Reader who's not from England has a child with Simon Riley who talks like you most of the time but as soon as dad gets back from deployment child's suddenly switching accents like roigHt wUtS all dis den
Or, Simon is no longer satisfied with staying on the sidelines when it comes to having you
Masterlist
Ghost knows you wonât text him.
Knows it before you even left the cafe. Knows it when he watched you twist your scarf between your fingers, hesitant, bracing yourself for him to laugh and take it back, say say never mind, donât worry about it, forget I asked.
You smiled, typed your name in fast, handed it back faster.
Thatâs what gets him.
The smile.
Not the smile itself, worn soft at the edges- pretty- but the way it was practiced. The expression from someone who's spent a whole life leaving rooms before anyone has to ask her to, so it won't hurt as much if you can tell yourself you left first.
You smiled like youâd already forgiven him for not using the number. Like youâre trying to make his future neglect painless for him, convenient, easy to step around. A little gift wrapped absence. No hard feelings. No expectation. No evidence that youâd hoped, even for a second, to be wanted past the moment where wanting you was convenient.
Ghost saw that smile and felt the dog in his ribs bare its teeth.
You wonât text him first. Not because you donât want to. He knows wanting when he sees it, and you were sick with it by the end of those three hours. You werenât loud with your wanting, giggling across the table, leaning in with your mouth soft and your lashes lowered, playing at anything clever enough to call flirting.
Your wanting was uglier than that. Lonelier. It sat underneath your skin, trapped, pressing its face to the bars every time he asked another question and didnât look away from the answer.
You wanted his attention with the shame of someone who has gone a long time without it being give. Without being fed.
Authors always made hunger pretty in stories. They made it into longing, into hands reaching across moonlit sheets, into mouths opening under rain, into women looking out windows and being tragic in a way that can still be admired.
They donât talk about the way starvation ruins. They donât talk about how it hollows the eyes and rots the teeth. How it makes the stomach cramp around even the promise of food. How something can be so empty that being fed feels like a threat, because emptiness at least has been faithful. Emptiness at least never pretended to love you and then sat laughing beside another womanâs ring.
He saw you in the cafe and knew you were starving.
A thing under the porch with its belly flat to the dirt, tail tucked hard, ribs showing through the hide, eyes huge and wet. Something that had learned to live off scraps and then hated itself for salivating when a hand came close. Something that would crawl forward an inch, trembling, nose full of the smell of food, singleminded focus on the pile of meat in the palm of the hand rather than focusing on the person attached to it, never knowing whether that person was coaxing you forward to actually feed it or just wants to watch it want.
Ghost had taken you off guard.
He hadnât meant to, not at first. The cafe had meant to be a small, controlled reintroduction. Coincident, engineered- even if the path had already been laid beneath your feet before you walked it. He had planned for a cup of tea, ten minutes, a quiet word spoken between you two.
Nothing more than a hand lowered to the ground, palm down, fingers curled in, near enough for the frightened thing to smell him without feeling seized.
Then you sat down.
And you ate.
There was no other word for it. Once you understood he was listening, once you realized he wasnât waiting for a gap so he could put himself back in the center, something in you split open at the seams and spilled out. You started carefully at first, picking at the edge of conversation, apologizing with your eyes and your curled in shoulders every time you took up more than a mouthful of space. But he kept asking. Kept waiting. Kept his gaze steady, his voice low, greedy for even a scrap of your attention.
After that, you devoured, tearing into his attention like a starving thing with meat, single minded, blood soaking the maw of the need inside you while the rest of you tried to keep your hands clean. His questions became bones cracked open for marrow, redirecting attention back to you became bowls full of steaming food pushed closer, his patience became warmth, and you were so cold you took so much of it before you remembered you were supposed to be civilized.
You talked safe subjects, nothing important, not to you, but Simon took every piece and kept it. Let it settle under his ribs. Let it gather, building a nest inside his chest, taking up space that had previously been empty for so long.
Then you saw the clock and there it was: the flinch after feeding.
He watched the horror move through you. Watched you understand three hours had passed and immediately become sorry for them. Sorry for speaking. Sorry for taking. Sorry for having a need visible enough that someone might recognize the size of it.
You gathered yourself head down, tail tucked, voice gone light and brittle with the scramble to leave before he could change his mind about wanting you there.
He should have let you go.
He asked for your number instead.
Now, sitting in the dark of his car with your contact open on his phone, he can still see the way you looked when he did. Startled, then pleased, then frightened by the pleasure.
You held his phone and he could see you already imagining how this would go: Youâd give him your number, spend the next several days looking at your phone every time it chimed, hope blooming so instinctively you never had the chance to crush it. Then youâd see it was only another app notification, another spam email, another weather alert, and quietly swallow the disappointment before it had the chance to embarrass you. By the end of the week, your stomach would churn with hope turned sour almost as soon as your screen lit up.
Still, you typed.
That matters.
(He tells himself that has to matter.)
Now, he sits with your name glowing beneath his thumb and his thoughts drift towards Price.
Thatâs the bitter root of it, isnât it? Price. Always Price somewhere under the skin of this. Price with his steady hands and his calm voice and the brutal, useful patience that once got inside Simon Riley the same way he did to you, teaching the dog in his ribs where to lie down.
Ghost remembers being young, though young feels like the wrong word to use. Young implies something soft that could have still been saved. He had been all bone and bristle by the time he met Price, a body full of locked doors, every kindness treated as suspicious, every hand as a possible fist that hadn't swung yet.
He doesnât remember himself as a boy so much as something that existed wrong in the world. A dog with wire sunk deep around its throat, grown mean from the pull of it, teeth bared at every hand because every hand he'd known came moments before pain.
He had his hackles up at everyone. Soap's noise put his teeth on edge- all that warmth and reckless affection crowding the air until Simon wanted to bare his own just to make him back off. Gaz was worse, quieter, easy in his skin, easy with people, trust that had never once cost him anything to give. It made something starved in Simon snarl before Gaz had done a single thing wrong. Price's attention was the worst of all, because it didn't rush him. Didn't demand his loyalty and trust. Didn't pity him. Didn't give him anything obvious enough to reject.
Price approached like he knew the dog.
Thatâs what Simon hated first.
(A mug of tea left near his elbow without comment. A plate shoved toward him with a blunt eat before you drop. A cigarette offered after a bad op without mentioning the shake in Simonâs hands. Price never asked for the animalâs belly before heâd earned the right to see its teeth.)
The first time Price touched the back of his neck, Simon nearly broke his wrist.
It hadnât been much, that was the awful part. Just fingers carding into the short hair at his nape after a mission had gone bad enough that Simonâs vision kept flashing white at the edges. A firm grip, warm and certain, thumb pressing where tension lived like a buried wire. His whole body had gone rigid. (- Teeth. Blood. Movemovemove. Every old alarm screaming at once, every nerve insisting this was the part where the hand became a fist, where the door locked, where the kindness took off its mask and showed the bill due-)
Price didnât flinch.
He only tightened his fingers enough to hold and said, low, âEasy, lad.â
Easy.
(As if Simon were something that could be calmed without being humiliated. As if the dog in him could be spoken to without making a joke of the muzzle. As if staying still under a hand did not have to mean surrendering to it.)
It worked.
That was the part Simon never quite got over. It worked. Price domesticated the dog by increments, by pressure and food and presence and that damned voice that always sounded like it knew the dog would heel because heâd decided it would.
He taught Simon which hands could be tolerated near the throat. He taught him that a command could be shelter if given by someone willing to stand in the storm with you. He taught him that being fed did not always mean being owned.
(Or maybe it did.
Maybe Simon just learned to love the owner.)
The thought should disgust him more than it does.
Instead, it sits cold and useful in his chest as he looks at your name. Price made a lesson of him. Fine. Ghost can use it better. Ghost can take the thing Price used to pull a snarling, half feral man into loyalty and turn it back on what he was careless enough to lose. Thereâs a irony there so sharp it feels like mercy if he holds it at the right angle.
Price taught him how to quiet the dog.
Ghost will use the lesson to take Priceâs girl.
Not fast or clumsy. Youâd bolt. He knows youâd bolt because he knows your fears now, knows the way it presses you low to the ground the moment wanting makes you visible. He canât come at you head on with sweetness.
Sweetness would make you sick. Price ruined sweetness for you, poured it over lies until even kindness must taste like another womanâs perfume if it gets too warm. You need plain things first. Small things. Dry things. A line of crumbs leading out from under the porch.
So he sends a photograph.
Itâs of an old dog outside a laundrette, sitting just outside the spill of yellow shop light. It had made him think of you before he could stop it, the way it held itself apart from the door, close enough to still feel the heat every time someone came out, far enough back not to be kicked.
It was the way it didnât ask to be let in, didnât even seem to believe in being let in anymore, and still hadnât left.
He sends it without a caption.
Then he waits.
Waiting is usually nothing to him. He can empty himself into it. Become breath, pulse, shadow, the patience behind a scope. He can wait through cold, blood loss, hunger, the slow crawl of pain up the spine. He can wait while men lie. Wait while they bleed. Wait while orders change and bodies cool and the world makes its ugly little adjustments around him.
Waiting for you is different because he knows what the silence is doing to you.
He imagines the phone lighting in your hands. Imagines your face going still when you see his name there, surprise catching in you before pleasure can make itself known, before you can shove it back down where it belongs. You wouldnât have expected him to reach for you first. Wouldnât have known what to do with the weight of anyoneâs attention laid in your lap.
He can see it too clearly, the small panic that must have buzzed beneath your skin, the way you must have froze, start trying to build yourself into something acceptable before you answered, trying to decide what kind of person youâre supposed to be in response. Casual. Funny. Grateful, but not too grateful. Interested, but not hungry. Human, but not so human that the need shows and scares him off.
The message sits delivered.
No answer.
Thirty seconds.
A minute.
Two.
The dog in his ribs starts to pace.
(He can almost hear Price, years ago, voice dry with that infuriating calm. Patience, lad.)
Ghostâs jaw tightens.
He gives you another thirty seconds, then sends the second text.
Made it home alright?
Nothing elaborate. Nothing that corners you. Just concern shaped like a practical question, societal expectations to ask even for people who just met, something you can answer without needing to expose the whole trembling nerve of yourself. Itâs neutral enough to pass for restraint, and it would pain the picture of polite concern, if the tracker hadnât already told him you were there. (If Simon thinks too long about that, about the fact that he knows the answer before he ever asks the question, the whole thing gets a little harder to call patience instead of hunger.)
Your reply comes fast enough that he knows the first message had you frozen.
Yeah. Sorry, I shouldâve texted.
There it is.
The apology lands in him like a match dropped into oil.
Not because heâs angry at you. He doesnât think he could be, not for this, not for a reflex beaten so deep it moves before your pride can catch it. Heâs angry at the invisible boot. At every room that taught you to lower yourself before anyone asked. At every person who made you believe being remembered created a debt. At Price, most of all, because Price knew exactly what it meant to be trusted by a wounded thing and still treated you like something that he expected to still be there when he came back to it after neglecting it.
The image is ugly, but itâs true, and truth has never cared whether it flatters.
Ghost types, You donât need to apologize
He stares at it, then adds, Just wanted to make sure you got in
A softer man would put a smile after it. A warmer one might add something sweet, something easy, something with a little glow to it. Ghost does neither. He doesnât want to sound like Price, doesnât want to lay syrup over the wound and call it comfort while maggots and flies fester around it. Youâve had enough of that. You need the plainness of bread before the body can tolerate anything richer.
The messages go read.
You donât answer for long enough that he knows youâre retreating into yourself, trying to fold the whole exchange into something manageable, trying to draw on experience of theoretical scenarios youâve read about, heard talked about, seen on tv- to figure out how to respond next in just the right way to seem interested in the conversation without appearing ravenous and scaring someone off with the force of your hunger.
Finally, you send, I did. Thank you.
Too careful.
Too small.
Manners, then. The old kennel. The place you go when youâre trying to be acceptable enough to keep, distant enough to discard without mess.
Ghost lets the silence sit for a breath.
He could push for more.
He wants to. Christ, he wants to. Thereâs a hunger in him too, quieter and more disciplined, but it lifts its head at the sight of yours. He wants to put his fingers into the wound and make you tell him who did it. Wants to count every reason and give each one a name, a face, a consequence. Wants to hear you say Price with that broken softness and then teach your mouth to shape someone elseâs- his- name afterward.
But pushing now would be greedy.
You take another few seconds, and he imagines you looking at the screen, worrying your bottom lip as you try to find reasons to keep the conversation going- desperate for even a crumb of attention. Maybe the corner of your mouth moves. Maybe it doesnât. It matters too much to him either way, which is its own warning. He ignores the warning. (Heâs good at that too.)
Then you text, Did you get home okay too?
Ghost looks up.
His car is parked beneath the hacked back branches of a sycamore, engine off, rain ticking against the roof. The street is wet and mostly empty, amber black under the lamps, water running in the gutter and gathering around the tires. A car drives past at the corner. Somewhere above him, someoneâs television hums through a cracked window. Somewhere lower, a couple argues.
Ghost sits in the dark and looks at your question.
âDid you get home okay too?â
Youâre returning the shape of concern because receiving it without offering something back feels like debt. Youâre trying to make the exchange equal so your own need doesnât show too much. He can almost see you doing it, can almost hear the little startled scramble inside you: ask him too, ask him too, donât just sit there being cared about like a wound with a mouth.
His thumb moves.
Close enough.
Of course heâs close to home.
Because he is outside your apartment.
He doesnât let himself dress it up as sentiment. Sentiment is soft, and this isnât soft, has never been soft, never been the lover standing under a balcony reciting poetry to a swooning maiden. This is the clean, brutal certainty of coordinates fixed beneath his skin. Your building. Your window. The narrow mouth of the alley beside it. The weak spill of light through your curtains when you forget to shut them all the way.
It should feel like surveillance. It does feel like surveillance. But beneath that, uglier and harder to name, is the fact that some part of him has already settled here with you. Already placed itself inside the narrow hallway, beside the lock, under the hum of your living room lamp, in the corner of a life that has not invited him in. Close enough, heâd said, because the honest answer wouldâve been worse: he hasnât gone home in weeks without coming here first.
Thereâs a pause.
Then you text, Close enough?
Itâs the first time you ask for clarification without apologizing for it.
Small. So small it would be nothing to anyone who hadnât spent three hours watching you ration your own existence. But to him it is movement in the dirt. The creature under the porch lifting its head. A trembling step forward, belly still low, tail tucked.
He writes, Still out.
Another pause.
In this weather?
Had worse.
That comes out natural enough. True enough. He can almost feel your uncertainty through the phone, the way youâre trying to decide whether this is banter or concern or too much. Trying to find the right amount of you to put into the next message.
You settle on, Thatâs not reassuring.
Wasnât meant to be.
You answer with, Youâre weird.
Ghostâs mouth shifts, barely.
You kept talking to me for three hours.
He knows the second he sends it that itâs too direct.
Direct enough to turn a light on. Direct enough to show you the bowl after youâve licked it clean. In his mind, he sees the shame come up fast and hot, sees you jerk backward from the memory of yourself sitting in that cafe, devouring his attention until the clock betrayed you. (Like he still wouldnât be there listening to you speak if you hadnât looked up and seen the time) He sees your hands tighten on the phone. Sees the animal in you realize there is blood on its mouth.
He sends another text before you can bolt.
Wasnât a complaint.
Then, after a beat, because the truth is already loose and he doesnât feel like calling it back:
Best part of my day.
He lets it stand bare.
No joke. No softening. No easy escape hatch where you can pretend he doesnât mean it.
The silence afterward stretches.
Ghost watches the rain slide down the windscreen and thinks about food after famine. How the body rejects what it needs because it has forgotten the basics of receiving. How the first mouthful can twist the gut. How fullness can feel like sickness when emptiness is the only thing that has stayed. Youâre holding those six words somewhere in your flat, and he knows they are too rich. He knows they are turning over in you like cream in a stomach that has only lived on drops of water.
Your reply comes at last.
Oh.
Just that.
âOh.â
A sound more than a word. A small animal noise, really, translated into text because you have no other way to make it without being seen.
Then:
I had a nice time too.
Then, almost immediately:
Sorry. That sounds weird.
Ghost exhales through his nose.
Again. Always again. The apology running after every honest thing you say, trying to drag it back into the dark before someone punishes you for letting it breathe.
He wants to be upstairs.
The want comes sharp enough to hurt. He wants to be in the room with you, close enough to stop the apologies before they leave your mouth. Not softly. Softness wouldnât do. Softness would let you wriggle away, would give you too much room to turn fear into politeness and politeness into distance.
He wants his hand at the back of your neck, firm the way Priceâs had once been on his, holding you still through the first wild panic of being kept. He wants to press you down out of the wind, out of the open, out of reach of every old voice that taught you wanting was something to be ashamed of. (Wants to feel you fight the comfort because of course youâd fight it, because starving bodies cramp around food, because a kicked dog still snaps when someone kneels too close. He could take the blood. Heâd take worse if it meant you learned.)
Easy, heâd tell you.
Easy.
Not a plea. Not a coax. A command with shelter inside it.
He sees it too clearly: you beneath the weight of him, breathing fast, hands braced against his chest like you can push away the thing youâve crawled toward your whole life. Not hurt. Not trapped. Held down from the panic. Held through it. His voice at your ear until the animal in you exhausts itself against his steadiness and finally- finally learns that staying doesnât always end in a kick.
Then the quiet after.
You curled beside him because he has made himself the safest place left.
Ghost watches your shadow cross the seam of the curtains.
The thought is intimate enough to be covetous and he knows it.
He is not a good man. That has never been a useful lie to tell himself. Good men have soft hands and clean intentions and the luxury of waiting for permission without needing to stack the world in their favor. (Good men call themselves good while they leave women like you crying at bus stops because goodness, he has noticed, often ends where inconvenience begins.)
Price would be called good by plenty of people.
Price, who made you a home and kept another one behind your back. Price, who let you send tenderness into the dark and never told you it was being filed beside someone elseâs garden, someone elseâs ring, someone elseâs future. Price, who knew how to love damaged things, or claimed he did, and still left you standing in a doorway while laughter closed over your head like water.
(He wonders what Price is doing now. Wonders whether the man has noticed your absence. Whether heâs staring at an unanswered message with that crease in his brow, annoyed that the quiet little place he kept tucked away from the rest of his life has stopped opening on command. Simon hopes it hurts. Not enough. It wonât hurt enough. Men like Price donât understand the worth of a thing until another manâs hand is already around it.)
No. Ghost is not good.
He is patient.
There are worse things to be.
(And the patience works.
Not quickly. Not all at once. Nothing so crude as a trapdoor snapping shut beneath your feet. Itâs slower than that. Meaner, maybe, for something being gentle. A photograph here. A message there. Home yet ? Eat something? Door locked? Little scraps pushed under the porch with two careful fingers, close enough for you to smell, never close enough to make you bare your teeth. He lets you take them and run. Lets you retreat granted, every time, because thatâs part of it too: teaching a frightened thing that the food will still be there when it comes crawling back.
Months of it. Months until you text him first about stupid things- the woman in front of you at Tesco buying twelve tins of peaches and nothing else, the rain getting into your shoes, something that happened in the book youâre reading. Nothing important. Everything important. Tiny pieces of your day dropped into his hand like offerings.
Then one night, you call.
Your name fills the screen, and Ghost goes still with the phone in his hand because he knows before he answers. There are sounds the world makes when a thing finally comes to fruition. The low click of a door catching. The wet snap of bone under pressure. The little choked intake of breath on the other end of the line when he says your name and you come apart.
âI didnât- â A swallow. A breath that judders so hard he can hear your teeth almost click around it. âI didnât know who else to call.â
There it is.
Months of crumbs. Months of the hand beneath the porch. Months of letting you creep forward and startle back and creep forward again, belly low, tail tucked, eyes huge with the shame of needing anything at all.
Now youâve crawled close enough to press your shaking mouth into his palm.
âI think there are two men following me,â you whisper, and the last word breaks ugly, wet in the back of your throat. âTheyâve been behind me since the station. I crossed twice and they crossed too. I donât- I donât know what to do.â
For one sharp second, he isnât here.
Heâs years back with Priceâs hand scruffed firm at the nape of his neck, fingers buried in short hair, holding him still through the first feral snap of panic. Easy, lad. Not a plea. Not comfort, not really. A command with a wall built around it. Something to hide inside until the teeth stopped showing.
Ghostâs hand tightens around the phone.
The dog in his ribs lifts its head, and grins; all blood slick teeth in the dark, delighted, patient no longer.
He steps out into the night, keys biting into his palm, and lets the door swing shut behind him.
âKeep me on the phone,â he says. âIâm coming.â
Something something the poly!141 with crafty!readerâŠ
The first time you invited Gaz over, his eyes immediately went to the giant, crochet ditto sitting on the couch. His eyes went wide, not evening trying to act like he was hearing anything you said. â..um, Kyle?â Your eyes follow his and heat rises to your face. âOh, I can uh.. I can understand if you wanna go..â you say, your voice so defeated and sad. So many past dates almost disgusted with your plushie because âtheyâre for kids, not grown adults.â
Kyle looked more offended than youâd expect. âLovie.. thatâs bloody incredible,â he moves over to the couch to touch the ditto and he nearly whines at how soft the yarn is. âWhere did you get it?â Your face heats up even more at his reaction. â..I made it, actually.â From then on, Kyle knew you were a keeper. And so did the 141, so when things became official.. so did all the crochet requests.
Price wanted something for his office chair, citing years of field work damaging his spine. âYou dodge one too many grenades and suddenly you canât bend over without fuckinâ groaning..â Youâd hear him mumble from his office as he knelt down to pick something up. You make sure to get the fluffiest, softest yarn you can find for him. And now, if anyone asks about it he snaps a quick ânone of your business,â at them with a glare.
Soap got an Atlantic Puffin. âAhâve always loved âem, dunno know, just somethinâ about the wee birds,â he said offhandedly one afternoon while he and you were watching Ghost and Gaz spar. His face lit up like Christmas when you presented the puffin to him, and heâd never admit it out loud but he did tear up a little. His ma always called him her âlittle puffinâ, due to Soap being extremely loyal and highly sociable just like the birds.
Gaz asked for a ditto, just like the one on your couch. But when you went to the store to buy the yarn, you felt conflicted. You knew he wanted one, but you still wanted to it feel special and specific to him. So what do you do? You make his ditto a little hat, just like the one he wears. He doesnât speak for a moment or two when you show him, all he does is pull you into the tightest hug youâve ever gotten and mumbles something about â..best gift ever..â He hadnât mentioned this to anyone yet, but his family wasnât the riches growing up, holidays were often spent alone. So any gift is by default special to him, but something so personalized? He felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love.
For Ghost, you originally thought youâd make him a ghost! Simple and to the point, kinda like he was. But as time went on, you made him something completely out of left field. After weeks of searching and hours of work, you finally presented ghost a weighted black cat. At first, even though Ghost happily accepted the gift, he only planned to let it sit somewhere in his room. But after on particularly bad night, with too many memories about Roba, he subconsciously reached for the cat. And the moment the weight hit his chest? Oh, the scary lieutenant had turned into a pile of mush. The next morning he approached you. â⊠can you make a brown cat?..â he whispered quietly. The brown one was for his nephew Joseph.
Waitress!reader, who's a new hire, working part time in a restaurant to make just enough money to support yourself through uni.
Youve been having the absolute worst day, from losing the assignment that you were supposed to hand in today and getting reamed out by your professor, to having dropped a tray of waters at the start of your shift, a preemptive sign that the rest of your night would be tough.
You're just trying to make it through your shift, when you get a table of crude, middle aged men, who make you feel anything but pleasant.
You do your best to cater to their needs and try be as polite and neutral as possible, despite wanting to give them to another waiter, but as usual, the restaurant is overwhelmed and understaffed.
Line cook!Simon who's been watching the pretty little new hire get progressively stressed as your shift goes on. His heart aches for you a bit. A pretty little thing, doing her best to make ends meet, whilst dealing with idiot customers.
Simon who feels his jaw tighten whem you come back into the kitchen, teary eyed, explaining to another server how one of the men at your table tried to hit on you and grabbed the back of your thigh.
Simon who tells you to sit in the walk-in for a bit, whilst he goes to deal with your table, he was needing some fresh air anyway.
Simon who soon comes into the walk-in pantry with a little plate of chips and hands it to you with his now-bruised hands. He pats your head softly, before gruffly saying 'take a break, yeah luv? Go' someone on yer tables'
...Line Cook!Simon who refuses to address his soft spot for you, telling the whole kitchen to shut up when teasing him about it. They can see the faint pink on the tips of his ears though.
summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyoneâs surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.Â
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it â around âdisgraceâ â John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straightâ
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule â insubordinate, out of line â and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight â adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' thinkâ"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
ââ
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesnât always catch when thereâs fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout thatâŠ" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used tâsee thaâ one bird⊠wot was her nameâŠ?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing someâ"
"ây'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't haveâŠ"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand â which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you startâ"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We justâ"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',â he mumbles.Â
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating appâŠ.
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years â the 'ghosting', the games â and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer someâ"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like heâs been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.Â
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.Â
So⊠he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on themâs going to make him cross.Â
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at Johnâs arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick â name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes�" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone â Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, wellâ" Johnny starts.
"I actuallyâ" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"âsee, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bioâ"
"âdon't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara areâ well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, soâ"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simonâ
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. âAbsolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (heâs been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.Â
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.Â
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match theyâve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop heâs been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, orâŠ"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance â arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clearâ
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.Â
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.Â
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you⊠make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like thatâŠ"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
ââ
Four miles away, a phone lights upâŠ
ââ
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. Youâre finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it â it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.Â
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull â too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife â it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.Â
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.Â
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
â and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.Â
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
ââ
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway â close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face â it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go â bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as heâs still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet â for the first time in a long while â has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.Â
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? đ
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it â and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! thatâs twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons â the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.Â
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesnât feel so desolate.
ââ
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether âI got distracted.â read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.Â
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet⊠here he is.Â
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession â he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.Â
Heâd been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.Â
Outside the window, the sun is â he checks â still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
Heâs picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale â the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.Â
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
Heâs had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me thenâŠ
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now heâs using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the airâs still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
ââ
Youâve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
âJohn?â
âEveninâ.â
Fuck.Â
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
âSo you actually do ring,â you manage.
âSaid so on the profile, I think.â
âI half thought it was a bit.â
âI donât really do bits.â
âNo,â you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: âYouâre a very serious man.â
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet â more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like youâve caught him somewhere he doesnât usually go.
âThat meant to be me?â
âItâs uncanny, I know.â
The line goes quiet a moment â the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it â and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. Heâs outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
âAm I interruptinâ the wine?â
âThe wine and I are happy to share the time.â
âGood.â There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. âI have a beer out here. Seemed only fair weâre both suffering the same.â
âAre we having our drink right now? Is this it?â
âNo,â he says immediately, unamused even â which is very amusing for you. âThis one doesnât count.â
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
âNo?â you tease.
âI had imagined Iâd see your face.â
âBeen imagining, have you?â
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
âNothinâ mucky if thatâs what youâre gettinâ at.â
âMm, no, 'course not. Youâve been a proper gentleman. Havenât even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.â
âI could workshop somethinâ for you if youâd like.â
âNo thanks,â you giggle into your glass. âIt was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasnât a riddles-three about your dick.â
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
âIs that what itâs come to?â
âUnfortunately.â
Thereâs a short silence youâd swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
âRight,â he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. âMy question...â
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
âMm?â you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesnât have a leg to lie on.
âThereâs a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. Iâd like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?â
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
âUgh, I want to say yes,â you sulk. âBut Iâve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.â
âFair. Wouldnât want that on my conscience.â
âI could do a weeknight? After work?â
Thereâs a pause on his end.
âIâd rather not promise you a weeknight,â he admits. âI rarely get away on time, and Iâm not startinâ this by standin' you up.â
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual âahh, well, weâll figure something outâ. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
âAlso fair. Andâ and thoughtful.â
âFriday, then?â he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
âFridayâs perfect,â you agree. âItâs a date!â
âIt is,â he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when heâs considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice youâve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize youâve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like youâre seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
âRight,â he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. âThatâs my cue.â
âAw, no! Iâm fine, really.â
âItâs late, love. And youâve got your family tomorrow.â
âTrue. And youâve got⊠whatever it is old men do on Sundays.â
âLie-in, according to my profile.â
âHa!â you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. âThatâs the lie, I bet. I donât think youâve ever had a lie-in in your life.â
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. âGoodnight,â he says, declining to confirm.
âNight, John.â
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
ââ
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldnât know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesnât dignify it. You donât expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as âsuspiciously cheerfulâ.
The day swallows you â the drive, the roast, your mumâs questions, your brotherâs kids. Itâs near ten when youâre finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing heâd sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
ââ
Monday morning, Johnâs at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasnât stopped looking at it.Â
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say âpromote meâ or âshe triedâ?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror â chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like youâd just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simonâs eyes go to Johnâs hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
âMorninâ, Cap. Good weekend?â Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
âFine.â
âAye? Do anythin'?â He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. âAnyone?â
âYouâve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.â
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. âHowâs it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?â
John could make them work for it. Heâd planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual itâs a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or�"
"The same."
âGood, good, good,â Johnny says, and means it â John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
âWe'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,â Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.Â
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before heâs picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
ââ
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute â nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which youâre beginning to understand is just how heâs built. Itâs a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm youâre still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
âââ
You leave work at five on the dot, and youâre in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halterâs been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadnât already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.Â
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
âItâs just a pub,â you tell her.Â
She doesnât seem convinced.Â
âââ
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent â quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.Â
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.Â
Youâve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadnât asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. Youâd forgotten the feeling.Â
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You donât have to wait much longer for him.Â
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. Heâs tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like heâs pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever youâd planned to open with has shriveled away.
âHey,â he says.
âHi,â you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like thereâs tobacco somewhere on his collar.
âYouâre early,â he adds, almost pleased.
âSo are you.â
âIâm always early.â His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. âYou havenât ordered?â
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. âI wantedâ I was waiting for you.â
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours â big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft â and you hold on a beat too long. He doesnât mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
âWhatâll you have?â
âUhm, whatever youâre having,â you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth â and thereâs a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, heâs lost the name of the beer heâs drunk here a dozen times.
âTwo of the, uhâ the local,â he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
âFunny, isnât it,â you offer, sheepish. âWeâve talked every day for a week, and the second weâre actually in front of each otherâŠâ You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
âYouâre nervous?â he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
âA bit, yeah. Arenât you?â
âNot at all.â
You squint at him. âI donât know if I buy that.â
âHm.â He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer â cold, hop-bitter, helping â and let him have his lie. Itâs a generous lie anyway. Itâs a lie shaped like a man trying, and youâve been handed far worse shapes.
âSo,â you start. âI havenât asked why youâre even on Hinge. You donât seem the type.â
âIâm not,â he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
âThatâs it? Thatâs your answer?â
âWell, it wasnât my idea. The lads put me on it.â
âThe lads â your guys from work?â
âYeah.â
âThey what, talked you into it?â
âNo.â He turns his glass a degree. âThey nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.â
âAnd what made them do that?â
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story â you can almost watch him weigh one â but then he doesnât.
âTheir assessment,â he laughs to himself, âwas that Iâd been⊠cranky. Needed gettinâ out of the house.â
âCranky?â you repeat, delighted.
âTheir exact words were a bit different.â
âHm.â You look at him â at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. âYou donât seem cranky to me.â
âYeah, well. Guess they were right, then.â
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. âWell,â you manage. âThey do good work, your committee.â
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
âOkay, next one, then. Military.â You tip your glass toward him. âWhat do you actually do?â
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. âWhat dâyou want to know?â
âI donât know. Whatâs your day look like?â
âDepends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.â A beat. âSometimes we go away.â
âAway?â
âAway.â
âFor how long?â
âAs long as it takes.â
âDoingâŠ?â
âWhatever they need me to,â he says easily. âSânot me being mysterious. Iâd tell you if I could.â
âThat must be so strange, though. Having this wholeâ like, most of your life you canât talk about.â
âYou get used to it.â Then, because youâre still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: âThereâs loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.â
âWhatâs a month in the desert do to your skin?â
âNothing good, love,â he answers, shifting to face you better. âThe beardâs load-bearing.â
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
âDo you like it? Like, the whole life of it?â
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than heâs gone quiet on anything else youâve asked. You can see him thinking on it.Â
âItâs what Iâm best at,â he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: âItâs all Iâve known, really. Been doinâ it since sixteen.â
You turn that over. Thereâs a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing youâve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes â his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. Youâre midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. Youâre looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.Â
âGo on,â he encourages. âShe said what?â
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
âActuallyââ and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a manâs face going tight when you complicate an order, ââcould I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the roundââ
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. âYou can have whatever youâd like,â he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
âNoâI know. I justââ
âWhatever youâd like,â he repeats, gentler. âAndââ he grimaces, like what heâs about to say pains him deeply. âDonât ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.â
âS-sorry,â you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
âNone of that either,â his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matterâs settled. âVodka cranberry. Go, sit.â
âActuallyâ Iâm gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.â
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot â embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
Itâs going well.
Itâs going suspiciously well.
And every time itâs gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
Heâs in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting â pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim â set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You donât look at him, but you can tell Johnâs a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
âComfortable?â he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
âI am,â you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow â closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted â and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe itâs the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that youâd need both hands to count nowâ
âHow long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.â
He takes a deep breath before answering. âHonest answer?â
âPreferably,â you giggle softly, and he smiles â most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
âLonger than what sounds good out loud,â he admits through the pull of it.Â
âSay it out loud anyway.â
âI was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.â
âTen.â
âMm.â
âA whole decade.â
âYou can stop countinâ the years to me at any time, love.â
âSorry, sorry.â Youâre grinning. He is too. âItâs just, quite the gap in romance.â
âIt went quick,â he says, and itâs a joke, and itâs also not. âWhat about you?â
âEnded about a year ago, we were together four.â
âMm.â
âIt was fine. Amicableâ mostly,â you shrug.Â
âMostly,â he repeats â not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
âMostly,â you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next questionâs been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while youâre brave.
âCan I ask something and you not be offended?â
âStartinâ well,â he says, nodding on for you to continue.Â
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.Â
âWhatâs changed? Between thirty-two and now that youâre trying dating?â You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. âBecause if the honest answer is nothing, and this is justâ a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, thatâs fine. Genuinely. Iâd just rather know now.â
âFair,â he says. âAsked myself the same thing this week.â
âYeah? And what was the answer?â
âIâm tired of the quiet,â he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. âUsed to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels⊠empty.â
Something in your chest slides sideways.
âSo, no. Not a hookup,â he continues with a breath. âBut I canât promise youâd be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than Iâm home.â His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
âGuess I wouldnât know unless I gave it a go.â
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it â and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didnât notice until it let go.
âNo,â he agrees, low. âYou wouldnât.â
Youâre suddenly aware of the distance between you â or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka youâve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick â half a second, there and back â but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you â glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming â all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your senseâ
âYou know,â you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, âyou can kiss me. If youâd like.â
âOh, yeah?â
âMhm,â you grin.
âWell,â he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, âI was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.â His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. âBut if youâd rather have it here in the booth, I wonât argue.â
âI suppose I could be patient.â
âMm,â he says, and doesnât move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.Â
âIâll go pay the tab,â he decides.
And youâre both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The nightâs gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version heâd planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth â this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know youâll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but itâs not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, heâd let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing â and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe â forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath â and when you open your eyes his are dark.
âVery gentlemanly,â you croon.
âI walked you out first, yeah?â he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
âWalk me home?â you ask.
âI drove. Iâll give you a lift.â
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. âWell, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub Iâm at, and has your name and photo, soââ
âGood,â he replies, no hesitation. âSmart girl. Keep it that way.â He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. âIâm taking you straight home. You have my word.â
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.Â
ââ
The car smells like-new â clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee â close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else â and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.Â
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees â and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door heâÂ
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.Â
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"SoâŠâ
You look at him â streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, heâs in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.Â
"Would youâ" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "âwant to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overlyâ"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
âRight.â He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Justâ,â you sigh, ââshut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's justâ I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'llâ" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "âthink less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.Â
âCan I look at you now?â he tries.
âYeah.â
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
âAlright.â He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. âI want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.â
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
âOkay,â you manage. âNoted.â
âI havenât lied to you once tonight. And Iâm takinâ you to dinner whether I come up or not.â
âAnd, likeâ you wouldnât thinkââ
âThink less of you?â He frowns, like the mathâs not mathing. âFor doinâ the same thing Iâd be doing? Together?â
âWhen you put it like thatâŠâ
âFor what itâs worth, Iâm sat here havinâ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didnât want you thinkinâ thatâs all I came for. So if youâd rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, Iâll do that and consider it a perfect evening.â
And maybe itâs the ease of him, the total absence of pressure youâre always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.Â
âWould you like to come up?â
ââ
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock â the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow â and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you â the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week â and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole carâs worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer fromâ"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.Â
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like heâs surrendering.Â
He watches you go â and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what heâs looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why heâs standing here, and now youâre in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where heâs stood, was already clean.Â
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes â you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony â and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesnât move on it.
 Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
âYouâre nervous,â he says.
âNot at all.â
âMm.â He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. âDonât know if I buy that.â
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.Â
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too â he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart â which is going quicker than heâd care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and theyâre twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.Â
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth â the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere heâll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
âOkay,â you say, a little wonder in it. âWow, yeah, thatâsâŠ.â
âMm?â
âNothing. Justâ I knew military, just didnât realize⊠this much military.â
âLodging a complaint?â he askes, amused.
âDefinitely not.â
The rest goes gradually â his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow â and then youâre bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
âSay something,â you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. âYouâre oggling.â
âI am.â His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. âGive me a minute. Been picturinâ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.â
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then itâs just skin â so much warm skin, soft everywhere heâs hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
âCan I?â
âYouâ yes,â you breathe, trembling feebly. âYes, obviously, you donât have to aââ
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
Youâre sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums â feels you feel it â and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
âOh my godâ okayâ okayââ
âMm.â
âDonât be smugââ and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
âCould do this all night, sweetheart,â he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets â and he keeps the pace exactly the same until youâre pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
âJohnâ Johnâ comeâ I want you. Now,â you whine, âPlease.â
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearmâ
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your wordâ" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way â he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off â your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms â and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You'reâ godâ"
"Christ, youâre snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. âRelax for me, baby. Breathe.â
"I am breathâoh. Ohâshhitâ"
Johnâs seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet â a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.Â
"I wonât," he murmurs against your jaw. âI wonât move.â
"âokay maybe move a littleâ"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.Â
âItâs hard toâ mmmâthink like this,â you half-moan against his cheek.Â
âDonât think, then.â
Itâs all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. Heâd forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away â and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever youâd been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You donât think.
He feels the difference in you immediately â your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than heâs giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. Youâre not asking for anything. Youâre taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pullingâ
âHarder?â he asks against your ear.Â
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you widerââSo polite.ââand gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion youâve bkth created.
"That'sâ Johnâ Youâre gonna make me come," you sob.Â
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me likeâ Christ. Go onâfuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves â it takes you under, and you pull him with you. Â
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your earâ
How goodâ
How gorgeousâ
Youâre mine now, you know that? Hm?â
Itâs watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin â and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, youâre already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach â and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess heâs made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.Â
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink â wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach â thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when heâs concentrating â and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And itâs aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.Â
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them â whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs â and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway â sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.Â
âYeah?â
âMhm.â
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.Â
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is â the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring â except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.Â
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
âNo?â you ask.Â
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him â hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick â and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.Â
âAlright," you agree.Â
âYeah?â
âYes. Dinner sounds nice.â
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.Â
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.Â
"Gânight," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
ââ
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.Â
âI donât need the lecture, Iâm grown,â you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, âI can have sex. I deserve it, even.â You drop into your bed with a sigh. âYouâd understand if you still had ovaries.â
Price took a puff of the cigar before passing it back to Nik's.
Nikolai always knew the ones Price would like. The ones he wouldn't. Always had some in whatever safehouse they'd be in. It was becoming habit now.
The habit of laying in bed, sweat drying on their bare skin. Price didn't stop it the first time. And now had dug himself too far in.
"You don't want this wif me, Nik." Price said, watching the city lights outside the windows. Blurred by the evening rain.
"Want what, Captain?"
Price could feel Nik's eyes on him, like something had latched there and Nik wouldn't let go.
"This," Price raised his arms in some general gesture and takes the cigar back. "'m not meant for romance."
Nikolai sighed. Then said, "I do not stay for romance."
Price hummed around the cigar. Smoke filling his mouth, the taste rich and earthy, like a forest after a storm. "Then you risk dyin' fer fun?"
The mattress shifted with Nikolai's movements. Sitting up higher against the back board. Shoulder just touching Price's.
"I stay," Nikolai said. "Not for fun. or glory. or the promise of something better."
Price huffed something like a laugh, "not just romantic, a hopeless one at that."
Nikolai's arm came around his shoulders then, warm and familiar. A motion that Price knew well, but it still drew breath from him. "I stay, because you are a stubborn, lonely man."
Price was quiet.
"You need help," Nikolai said. "I have help to give."
"And yet you want nothing."
Nikolai took the cigar then. "Not true." A pull, smoke curling up between them. "But I am not asking you to give it back the same way I give it."
There was another brief silence. Hum of the fan and an vehicle siren far away.
"Go to sleep," Price said.
It was Nikolai's turn to laugh. He moved againâsetting the cigar aside, clicking off the lamp, settling down beneath the sheets in their usual, habitual arrangement. Price's back pressed against Nik's chest. Nik's arms around Price. Legs almost tangled.
Imagine having a crush on your lieutenant and friend, ghost, right?
You never planned on confessing, of course. You know ghost has no interest in you, not sure if he has any interest in men, really. You know so much about him, know the foods he loves and the ones he doesn't realize he hates, know his favorite war tactics and the music he plays in his earbuds on every occasion.
He is somehow fully realized inside your palms yet impossible to grasp. Yet he's still your friend.
"For you, sergeant. Looks like you need it." Ghost huffs, tossing you a cold water bottle after a brutal workout. His body haloed by the gym lights, eyes crinkled in a smile under the plain balaclava.
You down it, cold shocking your system. Maybe the rush is why you don't think before saying "thanks. I love you, ghost."
Dead silence. For a horrible moment, you pray it reads more like a joke than a confession.
But you glance up with a wince, and ghosts face is twisted in disgust. You know the look well, plain as day. "Don't joke like that, sergeant. 'S not fuckin' funny. "
Right. Of course. The hottest guy you've met and he's probably homophobic.
"Uhâ yeah. Right. My bad, sir." You rush, standing up to fast and stumbling away from ghost instead of steadying yourself on him. "I need to go wash up, meeting with captain later."
You leave ghost stood in the middle of the gym, skin still smelling faintly of your sparring match where your cologne rubbed off onto him. He breathes it in, cones to terms with it like it's the first time all over again.
Ghost doesn't dwell on your joke, on how the words made his heart flutter. He doesn't need to see the disgust on your face when he reveals something too-close to the chest.
He finishes off the last of your water and tosses it in the bin.
John price who has to dress up for a big formal event, right?
Of course the venues too hot, so the jacket comes off almost immediately, slung over his arm and framing that watch he loves. Leaving him in just a thin, white button-down.
Everytime he moves, those muscles flexing over cloth that hugs a bit too tight, you can see faint shadow along his shoulder, back, chest.
"I didn't know you had tattoos, sir." You mumble when he finally approaches after catching you staring for the fifth time that night.
"Got 'em back in basic," price hums, and you swear he reaches past you to grab a glass of champagne just to get you tight and close to his body. Chuckling at your obvious embarrassment with a "they're probably older than you, kid."
He turns back around, and you go right back to staring at the faint tattoos through the shirt, all along his broad shoulders andâ
The team has been trying to help Simon get better at flirting.
It started off with Johnny noticing how Simonâs gaze often lingered on you, the newest truck loader.
Then he blabbered it off to the entire team. So yeahâ Simon may have banged his head against the wall in his quarters and slept that night thinking about choking Johnny.
But here he was, after a long day of being convinced to talk to you.
You had just finished unloading the last truck of the day and what better time to talk to you than now?
âYou gotta be confident and bold with your words, L.T.â Kyleâs words.
âNo, you have tâ be funny. Make âem laugh.â Johnnyâs words.
âIf all things fail, just ask âem for coffee.â Johnâs words.
Simon took in a deep breath and smiled (the best he could. He doesnât smile often). You didnât even catch it either; he was wearing his damn balaclava. âYou just started working, yeah?â he asks, stuffing his hands into his vest. Confident, check.
You took off your gloves and patted your sweaty forehead with your arm, âmhm! About two-ish months ago,â you tell the older man, giving him a polite smile.
A quiet hum fell from Simonâs lips as he rocks on his heels a bit, âOnce saw yâ trippinâ over a box,â Simon says bluntly. Funny, check.
You stared at him, blinking twice and half expecting him to finish his sentence.
He didnât.
Instead, the two of you had a staring contest while Simonâs face burned behind the balaclava.
âYou can trip on me,â Simon suddenly adds. Funny and bold⊠check?
Your brows knitted a bit, âwhatâŠ?â you ask with an awkward laugh.
Fuck.
This wasnât going how he imagined it to go. He imagined him coolly leaning against a wall or something while complimenting you.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
âDo you have coffee?â Simon changes the topic, his entire face blowing up with steam.
Off to the side, John stared at his teammate with a heavy sigh and rubbed his temple. âBloody idiot asked for coffee,â he mumbles.
Kyle shrugs a bit, âTâ be fair, you did say to ask for coffee,â he says, defending his lieutenant.
âImplying to ask for a coffee date,â John replies bluntly. âFuckinâ disaster of a man.â
a rabbit-hearted girl, frozen in the headlights || Simon "Ghost" Riley
pairing â Simon "Ghost" Riley & Reader
summary â It's the first time your team, the 141, sees the other you during a missionâthe animal, the wolf, the monsterâand it's everything you've feared it would be. They're afraid of you, afraid of your violent nature you can never fully control. But your handler, Ghost, makes you understand nothing could be further from the truth.
warnings â fem!reader, k9!hybrid!reader, shapeshifter!reader, reader's first appearance in her wolf form let's go, (canon-typcial?) violence, blood, reader gets injured, angst & hurt/comfort, big on the hurt but even bigger on the comfort, misunderstandings, protective!Ghost, reader gets so many pets in this, no use of y/n
author's note â This was actually the first thing I wrote for "wolf to the slaughter" when the series didn't exist yet like three years ago. I edited and wrote like 5k additional words of it, and now it's officially part of the series!! I'm so excited to post this, I really, really love this part so much, and it does hold a special part in my heart because it was the actual starting point of the series, and I really hope you'll like this part as much as I do! Let me know what you think about this, every like, reblog or comment is hugely appreciated! đ Title is from Florence + The Machine's "Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)".
word count â 7k
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You taste blood, the warm liquid flooding your mouth immediately as you sink your teeth into the flesh of your enemy.
You feel the man's bones shatter under the force of your jaw, sharp shards boring into the roof of your mouth, but you pay it no mind, only ceasing when you stop sensing the soldierâs heartbeat. You let the lifeless body drop to the ground, already having located your next target taking cover behind a destroyed wall in the next room over, breathing heavily while reloading his gun. But you are determined to get to him before he can fire another bullet.
Smoke and dirt fill your lungs as you leap forward, the stench of gunpowder invading your senses and the sound of weapons firing all around you ringing in your ears, but still you are acutely aware of your surroundings. You can accurately pinpoint the different positions of your team members, can distinguish their voices over the deafening noises of the battlefield, can hear everything they're yelling to each other over their commsâeven though comprehending each and every word takes a lot of concentration from your animal brain which you simply cannot sustain in this form while fighting in an active firefight.
So you primarily focus on the most important things: Protecting your team and incapacitating anyone remotely hostile.
Because, to their great misfortune, it's the same for the enemy soldiers currently fighting you and your team. You know where they stood or cowered, sensing their elevated heartbeats, hearing even the faintest of movement which makes you able to predict where they will run to, take aim or cover.
Like this, transformed into the wolf slumbering at all times beneath your human form, you're better than everyone around you, faster, stronger, more resilient, fighting heavy automatic weapons and explosives with only claws and fangs, but still your enemies stand no chance against you. If they see or even hear you, it is already too late for them.
Your target emerges from his protected spot, standing tall and bravely aiming his rifle at your running form, his finger about to pull the trigger when you pounce on him with a snarl, latching on to his arm before he can take his shot.
The man screams in pain and horror, trying in vain to free himself from your bite, which only causes you to growl lowly and sink your teeth deeper into his flesh, your strength outmatching that of a mere human by far. You easily oppose his frantic but meek attempts at shaking you off, and you allow yourself to give in to this tempting little game of tug-of-war, pulling with just enough force to counter the manâs unimpressive strength, letting neither of you gain the upper hand just yet.
âStop playing with your food, Fangs!â a booming voice then suddenly sounds across the battlefield, a direct command from your handler you understand and obey without hesitation. You are in enough trouble with Ghost as it is, having transformed on a mission without his authorization, which could just earn you a permanent place in the silver-enforced kennel on base and your old collar and muzzle to top it off.
With one swift and abrupt pull, you claim your victory against the enemy soldier, making him scream in agony as you all but rip his arm from his body, breaking bones and tearing flesh and muscle just as easily as the fabric of his clothes.
The man drops to the ground with a dull noise, his gun following with a clatter before you let go of his arm that limply lands next to the soldierâs head, his blood now staining the fur around your muzzle and front, making it wet and cling to your body unpleasantly, the taste of blood almost unbearably strong on your tongue.Â
Nausea hits you unexpectedly and all at once, a slight tremor taking hold of your body despite yourself, and your gaze frantically searches for your handler among the chaos of the destroyed house.
That is, until you hear Soap curse to your right, too Scottish for you to understand, probably even in your human form, which makes it impossible for you to comprehend now. Still, your ears instinctively turn in the direction of his voice, your eyes following immediately after, and suddenly you can't move a single muscle in your body, simply frozen to the spot in the middle of an active battlefield. Because as your teammate's impossible blue eyes meet yours, usually so kind and gentle when regarding you, you realize what he said wasn't an expression of excitement or delight at your way of handling enemy soldiers.
Human facial expressions are even harder for you to interpret in your wolf form than spoken words, but repulsion and fear are things you have been regarded with all your life, and you just know this is what you see written all across the Sergeant's face at this very moment.
Your hackles rise immediately as you shift your body weight back, the feeling of lightheadedness and shortness of breath taking hold of you suddenly and without warning.
It was always bound to happen like this. Desperately, you have clung to the naive hope your team would accept you as you are, as the hybrid capable of turning into the monster of their childhood stories. That they would trust you no matter what. And for a while, it seemed like they had, looking out for you on base and accommodating you wherever they could, never making you feel less for being different, never letting themselves be blinded by the stories and warnings surrounding your kind.
But now, seeing you like this for the very first time, seeing your true colors, brutal and wild, reduced to nothing more than an animal, they realize just how dangerous you really are, that they should've been afraid of you this whole time.
That you're not a friend at allâonly a threat, never to be trusted.
A low and dangerous growl forms in your throat without you meaning to, your awareness narrowed to only you and Soap facing each other, but the sound suddenly turns into a high-pitched wail, white-hot pain exploding through your body.
A bullet pierces your flank, ripping open your flesh, and you stagger to the side with the force of it. Soap yells something unintelligible to you at the same moment Ghostâs voice registers in your mind, more gunshots ringing in the air before you regain your footing and can think clearly again.
Your eyes flicker from Soap to Ghost to your attacker hitting the ground, lying unmoving on the dirty ground in a pool of his own blood. You make a displeased noise, your tail flicking in annoyance behind you when you take several steps towards the lieutenant, pain shooting through your body with every single one. The man in question gives you what is most likely an unsympathetic look over above the edge of his skull mask, and the tilt of his head foretells that a long lecture is waiting for you as soon as your team would be back on base, holding a monologue about distractions on the battlefield and that the slight limp you will have to endure for the next day or two has been your fault alone. And he would be right about it, of course, which would only sour your mood further, hiding under the covers of your bed in his room and licking your metaphorical wounds while resisting doing the same to your literal ones.
âYou alright, pooch?â Soap calls then, his eyes and weapon trained on another enemy, downing the soldier before looking over to you again, not sounding overly worried, but at least that horrible look has disappeared from his eyes. Not that he actually has to worry about you. Even with a gunshot wound like this it isn't necessary for you to take a trip to the infirmary; your wolf form also gifts you with an accelerated healing ability that you don't possess before transforming. As long as you're not hit with anything made from silver, the wound will close on its own quickly and the blood loss will only be minimal.
Instead of giving Soap any sort of comprehensible answer you could provide in this form, a growl forms deep in your throat as one last enemy soldier decides to seal his fate and storm into the destroyed room, his weapon at the ready. But before heâor Ghost or Soap for that matterâcan fire, you already jumped at him and thrown him to the ground, holding him down with one massive paw of yours on his chest. Your long and sharp claws rip open his skin and only sink deeper into his flesh while you bare your teeth. The soldier's scream is silenced by the sound of his neck breaking into a thousand pieces under the force of your bite, fueled by your frustration, anger, and anxiety about this mission, your transformation and Soapâs reaction to youâthe other you.
Not the human with the funny ears and tail that always betray her feelings, the one that can track down Gaz's lost hat within moments because of her amazing sense of smell and gets uncharacteristically excited when she spots a squirrel climbing on one of the trees near the base.
No, this is the version of you that the special forces are interested inâinterested in controlling and having it fight for them.
The hybrid.
The descendant of the werewolf.
The monster. Â
The reason why the military has been the only place left for you. A place where, for once in your life, you're accepted, not feared, even if only by a handful of people.
Or so you have hoped.
âFangs.â
Ghostâs voice, calm but firm, snaps you out of your thoughts and immediately you let go of the soldier's corpse, his lifeless eyes staring back at you full of terror, his head hardly connected to the rest of his body anymore.
You trot over to your handler, your head hanging low, avoiding any eye contact with him and Soap. You come to a stop next to Ghost, close but not touching, your whole body still tense with your ears pinned tightly to your head and your tail down.
There are no more enemies left, the only living people you can sense nearby are your teamâGhost and Soap in the house with you and Gaz and Price just outside of it, emerging from a neighboring building, on their way to regroup with the rest of you.
But still, you can't calm yourself, can't shake off the restlessness and anxiety that have taken hold of you. The stillness of the battlefield feels like it's crushing you, suffocating you, while you can only wait for the inevitable to happen. For your captain and Gaz to enter the room and see what you have done, what you are capable of. For them to look at you the same way Soap has looked at you. For all the trust and friendship you have built with the team over the last several months to be lost in a single moment.
âDonât worry.â
When you look up at Ghost, he's already watching you, his brown eyes gentler than you have ever seen them before, and you feel yourself relax just a fraction. As your handler, Ghost is the only one who has seen you like this before, not in action but in this form, and both then and now, his calm, almost indifferent reaction to the other you and your abilities comfort you greatly. And you have believed, against your better judgment, that the rest of your teammates would have a similar reaction, that they would, after having gotten to know you, recognize that the beast they saw before them was still you at its heart.
But seeing how Soap has responded to you in this form, you have little hope that it will be any different with Gaz and Price.
Seconds later, the captain and the sergeant enter the room, their low conversation abruptly stopping as they take in the aftermath of the fight that has happened here only moments before. A low whistle sounds from Price as his eyes scan the mutilated bodies scattered all across the room while Gaz actually freezes in the doorway for a good few seconds.
âHoly shit,â he mumbles under his breath before following the captain into the room. You watch their boots step over debris and dead soldiers, not brave enough to meet their eyes and see the look on their faces as they realize that the stories about you and your kind are true, that your nature is brutal and ruthless, and that you never can be fully trusted and therefore will never truly be a part of their team.
Before you can even think about stopping it, a growl breaks through the silence surrounding you, pained and angry, having no other outlet for your fears and frustration while you were in this form. The air around you shifts immediately, your teammates tensing up around you, except for Ghost by your side. You see Gaz taking a step back and Soap gripping his weapon tighter, and suddenly you feel the ground underneath your paws crumble.
Your teamâyour family, your packâhas rejected you, like everyone in your life you thought had come to care about you has done before. The realization would have brought tears to your eyes in your human form, the loneliness and heartbreak restricting your throat painfully until it's hard for you to take a single breath. But now, with your mind trapped in a wild animalâs body, you can only make yourself smaller, cowering next to your handler with your tail instinctively tucking itself between your hind legs.
You don't notice the confused and concerned glances your teammates share over your head, the way Gaz takes a hesitant step in your direction at the same time Soap tentatively opens his mouth only to be stopped by a firm shake of his head from Ghost.
Your mind barely registers your handler's words as he calmly tells the rest of the team that you and he will check the perimeter one last time before getting the hell out of here, Kyle and Price having successfully collected and secured all the data the 141 has been tasked to retrieve before you were suddenly attacked.
As you limp behind your handler, your head hanging low and your usually sharp eyes almost unseeing, you hope, desperately, that your team knows you would never hurt them.
You can't tell them, not in this form, but you hope, after all, that they know.
You feel Ghost's eyes following your every move as you patrol between the now abandoned and destroyed buildings, walking ahead of him, your ears flicking this way and that, your eyes following just as frantically as you scan your surroundings, knowing very well that you and your teammates are the only living beingsâfour soldiers and one lonely monsterâleft in the area.
Still, you can't seem to calm yourself, even this eerie stillness of the battlefield after the fight too loud and overwhelming to your senses, the stench metallic of blood and gunpowder ever-present, carrying it with you, the substances clinging to your fur, staining it.
With every step you take, your paws create little clouds of dust rising from the dry ground, lingering in one spot longer than yourself as you restlessly move ahead of your handler only to circle back a few moments later, brushing past him and again ahead of him, before continuing this little routine anew.
Your tail flicks behind you in agitation, but with every step you take, with every circle you complete, you regain some composure, the sound of your pulse roaring in your ears slowly ebbing away as your heartbeat calms, finding great comfort in the fact that whenever you turn around, the Lieutenant is still behind you, still following with steady steps and regarding you with the same imperturbable expression through his mask.
The grip on his weapon is attentive and fighting-ready, trained soldier as he is, but his gaze is solely focused on you, just as aware that every possible threat has been systematically neutralized by the team.
But when you abruptly stop in front of him, every muscle pulling taut in your body, a low growl rumbling through your chest, ready to attack at a moment's notice, his attention too snaps back into place, training his weapon up at the balcony that has evidently caught your attention.
At first, he can't discern anyone or anything up there, but Ghost knows by now not to question your instincts in matters like these, trusting them completely, even with how distracted and worked up you still are about the rest of the team seeing the other you for the first time.
He deliberately slows his breathing when something moves on the balcony, the barrel of his weapon following the movement as his finger grazes against the trigger, not in the mood for any more surprises todayâ
âonly to immediately drop his rifle again when nothing more but a little calico cat steps out of the shadow, its head held high as it slips through the railing of the balcony, gracefully and noiselessly jumping down onto the roof of the house underneath before hopping down from there too, landing on the dusty street right in front of you and him.
Ghost fights the urge to roll his eyes behind his maskâso much for trusting your supernatural instincts; your transformation in front of the team must've taken even more out of you than he thoughtâas the feline slinks closer to you specifically.
It's almost comical how fast the fight leaves your body and you all but drop to the ground, making yourself as small and non-threatening as possible, which in this form is a hopeless endeavor, he fears. Transformed, you're bigger than even the largest species of wolves on the planet, your head reaching his chest, just standing on your four legs while your paws are quite literally the size of his own head. Still, you desperately try your best to communicate to this little feline in front of you that you're completely friendly, your ears and eyes turned firmly forward while your tail starts to wag in cautious excitement behind you, every ounce of your attention now fixed on the cat.
Ghost can't decide if he should laugh or sigh at this ridiculous picture you make, so he just stays quiet, not wanting to ruin this moment, ruin this welcome distraction from your current worries.
By now he knows you well enough to be aware of how much you adore catsâand that this love is tragically one-sided. Even in your human form, cats give you a wide berth whenever they spot you, hissing at you when you try to get closer to them before simply bolting away from you, and he can't imagine it will be any different after you have transformed, but he lets you have this moment. After all, maybe this cat will finally surprise both of you and take a liking to you, even when you must be the largest and most terrifying dog this little kitty has ever seen in all of its nine lives.
God knows you could use this small comfort, he thinks.
The cat continues to take deliberate steps towards you, and both you and Ghost dare not to move even an inch as to not scare it away now, waiting with bated breath to see what it will do next. Ghost doesn't pretend to be an expert on cats, always having been more of a dog personâeven wishing for a puppy from Santa when he was maybe seven years old and somehow, in its own strangely ironic way, being granted that wish almost thirty years later when the brass had decided to make him your handlerâbut as far as he's concerned the little feline seems relaxed and curious about you.
When it steps right into your personal space, you almost can't keep the exciting wagging of your tail under control anymore, your whole body vibrating with barely contained elation. You wait in breathless anticipation for what it'll do nextâmaybe sniff you cautiously at first before rubbing its little head against you? Would it maybe even cuddle up to you eventually, purring contentedly while being pressed close to you? You have half a mind to just transform back right this moment, even if it means leaving you stark naked in front of your handler, just to be able to pet the cat, to pick it up and hold it in your arms!
But your dreams are shattered when the little feline stops right in front of you, just centimeters away from where your head rests between your paws on the dusty ground, and suddenly its whole demeanor changes, hissing angrily before swiping with one paw at you, its razor-sharp claws striking you right across your sensitive nose.
You can't help but yowl in surprise and indignation, your nose stinging terribly as you jump up to your full height again, snarling viciously at the cat as it bolts away, vanishing into the shadows of a narrow alleyway between two buildings.
For a split second, the violent urge to retaliateâto track the cat through this whole ghost town and to corner it, to sink your teeth into its weak little body, breaking every bone in it, warm blood flooding your mouth as its lifeless body hangs from your jawâflares up in your mind. But it's gone as quickly as it came, and you're left standing there shocked and dumbfounded, baring your teeth as an angry growl rips from your throat, the sound low and dangerous even to your own ears, but you don't move. Only staring in the direction where the little cat has vanished in betrayal.
But before you can even begin to wallow in your sorrow, a laugh rings out behind you, raspy and unguarded, and your head whips around just in time to watch your handler regain control of himself, his shoulders shaking and his brown eyes crinkling at the corners behind his mask with fading laughter. You're dimly aware you've never made Ghost laugh before since joining the 141, but your nose, feelings, and pride are bruised too badly for you to truly acknowledge this fact.
Without thinking, you snarl at him, betrayed and angry that your handler would make fun of you after everything that has happened today, your teeth on full display while your ears are pinned back against your headâonly to realize too late what you're doing.
You freeze instantly, panic and dread choking you as you frantically try to think of a way to apologize to Ghost without having a shared language at your disposal, to somehow communicate to him that you didn't mean it, that it was just an accident, to tell him you accept every punishment he deems fit for your transgressionâlocking you away in the kennel on base or having you wear the silver collar againâif he just doesn't hurt you.
You whimper pathetically when your handler wordlessly takes a step towards you, your terrified eyes never leaving his approaching form as you cower in front of him, your ears and tail instinctively tucking close to your body, making yourself as small as possible.
Ghost stops dead in his tracks immediately, regarding you with an unreadable look in his brown eyes as his jaw ticks almost indiscernibly beneath the thick fabric of his mask. Then he simply lifts his gloved hands in a placating manner, one hand still holding his rifle, and murmurs, "Easy there", followed by your name.
When that doesn't seem to calm you down in the slightest, even backing further away from him while your eyes never leave his, he crouches down in front of you, trying to make himself as non-threatening as possible for a man of his size and stature, going as far as gently lowering his weapon to the ground next to him.
"'m not gonna hurt you, I promise, Fangs," he says then, his voice deadly serious while being softer than you ever heard it before. "I'd never hurt you, you understand? Just want to take a look at your nose, that's all."
Ghost lets his words hang in the tense space between the two of you, simply staying put as he watches you assessing him, still curled into yourself protectively. You whine quietly, desperately wanting to believe your handler while knowing the painful consequences of misplacing your trust in someone. But you're also achingly aware he's never given you a reason not toâfreeing you of your restraints the moment he met you, always looking out for you on base, dragging you to the infirmary no matter how small your wound, and willingly sharing his room with you, sacrificing what little privacy he's granted on base just so you have a comfortable place to rest.
And even after months of him being your handler and you trailing after him like a little lost puppy, he's seemingly never tired of your presence despite not being able to stand anyone else talking to him for more than ten minutes at a timeâhis own team included. He just continues to accommodate you without comment or complaint, never losing his patience with you even though you're nothing but trouble for him, never raising his voice at you.
(Except for the time he saw you happily munching on a piece of chocolate Gaz has kindly shared with you, Ghost having all but shouted at poor confused you, demanding what you were doing while hauling you towards the base's hospital until you explained with tears in your eyes that chocolate isn't dangerous to you at all. Just to almost disprove your own point the very next day, having gotten sick from eating all the chocolates he has gotten you as an apology for his earlier behavior without restraint, your hoarse voice explaining to him between waves of nausea that you really can tolerate chocolate just fine, except apparently in large quantities when you're not used to eating much of it. Your handler just hummed noncommittally, still a little unconvinced, still a little guilty, as he gently held your hair.)
Your heart still pounds anxiously against your ribs as you slowly get up from your cowered position, taking tentative step after tentative step towards Ghost, your nose stinging and your flank protesting with a dull but manageable ache while you desperately hope you're not wrong about him.
But your handler simply proves again that he more than deserves your trust when he simply waits for you to make your way towards him, watching you patiently before slowly getting up when you come to a stand right in front of him, his weapon still on the ground beside him and his hands where you can clearly see them.
"Atta girl," he mumbles proudly and gingerly holds out one of his hands, palm facing up, without touching you. You look down at it, then up at him where his brown eyes watch you with nothing but kindness, and you only hesitate for one more second before letting your head rest heavily against the offered hand, nuzzling against it, relief washing over you almost violently.
Ghost chuckles quietly as he starts rubbing strong fingers along your jaw, his touch more pleasant and relaxing than you could've ever anticipated. Eventually, he brings his other hand to your face and you allow him to gently tilt your head upwards, his eyes sweeping critically over your bruised nose.
You think you see him wince in sympathy behind his mask as he declares matter-of-factly, "Little cat got you good."
But his words only register at the margins of your mind as you're too busy melting against his palms, sensing the warmth of his skin even through the material of his gloves, and your tail starts to wag behind you in cautious excitement all on its own.
"We'll find you a cat that likes you someday, I promise, pup," Ghost adds just as one of his hands wanders between your ears, giving the top of your head a hearty scratch. It punches a sound of pure bliss straight from your chest, making him bite back another chuckle while he continues to pet you, wondering absentmindedly if your fur would feel as soft between his fingers as it looks like.
The two of you silently stay like this for a long while, your wagging tail gaining more and more velocity the longer your handler's fingers run through your fur, scratching behind your ears and petting your head and down your neck. Ghost only stops his caressing when his eyes catch sight of your flank, dried blood making your fur stick together where the bullet has ripped open your skin.
"Gonna have a look at that too, yeah?" he tells you as he moves to your side, carefully examining the wound which is already closed by now. His fingers gently press against the still tender skin, brushing your fur the wrong way just to get a better look at it.
"Bullet went clean through," he says, more to himself than to you, his voice sounding equal parts surprised and impressed. "Really weren't lying when you said you heal fast, huh."
You chuff in agreement, impatient for him to continue petting you. When he doesn't return to his earlier position fast enough for your liking, too fascinated by your surreal healing ability, you give him a nudge with your head, intending for only a soft push. But you underestimate your own strength in this form in contrast to that of a mere human and send your handler, despite his build and mass, staggering a few steps to the side.
"Fuckin' impatient," you hear him complain without any heat behind it, but his voice gets drowned out by the euphoric rush washing over you when his fingers return to scratching behind your ears and under your chin, eliciting an elated rumble from deep within your chest.
Ghost shakes his head in amused exasperation but continues to dutifully stroke your fur, noticing that his gloves, but also his pants and shirt have already started collecting your hair on them and wondering who on base could provide him with a lint roller.
"Getting shot today was absolutely stupid and unnecessary," your handler eventually tells you, completely unprompted, and while you agree with him, it's not something you're keen to hear at the moment, too busy reveling in the first gentle touches you received in literal years. That is, until his next words register in your mind, making your eyes snap open despite yourself and look up at him in complete and utter shock.
"But I'm proud of you, Fangs."
His hands move so he's holding up your head, forcing you to keep looking at him even when every instinct in you begs you to lower your eyes, helplessly overwhelmed. And Ghost doesn't stop there either, brown eyes boring meaningfully into your own as he continues speaking.
"You did well today. Was the right decision to transform, even without my authorization. You saved this mission and all of us, you hear me?"
You do hear his words, but it's difficult for you to process them, much less to believe them. Your whole life, you've been nothing but a burden, a dangerous thing needing to be controlled and contained, so you can't just accept your handler's words now.
Futilely, you try to escape his hold on you, to shake him off, but Ghost's fingers only tighten along your jaw, firm but not painfulânever painful. For someone usually not overly keen on prolonged eye contact himself, he's very adamant about this, about you absorbing what he's saying and understanding and trusting the truth in his words.
"I'm not afraid of you like this, and neither are the others," he says when you stop struggling against him, his usually gruff voice uncharacteristically gentle and sincere. You don't know if he's aware of how desperately you have longed to hear these words for a long, long time; for someone, anyone, to tell you that they see you as more than the monster of their childhood fairy tales, see the real you even when transformed. It leaves you shell-shocked, unable to do anything more than to stare up at him, the storm of emotions forming in your chest threatening to overpower you while your throat constricts painfully.
But still, Ghost is not done.
"Price, Kyle, Johnnyâthey're not used to seeing you like this, but that's all. They trust you, trust your instincts, trust you with their lives, just like I do. Earlier, back in the house, that was nothing more than a misunderstanding, I promise you."
A second passes, and then another one, and then you do the only thing that makes any sense to you in this moment.
You press close to him, as close as you can, forcing Ghost's hands to fall away from your jaw as you rest your head heavily against his sternum where his heartbeat is loudest, putting a little too much of your weight against him, but he doesn't object. Doesn't tell you off or push you away like you feared he would.
Instead, he simply puts his strong arms around you as best as he can and holds you close, his fingers sinking into your fur, not letting go of you for a long while.
The flight back to your current base is uncharacteristically quiet, no mindless chatter can be heard from Soap just to fill the space, no attempts to bait either Gaz or Ghost into a friendly, albeit not less heated argument, are started by him, and not even a casual conversation between the four men starts to form like it usually does even when fatigue begins to settle heavily in their bones after a mission.
Instead, the only sounds filling the tense silence inside the aircraft are the hum of the plane's engine, one of the men shifting in their places, or the occasional cough or hum from someone or another.
Still transformed, you're lying down a little way away from where your team is sitting strapped into their seats, your head resting wearily on your paws as you pretend to not watch your teammates anxiously, who in return pretend their eyes are not also flitting over to your corner from time to time, exchanging worried and helpless glances between each other in the meantime.
Despite Ghost's words, you're still wary of approaching the rest of your team, especially when you can't yet properly communicate with them to show them that you're still you. Still fear that having seen you on the battlefield, having witnessed what you're capable of, has damaged your friendship with them irreparablyâthat even if they're not afraid of you, they can never truly forget this glimpse of the savage animal slumbering underneath your human facade at all times.
Wallowing in your self-pity, you must've accidentally made a little noise, because suddenly four pairs of eyes are firmly fixed on you with varying degrees of concern visible in them. It's Soap who eventually speaks up first, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.
"How're you feeling, Fangs?" he asks you carefully, leaning forward in his seat and letting his gaze sweep over your body where it inevitably gets stuck on your hind leg, the area still an unsightly mess of bloody fur and tender skin. "The wound giving you trouble?"
He looks and sounds heartbreakingly guilty, almost as if he's blaming himself for you getting hurt back in the house. Perplexed, you stare up at him before vehemently shaking your head, your ears following the movement comically. You vocalize a sound, trying to make him understand that the injury is nothing to be concerned about, that he can probably watch it heal during the rest of the flight, only to remember in frustration that words are currently not something at your disposal.
Your head whips around to where Ghost is seated, his gaze already trained on you, and you give him a pleading look, begging him to explain what you're not capable of in the moment instead. Your handler sighs heavily, as if what you're asking of him is a great burden, but answers your request anyway.
"Don't worry, MacTavish," Ghost addresses the Scot, his eyes meeting his teammate's blue ones for only a second before returning to yours, "she's alright. Had a look at it myself. Bullet went through cleanly and the wound's already closed itself."
"Fuckin' hell," is all Soap can reply as his blue eyes widen in surprise, looking as impressed as Gaz and Price at their teammate's words.
"Still," the Scot says to you after a moment, shifting in his seat as if he just can't get comfortable, "I'm so fuckin' sorry that you got hurt because of me, Fangs. Wasn't my intention to distract you, I just didn't realize how strong you actually are like this."
He says it like it's a compliment, like it's something to be admired, something you can be proud of, and it wrecks you completely. Not to mention that you can't recall the last time someone sincerely apologized to you.
When you don't react, too stunned and moved by his words, Soap makes a move to open his safety belt, but you're faster than him.
In the blink of an eye, you're up and in front of him, and without checking your strength, you press close to him, your head all but slamming directly into poor Johnny's stomach, who doubles over with a breathless 'oof'. But to his credit, he recovers immediately, even before you can freeze in horror at having accidentally hurt your teammate, and throws his arms around you, welcoming this opportunity to pet you to his heart's content.
He's ashamed to admit it, because it makes him every bit a bastard as the people constantly taunting and insulting you on base, invading your personal space and grabbing you without your consent, but he's always wanted to touch your ears, always wondered if they're as soft as they look. But now that you've initiated the touch yourself, he allows himself to carefully trace a finger over the shell of one ear, over the little notches where pieces of skin are missing, watching your reaction closely so he can stop the moment you show any signs of being uncomfortable. But judging from your happily wagging tail, you seem to thoroughly enjoy it, especially when he begins to scratch behind your ear.
Just as Soap's hand moves to the side of your head to give you a good and affectionate ruffling, chuckling in boyish delight while the continuous thumping noises your tail makes on the floor of the plane get faster and faster, he stops his ministrations abruptly when he notices the sorry state of your nose.
Concerned, he guides your face closer to his, trying to get a better look at the cuts visible on this sensitive part of your body, and asks, "What happened to your nose, pooch?"
You only huff in annoyance, not keen on having your embarrassing one-sided scuffle with the little cat repeated to your teammates, but Ghost doesn't share that sentiment.
"Cat," he simply tells the rest of the team, the smirk audible in his voice.
There is a beat of silence before Price closes his eyes and grins while Gaz and Soap break out into unrestrained laughter.
"Ohh, did the big bad wolf try to make friends with a cat again and got her ass handed to her?" Soap teases by literally baby-talking to you, a fat grin plastered across his face which only grows bigger when you growl lowly and bare your teeth at him, clearly not as amused by your little misadventure with the cat as the rest of the team.
"Look at these pearly whites," the Scot continues undeterred, still using that stupid baby talk with you, "look how scary you are!"
You roll your eyes at him, but halfway through the motion, Soap begins to scratch under your chin which forces your eyes to fall shut in pure pleasure, a happy sigh escaping you as he shows no sign of stopping to pet you anytime soon.
Besides, you can't really be mad at him, or the rest of the team for that matter, for poking a little harmless fun at you, not when Ghost was right and your teammates really do accept you for who, and what, you are.
Not when you finally have found a place among people who genuinely care about you.
The rest of the flight is defined by your tail thumping joyfully against the metal floor of the plane while you happily let Gaz and Soap try basically every stupid thought that comes into their minds with you.
At first, they're just petting you in tandem until Soap has the brilliant idea to stick a finger into your mouth and curl it around one of your massive canines, tugging while you playfully pull against him, obviously using only a fraction of your strength. Otherwise, you'd simply drag him out of his seat, or worse, bite his finger off like it's nothing.
Now, the two muppets are amusing themselves with putting Gaz's iconic hat on your head and taking pictures of you while you sit primly in front of them, seemingly not opposed to their antics at all. They even try begging Price for his bucket hat, but the captain sternly refuses.
And maybe, after the plane has landed, Ghost goes out of his way to track down Gaz again to ask the younger man to send him the pictures they have taken of you for no reason whatsoever, really. Certainly not for the pure and adorable look of happiness he can see in your eyes even in your wolf form, surrounded and accepted by the first real family you had in years.
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