Lowkey need a smau with the bat boys where reader is like '"sorry for not picking up the phone I was beating up the joker" followed by silly emojies the bat boys think they are joking until reader sends a picture of it
Whoopsie Daisy
featuring: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Duke Thomas, Bruce Wayne
warning: fluff, violence mentioned (not described in detail tho), dramatic ahh bfs
IN WHICH... jason said a lot of shit he didn't mean and he nearly loses you
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff at the end, f!reader, jason lowkey mean/toxic at the beginning, established relationship, cussing, probably ooc!jason, YN used literally ONCE, allusions to cheating but nobody cheats, your friend's name is Sydney sorry if that's ur name, jasonâs pathetic asf icl
wc: 1.8k
a/n: pls don't be all in the comments like "she's better than me" and "i would've broken up with him immediately" like PLSđ ik you're all gonna get mad at reader for forgiving him but pls like she rly loves him and thats okay
based on this ask
last night, 6PM...
"Fuck, baby, I don't know why you're still here," he snaps, shutting you up immediately. "I've given you the chance to leave, time and time again, but you don't!"
"Maybe because I want you around! I want to be here!" you reply. "Can't you say the same about meâ"
"Nope, I really can't," he scoffs, cutting you off.
You blink. "What?"
"I can't really say that I want you around just as much as you do me. I don't want to be here, with you. That's why I keep trying to get you to leave."
You're still standing there, stunned, zoned out and looking at one spot on the floor. "Maybe I will leave," you mutter absently, more so to yourself than to him.
He laughs, the sound bitter and cruel. He puts on his Red Hood helmet and throws the hood over top. "We both know you won't," he says before slipping out the window.
Spoiler: he'll regret his words in the morning.
the next day...
"What the fuck?"
He freezes, standing by the window. The sight before him is...terrifying, to say the least. He feels like he's in a nightmare. He spent the entire duration of patrol mulling over the things he said to you before he left. We both know you won't, except you did.
He stares at the kitchen of your shared apartment. All of your water bottles that you constantly left by the sink are gone. The vase of flowers you always left on the island is empty. Your collection of cheesy magnets is gone, the fridge stripped bare.
He looks to the living room. The stack of your books that always accompanied his own is missing. Your coffee mug no longer sits empty on the coffee table atop your favorite coaster. Your stupidly girly throw blanket is no longer draped over the couch.
"What...the fuck," he whispers to himself again. "No, no, no, no, no..."
He walks to the front door. Your shoesâusually tossed haphazardly by the door, thrown over his own bootsâare nowhere to be found. Your keys are not in the ceramic bowl by the door. Your collection of puffer jackets and coats no longer clutters the coatrack.
Jason swallows, and only then does he register the growing lump in his throat and the pit of dread in his stomach. "Baby?" he calls out, as if this is all some sick prank. "C'mon, doll, don't do this to me, where are you?"
He slams open the bedroom door. "Fuck," he breathes, shoulders dropping. Your cluttered mess of brushes and foundations and powders is gone, the dresser's surface wiped completely clean of excess from your makeupâit looks untouched, like you were never there.
The bed is stripped bareâthat was your comforter and pillowcase set, after all. The clinical white color of the pillows and mattress seem to mock him and everything he lost.
He opens the closet. Only one half of the space is now occupiedâhis half. The rack that once held your shirts and hoodies, the organizer that once held all your "going out" heels, the overflowing laundry basket you never let him touch...all of it is empty.
"No," he mutters again, entering his final destination: the en suite bathroom.
He finally lets his unshed tears fall as he stares at the room. Your pink towel? Gone. Your fragrant shampoo and conditioner? Gone. Your decadent body wash that he loved to sniff off of you after your showers? Gone.
...Your toothbrush that once accompanied his by the sink?
Gone.
With shaky hands he pulls his phone out from his pocket, immediately going to check your location. "Location unavailable, what the hell does that mean?"
With his heart in his stomach, he clicks a few buttons and suddenly he's waiting for you to pick up the phoneâyou're his one and only emergency contact, of course.
After a few rings, it goes to voicemail. "Fuck!" he exclaims, calling again.
Voicemail, again.
10 times he calls. Each time, the line rings thrice before sending him to voicemail. On the last call, he finally leaves a message.
"Doll, where the hell are you, baby?" he asks into the phone, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I know I said you'd never leave but please, allâ all your stuff's gone and I don't know what to do. Please, please pick up the phone, ma. I- fuck, I love you, come back."
He hangs up, not noticingâor maybe just not acknowledgingâthe tears streaming down his face. "My baby," he sighs, taking a seat on the couch. If he doesn't sit, he might collapse with how much he's shaking.
For good measure, he shoots you a bunch of a few texts asking where you are, why your location's off, and telling you that he loves you.
He tosses his phone to the side, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to get this shaking to stop. The apartment feels cold and clinical without you or your belongings in it.
He doesn't like living aloneâor at least feeling like he's living alone.
Jason doesn't go to the manor at all that day. He spends the entire day busying himself with random chores around the half-empty apartment and checking his phone every 5 seconds.
With every one swipe of peanut butter onto a slice of bread, he checks his phone for your location, a call, or even a text back. He never thought it'd take him 20 minutes to make himself a PBJ sandwich.
He's wiping down the bathroom counter when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
Y/N has started sharing location with you.
"Oh, thank fuck," he sighs deeply, feeling as though a weight has been lifted off his chest. He doesn't know if you meant to turn on your location again, but the details don't matter nowâhe needs to get his baby home safe and figure out what the hell happened.
The address in his phone led him to another apartment on the other side of Gotham. He almost second-guesses his GPS until he sees your car parallel parked outside the complex. He can see boxes in your trunk which likely house everything missing from your own apartment.
He gets out of the car. Apartment 117, he's looking for. "Please don't be with another man, please don't be with another man," he whispers in a chant to himself. It's not long before he's stopped right outside the apartment door, the little dots on his phoneâone representing you, the other himâshown as being 10 feet apart.
A shaky fist raises to rap his knuckles against the door. He stands there for probably two minutes, and he begins to wonder whether he's made a mistake. Just as he's about to walk away, you swing the door open.
Wait, not you. His brows furrowâhe recognizes the girl immediately as your friend Sydney from the unmistakable sleek ginger hair.
"She doesn't want to see you," the girl says.
Jason has to look down at her, but he subconsciously tries to make himself smaller. The last thing he needs to do is scare off the one person who can lead him to you.
"I...I really need to see her, Sydney," he murmurs softly. "Weâ we had a big fight last night and now all of her stuff is gone. I just need to talk to her."
"I know what happened," she says, ready to shut the door. "You're a dick, Todd."
"Waitâ don't shut the doorâ"
"âSyd, it's okay. I'll talk to him."
His entire rhythm seems to slow, his body calming down once he finally hears your voice. It may not be directed at him, but that kind, gentle lilt could soothe him under any circumstances.
"Doll?" he mutters, trying to peek around Sydney to get a glimpse of you. "Oh, baby..."
You brush past your friend, offering her a grateful smile before shutting the door behind you. You and Jason stand alone in the stuffy hallway, the walls suddenly too close.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"What're you doing here, Jason?" you ask finally.
His breath hitches. It would go unnoticed to most, but not to you. "Don't call me that."
"Your name?"
He nods. "No...I'm supposed to be Jay orâ or 'baby' or 'handsome,'" he replies. "Jason feels too...formal."
You sigh, eyes diverting from his and focusing on the decorative plant stood in the corner. "You never answered my question."
"What am I doing here?" he shifts to meet your gaze once more. "Ma, what are you doing here? You had me scared shitless when I got home! Yourâ your stuff was all gone, you wouldn't answer my calls or my texts. Baby, Iâ"
"You what?"
"I thought I lost you." That familiar lump is clawing up his throat again. He tries to swallow it down, tries to brush away the sudden burning in his nose and behind his eyes.
"Shouldn't you be thanking me?" you murmur. "You told me that you wanted me to leave; you dared me to. So I did."
He cups your cheeks and you can feel the tremor in his warm hands against your skin. "Babygirl, you have to know I didn't mean that," he whispers oh so softly. His blue-green eyes are so gentle and assuring as they stare into yours, albeit a little glossy as well. "Oh, fuck, you're my everything, darling, I could never do without you."
You swallow as his hands drop from your face, arms falling to his side as his head falls to your shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispers. You feel a sudden wetness against your shoulder when his arms engulf you. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
You take a deep breath. How could you not forgive him? Your sweet, broken Jay...
Fuck if Sydney calls you 'easy.'
You reciprocate his hug, tangling both your hands in his hair to cradle his head. "Oh, Jay..." you shush him gently, lips trailing a path of kisses across his hairline. "I know..."
"I don't deserve you," he admits.
"Is that why you're trying to push me away?" you ask him in your soothing voice.
He blinks, staring into space for a moment against your shoulder. "I...yeah. I think that's exactly why."
You smile softly, resting your temple against his. "Then we can fix it, okay? Together."
He nods, finally picking his head up to meet your gaze again. "Together."
You look into his eyes for a bit. "I'm sorry for my...extremities. Y'know, moving all my shit out of the apartment and ghosting you andâ"
"âMa," he cuts you off, eyes imploring you to slow down. "I understand. You had every right to be angry and act on it, okay? I'm sorry, not you. Never you, my baby."
You lean in, hands cupping the back of his neck. He goes gladly, soft lips meeting yours in a gentle, slow kiss. There's a tinge of salt on your tongue from his tears slipping down his face, but you don't mind. You pull away after a few moments, resting your forehead against his.
"I love you," you reassure him. "I'm not leaving. I'm yours. I love you."
He nods. "I love you, too, doll."
a/n: EWWWWUHH somebody get me i hate this :( i hope you all like it at least
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through Itâąïž Creampie. Brief mention of Readerâs insecurities w sex
Note: Iâm on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi :-)
Word count: 2.1k
It wasnât like you hadnât tried before.
Youâd had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.
By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.
That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.
And things had only been official for a week.
You and him had fooled around a handful of timesâmade love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messesâbut all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.
He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.
Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the otherâs furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move
Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.
You didnât think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.
âKeep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,â he said.
You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldnât finish.
âBut IâŠI need to come,â you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.
Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.
âYeah. Iâll get you there. Feel this?â
He slid deeper for emphasis.
You didnât.
You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.
âI thinkâŠsort of, yeah,â you hedged your answer.
Donât bruise his ego, donât hurt his feelings.
This is all on me, Si, I promise itâs not you.
Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.
âBetter?â The manâs question was simple.
Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.
You made a face, feeling good from that butâŠstrange.
Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.
âTalk to me, baby. Canât make it better if you donât.â
âIâI know, I just canâtââ
At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.
You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way youâd just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.
âCanât do what, now, darlinâ?â
The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.
âThatâs my girl. Sheâs likinâ it now, isnât she?â
But still, somehow, it just wasnât quite enough.
Maybe youâd never found that place after all.
This was where most men gave upâafter a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, theyâd go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.
You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldnât get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.
Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, âSi, please, it justâit takes me too longââ
âGood thing weâve got all night,â Simon replied bluntly.
Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.
With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simonâs cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.
You sucked in a breath. Simonâs gaze slid to yours.
âLetâs find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.â
Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.
It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.
âS-Si,â you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.
âWhatâsâat, baby? Got something to tell me?â
Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.
Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.
He still held onto your other hand tight.
Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.
Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:
âHigher.â
âHigher?â
âUm, to theâŠto the left.â
Simon tilted his hips left.
Yes.
That was just it. So close.
AlmostâŠ
Or, maybeâŠ
âMaybe it justâŠisnât there,â you huffed out, deflating. âKnow youâre trying so hard, baby, but I think I canâtââ
Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.
Just like youâd told him: to the left, and thenâŠ
âOh, fuck,â you cursed. âOh, fuckfuckfuck.â
The grin above you stretched even wider.
âThere, lovie?â Simon goaded you on.
âRight there.â You nodded furiously.
A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simonâs cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive placeâexcept heâd pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.
âLittle dove doesnât mind my pokinâ after all, huh?â Simonâs words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt mustâve clamped like a vice.
âKeepâŠkeep pokinâ, Si,â you choked out. âI like it.â
Your lover kept at itâpoking from the inside.
The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.
Simonâs mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.
You realized as much when he whispered it to you.
âCould lose my bloody mind when youâre like thisââ Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. ââso why didnât you talk? Ask for what you needed?â
Your voice was small. âDidnât wanna be a bother.â
Your eyes were locked with Simonâs, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.
âDonât be angry, Si, Iââ you started, hurried.
ââMânot.â Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. âItâs those fuckinâ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?â
The ones that youâd been with before.
You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.
Simon was back inside you in a blink.
Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.
He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.
Vindicated.
âWell. Itâs not like theyâre ever gettinâ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?â
You nodded in agreement.
You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simonâs thrusts accelerate.
âOnly thing thatâs gonna touch this spot otherân my cock is my seed, splatterinâ all over your walls, right?â
When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.
And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot youâd convinced yourself up until tonight didnât exist.
Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.
âThis it, lovie? This spot right âere?â he cooed.
His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.
You nodded your head: âY-Yes. Yes.â
âFeel good when I hit it?â
âFucking perfect, Si.â
You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.
âYeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?â
âYeah. Iâmâ Iâm so close.â
âGo on then, love.â
And, shortly, you did.
Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came toâyour mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simonâs while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the manâs release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.
Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.
It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.
âThatâs my girl,â he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. âMy perfect girl. You did so good.â
You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.
âThank you,â you murmured against him.
Then Simon squeezed your handâthe one heâd been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.
He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.
bf!jason todd who spends his free nights sat in your shared bed, with pride and prejudice in hand, blue-light glasses perched on his nose, andâmost importantlyâyou sat in his lap. he loves to read his novels with his pretty lady curled against him.
bf!jason todd who climbs in through the window after patrol and immediately seeks you out, sprawling out atop of you. he doesn't even bother taking his suit offâhe just whines softly, reaches for your hand, and shoves it into his hair.
bf!jason todd whose favorite position is either mating press or doggy. on one hand, he loves to have your legs thrown over his shoulders as he pounds into you, looking into your pretty eyes, seeing drool spill from your mouth. on the other hand, he also loves to see the deep, pretty arch of your back as your face is smushed into the mattressâloves to see the jiggle of your ass as his hips slap against yours.
bf!jason todd who always twirls your hair around his finger while you rant to him. his eyes never leave yours, attention never drifts away from the words pouring from your pretty mouth.
bf!jason todd who def whimpers and cries when he cums, especially if its inside of you. his broken past makes intimacy a sacred thing to him; he feels so incredibly safe and loved when you're making love that he can't help but whine as he releases.
bf!jason todd who practically eats your face when you make out. his head is tilted at such a deep angle so he can reach the deepest depths of your mouth. his long tongue? down your throat. his lips slide lewdly against yours, and he lets out the softest little grunts and groans. his hand grips your throat firmlyânot so hard that you can't breathe, but enough to remind you that he's there, in the flesh. his other hand rests on your ass. he's a very messy kisser tooâlots of spit, everywhere.
bf!jason todd who calls you all kinds of sweet little names. darling, babygirl, baby, love, sweet girl, mama, ma, lovie, you name it. how can he not come up with the most loving titles for his favorite girl?
bf!jason todd who can never keep his hands off you. he's always feeling you up, groping you everywhere. just woke up? he's engulfing you in a cuddle, hands sliding down your back and squeezing your ass. showering? his slick, soapy hands can't help but paw at your tits as you face away from him, rinsing your hair.
bf!jason todd who can be such a cuddly dog when he's at home with you. big body being spooned by you as you guys watch TV, head in your lap when you're reading, chest pressed to yours as he nestles his head in the crook of your shoulder, eager to hear you lull him to sleep with sweet nothings in his ear.
bf!jason todd who's 8 inches long and thick with a little bit of left curve.
bf!jason todd who spends his free nights sat in your shared bed, with pride and prejudice in hand, blue-light glasses perched on his nose, andâmost importantlyâyou sat in his lap. he loves to read his novels with his pretty lady curled against him.
bf!jason todd who climbs in through the window after patrol and immediately seeks you out, sprawling out atop of you. he doesn't even bother taking his suit offâhe just whines softly, reaches for your hand, and shoves it into his hair.
bf!jason todd whose favorite position is either mating press or doggy. on one hand, he loves to have your legs thrown over his shoulders as he pounds into you, looking into your pretty eyes, seeing drool spill from your mouth. on the other hand, he also loves to see the deep, pretty arch of your back as your face is smushed into the mattressâloves to see the jiggle of your ass as his hips slap against yours.
bf!jason todd who always twirls your hair around his finger while you rant to him. his eyes never leave yours, attention never drifts away from the words pouring from your pretty mouth.
bf!jason todd who def whimpers and cries when he cums, especially if its inside of you. his broken past makes intimacy a sacred thing to him; he feels so incredibly safe and loved when you're making love that he can't help but whine as he releases.
bf!jason todd who practically eats your face when you make out. his head is tilted at such a deep angle so he can reach the deepest depths of your mouth. his long tongue? down your throat. his lips slide lewdly against yours, and he lets out the softest little grunts and groans. his hand grips your throat firmlyânot so hard that you can't breathe, but enough to remind you that he's there, in the flesh. his other hand rests on your ass. he's a very messy kisser tooâlots of spit, everywhere.
bf!jason todd who calls you all kinds of sweet little names. darling, babygirl, baby, love, sweet girl, mama, ma, lovie, you name it. how can he not come up with the most loving titles for his favorite girl?
bf!jason todd who can never keep his hands off you. he's always feeling you up, groping you everywhere. just woke up? he's engulfing you in a cuddle, hands sliding down your back and squeezing your ass. showering? his slick, soapy hands can't help but paw at your tits as you face away from him, rinsing your hair.
bf!jason todd who can be such a cuddly dog when he's at home with you. big body being spooned by you as you guys watch TV, head in your lap when you're reading, chest pressed to yours as he nestles his head in the crook of your shoulder, eager to hear you lull him to sleep with sweet nothings in his ear.
bf!jason todd who's 8 inches long and thick with a little bit of left curve.
20K words, Simonâs hair has grown out, reader wears glasses, Simon doesnât know how to dance, smut, the fluffiest fluff, angst, size kink, Simon is huge, pee mentioned, Simon is filthy but we all knew that. Tell me if I missed any tags.
He was four years old when he stole your crayons.
Not all of them. Just the good ones. The red one. The yellow one. The bright, sunflower-gold one that you'd been saving to colour the sun in the corner of your drawing, the way all four-year-olds drew the sun â a circle in the corner, rays shooting out like a child's idea of joy.
You looked at him across the low art table in that bright little preschool room that smelled of poster paint and digestive biscuits.
He was stocky even then.
Chubby-cheeked and heavy-set. A thick, sturdy little boy who sat with his legs wide and his fat fists curled around your crayons like he'd earned them.
He wasn't even looking at you.
He was colouring something â a car, maybe, or a blob that might have been a dog â and the yellow crayon moved in big, purposeful strokes across his paper.
You did not cry.
You considered it.
Then you leaned across the table and took them back.
He looked up.
Brown eyes. Even at four, they were startling â dark and serious and far too watchful for a boy his age.
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Then he slid the gold crayon back across the table to you, said nothing, and went back to his drawing.
His name was Simon.
You would not learn that until the register was called the following morning. But you remembered his eyes before you remembered his name.
â ⊠â
He broke your glasses in Year Two.
Not on purpose â or so you believed, for most of your life, until you were old enough to accept that
Simon Riley did very few things without purpose.
He knocked into you in the corridor outside the dining hall, your plastic NHS frames hitting the linoleum floor, one arm snapping clean off at the hinge.
You stood there, the world going soft and blurry at the edges the way it always did without them, and you felt the particular, humiliating sting of being unable to see properly â the vulnerability of it, the indignity.
Simon picked up the frames. Looked at them. Looked at you.
He didn't say sorry straight away. He examined the break with the seriousness of a boy who was already, at seven, very careful about what he said and when he said it. Then, "I'll carry your bag till they're fixed."
"You broke my glasses," you told him like he didnât know.
"I know." He nodded.
"That's not the same as fixing them."
"No," he agreed. "But it's what I've got."
He carried your bag for three days. And when your mum brought the repaired frames in on the fourth morning, he handed the bag back without ceremony, turned, and went to join his mates by the football cage. No further apology. No acknowledgement that anything had occurred between you at all.
That afternoon, you kicked over his sandcastle in the playground.
He watched you do it. Didn't say a word.
You felt better.
And somehow, after that, you were friends.
â ⊠â
He couldn't read very well. You figured this out in Year Three, during the round-robin reading in class â when the teacher went along the rows and each child read a sentence aloud.
You noticed the way Simon's jaw set and his hands went flat on the desk the closer it got to his turn. The way his eyes moved across the page, laboured and slow, tracking words like they were things to be wrestled rather than known.
He got through his sentence. Barely. His face was blank when he sat back, the particular blankness he'd already learned to wear â that carefully constructed nothing that meant everything was fine when everything was not fine at all.
You didn't say anything about it. Not then. You were eight years old, not stupid.
What you did was start reading with him at break time. You presented it as something you needed â you told him you were practising for a reading competition and needed an audience.
Simon was not fooled. He was never fooled, not really.
But he sat down with you on the bench by the library door and listened while you read, and then slowly, carefully, you handed the book to him and asked what he thought happened next, and he had to read ahead to find out.
It took most of the school year. But by the summer he was reading chapter books. He never thanked you. He did start saving you a seat on the library bench every break time, and that was the same thing.
â ⊠â
He played football and rugby.
You read on the grass bank above the field.
It became a kind of institution â the ritual of your shared proximity without shared activity. Simon on the pitch, broad and determined and already bigger than the other boys by Year Five, already moving with that particular physicality that seemed less like playing and more like declaration.
And you on the bank above, your book open, your reading glasses (a better pair now, tortoiseshell) perched on your nose, half-reading and half watching without ever quite admitting to the watching.
He always knew you were there. He didn't do anything about it. But sometimes, when he scored, he'd look up at the bank first before he looked anywhere else.
You told yourself you were only there because the grass was nice and the light was good.
You were not a good liar, even then.
â ⊠â
The boy's name was Daniel Holt and he pushed you over in the playground in Year Five because you'd refused to give him the answers to the maths homework.
You'd said no three times and the third time he pushed you and you went down hard on your palms and your knees, the concrete was unforgiving.
You were crying before you'd fully registered what had happened. Not dramatically â small, shocked, indignant tears, the kind that arrive before the pain does.
Simon was there before a teacher was. You didn't even see where he came from. One moment the playground was its ordinary mid-morning noise, and the next Daniel Holt had a split lip and Simon Riley was standing over him with blood on his knuckles and a look on his face that was completely, utterly calm.
The calm was the frightening part. Even at ten.
He got three days at home for it. He spent the first afternoon sitting on your front step, eating crisps, because he knew you'd be furious with him and wanted to face it head-on.
You were furious. You told him he was an idiot. He told you Daniel Holt had it coming. You told him violence wasn't the answer. He told you Daniel Holt wasn't going to touch you again.
He was right. Daniel Holt never came near you again.
You didn't thank him either. You went inside and made him a sandwich, and that was the same thing.
â ⊠â
Secondary school arrived like a change in weather â everything slightly larger, slightly louder, the corridors longer and noisier, the stakes somehow higher and more ambiguous all at once. You arrived with a bag so heavy your shoulder ached within the first hour: your textbooks, yes, but also the extracurricular books you carried everywhere, the extra notepad you used for non-school thoughts, the six different highlighters you colour-coded by subject.
Simon took the bag from you on the third day without asking.
"I can carry it," you told him.
"I know," he said.
He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, which for him it probably didn't. He'd grown over the summer â not just taller, though he was that, but broader, thicker through the shoulders in a way that made him look like a man playing a boy, trying the shape of it on. He wore it well, even at eleven. He wore everything like he'd already decided what he was and was simply waiting for the world to catch up.
He carried your bag when it was heavy, and it was frequently heavy. He did it without comment and without making you feel small for needing it. That was the thing about Simon â he never made you feel small. He made other people feel small, sometimes, when they deserved it. But not you. Never you.
â ⊠â
The bruises were never from rugby.
You knew by the second year of secondary.
You were not naive â you had read enough, observed enough, understood enough about the world to recognise the shape of what was happening in Simon Riley's house even though he never said a word about it.
The bruises were in the wrong places for rugby. They appeared in the wrong season. They were around his ribs and his arms and once, memorably, along his jaw, and he came to school the Monday after the jaw bruise with that face â that blank, carefully constructed nothing face â and you sat next to him at lunch and said nothing at all.
You said nothing because there was nothing you could do. You were twelve. You were a girl with a book bag and highlighter pens and absolutely no power over the man who was hurting your best friend, and knowing that â the impotence of it, the helpless, hollow ache of caring about someone you could not protect â was the first truly adult pain you ever felt.
What you could do was this: you could make sure he had somewhere to go.
Your mother, who was perceptive in the quiet way that some mothers are, never asked questions when Simon turned up at the back door on a Sunday evening or a Wednesday after school.
She just set another plate.
Your house became a refuge without anyone naming it as such. Simon did his homework at your kitchen table, ate your mother's cooking, watched telly with your family, and slept on your sofa sometimes when the option was presented naturally enough that it didn't feel like charity.
â ⊠â
You got your period for the first time on a Tuesday in November, in Year Nine. In the school toilets, third period, when you were thirteen years old and the day had been entirely ordinary right up until it wasn't.
The particular cocktail of shock and pain and embarrassment and the specific existential bewilderment of being a person whose body was doing something enormous without prior adequate notice left you sitting on the closed toilet lid crying in a way you hadn't cried in years.
You got out your Nokia. That familiar brick of a phone, the keypad worn smooth at the number five. You typed Simon's number and pressed call before you'd properly decided to.
He picked up on the second ring. "Yeah."
"Simon." Your voice came out wrong. Too thin.
A beat. When he spoke again his voice had changed â quieter, more careful. "Where are you?"
"Girls' toilets. Near the science block."
"Right," he said. "Stay there."
He appeared outside the girls' toilets seven minutes later â you could hear him through the door, his voice low and flat, telling a Year Eight girl to go use the other ones â and then he was there, right there on the other side of the door, talking to you through it in that steady, even way he had when he wanted to be calm on your behalf.
"You're alright," he said. âDo you need me to go to the office?"
"No," you managed. "I need â I don't know what I need."
"I'll get you something from the vending machine," he said, that Manchester accent of his low and unhurried. "And I'll text your mum."
When you came out of the toilets twenty minutes later, looking wrung-out and clutching what the school nurse had provided, Simon was leaning against the wall. He looked at you for a moment â took you in, the way he always did, that comprehensive, assessing look â and then he stepped forward and kissed your cheek. Quick. Certain. His mouth warm and deliberate against your cheekbone.
"You're alright," he said again. He said it like a fact. Like he was making it true by saying it.
You cried a bit more, for different reasons, and he pretended not to notice.
â ⊠â
He was captain of the rugby team by Year Ten. It suited him â the leadership, the sense of purpose, the structure of it.
You went to his matches sometimes, wrapped in a scarf on the touchline, and watched him move across the pitch with that same quality you'd noticed on the primary school field: less like playing, more like declaration.
He was ferocious and focused and occasionally frightening, and the other boys deferred to him not just because he was bigger than them but because he had the kind of authority that doesn't need to be announced.
Afterwards he'd find you on the touchline, still carrying that quality â coiled, alert â and it would take him a few minutes to come back to himself. To come back to you.
"Good game," you'd say.
"Yeah," he'd say.
And then slowly, the set of his shoulders would ease, and he'd become Simon again. Your Simon. The one who stole your crayons and carried your bag and ate your mother's shepherd's pie like it was sacred.
â ⊠â
He could make you laugh. This was not a small thing.
Simon Riley was not, by general consensus, a funny person. He was serious and quiet and his face in repose looked like a man carrying a private weather system. But he had a dry, deadpan wit that he deployed rarely and precisely, and it landed, every time, like a key in a lock made specifically for it.
He knew how to make you laugh because he'd spent years learning you. The specific frequency of your humour. The things that made you dissolve into giggles rather than just smile. He deployed his wit with the same precision he deployed everything else, and the result was that when Simon Riley made you laugh â really laugh, the helpless, breathless kind â it felt like being given something he didn't give to anyone else.
Which, you would eventually understand, was accurate.
â ⊠â
His name was Ryan Marsh and he was your first kiss, in the park on a Friday evening in Year Ten, and it was fine. It was nice, even. Ryan was sweet and nervous and smelled of his older brother's aftershave and the kiss lasted approximately forty seconds.
Ryan Marsh had a broken nose the following Monday.
Simon maintained, with total conviction, that Ryan had walked into a door. Ryan, to his credit, corroborated this story completely.
You did not push the matter, partly because you had no concrete evidence and partly because some part of you â the part that read on the grass bank and watched the pitch and noticed when Simon looked up at the bank before he looked anywhere else â felt something that was not entirely uncomplicated about it.
You and Ryan Marsh did not have a second kiss. You told yourself it was because the chemistry hadn't been right.
You were getting a bit better at lying to yourself, by fourteen. But only a bit.
â ⊠â
GCSEs arrived the way all important things arrived â with more weight than you'd expected and less warning than you'd have liked.
Year Ten and Eleven were the years you restructured Simon's entire approach to studying, methodically and patiently, the same way you'd helped him learn to read, finding the approach that worked for how his mind moved.
Simon was not unintelligent.
He was, in fact, formidably sharp in ways that didn't translate easily to an exam paper: quick to read people, quick to understand systems, possessed of a spatial and strategic intelligence that you recognised and admired even as you taught him how to write it down in ways that the mark scheme would accept.
He sat with you at your kitchen table night after night â your mother quietly replenishing the tea,â and you explained things in the language that made sense to his brain rather than the language of the textbook.
He sat with you at lunch during school hours and glared at anyone who called you a nerd. The glaring was extremely effective. Simon Riley's face, by fifteen, was a significant deterrent.
His GCSE results, when they arrived, were good. Better than anyone who knew his circumstances might have expected from a boy who'd had so much working against him.
He rang you on the house phone when he opened the results envelope. He didn't say much. His voice, when he spoke, was different â something in it unguarded, the Manchester in it softer somehow, without the armour it usually carried.
"Couldn't have done it without you," he said.
"You did it," you told him firmly. "I just held the torch."
"Still needed the torch."
You smiled so hard your face ached. "Go celebrate, Simon."
"Yeah," he said. And then, quieter, "Thanks, sunshine."
â ⊠â
He was an apprentice at the butcher's on Renshaw Street after school â learning the trade with the same focused, physical competence he brought to everything else, solid and unhurried, his big hands learning new kinds of precision. You had a job at the bookshop two streets over.
On his lunch breaks you would walk over with a sandwich and a packet of crisps, and you'd sit on the low wall around the side of the shop while he ate and you talked about nothing in particular and everything in general.
He had sawdust on his boots and you'd have ink on your fingers from pricing stickers, and you'd sit in the thin afternoon light talking about books and people and where things might go from here, and it was the most ordinary, irreplaceable thing in the world.
You didn't know, then, that you were storing it up. You didn't know you were in the middle of something finite.
You were seventeen and you thought you had time.
â ⊠â
It was the eleventh of September, 2001.
You were at work when it happened â the bookshop had a small television in the back room, and you watched the footage with your hand pressed over your mouth and the world rearranging itself into a new shape around you.
Simon came to you that evening. He didn't knock â he had a spare key, had done for years â and you heard him come in and go into the kitchen and fill the kettle, the sound of him so familiar and domestic and real that something in your chest loosened a fraction.
He brought you tea. He sat on the sofa beside you and you watched the news together in silence, and at some point your head found his shoulder without either of you deciding it had.
"I'm going to join up," he said. Not asking. Telling.
You lifted your head from his shoulder. Frowned at him. "Join up what?"
"The military."
The word landed in the room and stayed there. You looked at his face â that flat, certain expression he wore when he'd already decided something â and you felt the ground shift slightly under you.
"Simon. You're seventeen."
"You can join at sixteen with parental consent," he said. Straightforward, as though he'd already looked into it. Which of course he had. "Seventeen without."
"That'sâ" You stopped. Started again. "You've thought about this before today."
"Yeah."
Of course he had. You could see it now, the shape of it â this was not a reaction to the footage on the television, not a hot, impulsive thing. This was something Simon had been building toward without telling you. The structure of it. The purpose. The particular kind of belonging that came from being part of something larger than yourself. You'd always known he'd go toward something like this. You'd just hoped, without ever quite admitting to the hoping, that it might be further away.
"You're not going to try to talk me out of it." Not a question.
"Would it work?"
He held your gaze. "No."
"Then no," you said. Your voice was very steady. You were proud of it. "I'm not."
He was quiet for a long moment. The television continued its awful repetition. Then his arm came around your shoulders, heavy and warm, and he pulled you in closer against his side.
You stayed like that until the tea went cold.
â ⊠â
The train station was grey and noisy with other leavings, other arrivals, other people in the middle of things.
Simon stood in front of you on the platform with his kit bag and his big, careful hands and the face he'd spent seventeen years learning to keep blank, and it occurred to you, not for the first time and not for the last, that you loved him.
That you had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life. That you did not know how to say it and were not sure it would do either of you any good if you did.
So you didn't say it.
You went up on your toes and you hugged him â truly hugged him, arms around his neck, your face pressed against his jaw â and he held you back with both arms, the kit bag dropping to the platform, and he was so solid and warm and real that you memorised it.
"Don't be an idiot," you told him, muffled.
He made a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost. "Best I can do is try." The Manchester in his voice, low and warm and his.
"Simon."
"I know," he said quietly, against your temple. "I know, sunshine."
You stepped back. You held it together. He picked up his bag and he walked toward the platform and at the door of the train he turned, and looked at you standing there with your glasses and your coat and your hands pressed together in front of you, and for a second you saw something in his face that wasn't blank at all.
Then he was gone.
You cried on the way home. Proper, ugly crying, in the front seat of your mother's car, while she drove and said nothing and passed you a tissue.
You cried because you thought you might never see him again. Because the world had cracked open on a Tuesday in September and people were going toward the fracture and Simon Riley was one of them.
You cried because you never told him.
â ⊠â
He sent a birthday card every year.
They arrived with no return address and postmarks from places you'd never heard of, and sometimes they were late and sometimes they were so early you suspected he'd sent them weeks in advance in case he couldn't later.
They were always plain â Simon Riley was not a man who browsed the sentimental section â white or cream envelopes, the kind of card that was almost generic, and inside: his handwriting, which had improved vastly from the boy who'd struggled across the page in Year Three, and always the same thing. Your name at the top. Happy Birthday, sunshine. And then: S.
Just S.
Like he was still close enough that you'd know exactly who that meant. Like the initial was sufficient.
It was.
You sent his birthday gifts to a P.O. box he'd given you, wrapped carefully, the tag always: From your best friend. You didn't know if he received them all. You sent them anyway. It felt important to keep sending them â to maintain the thread, even when you couldn't see both ends of it.
â ⊠â
Thirty-four years old now.
You have no husband. You had come close, once â a man named Patrick who had been perfectly acceptable in every measurable way and who had wanted to marry you and had probably deserved someone who could give him more of herself than you could manage.
You had not been fair to Patrick. You knew that. You had been in love with someone else for most of your adult life, and even with the someone else absent and silent and possibly dead, there wasn't room for anyone else.
You have no children, though you wanted them. The timeline on that was becoming its own quiet ache, the kind you didn't prod too often.
You have a job that pays the bills and not much else â admin in an office building that smells of carpet cleaner and recycled air, the kind of work that requires enough of your brain to stop it from wandering but not enough to satisfy it.
You have an apartment that is functional and yours and that you have tried to make cozy, with books on every surface and plants that are mostly surviving and a kitchen you actually cook in.
It is not the house. It is not the house you told Simon about when you were sixteen and lying in his back garden on a summer evening, staring up at the sky.
No birthday card for five years now.
Five years of the particular, specific silence that was different from all the silences before, because the silences before had been interrupted. Annually, reliably, he had broken them.
Five years of nothing had the texture of conclusion. Of a chapter closing. And you had reached the point â slowly, painfully, with the kind of acceptance that doesn't feel like acceptance but feels like exhaustion â where you were fairly certain Simon Riley was dead.
Your heart ached for your best friend in the low, constant way of grief that has become so familiar it's almost structural.
You carried it the way you carried other things, quietly, with your spine straight.
Which is why you are sitting across from a man named â it didn't matter, it really didn't matter what his name was â on what your colleague Debbie had described as 'a perfectly nice date with a perfectly nice man' and trying to remember what it felt like to be interested in your own life.
The man sitting across from you was the complete opposite of Simon Riley.
He was trim and well-dressed and had the kind of face that was handsome in a way that required no effort to appreciate and inspired no particular feeling from you.
He had been talking for, by your reckoning, forty-seven minutes. In that time he had covered: his career (impressive, in his telling), his car (expensive, in his telling), his last holiday (exotic, in his telling), and his general philosophy on modern dating (nuanced, in his telling).
He had not asked about your job. He had not asked about your books or the one peeking out of your handbag; the one he'd glanced at and not commented on. He had not asked if your pasta was nice, which it was, actually, genuinely nice, and you'd have told him so if he'd asked. He had not asked you almost anything, come to think of it.
Simon Riley, who spoke perhaps a tenth as many words as this man, had always asked.
Simon Riley had always wanted to know. Not because it was polite. Because he actually, genuinely, in the particular way of people who care about very few things very deeply â wanted to know.
You excused yourself to use the bathroom and stood at the sink running cold water over your wrists and looking at your own reflection, and you thought: this is fine.
This is a perfectly nice evening with a perfectly nice man. This is what moving forward looks like. This is what being a person in the world, a person with a life and a future and reasonable expectations of company, looks like.
You dried your hands. You went back to the table. He had ordered himself another drink without asking if you wanted anything.
You finished your pasta and smiled at appropriate intervals and thought about Simon Riley and felt, as you so often felt, quietly furious at him for being gone.
â ⊠â
The birthday card arrived on a Thursday morning.
You almost missed it entirely â it was tucked between a pizza delivery leaflet and something from your energy supplier, the cream envelope almost camouflaged by the mundane. You shuffled through the post on autopilot and then stopped.
Your name, in handwriting you would have recognised anywhere, would have recognised in your sleep, had recognised in your bones for thirty years.
You sat down on the bottom stair. Your legs suddenly uneasy.
Your hands were not steady.
The envelope opened. The card was white. Plain. Almost generic.
Inside:
Happy Birthday, sunshine.
I'm sorry it's been so long.
I'll explain everything.
Come, if you want to.
If you can stand the sight of me.
Below that, an address. Three towns over. A postcode you didn't recognise.
And then, at the bottom, the way it had always been at the bottom: S.
You sat on the bottom stair for a very long time.
Then you got up, went to your room, and started thinking about what to wear.
â ⊠â
You plucked up the nerve to go on a Saturday.
The drive took forty minutes and you spent most of it trying to manage yourself â talking yourself through reasonable expectations (he is alive, that is enough, start there), warning yourself against things you could not control (the five years, the silence, the way your hands were doing that unsteady thing again), cataloguing everything practical (the address, the map).
The street was quiet. Semi-rural, the kind of neighbourhood that sits between things â between town and country, between the ordinary and the aspirational. The houses were spread out, set back from the road, each with its own front garden and its own character.
You parked. You looked at the address. You looked up.
And you stopped breathing.
It was a beautiful house.
Large, substantial and solid, the kind of house that had been built to last. White painted render, clean and bright in the afternoon light. A white picket fence surrounding the front garden, which was full of flowers. Roses climbing the gatepost. Lavender edging the path. Foxgloves and dahlias and great loose clusters of something purple you couldn't name from here. The kind of garden that had been planted with intention, tended with care, left to be a little wild in the best way.
A porch. And a porch swing, painted white, with a yellow cushion on it.
And flying from the corner of the roof, bright against the blue afternoon sky: the Union flag.
You sat very still in the driver's seat.
You were sixteen years old. It was a summer evening and you were lying in Simon's back garden on an old sleeping bag, looking up at the sky. He was beside you in the way he was always beside you â solid, quiet, taking up exactly the right amount of space. You'd been talking about the future the way teenagers do, in great floating hypotheticals that feel more like weather than plans.
"What kind of house?" he'd asked. He asked follow-up questions always, quietly, wanting the specifics. It was one of the things about him you loved.
And you'd described it. A big house, not ostentatious but real â space for books and for people and for a garden that did what it wanted within reason. A white fence, because you'd always liked them. A porch with somewhere to sit. A flag, because you were â despite everything â proud of where you were from.
Simon had been quiet for a long moment.
"Okay," he'd said. Just: okay.
You had thought he was humouring you.
You had not thought â you had not let yourself think â what it might mean, that he was going to do anything about it.
You got out of the car. Your legs were not entirely reliable. You held the gate and walked up the path â lavender brushing your hand where it grew close, the scent of it too perfect, almost staged â and you stopped at the foot of the porch steps.
The door opened.
He had to duck.
That was the first thing you noticed. The physical fact of him, the sheer size of him, his shoulders nearly touching the doorframe on both sides simultaneously, the automatic dip of his head as he stepped through onto the porch.
He straightened.
The afternoon light landed on him and you had to spend a moment recalibrating, because the last time you'd seen Simon Riley he had been seventeen years old with sawdust on his boots and a train ticket in his hand, and this man â
This man.
The white button-down shirt was simple, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and from his left wrist to well past the roll of the sleeve his forearm was dark with ink â a sleeve of tattoos, intricate and considered. A whole geography of imagery that you couldn't read from here but would, you thought, take time to learn.
His right wrist carried a watch. His black slacks were fitted close enough that you could see the muscle of his thighs pulling the fabric with every shift of his weight, and his shoes â loafers, black with gold buckles, completely unexpected and somehow exactly right â were precise.
His hair. A dark sandy blonde, longer than military specification presumably allowed and slicked back from his face, which meant you could see all of it, his whole face; the angles that had sharpened from boy to man, the jaw, the set of his brow, and those eyes. Those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old and had never, not once, looked at you with anything less than complete attention.
He was raking those eyes over you now. Slowly. With the same quality he'd always had â that comprehensive, unhurried assessment that somehow never felt like being measured â and his hands were in his pockets and he was standing there like that, on the porch he'd built or bought or arranged specifically around a description you'd given him at sixteen.
He looked like something out of a magazine and like Simon all at once.
You were going to murder him.
"Hi, sunshine."
His voice. Lower than you remembered, rougher, carrying all the years he'd lived since you last heard it. That Manchester accent â still there, unmistakably, that warm northern flatness underneath everything, the vowels shaped by a city, by a street, by a particular kind of upbringing that no amount of training had entirely smoothed out.
That nickname, in that voice, in that low, deliberate way he'd always said it: like you were his.
Like it was a prayer.
You opened your mouth. And you closed it. And you looked at him â this enormous, tattooed, stupidly handsome man who had stood on your mother's doorstep at twelve years old with bruises he didn't mention, who had kissed your cheek at thirteen and broken Ryan Marsh's nose at fourteen and waved goodbye from a train platform at seventeen and then sent you birthday cards from the edges of the world for a decade and then stopped for five years â
"Five years," you said. Your voice was very quiet.
Something moved in his face.
"I-,"
"I thought you were dead." You snapped cutting him off.
"I figured you wouldâve."
"Simon."
"I know, sunshine." He said it the same way he'd always said things he couldn't argue with â not deflecting, not dismissing, just absorbing. The Manchester vowels in his voice like a hand on your shoulder. "I'll explain everything. I promise. All of it. Whatever you want to know."
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
The afternoon settled around the house, around the garden that was your garden in your own sixteen-year-old description, around the flag and the porch swing and the lavender and all of it, and the distance between you on the path and him on the porch steps was perhaps four feet and thirty years and five years of silence and a whole life of choosing not to say the one true thing.
"You built me the house?" you asked, whispering it. Like you were afraid to say it.
He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Bought it. Had the garden done the way you said."
"Simon." Your heart ached.
"You said lavender at the edges," he said. His voice was completely level. "You said a porch with somewhere to sit. You said you wanted to see the flag from the garden."
You pressed your hand to your mouth.
The rage was still there â it was not going anywhere quickly. The five years of it, the grief of it â but underneath it, something else. Something that had been there since you were four years old at a preschool art table, larger and quieter and more permanent than anything else you'd ever felt.
"You were sixteen," he said. As though this explained it. "You told me what you wanted. I just..." He stopped. Started again. "I wanted to be enough first. I wanted to have what you needed."
There was a long silence. A bee moved through the lavender. Somewhere a few streets away, a lawnmower hummed.
"Come inside," Simon said. "I'll make you tea. And I'll tell you everything."
You looked at him on the porch of the house he'd built you from a word, and you thought: you absolute idiot. You wonderful, impossible, infuriating man. You thought I'd stopped. You thought thirty years of this was something you could be enough for eventually, like it was a bar to clear, like there was a version of you I was waiting on instead of just â
Instead of just you. Always just you.
The lavender brushed your hand again. You walked up the steps and he looked down at you with those brown eyes that had never once left you.
"Hi, Simon," you said.
Something happened in his face. Something opened.
"Hi, sunshine," he said, his hand coming to the small of your back to guide you inside.
He made the tea.
You stood in the kitchen of a house that smelled of fresh paint and cedar and something faintly floral from the garden drifting through the open window over the sink, and you watched Simon Riley move around it like he'd always lived here â filling the kettle, finding the mugs without opening the wrong cupboard, knowing where the teabags were â and you thought: how long. How long has he been here, in this house he bought for you, learning where everything lives, waiting.
You sat at the kitchen table. It was a good table, heavy oak, the kind built to last and you ran your thumb along the grain of it and tried to arrange your feelings into some kind of order and failed.
Simon set the mug in front of you. Milk in last, the way you'd always taken it, which he knew because he'd made you approximately four thousand cups of tea over the course of your lives. He sat down across from you, his own mug between his big hands, and looked at you.
You looked back.
The kitchen light was warm and it caught the angles of his face. The jaw, the brow, the slight crook in his nose that was new, or newer, the result of something you didn't know about and weren't sure you wanted to.
He was watching you with that particular quality of attention he'd always had. Complete. Patient. Like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.
"You're not wearing your glasses," he said.
You blinked. Of all the things. "No."
"Contacts?"
"For about ten years now, yes."
He was quiet for a moment, studying your face with that same unhurried attention, "I missed them."
"You missed my glasses?" You say with the deadpan tone you'd perfected over the years.
"Tortoiseshell ones," he said. "Used to push them up your nose when you were concentrating." He took a gulp of his tea, Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed.
You stared at him. Eighteen years. Eighteen years of distance and war and God knows what else, and he missed your glasses. "Simon."
"Just saying."
"You are unbelievable." You scoff.
"The contacts suit you," he said, and the corner of his mouth moved â barely, almost nothing, but you'd spent your whole life reading that face and you caught it. "Everything suits you. But I liked the glasses."
"Stop it." You snap.
"Stop what?"
"Whatever that is," you said, and you pointed at his face, at the not-there-almost-smile, at the quality of his voice when he said everything suits you, at all of it. "You don't get to do that. You've been â Simon, you've been gone. You've been gone for eighteen years and for five of them, I thought you were dead." Your voice stayed steady, which surprised you. You'd expected it to crack on that. "So you don't get to walk out onto your porch looking like â like that â and tell me you missed my glasses and flirt at me like no time has passed."
He listened without interrupting. He always had â it was one of the things about him, the way he gave you the whole space of what you were saying before he entered it.
"You're right," he nodded.
"I know I'm right." Your spine straightened.
"I owe you an explanation."
"You owe me considerably more than that, Simon Riley, but yes. An explanation would be a start."
He wrapped both hands around his mug again and looked at you across the table and there was something in his face that was not the blank-nothing face, was not the armour he'd worn since he was twelve years old but something that was quieter and more exposed and a great deal more frightening because of it.
"Not here," he said.
You frowned. "What?"
"I don't want to do it like this. Sat in a kitchen." He glanced around the room briefly, as though orienting himself. "Come to dinner with me tomorrow night."
"What Iâ"
"The Grill on Merton Street."
You went very still.
The Grill on Merton Street. You hadn't been in years â not since you'd moved away from the area, not since things had shifted and the rituals of your old life had quietly been replaced by other things.
But you knew it. You knew every table in it. The way the light came through the front windows on a Sunday, the smell of it â roasted meat and old wood and the particular warmth of a place that had been feeding families for decades.
Your mother had loved it. Your father used to order the same thing every time and be pleased about it every time, and you and Simon had sat across from each other in the corner booth with the sticky laminated menus and kicked each other under the table and laughed.
"That's still open?" you managed.
"Had a look earlier this week," he said. "Still there. New owners but the same building. Same corner booth."
You looked at him. He looked at you. Outside, through the open window, a late bird was making itself known in the lavender.
"Fine," you said. "Dinner. Tomorrow. And you're going to tell me everything." you struck at him with a serious face.
"Everything," he agreed.
"I mean it, Simon. All of it."
"I know you do."
You drank your tea. It was exactly right. The temperature, the strength, the milk ratio and you hated him a little bit for that. For the fact that he still knew, that across seventeen years and God knows how many miles he still knew exactly how you took your tea, and he'd made it correctly on the first attempt without asking, and you were absolutely not going to cry about that.
You were not.
â ⊠â
You dressed carefully.
Not because you were trying to impress him.
You told yourself this firmly, standing in front of your wardrobe in the room you'd taken in the local B&B â you'd booked a night, not knowing how long this might take, not knowing what state you'd be in for the drive home afterwards â and you told yourself that you were simply dressing appropriately for a dinner at a decent restaurant.
That was all.
That was the entirety of it.
The dress was deep green. Fitted through the waist, falling to just below the knee, with a neckline that was elegant rather than dramatic.
You'd bought it for a work event two years ago and it had lived in your wardrobe since, waiting for an occasion that felt worth it. You put your hair up â not elaborately, just neatly, the kind of arrangement that looked effortless and had taken twenty minutes â and you wore the small gold earrings that had been your grandmother's. Low heels. The good handbag. A slick of red on your mouth that you almost wiped off twice before deciding to leave it.
You were not trying to impress him.
You were absolutely trying to impress him.
He was waiting outside The Grill when your taxi pulled up, standing on the pavement with his hands in his pockets. The air around him relaxed and easy. An anchored stillness, like a man who'd learned to wait and had made peace with it. He has the same dark slacks as yesterday, same loafers with the gold buckles, but the shirt tonight was black.
A deep, clean black that made his shoulders look approximately the width of a doorway, which was in fact an accurate assessment â and he'd left the top button undone. His hair was the same: pushed back, dark sandy blonde curling at the nape of his neck and catching the amber of the streetlights.
He saw you get out of the taxi.
He went very still. Completely, suddenly, entirely present in a way that landed on you like a hand against your sternum. Under your heartbeat.
You crossed the pavement toward him and his eyes moved over you â slowly, comprehensively, that same rake of attention he'd given you yesterday on the porch steps, only this time there was nothing restrained about what it did to your pulse.
He eyed you the same way he used to look at the extra cuts of slow roasted beef your mother added to his plate every time he joined you for a Sunday roast after church.
"Hi," you said.
"Hi, sunshine." His voice was low. The rough Manchester sending tingles down your spine.
He opened the door for you.
The Grill smelled exactly the same.
Roasted meat and warmed bread and old wood and something faintly of candle wax. It hit you the moment you stepped through the door and you had to stand still for just a second, just one second, to absorb the weight of it.
Your father's coat on the hook by the door. Your mother's reading glasses going into her bag as the menus arrived. Simon across from you, fourteen and fifteen and sixteen, his big hands wrapped around a Coke glass, his eyes on you under that careful brow.
The layout had shifted slightly â new owners, as Simon had said â but the bones of it were the same. The dark wood panelling. The low warm lighting. The tables set with proper linen and actual candles in glass holders. And in the back left corner was the booth.
Simon's hand was at the small of your back as the host led you through. A light touch, barely there, the kind of thing that could be merely courteous and was absolutely not merely courteous.
You said nothing about it.
You were almost at the booth when a voice said, "Well. I don't believe it."
You turned.
Margaret and Gerald Howarth.
Margaret had been your mother's friend since before you were born â a small, bright-eyed woman who had somehow barely aged in two decades. Her silver hair cut the same way it had always been, her husband a large, genial man beside her with a napkin already tucked into his collar. They'd been eating here since before you were born too, you suspected. Some people were simply woven into the furniture of a place.
"Margaret," you said, and you felt a genuine, warm rush of it. Of being seen by someone who had known you as a child, who had watched you grow up, who carried that particular knowledge of you that only people of a certain generation can hold. She was already rising halfway from her seat, her hand extended, and you took it and she covered it with her other one, the way she always had.
"We heard you were back in the area," she said â which was interesting, since you'd only arrived yesterday, but news apparently still moved at its old speed around here. Her bright eyes moved to Simon, and something in them softened with recognition and surprise in equal measure. "And Simon Riley. My goodness."
"Mrs Howarth." Simon's voice was respectful, quieter than usual, and you noticed â because you noticed everything about him â that he straightened fractionally. Not stiffly. Just the particular adjustment of a man in the presence of someone he'd known when he was young and unguarded.
"Look at the size of you," Gerald said, not unkindly, staring up at Simon with the frank appreciation of one large man for another. "What are they feeding you?"
"Gerald," Margaret scolded mildly.
"It's a compliment." He shrugged.
Simon almost smiled. "Good to see you, Mr Howarth."
Margaret was looking between the two of you with the expression of a woman who had been quietly observing people her entire life and drawing accurate conclusions from very little evidence. "Are you together?" she asked, with the particular directness that came with age and with having known you since you were in a pushchair.
"We're having dinner," you said carefully.
Margaret's expression said, quite clearly, that she had heard this and had also heard everything it was not saying. "Well," she said, patting your hand once more before releasing it, "it's lovely to see you both. You always did belong together, the pair of you. I said that to your mother once, do you know. I said those twoâ"
"It was lovely seeing you, Margaret," you said, with great warmth and only mild desperation.
She laughed, a bright, pleased sound and settled back into her seat.
As you turned to follow the host the rest of the way to the booth, you were almost certain you heard Gerald say, to his wife, "told you" in a tone of quiet marital satisfaction.
Simon was very carefully not reacting to any of this. You were very carefully not looking at him.
You saw two others you knew before you reached the booth.
Kim Ashworth, who had been in your form in Year Ten and who looked essentially the same as she had in school except that she had a baby on her hip and a husband trailing behind her with a changing bag.
She stopped mid-step when she saw you, did a small, delighted double take, said oh my God twice, and then looked at Simon in a way that was extremely uncomplicated in its appreciation before remembering the husband with the changing bag. There were promises exchanged to catch up properly, phone numbers that would probably not be used, genuine warmth on both sides.
And then at the bar, perched on a stool with a whisky, Dave Pearce â who had played alongside Simon on the secondary school rugby team and who greeted him with the particular vocabulary of men who knew each other at fifteen and have not changed as much as they think.
There was a brief, loud exchange that involved at least one shoulder-clap that could have knocked a smaller man sideways, and then Dave shook your hand too and told Simon he was punching. Which Simon received without expression and you tried your hardest not to laugh, biting your lip.
Finally the corner booth. You slid in. Simon folded himself into the seat across from you, the table scaled to ordinary human beings and therefore slightly absurd against the size of him, his knees bracketing it, his shoulders blocking the view of the room behind him entirely.
The menus came.
They were not laminated anymore â proper printed card, changed seasonally, the kind that meant the new owners had ambitions. But the roast was still on. The proper Sunday roast, the one your father used to order when you could afford to.
"Same corner," Simon said quietly.
"Same corner," you agreed.
He was looking at you across the table the way he used to look at you across this table, except that now his face was older and larger and had been to places that had clearly asked things of it. The look was different in its texture. Deeper, maybe. Older in the same way he was older. Like it had more weight behind it from all the years of being carried.
"You said everything," you reminded him. "All of it."
"I know."
"So." You gestured for him to start.
He set his menu down. Looked at you. And then he started talking.
He told it the way he told everything â without embellishment, without drama, in the flat, precise language of a man who had learned to communicate facts and trusted the facts to carry the weight without decoration.
He'd gone in at seventeen and he'd been good at it. Not surprising. He was built for the structure of it, for the clarity of having a purpose and a unit and a chain of things that made sense.
He'd moved up fast â faster than he let on in the cards he'd sent you, which had been careful, he explained, deliberately careful, because the more you knew the more you might worry. Which, you pointed out, had not been his decision to make. He didn't argue with that.
Task Force 141 came later. Years later, after deployments that he summarised in a sentence each and you understood enough from his face to know that each sentence was doing the work of much longer things.
He was a lieutenant now. He said it the way he said most things about himself, flatly, without vanity, presented as information. He had certain freedoms now that he hadn't had before, certain ability to make choices about where he went and when and what he did with the things the years had given him.
You both ordered your food.
"And the five years?" you asked, sipping your cocktail the waitress had brought over.
He was quiet for a moment, he stared at his San Miguel pint, the condensation sliding down the glass. Your food had arrived at some point during the waiting, while Simon collected his thoughts.
He picked up his fork and then set it down again.
"There was a man," Simon said.
Something about the way he said it made you put your fork down too.
"He ran drugs. Major operation, international â I won't go into all of it." He said this without flinching, looking at you steadily, not softening it. You'd always appreciated that about him â the way he treated your intelligence as a given. "After I escaped him, he decided to make it personal. He went after the people Iâ" He stopped. Chose the word carefully. "The people I was connected to."
The candle in the glass holder between you threw warm, unsteady light across his face.
"He killed them," Simon said. "My brother. Tommy's family." A pause that cost him something; you could see it cost him. "My Mother."
The restaurant continued around you â the murmur of other tables, the clink of cutlery, someone laughing softly near the bar â and you sat very still.
"Oh Simon," you whispered, you could feel the way your face formed the sympathy.
"I'm alright." He said it the way he'd always said it, the Manchester flat and absolute. The way that meant; don't make it bigger than I can hold right now. You knew that voice. You honoured it.
"He knew about you," Simon said and you froze. "That was the other thing. He'd done his research." His jaw shifted slightly. "As long as he was alive, you weren't safe. If I'd contacted you, properly contacted you, kept the thread going the way I wanted to, it would have given him a cleaner line. A more reliable way to reach me."
You understood the logic of it. You understood it clearly and immediately in the part of your brain that processed information. The other part â the part that had sat on the bottom stair with a birthday card after five years of silence, the part that had thought past tense â that part was going to take considerably longer.
"So you cut me off," you said. Not as an accusation. As a fact, laid down. You were starting to understand the shape of it.
"To keep you safe. Yes."
"Without telling me why." You sighed but you knew you were being unreasonable, but you hoped he would let you for a little longer.
"If I'd told you why, you'd have known there was a threat. And you'd haveâ" He stopped. The corner of his mouth moved, something that was not quite a smile and not quite not one. "You'd have done something about it. Gone looking. Made noise."
"I would not haveâ" You stopped, because you would have. You absolutely would have. You'd spent thirty years being completely unable to sit on the sidelines where Simon Riley was concerned, and the knowledge that someone was threatening him would have made you entirely unreasonable. "That'sâ" you huffed.
"Yeah," he said.
"You could have found a wayâ"
"There wasn't one. Not one that was safe." His voice was very level. "I went through every option, love. I promise you. Every one."
The word arrived quietly, without ceremony.
Love.
He'd never called you that â not in thirty years, not in all the time and all the familiarity of what you were to each other. He said it the way he said everything that mattered: without preamble, without dressing it up, laid down like the fact it was.
"And now?" you asked. Your voice was quite steady. Steadier than you felt.
"He's dead." No elaboration. None needed. The flat Manchester vowels carrying the weight of it cleanly, without mess. "And you're safe. And Iâ" He looked at you across the table, across the candle and the white linen. "I bought the house," he said. "I've spent a while making it what it is. Making if perfect. I saved up for years. The 141 pays well when you get to a certain level and I wasn't spending it on anything else."
"For years," you repeated, feeling a shiver rack up your spine and your toes go numb.
"Since I was about twenty." He said this without apparent embarrassment, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to spend fifteen years saving money to buy a woman a house from a description she'd given you at sixteen years old. "Took a while to find the right one that wasnât too far from your parents. The lavender took three growing seasons to look like it did when you pulled up."
Three growing seasons.
He had planted the lavender three years ago. He had stood in a garden three towns from where you lived and planted lavender along a path because a sixteen-year-old girl had mentioned it lying on her back in his garden thirty years ago, and he had tended it for three years, and he had waited.
"Simon Riley," you said.
"It's got room for your books Sunshine, built the shelves myself." His lips quirked up at the corners at your flabbergasted expression.
"You are the mostâ" You stopped. Started again. "Do you have any idea what the past five years have felt like? Do you have any idea what Iâ" Your voice did the thing you'd been preventing it from doing, cracked at the edge of the sentence like a plate under too much weight. You stopped. Pressed your lips together. "I grieved you. I sat in my flat and I genuinely, actually grieved you and decided you were dead. I had â Simon, I had a plan for getting through it. I was managing it."
"I know."
"Don't say I know." you snapped sounding more like a bratty child than angry.
"I'm sorry." And this was different. This was not the automatic I know, the absorbing of your anger. This was something he said the way he said very few things â carefully, with full weight behind it. His eyes on yours across the table. "I'm sorry for the five years. I'm sorry I couldn't find another way. I'm sorry you were on your own with it." A pause. "I'm sorry it took me this long to have something worth coming back with."
"The house is notâ" You stopped. "You didn't need to buy me a house, Simon. I didn't needâ"
"I needed to," he said. Simply. "I needed to know I was coming back with something real. Something that wasn't just me turning up with nothing after all that time, asking you to â to acceptâ" He moved his hand across the table, and his fingers stopped just short of yours. Not touching. Close. "Asking you to take me as I was. I needed it to be enough. I needed there to be something I could give you that wasâ"
"Simon." Your voice was very quiet.
"I know it's notâ"
"Simon." You turned your hand over on the table. Just that. The small, deliberate movement of turning your palm up.
He looked at it. Then he looked at you. Then, slowly, he put his hand in yours â his enormous, careful, tattooed hand. Not quite the one that had carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and pulled you up off the pavement after Daniel Holt and held you on the platform at the train station, but this one now and his fingers closed around yours and he held on.
"I only ever wanted you," you said softly.
"Sunshine-"
"You were always worth it," you cut him off. And then, because it was time â because it had been time for approximately thirty years and you were done waiting for the right moment when the right moment had repeatedly failed to arrive â "You were always enough. You were always the thing I was â Simon, you have always been the only one I wanted. Exactly as you are."
He was very still.
"I didn't tell you on the platform," you said. "I should have. I've thought about it every day since."
"So have I," he said.
The candle between you flickered in some movement of air from the kitchen, and in the warm unsteady light his face was open in a way you had waited thirty years to see. His hand was warm and sure around yours, and from the other side of the restaurant you were almost certain you heard Margaret Howarth say something to Gerald in a satisfied undertone.
"You planted the lavender," you grinned.
"Three years ago." He finally smiles back at you, it was crooked and uneven and you loved it.
"You are," you said carefully, "the most ridiculous man I have ever known." You shook your head still grinning.
"Missed you too, sunshine," he smirked.
Dinner ended the way the best dinners end â not with a definitive conclusion but with a gradual, reluctant unwinding, the kind where both people keep finding one more thing to say, one more thread to pull, because the alternative is standing up and the evening becoming past tense.
You ordered dessert.
Neither of you particularly wanted it but you both ordered it, and you both knew why, and neither of you said so. The chocolate brownie was very good. Simon ate his methodically, the way he ate everything, and at one point looked up and caught you watching him and said nothing.
The candle between you had burned down to a stub by the time the bill came.
He paid. You protested on principle. He gave you a look that had not changed at all since he was fourteen years old â flat, certain, faintly amused â and handed the card to the waiter without further discussion.
"That's notâ" you started.
"Next time," he said.
Next time. You let it sit there between you, warm and presumptuous and everything you wanted.
Outside, the evening had cooled.
The last of the summer still holding in the air, the kind of September evening that felt like a concession, like the year wasn't ready to be done.
The street was quiet for a Saturday, just a few couples moving between the restaurants and a group of lads outside the pub further down having a smoke. The amber of the streetlights made everything look like something worth remembering.
Simon stood beside you on the pavement, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he turned to look down the street, and you were very aware of the warmth of him and the black shirt and the lavender you couldn't smell from here but could somehow still feel in your hands.
"Walk with me a bit," he said. Not a question, not quite. He'd always done that â phrased invitations as though the outcome were already agreed, as though he simply assumed you'd say yes because you almost always did.
"Alright."
He fell into step beside you, and for a little while you just walked â past the wine bar with its fairy lights, past the old library that had become a gin distillery at some point in the last decade, past the post office that had been there since before either of you were born. You talked about small things. Easy things. The kind of conversation that runs alongside the real one underneath.
Then he stopped.
You stopped too.
Simon looked down at you. His hands were in his pockets. That brown gaze of his moved over your face in the way it had been moving over your face all evening â like he was cataloguing it, like he was making up for lost time in the looking.
"Dance with me," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
He tilted his head, "Come dancing with me."
You stared at him.
Simon Riley, who had sat against the wall at every school disco you'd ever attended, arms folded, watching everyone else with the expression of a man conducting a private risk assessment.
Simon Riley, who you had never, in thirty years of knowing him, seen voluntarily approach a dance floor.
"You don't dance," you said.
"No," he agreed. "But you do."
The simplicity of it landed somewhere very central.
You do.
As though that were reason enough. As though your enjoyment of a thing were sufficient justification for him to walk into it without hesitation.
Which, you supposed, when it came to Simon, it always had been.
"Alright," you said, for the second time in ten minutes.
His hand found the small of your back again, that same light, deliberate touch from inside the restaurant and he guided you down the street.
Simon said you weren't far, when you heard it.
The particular sound of a Domino's box. The slight crinkle of a carrier bag. And then your mother's voice, carrying across the quiet street in the way it always had â warm and clear and entirely without volume control.
"Oh honey! We thought - oh!"
"Oh fuck," you cursed.
You said it very quietly. Not quietly enough. Simon chuckled under his breath.
Your parents were coming along the pavement from the direction of the only car park around here â your father in his weekend coat, your mother in the blue one she'd had for fifteen years. A Domino's pizza box balanced in her arms and a carrier bag hanging from your father's hand.
Movie night. Of course. They still did it every other Saturday, had done since you were small, and of course they would do it tonight of all the Saturday nights in the entire calendar.
Your mother's face when she saw you was pure, unguarded delight â the face she always made when she encountered you unexpectedly, as though each time were still a pleasant surprise. Then her gaze moved, naturally and automatically, to the man standing beside you with his hand at the small of your back.
The delight didn't disappear. It did something more complicated.
"Oh honey," she said again, but differently this time. Softer. Her voice going somewhere else entirely. "Simon?"
The Domino's box dipped. Your father caught it with the reflexes of a man who had been catching things your mother nearly dropped for forty years.
Simon had gone still beside you. Not that controlled, present stillness he had, the one that wasn't tension but something adjacent to it. He was looking at your mother with an expression you couldn't fully read from the side, but you could see the line of his jaw, and it was careful.
"Mrsâ" he started.
"Don't you Mrs me," your mother said. Her voice was not angry. That was the thing â you'd prepared yourself, in the split second between seeing them and now, for anger, or for the brisk, self-protective coolness she used sometimes when she'd been frightened. But it wasn't that. It was something that had tears in it, which was considerably worse to witness.
She handed the pizza box to your father without looking at him â he took it with the silent competence of long practice â and she crossed the pavement in four short steps and she put her arms around Simon Riley.
He was so much larger than her. He had always been larger than her, even at fifteen when he'd eaten her shepherd's pie at the kitchen table and been careful to seem like it was casual and not like he was starving. Even when she gave him seconds and he looked like he would beg for thirds.
But now it was almost absurd, the smallness of her against the width of him, and he stood there for just a fraction of a second â that fraction where you could see him recalibrating, receiving something he hadn't prepared for â and then his arms came around her and he held on.
Your mother was crying. Small, quiet sounds, the kind she made when she was trying not to. Her face was pressed against his chest and her hands gripped the back of his black shirt and she said, muffled and with great feeling, "You absolute boy."
Simon said nothing. His eyes, over the top of your mother's head, found yours.
You had to look away. The street was very interesting. The lamppost in particular.
You bit into your lip.
Your father appeared at your shoulder.
He was a quiet man, always had been. The kind of steady, observant presence that took things in without making a production of the taking in. He stood beside you with the pizza box over one arm and the carrier bag in the other hand and watched his wife hold the boy who had eaten at their table for a decade, and he said, very quietly, to you,
"Well. He's not dead then."
"No Dad," you managed. "He's not dead."
"Good," your father said.
As though this settled it. As though the entirety of the past five years of your grief and his, because he had grieved Simon too in his quiet way, in the way of a man who doesn't say things aloud but feels them thoroughly. He looked at Simon over the top of your mother's head and gave him a single, deliberate nod. The kind that meant; we'll talk. The kind that meant; I have things to say to you. The kind that also, underneath both of those, meant; I'm so glad son.
Simon received the nod with equal gravity, which was exactly right.
Your mother finally pulled back. She held Simon by the arms â or tried to, her hands not quite making it around the circumference of them â and looked up at him with red eyes and the particular expression of a woman who has a great deal to say and is choosing, for now, not to say most of it.
"You'll come for dinner," she said. Not a question. The same tone she'd used on him at fifteen and apparently intended to continue using indefinitely. "Sunday. Proper dinner. Not a restaurant. Mine."
"Yes," Simon said. Immediately. Without hesitation.
"Good." She released his arms and reached up and patted his cheek once, firmly, the way you might with someone who had done something frustrating and beloved in equal measure.
Then she turned to you, and her expression did something complicated and warm and knowing, and she didn't say any of the things she was clearly thinking, which you appreciated deeply.
What she said instead was: "Don't stay out too late. You're thirty-five, not seventeen."
"Mum." You scolded.
"I'm just saying." She shrugged.
"We're going dancing," you told her, with the energy of someone redirecting a conversation through sheer momentum.
Your mother looked at Simon. Simon looked at your mother. Something passed between them that was private and thirty years old and not yours to have.
"Of course you are," she said.
Your father passed the Domino's box back to your mother, and said, "Right then. We'll leave you to it." He looked at Simon one more time. "Sunday," he confirmed.
"Sunday," Simon said.
Your parents moved off down the pavement.
Your mother looked back once â just once â and her face when she did was the face you'd seen her wear at your primary school nativity and at your GCSE results and on the morning you'd gone to university; the particular face of a woman watching her child be happy and feeling the full, complicated, loving weight of it.
Then she turned back to your father and said something you couldn't hear, and his hand found her shoulder as they walked, and they rounded the corner and were gone.
You stood on the pavement in the September evening and breathed.
Beside you, Simon was also very carefully just standing there.
"She cried on me," he said, after a moment.
"Yes."
"Didn't expect that."
You turned to look at him. He was looking at the corner your parents had turned, and his face had the quality it sometimes had when something had reached him â not visibly, not dramatically, just in that particular stillness that meant something had got through.
"She cried about you," you told him. "When you stopped writing. Three years ago â there were several times, actually, but three years ago was the worst. She held me in her kitchen and we bothâ" You stopped. Managed the next part carefully. "She loves you too, Simon. She always did. You were at our table every other night for years."
He was quiet for a moment. Something moved in his jaw. "I know," he said. And this time the I know was different from all the other times he'd said it tonight â heavier, and private.
"You agreed to Sunday dinner," you giggled.
"Of course I agreed to Sunday dinner," he said knowing full well he would have been stupid not to and gotten an earful from your mother.
Simon offered you his hand.
Not at the small of your back this time. His hand, palm up, in the space between you. Old-fashioned and deliberate.
You put yours in it.
"Come on then," he said. "Let's go dancing."
There was, as it turned out, only one place to go dancing in this town on a Saturday night if you meant actual dancing â the kind with a proper floor and music with a real structure to it.
It was not a club.
It was not a bar with a cleared space near the speaker.
It was the old church hall on Callow Street, which had been hosting the Saturday Evening Social Dance since before either of you were born, and which Simon seemed to know about with the specificity of a man who had done his research.
"A dance hall," you said, standing outside it. Through the tall, thin windows the warm light was visible, and the sound â strings, a proper band, something with a waltz rhythm that made the windows hum faintly. "You're taking me to a dance hall."
"Only place with a floor."
"Simon, this is a â there will be pensioners in there." you said quietly.
"There'll be a dance floor," he looked down at you. "And you said yes." he shrugged but looked smug.
He pushed the door open and held it, and because you had in fact said yes, and because the music through the door sounded genuinely lovely, and because you were still holding his hand from the pavement, you went in.
The church hall smelled of floor polish and tea. Fairy lights were strung along the rafters â someone's addition, not the original fixtures, and they made the whole space amber and soft.
Round tables lined the edges, most of them occupied by couples in their sixties and seventies and eighties, a few younger faces dotted among them, everyone dressed with the particular care of people who still believed an evening out was worth dressing for.
On the small stage at the far end, a four-piece band was working through something in three-four time with the ease of musicians who had played together for years.
And at the edge of the floor, clipboard in hand, wearing the same expression of organised authority she'd worn every PE lesson for fifteen years was Mrs Valerie Croft.
She was smaller than you remembered. Or perhaps you were simply larger.
She'd retired at some point â the hair was fully silver now rather than streaked â but the posture was identical: spine straight, chin up, the bearing of a woman who had spent decades telling teenagers to stand properly and had eventually simply become the embodiment of the instruction.
She looked up from her clipboard as you approached and her eyes moved from you to Simon, and to her credit, she didn't miss a step.
"Well," she tilted her chin up to meet his eyes, "Riley."
"Miss," Simon said. Which was technically incorrect given that she had a ring on her finger and had for as long as you'd known her, but you suspected it was because he'd called her Miss in secondary school the way you had. "Mrs Croft. Sorry. We were passing andâ " He paused, which was unlike him. "Is there any chance we could crash it?"
Mrs Croft looked at him. She looked at you. She looked at your joined hands with the expression of a woman who had supervised enough teenagers to recognise a development when she saw one.
"Can you behave yourselves?" she asked.
"Yes," you said nodding.
Simon said nothing.
Mrs Croft made a sound that was not quite a laugh but was adjacent to one. "Floor's open," she said. "Don't knock anyone over." And she turned back to her clipboard.
The first dance was not elegant.
Simon was, as he had always been and had openly admitted, not a dancer.
He was a man built for other kinds of movement â purposeful, directed, the kind that had somewhere to go. Dancing required a different relationship with your body, a willingness to be present in it without agenda, and that was not naturally his.
But he was trying. And Simon Riley trying at something he wasn't good at with complete, unhesitating commitment was one of your favourite things in the world.
He held you correctly â one hand at your waist, the other holding yours at the right height â because he had clearly looked this up at some point, which you were choosing not to think about too hard. His footwork was careful. Deliberate. Slightly behind the beat in the way of someone counting silently.
"You're counting," you told him trying your hardest not to laugh.
"Shut up."
"Simon, I can see your lips moving." you snorted.
"I said shut up."
You were laughing now. Properly, helplessly, the kind that came up from somewhere real â and he looked down at you with that face, that flat, long-suffering, completely fond face, and something in his eyes that was warm in a way that had nothing to do with patience and everything to do with the fact that your laugh had always been, apparently, one of his favourite sounds.
"You're doing fine," you told him, once you'd recovered.
"I'm doing terribly," he answered. "Keep going."
By the second dance, he was better.
By the third, he had found something. Some adjustment in the way he held you, the way his hand settled more fully at your waist, drawing you closer so the movement between you became less about individual steps and more about one shared thing. He was a quick study. He always had been, once he'd decided something was worth doing.
You became aware, gradually, of the room watching.
Not intrusively. Not all at once. But in the soft, peripheral way of a room full of people who have been in love for decades and recognise the particular weather of it when it walks through the door.
An older couple near the stage â she in pale blue, he in a suit that had been good once and was still cared for â had stopped talking to watch you.
A woman at one of the corner tables had her chin in her hand.
Mrs Croft, by the door, was very deliberately looking at her clipboard and failing to look only at her clipboard.
You didn't mind. You were too busy watching Simon watch you.
The band changed tempo at half past nine.
The waltz gave way to something with a different shape entirely â something that moved from the hips rather than the feet, a rhythm that was slower in its pulse and considerably less innocent in its intention.
A rumba.
You looked up at Simon.
He looked down at you.
"I don't know this one," he said.
"I'll show you." you breathed.
You took his hand and placed it lower at your waist, right above the curve of your ass. Deliberately watching his face when you did it, watching the shift in his expression, the way something in his eyes went very still and very focused. "Hip to hip," you told him. "Slower than you think. Let the music pull you."
He followed your lead with an attention that was frankly overwhelming in its completeness.
Simon Riley giving you his full, undivided, physical focus was not a small thing. He was so large and so present and he moved with you rather than against you, adjusting with every shift of your weight, and somewhere in the second minute of the song the counting stopped and something else replaced it.
He drew you closer. His hand at your hip pulled you in until there was no space left between you, until you could feel the warmth of him through the green of your dress and you were very aware of every point of contact, of the music and of the room full of people who had gone very quiet.
Then he turned you.
It was not technically correct. It was not what the dance required. But he turned you in a single, smooth movement that his body had decided on and yours simply followed, because that was what it did with him.
And then he dipped you.
The room tilted. His arm was across your back, solid and immovable, and you were suspended in the amber light with the music around you and your hand at his shoulder.
He lowered you â slowly, with complete control, no hesitation in the hold and then his face was close, very close, and his nose grazed the line of your throat making your breath hitch.
A slow, deliberate graze. The warmth of his breath against your pulse point. You felt it in places that had nothing to do with dancing, between your legs throbbing.
His hand â the one at your hip â slid down, just slightly, just enough, finding the outside of your thigh where the fabric of your dress lay, and he hooked your leg, slowly, around his hip. His fingers at the back of your thigh. Holding you there. His nose still at your throat.
The music resolved. Somewhere behind you, someone started clapping.
He brought you upright. Smoothly, slowly, until you were standing again and his hand was still at the back of your thigh. Your leg still around his hip and your faces were very close. Your heart was conducting itself in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with exertion.
You were panting. Slightly. Just slightly.
He was not panting. He was looking down at you with the almost-smile, the one that had always been rarer than gold and twice as valuable â and his eyes were warm and very dark and entirely, completely satisfied with themselves.
"You looked that up as well," you managed.
"No," he said.
"Simonâ"
"That one," he said, "I just wanted to do."
From the table by the stage, the woman in pale blue was applauding with great enthusiasm. Her husband had two fingers in his mouth and was whistling.
Mrs Croft had given up entirely on the clipboard.
The taxi back was not a long ride.
It felt longer than it was, and shorter than you wanted.
You sat beside him in the back seat with his thigh against yours and the city moving past the windows and neither of you speaking. The silence had a texture to it that was thick and warm and anticipatory in a way that made the air feel heavy in your lungs.
His hand was on your knee. Just resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything â with complete, unapologetic certainty.
You did not move it.
The house appeared at the end of the lane with its white fence and its dark windows and the lavender silver in the moonlight.
You were out of the taxi before it had fully stopped and you were aware how eager this appeared and you didn't care.
Simon paid the driver and caught up with you in three strides because his legs were considerably longer than yours and always had been.
He got to the door first. Key in hand.
The door opened.
And you did not wait for him to step through it.
You took him by the front of his shirt, that black shirt, warm from his body, the fabric bunching in your fists and you lips were suddenly on his.
You walked him backwards through the doorway and you felt the moment his back met the wall just inside and you were already kissing him before he'd fully registered the sequence of events.
Your mouth on his. Your hands in the front of his shirt. Thirty years of it finding its way out all at once, without ceremony, without preamble, without any of the careful management you had been applying to yourself since you were four years old at a preschool art table.
He kissed you back.
He kissed you back the way he did everything â thoroughly, completely, with his full attention and no apparent interest in doing anything else ever again.
His hands came to your face, big and careful, tilting your jaw, and for a moment you were simply inside the realness of him and the warmth of him and the fact that he was here and alive and kissing you in the hallway of the house he'd bought for you.
He pulled back.
"Easy, sunshine," he said against your lips. Low. A little breathless, which you would be privately triumphant about later. The corner of his mouth pulled up in that crooked smile.
You became aware, in the slightly dazed way of someone returning from somewhere, that your hands were still in his shirt and his hands were still on your face and you were standing approximately two inches apart in his hallway.
You also became aware, in the refocusing of your vision, of his mouth.
Of the scar on his upper lip.
You didn't know how you hadn't noticed it before â through dinner, through the dancing, through all of it.
Perhaps you had simply not been this close before. Or perhaps you had been looking at so many things that you hadn't been looking at everything.
It was small, a thin pale line bisecting the left side of his upper lip, old enough to have faded to silver, the kind of scar that had been there for years and had been lived with so thoroughly that the face had absorbed it.
You lifted your thumb and touched it, gently. "How'd you get this?"
He went very still, alert and present and reading you.
You kissed it. Softly. Just that.
Something moved in his throat.
His hands shifted from your face to your waist, warm and settled, and he began to move you gently â backwards, one steady step at a time â turning you both away from the wall and deeper into the hallway. His foot found the door behind him and pushed it closed with a quiet, final click.
"If I tell you about that one," he said, his voice low and even above your head as he guided you past the entrance and toward the stairs, "I'll have to tell you about the rest."
He looked down at you as he said it, that look, the one that said you were the most interesting thing he had ever encountered. The one that made you feel simultaneously seen and slightly undone â and his expression had in it something that was fond and amused and entirely, devastatingly warm.
You kicked your heels off at the bottom of the stairs. They went somewhere behind you. You didn't look.
Your bag went next, dropped against the banister.
"The rest?" you repeated. Your voice came out slightly smaller than you intended. Your eyes, entirely without your permission, moved down the front of him â the black shirt, the breadth of his shoulders, his torso, his thick thighs, all of him â and back up again. Slowly.
He watched you do it. He said nothing.
You swallowed. "Tell me then."
His hand at your waist steered you up the first step, and then the second, and the stairs curved slightly toward the landing above, and at the top of the stairs he pushed open the door to a bedroom.
The room was large and furnished.
A bed, properly large, the kind that accommodated a man his size without complaint. Low lamps on either side casting the same amber warmth as the hall below. Dark wood floors, a window looking out toward the garden, the curtain shifting slightly in a crack of night air.
He kissed you, just inside the door you kissed him back and his hands were at your hips.
Then he pulled back with a groan. Both of you breathing slightly harder than was strictly accounted for by climbing one flight of stairs.
"I want to, sunshine," he said. His voice was very low. Restrained. His hands still on your body, holding you there, his thumbs moving in a small slow motion against the fabric of your dress that was doing nothing to help you think clearly. "I do. But I need to hear it from you first. Your permission. Clear words. I don't want to misunderstand you."
You opened your mouth.
And then your eyes moved, over his shoulder, to the dresser.
A skull mask looked back at you.
You closed your mouth. You looked at it. The mask, white and stark and precise but somehow both alien and completely, recognisably his. The balaclava beside it, folded neatly. And tactical gloves â enormous, black, reinforced, approximately the size of your head.
"That yours?" you asked.
Simon turned his head, following your gaze. He looked at the dresser, then back at you. "Yeah."
"What is it?"
"What I wear on missions."
"Oh," you said.
And then your brain did something entirely beyond your authority. It constructed, with great speed and considerable detail, an image: Simon, broad and enormous, in black tactical gear. Gloved hands. That mask. Hovering over you.
You swallowed.
The image did not leave. It simply settled in, warm and vivid and decidedly unhelpful.
"Sunshine."
His hand came to your face â his big, warm, ungloved hand, his actual hand, the one you knew â his thumb sweeping gently under your eye, bringing you back into the room and the amber lamplight and the present moment.
"Hmm?" you managed meeting his gaze.
His eyes moved over your face with the same comprehensive attention he always gave you.
"Your permission, love," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"Oh." You blinked. "Yes. Yes, you have it. Always."
The almost-smile. "Not for everything I want to do to you." His thumb was still moving, very gently, under your eye. "I'll ask. Multiple times."
You stared at him. "Multipleâ"
"Times," he confirmed. His voice was entirely level. His eyes were not.
You pushed his shoulder and your cheeks burned.
He caught your hand as you pushed it and laughed, a low, real, full sound, the kind that you had spent most of your life engineering because it was so rare and so completely, unreasonably good.
You laughed too, properly, the helpless kind, and his forehead came down to rest against yours and you were both laughing in the amber light of his bedroom with the skull mask on the dresser and the lavender outside the window and thirty years behind you and everything in front.
The laughing settled.
Not all at once â it unwound gradually, the way laughter does when it's the real kind, leaving something warm and loose in its place.
His forehead was still against yours. His hands had moved from your face to your waist, both of them now, holding you the way he'd held you on the dance floor â with that complete, unhurried certainty, like you were something he'd been waiting to hold properly for a very long time and intended to do it right.
The amber light of the lamps lay across everything. Through the gap in the curtain, you could see the edge of the garden â the pale shapes of flowers, the dark of the lawn.
"Tell me about the rest," you said quietly.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. "The scars?"
"You said if you told me about the one on your lip you'd have to tell me about the rest." You reached up and touched the scar again â that thin, silver line â with the pad of your thumb. "So tell me about the rest."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached up and began, without ceremony, to unbutton his shirt.
You were very still.
He did it the way he did everything â without drama, without performance, button by button from the collar down, and when he shrugged it from his shoulders and set it aside you understood, in a way you hadn't before, what eighteen years of that life had written on him.
He was enormous.
You'd known that in the abstract â had known it from the doorframe and the dance floor and the way rooms seemed to reorganise themselves around him â but this was different.
This was the specific, undeniable reality of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the muscle of his arms that carried the tattoo sleeve on the left, the ink wrapping from wrist to shoulder in dark, intricate patterns that in this light you still couldn't fully read but wanted to.
And the scars.
There were more than you'd expected.
Each one a different shape and age and story, written into the topography of him in pale and silver lines. A long one along his left ribs. Something older, fainter, across the top of his right shoulder. A circular scar below his collarbone on the left side that your medical knowledge was sufficient to identify and that made your chest constrict briefly and completely before you put that particular knowledge away for now.
He was watching your face as you looked. Careful. Giving you the time of it.
You stepped forward. You placed your hand flat against his sternum â his heart under your palm, steady and real â and you felt him exhale.
"The lip," you said.
"Kandahar. 2004. Caught the stock of a rifle." He said it the same way he'd told you everything tonight â flat, factual, trusting the fact to carry the weight. "Bit through my lip. Wasn't pretty for a while."
You moved your hand from his sternum to his ribs. Found the long scar there, traced it gently with your fingertips.
"That one."
"Knife. 2009. I moved the wrong way and the other man moved the right way." The shadow of something in his face that was not quite humour and not quite not. "Lesson learned."
Your hand moved to his shoulder. The older, fainter scar.
"Before the military," he said, before you asked. His voice changed, just fractionally. Flatter. Doing more work to stay level. "Not a mission."
You understood. You didn't ask further. You pressed your lips to it instead â gently, just that, your mouth against the old pale mark â and you felt the breath go out of him in a way that was different from all the others. Slower. Deeper.
"Sunshine," he said. Very quietly.
"The one below your collarbone," you said.
A pause. "That one's not a story for tonight."
You tilted your head back to look up at him. "Is it a story for eventually?"
His eyes on yours. Something in them that was considering, assessing, "Yeah," he said. "Eventually."
"Alright," you said. You meant it. You had waited thirty years; you could wait for the story of one scar.
His hand moved to your face. That same gesture from the hallway â his thumb at your cheek, slow and deliberate and he tilted your chin up and kissed you. Not urgently this time. Slowly. Deeply.
His hands found the zip at the side of your dress â careful, unhurried â and he looked at you, a clear question in it, and you nodded, and his hands were very steady and very gentle. Your dress went the way of your heels and your bag, somewhere behind you, unmissed.
He looked at you the way he had looked at you on the porch yesterday, and outside The Grill tonight, and across the restaurant table, and on the dance floor â with that complete, comprehensive attention.
Only now there was nothing restrained about what was in it. It was simply there, open and certain, and it was thirty years of something finally being allowed to be exactly what it was.
"Hi," you said. Which was absurd. Which made him laugh again, low and real.
"Hi, sunshine," he said. His hands at your waist. His forehead dropping to yours.
âSi I need to-â you breathed in deep, âI um,â he pulled his head away from yours, looking into your eyes with those brilliant brown ones of his.
âWhat is it Sunshine?â He asked, his finger under your chin tilting your head up.
âIâm, Iâve never-â you sigh, âIâve told you so many things, I canât believe I canât even say this to you.â
âDo we need to slow down?â He asked, his voice softening.
âNo. Itâs not that. I mean Iâm not a virgin if thatâs what youâre thinking I just, no guy has ever-â you sigh again, your eyes dropping from his.
Simon is quiet. He waits, the way he always waits â giving you the whole space of it, not rushing you toward the end of the sentence.
âMade it good,â you finally say, to his chest. âFor me. Itâs always just, fine. Maybe sometimes I get close but then itâs over. Not that thereâs been loads of guys, maybe three.â
A beat.
You make yourself look up at him.
Something changes in his face.
You see the flare of it.
Anger.
Not toward you â you feel that immediately, the anger isn't at you, it moves through him and settles somewhere else entirely. His jaw shifts. His eyes, for just a moment, go somewhere dark and quiet.
"Every one of them," he says. Low. More to himself than to you.
"Simonâ"
"Had you," he says. "And didn'tâ" He stops. The jaw again. His eyes squeeze shut. "Didn't pay attention."
"It's notâ"
"It is." His eyes open. He looks at you, his hands moving to your hips, both of them, settling there with a weight that feels like anchoring, like he needs the contact as much as you do. The darkness has settled now, controlled, underneath everything else.
"And I wasn't here." Something moves through his expression â not guilt exactly, but something adjacent to it, something private and old. "Should've been your first, sunshine. Should've been there toâ"
He stops himself. His forehead drops to yours.
"I've waited years for this," he says quietly. "I'm not rushing it. And I'm going to pay attention."
âPay attention?â You ask breathless.
âTo every sigh,â he kissed your cheek, âwhimper and moan.â His lips moved down to your jaw. âTo the way your hips move, the way your back arches, the way youâll writhe under me, how Iâve imaged it every time Iâve gotten off for the last two decades.â He whispered the last bit into your ear, teeth tugging on your earlobe.
You gasp, âSimon.â Your cheeks burn.
âOh donât tell me you never thought about it.â He grins pulling back to look down at you.
You look at the floor sheepishly cause of course you have. Of course youâve cum the hardest you ever have in your life only when thinking about Simon fucking you.
"Oh you have." He smirked titling his head.
âShut up.â You push his shoulder and he laughs.
His hands leave your hips and then you're moving, his arms around you, and the edge of the bed meets the back of your knees.
Then his massive paws are in your hair and his lips are on your neck as your back meets the sheets. His weight heavy and solid on you. You could tell he was holding himself up so he didnât squish you.
He leaned back on his heels, kneeling between your legs. You sighed in satisfaction when his fingers ran over your bare skin. His blunt nails scratching softly where your pelvic bone sits.
"So beautiful Sunshine," He grabs your hips and squeezes, "Fill my hands with you finally." Simon groans. A noise you've been picturing in your head. This and everything else that happens this evening, you truly believe, will be one of those times when reality is better than anything you have imagined.
Simon's brown eyes have always been intense, but right now the way he's looking down at you it's like he is someone else entirely. His eyes almost black with how much they have darkened.
"Simon." You tangle your fingers with his.
"Can I?" He asks. His hand, the one not in yours, trailing down your thigh and stopping on your mound. You clench around nothing when he pushes down, just a little bit of pressure that you feel in your clit and makes your hips buck.
You don't miss the way his lips do the almost smile thing. You nod furiously but he shakes his head.
"Need your words love." He raises a brow.
"Yes, yes Simon touch me." You breathe out, your chest feeling tight when he nods, moving his hand down to cup your cunt over your underwear.
And maybe its because you haven't had sex in three years, maybe its because you are touch starved or maybe its simply because its Simon, but your back arches and your moan is down right pornographic with a simple touch over your underwear.
"So responsive." He mumbles, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit through the fabric. "Get your tits out for me Sunshine, wanna see em." he grunts feeling your underwear getting wet.
Shakily you reach behind your back and unclip your bra. "Been thinking about them for years. What they look like, how they'll bounce when I fuck you." He groans as you pull the straps down your arms and fling the bra on the floor.
His eyes are on your chest, he doesn't blink. Then as if his system has rebooted, he blows air out of his cheeks and whistles low. "Fuck lovie, so pretty. You're a dream." Simon leans forward and wraps his lips around your breast, his tongue swirling around the nipple as his thumb continues circling your clit.
You moan, fingers tugging at his hair.
He comes off your breast with a pop making you whine and push at his shoulder. He grins pressing his thumb firmer against you, while sliding his other hand over your leg, index finger tracing over the small scar on you leg from when you fell off your bike after Simon broke your training wheels.
There was something comforting about this. Simon wasn't someone you had to explain yourself to, he already knew every version of you, he was simply adding this one to his list. This version, open and honest and begging the man you'd known for thirty years to make you cum on his fingers.
This didn't feel like a hook up, not like other guys have, but it felt like two people who have been each other's home for years and they're finally admitting it.
"Kiss me Simon." You're not even sure if what you said made sense with how much you were panting. But he leaned down to graze his lips along yours. Teasing and soft, despite the fast past he'd started to set with his thumb.
"Stop teasing." You huffed.
"Its my favourite pastime." He grinned hooking his fingers in your underwear, pulling them down and moving with them to settle between your legs.
You gasp, when his tongue slides from your asshole to your clit. "Simon!" His dark eyes are locked on yours as he swirls the tip of his his tongue around your entrance. Your toes curl, your head falling back onto the soft bed sheets.
A few occasions, you could count on one hand, had a guy you were with eaten you out and it was good but fuck, it didn't feel like this.
You felt like you were burning all over with each swipe of his tongue, each dip inside your entrance, each pattern he begins to circle over your clit.
He was learning you.
Simon groans against you, his breath hot, it made you dizzy. You feel everything, its too much to quick and your hips start to buck against his mouth.
Simon clearly had no intention of slowing down or stopping as he slides his arms around your thighs and splays his hands over the tops of them locking you in place.
It feels like fire, like molten lava pooling low in your abdomen the harder his tongue presses against you.
You donât even recognise the sounds coming out of you, itâs as if every movement pulls a new one from you.Â
His thumb replaces his tongue and he rubs the bump in small circles until you can barely breathe. âSound so pretty,â he murmurs just as your back arches and you moan loudly into the night air.Â
He is still speaking but you canât hear anything he is saying, itâs all blurring together the way your vision is blurring. His thumb slides from your clit down until itâs pushing its way inside you. Your hips jerk away but his other hand is quick to hold you in place.
âNo running.â Simon growls.
You cry out when his tongue comes back to torture you, lapping at you like heâs never had a drink and you're fresh water. Soon enough the rhythm heâs built has your hips rolling forward seeking more of whatever he has to give you.
Your hand reaches for his arm and squeezes hard the exact moment your vision turns white and your body shakes, dissolving into pleasure. It's like lightning pulsing through you. He works your through your orgasm, wringing every last wave of pleasure from you before he moves to your lips, kissing you.
âDid so good Sunshine. Iâve got you.â His arms wrap around you, your nipples grazing against the hair on his chest, that alone has you whimpering.Â
"Need more, want you inside me Simon. Please." You look into his eyes, your shyness gone with your orgasm.
"Okay Sunshine." Simon chuckles, the sound vibrating against you.
He pulls back and gets off the bed before he starts to unbuckle his belt. He pushes his black slacks down along with his underwear, his large, and he was so fucking big, cock already hard.
"Always wondered what you'd be like in bed," He tilts his head with a smirk, "If you'd like being in control. Or if you'd prefer me to lead," He knelt on the bed again, and oh my god Simon Riley, your best friend of thirty years and the love of your life was crawling up the bed towards you until his cock was flush with your entrance. "If you'd be needy and beg. Or if you'd bark orders at me." He slapped the head of his cock against your clit. "If you'd be loud or quiet."
"If you'd let me do whatever I wanted to you," his head titled back, eyes shut, "Fuck Sunshine, the things I've imagined doing to you," He looks down at you with the most intense gaze, pining you there on the bed, "Would you let me lovie? Do whatever I want to you?" He asks, pearly whites peaking out to sink into his bottom lip.
"Like what?" Your breath is so unsteady, so hitched and uneven you feel your cheeks heat even more than they have done at his words.
He grins, "Like what?" He chuckles pushing the head of his cock against your entrance, not in, but resting against it, "Wanna fuck you so hard you can't walk. Make love to you slow and so deep you'll feel me everywhere. Bend you over every surface in this house and make you cry on my cock-"
"Simon!" You gasp.
"Can I Sunshine?" He groans pushing in a little more and your eyes sting with tears at the stretch.
"Yes! Please yes!" He pushes in slowly. One of his hands coming next to you on the bed and the other gripping your hip. He keeps sliding in further, so slowly until its sheathed inside you.
Simon does not move. You can see the restraint within the way his teeth are gritted, his brows furrowed, sweat forming on his forehead.Â
âFuck you feel amazing wrapped around me, so tight.â He groans.Â
You donât have any words and even if you did, you doubt you would be able to say them. You have never felt soâŠfull. So filled to the brim and unable to get a reprieve from it.
âMâgonna move, gotta move Sunshine,â Simon growls and the fullness disappears for a second before heâs pushing himself back in.Â
âFuck you feel so good Si.â You shudder and stars appear in your vision when he moves forward and takes your legs with him folding you in half.
Simon Riley has you in fucking mating press and didn't even break the slow rhythm he's building. He continues this push and pull movement until it begins to flow, each movement begins where the other ends. The pattern making you sob, âDonât stop!â
You can't function and its only now that you understand the phrase 'being fucked dumb', rocking your hips, trying desperately to keep up with each thrust, back arched so beautifully.
Simon lets his hand slip and curve around your jaw without thinking about it, "Taking me so well Sunshine." The feral look in his eyes sends a shiver up your spine.
"Too big." You sobbed, your hands grabbing at his large biceps as he thrusts harder. He could feel every ridge and curve of your sopping cunt.
"You can take it." He encouraged you, biting at your neck leaving marks in his wake and looking so damn happy whilst doing it.
You continued to moan and whimper, tears of pleasure falling down your face while Simon's huge body hovered over you. Protecting you from the outside world, in here, it was just you and him.
"Si..oh!" you cried out feeling him hit that rough spot inside your weeping, swollen cunt.
"There it is." He didn't mean to grin like a obsessed man in such an intimate moment but he couldn't help himself. He never can with you. Each thrust hits the one place no man ever seems to be able to find but Simon seemingly found with ease. A spot that makes a tightening begin like a coil, being wound with every drive of his hips.
Your sinful noises morph into higher pitched breathy little screams.
"I know lovie, I know." He cooed, holding you closer. His sweat glazed skin meeting yours as his large veiny hand slips under your head, his other arm curling around your waist.
You move your hips and he groans vulgar into the air, his hand gripping your hair and pulling your head back, a little to the side before he attacks your neck all messy. Smearing his lips across your throat, you donât even recognise the sound that leaves your mouth.
He pulls away, his dark eyes flit to your squelching pussy, the noise attracting his attention pupils dilating, honing in on the way your cunt sucks his cock back in. He couldnât pull away even if he wanted to and fuck he doesnât, he wants nothing more than to stay in your pretty pussy forever.
âSimonfuckyespleaserighttheredontstop!â All the words and moans blend together until your mumbling nonsense trying your hardest to keep conscious, itâs difficult with the way heâs fucking into you so deliciously itâs making you delirious in the best way.
His big body towering over yours, big hands gripping you almost bruisingly. His thick muscular hairy thighs press against your skin compellingly, the sight before you, it's irresistible. All you have to do is look down to see his massive cock sliding in and out of you, a ring of white collecting at the base.
It's too much seeing him like this, feeling the sweet pleasure burn through you and yet Simon moves one of his hands off your head and presses a thumb to your swollen, aching clit.
You're done for.
You sob, so fucking loud you swear everyone in the world can hear it, hot tears flow down your cheeks staining them.
"That's it." The words wash over you with your orgasm, it swirls around you, clings to you, and pushes you down down down the rabbit hole of pleasure. Oversensitivity sets in making you whine at his touch, but you can't stop yourself from wanting more.
Your hips buck into his touch eliciting a dirty chuckle from him.
As Simon picks up his thrusts, he comes to the conclusion that he loves you like this, wants to see it everyday. You're so drunk, so delirious and he loves it. Loves the far away look in your eyes right before they roll back into your skull.
He shoves his face into your neck groaning, "Gonna cum Sunshine, need to. Where?" his thrusts pick up again, as if that were even possible.
"Cum inside me Simon, fill me up." You cry out.
Simon must have been right there as he cums the second you finish your sentence. Hot thick robes of cum pushing deep inside you. He rubs your clit faster and another smaller orgasm zips through you leaving you whimpering.
He stays in you, holding you until he goes soft. He moves your legs so they don't cramp. "Did so well for me Sunshine. I love you so much." He looks into your eyes as more tears spill down your cheeks.
"I love you Simon." you bring your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer to kiss you. The contrast between the way he just destroyed your guts and is now kissing you so softly, is astounding.
He is careful when he picks you up and walks into the ensuite bathroom to the right, flicking the light on and placing you on the toilet. "Gotta pee sunshine, don't want you getting you a uti." He says and you're so tired you don't even have the energy to be embarrassed.
Your eyes as still closed as you pee. Your hand moves to find the toilet paper but a warm flannel is being pressed against you, Simon's other hand on your knee to keep them open. You whine and push his hand away, "Simon that's icky." You frown at him opening your eyes to see him looking at you with a frown of his own.
"Nothing about you is icky Sunshine. I'm clearing up my mess, now move your hand." You do as told and it occurs to you, through your tired haze, while Simon gently wipes you clean that he must be used to clearing up mess with the job he does.
"All done. Want a shower or straight to sleep?" He asks.
"Sleep." You yawn making him smile at you.
He carries you back to the bed, lifting the duvet and settling you both underneath it.
The particular quality of afterwards settles in the room.
The warmth of it, the specific silence, the way the world outside the window continues to exist and you become aware of it again in layers. The sound of the garden. The distant sound of a car somewhere. The sound of him breathing.
You were lying with your head on his chest. His arm around you, heavy and warm. His heartbeat under your ear, steady and unhurried, the same heart that had been beating beside you in one form or another for thirty years.
His hand moved. Slowly, idly, up and down your back.
You watched the lamplight glow on the beside table. You thought about the lavender. You thought about the train station in 2001, and the birthday cards, and the bottom stair with the cream envelope, and Margaret Howarth saying you always did belong together with the satisfied certainty of someone who had known it before either of you did.
"Simon," you said.
"Yeah."
"You planted lavender for three years."
"You mentioned that already."
"I'm still processing it."
A low sound in his chest that was the rumble of a laugh contained. "Take your time Sunshine."
You propped yourself up and looked at him. His face in the lamplight â older, marked, those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old, now watching you from a pillow in the house he'd bought you.
His expression was open in the way it had been open on the porch and at the restaurant table and in the dance hall, the way it had been open perhaps three times in thirty years before tonight and was now, apparently, simply his face when he looked at you.
You loved him so much.
You had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life and now you loved him in this one too, this new one, and it was the same love and completely different and you thought you would be discovering its dimensions for a considerable amount of time.
"You should have told me," you said. "Years ago. Before the train."
"Yeah," he said. No argument.
"I would have said it back then too."
Something moved in his face. "I know," he said. And then, quieter, "I wasn't ready then. Wasn't enough yet."
"Simonâ"
"I know what you're going to say."
"You were alwaysâ"
"I know," he said. "I believe you. Now." His hand came up to your face, tucking a strand of hair back, his thumb at your cheekbone. "Took me a while to get there. But I'm here."
"You're here," you agreed smiling.
"And you're here." his hand tangled itself in your hair.
"I'm here." you giggled.
He looked at you for a long moment. Then, "Stay with me."
Not a question, not quite â more like a hope said aloud. The rarest thing from him. He had carried so much silently for so long, and this one small thing cost him something, and you could see it, and you loved him for it.
"It's my house," you said cheeky and bright.
He blinked. Then that laugh again â the real one, the rare one â and your heart did what it always did when you earned it, that particular, irreplaceable lurch.
"Yeah Sunshine," he said. "It is."
You lay back down against his chest. His arm came around you. His heartbeat under your ear.
Outside, the lavender moved. The Union flag was still on the roof. The porch swing sat in the dark with its yellow cushion, waiting for morning.
"Sunshine," he said. Into your hair.
"Hmm."
"I love you."
You pressed your lips to his chest, above his heart.
"I love you too," you said. "I've loved you since you were that chubby four-year-old who stole my crayons."
A long pause.
"Chubby," he repeated.
"Stocky," you amended, grinning into his chest. "You were very stocky."
"I was four."
"You were a very solid four year old."
His arm tightened around you â not painfully, just firmly, the way of a man making a point through the medium of holding â and you laughed again, helplessly, into the warmth of him.
He made that sound, that low rumbling laugh that lived in his chest, and the lamp burned warm and low and outside the lavender moved in the dark.
Simon Riley.
Who stole your crayons at four and broke your glasses at seven and learned to read because of you and carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and punched a boy for pushing you over and kissed your cheek in a toilet corridor and sat beside you through every lunch and glared at anyone who called you a nerd and came round to your kitchen table for years and went to war at seventeen and sent you cards from the edges of the world and planted lavender for three years and bought you the house you described at sixteen and came home.
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)
Ghost didnât want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didnât 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 didnât remember how he got every scar on his body.Â
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.Â
But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. Heâd 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.Â
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.Â
Survived.Â
And soulmates shared scars.Â
Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasnât quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didnât belong to him originally. Â
He didnât like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way.Â
Itâs 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 werenât just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadnât been afforded one.Â
There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe heâd been left out of the whole thing.Â
Better he was alone.Â
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.Â
A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldnât be alteredâto 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. Â
Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.
And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate.Â
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.Â
But, sometimes, he wondered.Â
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.Â
It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again.Â
He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical. Â
It was a cruelty he couldnât imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him.Â
Simon didnât want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didnât want him either.Â
If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already.Â
He didnât particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didnât relish the thought of something he couldnât 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.Â
It wouldnât happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent.Â
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.Â
It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnnyâs that he couldnât 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 Soapâs mind, not for the first time. Heâd 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 couldnât all come to nothing yet.  Â
Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land.Â
A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.
âLucky that way, Lt,â Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. âFindinâ âem will be easier.âÂ
Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that heâd acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. âWhat do you mean?âÂ
Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. âKnow âem straight away, wouldnât I?â Â
Simonâs own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head.Â
Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was.Â
No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him.Â
But heâd always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds.Â
.
.
.
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 allâthe 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.Â
Each place had caveats.Â
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.Â
Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there.Â
The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 precuilaritiesânames, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the buildingâs irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasnât information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didnât often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators.Â
It was a regular, routine, quiet place.Â
So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp.Â
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.Â
It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it.Â
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. âSorry, sir. I didnât see you there. Can I help you with something?âÂ
Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs.Â
Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere.Â
He would know his own face anywhere.Â
He would, apparently, know you anywhere.Â
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.Â
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 didnât ruin the brightness of it.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain.Â
Nausea swept into the back of his throat.Â
âAre you okay?âÂ
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 didnât avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes.Â
You saw him.Â
Simon was not to be seen.
Ghost didnât get caught, didnât freeze.Â
Didnât feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked.Â
Not anymore.Â
He was a ghost, a shadow, a silentâ
The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace.Â
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 heâd ever seen.Â
âSir?â
Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat.Â
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.Â
You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire.Â
You hadnât recognized what he was.Â
And he was going to keep it that way.Â
.
.
.
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.Â
He didnât love you, thatâs 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.Â
Better yet, through you.Â
Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery.Â
One sure way to free himself was your death.Â
It was unusual, but it happenedâheadlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldnât tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them.Â
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.Â
Which irritated him. Things like that didnât bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this.Â
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.Â
It was wrong.Â
He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing. Â
The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didnât know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing. Â
Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and itâd 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.Â
Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it.Â
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 hadnât left him. It had never happened beforeânot 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. Â
Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light.Â
Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp.Â
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.Â
Fuuucking hell.Â
Couldnât see, couldnât hear, back toward the entry point of the room.Â
Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal.Â
He waited, but you didnât turn, didnât 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.Â
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.Â
You yawned, eyes still closed.Â
He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldnât admit it then, but he half hoped you would.Â
Ghost backed away, left you to your peace.Â
The weight in his chest intensified again.
He hated you for it.Â
He went back the next day.Â
And the day after that.
.
.
.
Anchor might be a better descriptor.Â
Hook was too violent.
Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that.Â
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.Â
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 didnât.Â
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.Â
You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it.Â
You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night.Â
You didnât 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 didnât show, but Simon could tell. He didnât like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else.Â
They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you werenât 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.Â
Absolutely bloody foul.Â
Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile.Â
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.Â
You nearly always had headphones onâwired 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.Â
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 werenât being particularly loud. He didnât need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once heâd left you for the day, replaying things heâd heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him.Â
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.Â
That used to be more important.Â
Now his every thought was asterisked by you.Â
Distracted.Â
He didnât do well with it.Â
He didnât like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasnât near you, suffocating him. Heâd felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it.Â
Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat. Â
He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly.Â
After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk.Â
Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest.Â
It was enough to be where you had once been.Â
That was as close as he cared to be.Â
He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again.Â
.
.
.Â
He went by Ghost, you learned eventually.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 hadnât been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut.Â
Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true.Â
Fear, afterward, of course, that youâd missed some kind of order or request.Â
It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since youâd felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldnât have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmateâs scars better than their own, and you were no exception.Â
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 didnât 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. âThatâs just Ghost. He probably didnât say anything. You get used to it.âÂ
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, âOkay.âÂ
Laswell had smiled. âYouâll do well here.âÂ
You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldnât 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.Â
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.Â
Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it.Â
You sensed that heâd 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.Â
âHi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?âÂ
This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands.Â
The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didnât leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.
âHave I passed?âÂ
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. âPassed?âÂ
âYour test?âÂ
âThink Iâm testinâ you?âÂ
âYou moved my desk.âÂ
He didnât answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldnât answer at all. âPractically had your back to the door,â he said eventually, as though that explained it.Â
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.  Â
You nodded and then shrugged instead. âI guess I donât think about things like that.âÂ
âShould.â
âMaybe.âÂ
âEspecially in the field.âÂ
âI donât do field work.âÂ
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.Â
âWelcome to sit,â you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. âGhost.â Â
He didnât 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.Â
Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company.Â
All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone.Â
Ghost was strange, slightly off putting.Â
You liked him.
Maybe, you thought, heâd come back.Â
.
.
.
Ghost visited regularly after that.Â
Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work.Â
His boots were so silent that you often didnât know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasnât an uncomfortable feeling.Â
You didnât feel watched, so much as observed, minded.
But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him. Â
Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind.Â
The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things youâd 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 wasnât actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office. Â
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 wasnât the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others.Â
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.Â
You didnât comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain.Â
He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag.Â
In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweetsâ which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently.Â
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.Â
If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didnât 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. âDonât have to,â he always said.Â
âWant to,â 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.Â
He didnât 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. Â
âSorry,â 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. Â
âOh,â you answered. âYou didnât have toââ
âDid,â he said simply. ââave you eaten?â
âYep. Got something for you, too.âÂ
He settled back. âNeighbor still botherinâ you?âÂ
You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. âOh. . .IâYou were listening.â
He tilted his head. ââCourse I was, bird.â He leveled you with a look. âSo?â
âNot recently. Not in a couple days.â
âGood. Let us know if he does, yeah?â
Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
In his usual chair, youâd laid a gift.Â
He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier.Â
âItâs for you. I knitted it.âÂ
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. âJust in case you were cold. Youâre always so buttoned up after all,â you joked. âAnd you fixed my radiator this winter. So itâs a thank you, too.â
Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadnât expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. âHow dâyou know it was me that fixed it?âÂ
âWho else would have?âÂ
He grunted. âYou knit?âÂ
âWhen I canât sleep,â you answered. âKeeps my hands and brain busy.â
His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didnât want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck.Â
âCanât sleep?â His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.
You shrugged. âMust seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.âÂ
Ghost considered this for a long moment. âItâs not.âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
âSilly.âÂ
The way he grunted the word made you laugh.Â
âCould I ask you something, Ghost?â
âReckon you just did.âÂ
You rolled your eyes. âAm I allotted only one question?âÂ
âJust two.âÂ
It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. âGuess Iâm shit out of luck.âÂ
âAnd out of questions.â
You laughed again.Â
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. âGo on, then.âÂ
âWhere are you from?âÂ
The levity vanished. His brows lowered. âWhy?âÂ
You shrugged. âJust curious. Iâm not good with all the accents yet. Just canât place you.âÂ
He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer.Â
The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back.Â
âWhy do you come here?â You asked instead.Â
This question he answered readily. âItâs quiet.âÂ
âThatâs one way to tell me to shut up.âÂ
He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. âNot the kind of noise I mean.âÂ
You decided not to take offense at being called noise.Â
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.Â
âHungry?â You asked. Â
âTryinâ to see my face?âÂ
You smiled. âNever,â you answered, âNot sure I want to see what youâre hiding under there.âÂ
The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off. Â
âWhy are you here?â 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. âFairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.âÂ
He sighed, a long suffering sound. âEngland, smartarse.âÂ
You smile and dig your fork into last nightâs spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. âIâm on loan to Laswell.âÂ
âOn loan?â 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 didnât move it.Â
When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning. Â
âTemporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,â you explained. âShe needed someone quickly, who she could trust.âÂ
Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. âHow long are you on loan for, then?âÂ
You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. âItâs unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.â You smiled, âHopefully not through another winter, though, I donât think Iâm cut out for the rain and cold.â
His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it werenât for all the hours heâd passed in your office, you werenât sure you would have caught it at all.Â
âFrom somewhere warm?â
âWarmer than here. Especially in the winter.âÂ
âMust be nice, that.âÂ
âHas its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.âÂ
âOne you enjoy.âÂ
âBut of course. I like feeling like Iâm baking alive.âÂ
He snorted again.
You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle.Â
When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, âManchester.âÂ
âHm?â
âWhere Iâm from.â
His voice was low; he wasnât looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead.Â
âManchester,â you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. âAnd do you all sound sort of likeââ
You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. âAre you laughing at me?â
âItâs your fucking accent.â
âMy accent?â You asked incredulously. âHave you heard yourself?âÂ
âGot a thick one, bird.â He imitated your voice. âManchester.â The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered.Â
You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. âTakes one to know one, I guess.âÂ
âSuppose it does.âÂ
âFucking Brits,â you said, without any venom. âI canât do anything right according to you all.âÂ
He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. âWhoâs tellinâ you you canât do something?âÂ
You sighed, long suffering. âMy coworkers. Canât make tea, apparently. I donât care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.â
âThey make it wrong too.âÂ
You groaned. âNot you too.âÂ
Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container.Â
âIâll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.âÂ
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. âBig fan?âÂ
âI love tea.âÂ
It made you laugh. âOf course, English afterall.âÂ
He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. âGhost?â You called.Â
Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. âFor you.âÂ
He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. âDidnât have to.âÂ
âI know.â You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. âI always want to.âÂ
Ghost moved so silently that you didnât hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone.Â
.
.
.
It should be a good thing.Â
You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other.Â
But it didnât 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 youâd be stationed back in the US.
The thought festered, burrowed.Â
âLaswell.â
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.Â
âGhost,â she sighed, âDonât do that.âÂ
Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. âHow long has she got?âÂ
âWhat do you mean?â
âSaid sheâs on loan. I want to know how long.â
Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldnât explain himself, and Laswell knew that.Â
âMaybe as long as a year.â She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. âWhy?âÂ
Ghost didnât answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall.Â
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.Â
When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working.Â
He walked you to your car around midnight.Â
âTell us if youâre here this late again,â he said, not looking at you.Â
âGhost,â you said. âItâs almost enough to make me think you like me.âÂ
âDonât get ahead of yourself,â he answered.Â
You just laughed.Â
.
.
.
âTea?âÂ
You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didnât go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain.Â
It would need remedied.Â
But first, this.Â
It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home. Â
âJesus Christ.âÂ
âUnfortunately not.âÂ
You laughed; his shoulders eased. âGhost,â you said. âTo what do I owe the pleasure?â You tilted your head. âIâm starting to think youâre spying on me.âÂ
âWhatâre you still doing âere?âÂ
âWhat are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?âÂ
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.
âOfferinâ to make you a tea,â he answered. âObviously.â Â
âObviously,â you echoed. âOf course.âÂ
âYouâre supposed to tell me when youâre stayinâ late.âÂ
âGhost,â you said seriously, lifting your brows, âIâm here late again today.âÂ
âHilarious, you are.âÂ
You giggled again. âAre you really offering to make me tea?âÂ
He nodded. âCâmon then.â
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 heâd observed the many cups of tea youâd 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.Â
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. Â
âSo,â you prompted, leaning against the counter, âHow does one make a proper cuppa?â
âNot bad,â he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. âLittle posh.âÂ
âIâve been practicing.â
He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but heâd make due with what was available.
âAh, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.âÂ
He involuntarily made a pained sound. âFucking hell,â he muttered, âThat your usual method?âÂ
You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. âI scandalized a data analyst with that joke.â You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. âI do know how to boil water, Iâll have you know.â
âGot a head start then.âÂ
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 didnât 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.Â
If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody.Â
The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged.Â
Simon ignored it. Â
When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didnât mind the scrutiny in it. He didnât mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw.Â
âI like being able to see your eyes,â you said, just as the kettle clicked off.Â
He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. âWhy?âÂ
âYou have pretty eyes,â you shrugged. âAnd itâs hard to see you with the other mask.â You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag heâd dropped into it.Â
âYou can tell me to fuck off, if you want,â you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. âWhy do you wear it?âÂ
Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. âFive minutes,â he nodded at the tea. âDonât touch it. None of that dunking shite.âÂ
âYes, sir,â you agreed. âFive minutes, no touching.âÂ
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.Â
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.
âTo hide my face.âÂ
âYour identity, you mean.âÂ
âMy identity,â he agreed.
âWhy?âÂ
He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how youâd take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop?Â
Instead, he said, âThere are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.âÂ
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.Â
âYouâve seen more of them than most,â you said. âI would guess.âÂ
âPart of the job.âÂ
Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. âHm. But yâknow something? I think Iâd know you anywhere,â you said, without a hint of shame or irony. âItâs all in your eyes.âÂ
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. âEven if this is gross,â you indicate the tea, âAt least it will keep me awake.âÂ
âI take offense to that.âÂ
You laughed again. âHm. Sorry, Lieutenant.â You leaned in, âIt smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?âÂ
He rolled his eyes. âIâll make you a coffee if itâs shit.âÂ
âYouâre kind.â 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. Â
When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way youâd 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.Â
âThere you are,â he said, âCup of tea.âÂ
âA proper cuppa,â you tried again. It was a little less posh this time.Â
He huffed. âBetter all the time.âÂ
âAnd I have you to thank.âÂ
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.Â
Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his.Â
âThanks, Ghost.âÂ
ââS just tea.âÂ
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. âOne good thing has come of this,â you said after a moment of contemplation.Â
âWhatâs thaâ?âÂ
âI know how to make tea for you now.âÂ
âLike it?âÂ
âI love it.âÂ
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. âI mean that really.âÂ
He breathed out, through it. âI donât take honey.âÂ
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.Â
âNoted.âÂ
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.Â
.
.
.
Things settled into a pleasant rhythm.Â
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.Â
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.Â
People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you werenât meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone elseâs. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond.Â
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.Â
It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldnât 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 werenât 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.Â
âWould you like to go out sometime?â He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. âJust round the pub for drinks?âÂ
âOh,â you said. âIââÂ
It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. Youâd 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.Â
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 werenât used to.
Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door.Â
âYeah,â you answered firmly. âSure.âÂ
âBrilliant,â he grinned. âHow about tonight?âÂ
Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. âIâm free.âÂ
âBrilliant,â he said again. âIâll text you.âÂ
âOkay.âÂ
His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office.Â
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 hadnât 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.Â
And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasnât 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 wouldnât work.Â
âSomeone out there is really looking for you,â he said. âYouâre lucky.âÂ
âNo more than anyone else,â you countered. âYou know thatâs not how it works.âÂ
âI know,â he said, pulling on his shirt. âIâm sorry.âÂ
âItâs okay,â you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated.Â
Still, you didnât 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.Â
You didnât hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didnât have one at all.Â
.
.
.
Monday.Â
There was a knife in Simonâs pocket.Â
Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot.Â
The one in his pocket, though, was for you.
A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one.Â
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.Â
It wasnât 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.Â
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.Â
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 Johnnyâs eyes hadnât turned away.Â
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.Â
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 didnât reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, âHey, Ghost.â Â
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.Â
âAll right?âÂ
âHm?â
âYouâre quiet.âÂ
âOh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?â You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.
There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. âWhat âappened?âÂ
You looked up again, and shook your head. âIâm just tired.âÂ
âTry again.âÂ
Frustration crept into your features. âWho said I want to tell you?â With that, you ducked behind your monitors.
Simon waited, but you did not reemerge.Â
He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. âJesus, GhostââÂ
âNice weather.âÂ
âI can see that.âÂ
âAnd you arenât out there sunninâ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.âÂ
Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. âI. . .Iâm just being dramatic.â
âCâmon, then.âÂ
You blinked up at him. âWhere are we going?âÂ
He didnât answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket youâd 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.Â
âLunch.âÂ
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.Â
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.Â
Just his luck.Â
Didnât matter though.Â
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.Â
The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain.Â
âSo, what are we doing?âÂ
âWalking.âÂ
âI can see that.âÂ
âWhyâre you askinâ, then, bird?âÂ
You huffed but didnât ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway.Â
The sky was a flawless robinâs 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.Â
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.Â
Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. âYouâve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.âÂ
He didnât deny it.Â
âWhat are we doing back here?âÂ
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. âA usual haunt?âÂ
âSometimes.âÂ
âSecretâs safe with me.âÂ
âMind if I smoke?âÂ
âNo.â Then, âI wonât look.â Â
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.Â
They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish.Â
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.Â
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.Â
Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own.Â
Heâd like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldnât have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking.Â
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.Â
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.Â
Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage heâd inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe heâd hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didnât 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.Â
âWhat âappened?â He asked.
Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. âYouâre like a dog with a bone, you know that?âÂ
âAffirmative,â he said.Â
You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. âI brought something for you.âÂ
âStalling.âÂ
âPushy,â 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. âI went on a date this weekend.âÂ
Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. âBad date?âÂ
âNo,â you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. âNo, it went really well.â You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. âUntil he saw myââ You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. âMy marks. My scars.âÂ
âHeâs a prick.âÂ
âNo, he wasnât,â you shook your head. âItâs happened before. They see the extent of it, and itâs like something biological clicks. Iâm off limits.â You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. âEven though Iâm no more likely to find mine than anyone else.âÂ
You looked very small, and alone at that moment.Â
âI know itâs not my soulmateâs fault,â you said quietly. âI know that. I know that. And I donât blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I justâI wishâI wish I didnât have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.â
The chill spreads outward. Â
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.Â
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.Â
You glanced up and smiled tightly. âBut Iâm a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.â You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. âThis helped, though,â you said. âThank you, Ghost.â You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âHave you found yours?âÂ
Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. âDonât think someone like me is meant for one.âÂ
You nodded. âMe either.â
.
.
.
He walked you back to your office.Â
You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find.Â
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.Â
Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair.Â
You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way.Â
Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk.Â
Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch.Â
A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges.Â
He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. âWhatâs this?â You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side. Â
âA knife.âÂ
âOh, really? I've never seen one before.âÂ
He rolled his eyes. âItâs for you. Iâll teach you how to use it.âÂ
âWhy?âÂ
âIn case you need to.â
âIs this about me staying late?âÂ
âNo.â He did not elaborate.Â
âYou know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isnât a knife a littleââÂ
âBut you donât carry a gun.âÂ
âNo,â you agreed. âI donât.â Â
He nodded as though that explained it. âRight.âÂ
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 werenât sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.
âOkay.â
His shoulders loosened. âTomorrow.âÂ
âTomorrow,â you agreed.Â
.
.
.
If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didnât know Ghost very well.Â
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.Â
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. Â
What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldnât 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.Â
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, youâve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow.Â
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.Â
You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. âWhat do you imagine is going to happen to me?âÂ
Ghost didnât 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.Â
You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. Youâd swear it was a blush if you didnât know better. âGhost?âÂ
âBetter to be prepared, yeah?âÂ
âFor what?â All the same, you turned with a sigh.Â
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.Â
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?Â
Rough, warm. Safe. Â
Itâs 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 wasnât supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing.Â
Stupid, silly.Â
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.Â
âWhatâs the goal today?â You asked, feeling a little like you couldnât 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.Â
âSame as always,â he answered drolly. âTo get away.â
âHm. I keep thinking youâll challenge me,â you teased. Â
âNot a game, bird.âÂ
âBut what am I meant to do? I canât fight.âÂ
âGet out of the bindings. Get to the door.âÂ
âIs that it?âÂ
You would swear heâs smirking. âSimple enough, aye.âÂ
It wasnât easy.Â
For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back.Â
Ghostâs 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.Â
âOn your feet.âÂ
Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. âYou wonât be getting away from me,â heâd said once, âso youâd have a chance.â It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good.Â
It didnât feel like you were doing good now.Â
By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasnât fun; it wasnât sparring. You couldnât manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything heâd taught you without your hands.Â
âYouâre hurting me,â you gasped.Â
He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadnât been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion.Â
But you knew instantly that youâd made a mistake, that he would not take it that way.Â
âShit.âÂ
.
.
.
The window was open and you were not in your office.Â
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. Youâd been wandering off without him recently.Â
He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. âGetting sun, she said,â he said. âSir.âÂ
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.Â
When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. âGhost, youâre blocking my sun.âÂ
âNot much sun to speak of.â You grimace and frown at the sky. âYou werenât in your office.âÂ
âSorry, should have left a note.â You patted the blanket next to you. âSit.âÂ
Simon sat on the concrete steps. âWhereâs your lunch?â
âForgot it.âÂ
Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it.Â
âCanteen,â he said. âLetâs go.âÂ
âItâs okayââ
âWasnât a suggestion.âÂ
âYouâre bossy,â you said but didnât move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. âIâll have a big dinner.âÂ
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.Â
âGonna rain,â he commented.Â
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 wristsâthatâs a mistake he wonât soon forget.Â
When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. âReady now?â He asked, pulling down his mask again.Â
âI can see you wonât leave it alone.âÂ
âAffirmative,â he said.Â
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.Â
Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted.Â
You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. âYour lead,â you said. âI havenât had the privilege.âÂ
He grunted, followed you closely back inside.Â
As Simonâs misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen.Â
He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. âAch so this is where youâve been off to LT.â
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 didnât seem to notice.
âHavenât been off anywhere,â he grumbled.Â
âWhoâs this then?âÂ
You smiled and offered your hand and name. âItâs nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.âÂ
âJohn MacTavish,â Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. âCall me Soap.â
âSoap,â you giggled. âIâve seen you in my reports.âÂ
Soapâs gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldnât be in the canteen. âAre they yours?âÂ
âSergeantâ,â Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice.Â
But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. âNo. None of them belong to me. Theyâre nice though, right?âÂ
Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.
âVery becoming, lass.âÂ
You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. âYours?âÂ
âAye, all mine.â
âAh, luck.âÂ
âLucky indeed.â
Johnnyâs eyes shifted to Simonâs, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.
 âAm I going to get food poisoning from this?â You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat.Â
âProbably not,â Johnny answered cheerfully. âBeen mostly fine.âÂ
âYes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.âÂ
âThatâs for sure, bonnie.âÂ
âBonnie,â you said, giggling. âAre you calling me pretty?âÂ
Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. âYou wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.â
âSimon,â you said softly, glancing up at him. âI didnât think anyone knew your name.âÂ
Ghost didnât answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnnyâs head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongueâ Â
âItâs need to know,â he snapped.Â
Your expression folded and you glanced away. âRight, of course. Sorry.â
Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. âThis way, lass,â he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess.Â
âOh,â you said weakly, âThatâs all right. You donât have toââ
Ghost couldnât help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into.Â
Soap wasnât 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.Â
.
.
.
âFuckinâ hell,â Soap muttered when theyâd 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. âDâya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? Youâve got yours right under your fuckinâ nose and havenât even told her yer name!âÂ
âShe doesnât need to know.âÂ
âYer name?âÂ
Ghost leveled Soap with a stare.Â
Soap gaped at him. âSteaminâ Jesus. You arenât planninâ to tell the lass at all?âÂ
âStay out of it, MacTavish.âÂ
Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. âYou know it can kill you?â Simon kept walking. âSimon.âÂ
He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. âDo ya?â
âIt wonât.â
Johnny continues anyway, urgently. âThereâs a pain, they say, under the ribs whenââ
âStay out of it, Sergeant,â Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. âItâs nothing.âÂ
âItâll corrode,â Johnny said to his retreating back. âSheâll feel it eventually.â
Simon ignored him.Â
But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if youâd feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours. Â
Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didnât sit well with him.Â
.
.
.
Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it.Â
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 Gazâs face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too.Â
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.Â
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 hadnât wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didnât deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you.Â
But the way youâd 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
He didnât 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 Simonâs 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 youâd turned back so both of you could see.Â
Your eyes found Simonâs when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. âHi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?âÂ
A groan from Soap. âBloody Americans.âÂ
âSorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?âÂ
âHorrendous,â Ghost said flatly.
Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didnât quite reach your eyes. âYou should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.âÂ
âAye and you did lass,â he said solemnly. âYehââÂ
âSergeant,â Ghost interrupted loudly. âArenât you due for PT?â Â
âAch, right,â he muttered, getting to his feet, âThanks for the reminder, LT.âÂ
âOh, Soap,â you said, âHold on.â You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. âYour favorite, as requested.âÂ
âYou sweet on me or something, bon?â
You rolled your eyes and said, âOut of my office.âÂ
âYes, maâam.âÂ
Ghost took Soapâs 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.Â
The silence was suffocating.Â
âAll right?âÂ
You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. âI wanted to apologize.â Your voice hitched a little.Â
He blinked, taken aback. He didnât like that you could surprise him. âFor what?âÂ
You bit your lip, fidgeted again. âYour name, I guess. You didnât want me to know.â Your mouth twisted to the side. âAnd your team bothering you hereââÂ
âYouâre apologizing for Soap?âÂ
Your brow furrowed. âWell I encourage itââ
âNo.âÂ
âNo?â You shook your head, âand that day in the gymââ You opened and closed your hands anxiously. âI think I upset you.âÂ
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. Heâd hurt you, and youâd taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. âDidnât. I should have been more careful.âÂ
âRight,â you said carefully. âSo if itâs not that, why are youââÂ
He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. âI like you to myself,â he admitted. âNot the best at sharing.â Â
âOh,â you said, voice tender. âOh.âÂ
âMm.âÂ
âIâll make space.âÂ
He didnât quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him.Â
âYouâll come to the gym later, yeah?âÂ
âYes.âÂ
âGood.â He stood, deposited your knife, which heâd 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. âAnd donât tell bloody Soap.âÂ
âAye, LT.âÂ
He chuckled. âTake care of that.âÂ
âTeach me how?âÂ
He nodded.Â
âThanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.âÂ
âI know.âÂ
Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier.Â
ââCourse you do.âÂ
.
.
.
Simon couldnât stop thinking about pain.Â
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 didnât think could hold pain.Â
The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to.Â
He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. Youâre hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.
You said he didnât, after, but he didnât 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.Â
Youâre hurting me. Â
It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable.Â
You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. Heâd rather die; heâd rather be burned alive; heâd rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over.Â
He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain.Â
His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men heâd ever known, every bloody fist. Simonâs scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âJohnny.âÂ
Soap jumped and glanced around. âSpooky fucker. Should put a bell on yeââÂ
âDoes she feel it?â
âWhatââ
He exhaled long and slow. âMy pain. If Iâm shot tomorrow, would she feel it?â
âNo, the lass doesnât feel it.â 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. âNot mine. Watched it fade in one morninâ. Didnât feel a thing.âÂ
Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. âThaâ why you havenâtââ
âNo.âÂ
âWhy?âÂ
âDeserves better.âÂ
Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. âThing is, LT. She doesnât. Thatâs the point.âÂ
Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father.Â
Fucking perfect.Â
.
.
.
Two months deployment. Â
The pain in Simonâs chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldnât sleep, pain meds did nothing for it.Â
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 wasnât fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore.Â
Maybe, he didnât really want to.
Maybe, Johnny was right.Â
He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because youâd 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.Â
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.Â
Not as empty as they thought.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang.Â
Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didnât exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes.Â
âI thought you said they couldnât feel it,â he barked.Â
âWhat?âÂ
âSoulmates.âÂ
Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes.Â
âThey canât, LT,â Soap said without glancing at him. âItâs noâ that. Itâs justââÂ
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.Â
It wasnât pain she was feeling, it was the absence.Â
âGhost,â Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side.Â
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.Â
All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers.Â
Just to be sure.Â
It took them a long time to get her to leave the body.Â
.
.
.
Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months.Â
September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag.Â
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 couldnât pinpoint the origins of.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 youâd been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turnâ
Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip. Â
You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. âGhost,â you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, âYou arenât supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.âÂ
âThat disappointed to see me?âÂ
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. âSurprised to see you. Glad to see you.âÂ
He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. âNice work.âÂ
You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. âYouâre making me paranoid, I think.âÂ
âGood. Paranoid keeps you alive.âÂ
His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldnât 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.Â
You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. âGhost,â you said gently, carefully. âAre you okay?âÂ
He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained.Â
He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand.Â
âWhy donât you cover âem?â
Your belly clenched. âCover what?â you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question.Â
âScars.âÂ
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.Â
It wasnât anything he hadnât seen before.Â
Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them.Â
âWhy would I?â You rubbed your wrist. âI donât want to. They belong to my soulmate.â
He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. âYou actually believe in that shite?â His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. âItâs a bloody childrenâs tale.â Â
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. âWell,â you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, âthese arenât mine, so I guess I have to.â Â
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 didnât move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle andâanger? Irritation? You couldnât tell. âWhat the fuck do you care? Maybe youâre ashamed of yours,â you said roughly, âBut not all of us are.âÂ
His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. âOh, come off it.âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
âYouâre tellinâ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldnât hate him?âÂ
Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. âYou donât get to do that,â you said lowly.Â
âYou didnât deny it,â he said. âYou would.âÂ
âNo,â you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. âNo, of course I wouldnât. It wasnât done to me, itââÂ
But Simon was determined, his mind set.Â
âHe hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. Youâll hate him for it, love.âÂ
âFor something he went through?â You asked incredulously, defensively. âDo you know how scared I was?âÂ
Ghostâs eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. âOf him,â he said viciously, like something terrible heâd always known had been confirmed.Â
âNo,â you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. âYou arenât listening. For him.â 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.Â
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.Â
He blinked, looked down at you again. âHeyââÂ
âI was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid Iâve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldnât have meant that heâso that he wouldnât have beenââ Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights youâd 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.Â
The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly.Â
You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck.Â
âOnce,â you continued shakily, âthey just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didnât know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldnât help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.âÂ
You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught.Â
You arenât sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they.Â
It suddenly didnât feel like you were talking about someone you hadnât met yet.Â
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 youâve 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.Â
You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after youâd 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 Ghostâs face looked like.Â
âNo,â you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind.Â
You opened your eyes. Â
âGhost?â you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand.Â
He jerked back. âDonât do that,â he warned. Â
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.Â
But if he was yoursâ
If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him.Â
He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear.Â
You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. âI see you,â you said gently. âThatâs all Iâve ever wanted.âÂ
âYou donât understand,â he rasped. Â
âYou survived.â You backed away. âThatâs enough. To know youâre okay.âÂ
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 havenât seen him. He has to let you in.
âWhen youâre ready. If youâre ever ready. I'm here.â
He finally returned his gaze to yours.Â
âDid it hurt?âÂ
âDid what hurt?â You tilted your head but he didnât answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. âOh, you wouldnât know, I guess.â You shook your head, âNo I was just scared. Just worried. It didnât hurt. Youâve never hurt me.âÂ
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. Â
âYou donât have to. You never have to. I donât want to take anything else from you.âÂ
Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. âDo I have any of yours?â The question was quiet, almost reverent. Â
You nodded, ââCourse 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.âÂ
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. âSee? Youâll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since youâre so pale.âÂ
Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.
âItâs not fair to you.âÂ
âWhat isnât?âÂ
âTo bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?âÂ
You didnât admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldnât help anything. âWhen have you ever cared about fair?âÂ
He made a pained sound. âDonât.âÂ
âIâm okay. I donât need anything from you. I donât want anything from you.â
âYouâre supposed to need things from me.â Â
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 youâd been running a marathon. âGhostââÂ
âSimon,â he said. âPlease, call me Simon.âÂ
You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. âLook at me, sweetâeart.âÂ
âI canât.â Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat.Â
âCan.âÂ
Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours.Â
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. âNo point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.âÂ
âHow long?âÂ
âThe whole time,â he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. âFirst time I saw you.âÂ
âYou have had this pain for almost a whole yearââÂ
âNot your fault,â he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. âNot your fault.âÂ
You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. âIâm sorry anyway.â You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didnât want to let you go. âIs there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âWould. . . would you want to come to mineââÂ
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.Â
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.Â
You werenât sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you.Â
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.Â
When you started to step toward the lamp, Simonâs fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. âNo.âÂ
âJust turning on the lamp.âÂ
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 Ghostâs 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.Â
âCome âere,â he muttered. âSit down.â
When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa.Â
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.Â
âGod,â you muttered. He didnât 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 didnât want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. âHow have you dealt with this?âÂ
âWorse now,â he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth.Â
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. âIâm sorry.âÂ
Simon didnât 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.Â
âNothinâ tâbe sorry for.â He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers.Â
âYou donât want me.âÂ
It wasnât a question.Â
He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours.Â
âYou donât have toâWe donât have to bond,â you tripped over the last word. âItâs okay.âÂ
âObviously itâs not, bird.âÂ
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.
âIâm sorry,â you murmured again. âGhost, Iâmââ
âSimon,â he corrected. Â
âSimon,â you echoed.Â
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. âI didnât want you,â he said plainly. âI never wanted you to know.âÂ
You swallowed and nodded. âIâm sââÂ
âNo.â
You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You donât expect a speech and he doesnât give you one. âYou deserve better,â he said. âBut Iâm all you get.âÂ
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 didnât feel close enough.Â
You wished it were all different.Â
That he didnât feel forced, that you were what he wanted.Â
âI deserve you. Isnât that the point?âÂ
He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded.Â
âGo on, then.âÂ
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.Â
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 youâd loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling.Â
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.Â
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. âShould be able to separate now. Shall we test itââÂ
You didnât 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.Â
âNo,â he said, sounding, for the first time since youâve known him, breathless. âNo.âÂ
âI donât want to.âÂ
âGood.âÂ
âCan I touch you?âÂ
âCan do anything you like to me, bird.âÂ
You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. âWell, I wonât. Not anything.âÂ
He made a content noise of agreement.Â
You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that youâd never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. âYouâre beautiful.âÂ
âLookinâ in a mirror, are you?âÂ
âSort of,â you answered. âA little.âÂ
His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little.Â
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. âStop trying to bloody move.âÂ
âWhatââÂ
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. Â
âNo more pain?âÂ
âNone.âÂ
âGood.âÂ
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.
âYouâre all I want,â you admitted quietly. âI think I knew. I think everyone knew. Iâm sorry,â you finally said, âthat Iâm not who you need.â Â
His hand squeezes your neck and then heâs 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 couldnât climb into his chest, nest among his veins.Â
It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips.Â
âYou are, sweetâeart,â he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly.Â
He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples.Â
Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.
âSimon,â 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. Â
if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!
Requested by my dear, @kwrtig ^v^ I'm sorry for the late post :(
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ* OH LORD ONLY KNOWS HOW MUCH THIS MAN IS IN LOVE WITH YOU. HE MAKES IT KNOWN. (A/N THIS IS A MANNNNNN)
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ* He is NOT afraid to showcase it either, because he will shout it from the top of the mountains how extraterrestrial you are. Because when he loves, he loves HARD, everyone on the crew and bystanders know.
"Hey Sanji, how is produce shopping going along? I can always help you carry some stuff if you want." You smile obliviously, offering your kind smile.
The French cook had blinked, cigarette falling from his opened mouth, falling down in despair. "My divine goddess beauty, I could never put your delicate hands to such work!"
He'd taken your hands into his, after placing down the food he was carrying, "My love, look at yourself. You expect me to allow these hands-" He lifted them dramatically, These magnificent handsâ"
"Normal hands by the way." You deadpanned.
"THEY ARE NOT NORMAL!" His voice lifted. "You were not placed upon this earth to perform labor, you were made to be adored, loved, taken care of!" Everyone was listening now, the other strawhats were laughing, some were just enjoying the show.
"They've literally killed before." You replied, his hands still adoring yours, you were red from embarrassment, but this was normal for you too.
"AND WHAT MONSTER CALLED YOU TO DO THAT?" He fumed, "OKAY WHICH ONE OF YOU BASTARDS THOUGHT IT WOULD BE GOOD TO PUT MY RADIENT BEAUTY TO WORK?" Yelling at all the men in the crew in the middle of the market.
A woman sighed lovingly while her husband rolled his eyes and goaned.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*This man has every little detail about you MEMORIZED. Your favorote drink and meal? Can make it in his sleep. How you like your tea/or coffee. How you look when you're annoyed? Its ethereal beauty. That one slightly crooked tooth when you are smiling? Stunning.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ* Every meal feels like it was made specifically for you because⊠it was. If you casually mention liking a certain food once, expect it to magically appear on your plate forever. He has husband material senses because he can literally just tell when you're craving something different.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*Sanji is very expressive, but also smooth and charasmatic. That is, until you compliment and shower him with affection.
"You look handsome today, Sanji." You hug him, a finger on his chin, gently stroking it, "My good, handsome, pretty boy."
Sanji made a sound no human should be capable of making. A mix between a gasp, a squeak, and a dying engine. Thenâ
THUD.
He dropped to one knee. Not because he meant to. His legs had simply given up, "I shall keep your praise close to my heart my love!" The greatest flirt on the Grand Line had finally met his match.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*Forgot about that, handsome is dangerous to call him, pretty boy is leathal, good boy is six feet under.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*He loves when you seek him out first. Simply just searching for him and calling his name. Walking into the kitchen just to see him. Sitting beside him instead of somewhere else. Reaching for his hand. For him, it doesn't matter what the reason is, he'll come running to your aid.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*Sanji's love languages are literally all of the above. He lives for YOU, he is happy with a piece of you, but is over the moon for everything you are and come with!
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ* He loves when you play with his hair, he melts under your touch in bliss. Your fingers brushing through the soft blond strands near the back of his neck. Braiding it, putting flowers in it, he doesn't care, it'll be beautiful to him! Vice versa! Sanji loves to play with your hair, doing different hairstyles so everyone can recgonize and see your beauty!
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*â„ If you fall asleep on him, he will refuse to move an inch. You drool? His fault for wearing those clothes. You're a crazy sleeper? He needs to be more comforting. He likes so admire your face, how peaceful you look. He knows you've been through so much, you deserve all the admiration and the world.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*HUGE hand kisser, your hands are so sacred but capable of anything you put your mind to.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*When you said his name in your sleep it was game over. 'OH MY LOVE IS DREAMING ABOUT OUR FUTURE!' He thinks happily to himself.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*SPOILS YOU SO MUCH! He buys you anything you'd like to wear or anything he'd like to see you wear! He adores dressing you up, advancing your beautiful face. MAKING YOU see and feel how beautiful you are! He knows all your interests! So he listens to you ramble on about it, and gets you anything that correlates with it!
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*This also means he drools over anything you wear! Even if it's modest, you are scrumptious and breathtaking in anything.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*Please give this man reassurance, a lot of times he is very insecure. Doesn't mean he thinks less of himself, not in the slightest. He just fears you leaving or him not being able to protect you.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*Dancing is something that he loves! While Brook plays music in the background, he's twirling you around, doing slow dances, white boy can dance!
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ*During his jealousy, he would NEVER take anything out on you, why would he?
Penguin, from the heart pirates, Law's crew, was eyeing you from their ship. While you were having a conversation with Luffy, Zoro, Sanji and Law. Sanji sensed there was another pair of eyes on you, his eyes had gained supersonic hearing had heard what he was saying about you.
Penguin sighed, blushing madly, "She is much more hotter in person, Y/n Graves, the Black Wolf. I didn't think she'd this sexy." He told his crew mate.
Sanji's smile froze.
Who replied, "imagine just one night with her, I wouldn't mind seeing her-"
"YOU SHUT YOUR HORRID MOUTHS BEFORE I COME AND FILLET YOUR ASSES-" Sanji exclaimed, now literally on fire, fuming with immeasurable range, "-SHE IS NO OBJECT FOR YOUR LOCKER ROOM TALK!" At this point he was yelling and rambling.
"Thats enough dumb cook." Zoro stood in front of Sanji, tired of this because it was the seventh time this week.
You whispered to Zoro, "please don't stop him, he's hot when he's soaked with blood. He's gonna get IT tonight." Zoro just raised his eyebrow in confusion and disgust.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ* He can listen to you all day just like how he can talk to you all day. Just listening to your voice is enough music he needs. Every sentence, phrase and small noises is music to his ears. His voice his hot so...you never mind him rambling.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ* FLOWERS!!! Any flower he sees is going to you! "Y/NNNNN! Y/NNNNNN! MY LOVE I GOT A GIFT FOR YOU!!" He'll run around to find you! It's honestly so adorable.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ* In his head, he already planned your wedding, how many kids you'd have, their names and what they would look like. What possible cravings you'd want, how radiant you'd be, being a father. He can't wait to have a ring on his ring finger.
ïœĄ.ïœĄ:ââĄ* This beautiful being of a man is down bad for you and he wouldn't have it any other way.
Felicityâs story was set in the beginnings of the American Revolution, and addressed the conflict that she faced when her loved ones were split between patriots and loyalists. It also covered the effects of animal abuse, and forgiving those who are unforgivable.
Samanthaâs stories centered around the growth of industrial America, womenâs suffrage, child abuse, and corruption in places of power. Also, it emphasises how dramatically adoption into a caring family can turn a life around.
Kitâs story is one of my favorites. Her family is hit hard by the Great Depression, and they begin taking in boarders and raise chickens to help make ends meet. Her books include themes of poverty, police brutality, homelessness, prejudice, and the importance of unity in difficult times.
Mollyâs father, a doctor, is drafted during the Second World War. Throughout her story, friends of hers suffer the loss of their husbands, sons, and brothers overseas. Her mother leaves the traditional housewife position and works full-time to help with the war effort. They also take in an English refugee child, who learns to open up after a life of traumatic experience.
American Girl stories have always featured the very harsh realities of America through the years. But theyâre always presented honestly, yet in ways that kids can understand. They just go to show that you donât have to live in a perfect time to be a real American girl.
Dont you fucking dare disrespect the American Girls in my house. ESPECIALLY Addy!! That was my first REAL contact with the horrors of slavery, as I read about her father being whipped and sold and her mother escaping with her to freedom, but also how freedom was still a struggle.
Donât forget Kirsten, the Swedish immigrant who had to deal with balancing her own culture and learning the english language and customs of her classmates, or Kaya (full name Kaya'aton'my, or She Who Arranges Rocks) , the brave but careless girl from the Nez Perce tribe, or Josefina, the Mexican girl learning to be a healer.
And then there are the later dolls, that kids younger than me would have grown up with (I was just outgrowing American Girl as these came out), like Rebecca, the Jewish girl who dreams of becoming an actress in the budding film industry, or Julie, who fights against her schoolâs gender policy surrounding sports in the 70s, or Nanea, the Hawaiian girl whose father worked at Pearl Harbor.
These books, these characters, are fantastic pictures into life for girls in America throughout the years, they pull no punches with the horrors that these girls had to face in their different time periods, and in many cases I learned more history from these series than social studies at school. And thatâs without even mentioning the âgirl of the yearâ series where characters are created in the modern world to help girls deal with issues like friend problems, moving, or bullying. We do NOT disrespect American Girl in this house.
American Girl is probably going to be the only exposure young girls are going to get to history from a female perspective. This is actually kind of important considering that in history classes we dont really get that exposure. We dont hear about what women felt and endured during these time periods cause schools are too busy teaching us about what happened from the male perspective, which is not unimportant, but we need both. Girls need both.
These books were such a crucial part of my childhood and shaped my love of history, which still ensures today. These books can be a young girlâs first lessons in diversity and cultural awareness (hopefully burying that insensitive âweâre all Americansâ tripe) and looking at history from more perspectives than just that taught in school. They also are an example of how women have ALWAYS been part of history, which some people would rather us not believe.
I think Kit and Kaya were the newest American Girls when I started âaging outâ of the books, but hearing about some of these kinda makes me want to revisit them!
OP (of the tweet thread) was either a actively trying to start shit or is just a huge fucking moron. Probably both.
Iâd like to point out that the company that makes American Girl dolls actually doesnât skimp when doing their research and they donât make the dolls with the intent to be offensive in any way:
And they departed from the norm in Kayaâs doll to fit her culture! The other dolls all show their teeth, and Kaya does not because that is considered rude in the Nez Perce culture!
It is absolutely true that these books covered the stuff in history that was absent from our history books. I still distinctly remember reading about Addy being forced to eat bugs she missed on tobacco plants, and that started me out from a different perspective and made it easier for me to know to reject the sanitized version of the slave trade weâre taught in school. And these books are targeted at ages 8+, which is a pretty critical time for developing your own thinking and morals.
when i was in 3rd grade i was reading the Meet Addy book at school & a couple boys made fun of me for reading a âdoll bookâ - my teacher overheard & started reading Meet Addy to the class after every recess. everyone became extremely invested & by the end of the year we had read the entire collection of Addy books & did a presentation on the civil war at the end of the year that we all presented to the class one by one.
i think back on this & realize that as third graders we were talking about how awful slavery was & because we were simply innocent kids without any societal or institutional influence yet, all of us could kept saying âwhy would you treat a HUMAN like that ?!â this one girl for her birthday invited all of us for her party & she got the Addy doll - every single one of us (boys included) held her & was in awe of this doll - it was such a touching experience.
i went back home about a year ago & ran into my third grade teacher in the grocery store. she said that year opened up a whole new teaching structure for her. she now reads american girl stories to her students starting day one of class every day to calm them down after recess & sheâll get through maybe four or five sets of books a year. she has the dolls in the room with packets on information from the dollâs time period that her students can âcheck outâ to take home for weekends to care for them.
we oftentimes overlook how powerful toys can be in influencing young children & american girl honestly knew that kids could read intense moments in history & synthesize the issues to learn how to be a better person. my grandma bought me my first doll, molly, when i was only six & the dolls became a huge part of my childhood. when i turned 21 a couple years ago - we were living in minneapolis - she took me to have lunch for my birthday at the american doll place in the mall of america & bought me the Addy doll for my birthday. it was such a powerful moment i hasnât expected.
iâve since gotten rid of majority of my childhood toys, but i still have every single one of my dolls & all the books that i plan on gifting to my future children.
Iâm white and my first real introduction to slavery and the underground railroad was Addy. She was a young girl like me I could connect to and care about her story. American Girl does a great job of making history relevant to kids.
Also American Girl sells all sorts of books unrelated to the dolls. The Care and Keeping of You books were super important as I started puberty and were the most comprehensive, non judgemental account of what was going to happen.
They also have âthe smart girls guideâ series which covers topics like crushes, worry, middle school, drama and gossip, sports, friendship, the digital world, communication, money, confidence, etc.
I want to say I think there was an American Girl Doll magazine series that came out, but donât quote me on that. there were lots of helpful girl guides that used the American girls as examples for doing good or learning lessons or trying to understand why girls did what they did
I learned a lot of my core beliefs from these girls.
I remember being very invested in Molly, Addy, and Kaya. Mostly cuz I look like Molly, and the other two had a lot of information on two of my favorite time periods. But I owe a lot of my personality to these lovvely girls
yo donât forget my girl Caroline. Her father was captured by the British during the war of 1812 and she basically learned how to sail and rescued him herself.
I can confirm that they really do their research - during the creation of Caroline the company called a museum I was associated with and quizzed them extensively about what sort of food kids would have eaten at the turn of the 19th century.
When i was like ten I wrote a letter to the American Girl magazine saying that the girls in their magazine were all really skinny and it made me, a chonk, really sad because it was showing that I couldnât wear any of the outfits they suggested, and I got a personal letter back from the editor apologizing for making me feel that way and saying they would work on that. Dunno if they actually did, i canât remember, but they did promptly personally respond to a letter about something that was not exactly on the radar for girlâs media in fucking 2002. So thereâs that.
Iâm happy to report that the messages from American Girl have only gotten better in recent years.
These are from one of their latest books, A Smart Girlâs Guide to Body Image:
They got a lot of flak from conservative parents for this and they did. not. back. down.
Their newest historical doll, Claudie, is a black girl growing up in the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s. Her story is about Black artists thriving, and making a safe, beautiful place for themselves in a society that tries to reject them. It teaches about the NAACPâs protests against lynchings, in ways kids can understand, but thereâs also so much Black joy and creativity showcased in her story.
Another historical doll, Melody, is growing up in the 1960s during the Civil Rights movement. She faces the struggles and triumphs of attending a newly integrated school, and learns about the bombing of a Black church in Alabama that killed four little girls her age. Her stories show how black people found support and community within the church, as well as musicâ she loves to sing! If you have a free hour, I highly recommend watching her special on Amazon (free with prime). It stars Caila Marsai Martin from Blackish and it will make you weep.
The girl of the year for 2022, Corinne, is Asian, and her story touches on the issues of anti-Asian hate in the wake of covid. When conservative parents threw a fit about this, American Girl went ahead and made the girl of the year for 2023 Asian, too.
Any of their dolls can be customized with assistive devices like hearing aids, service dogs, and wheelchairs. They also have bald dolls, to include stories about girls battling cancer or alopecia. And itâs not just girl dollsâ they have boy dolls now, too! And dolls with no gender assigned to them! People complained that they couldnât find any dolls in the Just Like Me line that looked like them, so they now give people the ability to create their own custom doll, with tons of different options.
Iâm not claiming American Girl as a company is perfect, but I am saying theyâre important. Girl perspectives, girl stories, and girl communities are IMPORTANT. If there are kids in your life who would benefit from these stories, or if youâd like to read them yourself, you can find any American Girl book for pretty much dirt cheap on eBay, and libraries usually stock tons of them!
Death. Resurrection. The Lazarus Pit. His complicated relationship with Bruce. Even his brothers' constant teasing.
But he was not prepared for his girlfriend's obsession with unmasking the Bat-family. But thankfully, he was Jason Haywood to you ... at least for the time being. He had taken his mother's last name because Jason Todd was supposed to be dead. Maybe he was, and Jason Haywood was going to be his new self.
"Jason! JASON!" You burst into his apartment, laptop precariously balanced on a stack of papers, eyes wild with excitement.
He looked up from cleaning his gunsâcivilian guns, he'd learned to hide the Red Hood arsenal very carefully. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm better than okay. I'm enlightened." You dropped everything on his coffee table. "I found it. The forum. The holy grail of Bat-family theories."
Oh no.
"Babe, aren't you supposed to be working on that project you were telling me about?"
"This is more important than work!" You were already pulling up browser tabs. "Look at this analysis of Red Hood's fighting style. Someone broke down footage from twenty-three different encounters and identified at least four different martial arts disciplines."
Jason leaned over, his stomach sinking as he recognized his own moves being analyzed frame by frame.
"That's... detailed."
"It's BRILLIANT. Lookâthey've identified League of Assassins techniques mixed with street fighting and military combat training." You scrolled enthusiastically. "Whoever Red Hood is, he's had seriously diverse training. This isn't just some guy who took a few self-defense classes."
"Maybe he's just naturally talented."
"Nobody's that naturally talented. This is years of training. Probably decades." Your eyes were shining with that particular intensity that Jason both loved and was now deeply concerned about. "And look at this thread about his weapons. Custom-made, military-grade, but with modifications that suggest personal fabrication. Someone with serious resources and technical knowledge."
"Lots of criminals have resources."
"But Red Hood isn't just a criminal. He has a code. He protects Crime Alley. He kills traffickers and abusers but leaves street-level dealers alone." You looked at him seriously. "He's not a villain, Jason. He's something else."
Jason's chest did something complicated. You got it. You understood what he was trying to do, even if you didn't know you were talking about him.
"What do you think he is?" he asked carefully.
"I think he's someone who fell through the cracks. Someone the system failed. Someone who decided that if Batman won't do what needs to be done, he will." You pulled up more notes. "There's a whole theory that he used to be a Robin."
Jason choked on his coffee. "What?"
"I know, it sounds wild, but look at this evidenceâRed Hood knows Batman's tactics intimately. He fights like someone trained by Batman. And there's this gap in Robin appearances, right after the second Robin disappeared." You were pulling up timelines now. "What if the second Robin died, and Red Hood is someone connected to that? Someone who blames Batman for the death?"
You'd just described his entire origin story.
"That's a pretty dark theory," Jason managed.
"This is Gotham. Everything's dark." You zoomed in on a photo. "Plus, look at this. Red Hood is tall, broad-shouldered, probably mid-twenties. The second Robin would be that age now if he'd survived."
"The second Robin is dead."
"Is he though? In Gotham, death is more of a suggestion than a permanent state." You were completely serious. "We have a guy who came back from the dead running around in a bat costume. Why couldn't Robin?"
Because Robin did come back. He was sitting right next to you. Trying not to have a panic attack.
"You've really thought about this," Jason said.
"I've made spreadsheets. Color-coded spreadsheets." You smiled sheepishly. "I know it's a lot, but Jason, this is fascinating. These are real people with real stories, and nobody knows who they are."
"Maybe they want it that way."
"Maybe. But don't you want to know?" You grabbed his arm excitedly. "Actually, that gives me an idea."
"What idea?"
"We should do a stakeout!"
"A what?"
"A stakeout! A Bat-watch!" You were already pulling up maps of Crime Alley. "Red Hood patrols this area almost every night. If we stake out the right location, we might see him. Maybe even talk to him!"
"Talk to him? Babe, he's armed and dangerousâ"
"He doesn't hurt innocent people. The statistics back that up." You pulled up a spreadsheetâof course you had a spreadsheet. "Zero civilian casualties in two years of operation. He's careful. Controlled."
"He's still a crime lord."
"A crime lord who's cleaned up Crime Alley more than Batman ever did." You looked at him with those puppy-dog eyes that Jason could never resist. "Please? Just one stakeout. I promise we'll be safe."
Jason should say no. Should absolutely not take his girlfriend on a stakeout to find himself.
"One stakeout," he heard himself say. "But if it's dangerous, we leave immediately. And you stay behind me at all times."
"Yes! Oh my god, this is going to be amazing!" You kissed him quickly. "I need to prepare. Make a list of high-probability locations, times when Red Hood is most active, questions to ask if we see himâ"
"Questions?"
"Well, yeah! If we're going to see him, I want to understand his motivation. His perspective." You were already typing. "Like, does he see himself as a hero or a villain? Does he regret killing people? What happened to make him this way?"
Jason's throat felt tight. "Those are pretty personal questions."
"I know. But someone has to ask them. Everyone just assumes he's a monster, but what if he's not? What if he's just trying to protect people the only way he knows how?"
Jason looked at youâat your earnest expression, your genuine curiosity, your complete lack of judgmentâand felt something crack in his chest.
You understood. Without knowing him, without knowing his story, you understood what he was trying to do.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "What if."
Two days later, Jason showed up at your apartment to find your wall covered in cork board, photos, string, and sticky notes.
"Who is that?" He pointed at a photo from his pre-death days. Young Jason, Robin Jason, grinning at a charity event with Bruce.
"That's Jason Todd. Bruce Wayne's adopted son. The second Robinâ" You stopped, looking at the photo more carefully. "Wait. You know who Jason Todd is?"
"I mean, I know of him. Everyone in Gotham knows the story." Jason kept his voice carefully neutral. "Kid from Crime Alley, got adopted by Bruce Wayne, died in some kind of accident."
"Except it wasn't an accident. It was the Joker." Your voice was soft. "He was murdered. Beaten to death. He was only fifteen."
Jason's hands clenched involuntarily.
"And Bruce Wayne never talked about him again. Just... probably moved on to the next Robin like Jason never existed." You sounded angry now. "What kind of person does that?"
"Maybe he was grieving. Everyone grieves differently."
"Maybe. Or maybe Bruce Wayne is exactly the kind of person who'd train child soldiers and then discard them when they become inconvenient." You turned back to the board. "Which brings me to my main theory."
"Which is?"
"Red Hood is Jason Todd."
Jason's heart stopped.
"That's impossible. Jason Todd is dead."
"Is he? Look at the timeline." You pointed to your carefully constructed chart. "Jason Todd dies. Six months later, bodies start appearing in Crime Alleyâall criminals, all killed with precision. A year after that, Red Hood appears. Fully formed. Professional. Like someone who's been training."
"That's circumstantialâ"
"Red Hood knows Batman's tactics intimately. He fights like someone Batman trained. He knows the Bat-family's patterns, their methods, their weaknesses." You pulled up combat footage. "And look at this. Red Hood favors his left side slightlyâlike someone compensating for old injuries. Jason Todd's autopsy photosâleaked, unfortunatelyâshow massive trauma to his right side."
"You looked at autopsy photos?" Jason felt sick.
"I had to verify the theory." You looked at him seriously. "Jason, Red Hood moves like someone who died and came back angry. Someone who was betrayed by the person who was supposed to protect him. Someone who decided that if Batman won't do what's necessary, he will."
"You can't prove any of that."
"No. But I can prove that Red Hood knows things only Jason Todd would know. He protects the same streets Jason grew up on. He targets the same types of criminals that hurt people in Jason's neighborhood. He evenâ" You pulled up another note. "He leaves books at Crime Alley libraries. Classics. The same books Jason Todd was photographed reading at Wayne Manor."
Jason was going to be sick.
"That's a hell of a theory," he managed.
"It's more than a theory. It's the truth. I know it." You looked at him. "Don't you think Jason Todd deserves to be remembered? Deserves to have his story told correctly?"
"Maybe Jason Todd deserves privacy. Maybe he doesn't want his story told."
"How would you know what Jason Todd wants?"
"Becauseâ" Jason stopped himself. "Because anyone who's been through that kind of trauma deserves to decide for themselves how their story is shared."
You studied him carefully. "You're really defensive about this."
"I just think digging into a dead kid's life is kind of ghoulish."
"I'm not digging into a dead kid's life. I'm trying to understand a living vigilante." You softened. "But you're right. If Jason Todd is aliveâif he is Red Hoodâthen he's made it clear he doesn't want to be Jason Todd anymore. And maybe I should respect that."
"Really?"
"Really." You started taking down some of the Jason Todd photos. "I can theorize without plastering a trauma victim's childhood photos all over my wall."
Jason felt his throat get tight. "Thanks."
"But I'm still keeping the Red Hood analysis. And we're still doing the stakeout." You grinned. "I want to meet him. Ask him questions. Understand his perspective."
"You want to interview a crime lord."
"I want to interview someone everyone calls a monster to see if he actually is one." You took his hand. "Come on. Help me pick a location."
The Stakeout: Night One
Jason had chosen the location carefullyâone of his regular patrol routes, but not one where he'd scheduled anything dangerous tonight.
He'd also texted Roy: Need you to cover Crime Alley tonight. Personal emergency.
Personal emergency = girlfriend stakeout? Roy had replied.
Shut up.
This is the funniest thing that's ever happened. I'm telling everyone.
I will shoot you.
Worth it.
Now Jason sat on a rooftop with you, watching you set up an impressive array of surveillance equipment.
"Did you rent this stuff?" he asked.
"Borrowed it from work. Technically for a photography project, which this kind of is." You adjusted the telephoto lens. "Okay, based on my research, Red Hood usually passes through this area between 11 PM and 1 AM."
"Very specific."
"I'm thorough." You settled in next to him. "Thanks for doing this with me. I know you think it's weird."
"It's definitely weird. But you're excited, so..." He shrugged. "I want you to be happy."
"You're sweet." You kissed his cheek. "Even if you are weirdly protective of Red Hood."
"I'm not protectiveâ"
"You absolutely are. Every time I mention him, you get all defensive." You studied him. "Why?"
"I just... I don't think he's the monster everyone says he is."
"Have you met him?"
Jason hesitated. "Once. A while back. He helped me out of a bad situation."
This was technically true. Red Hood had helped Jason Todd out of the bad situation of being dead.
"What was he like?" You were leaning forward eagerly.
"Intense. Angry. But not at me. At the people who'd hurt me." Jason kept his voice steady. "He made sure I got home safe. Told me to stay out of trouble."
"He protected you."
"Yeah."
"See! He's not a monster!" You grabbed your camera as movement caught your eye. "Wait, is that him?"
Jason looked. Someone in dark clothes was moving across a nearby rooftop.
But it wasn't him. It was Tim.
"Wrong costume," Jason said. "That's Red Robin. Different vigilante."
"How can you tell from this distance?"
"The cape's different. And the build is smaller." Jason had spent years learning to identify his brothers from a distance. "Red Hood is bigger. Broader shoulders."
"You know a lot about Red Hood's measurements," you teased.
"I pay attention."
"Clearly." You zoomed in on Red Robin. "Think they know each other? The different Bats?"
"Probably. Gotham's vigilante community is pretty tight-knit." Jason pulled out his phone, texting Tim: Get out of sector 7. I'm busy.
Busy with what? Tim replied.
Personal stuff. Just go.
Wait are you on a DATE in your territory? Jason, that's adorable.
I will end you.
Can't wait to tell Dick about this.
Jason put his phone away with more force than necessary.
"Everything okay?" you asked.
"Fine. Just... work stuff."
You didn't look convinced but didn't push. "So if Red Hood doesn't show up tonight, what's the plan?"
"We try again another night?"
"Orâ" You pulled out a notebook. "I've been working on a profile. Trying to figure out where he might be based on crime patterns."
You opened the notebook, and Jason saw pages of analysis. Maps marked with locations, timelines, behavioral patterns.
You'd basically created a guide to finding him.
"This is..." Jason didn't know what to say.
"Obsessive? I know. But lookâ" You pointed to a cluster of marks on the map. "These are all locations where Red Hood intervened in domestic violence situations. They're all within six blocks of Crime Alley's old community center."
"The one that burned down?"
"Yeah. And guess who used to volunteer there as a kid?" You pulled out another photoâyoung Jason, maybe twelve, at a community center event.
"Jason Todd," Jason said quietly.
"Jason Todd." You looked at the map. "I think Red Hoodâif he is Jasonâstill thinks of this as his neighborhood. The place he needs to protect."
"That's a nice thought."
"It's more than that. It's a pattern. Red Hood doesn't just fight crime randomly. He protects specific people in specific places. Like someone who knows this neighborhood intimately. Who grew up here."
Jason looked at your analysisâat the care you'd taken to understand not just what he did, but why he did it.
"Why does this matter so much to you?" he asked.
"Because everyone deserves to have their story understood. Not judged, not condemnedâunderstood." You looked at him. "Red Hood kills people. That's a fact. But he only kills people who hurt the vulnerable. Who traffic kids, who run protection rackets, who make neighborhoods unsafe. He's not crazy. He's not a monster. He's someone who decided that some people don't deserve mercy."
"And you agree with that?"
"I don't know," you admitted. "I think justice is complicated. I think Batman's no-killing rule sounds nice in theory but fails people in practice. I thinkâ" You stopped. "I think someone like Red Hood exists because the system failed him first."
Jason felt his eyes burning. "Yeah. Maybe."
"So yeah. I want to understand him. I want to hear his side." You smiled. "Even if everyone thinks I'm crazy."
"You're not crazy," Jason said. "You're the first person who's tried to actually understand instead of just judge."
"You say that like you know him well."
"Maybe I understand him better than most."
You studied his face. "Jason... is there something you want to tell me?"
This was it. The moment. He could tell you everything.
But then his phone buzzed.
Trafficking situation on 4th Street. Need backup. Roy.
"Shit," Jason muttered.
"What's wrong?"
"IâI have to go. Work emergency." He was already standing.
"At midnight?"
"It's... complicated. I'm sorry. Can we do this another time?"
"Jason, what's going on?"
"I can't explain right now. I justâI have to go." He kissed her quickly. "I'm sorry. I'll text you later."
And then he was gone, leaving you alone on the rooftop with your camera and your theories.
Twenty minutes later, you were packing up your equipment when you heard the thud of boots on the rooftop behind you.
You spun around to find Red Hood standing there, tall and intimidating in his helmet and armor.
"You shouldn't be up here alone," he said. His voice was modulated, deeper than normal.
"IâI was just leaving." Your heart was hammering. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be in your territoryâ"
"You're the one who's been investigating me."
It wasn't a question.
"How did you know?"
"I pay attention. Someone's been asking questions about me. Tracking patterns. Setting up surveillance." He took a step closer. "That's dangerous. People who look too close tend to get hurt."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm warning you." He stopped a few feet away. "Why are you doing this?"
"I want to understand you. Everyone calls you a monster, but I don't think you are."
"You don't know me."
"I know you protect people. I know you only kill criminals who prey on the vulnerable. I know you care about Crime Alley more than Batman ever did." You were finding your courage now. "I know everyone's given up on you, decided you're just a villain, but I think you're someone who got dealt a shit hand and did the best you could with it."
Red Hood was very still.
"And I thinkâ" You took a breath. "I think you used to be Jason Todd. And I think you deserve to have your story told right."
"Jason Todd is dead."
"Is he?"
"He died. Brutally. The kid he was died with him."
"But you lived. Red Hood lived. And you're doing what Jason Todd would have wantedâprotecting the people who can't protect themselves."
"You don't know what Jason Todd would have wanted."
"Maybe not. But I know what you do every night. And I think it's worth something."
Red Hood pulled off his helmet.
Jason stood there, looking at you with red-rimmed eyes.
"Hi," he said roughly.
You stared at him. "Jason?"
"Surprise?"
"Youâyou'reâ" You couldn't form words.
"I'm Red Hood. I'm also Jason Todd, back from the dead. I'm also your boyfriend who just left you on a rooftop alone because I had to stop a trafficking ring." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. For lying. For leaving. For all of it."
You were still processing. "You died."
"Yeah. The Joker killed me. Beat me to death with a crowbar. Left me in a building to explode." His voice was flat, reciting facts. "Bruce was too late. I died. Then the universe decided that wasn't enough and brought me back."
"Howâ"
"Lazarus Pit. Magic. Trauma. Take your pick." He looked at you. "I came back wrong. Angry. I wanted revenge. I wanted Bruce to understand what it felt like to be abandoned."
"Bruce didn't abandon youâ"
"He didn't kill the Joker." Jason's voice broke. "The Joker murdered his son and Bruce just... put him back in Arkham. Again. Like my life didn't matter. Like I didn't matter."
"Jasonâ"
"So I became Red Hood. Became the thing Bruce wouldn't. I kill the people who deserve killing. I protect Crime Alley because no one else will. I do what needs to be done."
You were quiet for a long moment.
"So all those theories I hadâ"
"Were right. Disturbingly right. You profiled me perfectly." He smiled bitterly. "You were tracking yourself dating."
"I made you go on a stakeout to find yourself."
"Yeah."
"I have photos of you on my evidence board."
"I know."
"Jason, this isâ" You started laughing. Slightly hysterically. "This is insane."
"I know."
"I've been investigating my own boyfriend for months!"
"I'm aware."
"And you just... let me?"
"I panicked! You were so excited about your theories, and you understood what I was trying to do, and I didn't want to ruin it!" Jason was pacing now. "And then you started getting close to the truth and I knew I had to tell you but I didn't know how withoutâ" He stopped. "Without you leaving."
"Why would I leave?"
"Because I'm a killer. Because I'm broken. Because I'm not the person you thought you were dating."
You crossed to him, taking his face in your hands. "Jason. I've been spending months researching Red Hood. Reading about every person you've killed, every line you've crossed, every rule you've broken."
"Exactlyâ"
"And I fell in love with you anyway. Not despite who you areâbecause of who you are." You stroked his cheek. "You think I didn't know my boyfriend was hiding something? You think I didn't notice the scars, the nightmares, the way you flinch when people move too fast?"
"Iâ"
"I knew you had trauma. I knew you had secrets. I chose to be with you anyway." You smiled. "Finding out you're Red Hood? That just explains the rest of it."
"You're not scared?"
"Of you? Never." You kissed him softly. "I'm scared for you. I'm scared about what you do every night. But scared of you? Jason, you're the safest person I know."
"I kill people."
"You kill people who hurt kids. Who traffic women. Who prey on the vulnerable." You held his gaze. "I'm not saying it's right. I'm not saying it's good. But I understand why you do it."
"The world's not black and white."
"No. It's not." You pulled him closer. "It's red and black. Like you."
Jason laughed, the sound wet and broken. "That was terrible."
"I'm a lover on a rooftop, not a poet." You kissed him again. "But I mean it. I love you. All of you. Jason Todd and Red Hood and whoever else you are in between."
"Even though I'm a disaster?"
"Especially because you're a disaster." You wiped the tears from his face. "Though we do need to talk about you ditching me on a rooftop. That's not cool."
"In my defense, there was a trafficking situationâ"
"I know. You save people. It's what you do." You smiled. "Just maybe text me next time so I don't think you're running away from our relationship?"
"Deal." Jason pulled you into a hug, holding you tight. "I love you. I'm sorry I lied."
"I love you too. Even though you let me make an entire evidence board about you."
"In my defense, your evidence board was very thorough. I was impressed."
"I'm a good detective."
"You really are." He pulled back to look at you. "So what now?"
"Now you take me back to your placeâyour actual place, not the apartment you pretend to live inâand show me your Red Hood setup." You grinned. "And then you're going to help me update my evidence board with correct information."
"You're keeping the evidence board?"
"Are you kidding? I successfully identified Red Hood's secret identity! That's going on my resume!"
"Please don't put that on your resume."
"Fine. But I'm keeping the board."
Later, at Jason's Real Safehouse
"This is way cooler than your fake apartment," you said, examining Jason's weapon collection.
"The fake apartment is for dates and pretending to be normal."
"You have a motorcycle. Multiple motorcycles."
"That one's for Red Hood work. That one's for regular work. That one's just because it's pretty."
"You're such a boy." But you were smiling. "Can I see the helmet?"
Jason handed it over, watching as you examined it carefully.
"It's heavier than I thought."
"Reinforced. Bulletproof. Has a communication system built in."
"And it makes your voice all deep and scary."
"That's the voice modulator."
"Do the voice."
"What?"
"Do the Red Hood voice!"
Jason sighed but activated the modulator. "This is ridiculous."
You shivered. "Okay, that's unfairly hot."
"Really?"
"Really." You set down the helmet. "Though I prefer regular Jason voice. It's less scary."
"I can do scary without the modulator."
"I know. I've seen you argue with customer service." You looked around the safehouse. "This is really your life. The weapons, the armor, the danger."
"Yeah." Jason waited for you to realize what that meant. To realize how dangerous it was to be with him.
"Cool." You took his hand. "Now show me your evidence board."
"I don't have an evidence boardâ"
"You have target lists, don't you? Same thing."
"That's notâ" Jason stopped. "Actually, yeah, that's pretty much the same thing."
You grinned. "We're perfect for each other. Both obsessive, both make boards to track people."
"The difference is yours is theoretical and mine is for actual crime-fighting."
"Details." You pulled up your phone. "Okay, so I need to update my files. What's Bruce really like? Is Dick really the first Robin? How many Robins have there been?"
"Are you interviewing me?"
"I've been investigating the Bat-family for months. Now I have an actual source. Yes, I'm interviewing you." You pulled out a notebook. "Start from the beginning. How did you become Robin?"
Jason looked at youâexcited, curious, completely unafraidâand felt something warm in his chest.
"I tried to steal the Batmobile's tires."
"You what?"
"I was homeless, twelve years old, and I saw this fancy car parked in Crime Alley. Figured I could sell the tires." He smiled at the memory. "Got two off before Batman caught me."
"And he made you Robin?"
"Eventually. First he tried to put me in the system. Then he realized I'd just run away again. Then he brought me home." Jason's voice softened. "Gave me a room, food, stability. Trained me. Made me Robin."
"And you loved it."
"I loved it. I loved helping people. I loved having a purpose." His voice hardened. "Until the Joker."
"You don't have to talk about that if you don't want to."
"No, IâI want you to know. All of it." Jason took a breath. "I went looking for my birth mother. Found her in Ethiopia. She was being blackmailed by the Joker. I tried to save her, and he... he beat me with a crowbar. Tied me up. Left me in a warehouse with a bomb."
You squeezed his hand.
"Bruce tried to save me. He was just too late. I died. My mom died. The Joker got away." Jason's laugh was bitter. "Again."
"I'm so sorry."
"Not your fault. It's just... that's who I am now. The Robin who died. The kid Bruce couldn't save. The one mistake in Batman's perfect record."
"You're not a mistake."
"Tell Bruce that."
"I will if I meet him." You were fierce now. "Jason, what happened to you was awful. Traumatic. World-ending. But you survived. You came back. And you're using that second chance to help people."
"By killing."
"By doing what you think is necessary. I'm not going to judge that." You looked at him. "But I am going to make sure you're taking care of yourself. Are you seeing a therapist?"
"A what?"
"Therapist. Someone to talk to about the trauma and the Lazarus Pit and the complicated feelings about Bruce."
"I'm fineâ"
"Jason, you died violently, came back from the dead, have complicated PTSD, and spend your nights fighting crime while dressed like a vigilante. You're not fine."
"Okay, when you put it that wayâ"
"You need therapy. We're finding you a therapist."
"You can't justâ"
"Watch me." You were already typing. "There are therapists in Gotham who work with superheroes. We're making you an appointment."
Jason stared at you. "You're bossy."
"Someone has to take care of you. Might as well be me." You kissed him. "Now keep telling me about the Bat-family. I have so many questions."
Two hours later, you'd filled an entire new notebook with information about the Bat-family.
"So Dick was the first Robin, you were second, Tim was third, Stephanie was fourth, and Damian is current?"
"Yep. Though Steph was only Robin briefly."
"And Damian is Bruce's biological son?"
"With an assassin. It's complicated."
"Everything about this family is complicated." You were organizing your notes. "Okay, I need to update my evidence board with actual facts instead of theories."
"You're really keeping that thing?"
"Jason, I spent months on it. It's staying." You looked at him. "Plus, it's kind of our origin story. I was trying to figure out Red Hood's identity, and it turned out I was dating him the whole time."
"Most couples meet at coffee shops."
"We met when you helped me carry groceries and then asked for my number while looking like you might throw up from nervousness."
"I was very smooth."
"You dropped the bag with the eggs."
"I was distracted by your smile."
You kissed him. "That's better. Keep working on the lines."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Why are you okay with this? Really?" Jason gestured around the safehouse. "I'm a crime lord. I kill people. I have enemies who would hurt you to get to me. This is dangerous."
"I know."
"And you're still here?"
"Jason." You took both his hands. "I spent months researching Red Hood. I know exactly what you do. I know the risks. And I'm choosing to stay anyway."
"Why?"
"Because I love you. Because you protect people who can't protect themselves. Because you're trying to make Crime Alley better even though it's messy and complicated and not heroic." You smiled. "And because someone needs to make sure you're eating properly and sleeping occasionally and not just existing on rage and energy drinks."
"I eat properly."
"You had three granola bars for dinner last night."
"That's dinner."
"That's snack food, Jason."
"This is why I didn't tell you. You're going to be all responsible and make me eat vegetables."
"Someone has to." You pulled him toward the kitchen area. "Come on. I'm making you real food, and then you're going to sleep for eight hours like a normal person."
"I have patrolâ"
"Roy can cover for you. You said he owes you a favor."
"How do you know about Roy?"
"I've been investigating you for months. I know about all your allies." You started pulling out ingredients. "Now sit down and let me take care of you."
Jason sat, watching you move around his kitchen like you belonged there.
Like this was normal.
Like dating Red Hood was just another Tuesday.
"You're incredible," he said.
"I know." You grinned at him. "Now tell me more about this Lazarus Pit. Because I have questions about the science of resurrection..."
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