short summary ; amid the dense, heavy fog enveloping manchester's streets, rain floods and seeps through cracked drains. you’re confined behind doors with your roommate, who prefers to keep the lights off. the humidity is so intense that it's hard to tell if your breathing trouble stems from the slightly open window or his company .
tags / notes ; nsfw , 18+ , female!reader , older!simon , roommates , praise , he’s a mechanic , simon retired early , he’s a softie , not sure if he’s in character , he watches you bake , you guys aren’t that close , small talk , fingering , grinding , manhandling , swearing , ‘casual’ sex .
part two soon .
—
01.
there's always something wrong. It doesn't matter if the vacuum has done four laps around the flat like a teenager drying themselves on a track field, or if the soap beats the rust off the dishes in the sink. as long as you and riley share a flat, something will feel strange.
It wasn't that you were judgmental, as that is completely untrue. when circumstances called for your opinion and thoughts, you did pass judgment, but at this point, you were unable to express them to anyone but him, which he was not a choice. after graduating from university, all of your roommates had moved out, and you were left struggling to make ends meet on your own.
you did a shit ton of research and even searched facebook groups for locals looking for a roommate, but you found nothing. after many long and demanding shifts, you could have sworn that your fingers had left permanent marks on your face from raking them down the skin for hours every day.
returning to the topic of judgment, yeah, you weren't. additionally, you had no right to be picky at that particular time. for this reason, you quickly agreed when the auto repair shop two blocks down recommended one of their new hires.
when your financial stress and anxieties were slightly postponed, your heart leaped to your ribs and ached with relief. a year later, in that hazy, unforgettable moment, you would swear at yourself and shake your head in shock. you could remember everything. the clanking of metal, the rumble and hum of engines, and the small talk of men of all ages wearing filthy clothes and tough, oil-stained shoes. longtime employee eric pointing with a ten-year wrench at a man hunched over a maroon truck that looked screwed.
he was big. you didn't care about it. goodness, you needed fucking help, and money was money.
since you had to rush to work following your hurried visit to the shop, you hadn't bothered to exchange numbers with him directly. Instead, you jotted your number on a sickly yellow sticky note and gave it to eric along with his customary fifteen-pound tip.
while deciding what to do first on the way there, you mistook the gas pedal beneath your shoe for the break. you even drove with two hands to truly focus on the road ahead of you that day after a shock left your back in a chilly, cold sweat.
simon riley was his name.
after you provided him with some details regarding the "move-in" situation, he texted you back:
Simon Riley (roommate) : That will work for me. I’ll update you if anything comes up. Thank you. 😁
simon often responded with sluggish, one-word messages and emojis as basic as a green checkmark or a yellow thumbs up. It was similar to how your father texted you, but you chose to ignore it since you thought he would talk to you more on the day you two agreed to assist him move in.
even that day, he didn't say much, and when he signed some documents, you were a little taken aback by his.. advanced age. he was in his late 30s. worked for eric after supposedly retiring. you thought to yourself, "I have an old man living with me."
it was funny, kinda.
old was an exaggeration on your part, but you had only graduated from university a year and a half before, so living with an older man was a bit of a stretch for you. your wallet cried at your conflicting ideas and emotions, silently pleading with you to back down and let things be. which you eventually did.
you assisted him in moving into the spare room that had previously belonged to tristan and then left him to unpack on his own. although the flat's furniture and doorbell remained the same, much changed over the course of thirteen months.
you had to replace the nice rug your sister had bought for you in the bathroom because simon had ruined it with his shoes one night after a particularly long shift. he apologized. awkward. his heavy boots produced sticky black residue on the soft, ivory carpet, which had once been maintained spotless. his keys were not hung on a keychain, but rather dropped on the table beside the front entrance after a shift. honest and dull.
shoes dumped next to yours irritated you because one was always upright and the other was on its side. almost tripping you several times. they were quickly removed, generally with the heavy laces partially undone, and toed off before being abandoned.
the air was contaminated with a man's musk, cologne swooshing past your nostrils as you moved through the flat, and the scent that proved that a woman also lived there—lotion on "your" side of the bathroom counter for after showers, and a mist of sweet fragrance that kissed the soft cushions of the well-loved sofa.
It didn't feel like you'd been living together much, but that was because you two mostly kept to yourselves most days and when you were both off—usually tuesdays or saturdays. he spent his free time cradling the tv remote in his heavy hands, sliding his thumb around the remote’s nubs and skipping through channels to locate Sky News, or his particular favourite: some kind of documentary.
folding his arms and getting comfy with an arm over the cushions, he let out a grunt every now and again to twist his abdomen and crack his sore back, which had been strained by his work at the shop.
you preferred to sit at the rounded kitchen table rather than listening to background noise of politics and anchors discussing global concerns on the blue-light screen your roommate was immersed in for a few hours. although you were aware of the issues at hand, constantly listening to them exhausted you and caused you tension.
you folded your leg under you, pressed your palm to your chin, and breathed out slowly, lips rippling. squinting at your laptop. you had on a pair of sweat shorts you'd loved to fucking death for the past couple years, as well as a hoodie a size larger than your own in your favorite color. swallowing practically all of your shorts to the hems. you also wore socks throughout the flat for comfort or until you had thoroughly vacuumed the space.
that’s what you two had planned for today. well, planned was a reach. It was raining in manchester. It was known to be rainy in the UK, yet the "rain" simply sat in the air around them, misting everything till it dripped. today, it rained and the humidity was excessive. making it nasty and sticky if you opened the door or cracked a window seeking fresh air, which you wouldn't find.
both you and simon were at home. unfortunately, it seemed the rain would not stop till this monday evening.
biting the inside of your cheek, you favored your right side and bit down slowly, allowing for the agony to subside before pressing your teeth down against the flesh harder. your fingers fiddled with your hair, feeling the texture between your fingertips as you scanned the emails from your boss, who had forwarded the message to everyone. something about a meeting scheduled for next week.
your eyelids strained, and your hands moved from your hair to your face, pressing the pads of your fingers against your eyes. fucking hell. your brightness was set to its lowest setting, and the screen harmed your eyes.
you blink slowly, trying to acclimate to the lighting.
here’s the thing. you and riley could afford the light bill that was slid under your front door every month, which you split and paid without complaint. that was why you couldn't comprehend the man's urge to keep every light in the flat turned off at all times. was this a personal preference?
If so, it was annoying.
you didn't have a problem with simon, but at this point, you probably needed some blue-light spectacles. that was ridiculous. you had once turned on a lamp, and he craned his neck to see who in god's name had done it, as if he had more than one roommate.
when you insert the charger's cord and connect in your laptop, the magnetic charger clicks into place and the charger's little dot turns green to indicate that it is operating. It blinks once, twice. after that, you relax your shoulders and close the screen, rubbing your palms on its cold surface. nearly two hours crouched over a buzzing laptop reading and responding to a slew of emails you could care less about this weekend, you get up to grab something from the refrigerator. then, exhale loudly as you glance into the refrigerator's sterile light.
this guy only ate fucking eggs. genuinely, it got to a point. I mean, really? five cartons? who needs that much protein?
you grab a carton and decide to make whatever comes to mind. Initially, you were content with making something savory. you then changed your mind after cracking your first egg. the sight of the yolk and the obvious backdrop of the substance made you feel terrible and disgusting.
you rinse your hand under a gush of warm tap water, and hastily wipe it off, grossed out by the sensation of egg whites on your hands.
so, something sweet it is.
you grab your phone and gaze down at it. you couldn't possibly bake in the dark like riley does, because you weren't a damn bat or whatever the fuck else could see in the dark. you move to turn on the kitchen light while ignoring his blatant scrutiny, which causes you to roll your eyes as you turn your face away from his line of sight.
you lean down further to look at the Google recipe you discovered by searching "vanilla custard". now hunting for ingredients in the shared area.
you were hunting for unsalted butter in the freezer when the light blue Robert's radio crackled awake next to the toaster, causing your head to jump back and almost hit a drawer you had left open while looking for sugar.
simon was nudging buttons on the gadget and appeared to have left the sofa to investigate what was going on in the kitchen, which was terrific.
you didn't mind, but he moved so quickly and quietly that you wanted to shake him and tell him to make himself known more often because, gosh.
"jesus, you scared the crap out of me. I thought that just turned on by itself.” you shake your head, shut the freezer with your foot, and stroll past riley, who had yet to recognize your comment or what you were preparing.
he was too busy surfing the radio for anything he could come across on it. you had never used it before he moved in with you because you had no idea how to operate the appliance. It was cool, and looked great in the kitchen. retro-y.
he made good conversation when it counted or when he desired to. you never pushed, and that seemed to help him settle down during the year they spent cooped up in the two-bedroom, one-bathroom flat in the heart of manchester.
"my fault. just takin’ a look at this. was being nasty with me earlier." simon says as his broad thumb presses down on some buttons you're unfamiliar with. his voice was gruff and growly, as if he hadn't had a sip of water since he rolled out of bed that morning.
but you wouldn't put that past him. the six-foot-something man looked as if he only drunk straight diesel fluid at a gas stop and popped energy drinks for kicks.
christ. you work at your own pace and blend according to the recipe instructions. granulated sugar, some table salt, and cornstarch finalized the dry ingredients, leaving a thin layer of powder on your palms. you shake them and brush the mixture on your thighs. whisking the mixture until it resembled flour.
you’d had already cracked the eggs and separated the yolks into a glass dish, so the egg carton wasn't taking up half of the kitchen counter. you measure out whole milk and carefully pour it into the glass bowl, followed by light cream, which you whisk together. keeping the dry and wet ingredients separate, you mixed everything together to rid of any clumps, before pouring the wet ingredients into the dry bowl. with your arm, you fully integrated.
"what's this all about?" simon shifted once he found a station he liked, then lowered the volume in order to hear you over the static and radio waves. he looked at the exquisite, silky concoction you crafted together. he had never considered baking. he was a savory man. someone who would rather eat a pound of steak than a biscuit. not that the biscuits were bad, but they were not his cup of tea.
“what? this?”
“yes. what is this supposed to be? cake?” he hums curiously.
“no, not cake. it’s custard. actually, it’s vanilla custard. I just haven’t added the vanilla extract yet.”
custard. simon couldn't recall the last time he indulged in custard. he had it a couple times as a kid, but after consuming too much sugar at his old job, he later learned that his family had a history of diabetes and that he was vulnerable to it. the custard already smelt wonderful. a little quantity topped with strawberries, cream, and blueberries, if you prefer. It sounded about right on a dismal day like today. “hm, sounds nice.”
“wanna taste it?”
he gradually shifted his concentration and attention to his roommate, who had finally added vanilla to the custard mixture and presented a plastic spoon with a little dollop of a creamy, thick white custard. you felt it would be odd to serve it to him directly, so you handed him the transparent utensil instead.
simon studied it with a careful eye, “why? cause y’don’t want to?”
you manage a brief chuckle. what was he suspicious of? "do you think I slipped poison into the custard? unless you have issues with dairy, you should be alright. just try it. I don't want to because I think that I’ll be too hard on myself."
her sincerity was refreshing. he leaned forward and looked to the side while sniffing the pastry and licking the spoon from the scoop of cream she let him test. he sealed his mouth and slowly allowed the flavors to dissipate on his tongue. his taste buds tingled in delight, and he sucked any remaining custard from his teeth and wherever else it could have become trapped. It was reasonably good.
“mmh.”
you raise a brow, “what’s that mean?”
“sweet.”
well wasn’t he just incredibly descriptive. 
he moistened his lips and nodded, reaching into the concoction and wiping his thumb along the edge of the glass bowl rather than right into it. you furrow your brow and see him taste the concoction once again, as if to confirm his preference for the sweet treat. It wasn’t even done yet. might as well just serve it like this.
"good to know my dessert is sweet, not salty." you joke and decide to try it yourself. If your carnivorous roommate enjoyed the mix, you would too. It was good. probably the best custard you've ever made—well, you hadn't prepared custard before today. It was exceptional for your first batch.
“that wouldn’t be good.” he managed a smile.
he then crossed his arms, eyeing you and listening attentively to the FM station. he enjoyed browsing through channels on the fragile device; at first, he questioned whether it was okay to use because it belonged to you. you repeatedly stated that ‘it was fine’ and only for decoration. he thought that was odd. his regular use of it had you stating it was his now.
this was the most you two had interacted in a few weeks. previously, it was due to a mixup: you questioning if he had mistakenly used your body gel in the shower, prompting him to double-check and sniff his arm. grudgingly admitting that he'd most likely used it after his shift, too exhausted to confirm whose body wash he'd squeezed onto his wash towel, and scrubbed furiously to remove all of the grime off his body from the long day. you’d wholeheartedly laughed and shook your head as his nose twitched in response to your favorite aroma.
a roll of thunder made the floor shake briefly under your socks, and you moved your focus to the window, which was streaked with lines of raindrops running down the glass in a hurry. desperate to win a never-ending race.
he appreciated the rain. It kept him calm, and it was pretty relaxing. flat seemed warmer and more comfortable on days like this. It also reminded him of how terrified he was of the rumble of the sky when he was growing up. his father telling him it was a form of punishment for his behavior. he’d grown to sympathize with it.
"anything new with ya?" simon replies in a quiet, somewhat hesitant manner. you look away from the window, yet you tilt your head. concentrated on your work.
he didn't expect you would say much, and he didn't mind that you two weren't aggressive about becoming friends. It was nice living with you.
his taste receptors were delighted by the sweet, vanilla flavor of the custard's aftertaste. "the usual," you answer slowly as you try to recall what has actually occurred at work during the last few weeks. usually, it was the same old things. a complaint, annoying colleagues, and juggling responsibilities that seemed to drag you down. "boss being a douche and all. busy. you? how’s eric treating you these days?”
he grumbles at the mention of his employer, eric. he’d put them up as housemates more than a year ago. he was a patient, stern, and hardworking man. went easy on riley knowing he served, but also appreciated his effort to assisting customers who came in with a busted tire or blown engine.
"like a princess." he pats his heart, and you resist a small snicker. It came out airy. amused by his expression and method of communicating. simon was a witty guy when he wanted to be; otherwise, he was quiet out of personal preference. but he was not silent.
this is why things felt strange.
one day you two talked, and the next you were brushing your teeth over a sink two feet apart, completely disregarding each other. It was somewhat intimate. after a night of unintentionally sleeping with your mascara on—something you did more often than you should—you saw blunt hairs in his sink and fallen eyelashes in yours. he was mature. when you were on your period, he didn't protest either; instead, he just knotted the trash bag and threw it away as if it were nothing. your roommate didn't give it a second thought, but your sister was shocked to learn this when her own boyfriend made a big deal out of women’s hygiene products.
“maybe he had sisters growing up. he sounds nice.”
"bloody light is hurting m’head." simon pinched his eyebrows, placed a clean palm on his hip, and massaged his eyes. trying to make conversation. there was only one light on, and you needed it to see what you were doing to avoid dropping something or inadvertently pushing stuff off the kitchen counter's ledge, which had some powders and egg shells on it due to your haste to tidy up the area before moving forward. he noticed.
“it’s just for now. you’ll survive.” you say, using a towel to wipe your fingers.
“a’right, miss.”
after placing the plastic-covered custard batch in the refrigerator, you properly wash your hands to remove any sugar that may have remained and left them sticky.
simon was wearing an ordinary black cotton shirt and loose grey sweatpants. sleeves short. he nudged and applied pressure to his shoulder by running his finger up his sleeve and up his bicep. some scars moved as he flexed his arms. leaning back against the work surface.
“how long will that go for then?”
“about three hours. I think. let me check again, and set a timer on my phone. gosh.. I almost forgot.”
simon’s spare hand found the switch and turned off the kitchen light, plunging it into darkness while you focused on scrolling through your phone and setting a three-hour timer.
for the remainder of the day—or until the sun decided it wasn't too bashful to greet the people of Manchester—the sole source of light came from some the windows, with the curtains pulled wide open to provide some light so they wouldn't run into walls like fools.
he heard the sigh that split your mouth an hour later on the sofa next to him. lazily watching a football match.
Manchester City was playing what appeared to be Manchester United on the screen.
with a black whistle between their teeth, the referee held up the red card that Man City had been issued. players gathered to express disapproval of the ruling. frustrated, simon mumbled a series of slurs at the tv while slapping his knee and reclining on the couch. obviously furious. you sat a few feet away from him with your legs crossed, a pillow pressed against your chest, and your lips pressed inward as you concentrated. two to two was the score. the game appeared to be very high-pressure.
“this fuckin’ team.” he twists open a bottle of Ribena. “paid the damn ref. ‘ows this fair?”
he had some time to unwind once the athletes stopped jogging at halftime and the commercials began to play. airline, beverage, and shoe company advertisements were aired out loud. In an attempt to defuse the situation, you choose to ask about the game. you were aware of how men could get involved in football-related matters.
“you support City, then? which player on the team is your favorite?” after saying that, you turn to see him stooped over, setting his drink on the coffee table.
“dias. proper centerback. no nonsense, no theatrical diving. he organizes the line, reads the threat before it develops, and doesn't mind putting his body in the way of a flying boot. when the squad takes a hit, he's the one barking orders to get them back into formation. you can trust a bloke who treats a clean sheet like a successful extraction."
“oh! dias! I did see him, he had that assist didn’t he? number.. three?” your eyes lit up in recognition at the name. simon had nearly stood up in celebration when City earned themselves that point.
for the first time since you joined him on the couch nearly an hour ago, he moved to face you.
you had a clear schedule for the rest of the day. only thing on your mind being the custard in the fridge. his heavy brown eyes stare at you for a time, surprised that you’re so focused on the game, and then he laughs heartily, causing his shoulders to shake.
he cracked his knuckles, nodded at your excitement, and expressed gratitude for your efforts to watch the game with him. even if you recoiled at an off-sides in disbelief. "right, number three. tall lad.”
simon was pleased with you.
a month or two earlier, johnny paid him a visit and they went to a pub down the street, where he told him about his new position. explaining how, after a few weeks, he figured out how the workspace operated and got the hang of it, and how the job was easier than he had anticipated when he first started. describing it as being simpler than breathing. when he mentioned having a roommate, johnny shook his head in astonishment.
asking a lot of probing questions, he almost lost it when he realized it was a manchester girly who was a handful of years younger than him.
“big, leadin’ question ‘ere,” johnny had said. “she pure fit?”
“quite a forward question.” simon slurred out in response to the inquiry.
he found you attractive.
he didn’t admit it to his closest friend’s face at the moment, even when he was hindered from the liquor. under the pub's overhead lights, he shook his head and raised the bottle to his lips while his gaze strayed to couples and best pals who were engaged in conversation and laughing boisterously.
however, he was unable to lie about that. he always claimed he didn't have a type. he did not care enough to break down a lady into the precise qualities he desired in her. mum warned him that it was unrealistic and that he wouldn't ever get along with a lady if he made mockery of the way she did her hair, or the dress she picked out that made her want to spin around in every mirror.
fuckin’ hell.
—
a/n ; hey! I haven’t written a fic in years. this is just me practicing. part two soon, maybe. I’ll see how this one does. love this guy. x
Simon kinda has a crush on you. The only time he sees you is on field, you two work on a different task force that occasionally teams up with the 141, but every time he sees you it reminds him of his crush on you. Most of the time he just ignores it, he only sees you during missions so there’s no point in dwelling on it. That is until on a mission your captain gets injured and so your whole team goes back to the 141’s base because it was closer. Shouldn't be a big deal, Simon just needs to ignore you for a few days, then he’ll eventually forget about you again like he always does.
Until he walks into the locker room and he realizes, other than your face he's never really seen your skin. He’s only ever seen you on the field, when you are fully covered. And now Simon is learning you are absolutely covered in tattoos, much like him. He just stands there in the doorway staring at you, he can't stop himself. “Need something lieutenant?” Simon ran a hand over his face, fuck you were hot. He shook his head and just walked out. It was weird but you brushed it off.
Simon couldn't sleep that night, couldn't stop thinking about you and those tattoos and how hot it would be to fuck you senseless. Simon got out of bed earlier, hoping a long run would get you out of his head but of course you were also up and getting ready to run. He couldn't even think of anything to say while he looked over your body, you had tattoos all over your arms and legs, the top of your chest and your stomach, it seemed like you had tattoos everywhere except your face. “Lieutenant?” Simon's eyes snapped up from your tattooed thighs, you were smirking at him “like what you see?” Simon's face went bright red and he attempted to walk away but you stopped him “I like your tattoos too Simon” if he didn't have a hard on from staring at you he definitely had one after you said his name.
Simon absolutely couldn't get you out of his head no matter what he did to distract himself, he spent days avoiding you, and even still he got hard just at the thought of you. It got so obvious Simon was avoiding you that Price even asked if something had happened between you two. You were so fed up you went straight to his room. Simon didn't argue as you came in “what's your problem Simon?” he didn't look you in the eyes, he was just looking over your body “do you have a problem with my tattoos or something” Simon shook his head finally looking you in the eyes. He pushed you back against the wall “I want ya to tell me about each tattoos while I fuck you senseless”
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)
Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.
cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection
Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body.
The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception.
But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.
There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way.
They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.
Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.
They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.
Stamped, more like. Branded.
Survived.
And soulmates shared scars.
Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.
He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way.
It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one.
There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing.
Better he was alone.
The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance.
A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.
A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.
Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.
And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate.
Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would.
But, sometimes, he wondered.
He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing.
It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again.
He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.
It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him.
Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.
If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already.
He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable.
It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent.
He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.
Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear.
It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.
The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.
Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land.
A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.
“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.”
Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?”
Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”
Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head.
Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was.
No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him.
But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds.
.
.
.
The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices.
Each place had caveats.
The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it.
Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there.
The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day.
The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors.
The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone.
A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty.
He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.
Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators.
It was a regular, routine, quiet place.
So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted.
Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.
The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck.
The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air.
Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward.
There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp.
Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to.
It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it.
You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?”
Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs.
Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere.
He would know his own face anywhere.
He would, apparently, know you anywhere.
Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat.
Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it.
You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs.
His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart.
Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone.
The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain.
Nausea swept into the back of his throat.
“Are you okay?”
He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes.
You saw him.
Simon was not to be seen.
Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze.
Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked.
Not anymore.
He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—
The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace.
Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Sir?”
Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat.
Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.
As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency.
You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire.
You hadn’t recognized what he was.
And he was going to keep it that way.
.
.
.
It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it.
He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it.
Better yet, through you.
Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery.
One sure way to free himself was your death.
It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them.
Simon understood the urge.
He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides.
Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this.
It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse.
It was wrong.
He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.
The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.
Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up.
Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it.
Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.
Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light.
Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp.
Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were.
Fuuucking hell.
Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room.
Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal.
He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache.
Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders.
You yawned, eyes still closed.
He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would.
Ghost backed away, left you to your peace.
The weight in his chest intensified again.
He hated you for it.
He went back the next day.
And the day after that.
.
.
.
Anchor might be a better descriptor.
Hook was too violent.
Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that.
He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things.
You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t.
You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin.
You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it.
You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night.
You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else.
They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in.
Absolutely bloody foul.
Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile.
And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed.
You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers.
You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you.
He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous.
You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough.
Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them.
He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him.
The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important.
That used to be more important.
Now his every thought was asterisked by you.
Distracted.
He didn’t do well with it.
He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it.
Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.
He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly.
After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk.
Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest.
It was enough to be where you had once been.
That was as close as he cared to be.
He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again.
.
.
.
He went by Ghost, you learned eventually.
His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely.
It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith.
It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut.
Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true.
Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request.
It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception.
It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.
When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.”
The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.”
Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.”
You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note.
There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.
You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way.
Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it.
You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.
You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back.
“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?”
This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands.
The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.
“Have I passed?”
His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?”
“Your test?”
“Think I’m testin’ you?”
“You moved my desk.”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it.
It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.
You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.”
“Should.”
“Maybe.”
“Especially in the field.”
“I don’t do field work.”
He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond.
“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”
He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office.
Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company.
All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone.
Ghost was strange, slightly off putting.
You liked him.
Maybe, you thought, he’d come back.
.
.
.
Ghost visited regularly after that.
Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work.
His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling.
You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.
But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.
Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind.
The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.
You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.
The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others.
Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it.
You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain.
He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag.
In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently.
But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him.
If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said.
“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.
Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle.
He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.
“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.
“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“
“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”
“Yep. Got something for you, too.”
He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?”
You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”
He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”
“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”
“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”
Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway.
When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed.
It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.
.
.
.
When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.
You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor.
It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window.
In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift.
He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier.
“It’s for you. I knitted it.”
He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”
Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?”
“Who else would have?”
He grunted. “You knit?”
“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”
His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck.
“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.
You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.”
Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.”
“What?”
“Silly.”
The way he grunted the word made you laugh.
“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”
“Reckon you just did.”
You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?”
“Just two.”
It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.”
“And out of questions.”
You laughed again.
He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.”
“Where are you from?”
The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?”
You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.”
He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer.
The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back.
“Why do you come here?” You asked instead.
This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.”
“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.”
He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.”
You decided not to take offense at being called noise.
You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch.
“Hungry?” You asked.
“Tryin’ to see my face?”
You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.”
The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.
“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.
You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.”
He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.”
You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.”
“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it.
When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.
“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.”
Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?”
You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”
His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all.
“From somewhere warm?”
“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.”
“Must be nice, that.”
“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.”
“One you enjoy.”
“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.”
He snorted again.
You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle.
When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.”
“Hm?”
“Where I’m from.”
His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead.
“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“
You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”
“It’s your fucking accent.”
“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?”
“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered.
You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”
“Suppose it does.”
“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.”
He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?”
You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”
“They make it wrong too.”
You groaned. “Not you too.”
Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container.
“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.”
You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?”
“I love tea.”
It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.”
He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called.
Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.”
He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.”
“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.”
Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone.
.
.
.
It should be a good thing.
You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other.
But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.
The thought festered, burrowed.
“Laswell.”
She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead.
“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.”
Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?”
“What do you mean?”
“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”
Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that.
“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?”
Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall.
You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.
As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working.
When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working.
He walked you to your car around midnight.
“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you.
“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered.
You just laughed.
.
.
.
“Tea?”
You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain.
It would need remedied.
But first, this.
It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Unfortunately not.”
You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.”
“What’re you still doing ‘ere?”
“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?”
Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.
“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.”
“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.”
“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.”
“Hilarious, you are.”
You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?”
He nodded. “C’mon then.”
You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.
Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain.
The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.
“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”
“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.
“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.”
He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”
“Got a head start then.”
You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it.
If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody.
The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged.
Simon ignored it.
When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw.
“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off.
He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?”
“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it.
“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?”
Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.”
“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.”
He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it.
The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.
“To hide my face.”
“Your identity, you mean.”
“My identity,” he agreed.
“Why?”
He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop?
Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.”
You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead.
“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.”
“Part of the job.”
Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.”
Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.”
“I take offense to that.”
You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.”
“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.
When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not.
“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.”
“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time.
He huffed. “Better all the time.”
“And I have you to thank.”
Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check.
Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his.
“Thanks, Ghost.”
“”S just tea.”
You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation.
“What’s tha’?”
“I know how to make tea for you now.”
“Like it?”
“I love it.”
You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.”
He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.”
You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well.
“Noted.”
Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so.
.
.
.
Things settled into a pleasant rhythm.
A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in.
You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach.
People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond.
You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary.
It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.
It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes.
“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?”
“Oh,” you said. “I—”
It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest.
You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.
Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door.
“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.”
“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?”
Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.”
“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.”
“Okay.”
His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office.
So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there.
And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work.
“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.”
“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.”
“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated.
Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life.
You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all.
.
.
.
Monday.
There was a knife in Simon’s pocket.
Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot.
The one in his pocket, though, was for you.
A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one.
The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over.
It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays.
And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away.
Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away.
When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished.
Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”
Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't.
“All right?”
“Hm?”
“You’re quiet.”
“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.
There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?”
You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.”
“Try again.”
Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.
Simon waited, but you did not reemerge.
He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—”
“Nice weather.”
“I can see that.”
“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.”
Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”
“C’mon, then.”
You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm.
“Lunch.”
You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow.
Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right.
Just his luck.
Didn’t matter though.
He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled.
The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain.
“So, what are we doing?”
“Walking.”
“I can see that.”
“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?”
You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway.
The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply.
He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter.
Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.”
He didn’t deny it.
“What are we doing back here?”
Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.
You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?”
“Sometimes.”
“Secret’s safe with me.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”
He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own.
They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish.
Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.
He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him.
Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved.
Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own.
He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking.
He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too.
He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed.
Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.
When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms.
“What ‘appened?” He asked.
Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?”
“Affirmative,” he said.
You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.”
“Stalling.”
“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.”
Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?”
“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.”
“He’s a prick.”
“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.”
You looked very small, and alone at that moment.
“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”
The chill spreads outward.
It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life.
He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this.
You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again.
And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands.
You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves.
“Have you found yours?”
Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.”
You nodded. “Me either.”
.
.
.
He walked you back to your office.
You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find.
Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs.
Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair.
You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way.
Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk.
Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch.
A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges.
He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.
“A knife.”
“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.”
“Why?”
“In case you need to.”
“Is this about me staying late?”
“No.” He did not elaborate.
“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—”
“But you don’t carry a gun.”
“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”
He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.”
You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.
“Okay.”
His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” you agreed.
.
.
.
If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well.
You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began.
You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.
What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic.
Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.
This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow.
On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope.
You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?”
Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud.
You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?”
“Better to be prepared, yeah?”
“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh.
After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison.
His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours?
Rough, warm. Safe.
It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing.
Stupid, silly.
If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask.
“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate.
“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”
“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.
“Not a game, bird.”
“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.”
“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.”
“Is that it?”
You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.”
It wasn’t easy.
For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back.
Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.
Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in.
“On your feet.”
Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good.
It didn’t feel like you were doing good now.
By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands.
“You’re hurting me,” you gasped.
He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion.
But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way.
“Shit.”
.
.
.
The window was open and you were not in your office.
Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently.
He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.”
Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds.
When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.”
“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.”
“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.”
Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”
“Forgot it.”
Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it.
“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“It’s okay—“
“Wasn’t a suggestion.”
“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.”
He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity.
“Gonna rain,” he commented.
You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget.
When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again.
“I can see you won’t leave it alone.”
“Affirmative,” he said.
You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours.
Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted.
You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.”
He grunted, followed you closely back inside.
As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen.
He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”
Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.
“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled.
“Who’s this then?”
You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.”
“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”
“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.”
Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?”
“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice.
But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?”
Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.
“Very becoming, lass.”
You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?”
“Aye, all mine.”
“Ah, luck.”
“Lucky indeed.”
Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.
“Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat.
“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.”
“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.”
“That’s for sure, bonnie.”
“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?”
Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”
“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.”
Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—
“It’s need to know,” he snapped.
Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”
Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess.
“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”
Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into.
Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold.
.
.
.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!”
“She doesn’t need to know.”
“Yer name?”
Ghost leveled Soap with a stare.
Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?”
“Stay out of it, MacTavish.”
Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.”
He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”
“It won’t.”
Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“
“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.”
“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”
Simon ignored him.
But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.
Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him.
.
.
.
Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it.
He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too.
Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged.
Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.
The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you.
But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender.
You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends.
Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.
Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it.
Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date.
He didn’t know what to do with any of it.
One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.
You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see.
Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?”
A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.”
“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?”
“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.
Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.”
“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—”
“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”
“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.”
“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.”
“You sweet on me or something, bon?”
You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match.
The silence was suffocating.
“All right?”
You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little.
He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?”
You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—”
“You’re apologizing for Soap?”
Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”
“No.”
“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.”
He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.”
“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—”
He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”
“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.”
“Mm.”
“I’ll make space.”
He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him.
“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.”
“Aye, LT.”
He chuckled. “Take care of that.”
“Teach me how?”
He nodded.
“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.”
“I know.”
Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier.
“‘Course you do.”
.
.
.
Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain.
His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain.
The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to.
He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.
You said he didn’t, after, but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry.
You’re hurting me.
It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable.
You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over.
He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain.
His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls.
There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins.
Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little.
“Johnny.”
Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—”
“Does she feel it?”
“What—”
He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”
“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.”
Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Deserves better.”
Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.”
Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father.
Fucking perfect.
.
.
.
Two months deployment.
The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it.
He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore.
Maybe, he didn’t really want to.
Maybe, Johnny was right.
He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with.
Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle.
Not as empty as they thought.
Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward.
Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise.
When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her.
The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang.
Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes.
“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked.
“What?”
“Soulmates.”
Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes.
“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—”
Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again.
It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence.
“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side.
It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you.
All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers.
Just to be sure.
It took them a long time to get her to leave the body.
.
.
.
Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months.
September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag.
You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of.
You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together.
Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day.
But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—
Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.
You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.”
“That disappointed to see me?”
No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.”
He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.”
You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.”
“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.”
His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong.
You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?”
He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained.
He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand.
“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”
Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question.
“Scars.”
You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales.
It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before.
Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them.
“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”
He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”
You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”
He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.”
His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.”
“What?”
“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?”
Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly.
“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.”
“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—”
But Simon was determined, his mind set.
“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.”
“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?”
Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed.
“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall.
You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you.
He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—”
“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be.
The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly.
You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck.
“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.”
You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught.
You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they.
It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet.
You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.
You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold.
You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like.
“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind.
You opened your eyes.
“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand.
He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.
You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap.
But if he was yours—
If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him.
He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear.
You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“You don’t understand,” he rasped.
“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.”
The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.
“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”
He finally returned his gaze to yours.
“Did it hurt?”
“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.”
He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.
“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.”
Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.
You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.”
His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.”
Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.
“It’s not fair to you.”
“What isn’t?”
“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?”
You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?”
He made a pained sound. “Don’t.”
“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”
“You’re supposed to need things from me.”
He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—”
“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.”
You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.”
“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat.
“Can.”
Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours.
You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.”
“How long?”
“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.”
“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—”
“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.”
You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?”
“No.”
“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—”
He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin.
You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul.
You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you.
In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss.
When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.”
“Just turning on the lamp.”
He released you.
As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair.
“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”
When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa.
Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly.
“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?”
“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth.
He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.”
Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped.
“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers.
“You don’t want me.”
It wasn’t a question.
He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours.
“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.”
“Obviously it’s not, bird.”
Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”
“Simon,” he corrected.
“Simon,” you echoed.
He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.”
You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—”
“No.”
You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.”
His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.
It didn’t feel close enough.
You wished it were all different.
That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted.
“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?”
He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded.
“Go on, then.”
Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head.
You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling.
Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic.
Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—”
You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together.
“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Good.”
“Can I touch you?”
“Can do anything you like to me, bird.”
You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.”
He made a content noise of agreement.
You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.”
“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?”
“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.”
His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little.
Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.”
“What—”
He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.
“No more pain?”
“None.”
“Good.”
You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.
“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”
His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins.
It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips.
“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly.
He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples.
Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.
“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.
The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.
if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!
Summary: You’ve been Lena’s nanny for years. Now, with both of her parents gone, you and Pope Cody have been doing your combined best to take care of her. And yet, as much as you both love her, it’s not enough. Social services has already been sniffing around, and it won’t be long before she’s going to be taken into foster care.
But when Smurf tells you that married couples have a better chance of adoption… well, she’s right. And whatever scheme she may be planning doesn’t matter as long as Lena is safe.
Besides, it’s just paper. Right?
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drug use, Gun use, Alcohol use, Violence, Smut!!, It's Animal Kingdom so buckle up its kind of got everything, Angst (lots and lots of angst), Married-to-lovers trope, Pope yearns A LOT, Spoilers!! (The timeline follows season 3ish), Craig has his own house and never moved into Baz’s, Mental illness (it's Pope), Smurf is manipulative of course, Brief mention of a traumatic childbirth, Please let me know if I forgot anything!!
Author's Note: We did it! The giant Pope Cody fic is here! Special thanks to our queen and bestie @flowersforbucky for proofreading as always! I honestly loved writing this one so much that I'm gonna miss it now that it's posted but hoo boy am I excited for you guys to read it! Please please let me know what you think!
-
“Are you sure about this?”
“Not really, no.”
Craig Cody runs both hands through his hair. Rests his elbows back on his knees. Stares at the pool, rather than at you.
You stare at the pool, too. You think, if you keep looking hard enough, you might see the stars twinkling on the surface of the water, despite the soothing blue lights shining beneath.
“Then why are you doing it?”
“For Lena.”
-
“What the hell are you talking about, Smurf?” Pope Cody’s voice is a low growl, but there’s shock behind the suspicion in his eyes.
You can’t hear anything through the thick glass wall, but you can see Smurf enunciate the words when she says “hand the phone to her”.
Her eyes are locked on you, something almost chillingly sure in her gaze. You’d wondered, when she’d demanded that Pope bring you with him to visit her, what she could possibly have been planning. Whatever it is, it’s Smurf, so you know it can’t be good. And with the way Pope has gone pale, something like shock cracking through his usually stoic demeanor, your fear seems to have been confirmed.
Pope doesn’t look at you when he passes the phone over. The plastic is cool on your ear.
“Married couples have a better chance at adoption.”
You look at her. She doesn’t even blink. You know what she means, and you do your fucking best to keep your eyes from trailing over to the man beside you.
Still, you find yourself echoing Pope’s words.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about keeping Lena out of the system. Both of her parents are gone. Pope may be taking care of her, but with his record? Social services is going to be coming by any day now, baby.”
You swallow, and grit your teeth as you search for a comeback. For any kind of answer or solution that isn’t…
“One day at the courthouse, one little party to make it look real, and Lena is safe.” Smurf’s words sound tinny through the phone. The rest doesn’t need to be said. Can’t be said, because every phone call is recorded. No foster care. No fighting the courts. Adoption.
Adoption because you’re married.
“Okay.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, but it sounds…firm. The decision isn’t hard, though it probably should be.
Just a piece of paper. That’s all. It’s just a piece of paper, and you can protect Lena from the foster system.
Pope does look at you now, but you don’t break your gaze from Smurf’s. Still, you can almost feel the surprise on his face. The intensity of his stare on the side of your head.
Smurf nods, smiling in that pleased, shark-like way she has when she gets her way.
And, quietly, this time to yourself, you repeat the word.
“Okay.”
-
“You’re gonna give up your whole life for the kid you nanny for?”
“Your niece.”
“Your whole life.”
“It’s not my whole life. It’s just…paper.”
Craig stares at you. You stare at the pool.
“You’re gonna be raising her. With Pope.”
“I don’t know if you remember, but I kind of have been raising her.” It’s not like Baz has been there for fucking anything but dropping off a paycheck with an extra couple hundred bucks and an apology for being gone a few more days than promised.
Pope was there. For ice cream at the beach. To help you out on nights you were exhausted and couldn’t get a hold of Baz. To sit with you on the couch. Always so quiet, but…there. A comforting presence amidst the chaos of caring for and worrying about a little girl that isn’t even yours.
Pope was there, and he’ll be there now. You have no doubt about that.
-
The ride back is dead silent.
So silent, in fact, that you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise when Pope speaks.
“You don’t have to do this.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, or his hands off of the wheel.
“I know.” You kind of do have to. Smurf has a pretty uncanny ability to get her way, and it was more than obvious that this is what she wants you to do.
But even despite that, it’s for Lena. Lena who you all-but raised. Who you love. You would adopt her in a heartbeat, and you know Pope would too.
His hands grip the wheel a little tighter. You see a muscle jump in his jaw. “If you don’t want to-“
“I want to.” You interrupt, finally turning to him. “It’s Lena. If you think for one second that I’m going to let her get lost in the fucking foster system, you’re insane.”
“Smurf-“
“I don’t care about that. She’s right. This will work. Because right now, you paying me to help you take care of her isn’t exactly working. And if adoption is the way you wanna go, then that’s what we have to do.”
Pope doesn’t speak. He just nods, and stares at the road.
-
“This is different. This is… this is forever. This is like, building up a college fund-“
“Can’t be too hard, with your lifestyle-“
“Stop joking. I’m not kidding.”
You look at him, now. “I’m not kidding. She gets a cut. Every job, Lena gets a cut.”
“You really want to do this. Legally raise a kid that isn’t yours with fucking Pope.”
“I want her to be safe.” You finally snap, pulling your legs out of the pool so fast that you think it might splash him a little. “Why the fuck don’t you get that? Why doesn’t anyone else seem to care about this fucking kid?”
“Why do you care about her so much that you’re going to throw away your life?!”
“What life? I’m already wrapped up in this shit, and Smurf said-“
“You can’t trust Smurf.”
“She likes me. I’m not a threat to her. She has no reason to lie.”
“She always has a reason to lie.”
“Not about this. She wants Lena to be safe just as much as we do.”
Craig runs his hands through his hair again. Mumbles something about you being insane.
“I’ve watched this kid grow up. I love her.”
“More than yourself?”
“I mean…yeah.” Isn’t that what love is? You don’t think you know any other kind. “It’ll be the same as it always was. I’ll just have a rock on my finger, right?”
“This is legit marriage. And adoption. This is like, piles and piles of paperwork and shit. Plus, it’s gonna be a whole lot of lying.”
“Oh yeah, I’m really not used to lying. Where would I even start?”
Craig snorts into his beer, and you take the laughter as a win.
-
It’s a small ceremony. Just you and the Codys, save for Smuf for…obvious reasons.
There are no wide grins. No giddy family members. No flower girls or teary vows. The minister is monotone when he marries you, and Pope’s intense eyes don’t leave your face for a second.
It isn’t that you don’t like Pope. In fact, you get along with him better than anyone else in the family, save for maybe Craig, and that friendship still shocks the hell out of you sometimes. You aren’t sure when you started actually becoming friends with Craig Cody, but somewhere between him constantly hitting on you when you first started watching Lena and you rejecting his offer of drugs almost every damn night, you started actually getting along. There’s something about him that’s real, and maybe a little (or a lot) lost, and for some reason it seems to make you more patient with him than most.
But Pope. You’ve always gotten along with Pope really fucking well.
Since you started watching Lena, before he went to prison and before her parents died, you and Pope just seemed to…well, harmonize. You wash the sponges in the way he seems to like. You can sit with him in silence, and even get him to talk about things if it feels like the right time. Hell, you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder when sitting together on Baz’s couch, and woken to him in the exact same position, like he was afraid that any movement might disturb you.
So maybe this won’t be so bad. It’s for Lena. To keep her out of the system. To keep her with the people who love her.
You expect your hand to shake a little when you exchange rings, but it’s surprisingly steady. Pope is still looking at you.
When it’s time to kiss the bride - Christ, the bride. You’re really fucking doing this - his hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing absently over your skin as he gives you a questioning look that is so sweet you almost laugh out loud because you’ve seen this man come home with bruised knuckles and bloodstains on his shirt. You nod, and he nods back as he ducks down and presses his lips to yours.
It’s a simple, gentle kiss - he doesn’t slam you against the wall and devour you or anything - and yet you feel a zing shoot down your spine and to your toes at the mere touch of his lips against yours. The sensation is so shocking, so good, that when he pulls away you almost reach up to pull him back to you just to see if you can feel it again.
You don’t, of course. You just meet his eyes, and try to smile.
And then you’re married. Just like that. One kiss. A couple signatures. And you’re just…married.
-
Andrew Cody has a terrible secret.
He is deeply, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with his wife.
Wife. Wife. Wife. You’re his fucking wife now. If it were any other circumstance, he might call this a dream come true. If he could just call you that for real, without the knowledge that you’re only married to protect Lena, he would be the happiest man in the fucking world.
And yet, as you all arrive back at the house and he watches that ring glimmer on your finger, remembers how your lips felt against his own even for just that one too-brief moment, he wonders if it would be fucked up to…pretend. Like he did in prison, when he kept a photo of you on the wall of his bunk and told his cellmates that the beautiful woman in the picture was his wife.
That was fucked up of him. He knows that. He knew that. But how would anyone have been able to check? He had gone to prison to protect his brother. He was serving a sentence that could potentially last much longer than three years. He was alone, and he was in love, and when someone asked him to explain the picture it just…happened. The fantasy he’d kept tucked safely away in the back of his mind had spilled past his lips, and talking about you had helped get him through the horror and monotony of those three years. In prison, you were his wife. The warm and sweet smile he would come home to, one day.
You’d visited him, too. You hadn’t taken Lena, but you’d come. Just a few times, always against Smurf’s wishes, but you’d checked on him. And he had wished with every part of his fucking being that you had come because he wasn’t just your friend, he wasn’t just Lena’s uncle, but because you cared about him. Because you missed him as much as he missed you. And he missed you and your lovely eyes and your gorgeous smile every. Fucking. Day.
This is for Lena. You’re both here for Lena.
And yes, he is almost positive that Smurf has an ulterior motive. That she knows exactly how Pope feels about you and that she’s going to use this to control him or even you, somehow. She’ll see this arrangement as her ‘giving’ you to him, as horrible as it may be. He’ll owe her for it.
But Lena will be safe. You’ll be safe. He can make sure of that.
And you won’t ever know how often he thinks about tilting your head back and sliding his lips over yours. About the noises he daydreams of hearing you make as his hands move over your body. Those hands have caused so much damage and pain for so long, but when they touch you they won’t be weapons. They’ll be as gentle as he can possibly make them as they slide over every perfect inch of soft skin he can reach.
And if he could just fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with you wrapped safely in his arms, with the smell of your perfume in his nose and the feeling of your steady breathing against his chest, he would truly be the happiest man in the world. You came close, once. When he sat with you for a while after Lena went to bed and he watched you fight yawn after yawn as you watched some random TV show together. Your head had finally thunked against his shoulder, and he had been too afraid to breathe lest he wake you and you stop touching him for even a second.
He had allowed himself to turn his nose into the top of your head. Had allowed himself one deep inhale.
He’d chased that memory for weeks, had felt so fucked up as he groaned your name into his pillow and imagined burying his nose into your hair and catching that scent of perfume and shampoo as you writhed beneath him. In those moments, alone in the dark of his empty house, his imagination would replace his own hand with you. His own labored breaths with the sound of your voice, breathing his name and begging for more as he made you feel so fucking good you would never be able to think of anyone else.
And then he would see you again the next day. He’d buy you and Lena ice cream and melt a little at the sight of your smile. He’d feel ashamed of the thoughts he had just the night before as his eyes lingered on the way your mouth wrapped around that little plastic spoon and he would nearly have to excuse himself and leave mid-conversation before he broke and slammed you into a picnic table to lick the mint chocolate chip from your lips himself.
And now you’re his fucking wife. You’re going to be living with him. Raising Lena with him. How the fuck is he supposed to keep himself together? How is he supposed to keep himself in check to be good for you?
And yet, despite how insane and wrong it might be, he’ll take this. He will wear the title of your husband, fake as it may be, like a badge of fucking honor that he will never deserve. He’ll think about kissing you, and touching you, and hold himself back from doing either of those things every single day of his life.
But he will be your husband. You’ll be his wife.
And maybe, secretly, horribly, he’ll pretend.
-
The after party, unlike the ceremony, is not small.
It’s loud. Chaotic. Takes over the entire backyard of the Cody house and makes you feel like you want to cave in on yourself. You don’t mind parties. You know Pope doesn’t like them. Even now, he’s sitting in the corner and nursing a beer, eyes still locked on you as you take a shot with Craig and do your absolute best to follow the plan. This party isn’t about having fun, at least not for you and Pope. It’s about optics. It’s about making it clear that you are now a complete, unarguable member of the Cody family.
For what might be the hundredth time tonight, your eyes drift to Pope’s. His remain locked on yours. You take a deep breath, and take another shot.
You aren’t drunk when he approaches you, but you are buzzed enough to be giggling at one of Deran’s jokes.
And then his voice is by your ear, low and soft. When his arm slides around your waist, tugs you back against him, you almost wonder if this is supposed to be part of the plan.
“You okay?” He asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear and voice so low you know you’re the only one who can hear him.
“And finally,” Craig shouts, raising another shot into the air and immediately drawing the attention of the group of people around you, “here comes the blushing groom!”
The room is suddenly filled with loud, drunken cheers. You tilt your head back, relaxing against Pope and leaning up to brush your lips over his jaw. You don’t imagine the way his arm tightens around you at the movement, but you plaster a wide grin on your face as you murmur back to him, “do you think we did enough? Can we leave?” Leave isn’t a very fitting word - the two of you are staying here tonight, but you’ll take anything that gets you away from the strangers and the chaos.
Pope smiles, and it doesn’t look entirely fake.
In a second, he’s reaching down and hooking his free arm behind your knees, lifting you against him and beginning to make his way into the back room without a word. Your own laugh is genuine, and you’re followed by cheers and whoops and some very suggestive noises as you disappear down the hallway.
-
“Are you…okay?” He keeps asking you that. You still don’t know how to answer.
Your head tilts toward his, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m in a sham marriage to ensure that a little girl I love doesn’t get forgotten by the system. I’ve had less weird days.”
“I mean…with me? Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”
“Would you? If I asked?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds uncomfortable.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.” Right. Prison. Shit.
“I didn’t know you even slept.”
He ignores your joke, your awkward attempt at deflection, and asks again. “Do you want me to move?”
“I…no.” You don’t. It surprises you how much you don’t.
You roll onto your side, tuck an arm beneath your head, and meet his stare. You’re both fully clothed, lying atop the covers of a large bed in a guest room, and you’re pretty sure that everyone at the party thinks you’re going at each other like bunny rabbits.
It’s quiet in here. It’s comfortable. Being around Pope Cody is always so comfortable. You genuinely don’t get why people are always so unnerved by him. He’s quiet, sure. Dangerous, maybe. But he has a presence that, at least to you, is calming and warm in a way you’ve never felt with anyone else before.
“Do you think this was a bad idea?”
He frowns. Furrows his brow. He rolls on his side to face you, too, and you see his hand twitch, just barely, like he might reach up and touch you.
“No. It was for Lena.” He pauses, brow crinkling again. “Do you regret it?”
“No.” For some reason, with the way the moonlight is hitting his face and alighting on the worried expression in his eyes, you can’t help but reach up, your new ring catching in the low light of the bedroom as you brush your fingers over his cheek. The gesture feels too intimate for your current arrangement. More than a little confusing. And yet, Pope blows out a shuddered breath, and leans into your touch.
After a moment, he returns the gesture, his own calloused fingers brushing the hair from your face, even as his eyes remain locked on yours.
You’re not sure how it happens, not sure who moves first, but in what feels like the span of a second and a thousand years all at the same time, his forehead is resting against your own, large hand still cradling your cheek and warm breath whispering over your lips on every barely-there exhale.
“Pope…” you murmur, and he leans helplessly closer.
“Andrew.” He murmurs back, noses bumping, brown eyes fluttering closed. “My name is Andrew.”
“Andrew.” You repeat, and you’ve hardly ever used his real name. Only hours ago, you said it in your ‘vows’, and even then it felt foreign on your tongue.
And then he kisses you.
It’s slow, careful like he’s worried he might break you with any too-sudden movements, and still it makes your heart hammer in your chest and drop to your stomach. He kisses you so slowly, so deeply, that you lose all track of time and thought. His hands are on your face, cradling you against him like you’re a delicate piece of glass that he may shatter at any moment if he holds it too tightly, and yet he kisses you like he’s dying. Like every movement of your lips against his is something he’s never even allowed himself to want, but now that he has it he’s going to cherish every fucking moment.
You stop thinking. You stop regretting. Stop worrying. You just let yourself…feel.
Your fingers curl in his hair as the kiss deepens, as he rolls atop you until you’re pressed between his body and the sheets and it feels so good you think you might pass out.
“Andrew.” You whisper again, the name nearly swallowed by his lips, and he groans so deeply at the sound that you can feel it in your fucking toes.
Your fingers fly up to the buttons of his shirt, desperation for more coursing through your veins like liquid fire. His own skate reverently up your thigh, pulling your simple white dress up with them, and he breaks away from you just long enough to duck his face down into the hollow of your throat.
“Tell me to stop.” He half whispers, and the sound of his voice alone pulls a whimper from your throat that has him groaning again as he rocks his hips against yours, hand slamming up to the headboard behind your head like he’s trying to keep himself still above you. “If we…I don’t think I can hold back.”
“Don’t.” You breathe, and this is stupid. This is a bad idea. “Don’t stop. Don’t hold back.”
He pauses, like he’s trying to collect himself.
If he is, he fails at it.
His mouth crushes against yours, and you give up on undoing his shirt and simply yank it apart, hearing buttons scatter as he reaches up to help you pull it off of him. He grabs the back of your thigh, all-but manhandling you beneath him in one swift movement as he pushes the hem of your dress up over your thighs and presses your body between the mattress and his own.
You reach up, trying to help him unclasp the back of the dress, and he makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he catches your wrists in one hand and slams them back against the pillows above you.
“I’ll do it.”
You meet his eyes, and they’re fucking burning. Dark and starved in a way that should probably make your survival instincts explode with some kind of trepidation. They don’t. Instead, your breath catches in your throat, and you nod.
His hand releases your wrists, sliding around your back until he’s pulling you up with him and you’re straddling his lap, nearly shaking with something between anticipation and restraint as he unbuttons your dress and slides it over your shoulders with a shaky exhale.
And then he’s kissing you again. Kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, only pulling back far enough to slide the garment up and over your head before his mouth is on yours once more, and your hands are tugging him out of his pants, and his own hand tangles in your hair as he lowers you onto your back.
He’s usually so…awkward, so quiet and still that his movements in this moment shock you to your fucking core. He moves atop you like he was born to, traces over your jaw with his tongue like he’s desperate for the taste of you. He just spent three years in prison, and you’re not sure what kind of human connection he’s had since then, but he still takes the time to slide his hand down your stomach and work you apart until every breath you draw is a sharp and desperate gasp into his mouth. Still crawls down your body and drags his blunt teeth up the inside of your thigh without ever once breaking eye contact like it’s a form of fucking worship.
The distant sound of the party still raging down the hall vanishes, taking every ounce of anxiety with it as he makes you fall apart once. Twice. Drags himself back up you and pulls your hand away from where it’s covering your mouth in a weak attempt to keep you from screaming his name.
“Don’t. Let me hear you.” He growls against your ear, and when he pushes inside of you for the first time you make a noise that has him snapping his hips forward so roughly that your nails might dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.
His groan vibrates through your entire body, but he still reaches up to brush the hair from your face, angling your head back to kiss you again even as he murmurs, “sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”
You forget everything that isn’t him as Andrew Cody pulls you apart piece by piece with his lips and tongue and words. Words spoken so softly against your skin that you would barely be able to hear them if he hadn’t made himself the center of your fucking universe tonight. If you could even dream of focusing on anything other than his mouth against your skin, his soft praise as you move with him, his growled expletives as your nails drag down over his back, his whisper of your name in your ear as he takes you like you are every vice ever created and he is ready to drown himself in the addiction.
And when it’s over, after you’ve nearly sobbed his name until you forgot your own and he bit down on your collarbone and pressed your joined hands into the pillow beside your head with a groan that ingrained itself into your very bones, you can’t remember how to pull yourself back to earth.
“That…” you try, and fail, “I’m…woah.”
Pope huffs a soft laugh against your neck, and pulls you into his arms until he’s on his back and your head is resting against his chest.
“Your legs are shaking.” He observes, sounding a little too proud of himself in that quiet way he has, as his fingers skate through your messy hair.
“Shut up.” You try, and he laughs again. The sound of it is so reserved, so soft and warm, that it makes you hum as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.
You’re asleep within minutes. Exhausted, sweaty, and more content than you can remember being in a very long time.
-
You wake before him.
You have no idea what time it is, but you know it must be early. Early enough, at least, for you to be the first one up. Everyone still hanging around after the party will likely sleep until the afternoon, but Pope usually wakes at dawn. And yet, now, his chest is rising and falling in a slow and steady rhythm beneath your ear.
You’ve never seen him sleep before.
You’re about to pull back to look at him, to drink in whatever expression may be on his face, when something else catches your attention.
There, on his bare stomach, your hands are joined together. Your wedding ring blinks up at you, and his own simple band rests just above it.
Married. You’re married. For Lena.
What happens if the two of you start something, and it doesn’t work out? All that kid has lost, all of the drama and horror she’s endured in her young life, and she would just be…abandoned again.
Shit.
You shift your head, just barely, and feel Pope stir. Light sleeper, then. Makes sense.
His fingers curl a little more tightly around yours, like he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it, and you feel a soft breath against the top of your head as he realizes that you’re awake, too.
For a moment, he’s silent. It isn’t uncomfortable, just his usual version of quiet.
“Do you want to…borrow clothes?” He finally asks, lips brushing against the top of your head, and you almost laugh. Because this is how Andrew Cody works. He isn’t exactly one to wax poetic, even after a night like last night. He just takes care of you, like he always tries to take care of everyone, in his silent and sweet way.
His hand skates up over your bare back, the touch warm and reverent, and you allow yourself to lie with him for a moment. To enjoy this.
“I don’t think I can pull off one of those buttoned up shirts.” You joke, resting your chin against his chest and blinking sleepily up at him. Something in his brown eyes goes very, very soft as he looks down at you, and a part of you melts at the sight.
“I have t-shirts.”
You do laugh, now. “I know. Just kidding.”
“Do you…like the shirts?”
“I do, yeah.” You slide your fingers over his stomach, wrap your arms around him like he’s an oversized teddy-bear, and he responds with a hum as he pulls you closer to him.
And, despite your decision, despite the fact that you need to cut this off before it really starts, every muscle in your body relaxes as his lips find yours. As he kisses you so slowly, so languidly, so sweetly that you lose all track of time and space.
He feels so good, and this feels so right that it would scare you even if it weren’t for Lena. If it weren’t for all of the other fucking factors pulling you apart.
“I think…” his lips are on your neck, and his fingers are sliding up the inside of your bare thigh, and you can’t think. “We…shit, we shouldn’t do this.,” you reach down to stop his hand, and he acquiesces immediately, pulling back to look down at you with those lovely brown eyes.
“Are you okay?”
You nod. Swallow. “I don’t… if we start something, and it doesn’t work, Lena will get hurt. She’ll feel abandoned again.”
He pauses, and reaches up to smooth your hair back again, like he’s just trying to…touch you. Somehow. Any way he can. “You think it won’t work?”
“I…no.” You admit, almost instinctively turning your face into his palm. “But we can’t know for sure. I don’t want to risk it. Not right now.”
He frowns, thumb brushing your cheek, and nods. “Okay.”
And God help you, you lean up to kiss him again.
He makes a soft noise, somewhere between desperation and torture, and the feeling of his body pressing helplessly against yours makes any thoughts of responsibility fly out the damn window.
And when you pull back, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath ghost over your lips, it is very very hard to convince yourself that this is the right decision.
-
Pope Cody isn’t sure if he’s living in heaven or hell.
Heaven. Surely. Most of the time, he’s absolutely convinced it’s heaven. Because you’re with him all the time. He gets to hear your laugh. See your smile. Feel your presence every single day. He gets to sit with you on the couch with Lena, and watch the two of you as you help her color or do a puzzle or something equally…peaceful. It’s peaceful, this life. Sure, there are still the jobs. There’s still the guilt. But he gets to come home to you and Lena and he gets to smell your perfume on his pillow and watch your relaxed expression as you sleep beside him.
And sometimes, it’s hell. Because he wants more so selfishly that it feels like a fucking sickness. Maybe it was better before. Before he knew what you tasted like. What you felt like, moving beneath him and with him and moaning his name into his ear like the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. He knows what it feels like to wake up with you, naked in his arms, soft skin against his own and contentment like nothing he’s ever known swelling in his chest.
And he can’t have that again. Because you’re right. He loves you so, so much, but you’re right. If anything were to happen, Lena would be hurt by it. He’ll never stop loving you - he knows that more than he knows how to breathe - but something could happen. His life is chaos. Dangerous. He never knows what horror might come his way next.
But he can have you now, like this, and sometimes he can pretend. He can keep up appearances with you. Get to slide his fingers between yours and feel the ring on your finger when you meet with Lena’s teachers. Murmur something in your ear at one of the parties at Smurf’s house and feel you smile in response.
And he wants to kiss you. When you’re laughing at dinner, he wants to stand up from the table and stalk over to you and press his mouth to yours. He wants to make his way into the bathroom when you’re showering, and stand beneath the water with you until the sounds of your pleasure echo off of the tile. He wants to nuzzle his nose into your hair and inhale the scent of your shampoo when you sit on the couch with him. He wants to pull you into his arms in the mornings and whisper how much he loves you as you wake up. He wants you more, and it’s selfish and shitty because what he has now is already more than he could ever fucking deserve.
So he suffers, and is simultaneously the happiest he has ever fucking been. And he endures, and he loves you.
-
Your first fight happens on a Tuesday.
“She doesn’t need a therapist.” Pope says, in that low and intense way he always has, as he stands over the sink and meticulously scrubs the dishes.
Your eyes snap up, and you have to stop the incredulous laugh that nearly bursts from you at his statement. “Yes, she fucking does.”
“She’s fine.” He looks at you. Drops his eyes to the ring on your finger. Looks back up at your face. “She’s got us.”
He looks at the ring a lot. Like when the two of you take Lena for ice cream on the beach, and he wordlessly hands you a cup of your favorite flavor. Or when he makes Lena’s lunch for school in the morning, meticulously laying out the cheese on top of the ham on top of the lettuce like he’s performing some kind of surgery while you get so wrapped up in conversation with him that you don’t even notice that he’s made you one too until he’s handing you a little brown paper bag.
You curl your fingers a little, and do your best to keep your eyes from trailing down to your hand. To keep from looking at the gold band on his own.
“She needs more than just us.”
“What does that mean?” He’s still scrubbing the same plate.
“Her parents are gone, Pope. She lost them both in a year. And now she’s being raised by her nanny and a fucking bank robber and-“
Pope freezes, and turns to you, and the look in his eyes shuts you right the hell up.
“A what?”
You should probably take it back. Or at the very least, backtrack a little, but you’ve been married a month and social workers are already showing up to talk to you both and the adoption process is going fucking nowhere and you’re honestly sick and fucking tired of pretending to be more in the dark than you are.
“Come on, of course I know what you do. I’m not stupid. Or blind. Or fucking deaf.” And Craig has always been very stupidly candid with you about being stressed about a job or being pushed around by Baz and Pope and even Jay. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Lena-“
“How much do you know.” He doesn’t say it like a question, he says it like a command, and that pisses you off a little more than you want to admit.
“Enough, but not everything. I don’t want to know everything.”
He moves to the other side of the counter, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as he repeats the question. “How much do you know?”
You don’t back down. “Not. Everything.” You grit out, pushing back from your chair to plant your hands on the counter and stare him down. “I don’t need to. I know you rob places. I watch the news. I don’t need to know anything else.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt.” You snap, frustrated. “I don’t need to know anything that could endanger any one of you if the wrong people ask. Keep me in the fucking dark. But if you’re gonna be so damn secretive maybe stop mentioning jobs and banks and carrying fucking guns around the fucking nanny.”
“You’re not the nanny anymore.” His eyes drop to the ring again, before they dart back up to your face.
“And what am I then? Because the adoption process isn’t exactly going our way.” You lean closer, and you can feel your own eyes burning into his. “Safe and okay are two very different things, Pope. She’s neither of those right now. And shockingly, the ex-con marrying the former nanny isn’t tossing us to the top of the Good Future Parent list.”
To your surprise, Pope’s eyes drop to your mouth. And yet, his voice is still a furious rasp when he speaks again.
“Andrew.”
You blink. His gaze does not falter.
“My name is Andrew.”
For a moment, you can’t remember why you’re mad. All you can think about is the way he murmured that on your wedding night, the way his fingers tangled in your hair and he pressed his body against yours until you were moaning that name. Until you forgot every name that wasn’t Andrew.
“She needs therapy.” You try again, but the intensity of his gaze on your mouth feels like a kiss all on its own and you can’t remember how to breathe right.
“She doesn’t.”
“She will be taken away from us.” Your palm slaps against the counter. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away from you.
He just frowns, and his eyebrows do that little twitchy thing, before his gaze flickers back up to your eyes.
“It didn’t work for me.”
“But it might for her.” You try, meeting his eyes. Fuck, he’s beautiful. “Andrew, we can love her, but we can’t help her. Not like that. It’s not enough.”
He stays quiet. He moves back to the sink, and starts scrubbing the dish again.
You move over from behind the counter, and catch his arm.
“Stop that.” Your voice is firm, and he doesn’t look up again. “Please.”
His eyes finally rise to yours, and he goes very still.
“Fight with me.” Your voice is too soft for this argument, but you don’t care. “I need you to fight with me. You have opinions. I do too. Stop scrubbing the paint off of that thing, and argue.”
His eyes drop to your mouth again, before they move back up to your own.
“I don’t want to get angry.”
“You’re already angry.” You don’t break his gaze.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” You’ve never been more confident of anything in your life.
He sets the plate down, moves forward, and cages you in against the counter so quickly that you gasp. The air shifts, and his eyes are so dark that you wonder if you should be afraid. Better yet, if there’s something wrong with you because you don’t feel afraid.
“I don’t want to lose Lena.” When did the air in here get so thin? Why can’t you draw breath right? His nose ducks down, moving slowly up over your throat until he’s face to face with you again, gaze burning into yours. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t.” You swallow. “You won’t. She just needs-“
His hand is at the small of your back, forehead against yours and an intensity in his eyes that is so heavy it makes your knees wobble.
“She needs help.”
“She’ll think something is wrong with her.” He presses even closer, like he’s not aware that he’s doing it, and you can’t tell if he’s frustrated or seeking comfort. If this is how he gets frustrated with you, you aren’t sure if this or any argument is going to get very far.
“Did you think something was wrong with you?”
His lips are almost brushing your own. His hand slides up beneath your shirt, feeling the skin of your back. He doesn’t answer for a long, tense moment. Your skin burns beneath his touch and it feels way, way too good.
“There’s a lot wrong with me.”
You want him so badly it hurts. “This isn’t what I meant by fighting.”
“I can’t fight with you.” His lips brush yours for the briefest of seconds as his nose skates over your cheek. As his fingers curl against your back. “I want to. I’m trying. I can’t…”
You can’t remember how to breathe right for the life of you. Your hand moves up as if of its own accord, and your fingers slide through his hair. This is the closest you’ve been to each other since your wedding night. Sure, you sleep in the same bed, but he’s usually in bed after you and awake before you. He doesn’t linger. You wonder now if he’s been doing that on purpose. If this is what he’s been trying to avoid. If he was really so close to snapping that all it took was high emotions and you coming into his space for five fucking seconds.
The thought makes you shiver, and hand moves up over your back again, like he senses the silent question and his touch is the answer. His lips find the hollow of your throat. Just one soft, simple kiss, but it makes you feel like you’re on fucking fire.
“I…” you start, seconds away from pulling him back and slamming your mouth to his, when a soft voice makes you jump out of your skin.
“Can I watch TV?”
Pope releases you, stepping back, and you wonder how flushed your face must be as you look down to see Lena standing in the doorway, holding a stuffed bunny.
You blink, and try to focus on anything but the absence of Pope’s hands on your skin.
“Nightmares again?” You ask, and she nods.
And just like that, it’s over, and you spend the next hour sitting with Lena and watching cartoons as Pope returns to the dishes, gaze like a physical touch against your back.
And, not for the first time, you wonder how the fuck you’re going to manage this marriage.
-
Lena is gone.
And you kept it together. You kept it all together. You didn’t cry or scream or even try to fight with Pope after the social workers took her away. When she went into the system and you just had to sit there, helpless, and watch her get into that car.
And you showed up, when Pope went down to the office and made a scene. You all-but dragged him out of there, followed closely by security guards, and let him wrap his arms around you in the parking lot as you both shook with grief and worry and pain. You buried your face in his shoulder, and promised you would get her back. You both would. You’ll figure it out, because you love her, and you’re going to fight tooth and nail to make sure she knows how much you do.
And then Smurf, fucking fresh-out-of-prison Smurf, actually got her back. And it all went to shit.
“Why…” you pause, eyes scanning the room. The movers. The pink. She doesn’t even like pink. Why is there so much pink? “Why is it…here?”
“It’s just for now.” Smurf answers, flippant. “You just got her taken away. Andrew is an ex-convict. The courts will be a lot more lenient if she stays with me for a while.”
You feel cold. You fight the urge to fidget with your ring.
“But we’re…” married. You and Pope got married. That was supposed to help. She told you that.
She doesn’t even look up from where she’s folding yet another small pile of pink clothes. “You know, it would probably be best for you two to stay here, too. To keep her comfortable.”
Oh.
Oh fuck, you’re an idiot.
And then Lena is dropped off, and she’s miserable, and she wants to go home. Not home with you and Pope. Not home to the house. Home to her foster family, and her new sister.
And it all hits you like a fucking brick to the face.
This. This whole life is not safe for her. She has the opportunity to thrive, and grow, and live in a world where she will never be a pawn in someone else’s schemes. As much as you love her, as much as Pope loves her, this world is never going to be safe or healthy for her.
She’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna break your fucking heart, but she’s gonna be okay.
So you find Pope, and you fight your tears back, and you both take her back to her foster house. You take her home.
The car ride back to Smurf’s is silent.
It takes six minutes for you to break.
“Pull over.”
He does.
You lurch out of the truck, wondering if you’re going to be sick, and nearly stumble off of the side of a cliff before he catches you.
And he holds you too tightly. Tries to murmur something too sweet against your hair as the tears try to fight their way free. His arms feel too good around you. His touch is too comforting. You want to melt into him, and you can’t.
“This was all so fucking stupid.” You breathe, ragged and pained, and he holds you closer.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” You whirl on him, try to shove him back, and he lifts you and spins you back towards the car and away from the cliff before he lets you go. “This whole fucking thing was just…we were just…” breathe. You can’t breathe right. “She tricked us. Don’t you get it? She fucking made me a Cody so she can control you through Lena and she can control me somehow and this is all so fucked up, Pope-“
“Andrew.”
You pause, momentarily distracted despite your horror and anger. “Why do you do that?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Why do you correct me when we’re fighting? Or…” Memories of your wedding night rip through you, threatening to overwhelm you even more. You push them back so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.
He doesn’t answer again, and you glare so hard you think your eyes might actually be burning.
“It makes me feel better, when you say it. I don’t like it when you’re upset with me.”
“Why the fuck aren’t you upset?”
“I am.” His head ducks, and tilts to the side a little as he looks at you with that familiar intensity. And then, quieter, he repeats, “I am.”
You pause at the pain in his voice. Feel your heart constrict so hard it hurts.
“It didn’t work.” You finally say, agony and grief ripping through you like your soul has been tossed into a fucking wood chipper. “It didn’t work, and I’m… I’m not going to be a fucking pawn in whatever game Smurf is playing.”
“I won’t let you.” Pope says, fingers flexing like he might move towards you. “I won’t let her hurt you.”
“She already has. All of this shit is…it’s too…” you sniffle, to your humiliation, and run a hand through your hair. “It’s over. It didn’t work. This is done. It needs to be done.” Because you’re all that’s left, and she is going to use you to hurt him now, and you can’t let that happen.
It needs to be done.
-
You show up, of all places, at Craig Cody’s place with a duffel under your arm and tears in your eyes.
“Oh shit.” He has a bottle of tequila in his hand. He’s shirtless, and there are people inside.
“I’m…interrupting.” You mumble, suddenly feeling oddly small. Oddly pathetic. But that’s why you’re here, because he has never made you feel that way. Never spoken down to you, never shown you anything but respect despite his ridiculous lifestyle and poor decision making skills. Even when you were just the nanny, and he hit on you so much it was borderline ridiculous, there was something about him that was…good. Lost, of course, but good.
You turn to go.
“Nuh uh. Hey, c’mere.” He spins you, and suddenly crushes you to him so tightly that your noise of surprise is muffled by his chest.
“You smell like sweat.” You mumble, miserable, and he laughs so hard that you shake in his dumb gigantic arms.
“Just got back from the water.” His hand comes up to the back of your head, an odd brotherly touch that makes you actually start to fucking cry. He holds you tighter, smushing you even more against him, and drops his chin against the top of your hair.
“Want me to beat Pope’s ass?”
You shake your head.
“Want some coke?”
You puff an irritated breath, and he laughs again.
“Okay, okay.” He pats your back, and pulls back a little. “How ‘bout a shot?”
You take the bottle from his hand, and take a swig.
“There ya go.” You sputter a little, and he pats your back. “C’mon. You stayin’ here for a bit?”
You nod, and take another swig from the bottle.
“You’re lucky I’ve got a guest room.” Craig ruffles your hair, and you frown as he takes the bottle back from you. “My couch is uncomfortable as fuck.”
“Well, better than - wait, what are you - hey!”
He crouches, grabs you, and tosses you over his shoulder, duffel bag and all, and as he walks back into his house with a shouted announcement of his ‘new roommate’, you decide that maybe the Codys aren’t all bad.
-
“Ow. Ow. Ow.” You mumble, curled into a chair in the corner of Craig’s kitchen with your head in your hands.
“Pope’s freakin’ out, by the way.”
“Thank you. You’re really helping.” You cross your arms on the counter, and bury your face in them, muffling your next words. “How’re you not hungover?”
“I’m hungover as shit.” You hear the fridge open, and hear the frown in Craig’s voice as he examines whatever is inside. “We should get something delivered.”
“We should burn this place to the ground. Might be the only way to get it clean.”
“You sound like your husband.”
“Don’t call him that.”
You don’t lift your head, but you feel Craig lean against the other side of the counter. He chuckles, and ruffles your hair until you groan and try to squirm away. “Damn, I knew you didn’t party, but a few shots of tequila took you out.”
“Shut up.” It was more than a few. Actually, you vaguely remember him holding your hair back in the front yard at some point.
He ruffles your hair again, presumably just to mess with you, and you swat him away.
“Gotta go to Smurf’s in a few.” He finally says, popping open a beer as you peek an eye open to glare at him. “Want me to tell Pope that you’re here?”
You frown, and shake your head.
He frowns back. “He’s freaking out.”
“Why? Lena’s gone. Doesn’t matter.”
“You know you’re being a dick, right?”
“Rude.”
“And you know he’s like, obsessed with you.”
Your heart twists, and you narrow your eyes. “He’s not.”
He puffs a laugh, and takes a swig of his beer. “Sure, sure.” He pats your cheek until you look up at him, eyes squinted and head pounding.
“Damn, you still look hot hungover.” He says, grinning, and you glare harder. “Shoulda got to you first. You wouldn’t have gone for me, though. You’re fuckin’ perfect for Pope.”
“M’not-“
“Go back to bed. Sleep all day. Not like you’ve got anything to do if you’re gonna be in hiding.” Craig cuts you off, already moving to the door to pull his boots on.
“You’re a tool.” You grouch, settling your aching head back into your arms.
“You came to me.” He retorts, and you groan again as you hear the door shut behind him.
-
You don’t talk to Pope Cody for two months.
You don’t take the ring off.
Deran gives you a job at the bar, and you’re good at it. You work too hard, too much, just to shut your brain off for as long as humanly possible before you have to go home and think about Lena. About Pope.
Weirdly enough, living with Craig isn’t too bad. Sure, you have to deal with the parties, have to clean up beer bottles in the mornings and kick him awake sometimes as his phone blows up with calls from his brothers.
But even when he’s fucked up, even when he’s acting like an asshole, he’s always there for you. Sometimes he sits and watches TV with you, rather than going out. Sometimes you manage to drag him to the grocery store, or even get him to clean the house as he grumbles about how ridiculous and uptight you are.
One day, he comes home, and doesn’t joke. Doesn’t comment about you being a neat-freak (you’re not, but you’re not about to let him leave dishes in the sink for a fucking month), and sits on the coffee table across from where you lay on the couch.
You raise your eyebrows, having just flopped down onto the cushions, still in your work uniform and aching with exhaustion.
“You gotta go over there.” His voice is serious, and his eyes are doing that crazy intense thing. Kind of like Pope, but different. You’ve always blamed the drugs, but now you wonder if it’s a familial trait.
“To Smurf’s?” You frown. “Why?”
“He’s fuckin’ losing it, that’s why.” Craig doesn’t snap at you, but the tone of his voice is sharp enough to catch your attention. “All he ever does is sit in front of the TV or stand in the yard and break shit. It’s fucking creepy.”
“You always call him creepy.” And yet, your resolve is already cracking. Shit.
“I don’t get this. You married him. You get along great. Like, better than I’ve ever seen him get along with anyone. He’s obsessed with you. You fucked on your wedding night, but you tell me you haven’t done anything since and with all that damn staring I believe you- hey!”
You swat at him, eyes wide with horror. “How the fuck did you know that?”
“Jesus, chill. You hit me a lot, you know that?”
“Craig!”
“Dude, my room was right next door to that guest room. I was trying to hook up too, but the sound of my brother getting off is kind of a boner killer.”
“That and the pounds of coke.” You grouch, still trying and failing to hide your mortification.
“That’s never been a problem. I’m built different.”
“You’re the fucking worst. Seriously, I’m gonna-“
“Smurf’s got him fighting.”
And there it goes. The last bit of hesitation. Your eyes snap upwards, concern curling in your stomach.
“What?”
“Yeah. Boxing matches and shit.” Craig looks genuinely earnest. “He’s fucked up, dude. Something’s not right. He’s got this look in his eyes like…like he doesn’t give a shit what happens to him.”
That’s all it takes.
You’re out the door in five minutes.
-
When you find him, he’s sitting in the yard, staring at the moon.
You don’t think he even notices your approach as you make your way around the pool, but when you get closer, he turns to look up at you so slowly that you wonder if he’s been aware of your presence since you pulled into the driveway.
His eyes are dark. His face is bruised and cut and you can’t hold back a sharp breath at the sight. Fuck. He looks like he got put through a fucking meat grinder.
“Holy shit.” You whisper, crouching down beside him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his eyes away from you. Doesn’t even blink.
“Are you real?” His voice a whisper of gravel, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel that fell from heaven and landed in the grass before him. Like he’s living up to his nickname and fucking worshipping you.
You nearly burst into tears. You feel something crack in your chest. Something deeper and more vital than your heart.
You reach out, and brush your fingers over a healing cut below his eye. And then, like a woman possessed, you move until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and press your forehead against his.
“I’m real.” You whisper back, fingers sliding into his hair. “I’m real, Andrew.”
His breath rattles in his lungs. His hand shakes as it comes up to move over your back, pulling you closer to him when you don’t vanish with a gentle, aching desperation.
His head drops down to your shoulder, and he turns to bury his face in your neck. Your fingers continue to skate through his soft curls, and the sob that rips its way from his throat makes that final piece of your soul shatter like broken glass.
You hold each other like that for some time, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as Pope holds you like you could disappear any moment.
“Don’t leave again.” He finally whispers, and you hold him a little tighter.
“I won’t.” You murmur. “Not tonight.”
“Don’t leave ever. Please. Please, I’ll…I’ll do anything. Stay. Stay with me.” He crushes you to him almost too tightly, now, and your heart breaks.
“Andrew...” You whisper, but whatever you may have said is quickly cut off by his mouth as he kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Rough.
And you kiss him back.
The moment you do, he makes a noise that sounds almost pained, one large hand moving up to tangle in your hair as your breath stops in your throat. He shifts beneath you, lowering you until your back hits the grass as he slides his body atop yours and holds you to him like a mere inch of distance might kill him.
This is a bad idea. He’s clearly out of his mind. You’re both hurting too much.
And yet, it feels so fucking good you can’t think straight. Like this, this is everything you’ve been missing for all these weeks. You want to drown yourself in it. You want him to make it all better. You want to make it all better for him.
But you can’t. Even as you catch his lip between your teeth, arch your back beneath him, and hear him almost whimper as he presses you down against the grass, you can’t do this. Not now. Not like this.
You pull back, and he nearly sobs as he pushes you back down. As he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back so he can trace his tongue over your jaw.
“P-Pope-“ you try, and he shakes his head, nuzzling closer and rocking his hips against yours.
“Don’t. Don’t make me stop. Please.” His voice is low. Desperate. “Let me touch you. I-I’ll make it better. I’ll fix everything. Everything. Just stay with me.”
Everything in you screams to keep going. To never stop chasing this feeling. He senses your hesitation, and kisses you again like he knows that your brain is short-circuiting and he’s just too desperate to care. Like he can convince you if he just keeps trying.
“Stop…” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as his hand moves down your side, up beneath your shirt, trailing sparks behind the touch that make you bite back a whimper.
He hears it, and he doesn’t stop.
“You want me. I know you do. I know you. I can…I can fix this. Please. Please, let me fix this.”
Your body betrays you, back arching a little beneath him again, and he makes a soft noise of approval as his fingers begin to work the button of your jeans.
This isn’t right. He’s out of his fucking mind right now. This isn’t right.
“Pope.” You try again, hand reaching down to catch his wrist as his fingers begin to skate beneath your waistband.
“Call me Andrew. Say my name.” He pleads, breath warm and ragged against your ear, and it takes every ounce of strength in your heart to pull at his wrist as his fingers slide lower. Lower.
“Stop.” You try again, and when he pulls back to kiss you, you turn your head away. “Pope. Stop.”
Finally, he freezes. His hand pauses, and you can feel his entire body shake with restraint and hunger above you. “Don’t make me.” One last, desperate plea.
“Stop.” You say again, and he moves back with a subtle, heartbroken little nod.
You re-button your jeans, and push yourself away as he pulls back a little more. He’s breathless. His eyes are still dark as they look over you, still pained and lacking clarity, and you nearly start to cry at the horrified tone of his voice when he asks his next question.
“Did I hurt you?”
No. God, no. You’re about to fall apart with how badly you want him. With how hard it is to keep from flinging yourself into his embrace again. But he’s asking, because he’s so out of it that he doesn’t know. And you’re fucked up for letting it get this far.
“I have to go.” You whisper, pulling yourself upright on shaky feet. “I’m sorry. I…I have to go.”
He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t follow. He just watches you as you walk to the gate, and you feel his gaze linger like the soft prickle of frost until he’s out of sight.
And even then, when you get home, you still feel it. And you cry.
-
You’re shutting down the bar when he comes in.
“We’re closed.” You say, barely bothering to raise your gaze as the stranger pushes himself through the door, and you’re a little surprised to be met with silence. No drunken apologies or insistence that they’ll ‘jus’ be here f’r one.”
You look up.
The man before you is smiling. And it isn’t a good smile.
“Cody.” He says, like a predatory growl, and you freeze as he moves closer. Even with a foot of bar between you, the way his gaze is raking over your body feels like a physical touch. “Right? You’re Pope’s wife.”
You don’t back up. Remind yourself not to show weakness. “…Yeah. I am.”
On paper, yeah. But you’ve been in and around this family long enough to know that the title holds a certain amount of power. Pope Cody’s wife. A member of the Cody family. Maybe the confirmation will make this asshole-
“Good.” He says, and snatches your wrist faster than you can form your next thought. He yanks you half over the bar, grabs the back of your head, and slams you onto it.
You’re out cold the moment your head makes contact with the wooden surface, and you don’t even have a quarter of a second to realize that you are absolutely fucked.
-
Your head is pounding. You taste blood. There’s warmth trickling down from your temple.
You’re on the ground, cold concrete pressed against your swollen cheek. Not good. Not good not good not good.
Somewhat shakily, you try to push yourself up, and a booted foot meets the small of your back to slam you back down hard enough that it pulls a sharp yelp from your throat.
“The fucking Codys…” the man grumbles, and you hear the pop of a beer bottle cap above you. Great. You just did inventory. Though that should probably be the least of your concerns right now. “They fucked me over, ya know? Met Pope in prison, he says when we get out we’ll do jobs, and then nothing. Not a fuckin’ word. He just comes home to his pretty wife and family and leaves me on the streets like a fuckin’ dog.”
You try to sit up again. The boot meets your back again. Your head screams with pain, and you have to fight the urge to curl in on yourself like a wounded animal.
“Gotta leave a message, sweetheart. You know how it is.”
Your focus is still swimming. Think. Think think think.
“Knew you’d be pretty, too. He talked about ya all the time. Gonna feel bad messing up that sweet face, though.”
You start to drag yourself up for a third time, but the man grabs your hair and yanks you quickly to your feet. It hurts. Everything hurts already, and you know that’s not a good sign. That it’s gonna hurt a lot more when the adrenaline wears off.
He slams you back against the bar, and his hand wraps around your throat until you can’t breathe.
He’s still holding your hair, hard enough that your eyes sting with tears of pain, and you can see a thousand horrible plans forming in his eyes as he looks you up and down. Your fingers scramble uselessly at the ones locked around your neck, and you blindly reach out to feel around the bar beside you with your free hand as your vision starts to swim with black spots.
“Thinkin’ I break those fingers first, sugar.” You can smell the whiskey and beer on his breath, a rancid mix that would probably make you choke if you weren’t already suffocating. You grit your teeth. You can feel consciousness slipping away, and you have maybe seconds before you pass out again from lack of oxygen. God knows how you’ll wake up after that. “Then we work down to that pretty little-“
Your fingers close around something metal, and you don’t think before you slam it hard into his neck.
He stumbles backward, hand flying up to where a fork now protrudes from his jugular, and you have never seen a man die before.
You don’t move. You watch every second. The way he falls to the ground. The way he convulses. The way his eyes begin to fog over and he stops trying to tug the fork out of his neck, body going limp before you.
You sink to the floor.
You can’t look away. For too long, you just stare at him. Watch the shaky rise and fall of his chest come to a shuddered halt as blood begins to pool beneath his body. So much blood. Too much blood. There’s no way a human body can have that much blood, is there?
Shock is cold and numbing. You can’t feel your fingertips. You can’t think. You don’t think you’re breathing, either.
He definitely isn’t breathing. He’s dead. You killed him.
Oh, fuck.
-
You should call the police. You should call Deran, the owner of the damn bar. Maybe Craig.
You don’t. You don’t even think to.
You call your husband.
He answers on the first ring. He’s on a job. They all are. You know better than to call any of them when they’re on a job.
The river of blood is spreading, and you kick away before it can reach your sneakers, until your back is pressed against the bottom part of the bar.
“Hey.” He sounds a little breathless. You hear a furious shout, and he mumbles a curse. “I’ll call you back in-“
“A-Andrew I…” Words. Words. You have to remember how to say words. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to-“
“What happened?” Pope’s voice is low. Gentle. Your ears are ringing.
“I-I don’t…I’m at the bar. I…he…” you shouldn’t say anything over the phone, right? You know that much. You can’t confess to killing someone over the phone. Oh God, you killed someone.
“Are you safe?”
No. Yes. You nod, before you realize that he can’t actually see you. “I think so.” You can’t stop staring at the body. You might be sick.
“I’ll be there.” Silence. A muffled argument. The slamming of a car door. And then, softer. “Don’t move, okay?”
You nod again.
It might take five minutes. It might take an hour. You haven’t moved. You’re not sure if you’ve even blinked. The phone is still pressed to you ear. You don’t remember when he hung up.
But Andrew Cody is suddenly crouching before you, hands painfully gentle as he reaches up to guide your hand and the phone gripped in it down into your lap. His jaw is tight, dark eyes more intense than you’ve ever seen them as he tilts your head to inspect what must be a nasty wound on your forehead. One side of your face hurts. You probably have a black eye, and your cheek feels warm with what is very likely blood.
“The body.” You whisper, eyes still locked on man on the ground, and this time he turns your face towards his own.
“Don’t look at that. Look at me.” Gentle. Soft. His voice can be so, so soft. He’s wearing what looks like a security guard uniform, with a heavy jacket and boots and backwards ballcap. It’s probably not appropriate right now to think that he looks unfairly good like this, and you wonder what they were robbing before you called him. You almost ask, still in too much shock to remember that you told him you don’t want to know.
But when you look at his face, and feel the way his thumb is brushing featherlight over your cheek, you almost reel back at the rage in his expression. It isn’t directed at you, but it’s burning so deeply that you can’t make yourself look away. His hands are gentle on you, yes, but everything else about him is screaming danger.
Oh. That’s why people are so fucking scared of him, huh? You’ve never seen it before. Never really understood it until now. Still, you couldn’t be less afraid of him if you tried.
You feel really cold, and really numb in a way that scares you, and you don’t think you ever want him to stop touching you.
When you inhale, he nods, like he’s acknowledging that you’re doing a good job, and brushes his fingers through your bloody hair as you wince.
“Where else did he hurt you?” He asks, and you feel those fingers curl a little against the back of your head. His eyes fall down to your neck, which aches and burns in a way that tells you that you probably have angry red marks from the man’s fingers around your throat.
Slammed to the floor. Boot on your back. Fork in his neck. So much blood. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-
“Hey, hey. Look at me.” And you do, and you swallow.
Your shaky fingers come up to your throat. Neck. Fork in neck. Dead body and you’re the one that killed him.
“Can you stand?”
You nod again, and he lifts you to your feet, pulling you to him. He smells like gunpowder and bleach, and you press your nose into his shoulder and try to inhale the scent that you know better. The one that is soft and a little spicy and very much him.
He presses gently on the back of your head. “Here?”
You shake your head.
Lower, to your back. This time, you jump a little in his arms.
He nods, gentle and careful, and turns you to lift your shirt and inspect the wound.
You can’t see him, but you hear his breath get a little harsher. A little more shallow.
“Is it bad?” You ask, quiet and hoarse, and you feel him pull your shirt back down before he turns you and pulls you into his chest again. He’s breathing too shallowly. He’s holding you too tightly. He’s trying to keep himself calm, and it isn’t working.
“There’s a boot print. On your back.” He murmurs, and you wince at the memory of that boot kicking you back down.
You reach up, and slide your hands over his back, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, soothing him even as you seek comfort from him.
For a while, he holds you. Careful. Tight. Like if he loosens his grip even the smallest bit, something might rip you away.
Finally, he takes a deep breath, and presses his lips to the side of your head. Still gentle. Still soft.
“I’m gonna call Craig, okay? He’s gonna take you home, and then I’m gonna…take care of this.” The words are murmured into your hair, and you wince. Tense.
“No.” You feel so…weak. You fucking hate it, but you can’t think straight and the idea of Pope leaving you or even letting you go in this moment makes you feel fucking sick. “Don’t. Don’t go. Not right now.”
He goes impossibly more still, before he pulls back to trace his fingers over your bruised cheek, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your toes curl despite the situation.
“Okay.” His head tilts a little, in the direction of the back room. “Go in the back. Sit down.”
And you do.
You hear a few noises in the front room, the low sound of Pope’s voice on the phone, something being pulled from a storage closet, and then he’s crouching before you on the couch, fingers reaching up to brush over your neck once again before he pauses, like it just occurred to him that you might not want to be touched.
“Is this…okay?”
You nod. It hurts to speak, so you don’t bother to try. You don’t need to, with him. You never have.
He tilts your head to the side, fingers tightening imperceptibly on your chin as he sees the bruises once again, and for a moment you both just sit there in silence, staring at each other.
And maybe…maybe it’s because you’re alive. Maybe it’s because you just fucking killed a man. Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen him in over a month. Maybe it’s because you miss Lena and you miss him but…
But you pull him up with a hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, and you kiss him like you’re fucking drowning.
He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, but he kisses you back. He kisses you back like he’s fucking drowning, too. Like he missed you just as much as you missed him.
His hands slide up to your cheeks, so gentle it almost hurts more than your wounds, and you drag him down with you onto the couch. He comes like he’s magnetized to you, lays you back beneath him like you’re made of glass and every millimeter of his skin against yours is heaven on fucking earth.
He braces himself atop you, pulling back to meet your eyes, and you grab his face in your hands and drag his mouth back to yours and it is incredible. He feels incredible and you missed him so much you finally feel like you’re breathing again.
He parts your lips with his own, groans as tongue sweeps into your mouth like the taste of you is a drug, and you arch against him as he presses you down into the couch, the feeling of his own need quickly making itself evident against your thigh. This. This this this. The feeling of his control cracking, of his desperation to touch you making him walk the line between gentle and rough until every touch sends sparks through your body, this is what you need. What you missed. This is making it all better.
You whimper, and he kisses you harder, and you are on fucking fire as his teeth catch your bottom lip, hand sliding up to your cheek as you begin fumbling with his belt and he rocks his hips against yours and-
And then his calloused fingers press a little too hard against your bruised cheek, and you jump as pain shoots down your spine, and he pulls back like you just burned him.
“No. No no no-“ you start, out of your mind with lust and the desperate need to forget. Just for a minute. When he’s kissing you, when he’s against you, you feel so much better when all you’ve felt is emptiness and pain for months.
Let me forget. Let me forget please don’t make me think about what just happened and Lena and how much I missed you please please please just-
“Stop.” He rasps, breath ragged as his hand slides beneath your head, cradling it as his nose brushes over your cheek. He’s shaking with restraint, and you’re sure that if you can just get his damn belt off he’ll cave but his free hand comes down to catch your wrists and you almost fucking cry. “You’re hurt.” And then, softer, closer to your ear and dripping with guilt and regret, “you’re hurt.”
“I don’t care.” And you don’t. And it’s a little scary how much you don’t care. You just want him. You haven’t even seen him in weeks, since that night in the backyard, and you feel like everything might be better if he just keeps touching you.
You reach up to scrape your fingers through his hair, and his forehead drops against yours, his hold tightening on your hip.
“I can’t.” His voice is a low rasp, nose bumping against your own as his eyes fall closed like the mere feeling of you touching him may be all that he needs.
“Please, Andrew.”
He grips you tighter, and leans back down.
And then the door to the bar slams open, loudly enough that the sound echoes into the back room, and he pulls away like he’s just fallen back to earth.
You almost protest, but then Deran and Craig are pushing their way into the back, and Craig is crouching before you.
“Oh, fuck. You look like shit.”
You laugh, and then, to your horror, you start to cry.
“Fuck. Fuck, okay. I’ve gotcha.” He pulls your face into his shoulder, like he might hide your ridiculous weeping, and turns his head to look at Pope. “You didn’t do any of this, right?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The level of danger in the other man’s voice nearly sends a chill down your spine.
“Chill, just checking.” Your head is pushed back again, surprisingly gently, and Deran hisses as he takes in the sight of you.
“Christ.” And then he’s beside you, touching the wound on your head. “She might need to go to Tijuana or some shit.”
“That’s for bullet wounds.” Pope snaps, eyes still on yours and body angled towards you like he might shove the two other men away at any moment. “She needs a few stitches. I’ve got her.”
“You’ve gotta take care of the…“
Body. The body. The body you made because you stabbed that guy in the neck and he-
“Take her home. I’ll be there soon.”
Craig nods, beginning to pull you to your feet. “Okay, c’mon. We can watch that dumb reality show you like. Just-“ he starts, and Pope stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Take her home.” He says, and the implication would make you frown if you weren’t still in shock. “Not to your place.”
Craig looks at you. You look at him. You look at Pope.
You turn back to Craig, and nod.
He steps back, and Pope moves forward to press his lips against your forehead, pulling back to tilt your chin up and look you in the eyes.
“I’ll be there soon. Is that okay?”
Always, always asking if you’re okay. Always checking on you. Always putting you first.
“Yeah.”
And when he leaves, and Craig takes you home, you feel his loss like a phantom limb.
-
Pope is gone for hours.
Craig fusses over your head for all three of those fucking hours.
“Fucking-ow!” You hiss, as he pulls the needle through your skin again, instinctively trying to shove him back for maybe the fiftieth time.
“Sorry. Shit, I usually have this done to me. Hang on.”
You sputter as he spills a shot of tequila over the wound again, and shove him some more.
“Knock it off. I’m disinfecting.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works.”
“Will you relax?”
“You’re definitely not doing it right.”
“Well it’s not every fuckin’ day I have to stitch up my best friend’s open forehead wound while she sits on my brother’s couch with a fucking boot print on her back.”
“Don’t act like you haven’t seen weirder shit.”
He stops, and crouches in front of you, one hand still holding the needle while the other rests on your shoulder.
“That’s it. C’mon, look at me for a sec.”
You do, and you’re still trying to glare, but with your puffy, red-rimmed
eyes and bruised face, you know it doesn’t hold much weight.
“You saved your own life tonight. You know that?”
“I killed someone.” Your voice sounds too small.
“He was gonna kill you. Probably worse.” Craig doesn’t get…intense, often. The way he’s looking at you now only proves just how dire the situation was tonight, and you have to grit your teeth to keep from shaking. He squeezes your shoulder, and offers you a small smile.
“You make a hell of a Cody, ya know that?”
Ugh. You might start crying again.
You hug him instead, stitches be damned, and he barely has time to maneuver the needle so it doesn’t rip your forehead apart before he’s hugging you right back.
“And,” he adds, one large hand rubbing soothingly over your bruised back, “if Pope doesn’t kill everyone that guy’s ever known, I will. No one’s gonna hurt you again. Promise.”
You laugh, as fucked up as it is, and you feel a whole lot better.
-
You’re leaning against Craig’s shoulder on the couch, aching all over and trying to lose yourself in the conversation, when Pope Cody comes through the door and sits down in front of you faster than you can even register that he’s home.
There’s blood on his face. Dirt on his hands.
“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet, fingers skating through your hair in that wonderfully familiar way as he inspects your wound.
“No.” There’s no need to lie. He’ll see right through it, anyway.
“Okay.” He traces a gentle, calloused touch over your cheek. Down to your neck, where the barely there pressure on the bruises on your throat make you flinch, less from pain than from memory.
Craig leaves with one more gentle ruffle of your hair, and then you’re alone. You let Pope touch you, let him move his eyes and fingertips over every single wound on your face and body. Watch the rage build in his eyes again as he takes in the state of you.
“I should have done your stitches. Craig never ties them right.” He pulls back, earnest like his next words might matter to you. “This is gonna scar.”
“I think I’m in love with you.”
What a truly fucked up thing for you to say right now. You just killed a guy. Pope just hid the body for you. He’s your fake husband and you’ve barely spoken in months.
He pauses, and pulls back to look at you. And then he looks at your head, like he’s inspecting the wound again.
“Stop. I’m not concussed. I mean, I don’t think I am.” You frown, and reach up to catch his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said-“
“I love you.” He interrupts, and curls his fingers around yours. “I love you so much I can’t think. I can’t sleep without you. I can’t breathe right. You…” his eyes are intense, locked onto yours, but he’s fighting for the words. “You’re everything to me. You have been since I met you.”
That catches your attention. You blink at him, opening your mouth to try to find something to say, but he keeps going.
“I would die for you. I would kill for you. Sometimes I want you to ask me to kill for you, just so I can show you how much…” your eyes widen, and he frowns. “I won’t, though. But I…I would.”
“I think the way you measure love is a little fucked up.”
His lips quirk, like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m fucked up.”
“Yeah, you are.” You concede, and offer him a smile of your own. “But I love you.”
His smile falls, but his thumb is still doing that sweet thing where it brushes over your cheek. “I’ve killed people before.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to kill that guy tonight. I was hoping he wasn’t dead yet, so that I could kill him.”
“You’re not gonna scare me off, Pope.”
“Andrew.”
“Andrew.” You smile, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. “You’re not gonna scare me off, Andrew.”
This time, when he kisses you, he doesn’t stop.
-
EPILOGUE - SOME TIME LATER
“I’ve literally never seen a baby look so pissed off all the time.” Craig’s hand drops to Pope’s shoulder, giving him a friendly little shake. “Congrats, dude. Definitely yours.”
“I think that’s just his poop face.” You cock your head down at the baby in question. “And his hungry face. And his…happy face.”
Pope makes a quiet noise, and moves forward to lift the dour-faced child into his arms. There’s something about watching him, scarred face and gigantic muscles and all, hold such a small bundle with so much fondness that it still makes you grin every time.
“You’ve gotta bounce him a little.” He says, in his rough and quiet voice, before doing exactly that, and then…
A quiet, cooing giggle. A tiny hand reaching up to grab at his father’s nose. And finally, brightest of all, Pope Cody grinning from ear to fucking ear.
“See, he smiles.” Pope reaches up to catch the baby’s hand, tiny fingers wrapping around his pointer, and you think your heart might explode.
“You look fucking scary like that, dude.”
“Oh, shut up.” You catch Pope’s chin, and pull him down for a quick kiss. He’s still smiling, and you smile back, and Craig groans. “He hasn’t slept in like, three days. He’s out of his mind. It makes him more smiley than usual.”
“I’ve slept.” He mumbles, turning back to the baby.
“You have not. You keep waking me up with your fingers on my pulse. Or standing over his crib.”
“The birth was traumatic.”
“The birth was three months ago.”
He grunts, and the baby coos, and he smiles again.
All jokes aside, he’s been doing that a lot lately.
And, a month or two back, when Lena’s now-parents let the two of you come over to the house to show her her new cousin, she had seen that smile, looked up, and smiled right back.
“What?” Pope had asked, looking down at the little girl the two of you had come together to raise so long ago. The little girl who also smiles more openly, now. Who giggles and comes to life more easily and is so excited to show the two of you her drawings from school and the new swing in the backyard.
“You guys don’t look sad anymore.” She said, simply, and you had burst into fucking tears, hormonal and happy and sleep-deprived as you were, and Pope had laughed out loud as he’d pulled you into his arms, sandwiching your baby between the two of you.
Now, you stand beside him by the pool, heart swelling in your chest again as you watch him smile, and he leans over to press his lips to the side of your head.
“We should renew our vows.” He hums, and you laugh.
“You really wanna throw another party?”
He smiles again, and kisses your cheek. “No. I want to marry you again. The right way.”
He’s said the same thing a few times, now. When you got pregnant, when you were pregnant, complaining about your swollen ankles and aching back, when you were lying in the hospital bed and half awake after the birth, when you were both half awake again holding your crying two week old on the couch…
And now, you finally answer.
“Ask me.”
He smiles again. The baby slaps fitfully at his cheek.
“Will you marry me?”
You grin right back at him, and lean up to press your lips to his.
summary: prison was never going to stop Dex from finding you again.
who: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Bullseye x Female!Murdock Reader
word count: 2.9k (i got carried away)
warnings: soulmate au, mentions of blood, injuries, break-in, imprisonment, emotional tension, and obsessive themes. If I have missed any please let me know!
divider by: @uzmacchiato
“Wherever you stray, I follow…” — Willow by Taylor Swift
It was the uncomfortable pain in your shoulder that woke you from your restful sleep.
A pain that was no longer sharp, not like it was that night, but one that still lingers as a pinching, persistent ache that settles deep in your shoulder on cold and wet nights like tonight.
Rolling onto your back, you lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling and breathing through the pain as you gently massage three fingers against the ache, hoping it will pass and you won’t have to leave the coziness of your warm bed.
Feeling the rough scar beneath your fingers, you lie there trying to ignore the memories of how you got it, but when the sirens pass your apartment building, you find yourself slipping back into your memories of that day.
The day your life changed forever.
You, Foggy, and Karen had just left Josie’s Bar to check on Cafaro when the loud crack of a gunshot filled the air and pain hits you from behind. It rips through your right shoulder, taking your breath away before you fully understand what’s happened, as the force of it sends you stumbling forward.
But what made you stiffen was the blood splatter on Karen’s face as you realised that the bullet had exited your shoulder and hit Foggy, who had collapsed onto the ground as people around you screamed in horror, and for a few seconds you froze in pain and panic before adrenaline kicked in and you were moving before your mind caught up.
Yelling for someone to call an ambulance, you press your hands firmly against Foggy’s wound, willing your powers to stop healing you and to heal Foggy.
To keep him breathing, and to keep him stable. To keep him with you.
You were so lost in your panic that you didn’t even notice when Karen put her hands against your shoulder until she pressed down hard enough to make you gasp in pain as she tried to keep as much of your blood where it should be.
“Stay with me.” Her voice broke as each word filled with more panic. “Both of you, please.”
But you don’t answer. You can’t.
Not when you're forcing everything you have into Foggy. Not when you can hear your brother fighting on the roof of Josie’s Bar, knowing that he’s listening to Foggy’s heartbeat, to your blood dripping onto the street.
With your body begging to heal the hole in your shoulder, your vision blurs as you push through the pain, putting everything you have into Foggy. You hadn’t even realised that you'd been repeating the same things over and over.
“Keep breathing. Just keep breathing. Stay with me.”
But the strain keeps building, becoming sharper with each passing moment, when a heavy impact lands behind you three. Your breath catches as your powers flicker for just a moment as you silently pray that you won’t lose them both tonight. Not Foggy and Matt.
Not your brothers.
Breathing deeply, you steady your hands, channel your powers, and check that Foggy is still breathing as the paramedics that have just arrived rush to help before you turn your head and let out a sigh of relief.
Not Matt.
You slouch into Karen's waiting arms, your pain finally catching up with you as you fully turn to look at Benjamin Poindexter on the ground, barely conscious, and as you make eye contact, it happens.
The pleasant burning feeling on your left collarbone. The sign you've been waiting nearly your whole life for.
The sign that you have met your soulmate.
And yours has just shot you.
Breathing deeply, you push the memory out of your mind, reminding yourself that you’re in your apartment tucked away in your warm bed and not bleeding in the arms of your friend.
But the ache is still there, still pinching, and you realise that no amount of gentle rubbing is going to relieve it tonight. Sighing you toss your covers back, slide your feet into your soft slippers to make your way to your kitchen, where you last put the pain relief balm.
Slowly you push yourself to stand, your aching shoulder throbbing in protest as you put on your fluffy robe, fingers brushing against the scar, and take a deep breath.
Checking your clock that reads 1:44 AM, you tighten the robe and step into the hallway.
The apartment is pitch black except as you make your way towards the kitchen, you don’t bother turning on any lights, using the moonlight to help lead you to the balm left on the center island.
Opening it, you gently massage the soothing gel onto your scar, letting out a sigh of relief as you feel it take effect. Placing the lid back on the tin and tucking it into your robe's pocket, you turn back towards the bedroom when the sound of fabrics moving against each other comes from the darkness of the living room.
Slowly you grab a knife from the wooden block and move carefully towards the sound, slippers gently slapping against the wooden floors. Keeping your breathing as quiet as possible, you slowly crept around the corner and quickly flicked the lamp on, flinching at the brightness and nearly dropping the knife when you saw who was sitting on the sofa.
Benjamin Poindexter was supposed to be imprisoned and serving multiple life sentences. Not casually sitting on your new sofa.
Blood darkening the side of his shirt as one of his hands pressed tightly against it, though a slow trickle of blood slips through his fingers. His head lifts the second the light turns on, and for a moment he doesn’t move; he just stares at you with a look in his eyes that you can’t quite place.
For a few seconds, neither of you speak. You just look at him, cataloguing everything that has changed since you last saw him. He’s bigger and bulkier than before, as if he had nothing to do in prison except gain more muscles. You ignore how it makes your heart stutter.
Dex’s eyes flicker briefly towards the knife clutched in your hand, and a smirk appears on his face as he looks you in the eyes. “Are you going to use that?” he asks quietly.
“Why are you here?” Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. “What do you want?”
Soulmate or not, this is still the man who shot you.
Dex’s eyes lower briefly to the blood staining his side. His hand still tightly clutching the wound. “I needed help.”
Then his eyes lift back to yours. “And I wanted to see you.”
Something tightens in your chest because part of you understands exactly what he means.
For a moment you stay where you are, knife still low at your side, eyes flickering once again towards the blood dripping from his hand and staining your sofa.
“You’re staining my sofa,” you say, placing the knife on the shelf, hands more steady than you feel.
Dex tilts his head, eyebrows twitching in confusion. “What?”
“My sofa is brand new, and you’re ruining it.”
“Oh,” he says, finally noticing his blood soaking the cushions. “So I am.”
You exhale slowly, feeling the last bit of adrenaline leave your body. When your brother told you this morning he was going to see Dex in prison, this wasn’t how you expected your night to go.
“Let me see it,” you say.
Dex stills at your words, his hand moving to his ribs, his eyes slightly hopeful.
“Your injury,” you sharply say, face flushing red. “Not that.”
His eyes stay on you for a second before he slowly moves his hands away from his body. Blood immediately gushes through the tear in his shirt, a stab wound from what you could see and probably a few hours old.
You swear softly under your breath. “You should be at a hospital, especially with those face wounds as well.”
“No.” His answer was quick but certain. “Just you, only you.”
You don’t bother arguing as you step closer, removing your robe and setting it below you on the coffee table. He looks worse up close, pale even in the light of your warm lightbulb, and the left side of his face was bruised.
But his eyes never left you, slowly roaming up and down, taking in your light blue PJs, and smirking at your fluffy cow slippers.
“What?” you ask, reaching for the box of medical supplies you kept in the ottoman. Usually you would have used your powers, but tonight you were too tired and drained from helping out at the back-alley clinic your boss ran.
“Fluffy cow slippers?” His amusement was clear in his voice.
“Shut up,” you say, putting all your supplies on the table beside you. “They were a gift from Karen, and they’re very comfortable.”
Dex snorted. “Sure.”
“Are you armed?” you ask, pulling on gloves and sliding to your knees.
“Yes.” He said, spreading his legs to give you more room.
“… Are you planning on using it?” You ask, facing your supplies.
“No.” His answer was quick and certain again. “Not on you, never on you.”
Again. You couldn’t help but think.
“You’re nervous,” Dex says quietly, still watching you, and you begin to wonder if he’s even blinked.
You snort at that. “You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and are now bleeding all over my sofa.”
“You’re still helping me.” He says like this means something.
You refuse to answer that as you reach for his shirt because deep down it does.
“Lean forwards.” You say quietly.
Dex obeys immediately and you lift his shirt. The movement exposing his defined muscles, and a few inches above the wound in black letters was your name. Unblemished, like he had done everything to protect it.
You freeze slightly at the sight of it, feeling the rush of emotions that happened every time you thought about him. Shaking the feelings away, you grabbed the disinfectant and soaked a gauze.
Silence settled between you as you dabbed at the wound, soaking up as much blood as you could before grabbing a fresh gauze.
“You didn’t come to see me,” he whispered breaking the silence, his eyes leaving you and going towards his blood-soaked hand.
“Don’t,” you say quietly, pressing the alcohol-soaked gauze harder against the wound than intended.
Dex barely reacts as his eyes move back to you. “Don’t what?”
“Talk like this changes anything.” You whisper, grabbing a new gauze to wipe away the remaining blood.
And for the first time since you walked into the living room, something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not hatred, but something you didn’t expect to see on him.
Hurt.
“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew, but you never came.”
You still at his words because what was there to say? For months you’ve refused to talk about what happened that night, focusing on your family and pushing every thought or feeling about him away.
For months you’ve kept your bond with him to yourself despite how much you wanted to cry and rant to someone about it without being judged or scorned.
You force yourself to keep working, fingers steady despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “Yes,” you say evenly. “I knew.”
The quiet is heavy as it fills the room before you clear your throat, reaching for the needle and thread in the kit. “You need stitches.”
“Sit up properly if you can,” you instruct, pulling all the necessary items closer to you.
Dex watches you for a second longer before pushing himself upright from the cushions, his jaw as he straightens himself up.
“Take the shirt off.” You say, preparing everything that you needed to stitch him up.
Dex drops the blood-soaked fabric onto the table behind you, exposing the full extent of the wound. The weapon grazed more than it pierced, but it still tore enough flesh to make a mess of his side.
Wiping the surrounding area with a fresh gauze, you gently rubbed some numbing cream around the wound and threaded the needle while waiting for it to dry.
“This is going to hurt.” You say, leaning closer towards him.
Dex goes still at your words, his attention once again focused fully on you.
You try to ignore his eyes on you, focusing completely on stitching the wound perfectly and not on how close he was now that you’re kneeling between his legs and leaning against him to get better access to the wound.
“You should’ve had this cleaned hours ago,” you mutter nearly halfway done.
“I was busy.” He answers as his hand gently brushes against your shoulder.
“With?” You ask, eyes still not leaving the wound but not shrugging his hand away.
His eyes scan your face. “Finding you.”
Your hand slips slightly. Not enough to hurt him, but enough for him to notice.
“You already knew where I lived.”
“I wanted to see you.”
There’s that sentence again. So honest, like there was nothing else more important.
Silence settles between you again, broken only by the quiet rattle of paper as you open fresh gauzes and the sound of rain against the windows. Focusing once again on your task, you quickly lose yourself in what is familiar.
Then Dex quietly says, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
You tie off the last stitch before grabbing more gauze and soaking it in antiseptic alcohol. “Most prisoners send a letter.”
“I didn't think you’d like letters from me.”
You couldn’t stop your quiet snort.
“Did you think about me?” he says quietly after a while. Hand tightening on your shoulder like the answer to this question could hurt him more than his wound.
You press the gauze against the stitches, cleaning them and the surrounding area. “You were all over the news, quite hard to miss.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He says cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.
His face is blank, but his eyes are looking at you like he’s already decided you belong in his life.
And maybe you did. But it causes that familiar complicated feeling to twist in your chest.
“You shot me,” you say softly before you can stop yourself. “I waited years for you, and you shot me.”
Your confession settles heavily between you, and for the second time that night, Dex looks away.
“I know.” He says his face filled with something you couldn’t place—guilt, maybe.
The apartment smells faintly of antiseptic, rain, and blood. Outside the storm gets stronger.
Inside the living room, neither of you move.
“You’ll live,” you say, taking off your gloves.
Dex looks down at the neat line of stitches crossing his side before his gaze drifts back to you. “I know.”
Standing up, you move all the soiled items aside so that you can toss them in the kitchen bin. “You should go before the numbing wears off.”
Moving back to the table, you pack up the remaining medical items, making a mental note to restock and place them back in the ottoman.
Leaning down to grab your robe, your breath catches as Dex reaches out his hand, gently grabbing your wrist, his thumb gently pressing against your pulse.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“I’m tired.” You say, making no move to pull away.
“You’re drained.” He states.
You almost deny it. But what would be the point? He noticed everything else about you tonight.
“I’ve had a long night,” you remind him.
“And you still helped me.” He states like this means something.
Before you could reply, Dex’s gaze drops to your shoulder. To the scar barely hidden by your shirt. His expression shifts into the same look as earlier.
“I didn’t mean to hit you,” he says honestly. “You moved in front of him so quickly I didn’t have time to stop.”
You look away at his admission, part of you wanting to believe him while the other part wants to shoot him to make it even.
Rain hits the windows harder as you begin to feel it again, that persistent and wanting pull between you becoming tighter the longer he stays.
“You need to leave,” you say quietly.
Dex looks at you for a long second. “Why didn’t you come to see me?”
The question hit you like a punch to the gut. Months of knowing exactly who he was to you, and you’d done nothing.
No visits. No letters. Nothing except pretend the name on your skin didn’t exist.
“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew where I was.”
You couldn’t force yourself to hold his gaze. Not when you knew what he was really asking. Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you choose me?
But you can’t answer that. Not honestly. Not when the truth was that every day you wanted to see him, to betray your friends and your family just to get a day with him.
“You need to leave.” You say, instead of spilling the truth, pulling your wrist out of his grip.
For a second, you think he might argue. His stare fixed so intensely on you that you almost cave and spill the truth.
Then he stands, pulling his shirt back over his head, and makes his way towards the window. Pushing it open wider, as storm blows cold air and rain into the living room as he tosses one leg out before he pauses and turns to look back at you again.
“I’m going to see you again.” He states.
Then he disappears into the night, and you’re left standing alone in your living room.
Your fingers slowly brush his name on your skin, and you can’t stop the feeling of wanting to see him again.
A/N: This is my first one-shot written so feedback is welcome!
is it fucked up that i want a reader who ends up just killing themselves when i read those darkfics about characters kidnapping reader whether it’s out of love, obsession or control?? (or sometimes just to torture them but same thing just in different fonts loll)
maybe it’s because i go a lil too far in putting myself in readers position and all i can think every time is a plan on how i would kill myself.
oh my god bonus points if reader finds the gun just as character finds them again and they have a sort of stand off. reader is pointing the gun at them, not verbally threatening them but it’s obvious they’re thinking about shooting character and character knows that.
but character doesn’t seem too worried about it and even goes as far to say “you won’t do it” and reader thinks for a moment and is like “you’re right. i won’t shoot you” before quickly turning the gun on themselves and blowing their brains out and character is stunned, horrified because they didn’t think reader would genuinely do it.
too put it short, i want more fucked up reader who’s spirit breaks so their only solution is killing themselves cause they would rather die than submit.
Summary: Pretending to be married wasn’t exactly the dream solution, but it was better than the constant parade of wandering hands and flirting that made concentrating on work seem impossible. Oh, and it would also hopefully protect you from loosing your job when a certain Colonel once again decided that you were his favorite past time activity in the base.
Warnings: explicit smut, doggy style, age difference (not exactly daddy issues but reader is thinking about the possibility), p in v, oral (f receiving), size difference, authority kink, minimal misogyny / catcalling / non consensual flirting from coworkers, basically everyone wants y/n, lots of lying, lots of teasing, lots of sexual tension, semi-public sex, fake marriage, fake engagement ring
Notes: Huge thanks to my beloved @eywaite for allowing me to make this prompt become reality!! I love you for always feeding me the most juiciest ideas 🤭🩵
Sometimes you hated this job.
Recombinant Support Officer, or RSO for short. Lots of fancy-sounding words for what’s basically the professional babysitter of the recombinant team Deja Blue.
Your days are a blur of running around playing manager, nurse, personal assistant and part-time waitress. You fetch whatever they demand, no matter if it’s protein sludge, ammo or a snack they suddenly need in the middle of a briefing. You check their vitals, patch up minor wounds, monitor their workouts and make sure they don’t forget to hydrate. You keep them healthy, combat ready and basically presentable enough to show off to command.
And when one of them snaps their fingers? You’re there, med kit in one hand and coffee in the other, trying not to roll your eyes too hard. They’re supposed to be the pinnacle of military engineering. Most days however, it feels like you’re wrangling giant, moody housecats with assault rifles.
The military calls this "critical operational support." You however just call it the longest, never-ending shift of your life…
Okay, you may be exaggerating a bit. Usually it’s not that bad.
You get to order around people, which is kinda fun when they’re these genetically enhanced badasses who’d rather glare than listen to anyone but you. You’re the one calling the shots on the small stuff, like when to eat, when to rest, who needs patched up first, so you get a little taste of power.
And yeah, you do get to see some insane action every now and then, when the squad actually gets sent out instead of just flexing in the lab. Makes the whole circus feel kinda worth it.
Sometimes they actually surprise you, too. Like when one of them cracks a joke or thanks you for keeping their sorry asses alive. That’s a win.
It's nice to know they need you. But that isn't the part that bothers you. No, what bothers you is that even though they’re blue and inhumanly tall, they’re still men.
And the thing about men is that they are all the same. No matter how big, how strong or how blue their skin was, they were still just men. Selfish, arrogant assholes who think the world owes them something. Even underneath all that superhuman bullshit that should make them look like earths hero’s, they’re just men with zero self-awareness and a serious touch of entitlement.
In their spare time, when they’re not roughhousing with each other, the soldiers tease and flirt like you’re some prize they’re trying to snag, tossing around dumb jokes and smirks like it’s all just harmless fun. You’ve had to shut down more than one awkward friendly shoulder squeeze or accidental hand linger. And they don’t even realize they’re being gross half the time!
So yeah, it’s nice to know they need you, that you’re as much part of the team that they feel comfortable around you. But the constant parade of unwanted attention? That’s the part that wears you down.
This was one of those weeks, the kind that seemed to stretch on endlessly, where every shift bled into the next and sleep became more of a vague memory than an actual necessity. Between running interference on squad drama and making sure none of your overgrown blue idiots forgot how to eat properly (no, a cigarette and beer doesn’t count as breakfast), you were running on fumes.
So that morning, the cafeteria was your sanctuary. Early, quiet, blissfully free of soldiers. Just you in a corner booth, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that was finally, mercifully hot. A very rare occurrence.
You were halfway lost in thought, mentally counting how many hours of sleep you’d missed this week, when the artificial light above your head suddenly vanished and a shadow fell over your table.
"Well, ain’t this my lucky mornin’."
You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was: "Colonel."
"Boss." With a sharp grin, Quaritch slid into the seat across from you without waiting for an invite, his long blue frame making the table look like it belonged in a dollhouse. "Up early I see."
You took a sip of your coffee. "I’m trying to have breakfast without an audience for once."
Quaritch’s grin widened, before he tipped his own coffee mug up in cheers. "Hell, I’m the whole damn show, sugar. Front row seats, backstage pass. Comes free with my company."
A dry laugh escaped you. "Generous offer. But I’m still not interested."
"That’s cold," he said, feigning injury with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest. "Here I am, brightenin’ your day and you’re gonna shut me down like that?"
This was nothing new. Quaritch had a way of circling conversations like a predator that already knew it had the upper hand. Among all the recombinants, he was easily the most persistent, needling with a mix of sarcasm, shameless flirting and just enough sincerity to make it difficult to tell where his game ended. Or where it was even headed.
"Quitting isn’t in your vocabulary, is it?" You joked lightheartedly, yet your chuckle came out more nervous than you intended.
"Not when I see somethin’ worth the effort." His tone was smooth, confident, as if the words were a statement of fact rather than an attempt at charm.
You couldn’t help but squirm in your seat at that.
Quaritch was still grinning, all teeth and arrogance. Sometimes you thought he must’ve been paid by the number of flustered looks he could wring out of you, because when it wasn’t teasing, it was this thick, shameless flirting that made you want to either laugh awkwardly and flee the scene or pour cold water over your head to regain some sense of control over your own body.
Because truth be told, it was betraying you. Every. Single. Time.
Unfortunately you knew just where unprofessional work affairs would get you. And Pandora was not one of those places.
The stakes were too damn high for that kind of stupidity. Getting caught flirting (or worse) with the Colonel wouldn’t just earn you a slap on the wrist. It’d get you a one-way ticket off Pandora, and not the cushy kind with severance pay and a nice shuttle ride home. No, it’d be the kind where you’re tossed out with a 'don’t come back' stamped on your record, reputation shot to hell before you even made it through the debriefing.
But this right here, this was exactly where your newest plan finally came into play.
Born out of equal parts desperation and self-preservation, you had went out and bought the cheapest fake diamond you could find in a rundown supply store tucked away in one of Bridgehead’s less glamorous corners.
Pretending to be married, or at least engaged, wasn’t exactly the dream solution, but it was certainly better than the constant parade of wandering hands and flirting that made concentrating on work seem impossible. Oh, and it would also hopefully protect you from loosing your job (and dignity) when a certain Colonel once again decided that you were his favorite past time activity in the base. Because, let’s be honest, a simple 'no' would not work on this man. Not that you were able to ever tell him that, once it really came down to business.
So, with a subtle clearing of your throat, you let your hand rest casually on the table, the ring catching the light just enough to draw attention.
And just as you thought, his eyes immediately dropped to it. Quaritchs smirk faltered for the briefest fraction of a second before he recovered. "Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t know ya‘ had a boyfriend."
"Fiancé," you correct, hiding your nervous smile behind your coffee mug.
He let out a low chuckle at that, shaking his head. "Huh. Bet he’s a lucky son of a bitch."
"Yeah," you said, quickly taking another slow sip. "He is."
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
It’s amazing how fast a simple band of metal changes the mood of team Deja Blue.
Only a couple of days later and the not-so-professional comments at work had dropped by half, the 'accidental' touches happened less and the teasing had shifted to dumb jokes about your 'lucky husband' instead of your ass. It was as though the squad had collectively decided that maybe there were better uses for their energy than testing boundaries.
Today’s task list, however, hadn’t gotten any shorter. Down in supply, a fresh shipment had arrived. Crates stacked high with whatever specialized gear Command had decided the recoms couldn’t live without this week.
Unfortunate for you, none of them moved itself.
Three bulky boxes were stacked in precarious balance against your chest, your arms straining to keep them steady. Every step down the hallway became an exercise in blind navigation, the top box blocking nearly all of your vision. The muffled thud of boots and distant chatter echoed off the metal walls as you shifted the boxes from one hip to the other, inching closer to the squad’s staging area.
Somewhere ahead, a shadow shifted into view, though the stack made it impossible to identify what or who was standing in your way. There was no warning, no greeting for that matter, just a sudden shift in weight as the boxes were lifted away in one smooth, unasked-for motion.
"Jesus, kid. C‘mere." Quaritch huffed, the boxes now cradled easily in his arms, his expression equal parts irritation and amusement, as though watching someone single handedly drag themselves into exhaustion was both maddening and weirdly impressive. His gaze flicked over to your now empty hands, then back to the face that had been hidden behind the boxes.
"Thanks, Colonel," you muttered, hiding the relief in your voice.
"Where do these go?" he asked, already walking ahead, like this little rescue operation was just a minor detour in his day.
"Oh, uh, these are for the squad," came your reply, already a little breathless from keeping pace with his big steps. "They’re headed to your floor."
A curt nod was all you received as an indication that he’s even heard you.
As you walked, Quaritch’s tail swished lazily behind him, a subtle, rhythmic motion that was impossible not to notice once your eyes had drifted in that direction. And that was certainly not because you were staring anywhere else in that region. There was just something about the way it moved, those sharp little flicks when he was irritated, that made it clear he wasn’t entirely thrilled to be here right now. Maybe it was the fact that someone had been hauling three boxes solo, maybe it was something else entirely. Either way, he carried these boxes as if they weighed nothing to him, which was definitely impressive.
From behind, it was hard not to let your gaze linger. The broad line of his back, the easy flex of his biceps, the muscles under his camo tank, even the casual confidence in every movement. It was an irritating kind of perfect. And sure, it was easy to dismiss that flicker of interest as something purely biological. Quaritch was tall, strong, yeah even a little bit handsome, but that didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything. Yes, that also may have made him look dangerous in all the best ways and infuriatingly capable, but it also made him off-limits.
So no, there was no real crush here. Just… an aesthetic appreciation. That was all.
Not to mention, he was so much older than you!
Old enough that if life had gone a little differently, he could’ve been the dad glaring at your prom date on the front porch.
The worst part about this was that you found it a teeny tiny bit attractive. Not the potential dad part— God, no, but the way it showed how much older he was.
Every time he called you 'kid' (and he did that a lot) it was like being smacked in the face with the reminder that you were barely halfway to his age and miles beneath him in experience, rank, and, well… every other way that counted. It was both a turn-off and a turn-on in the most deeply inconvenient, self-loathing and confusing sort of way.
Never, ever in a million years would you admit that to anyone. This piece of information about yourself was something you’d take to the grave.
Which was exactly why you had to actively force your eyes away now, because if he ever caught you staring you’d never hear the end of it.
"So," the Colonel drawled, slowing his steps just enough to glance over his shoulder with that stupidly hot half-smile, "your boyfriend know they let you do manual labor, sweet cheeks?"
"Fiancé." You correct him again. "And yes, he does."
"And he’s fine with it?" Quaritch pressed. The corner of his mouth twitched with a flicker of curiosity, though there was a certain weight in his stare that you guessed meant he probably wouldn’t like whatever answer was coming.
You arched an eyebrow in return. "Why wouldn’t he be?"
"M’just sayin’," he shrugged, shifting the boxes in his arms with ease. "You’re such a tiny thing, I wouldn’t want my girl carryin’ boxes twice her weight."
A short, nervous laugh escaped you. "Well, lucky I’m not your girl then, huh?"
Quaritch didn’t bother replying to that. He just let out a low, amused scoff, as if the very idea of you being his was so far-fetched it was laughable. Oh, well. There goes another blow straight to your self esteem. Not that there was much left to chip away at when it came to Quaritch anyways. He was so out of your league, the both of you (and basically the rest of the world) already knew that. No need to sulk about that in self-pity.
The rest of the walk stretched in silence, his boots echoing dully against the corridor floor until you stepped through the wide double doors into Team Deja Blue’s common area.
This part of their floor looked exactly like a bunch of oversized soldiers had claimed it as theirs.
There was an absurdly large couch sprawled across one wall like it had been built for titans, all rumpled cushions and a suspicious stain you weren’t willing to identify. In the center sat a pool table so big it looked like it had been stolen from a luxury cruise liner, with pool cues that could double as spears. A mini fridge, that was about as tall as you, hummed quietly in the corner, plastered with dented RDA stickers, pictures of na’vi pinup girls and the faint smear of what looked like dried hot sauce across the handle. Ew.
This room smelled like the unmistakable cocktail of protein powder, sweat and whatever half-eaten ration pack someone had abandoned in the sink. Your nose wrinkled and you took a mental note to get someone to come in here this afternoon with industrial-strength disinfectant.
In the open gym section, the heavy clank of weights rang out as one of the men grunted through a bench press. Meanwhile, Lyle was flexing in front of the mirrored wall. Behind him, Z-Dog sat cross-legged on Mansk back while he cranked out push-ups, barking encouragement like some sadistic personal trainer. A few others lounged across the couch, trading jabs over a card game.
"These go into the storage room next door," you told Quaritch, moving to take one of the boxes from his arms.
He didn’t argue, just shifted his grip so you could grab hold.
In the storage room, narrow industrial shelves lined the walls, stacked with neatly labeled crates of gear, recom supplements and spare uniforms.
Balancing the weight in your arms, you stepped past Quaritch and made for the nearest empty shelf, stacking one box on top of another with a grunt. The second you did, there was an unpleasant little snag. Your hand caught somewhere between the cardboard and the metal of the shelf. You hissed under your breath, tugged, and before you knew it, the fake engagement ring went spinning off your finger and clinked against the floor.
Quaritch’s gaze tracked it instantly.
He set his own box down with a solid thunk and, without a word, strode over in one step. One large hand swept it up from the floor, his long fingers turning it once between them as though examining it.
When he straightened, the ring sat gleaming in the center of his palm, dwarfed by the sheer size of his hand. His eyes flicked from the cheap little diamond back to you.
"I know I said you’re tiny," Quaritch murmured with a dry chuckle, “but that thing is ridiculous, even for you. It’s so small."
"Excuse me?" The words came out sharper than intended as you stepped forward and quickly snatched it from his fingers.
His smirk didn’t budge, if anything, it deepened. "I’m just sayin’. Your fiancé must not love you if that’s the best rock he could put on your finger."
You could feel the heat crawling up your neck, not entirely from embarrassment but also because his words hurt. Fake marriage or not, you felt offended by his comment.
"It’s not always about the size!" You grumbled angrily.
"Sure it ain’t," he chuckled. "Man lets his girl bust her back carryin’ shit at work and sticks her with a pebble from the bottom of a fish tank. Sounds like a real winner."
That was the last thing you’ve heard him call after you, after you squeezed yourself between him and the door, and marched off.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
The water tastes sweet.
It takes you by surprise and for a split second you think of spitting it out. If this was the same water you got in the canteen yesterday then it should still taste like the bottom of a boot or licking a stop sign. But it doesn’t. Now it’s citrus and sugar, things you hadn’t tasted since before the world went to shit and your minimal pay on this exo-moon was spent on more important things and not… Lemonade.
You glance down at the translucent cup in your hand, brows furrowing in confusion. It’s lunch hour and the usual grumble of tired bodies and clinking trays slowly fill the cafeteria.
You swallow as slowly as you can, savoring a flavor that may end up killing you if that turns out to be poison or something. But there’s nothing. It really is just lemonade.
Interesting.
Usually, the only liquid that ever crossed your lips since you’ve landed here was water and the occasional black coffee so bitter it could strip paint. Lemonade wasn’t part of the deal. Not for someone at your rank, not unless you were dreaming or someone had screwed up the dispensers. Or… paid for your ration.
Here, everyone carried those thin, plastic cards that could be scanned at the drink machine or the food line. The machine would then spit out whatever ration or meal plan had been assigned for you, a hardcoded limit on what you could order. Usually, that meant choosing between two options neither of which was worth getting excited about.
You take a sip again, eyes scanning the room, wondering if someone upstairs finally decided to cut you some slack. Like that’d ever happen.
The higher-ups and the recombinants, those were the only ones who could afford things like lemonade, beer, or even an occasional steak. And speaking of the devil…
"Trouble in paradise?" Quaritch’s voice cuts through the background noise like a knife.
Before you can blink, he’s already settled himself to sit opposite of you, that damn grin stretched wide, looking almost hopeful as he’s waiting for a response. Hopeful for what… exactly?
"Huh?" You stare at him, dumbfounded. His gaze flickers down and you follow his direct line of sight. The ring! You must’ve forgotten to put it on this morning.
"Oh! Oh, that. Uhm, no I, I’m just getting it cleaned." It’s a lame excuse and you know chances are high he’s not buying it, but Quaritch just raises a brow, clearly disappointed. That must have not been the answer he was looking for.
Before another beat can pass, the weight of his stare makes your skin prickle. That flicker of disappointment in his eyes is almost worse than the grin. On top of that, he’s a lot more intimidating when he’s quiet like this.
You scramble for an escape hatch. "So… the lemonade." You lift the cup with an awkward smile, waiting for him to put two and two together.
The Colonel’s laugh was low and quick, the kind that rumbled in his chest and made your shoulders hitch. He leaned back in his chair, big arms folding over his chest. "What? Can’t spoil my favorite girl?"
"It’s Recombinant Support Officer," came your prim correction.
He snorted, one brow hitching up. "Yeah, whatever, kid."
There was a long, drawn-out sip from the lemonade, partly to hide the flush creeping up, partly to avoid giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. Of course, that only earned you a slow head tilt from across the table, like he was evaluating whether the drink or your fluster was sweeter.
Now that you were thinking about it, today was the second time this week the Colonel lingered in the cafeteria without the rest of his merry band of chaos following in his wake. That alone was unusual. Quaritch was a pack animal, the squad usually orbited him like stubborn moons. Seeing him here alone, sitting across the table with no distraction but the occasional sip from his coffee, sent an odd ripple of unease crawling up your spine.
Not fear exactly, he wasn’t about to flip the table and throw punches, but a different kind of nervousness. The kind that came from being the sole focus of someone who didn’t often give their attention in such a concentrated dose. And the lemonade? Clearly his way to apologize for the rude comment about your ring size the other day.
You idly stabbed your fork at the pile of mashed potatoes on your tray, more a performance of eating than an actual attempt at it. Every so often, an obligatory bite was taken just to keep yourself from looking too obvious, though chewing felt mechanical under the weight of Quaritchs unblinking gaze.
There was a feeling of hyper awareness of every movement, how long it took to lift the fork, whether your posture looked too stiff, if avoiding his eyes made it seem suspicious or just obvious. But still, he stayed put, leaning back and watching you like his favorite show was on.
"The squads been wondering when we‘ll get to meet the lucky guy," Quaritch said eventually.
The cup in your hand met the table harder than you had planned, a muted thunk that drew his eyes briefly downward before they came back up, pinning the focus squarely in place. Great. Now you were sweating for real.
Once more, the tray in front of you became very interesting. Stabbing at the limp cafeteria greens felt safer than holding his stare, though the fork kept scraping against the plastic in a way that was far too loud to be considered subtle.
"Oh uh, never I guess." You forced it out as casual as possible. "I keep my private and work life strictly separated."
Opposite of you, Quaritchs gaze didn’t waver. There was no smirk and no easy grin this time, just a low grumbled, "Aha."
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
"Pick it up, ladies! I’ve seen retirees with hip replacements run faster than this!"
That damn whistle of yours split through the morning air again, sharp enough to make Quaritch’s ears ring.
There was something about the smug little way you stood on the inside of the track, clipboard in one arm, whistle dangling from the other hand. Your shorts, fitted top, hair tied back just enough to keep it out of your face… Christ, you looked like a high school PE teacher who’d swapped dodgeball for military-grade training.
Behind him, a few groans rose from the pack. Z-Dog threw a glance over her shoulder, her signature smirk in place, before she broke into a bark of laughter.
"Pretty sure this counts as harassment, boss!" She called out.
"Pretty sure you still have another three laps," you countered without missing a beat. The laugh that followed was completely unbothered.
The sun caught on the sheen of sunscreen across your shoulders, highlighting the faint smirk you wore every time someone groaned or cursed under their breath. That, of course, only egged you on. You could be a real sadist if you wanted to, he had to give you that.
"Straighten up, Wainfleet! You’re leaning like you’re dodging sniper fire— fix it!" Another blast of the whistle, followed by some spiel about daily training goals like you were the damn drill sergeant here.
Quaritch smirked despite himself. There was a part of him that almost respected the nerve. Most people simply kept their mouths shut around the recoms unless they wanted a bad day. Not you, though.
Little spitfire. Barely came up to his shoulder and yet somehow had the balls to bark at a squad of recombinant marines.
"She’s enjoying this way too much," Fike muttered from somewhere next to him, just loud enough for the others to hear. A few chuckles followed at that.
"Yeah, she’s only here to watch us suffer." Wainfleet, never one to keep his damn mouth shut, didn’t even bother lowering his voice as he poked Fikes side with his elbow. "Waste of a good view if you ask me."
That earned him another round of snickers from the rest of the squad.
"I wonder if she’s that bossy with her husband," Prager then chimed in, words laced with a grin Quaritch didn’t need to see to picture. "Poor dude probably doesn’t get a say in bed either."
"Yeah, bet she’s got a damn spreadsheet for it," someone else added. Most likely Wainfleet, by the sound of his smug laughter.
Again, Z-Dogs shrill voice piped up, "Hell, if she gives him performance reviews like she gives us, I feel bad for the guy."
Enough of that. Quaritch gave a sharp whistle of his own, the kind that cut clean through their gutter talk. That got them moving again, boots thudding against the packed dirt in uneven rhythm. A few of them still muttered under their breath, but it was drowned out by the slap of sneakers and the shrill blast of your whistle. If their banter had hit, there wasn’t a flicker of it showing. Maybe their little comments didn’t register to you anymore, just another layer of morning noise, like the hum of the electric fence or the smell of wet earth.
Still, the mental picture stuck in his head like a tick. Some poor sap, thinking he’s king shit in his own little castle, while getting steamrolled daily by a five-foot-nothing hurricane. A guy like that probably asks permission before touching so much as a shoulder. Probably schedules his own sex life around your damn Google calendar.
Quaritch bit back a laugh. That’s not what a woman like you needed. Not some limp handshake motherfucker who folds like a lawn chair every time you bark an order. No, you were the type of woman who needed to get yanked right out of that command tower, shoved up against the wall, and reminded you didn’t have to hold the reins every second of every day. Let you lean back, breathe for once, and watch somebody else put in the work. You needed someone to fuck that tension right out of your little body, turn you into a real mess, until you were satisfied and fed. Not this pencil-pusher you were supposedly shackled to now. You needed a real man.
But that tiny ring belonged to a man who probably thought taking charge meant picking between the two options of a dinner date that you had planned. Poor bastard didn’t even know the fire he was sitting on.
After a quick medical checkup once you’ve had decided their morning cardio was done, a shower and choking down whatever the cafeteria was pretending was chicken, the squad drifted off to kill their free time.
Quaritch however, had a briefing to sit through. One of those that dragged on well past its usefulness while some corporate type clicked through slides of information he’d already heard twice this month. Unable to keep his focus on the slide show about na’vi migration patterns and some half-baked plan to foster cultural understanding, his gaze kept drifting to the datapad balanced on his knee. His thumb dragged over the brightness slider that refused to land anywhere between blinding and nearly black.
After the third flare of white across the screen, the Colonel exhaled slowly through his nose. Not that this was urgent, but irritating enough to decide it needed fixing once this was over.
When the meeting finally wrapped, he headed straight for the IT department.
The echo of his boots on the tile carried down the corridor, drawing a few sidelong glances from passing people. Some stiffened automatically, stepping aside to give him a clear path. Others held his gaze for half a second too long, that mix of wariness and grudging respect written plain on their faces. A pair of soldiers straightened from their slouch against the wall and snapped quick salutes as he passed, earning nothing more than a curt nod in return.
The second floor’s hallways were quieter, lined with the less glamorous offices and departments. IT sat at the far end, the door unmarked except for a faded placard with a serial number no one bothered to replace.
Quaritch didn’t knock when he reached it, just swung the door open and ducked under it.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
The low murmur of conversations and the clack of keys faltered, replaced by the same silence that often followed when his big shadow fell across a room.
Rows of desks were cluttered with cables, monitors and the occasional half-drunk cup of coffee. Most of the occupants were men, heads bent over their work, but a few women also sat among them, their posture stiffening as his gaze swept over the room.
The first to actually move towards and approach him was, surprisingly, a woman. A woman with more balls than the rest of these nerds in here. She was tall, soft around the middle and with a mess of red curls tied back in a loose knot. With thick glasses perched low on her nose, she certainly looked like she belonged here.
Now that he looked at her up close, there was something familiar about her face, though he couldn’t place from where exactly. She might be one of those people he‘d seen in passing often enough to know they belonged, but not enough to remember their name.
"Colonel," she greeted with a polite nod, "What can I do for you, sir?"
"This needs fixing." Quaritch shifted the datapad in his grip, holding it out for her. "Thing‘s been acting up all day and I can’t figure it out."
The woman in front of him nodded briskly. "Alright, just give me a moment, sir."
But when she turned toward her desk, he didn’t move to the entirely too small chair she’d no doubt intended for him without second thought. Instead, he fell in step right behind her, the soft squeak of her flats barely covering the heavier sound of his boots. She glanced back once, then decided not to argue with the man twice her size.
The desk she led him to was a battlefield of stacked folders and open manuals. There were a few familiar devices to the datapad in her hand as well, all of them connected to her computer by a chaos of several different colored cables.
The redhead slid into her chair and began tapping at the screen, narrating in a quick, clipped tone about recalibrating the sensor and adjusting some internal settings. But Quaritch didn’t bother to take in any of her words. His attention had already shifted, eyes skimming over the chaotic sprawl in front of him. Two handwritten notes about codes he couldn’t make sense of hung on the edge of her monitor, right next to a small framed picture that stood on the desk.
The photo showed her and a few other women, smiles wide and carefree, arms draped around each other as they were holding their boarding passes to Pandora. Friends, maybe. Nothing unusual at first glance.
But then his gaze hit the far right of the frame, and his chest hitched ever so slightly at this one particular face. There you were, all smiles and grin wide enough to make the sun jealous. Made him wonder how anyone could look that damn confident and still get through life without flattening half the idiots around them.
A slow grin began to form on his face, part disbelief, part amusement. That explained where he had seen this woman before: You had the exact same framed picture sitting on your tidy desk.
Leaning back slightly, pretending to stretch, Quaritch then settled his gaze on the woman that seemingly grew nervous under the sudden, unwanted attention.
Licking his lips, he then asked, "Busy day?" Although his mind was anything but, he kept his voice light, letting it sound casual.
"Always," the redhead replied without looking up, hands still dancing over the keys. "This place doesn’t run itself. But who am I talking to?"
Quaritch let the corner of his mouth hitch up. "Fair point." His eyes drifted toward the little frame perched on the edge of her desk once more. This time, the woman did notice. "That your crew?"
"Oh, uh. Yeah, kinda," She said a little awkwardly. "Some of us came to Pandora together. Training, orientation, that kind of thing."
"The one on the far right…" He hummed, tilting his head as if studying the picture for the first time. Then his finger tapped the desk beside the frame. "She the one who keeps barking orders at my squad, right?"
"Sounds like her." The redhead briefly looked up, then laughed softly. "Yes, that’s y/n. We shared quarters for a while before assignments got shuffled. She’s… She is a handful, huh?"
"She is." Quaritch’s mouth curved into that slow, knowing smirk. "Bet her husband’s got his hands full keepin’ all that fire under control."
The redhead snorted. "Oh, no. Y/N’s not married."
Now that made him pause for a moment.
"No?"
"Nope," she said, popping the p a little, her nose too far up that datapad to pay any attention to the way Quaritch ears twitched at that. "Far as I know, she’s not even seeing anyone."
The woman was already back to clicking through menus, like she hadn’t just dropped a grenade in the middle of his thoughts, when Quaritch leaned an elbow on her desk, licking his lips,
"Interesting."
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
It’s not like you’re busy or anything.
The digital clock in the corner of your monitor had already slipped well past quitting time and the only thing on your mind was the blessed quiet of your quarters. The keycard to your room was already in your hand and the only thoughts you had left in you revolved around a shower, maybe a snack and definitely not about work for at least ten glorious hours.
That was, until your phone buzzed.
»Need your input on reworking the squad’s training schedule to accommodate new operational priorities. Come by my office to sync calendars. Now. — MQ«
"Wha— right now?" You groaned.
There wasn’t even a 'please,' no 'if you’ve got time' or anything of that sort, just the assumption that your evening plans were infinitely less important than the Colonels little calendar crisis. You let your head fall forward against the door to your quarters with another long groan. God, sometimes you really hated this job.
Guess the universe had decided your night off needed a body count.
"I’m gonna kill him," you muttered as you shoved your keycard back into your pocket and turned on your heels.
The halls were quieter at this hour, most offices you passed already had their lights off and blinds drawn, but a few scientists still lingered in the corridors.
By the time the Colonels office came into view, it was immediately obvious something was… different. Pushing the door open you found him already expecting your entry. But instead of sitting in his chair behind the desk like usual, Quaritch leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest in a way that somehow managed to make him look both casual and intimidating at once. The muscles in his arms flexed a bit once you stepped into his office.
"Evening, Colonel," you said, trying to keep your tone casual, though a subtle edge of impatience crept in. The day had already stretched longer than it should have and all that was standing between you and your bed was him.
Surprisingly, Quaritch didn’t reply to your greetings. Not a word, not even a grunt. You raised a brow, half expecting some sarcastic jab, but nothing.
"Alright then," You murmured. Shrugging subtly, it was easy to chalk it up as nothing. Moods like this weren’t unusual for the Colonel after all, even if they so very rarely were directed at you.
Sitting felt almost absurd, given he was practically looming over you. But since he made no move to sit as well, you just continued with your routine. Bag set down beside you, your hands immediately fished out your datapad, flipping it awake with a swipe of your thumb.
"Looks like we’ve got a clash with the training simulations on Thursday," you said, keeping your voice measured, trying not to betray how aware you were of his close proximity. "We might need to shift some sessions or—"
Fingers hovered over the first entry, but before another word left, a large hand slid into view. The datapad was then taken from you. It left your hands ever so slowly and was gently laid down on the desk, just out of your reach.
Your spine straightened instinctively and a look of confusion crossed your features. Had something been entered wrong? Some misstep in the schedule? Maybe he’d dragged you up here just to chew you out over a typo or something.
"So," the Colonel said, licking his lips before they spread into a grin. "How’s your little boyfriend, fiancé, whatever?"
"Uhm… what?" The word slipped out sharply, surprise tugging your brows together. For a moment the thought struck that maybe you’d misheard him, maybe fatigue had twisted his words into something else. But the look on his face told a different story.
Quaritch didn’t so much as blink.
"You heard me, sweetheart." That grin of his only widened, teeth flashing like he was savoring your reaction.
The silence stretched long enough for your pulse to trip over itself. You shifted in your chair and a flicker of defensiveness running up your spine made your posture straighten instinctively.
"…Good, I suppose," you finally managed, though it came out clipped and uneven. Fingers tapped against your knee in restless rhythm, desperate to steer things back into safer waters. "Can we now go back to—"
"You know what’s funny?" He cut you off.
Your jaw tightened. "No, sir."
"I had a nice little chat with one of your girlfriends earlier." Quaritch drawled, shifting just enough to push himself off the desk and step closer. "The redhead from IT, what was her name again? Ah, hell, doesn’t matter." A low chuckle rumbled out of him. Then, he leaned over your frame, his hands gripping the armrest of your chair on either side, basically caging you in.
You swallowed drily. Every nerve in your body seemed to stand at the attention, muscles coiling before you even knew why.
"But she told me something very interesting."
A cold shudder licked its way down your body, pooling heavy in your stomach. The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet. You could hear the faint hum of the overhead light, the sound of your own pulse thudding in your ears.
"She said you don’t have a fiancé." His voice was low and steady. "That you don’t even have a boyfriend."
The bottom dropped out of your stomach immediately after Quaritch had uttered these words.
Heat flared in your cheeks and your mouth parted— whether to deny it, explain or tell him off, you weren’t sure, but he was already leaning a fraction closer. You decided on the second and perhaps the safest option.
"L-Listen I can explain—"
"I‘m all ears."
Your mouth went dry, words tumbling out in a rush before you could stop them. "I just— I don’t want to get in trouble!"
One of his brows arched. "For what, sweetheart?"
"For this." Hands made a vague, helpless gesture between the two of you before dropping back to your lap. "Flirting with the squad, being unprofessional. For getting caught doing something I’m not supposed to, doing inappropriate stuff—"
The ramble spilled faster, "I mean, I’m supposed to keep things organized, on track, not get tangled up in rumors or, jesus, even just laughing too much at one of their dumb jokes could look bad, and now you’re sitting here looking at me like that, and what if—"
You stopped only because your chest seized and your lungs were clawing for air. Quaritch took his sweet time to take all of your words in, his eyes mustering you for a moment.
"So you’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ things that aren’t appropriate?"
Your head snapped up, eyes wide. "Wha— No!"
He let the corner of his mouth twitch upward, almost amused. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place, making it impossible to look away and sweat broke out over your forehead at that.
"Relax," he drawled, voice rumbling with that calm authority that made your pulse trip faster instead of slower. "Ain’t no one gettin’ you in trouble, kid."
The words should’ve soothed you, but the way he said them only made the knot in your stomach twist tighter.
"But you could’ve just said no, you know?" Quaritchs tone was lighter now, almost taunting. "S‘not like they were gonna bite you or anything."
"Yeah, sure," you scoffed, frustration edging your voice. "Your men behave like animals. Even Z-Dog gives me the creeps sometimes..."
That earned you a laugh.
"Can you blame ’em?" Quaritch said, leaning in just enough that the air around you grew significantly warmer. "A young thing, cute little doll, bossin’ us around. ’Course they’re gonna act like dogs around you."
Heat rushed to your cheeks before the meaning even finished sinking in. His eyes stayed locked on you, even as your breath caught when his shadow shifted closer and you glanced away in shame.
A single calloused finger then tipped under your chin, the touch deceptively light for a hand that size. Instinct had you jerking a fraction, but his grip didn’t tighten, just held you there, guiding your gaze back up to his.
"There wasn’t any need for that little story about bein’ engaged. Not with me, kid." He said lowly. "I ain’t in the business of makin’ trouble for you. Hell, I’d make damn sure no one else does either."
Again, your lips parted, but nothing came out. That little pause seemed to amuse him. He angled his head slightly, studying your face like he could peel you open and read everything you hadn’t said out loud. That alone made you shiver.
"You know that, don’t you?" His thumb brushed along the edge of your jaw, slowly, enough to make your pulse hammer. "I know you do, but you were tryin’ not to let it show. The way you go stiff when I’m close. The way you talk back like you’re tryin’ real hard not to trip over your own tongue. S‘cute."
"That’s not—"
"Sweetheart," he rumbled, leaning closer until his breath ghosted warm across your cheek, "you don’t lie half as well as you think you do. That little ring ain’t foolin’ nobody. Truth is, you want that cookie. You just don’t wanna get caught with your pretty little hand in the jar, right?"
The faint scrape of his lips ghosted along the sharp line of your jaw, slow enough to make your pulse stutter. And when he pressed his mouth to the side of your throat, heat flared beneath your skin.
This shouldn’t be happening.
God, this couldn’t happen. One wrong sound and if anyone opened that door, just one of the night staff or a soldier passing through, it’d all come crashing down. The thought should’ve snapped you into motion, should’ve made you push him off, should’ve sparked a protest sharper than the shallow breaths slipping through your lips. But instead you sat rooted in place.
Each exhale from him feathered warm across you, raising goosebumps that contradicted the heat pooling in your core. Involuntarily, your thighs squeezed. Then his mouth was there again, but not in the polite brush from before. No, this time he parted his lips, pressed them open against your skin, leaving kisses that burned and claimed all at once.
His tongue skimmed the column of your throat, dragging a hot line over tender skin as if he were committing the shape of you to his memory.
"W-We really shouldn’t," it finally burst out of you, and if it hadn’t been words you were sure it had been a moan instead.
Your body betrayed you. Shoulders twitched as you squirmed in the chair, thighs pressing tight together in some futile effort to ground yourself. Heat coiled in every inch of you, flooding your face, your neck, down your chest. Each open mouthed kiss dragged another surge of warmth up your spine, until it felt unbearable to sit still, unbearable to do nothing.
"Then don’t. Tell me to stop," he hushed against your neck. "Tell me like you mean it."
Your lips parted, breath spilling uneven and shaky, but the words he had asked for never came. Of course not. Because you didn’t mean it. You didn’t actually want him to stop.
His hand then found your thigh with the same unhurried certainty as his mouth, palm broad and warm even through the fabric of your uniform. The weight of it settled heavy, reminding you of the difference in size between you and him. His fingers tightened, squeezing until your breath hitched sharp in your chest. That small show of strength sent a pulse of heat straight through you, robbing you of any last scraps of willpower you’d been clinging to.
Your eyes fluttered closed, lashes trembling, as if shutting out the sight of him might dull the sensation. It didn’t. If anything, it sharpened everything else, the rough scrape of his jaw against your skin, the wet drag of his tongue marking you, the pressure of his hand as it squeezes your thigh.
"If Ardmore finds out about this…" The words came out as a whisper, half plea, half warning, but barely steady enough to count as protest.
The Colonels hands didn’t falter. They shifted higher, inch by inch, broad palms sliding until they nearly encircled your hips.
"No one will find out about this," was muttered against your neck.
And then the world tilted. Strong arms lifted you in one swift motion, the grip around your waist like iron. With a squeak, your body was set down atop his desk. The solid edge was cool beneath yours thighs. A sharp contrast to the burning press of him crowding in close. Under you, papers shifted and a pen clattered to the floor.
A minute later, Quaritch has you pinned to the desk with a giant hand on your chest.
The weight of his palm flattened against the center of your chest, not harsh, but firm enough to keep you pressed back into the wood. Every shallow breath only made your chest rise against his hand, every movement reminding you how easily he held you there.
Soon, Quaritch‘s hands find the waistband of your skirt. He tugs on it with minimal effort and against all logic, your hips rose to help.
He peeled fabric down inch by inch, humming under his breath in a sound that might as well have been approval. A hum. The Colonel humming at your half-naked body like he’d just stumbled onto a damn fine bottle of bourbon.
For all his size and brute strength, his hands moved with startling precision. Your shoes thudded against the floor as your legs shifted, freeing yourself from the last stubborn stretch of fabric.
You could feel every pass of his eyes like a physical touch, hotter than his palms on your thighs as he dragged your lace panties down. Quaritch hummed again, deep in his chest, and something traitorous in you fluttered at the sound.
Then your eyes caught his.
The reality check slammed into you with the grace of a shuttle crash: this was Quaritch. Colonel Miles Quaritch. Not some faceless soldier, not some harmless flirt you could shrug off at breakfast tomorrow. This was the man with enough authority to ruin you six different ways before the end of the week.
Quaritch’s mouth curved into something smug, as if he knew about the thoughts behind your eyes just from looking at them for too long and too intense. Then he sank lower between your thighs, shoulders wide enough to nudge them apart with barely a shift. The cool air of the room skimmed your exposed skin, but all you felt was heat.
Soon, Quaritch started kissing down your stomach, savoring every inch of skin. You felt the faint graze of teeth as he dipped lower and lower, his tongue drawing a path from your navel down to—
"But what if we… what if we’re—"
Quaritch’s low growl cut you off once more. "Jesus, kid. Relax and let me take care of you, will you?"
And then his mouth was on you in the blink of an eye.
You spine arches at the sudden, but not at all unpleasant sensation. Your gasp of surprise peeks into a whine and you quickly bite your lip to quiet yourself, when his long, board tongue swipes through your folds.
It becomes clear almost immediately after that first lick, that this moment right here. This would be so worth getting in trouble for.
Who would’ve thought that the Colonel Quaritch was so damn good at pussy eating?
It only takes mere seconds for him to find where you are most vulnerable, the most delicate. Tracing the outline of your cunt with his thumbs on either side of you, he spreads your slickness up and then down, then gently spreads your folds apart. It gives him access to lick and suck on your clit in all the best ways.
His lips and tongue are big, so much bigger than yours. But that made it so much easier for him to cover your pussy whole, to reach all these wonderful places. The top of his tongue moves with practiced ease as it flicks over your clit and god, it feels phenomenal. Your toes curl and you sob out a moan, lungs burning with the need for air. You don’t know whether to suck in a breath or hold it there.
Despite all you know of him, in this, Quaritch is messy, you realize. He doesn’t care about the mixture of spit and slick running down his chin, that it covers half his face or the fact that you hear him gulp it down with groan like it’s the fountain of youth and you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting on his tongue.
"Oh!" Your spine arches even more, subconsciously pushing yourself against his face. It’s embarrassing, really. But you’re already too far gone to care. No one has ever made this feel so good before.
Then his middle finger breaches your entrance, sliding in deep, and you moan, something high and pitched, hips canting upwards as Quaritch fucks you with a single digit, smooth and slow.
One finger becomes two, and you sigh, arching like a wave with every thrust. Your hands grasp at nothing before they settle on the back of his head and Quaritch circles your swollen clit with his tongue, playing with it in a steady rhythm. Occasionally you even feel him kiss it and it’s enough to make your thighs shake.
Your slickness increases until his lips and chin are sopping, his ministrations ringing sighs and cries in an ever increasing volume from you. Your hips stutter, you pull at his hair and that makes him suck on your clit harder.
Distantly, you remember the fact that you’re not in any of the soundproof rooms meant for training, but in an office with very thin walls and an even thinner door. Immediately, you clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling the strings of curses and moans that fell freely from your lips.
"Such a shame." Between your thighs, the Colonel glanced up at you, his grin wide and sharp canine wet with slick. "Those sweet little moans suit you better than that bossy tone."
His hand slid up your thigh, prying it wider as if to emphasize his point. His eyes never leave your face, not even as he sinks down again.
"Don’t go hiding ’em now, sweetheart. Let me hear ‘em." The words were hushed against your wet skin and his lips were immediately drawn to your clit once more.
"I- I‘m gonna.. oh, fuck," you let out a shaky breath. "M‘gonna cum— stop! Stop, stop, I— can’t!"
"Can’t, what?" Came a low chuckle from between your thighs, pointed tongue teasing your entrance where it stretched around his thick digit.
"Quiet," you choke out, fisting your hands in the short stubbles of his hair to try and pull him off, "I can’t keep quiet! S-Stop, oh god!"
But the bastard doesn’t stop. If anything, his lips sealed firmer against your slick heat while two thick fingers curled deep inside, grinding into that exact spot that made your vision strobe with white-hot sparks. The low groan that came from the man feasting on your sweet arousal sent vibrations up to your core. It rattled your bones, stole what little composure you had left. And if it weren’t for his wide shoulders to be in your way, you would’ve clamped your thighs shut around his head. It doesn’t hold you back from trying though.
The sound that escaped you was strangled, almost feral, muffled only by the trembling hand still clamped against your mouth. Every twist of his fingers, every stroke of his tongue, dragged you closer to the edge of something that felt inevitable, unstoppable, terrifyingly good.
"Mm, there she is," Quaritch rasped against you, his voice low and wicked, lips dragging slick down your folds before latching back onto your clit. "Knew you had more in ya than that stiff little attitude."
You shook your head, tried to twist away, but the desk under your hips and his hand splayed heavy across your stomach kept you pinned. Each flick of his tongue ripped another ragged noise out of you, each thrust of his fingers pushed you closer to shattering.
"Don’t fight it, sweetheart. Give it to me." His words vibrated into you, sharp enough to make your toes curl, thighs quivering against the iron lock of his shoulders. And then— release hit like a flood. Your hand fell useless from your mouth, the sound that tore free far too loud for thin walls, a cracked cry strangled into his name.
"Atta girl," Quaritch growled in approval, holding you down as your body arched off the desk, every muscle seizing under the quake of your climax. He didn’t let up, not until the tremors had left your thighs trembling and your chest heaving, not until you sagged back against the wood, utterly spent.
Slowly, he pulled his fingers from you, dragging them slick over his own tongue to clean them, before rising to his full height. That grin was back, sharp and devastating, mouth glistening with proof of what he’d just done to you. Proof of how much you enjoyed it.
The air hadn’t even returned to your lungs before the world spun again. Now Quaritch’s hands were on your hips and in one effortless motion he flipped you onto your stomach. The desk rattled beneath the shift, papers scattering again, the cold edge biting into your ribs as your cheek pressed against the polished surface.
Quaritch’s palms slid up your sides, pinning you down just enough to remind you who was in control here. He leaned over, chest hovering heavy against your back, breath hot at your ear.
"I ain’t done with you yet," he murmured, his voice a low gravel that made your core clench all over again.
Rolling his hips forward just enough for you to feel the promise of him pressing against you, thick and hard even through his gear, you gasped softly.
"Please… stop teasing me," you whispered, and even though your legs were shaking, toes barely touching the ground, you tried to push back against him.
The rasp of a zipper made goosebumps race across your arms, your back, your neck, everywhere, as anticipation began to flood your veins like fire.
"Y’know," Quaritch drawled, "I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a while now. Wonderin’ how that sweet little pussy might feel wrapped around me."
Your breath hitched, body tightening at the words alone. His laugh rumbled against your spine, dark and satisfied, as though he could feel the way you clenched around nothing just from the thought.
"Bet it’s even better than I imagined."
Through the tangle of hair that fell into your face, you risked a glance over your shoulder.
Quaritch’s pants rode low on his hips now, his broad hands tugging them just far enough to free himself. And what he revealed had your breath catching in your throat.
Huge. That was the first word your scrambled brain managed to cling to. Too big, too thick, alien in ways that made your pulse trip and stumble. His length was ridged in subtle lines and dots that caught the low office light, the flesh a darker shade that gleamed faintly as he stroked himself once, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. The sheer scale of him made your thighs quiver against the edge of the desk, heat pooling low in your belly.
"Eyes up here, sweetheart," Quaritch rumbled with a smirk, catching you staring. The tip of him brushed against the inside of your thigh, leaving a slick trail of pre-cum behind.
"Don’t worry about that," his voice dropped into something dangerously close to a growl, "I’ll make it fit."
The blunt head of him then pressed against you, nudging insistently at your entrance. Your whole body clenched in defiance and desperate need all at once. The stretch came slow at first, a sharp, biting fullness that made your breath break apart in short, choppy gasps. Nails raked the desk, useless against the hard surface as the first thick inch split you open.
"Jesus— fuck!" The words dissolved into a moan, muffled by the crook of your arm as you bit down to silence yourself. Every nerve lit with fire as he eased deeper, inch by agonizing inch, the ridges along his shaft dragging over hypersensitive flesh in a way that felt so alien and yet unbearably good.
"Relax," his breath was hot against your ear. "Breathe. Let me in, sweetheart."
His palm spread over your lower back, pressing you down just enough to make your hips tilt for him. "That’s it," he rasped, voice thick with triumph. "Takin‘ me so good, so fuckin‘ good."
The desk creaked under the strain of your body fighting to adjust, trembling thighs trying to hold steady. Every inch he fed into you sent another shockwave, another surge of heat through you.
"Miles," His name broke out of you like a prayer, shaky and drenched in need.
The fullness of his cock sinking into you was overwhelming, almost suffocating. Each inch settled heavy inside you until there was no room left, no space unclaimed, just the ache and heat of him stuffed to the hilt. Your walls clenched instinctively, fluttering around the thick length buried deep inside you.
Quaritch stayed pressed flush against you, chest to your back, holding still as though savoring the way your body struggled around him. His cock throbbed inside you, thick veins and ridges pulsing against your inner walls like he was marking his presence there with every heartbeat. The sensation sent another shudder down your spine, your breath catching on the sharp edge of another moan.
"Feel that?" His voice rumbled low against your ear, almost smug. "That’s me. Right where I belong."
Slow at first, letting the full weight of himself sink in deeper, he started moving. Each thrust made your body melt over the desk, every inch dragging fire through nerves you didn’t even know could burn so hot. Quaritch’s hands gripped your hips like anchors, guiding each powerful thrust. The sound of him moving inside you, the wet slap of skin against skin as his movements grew faster, made a new wave of pleasure crash down over you.
"O-Oh my goood," you let out a long, drawn out whine. Your thoughts spiraled— this was reckless, insane, probably career-ending, but fucking hell did it feel good.
Each powerful thrust drove deeper, stretching and filling you in a way that made your mind spin. The pace of his hips was calculated, cruel and intoxicating, forcing you to feel every inch of his cock. Another stroke, harder this time, and your body jolted in response, the pure intensity of it making your brain melt.
The force of Quaritch’s thrusts made the desk squeak and groan beneath you. His own grunts were low and guttural, vibrating against your back as he drove into you again and again.
"Fuck, yes… Look at you fuckin’ takin’ it. So perfect and tight," he groaned, hips snapping forward with precise, merciless intensity. Fingers dug into the curve of your hips, holding you steady even as every pulse of his length stretched and filled you further.
"Please," you begged in that whiny little voice that was still so unfamiliar to you. "Please don’t stop, don’t s-stop! I‘m so close! Pleasepleaseplease!"
Quaritch grunted against your shoulder in response, teeth grazing the tender skin as his hips pistoning without mercy, each stroke pushing you closer. One of his hands then found your jaw, lifting your face until you were bent enough for his lips to reach yours.
His tongue still tasted of you, salty and warm, as he shoved it inside your mouth, deep enough you nearly choked on it. It’s enough to make you clamp down hard on his cock, and you moan into each others mouths at that.
And then finally, warmth pooled and spilled, every nerve ending inside your core alive with fire, your body shaking uncontrollably beneath his relentless rhythm. More moans tore free, high and broken, echoing across the walls of his office as you arched hard, pressing yourself impossibly close to him.
Quaritchs hips still snapped forward, holding you in the peak of your pleasure, matching the rhythm of your shuddering climax until he‘d reached his own. The grip he had on your hip was almost bruising and your teeth found the softness of his bottom lip in return. The Colonel hissed sharply at that, but the sound quickly morphed into a sigh of relief as you felt his hot cum paint your insides.
His hips pressed forward a few more times, languid thrusts that drove every drop home, making sure none of it went to waste. Your walls clenched reflexively around him, a trembling, overstimulated cocoon of heat and satisfaction.
Finally, he pulled back, letting his cock slip free with a slick, wet sound that left your core aching and your body shivering from how empty it suddenly felt.
The Colonel straightened, his gaze still locked on you with this possessive intensity and also a hint of triumph as he helped turning you over and sat you onto his desk when your legs were to weak to stand on their own. Truth be told, it did flatter you that he was so obviously uncaring about the way you made a mess on his things when you sat there, bare and filthy wet. If anything, the sight of you shifting uncomfortably to prevent his cum from staining his desk made a flicker of hunger return to his eyes.
"Okay," you finally panted between heavy breaths, fingers brushing through your hair in a desperate attempt to appear collected, but there was a significant amount of spit, cum and slick smearing between your thighs that made you physically cringe. "We… we can’t— nobody can ever know about this!"
"Jesus, kid." Quaritch just rolled his eyes as he slumped down onto the seat behind him. With his thighs spread and his sweat soaked tank highlighting his abs, it was hard not to ogle the man in front of you. His hand rested casually around your ankle, mindlessly rubbing circles onto your skin with his thumb.
"For the record," he adds, his lips curling into that signature grin. "I don’t care what anyone thinks about rings or promises, so you can keep wearing that shiny little lie. But you’re mine when you’re around me, got it? Anyone else even looks at you wrong, and I’ll make sure they regret it."
Your brows lifted at that. "You… you would do that for me?"
"Course I would." The Colonel scoffs. "Nobody is gonna get you in trouble because you’ve decided to have a little fun. Not tonight, not ever. I’ve got that covered."
Your cheeks heated even more now, and a smile tugged at your lips despite the rapid thump of your heartbeat. It covered the feeling of guilt that wanted to gnaw on your insides for tasting this forbidden fruit, and that alone was a win.
Quaritch mirrors your little smirk. "But," he leans forward, letting his thumb continue its lazy circles over your ankle, "if you feel like trying that again… I’m more than willing to help make sure ya‘ don’t forget how good it can be to break a few rules sometimes."
"Alright," You bite your lip, laughter and heat blending together, and nod. "I think I can agree to that."
And sometimes you think, you don’t hate your job that much.
your crime family needs help. to get that help, your brother sells you to john price in exchange for a loan of money and man power. but you're not for john price. you're for his ruthless, right hand man: simon "ghost" riley
slow burn, mafia au
prev
no more words were exchanged between you on the drive. a mix of tiredness and terror was playing on your mind, keeping you quiet in the passenger seat.
you didn't expect the stately home. you didnt expect gates that towered over you, the iron twisted into all manner of creature. you didn't expect the fountain just beyond them, the cherub spitting water into the bowl. you didn't expect the shrubbery and neatly arranged flowers surrounding the house, didn’t expect the well maintained stone steps.
in your mind, the ghost was a creature. chained up in the basement, kept docile with mind numbing television and fed slop.
but he wasn't. he was a man with a real home. a home that looked like a manor.
he glanced at you as he parked the car. you made no move to get out, to explore. no, you just sat staring, as if you could do nothing else. fine, stare. he had better things to do.
simon pulled your bags from the boot as two of his staff ran over. "when she's done, take 'er to 'er room," he mumbled and tossed them the keys.
they nodded rapidly and continued pulling your things from the boot. as one began taking it to your new bedroom, you continued to stare. five minutes turned into ten, ten nearly turning to fifteen.
there was no telling how long it would have stretched out for if the remaining staff member hadn't pulled open the door. "ma'am," he said, offering you his hand.
you looked at him, took in his polished uniform, his white gloves. he looked like he came with the house, like an immovable painting, glued to the wall.
you placed your hand in his white gloves and let him help you to your feet.
"sorry," you mumbled, taking one look back at the car as he led you to the stone steps. any cracks had been filled but they were still visible, as if intentional.
the entire house was beautiful. the time taken, the careful restoration, had woven its way into every detail. the paintings on the foyer wall were carefully picked out, all fitting the house but no two the same.
"mr riley has picked out a room for you," he said as he led you up the stairs.
picked out a room for you. it came as no surprise that you weren't going to be sharing his room. actually, it was more of a relief. at least you had your own space in this loveless marriage.
you didn't need to ask for a tour; the member of staff was happy to give it. he led you around, pointing out every little detail and giving you a history of the house. you wondered if simon riley had hired him, or if you were right and he really did come with the house.
clearly, this house was his love.
most of the house was covered in sheets. furniture protected from dust in unused rooms. the member of staff cleared his throat and rocked on the balls of his feet. "i hope having a lady of the house means that these rooms are fully utilised," he said and turned to quickly walk away.
you followed him out of the unused rooms, unsure of how you would use them. your future husband didn't look like he'd let you throw parties, fill the rooms with music and laughter. you weren't sure you wanted that, either.
maybe you could find a small room to make your own. a little nook full of books and things to keep you entertained when you weren't playing the part of the perfect wife. you didn't need a lot of space, just somewhere to sit and be alone. maybe with a nice window that overlooked the gardens.
the member of staff took you up the stairs. he pointed out all of the rooms for you, the multitude of unused bedrooms. what could one man need with so many bedrooms?
his office was in the centre of the hallway. two doors kept firmly shut. you could imagine a drop bolt keeping it shut, keeping you out. keeping him in solitude.
the member of staff took you further through the house. several doors separated you from him, from his office. "your bedroom, ma'am," he said and pushed open the door.
you stepped into your bedroom. so far away from home, but this was your home now. a tastefully decorated room, but it felt so lifeless. "thank you," you mumbled to the member of staff as you stepped inside. a whole tour of the house and you hadn't bothered to get his name.
his low bow wasn't really a bow at all. just a way for him to pull the door shut without really entering your bedroom.
your bags were in front of your bed. sitting on the end, you reached for your bag and pulled it open. mostly clothes, a couple of books, and a teddy bear. one of his ears was becoming unstitched and falling away from his face.
laying him on your bed, you searched through your bags for your little sewing kit. it sat in the bottom of your suitcase, in a little tin. a tiny pair of scissors, black and white thread, and a couple of needles. just what you needed to fix mr bear up.
the repetitive motion was soothing. pushing the needle through the ear and through the head in a looping motion until the ear was fully attached to the head again. tying the threat, you cut it, put your sewing kit away and held your bear close.
a tiny piece of home held in your arms. a piece of your life from before. before you came here, before your father became so paranoid. you laid on your new bed, on a mattress too hard for you, on sheets too thin for you to be able to sleep in, and cried.
***
the first thing simon riley did when he bought the house was put cameras in almost every room. even the bedrooms were full of cameras. your bedroom was full of cameras.
he didn't mean to watch you move from room to room. your lips didn't move as you were taken around his house. nothing until you got to your bedroom, until the door was shut. even then, you didn't speak. you just cried after you fixed up that old bear.
body shaking with sobs as you laid in that bed, laid with your bear.
simon changed the camera, watched his staff talk in the kitchen. there was only one interesting topic of conversation in the house; you.
he couldn't read lips, couldn't tell what they were saying, but it had to be about you. nothing else interesting had happened since he bought the house, a year ago. moved out of the shitty apartment he'd grown out of.
you wouldn't have been able to live there with him, not separately. not in your own bedroom. he would've taken the sofa, given you the more comfortable space.
you hadn't asked for this. he just didn't want it to be him.
he checked his texts from price. all of them were about you. the poor little lamb he'd been forced to take as a wife.
you wouldn't be happy here. you'd never be happy here. the crying would stop eventually, but you'd never feel settled, never feel happy.
if he was a better man, he would have left his office. he would have gone to you, asked you what your favourite dinner was, what would make you feel less home sick.
for him, it was chicken soup with a little bit of bread and salty butter. nothing special, just what his mother used to make him when he was sick. half the time it ended up splattered up the kitchen wall when he dad came home in a blind rage. but the nights he got to finish it, got tucked up in bed with a sweet forehead kiss, those were the best.
that sounded like what you needed right now. you just had nobody that could give it to you.
simon switched the camera feed back to you. you hadn't moved, weren't moving. your body was no longer shaking as you slept on top of the blanket with your bear in your arms.
he called one of his staff to throw a blanket over you. you weren't used to the cold in england yet, weren't used to how low the temperatures could drop at night.
his phone vibrated twice on the table. the screen lit up for only a few seconds as a message flashed across the top.
price: get her a new phone
simon responded with a thumbs up. he locked his phone and turned back to his cameras. back to you.
you were going to be so damn lonely in this house. simon didn't know what to do with you. what were you going to do while he worked? what did you do while your brother worked?
at his message request, one of the maids walked into your room. she walked carefully, making sure you stayed asleep. going into one of the cupboards in your room, she pulled out a blanket and laid it over your body.
you stopped shivering, but simon didn't stop watching you. he should have been working, but he was looking at you. you. his future wife.
lieutenant!simon can’t stop thinking about his child growing inside sergeant!reader PT. 1 HERE
Simon doesn’t mean to start keeping tabs on you. It just… happens.
He finds himself clocking roll call faster than usual, eyes scanning instinctively for your name, your shape, the way you carry yourself. He's relieved when he sees your still squared steady shoulders. Good. Still standing. Still here.
He tells himself that’s enough. It isn’t.
By the third day, he knows your schedule better than his own. Knows when you disappear between drills. Notices when you’re slower leaving briefings. Wonders, absently and obsessively, if you’ve been to the medbay yet. If you’ve told anyone. If you’re sick. If you’re scared.
If you’re alright.
He asks around carefully. Too carefully. “How’s the Sergeant doing?” he says once, like it’s a throwaway, like he hasn’t rehearsed the question in his head.
“She’s fine,” comes the answer. “Same as always.”
Same as always. Right. Price clocks him immediately.
“You’ve spoken to her lately?” Price asks later, casual but watching.
Simon shrugs, too stiff. “No.” Price’s eyebrow lifts the smallest fraction.
“She mention anything?” Simon adds, then curses himself internally.
“About you?” Price asks.
Simon doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. Price just hums quietly and changes the subject, which somehow makes it worse.
At night, Simon lies awake staring at the ceiling, mind replaying the same impossible image on a loop. You in the doorway. The test on his desk. The door slamming. And then, unbidden, something else.
Small. Fragile. Real. His. Yours.
He wonders if you’ve felt it yet - not movement, of course - just the weight of knowing something’s there. Wonders if you look in the mirror differently. If your hand ever drifts to your stomach when no one’s watching.
Christ.
He wants to check on you properly. Wants to ask questions he has no right to ask. Wants to make sure you’re safe, that you're being careful.
Instead, he watches. He waits.
He loses his fucking mind quietly, professionally, from a distance: counting footsteps, memorizing patterns, carrying the constant, unbearable thought of a small life growing somewhere just beyond his reach.
gummygunk
blakekathryn
