you whipped around.
"No, not like that. I mean, like the car," you tried to backtrack, but Jake just chuckled. "I think I'm gonna go for a walk."
At this, Jake sat upright in his place on the bed. "A walk? It's almost dark out."
"You're right," you said, crossing the room to get to where you had slipped off your shoes. Jake sighed at this, glad you were settling down. "I should probably get going then if I want to catch the sunset."
He heard the jingling of your keys and the click of the locks and shot up. "You can't go into a city at night by yourself, it's not safe."
You contemplated this for a moment. Bending down, you tossed Jake his shoes with a smile.
"Well then let's go."
Jake deadpanned you as you paced back and forth by the door. "Seriously?" he asked as you just nodded. "Unbelievable."
But still, he tied his laces and let you lead the way.
The city is busy at this time of day, the sun just about to set on the horizon. Apparently, Jake isn't walking fast enough, because you tug on his hand, lacing your fingers through his as you urge him to hurry. He smiles and isn't sure if it's because of the urgency of your words or the feeling of your smaller, softer hand in his.
Coming to an outlook at a nearby park, Jake and you stand side by side to watch the pinks and oranges of the sky turn into purples and dark blues.
"Go stand by the railing," you tell him, hand dropping from his. His eyes immediately track it, searching for it. But he sees you reach into your jacket pocket for the old camera and just shakes his head.
"Just me?" he asks, brows draw in the middle.
"Yes, just you. Just for me, okay?" you ask, smile on your face as the camera shifts to life in your hands. And when you put it like that, Jake can't help but agree, leaning against the railing without any more complaints.
You raise the camera up to your face, and Jake smiles as the flash goes off, not noticing any of the sweet looks you both are getting from people around you. However, a young girl comes up to you and you nodded vigorously while handing over the camera.
For the second time in two days, you're standing next to Jake for another picture. This time, though, his arm slips over your shoulder like muscle memory, and your hand comes around his waist with a squeeze that makes him jump.
The moment is captured in a blink, Jake looking down at you with a surprised grin while you bury your head into his chest, laughing sweetly.
She comes back up to you both after snapping a few more pictures, handing you back the camera with a blush. Jake almost misses it; the girl is quite shy and only looking at you, but he hears the passing comment as she hands off the camera.
"You guys are such a cute couple."
You laugh at this, not mockingly, but like it actually made you happy to hear the words. Before you could respond, she hurries back to her family with a wave and smile.
Jake just watches you. The crinkling of your eyes and smile lines around your mouth. Every time he looks at you, he finds something else that fascinates him.
"I've never met anyone like you," he admits, the words coming out without him meaning to say anything at all.
But just as he's about to backtrack and explain himself, you smile brightly and repeat the sentiment, "I've never met anyone like you."
You're smiling up at him now, looking at him like you really believe what you've just said. He can't help but glance down at your lips.
As he catches himself, he looks back up at your eyes and sees you do the same to him. But quickly, your eyes meet again and you just laugh.
"Come on, I'm hungry," you say, but there's no real push in your voice. Jake listens anyway and nods.
The park is dark now, only spaced-out lampposts illuminating your way. Still, you walk with confidence, as if you know the city like the back of your hand.
"Are you sure you know where we're going?" Jake asks, voice laced with skepticism.
"Yes, I promise. I had the best veggie sandwich at this little stand just a little bit this way, like 4 cases ago," you tell him, steps not faltering.
"What do you mean case—"
"Here! I told you!" You cut him off as soon as a small food truck comes into view. Sure enough, Sal's Sandwiches stood at the edge of the park. Small picnic tables taken up by families, couples, and groups of friends surrounding the structure.
Scanning the area, you point to a table not too far away from the truck.
"Can you go save that one?" you ask as he follows your finger and nods. "Thanks, Jake."
You split from him, heading towards the line. Jake watches as you go, your head on a swivel for the first few seconds before you settle in line and begin talking with the person in front of you, because, well, of course you do.
Jake chuckles at your behavior, watching as you light up, talking with the people around you. What's especially odd, though, is that when you make your way up to the window of the truck, an older man comes rushing out and scoops you up into a hug.
He can see the way the man fuses over you, but you wave him off, offering another hug. He sees the way some of the other workers poke their heads out to say hi to you as you wave. Soon enough, he's patting you on the back and sending you on your way with a bag and two canned drinks.
As you place the objects down on the table, you start talking immediately, "I got you the Meat Tornado, fresh jalapenos, don't worry. Sal says it's yummy."
"Sal?" Jake asks with an amused look on his face.
"Yeah, come on, try it!" you urge, unwrapping your own sandwich.
As Jake's teeth sink into the fluffy bread and perfectly flavored meat and veggies, he groans. "Oh, my God."
"Right," you laugh, taking a bite of your own sandwich now. Jake has to look away as your eyes roll back into your head with delight.
"I swear this is the best sandwich I've ever had," he tells you, mouth still full. You laugh, hand coming up to cover your mouth.
"Stop, you're gonna make me choke," you say, slapping him lightly on the chest as he laughs.
"Sorry, sorry," he apologizes as you shake your head at him.
You sit for a few moments like that, just eating and enjoying each other's company. That is, until a black beetle finds its way onto the table between you.
You all but throw your sandwich in the air and scream bloody murder when it crawls towards you. Quickly, you rise to your feet and run over to hide behind Jake.
"Seriously?" he asks, throwing a teasing look over your shoulder, but when he sees the fear on your face, he quickly turns back to the bug, swatting it away.
A few moments pass, and you make your way back to your seat. "Sorry, they just freak me out," you explain, but the way your eyes don't meet his makes Jake think this might be something deeper than just an irrational fear.
"No biggie, all got our stuff," he says, giving you an easy out. You just nod at this, hands still placed in your lap and eyes still trained on the ground.
Jake reaches out for your hands, encompassing them with his own. The action finally makes you look up at him, he can see the tears brimming on your lashes.
"Y'know if we were out in the woods right about now, I'd be exactly the same as you are now."
Your brows furrow at his words, but he can see the way they've temporarily distracted you, and that's enough for him to keep going.
"When I was a kid, I ran away from home. I was that age where if I didn't get what I wanted, I just started running."
You laugh softly at his admission. He just slides closer towards you, body fully facing you now.
"This one night, I ran into the woods before dinner started. My mom made chili, and I wanted hot dogs. Not a great night for me. So I took off, and before I knew it, the sun had set, and I was all alone out there. No idea where I was," his voice was careful. Not trying to make you feel like he was patronizing you, but still concerned.
Your breathing slowed down a bit now, chest not heaving as much as it had been a few minutes ago.
"I was out there for what felt like hours. Only tall trees around me, wherever I turned. I didn't know if anyone would find me, if anyone was even looking in the right spot."
Your bottom lip caught between your teeth as a tear slipped down your face. God, so empathic, he thought. Thumb coming up to wipe away wetness and hold your face in his palm.
"But my dad found me, just around dawn. I remember running into his arms and crying all the way home. My sisters and mom fussed over me as soon as we came through the door. She never made chili again," Jake joked.
You laughed, watery but there.
"Yeah, but I, uh," Jake's face twisted, and now it was your turn to squeeze his hand.
He cleared his throat before continuing.
"Two years ago, a buddy of mine and I were flying over these forests on a mission. Everything was going good, we were just reserve, not really doing anything but surveillance and back up," his voice shakes at the memory.
"It's okay," your voice is barely there, but Jake's eyes find yours immediately.
"No, I want to," he tells you as you nod, hand gripping yours even tighter now. "But we were flying one minute, and the next we got separated. An ambush. It was just for a few seconds, but I lost him. The radar lost him. I didn't know where he went. Still don't."
His breathing hitches at the thought, something that still haunts him.
"I don't," he starts, voice weak. "I don't want to go like that. I can't leave my family like that. Not like that."
You nod, a hand coming up to meet the one on your cheek. Jake's eyes find yours, and he smiles, something wobbly, but he tries for you.
"I'm sorry, Jake."
But he just shakes his head. "Not your fault, don't gotta be sorry, sweetheart."
You can see the walls coming back up, protection and shields all taking their place.
"About a year ago, I was out in Iowa, of all places," you huff, a laugh bubbling despite yourself. "And, um, I got stuck in this barn. For a while. And there were these black beetles that would crawl from under the floorboards and gaps in the wood at night."
Jake sees the distress on your face at the recall of the memory.
"And I couldn't move. They crawled all over me, and I couldn't move. It was three days until my team found me. But by then I had all these little bites across my skin, didn't know where I was."
Another tear slipped down your cheek, but this time Jake's hand caught it before it could drip down your chin.
"So I can't do bugs. Those bugs especially."
"That's okay," Jake told you, voice still soft. "Bugs are dumb anyway."
You laugh at this, fully this time. It makes Jake smile. "So dumb. Just like the woods."
Now it's his turn to laugh, eyes finding yours. "So dumb," he repeats.
You share a look, something like recognition, like understanding. You lean in and collapse on Jake's shoulder. Nose finding the softness of his neck and hands wrapping around his broad back. His hand shifts to hold the back of your head, rubbing soothing strokes in your hair. The other finds your lower back, bringing your body even closer into his hold.
જ⁀➴
"There he is!" Javy's voice rang out from across the hotel courtyard.
Jake grinned at the sight of his squad, all done up in dress whites for the event tonight.
"Thought you'd never make it, Bagman," Nat jests as he just rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, where've you been, man?" Rooster asks, hand coming down to clamp on the man's shoulder.
"Roadtrip. My flight got delayed, so we decided to drive from Minneapolis," he shrugged.
"We?" Javy's brows furrowed as he looked to his best friend. The squad all looked towards Jake expectantly.
Like a deer in headlights, Jake froze at the slip. "Yeah, me and this girl I met at the airport."
"Oh, my God. This sounds like plot from a shitty rom-com," Nat laughed as she watched Jake's cheeks heat up.
"Shut up, Phoenix," he swatted his hand in her direction as her laughs grew louder.
"No, no, she's right. Are you guys in love now?" Rooster chuckled as Phoenix continued to cackle next to the tall man.
Jake recalls the end of last night. How you had walked back to the hotel, hand in hand. He remembers the look you gave him after coming out of the bathroom, hair still damp and dripping at the ends. He can still hear the crinkling of his sheets as he moves to make room for you. He swears he can still smell the freshness of your hair and the sweetness of your body lotion as you sank in next to him in the sheets. He knows he'll never forget the feeling of your soft skin under his rough hands, the contrast not lost on him. But the way that you had relaxed further in his hold only reassured him, hand coming to wrap around your body tighter, pulling you closer.
"Holy shit, he is," Javy spoke, mouth hanging open a bit.
"Shut up," he said again quickly.
"Well, where is she?" Bob asks, eyes finding Jake's.
"I don't know, actually. She dropped me off here earlier today, still need the rental car for this weekend," he explained, hand instinctively reaching to find his wallet.
"What about her number? Don't tell me you didn't ask," Phoenix questions, invested fully now despite her jests.
"We were with each other 24/7, I guess I just didn't think about it," Jake's voice is uncharacteristically soft as he talks. His hands dig into his wallet, fingers grasping the photo strip. He holds it out in Javy's direction.
"Damn," he says breathlessly, passing it to Rooster next.
"Are you an idiot, man? Do you see the way she's looking at you here," Bradley huffs, handing the strip to Phoenix.
"Forget her, look at Bagman. He's head over heels," she says, giving the photos to Bob.
"Wow, man. You gotta find her," Bob tells him, eyes wide as he takes in the pictures.
"I don't even know where she's staying. Or even where she lives or what she does for work," Jake groans.
"How did you not talk about this? Didn't you spend, what, like two or three days together?" Phoenix asks, voicing her disbelief.
"We talked about other stuff. Deeper stuff," Jake shrugged.
"Oh, Jesus," Bradley laughs out. "You've got it bad, man."
"Don't you think I know that, Rooster!" Jake groans as the squad laughs at his misery.
"Alright, aviators, it's time to head out," Maverick's voice boomed. The group rose to their feet and made their way out of the hotel. Somewhere in between the shuffle, the photo strip landed back in Jake's hand. He looked down at it once more, eyes finding your smiling face. There was nothing he could do now, well, at least not until after the State Dinner.
જ⁀➴
"Oh gosh, he's dreamy," Penny tells you as she looks at the photos from your trip.
"I know," you sigh, slumping further into yourself as you sit at the table. The form-fitting dress seems too constricting for your dramatics, digging into your ribs as you slouch.
"I could always look him up, y'know. Track him. You said he's in the city, right?" she asks, hand already reaching for her phone.
"No, no, Penny. We can't do that. He didn't ask for my number or anything when I dropped him off. I don't want to push it," you ruminated over the memory. "Maybe I just made it all up. Like it was all in my head."
She cooed at this, hand coming to rub soothing circles on your shoulder.
"I'm sure he felt it too. Maybe he just wasn't thinking," she offers. You groan at the thought.
"He went out this morning. Early, before I got up. Got us pastries and coffee from this place we passed by last night. They were so yummy," you whine as she laughs a bit.
Jake ran his fingers through your hair to wake you this morning. When you opened your eyes, you were met with the sight of a brown paper bag and a goofy smile. It made you flush even now, just thinking about it, thinking about him.
"And he checked the hotel room both nights before bed. The locks and windows. I didn't even get the chance to do it," you tell her with a frown.
"Dream man," she teases.
"You have no idea," you say, ignoring the teasing lit in her voice. "I told him about Iowa."
"Really?" The woman next to you now in shock at your words.
"Not everything, obviously, but I told him. And it felt good. He made me feel safe," you confess as she looks at you with a sad expression.
"Well, come on, let's get a drink in you. Maybe that will help," Penny tells you, beckoning you to follow her to the open bar.
You sigh, but walk with her and eventually order your usual drink.
Sipping on your drink, you spit it out almost immediately as it hits your tongue, a loud voice ringing in your ear.
"It's you!"
You and Penny look at the man next to you in curiosity. He had a handlebar mustache and a big grin on his face. Neither of you recognized him.
"Stay here, please. Just stay," he said, setting his drink down and rushing across the room.
Looking back at Penny, you frown. "What the hell was that about?"
She opens her mouth to respond, but you see a stunned look overcome her face. "Oh, oh!"
"What? You're freaking me out," you question as she begins to jump up and down a bit.
"You never did tell me what you did for work. Policy analyst? Campaign strategist?" a familiar voice says from behind you.
Turning around, you see him. "Jake." You face lights up at the sight of him.
"So am I close?" he teases as you pull him into a hug.
"I can't believe you're here." Your voice is muffled as he pulls you closer into his grasp, your face buried in his neck as his comes down to dip over your shoulder.
"Yeah, I'm here," his tone is tender now, not teasing. You can feel his hands wrap around your waist, fingers almost digging into the silky fabric of your dress.
You pull back just enough to look at his face. Jake's mouth stretches into a goofy grin, eyes not leaving yours.
"FBI agent," you tell him, watching his brows shoot up.
"Wow. Seriously?" he asks as you just nod shyly. "So that's why you had so many serial killer questions for me."
You laugh at this, head thrown back a bit, completely missing the look of adoration Jake throws your way.
Jake laughs against your forehead, still holding you close.
"You have any idea how close I came to having one of my squad members file a missing persons report for a woman whose last name I didn't know?" Jake admits, voice quiet, so only you could hear.
Your eyes widen at this. You feel your heart beating wildly in your chest. "You were looking for me?"
Jake gave you a look as if you had said something so unbelievably obvious. "Sweetheart, I spent the last hour getting roasted by every pilot I know because I couldn't answer a single question about you."
The admission settled warmly in your chest as you looked into his eyes.
For the first time since Minneapolis, neither of you was rushing somewhere. No delayed flight. No rental car. No hotel checkout.
Now, it was just the two of you. The sound of classical music and soft chatter in the background, but you only heard Jake's steady breathing, grounding you in this moment.
"I was looking for you too," you confess quietly.
He was quiet for a minute, not expecting your words. "You were?"
You nod, head dropping into his strong chest as the words spill out of you, "Penny offered to run your name through three different databases."
He barks out a laugh. "That's terrifying."
"That's what I said," you mumble, cheeks flushing a bit at the thought.
"No, that's actually terrifying."
Meeting his eyes again, you can't help but start laughing. Jake joins in, and the sound eases something that had been wound tight since the moment you dropped him off that morning.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
The ballroom buzzes around you. Glasses clink. People talk and laugh. Somewhere across the room, you hear a man loudly telling someone he deserved credit for this reunion.
But all of it fades into the background.
Jake's gaze softens as he looks to you.
"You know what I've been thinking about?"
"What?"
"The radio."
You smiled immediately, face twisting a bit in confusion. "The radio?" you parrot.
"The stupid thing you said," he offered, like it would help you narrow things down.
Your grin widened. "You're gonna have to be more specific."
Jake rolled his eyes, smile still on his face. "About songs."
Recognition flashed across your face, mouth parting as you spoke, "Oh."
"You said it felt more special when you weren't expecting it." Jake glanced down for a moment before looking back up. "I think that's what this was."
The words stole the air from your lungs.
A delayed flight. A cancelled trip. A random seat at a gate in Minneapolis. A road trip that never should have happened.
And somehow, here he was. Here you were.
Jake smiled nervously, something you hadn't seen from him before. It made your tummy turn in the best way possible.
"But I don't really want to leave the rest of it up to chance," he spoke once more.
Your breath caught at his words. "No?"
He shook his head. "No."
Then he reached into the pocket of his dress whites and pulled out the photo booth strip. The edges were already worn, like he had pulled it in and out of his wallet every few minutes.
"I think we should go on a date. You know, a proper one."
You laughed at this; the simple statement seemed so ridiculous and at the same time riveting. "A date?"
"One where we aren't fleeing an airport," he offered. You tracked as his thumb brushed across the photo.
You pretended to mull it over, eyes looking towards the ceiling. "That does sound nice."
"And maybe one where we don't share a rental car for three days first."
"Hm. I don't know. That's become kind of my standard," you deadpanned.
Jake groaned at this. "You're impossible."
"But you're asking anyway," you spoke quietly, hand coming to meet his on the photo strip.
His smile returned immediately. "Yeah."
"Good."
Jake's eyes searched yours, boyish charm now all worn off. You only saw vulnerability and wonder across his face. "Good?"
"Because I'd really like another picture for my scrapbook," you told him with a smile.
The grin that spread across his face was brighter than anything you'd seen from him since Minneapolis.
His hand comes up from your waist and lands on your cheek. You nodded slightly, tongue coming out to wet your lips quickly.
When he kissed you, you felt yourself melt into his touch. Thoughts of missed planes, long stretches of road, and cheap diner food are all gone from your brain.
And for once, neither of you were going anywhere at all.
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)
Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.
cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection
Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body.
The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception.
But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.
There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way.
They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.
Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.
They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.
Stamped, more like. Branded.
Survived.
And soulmates shared scars.
Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.
He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way.
It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one.
There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing.
Better he was alone.
The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance.
A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.
A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.
Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.
And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate.
Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would.
But, sometimes, he wondered.
He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing.
It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again.
He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.
It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him.
Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.
If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already.
He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable.
It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent.
He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.
Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear.
It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.
The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.
Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land.
A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.
“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.”
Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?”
Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”
Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head.
Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was.
No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him.
But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds.
.
.
.
The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices.
Each place had caveats.
The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it.
Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there.
The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day.
The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors.
The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone.
A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty.
He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.
Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators.
It was a regular, routine, quiet place.
So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted.
Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.
The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck.
The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air.
Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward.
There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp.
Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to.
It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it.
You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?”
Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs.
Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere.
He would know his own face anywhere.
He would, apparently, know you anywhere.
Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat.
Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it.
You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs.
His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart.
Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone.
The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain.
Nausea swept into the back of his throat.
“Are you okay?”
He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes.
You saw him.
Simon was not to be seen.
Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze.
Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked.
Not anymore.
He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—
The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace.
Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Sir?”
Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat.
Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.
As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency.
You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire.
You hadn’t recognized what he was.
And he was going to keep it that way.
.
.
.
It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it.
He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it.
Better yet, through you.
Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery.
One sure way to free himself was your death.
It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them.
Simon understood the urge.
He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides.
Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this.
It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse.
It was wrong.
He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.
The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.
Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up.
Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it.
Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.
Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light.
Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp.
Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were.
Fuuucking hell.
Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room.
Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal.
He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache.
Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders.
You yawned, eyes still closed.
He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would.
Ghost backed away, left you to your peace.
The weight in his chest intensified again.
He hated you for it.
He went back the next day.
And the day after that.
.
.
.
Anchor might be a better descriptor.
Hook was too violent.
Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that.
He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things.
You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t.
You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin.
You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it.
You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night.
You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else.
They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in.
Absolutely bloody foul.
Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile.
And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed.
You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers.
You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you.
He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous.
You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough.
Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them.
He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him.
The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important.
That used to be more important.
Now his every thought was asterisked by you.
Distracted.
He didn’t do well with it.
He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it.
Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.
He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly.
After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk.
Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest.
It was enough to be where you had once been.
That was as close as he cared to be.
He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again.
.
.
.
He went by Ghost, you learned eventually.
His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely.
It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith.
It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut.
Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true.
Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request.
It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception.
It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.
When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.”
The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.”
Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.”
You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note.
There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.
You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way.
Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it.
You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.
You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back.
“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?”
This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands.
The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.
“Have I passed?”
His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?”
“Your test?”
“Think I’m testin’ you?”
“You moved my desk.”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it.
It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.
You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.”
“Should.”
“Maybe.”
“Especially in the field.”
“I don’t do field work.”
He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond.
“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”
He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office.
Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company.
All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone.
Ghost was strange, slightly off putting.
You liked him.
Maybe, you thought, he’d come back.
.
.
.
Ghost visited regularly after that.
Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work.
His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling.
You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.
But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.
Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind.
The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.
You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.
The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others.
Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it.
You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain.
He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag.
In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently.
But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him.
If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said.
“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.
Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle.
He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.
“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.
“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“
“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”
“Yep. Got something for you, too.”
He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?”
You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”
He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”
“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”
“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”
Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway.
When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed.
It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.
.
.
.
When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.
You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor.
It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window.
In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift.
He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier.
“It’s for you. I knitted it.”
He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”
Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?”
“Who else would have?”
He grunted. “You knit?”
“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”
His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck.
“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.
You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.”
Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.”
“What?”
“Silly.”
The way he grunted the word made you laugh.
“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”
“Reckon you just did.”
You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?”
“Just two.”
It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.”
“And out of questions.”
You laughed again.
He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.”
“Where are you from?”
The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?”
You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.”
He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer.
The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back.
“Why do you come here?” You asked instead.
This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.”
“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.”
He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.”
You decided not to take offense at being called noise.
You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch.
“Hungry?” You asked.
“Tryin’ to see my face?”
You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.”
The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.
“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.
You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.”
He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.”
You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.”
“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it.
When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.
“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.”
Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?”
You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”
His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all.
“From somewhere warm?”
“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.”
“Must be nice, that.”
“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.”
“One you enjoy.”
“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.”
He snorted again.
You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle.
When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.”
“Hm?”
“Where I’m from.”
His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead.
“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“
You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”
“It’s your fucking accent.”
“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?”
“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered.
You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”
“Suppose it does.”
“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.”
He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?”
You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”
“They make it wrong too.”
You groaned. “Not you too.”
Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container.
“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.”
You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?”
“I love tea.”
It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.”
He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called.
Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.”
He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.”
“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.”
Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone.
.
.
.
It should be a good thing.
You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other.
But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.
The thought festered, burrowed.
“Laswell.”
She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead.
“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.”
Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?”
“What do you mean?”
“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”
Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that.
“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?”
Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall.
You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.
As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working.
When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working.
He walked you to your car around midnight.
“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you.
“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered.
You just laughed.
.
.
.
“Tea?”
You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain.
It would need remedied.
But first, this.
It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Unfortunately not.”
You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.”
“What’re you still doing ‘ere?”
“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?”
Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.
“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.”
“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.”
“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.”
“Hilarious, you are.”
You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?”
He nodded. “C’mon then.”
You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.
Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain.
The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.
“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”
“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.
“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.”
He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”
“Got a head start then.”
You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it.
If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody.
The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged.
Simon ignored it.
When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw.
“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off.
He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?”
“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it.
“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?”
Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.”
“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.”
He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it.
The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.
“To hide my face.”
“Your identity, you mean.”
“My identity,” he agreed.
“Why?”
He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop?
Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.”
You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead.
“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.”
“Part of the job.”
Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.”
Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.”
“I take offense to that.”
You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.”
“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.
When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not.
“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.”
“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time.
He huffed. “Better all the time.”
“And I have you to thank.”
Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check.
Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his.
“Thanks, Ghost.”
“”S just tea.”
You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation.
“What’s tha’?”
“I know how to make tea for you now.”
“Like it?”
“I love it.”
You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.”
He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.”
You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well.
“Noted.”
Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so.
.
.
.
Things settled into a pleasant rhythm.
A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in.
You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach.
People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond.
You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary.
It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.
It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes.
“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?”
“Oh,” you said. “I—”
It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest.
You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.
Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door.
“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.”
“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?”
Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.”
“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.”
“Okay.”
His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office.
So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there.
And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work.
“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.”
“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.”
“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated.
Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life.
You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all.
.
.
.
Monday.
There was a knife in Simon’s pocket.
Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot.
The one in his pocket, though, was for you.
A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one.
The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over.
It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays.
And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away.
Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away.
When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished.
Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”
Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't.
“All right?”
“Hm?”
“You’re quiet.”
“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.
There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?”
You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.”
“Try again.”
Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.
Simon waited, but you did not reemerge.
He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—”
“Nice weather.”
“I can see that.”
“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.”
Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”
“C’mon, then.”
You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm.
“Lunch.”
You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow.
Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right.
Just his luck.
Didn’t matter though.
He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled.
The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain.
“So, what are we doing?”
“Walking.”
“I can see that.”
“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?”
You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway.
The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply.
He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter.
Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.”
He didn’t deny it.
“What are we doing back here?”
Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.
You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?”
“Sometimes.”
“Secret’s safe with me.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”
He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own.
They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish.
Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.
He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him.
Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved.
Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own.
He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking.
He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too.
He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed.
Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.
When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms.
“What ‘appened?” He asked.
Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?”
“Affirmative,” he said.
You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.”
“Stalling.”
“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.”
Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?”
“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.”
“He’s a prick.”
“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.”
You looked very small, and alone at that moment.
“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”
The chill spreads outward.
It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life.
He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this.
You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again.
And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands.
You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves.
“Have you found yours?”
Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.”
You nodded. “Me either.”
.
.
.
He walked you back to your office.
You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find.
Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs.
Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair.
You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way.
Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk.
Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch.
A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges.
He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.
“A knife.”
“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.”
“Why?”
“In case you need to.”
“Is this about me staying late?”
“No.” He did not elaborate.
“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—”
“But you don’t carry a gun.”
“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”
He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.”
You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.
“Okay.”
His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” you agreed.
.
.
.
If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well.
You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began.
You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.
What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic.
Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.
This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow.
On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope.
You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?”
Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud.
You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?”
“Better to be prepared, yeah?”
“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh.
After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison.
His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours?
Rough, warm. Safe.
It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing.
Stupid, silly.
If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask.
“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate.
“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”
“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.
“Not a game, bird.”
“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.”
“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.”
“Is that it?”
You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.”
It wasn’t easy.
For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back.
Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.
Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in.
“On your feet.”
Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good.
It didn’t feel like you were doing good now.
By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands.
“You’re hurting me,” you gasped.
He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion.
But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way.
“Shit.”
.
.
.
The window was open and you were not in your office.
Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently.
He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.”
Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds.
When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.”
“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.”
“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.”
Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”
“Forgot it.”
Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it.
“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“It’s okay—“
“Wasn’t a suggestion.”
“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.”
He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity.
“Gonna rain,” he commented.
You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget.
When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again.
“I can see you won’t leave it alone.”
“Affirmative,” he said.
You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours.
Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted.
You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.”
He grunted, followed you closely back inside.
As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen.
He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”
Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.
“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled.
“Who’s this then?”
You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.”
“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”
“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.”
Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?”
“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice.
But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?”
Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.
“Very becoming, lass.”
You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?”
“Aye, all mine.”
“Ah, luck.”
“Lucky indeed.”
Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.
“Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat.
“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.”
“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.”
“That’s for sure, bonnie.”
“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?”
Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”
“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.”
Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—
“It’s need to know,” he snapped.
Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”
Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess.
“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”
Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into.
Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold.
.
.
.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!”
“She doesn’t need to know.”
“Yer name?”
Ghost leveled Soap with a stare.
Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?”
“Stay out of it, MacTavish.”
Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.”
He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”
“It won’t.”
Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“
“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.”
“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”
Simon ignored him.
But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.
Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him.
.
.
.
Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it.
He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too.
Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged.
Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.
The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you.
But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender.
You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends.
Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.
Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it.
Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date.
He didn’t know what to do with any of it.
One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.
You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see.
Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?”
A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.”
“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?”
“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.
Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.”
“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—”
“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”
“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.”
“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.”
“You sweet on me or something, bon?”
You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match.
The silence was suffocating.
“All right?”
You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little.
He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?”
You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—”
“You’re apologizing for Soap?”
Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”
“No.”
“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.”
He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.”
“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—”
He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”
“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.”
“Mm.”
“I’ll make space.”
He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him.
“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.”
“Aye, LT.”
He chuckled. “Take care of that.”
“Teach me how?”
He nodded.
“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.”
“I know.”
Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier.
“‘Course you do.”
.
.
.
Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain.
His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain.
The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to.
He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.
You said he didn’t, after, but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry.
You’re hurting me.
It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable.
You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over.
He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain.
His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls.
There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins.
Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little.
“Johnny.”
Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—”
“Does she feel it?”
“What—”
He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”
“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.”
Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Deserves better.”
Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.”
Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father.
Fucking perfect.
.
.
.
Two months deployment.
The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it.
He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore.
Maybe, he didn’t really want to.
Maybe, Johnny was right.
He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with.
Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle.
Not as empty as they thought.
Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward.
Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise.
When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her.
The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang.
Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes.
“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked.
“What?”
“Soulmates.”
Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes.
“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—”
Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again.
It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence.
“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side.
It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you.
All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers.
Just to be sure.
It took them a long time to get her to leave the body.
.
.
.
Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months.
September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag.
You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of.
You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together.
Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day.
But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—
Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.
You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.”
“That disappointed to see me?”
No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.”
He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.”
You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.”
“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.”
His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong.
You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?”
He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained.
He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand.
“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”
Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question.
“Scars.”
You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales.
It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before.
Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them.
“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”
He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”
You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”
He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.”
His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.”
“What?”
“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?”
Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly.
“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.”
“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—”
But Simon was determined, his mind set.
“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.”
“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?”
Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed.
“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall.
You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you.
He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—”
“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be.
The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly.
You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck.
“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.”
You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught.
You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they.
It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet.
You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.
You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold.
You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like.
“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind.
You opened your eyes.
“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand.
He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.
You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap.
But if he was yours—
If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him.
He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear.
You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“You don’t understand,” he rasped.
“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.”
The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.
“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”
He finally returned his gaze to yours.
“Did it hurt?”
“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.”
He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.
“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.”
Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.
You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.”
His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.”
Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.
“It’s not fair to you.”
“What isn’t?”
“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?”
You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?”
He made a pained sound. “Don’t.”
“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”
“You’re supposed to need things from me.”
He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—”
“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.”
You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.”
“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat.
“Can.”
Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours.
You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.”
“How long?”
“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.”
“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—”
“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.”
You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?”
“No.”
“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—”
He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin.
You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul.
You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you.
In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss.
When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.”
“Just turning on the lamp.”
He released you.
As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair.
“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”
When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa.
Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly.
“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?”
“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth.
He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.”
Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped.
“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers.
“You don’t want me.”
It wasn’t a question.
He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours.
“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.”
“Obviously it’s not, bird.”
Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”
“Simon,” he corrected.
“Simon,” you echoed.
He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.”
You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—”
“No.”
You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.”
His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.
It didn’t feel close enough.
You wished it were all different.
That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted.
“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?”
He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded.
“Go on, then.”
Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head.
You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling.
Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic.
Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—”
You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together.
“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Good.”
“Can I touch you?”
“Can do anything you like to me, bird.”
You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.”
He made a content noise of agreement.
You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.”
“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?”
“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.”
His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little.
Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.”
“What—”
He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.
“No more pain?”
“None.”
“Good.”
You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.
“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”
His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins.
It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips.
“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly.
He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples.
Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.
“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.
The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.
if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!
When Jake stumbles into your office attempting to flirt with you, all you can do is humor the fact that your husband seems to have forgotten you.
▸ PAIRING: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Wife!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: Pure fluff, slight amnesia, injured Jake, sexual jokes
▸ WORD COUNT: 1.6K
▸ A/N: wrote a quick small idea because i love a good secret relationship and a flirty hangman
The crash outside piques your curiosity. You abandon the latest report you’re working on and get up to swing open your door right on time for a certain blonde aviator to spill into the infirmary. Jake barging into your office is not news; he barges in probably more than he really should, particularly when you’re with patients.
“Boundaries” becomes the most used word in your relationship.
Only thing is, this time, he’s looking at you with big, surprised eyes. The tinges of blue around his emerald eyes are even more prominent when they’re blown up. “Who allowed you to look this good, Doc,” he says with a swagger in his step, eyes droopy now as he leans against the doorframe.
Before you can question him, Rooster walks through the door, a pitying look at Jake. “He’s on the good stuff. Maybe too much of it.” You quirk an eyebrow. “Sedatives.”
Your eyes dart briefly to Jake who is still eyeing you with interest but now he has taken over your chair, propping his chin up on his palm with his elbow on your desk. That smug smile, albeit a little sleepier, is still plastered across his face.
“He crashed earlier–” The smile wipes off your face quickly and Rooster instantly adds, “Nothing big, managed to get out, but he landed wrong cause he ejected too close to the ground. We had to take him to the hospital. Most of it’s around his ribs, but he’s okay.”
Drifting over to Jake, you cup his face and tilt him to look up at you. While he’s busy giving you dark, flirty glances, you are checking him for any signs of permanent damage. He has a few scratches on his face, you notice now the new band-aid he’s sporting on his cheek.
You’re on your knees then and you’re slowly unbuttoning his uniform. If he’s really injured here, he should probably be wearing something more breathable. You remember he packed an extra short-sleeved shirt this morning.
“Whoa, at least take me out to dinner first,” Jake teases, which earns a roll of your eyes.
“Told his dumb ass he should be going straight home but he insisted on making a pit stop here. Something about getting a second look. He might’ve also said something along the lines of visiting the pretty doctor.” Your eyes snap up to Rooster, who holds his hands up in defense. “His words, not mine.”
Humored, you look at him playfully, accusingly. “So you don’t think I’m pretty?”
“That’s not what I said!” Rooster immediately replies, face flushing crimson. “Anyways, before I dig a deeper hole for myself, I’m going to leave him in your very capable hands. Whenever he’s done, one of the guys can drop him off at home.”
“I’m going to wrap up soon so I've got him, don’t worry.”
“You got his address?”
You fight to keep a straight face. “Yeah, it’s on his records.”
“Awesome, thanks, Doc. See you tomorrow.” With that, Rooster makes his exit, the door slamming shut behind him.
You wait a moment and thank the heavens that Jake has the false reputation of being an incorrigible flirt. That will hopefully throw off any suspicion of your relationship.
When you know you’re in the clear, you inspect Jake a little more closely. There are bandages wrapped around his abdomen and you wonder how severe the accident was if they had to give him sedatives. Then again, it’s entirely possible that Jake was being a little bitch and they gave it to him just to shut his mouth.
Aside from the minor injuries, he seems to be in pretty good shape. Physically at least.
Mentally – you look up at him and he’s still smiling stupidly at you – he’s perhaps not quite there yet.
“Jake, honey, I’m going to need to move you to the bed.”
“So soon?” His eyes blow up comically before the expression falls away to a confident grin. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
A disgruntled sigh slips past your lips. Even when he’s drugged up, he still manages to be insufferable. You position his arm around your shoulders and slowly help him to his feet. Jake leans his weight on you, but more so because he really likes being this close to you. The man is heavy to say the least. All six feet of him. You lead him carefully towards the infirmary bed with him nuzzling into your hair the entire time.
He hums thoughtfully and grins against the side of your head. His hot breath tickles your neck right as you plop him on top of the comforter. He avidly refuses to lie down, instead scooching his way in until he’s sat with his back against the wall.
Jake turns to you, grinning smugly with teeth in full view.
“Damn, darlin’, you smell so good. Do you have a boyfriend?”
You’re just sitting down on the edge of the bed when you hear it and freeze. “Come again?”
“Sweetheart, we haven’t even come once,” Jake retorts, seeming all too pleased with his joke. The ‘we’ is cute, very considerate of him to include both of you in the conversation. However, you’re too distracted by his question.
“You’re asking me if I have a boyfriend.” You repeat, incredulous.
Jake nods aggressively, likely jumbling his head even worse.
A smile tilts the corner of your lips. You raise your left hand, showing him the back of it. “I’m married actually.”
“Married?” He gasps, completely aghast. He looks crestfallen and then stares at the ring in annoyance. “I mean, of course, you’d be married. You’re so smart, and so pretty. You also embarrassed Rooster? God, you’re fuckin’ perfect. Who’s the lucky person? Do I know them? Are they on base?”
“You do know him, very well in fact. He is on base.”
A growl rises from his throat. “He better watch his back, I’ll get him if he even thinks about slipping once.”
“Really? How would you do that?”
“I could fight him.”
You chuckle. “Right, you’ll fight him. That might be a little hard.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s pretty tough. He’s tall. Very strong. Very handsome too.”
Jake scowls. “Alright, so he’s Mr. Perfect because you’re also perfect. Well, if I ever catch him not being perfect, I’m going to swoop in for the kill. Neither of you will ever see me coming.”
A grin stretches across his face at your laugh. “Good to know, Seresin. I’ll make sure to warn him.”
“Hm, so you’re really married,” Jake repeats again in a deep, disappointed sigh. He takes your left hand in both of his, looking down at the spectacular rock on your hand. He lets out a low whistle before he grimaces, realizing who he’s complimenting.
Actually, not even realizing who he’s complimenting.
“He did good, your husband.” Jake turns your hand, letting the diamond catch the sunlight. The facets sparkle, speckling the room with blinding polka dots. “Gorgeous ring for a gorgeous girl.”
Heat creeps up your cheeks. “Thank you.” You pause before dropping another bomb on him. “I should also probably tell you that you’re also married.”
Jake jerks back, nearly getting whiplash from how quickly he turns to look at you. “I am? To who? I think I’d know if I was married.”
“A very lucky woman.”
“Well, shit.” Jake grunts. “Well, if I married her, then I’m sure she’s as perfect as you.”
“Probably more alike than you think,” you mutter under your breath.
Jake is smiling at you softly and you see his eyes begin to close. His eyelids flutter, struggling to stay open. It’s as if he is striving to commit your face to memory. “I think I’m kinda sleepy, Doc.”
“Well, you best get your rest then.”
“When I wake up, if you happen to be single, you let me know right away. Or even before I wake up, that might just do the trick.”
“You got it, Hangman.”
–
“I had the strangest dream,” Jake tells you on your drive home.
He’s in the passenger seat, his head still spinning a little from the heavy slumber. He had woken up when everyone else was long gone and found you flipping through your novel, waiting for him. He didn’t seem to remember what happened just an hour prior, so you let it play out, told him he just slept the entire time.
“Hm, what about?”
“I was flirting with this woman,” he says, sounding even more confused than you should be. “I promise, sweetheart, I’d never hit on anyone else. I haven’t hit on anyone else, not since that time I flirted with you when you first joined.”
You hide your smile, focusing instead on the road. “Yeah, was she pretty?”
Clearly, a part of him does think so because he hesitates before responding. “Would you be upset if I said she was? I can’t even remember her face. I just remember thinking she was so fuckin’ stunning.”
“Should I be concerned about this fictional woman?”
“Definitely not,” Jake scoffs, crossing his arms over your chest. “Dream woman could never compare to you. The real deal.”
You let out a little mm-hmm as you pull out something from your pocket. His dog tag dangles from your hand, glimmering right next to the wedding band he keeps around his neck. “Rooster gave it to me before he left. Said you dropped it in your landing.”
He gratefully accepts the necklace and clasps it around his neck. “Thank you, did he ask about the–you know.”
“You mean your wedding ring? The one you’ve been wearing since you married me a year ago? The one you keep secret from your squadmates because no one knows you’re married and you let them believe you’re still a cocky, unbearable flirt?”
Jake laughs. “That’s the one.”
“Yes.”
“And what did you say?”
You smirk, “Told him it was a purity ring.”
“Darlin’,” he groans, “I have a reputation to maintain.”
warnings: suggestive content, nurse and medic are the same thing on a military base, mentions Gaz sleeping around, slight nods to a power dynamic and possible degradation kink, sexual innuendos, and Gaz getting turned on by a strong woman. MDNI
Pt.2, pt.3
Kyle “Scrub Seducer” Garrick being head over heels for the new medic on base who doesn’t react to his charms. In fact, she’s disgusted by him. Sure the man has had challenges in the past with other medics but nothing he couldn’t fix with a few whispers of sweet nothings and a flash of those pearly whites. Until the seemingly unstoppable charm of Gaz finally met the immovable object of you.
Kyle “Scrub Seducer” Garrick first met you as he curled up to the medic station. He noticed you immediately because, to be frank, you were probably the only medic around his age on base that he hadn’t slept with by now. You were hunched over at the med station doing notes for yet another soldier who died too young, too fast, too tragically.
Kyle “Scrub Seducer” Garrick had this routine down to a beat. He’d smile, flirt, and read the file. To him these flings for intel and sex meant nothing but a foot in the door next time and somebody to keep his bed warm when he wasn’t deployed. No matter how respectful he was, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick was a fuck boy. A medic munch, one could even say.
Except this time when Kyle “Scrub Seducer” Garrick showed his pearly whites, he realized you hadn’t even glanced at him yet.
Kyle “Scrub Seducer” Garrick thought you were just having a bad day. He could fix that riiiiight up for you, baby girl. Just let him get a peak.
“Hey sweet thing, so I was hoping to be able to peek at that file of yours-“ the clicking of your tongue cutting him off quickly.
“Not happening.”
“It’s not for anything bad, I promise you, gorgeous. Just curious about a friend”
“You can’t promise me shit, Sergeant, except stolen information and a waste of my time”
The man leaned over, letting his voice drop a little, “Oh I could give you a good time, if you gave me that file right there in those pretty hands of yours-” The orange file was suddenly rolled up and used to pop him right on the nose. Your fierce gaze piercing as if you were looking right through him.
Kyle “Scrub Seducer” Garrick swore his knees were gonna give out at the intensity of your tone, the venom dripping as you spoke.
“Sergeant, you have a reputation for being beautiful, you know that? But you know what’s more beautiful than you?” a false sense of sweetness almost lulled his lashes to flutter.
“Besides you, I’m not sure there is nothing on this planet more beau-”
“The thing more beautiful than you is HIPAA, baby boy. Look it up. Maybe try doing your own research that doesn’t require my badge, my precious patients, or my job.” You snapped. The man jolting as you slammed the file cabinet shut and locked it loudly. Then you walked off, your hips swaying as you disappeared from his line of sight.
The Sergeant didn’t even mind all the shit that Johnny and his Captain gave him when the man walked back empty handed, a once in a blue moon occurrence. Especially with his brain all fogged up and his pretty cock half-hard in his trousers at the image of your cute hips storming off in those scrubs. His ears still burning with a dusty pink at how you had called him pretty boy with such a stern tone.
Author’s note - I’ve been watching scrubs and I love the relationship of Turk and Carla. So I thought, why not make Gaz be a love sick puppy for the one woman who doesn’t want him on base
Wearing your brother’s dog tags brings a lot of questions, which meant problems. Especially from men, especially at a bar where said men try to pick you up. Or strike a conversation about the mysterious dog tags. Lucky for you a certain Scot lovingly doesn’t think to ask too many questions. Not until Johnny “Soap” Mactavish’s tongue is down your throat in the back of his car on holiday do the gears begin to turn. But only, yes only after, a few odd weekends of small dates and letters when he can write, he finally decides to ask who your tags belong to between deep kisses and pants. You frown as you pull away to respond, the mood dampened.
“Oh I really shouldn’t say..” you sigh not wanting to explain the long story typically because it ruins the mood “my brother gave me these so I wouldn’t worry about him when he leaves on missions. His call sign is Ghost and…” Shit. Johnny’s whole body seizes up as his heart makes a pitfall down his body. His hearing stops as his brain repeats your joined last name over and over and over; Riley, Riley Riley Riley. Fuck why didn’t he connect the dots. Ghost always was secretive and protective about his younger sister, everyone knew he always declined to bring you as his plus one or even show photos to the rest of the 141. Damnit he knows somewhere down the line if Gaz or even worse Price hears about this that he’ll never live it down. If Ghost hears about this - shit he’ll never live. He finally zones back in to hear you say
“…but that doesn’t matter because you guys don’t run in the same circles, right?” Soap’s nervous smile gives you all the time for your heart to join his in dropping down below. But as your phone rings both of you are sure your hearts have dropped down to hell as the caller id reads: Simon Riley.
Drabble Drabble, I’m tired and I wanted to put this on paper before it slipped my mind. I’ll expand upon this later but this is mostly an idea for @glossysoap to enjoy because Glossy loves Soap as much as I do. So I hope you enjoy btw not proofread so toodles xoxo - Moon
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
