PT2 to my neglected beta!reader x toxic 141 (excluding simon), gn!reader
WC: 7.7k part 1 here
Simon thought Johnny was bad enough getting into his head and convincing him to indulge in an actual friendship for once. It didn't help either that getting along with Kyle was as easy as making a remark and laughing together over it. The team created a perfect dynamic, almost unstoppable.
Then came you.
You were always hanging around them, fitting in easily, practically always smiling at his jokes even on missions. Maybe a snide remark back here or there, but it was never more— always balanced. He supposed it was in your nature, as a beta and all, to be perfectly in between like that. Not that Simon was the one to pay much mind to societal matters like that anyway— the battlefield was very different to social gatherings, and the only language he knew was that of violence. It wasn't like he couldn't get by either; it felt like everyone grew up with that small talk ingrained in them from the start. The weather, the latest mission, annoying recruits, the bloody royal family if he really had to.
So, when he started to notice the change around you, he decided to stay out of it. It was plain obvious you felt disappointed when Johnny got an omega, Simon felt a little pang even if he didn't want to. But he didn't know what that feeling meant, and he sure as hell wasn't going to call you out on it. So, he didn't.
Then it was Kyle, and your scent only grew even more sour. Still, you didn't show it on the outside, so he chose not to comment on it again. He probably never would’ve really— after all, who wants to be ‘comforted’ by someone who can't even fix himself?
When the Sergeants hung out, you were no longer in their little circle, always off somewhere else. He asked Johnny once, why you hadn't gone to watch a movie with them, only for him to just blink at Simon. “Oh— them? Guess we kinda just forgot to invite them. We’re not that close, an’ we got an omega ‘n all now.”
Is that what happens? When an alpha gets an omega? They forget everything they ever knew and just.. lock in on that? Still, Johnnys relationship with him never changed, not like he did with you. Something was wrong about all of this but what was he supposed to do, force the Scot to hang out with you again? This wasnt bloody nursery, besides, matters like this meant nothing with the weight of the nation placed on the team. Well, rather on the four alphas, since he soon learnt you were being taken off their shared missions too. For the first time, he faltered during the briefing with Price.
“You’re not bringing them for this one?” He heard about you being taken off of Johnny’s but this was a whole team mission with your file not in it.
“We have to spread resources efficiently. Technically we dont need them anymore, with two mated alphas. They’ll be placed with the extraction team.”
Ghost wasn't stupid, he knew that part of the reason for you being on the team was because of the regulation effects of having a beta on an all alpha team– it’s the same bias that got him into the SAS anyway. Omega’s never got this high in ranks either. But that’s exactly it, it’s meant to be a part of the reason not enough to throw you off an op.
“When we need to go solo, they’ll be on that op. It’s not that bad, Ghost.” Price reassures him, and all he can do is sigh and nod along. He already anticipated how your scent would tighten upon the news, a hint of sadness seeping in. This time he couldn't help himself– this was something he knew. So, he immediately secured your place the second he received orders of his mission, stationed beside him like you belonged. He’d always been able to recognise the change in scent, from the smallest degree, something that was forced into him at a young age. This time, it was clear you were much happier like this, beside one of the 141, on a mission, doing something.
That he could definitely relate to. He’s no stranger to feeling out of control when he can't contribute to an objective.
Having you beside him had a much better effect than he perceived anyway. Not only were you skilled and efficient, but he felt he just worked better beside you. And so he decided to set up a trip to the pub— give you a chance to hang out with Kyle and Johnny too. He was convinced that they had just gotten to in their heads with their new omegas– a honeymoon phase he supposes.
He kicked himself for not saying more at that fiasco, not forcing Johnny to regret those cruel comments in the moment. But you had already retreated back to your barracks at the end of the night, and he was left staring at your closed door with a chest aching with regret he hasnt felt since he was far smaller. The next day he hounded Johnny until he went to apologise to you, listening from the other side of the door in hopes that’d be enough. Still, he had figured you might’ve still been annoyed after yesterday, wouldn't even blame you really, but instead the acceptance was one of a prey who stopped fighting. It didn't satisfy the wound in his heart even for a second.
“Why have you denied my team for the next mission?” He stands before Price’s desk, an anger boiling in his chest that he hasn't felt for years. He swore to himself he wouldnt let his happen again.
“You know I'm mated, Simon–”
“But i’m not.” His palms press on the desk as he stares at his Captain, the man who gave him a reason to keep going ever since this force had started. But he cant defend this, not when he’s taking away your purpose. “Price..”
“If i dont do it now, they’ll force my hand later. It’s a better opportunity for them to work with other teams too–”
“Bullshit.” He knows there’s no more arguing when Price gives him that look. It’s not like you’d be happy in your new omega team– he wouldn't be surprised if you grew envious of them from how their existence had thrown you out of the entire team. He knows something violent would burst if it happened to him.
————-
There’s a heavy haze on your mind when you try to blink your eyes open, like it’s muddling all your thoughts into one. You’re extremely hungry.
A small groan escapes you and when you finally open your eyes, it’s like they’re forced to droop. You can feel dried stains on your cheeks which explains why your eyes feel tired themselves. What happened?
There’s a small rumble behind you, startling you but you hardly have control of your body right now so there’s not much you can do but blink in confusion. The last thing you remember is training for the mission with the team, and by the pain rippling across your body, something must’ve happened during it. Still, your chest doesnt pump with fear, in fact you feel calm, like your body is well aware that you’re safe wherever you are.
Again, you try to move, inhaling a sharp breath as you force yourself onto your back. The pain is instant and you have to breathe out slowly as if you dont feel like there’s tears across your arms. When you finally sober up, you stop scrunching your eyes so tight and finally notice the weight next to you. Or rather.. around you.
“W-what the—?”
———
He had woken up to the feeling of you shuffling beneath his arm, but the muffled pained sound is what made his eyes snap open. It takes him a few moments to realise the predicament he had found— or rather put himself— in last night. One arm draped across your stomach protectively with his nose pressed as close to you as he could manage.
“You’re up early.” He glances at the clock behind you, sat on the dresser, the early time of eight am flashing beside ‘Saturday’. Even though he knows he should be questioning why he’s even doing this, his body feels strangely at ease. It’s even better than the day after a successful op.
“Lieutenant.. why are we in bed?” You croak out, trying to sit up from the embarrassment of it all but his arm tightens to keep you from going too far. It startles you, against his intentions, leaving you even more confused than before. “Wasnt i on a mission..? And— and there was a hostage.. is she alright? Did anyone else get seriously hurt—”
“Mission went sideways ‘cause of a bomb strapped to a hostage, everyone’s out alright. You got the brunt of the damage saving them, the rest of them are already going home safe.”
His alpha isnt as fiery as he remembers it the night prior, the ache in his chest now a warm thrum with you so close. Still, you look uncomfortable, and that hurts his alpha more than being away from you. So he pulls away, letting you sit yourself upright against the headboard.
You take a long breath of relief at his words of reassurance, and he can only assume it’s your own instinctive need to keep others safe. “And how I ended up here..?”
“You had surgery to remove shrapnel and a stray bullet that skimmed you. When you woke, the anaesthesia had you terrified, flailing about like a fish outta water.” He murmurs, gesturing towards the bandages peeking out from the hospital gown you still wore. It had ridden up in the night and now showed the gauze and bandages wrapped around your middle. There were some on your calves as well and the way you wince he supposes you realised about the one on your back.
“They called me in to help stabilise you— figured you’d recognise me. You did, calmed down a bit and then..” He trails off for a moment and you look up at him curiously, watching as he leans back against the headboard. He pauses, unsure whether to tell you about what you had confessed to him in your drugged state. “Jus’ started crying… not sure what about.” He swallows and then glances back down to you. “And well, y’know how we’d get, when another got injured”
They’ve always had their fair share of injuries, usually due to their own brashness as alphas. He remembers when Gaz got shot like it was yesterday, the three of them wouldn't leave his side. It took you all the strength you could muster to force John to let you treat him, even if Ghost had been glued to his side anxiously throughout the entire thing too.
“I took you away from there, brought you here. Stayed till you fell asleep, and then I must’ve passed out myself.”
It’s obvious you’re extremely confused right now, and to be honest, even he is. He’s never felt a pack instinct so strong in his life, not even towards the rest of the 141– it’s still shocking him, and yet, he still cant feel anything but calm.
“Sorry.. for the trouble i caused.” You mumble out but he shakes his head immediately.
“You didn't cause any. Just glad you’re okay.” He gets off the bed, mattress creaking from the relieved weight and springing immediately after he stands. “I’ll go grab breakfast. You shouldn't move too much.”
—————
It took everything in him to force himself to leave you to head towards the mess hall. Doing so also cleared his mind from the tranquility forced upon it, letting him finally go over the events of last night to just five minutes ago.
He had forgone all professionalism, and snatched you from the infirmary like it was what he was meant to do.
When he got back, you practically shovelled the food in your mouth whilst he restrained himself from telling you to eat slower. Still, he offered to help you clean up, since seeing all those wraps didn't make his chest any lighter regardless of instinct. Though,that was enough for you to adamantly shake your head and accidentally shut the door straight in his face.
“Thanks for making sure I was okay.” You say gratefully, dressed in some spare clothes and picking up your phone in your bag to see for any messages about reports or briefings. “ I should head back to my room though.”
He freezes, you weren't supposed to just leave straight away. Well, technically you didn't have a reason to stay, but a burn in his chest makes it physically impossible to watch you step away now.
“Stop.”
You listen to his command, turning to meet his eyes as you wonder what else he could really want. The chair creaks as he stands, making his way over to you until he’s just standing there, scrutinising you.
“You smell.. off.”
“Well.. I'm not using my usual shampoo obviously.” You give him a meek smile, and even though it’s not enough to settle the craving he just nods— accepting it.
“Should probably check by the infirmary just in case.” He mumbles, fighting every urge to scent you before he lets you go.
“I will.”
———
Three days.
That’s all that’s passed since that night, and still his mind is a turmoil he can't unravel. As much as his brain insisted you needed some space, he found himself insistent on making sure you’re okay.
That’s exactly why the second he saw you alone in the mess hall today, he was beside you in seconds.
“Are you feeling any better?” Your shoulders jump in a way that makes him wince, but you relax just as quickly when you realise and smile at him.
“What, better than yesterday when you asked me in the hallway?” He likes seeing you tease him like this, as if the pain wasn't eating you from the inside. You hadn't got the opportunity to talk more than in passing, so you answer more when he looks at you attentively. “The nurses gave me ointment for the burns, and I'll be back on regular training soon. Just taking it easier with lighter gym sets, and running instead to keep my body moving.”
Right, he remembers the significantly less damage on your lower half; running must be a bit easier than any other activity for you.
“Good to know, I’ll keep an eye on you too.”
You look embarrassed by his words, quickly turning your head away as you hurriedly step forward in the queue. “I’m not going to exert myself, you don't need to do that.”
All he can do is shrug, trying to push down the feeling that bubbles with your reaction. Instead he steps in front of you to dish out your portions of food for you. Not too much, or too little, just the way you’ve always liked it. He even skips the sides you don't like.
“I do, actually. As a lieutenant, you’re under my care. And as my beta, I need to make sure you’re well.”
It slips out so easily before he can stop it and he pauses, waiting for you to narrow your eyes in disgust. Who is he to claim you like that? Although.. you don't even seem to catch it, but he does notice the small quirk of your brow when you finally process a few moments later. “Wait–”
“Im on grocery run on tomorrow— havin’ a team movie night on Saturday. You should come too, get some steps in instead of being in this stuffy base for so long” Before you can even answer he places your utensils on your plate and then locks onto the exit. “Meet me by our usual car, alright? Eight amsharp.” And then he’s already weaving through the crowds, leaving you standing on your own.
————————-
For the first time in his life, Simon Riley was excited to see you. He hadn't really had time to question it, between the brand new load of paperwork dumped on him today alone and a million other problems in his mind. And yet, every time he glanced at the time ticking towards tomorrow, his instincts roared.
Would you allow him any closer than before? Although, sleeping beside him was already past many boundaries he had only considered he’d need to ease through now. He’s sure you’d flash him that exact smile when he saw you waiting by the car, positive you’d be embarrassed when he no doubt did something for your sake.
Or you’d back up in fear, your eyes flashing with the same hurt you directed towards Soap that day. You’d realise he’s no different than the rest, infact probably just as cruel as they are.
“Bit late to still be working, Lieutenant, even for you.”
“John.” He murmurs, voice on the quieter end as he watches from his seat on the Captain’s couch. There was a small wad of paperwork clutched in his hands like he needed reason to be here, and not solely for the true purpose.
“Simon.” Price returns, walking over to his desk to light a cigar before returning to sit infront of him. “Got a feeling I know why you’re here.”
It’s silent for a few moments and John is convinced he’ll have to lure the question out himself. But it never really is that simple with Simon Riley. Straightforward as ever, he can't help but jump right to the point “How did you.. know? Your omega.”
Price raises a brow this time, having not entirely expected that, but nods regardless as he breathes out smoke. “Feel it in your chest first. Like your instincts are controlling you really… pulling you towards them. It’s not like you can even try to stop it either.”
“And then what..?”
“The mating bite. The feeling will come soon after, fast even— you’ll get violent. But it’s what’s expected, nearly every alpha goes through it. Just advise your omega to not fight back and there won't be much to clean up.”
He pauses when the air in the room suddenly becomes tense, taking another inhale of the cigar.
“The sooner you do it, the easier it’ll be. You don't know when you’ll see them again with our schedules. I don't want to see you actin’ feral on a mission desperate for their scent.”
Soon enough, it was the next day, and he had driven you to the nearest Tesco Extra. Luckily you had come just in time for a sale.. although that meant there were a lot more people than usual. Despite offering to hold it, the basket dangles in his right hand while you glue yourself to his left side. The explosion had left your senses much more sensitive, so sticking to him was the best option.
“Anything else you want?”
“Maybe another biscuit?” You tease since he’s been filling up the basket with them so far, making you snort a little. When you did hang around the team, him and you were the only ones who’d eat them but you didn't know he liked it this much.
He rolls his eyes at your teasing, and leads you to the next aisle. “Grab what you want and meet me over there.” It’s emptier here, so you nod and watch him go towards the tinned food, now facing the shelves of crisps he left you with.
Well you know Soap and Gaz’s favourites already, and Simon loves kettle chips. You’re not sure if the Captain would also be there, so you grab a mixed bag for him. Would it be weird after not seeing them for so long? Strangely enough, you really can't bring yourself to resent them for what happened.
Was it really their fault? No one ever seemed to have the same problems as you. There was only one time you confessed it to a fellow beta on base, although he had quickly become defensive, shaking his head at you. ‘We’re colleagues at the end of the day. As long as it doesn't affect work, it’s totally fine.’
“Didn't get the crisps you like.” You jump as he appears, grabbing your favourite and tossing it in the basket. “Come on, we’ll get some drinks and go.”
You trail behind him as he carries on, noticing an obvious hunch in his shoulders. He’s tense, which for some reason you find entirely out of place despite you not even knowing him that well. It’s just that, ever since that morning in bed with him, he felt soft, and warm, like everything you’d find comfort in. Surely those same clenched muscles aren't the ones that laid beside you?
You’re about to spiral further into analysing his behaviour when you realise you’re at the checkout with him. “O-oh, do you mind if I run to the beta section quickly? I just need to grab—“
“Already got you one.” He picks up the scent refresher from the basket, scanning it through, as well as other medication he’s also seen you use before. You can only blink at him in surprise—the prices had hiked even higher recently, and you had to debate over buying one or being able to afford morning coffees anymore
It brought a sense of relief to your heart though, that comforting feeling settling in your gut once more. He’s alright, probably just a tough mission coming up.
———————
The past few days it’s like a switch had flipped inside him, too similar to how the others reacted after their new omega. You’re at a loss really, it’s not like he’s being rude, but he’s being distant. Like he’s cautious of you. To be honest, you were half expecting him to tell you not to come to the movie night anymore.
Though maybe you were judging him too quickly— it’s not all alphas, right? It was almost sickening every time the small bit of hope bubbled up though, like it was stupid to think he’d actually be the one to stay longer than the rest. You just hope the reason for this wasn't because of something they told him about you.
You were.. surprised to say the least when you entered the rec room alongside Ghost. The both of you had retrieved the bags from his car after he surprisingly called to make sure you were still coming.
Soap and Gaz weren't lazily sprawled across the couch like they usually would—if anything they seemed antsy. They were both sitting there, shoulders tense, Gaz’s leg even bouncing slightly. You did hear they all came back from a mission recently but they were never this agitated, all pent up like this, back when you were with them.
“Oh, hi.” Gaz looks upon hearing two sets of footsteps and smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. You just nod, awkwardly fiddling with the plastic bags you grabbed from Ghost’s car. “What’re you here for?”
“Ghost and I went to grab the snacks the other day”
“Y’can call me Simon, y’know.” He takes the plastic bags from your hands and you nod sheepishly, not even realising you had been using his codename.
“Oops, sorry.” He shakes his head at your apology and you quickly help him unpack all the snacks onto the coffee table for tonight.
“Completely blew a mission and now ye come ‘ere for a movie night?” Soap must’ve gotten up at some point, now brushing past you. His arms are like rocks when they hit into yours, and his tone is heavy— almost accusing.
It catches you off guard, and you freeze, watching as he walks around the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water to swallow in one gulp. “Well.. we did always have the best ones, no?” Surely he didn't mean to be that harsh, clearly something had been holding their bodies in a tight limbo. It must be a poor joke, even if it dug deep.
He doesn't take your words in the tone you intended though, brows narrowing down at you in contempt. “Don’t see why we ‘ave to entertain the fuck ups. My omega was in tha’ mission, she could’ve died ‘cause of you.”
“Johnny—“ Simon cuts in, voice low as he steps in front of you, his scent wrapping around you, weak enough to not fill your head too much. He’s being careful for you.
Though before Simon can say anything more, you let out a soft huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “That’s the risk of every mission, Soap. I thought as a demolition expert you would know that. Or are you forgetting the time you almost killed me?”
“That was a calculated risk. And yer still standing, aren’t ya?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes at your supposed argument. “You were being reckless and stupid out there.”
“That’s not what you said when I was on the team.” You snap back, anger starting to simmer inside of you too now. After all, they had constantly sung your praises when you were here. It’s their own fault for throwing you into an omega mission when you weren’t prepared enough.
“You left the team.”
“Because I was forced off!”
That pisses him off, because your words feel like an attack against him, and he walks right up to you, inches away. “We never needed you anyway— just a beta to balance us alpha out. Clearly you’re useless otherwise.” Though suddenly his nose scrunches, stepping back a moment before his eyes narrow into a glare. “Ye fucking bastard. Coming in here, stinkin’ omegas, stinking of her?!”
Your jaw clenches as you watch his body language, something you picked upon living around alphas. They get explosive, very strong quickly. First his fists start to clench, the veins in his forearms starting to show. Then his scent starts getting thicker with anger, pumping into the air like a burning building. It’s bad enough that it makes your own anger start to fizzle, hitting your head in waves of pain and you almost stumble backwards. Everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion, his hand rising upwards, the touch of skin against your cheek and the implosion of pain that spreads across your head.
Simon grabs you before you end up dropping altogether and pulls you away from him immediately, shielding you with his body. “I dont know what the fuck has gotten into you Johnny but you need to sort it out— now.” His scent is thicker than you’ve ever smelt it, in fact this is the most you’ve ever been able to make of it. It smells like gasoline, sharp and lingering, and ready to destroy something completely. So toxic, it forces you to gasp for a breath.
“Both of you, stand down, now.”
Price’s voice echoes across the room and you instantly shudder, leaning against the counter weakly as you grasp your face. The bruise will darken tomorrow but you can already feel your cheek starting to swell. What really has you is the mix of scents all around, filling your head so strongly.
“Captain—“
“No.” Price doesn't hesitate to march over, standing in between them as Ghost thrums with anger. You look over to the doorway, hearing the small creak as it closes Gaz standing there with his arms crossed. “You are soldiers, not fucking children.” He argues, pointing an accusing finger towards the Scot before turning to give Ghost an equally sharp glare.
Then his eyes find you. All you can do is stare back, wondering how he’ll react. Would he blame you for all this? Would you be the scapegoat to keep his perfect little pack intact?
Would you let him humiliate you once more?
You’re a soldier, a beta one, but a fighter nevertheless. Missions you’ve fought through, almost died on, saved lives during. For this? To end up like this? You push yourself to stand despite the heavy scents weighing you down, regardless of the stare his alpha is directing to your beta. Everything tells you to submit, the haze in your head and the throb across your cheek.
“You should go, I'll talk to you about this later.” Price commands, nodding his head towards the door. Surprisingly, his words weren't as harsh, in fact more exasperated than anything.
“Enjoy your movie night.” You murmur, grabbing your jacket where it was on the chair and throwing it over your arm.
“Wait—“ Simon starts, backing away from his offensive on Soap instantly to follow you. “Don’t” You hear Price stop him, his hand wrapped around his forearm to stop him chasing after you.
————————-
If that wasn't enough of a reason for you to give up on all of them, you don't know what is anymore. They’ve treated you so horribly, it was hardly arguable anymore that you shouldn’t have even tried with them again. This was all so stupid—you’re so stupid for even thinking this time it could end differently. You could never coexist.
As for Simon, all you feel is a deep regret in your stomach. It was obvious really, of course he must’ve just been smelling omega on you this entire time. It was just a biological confusion, not a genuine interest in you. He didn't care about who you were, his alpha smelt an omega, and that’s all that really matters. It makes you feel sick to your stomach, knowing that you had in some way probably tricked him. His alpha probably had him strung up all week, no wonder he looked so uncomfortable in that shop and every day past.
The chat with Price never happened. They had been briefed almost immediately after you left for an op, and you heard the chatters of their departure the next day. So with them all gone,it was time to get back to work. You had briefings to attend, reports to fill and to forget about everything that happened. Or what didn't happen between you two.
Except you can't.
Everytime you get a second alone with your thoughts, they drift back to him, to that morning and waking up beside him. The last time you’ve woken to someone’s scent around you was when you were very little, your family huddling together in the nest. That stopped as soon as you presented.
Now you’re stuck with this emptiness in your chest. At first you thought his scent had been too strong, and you even tried two pumps of the scent refresher to try and clear your senses. Not even that worked, if anything making it worse now that you longed for his scent even more.
There’s a small balcony you used to see him smoke at, when you first joined the team. He came up here once or twice, and then over the two years you spent with them, never again. In fact, you overheard the sergeants say he quit it altogether. You pause by it today, staring out at the worn railing, the remnants of ash sitting upon it, the mark of his shoe making an outline on the unused floor.
For some reason it makes your eyes water, mourning a connection you could’ve had but seems impossible now.
—-
It’s late at night a few days later. You had taken the opportunity while they were gone to take all of your things out of the rec room. Sure, you should’ve done it before, but a small part of you was still clinging on to possibility. Your blankets that you and the sergeants would swaddle yourselves in on colder nights, the tea strainer you bought to show Price how to use leaves instead of the bought bags, even the few mugs in the cupboard you bought to match them. You left behind the one Soap bought for your birthday— perhaps it belonged there more than it ever did to you. Can't forget the CD player you let Gaz borrow a million times either.
They don't suit your room, the colour clashes with the boring greys in here, and they look like a pile of junk from where you’re beneath the duvets, staring at them. It’s almost midnight, and you know you should be sleeping, but it's a Friday night so to hell with that. You could afford late night wallowing; it’s not like you had anywhere to be tomorrow.
They were supposed to come back today. You heard it from Laswell when discussing something else; she must not know what happened between you. Either they chose not to tell her..or forgot, since you were never that important anyways. The clock blinks one am, maybe you really should sleep.
———
The knock on the door breaks your sleep, and you can only assume it wasn't the first as it continues, each one seeming to become.. slower. You crawl out of bed, mind trying to run a million possibilities through your awakening brain. An emergency mission? Bad news? A sudden attack? An intruder?
“Please..” You hear the groan on the other side of the door, convincing you enough to open it instantly and reveal the other side.
Ghost— or rather Simon, with his mask now fallen at your feet— leans against your door frame, blood dripping onto the floor from a wound near his middle and his eyes glazed over. “Beta..” He breathes through a pained wince, chest sinking quickly.
“Simon?! You should be in the infirmary, not here- ” You scoff, gaze flicking between the blood staining the floor, his hand clenched over the wound and the grime clinging onto his hair and neck.
“No— no- can’t think..” He steps forward, every movement heavy with pain and hurt and yet his eyes stay locked on you. His words are desperate as his hand clenches the handle, sucking in a strained breath.
“A-alright, fine. I’ve got some stuff somewhere—“ Opening the door fully now, you reach for his hand, letting him lean the brunt of his weight as you haul him towards your bathroom. It’s only when you manage to get him to sit on the toilet seat do you free yourself from him, rummaging through your cupboards desperately. “Here- okay, lift your shirt we need to fix that quickly.”
Luckily the wound had just been leaking into the bandages so all you had to do was repack and replace, although you had to deal with his incoherent groans the entire time. Tucking the clean edge into the wrap, he’s finally alright again and you sigh in relief, stepping back.
“Stop—“ He grasps your wrist as you try to put the box back, forcing you to stay in place as you raise a brow at him.
“I need to put it back.“ You sigh, unable to fathom what was up with him right now.
“Stay.”
“Simon, I’m just going to the cabinet..” You sigh as he shakes his head adamantly, pulling you closer even as you try and resist. “Let me go.”
“No.”
“Simon.” You say firmly, a fresh wave of your scent rolling through the air. Never have you used it on any of them before, in fact it only ever worked on inconsolable civilians you’ve saved. Beta scent’s only had the purpose of calming down people anyway, not like an Alpha’s commanding force or an Omega’s lure. “Let me go.”
So when he immediately goes lax, fingers grazing your palm as he gently lets go, you step back in surprise. What?
You keep one eye on him as you place the things away, but he just stays, unmoving. As you close the cabinet, you take a step towards him again, gently pulling down his shirt only to feel the soaked blood on it, as well as the gunpowder and grime. Definitely not a good mission then.
“Why.. don't you wash up, alright? I’ll get you some clothes.”
For a moment you’re convinced you’ll have to drag him yourself, but he takes a small inhale and nods quietly, standing the best he can before he kicks off his shoes and socks. Listening like a loyal dog.
—
You make your way to his room with your own mind full of questions from his strange behaviour. Why did your scent have that effect on him? Why did he come to you? Why did he always call you his beta?
The door unlocks easily with the card you nicked from his gear, and his room is in disarray. It wasn’t uncommon for a pack to have scented items from each other, or very close friends; it usually helped with sleeping or just getting comfortable. You remember Gaz and Soap often had items in each other's rooms for that exact reason, though they never traded with you, even if you never asked yourself.
You immediately noticed Price’s sweater on the floor, kicked to the door. Beside the dresser was Gaz’s spare shirt, crumpled and half shoved beneath the base. Soap’s jacket was behind the bathroom door, hidden away from sight like something that couldn't bear to be seen. In the midst of it was a pair of gloves you lent him during a mission when he was damaged badly. Like a pillar in chaos, it was neatly placed beside a brand new scent refresher and a pack of your favourite snacks. Surely, just a piece of repayment, right?
——————
The shower is quiet when you re-enter your room, and you hesitantly step towards the bathroom door, turning the handle. “Brought some clothes.” You murmur, watching the door handle turn.
“Thank you.” He says, the same gruff tone but quieter, and takes the clothes you pass through the gap.
Surprisingly, he doesn't close it after, letting you hear his quiet shuffling as he changes. It feels weird standing on the otherside, knowing you can just walk in and see him bare like this— an alpha left vulnerable. Though, can an alpha truly be vulnerable before a beta? If anything, you’d always be vulnerable alone with him, and he’d always be the strongest in the room.
“I saw my gloves on your table.” You mumble out, stepping back to take a seat on the edge of your bed. His silence doesn't help your inability to keep in the thoughts running wild in your head.
His breath hitches behind the door, something you’ve learnt to notice since you can't read his facial expressions. “I meant to return it to you. But.. I hadn't washed them yet.”
Just as you thought.
The door opens, and he steps forward, the grime washed off and bandages covered by the thin cotton shirt. He looks exhausted like this, like everything weighing down on him has finally caused him to crumble. Just like the others, his shoulders stay taut.
“You left their things on the floor.”
Your beta is desperate to soothe, to understand the problems within his pack, and help him through them. No sane alpha would push away his pack’s items, it has your beta ringing alarm bells across your mind.
“Didn’t need them.” He murmurs, one hand tugging at the end of his shirt as it clings to his damp body. You’ve never seen him fiddle with things like this, running his tongue over his lips.
“You didn't need your pack’s items?” You huff out crossing your arms over your chest. “At least make the lie believable.” Maybe this was his own strange way of pushing you away like they had, because you just wouldn’t understand, would you?
“It’s not a lie.” He grunts, eyes flickering over you and then towards the door— like he’s about to bolt. Not now, not after everything.
You stand, blocking his path as you look at him. “Why did you come here, Simon? It’s not because you feel guilty about the other day, and you shouldn't anyway— Soap’s right. I’m not needed.”
“You are.”
“I’m not—“ You shake your head adamantly, turning towards the door. There’s no way you were going to sit around and be humiliated again, intentionally or not.
“We need you.” He says firmly, hand grasping your wrist as his strong ash suddenly washes over you and thickens in the air. It’s all you can smell, echoed by the weight of his words. Though, you feel his grip immediately falter afterwards, like instant regret. The scent calms quickly, back to the dull linger it usually is as his fingers fall to gently holding your palm. “I.. need you.”
For a moment you’re stunned, scent sprawling anywhere for something solid to grip onto as you try and weave through the possible meanings of his words. Him, Ghost, the soldier feared across foreign countries’ soil and by his mask alone, needs you? A beta?
“I dont…” understand. The word falls silent on your tongue, glancing down at his hand on yours in the low light. “I thought.. the omega’s I work with– their scent rub off on me. That’s the reason for all of this, isn't it?”
“No, no.” His grasp tightens when you try to pull back, feet following you as you step back, until you take a seat against the edge of the bed. “Your scent, it’s been driving me insane. It’s like I can't function without it.”
“But that’s not possible, Simon. I’m not an omega— I can't lure you like that- even the sweetest scent is nothing more than cheap perfume.” You argue, because it’s the truth and there isn’t anything more to it. It’s facts, written and studied extensively in biological research that forms the foundations of society. There could be no other explanation because it just didn't exist, it never will.
His grip tightens again and this time his lip curls back, almost like he’s snarling.. except he seems to be more frustrated with his own actions than at you. “Lust isn't going to save us soldiers.”
You see it now as you look at him properly since patching him up. His eyes are half lidded but you can see how his pupils have expanded in the short time you’ve had him here. Sorting out the blood spilling out of him might’ve helped, but he was crashing fast now that the pain-induced adrenaline was wearing off.
Now he just looked exhausted out of his mind, frantically holding onto his self control as his eyes locked onto the scent glands on your wrist. You could almost read his thoughts now, how he was slipping off the edge, fingers beginning to tremble. Wounded, exhausted and desperate for a moment of solace.
“Simon..” You whisper again, it’s been more than a few times tonight, but this time it’s different.
He drops to his knees before you, hitting the soft rug beside your bed as his hand holds onto yours. His mask had been off the entire time and yet only in this moment do you truly acknowledge the vulnerability before you. “Please, scent me.” He murmurs, low and soft though not gentle with the rasp of greed that bubbles from his throat. Like he told you, he needs this. He needed you. “Let me be.. your alpha.”
The silence rings loud between you, even from the slow drops from the bath’s faucet and the whir of the bathroom fan fading into nothing. “Okay..I will.” You nod, breaking the dam holding him together and he doesn't even let out a breath until he presses his nose against your wrist. The inhale he takes is greedy, like he wants every last scent coating the air, and then the exhale comes, his body dropping like a bomb.
“Thank you.” He breathes and you watch as he lifts your hand as he rises himself, and you realise now he doesn't have his gloves on from the feeling of his bare skin warm against you.
It’s like he doesn't even hesitate, gently rubbing his wrist against the scent glands on yours. You knew what was coming, read about it a million times between alphas and omegas— hell even heard a million more from them in your youth years.
Scenting, when the alpha’s scent envelopes your body, like a shot straight to your brain.
Except, this isn't like anything they described.
You can feel your scents starting to mix, intertwining together before separating once more. They’re tied in the middle like a promise and yet sprouting at completely different ends and filling the room. His scent changes, shifting from the harsh burnt tinges of ash and smoke like they’ve been washed up by yours. It’s petrichor, the damp aroma whenever rain ingrains itself into the soil and washes over rocks. The smell is fresh, earthy and it feels like the relief of rain when it finally comes crashing down, washing over the ground and letting the dying flora renew.
But yours? Yours blossoms in magnitude, like a bubble that has grown and grown until it suddenly bursts. You’ve never smelt it so strong before, used to the quietness of it all, but it’s finally loud. Sweet honeycomb and chocolate, an appetising combination so rarely put together it makes his entire body melt. It’s comforting like a warm drink on a cold day and refreshing like a breeze on a summer night.
You barely get a chance to shuffle backwards before he’s crashing into you, nose forcing it’s way towards your neck as his limbs one by one fall slack, muscles turned to the mere meat they’re made from. A low purr rumbles through him, up his arms where they wrapped around your middle and his chest which is pressed against yours. His eyes have fallen shut, content to be pressed against your nose gland as he lets everything go.
“My beta..” He murmurs, squeezing you tighter to the point you’re forced to exhale yourself and appreciate the warmth and comfort in the room. This was the first time you’ve truly been able to appreciate a friend’s scent without feeling your head start to spin, and it felt amazing. Like everything in the world was set in place, nothing could even shift the balance in this room.
You squeeze him back, a small huff of laughter bubbling in your throat when he groans in contentment. His scent starts to settle once more, now the faint smell of smoke returning though with the gentleness of a campfire, easing your senses.
“Alpha..” You breathe out, letting your own body relax under his, eyes slipping shut in his grasp. Your beta was satiated, curling up for the first time in weeks, and you were more than happy to lay your heart beneath him.
----------------------------------
part one Buy me a coffee!
one more part and then this will be done!! thank you for reading alonga nd im so shocked at how many people loved the first one sm! please leave ur thoughts in the comments <3333 ALSO THANK YOU FOR 5000 FOLLOWERS!!!!!!
general cod: @heyitsniki18 @insanityall @twoandahalfdimes @ririerm @alexinarcadia @sgt-artemis-owl-riley @fries-pls @tikitsune
taglist (thank you SO much to @lexloon for putting this tgt for me):
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “There she is.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
After getting matching daisy tattoos for my cousin Jackie’s thirtieth birthday, she is convinced it’s finally time to find her soul mate. Me on the other hand? I don’t buy into fate, matching tattoos or destiny shit. Across town Joel Miller doesn’t believe in soul mates either, until he wakes up one morning with a daisy tattoo behind his ear. A disastrous first encounter leaves Joel and I firmly in enemy territory. And when Joel meets Jackie at a party and they discover their matching tattoos, it seems like destiny has brought them together. And me? I’m going to keep my own matching tattoo to myself. Why complicate things? Jackie is happy with Joel and I've started dating his charming and sexy brother, Tommy.Plus, there’s no way the annoying Joel Miller could be my soul mate…. Right?
tags: soulmate AU, enemies to lovers (because that's all I write apparently), smut, yearning, wrong person right time, right person wrong time, cute moments, jealous Joel, angst, sexual tension, banter, happy ever after.
rating: 18+
Words: 12.1k
notes: I'm sorry this took so long. I re-worked it a bunch and I am still not really happy with it. But I hope y'all enjoy it for what it is! If I am feeling inspired maybe I'll do an epilogue, but in the meantime here is our resolution!
finale | you're a daisy if you do
4 MONTHS LATER
The scanner beeps a chirping heartbeat as my groceries move across the conveyor belt. Lettuce, chips, chicken, salmon... I watch it all passively, exhaling slowly.
This is my routine every Thursday after work.
After the unhappy looking teen with unkempt hair packs my groceries I will thank him and then I will move to my car. I will drive with the radio on, but I won't really be listening to it. I will return to my apartment - not the one I once shared with Jackie. A new one on the other side of town, closer to my work. I will unload my groceries, I will turn on a podcast or a playlist or the television to keep my mind loud and busy. I will eat my meal alone, scrolling my phone for the usual social highlights before I just give up and begin looking for any new hint of Joel online.
He never had social media, no Instagram or even Facebook. The only thing I find is a bare bones Miller Bros Construction website. A blank page with a little hard hat saying "pardon our mess."
The biography section is finished though. And along with Joel's brief bio there is a photo of him. It was taken by Tommy, I can tell. Joel's smile is authentic, but the lighting is bad, the exposure grainy.
It looks like he's on a job site, t-shirt neckline ringed with sweat, dark eyes squinting. He has that sexy little half smile I miss more than anything.
Joel hasn't reached out since the whole terrible day when I lost both he and Jackie in one foul swoop. I tried texting and calling a few times but of course I received no answer. I tried contacting Tommy too out of desperation, but he had already blocked me.
There are times when my feelings towards Joel can be unkind. When I think of how he turned away at the first sign of true conflict I want to hate him.
But then I remember the hurt in his eyes and know it wasn't just that I kept it from him, but that I lied. I did. I never mentioned it to him when he asked me point blank if I felt that pull to him. I could have put him out of his misery, but I was scared. Too scared to take a gamble on us. Too scared to hurt Tommy or Jackie.
Sometimes I want to blame Jackie for doing the exact same thing. I mean, she knew about the tattoo! She could have said something! But she thought Joel and I hated each other. What reason could she have for thinking the two of us were actually a match?
And even if I do blame Jackie it doesn't bring him back into my life. It doesn't take away the pain from anyone. It doesn't make my cousin reach out or make Tommy forgive me. It doesn't put me back in Joel's arms, which is the only place I want to exist.
I stroke Joel's photo on my phone screen, eyes glassy. His beautiful face stares out at me, eternally unmoving, turning into a watercolor blur as tears begin.
It heals my heart to see him.
It breaks my heart to see him.
Joel hammers the nail onto the soft wood loudly, a spare between his teeth. His body is tight, shoulders sore. He's got a stripe of sweat down the spine of his t-shirt and under the arms. The day is overcast, but he's been working steadily through his lunch, his focus on the task in front of him.
It helps that his job is so labor intensive, that his hands and his mind are always working together. It allows for very little down time, very little opportunity to sit around deep in thought.
The last thing Joel needs in his life is to have more time to think.
Pete Henderson approaches, marking something off his clipboard. He notes Joel's project and gives an appreciative whistle.
"Damn Miller, you do great work. Why in the hell aren't you running your own company again?"
Joel flinches, removing the nail from between his teeth so he can answer. "S'a lot of work for one person."
"Don't you have a brother?"
"You need any extra hands today?" Joel says diverting the topic. "Happy to stay late."
He's been working for ten hours already, but he'll stay for an extra two. Just as he has every workday with this project.
"You know me; I can always use extra hands if you got time to spare."
Joel straightens, licking his dry lips. "I do."
Henderson gives one final nod, clapping Joel on the shoulder before moving past to check on the work of another builder.
Joel is frustrated by the interruption; it'll take him a moment to get back in the rhythm he was previously in. He feels vulnerable, ready for attack because his mind is set free of its usual focus.
And just as it always happens when he's not laser focused on the task at hand, his mind drifts.
To her.
To the love of his life and her betrayal.
He exhales, taking a swig from his water bottle and pulling out the phone from his back pocket.
Don't do it. Don't.
He ignores that warning voice in the back of his head and immediately swipes up, finger tapping the Instagram icon.
Joel signed up for an account using some stupid name weeks ago. The cousin didn't have an account, but Jackie did.
He'd been able to limit his obsession with the cousin until then, but the thought that pictures, that evidence of her existed in the world made it impossible for him to stay away.
Jackie had always been one to document her life through social media and for the first time since he met her, he was thankful for it. This way he had a sneak peek into the life he was missing.
The cousin wasn't in any of the recent photos. Why would she be? It was clear that the two had had a falling out, much like he and Tommy.
Today he scrolls back to eight months ago. A post Jackie made of the she and the cousin out to dinner. The cousin is smiling across the table. She holds a set of chopsticks and the meat she was holding is mid-fall. There is a splotch of sauce on the front of her blouse.
She's mid-laugh in the way that swallows her eyes and makes her head tilt back. If he focuses really hard he can still hear echoes of it.
It's like pressing his thumb into a particularly deep bruise, the pain magnified, the mark never going away.
But he can't stop.
I always go shopping Thursday after work, but an extra article subject came in that I couldn't give up. Subsequently, it is Friday after work when I walk into my usual grocery store.
And that one small delay changes everything.
Unlike last week and the weeks before I'm in a very good mood. Well, as good a mood as I can be in considering the circumstances.
My last article on the soulmate housing crisis was so popular I was asked to do a follow up piece. Then another one. Then more independent pieces focusing on marginalized groups. For the first time in any job, I truly feel I am flourishing. Doing the things that I'm very passionate about. No more dishonest mayors or celebrity gossip. Now I'm meeting real people with real stories.
I grab my usual items with a bit of a lighter heart. I'm going to try focusing on that today. I won't go home and scroll my phone in a depressed funk.
I'm passing the floral section of the shop when I decide this and it is like the colorful blooms reach out my way, celebrating my decision.
Something about the sight of them stops me in my tracks. Happy little daffodils stare back at me, lovely and joyful. Such a stark contrast to how I feel these days. Pumpkin colored lilies beckon me with their plush petals and freckles. Peonies explode with beautiful layers of feminine detail.
But it's the oversized Gerber daisies in a rainbow of color that make me smile the widest. I finger the stem of the closest one - a pale maroon.
Today I will do something happy, I decide. I'm going to buy these flowers and put them in a vase. Then I'm going to go to drinks with coworkers or maybe see a movie. I'm going to do something that takes my mind off of -
"Aisle nine? Thank you, sugar."
I freeze in place, hand extending midway to the bouquet when that familiar low drawl bleeds from around the corner.
No. No no no.
My stomach drops completely when I hear boots coming my way. I'm frozen to the spot when a head of glossy black hair slides into view.
Tommy.
It feels like a betrayal that he should be here. I've moved away, I've changed the route I take to get to work; I've never gone back to his side of town ensuring that our paths wouldn't collide. And yet here he is crossing that invisible line I've set.
His eyes are scanning the selection of flowers and he bites his lower lip absently, focused. That familiar sweet look he used to have when he was trying to fix a problem whether in the home or between us.
There's a pang of longing there. Not for Tommy per se, but of being cared for. Being loved. Of the comfortable way I felt with him.
But then I feel a pang of guilt deep in my gut, because as I stare at Tommy all I can feel is deep yearning for Joel. Joel's kind eyes and the way they look when they're sleepy. The way his jaw shifts when he's frustrated. Everything about him.
My face is on fire as I feel Tommy slowly approach me. I watch from the corner of my eyes as he slowly acknowledges there's another person in the aisle, a polite smile on his face until he realizes it's me.
"Fuck."
Like a western standoff we stare at one another, bodies squared, hands at our sides. Like any second well draw pistols. At this point I might welcome that. Anything beats this brutal silence. He looks wonderful, face still handsome, body still muscular. He's dressed nicely tonight, a button down instead of his usual T-shirt. He looks lovely.
I realize I miss that. The way he could shine up so nicely for nights out. The way his glossy black hair caught the light. I loved laughing with him, the way he managed to make everyone love him.
Yet despite all Tommy and I have gone through, the length of time we were together, all I can think of is how Joel's neck smelled, how his arms felt around me, the timbre of his laugh.
"You don't live around here," I finally croak.
Tommy just stares at me, an unreadable expression of both anger and hurt. Or I think that's what it is. It might be disgust or disdain. I'm a bug, a smudge on his shoe, a bug on the windshield.
"Nope."
It’s a miracle I haven't dissolved into a depressed puddle of shame. The speakers drone out a crackling pop tune from the eighties, something so peppy it makes the serious moment obscene.
I need to think of something otherwise it feels like we're just going to stare each other down for eternity.
"So what brings you to the floral section?" I say in a pathetic attempt at levity.
I force my eyes to crinkle when I smile, hoping I appear authentic. But Tommy isn't moved, his face remains impassive before I watch his jaw clench.
"I have a date."
The way he says it is delivered for maximum damage. The way his brows rise, his voice crisp. He wants me to be wounded, but I'm strangely relieved at this turn of events.
It puts him in an advantageous position which takes the pressure off of me. He's doing well, I'm not. After how I ended things I accept that. I even welcome it.
"That's great."
"Is it," he says flatly. A question wrapped up as a statement.
"Of course. You deserve to be happy."
I watch the curl of his lip, my enthusiasm clearly unwelcome. "Yeah, I do."
It's clear that things are too fresh, too raw for us to have a pleasant conversation. Every sentence is loaded with potential pitfalls so I just forgo my plant purchase altogether.
"Have a good date."
I move quickly down the aisle, the plastic rim of the shopping basket bumping against my hip. I feel like I've just run a marathon, heart in my throat, legs burning. I just need to pay for my groceries and leave. I just need to make it to the till.
"Did it have to be my brother?"
I glance over my shoulder to see Tommy following me to the next aisle. There's a look of determination on his face, mingled with a tentative appearance of bracing himself. Like he doesn't want to know the answer but he needs to hear it.
"What?" I ask even thought I heard him perfectly.
Shoppers move through the aisles, weaving around our static bodies It's getting to be the busy time and we're in everyone's way.
Tommy steps closer so he can lower his voice. "Why did it have to be Joel?"
He looks like he's ready to start crying or screaming but hasn't decided which one. Both options chill me.
"I didn't go out of my way to choose your brother just so I could hurt you, Tommy. You must know that."
Tommy's body shifts and I see the glossy look his eyes have taken on.
"What I know is I was about to propose and you drop a bomb you've been cheating on me. And then I have to find out in a text from Jackie that it's been with my brother." He looks in pain, like it's happening all over again. "I just don't understand why you'd do it. I mean, you two didn't even like each other."
My head is starting to pound. "Haven't you talked to Joel about this?"
I watch the cloud cross his eyes, can feel the crackle of fury starting there in his body.
"I haven't spoken to him since that day."
"What about Jackie?"
The fist not holding the flowers is flexing and curling. His gaze hasn't broken from mine.
"Her neither. I wanted a clean break from everyone."
"How do you guys work together then?"
"We don't. I get enough gigs on the side to pay for my new place."
My new place.
So he and Joel aren't living together either. I think of the bare bones website. Of course it's defunct. How could there be a Miller Brothers Construction with the brothers not speaking to one another?
"But Miller Brothers Construction was your dream," I say, unable to hold back. "You guys wanted to do this together. To create your own legacy."
He gives an ugly laugh."Are you actually trying to give me life advice right now?"
"No, I-"
"Are you insane?" Tommy thunders. "You stand there telling me how to live my life when you blew it up by cheating on me with my own fuckin' brother!"
A woman shopping for laundry detergent nearby looks our way, eyes scanning me from top to toe before shaking her head in clear disapproval. It makes my face burn.
"I don't know how you can even look me in the eye after what you did," Tommy says shaking his head.
Something about his contempt makes my teeth clench. The sick churn of my stomach building.
"Why are you acting like this was some random thing I did just to hurt you?" I burst out.
"How wasn't it?!"
"He's my soul mate, Tommy. What other reason could there have been to do what we did?"
I see the moment my words connect because his body tenses up. He blinks slowly, long lashes fanning against his high cheekbones.
"What the hell are you on about?"
His confusion throws me for a loop. Something about it enrages me as well.
"Why are you acting like you don't know what I'm talking about?"
"Because I don't. What do you mean you're soul mates? Jackie is his soul mate."
I search his eyes with my own, taken aback to see the true perplexing grimace there. I hesitate for a moment before I take a step towards him, relieved when he doesn't move away.
My heart is pounding when I gather my hair into a low ponytail and turn my neck to the side, showing him the tattoo.
"Jackie and I got them the same night for her birthday."
I know he's seen it when I hear the hitch to his breathing.
"You never had that when we were together," he mutters.
I drop my hair and it moves back to fall over the tattoo, shielding it once more.
"I covered it up."
"Why would you cover it up?" Tommy asks. "That's insane."
I want to end the conversation, I want to pay for my groceries and I want to continue my depressing ritual of mourning the love of my life because seeing Tommy has set me back months.
"What does it matter? It's in the past."
“You owe me this. You owe me an explanation after what you put me through."
I sigh, shifting the basket into the other hand.
"Because all Joel and I did was fight at the start. You know that. Plus he and Jackie got on so well and she was so happy. I figured they were soul mates early on and I didn't want to complicate things by bringing up the tattoo. I figured there was no point."
"Why wouldn't you tell me?"
When I see his eyes are wet I expect that he might break down and cry. It makes me want to do the same. It makes me want to gather him in a hug and tell him how sorry I am, how much I regret leading him on.
"Honestly Tommy, because when I was with you, you made me so happy, I didn't want anything to fuck that up." I sniffle, good memories in the forefront. "I figured we were end game and I thought there was no point in saying anything if it wasn't relevant."
"What changed?"
How can I properly explain that?
"I don't know exactly. I guess Joel just understood me in a way I felt you didn't. He was interested in my work-"
"And I wasn't?"
No. You weren't.
"He cut out articles I wrote," I say softly. "He asked me about my writing. He challenged me. And it wasn't just that, our paths kept crossing, like fate. And I wanted to dislike him, Tommy, I really did. But in the end I just couldn't."
"You couldn't come to that conclusion before you fucked him?"
"I regret that. You know I do."
His chin is wobbly and he's blinking really fast. In all our time together I never really saw Tommy cry. He was always so upbeat, so joyful. Knowing I took a piece of that away makes the regret feel all the more acute.
"You never cared about me, I was a distraction. Or worse a way to get closer to him."
I shake my head, because that doesn't feel right or accurate.
"No that's not true. Why do you think it was so hard for me to end things? If you had been an asshole or if I hadn't loved you, truly loved you, it would have been easy to walk away."
I swallow, but it does nothing to push down the lump growing in my throat.
"I wanted it to be you for the longest time, Tommy. But with Joel it was just different. I knew I loved him so quickly. I felt it everywhere-"
I'm startled when Tommy seems to come to life, limbs jerking. He moves past me, his flowers dropped to the ground, petals crushed underfoot. He moves quickly, not even looking back or slowing a fraction when I call his name.
I stand there staring after him for a long time with my mouth hinged open. A part of me is furious that he could start a fight with me in the middle of a grocery store. But the other part of me knows there was so much left unsaid between the two of us.
Does Joel feel like this too? Does he sit at home hating me? Does he think of my betrayal, confused and with not enough information? Is it possible he is dating someone too? The thought makes me nauseated to the point where I have to lean against the shelving unit nearest me, holding my middle.
No. He wouldn't do that.
I can still remember the way he looked at me the first time he said he loved me. That desperate, perfect way he felt moving within me. The way we laughed and cried and made love in those perfect twenty four hours.
When I hear a rolling cart behind me it snaps me from my reverie and I lurch towards the check out till. I stand like a zombie and begin to load up my groceries onto the conveyer belt.
A voice is reaching out to me, soft and low. The man in front of me has turned around and is facing me. His voice is soft, but his confidence is clear in the way he stands.
"Pardon me," he says with a pleasant smile. "Mind if I snag that?"
The first thing I notice is that he's ridiculously handsome with perfect teeth. His dark hair is brushed back from his face and his angular eyes are a warm dark brown. He's dressed nicely in slacks and a light sweater.
It takes me a beat to realize he's pointing to the rubber separator near my elbow. I quickly nod, moving it to him.
He thanks me politely, separating our purchases and then turns back around. His short hair is shaved lightly at the sides, giving me a clear view of his neck.
And then I see it.
The daisy tattoo behind his ear.
I'm in so much shock at the revelation that I just watch passively as he pays for his items and leaves the store. I hear the woman giving me the price for my groceries and I throw the money at her.
I jog out the sliding glass doors of the store, devastated when I don't immediately see him. I silently curse myself for my lack of prompt action.
I'm dejectedly on my way to my car when I spot him behind the wheel of a pristine SUV. The same vehicle as Jackie down to the model. He's typing on his phone, looking concerned. When he yawns he brings his knuckle to his lips like he's hiding it. Something Jackie has done since we were kids.
My hands are sweaty around the plastic bag handles. I set the groceries into the trunk of my car quickly, heart still thrumming.
He's starting up his car now, giving another yawn as he begins to back out of his parking spot.
I feel insane as I throw myself into the driver's seat and start speeding off in the direction of the man. I'm terrified to lose sight of him.
I don't know what I'm hoping to accomplish with this. Jackie isn't talking to me; this man might think I'm insane. But I have to do something, have to make this happen.
We don't drive far. Maybe ten minutes before he turns the corner and to a high end apartment building. He sails into his underground parking and this is where I lose him. For all I know this could be his girlfriend's apartment, or maybe even his wife. I don't think I saw a wedding ring, but I wasn't really looking closely.
But something tells me it's his apartment. That he's single. That he's waiting for his perfect match, his love, his soul mate.
That he's waiting for her.
Joel sits on the sofa of his home with a forgotten beer bottle at his elbow. The house feels quiet, as it always does these days. As it always has since his brother moved out. The same day he gave Joel a bloody nose.
Pizza sits on the coffee table, a movie playing in the background. Curtis and Viper. The one they all saw in the theaters together.
That feels like age ago, lifetimes ago. The night his hand had found its way into her hair, stroking the soft strands without realizing it.
He aches for her. Not just physically, but her warm body pressed up against his watching television, for the way she used to duck her head when she gave a shy smile up his way, for the intense look of concentration she wore when they played air hockey.
He can't help but miss her, even as the thought of her hurts. Even though she betrayed him in the most egregious way.
Ashley had done the same, keeping things from him, not letting him into her interior life. Hurting him in a way that made him swear off love. No the cousin hadn't done exactly the same, but it was close. The deception, the willful denial that had him reeling for months.
How is he ever supposed to recover?
He's not, he decides.
This will be his quiet life. A home, a job, a semblance of a life. Not a real one, but a decent one. One he can live with.
He's just landed on this thought when he hears the distant rattle of his door lock followed by the push of it open. He goes to stand, body tight with tension at the home invasion.
When the figure rounds the corner into the living room Joel can only stand, staring at him in shock.
"Tommy?" He blinks. "How in the hell-"
"Never gave my keys back," Tommy says, finishing Joel's unanswered question.
He sounds breathless; like he jogged the entire way over here from his place which Joel knows isn't possible because Tommy's crashing on a friend's couch almost a half hour away. At least that's what Joel thinks he heard from snatches of conversations with former co-workers who knew them both.
Joel eyes are burning with tears at the sight of his little brother. He's not mad at him, if anything the sight gladdens him. Everything in him wants to cross the distance and pull his brother into a tight hug, telling him how sorry he is, how he understands the feeling of betrayal, how he'll do anything to make up for it.
Joel wonders if Tommy's going to punch him again and if he would try to stop him this time. He decides he probably wouldn't. Sometimes he wishes Tommy had beaten him to a pulp that night because it feels like that's what he deserved.
"Why are you here, Tom? Everything okay?"
Tommy stands with his hands stemmed at his hips, a familiar stance that the Miller brothers share.
"Why in the hell didn't you tell me she was your soul mate?"
Joel deflates, flashes of the cousin going through his mind.
"How did you find that out?"
"Answer the question."
"What does it matter?"
He slumps back onto the couch, chest curved, head sagging. He looks like a man defeated which is appropriate because that's exactly how he feels. Defeated by life, defeated by love.
"It matters a whole helluva lot," Tommy snaps as he steps closer to the couch.
He stares down at Joel in a way that makes Joel feel like their birth order positions have changed, like Joel is the little brother being chastised.
"How do you figure?" Joel says, raising his chin. "Her being my soul mate makes what happened okay?"
"It explains it. Explains why my brother would do something like that."
Joel raises a shoulder, unable to offer more. "I tried to tell you. But..."
"I was already gone. Yeah."
Now Tommy comes to plop on the couch next to Joel at the very edge, so the two don't knock knees. The two brothers sit in silence for a moment. Tommy is wearing nice clothes, his hair brushed..
"Were you on a date?"
"Supposed to be." Tommy tilts his eyes Joel's way when the older Miller doesn't respond. "You wondering how I could be dating already?"
"I'm not wondering anything."
Tommy huffs through his nose, a tick to the corner of his mouth. "You know me, Joel. I love the thrill of the chase."
"I know you really loved her though," Joel says looking at his hands. "You were gonna propose."
"And you tried to warn me how many times not to?" Tommy straightens, kicking off his boots. They thud to the side of the couch. "Wish I'd listened to you."
"Wish I'd explained why." He takes a deep breath before exhaling. "It's just I didn't really understand it myself."
Tommy hums thoughtfully and Joel can feel his eyes are still fixed on his profile. He's still too ashamed to look at him though, keeping his eyes downcast.
"I think I wanted to marry her because she didn't want to marry me," Tommy observes, grabbing Joel's beer bottle from the table and taking a swig.
This capture Joel's attention, eyes snapping to look at. Tommy.
"What?"
"She was the first girl I really liked that didn't like me more than I liked her. It felt like a challenge. The way she didn't say I love you for so long. The way she kind of held me at a distance."
Tommy is smiling softly, the memories clear in his eyes. Joel is ashamed to feel a bubble of jealousy at the sight of it. Knowing that Tommy had so many more days, so many more hours. So many more seconds with her hurts. It makes him feel bitter and spiky.
"Plus she was so fucking smart it was insane. I couldn't talk to her about her job without feeling stupid. And I thought that was so damn sexy. And she was funny! And so beautiful."
He trails off, looking wounded for a moment.
"She encouraged me to grow up, too. She told me I had to be serious about the company and that I needed to be more responsible. But she did it in a way that felt like caring. She was just so easy to love," Tommy finally adds. "I mean, you know that better than anyone. You did love her, didn't you?"
Traitorous tears escape the corner of Joel's eyes now, sliding down his cheek until he abruptly rubs them away with the back of his hand. Joel can't talk. His throat feels sealed.
He drops his voice to a soft murmur when Joel doesn't reply.
"Still do, don't you?"
Joel can only offer his brother a brief nod, eyes closed.
Tommy shifts briefly, the couch groaning under him. Joel remains still, big hands folded between his knees, his face hot with shame at being seen in such a fragile state.
"I knew Ashley wasn't the one for you, Joel. I knew it on your wedding day. I knew it when you started dating." Tommy sounds anxious. "And I should've said something."
Joel flinches, twisting his body to face Tommy's on the couch. For a terrible moment, Joel thinks that this is some kind of confession, some admittance of fault on his brother's part.
"Tommy don't you dare start thinking you did me wrong in any way."
"I ain't," Tommy says with a wry grin. "You think you're getting off the hook that easy? Nah, what I mean is that Ashley, Jackie, all of em were great on paper but they weren't right for you."
Joel remains still, unblinking. His eyes just scan Tommy's face.
"But she is. I mean, I don't know how I didn't see it for so long," Tommy muses, taking another pull from the beer bottle. "But it was there the whole time. The air hockey, the squabbling, the irritation. You don't dislike someone that passionately without passion being a part of it."
Joel fights not to let his mind go back to the cousin. To the moment shared between them. He doesn't want that hurt right now.
The two brothers fall silent again, eyes fixed on different parts of the room. Joel's hands unlace, resting on his kneecaps. He squeezes them, attempting to ground himself when Tommy speaks again.
"I'm never gonna be okay with what the two of you did."
"You shouldn't be. What we did was disgusting."
"Yep. Sure was." Now Tommy's voice is thick, throat bobbing. "But I miss my big brother. I miss what we were starting together. I miss you."
Joel blinks furiously, refusing to let more tears fall. He wants to remain composed, wants to be the big brother that Tommy always looked up to.
"I miss you too Tommy. You have no idea how much."
"I have some idea," Tommy quips, scanning the depressing room. "When's the last time you cleaned this fucking place?"
Joel, smile is broad and authentic, his muscles are sore from it and you realizes it's because it's been months since he made the expression.
"You think we could try again? Build back that trust?" Joel asks this while trying to keep the waver from his voice. Trying to tamp down any expectations or hopes.
Tommy takes a moment, inhaling and exhaling slowly before his gaze fixes to his big brother.
"Let's give it a shot."
I can't believe I'm here.
It's seven in the morning the following Monday and I'm parked outside the man's apartment. My coffee is forgotten in the cup holder, my eyes peeled on the building. I've been here for two hours staking out this poor man's apartment, my eyes searching for the SUV. Every time a vehicle exits the underground parking.
I don't know what I think I'm doing. Am I going to run up to him and tell him I know where his soul mate is? That's insane. And what if he doesn't believe in that stuff? He'll call the cops on me knowing my luck.
I think about Jackie and the last time I saw her. I was moving the boxes out of the apartment and she just stood there, watching as I slid the old apartment keys onto the kitchen counter. She didn't say anything to me. Didn't even look my way. She just took the keys and went back to her room without so much as a look behind her.
Betrayed, alone because the one piece of family she thought she could always depend on let her down.
Prison is worth it, I decide. If I can't have my soul mate at least she can have hers.
The whir of the underground parking gate sounds out and I lift my eyes, not really expecting to find the vehicle I'm searching for. When that same pristine SUV exits and I spot the familiar man behind the wheel I feel my heart lurch.
I make sure not to follow too closely; I don't want to tip him off. I stay a few car lengths behind him, sticking out slightly so that I can follow his route. It's about a twenty minute drive and I feel my blood pumping with every mile.
When he pulls into an elementary school I glide my car along the curb in front of it. I duck my head a bit, not wanting to be seen. He parks and exits in the allocated spot marked 'Principal', long legs carrying him swiftly to the front of the school.
He's an elementary school principal. Something I wouldn't have expected but I don't know exactly why. Maybe because Jackie is so over the top and colorful and this man is so quiet and muted. But maybe that's why they could make a perfect team. A potential ying and yang for one another.
A little girl in pink gumboots and missing front teeth speeds over to him, red hair flying out from behind her. He notices this and slows his gait.
"Hi Mister Park," she says with a wide grin up at him. "I found a ladybug in the playground See?"
I watch the man go to one knee, an enthusiastic edge to his voice as he looks at the shiny red insect crawling on her finger.
"That's fantastic Amara," the man - Mr Park- says with gentle interest. "But we don't move wildlife from its habitat right?"
Amara drops her head, lower lip pouting. She mumbles an agreement.
"So maybe you could gently go put him back somewhere safe?"
She nods. More children are streaming out from around the school to surround him, shouting excitedly about weekend plans or the games they've been playing. And he listens patiently to every single one, nodding and smiling. He's well liked, he's patient and kind.
I see the kids start to line up around their classes and Mr. Park stands, brushing the accumulated grass from his dress pants. He doesn't seem too upset by the mess.
I feel like I can't control my legs when I push out of the car. I don't have a real plan, I'm just going on instinct.
He's just reaching the front of the school, slender fingers moving to the handle when I call out.
"Mr. Park? Do you have a second?"
Joel makes his way through the record shop, his focus on one thing. There's a remastered Simon and Garfunkel album that's just released and he wants to make sure he acquires it for his collection.
He doesn't go to that same old record store he did before. The one where he ran into the cousin buying the Miles Davis album.
No, he's very intentional. He goes across town to a little place that not many people know about. From the outside it looks derelict, but on the inside it's got old posters glued to the walls, the sound of various indie artists taking their turn over the speakers.
Tommy's actually the one who mentioned the Simon and Garfunkel re-release over drinks at the pub last week, asking if Joel had gotten it yet. Joel realized his distraction, blown away by the fact that he could fall so behind on one of his biggest passions.
Things have been going really well with Tommy over the last few weeks though. So good that Joel actually offered him his old suite back if He wanted to stop crashing on his friend's couch.
Tommy declined, telling Joel that he actually had a viewing for an apartment coming up. There had been a flicker of disappointment in Joel, but a swell of pride that overtook it. That his brother was finally starting to put his adult life together.
He finds the lone album waiting on the shelf marked new releases. He snatches it up quickly, excited.
"The last copy," the girl with blonde hair and pink streaks says to him when he goes to pay, her green eyes rimed with smudged eyeliner. "Cash or credit?"
She chews gum obnoxiously, the scent of juicy fruit escaping her every time she speaks. But she's polite, wishing him a great rest of his day as she slips the album into a paper bag.
He thanks her, his attention snagging on some old records near the far wall of the shop. Looks like they got a new shipment of vintage albums and he's intrigued enough to go wandering to the corner of the shop.
The sound of the shop door squeaking open briefly draws his attention from between the crammed shelves. When he sees the familiar curve of the cousin's silhouette he feels his heart slam against his ribcage.
What the fuck is she doing here?
Without thinking he drops to his knees behind the nearest display, his breath coming out in short little huffs. He hears the soft click of her shoes as she enters more fully. He presses his eyes closer to the gaps between records on the shelf.
"Hi," she says warmly to the girl behind the desk. "Do you happen to have any more copies of the latest Simon and Garfunkel re-release?"
Just the sound of her voice causes Joel's body to throb with want. From his position he can see glimpses of her. The sweet shape of her mouth, the soft twist of her hips.
"Sorry babe," the girl says smacking her gum in an almost comical way. "Just sold the last one like five minutes ago."
"Damn," the cousin replies, looking disappointed. She taps her knuckles absently on the top of the counter. "Was really hoping to find it. Everywhere else is sold out too."
"I could put you on the wait list if we get more copies in," the girl says raising a pen and grabbing a Post-It note. "Just need your name and number."
The cousin nods giving the girl her information before politely thanking her.
Joel remains fixed on the floor, watching as she slowly walks out of the shop, looking dejected. His feet want to march after her, big hand sliding down her shoulder that turn her to face him. He wants to bury his face in her neck and inhale the sweet vanilla tinge of her and then he wants her tender lips under his, the sound of her whispered cry when she utters his name.
Instead he waits several moments after her exit before shakily standing.
He hates his body for reacting like this. For all the months of hard work to ignore her, to push her from his mind to be lost. Because just the sight of her has him undone completely.
He walks back up to the desk to see the surprised shop girl restocking the guitar picks by the register. She raises her left eyebrow which Joel now observes has two hoops through them.
"You need anything else?"
"Just realized I already have this one," Joel says, holding up the bag with the record in it. "You can give it to that lady that was just in here."
"Okay, sure," the girl says, holding out her hand for the album. "I can issue a refund or store credit."
"Nah. Just give it to her," Joel says as he passes the bag back to her. "A gift."
The girl behind the counter looks utterly flummoxed. As if the very thought of such a selfless act is beyond her. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Wow. The kindness of strangers," the girl muses, lowering her hand to graze the plastic sheathed album on the counter between them. "She'll be excited I bet."
She will be, Joel knows. She'll do that subtle little tippy tappy thing she does with her toes when she's excited. She'll flash that beaming smile that warms Joel just with the memory of it.
"Just do me a favor, wait for a few minutes after I'm gone before you call her?"
Understanding creeps into the girl's light eyes and Joel watches the softness that gathers there. She understands.
"Copy. Have a good day, sir."
I'm at home listening to my newest record, the Simon and Garfunkel re-release; the gentle strum of the folk see tunes puts me in an impossibly good mood as I make dinner.
Maybe my luck is turning around. I mean running into Tommy last month was a nightmare, but work's been going really well And not even five minutes after I left this old record shop, the employee called me to tell me that they found an extra copy of the re-release in the back.
I hum along to The Boxer, tossing the greens with my chicken as I glance around my kitchen. I've already been here several months but I haven't done much unpacking. The place is still pretty bare bones and many of my items still remaining cardboard boxes.
I glance over at a specific box in the corner that houses my coffee machine, heart sinking. I still haven't used it. Not since that weekend. Something about it reminds me too much of Joel.
A knock at the door startles me, breaking me from this maudlin thought. I wipe my hand on the dishcloth and go padding towards the front door. I tug it open without even looking through the peephole. It's been cracked since I moved in and a low rent means I don't feel like bothering my landlord.
"Can I come in?"
Jackie stands on the other side with a raised chin and a new haircut. It's sleek and cut into a severe bob that makes her look impossibly chic. Only Jackie could have a haircut like that and end up looking like a runway model.
"Oh my- of course," I stammer stepping back and encouraging her to come in.
She keeps her sandals on and I spot the pretty pink pedicure she must have just had done when she takes a seat at the kitchen table and crosses her long legs.
"Water?" I ask needing one for myself because my throat has suddenly gone dry.
She cocks her head. "Wine?"
"Coming right up."
I returned to the table with two chilled glasses, still kind of disoriented. What is Jackie doing here?
I take a quick inventory of her, staring at the way her skin looks so luminous, her eyes so clear. She looks amazing. By comparison I'm sure I look like something dragged from the local river. My hair is missing its usual monthly trim, my skin dull from late nights poring over articles, even my lips are chapped from not drinking enough water today.
She takes a delicate sip, and I noticed that her eyes haven't strayed from me the entire time. I wait for her to start the conversation, to explain why she's here but she offers nothing aside from her silence.
"Your birthday is coming up," I say desperate to fill up the air. "Doing anything fun for it?"
Her eyes bounce between mine before she leans back in her chair; head tilted slightly, an air of nonchalance around her.
"Going to keep it pretty low-key for the most part," she tells me. "Sho has offered to make me something at his place and then we're going to a club."
My heart clenches. "Sho?"
"Sho Park," she replies without a hint of previous knowledge. "My boyfriend. He came into the bank about a month ago."
I nod, my fingers twirling the stem of my wine glass. I watch the pale gold liquid slosh against the sides.
"He's my soul mate," she says flatly, like this is information I already know, which I do of course.
The smile on my face can't be contained no matter how hard I try. That's what looks different about Jackie, not just her hair, not just her pedicure. This glow that comes from the inside.
The glow of being in love.
She takes another sip of her drink, placing it back on the table between us. The glass clicks against the wood tabletop. She fixes me with a very serious look, thin brows dragging down.
"I know you sent him in that day."
My smile fades slowly, increment by increment. I second-guess myself as I look at her unhappy expression. Have I fucked up? Did I overstep? But wasn't it for the greater good? She found her soul mate!
"Yeah. I told him where you worked." I take a deep gulp of my water, the ice cubes clicking against my front teeth before I lower the glass. "I saw him at the grocery store one day. He had a daisy tattoo behind his ear."
"So you just burst out that you knew his soul mate and he wasn't terrified of you?"
I don't keep information anymore. I tell it like it is. Lying has done so much to ruin my life. It has no part in my future.
"Well, I didn't really tell him that specific day," I admit hesitantly. "I kind of followed him home to his apartment. Then I sort of did a stakeout and followed him to his job."
"He told me that you chased him into the school."
"That's not completely accurate," I say defensively. "I stopped him right before he went in."
I trail off, feeling humiliated. I sound insane! Jackie has every right to issue a restraining order against me. So I'm extra confused when she starts giggling softly.
I stare when her giggles turn into chuckles and then full out guffaws. Her eyes squint, tears starting at the corner as her laughter booms around my apartment.
"You stalked my boyfriend?" she says between wheezing chuckles. "And then accosted him in front of an elementary school?"
Now I'm laughing too, ugly snorting things that make my shoulders shake.
"Well, when you put it that way..." I offer, cheeks swollen as I continue to laugh. "At least he was nice about it!"
The two of us laugh for a few moments, more, the sound slowly ebbing into a comfortable and companionable silence.
Jackie is still looking at me but her gaze is much softer than it was when she came in.
"What's he like?" I ask, genuinely curious. "I mean he seemed really nice when I told him about you being his soul mate. I even showed him my tattoo and explained that we both had them."
"He's more than nice," Jackie says was a faraway look on her face. One that makes her pretty face even more beautiful. "He's perfect. He loves to go out dancing, he loves to party. But he can be serious too. He loves his job, kids love him. And from day one there's been no games. We're just honest with each other."
"Jack, that's amazing."
"The second I met him, it was like all the pieces suddenly came together," she says excitedly, large eyes bright. "All the things I thought I had with guys before are just so minimal compared to how I feel with Sho."
She looks like the cat that got the cream. Folding her arms onto the table and leaning forward before dropping her voice a fraction.
"Plus the sex is fucking incredible. Out of this world. Best sex I've ever had in my life by far."
I feel my face heat up, surprised at this information but delighted.
"I'm so happy for you," I gush enthusiastically.
And it's not a put on, it's not an act, I'm just genuinely overjoyed for my cousin. For the little girl picking daisies, wondering if she'd ever be picked herself.
Clarity comes back into her eyes, the distant look of lust and love leaving them. She squares her shoulders with mine and speaks very softly.
"Is that how you felt with Joel?"
The sound of Joel's name causes my lids to shutter for a moment. Caught up in all the excitement of Jackie's new love I didn't think of her former one. The reminder of our infidelity, of our casual cruelty makes my face crumple.
"Jackie, we don't-"
"Just tell me," She insists, interrupting me gently. "I won't be mad I promise. I just need to know."
She seems honest, her earnest face blinking back at me. How I've missed deep conversations with her, how I've missed her sweet little face.
"Yes. That's how I felt about Joel."
She nods, looking thoughtful. "From the start?'
"I think so, but I fought it. He was with you..." I swallow. "I didn't really know what I was feeling. Just that I was feeling it and that it was strong."
"Like lightening under your skin, right?" She says, eyes searching mine for confirmation. "Like you're on fire from the inside?"
I nod, forcing my twitching lips not to be the harbinger of tears.
She sobers and I can feel her scrutinizing me across the table.
"I get it now," she says. "It's like Sho and I were magnets being pulled together. I tried to ignore it for three days, sure that I wasn't over what happened with Joel. But then, there was this ache, this horrible empty feeling like I was missing a part of me and had never been aware before."
My heart throbs at this because I know exactly what she means. Like I was missing a lung or a kidney and only became aware that first time Joel and I touched. That hungry feeling that couldn't be sated by anyone else.
"I couldn't stand it for more than three days," she says when I don't respond. "I don't know how you managed it for almost nine months."
The dam is broken at these words as I recall the pain of those months, the time spent sobbing, the belief that I wanted a man who shouldn't be mine. I bury my face in my hands, voice muffled and raw.
"It was hard," I admit between little cracking sobs. "It was really fucking hard."
I hear sniffing and look up to see Jackie is crying too.
"Then be with him. Please." She brushes the tears from her cheeks. "No animosity. No guilt. You have my blessing if you feel that you need it."
Something about her genuine grace makes fresh tears slide down my cheeks like a waterfall. I don't deserve this kindness from her, not after all that I did to her and Tommy. I tell her this and she rolls her eyes with a smirk.
"Tommy's fine," She says waving her hand in the air dismissively. "That man has no shortage of women chasing after him. Trust me."
"How do you know that?"
"My friend at work saw him on Tindr and thought that it was Joel because of the last name." She rolls her eyes. "He's got a broken engagement from a woman who slept with his brother. He's drowning in pussy."
I flinch the way the relationship Joel and I shared can be so easily summarized, so minimized by our faults.
"You need to know that I'm so happy with Sho, I barely even think about Joel anymore," she adds. "And when I do it's like a long forgotten memory. Fuzzy and like... Inconsequential." She ducks her head. "No offense."
I give a wet laugh her way. "None taken."
"I'm glad I met him though," she adds. "I think I was supposed to meet him. Like, so he could help me grow. I always put myself first. Self involved, the Jackie show. I'm thankful to Joel for making me aware of that. For challenging me. I think it's helped me with Sho already."
I nod. Pride in my pain at the knowledge that Joel could be that for her. She reaches across the table, taking my hand in hers.
"I want you to be as happy as I am with Sho. I want you to be with your soul mate."
I pull my hand back slowly, the pain of her words hitting me. Soul mate. That'd exactly what it is and without him I feel torn in half.
"Even if I wanted that Jackie, I've hurt him. I lied to him for a really long time thinking I was doing the right thing. But I was being a coward."
"I don't think you were being a coward," she says. I can see that her big eyes are a little glossy now. "I think you were just scared. I think you did everything trying to save the feelings of Tommy and I think you were in love with a man you didn't expect to be."
"I don't know how to explain it to him," I whisper. "I hurt him too deeply."
"He's your soul mate," she says squeezing my hand once more. "You'll find a way."
"You need to call her."
Joel glances up from his fishing rod watching his brother from across the small boat they rented for the day. They've had a very successful outing, the bucket full of fresh fish and cold beer cans chilling in the cooler.
To Joel it's felt like old times with his brother. And he's happy, happier than he's been in a long time. But Tommy's sudden comment has him feeling tense.
"Huh? Who?"
His brother faces away from him, his focus on reeling in something from his rod, tone casual.
"You need to call Jackie's cousin," Tommy repeats, still unwilling to use her first name. "You need to talk shit out."
"Why?"
"Because you love her and she loves you." He props his rod against the lip of the boat, swiveling to face Joel. "And if you're worried about how it'll be for me it'll be weird at first but we'll figure it out."
A small twitch starts at the corner of his mouth. "My bed ain't exactly empty these days, brother."
Joel chuckles at this despite himself. "Jesus, Tommy."
The brothers continue to fish quietly, the rhythmic click of their casting meditative. There aren't many boats on the lake today, the scene placid. But Joel's mind and body are alive with images and feelings and memories of the woman he dreams of nightly.
The scent of her neck, the way she laughs, the sweet clench of her around him. He misses how she challenged him and made him laugh. He misses the excitement in her eyes when he asked her about work and the pride he felt when she asks about his.
But all of this can be erased with one sharp image of her anguished face knowing that she lied to him.
"So are you gonna?" Tommy asks, still affecting a casual tone.
"How could I trust her again, Tommy? When she kept something like that from me for so long?" He shakes his head from side to side slowly, the water below him turning blurry. "She lied to me. Just like Ashley."
"Oh hell Joel, she's nothing like Ashley," Tommy says groaning. "Ashley was a snake from the start. She was using you until she found her soul mate. But the cousin? She was doing it because she loves you."
Love.
I love you so much Joel.
He can still hear her hoarse voice whispering that to him, their bodies entangled, their hearts beating as one. "Funny way of showing it."
He doesn't expect Tommy to lean back in the boat, for his brother to fix him with a slight glower.
"Oh yeah? How come you didn't tell me about it then? Your kiss at the cabin? The... other stuff I never want to know about?"
Joel lowers his eyes, fingers curling along the edge of the rod. His cheeks burn.
"That was different," Joel says feeling wrong-footed. "I didn't want to hurt you like that."
A beat.
"You hear yourself right?" Tommy asks with an amused scoff. "You did the exact same thing she did."
"No, I -"
Joel's mouth opens and closes several times as he tries to rack his mind for how to explain the difference. Tommy is speaking again, evenly, calmly.
"You loved me so much you didn't want to see me hurt. Same for Jackie. You thought you knew best. Thought you were saving us from pain." Tommy blinks. "How can you be mad at her for doing the same thing?'
Joel's throat bobs, angry tears beginning at his lash line..
"Because she did it to me."
His voice frayed at the edges. Tommy lowers his shoulders, gaze steady.
"She was scared, Joel. I'm sure she was gonna tell you."
Joel gives a huff, maybe a laugh, maybe a cry.
"Oh yeah? How do you know that?"
Tommy nearly bangs his rod on the edge of the boat, frustration clear in his expression.
"Because she's your fucking soul mate, Joel."
I give a sigh, staring up at the ceiling, watching shadows creeping into the crevices of my apartment.
My conversation with Jackie went on for hours The two of us catching up, explaining everything that happened during those 9-months. There are tears. There is laughter. There is quiet hurt. The kind of pain that won't go away after a conversation, but the kind that might repair itself over months of connection and honest conversation.
We parted embracing, both are cheeks wet with tears. It was a reunion of more than just ourselves, but of our combined past. We promised to get breakfast with each other the next weekend. Jackie can't wait to introduce me properly to Sho and I can't wait to hear all about their relationship from him.
It's late though, my mind still buzzing. Not just about Jackie but about Joel. About
I'm just drifting off when I feel it, a small throb along my ring finger. It pulls me out of my semi sleep, jerking up in bed and turning on the bedside light. I start blinking rapidly against the bright light as the throbbing lessens.
I focus my gaze at the site of the pain, lifting my hand to the light. When I see it my breath hitches. It's on the inner side of my ring finger, barely visible but I can see it plain as day
It's a small, clear outline of a tattoo.
I raise myself up to a seated position and peer closely at the etching in my skin. Despite my eyes blurred with sleep I make out the small minimalist detail of a coffee cup and steam.
I sit there in my bed for who knows how long just staring at it, trying to absorb that Joel is somewhere in the world sporting the same thing. That he went somewhere to get this done.
Is it a sign? Is this him reaching out?
Or worse. Is he getting matching tattoos with someone else?
The thought sickens me. It makes my head spin just thinking about it. And I make up my mind in that very second.
I need to see him.
I need clarity. I don't care that it's after two in the morning. I don't care that this tattoo might be nothing to do with me. Or a goodbye.
I need to talk to him.
I throw on a hoodie over my sleep clothes, shove my feet into my slides and grab my purse on the way out the door.
I need him.
The drive to Joel's is longer now that I'm in a new place. But I know it by heart. I've traced it in my head over and over. I blow through a stop sign, thankful for the late hour.
When his house comes into view, I feel my heart jump into my throat. Both in anticipatory anxiety but also in a strange sensation of homecoming. I park and jog to the front door, heartbeat pounding so loudly I don't even hear the sound of my knock.
Be home. Be home. Please. Just be-
The door opens quickly, a whoosh of air sliding past my bare legs. And there he is, my Joel, big and broad with the gentlest eyes I've ever seen.
He's still dressed, his appearance making it clear that he wasn't sleeping and he's so beautiful standing there lit by the moon that it hardly seems fair.
For a moment we just stare at each other, eyes luminous, breathing elevated. Like we're charging up by being close. The sensation of lightning under my skin is back, like the hum of distant power lines.
"I hope you wanna come in," he says in a quiet rasp. I feel his eyes dragging over my face as he steps back.
I hesitate for a fraction before I step in, sliding past his broad body and standing there in the entryway of his home.
He closes the door and the two of us are left again in a quiet moment of uncertainty. He's standing close to me, near enough that I can simply reach out and touch him. But I won't even though that's all I want to do.
His face is soft, nothing about him harsh or unyielding. He doesn't seem angry. I look down at his hand, seeing that the matching tattoo is there along his finger.
Unable to say anything, I raise my hand between us, extending my ring finger forward so that my own little coffee tattoo is visible.
He takes my hand in his, looking at it with such fondness that I feel my insides ache with need for him.
"Someone really wise once told me that coffee is a great way to say thank you and I'm sorry," Joel says roughly.
He brings my hand up to his face, pressing soft kisses along my fingertips, then my knuckles. I tremble, body quivering as I gaze up at him.
"Which is this one?" I ask, voice wavering as I nod to my fingers still in his grasp. "Thank you or I'm sorry?"
He turns my palm over, thumb rubbing my wrist, feeling the life thrum under his digit. He takes a deep breath, everything in him escaping in a soft rush of air.
"Both."
He laces his fingers with mine, holding our joined hands against his sternum and taking a shuddering breath. I feel the rapid tempo with his heart beneath his warm t-shirt.
I know tears are starting, and I don't bother blinking them away. I'm so happy to see him, to be touching him again. I'm so happy to see him.
"I'm sorry," he says in a rush.
"No I'm sorry," I insist.
"I'm sorry I ran that night," Joel continues. "I'm sorry I ignored your calls and the pain you must've been in. I'm sorry for not giving you the benefit of the doubt"
"You had every right to be angry and hurt," I say almost falling over myself to make sure he understands how awful I've felt. "You thought you were being betrayed."
Joel shakes his head slowly, shame coloring his cheeks.
"I should've talked with you about it," he replies. "Instead of just walking out and ignoring you. I think I was so scared of getting hurt like I was before..."
I know that this is hard for Joel. The topic of Ashley and his first marriage is difficult. My free hand rises to cup his cheek, thumb tracing the dimple in his cheek.
"I get it," I say. "But Joel you need to know that I was going to tell you about the tattoo that morning when you got back. I had it planned but then Jackie was there and..."
I trail off, cringing as I recall that moment. Joel runs a hand down my side, fingers curling.
"And if I'd actually listened to you that day I would've known that, instead of spending 4 months in agony being away from you." He swallows. "I shouldn't have assumed the worst about the woman I love."
The woman he loves.
That kick-starts my heart so intensely that I almost whimper. Crystalline tears are forming along my lash line.
"You still love me?"
His eyes search my face and when he sees my crumpled face his brows saddle. He lurches forward, dragging me against him.
"Oh baby, I'm sorry I ever made you doubt that," he murmurs at my hairline. "I'm so sorry I let my stupid fucking pride and my fear keep me away. I've loved you so long and I never stopped, I swear."
I wrap my arms around his waist, face pressed into his neck. I inhale deeply, the scent of laundry and cedar. Of sunshine and wind and of love. So much love. And then I cry jagged little sobs for all the pain we caused each other. For the time we wasted being apart. Cries for my fear, for Joel's anguish.
He gingerly guides my face up to his and I stare into those deep brown eyes. With the gentlest press of his lips he kisses away my tears.
"I never stopped loving you," he murmurs lowly. "Never have, never will. You're it for me."
Kisses are pressed to the corner of my mouth, my cheek, between my brows, my eyelids. He maps my face with love, soft and sweet.
"Joel, I swear I will never keep anything from you again," I promise him.
"And I promise I'll listen next time."
Next time.
Never again.
These are forever terms. These are a rekindling of what we shared.
We're both beaming at each other like school kids. The dual realization that this reunion was so desired by both of us.
"I love you so much," I tell him, sliding my arms up around his neck and urging his mouth to mine.
And when we kiss, truly kiss; it's that same earth tilting sensation had the first time. One that has his arms banding around my waist, and tears in his eyes. One that starts an inferno inside and crackling electricity under my skin.
"I love you more than anything," he whispers between kisses to my mouth, my cheek and then back to my mouth. "You’re everything to me."
When we break apart moments later our bodies do the talking for us. Pupils blown wide, insides aching, limbs trembling.
"I need you," I whisper, eyes limpid.
He bends down, hooking his arm under my knees and supporting my back in a bridal hold. Then he walks us to his bedroom, his mouth at my ear.
"Not as much as I need you."
She's beautiful, Joel thinks as she gazes up at him. He has his soul mate gently pressed into the mattress, her body and heart open to him. She gazes up at him with such open adoration, such raw love that it takes his breath away.
He cages her in between his arms, lips grazing hers, his fingers laced with hers on the mattress. His hips flex, driving deep and slow into her, building the passion, reveling in the feel of her again.
"I missed you so much," he murmurs, lips almost touching hers as their bodies move together.
"I thought about you every moment," she replies, and the tender expression painted in her eyes lets Joel know the depth of her sincerity.
Not that he's surprised, he was the exact same way. Not one day passed where he wasn't yearning for her. Not one day passed where he didn't ache for her in body and heart. There were months of fantasy for him. Not just of this moment but snapshots of a life they would live.
Her moving into his place, the way he would propose to her, the day she would take him as her husband. And now it's here, it is real and tangible. That future can happen. Because she's his soul mate. He wants her to be his wife. He wants to share a life with her.
He wants it all because he's never loved this deeply in his entire life. And he's never felt so loved.
"You're so perfect," he tells her, voice thick. His mouth still hovers near her own, her warm breath buffeting against his plump lips.
He watches her frown in exasperation, the same expression she wore across the hockey table from him, across the table when he was helping her with her article.
Always across from one another, always separated. And now they are truly one. Bodies, hearts, minds.
"Joel if you don't kiss me this instant I'm going to scream."
He gives a slow grin at this and the agonizingly slow tempo of his hips pick up speed.
"Okay baby," he promises before his mouth finally finds hers. "Anything you want."
In bed a long while later, sweaty and sated we snuggle up under the covers with blissed-out smiles on our faces.
Joel drags his fingers along my arm, in a soothing gesture. When he does that I see flashes of the tattoo on his ring finger. It makes me smile.
"You said it was both."
Joel's brows quirk. "Huh?"
"You said it was both," I remind him, thumb tracing along his wrist. "What was the thank you for?"
He turns onto one side and cups one of my warm cheeks with his large hand. His voice is ragged, plucked from the strings of his heart.
"Thank you for loving me. Truly loving me. For showing me I'm worthy of it."
"You never have to thank me for that," I swear ardently, emotions crashing over me. "Loving you is no hardship, Joel."
He blushes, cheeks warm. I love the little pieces of him I notice that others might not. Little tics like how he holds his mouth right before he's going to say something hard. Or how he crosses his arms when he's trying to be tough. Or the sweet way he looks away when he's feeling shy.
And we have a lifetime together for me to catalogue even more. The thought of that makes me so deliriously happy I can barely comprehend it.
"Is it insane that I want you to move in with me?" He asks, his deep voice tentative. "That I want us to live together already?"
I smile to myself, delighted. It seems insane and with any other person in the world I would run in the other direction. But when I look over at Joel, at the perfect understanding in his eyes I know I'm all in.
"Is it insane that I want an air hockey table if we do?"
He gives a pleased little smile to himself before a teasing expression tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Only if you promise not to cheat like last time"
"I never cheated!" I say indignantly.
He gives me a wink, chuckling lowly when I fake a frown.
"Guess we'll have to have a re-match just to make sure."
He brings me tight against him, the vibration coming through on the side of my face.
Tucked under his chin I inhale that sweet scent of his skin, revelling in the comfort of being in his arms and I knowing that I am loved for me. Knowing we can face anything together.
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)
Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.
cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection
Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body.
The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception.
But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.
There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way.
They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.
Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.
They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.
Stamped, more like. Branded.
Survived.
And soulmates shared scars.
Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.
He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way.
It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one.
There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing.
Better he was alone.
The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance.
A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.
A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.
Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.
And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate.
Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would.
But, sometimes, he wondered.
He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing.
It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again.
He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.
It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him.
Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.
If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already.
He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable.
It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent.
He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.
Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear.
It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.
The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.
Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land.
A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.
“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.”
Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?”
Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”
Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head.
Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was.
No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him.
But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds.
.
.
.
The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices.
Each place had caveats.
The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it.
Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there.
The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day.
The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors.
The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone.
A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty.
He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.
Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators.
It was a regular, routine, quiet place.
So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted.
Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.
The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck.
The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air.
Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward.
There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp.
Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to.
It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it.
You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?”
Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs.
Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere.
He would know his own face anywhere.
He would, apparently, know you anywhere.
Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat.
Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it.
You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs.
His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart.
Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone.
The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain.
Nausea swept into the back of his throat.
“Are you okay?”
He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes.
You saw him.
Simon was not to be seen.
Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze.
Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked.
Not anymore.
He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—
The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace.
Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Sir?”
Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat.
Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.
As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency.
You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire.
You hadn’t recognized what he was.
And he was going to keep it that way.
.
.
.
It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it.
He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it.
Better yet, through you.
Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery.
One sure way to free himself was your death.
It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them.
Simon understood the urge.
He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides.
Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this.
It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse.
It was wrong.
He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.
The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.
Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up.
Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it.
Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.
Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light.
Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp.
Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were.
Fuuucking hell.
Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room.
Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal.
He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache.
Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders.
You yawned, eyes still closed.
He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would.
Ghost backed away, left you to your peace.
The weight in his chest intensified again.
He hated you for it.
He went back the next day.
And the day after that.
.
.
.
Anchor might be a better descriptor.
Hook was too violent.
Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that.
He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things.
You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t.
You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin.
You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it.
You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night.
You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else.
They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in.
Absolutely bloody foul.
Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile.
And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed.
You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers.
You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you.
He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous.
You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough.
Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them.
He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him.
The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important.
That used to be more important.
Now his every thought was asterisked by you.
Distracted.
He didn’t do well with it.
He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it.
Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.
He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly.
After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk.
Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest.
It was enough to be where you had once been.
That was as close as he cared to be.
He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again.
.
.
.
He went by Ghost, you learned eventually.
His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely.
It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith.
It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut.
Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true.
Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request.
It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception.
It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.
When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.”
The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.”
Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.”
You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note.
There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.
You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way.
Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it.
You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.
You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back.
“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?”
This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands.
The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.
“Have I passed?”
His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?”
“Your test?”
“Think I’m testin’ you?”
“You moved my desk.”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it.
It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.
You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.”
“Should.”
“Maybe.”
“Especially in the field.”
“I don’t do field work.”
He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond.
“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”
He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office.
Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company.
All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone.
Ghost was strange, slightly off putting.
You liked him.
Maybe, you thought, he’d come back.
.
.
.
Ghost visited regularly after that.
Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work.
His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling.
You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.
But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.
Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind.
The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.
You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.
The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others.
Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it.
You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain.
He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag.
In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently.
But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him.
If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said.
“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.
Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle.
He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.
“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.
“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“
“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”
“Yep. Got something for you, too.”
He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?”
You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”
He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”
“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”
“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”
Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway.
When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed.
It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.
.
.
.
When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.
You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor.
It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window.
In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift.
He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier.
“It’s for you. I knitted it.”
He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”
Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?”
“Who else would have?”
He grunted. “You knit?”
“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”
His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck.
“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.
You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.”
Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.”
“What?”
“Silly.”
The way he grunted the word made you laugh.
“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”
“Reckon you just did.”
You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?”
“Just two.”
It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.”
“And out of questions.”
You laughed again.
He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.”
“Where are you from?”
The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?”
You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.”
He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer.
The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back.
“Why do you come here?” You asked instead.
This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.”
“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.”
He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.”
You decided not to take offense at being called noise.
You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch.
“Hungry?” You asked.
“Tryin’ to see my face?”
You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.”
The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.
“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.
You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.”
He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.”
You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.”
“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it.
When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.
“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.”
Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?”
You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”
His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all.
“From somewhere warm?”
“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.”
“Must be nice, that.”
“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.”
“One you enjoy.”
“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.”
He snorted again.
You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle.
When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.”
“Hm?”
“Where I’m from.”
His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead.
“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“
You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”
“It’s your fucking accent.”
“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?”
“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered.
You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”
“Suppose it does.”
“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.”
He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?”
You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”
“They make it wrong too.”
You groaned. “Not you too.”
Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container.
“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.”
You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?”
“I love tea.”
It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.”
He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called.
Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.”
He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.”
“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.”
Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone.
.
.
.
It should be a good thing.
You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other.
But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.
The thought festered, burrowed.
“Laswell.”
She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead.
“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.”
Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?”
“What do you mean?”
“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”
Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that.
“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?”
Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall.
You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.
As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working.
When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working.
He walked you to your car around midnight.
“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you.
“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered.
You just laughed.
.
.
.
“Tea?”
You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain.
It would need remedied.
But first, this.
It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Unfortunately not.”
You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.”
“What’re you still doing ‘ere?”
“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?”
Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.
“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.”
“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.”
“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.”
“Hilarious, you are.”
You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?”
He nodded. “C’mon then.”
You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.
Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain.
The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.
“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”
“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.
“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.”
He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”
“Got a head start then.”
You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it.
If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody.
The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged.
Simon ignored it.
When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw.
“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off.
He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?”
“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it.
“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?”
Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.”
“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.”
He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it.
The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.
“To hide my face.”
“Your identity, you mean.”
“My identity,” he agreed.
“Why?”
He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop?
Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.”
You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead.
“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.”
“Part of the job.”
Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.”
Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.”
“I take offense to that.”
You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.”
“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.
When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not.
“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.”
“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time.
He huffed. “Better all the time.”
“And I have you to thank.”
Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check.
Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his.
“Thanks, Ghost.”
“”S just tea.”
You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation.
“What’s tha’?”
“I know how to make tea for you now.”
“Like it?”
“I love it.”
You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.”
He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.”
You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well.
“Noted.”
Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so.
.
.
.
Things settled into a pleasant rhythm.
A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in.
You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach.
People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond.
You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary.
It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.
It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes.
“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?”
“Oh,” you said. “I—”
It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest.
You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.
Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door.
“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.”
“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?”
Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.”
“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.”
“Okay.”
His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office.
So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there.
And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work.
“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.”
“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.”
“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated.
Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life.
You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all.
.
.
.
Monday.
There was a knife in Simon’s pocket.
Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot.
The one in his pocket, though, was for you.
A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one.
The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over.
It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays.
And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away.
Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away.
When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished.
Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”
Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't.
“All right?”
“Hm?”
“You’re quiet.”
“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.
There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?”
You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.”
“Try again.”
Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.
Simon waited, but you did not reemerge.
He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—”
“Nice weather.”
“I can see that.”
“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.”
Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”
“C’mon, then.”
You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm.
“Lunch.”
You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow.
Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right.
Just his luck.
Didn’t matter though.
He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled.
The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain.
“So, what are we doing?”
“Walking.”
“I can see that.”
“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?”
You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway.
The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply.
He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter.
Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.”
He didn’t deny it.
“What are we doing back here?”
Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.
You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?”
“Sometimes.”
“Secret’s safe with me.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”
He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own.
They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish.
Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.
He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him.
Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved.
Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own.
He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking.
He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too.
He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed.
Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.
When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms.
“What ‘appened?” He asked.
Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?”
“Affirmative,” he said.
You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.”
“Stalling.”
“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.”
Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?”
“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.”
“He’s a prick.”
“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.”
You looked very small, and alone at that moment.
“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”
The chill spreads outward.
It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life.
He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this.
You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again.
And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands.
You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves.
“Have you found yours?”
Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.”
You nodded. “Me either.”
.
.
.
He walked you back to your office.
You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find.
Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs.
Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair.
You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way.
Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk.
Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch.
A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges.
He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.
“A knife.”
“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.”
“Why?”
“In case you need to.”
“Is this about me staying late?”
“No.” He did not elaborate.
“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—”
“But you don’t carry a gun.”
“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”
He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.”
You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.
“Okay.”
His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” you agreed.
.
.
.
If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well.
You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began.
You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.
What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic.
Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.
This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow.
On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope.
You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?”
Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud.
You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?”
“Better to be prepared, yeah?”
“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh.
After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison.
His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours?
Rough, warm. Safe.
It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing.
Stupid, silly.
If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask.
“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate.
“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”
“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.
“Not a game, bird.”
“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.”
“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.”
“Is that it?”
You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.”
It wasn’t easy.
For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back.
Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.
Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in.
“On your feet.”
Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good.
It didn’t feel like you were doing good now.
By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands.
“You’re hurting me,” you gasped.
He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion.
But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way.
“Shit.”
.
.
.
The window was open and you were not in your office.
Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently.
He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.”
Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds.
When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.”
“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.”
“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.”
Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”
“Forgot it.”
Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it.
“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“It’s okay—“
“Wasn’t a suggestion.”
“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.”
He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity.
“Gonna rain,” he commented.
You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget.
When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again.
“I can see you won’t leave it alone.”
“Affirmative,” he said.
You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours.
Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted.
You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.”
He grunted, followed you closely back inside.
As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen.
He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”
Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.
“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled.
“Who’s this then?”
You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.”
“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”
“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.”
Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?”
“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice.
But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?”
Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.
“Very becoming, lass.”
You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?”
“Aye, all mine.”
“Ah, luck.”
“Lucky indeed.”
Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.
“Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat.
“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.”
“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.”
“That’s for sure, bonnie.”
“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?”
Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”
“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.”
Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—
“It’s need to know,” he snapped.
Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”
Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess.
“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”
Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into.
Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold.
.
.
.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!”
“She doesn’t need to know.”
“Yer name?”
Ghost leveled Soap with a stare.
Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?”
“Stay out of it, MacTavish.”
Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.”
He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”
“It won’t.”
Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“
“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.”
“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”
Simon ignored him.
But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.
Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him.
.
.
.
Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it.
He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too.
Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged.
Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.
The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you.
But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender.
You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends.
Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.
Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it.
Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date.
He didn’t know what to do with any of it.
One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.
You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see.
Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?”
A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.”
“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?”
“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.
Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.”
“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—”
“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”
“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.”
“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.”
“You sweet on me or something, bon?”
You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match.
The silence was suffocating.
“All right?”
You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little.
He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?”
You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—”
“You’re apologizing for Soap?”
Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”
“No.”
“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.”
He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.”
“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—”
He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”
“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.”
“Mm.”
“I’ll make space.”
He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him.
“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.”
“Aye, LT.”
He chuckled. “Take care of that.”
“Teach me how?”
He nodded.
“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.”
“I know.”
Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier.
“‘Course you do.”
.
.
.
Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain.
His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain.
The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to.
He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.
You said he didn’t, after, but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry.
You’re hurting me.
It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable.
You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over.
He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain.
His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls.
There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins.
Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little.
“Johnny.”
Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—”
“Does she feel it?”
“What—”
He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”
“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.”
Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Deserves better.”
Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.”
Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father.
Fucking perfect.
.
.
.
Two months deployment.
The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it.
He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore.
Maybe, he didn’t really want to.
Maybe, Johnny was right.
He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with.
Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle.
Not as empty as they thought.
Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward.
Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise.
When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her.
The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang.
Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes.
“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked.
“What?”
“Soulmates.”
Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes.
“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—”
Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again.
It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence.
“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side.
It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you.
All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers.
Just to be sure.
It took them a long time to get her to leave the body.
.
.
.
Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months.
September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag.
You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of.
You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together.
Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day.
But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—
Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.
You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.”
“That disappointed to see me?”
No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.”
He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.”
You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.”
“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.”
His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong.
You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?”
He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained.
He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand.
“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”
Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question.
“Scars.”
You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales.
It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before.
Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them.
“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”
He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”
You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”
He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.”
His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.”
“What?”
“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?”
Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly.
“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.”
“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—”
But Simon was determined, his mind set.
“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.”
“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?”
Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed.
“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall.
You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you.
He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—”
“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be.
The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly.
You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck.
“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.”
You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught.
You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they.
It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet.
You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.
You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold.
You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like.
“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind.
You opened your eyes.
“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand.
He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.
You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap.
But if he was yours—
If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him.
He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear.
You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“You don’t understand,” he rasped.
“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.”
The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.
“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”
He finally returned his gaze to yours.
“Did it hurt?”
“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.”
He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.
“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.”
Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.
You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.”
His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.”
Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.
“It’s not fair to you.”
“What isn’t?”
“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?”
You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?”
He made a pained sound. “Don’t.”
“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”
“You’re supposed to need things from me.”
He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—”
“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.”
You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.”
“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat.
“Can.”
Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours.
You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.”
“How long?”
“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.”
“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—”
“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.”
You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?”
“No.”
“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—”
He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin.
You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul.
You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you.
In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss.
When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.”
“Just turning on the lamp.”
He released you.
As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair.
“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”
When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa.
Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly.
“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?”
“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth.
He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.”
Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped.
“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers.
“You don’t want me.”
It wasn’t a question.
He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours.
“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.”
“Obviously it’s not, bird.”
Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”
“Simon,” he corrected.
“Simon,” you echoed.
He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.”
You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—”
“No.”
You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.”
His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.
It didn’t feel close enough.
You wished it were all different.
That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted.
“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?”
He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded.
“Go on, then.”
Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head.
You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling.
Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic.
Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—”
You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together.
“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Good.”
“Can I touch you?”
“Can do anything you like to me, bird.”
You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.”
He made a content noise of agreement.
You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.”
“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?”
“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.”
His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little.
Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.”
“What—”
He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.
“No more pain?”
“None.”
“Good.”
You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.
“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”
His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins.
It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips.
“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly.
He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples.
Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.
“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.
The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.
if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!
Simon Riley x Doctor!Reader who specializes in scar treatment
Simon Riley x f!Reader
Notes: Okayyyyy so this may or may not turn into multiple installments, I have no idea :) but I just wrote this little thing on a whim, so if y'all want more, pls lemme know!!
Tags: Meet cute, banter, slight angst, discussion of past injury, hurt/comfort, platonic-not-yet-romantic relationship
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"Doctor, another patient for you in room fifteen," the receptionist chirps from behind their desk, blindly handing you another clip board while they type away at their Microsoft spreadsheet.
"No rest for the wicked. Thanks, Julie," you huff, tugging your gloves off and throwing them into a bin before grabbing the clipboard. You thumb through the pages as you walk, relying on pure muscle memory to bring you to your destination. These days there was barely enough time between patients to grab a snack bar from the vending machine, let alone rest your legs. It paid to have patience in this line of work.
Patient: Simon Aaron Riley
Age: 45, DOB: 19 Dec 1980
Reason for visit: Consultation for traumatic injury scar minimization treatment on face, neck, and scalp. Patient reports that circumstances of injury occurred during military duty: caustic acid burns and non-penetrating blade wounds.
Caustic acid burns, you huff, flicking through the paperwork. You hadn't seen that since residency -- not to the extent reported, at least, and never on the face. Acid burns tended to be relatively rare, especially in comparison to other burn types. One of your friends who'd become an ER doctor had lamented about the uptick in acid attacks not too long ago.
Poor guy, your heart sympathizes. Lets see what we can do.
You breathe outwards before rapping on the door, barely hesitating before pushing inwards.
"Hi!" you greet enthusiastically, sparing the (hulking) man hardly more than a glance before you reach for the hand sanitizer dispenser, "Mr. Riley, is it?"
He clears his throat, "Yes."
His voice is much quieter than you'd expected, soft and muffled, like he hated the sound of it. You resist quirking a brow, turning around to study him while you rub the sanitizer in. He's...
God, he's big.
The stupid, rickety patient chair makes him look like a giant, bulging biceps heaped atop the arm rests like solid steel resting on bamboo scaffolding. If he stood, he'd probably hit his head on the doorway, but sitting there, his shoulders are hunched, his head hung low, the perfect picture of abject reticence. A black facial mask covers his jaw, matching the black baseball cap shielding his head.
Mysterious, your brain interjects.
Clinically self-concious, your (rather blunt) professional self deduces.
Inwardly, you think it's rather impressive, how such a large man manages to shrink himself down into something near invisible, but you keep that observation to yourself. You extend your hand in his direction when you introduce yourself.
"So what brings you in today?" you bounce onto your rolly-chair, scooting closer to the man, eager to hear his story.
He tsks.
"Read my chart, didn't you?" he scoffs, voice twinged with disdain...or is it amusement?
It takes a special type of person to walk the fine line between those two, your inner-world says, hardly offended.
"Yes, but I'd like to hear it in your own words. Better to let words speak rather than typing mistakes," you laugh.
"Hm," he acknowledges.
For a few seconds, you wait for a reply. However, after the awkwardness grows to a palpable level and nothing but the rusty hinges on your wheely-stool remain, it becomes apparent he isn't going to give one. Still, you don't make to interrupt the process.
His chest rises on an inhale, and slowly, his head lifts, just enough for you to see blue irises peek out from the shadow of the brim of his hat. When he finally meets your eye, vision settling across your face, the once stoic set of his brows loosens, pupils expanding to capture the light as best they can. He seems stuck there for a second, drinking you in from your forehead to the tip of your nose, until you cock your head in curiosity. The exhale is punched right out of him, and he hurriedly ducks his head, repositioning the brim of his hat.
Suddenly, he doesn't look so tough.
No, he just looks...shy, eyes darting around the room as if he'd rather stare anywhere else but at you.
He's quite cute, the chronically single part of you chimes in.
AMA Code 9.1.1, your white coat whispers.
Internally, you shake the thought off your back. Focus. This man is looking for your help.
Again, his voice is soft -- so contrastingly soft -- when he speaks.
"I've got scars," he blurts, obviously discomforted and too afraid to hold eye contact.
"Okay," you respond.
Another beat of silence. You hope that it conveys your assent to his control of the conversation.
"And..." he stutters, "And I want them gone."
"Okay," you nod, wheeling backwards to grab a pair of gloves, "And do you mind if I take a look at them? To see what treatments might be best?"
Again, he doesn't answer. You only look on patiently as you situate your gloves. He's not wearing a heart monitor on his fingertip, but if he were, you imagined it'd be racing right about now. He looks towards the closed door, Adam's apple bobbing with a harsh swallow.
"You gonna bring anyone else in? To look?" he mutters.
"It's just a quick exam, doesn't require any tools or assistance," you promise, "But if you'd be more comfortable with another person in the room with us -- or with another physician entirely -- we can certainly make that happen. It's your choice."
"No. It's not that."
He stares at the door for a few more seconds. His hands wring in his lap, and for the second time today, he manages to look you in the eye.
"Just...make it quick. Okay?" he says aloud, commanding.
Don't want anyone else to see, his fidgeting frame conveys.
"Of course," you say, standing from your chair. He reaches for the cap atop his head, shoulders taut, before he unhooks the mask from his ear. You can see it almost immediately despite the way he keeps his vision locked resolutely on the floor. Beneath buzzed blonde hair, you see the beginning of red raised lines, trailing down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. They're long, fluid, and reaching, starkly mottled with color against his pale white skin. When he finally raises his face, you can see that his right eye is drooping at the corner, obscured by a small waxy section of fused skin on his outer eyelid. The eye doesn't look damaged, though.
The scar extends down the entire right side of his face, and the skin is textured there, raised with bright red in every spot that the liquid touched. It recedes into the surface of his skin in some parts -- the flatter portions of his face -- where pools of the substance had time to eat away at his cells a bit longer. The skin is wrinkled and stretched in those parts, including the bit by his eye.
In medical school, you'd studied case photos before. It was quite a distinctive burn pattern due to the way liquid runoff caused scars in the shape of the running droplets themselves, diffused across the surface by gravity, spreading the agony by nature's hand.
You cannot begin to imagine how painful it must have been. Your heart aches imagining how it occurred.
Slowly, you raise your hand to touch the edges of the the marks, assessing their texture.
"How did the injury happen?" you ask between careful fingertip taps, taking mental measurements of the length and size of each mark.
"It's in my chart. They teach you how to read in medical school?" he huffs...almost pouting.
You giggle.
"It is in your chart -- which I can read, by the way. But I want to hear your perspective on it."
He tsks again, "Does that even matter?"
"It's the thing that matters most," you reply -- and rather seriously, too. You emphasize the sentence with a pointed glance at his face, before you return to your task.
The scars are winding, branching things, diffused across his cheek, forehead, nose, and neck, like interconnected constellations across the night sky.
Despite how much pain you know is embedded in them, you can't help but think that, in a way, they're beautiful. Like many of the scars you saw each day, they're part of the people you help. A part that, in many cases, is just as much a facet of them as their hair color or clothing choices. That, and like many other things, something that wasn't so easily removed or erased.
As always, you keep that opinion to yourself. You can't tell whether the idea stemmed from your own clinical interest in them as a specialist. Or maybe the smaller, softer side of you couldn't help but marvel at the way Mother Nature always stitched herself back together in the end, leaving her touch as a reminder that, once the blood had dried and the dust had settled, you would always be made whole again. Someday. Sometime.
Of course, maybe you'd just published too many papers on the topic not to find them interesting by now. Staring out at conference crowds ranting about it for hours tended to do that to a person.
But hey, at least you weren't, like, a podiatrist or something. Somehow, you doubt your friends would find you as cool as you are if you ranted about big toes with the same enthusiasm as you did talking about the mechanism of Lichtenberg figures.
"Acid. There. That good enough for you?"
"Yeah," you curve your head to track the scars through his hairline. He perks up at the feeling your hands brushing through his hair, "And how long ago were these marks made? They seem well-healed given the circumstances of the injury."
He takes a breath in, "I'd say it's been...almost two decades, minus a few years."
"Huh," you raise your brows when you step back, pulling your gloves off.
He latches onto that little sound for some reason.
"What?" his cracked, crooked lips curve into a smirk for the first time since he walked into your office, "You think m'old, doc?"
"What makes you say that, Mr. Riley?" you laugh, "I thought it was pretty nonchalant on my part...they teach us that in school, y'know."
Why are you making jokes with him?
Why are you making jokes with him?
Seriously, this is what happens when you don't have a boyfriend for five years straight. Yeah, maybe you needed to get through medical school, and yeah, maybe you're too busy for a relationship. But then, every time a man so much as looks in your direction your heart starts to lurch.
That, and this is what your last preceptor would call 'ethical bullshit that will bite you in the ass if you let it fester long enough.'
Offput by the combination of those thoughts, you busy yourself with typing your observations into his chart. But of course, that doesn't negate the form of him sitting in the edge of your vision.
(That, or his warm, rumbling laugh. Or his awkward half-smile. Or the way that, when you leant closer to him, his cologne wafted over you in waves.)
Yeah, you should revisit your ethics textbook.
Or maybe you should buy another vibrator.
(Maybe you should do both.)
"Never thought I'd live to see the day a lab-coat developed a sense o' humor," he huffs, still smiling, before he reaches out to grab ahold of your name tag. The reel of the tag snaps back into place with a teasing noise, "How long you been wearing that thing anyway, huh? A year? Maybe two? Or do they enroll into medical school straight out of daycare these days?"
"Hey!" you swat at his hand before it can pluck at your name tag again, and suddenly, he's anything but shy, "You sayin' I have a babyface?"
"Uh-huh," he chuckles, "Doesn't match the white coat, love. Hate to break it to you."
"Pot calling the kettle black."
At that, he balks. His confidence falters, and for a second, the syllables get caught in his mouth.
"What? You think I came outta the womb lookin' like this?"
He gestures to the myriad of scars across his face, disdain evident in his expression.
"What?" you plop back down on your rolly-stool, "No. Just sayin', if you're trying to get a discount on the botox, it's gonna take more convincing than that. You look pretty good for your age."
That last bring yanks a laugh out of his stiff frame.
"'For my age?' What am I, seventy-five?"
"Well, seeing as how my professors never taught me to read a chart, it's a possibility, I guess..."
"Fuck off," he huffs, laughing.
"Aww, c'mon, don't say that just yet," you rock back and forth on your stool, "We're just getting to the fun part."
"The fun part?" he mutters.
"Yeah," you swivel back towards the computer, clacking away once more, "The anti-smoking lecture I'm professionally obligated to give you. From your chart. Which I can read."
"Save it."
"You want lung cancer?"
"Save it."
"Then stop smoking."
"Done."
You giggle, shaking your head.
"What?" he snickers.
"Y'know, I can see the Marlboro package sticking out of your pocket, right?"
Behind you, he straightens up in his chair to glance down at his belt, below which is the red and white façade of that familiar package. He licks his lips.
"What, a man can't change his mind, love?"
Love. God, you nearly melt at the stupid little quip.
"Not sayin' that, it's just..." you cross your arms, giving him a long hard look, "You don't look like the type to go back on your own convictions."
"You callin' me stubborn?"
"Not at all," you roll your eyes, "You sure you're not projecting?"
At that, he's got no good response. He merely lets his smile widen, just enough to let his teeth show through, and for that alone, you figure you can forgive yourself for your own professional transgressions.
"Well, smoking aside..." you sigh, forcing yourself back to business. You hate the way Simon's smile falls at the sudden transition, "You're in good shape for treatment. We can discuss the intricacies in further appointments, but there are several options depending on your own preferences. For the contracture scars around the eyelid, that'd most likely require surgical correction, but if you're aiming for less invasive options, laser treatments and topical medications would work as well."
"Whichever works the fastest," he speaks, voice deepening into something serious. He looks back down at the floor. It strikes something within you, and you brace yourself to act as the bearer of bad news.
"Mr. Riley--"
"Simon," he interjects, "Call me Simon."
You nod.
"Simon," You scoot your stool closer, "Before we get any deeper into exploring your options, I just want to make sure that you have reasonable expectations for your treatment."
He balks, hands wringing again, "''Reasonable expectations?'"
"Yes," you inhale lowly, "Given the extent of your injuries, and given the nature of your other inujuries as well...It's unlikely that the appearance of your scars can be completely negated. They can be reduced, yes, but they can't be removed. Not in the sense that you may be thinking, at least."
"Why not?" he asks -- no, demands. It's wrought with emotion, verging on anger. You don't recoil, however, you only continue onwards.
"Well...when you sustain a burn, it doesn't just affect the surface or the appearance of your skin. Altogether, what you might call...'the architecture' of your skin has changed. Scar tissue isn't normal skin, and aside from that, the blood vessels and hair follicles may have been damaged, too. With chemical burns like yours, the thickness of the burns is difficult to counter. Chemical burns can be deep, speaking relatively, and even with treatment, it's often not possible--"
"Why not?" he demands again loudly, and this time, his voice strains around the exclamation. He leans forward in his seat, and you're pinned beneath his harsh glare.
Instead of launching into another explanation, you let him sit in the silence, in the anger and emotions. The longer you look onwards, empathy hardly wavering on your face, the faster his belligerent expression falls into something...deeply hurt.
His anger falls away, whether it be from remorse for shouting at you or grief for his own situation, he ducks down to bury his face in his hands. A far cry from the man you'd just been joking with.
For minutes, you sit in silence. Simon, repetitively running his hands over his face -- over those raised red scars he despised. And you, looking on, unable to promise anything more than you could give.
"Simon," you eventually speak, quieting your tone, "Why'd you come in today? I mean, after almost twenty years living with these scars...why now? What changed?"
You hear him sniffle beneath the cover of his hands.
God, is he crying?
If it were possible, your heart breaks even further. Slowly, you wheel backwards to grab a box of tissues out of the supply cabinet.
"Does it even matter?" his voice is muffled from the hands he hides behind, warbled with tears. He's determined not to let you see them. (Not to let himself have them).
"Yes, Simon," you pull a tissue from the box, holding it out in his direction, "It matters. I could give you a whole spiel about the health science behind resilience and purpose in recovery, but I'm not saying this because of the research. I'm saying this because I'm your doctor and I care about you."
For a few more seconds, he cries silently into his hands, sucking in every hitching breath, like maybe if he tried hard enough, you'd never notice the tearstains on his collar. It takes awhile, but eventually, he reaches out shakily to take the tissue.
You don't recoil, not even when he lifts his head, and exposes his swollen, reddened eyes. His words are shaky when he finally opens his mouth.
"My nephew..." he manages, nearly choking, "He's -- he turns three years old in a few weeks."
"Yeah?" You pull another tissue, "He's what makes you want to get rid of the scars?"
He nods his head, and for a split-second, that look of sadness on his face deepens into an aching look of sheer anguish.
"He's a sensitive lad, gets -- gets nightmares real easy," he looks down at his boots, "Last time I went over, he burst right into tears, and -- and my brother said he woke up cryin' for damn near the whole weekend."
A sob escapes his mouth before he can stop it. He swallows it and clears his throat.
"He's so scared of me he won't come near. Won't let me hold him. Won't let me talk to him," he shakes his head as more tears burst forth, "He's terrified of me. His own uncle. Because I look like this."
He gestures towards the smattering of scars across his face, tissue clutched in his balled up fist, "Because this is who I am."
"Simon, that's..." you reach forward to grab his fist, squeezing it between your warm hands.
"My brother says he'll grow out of it, that -- that it's not a big deal, but..." you hand him another tissue, "I know it's not easy for them. And -- and sometimes I wonder...if maybe they'd be better off if I stopped going to see them altogether."
Immediately, you shake your head, scooting your stool closer emphatically, "That's -- that's not the answer, Simon. I promise."
"Yeah?" he looks up at you, watery eyes unsteady, "Then what is? Because -- if you can't get rid of them, then what's even the point of trying?"
That strikes a chord within you. Seeing him there, looking to you for help, for comfort, for answers...Your preceptor told you not to get close to your patients, but after this...How could she expect you to put up walls?
You reach for the box of tissues, and lift one towards his face. He can't help but flinch backwards when you raise it words his injured cheek, but when you hold steady in the face of his reproach, he squeezes your hand in silent consent.
You dab around the corner of his injured eye, studying the contracture marks beneath your tissue. His fingers twine with yours, nervous and worked up, but you don't rush.
Already, it's hard to imagine his face different than what is already is, but if it's as important as he believes...
"Simon, I can't promise you more than what science has to give," you whisper, "But if there's anything I've learned in the past few years, it's that nature is more surprising than we give it credit for."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." you swipe across his jaw, where several tears hang, "Research might say one thing, but the results of treatment might surprise you. What you think is a small difference might be what changes everything. How your family thinks about your appearance...how your nephew thinks about your appearance..."
You squeeze his hand.
"How you think about yourself."
His brows draw tight when you say that.
"That's why it's worth trying. Because if that's what you think is best for yourself, then all of us should listen."
You let your eyes wash over his face, wash over his harsh cheekbones, sharp jaw, blonde hair, and white-red skin. The color looks like supernovas against his complexion, like something tended to, healed, and stitched back together with love in every thread.
"You think so?"
"I think so," you nod, "And I promise I'll do anything to help you get there."
He spends a few more seconds studying the conviction in your eyes, studying the way your hand fits against his own, but eventually, he manages a deep breath, and he gives a small but sure nod.
"Okay," you nod back, tapping your figures against his hand, before you turn your stool and grab a piece of paper from the supply cabinet. You don't waste a minute before starting to write.
"Here," you rip a section of the paper off, "It's my personal number."
"What for?" he suddenly straightens up, something...unreadable and confused overcoming his face.
"I'm booked out for months -- gotta love the efficiency of the healthcare system," you complain sardonically, "If I left you with Julie, she'd do her best to find you a place, but this is important, and I don't want you falling between the cracks."
You stand from your stool, "Whenever you get a chance, call me. I'll fit you in after hours, come up with a plan that's better than just 'wait and see.'"
At that, something akin to hope flickers in his eyes. He looks down at the small scrap of paper and the loopy handwriting thereon, before he gathers himself and finally stands.
For a split second, you're blinded by how tall he is. God, you nearly have to crane your neck just to maintain eye contact.
"Okay," he nods, tucking the baseball cap back over his head, "I will."
"Then..." you smile, sticking out your hand, "I look forward to it, Simon."
He looks down at the offered hand, at your starched white coat, and the irresistible glimmer in your eye.
He didn't know it then, but in the future, he'd come to realize that moment was just the beginning of it all. What followed was deeper than he could've thought. Deeper than seven layers of scar tissue. Deeper than a scalpel could cut. Deeper than he'd dared to let himself imagine.
Now, he knows its significance. But back then, it was only ten little numbers, written in sparkly pen ink, with the letters 'M.D.' left in signature.
we gotta get back to torrent distribution, i just watched someone eat eight grand in bandwidth charges because they ran a direct-download piracy site with local file hosting through cloudflare. torrents were invented literally for this exact reason
i have a file or folder on my pc that i want to share with other people. let's call it gayshit.mp3
unfortunately gayshit.mp3 is 750mb and im not paying for discord nitro so i need another way to send it
i put it into qbittorrent and it makes a torrent file. this is essentially a very small file that points to gayshit.mp3 so other computers can find it. kinda like a treasure map
i send this tiny file to my friend, who loads it into qbittorrent. their computer takes a moment to find mine over the vast expanse of cyberspace and then (as long as my pc is running and the file is still where it should be), it gets copied from my hard drive to theirs
this is the cool part: if somebody else loads that tiny file, they can download it from both of us. if i'm offline but my friend is on, the third person can still get it. this also means that if two people have separate halves of the file, they can download the other half from each other. as long as some combination of people have the pieces between them, they can all have the whole thing.
crucially this does not require a server!!! you can just upload the file to a few people and as long as they keep it, it's still accessible. as long as somebody, somewhere is still connected, it's available forever. the only way it goes away is if everybody disconnects from it.
The men are confused as to if love is here when they finally notice something is off with you. It’s something subtle like moving a block a tiny bit to the left because it looks better that way, nobody would notice unless they looked at it hard enough.
And the men did look hard enough at it and noticed the change.
—
For Johnny, it was when all the men got ready for bed and were starting to get comfortable in their spot when he noticed something was wrong. Rather than let John use him as his personal teddy bear, Johnny sat up and looked around the room as if looking for something. Before they could ask what Johnny was looking for, he got out of bed and opened the bedroom door and peered into the hallway.
The only thing the men could do was stare in confusion as they saw Johnny looking out as if waiting for something to come. It took a few seconds more before he looked back at them a bit confused and asked:
“Why hasn’t the Bonnie come to bed?”
Oh. He was right, you hadn’t come to bed. Now that they think of it, when’s the last time you’ve slept in the bed with them?
The only thing Kyle could do was stretch his arms as he sat up, he pondered about the answer before he found one that satisfied everyone’s curiosity.
“Maybe she fell asleep in the guest bedroom. I think she’s been having a lot of online work meetings, she probably didn’t want to disturb us.”
That answer worked for Johnny as he nodded. He took one last look into the hallway before deciding his next move.
“She should be done right? It’s late, I haven’t cuddled with her in awhile. I’ll go get her.”
Before anyone could say anything, Johnny took quick steps out of the bedroom and into the hallway before going into the guest bedroom.
For Johnny, he realized something was wrong when he saw you sleeping alone in the guest bedroom. But why? You had a bed. With them. Your boyfriends. Why sleep alone?
Oh well. He’d talk about it tomorrow with you, but for now he wanted to cuddle with his Bonnie. He stood over the bed as he shook you gently, he kept shaking you until he saw your eyes open. It was weird to see you look at him with so much confusion, but never mind that. Johnny reached out his hand as he spoke to you.
“Cmon Bonnie. Let’s go to bed, I wanna cuddle with ya, haven’t done it in a long time.”
Johnny who was expecting for you to give him that sweet smile as you took his hand was left perplexed as you shook your head and got comfortable in the bed again.
“No thank you Johnny. I’d rather sleep alone.”
You spoke very softly, perhaps you didn’t want the men to overhear you or maybe you were just too tired to really talk. Johnny didn’t investigate too much into that as he nodded and walked out of the bedroom, looking like a kicked puppy.
Johnny isn’t sure if love is here when he returns back to bedroom, gets into bed with his lovers, but doesn’t feel right sleeping knowing that you’re sleeping alone in another bedroom.
—
For Kyle, he realizes it when doing his weekly grocery store run. It’s common to do these runs often especially when there’s many mouths to feed and a lot of laundry to be done. Kyle enjoys the peace that comes with strolling through the aisles so he’s often the one that volunteers to go.
Kyle looks through each aisle, he likes to see if there’s anything he can stock up on or maybe just see if he can buy it because he wants it. He goes into the beauty aisle because he remembers that Simon is almost out of face wash and if he runs out then he’ll go for Kyle’s much more expensive face wash. Kyle can’t have that so he’ll grab it now before he has to witness Simon lathering on his face wash.
He finds it quick and grabs a bottle… well actually he’ll grab two so that he can be sure that he won’t have any incidents in the future. It’s while he about to leave the aisle that he notices that the employees had put a bunch of sheet masks on sale. While he should’ve just ignored it and headed off to pay, it was like those sheet masks were trying to reach out to him. Like an annoying spam call that keeps calling you hoping that you’ll pick up.
Kyle chose to pick up the call and realized why they’re calling out to him. He hadn’t done a self care day with you in awhile. Now that he thinks about when’s the last time he’s spent time with you? He can’t remember. The last time you tried to spend time with him, he brushed you off in favor of going to a bar with Johnny.
Maybe buying those masks would be nice. He could buy a few extra things, you two could pamper each other, and maybe if you guys were lucky enough you could get one of your boyfriends to join in. Lord knows that those men don’t understand the concept of facial care, it was always you or Kyle getting them to put on the face masks.
With that in mind, Kyle grabbed a few packs of sheet masks and he looked around the store for extra stuff to buy. He’ll grab a few of your favorite snacks, maybe he’d grab a movie (something cheesy, he can’t remember the last time he heard you laugh) and if he remembers right you should be off from work today.
It’ll all be perfect.
Kyle thinks to himself as he heads off to pay.
Kyle is confused as to if love is here when he comes home and sets everything up on the living room table. He has all the masks spread out for you choose, different bowls filled with your favorite, and a movie ready to be played. He hears the front door open and close as he sees you step into the living room. He doesn’t like that expression on your face when you see him, like you weren’t expecting him to be there and looking closely, he notices that you have a gift bag from a museum.
Who’d you go to the museum with? It wasn’t him or the men because they were all out doing their own errands. Did you go by yourself? But why? You could’ve told him and he would’ve went with you. Why didn’t you want to spend time with him?
He’ll figure that out later but now he wants to spend time with you. He gives you a soft smile as he gestures to the table. He sees your eyes follow to the table and you don’t really look that much fazed as you look back at him in confusion. He pats the spot next to him as he speaks up.
“Haven’t had a self care day with you in awhile. I got these sheet masks we can use and I got a movie we can watch apparently it’s about a giant cockroach invading the city.”
Normally you would’ve joined him, you would’ve picked out your mask and decide which snack you want as he plays the movie. Sometimes you guys would even pick out masks for your boyfriends and have (force) them to use it, but that was in the past as you shake your head and grabbed your bag closer to you.
“No thank you Kyle. I have to catch up on work.”
You don’t wait for his response as you hurried off to the guest room, closing the door and shutting him out.
Kyle doesn’t think that love is here when he watches the movie by himself, but he really can’t find himself to laugh at the horrible CGI because he’s stuck wondering why didn’t you want to hang out with him.
—
For Simon, he realizes it when he gets ready to go out for his nightly walks. While he knows that his lovers don’t like it when he leaves for them, he’s grown to enjoy the time spent just quietly reflecting on whatever’s on his mind. He never tells them that but he thinks they already know.
Most of the time, it’s always Kyle who hates when he leaves for them. Kyle always felt that Simon would be a prime target for someone to hurt him which seems a bit weird considering his stature if anything he’s sure that everyone else is scared that he’ll hurt them but fine maybe Kyle knows something he doesn’t.
But as he gets ready to leave, he’s about to grab his keys and his gun (that John makes him take) when he spots your keys also on the counter top. He looks around a bit expecting to see you come out, ready for a walk with him but you don’t come. You know the time he goes for them, and you normally go with him so where were you?
It’s been a while since you went with him, it’d be nice to have some alone time with you. He likes these walks with you because he likes to hear you talk. You talk about anything that’s on your mind, sometimes it’s about how Johnny forgot to change the toilet paper again, how you really love your job (which is surprising because you always complain about it), or your hopes for the future with them.
Sometimes, he’ll join in with his own commentary but sometimes he’ll just give you a nod or lightly brush his thumb on your hand letting you know that he’s listening. It’s nice. It’s peaceful. And now he’d like to have another walk with you.
He has an idea as to where you might be as he goes into the guest bedroom, he gives a quick knock and hears a come in. When he opens the door, he sees a scrapbook that you’re working on. A scrapbook? You never told him about this. You tell him everything because you know he never judges. So why aren’t you talking to him anymore?
This walk will definitely help in reconnecting with you. He’ll ignore how you don’t look ready for walk, you look more prepared for bed, it’s okay he can wait a bit while you get ready. He’s patient.
“Aren’t you coming on the walk?”
He speaks somewhat gruffly. He expects you to look at the time, realize that you lost track of time, laugh and then promise to get ready quickly.
But you don’t do that, you don’t even look interested in going out with him.
“I’m too tired for a walk.”
Was all you said as you went back to your scrapbook.
Simon wanted to talk back, maybe a small part of him wanted to ask if he can join you then, anything to hear you talk to him but he can tell that you rather be alone. And he does leave you alone.
Simon isn’t sure that love is here when he takes his walk because this is something he enjoys doing. But now? He can’t find himself enjoying this as much as he’d much rather have you here.
—
For John, he realizes it when he books a reservation at a nice restaurant for you and him. He books it because he can’t remember the last time, he took you out on a date just you two.
He also books it because his lovers have been complaining that you’re getting distant from them and they’re not sure why. He thinks this date will help him get to the bottom of it. He thinks it’s just work that’s making you distant, in his opinion, he’ll bring up that topic again. Where he tells you to quit your job and stay home, your job clearly stresses you out, so why not quit? They can provide for you until you find a better job or if you don’t want to work anymore then that’s fine too.
Don’t you trust them to take care of you? They all love you dearly. Don’t you trust them to tell them about any issues you have? Anything that’s bothering you, they’ll help you get through it. That’s what lovers do.
John waits by the living room, he counts down the time till you come home from work. He knows that today, you get off early for what reason he isn’t sure. He just knows that you never ask and leave when told.
Right on cue, he hears the door open and shut as he sees you step into the living room. You put your bags on the floor as you spot him. You look like a little mouse, who’s about ready to run. But he won’t let you, at least until he tells you about your date for tonight.
“Got us a reservation at that steakhouse. Tonight at 7:30.”
As he expected, he sees you get ready to object. Fine then. He’ll see what you have to say. He’s fair. He’ll listen to you.
“Can’t you take someone else? Johnny was just complaining that he’s dying for a good steak.”
“No I can’t. Johnny’s always wanting a good steak. I booked it with you in mind.”
It was like a Pokémon battle with every excuse you had not to come, he had something to counter back with. In the end, he won the battle as he got you to agree to go on the date.
When it came time to go, he waited by the door for you and while he was about to yell out a reminder that if you guys didn’t leave now you were going to be late (something he always got used to doing with Kyle, who for some reason always needed to triple check his outfit), you came out from the guest bedroom, and heavens you were stunning. You always knew what to wear, how to do your hair, and how to do your makeup (always the right amount).
He was quick in taking your arm as he took you out to the car, not without calling you the prettiest woman he’s ever seen. He was sure that whatever was the issue, he’ll be able to find it out with this date especially as he saw that small smile you had when he complimented you. Whatever was bothering you, he’ll figure it out and then he’ll discuss with the men what to do. But for now, he wants to enjoy this time with you.
Being at the steakhouse was nice. He can’t remember the last time, he’s taken you out and that gives him even more of a reason to check in on you. He tries to bring up stuff that you liked, old discussions that you two had, and hell he even brought up your work to see how it is going. But you weren’t receptive at all.
You were choosing to give small talk instead of that full length conversations that he was used to having with you. To him, it looked like you didn’t even want to be here, you were messing with the napkin more than you were giving him attention. It felt like a first date where it’s obvious the other person isn’t that into them.
John isn’t sure that love is here when he’s stuck on trying to get his sweet love to talk to him again, like old times.
—
Tonight, you chose to go out with your friends especially after texting them about your troubles, and as expected they quickly turned against the men.
What’s their issue?
How can they treat u so badly and then act surprised that u don’t want to be with them. 😤
That’s it they’re officially the garbage men 🗑️ the trash gets taken out tomorrow, put them out there
It was nice, having friends like them, someone who stood by your corner especially when you felt so alone. But it was also weird to see how differently your boyfriends (can you even call them that?) were treating you now. Johnny was acting more clingy than before (he’s always wanting to cuddle with you), Kyle was always looking for something to do with you, Simon started participating in scrapbooking, and John’s always picking you up from work.
You weren’t quite sure what was going on, but for now you want to enjoy your time with your friends. It could help seeing the relationship from an outside perspective. You checked yourself out in the mirror and smoothed out your outfit, fixing anything that needed to be fixed before grabbing your bag. Apparently they wanted to treat you out to some drinks, help relieve that stress they said.
You didn’t feel like questioning it as you left the guest bedroom as walked towards the door. You heard some movement from the living room as you saw the men looking at you from the couch (they look like a bunch of meerkats). You already knew what was coming.
“Where are you going?”
Kyle questioned as he and the men eyed your outfit. They definitely wanted to know where you were going wearing that outfit.
“To the club.”
You said as you checked your bag one last time, making sure you had everything you needed. You expected them to nod and let you be, but you didn’t expect to see Johnny get up from the couch.
“Can I come with? I’ll go put on a nicer outfit and then we can take off.”
It was funny, just thinking of how you were in their same place, wanting to go with them on their date. But they rejected you and now you were rejecting them.
“You can’t. It’s for me and my friends.”
That’s all you wanted to say and all you told before you left.
Your boyfriends aren’t sure that love is here as they are stuck, sitting on the couch, wondering what went wrong and how they can get their sweet girl back.
Simon: 🧍♂️, Kyle: my baby 🥺
Deleted Scene: Graves who used to go out on the walks too, stops because Simon used to chase him. (Simon was doing the trend of making sure they get home safe)
I never watched/or played Pokemon that much, I was a Digimon girl
The guys sad on the couch: ☹️, you having the time of your life at the club: 💃
love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...
you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.
you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.
When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.
"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.
"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.
"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.
"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"
"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"
Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."
That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.
"Until next time."
He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.
𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 summary: in your last relationship aftercare wasn’t even a concept, but with Simon Riley it’s so much more than that.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: just Simon giving you aftercare for the first time because what the hell I have free will ALSO 18+ puhlease!! Mdni I’ll boot kick you out.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff so rotten your teeth will fall out.
Pairings: bf!Simon x gf!Reader
The next best thing to sex with Simon Riley was the aftercare - you thought as your gaze followed him into the bathroom, his frame disappearing behind the doorframe. You were sore, heart hammering and skin slick with sweat as you basked in the aftermath of it all, but a soft smile stretched across your lips.
You felt like you were positively glowing.
It shocked you the first time you both had sex. Not that you expected him to discard you with his back turned. But considering your past relationship, the lack of love after making it was normal for you.
Didn’t make it suck any less though.
So when it came to Simon. A man who practically intimidated every neighbour of yours within a block, muscle and tattoo ridden and who killed for a living - aftercare seemed … overly emotionally strenuous for him. Like it would make things too real? You thought.
But when it came and he held you as though you could crack like strained glass, gently wiping your skin with a lukewarm towel, you couldn’t hide how enamoured you felt.
How did so much care and love come from the same hands that drew blood.
“What’s tha’ look for?” Simon pointed bluntly as he butterflied your hips open to clean your core “nothing just-“ you swallowed thickly, blinking “didn’t expect all this” you breathe. Simon’s brows furrowed in confusion, gaze still tethered to wiping you clean “Christ dove, what kind of men have you been havin’ sex with” his abrasive tone made you huff a laugh “shitty ones” you retorted.
“Fuckin’ clearly” he said, guiding the rough towel over your stomach.
Seconds passed and you were still unable to wipe the adoration off your face, something Simon noticed with a huff of a laugh “ya lookin’ at me like I’ve just bought you a fuckin’ puppy” mirth dripped off of his tone.
You gently pushed him “shut up”
“What kinda man do ya’ take me for” Simon questioned while he moved to soothe the inside of your thighs. You let his words hang in the air before you responded “not a shitty one” he hummed in amusement, his belief of your words wavered thin.
Simon tended to the hickeys and bruises, apologising gruffly for getting carried away. To which you said that you didn’t mind “Good” he said, throwing the towel into the dirty clothes basket before lying down next to you “C’mere” he graveled, arms outstretched.
You complied, draping your arm across his scarred chest. A new found sense of relief flooded through you at the feeling of being so tenderly cared for. Simon heaved a sigh, coiling his arm around your waist to pull you closer “M’fuckin’ girl” he murmured before kissing the crown of your head.
theres a sweet little bird ghost's been keeping tabs on.
lurking at the cafe across from her work with a ratty baseball cap and a surgical mask, making the baristas flinch every time he pulls it down to take a pull off his too-sweet london fog. soft, pretty, put together. like she's made of gold wire. he likes to watch her walk down the sidewalk in her heels and her pencil skirt, likes to watch her toe the heels off and get into sweats as fast as she can once she gets home to her fancy modern flat, the wide open kind with all the windows and edges.
he could easily grab some real high-octane surveillance toys from base, but he's a bit old fashioned, a bit analog. all he needs is the scope of his unloaded rifle and a feed from the spy-cams he placed while he was out. he can hear his own breath heavy on the abandoned rooftop he's been occupying. it's an everything shower day-- shes out on the couch in a thin robe with her hair covered, licking her way through a pint of vanilla ice cream. shes indulgent. her life is just as sweet as her.
ghost reaches down to palm himself as his cock strains against the zipper of his cargoes. he grinds down with the heel of his hand when her robe slips off one shoulder and he can see the soft edge, the bounce of her tits. this is what's satisfying about taking a perch the old fashioned way: the light bouncing from her heart shaped lamp outlines her soft curves and then arcs off into the night right where ghost can catch it and bask in it. it's rare, incidental, more rewarding.
he likes the chase more than the catch. his broads really all break down and sob the same way when he decides to be finished, to reap what he hasn't sown. then they're quiet, and he can almost pretend they're just sleeping next to him.
this one has a few weeks of entertainment left for him. she's working overtime, tonight, and he's in the cafe across from her building glancing into the one florescent office as the sun starts to sink. the cafe closed 30 minutes ago, and he can see the barista mopping the same spot on the floor passive-aggressively. he'll squeeze a few more minutes out of this spot before he leaves.
he finished the last third of his tea in one long sip, letting it flow down his throat like honey, like blood. it's a cozy cafe with nice, fat cushions, little string lights, plants. he's worked past the initial impression he makes and become a tolerated regular, if not a welcome one. first impressions are important, but seconds and thirds can really make or break the game.
ghost blinks. it's pretty late.
he blinks again, and the sky is darker, opening his eyes gets a little harder. he stands to go lurk on a rooftop, to watch her walk home in the dark. make sure nothing untoward happens to her without his say-so. it's a smooth, predatory unfolding he's done a thousand times. this time, stars bloom in his head and he stumbles, nearly going to a knee. he knocks over the empty mug on the flimsy cafe table, and the barista rushes to support him. fucking humiliating. years and years in the sas, and he-
a narrow, steady arm is pushing between ghost's shoulderblades and bringing him to the ground, and ghost still feels relaxed, exhausted, like the second before he falls asleep. he tries to struggle, but can't manage it, lets this fucking civvie fold him onto the lemon-fresh damp floor as he succumbs to whatever the hell was slipped into his drink, lurking under the tablespoon of honey.
in his last blink of consciousness, he can feel himself being dragged behind the counter, over a step and into the kitchen, and he can see the face of the person dragging him.
and your eyes have a bit of a familiar cast to them, your breath a familiar hitch. it's his hitch. he's slipped up.
when he falls into fuzzy almost-sleep, he feels almost warm.
Now imagine omega!ghost getting some essential shots he missed in his 20s well into his 40s, right?
Had he gotten the shots when he was supposed to, they would've helped shorten his heat and alleviate the dangers associated with them. Now, though? When he finally gets the shots it gives him what the doctors explained as a "false pregnancy"
Which is to say, ghosts instincts have become absolutely convinced you are his pup.
No amount of logic or rational thinking stops that horrible screaming of instincts in his mind, and it's affecting his job so severely that price orders you to play along with him until it settles.
Turns out, ghost is a very overbearing dad.
"No, no, stay in the nest, pup. Yer too small to leave yet, okay?" He coos at you, gently pushing you back into the nest when you tried to reach out and grab the granola bar not two feet away. Embarrassingly, you do settle when ghost pushes his calming scent. Sue you, but it's been a while since you've had an older omega try to comfort you.
Ghost gives you the real pup treatment. Curling around you and purring all night, warm like and oven and ensuring you'll smell like him all week, muttering "sleep, pup. You need to grow big, just a little runt, hm?" If you stir or try to move.
You know, logically, that this is just his instincts talking. That ghost will go back to being your emotionally distant superior in a week, refusing to even acknowledge this happened. But...you quietly wish he wouldn't, or that he'd stay just a bit soft. It's nice being taken care of. The military is alll bared teeth and survival, stumble and be left behind.
So you burrow into the nest, enjoy all of it while you can. Soap and gaz might laugh at you for it, but you don't care. It's nice to be ghosts pup, just for a week or so.
Thinking about omega!ghost who is undetectable as an omega.
He doesn't really smell like an omega, scent glands fucked up and scarred over from roba, leaving only a faint bitter smell. Neither does he act like an omega. No nest to speak of, or a particular fondness of his teams clothes.
As far as anyone is concerned, ghost is just an odd beta, only price knowing his true designation.
That is, of course, until you bring your baby to base.
A wee, pudgy thing that smells like milk-honey and you. She's just about a year old and very opinionated. Which means when she first sees ghost, your pup decides she has to be held by him.
No matter how you try to appease her, little arms reach for ghost from across the room. Crying and scent like burnt sugar in a way that makes your instincts scream.
It gets to the point that everyone else in the room is obviously uncomfortable, instincts just as upset by an obviously distressed pup so close to them. With a grunt that makes you feel horribly guilty, ghost reaches towards you and huffs "Alright, give 'er here, then."
You do, expecting her to keep sobbing when she realizes she doesn't want some weird beta to hold her.
Only for ghost to start purring like a fucking omega and for your pup to instantly settle down. He expertly tucks her inti the crook of his arm, pudgy cheek resting in his peck with the happiest little smile you've seen on her, whole body vibrating with the strength of his purr.
You stand, shocked, as ghost puts on the perfect display of a paternal omega with your pup, half expecting him to scent her while he's at it.
All you can think is why the hell haven't you taken ghost as a mate yet?
For the nonny that asked "I will give u my life in exchange for u posting about omega!ghost 👁👁" hehe
Even more devastating, the scene where pinocchio was made was very violent in looks and almost angry but gepetto grew to love his creation like a son but the scene of making the creature was loving and attentive but victor grew to hate his creation .
