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The Writings On The Wall
The most up to date Masterlist for fics, headcanons and more for you to explore. Just follow the link to the fandom you want!
Batman
Miscellaneous (Contains Obey me, Resident Evil, and Supernatural)
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I cant believe this tweet is how I find out
now all the things you guys have told me about american high schools are starting to make sense
holy shit.
This right here is why it won't pass here. The religious right has a chokehold on the republican party, and they want to reserve the right to abuse their kids.
The type of abuse in this context is always indoctrination and brainwashing, but also often has mental, emotional, physical, and yes even sexual abuse thrown in for good measure, too.
Make no mistake: children are only valuable to the US religious right as pawns.
@xzye-trelefor reblogging your comment if you wouldn't mind
Don't mind at all. I spent a week in juvie for "resisting arrest". There were no other charges, just resisting *after* I was put in handcuffs and moved to another room. For reference my resistance consisted of trying to pull my arm out of a twist the officer was using to cause me pain for his own amusement. This was the day after they had arrested my father and failed to provide any assistance to myself and two brothers that were then orphaned. We live in a police state with no rights. Anyone that tells you otherwise had been given invisible privilege by the authorities and insulated from reality.
For anyone interested in what all 54 articles are here's a summary below taken straight from the UNCRC section of the unicef website.
We have not only signed on to this in Scotland but actively teach children that these are what their rights are. My P2s, (6 turning 7) can tell you a good handful that mean the most to them for their school day such as the right to relax and play, the right to education that develops their potential to its fullest, no discrimination etc.
These conventions are stating nothing radical...their literally just telling kids that they have the right to access top quality services to be healthy, happy and educated while, you know, not being abused and exploited. This document is literally trying to stipulate that governments and services to do with children have to do whats best for them - letting them just be kids who learn who they are and how to best advocate for themselves when needed. Any adult who looks at it and sees this as a way to take away control is the problem.
MAJOR spoilers for iron flame but jesus christ it’s just twist after twist???? xaden has a second signet???? andarnas the 7th breed dragon??? xadens now one a venin????? what thr hell is going on?????? so much has happened in iron flame i still need to process
Oh...oh whose gonna tell them it gets SOOOO much worse? I still haven't emotionally recovered from it?
a court of mist and fury: chapter 15
acrylic on canvas
Pretty pretty pretty 😍
No one in the 141 can dance and I mean that
I want to believe Gaz can cut a lil rug
but only because he's black and I need to have faith in my ppl 😔🙏
You gotta remember he's british too tho :/
I am going to respectfully disagree that Soap can't dance. That man is Scottish. Proudly Scottish. He has Ceilidh'd all his life. The dances are taught all through school. Give him a Ceilidh and this man is flawless on the dancefloor. The problem comes with any other type of dance. Put him in a club, disco or party and he makes his ancestors roll in their grave.
Price was forced to learn a ballroom dance or two by his parents for prom and can, with enough alcohol consumed, reenact this. It does not work well with Kesha on the speakers but the devil loves a trier. Ghost does not and considered risking a court martial.
Gaz believes that shimmying his hips and pumping fists or pointer fingers into the air counts as having a boogey and unironically tells you he can "get down" when he is asked or is asking someone to dance. He only dances with a beer in hand and only the corners of dance floors. If you want him in the middle of a dancefloor it costs you 5 tequila shots and a baby guiness.
Ghost has stood at the edges of dancefloors glaring at anyone who gets too close to his drunken friends as they dance. His toe tapped to a beat once. He denies this ever happened.
Cherry Red, Crimson Blood
Chapter 29: There's Something Wrong With My Omega
Summary: Things after your heat begin to go back to normal...but you know better than to think that will last long.
Pairing: Poly 141 x reader
Word Count: 10,708 words
Warnings: Suggestive content, kissing, the reader's daddy kink showing itself briefly, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, anxiety, reader has a panic attack, grief, kneeling, angst, fluff, massive time jumps, brief paranoia, my bad attempts at Scottish slang, angst
A/N: So we're covering a lot of ground with this one in favor of getting to the good stuff. I've put references when there's time jumps relative to the reader's most recent heat. So, for example, "six weeks after" is six weeks post the reader's heat. This was originally going to be two chapters, but then I decided to just smash it into one to avoid dragging things out further. So yeah. Get your tissues, get your ice cream and settle in for this wonderful ride.
ALSO, This will be the last time I'm using the taglist, follow HERE if you'd like to get notifications for new posts
MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->
A Few Days After
You’re like two pups, huddled together under a pile of blankets. The muscle relaxer kicked in an hour ago and you’ve been softly snoring since. Johnny’s arm is tossed over your back, keeping you pinned to his chest as he snores against your head. He’s probably drooling on your hair, but after this last week, it’s probably not the worst thing you’ve been covered in.
You’ve both just showered, your hair still damp against your pillow. Johnny’s mohawk is plastered against his head, strands sticking to his forehead. It needs a trim again.
John lets out a quiet sigh, shifting in your desk chair as he adjusts the ice pack between his legs. He’s sore, more sore than he had been the first time. You’d put them all through the wringer the week before your pre-heat started, and you’d put him through the wringer during the week of your heat. Maybe Kyle was right, maybe he is getting old.
He shakes the thought away, staring at the slow and steady rise and fall of your side as you breathe. You’d cried for longer this time, the tears still streaming as he fed you small bites of mash and mushy peas. He had been worried you might choke as your inhales caught and shuddered, but you ate albeit begrudgingly. The next few days you spent in an exhaustion and muscle relaxer induced haze. You woke long enough to eat and use the bathroom, but then you crawled back into bed and napped. Johnny has been a constant presence in your room, having crawled into your nest after they got you settled the first day to cuddle.
This morning you had been awake for longer, downing some porridge before the ache settled in and John gave you another muscle relaxer. He’d gotten you to down another electrolyte drink before the muscle relaxer kicked in, and before Johnny joined you so the two of you could cuddle up like a couple of pups to nap.
“You should take a break.” Simon says softly where he’s leaning up against your closet. “Get some rest yourself.”
John grunts quietly, sinking down further in the chair. He should, yet he can’t bring himself to step away. Things do feel different this time, though he’s not sure if that’s normal, or if Kyle’s participation had shifted things slightly. Did their reactions to your heat change depending on the heat? Did your own symptoms change heat to heat? He has half a mind to call Dr. Keller, get her opinion and ask for her advice. You don’t seem different, aside from the lingering symptoms. He feels different though, and Kyle had lingered a bit longer than he needed to.
“She’ll be fine.” Simon says, John’s body tensing as his second alpha places a hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed Simon’s approach, not that he was all that far away to begin with. “I’ll stay with them.”
John knows Simon won’t let anything happen to you. Logically he knows Simon would do everything in his power to keep you safe, and physically he’d be more capable. Yet John finds himself hesitating, still watching the rise and fall of your body as you breathe.
“You know I’ll alert you if anything happens.” Simon says, trying to reassure him.
It’s nothing personal. John just can’t seem to bring himself to move.
“I know.” He says quietly, finally pulling his gaze from you. “Things...feel different now.”
“Could just be the exhaustion.” Simon offers, trying to think up an explanation for John’s obvious inner conflict. “Go take a nap. You need it.” Simon squeezes his shoulder gently, massaging his thumb into John’s tense muscles. He could use a good massage. Maybe another hot bath too.
“Perhaps you’re right.” John murmurs, pulling the ice pack from his aching balls before standing. “You’ll wake me?” He asks, turning to face Simon.
“Course.” Simon nods, giving him as much of a reassuring look as he can manage.
John takes one last look at you, sleeping peacefully tucked in Johnny’s arms, the blankets wrapped around you both. You’ll be warm enough, with Johnny’s puppy-like warmth, and nothing will happen under Simon’s watchful gaze. Kyle will be back in soon after his own nap. Maybe he should crawl in with Kyle for a bit. Maybe that will help ease his mind.
John forces himself to look away, not even bothering to take the ice pack back to the rec room before slipping into Kyle’s room.
Simon turns the pages quietly, being careful not to disrupt either of you as you nap. He’d pulled a book off your desk to mind the time while he lets Price sleep. His fellow alpha needs it after the last week. He’s no good to anyone, much less you if he’s exhausted. God forbid they get called into something in the next few days.
Simon will gladly play babysitter if it gets Price to rest.
He’s tempted to text Kyle and tell him to keep Price in bed as long as possible, but he knows Price will be mad if he sleeps too much. Simon isn’t sure how Price keeps going for so long. He admires his strength and determination, but he can see how tired he gets, the hunch of his shoulders as he begins to feel the weight he carries, the dark circles under his eyes, how sluggish his movements get. He knows Price secretly dreads your heats, when he’s put out of commission completely,
As a man of action, he doesn't do well laying low. The few times Simon has seen Price get hurt, he’s always disobeyed orders for bedrest, even for just taking it easy. The man never stops, and Simon was hoping you would change that.
Price will want to be at his best at all times to ensure you’re well cared for, even if that means sacrificing taking breaks himself. Simon knows he’s struggling. That need to ensure he’s able to take care of his omega combating his need to push through and do his duty. The job comes first. That’s what had been driven like a nail into their brains since they found out they’d be getting an omega.
How silly they were to think they could uphold that.
Simon glances up as you move, wiggling your way onto your other side. You settle with a sigh, your back now to Johnny. You’re still gripping your bear, arms wrapped around it tightly. He stares at it for a moment, something prickling in the back of his mind as he stares into the beady eyes. It’s almost like they’re staring back at him, cogniscient and aware.
He shakes his head, going back to his book. The isolation of the last week must be getting to him finally.
It’s been an hour since Price left, an hour he’s hopefully spent sleeping. Simon is still dutifully keeping watch, halfway through the book he’d grabbed off your desk. You and Johnny are still sleeping peacefully, Johnny snoring into your pillow with an arm thrown over your side.
The door opens quietly, Kyle sticking his head in. He glances at the bed before entering the room, padding over to Simon quietly.
“Still out?” He asks, speaking quietly.
“Sleeping like pups.” Simon answers.
“You need a break?” Kyle rubs his eyes, still a bit bleary from his own nap.
“I’m good.” Simon responds, holding up the book. “You keep Price from doing too much.”
“You got it, boss.” Kyle smirks, patting his shoulder before leaving the room.
Simon returns to his book, trusting Kyle to do his duty diligently, even if it means keeping Price in a headlock. He doesn’t doubt they’ve been in that position at least once before, and not during training.
Another hour passes before you let out a quiet groan. Simon glances at you, watching the frown start to pull at your eyebrows. One arm untangles from around the bear, reaching out to the nightstand. Your fingers find the top, your arm stretching as far as it can, fingers sliding along the surface in search of something.
Simon marks his place in the book, setting it on the chair before he moves to the bed, kneeling down. He takes your hand, holding it still in an effort not to startle you. “What do you need?” He asks quietly.
“Water.” You croak, licking your lips.
Simon grabs one of the electrolyte drinks, screwing the top off before he helps you sit up a little bit. He holds the bottom of the bottle as you grab it, keeping it steady so you don’t dump it all over yourself as you drink. Your eyes are half open, your hair in quite the interesting shape after laying down with it still damp.
You drink half the bottle before he makes you stop, pulling it away. Soft pants leave your lips as he screws the cap back on the bottle, setting it on the nightstand.
“Better?” He asks, leaning his arm on his knee.
You nod, licking the remainder of the drink off your lips before you flop back against the mattress. He watches you for a second before getting back up, taking his spot on the chair once more.
If you fall back asleep, it’s not for very long. You shift closer to the edge of the bed, the bear falling onto the floor. You let it, laying there with your arm dangling off the side.
“Simon?” You murmur, staring at him sleepily.
He grunts, glancing up from the book. Johnny is still fast asleep, almost on his stomach taking up the space you’ve vacated, his arm still tossed over you.
“What does your mom smell like?”
The question takes him by surprise. He blinks at you for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. It’s an odd question for a time like this, and he almost writes it off as a half-asleep rambling, but your eyes are fully open now, a bit glossy from sleep, but you’re wide awake.
“Flowers.” He finally answers, drawing forward the memories of her scent as he closes the book resting it on his lap. “Fresh flowers on a warm spring day.”
You hum quietly, tucking your hand beneath your cheek. “My mom smelled like warm sugar cookies fresh out of the oven.” You say. “And vanilla.”
So that’s where that soft undertone beneath your scent comes from. He doesn’t say anything, sensing you have more to say.
“After her heats, when we’d come back from the care facility, the house always smelled like sugar cookies.” You swallow thickly. “Every time after her heat, when she was able to, she’d make us cookies. It was like she was apologizing for what we returned to. Most of us didn’t understand until we were older. My brothers never said anything.” A tear slides down your cheek and you hastily wipe it away. “I’m glad they didn’t.”
Simon feels a lump starting to form in his throat, threatening to choke him. He doesn’t miss the meaning behind your words. He knows exactly what you mean. He remembers those times, sleeping in the living room with Tommy, pillows over their ears so they didn’t have to listen. The few times they escaped to friends' houses, they returned to angry fists and blood on the floor. His mother never stepped in during those times because she couldn’t. She’d already endured a week of him. She couldn’t take any more.
Simon didn’t understand it either until he was older. The pain, the suffering, the things mothers try to do to ease the unsettling energy pups endure during heats, or in your case return home to.
He rises from the chair, setting the book down as he frantically blinks back the tears threatening to cloud his vision. He lets out a breath before moving to the bed, kneeling on the floor again. He tosses the bear across the room, almost like it might listen in, learn some secret it shouldn’t know.
He reaches out, brushing the hair from your forehead. Johnny shifts slightly behind you, almost like he can sense your emotions in his sleep. Simon isn’t sure what to say as his fingers brush your cheek, wiping away the tear that slides down your face.
“I miss her.” You whisper, your voice crackling slightly.
“I know.” Simon says, continuing to wipe the tears as they fall. “If I could find her, if it was safe enough, I would. Though, I’d have to beat the living shit out of your father first.”
A small smile tugs at your lips. “He deserves it.” You sniffle. “Though, I suppose deep down I don’t hate him completely for his decision. If he hadn’t sent me to the institute, I would have never wound up here.”
Simon lets out a breath, his fingers faltering against your skin. He hadn’t thought of it that way. If things hadn’t happened as they had, they would have never had you as part of their pack. They wouldn’t have ever known you existed, and you might have wound up somewhere worse. Though things weren’t ideal for how they played out, he supposes the outcome wasn’t that terrible for any of you.
He is glad things happened this way too, even if he still wants to beat the shit out of your dad.
“Do you want me to make you cookies?” He asks, his thumb still brushing your cheek.
“No, that’s okay.” You say, attempting to pull the blanket up further, but Johnny’s weight is hogging it. “I’m more of a brownie person anyway.”
“Do you want brownies, then?” He asks, shoving Johnny to the side to pull the blanket up. He lets out a snore, mumbling in his sleep before pulling his arm from your waist to tuck it up against his chest.
“If it’s not too much trouble.” You say, blinking up at him as he tucks the blanket around you.
“I’ll see what I can do.” He says, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead through the mask.
An hour later you're wrapped in a blanket, reclined on the rec room couch with a plate of warm brownies on your chest. Your fingers are sticky with chocolate as you half watch whatever daytime TV is playing, content in your cocoon with your sweet treat.
“You really make those brownies?” Kyle asks, leaning against the wall across the hall.
“Nah, bribed one of the chefs to do it.” Simon says, standing next to him.
“Bribed, or threatened?” Kyle smirks.
“I asked nicely this time.” Simon says, crossing his arms. “Said it was life or death.”
Kyle's brows raise. “Might be next time with how she's downing them. This will become a thing now.”
Simon shrugs. “Makes her happy after everything. I'll threaten - I mean ask, whatever chef I need to each time.”
“John is going to worry about her getting cavities.” Kyle watches as you shove an entire brownie into your mouth at once. “Or diabetes.”
Simon shrugs. “We’ll force some protein in her later. Maybe another vegetable.”
Johnny turns the corner rubbing his eyes. “Smells fuckin’ braw down here. Like chocolate.”
“No.” Simon says, grabbing him by the nape and turning him around. “You’re not taking that risk. Last time you tried she drew blood.” He walks Johnny back down the hall. “Might lose a finger this time.”
Kyle watches them, shaking his head. Johnny had paid for trying to steal your popcorn before your heat started. You caught him on the shoulder with your teeth, biting hard enough to draw blood. That had been an interesting trip to the med center. The best part was you didn’t even look guilty. He’d found you eating the last pieces of popcorn up off the floor.
He pushes off the wall, entering the rec room. You turn to look at him, giving him a grin with your chocolate stained lips. It’s all over your face but you don’t seem to care as you shove the second to last brownie into your mouth.
“Taste good?” He asks, sitting on the edge of the couch next to you.
You nod, licking chocolate off your fingers. It doesn’t do much good, only smearing it further. “Very good.”
“Stomach hurt yet?” He gives you a look.
You shake your head. “Nope. Just my pussy.”
He nearly chokes at your words, having to cover his mouth to hide his laugh, but he’s only partially successful. He takes a couple deep breaths, running his hand down his face to try and keep his composure. You seem to lose your filter in the week before and after your heat. It’s like it removes that last layer of uncertainty that keeps your personality from shining through all the time.
“It’s almost time for another dose of muscle relaxers.” He says, still trying not to laugh. “If you want another one.”
You nod, taking a bite out of the last brownie this time. “Mhm.” You nod in agreement, chewing slowly like you’re trying to savor it. Like you couldn’t convince them to get you anything you wanted at any time. “Feel like I was in a helicopter crash.”
Kyle snorts quietly. “I can imagine.”
You stop chewing for a moment, blinking at him. “You’ve been in one before?” The words come out around the brownie still in your mouth, barely intelligible but he understands them perfectly.
“A couple times.” He shrugs. “Fell out of one once too.”
Your mouth hangs open, the last piece of brownie centimeters from your lips. “Huh?”
He grins, pushing the brownie so it’s touching your lips. “That’s a story for another time. Finish your brownie then you can take your medication.”
You shove the last piece into your mouth, staring down at your hands as you chew. Kyle moves the plate from your chest, setting it on the coffee table. You hold your hands out to him. “Sticky.”
He wraps his fingers around your wrist, bringing your hand to his mouth. He wraps his lips around your finger, swirling his tongue around it to clean off the sweet chocolate. You stare at him wide eyed, mouth slightly parted as he moves to the next finger. He cleans the chocolate off of one hand before moving it out of the way as he leans in. He kisses you, licking the chocolate off of your lips. You whine against his mouth, his other hand catching your other wrist before it can touch him and cover him in chocolate.
He pulls away, leaving you panting. You pout, chocolate still stuck to your face and hands. “That’s not fair.”
He smirks, licking the sticky sweetness of his lips. “Almost as sweet as your slick.”
You stare at him wide eyed, hands still in the air as your mouth hangs open. “Huh?”
“I’ll go get a rag, clean you up.” He pats your leg before standing.
“You can’t just leave me with that!” You yell as he heads for the bathroom across the hall.
He’ll tell you, of course. He might just wait until you’re feeling less sore, though.
2 Weeks After
Two weeks pass and so does the pain in your pelvis. It had dulled to a slight throb by the end of the first week, only rearing its ugly head if you sat on a hard surface. You were back for the most part to your normal routine. Waking up early some mornings for training or running, more like jogging right now, on the other days, then breakfast, then stretching for a bit while the guys go to their own training, or your weekly visits with Dr. Keller. Then lunch, then your free time until dinner, then the guys’ free time before bed.
It feels good, being back in a semi-normal routine. It makes your omega purr in delight being able to predict and plan around a set schedule. Maybe you are perfect for this lifestyle.
Maybe Kate had been right in choosing you for this. Maybe the initiative was a good idea. Omegas thrive around routine and schedules and predictability. It’s not hard to understand why omegas aren’t allowed in the military, but perhaps integrating them into packs wouldn’t be as bad of an idea as you once thought. Though, you do wish the food was better sometimes.
That might just be British food in general, though.
You do miss America. Even after months away, you still feel that yearning for what you thought of as home. Or maybe you were just yearning for your family, the way things were before you committed a sin in your fathers eyes. It wasn’t hard to tell he wished you were never born, or maybe if you had been another son you wouldn’t have disappointed him. Your brothers didn’t disappoint him, so why did you have to be the one to do it?
Your half asleep conversation with Simon hasn’t left your mind. You do miss your family, your parents. Despite all his faults and failures, you do miss your dad too. He wasn’t all bad, there were good moments in there, though you don’t think you could ever fully forgive him for forcing you away in shame over something you couldn’t control. If it hadn’t happened, though, you would have never wound up here. Though it wasn’t ideal, you wouldn’t trade your pack for anything.
That doesn’t stop the subtle ache in your chest at the thought of your mother. Though you know the chances are slim that you would ever get to see her again, you just want to know that she’s alright.
“You’re thinking too much again.”
Simon’s words ring in your ears, bringing you back to reality again. The plastic around your wrists snaps off before he stands, holstering his knife quickly.
“Good to know even in these situations you’ll dissociate your way through it.” He says, lifting you right out of the chair and tossing you over his shoulder in one movement.
“It’s called a coping mechanism.” You yell as he races out of the building and over the finish line.
He lowers you down off of his shoulder, your legs nearly giving out as your feet hit the concrete floor of the warehouse. You take a deep breath, feeling like your diaphragm has been compressed by the edge of your own tactical vest.
“Three minutes and fifteen seconds.” John says, writing the time down on his sheet.
“Not bad, LT.” Johnny says, punching Simon’s shoulder.
“Let’s see if you can do better.” Simon says, punching his shoulder back, only harder.
Johnny winces, rubbing his shoulder as Simon steps away.
“Gimme minute.” You gasp out, leaning against a crate so you can catch your breath. “These vests are not comfortable.”
“Be worse if it was full gear.” Johnny says.
You make a face. “Don’t you guys carry like 100 pounds of gear or something?”
“41 kilos at the most, usually.” Kyle shrugs.
You blink at him, trying to do the math in your head. You’ve gotten used to trying to convert, though you utilize your phone for it more than anything. Of course you don’t have that right now. It’s tucked away in John’s pocket.
“Roughly 90 pounds in freedom units.” Johnny says.
“Ah.” You nod, choosing to ignore his comment for now. “That’s still a lot. I couldn’t carry that.”
“Luckily you don’t have to.” John says, stepping up to you. “Come on, one more.” He motions with his head.
You sigh, pushing yourself up to stand. At least in this exercise you don’t have to do anything but sit there. You adjust your vest as you follow him into the makeshift house, heading into the room with the chair for the third time. You were playing hostage again, this time in a timed test. Get in, take out the fake targets and then rescue the hostage. They’re firing blanks, but they don’t know what room you’re in so there’s a slight chance you could take a shot still, if they get a bit trigger happy under pressure.
You plop down in the chair again, holding your hands behind your back. John holds your wrists in one hand, the other securing the zip tie around them. It sends a shiver up your spine, the thoughts of what he could do with a set of ropes flashing through your mind.
“Alright?” He asks, slipping a finger between your wrists and the zip tie. You could slip out of them easily if you had to.
“Yeah.” You breathe, leaning your cheek against his hand as he puts it on your shoulder.
“One more, then we can get lunch.” He squeezes your shoulder gently.
“Mhm.” You hum before sitting up straight in the chair.
He leaves you there, closing the door and you wait patiently for the beep of the timer. Your feet tap expectantly as you listen to the door fly open, the crack of blanks being fired. The first round with Kyle had been nerve wracking, your muscles tensing with every loud noise. The three minutes and ten seconds had felt like a lifetime as you waited for the door to fly open and him to rescue you.
By the second round you knew what to expect, and had even managed to drift off into your thoughts. Of course it had been during Simon’s turn. It was like your brain just automatically drifted off as soon as it realized he was coming. A pavlovian response to his presence.
The time passing feels like an age as you wait, and you wonder how long it’s really taking Johnny. You had tried counting seconds but had lost count after about a minute. Simon and Johnny were in constant battle for second place, bumping each other up and down the list. Kyle remained in first place in almost all the training you’ve seen or heard about, fast and efficient and forever taunting the competitive Johnny.
You flinch when the door flies open, Johnny quickly lowering his rifle. “Hi kitten.” He grins as he pulls out his knife, popping the plastic zip tie off your wrists. “Yer hero is here tae save the day.”
He lifts you over his shoulder before racing out of the crudely built house, your vest digging into your stomach again. It’s making you almost nauseous, the bounce from Johnny running not helping any.
He sets you on your feet after he crosses the line and you nearly fall backwards from the sudden rush of blood to your head.
“Three minutes and twelve seconds.” John says, writing the time down.
“Ha! I did it again!” Johnny says, throwing his hands in the air.
“Not bad, Sergeant.” Simon says.
“Not the fastest, though.” Kyle smirks, Johnny just two seconds below his time.
“I’ll get there.” Johnny says, puffing his chest. “Ye just wait.”
You tug at the velcro restraints on the vest, managing to get one side undone before pulling it off of you. You let it drop to the floor, breathing out a sigh of relief as you cup your breasts. “My poor tits. They were being compressed.”
Johnny grins, completely switching mindsets from the previous conversation in the blink of an eye. “Ye need me tae massage them back to life?” He asks, reaching out towards you.
Simon slaps his hands away, pushing him back. “Not in public you won’t.”
Johnny pouts, but you give him a grin. “Later.” You wink at him before cantering after John.
You slip your hand into his, leaning against his side as you and your pack leave the warehouse to head to lunch. You’re hungry after such an exciting morning, the ache in your stomach easing after removing the vest. You don’t know how they wear them all the time, but then again they’re men and don’t have boobs to worry about. Well, except for maybe Simon and his massive pecs. He has to get sore after a while.
John pulls away from you as you near the mess, giving you a soft pat on the ass. “Go on. I’ll join you shortly.”
You grin at him before latching on to Kyle, wrapping your fingers around his hand as he leads you into the mess. It’s busy as usual during prime meal time, alive and bustling with soldiers and conversations. You stick close to Kyle, Simon and Johnny walking behind the two of you like threatening shadows, the passing soldiers giving you the usual wide berth.
Simon yanks the tray out of your hands before you can set it on the tray slide, putting it down next to his before he begins putting food on it for you. You beam up at him, giving him a giddy smile. “Don’t.” He warns, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll make you eat mushy peas again.”
You make a disgusted face, but you still can’t hide your happiness as Simon makes your tray for you, carrying it over to the table. You plop down next to him, sitting as close as you can. He stares down at you for a long moment before sighing, resting his arm on the table and pushing you to the side just slightly to give himself more room.
The smile doesn’t leave your face as you eat, Simon having put all your favorites on the tray. Your scent is sweet in the air, filled with contentment and happiness. Your feet even tap under the table, making up some random rhythm. Even being surrounded by unknown alphas and betas, you feel comfortable and safe with your pack around you.
“Someone got bit by the happy bug.” Johnny says, glancing at you as John joins you at the table.
“I am happy.” You shrug. “We’re all together and everyone is fine and content. Makes my omega happy.”
John smiles at you across the table. “I’m glad you feel that way, sweetheart.”
“Aye, just a crouse wee omega.” Johnny says, patting your head.
You turn to him blinking. “I don’t know what that means.”
“I think it’s a compliment.” Kyle says.
“Aye.” Johnny says, pulling you close to kiss the side of your head. “Wouldnae be mean to ye. These dunderheid’s though...”
Simon reaches over you, smacking the back of Johnny’s head. “We know what that means, you wanker.”
You can’t help but giggle, even as your table gets some looks for the sudden rambunctious energy.
3 Weeks After
Another week passes, same as it always does.
Your routine stays steady, waking up early some mornings for training or running, breakfast, then stretching for a bit while the guys go to their own training, or your weekly visits to Dr. Keller. Then lunch, then your free time until dinner, then the guys free time before bed. Your life is back to a predictable cycle, and where some might consider it boring, it’s far from it.
Mostly because you have free time to look forward to.
Tonight you’re spending it in the living room with Kyle, both of you scrolling on your phones. The TV is on, playing some game show that neither of you are paying attention to. You’re far too busy on your phone, scrolling through websites. You’ve started to run low on panties again, and you’d rather not subject the poor, innocent shoppers of the lingerie store to another scent overload if Simon went with you. Not after the developments between the two of you.
You might not be able to stop him from getting a bit...handsy.
So instead you’re looking online, finding far more options than in the store, and so many possibilities. You’re having trouble making up your mind.
“Kyle?” You pat his arm lightly, trying to decide between colors. You want his input, and you’d prefer not to get Johnny involved. You’ll wind up forgetting all about your attempts to fill your dwindling underwear drawer. “Kyle?” You pat his arm a little harder.
“Hm?” He hums, still looking at his phone.
“Kyle?” You shake him, but he’s locked in on whatever he’s looking at. An idea comes to mind, something that might get his attention. You sigh, turning to face him. “Daddy?”
He hums again, turning to glance at you for a second before his head whips around, turning to stare at you wide eyed. “Huh?”
“I need your help choosing a color.” You say, scooting closer to him, pretending like you didn’t just call him ‘daddy.’
“What did you just call me?” He’s bewildered, not even looking at your phone as you hold it out to him.
“I need your help.” You say, pointing at your phone.
“No, first we’re gonna cover this.” He says, pulling your phone out of your hand. “Did you just call me ‘daddy?’” He asks in disbelief, a grin pulling at the sides of his lips.
“Yeah.” You deadpan, staring up at him. “I needed your attention.”
“So you chose ‘daddy?’” He laughs.
“Well, it worked didn’t it?” You shrug.
“You fucking-” He breathes as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you onto his lap. “What are we going to do with you?”
You shrug, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I dunno, thought you’d keep me around since I’m kinda funny and nice to look at.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I love you.”
You grin, shifting closer to him. “You do?”
“Mhm.” He nods, wrapping his arms around you. “Hard not to.”
You smile down at him, getting lost in those big brown eyes for a moment. They’re so soft and tender as they look at you, and you can almost feel the affection radiating off of him. “I love you too.” You say, leaning down to kiss him.
He meets your lips eagerly, kissing you deeply. It conveys his love and the deep feelings he has for you, his arms tightening to pull you tight against his chest.
He presses one last kiss to your lips before pulling away, smiling softly up at you. You want to kiss him again with that look on his face. You’ve never doubted that any of them love you, well, except maybe Simon but he’s a special case. He at least likes you now.
“What was it you wanted to ask me?” He says, pulling you from your thoughts.
“Huh?” You blink at him, coming out of your stupor. “Oh!” You grab your phone from where he’d set it on the couch, pulling up the webpage again. “Which color?”
You hold it up to his face, flicking between the two shades of blue you can’t decide on. He stares at the screen for a moment, his hands trailing down your back.
“I think I quite prefer no panties.” He says, slipping his hands under your sweatpants.
“Kyle, pay attention. This is important.” You say, continuing to flip between the two colors.
He hums, his hands cupping your ass. “Get them both. John is gonna rip them both off you anyway.” He says, leaning forward to nip at your bottom lip.
You hum, pushing your ass back into his hands as you sit back. “You’re right. Between him and Simon, my stash is getting smaller faster than it had been before. Would help if Johnny quit stealing them too.”
Kyle pulls your phone from your hand, dropping it onto the couch again. His eyes are dark, his scent thicker in the air. A shiver runs down your spine at the musky edge to it, his hands pulling you close against his chest again. You can feel the bulge under his pants as your arms wrap around his neck again.
“Worry about that later.” He murmurs, pressing his face into your neck. His lips brush the delicate skin, drawing a quiet sound from your lips. “Right now, I need to show you just how much I love you.”
He presses a kiss to your pulse before he shifts on the couch, using his grip on you to lift you before moving you onto your back. He hovers over you for a moment before moving back to kneel between your legs. His fingers slip under your shirt, trailing the skin above your sweatpants.
“Oh.” You say, knowing exactly where this is going.
He smirks. “Hope you don’t have plans tonight.” His fingers slip under your waistband, starting to tug your pants down. “We’re gonna be here for a while.”
You're rudely woken after falling asleep quite contently. The arms around you are moving, the chest against your back shifting. It's far too early in the morning, you can tell just by how crusty your eyes feel. The movement behind you stops, and you crack your eyes open in curiosity.
There's a phone in front of you, screen facing towards you with the camera open. You quickly close your eyes, pretending to be asleep and the quiet click of the camera sounds a couple times. You open your eyes again as the arm under you flexes, the quiet click of the keyboard making you curious.
Kyle has the group chat open, the one you're not a part of. You've been curious about it since Johnny mentioned it, the need to see what's in it eating you alive. You had tried John's phone but he keeps it locked like they all do. You really should start paying better attention so you can learn their passwords and lock patterns. Would have come in handy in this situation.
He's posting the picture of you sleeping, and you wait until he's hit send before you strike. You fling the blankets back, grabbing the phone from his hands as you escape his grip. You have his surprise on your side as you just escape his hands grabbing you as you race for the door. You fling it open, running down the hall towards the rec room, victorious giggles leaving your lips. Kyle is on your heels, but your bare feet give you traction as you fake left before heading straight into the laundry room. You manage to get in the door and get it locked seconds before he slams against it.
You grin victoriously as you push yourself up to sit on a washing machine, finally feeding your curiosity. You ignore the sounds at the door as you scroll through the photos of you, most of them of you sleeping in various positions with many heart eyes from Johnny following. There's texts about you and your training, how impressed they are with your progress, complaints about their dicks hurting and a photo of Johnny's asking if it looks normal or not.
A photo of Johnny's drawing of you giving him head is next, then a photo of you, tits out and mouth open, your face a picture of bliss sent by Simon. When he had even taken that, you're not sure. There's texts from Kyle giving out advice on eating you out, a few texts from John about positions, as well as a few boring texts talking about your favorite foods, or at least what you pick most often, as well as a short debate about the never ending tea vs coffee argument.
You've just gotten to the interesting texts about your earlier days with the pack when the door handle falls to the floor with a clang. The door flies open as Kyle shoulders his way through, reaching you in two strides and pulling his phone from your hands.
“Hey!” You complain, but you don't get much of a chance to continue before Kyle is tossing you over his shoulder, leaving the laundry room.
“This little sneak was scrolling through the group chat.” Kyle says, setting you on your feet in the concourse. John, Johnny, and Simon are waiting there and you wind up in the middle of the circle.
“I was just curious. It's only fair considering it's about me.” You pout.
“How'd you find out about it?” Simon asks, crossing his arms. You turn to look at Johnny, their gazes following. “Fucking hell.” Simon breathes.
“What?” Johnny asks, a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. “She was gonnae find out eventually.”
“Yeah.” You cross your arms pouting more. “Taking pictures of me in my sleep.” You murmur.
“Can't help it, love.” Kyle says. “Not when you're just so cute.”
You grumble under your breath before looking up at Simon. “How did you get that picture of me cumming?”
He snorts quietly. “You're not very aware when you're orgasming, love.”
Your mouth opens and closes a few times as they all step closer, closing in around you. You gulp, looking between Simon and Johnny who are in front of you.
“We all appreciated that one.” John says, his voice raspier than normal.
“Bout had a circle jerk to it.” Kyle says.
You gulp again, the mental image of kneeling in the middle of them, cocks out as they cum all over you sending a thrilled shiver down your spine. Your scent thickens in the air, your eyes meeting Simon's as they press in even closer around you. You can almost feel John and Kyle pressed up against your back, their scents mixing into an alluring cocktail around you.
“Maybe soon we won't need that group chat.” John says, dragging a knuckle down your spine.
A shiver wracks through you, your nipples hardening and poking through the baggy shirt. Johnny curses, the toothbrush falling from his mouth as he stares right at your tits.
“Would you like that, baby girl?” Kyle asks, leaning down towards you. “Think you can take all four of us?”
Your mouth waters as the many images you've conjured up of the five of you together flash through your mind.
You let out a quiet sound as John's hand smacks against your ass, pushing you forward towards Simon and Johnny. “You haven't answered the question.”
“Yeah.” You breathe, eyes locked on Simon's hand as it lifts.
He grips your chin, lifting your face up so you're looking him in the eyes. “Want to try that again, omega?” The low rumble of his voice and your status coming from him has another shiver trailing down your spine, heading straight between your legs.
Your scent thickens in the air, your breathing picking up as you swallow thickly. “Yes, sir.”
A pleased growl rumbles in Simon's chest, Johnny groaning in response. “Good omega.”
You nearly fall to your knees right there, ready to take all four of their dicks at once, but you manage to keep your legs under you as Simon releases your chin. You're ready for it, that moment that the bonds open completely between the five of you and you allow yourselves that vulnerability with each other. Your pussy has been clenching in anticipation of seeing Simon and Kyle together. The image of Johnny's head between John's thighs had been plaguing you for weeks now. Even the image of John and Simon, hands on each other's cocks, has your head spinning.
Warmth presses against your back, hot breath fanning against your ear as you tremble in anticipation. John's tongue darts out, licking the shell of your ear before he nearly purrs his promise.
“Soon.”
4 Weeks After
It’s a Friday evening.
They’re always rough, the transition between the schedule of the weekdays and the unknown of the weekend always has your head spinning a bit. You feel a bit uneasy as you stand in the doorway to your room, staring into the darkness lit only by your nightlight on your desk. It casts a shadow over your bed, and for a moment you feel as if something is standing there, hidden in the shadows as it stares at you. You’re afraid to turn the light on, afraid to reveal what might be lingering in the darkness.
You quietly close your door before hurrying down the hallway, nearly knocking your shoulder against the corner as you turn. You take a moment once you’re in front of the door before knocking quietly. You try to steady the rapid beat of your heart as you wait, your fingers trembling around the handle as you get the call to enter.
The door clicks shut behind you, John’s eyes on you as you turn around.
“Everything alright?” He asks, his brows furrowing slightly.
You nod, stepping up to his desk. “Yeah, just...feeling a bit on edge.” You swallow your nerves, trying to calm yourself. “Can I...can I kneel for you?”
“Of course.” He says, pushing his rolling chair to the side to give you room.
It’s been a while since you knelt for him. Not since the week after your heat ended. Your knees had hurt, but you’d quickly forgotten after he eased you into that blissful state where your mind becomes unaware and your worries begin to float away.
You need that right now.
You kneel down on the floor beside him, sitting back on your feet. Your breath shakes as he runs a hand over your head, moving your hair out of the way. Your hands curl into the fabric of your shirt as you relax, trying to calm the stress from just a few moments ago. Soon it will be over. Soon it will be behind you as your alpha helps you calm those thoughts. You wait for it, the warmth of his hand around the back of your neck, for the gentle press of his fingers against those pressure points in your neck.
You’ve been working with Dr. Keller on your instincts, on how to get better control over them. She hasn’t graduated you to those pressure points yet, the most sensitive in your entire body. The ones that draw the thin line between kneeling and scruffing. You’re glad she hasn’t pushed that far yet. You’re not quite sure you could handle it.
A quiet breath leaves your lips as you relax your shoulders, eyes fluttering closed as he begins to apply the gentle pressure, your mind quieting into a hum. You begin to float away, all awareness of the office you’re enclosed in drifting into the distance. All there is, is you and your alpha and the gentle pressure of his fingers guiding your brain into peace and quiet. All the worry, all the stress, all the fear you had been feeling even as recently as a few minutes ago, begin to ease away into nothing. The worry and grief you’ve been feeling around your mother begins to quiet, drifting away for the moment. It’s relieving, your mind calming into a quiet buzz, finally easing away all the swirling emotions from the last few weeks.
Time seems to still, sounds muffling as you kneel there, being supported by your alpha. He’s always there, always ready to give you what you need. You trust him, even in your most vulnerable moments. He’ll always be there to support you, to catch you when you fall. He’ll never leave you, never betray you.
6 Weeks After
Things feel strange when you wake. It’s later than you usually nap, the sun not quite as bright as it usually is in your window. It’s quiet in the barracks, the usual sound of boots on the tile floor absent, the shuffling of bodies as they return from training. Even the fullness in the air, the energy of their presence is missing. The barracks feel empty.
They’re still gone.
You lift your phone, blinking away the sleep as you stare at the bright screen. It’s just past 11:30 in the morning, and there’s a text from John.
‘Training late. One of us will take you to lunch.’
You let out a quiet groan, setting your phone back on the nightstand. You roll over, tugging a bear against your chest. You trace your fingers along the bear’s back, running your fingers absentmindedly over the soft fur. You’re groggy with sleep, not meaning to sleep so early. You’ve been taking afternoon naps lately to make up for your early mornings. It’s not that unusual for you to nap, but you’ve been tired more than normal lately.
Ever since your heat, there’s been a nagging at the back of your brain, some kind of warning going off, yet you can’t quite figure out what it is. The feeling of being watched is back, but you searched every inch of your room and there were no more cameras. There wouldn’t have been a time where someone could have entered the barracks unseen. Someone would have seen. Someone would have noticed and alerted John, right?
Unless they’re all in on it.
You’re yanked out of your paranoid thoughts as your fingers brush a raised part of the seam on the bear’s back. You’ve never noticed it before, the small bump almost like there’s a hole starting. You’ll have to ask Johnny if he can patch it later.
You pull the bear away from your chest, staring at it for a moment. You look into its eyes, into the blank, plastic black holes that stare right back at you. Something tickles down your spine, your hackles raising. Danger! Your mind screams, your fingers starting to shake the longer you stare into those eyes.
Maybe you are starting to go crazy.
You set the bear down on the bed, facing towards your room as you get up, stretching your arms over your head. You pull the baggy shirt you’d changed into over your head, pulling on the bra you’d ditched earlier and the clothes you’d taken off in favor of something more comfortable to nap in.
You rub the sleep from your eyes as you head for the bathroom, letting out a quiet curse as you hit your knee against the open cupboard door. You kick it closed before standing at the sink, splashing cold water on your face to wake yourself up. You let out a sigh, dragging your fingers through your hair before walking back out to your room, sitting down on the edge of your bed. The bear falls forward but you don’t bother picking it up, grabbing your phone as you wait for whoever it is that’s going to pick you up.
That familiar tickling in the back of your brain picks up again, your eyes darting around the room. There’s nothing. You’ve checked before. You’ve checked several times when you were alone, tearing apart your room and putting it back together. You’ve learned Simon’s organization system, memorized it to put almost everything back almost exactly as he had it. You always leave at least one thing out of place, just to make it seem less perfect.
Perfection from you would raise suspicions.
How strange it is that at one time you yearned for perfection, drove yourself to tears of shame trying to be the perfect omega. There’s no such thing as a perfect omega, because perfect people don’t exist. You may look perfect on paper, but in reality you’re far from it. Your pack doesn't care. They never cared. John never cared about your scores, the many essays you poured hours into at the institute. He never cared about what the CIA had to say, their own remarks on your aptitude, your ability to learn and adapt, your drive for success that was almost a fatal flaw.
He always cared about you. They all only cared about you and what makes you a person, an individual. Not just an omega, but an actual living, breathing human being.
The thought brings tears to your eyes. How many hours you stressed and the things you hid to try and come across as perfect when they were never interested in perfection. Would they have cared, had you been allowed in the military? Would they have cared about perfection if you weren’t just a part of the pack, but also a part of the team?
You’re not, though. You’re an omega, you’re their omega. You don’t know things because they have to keep you safe.
If only you had been honest with them.
It’s been almost four months since you discovered the cameras, since they left and you made the stupid decision to break the rules, to go against everything they drilled into your head. Don’t talk to any strangers. Don’t leave the barracks alone. Tell us, or Dr. Keller if anything happens.
You failed all three of those in a matter of hours. You’ve continued to fail one of them.
They can’t ever know. It’s going to be a secret you take to your grave.
They have their secrets, so why can’t you have yours?
The uneasy feeling continues to grow, a shiver running down your spine as you sit there. You can’t take it anymore. You have to get out. You grab your phone, slipping on a pair of shoes before slipping out your door, pulling it closed.
You let out a shriek as you turn, a looming figure standing right in front of you.
“Simon!” You shout, putting a hand on your chest, your heart beating rapidly under your palm. You take deep breaths, trying to calm your panic. “Scared the shit out of me.”
“Jumpy today.” He rumbles, staring at you as you try to stop yourself from having a heart attack.
“Not my fault you’re like a ghost.” You stand up, driving your fist into his chest. It hits his pec, and you’re sure it hurts you more than it does him. “You can’t just go sneaking up on people like that! Fuck.” You take a deep breath, leaning against the wall for a moment.
“I think you’ll live.” He says, stepping up closer to you. You tilt your head up, staring at his face. He’s wearing his eye black today, meaning they were doing training training. It makes something stir in your stomach, the sight of him in his gear, eye black on to hide his face further. How he looks in the field. Even now with his gear removed, you still feel warmth in your stomach. It’s exciting, the difference between Simon and Ghost. Though he has tried to keep you under the tender touch of Simon, you wouldn’t mind if Ghost began to show himself occasionally. You’d let him bend you over a crate in the warehouse, fuck you in full gear where anyone could walk in and see. The mental image of him, covered in blood, smearing it on your skin as he takes that post-fight adrenaline out on you...
You try to calm the rush of arousal straight between your legs.
“I don’t know.” You pout. “Think I might need a kiss to make it better.”
He stares at you for a moment before shifting so he’s hovering over you, pressing his hand against the wall above your head. He continues to stare down at you, his eyes boring into yours. “Well?” He asks, his voice low. “Are you going to get your kiss?”
Your breath catches in your throat as you stare up at him. You hesitate, unsure if you’re supposed to cross this boundary, if he’s really opening this door. He’s always been the one to move the mask, to lift it before leaning down. Instead this time he’s allowing you to do it, to lift the mask, to reach up to him.
He doesn’t move as you lift your hands, your fingers trembling as they close around the edge of his mask. You slowly lift it up, rolling it up over the tip of his nose. You stop there, unsure if you should continue. If he wanted you to take it off completely, he would have made that clear. You doubt he’d do it here, in the hallway. It feels like far too intimate of a moment to be done in the hallway.
Your fingers trace his lips, sliding down to brush over the scar on his chin, his stubble tickling your fingers. You drop your hands to his shoulders, using them as leverage to lift up on your toes. You wrap your arms around his neck and he lets you pull him down slightly so you can press your lips to his.
He kisses you deeply, pushing you back up against the wall, crowding into your space. You don’t mind it, his presence comforting, encompassing. It wraps you in a cloak of safety and security. Nothing can hurt you while you’re close to him.
You know that, so why can’t he ease the prickling fear lingering in the back of your mind? Something is off, something not even Simon can protect you from.
That thought makes your stomach clench, and not in a good way.
Simon’s other hand falls to your hip, fingers digging into your skin as he kisses you like he’s trying to devour you, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You moan quietly, pressing your tongue against his. His muscles are tense and you can tell he’s fighting the urge to lift you up, carry you to his room and fuck your brains out. He has a mission though, he’s been sent here for a reason.
“One of us will take you to lunch.”
He pulls away from your lips, pressing one last soft peck to them before stepping away. You’re panting softly for a different reason now, your heart thudding in your chest from the raw energy that Simon exudes. It makes your omega stir in the back of your mind, prickling down your spine. It mixes with the paranoia, the tickling of danger creating an almost toxic cocktail of sensations. It puts you on edge, your body seeking out Simon’s, and you’re not sure if you want him to hold you or fuck you.
He tugs his mask back down, lowering his head to stare at you. “C’mon. Let’s get food in you before you get grumpy.”
“I don’t get grumpy.” You pout, pushing yourself off the wall.
He gives you a look of disbelief.
“Okay, fine, I get a little grumpy.” You say, following him out of the barracks.
You walk with him, slipping your arm around his. The uncomfortable prickling sensation doesn’t ease up any as you walk towards the mess, your fingers wrapping around the sleeve of his sweatshirt. It’s a path you’ve followed many times, so often you’re surprised there’s no footprints worn into the asphalt and gravel.
You let go of his arm as you enter the mess. It’s prime meal time again, meaning it’s full of soldiers getting their second meal of the day. The back of your mind is tickling again, your metaphorical hackles raising. Your eyes dart around the tables as you pause, your feet gluing themselves to the floor, rendering you unable to move. That feeling is back, the feeling like someone is watching you, someone who shouldn’t be.
They’re all staring at you. They all shouldn’t. Nothing can stop that. You’re in a public place. They’re going to stare, they’re going to assess. That’s what they’re trained to do.
It could be any of them.
The thought makes you sick. Any of them could have put the cameras in your room. Any of them could have violated your space, set up invisible eyes to watch and record you and everything you do, everything you say. They could have watched you with the others, watched your heat. They would have seen you in your most vulnerable moments, the amount of times you’ve changed in your room, come out of the shower in nothing but a towel.
The blood is pulsing in your ears, the sounds simultaneously too loud and too quiet. You stand there, frozen, your chest rising and falling quickly as you begin to hyperventilate. They’re staring at you, curiously and cautiously. You know you’re projecting, your body trying to keep you safe from whatever threat is causing this reaction, even if it’s just in your mind.
You let out a yelp as hands grab you, more of them turning to look at you. Your head snaps to the side, the hand that had curled into a fist instinctively relaxing as you recognize Simon staring down at you. He doesn’t have to say anything as he pushes you towards the door, your feet freeing themselves from the glue that held them down automatically, moving before you even realize it.
You gulp down breaths of fresh air as you step outside, your feet stumbling in the gravel. Your hands are going numb, twisting into fists as adrenaline pumps through you. Simon keeps you steady, moving you away from the door. He takes you around the side of the mess to where there’s tables set up, the place you’ve seen most often used as a smoking area. Thankfully it’s empty right now, Simon pushing you to sit on the bench. He sits on the bench on the other side of the table, leaning on his arms as he stares at you.
Your breathing is starting to relax now that you’re no longer confined in that space, surrounded by soldiers and alphas, ones that might hurt you. Simon doesn’t say anything for a while, eyes analyzing and observing as you work to calm yourself. Your hands slowly relax, uncurling as you take deep breaths, calming the adrenaline. Your eyes are burning, tears of embarrassment and fear stinging your waterline.
“You want to tell me what happened in there?” Simon finally asks, leaning slightly closer to you.
You know he doesn’t mean to, but his tone sounds almost accusing, prying and interrogating you for some logical explanation as to why you just had a panic attack in the mess. He could probably sense the nervous energy coming off of you in waves since he first stepped into the barracks, something not even a kiss from him could push away. You desperately want to sink into him, to hold him until you’ve become one, safe and secure where no one can hurt you.
Where no one would dare watch you.
You let out a shaky breath, your fingers twisting together nervously on the table. “I-I don’t know. It’s just...it’s all so much and it feels like everything is wrong.” The words come spilling out before you can stop them, bearing your inner thoughts to the alpha in front of you. “I-I’m going insane. Between the fear and the paranoia and the worry, I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t feel safe anymore, and ever since I found the cameras I feel like I’ve been silently spiraling out of control-”
The words cut off as you realize what you just said. It had slipped out before you could even stop it. Maybe it was the yearning for some kind of relief, for the weight of your secret to finally be removed from your shoulders. Maybe it was the safety you felt around Simon urging you to confess, urging you to seek out that safety once more.
Or maybe everything has become too much, and you’re at the risk of spiraling to a place you can’t come back from, and your omega is desperately pushing everything out in an attempt to save you. The paranoia of earlier in your room, the creeping feeling that you missed something, that someone is watching you, the thought that it could be anyone in the mess right now, anyone on base. It makes you sick thinking about it, and perhaps this was a last ditch effort to avoid it scaring you permanently.
Simon’s back straightens as he stares at you, and for a moment you hope he didn’t hear it, that he might shrug it off as something he misheard. You’re gaslighting yourself, attempting to ease the panic that’s rising in you again. You know he heard it. He’s far too attentive, far too aware to miss something like that. There’s no going back now, there’s no playing it off. You can’t lie again. You’re not even trying to make up a story, an excuse as you wait for his response, for the inevitable question.
His eyes are piercing into you, all the softness he had been looking at you with before gone. His voice is low, dangerous, not offering up a chance to lie your way out of this again, but telling you, you can’t lie. He knows. You’ve spilled it and there’s no going back now.
“You want to repeat that?”
Fuck.
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This is NOT OKAY this cliff hanger will KILL me and I am DECEASED
Fault lines ||FosterDad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley|| Part 5
Warnings: This is a fairly accurate representation of a Child Planning Meeting used to assess need and put supports in place for children who are struggling at home and/or at school. Swearing. Trauma responses. Mentions of violence and mental, emotional and physical abuse. Discussion of child services. Mentions of mental health and learning disability diagnoses.
Words: 4836
Summary: As John tries to put support in place to get Simon into school (and back to some sort of normalcy), the push back he gets shows just how much Simon is bottling up.
<-Part 4: Paint Over The Cracks
John hasn’t been in a place like this for decades, but the place smells familiar. The varnish on old wood and the faded, aged paint chipping off the wall in places throws him back to a time that he knows he lived through but feels separate from. John Price knows he went to secondary school, but the Jonathon Price who excelled at being mediocre in his classes feels very far away from the grizzled SAS Captain whose best asset was always his mind first, his weapon second. There’s this hum of noise that occupies the building, rumbles through the walls, a vault of stories waiting to be told and lives waiting to be lead that’s bursting at the seams. John remembered that feeling well; the feel of being confined by four walls and a test grade was etched into his marrow, fed that itch that had spurred him into the military when his parents had pushed for a University application.
It was the feel of a prison cell.
“Mr Price?” The receptionist is middle-aged, smiles kindly, is overly polite, but her eyes scream at him to fuck off and let her work in peace. The documentation required to transfer Simon to this school had been a pain to collate and fill out, but John had painstakingly triple-checked every detail before handing it over to her for processing today. Simon’s about as settled as he’s going to get right now and the school’s have taken a while to get back to him about his application for a place, so Price considers himself lucky that he’s only had to wait a little over a month to enrol Simon. Old instincts flare when a sudden flood of people enter the corridor with him. Pupils spill from classrooms as he’s lead along a corridor and up some stairs, the loud chatter and laughter of raucous teenagers gossiping and laughing and loving and hating keeping his head on a swivel. It’d be easy to disappear in a crowd like this.
I can’t let Simon slip through the cracks.
“Oi Robocop! Gi’us your hat yeah?”
“Andrews! That’s not how we talk to visitors. Grow some hair and you won’t need someone else’s hat.”
“Ooohhh!”
“Mr McKay that’s well savage.”
Price shakes his head, ignores the little snotter and follows the receptionist into a meeting room. A tall, lean man with tired eyes and a cornflower blue tie stands to greet him and shake his hand. He’s got a laptop open in front of him and the lady across from him has an Ipad open in her lap. She’s blonde, bobbed hair and cappuccino eyes set in a young face that he thinks Simon’s demons will eat alive if given half a chance. The only other person with them is an older gentleman with laughter lines deeper than a canyon and the kind of gentle smile Price has learned to distrust over the years. He’s too cynical to believe everyone’s good at heart anymore. He tries to be more open-minded.
“Afternoon Mr Price, it’s good to meet you face to face. I’m Owen Croft, we spoke on the phone.” Price is glad when the head teacher finally stops shaking his hand – the clamminess was starting to irk him. He gives a polite nod to the two other members of staff in the room before taking his seat, pulling off the beanie and ruffling his hair a bit to let it settle. He’s been in a Child Planning Meeting before but, well, the last few kids he’s fostered haven’t had quite as large a history as Simon does. He pulls his own notepad and papers from his backpack and watches the way the older man’s eyes flick to it briefly. He can almost sense the relief in them, like the fact that their sitting there with someone who has actually has a clue is a rarity. Price gets a sneaking suspicion it is.
“Right, we’re going to start off by introducing ourselves and then we can talk through a plan to help integrate Simon into the Littlewood Academy family.” Owen Croft is far too cheery for the subject matter he thinks. “I’m Owen Croft, and I’m the Headteacher here at Littlewood Academy.” He turns his eyes next to the blonde woman who gives another one of those friendly smiles that his cynicism hates. He tamps down the irritation and mentally prepares himself for whatever the next hour might bring. He’s hoping it brings the biscuits down from the shelf behind Owen Croft.
“I’m Michaela Morris, and I’ll be Simon’s form tutor this year.” Price gives a nod of acknowledgement.
“I’m Thomas Edwards and I’m Support for Learning at Littlewood.” The older man tips his head towards him and Price gives another nod, feeling his own gut tighten.
“John Price…Simon’s foster carer.” It feels strange to acknowledge it out loud. He’s known from the start of course, but he’s been so busy being in the thick of it with the kid that he’s never really took the time to acknowledge his role in Simon’s journey. Owen smiles encouragingly and Price resists the urge to roll his eyes at him. He’s no unruly teen that needs a guiding hand anymore. The years haven’t been kind, and he sits before them now an assertive and grizzled old man ready to fight on a different kind of battlefield, the bureaucratic kind. Just you try and stop me helping this kid, just try.
“Okay. What we’re trying to do in this meeting today is establish a plan for enrolling Simon to our school. Today’s meeting is going to be focused on creating an accurate profile of his needs so we can support him the best way possible. So, John, can we start with a bit of background about how Simon came into your care and what’s been going well for you at home so far?” Owen has his hands folded near the laptop, poised and ready to type but giving the impression he’s fully listening. Price weighs each word in his mind carefully. There’s a lot to tell since Laswell’s last visit and he’s not really sure where to start with it all. Maybe the phone call that brought Simon to him?
“Simon has a younger brother, Tom. He took on a caring role and it was his wish for the boys to remain together but…welfare concerns don’t permit it. Simon found their mother. He’s seen a lot in the last 24 hours.”
Owen takes diligent notes, as does Thomas, and Price finds the feeling addictive. It’s a lot, to hold someone else’s trauma, and it spills over one edge into the next like a champagne tower cascading from him to them. Perhaps it’s the not the phone call he needs to start with but everything leading up to it. Maybe he needs them to know Simon starved to feed his younger brother when poverty kept food on store shelves and not in their kitchen cupboards. Perhaps they need to know of the level of abuse his father subjected him to, from bringing dangerous animals into the house to making him witness overdoses in seedy bathrooms at concerts a young boy should never have been at. Maybe it’s the manipulation of his relationships with Tommy, a brother he loves so dearly doted on by their dad until Tommy became just like him and bullied him to.
No, no the separation of the siblings is another issue. Price’s head spins with it all. They only need to know the labels, not the specifics, he thinks.
“He er, he found his mother after she was murdered. Dad was taken into custody for it and the boys got placed into foster care. Simon came to me, his younger brother was placed with another carer. Investigation since has turned up evidence of a lot of mental, emotional, and physical abuse towards both boys, but mainly Simon.” His answer is polite, professional, but inside he’s straining under the weight of holding it all in. They don’t need to know everything, just the challenges and working supports, he reminds himself. Simon’s story is compelling to tell and he wants to shout it from the rooftops, condemn Thomas Riley for everything he ever did to his sons and make the entire damn country wake up and realise what’s happening to its kids behind closed doors. It’s not his role or place to do that though. His job is to advocate for Simon, not use him as some moral fable or example of a failing system to force change.
“He has a younger brother?” Michaela, is tapping at her Ipad to and the clacking of keyboards pounds like war drums in his head. Simon would hate having these strangers know all of this but it’s the only way to get him the support he needs. It still feels like a betrayal and it makes Price’s gut clench.
“He does.” He confirms.
“Is there a family plan in place? Visits?” Owen questions, eyes probing. Price slowly shakes his head, mind drifting back to Laswell’s recent visit and the meltdown it had caused. He thinks it would have probably been easier to tell the President World War 3 had been declared than it was to tell Simon that he wasn’t able to see Tommy again for a while. He’d not seen Simon as the emotional type before that night; the boy kept his emotions neatly tucked away, all compartmentalised with a daily rota of which emotion he could display and when. Laswell telling him he couldn’t see Tommy had a similar effect to tectonic plates slipping against one another, the grinding friction building and building until it exploded into an earthquake that shook his whole house. Well, the doorframe perhaps, after Simon slammed the door hard enough to crack the wood. Maybe the floorboards to from where he’d thrown the furniture about.
“No. Social services have decided it’s in the boys best interests to remain separated for now.” Price said.
“Of course they did,” Thomas shook his head, looking pitying, “It’s ludicrous how many siblings get split when there’s evidence that shows siblings have better outcomes when they’re kept together.” Price feels his face pinch and before he can stop himself he’s on the attack, a vicious guard dog coming to Simon’s defence. He’s only 8 minutes into the damn meeting. It’s a new record.
“Unless welfare concerns stipulate otherwise. Their relationship was completely pathologized. Tommy was favoured by their dad and became exactly like him. Simon took on caring responsibilities for Tommy and was so blinded by that side of their relationship that he couldn’t see his brother was abusing him just as much as their bloody dad. So no, it’s not in their best interest to keep them together. Simon needs a chance to be a kid, not a carer, and he’s done his time as a moving target.” There, that should set the record straight. Thomas is silent enough that Price thinks the point definitely hit home. It feels almost cathartic to have someone take the brunt of his anger, and he is angry, so angry, that Simon had to live through any of this bullshit.
“The night we picked them up Simon was trying to keep Tommy away from their father, but the kid wouldn’t leave him be, talking about how “the bitch had it coming” and mocking Simon about the fact he couldn’t cry to her anymore whenever he was mean to him.”
“Fucking Christ Laswell…what a little psychopath.”
Maybe not his most professional response but if the shoe fits…
“Okay so, things that have been going well at home?” Owen gently guided the conversation to something better and Price glanced to his notepad. His chicken scratch was barely legible and Simon had snorted when he’d seen it. The conversation had been…interesting. Simon didn’t give away much, but he’d told him a few things he liked about living with him. Price wasn’t sure if he really meant it or was just saying what he thought he wanted to hear but it made him feel better to think he was serious. For all of his personality traits it was Simon’s observational skills he somewhat admired most, born out of vicious necessity tragically but giving him the comfort to know that Simon was never going to be played by any old idiot.
“We’ve established a good routine. Dinner at the same time, lights out, calm time before it. I spoke to the doctor’s a few times to and Simon’s got melatonin to help him sleep, so he’s getting a full nights rest now. There’s been chronic bed wetting but we’ve found ways of managing it. Simon said he likes his yes basket for all his snacks to and playing with my dog, Riley.” Price glanced about as more tapping echoed in his ears. There were other small wins but he kept those to himself, little successes to cherish that didn’t need boasting about at this stage. They’d painted together just last week. Simon had willingly let him into his space, been open to spending time with him, and they’d talked a bit as they worked and got to know one another more. It was one of the first real conversation Price felt he’d managed to have with the boy. He’d left feeling better about his ability to cook anyway once Simon had declared his Bolognaise was the best he’d ever tasted. Sure, the kid was comparing it to a microwave meal but…well he’d take his wins where he could get them.
Challenges were of more interest to the staff members though. He could see them all perk up like hungry dogs salivating at a steak. Simon wasn’t a steak. He admired it, the thought that they could be the one to turn this kids life around – hell he’d once thought the same. The truth was…trauma had no timeline. Some kids would make no progress despite every support and the best will in the world for the next 20 years. Others might flip on a dime and heal quite a lot in 5. It wasn’t about any single one of them at that table but the team they were creating. Simon didn’t need a hero, he needed an army, and Price would be damned if he didn’t spearhead it. If Simon looked back in 20 years time and remembered him fondly then he’d have done his job right.
“Simon’s not big on talking but the few times he has his language gets…colourful. I imagine that’ll carry into the classroom. He prefers to be isolated in his room a lot, likes the quiet, so I think he’d benefit from having a breakout space.” Price pauses, wondering how to word the latest meltdown he’d had as Owen nods along and types like the cat that got the canary.
“A breakout space is something we can definitely provide. Thomas’s support for learning room is also used as a Quiet Hub for our young people who need time to regulate on their own.” Owen informed him.
“I run a lunch club there to so if Simon finds the playground tricky, he could come and eat with the small group I’ve got going.” Thomas piped up, smiling genially. Price almost scoffed at the hopeful look on his face, knowing full well that Simon wasn’t going to be his best bud just because he had a table and probably those bean bags that were never quite stuffed full enough to be comfortable. He could safely say with certainty right now that Simon was probably going to hate Thomas Edwards – the boy didn’t do bullshit smiles and probing questions into his emotional state.
“Is there anything else you can think of specifically that will need supported? Any diagnosis perhaps? I know you mentioned that there’s a PTSD diagnosis in the works but I’m thinking other things like autism, ADHD etc.” Owen questioned and Price paused a little. He tilted his head.
“There’s no official diagnosis for any of those things, no, but…I see some traits of ASD.” Price admitted.
“Like what?” Michaela asked.
“He thrives on a stable routine, he’s at his calmest when he knows what’s happening. Struggles to hold eye contact. Seems to have a thing with textures for food as well. Doesn’t like the lights on full blast. Of course those could all be byproducts of his trauma to. Difficult to tell.” Price shrugged. Michaela nodded, Thomas humming a bit. With a quiet sigh, Price added, “I’ve only seen it once but he…got physical, last week. His social worker visited with updates on his case and he had a total meltdown. Furniture tipped and lots of throwing stuff with a complete lack of regard for the safety of himself or us. Shoes at the lightbulbs kind of dangerous. He didn’t get physical with us but…I wouldn’t have put it past him to try, once he feels more comfortable with me. He got quite confrontational.”
Price hates the way that Owen types all this up. Paperwork is a necessary evil and he knows it, he’ll never get anywhere with helping Simon if they don’t have all their ducks in a row, but words on a page and actually getting to know the kid were two different things. It felt definitive, having it written down, that somehow he’d formed this image of Simon in their heads that they were going to perform to, whether that image was the same as the boy in front of them or not. Deep down, he didn’t want anyone to see him like that. He wanted them to know Simon as the kid who loved dogs and plants, as someone who had such a big fucking heart and showed great care for everything he was given because he knew the value of things better than most kids did. He wanted them to know the Simon that loved unconditionally, even when people didn’t necessarily deserve it.
“So one of the big things we’ll need to focus on for Simon then will be relationships. It’ll be the cornerstone of everything we do going forward. He needs to know he’s got consistent, reliable people he can turn to for comfort and for help when he needs it. As his form tutor and foster dad, John and Michaela are going to be an integral part of that.” Owen reasoned. Price tried not to role his eyes and simply nodded along. He’d done plenty of training before he was allowed to become a foster parent and knew the importance of being trauma-informed. He’d had the 6 principles of nurture practically seared into his brain. He was just waiting for one of them to say all behaviour is communication.
“Remember that there are times Simon may well struggle to cope, but when he’s dysregulated we need to look beyond that to what he’s really showing us. All behaviour is communication.” Ah. There it was. Check that off the bingo card.
“Perhaps we could also give him a buddy? A point of contact that isn’t an adult.” Thomas’s suggestion had Michaela nodding.
“Oh I know just the boy! We could pair him with MacTavish. Friendly, quite popular so can connect him to other friends. I’m sure they’d get on great.” Her suggestion was made with enthusiasm and Price had to fight the urge to disagree. Simon absolutely needed a buddy but…well…he had the attitude of the grim bloody reaper didn’t he? Did they have any kids who were willing to put up with silent, probing stares and an aura so cold it could freeze the first ring of hell? Maybe they should interview for applicants…
He leaves with a foreboding feeling and the promise of another meeting to “touch-base” in the next 6 months. As they walk down the stairs they’re met by the Deputy-Headteacher, who looks perturbed by the intense presence that is Simon beside her. He’s put his mask on again, eyes dead and hollow as they glare out at everything around him in the foyer, clearly not happy about having to be here or the tour she’d led him on.
“There they are. We had a lovely time touring the school-“
“No we didn’t.” Simon cut in. Price had to swallow a laugh at the startled look on the Deputy-Head’s face as Owen tried to make things better.
“That’s a shame. Not even one thing you look forward to doing more of when you join us?” he probed. Price had braced himself for the answer he knew was coming but it still took all his willpower not to grimace.
“Going home.” Simon’s scathing reply has Price sighing quietly. The staff members blink, unsure how to handle him and his bluntness. It was a stupid question really, Price thinks, Owen had set himself up for that one. He meets Simon’s eyes and sees he’s at his limit, fists balled up in the pocket of that green Hoodie that’s not been washed since he came in with it weeks ago. It’s got a lingering smell that’s just the wrong side of unpleasant but Simon refuses to wash it still despite another subtle talk about hygiene the other day. Price is going to have to be the bad guy soon and stop him from wearing it out in public lest anyone think he’s neglecting him.
“Well…we’re looking forward to welcoming you to the Littlewood family, Simon. We’ll see you for your first induction day next week.” Owen offers him a smile and gets nothing in reply. Simons as stoic as ever, unmoving, stone-faced. He might as well have tried smiling at a brick wall. Price nods a bit and grunts out a thank you as he passes, giving Simon the permission he needs to head for the front doors and get the hell out of dodge.
“I’m not going there.” He’s quick to refuse once they’re outside.
“Unfortunately, that’s not a choice. I can’t break the law by not sending you to school and this is the only one with space.” Price informs him as they reach the car.
“I’m not fucking going.” Simon repeats.
“Half a day. Your induction next Tuesday is over by lunch time.” He reassures him.
“I’m not, fucking, going, old man.” Simon grouses. Price has to take a deep breath, meets him with calm and collected cool.
“Simon, I’ve given you my answer. By law, you have to go to school. This one has space. It’s a choice that’s out of my hands now and won’t change.” He keeps his voice even and tunes out the venom in Simon’s voice as he continues to needle at him over and over. He hasn’t even put his seatbelt on yet and Price doubts he’s going to. There’s a slightly manic gleam in his glare that makes him think he’s been hovering at tipping point since Laswell’s last visit, and something as simple as visiting his new school is enough to push him over the edge.
“I said I’m not fucking going! It’s not my school and you’re not my dad! You’re pathetic!” Simon spits.
“Put your belt on, thank you.” Price ignores the insults.
“No!” Simon snarls practically, sitting with his arms folded in the front seat and spitting curses at him.
“And how does that choice help keep you safe?” Price questions.
“I’d rather go through the windshield than spend half a day in that shithole!” Simon snaps. Price knows he can do nothing but ride out this storm, let Simon spew fire and spit acid until he’s burned out. Simon’s beyond listening, beyond words, so Price just doesn’t talk, even when Simon tries to provoke him to. It’s a strange dance really. Simon’s confident enough in knowing Price’s response that he can shout and swear at him till he’s red in the face, but he keeps his arms rigidly folded, his body physically trembling with the effort of holding back physically, because he’s not quite sure where the line is. Price knows it’s what he’s pushing to find, that line in the sand that tips Price from calm to furious, to shouting at him and proving he’s just as bad as his father. Price won’t let him find it, won’t let that be his life anymore, so he stays silent. It’s the only response Simon gets for the 15 minutes that he stews in his fury. It’s like sitting too close to a lion, makes Price’s adrenaline spike and though he feels the spitting on his cheek from gnashing teeth he doesn’t flinch, knowing better than to give a predator the satisfaction. There’s a quiet click of his seatbelt being buckled up.
“Thank you. We need to get home to help Riley.” Price says coolly, aiming for distraction to deescalate the situation further. Simon doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t say anything either. By the time their home he’s amenable to taking Riley for a walk to the local park, the stubborn silence making it an uncomfortable walk for Price even though Riley’s having the time of his life prancing through the leaves autumn has dropped onto the floor. Dogs are clever little things and he’s sure that Riley can sense the tension, but he weaves through the gap between them and nudges at Simon’s hands all the same until the boy reluctantly pets him.
“I don’t want to go to school there.” Simon says as they walk.
“What makes you say that?” Price keeps the conversation light, open, not shutting him down even though he knows the answer will have to be tough, it’s where you’re going.
“I wanted the other one.” Simon keeps his eyes forward on the pavement at his feet. Price thought back to the other school they’d toured and hums slightly. The boy played his cards close to his chest and there was never any indication that he’d preferred that one more. Had he missed a twitch of a pinky finger or something? Even if he had they’d said the best they could do was put him on a waiting list only.
“What did it have that you liked better?” Price paused at the edge of the park, reaching down to unclip Riley’s leash and letting him go run off some energy. He doesn’t want to push him to far but it’s good Simon can acknowledge what had triggered him, even though Price knows it runs deeper than that. For Simon it feels like he didn’t get what he wanted, but subconsciously Price knows that moving to a new school, away from old friends who had previously supported him perhaps, where he has to return to a home that probably still doesn’t feel like his every day to a man who isn’t his family, has him feeling at a total loss. It’s a decision made for him, a change he can’t control with too many unpredictable factors, and predictability meant safety. Where things weren’t predictable, they weren’t safe, and that feeling meant Simon was constantly on edge, always on the verge of being tipped into a meltdown at the slightest provocation. He’d just hidden it well until his brain recognised Price was safe enough to show his inner turmoil to.
“Pool.” Simon’s reply was short, but it made Price smile slightly.
“The swimming pool, huh? If you’re interested in swimming, we can get you a membership for the local pool. Did you want to swim for fun or join a team?” Price is met with silence for a little while as Simon mulls it over.
“Just liked it, I guess.”
“Well, the offers open anyway,” Price assures him, “Littlewood may not have a pool, but it does have space for you there, and a form tutor who’s excited to meet you. Did all that shouting and swearing at me change the outcome?” Simon huffs a bit, clearly not happy at being called out for his behaviour, but there’s a slight glimmer of frustration in his eyes that Price can tell isn’t directed at himself. Simon keeps such tight control over his emotions that the outburst has probably upset him more than it did anyone else.
“No.” he grumbles under his breath.
“Exactly, no, it didn’t. Sometimes, as an adult, I will have to make decisions you don’t agree with but are in your best interests. You’re allowed to be angry with me for that, but what you’re not allowed to do is let that anger hurt other people. We find other ways to channel that kind of emotion, alright?” His lecture is met with an eye roll and hunched shoulders. Price doesn’t push further, knowing that’s as much of a restorative conversation as he can get today, so instead, he pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and offers it to Simon. “Want first throw?”
Simon channels his rage into getting Riley to fetch as far as he possibly can, and Price inhales the fresh air to try and remove the sour feeling that this is only the beginning of a very long road.
Am I entirely happy with it...no. Have I tried to make myself happy with it for a week? Yes. Will I put it out into the tumblrverse and let the gods judge it instead? Also yes.
I miss your foster dad fic, i check like everyday to either see if it updated or reread it!! It’s so good oml, i hope you can update it soon (if not that’s okay, i’m content with rereading it and imagining happy endings for them hehehe)
Oh anon....dear sweet anon...you mean this fic?
I meant what I said, I absolutely want to finish it, but taking care of myself had to be a priority. As I mentioned before I started writing this as a way to discuss my own experiences with doing my best to become trauma-informed for the little people in my care, but things at the end of the school year got very rough, in a very literal and physical sense. I needed time to process all of that before I could start to translate it and write about it impartially again. That said...
I'm in the process of editing the next part you just got a sneak peak of, and have a rough idea for at least two more parts after that. Anyone ready to see how Johnny fits into Simon's story? Oh and gentle reminder...I am very appreciative and grateful to all of you who have hung on waiting around for it. You're the best!
the fosterdad!price x foster!simon series you have has me in a chokehold. i seriously love your writing and how you explore trauma and how it influences people w/ simon!!! i love ur work sm and i can’t wait for the next chapter 💖
Oh...oh my heart. This was so nice to read, thank you so much!
I'm sorry I just sort of fell out the face of the earth without telling anyone. In real life I'm a primary school teacher supporting 2 children with early developmental trauma. One in particular has really struggled the past few months and that situation is what inspired me to write this as a coping mechanism to myself. That child's behaviours gotten increasingly worse/violent so I took a step back to focus on supoorting them and my own mental health.
I am absolutely planning to finish this series though! I am passionate about nurture and supporting kids like them. Simon had the perfect backstory for me to explore everything I've been learning in relation to being trauma informed in schools, and what I've been learning about fostering/adoption through supporting these children to. Thank you so much for your support and patience!
Congratulations you've got Magic! Pick a familiar! Normal animals? Nah. We've got these instead!
A living glass rabbit filled with dandelion puffs and sunlight
A palm sized tiger made of enamel and gold
A terrier made of patchwork, with a ceramic face and paws
A little metal songbird that chimes and rings like a bell
A fluffy tabby cat that inexplicably smells like your favorite scent
A black saluki with a coat that shimmers like rainbow obsidian
A large clockwork swan that bites the untrustworthy
A corn-snake that takes on the color of the clothing you're wearing
A grey hairless cat with blue eyes and blue china patterns across its skin
A silver squirrel that finds and collects just what you need
A white rat with fur like a cloud that can float just a little bit
just having some fun with interesting fantasy imagery! Give it a reblog, if you play, please? And tell me WHY you picked what you picked if you want?
So squirrels are assholes and I love that for them
Paint Over The Cracks ||FosterDad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley|| Part 4
Warnings: A lot of swearing. Implicit mentions of child abuse. Brief description of murder. Descriptions of PTSD and trauma. Discussions of the foster care system. Mentions of sibling separation.
Words: 3383
Summary: Simon is grappling with much more than he lets anyone see, so much so he feels like he's splitting at the seams. John meets him with the same calm kindness he always has, and Simon struggles to figure out his motivations for it.
<-Part 3: Dirty Laundry
Nothing here was right.
The old man was though.
You’re a stain, shitbag that’s exploded and left his stench behind.
No. No? Shut up. God shut up.
If there was a way to turn down the voice in his head Simon would have muted the thing years ago. It’s gruff and cracked from the abuse the vocal chords have suffered, inhaling too much crap and not enough air. It spews poison in his brain and he knows it’s all rubbish, a hallucinogen, a serpent in his Garden, but god if it isn’t convincing. He wants to peel of his skin, drain the blood from his veins, and refill it with someone else’s. It’s got to be genetic right? The black spot of old that got pirates quaking has to be branded into his DNA by cigarette butts the same way the life lessons are beaten into his skin, a colourful array of reminders that blare like sirens when he presses one just right to feel something other than the overwhelming dread of just existing as himself. He can count each one and he knows the meaning of them all.
Worthless.
Vile.
Stupid.
Disappointing.
Coward.
God it’s hot. It’s boiling in this stupid hoodie. It’s got burn marks for ventilation and the sweat it soaks up only makes it smell worse as he pours himself out just trying to keep it all in. Cover the marks. Keep your voice hidden. Don’t tell a soul. Protect mom. Protect Tommy. Fuck, she looked like his mom. Well, the mom he knew before his old man beat her down anyway. No one deserved to look how she looked at the end. Fuck was that – no, no a splash of paint, it was paint, just paint. That bloody awful portrait in the doctor’s office was too close to her head. He never knew blood could arch that far until he watched his old man pull the hammer back. It’s all so confusing. Simon doesn’t honestly know if he’s here or there or somewhere in-between but there’s sun in his eyes and a paper bag in hand with his name on and an address printed underneath that he doesn’t call his own.
No, that’s the address of the palace. It’s a place where the surfaces always smell of citrus bleach, where the walls are warm and straining to keep the bustle of the world out and the quiet of the house within. There’s no blood staining the bathroom here and there’s no desperate search for food through the haze of a burning joint that makes his head swim more than Michael Phelps ever has. No, no in this palace, there’s always food whenever he wants it. The fridge is a pantry stocked full in preparation for a grand feast three times a day, and there’s always spare food going about. He should throw out the apples he’d never gotten round to eating but the luxury of storing it all away beneath that one loose floorboard still hadn’t worn off because – God, was Tommy as lucky as he was? His stomach’s never been so full and yet so queasy. It’s exhausting keeping an eye on the Bearded Guy. He’ll snap eventually, they always do. He was surprised he hadn’t set him off when he saw the mattress.
The shame is still gnawing in his gut and reminding him what a disgusting stain he is on that palace. His fingerprints leave trails of blood and ichor behind. There were no monsters under the bed before he moved in. Those pristine white walls are tainted with smoke and filth and he’s just never quite clean enough. How much do you have to scrub a soul for the devil to want to barter for it again?
“Simon?”
Should have never fucking had you.
“Simon?”
You can join your fucking mum.
“Simon!”
The touch is light, unintrusive, but the flesh remembers what the mind wishes it could forget. Simon flinches from Price’s tap to his shoulder like the man’s burned him, and he has to give himself a good mental shake before he dares meet Price’s eyes. Shake it off. Head in the game. Protect Mom. Protect Tommy.
“Why the fuck are we at B&Q?” Simon blurts the question before he can stop himself. His thoughts feel a little too lose and it’s unhinged his mouth. He clamps it tightly shut once more and imagines the box; Pandora would be jealous of the horrors he hides in his, but the lock doesn’t feel quite so sturdy today. Price raises a brow at the language but doesn’t comment on it. Simon’s glad. He’s finding it increasingly hard to fight the Bearded Guy on anything when he’s always so calm about things. It’s a beguiling sense of security. They’re trying to coax something out of him but he still can’t tell what.
“Paint.” Price’s reply is simple, and yet it throws him completely for a loop. Paint? Why the hell do they need paint? His palace is glorious and in no need of renovations. It’s got everything he could ever want. Hell, he could die happy in the bathroom just to juxtapose his mum. The old man might call it poetic justice. Simon squints through the windshield, eyeing the bold orange letters with wary confusion. It feels like a trick, but his head’s too scrambled to really figure out the man’s mind games today so he has no choice but to bite the line and let him reel him in.
“Why?” he asks, letting his eyes drift back to Price. The man’s got eyes like ice and Simon isn’t sure he’ll ever know what lies in the murky depths of them, isn’t sure he wants to know. Price pulls up the handbrake and turns off the ignition. The silence in the air is charged and Simon’s muscles ache from all the tension in his body. The morning’s been a lot and he just wants to go to the closest thing he has to home, which is currently the bin liner in his room that’s rapidly losing the smell of Tommy and his Mum and he just…isn’t ready for it to go. He can’t handle the palace becoming his home, for their to be no trace of his mum or Tommy in it, for lemon scented cleaning products to replace stale cigarette fumes and the tang of blood that’s his only real connection to the last of his mother’s warmth as she spilled it onto his hands with her final breath. God he needs therapy, and he hates himself all the more for acknowledging it.
Uh-oh. That looks never good on an adult. His lips have pursed and his eyes are searching. Simon won’t let him find a thing though, tilting his chin up just a little and narrowing his eyes the way he’s been taught. He’ll bare his teeth before he ever bares his throat.
“There have been certain things that have come to light, things that Mrs Laswell wants to come and talk to you about before she’ll talk to me about them, that mean you’ll be staying with me for a while,” Price is choosing his words as carefully as a bomb disposal expert picks which wires to cut, “So I thought…maybe you could choose a colour or two, make your room your own and decorate it a bit.” His words ricochet around his brain like bullets, but none of it’s a misfire. They hit so many open wounds it makes Simon suck in a sharp breath to keep from screaming out because it’s just not fair. He doesn’t want Price’s room, or his baskets, or his palace but nobody seems to care what he wants right now.
“How long? Is Tommy coming to live with you to?” Simon’s voice is sharp, too sharp, jagged edges bleeding raw and Price is seeing too much again. He can’t help it though and the white hot fury and panic is a deadly combination with the heavy grief that keeps trying to steal his breath. He’s a skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of flesh and there’s not enough room for all these feelings so into Pandora’s box they go to.
“No, Simon, he can’t.” Price is so calm about it all, as if Simon’s sanity isn’t hinging on the decisions these adults are making for him. “I’m sorry. I understand that feels unfair, and you might well be angry, maybe even anxious, sad. It’s okay to feel like that-“
“Fucking hell here we go.” He muttered, eyes rolling and head turning away. He’s agitated by the injustice of it all, a tempest incoming on a tranquil shore. Since when did they get to decide for him? Why do his choices never seem to matter?
“Okay. Okay. I see it’s not something you want to talk about. When you’re ready, I’m here to listen. Do you want to do this? Decorate your room a bit? Or should we go home?” He wants to yell and scream at the old man to get mad, to be mad on his behalf, to rebel against the stupid rules of the world that are keeping his brother away from him and just let him have him anyway. Tommy needs him. He always has. It’s the only thing he has left. But here Price is again, a gentle breeze on a summer’s day that gives fresh air in a humid and cloying place devoid of comfort. He just seems to know how to calm the fiery fury, flips switches in his brain like a train line manager switches tracks, easily diverting disaster because yes – yes, god, finally, something he can control.
“Whatever.” He grumbles, already opening the car door and leaving Prive to follow behind. Maybe he’ll get black. Or neon yellow. His thoughts are already spinning to see what colours might piss off Price the most. His feelings are all spiteful and petty little things that demand retribution for him in all its forms. You’re a stain. Alright then. He’ll taint this palace just as he’s tainted every other place he’s been. Yet, as Price leads him to the paint section and he faces rows and rows of colour swatches, he’s struck dumb by the amount of colour.
It’s the explosive reds that catch his eye first, his rage calling to those colours like their soulmates destined to cross the distance and meet, but then he spots a crimson too close to the shade of his mum on the bathroom floor and he’s forced to look away as grief swells and crushes any fight or resolve his spirit had. Perhaps blue is the better colour for him, but even that looks too happy. The feelings and thoughts battle in his head and Simon pulls the black mask from his pocket instinctively, slipping it over his ears and hearing the whisper of maniacal laughter rumble through his mind before it all falls quiet. Silent as the grave. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief.
Go on Simon, pick one, as a treat. Don’t tell your dad, okay? He so badly wishes his mother was here and it really was just as simple as picking a sweet treat at the bakery to sneakily share with her on the way home from school. How can he possibly pick a colour for his room in the palace? It’s too big a responsibility for his thin shoulders.
“Have you got a favourite colour?” Price’s question pulls him from the depths of his mind and Simon forces his eyes to move from the shades of red. The question seems innocuous enough that he feels inclined to answer.
“Blue.” Simon’s not really sure it’s the right answer, but he’s got to be the man of the house and blues a boys colour, or so he’s been taught. He’s not entirely sure he likes any of the blues that Price pulls from the swatches to show him, though he’s sure he should. His brow crinkles slightly.
“You sure?” Price’s voice is gentle, probing. Simon’s eyes roam the swatches of colour and linger on the greens. There’s one like the shade of Tommy’s hoodie, and another like the grass in the field of the old industrial estate he could escape to when the house was too much. Some nice oranges to, like the sunsets that painted his mum in such a lovely light in summer, back when she could wear sundresses without worrying about who saw the bruises or cuts or emaciated bones beneath butterfly-wing flesh. He gravitates to them, craving the joy those memories bring. If he gets to control anything in this shitshow of a life he’s living, if he really gets to choose this, then god fucking dammit he wants to be the one to really choose. He gently slides the two colour strips from their snug spot in the line up and stares them down like the answers might just pop out at him.
“I want these.” The words are out before he can stop them, and his head snaps up because stupid stupid stupid you’re not allowed to want such unnecessary things. Be grateful for what you’ve got you little maggot.
“Well, we’ll need to narrow down a shade a bit more, but green and orange it is.” Price so easily gives in and Simon feels a spark of something warm. It’s the same kind of feeling he got when he saw them take his old man to the ground and cuff him like the criminal he was – satisfaction. It’s a feeling that grows when, between himself, Price, and a store employee, he narrows down the shades of paint he wants. Price loads them and two other cans he insists are necessary to make a proper paint job onto the trolley and they start weaving back through the aisle’s. B&Q isn’t a place Simon’s ever gone to before and for just a little while it’s nice to get lost in the wide and busy aisles, to let his eyes wander and dream of what a real home might look like. He can’t imagine ever really having a proper one, but dreams are nice, comforting, delusional.
With the paint purchased and stored safely in the boot of the car, Simon’s set to return to the palace and tries to steel himself for a torturous evening of stopping his mind from collapsing in on itself again when Price points out the nearby IKEA to.
“What about it? You know the meatballs are all horsemeat right?” Simon says. Price chuckles slightly at that. He’s relaxed back in his seat, making no effort to leave anytime soon. It set’s Simon on edge slightly, and he sits straighter. What sort of favour did he want in return for the paint then?
“I don’t want the meatballs. I wanted to know whether or not you’ve got enough storage for your things? We can get some more furniture if we need to.” Price says. Oh. Simon’s brow furrows, wondering when the other shoe will drop. He’ll surely want him to pay up for it somehow but he just can’t workout how or when or with what. He’s been shown how it works time and again. Maybe it’s a fistful of powder or his own beaten body, but somehow you always have to pay the piper.
“It’s fine.” He won’t get in anymore debt than he already has today. Price nods, takes him at his word, but still drives them there anyway.
“Well, I want to get a new desk chair for my office. We’ll go home after this and sort dinner, okay?” His words are a soothing balm to Simon whose more than ready to be home and out of the public eye. Being under Price’s watchful gaze is draining and he’s ready to hide back in his room again, imagine the paint on his walls, wallow in peace. They walk a good section of the store where Simon can’t stop the way his eyes turn and wheel over the items on display. It’s an abundance of luxury to him. None of this stuff is thrifted or upcycled from his neighbour’s garage, nor a hand-me-down from grandparents he never got to meet. He wonders aimlessly through the aisle’s as Price takes his sweet time choosing a chair.
As they pass through the kids section he gets the feeling he’s been doused by a bucket of cold water. It’s a monstrous thing, long and green with a yellow underbelly and this flicker of red felt for a tongue that’s in no way real but still sends a shiver down his spine.
You scared of Rocco, Simon?
Just having fun.
He can see the things bulbous head, hear the lapping of its tongue as it flicks to search for prey. He can feel the smoothness of scales on his lips still. It takes a lot of willpower to stop his hands from shaking in the pockets of his hoodie as he reminds himself the toys just that, a toy.
“You like snakes?” Price asks with genuine and innocent curiosity. Only Simon see’s the horrors in his head as he replays vivid memories of the nights his old man bought home the deadly beasts. It brings a cold sweat to his palms and his knee-jerk reaction is to keep the weakness hidden.
“No. It’s a stupid toy.” Simon scoffs, moving on quickly from the stuffed animals. He only pauses in his pursuit of an exit when they reach the final section of the store, just before the warehouse. It’s crammed full of portraits and mirrors and candles, house plants and rugs to. His head is buzzing still with the hiss of a snake but it’s slowly being drowned out by the gentle humming of his mum, his feet carrying him naturally to the plant he recalled her tending to so often. It infuriated his old man of course. He’d tossed the thing out of the window after accusing her of nourishing it more than her family. Simon had been the only one to witness her despair that day. He ran his fingers gently along the big leaves covering the soil in the pot, the same way his mum had done once as she hummed.
If the plant happened to slip into Price’s trolley then, well, neither of them needed to acknowledge it, did they?
Price let him be once he’d helped him put all the new things they’d bought into his room. Simon couldn’t bear to unwrap or move anything, suffocating in the weight of his own feelings of unworthiness for a while before he finally sucked it up and began to move the new belongings into place. He hurriedly threw the absorbent pad on the mattress atop a waterproof sheet, shame clouding his every thought as he prepares his bed and prays those tablets the doctor prescribed him would work so he wouldn’t have to make his bed like that ever again. Simon sets his plant up next, takes his time with it, ensures it’s in the best spot on his desk where the sunlight can hit it just right. He waters it, adds a little bit of plant food he’d insisted was necessary to buy and sets an alarm on his phone to remind himself to water it some more in a few days time.
He sits back on his bed and glances about the pristine quarters he’s been given in the palace, imagines them green and orange like the paint waiting to be used in the shed, and for the first time in weeks Simon feels a little of the weight ease from his shoulders. Maybe this place could be home; with a splash of orange there to reflect the sunsets and, oh maybe he could go half and half and…Tommy would likely never see it. Simon’s expression sours, bitter rage welling in his chest again until all he can do is bring his fist down on the pillow again and again and again and its never enough to close that raw, throbbing wound in his chest. Panting hard, he squeezes his eyes closed, but nothing helps to quell the rage.
Oh? You do have some balls on you after all!
Simon’s left helpless in the maelstrom of his life once more.
So I had part 5 written, and I hated it. No amount of editing worked to fix it so in a fit of self-loathing I deleted it today to start afresh. Part 5 is coming, but I want to write it properly and really capture Simon's relationship with Tommy correctly
Can’t stop thinking about poly141 who get so wrapped up in their own bullshit they begin to neglect reader. So you leave 🤷🏼♀️
It wasn’t a big deal at first. You understood that their jobs were intense to say the least. You own a bookshop, which in itself was exhausting, but you understood how they could get carried away with work.
You had excused the many delayed returned texts or missed FaceTime dates when they were deployed. When they came home, they almost always made it up to you. Showering you with attention and quality time.
But the past two returns home have been… different.
Usually at least one of them made a beeline to your shop or your loft if it was too late in the evening. You always held your breath when it was just one of them.
“They’re okay.” Was the usual answer. “Everyone made it back okay.” It was only then that you could melt into whoever’s hands you were in.
After one of their recent returns home you had voice to Price that you didn’t appreciate several days passing after they came back and no one had bothered to tell you. He had snapped. Arguing that a mission doesn’t finish just because they land back on soil. There was paperwork and debriefing to be done. If and when they wanted to see you they would.
He didn’t apologize until later. Crawling into your bed, using one of the keys you had given them. Blaming the stress. How they had almost lost Johnny for the reason of his outburst. What else could you do but forgive him?
So you had given them space after that one. Not holding it against them to decompress before seeing you.
The next time was the final straw. Solidifying how little they cared about you and how much power you had given them.
Johnny had come in around 7 one evening. He was dressed nicely, for civilian standards. You were reading a book on the couch when he had let himself in. You were wearing on of Simon’s sweatshirts and panties. He took you in for a moment before scooping you up.
He fucked you absolutely stupid. Adamant on having you cum on his tongue, his fingers and his cock. You were only able to bask in the afterglow of him filling you up before he started pulling his pants back on.
“What are you doing?” There were times that you would practically need a crow bar to get Johnny detached from you just long enough to relieve yourself. You had gotten many a UTI courtesy of Mr. John MacTavish.
“Dinner with my family tonight.” He explained by the time he was already buttoning his shirt. “The youngest just graduated and ma’ feels the need to go all out.” Now came the tie. Johnny was actually wearing a tie. To go to dinner. “A fancy dinner in London.” He huffed. “Meanwhile I’m out scufflin’ with bloody fuckin’ terrorists and I get a pat on the back.” He gave you a peck on the cheek before heading out the door. Promising to call you later.
You just sat in your bed. Still naked. Almost in shocked. He had fucked you and just… left. You were close to a panic attack as you called Simon.
Simon wasn’t the one to cuddle and coddle. But there was something so soothing at the sound of his voice or even how his heavy body felt perfect laying on top of you. Yes. Simon wasn’t the time to lift you up with words, but he was your own security blanket. Just having him close helped.
“Can you come over?” It wasn't unusal for Simon to be the one to come later in the evening. Insomnia was a bitch to deal with and you could sleep through the sounds of whatever he played on the tv. Most of the times you were content laying your head on his lap as he ran his hand along your head as if he were petting you. It was a bit cringe, but it knocked you out every time.
“What’s wrong?” He asked. The low timber of his voice already calming you.
“Johnny came over.” You sniffled. “He just fucked me and left.”
“Not surprised.” He scoffed. You could almost see him rolling those deep brown eyes of his. “If you wanted to cum, I’m happy to come over and help.”
For whatever reason, that only seemed to make you more upset. “You’re not listening.” You said, trying to spell it out for him. “He left. Like didn’t even stay and cuddle just left. Fucked me and left.”
“That’s why you’re calling me crying about?” He almost seemed… annoyed.
“Yes!” You said, nearly snapping. All of the tension from the last several months coming to the surface. “I’m not just a warm body to keep a bed cozy until you assholes decide you need to get one off.” Assholes. You called them assholes. “This isn’t what we agreed to.”
“Johnny is Johnny.” Simon tried to defend, not really caring to continue the conversation now knowing that you weren't in any sort of physical harm. “He wanted his dick wet and from the sound of it, that’s what he did. Don’t hold it against him because he had other things to do.”
“It’s not just Johnny leaving.” Your throat felt like it was tightening. A telltale sign you were close to crying. Whether from sadness or anger you weren't entirely sure. “The only time any of you want anything to do with me anymore is to fuck.” You missed date nights and lunches. You missed texting any and all of them about your day, about theirs. About new books. You had been trying for months to tell them over dinner one of your books got picked up. Yours was being traditionally published.
None of them had bothered to even try penciling you in.
“You got yours.” You heard the popping of a can top. Simon was settling in for the night. Once he popped a top at home there was no getting him out. He wasn't coming for you. “I don’t understand what you’re bitchin’ to me about. Yeah, in the beginning we indulged ya a bit? Dressed you up, took you out. But you should have known spreadin’ them legs of yours wouldn’t end with one of us puttin’ a ring on your finger.”
You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? These were the men that pursued you. Initially, individually, but when tensions became to much they offered a solution. All of them. Four times the attention, of the affection.
Four times the love.
But also four time the neglect. Four times the amount of heartbreak and disappointment. Loving all of them meant putting yourself in a position to let each of them hurt you in their own way and they had.
John's constant state of snapping at you as if you were one of his men.
Johnny swinging by as if you were just a fuck buddy. Not even bothering to give a peck before leaving.
Kyle essentially ignoring you for weeks now. Ghosting you for hours or having to cancel on date nights last minute or claiming that he really did forget that the two of you had planned to meet for lunch.
And now there was Simon. Telling you that all you meant to them was what was between your thighs.
Spreadin' them legs of yours wouldn't end with one of us puttin' a ring on your finger.
None of them ever intended on making this into something more. That much was clear now.
You didn't know what to say to Simon. You couldn't think of a witty retort. You couldn't find the proper insult to whirl his way. You couldn't convey just how much his words had hurt.
So you did the only thing you could.
You hung up.
As a sucker for angst I've loved all 5 parts of this so far and am desperate for more
Hi, I just wanted to say I really enjoy the FosterDad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley series - your Price is so compassionate even though he's clearly more rational than emotional, it was also really nice to get some of Simon's perspective too and I'm curious what the reasons could be for keeping siblings separated in foster care, especially if they want to see each other - anyway, I just wanted to say that your writing is great, thank you for sharing it!
Hey hi hello!
Thank you so much for the lovely compliment! I'm not personally a foster carer or therapist, so a lot of how I write Price is based on the trauma informed training I've done as a teacher and a few accounts I follow that gives tips to foster carers/professional working with children in care. We are absolutely allowed to have emotional responses but children with trauma need you to have predictable responses, hence why he tries to not let Simon see how upset he really is!
Tommy will be coming into the story soon and you'll see why its in Simon's best interest for them to be separated right now. A sad but true case for so.e kids in the system that contact rarely happens as often as they'd like. I'm glad your finding it interesting and hope to have the next part up sometime next week!
Paint Over The Cracks ||FosterDad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley|| Part 4
Warnings: A lot of swearing. Implicit mentions of child abuse. Brief description of murder. Descriptions of PTSD and trauma. Discussions of the foster care system. Mentions of sibling separation.
Words: 3383
Summary: Simon is grappling with much more than he lets anyone see, so much so he feels like he's splitting at the seams. John meets him with the same calm kindness he always has, and Simon struggles to figure out his motivations for it.
<-Part 3: Dirty Laundry Part 5: Fault Lines ->
Nothing here was right.
The old man was though.
You’re a stain, shitbag that’s exploded and left his stench behind.
No. No? Shut up. God shut up.
If there was a way to turn down the voice in his head Simon would have muted the thing years ago. It’s gruff and cracked from the abuse the vocal chords have suffered, inhaling too much crap and not enough air. It spews poison in his brain and he knows it’s all rubbish, a hallucinogen, a serpent in his Garden, but god if it isn’t convincing. He wants to peel of his skin, drain the blood from his veins, and refill it with someone else’s. It’s got to be genetic right? The black spot of old that got pirates quaking has to be branded into his DNA by cigarette butts the same way the life lessons are beaten into his skin, a colourful array of reminders that blare like sirens when he presses one just right to feel something other than the overwhelming dread of just existing as himself. He can count each one and he knows the meaning of them all.
Worthless.
Vile.
Stupid.
Disappointing.
Coward.
God it’s hot. It’s boiling in this stupid hoodie. It’s got burn marks for ventilation and the sweat it soaks up only makes it smell worse as he pours himself out just trying to keep it all in. Cover the marks. Keep your voice hidden. Don’t tell a soul. Protect mom. Protect Tommy. Fuck, she looked like his mom. Well, the mom he knew before his old man beat her down anyway. No one deserved to look how she looked at the end. Fuck was that – no, no a splash of paint, it was paint, just paint. That bloody awful portrait in the doctor’s office was too close to her head. He never knew blood could arch that far until he watched his old man pull the hammer back. It’s all so confusing. Simon doesn’t honestly know if he’s here or there or somewhere in-between but there’s sun in his eyes and a paper bag in hand with his name on and an address printed underneath that he doesn’t call his own.
No, that’s the address of the palace. It’s a place where the surfaces always smell of citrus bleach, where the walls are warm and straining to keep the bustle of the world out and the quiet of the house within. There’s no blood staining the bathroom here and there’s no desperate search for food through the haze of a burning joint that makes his head swim more than Michael Phelps ever has. No, no in this palace, there’s always food whenever he wants it. The fridge is a pantry stocked full in preparation for a grand feast three times a day, and there’s always spare food going about. He should throw out the apples he’d never gotten round to eating but the luxury of storing it all away beneath that one loose floorboard still hadn’t worn off because – God, was Tommy as lucky as he was? His stomach’s never been so full and yet so queasy. It’s exhausting keeping an eye on the Bearded Guy. He’ll snap eventually, they always do. He was surprised he hadn’t set him off when he saw the mattress.
The shame is still gnawing in his gut and reminding him what a disgusting stain he is on that palace. His fingerprints leave trails of blood and ichor behind. There were no monsters under the bed before he moved in. Those pristine white walls are tainted with smoke and filth and he’s just never quite clean enough. How much do you have to scrub a soul for the devil to want to barter for it again?
“Simon?”
Should have never fucking had you.
“Simon?”
You can join your fucking mum.
“Simon!”
The touch is light, unintrusive, but the flesh remembers what the mind wishes it could forget. Simon flinches from Price’s tap to his shoulder like the man’s burned him, and he has to give himself a good mental shake before he dares meet Price’s eyes. Shake it off. Head in the game. Protect Mom. Protect Tommy.
“Why the fuck are we at B&Q?” Simon blurts the question before he can stop himself. His thoughts feel a little too lose and it’s unhinged his mouth. He clamps it tightly shut once more and imagines the box; Pandora would be jealous of the horrors he hides in his, but the lock doesn’t feel quite so sturdy today. Price raises a brow at the language but doesn’t comment on it. Simon’s glad. He’s finding it increasingly hard to fight the Bearded Guy on anything when he’s always so calm about things. It’s a beguiling sense of security. They’re trying to coax something out of him but he still can’t tell what.
“Paint.” Price’s reply is simple, and yet it throws him completely for a loop. Paint? Why the hell do they need paint? His palace is glorious and in no need of renovations. It’s got everything he could ever want. Hell, he could die happy in the bathroom just to juxtapose his mum. The old man might call it poetic justice. Simon squints through the windshield, eyeing the bold orange letters with wary confusion. It feels like a trick, but his head’s too scrambled to really figure out the man’s mind games today so he has no choice but to bite the line and let him reel him in.
“Why?” he asks, letting his eyes drift back to Price. The man’s got eyes like ice and Simon isn’t sure he’ll ever know what lies in the murky depths of them, isn’t sure he wants to know. Price pulls up the handbrake and turns off the ignition. The silence in the air is charged and Simon’s muscles ache from all the tension in his body. The morning’s been a lot and he just wants to go to the closest thing he has to home, which is currently the bin liner in his room that’s rapidly losing the smell of Tommy and his Mum and he just…isn’t ready for it to go. He can’t handle the palace becoming his home, for their to be no trace of his mum or Tommy in it, for lemon scented cleaning products to replace stale cigarette fumes and the tang of blood that’s his only real connection to the last of his mother’s warmth as she spilled it onto his hands with her final breath. God he needs therapy, and he hates himself all the more for acknowledging it.
Uh-oh. That looks never good on an adult. His lips have pursed and his eyes are searching. Simon won’t let him find a thing though, tilting his chin up just a little and narrowing his eyes the way he’s been taught. He’ll bare his teeth before he ever bares his throat.
“There have been certain things that have come to light, things that Mrs Laswell wants to come and talk to you about before she’ll talk to me about them, that mean you’ll be staying with me for a while,” Price is choosing his words as carefully as a bomb disposal expert picks which wires to cut, “So I thought…maybe you could choose a colour or two, make your room your own and decorate it a bit.” His words ricochet around his brain like bullets, but none of it’s a misfire. They hit so many open wounds it makes Simon suck in a sharp breath to keep from screaming out because it’s just not fair. He doesn’t want Price’s room, or his baskets, or his palace but nobody seems to care what he wants right now.
“How long? Is Tommy coming to live with you to?” Simon’s voice is sharp, too sharp, jagged edges bleeding raw and Price is seeing too much again. He can’t help it though and the white hot fury and panic is a deadly combination with the heavy grief that keeps trying to steal his breath. He’s a skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of flesh and there’s not enough room for all these feelings so into Pandora’s box they go to.
“No, Simon, he can’t.” Price is so calm about it all, as if Simon’s sanity isn’t hinging on the decisions these adults are making for him. “I’m sorry. I understand that feels unfair, and you might well be angry, maybe even anxious, sad. It’s okay to feel like that-“
“Fucking hell here we go.” He muttered, eyes rolling and head turning away. He’s agitated by the injustice of it all, a tempest incoming on a tranquil shore. Since when did they get to decide for him? Why do his choices never seem to matter?
“Okay. Okay. I see it’s not something you want to talk about. When you’re ready, I’m here to listen. Do you want to do this? Decorate your room a bit? Or should we go home?” He wants to yell and scream at the old man to get mad, to be mad on his behalf, to rebel against the stupid rules of the world that are keeping his brother away from him and just let him have him anyway. Tommy needs him. He always has. It’s the only thing he has left. But here Price is again, a gentle breeze on a summer’s day that gives fresh air in a humid and cloying place devoid of comfort. He just seems to know how to calm the fiery fury, flips switches in his brain like a train line manager switches tracks, easily diverting disaster because yes – yes, god, finally, something he can control.
“Whatever.” He grumbles, already opening the car door and leaving Prive to follow behind. Maybe he’ll get black. Or neon yellow. His thoughts are already spinning to see what colours might piss off Price the most. His feelings are all spiteful and petty little things that demand retribution for him in all its forms. You’re a stain. Alright then. He’ll taint this palace just as he’s tainted every other place he’s been. Yet, as Price leads him to the paint section and he faces rows and rows of colour swatches, he’s struck dumb by the amount of colour.
It’s the explosive reds that catch his eye first, his rage calling to those colours like their soulmates destined to cross the distance and meet, but then he spots a crimson too close to the shade of his mum on the bathroom floor and he’s forced to look away as grief swells and crushes any fight or resolve his spirit had. Perhaps blue is the better colour for him, but even that looks too happy. The feelings and thoughts battle in his head and Simon pulls the black mask from his pocket instinctively, slipping it over his ears and hearing the whisper of maniacal laughter rumble through his mind before it all falls quiet. Silent as the grave. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief.
Go on Simon, pick one, as a treat. Don’t tell your dad, okay? He so badly wishes his mother was here and it really was just as simple as picking a sweet treat at the bakery to sneakily share with her on the way home from school. How can he possibly pick a colour for his room in the palace? It’s too big a responsibility for his thin shoulders.
“Have you got a favourite colour?” Price’s question pulls him from the depths of his mind and Simon forces his eyes to move from the shades of red. The question seems innocuous enough that he feels inclined to answer.
“Blue.” Simon’s not really sure it’s the right answer, but he’s got to be the man of the house and blues a boys colour, or so he’s been taught. He’s not entirely sure he likes any of the blues that Price pulls from the swatches to show him, though he’s sure he should. His brow crinkles slightly.
“You sure?” Price’s voice is gentle, probing. Simon’s eyes roam the swatches of colour and linger on the greens. There’s one like the shade of Tommy’s hoodie, and another like the grass in the field of the old industrial estate he could escape to when the house was too much. Some nice oranges to, like the sunsets that painted his mum in such a lovely light in summer, back when she could wear sundresses without worrying about who saw the bruises or cuts or emaciated bones beneath butterfly-wing flesh. He gravitates to them, craving the joy those memories bring. If he gets to control anything in this shitshow of a life he’s living, if he really gets to choose this, then god fucking dammit he wants to be the one to really choose. He gently slides the two colour strips from their snug spot in the line up and stares them down like the answers might just pop out at him.
“I want these.” The words are out before he can stop them, and his head snaps up because stupid stupid stupid you’re not allowed to want such unnecessary things. Be grateful for what you’ve got you little maggot.
“Well, we’ll need to narrow down a shade a bit more, but green and orange it is.” Price so easily gives in and Simon feels a spark of something warm. It’s the same kind of feeling he got when he saw them take his old man to the ground and cuff him like the criminal he was – satisfaction. It’s a feeling that grows when, between himself, Price, and a store employee, he narrows down the shades of paint he wants. Price loads them and two other cans he insists are necessary to make a proper paint job onto the trolley and they start weaving back through the aisle’s. B&Q isn’t a place Simon’s ever gone to before and for just a little while it’s nice to get lost in the wide and busy aisles, to let his eyes wander and dream of what a real home might look like. He can’t imagine ever really having a proper one, but dreams are nice, comforting, delusional.
With the paint purchased and stored safely in the boot of the car, Simon’s set to return to the palace and tries to steel himself for a torturous evening of stopping his mind from collapsing in on itself again when Price points out the nearby IKEA to.
“What about it? You know the meatballs are all horsemeat right?” Simon says. Price chuckles slightly at that. He’s relaxed back in his seat, making no effort to leave anytime soon. It set’s Simon on edge slightly, and he sits straighter. What sort of favour did he want in return for the paint then?
“I don’t want the meatballs. I wanted to know whether or not you’ve got enough storage for your things? We can get some more furniture if we need to.” Price says. Oh. Simon’s brow furrows, wondering when the other shoe will drop. He’ll surely want him to pay up for it somehow but he just can’t workout how or when or with what. He’s been shown how it works time and again. Maybe it’s a fistful of powder or his own beaten body, but somehow you always have to pay the piper.
“It’s fine.” He won’t get in anymore debt than he already has today. Price nods, takes him at his word, but still drives them there anyway.
“Well, I want to get a new desk chair for my office. We’ll go home after this and sort dinner, okay?” His words are a soothing balm to Simon whose more than ready to be home and out of the public eye. Being under Price’s watchful gaze is draining and he’s ready to hide back in his room again, imagine the paint on his walls, wallow in peace. They walk a good section of the store where Simon can’t stop the way his eyes turn and wheel over the items on display. It’s an abundance of luxury to him. None of this stuff is thrifted or upcycled from his neighbour’s garage, nor a hand-me-down from grandparents he never got to meet. He wonders aimlessly through the aisle’s as Price takes his sweet time choosing a chair.
As they pass through the kids section he gets the feeling he’s been doused by a bucket of cold water. It’s a monstrous thing, long and green with a yellow underbelly and this flicker of red felt for a tongue that’s in no way real but still sends a shiver down his spine.
You scared of Rocco, Simon?
Just having fun.
He can see the things bulbous head, hear the lapping of its tongue as it flicks to search for prey. He can feel the smoothness of scales on his lips still. It takes a lot of willpower to stop his hands from shaking in the pockets of his hoodie as he reminds himself the toys just that, a toy.
“You like snakes?” Price asks with genuine and innocent curiosity. Only Simon see’s the horrors in his head as he replays vivid memories of the nights his old man bought home the deadly beasts. It brings a cold sweat to his palms and his knee-jerk reaction is to keep the weakness hidden.
“No. It’s a stupid toy.” Simon scoffs, moving on quickly from the stuffed animals. He only pauses in his pursuit of an exit when they reach the final section of the store, just before the warehouse. It’s crammed full of portraits and mirrors and candles, house plants and rugs to. His head is buzzing still with the hiss of a snake but it’s slowly being drowned out by the gentle humming of his mum, his feet carrying him naturally to the plant he recalled her tending to so often. It infuriated his old man of course. He’d tossed the thing out of the window after accusing her of nourishing it more than her family. Simon had been the only one to witness her despair that day. He ran his fingers gently along the big leaves covering the soil in the pot, the same way his mum had done once as she hummed.
If the plant happened to slip into Price’s trolley then, well, neither of them needed to acknowledge it, did they?
Price let him be once he’d helped him put all the new things they’d bought into his room. Simon couldn’t bear to unwrap or move anything, suffocating in the weight of his own feelings of unworthiness for a while before he finally sucked it up and began to move the new belongings into place. He hurriedly threw the absorbent pad on the mattress atop a waterproof sheet, shame clouding his every thought as he prepares his bed and prays those tablets the doctor prescribed him would work so he wouldn’t have to make his bed like that ever again. Simon sets his plant up next, takes his time with it, ensures it’s in the best spot on his desk where the sunlight can hit it just right. He waters it, adds a little bit of plant food he’d insisted was necessary to buy and sets an alarm on his phone to remind himself to water it some more in a few days time.
He sits back on his bed and glances about the pristine quarters he’s been given in the palace, imagines them green and orange like the paint waiting to be used in the shed, and for the first time in weeks Simon feels a little of the weight ease from his shoulders. Maybe this place could be home; with a splash of orange there to reflect the sunsets and, oh maybe he could go half and half and…Tommy would likely never see it. Simon’s expression sours, bitter rage welling in his chest again until all he can do is bring his fist down on the pillow again and again and again and its never enough to close that raw, throbbing wound in his chest. Panting hard, he squeezes his eyes closed, but nothing helps to quell the rage.
Oh? You do have some balls on you after all!
Simon’s left helpless in the maelstrom of his life once more.
To Soothe A Soul ||John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||
Warnings: Mentions of drugs. Implied child abuse and neglect. All the angst. Talk of foster care and sibling separation. Implicit talk of death. Mentions of military discharge and injury. This covers many sensitive topics, Minors should not interact with this.
Words: 2679
Summary: Written for @glitterypirateduck O Captain Challenge using a take on the promtps 'An unexpected visitor' and 'A Rescue Takes Place'.
Former Captain John Price can spot a dead man a mile away, and he's known enough of them to know that not every dead man dies. It's in the eyes, that dead-eyed stare that proves the body might work but the tattered soul inside has long since withered away. He's horrified to find those eyes in the gaunt face of his newest foster child. Simon Riley is a dead man walking, and he's barely 14.
“Any medical or dietary requirements? Allergies?”
“None as of yet but a doctor’s appointment will be organised for the near future to craft a more detailed healthcare plan. Kid’s malnourished and deficient in an alphabet of vitamins I’ll wager.”
His pen tapped rhythmically against his notepad, his gut feeling tight with anxiety. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called for an emergency placement and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but the fear of the unknown still prickled at the base of his neck, licked in icy stripes up and down his spine. A career in the military had prepared him for much in life, but even the horrors he’d faced abroad couldn’t have prepared him for some of the kids that came into his care. Fostering had definitely been a good move for him after an honourable discharge due to injury had forced him out of the field. The kids he cared for needed routine and consistency as much as he did, and it filled that aching need to have someone reliant on him being at his best, gave him the motivation to keep up with all those exercises doctors had insisted would help him stay healthy and help him to readjust to civilian life. If he had someone to do it all for it was much, much easier.
“Alright then. Anything else I need to know about him?” Price asked, halting the movements of his pen and poising his hand to note down anything of significance.
“Simon has a younger brother, Tom. He took on a caring role for him and it was his wish for the boys to remain together but…welfare concerns don’t permit it right now. We’ll talk more about a family plan going forward with you to ensure they get time together but for now just expect some backlash from the decision to separate them.” The woman on the phone, Kate Laswell she’d introduced herself as, sighed heavily and added, “Also…Simon found their mother. He’s seen a lot in the past 24 hours alone. Be mindful of his grief.”
Price couldn’t quite force his hand to move for a moment, thickly swallowing at the sympathy that clogged his throat for a second. He’d need to wipe that from his expression by the time they arrived; he doubted the boy would want to see it. Lowering his pen, he nodded slowly.
“Alright. How long?” His mind was already racing with all of the things he needed to get ready, to prepare.
“40 minutes from where we are to your address. We’re moving quickly with this one.” Kate informed him. Price internally groaned at the time limit but kept his tone calm and controlled as he agreed that it was fine and hung up. He took a moment to take a breath and then he placed his notebook away and pushed to his feet. He ran his home with just as much military precision as the barrack’s he’d been used to living in, with not a thing out of place and not a speck of dirt visible. No, no, it was the spare bedrooms that needed attention now. They were cleaned the same as the rest of the house but none were set up to welcome a teenager into. As he walked towards the stairs, he saw the fuzzy black ears perk up before hearing the click of hardwood beneath his claws. The grizzled German Shephard wasn’t the most welcoming looking dog given the scarring on his face, but he had a teddy bear heart and intellect that rivalled any human. His big head tilted in question, knowing that at this time of night Price was more likely to be sitting and nursing a glass of whisky and not traipsing upstairs. Price smiled gently and gave the lean muscles of his flank a firm pat.
“We’ve got a guest coming to stay Riley. You gonna be a good boy when he comes, hm?” he fussed him for a moment longer before gripping the railing and ascending the stairs. For the next forty minutes, the former Captain set towels in his bathroom, placed fresh bed sheets on every single bed in each of the spare rooms, and aerated each room to ensure it was fresh and prepared. In the kitchen, he set his fruit bowl front and centre and he tidied up his coat and shoe rack to ensure there was space for another set of belongings there. He tried to drag all these things out, not wanting to wait in the silence for his new charge to arrive and let the anticipation get to him. Riley settled against his side as he attempted to watch TV to pass the last 15 minutes, some mind-numbing episode of Match of The Day he could really care less about since Liverpool hadn’t been playing that day.
His own doorbell startled him like a gunshot, made Riley perk at his side. With a few firm commands and quick scratch behind the ears, he had Riley settled in his dog bed and was taking that last deep breath behind the door. I’ve met plenty like you, we’ll be fine.
Oh.
Oh no, no he hadn’t.
I’ve never met a kid like you at all.
Simon Riley clutched the bin bag full of his possessions in a white knuckled grip, his fist trembling with the effort as if scared that losing his grip meant losing everything. Every inch of him was locked up tighter than a maximum-security prison, and those eyes…those dead, dead eyes. They didn’t flinch. He’d seen SAS boys focus through glinting scopes with the same sort of resolve, unblinking, unyielding, vigilant in a way they’d been rigorously trained for. This gangly teen in tattered jeans and a baggy hoodie made a bigger impression than any he’d yet met. Dead as those eyes were they were keen, sharp, and Price knew they wouldn’t miss a trick. Overly aware now of his expression and body language, Price stepped aside to leave a nice wide gap, his smile welcoming and face soft, open.
“Hi, Kate right? And you must be Simon. Do you prefer Simon, Si, some other nickname?” he asked, gesturing for them to come in. Kate gave him a slightly strained smile and he guessed the ride over had been rather intense. Simon Riley oozed intensity in waves. When he stepped over the threshold into Price’s home it was like watching the grim reaper himself enter, an oppressive and ominous atmosphere following him, like he’d been trained to make his presence fill a room in a way his physically body couldn’t. Intimidation was something Price had dealt with for years however, gotten good at himself, and so he maintained that soft, open body language and didn’t flinch at that dead-eyed stare. I see you, but you don’t scare me, and nothing here should scare you either.
“Simon.” He grunted finally, fingers flexing around the bin liner. One bin bag. Moderately full but from the bulky way it stretched the bag Price guessed the majority of it was clothes. There was a stink that followed the bag to. Weed, he recognised, smoke, something bitter and tangy…iron-like. He filed that away as a conversation for later. Nodding, Price gestured to the shoe and coat rack.
“Simon, it’s good to meet you, I’m John. I made a space for your shoes and your coat here. House rules are that shoes always come off before we come in, please, or we’ll be forever mopping the hardwood.” He chuckled, maintaining that friendly smile as he waited to see what he’d do. Simon was already testing him clearly, because he let the silence drag out for a long while before he finally toed off his shoes and set them on the rack. His toes curled and uncurled into the hardwood for a moment. Price had seen it before both in soldiers and in previous kids, that fight or flight instinct. It was the scary unknown that did it. For some kids that came in this was the first house they’d been in that was clean and well-lit and warm. For some it was the emptiness of the open space that was unnerving after they got used to cramped bedrooms or bustling, busy living rooms filled with unsavoury visitors or simply one too many family members.
“John has offered to let you stay here for the time being, but I’ll be around still okay?” Kate assures him, “I’ll work on setting up visits with Tommy for you, and you’ve got my number saved in your phone, in case you want to talk to me.” Price knows instinctively that Simon won’t ever use that number. He doesn’t look the type to lean on anyone, least of all a stranger whose separated him from his brother.
“Actually, there’s more than just me in the house,” he pipes up, “Are you alright with dogs, Simon?” The boy doesn’t give him a single twitch of a response, simply looks from one adult to another. Buried deep beneath the layers of forced apathy Price can see exhaustion. “Riley’s an ex-service dog, worked with me on many a mission. He’s got a good temperament and likes a lot of fussing. He’s got a few scars though. You want to meet him?” his questions are met with silence once more, so John simply takes a few steps left to the archway leading into his living room, where Riley sits patiently in his dog bed near the window. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, ears perked and tail flicking in excitement. He doesn’t run, but he does lope forward a bit, curious and wanting to meet new faces, but Price makes him heel.
Simon almost rises on the balls of his feet, like a bird ready to take flight, eyes fixed on the German Shepherd in his eye line. Price takes a second to evaluate him, trying to see if it’s fear or curiosity, but the boy gives so little away. It’s the faintest twitch of his free hand toward Riley that gives Price incentive to motion the dog forward. It’s a gentle and tender display, as if Riley knows how sensitive the wounds Simon’s carrying are, like he can read the neon sign that screams HANDLE WITH CARE emblazoned on the boy’s broken soul. He sniffs gently at his pale hand, and Simon’s nose wrinkles ever so slightly at the cold, wet sensation on his bony knuckles. It doesn’t stop him from reaching to give Riley’s ears a scratch. The German Shepherd sits obediently, pushing his giant head into Simon’s hand for more. Kate gives the faintest smile.
“What’s his name again?” she asks.
“Riley.” Price replies, chuckling slightly as she goes to fuss him to. Her input causes Simon to fall back, eyes snapping to her and away from the dog, moving quickly from one fixation to the next, always hyper-aware and alert. How many times had the hand he’d not been watching for struck him? You can relax here, son, he wanted to say.
“A very good boy.” She coos. Price hums in agreement and steps up beside them.
“Living room has the TV and an old games console. I don’t have many games but if you like we can get some more in eventually. I don’t really use it often. Kitchen’s right through if you want a drink or something to eat?” His offer is met by that dead eyed stare again, but after a moment of consideration Simon gives him another quiet answer.
“Water.” His voice fluctuates with all the tell-tale signs of a boy on the cusp of puberty and Price is again hit by just how young he is for someone so alert and mistrusting. He doesn’t let the way his heart cracks a bit show on his face and simply leads them through to the kitchen, silently showing Simon exactly where the glasses are for him if he ever needs them while offering to make Kate a coffee to. Simon doesn’t contribute much to the conversation at all, just remains this silent and oppressive presence lingering in the corners of the room, anywhere that gives him a good vantage point really. He's a silent spectre, a sentinel, a ghost. Always somewhere just out of sight with everything in his watch and reach. Price lets him stand where he’s comfortable, concedes that little bit of control to him on a night he knows the boy’s had no control of anything.
“I’ve got a few different rooms upstairs, all of them are ready to move in to but I thought you might want to pick one that suits you.” He says, leading the two of them upstairs. Simon hasn’t once let go of his bin-liner and Price suspects getting him to wash anything in that bag is going to take considerable time and effort; this is all Simon has now of home, and however much a hell-hole home might have been he’s seen kids cling to the most disgustingly filthy objects purely because it’s the last vestiges of their old life and family they have left. He’s left all the doors open so Simon can explore each room upstairs at his own pace, and he waits patiently at the end of the hallway to give him time to adjust to the idea that this home is now his to.
Price can sense the overwhelm a mile away as Simon lingers in each doorway, like he’s afraid that to enter a room would be to taint it somehow, the pristine white linen looking to fine for his grubby hands. He can see the dirt under the boys nails, the slight lacquer of grease in his unkempt hair. Moving quickly indeed he thinks grimly as he watches the boy hesitantly test a mattress and peer out a window. That soulless stare focuses back on him when he’s found the room he wants, but the words won’t come. Simon never once asks if the room can be his, he’s never been allowed to want, but he acquires it through presence alone.
Price nods to the chest of drawers, “Bottom one’s got bedding in. We can talk some more tomorrow about how you want to decorate it. Take your time settling in and come down when you’re ready. Lights out at 10:00, alright?” Simon gives him a slow blink, and Price realises that’s all the reaction he’s going to get as he turns and walks to the stairs, Riley on his heels. Laswell waits near the front door, tapping away on her phone to organise the rest of Simon’s life no doubt. He clomps down the steps, absent-mindedly rubbing away the phantom aches in his leg once he hits the bottom.
“Kid doing okay?” Laswell’s question comes with a critical eye of him, and Price knows she’s really asking if he can cope with him more so than if Simon will be alright here. He gives a slight nod, glancing back up the stairs.
“Okay as he can be given the shit he’s gone through…he’ll, er…he’ll take some getting used to.” Price admitted.
“He’s not said more than five words to me since we met hours ago, and that stare…”Laswell shuddered a bit. Price hummed in agreement as he opened his front door to let her out.
“We need anything we’ll let you know, till then best to let him settle.”
“Alright then. You have my number.” Laswell lifts a hand in farewell as she walks down the front path and towards her car. Price watches her go, his mind already back on the teenage boy she’s leaving behind. Deposited in his house with nothing more than a bin-liner to his name, Simon Riley was going to require some serious care, and he felt clueless as to where to start. With a deep sigh, he closed the front door and set off towards the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and a game plan. He was going to make this house a home for the boy, one way or another.
Part 2 coming tomorrow...
Can't quite believe Part 4 is going to drop tomorrow evening. Written from Simon's point of view with a little more fluff than the Part 3 had. Almost. Sort of.
Cherry Red, Crimson Blood
Chapter 17: Alone
Summary: Your pack has left on their first deployment since you joined them, leaving you alone on base.
Pairing: Poly 141 x reader
Word Count: 6,866
Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, ANGST, anxiety, fear, nightmares, PTSD, trauma, just super depressing overall.
A/N: I'm so ready for these next two chapters, you have no idea. Things are happening, things are gonna happen, it's just...so good. You'll see 🤭. They're pretty heavy chapters emotionally, but don't worry fluff will be coming very soon. I won't leave you hanging too much for too long.
MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->
“We'll only be gone for a few days. A week at most. Dr. Keller will take you to and from meals and anywhere else you may need to go. If you need anything, contact Kate. We'll call when we can.”
He leaves you with a kiss to your forehead. You’re forced to stand there and watch his back as he boards the plane, the ramp closing and sealing you off from them. They all looked guilty, as if it was their fault they had to leave, as if they were suffering as much as you at the idea of parting, even just for a short period of time.
You don't sleep that night. You lay in your bed and stare at the ceiling until far too late when you decide to abandon it for John's room instead. You slip under the covers, disrupting the immaculately made bed as you surround yourself with his scent. You’re on edge, the barracks far too quiet, far too empty. Every little sound has you tensing, holding your breath. The door is locked, yet it’s not the same without your pack there to protect you. If you scream, no one will hear you now.
You manage to fall asleep at some point in the early hours, your mind plagued with horrible nightmares of monsters devouring and tearing you apart.
You wake with the sun, dragging your feet back to your room. You miss the quiet sounds of your boys getting ready in the morning after their workouts, taking extra care not to be too loud. Now you wish for it. You want them to be loud and wake you, because then they’d be here with you. The hallway feels too empty, the barracks too large. You’ve spent plenty of time alone in the barracks, but it’s never felt like this. They’re not just across base from you, they’re probably in an entirely different country.
You stare at their closed doors, all four of them feeling like voids knowing the rooms behind them are empty. Even Ghost’s closed door feels particularly empty.
You shuffle into your room, locking the door behind you as you get ready for the day. You’re not quite sure what you’re going to do, now that you don’t have them around. You suppose you could just go about your day as you usually do while they’re at training, except you won’t have their inevitable return to fetch you for meals to look forward to.
It’ll be days before you see them again.
If you see them again.
You force that thought back into the recesses of your mind. You won’t entertain it, not now while you’re still trying to process the fact that they’re gone. Even if it is a possibility.
You’re sitting on your bed when the knock comes, clutching your phone in your hand. You don’t want to be without it, in case they call. You don’t want to miss a chance to talk to them, especially if it’s your only chance. Or a call from Kate telling you something happened.
You open the door, Dr. Keller standing in the hallway with a small smile on her face. It doesn’t feel strange having her in this space, even with the rest of your pack gone. She’s been here before, and you trust her.
“How are you doing?” She asks as you step out of your room, closing the door behind you.
“I don’t know.” You say, letting out a sigh. “I couldn’t sleep last night.”
“I don’t blame you. Feels strange, being alone here, huh?”
You nod. “Yeah. It’s too quiet. Too empty.”
“I bet.” You follow her out of the barracks and into the cool morning air. “Let’s get some food in you and then you can take it easy for the rest of the day. I know this is a big adjustment, and it happened rather suddenly.”
“Was gonna happen eventually, though.” You say. “For the three months I was with the CIA, they drilled it into my head that their job would always take priority over everything else. Still sucks.”
“It does. Separation is hard for everyone in a pack, even if it’s short term. Add on the stress of their jobs and I can only imagine what it’s like.”
“I’m trying not to think about that.” You say.
“I think that’s the best thing you can do right now.” She squeezes your arm. “Come on, we’ll get the food to go and we’ll eat in my office. I usually do that anyway. It’s much quieter than the mess.”
You get your breakfast, following Dr. Keller to the medical center. You are silently glad you won’t have to eat in the mess without the protection of your pack. The stares from the others might have been your tipping point, and without Ghost to scare them off, you’re sure it would have only been worse.
“Make yourself at home.” Dr. Keller says, letting you into her office. “You can sit at the desk to eat, if that’s more comfortable. I don’t mind.”
You take her up on the offer, sitting in the chair across from hers at the desk. She moves some papers out of the way before taking a seat herself. It feels almost strange, being so informal in her office, but then again, she’s always been more laid back with the formality between the two of you.
“If there’s one thing I miss, it’s good diner food.” Dr. Keller says as the two of you begin to eat.
You stare down at your porridge for a moment, having gotten used to the change in food over the last almost nine weeks. “I miss a lot of things.”
“Would you ever want to go back and visit America?” Dr. Keller asks.
You shrug. “I don’t know.”
“I’m sure they’d take you, if you asked.” She smiles as you stare up at her in surprise. “I don’t think there’s much they wouldn’t do, if you asked. They care about you a lot.”
“I’m starting to realize that.” You say.
“Good. It’s reassuring to see such strong, natural bonds forming between all of you, despite how the situation came about. You’ve made a lot of good progress already, even with the few bumps in the road.”
It falls silent between the two of you as you eat, finishing your breakfast. Your stomach churns with anxiety, hand closing around the phone in your pocket as if it might ring at any moment. It makes you sick, the thought of what they might be doing, what might be happening right at this very moment.
“Can I ask you something?” You break the silence, needing to take your mind off your swirling thoughts.
“Of course.” She says, looking up from the papers she’d been looking through.
“Since I’m your only patient, what do you do all day?” You ask.
She smiles. “I do a lot of things. After our sessions I log the notes I take and read over them, I make sure your medical chart is up to date, I read through a lot of studies and journals on new research and methods that may be helpful, I talk to colleagues all over the world, including here on base, and I sometimes go around the medical center and sit in on meetings and classes to keep my skills sharp.”
“Do you ever feel like you’re wasting your skills here?”
She shakes her head. “No. Before I took this job, I was caring for sometimes over one hundred omegas at various institutes. It was a high stress environment with long hours. While it was fulfilling work, there’s a high turnover rate for Omega Specialists in that field for a reason. Being a private doctor is a bit of a relief after that, and truthfully, the pay is considerably better.” She folds her arms on her desk, leaning forward. “It’s no less fulfilling than working at institutes. It’s nice to have the time to put together the best care plan for you and your needs.”
“It is nice having an Omega Specialist to myself.” You say. “There were several at the institute, a lot of students doing their residency. They weren’t always...good at their jobs. A lot of them were just going through the motions, doing what the more experienced specialists told them to do.”
“Unfortunately that’s rather common with residents.” She says. “Most of them don’t make it past residency. Like a lot of specialities in medicine, it takes a certain kind of personality to succeed as an Omega Specialist. Not everyone has it in them. I wish more schools and programs would take notice earlier before they get to their residencies and steer them down a different path.” She smiles at you. “Now my question for you. Would you rather hang out in here today, or would you prefer to go back to the barracks? You won’t hurt my feelings either way, nor will you be a bother.”
You think about it for a moment. While your knee jerk answer is to go back to the barracks, what are you going to do? Sit alone in the silence and worry until it makes you sick? Sit in the rec room and watch TV alone and worry about your boys until the next meal time? As much as you want to be alone, you also don’t want to be alone.
“I’d...like to stay here, if that’s okay?” You finally say, making your decision.
“More than okay.” She smiles. “Make yourself at home, do whatever you’d like. Watch YouTube videos, dig into some books, take a nap. You won’t bother me in the slightest. You’re always welcome to hang out in here.”
You look over the titles on the bookshelf, picking one that looks interesting before settling on the couch. You spend the day with Dr. Keller, relaxing in her office and going to meals with her. It doesn’t calm the anxious thoughts by much, but at least the loneliness is abated a bit.
You return to the barracks after dinner, debating whether you should sit in the rec room or just go to your room. The rec room feels too open, too exposed without the safety of your pack, so instead you choose to retreat into your room, locking the door behind you.
You let out a sigh, your shoulders slumping as tears gather in your eyes. Another night without them, another night without the safety and comfort of their presence around you. Another night knowing they’re not on the other side of the wall, a knock or a yell away.
You fight the panic starting to bubble as you get ready for bed, your mind swirling with thoughts of something happening, someone breaking in, someone taking advantage of their absence to get to you. You know it’s an irrational fear. Most of the alphas on base ignore your existence, aside from the couple incidents you’ve had with them. The most they do is stare, though that’s to be expected as an omega.
What if they’re holding back something more sinister, though? What if the only thing stopping them is your pack? This would be their opportune moment.
You’re shaking, eyes wide in fear as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Sure, you’ve learned a few ways to defend yourself, but could you really utilize them? If the moment called for it, could you defend yourself enough to get away? Where would you go? Dr. Keller won’t be in her office all night. Could you run and seek protection from another medical professional that was still working? Could you find a different high ranking official on base and hope they’d help you? Could you go for the guards at the gate and hope they help you?
Or would it be safer to run for the woods? Try to lose whichever alpha decided to attack you and hope you don’t get lost in the trees? You would just have to survive the night, and Dr. Keller would notice you missing come morning. What would she do, though? Call Kate? It’s not like the guys could just come home and help you. Would Kate even tell them something happened and put them at risk of getting distracted? What if something happened to them because of you?
You turn the shower on as cold as it will go, stepping under the spray in your pajamas. You sink to the floor of the shower, letting the cold water snap you out of your panic and prevent you from distressing. No one’s coming through the door, no one’s going to try and hurt you.
Your teeth are chattering by the time you reach up to turn the water off. Violent shivers rock your body, your hands and feet numb. You take deep breaths, feeling more awake and aware than you have since yesterday.
The panic has dropped to almost nothing, your shaking now due to the fact you’re freezing. You strip out of your wet clothes, leaving them in the tub as you wrap a towel around yourself. You’re still shivering violently as you change into warmer pajamas, opting for one of John’s shirts and sweatpants.
You slip under the covers of your bed, piling every blanket you own on top of the covers before tucking yourself against your giant bear. You won’t sleep, but at least you’re not panicking anymore.
The days begin to blend together without the routine of your pack to keep you steady. Dr. Keller comes to get you at the same time as you expect for your breakfast, and then you spend all day with her, sitting in her office, keeping yourself occupied while you wait for an inevitable phone call. It will either be your pack calling to check on you, or it will be Kate with bad news.
You’re not sure which is worse. The anticipation of a call from your pack letting you know they’re all alright, or the dread that it will be Kate telling you something happened to them.
You’re still not sleeping well, the anxiety and the worry you might miss their call meshing with the nightmares that were already plaguing you before they left. You’re exhausted and strung out, the worry beginning to eat you alive. You’re constantly on edge, every little sound close to sending you spiraling.
Your thoughts have slowly shifted from missing your pack to ruminating about the fact they might not be coming back. It’s a risk you’re well aware of. The kinds of things they do put them at risk, every deployment carries the risk of one, or all of them, dying. One thing goes wrong, one small freak accident and your entire pack could be taken from you.
You’re not sure you’d survive that.
Most omegas don’t.
“Still nothing?” Dr. Keller asks as you sit there, staring at your phone for what must have been an hour at least.
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Sometimes no news is good news.” She says. “I know you’d prefer to have any news at all, though.”
“I can’t stop thinking...what if something bad has happened?” You say, fingers trembling from gripping your phone so hard.
“Kate promised she’d call if something happened, right?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“She’s a woman of her word, I can say that much. I’m sure they’re fine. They’re very capable soldiers. They wouldn’t be in Spec Ops if they weren’t, much less on a highly specialized team.” Dr. Keller stands up, moving to the closet. “It’s still hard, not knowing where they are or what they’re doing. I remember when my brother told our parents he was enlisting. Our mother cried for a week straight.” She pulls a pillow and a blanket out of the closet. “I still don’t think she’s completely forgiven him. It’s hard for omegas when someone leaves the pack, even temporarily, especially if you can’t have constant reassurance that they’re alright.”
Your brows pinch in a frown at her words as she kneels on the floor beside the couch. “Your mom was an omega?”
She nods. “And dad was a beta. Wound up with two beta children, though I don’t think mom complained much about that. We grew up in a big pack with lots of people around us. I think mom would have been worse off if it had just been her and dad.” She sets the pillow on the couch, gently prying the phone from your fingers. “Come on, lay down.” She directs you.
You do as she says, laying down on the couch, resting your head on the pillow. She covers you with the blanket, tucking it up around your neck. “Is that why you’re so good at this job?”
She smiles, setting your phone on the arm of the couch above your head. “Maybe. I think it gave me more empathy for omegas and the struggles you face every day.” She gently squeezes your arm. “They’ll be alright. They’re probably just as worried about you, as you are them. But, you need to get some rest. You don’t have to sleep, just laying with your eyes closed will help.”
You tilt your head, glancing up at your phone. “What if I fall asleep and it rings?”
“Then I’ll make sure you get a chance to answer it.” She says, squeezing your arm again. “I promise. Get some rest.”
You let out a breath, not wanting to risk falling asleep, but you close your eyes anyway. It doesn’t stop the thoughts from coming on, the nightmarish images the anxiety feeds your brain flashing before your eyes. What if they’re lying dead somewhere right now? What if something’s happened to Kate and she can’t tell you? Would you ever find out? Would you ever know?
Despite the anxiety prickling through your body, the warmth of the blanket begins to lull you into a false sense of security. Perhaps it’s the sheer exhaustion from your lack of sleep over the last couple weeks, paired with the exhaustion from your constant worrying, but you find yourself slipping between sleep and consciousness as you lay there on Dr. Keller’s couch. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it as you begin to drift off to sleep.
Screaming. It’s loud, piercing your ears. Something’s holding you, hands clutching at your form desperately. It hurts, nails biting into your skin, fingers gripping too hard, yet you don’t care.
“You won’t take her from me! I won’t let you!”
You’re crying, sobs wracking your body as you cling just as tightly to the form holding you.
Hands grab at you, squeezing and pulling, trying to free you from the constricting grip around you, but it won’t let go. You cling to it just as desperately, afraid of what will happen if you let go.
You know what will happen if you let go.
“She’s no daughter of mine.”
The words bite into you, slicing through your skin straight into your very soul, the prickling pain of your own flesh and blood rejecting you making your skin crawl. How could he just let you go like that? How could he turn against you so easily, over something you have no control over?
Pain erupts across your entire body. Something snaps, your ears ringing from more screams. You’re being pulled away from the safety of the hold around you, your body going cold as the warmth around you disappears. Hands close around you, fingers ripping into you as you're torn from your mother’s hold and into the unknown.
“Easy, easy.”
You’re gasping, breathing wheezing as tears choke you.
“Deep breaths. In and out, nice and slow.”
Your breath hitches, catching painfully in your chest.
“You’re alright, you’re safe.”
You force your eyes open, blinded by tears as something is tucked into your arms. You squeeze the bear against your chest, hiccuping as you fight for control over your emotions. You’re on the couch in Dr. Keller’s office still. You’re not at what was once your home, not stuck in the nightmare you’ve lived over and over.
Slowly breathing becomes easier, your sobs quieting to sniffles. The tears still spill down your cheeks, dampening the fur of the bear in your arms.
“You’re alright,” Dr. Keller says, rubbing your back gently.
You slowly push yourself up to sit, pulling your knees against your chest. You press your palms into your eyes, trying to get the tears to stop. Dr. Keller shifts her position, sitting next to you on the couch.
“How long have you been having nightmares?” She asks quietly, watching you as you try to calm yourself.
“Since my heat.” You say, voice rough from crying. You wrap your arms around the bear again, holding onto it tightly.
“You haven’t said anything about it.” She says gently, shifting slightly so she’s facing you.
“I didn’t want to.” You say quietly, shame burning through you. She’s not reprimanding you, yet you can’t help but feel like you’ve done something wrong. “I shouldn’t be having them, I mean...it’s not even that bad compared to...compared to what the others have gone through. The kinds of nightmares they have.”
“It might seem that way to you, but trauma is still trauma. It might not be the worst thing someone else has gone through, but it is the worst thing you’ve been through.”
Her words give you pause. You’ve never quite thought of it that way. The kinds of things your pack does, the things they’ve seen, the things they’ve done, are far worse than anything you’ve experienced. The things you’ve experienced may pale in comparison, but they’re your experiences. No one else’s.
“If you want to talk about them, that’s what I’m here for.” Dr. Keller says, leaving things open for you to decide what to do.
You don’t have to tell her. She won’t force you to do it. She won’t force you to do anything, to say anything you don’t want to. It might be nice, though, to let someone know, someone neutral, someone who won’t tell anyone else. It might be nice to finally put into words the things that are eating you, have been eating you.
You lay back down, curling up into a tight ball on the couch. You hug the bear close to your chest, letting it ground you. “My nightmares, they’re always about the day I left for the institute.” You start, taking a shaky breath. “I haven’t had them in years.”
“You were sent early after your presentation, right?” She asks.
“The day after.” You answer.
“Being sent to an institute can be traumatic when done within the normal time after presentation. I can’t even imagine what being sent that soon was like.” She lets out a breath. “Sometimes when we go through something traumatic, the brain and body hold onto it, because we don’t feel safe enough to process it in the moment. The brain can hold onto it for years, until we finally feel safe enough. Then the brain can start to try and heal from that trauma without us even realizing it.”
“You think that’s what’s happening?” You ask.
“It’s possible. Going through your heat successfully, being claimed, building close bonds with your pack, all could aid in helping you finally feel safe enough to process that trauma. Things usually feel worse as the brain works through the trauma, which could be why you’re having nightmares about that event suddenly.”
“Is there anything that will make them stop?” You ask.
“There’s some things we can do together that might help the process. I’m more than happy to help you with it, if that’s what you’d like to do. If you decide to, I think it will be a good idea to set up appointments at least twice a week, at least at first.”
“What are we gonna tell John?”
She gives you a look. “Well, I’d advise telling him the truth. I think you should tell your pack about your nightmares. They can at least offer you some comfort and understanding. Of course, that’s entirely up to you and what you want to do.”
You let out a sigh, getting comfortable on the couch again. Dr. Keller adjusts the blanket over you, squeezing your arm gently.
“Think about it.” She says. “We can talk about it more after they get back and things have settled back to normal again.”
You’re brushing your teeth when the call comes. You quickly spit into the sink, not even bothering to rinse your mouth before you’re answering, anxiety twisting your stomach into knots. You hadn’t even checked the screen to see who was calling. You’re just anxious to hear from someone after days of silence.
“Hello?”
There’s a beat of silence before the voice on the other side responds, the audio distant and slightly garbled, but you hardly notice.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
You fight back a sob, your inhale shaky as relief floods through you. “Alpha.” The title slips through your lips before you can even catch it, your body nearly vibrating at hearing John’s voice after so many days.
“I’m here. We’re all here.” He says, distant voices sounding in the background.
A smile tugs at your lips, happy tears blurring your eyes as you collapse on your bed. “Missed you.”
“I know, we’ve missed you too.”
You move to your bed, flopping down on the mattress in relief. “You alright? Is everyone alright?”
“We’re alright. Few bumps and bruises, but nothing we haven’t had before. How are you holding up?”
The urge to spill the truth to him is strong. You’ve been depressed and worried and there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by that you haven’t panicked about something. You’ve been having horrible nightmares and haven’t been sleeping. There’s an ache in your chest that won’t go away, and you’re afraid it might kill you if you don’t see them soon.
“I’m alright. Sad cause I miss you a lot.”
“I know, sweetheart.” There’s a sound on the other end, something you can’t make out and the line buzzes for a second. For a moment you’re worried you were disconnected, but John’s voice cuts through the noise again. “We’re finishing up here soon, and we’ll be home in a couple of days.”
You can’t help but sigh in relief at his words. They’re alright. They’re all safe, and they’re going to be home soon. You’re going to get to see them soon, touch them again, smell them again. “Hurry back.” You say, your voice shaky with emotion.
“We’ll try, sweet girl. We have to get going, but we’ll be back before you know it.”
Saying goodbye doesn't hurt as much as you expect it to. Maybe it’s the relief from hearing their voices, from knowing they’re really alright paired with the knowledge that they’ll be home soon. Two days doesn’t seem so far now that you know that’s all that stands between you and seeing your pack again.
You roll over in your bed, pressing your face into the pillows. Nothing smells like them anymore. Not their shirts that they scented before they left, not your pillows or stuffed animals. The couch in the rec room, and even John’s bed have started to smell more like you.
The first thing you’re going to do when they return is get a big whiff of each of them, even if you have to tackle Ghost to do it. You want to refresh their scents all over everything, roll around in them until they’re the only thing you can smell.
For the first time in days, you manage to sleep that night. It’s not much, but it’s a deep, nightmare-free sleep, aided by the relief from the constant anxiety that has plagued you.
You update Dr. Keller the next day on the news of your pack’s imminent return. You elect to spend the afternoon in the barracks instead of her office, the building suddenly not seeming quite so empty now that you know they’re coming home soon. You clean up John’s room, making his bed again after you’d made a mess of it trying to sleep. They’re all going to be tired when they return, and you want to help them in any way that you can. You pick up your room as well, even though you know you likely won’t be spending much time in it for a while. You’re going to latch yourself onto them and not let go until the ache in your chest has disappeared.
You bristle when the knock sounds at your door. You glance up from where you had been sorting the clothes you’d stolen from the guys from your own so you can get them to scent them again. You’re not expecting a knock yet. It’s too early to be Dr. Keller coming to get you for dinner, and she would have announced herself like she has been, if it was her.
That means someone else is in the barracks. Someone you don’t know.
Your mind races as you try to think of who it could be. You don’t know many others on base, and certainly no one that would enter the barracks just like that, unless it’s an emergency. Is there an emergency? You’re almost certain if there was an emergency on base, then there would be alarms going off or something. There’d be some sign that something was happening, but it’s quiet outside, or at least, there’s no noises you’re not expecting.
The knock comes again, louder and sharper. Whoever is on the other side is obviously not going to just go away. You debate calling Dr. Keller, telling her someone is outside your door, getting her to help you on this, but instead you grab your phone, holding it in your hand as you move towards the door.
You unlock it, holding your hand on the handle in case the person on the other side tries to force their way in. They don’t, so you open it slowly, just enough that you can see out. There’s a soldier outside your door. A woman. You don’t recognize her, but then again you don’t see many women on the base, and you don’t pay much attention to the other soldiers.
Maybe you need to start paying more attention.
She’s a beta, you can tell just by looking at her. She’s wearing scent blockers, keeping her scent from projecting into the barracks to erase the fact she was here.
She says your name, staring at you with hard set eyes. “General Shepherd is waiting for you.”
It takes you a moment to process what it is she’s saying. You’ve never met any of the higher ups on base. The person with the most authority you’ve met is John, but you know he’s only a Captain. There’s others above him, but you weren’t any concern of theirs, so you have never bothered to meet them. Even in your time with the CIA, the person with the most authority that you met seemed to be Kate. You hadn’t even been given names of anyone higher up than her.
Apparently something’s changed.
Something in the back of your mind begins to tingle. Something isn’t right about this. You should have called Dr. Keller, or even Kate. You shouldn’t have opened the door so recklessly.
“But, I’m not supposed to-” You begin, unsure of what to do now.
“It’s a direct order from your superior.” The woman cuts you off, her tone sharp and impatient.
You’re not a soldier. The only superior you have is John and he’s certainly not behind this.
You wouldn’t dare say that out loud. Not right now.
“Okay, okay.” You say, stepping back slightly from the door. “Let me just get some shoes on.”
You close the door, staring down at your phone. You debate calling Dr. Keller or even just sending a text, but you don’t put it past the woman outside to barge in if you don’t hurry. You can feel the panic rising, the thought of someone invading your space so carelessly making the back of your neck tingle. So instead you slip on a pair of shoes, shoes you know you can run in, before you open the door again.
She’s still standing in the hallway, stiffly at attention. Her gaze pierces into you, making your skin crawl. You close your door behind you, slipping your phone into your pocket. She doesn't say anything as she turns on her heel, walking down the hallway towards the door. You follow behind her, having to walk quickly to keep up with her. You’re reminded of your early days on the base when you would be escorted around by Ghost.
You’d take those times back over this right now.
Your palms start to sweat as you leave the barracks, dread starting to fill your stomach as you realize how much of a mistake you’ve made, leaving with this stranger. She could be taking you anywhere to see anyone. You’re not even sure General Shepherd is a real person.
The thought of being led blindly into a room of alphas like a lamb being led into a den of hungry wolves nearly makes you panic, your steps faltering just slightly as you debate running. You could make it to the medical center quickly from here if you sprint the entire way. Would she chase you if you took off running? Would you get in trouble? Would the guys get in trouble if you did?
You don’t want anyone to get in trouble.
Especially not with this being the first time you’ve been on your own. They’ve put a lot of trust in both you and Dr. Keller in their absence. If you get into trouble while they’re gone, that might change things. You could ruin everything you’ve built by misbehaving.
The woman leads you to a building you haven’t been in before, leading you down a clinical-looking hallway to a door. She pauses in front of it, turning to face you. You stare at her, still on edge. What if this is a test? What if they’re testing you to see if you’d just blindly leave with a stranger while they’re not there to protect you.
You’ve made a big mistake.
The woman holds out her hand, and you stare down at it dumbly. “Your phone.”
You continue to stare at her hand for a moment, trying to swallow the nervous panic rising within you. You don’t have much of a choice now but to obey. Your hands are shaking as you pass your phone over, the woman pocketing it before she opens the door.
It’s bright inside, the LED bulbs burning your eyes. You’re uncomfortable and uneasy, a dangerous mix for an omega, but the person inside doesn’t seem to care. He stands from his seat, towering over you. He screams alpha before his scent even hits you. You’re thrown back into the memories of your father, the way he carried himself, the way he stood. Back straight like a rod, hands clasped behind his back, face pressed into a stern line.
He’s in uniform, decorated with more patches and pins than you could put a name to. Army, you think, judging by the color of his jacket. It looks like General Shepherd is a real person after all.
You try not to flinch as the door clicks closed behind you, sealing you in this room with an unknown alpha. Though it’s only one, you still feel like the helpless lamb standing before a hungry wolf.
No one will hear you scream. No one will care.
“My name is General Shepherd.” He says, his voice gruff and laced with authority. “I am the acting commander of Task Force 141.”
You’re not sure if you should say anything, or even bother introducing yourself. He probably already knows you well, even though you’ve never met him before in your life.
“I was one of the driving forces behind the omega initiative, and I decided the 141 should be one of the first to participate. I also signed the approval for you to be assigned as their omega, did you know that?”
You shake your head. “N-No sir, the CIA didn’t give me any names.”
“Good.” His lips twitch in what you assume was supposed to be a smile. It doesn’t ease your nerves any. “They weren’t supposed to. I’m sure you’ve learned that confidentiality is everything in this line of work.”
“Yes, sir.” You try not to flinch under his gaze, piercing and probing. The back of your neck is tingling, every single instinct in your body screaming at you to run, to escape, to get somewhere safe.
“I came here today to ensure your pack was doing as they were instructed. I’m impressed with what I’ve seen so far. You’re getting along well with them?”
You nod again. “Yes, sir. There were some...bumps along the way, but we all get along fine now.”
“Good.” He closes the file on the table, taking a step closer to you. You fight the urge to take a step back, not wanting him to invade your space while you’re so vulnerable. “The success of this program is imperative to the future of the military and its functionality. You’re doing important work here with the Task Force.” His hand lifts, slowly pulling the collar of your shirt to the side so he can see your mating mark.
You fight the urge to lift your hands and wrap them around the back of your neck, the instinctual urge to protect yourself nearly winning out as he stares at your mark. Your heart is pounding in your chest, the fear-driven adrenaline making your fingers tremble. Half a second and he could scruff you, half a second and he could overpower you.
No one would know. No one would care.
“I’m satisfied with what I’m seeing so far. Of course, the true measure of success will be their efficiency in their current task.” He steps back away from you, moving back to the table. “How have you been adjusting to them being gone?”
“It’s been difficult,” You say, breathing for a second to collect yourself. “But I know separation can be a rough adjustment at first.”
His lips twitch again in a twisted smile. “You’re a smart girl. That’s why I chose you for this position. You’re doing good work. Your efforts will change the course of military history, hopefully for the better.”
Something about his words don’t sit right with you.
You’re trembling as you exit the room, led out by the woman that had brought you to the building. Your breaths are heavy as you try to keep a grip on the anxiety threatening to overtake you. Your hand is trembling uncontrollably as she give you your phone back, your knuckles going white as you clutch it to your chest. You’re sweating, the cool air chilling your skin as you step outside.
You barely remember the walk back to the barracks, numbly following the woman as she leads you back to your safe space. It doesn't feel so safe anymore, now that she’s breached it. She entered without permission, breaking that trust that’s so sacred to packs.
She doesn't even seem bothered by it.
She pauses outside the door to the barracks, staring down at you. You fight the urge to race inside and lock yourself in the safety of your room before she can change her mind and enter again, or take you somewhere worse. You stand your ground, meeting her gaze.
“Thank you for your cooperation.” She says, as monotone as she had been the first time she spoke to you.
You finally realize what it was that made her seem so off to you as you think over her words.
She’s American.
“Thank you for escorting me.” You say politely, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Have a safe trip home.”
You quickly enter the barracks, speed walking down the hall towards your room. You want to burrow under your covers and hide until the guys return and you can feel safe again. You pause in front of your door, staring down at the handle. The back of your neck is prickling again, anxiety burning hot in your veins. Your hands have begun shaking again, clinging to the phone still pressed against your chest. You fight the urge to hyperventilate as you stare at your door, half of your brain telling you to run and the other half stuck, staring in shock and disbelief.
Your door is ajar. Open just a crack, just enough to be noticeable by looking at it.
You always close your door. You always ensure it’s shut every time you leave the barracks, even when the guys are home. You remember shutting it before you followed the woman out of the barracks. You remember distinctly listening to the click of the handle as you pulled it shut behind you in the quiet of the barracks.
You stare at the gap, the line of the frame visible. It’s open. Your door is open.
Someone was inside your room.
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@evolutionarry @red-hydra @lunaetiicsaystuff @linaangel @codsunshine
@thriving-n-jiving @slayerx147 @ferns-fics @spicyspicyliving @cityoffallencrows
@ttsbaby01 @heeheehoohoohahahihi @sleepyoriana @ihatethinkingofnames10 @cassiecasluciluce
@darling006 @sheep-from-rad @ohgodthebogisback @willow-sages @scythemood
@daniblogs164 @mirzamsaiph
The way I YELLED at this cliff hanger made my partner come running from the living room demanding to know what was wrong. This was so good?! The rollercoaster of emotions is written so well you feel it (or maybe its my own sparkling anxiety, oops) just....I love this series
