alright, flower?

Ghost nudges Gaz with his elbow, then holds out a wrapped sweet between gloved fingers without looking up. He takes it, and holds it out to the private.

“Here. Ginger. Helps with nausea.” When the private can’t seem to look away from Ghost, he waggles his hand. “Hey. I’m not dealing with you being sick on the plane.”

Next to Parker, Chambers snickers. “Got enough for all of us, Lieutenant?”

“That’ll do,” Ghost drawls. “Take the sweet, lad.”

Parker nearly eats the thing with the wrapper still on. It’s hard to tell if it’s instinctual fear or budding hero worship that drives him, but Gaz will leave that for him and a chaplain to work out. He sits back in his seat and tips his head back.

He’s almost shut his eyes when movement catches his attention. He finds himself glancing at Ghost’s phone again.

And catches sight of a familiar tattooed hand wrapped around a dark throat. The camera is centered there, just close enough that he can see just the barest hint of tits bouncing, just out of frame. There’s no audio, but he can imagine the moan that’s pouring from slick, plush lips at the top of the screen.

Kyle flicks his eyes up to the roof of the transport and rolls his shoulders. It’s not the first time he’s caught of glimpse of an intimate moment like this - it’s not even the most explicit view he’s gotten of Bambi - but there are rules to these kinds of things. Ghost is pretty close to breaking one, here, pulling that up on the fucking truck with the privates, but Gaz won’t stare.

Well. He can sneak another peek.

But the image is gone. He looks up and meets Ghost’s eyes for a long moment, hair standing on end like the mission is beginning instead of ending.

The lieutenant breaks eye contact first. The smile is obvious in his voice as he says, “Stay focused, Sergeant.”

~~~

Back on home soil, Kyle is almost able to put that video clip out of his mind. Almost. From the moment they hit the tarmac, he’s being pulled this way and that. And throughout getting the privates settled, debriefing, meetings, medical, and more meetings, the image of Bambi loops in the back of his mind with his heartbeat. Details he’s not sure he actually picked up layer with what he knows about her, what he doesn’t, what the video recontextualizes about how he sees Simon, on the field and off. It buzzes under his skin until he feels like he can’t sit still.

Simon is very in love with his wife.

That used to trip Kyle up. In the field, the lieutenant is a force. Every moment he’s got a weapon in his hands is a moment Gaz is glad they’re on the same side. To the team he leads, he isn’t cold, exactly. He’ll take care of kids like he had with Parker without a second thought. But compared even to Price, he’s aloof. Self-contained. Unapproachable. To anyone but the 141, and perhaps Kate and Nik, he’s nothing but mask and scars, bulk and the occasional morbid joke. Even with the 141, he’s… reserved. Almost untouchable.

But with his wife? All of the violence winds itself up into something that is not quite a threat. A sheathed knife.

As he throws himself on the treadmill, the contrast of it tickles his brain like lining up a difficult shot.

There had been something animal in Simon’s eyes when he’d shown Gaz a photo of Bambi, months ago. She was in a tiny green bathing suit, hands behind her head, kneeling in the sand. He’d had studied the half-sized polaroid of her for as long as his friend had let him, trying not to read into the wolfish hunger of Ghost’s eyes on his face. She’d looked like a model, and he’d told Simon so as the photo had been tucked away behind body armor. Ghost’s eyes hadn’t left him until they were on the move again, and Gaz had felt the weight of his regard for days. He got the impression that he was the only one who’d seen her that way. All of the 141 may have seen a dim and grainy still of her tits after walking in on Simon stroking off to his phone, but something in Gaz knows that Ghost would eat that photo before allowing anyone else to see his wife smiling on the beach.

Which made the fact that Ghost had pulled that video up in the truck even more perplexing. If any of the privates had seen Bambi that way, even without the knowledge of who she is… But he’d seen it, and Ghost had caught him looking. Had he angled the phone to catch his eye on purpose?

It’s a dangerous line of thought - his whole body is still on alert from the mission and he knows he can easily get tangled up in his own thoughts. But… he’s already chubbing up in his shorts. His mind goes too many places at once, looking for a trap, but also wondering if Ghost is getting off on spinning him up, if Bambi knows and gets off on the idea that her man might let someone see her. The image of Ghost’s hand tight around Bambi’s throat tangles with the idea of being in her place, and of hearing Bambi’s voice as she moans under Simon, under him, between them, him between them, hard and soft-

He slaps End Preset on the treadmill and hops off before the belt can stop.

It takes concentration to make himself breathe, to force himself to focus on the feel of the ground under his feet, the general rumble of the gym. His mind is latched on things he should try to let go of, but he can calm down. He has to.

Of course, as soon as he enters the locker room, his heart is racing again. Simon is already there, pulling off his compression shirt. He scans Kyle up and down once his head is free and smirks.

“Enjoyin’ cardio that much, Garrick?”

“Fuck off,” he laughs, and he hopes the shake in his voice isn’t obvious. He tries not to scan Simon’s body for evidence of Bambi that would be long faded, fails. With a quick shake of his head, he blows a sharp breath. “Mind’s racing. You know how it is.”

“’Ard not to. Lot’s ‘f interestin’ things f’ someone’s mind to grab ‘old of.”

Kyle squints at Simon’s back as the man shucks his pants and wraps a towel around his waist. He knows he’s being fucked with, but it’s always hard to tell why with Simon. The longer he thinks about it, the harder it is to shake the feeling that there’s some hidden threat to this, that Simon is cornering him.

Of course, his cock doesn’t calm down much as he gets out of his own sweaty clothes. If anything, as his mind races through every interaction he’s ever had with Bambi, and looking for something Simon may have been offended by is only ratcheting him up further. Had she really run her fingers through his hair, the last time she’d joined them at the pub? Had she lingered in a hug after a couple of drinks? Hadn’t Simon wrapped an arm around his shoulders, after she’d kissed his cheek goodbye? Or was that another night?

If anyone else were around, he’d already be in the showers, jerking himself off to get to that place where his brain is quiet. But it’s just him and Simon, their internal clocks at opposite ends from the other officers. Just them and the memory of that video. He’s inexplicably nervous to get himself off, now. The hair on his arms stands up at the idea that the other man will see through him, that it will be obvious that he’s wrapped up in him and Bambi, not just the video, but more.

It’s that more that reminds him to pull himself back. There is no more, no threat. Simon is his friend. Teasing him, getting a rise out of him, but still friendly. He wouldn’t set Kyle up to hurt him, they’re not enemies. He wouldn’t hurt Bambi. Kyle tries to center himself in that knowledge, slows down his breathing, again.

Of course, that’s when Simon calls, “Sniffin’ y’r own pits out there?”

It startles a bark of laughter out of him. “Fuck you, I’m not Tav.”

“An’ thank god f’ that. Y’got any of that good soap? The missus don’t like me usin’ three-n-one.”

“Get your own! You get paid more than me.”

Simon’s smiling, a genuine smile, when Kyle hands him the bottle. Kyle rolls his eyes and steps to the other side of the half-wall to start the water in his own stall.

The other man leaves him to it, lathering up a loofah and washing himself. Kyle keeps his eyes down. It’s not new to notice how Simon’s body looks, big and wet and lit up under the fluorescents. He’s fit, and he’s not Kyle’s usual type when it comes to blokes, but he’s not immune to muscles. Unfortunately, because he’s already worked up, he accidentally thinks the phrase military hunk and his brain starts playing three different porno scenes on top of each other. He has to dunk his face under the spray before it heats up properly to get it to stop.

Bambi’s pretty face flashes behind his eyelids.

He physically shakes the thought away with a groan.

“Garrick,” Simon calls, suddenly serious. “How copy?”

“Fine, m’ fine,” he mutters, quick, swiping water from his face and squeezing his eyes tight until phantom lights start flashing. “Not panickin’, mind’s not back on the op.”

“Sure?”

“Positive,” Kyle grumbles, eyes still shut tight. “Told you, my heads all over the place, but it’s not bad. Just… hard up.”

“Might’a noticed,” Simon chuckles, and Kyle sees his big shoulders relaxing in his minds eye.

“Oh, fuck you,” Kyle laughs breathlessly as he lathers up a cloth and starts scrubbing down. “Not all of us have a hot wife sending us videos to wank to.”

“’S ‘at what’s got y’r knickers in a twist? Need to see more’f my wife?”

Before Kyle can figure out why he said that and what could possibly be an acceptable response, a sound he can’t quite parse echoes under the sound of the water. Quick on its heels is a breathy little sigh that sends a zip of electricity up his spine. He swipes water from his eyes to took at Simon, and then at the phone he’s propped up on the tiled partition between them.

It’s Bambi, of course, but it’s not the video from the day before. No, this one shows her whole, naked body straight on, perched on what have to be Simon’s hips with her head tipped back. She’s in the same pose from that photograph, arched into pleasure as she rocks her hips and moans.

Kyle’s cock throbs even as his mind rockets into a frantic and nonsensical threat assessment. “You fucking with me, Riley?”

Simon’s watching his face, eyes hot and ravenous as Gaz looks back. The scars on his face pull as he grins. “You d’n wan’ me t’ fuck with you, Gaz?”

Kyle’s eyes dart down to where a big hand is stroking Simon’s hard cock, then back to the screen where Bambi moans as her man gropes one of her tits.

“Fuck,” Kyle laughs, eyes darting away. His cock throbs as another moan floats from under the sound of the water. “Fuck you, mate.”

“Don’ think my wife’s pretty, Garrick?”

“You know she is,” Kyle grumbles. He ducks his head back under the water.

‘She’s my wife, ‘course I know,” Simon snickers. “But y’re not gonna know if you don’t look at ‘er.”

At that moment, Bambi’s voice rings from the phone, a breathy “Please!” that has them both groaning. Against his better judgment, Kyle blinks water from his eyes to look. And when he sees her his whole body buzzes like a livewire.

The way her soft body bounces has him pressing his hands against the wall to keep from touching himself. He shudders at how bright her eyes are as she looks past the camera, at Simon. Kyle can’t help but do the same, eyes flicking over to Simon’s chest, the safest midpoint between those burning eyes and the way he’s stroking himself, and it doesn’t feel safe at all.

“C’n ‘ear your mind goin,” Simon rumbles, and then his big hand is catching Kyle by the jaw, squeezing when he almost jolts away. His dark eyes are amused when Kyle finally meets them. He gives his jaw a gentle shake. “Easy. Don’ overthink it, Gaz.”

Kyle freezes. He’d seen Simon’s hands do some horrifying things, not even three days ago, but now he’s imagining that palm against his throat, pale and powerful but maybe gentle. Bambi’s moans light him up as they continue echoing through the space, splitting his attention and making him aware of all of his senses at once. It’s blinding, overwhelming. All he can do is squeeze his eyes shut again, shudder and brace himself against the half wall when Simon draws Kyle’s forehead to his own.

“Easy,” Simon rumbles. “Why you ‘oldin’ back? Stressin’ y’self out?”

Kyle’s diaphragm feels frozen. He shakes his head, forces out, “Can’t.”

Simon chuckles. “Y’know what I do when Bambi says she can’t?”

Kyle’s eyes fly open as the other man’s hand disappears from his jaw, a shiver zipping down his spine as Simon rounds the barrier between them. He backs up, jumping when his back hits cold tile and Simon’s reaches up to grip the back of his neck. Simon’s grinning, eyes sparkling as he presses his forehead against Kyle’s again.

“Wha’s wrong, pretty boy?” Simon growls as Kyle grips his forearm. “Got my wife pantin’ aft’ ya an’ y’don’t want to watch her?”

Kyle sucks in a sharp breath. “W-what?”

“’Ere I am,” Simon chuckles, “Showin’ you ‘ow nice she looks, ‘ow pretty she is takin’ cock, an’ y’re in y’ head. Gonna give ‘er a complex.”

The feeling of Simon’s hand around his cock makes him gasp out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His mind scrambles to take in everything - the drops of water caught in Simon’s lashes, the firmness of his grip, the sound of water hitting tile, and moaning, his, Bambi’s, lukewarm tile against his back and -

“Eyes on me,” Simon commands.

It’s all just a little much.

“F-fuck,” Kyle yelps, hips thrusting into Simon’s hand once, twice, before he comes like he’s been zapped in the taint. Lights flash behind his eyes, and all of his muscles twitch and fire. It doesn’t feel good, exactly. Almost the opposite, honestly. But it does clear his mind, all of the nebulous worry sloughing off of him until all that he can focus on is Simon, Simon, Simon.

And the pitchy breaths of that damned video.

“What the fuck, Riley,” he pants, dropping his forehead against the man’s shoulder and blowing water from his lips.

“Better?”

“Why’re you tugging me off?”

“When Bambi gets in ‘er ‘ead, an orgasm straightens ‘er out,” Simon answers, like that’s a reasonable thing to say. “An’ I told the missus I’d try it.”

“You told Bambi you’d stroke my cock?”

“More ‘r less. This might be more.” Simon shrugs. He opens his grip to press his own cock against where Kyle’s still hard with a groan. “She’s been gettin’ greedy on me, might need a second pair of ‘ands. An’ she likes yours.”

Kyle’s laugh shivers out of him as Simon pulls at both of them. He can hear Bambi’s noises getting more frantic. “Greedy?”

“Didn’t see ‘er yesterday? Can’t ‘ear ‘er now?” Simon rumbles into his neck. “Told ‘er to watch ‘erself, or you’d get an eyeful.”

“Oh, fuck,” Kyle whimpers, thrusting without thought. “You could’ve stopped me.”

“Thinkin’ too much, Garrick,” Simon chuckles, then groans as his own hips pulse forward. “M’ pretty girl is bouncin’ ‘er tits ‘n moanin, ain’t we got better things to focus on?”

As if to punctuate his declaration, Bambi yelps, a sound that makes both of them groan. Kyle tips his face so he can try to get a glimpse of the phone, but he’s at the wrong angle. Simon chuckles and takes a couple of steps back, drawing them both into the spray of water, then spins Kyle around until his hands are braced on the partition. Having Simon against his back feels like it should make his hair stand on end, but the warmth of lips on the back of his neck settles him. It also doesn’t hurt that the new position gives Kyle a perfect view of the phone, and of Bambi.

The video has changed. It’s just her, now, laying on her back on dark sheets. She’s got a hand between her thighs, pushing something into herself as she tips her head back and moans.

“Every time I get back,” Simon whispers, big hand coming around to grip Kyle again. “’S like she can’t get enough. Pretty, greedy girl. Never satisfied with one, gotta make ‘er come over ‘n over or she’ll spend all night whinin’ like a cat in ‘eat.”

On the screen, Bambi whimpers as she pulls the toy from inside of herself. It’s big. It shines, lube and her own wetness that Kyle can’t hear over the shower, but he knows would be loud in a quiet room. Her eyes are closed as she thrusts it back into herself. Kyle bites back a moan as Simon strokes him in time with her movements.

“She’d be real sweet t’you,” Simon mumbles. His fist slides against Kyle’s arse as he strokes himself, too. “My pretty girl c’n get impatient, but I’d wear ‘er out first, make sure she’s on ‘er best behavior.”

On the screen, Bambi’s fingers pinch one of her nipples, and a trick of the light and water of the shower makes it look like her fingers are wet. Kyle moans low in his throat, can’t help it, as the hand between her thighs presses the toy deep, again. Her own shuddering noises make him aware of how close he is to another orgasm.

Simon chuckles. “Best behavior don’ last f’long, though. Y’ think she sounds nice now, wait ‘til you ‘ear ‘er beggin. All those pleases, while she’s squeezin’ down, chasin’ ‘er pleasure. Pretty legs’ll wrap right around ya. Might ‘ave to tie ‘er down if you still want to go slow.”

“Fuck,” Kyle bites out, rolling his hips forward again as he pictures it, Bambi’s legs tied apart while she whines. It takes a moment to find words. “She d-doesn’t like slow?”

Simon makes a noise like he’s been kicked in the stomach, hand going still on his own cock before he starts stroking again. “She loves takin’ it slow, fuck, but when ‘er brain shuts off she can’t ‘elp gettin’ impatient.”

“Hard to believe,” Kyle chuckles, even as he feels himself getting impatient with the way Simon’s hand slows, every time Bambi’s does.

“Oh, she’ll prove it,” Simon growls. “Once ‘er pussy starts doin’ the thinkin, all she wants is t’ come. She’ll say ‘n do anythin’ for it. Beg prettier’n anythin’ you’ve ever heard. But she settles down real nice once you get a couple fingers on ‘er clit.”

Kyle can picture it, Simon’s hands or his own between those thick thighs, taking over, pushing hers up and away. Tied up, maybe, like her legs. Fuck, the way she whimpers in the video would be just as pretty as Simon keeps insisting on if she couldn’t move.

He licks his lips as he pictures it. “What’s she taste like?”

“Like ‘eaven,” Simon groans, and his hands speed up as he leans more heavily into Kyle’s back. “Salt ‘n sweet, ‘n so wet.”

Bambi’s movements grow frantic, on screen. She’s writhing, and Kyle bites his lip as her rhythm starts and stops, hands and hips working against each other. Impatient, like her man said, and it’s so easy to imagine taking over, holding her hips down as Simon takes her wrists, pushing into her, finding the pace she likes and making her take it ---

The noise he makes is loud before he can bite it back as another orgasm slams into him. He spurts over Simon’s fingers as it washes through him, shivering and panting. Behind him, the other man goes almost silent, hand working hard before Kyle feels his cum splashing over the curve of his arse. He tips his head to the side, watches Bambi shake through her own orgasm and wishes, bizarrely that he could press his lips to some part of Simon - his shoulder, his neck, his lips.

And then the three of them are panting under the sound of the shower.

Kyle shakes water from his hair, and by the time he opens his eyes again, Simon’s back in his own stall, washing like nothing’s happened. He stares at the other man, waiting for his legs to stop shaking. Slowly, the outside world starts trickling in around the edges.

“Riley.”

“Garrick.” He starts scrubbing at his hair with the same soap he’d been using on his body, then pauses. “Pass me some of y’ shampoo?’

This fucking asshole. “What the fuck? You have a wife.”

“An’ I told you,” Simon cocks his head. “She d’t like me usin’ three-n-one.”

If his arms weren’t shaking, Kyle would throw something at him. “Simon. You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Y’re thinkin’ too ‘ard. Told you I talked to the missus. Makin’ ‘er come slows ‘er brain down.” Simon rinses himself under the spray, then grins as he looks at Kyle from the corner of his eye. “Seems y’ both need more’n two to really relax.”

The laugh that bursts from Kyle’s mouth surprises both of them, and then he tosses the bottle of shampoo for Simon to catch. He feels light as he cleans himself off.

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They can't run, either. Don't run. Won't run. Maybe you could have before the bars got thicker and Simon's grip grew colder, but now the chains go deeper than your wrists and ankles. It's inside of you. A weight heavy enough to bring you to your knees grows as you stumble to the floor, hand slapping against the counter to prevent you from collapsing completely.

You've seen what happens to songbirds who can't leave. Half bald, skin raw and bleeding, their once beautiful feathers stuck at their feet as their shrill cries pierce through the air. You forget that their bones are hollow until they begin to bash their skulls against the bars. Everything shatters. Marrow then matter squelching into one another until the crying stops.

Your fingers wrap around the first thing you can scramble to find on the counter—your pregnancy test. It's still positive no matter how many times you blink, or how many tears attempt to wash your vision clean. The thought crosses your mind to break it into pieces small enough to flush it down the toilet, but its destruction would be an obvious cover for the results that wouldn't fool Simon in the slightest. Yelling out about the results would have the same effect. You place it back on the counter and fight the urge to slam your forehead against the corner; little chained up songbird with a hole in her head who no longer wants to sing.

Outside the bathroom door you can hear Simon cleaning up your mess in the dining room. Johnny's mumbling something. It makes your skin crawl. You think of what they might say. What they might do to you. Your stomach churns again and you fear you might lose the remaining amount of food inside of you.

Each decision you make is out of your control. Your body moves before your mind even knows what's happening. A quiet click comes from the door as you lock it then scamper away from it as if hands might reach out from underneath it to grab you. Then, your search begins.

There is nothing underneath the sink. No bleach, shower cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner—you tell yourself that's for the best. A chemical death would be too slow. Too painful. There's so much that could be done to you before you'd die. That means shampoo and shower gel is off limits, too.

For a split moment, your eyes flicker to the bathtub. Filling it with water would take too long, though you've heard it doesn't take more than an inch or two to drown. Still, it would be too loud, and any attention from Simon right now is bad attention.

When you look at yourself in the mirror, you don't recognize the woman staring back at you. She's mangy. Red-eyed and rabid, you think of smashing it to pieces so you never have to look at the wretched collar around your throat ever again. Something clicks in your brain. You think of those pieces, beautiful shining shards scattered all over the counter and the floor like icy snow. The sound would be loud, but it wouldn't take you long to get the job done. A shard into your stomach or throat would have you gone before either of them would notice the blood seeping out from underneath the door.

Better yet, you could carve up your womb. Rip the problem out straight from the source, slice up whatever clump of cells resides in you—you refuse to bring anything into this world that might suffer the same fate as you. Locked up, woman turned dog, a bitch meant for fucking and nothing more.

The door shakes.

"Bonnie? Why's the fuckin' door locked?"

Your movements become more drastic. Wings flapping, hitting the bars, feathers flying as you look for anything sturdy enough to shatter the mirror. You could use your hand, but with one already broken you don't want to rob yourself of the ability to carry out your plan because your body is too weak. For countless weeks and months, you've been out of control, spiraling down in burning flames on a ship you have no governance over. You'll ensure your death is in your own hands.

"Open this fuckin' door."

You don't respond. Head whipping around the room, you search for anything heavy enough to throw against the mirror to shatter it but the only thing that catches your eyes are plastic bottles that would break before the glass would. Desperate, you lean against the counter with your elbow pointed out like a battering ram. You tell yourself it's better than using your hands. It'll be quick. It'll be over soon.

Simon's grumbling grows louder the moment your elbow first makes contact with the mirror. You ricochet right off, hand flying back towards your chest to the point of piercing your own heart. Whatever pain you expected doesn't come. There's only a numbness that settles over your arm, tingling, TV static soaking into your muscles and bones.

The bathroom door shakes with a violence that makes you squeak. Though you know you shouldn't, you look at it anyway. The frame is cracking. Hinges bending, as if there's a bull right outside waiting to pummel you the instant it gets a chance to.

Your elbow smashes against the mirror again. And again. Again. Between you and Simon, it sounds as if the world is crashing down around you. The sky falls on top of you. It mocks you. Little bird who never learned to fly now never will. Simon has stolen the one thing you thought could never be taken from anyone, yet as the door caves in, wood flying in a long arc, you realize gods usually do as they please.

Rigid leather collides against your throat as Simon yanks you back by your collar, sending you falling onto the floor. Cold tile smashes into your rear. The strangled yelp you let out is loud enough to hurt even your own ears. Simon stands over you with heavy brows and palms out in question. Behind him, you see the mirror. Cracks travel throughout the glass like untamed roads and trails in a forest, but it's not enough to shatter. Not enough for you to pick up the pieces.

"The fuck're you doing?" he demands.

You can't speak. You can only hold your throat and cough as the tears well up in your eyes, blurring the image of him turning around to look at the damage you've done. There's a change in his posture. Shoulders straighten, back goes rigid like a board, fingers curl as if there's iron between them and his palm. Your stomach drops. You think you might be sick.

"Get up, Bonnie," he says, voice terrifyingly tepid.

"Please," you choke out.

Simon doesn't give you enough time to beg. While his tone feels kind, his hands do not. Fingers curling into your wrist, he yanks you off of the floor and onto your feet. You keep your broken hand close to your chest as he drags you out of the bathroom and into the living room where he dumps you on the floor again.

A confused Johnny sits on the couch, eyes still glassy—a half-man still stuck in creation, body here but mind fractured beyond repair. You refuse to find comfort in him as Simon marches off somewhere into the house. Pain shoots through your hip when you attempt to stand, keeping you chained to the floor as you ignore Johnny's questions.

You're not sure what to do. What he'll do. You think back to how adamant he was that Johnny not do anything with you until you were on birth control, and how carefully he made sure you took your pills each night at the same time. No mistakes. Uncannily paying attention to detail. What will happen now that your very existence is a mistake?

When Simon returns, he has his hunting rifle in hand. You're not sure how to describe the feeling that overwhelms you at the sight of him towering in the doorway with that gun resting peacefully in his palm. Panic doesn't seem strong enough. It rips you from each limb, searing you from the inside out, crawling up your stomach and out your mouth until you're choking on it. Grief. For your own death. For the life you never got to live. For everything you always wanted to do but never could.

You think of where he might dump you. Alone in the forest, flesh left to feed the creatures. Bugs in your skin, skeleton becoming a home for a creature too small to know or care about such violence. Would anyone ever find you? Would your mom be able to hold you one last time?

"What's going on?" It's the first question Johnny asks that actually makes sense in your mind. He doesn't move from the couch. There's something about the tone of his voice that's still too faded—like he still hasn't found his way back home.

"Gonna take care of Bonnie," Simon explains. He's talking about a dog. A cat. Some sort of pet worth nothing more than flippant conversation.

"Take… care of her?" Johnny sounds so innocent. Almost as if he believes Simon at face value. But there is something more behind his words that leave Simon's muscles twitching and the hair on the nape of your neck standing on end.

In a desperate attempt to buy yourself some time, you twist around, body dragging across the floor until you've reached Johnny's legs. "I'm pregnant."

All he can do is stare and blink at you. Disbelief clouds his eyes as he glances back and forth between you and Simon, like he's not sure who to believe.

"C'mon, Bonnie," Simon urges. He's trying to take you away. Away from Johnny. Away from this house. Away from everything.

That's what you wanted, isn't it? Who cares what hand it's by?

It's impossible not to recoil when Simon begins to march toward you. You're not sure where his temper is at yet, but his eyes only seem to darken as he stares down at you.

"I'll take the pills," you plead. "The other ones. To get rid of it. I'll take them and I won't fuss, I promise."

"I'm gonna be a dad?"

It's like he's not even listening to you. Johnny slides off the couch onto the floor next to you, knees bumping against you as he takes your hands into his. He's kissing the tips of your fingers and your sore, broken knuckles. This news is shock therapy to him, throwing him into more of a lucid state than you've seen him since that incident by the stream.

"I-I can't." You want to rip your hands away from him but you can't find the strength.

"Don't say that. You'll make such a good mum, I know you will," Johnny attempts to rationalize. He looks up at Simon, eyes glimmering. "I can't believe I'm gonna be a dad."

As Johnny pulls you into his chest, you follow his gaze up to Simon who continues to look down at the two of you curled up on the floor together like lovers caught in the midst of night. You pray he takes your offer. Your adamant plea to not let nature take its course and for him to finally show you mercy for once.

Though his lips grow more firm, Simon's grip on the rifle grows limp until he's dropping it to lean it against the wall. Relief floods through you until he nods.

"Congrats, Johnny."

The earth splits open beneath you but it doesn't consume you. It leaves you dangling in Johnny's arms, feet swinging helplessly in the air as you're confronted with your only two choices—hang or plummet.

Your face contorts. Fractures spread across your skin until you're bleeding nothing but brine. Everything stings. You are an open wound.

"No. No, no, no. I can't. I can't! I can't!"

Your voice builds with each syllable you spew out, spit flying out of your mouth and into Johnny's chest until you gather the strength to wiggle away from him.

"I can't! I won't! I can't! I can't!"

It's your new mantra. The only phrase you can speak. You repeat it like a broken record that no one bothers to fix. They just listen to the record skip until the scratch is permanent—damage irreversible.

Simon grabs you by your arm and drags you to your feet when your wailing starts to trouble Johnny. Even then you don't stop. You sob. You scream until your throat hurts. He drags you out of the room, down the hallway, and into the bedroom where you're put where all bad girls go. Soft pillows, cold blankets, and a cage padlocked so you can't leave.

With the door shut behind him, Simon leaves you to throw your tantrum in solitude. Legs kicking, limbs flailing, heels digging into the base of the kennel until you're covered in sweat and your voice has no more strength to scream. The tears don't stop for some time after that. A broken faucet. A laceration that cannot be mended.

For what feels like years you lay in that kennel; unmoving. You're not sure what your body does. You don't know what you think or what you feel, or even if you manage to sleep the pain away. All you know is that you do not have the energy to lift your head when Simon opens the bedroom door some time later.

He crosses into your field of view with a plate in his hands. It's impossible to read his expression even as he kneels to unlock the kennel door to set what looks like another attempt at getting you to eat dinner down on the ground.

"Please. Just give me the pills," you beg, voice raw.

Simon locks the door again. "No."

"We both know you don't want this," you rationalize. "Another mouth to feed. Another pet to take care of. We can just pretend it's a miscarriage and Johnny won't know the difference."

As Simon stands to leave, he looks down at you as if he's considering your proposal. In an attempt to meet him halfway you sit up, eyes intense and red as you await his answer.

The only response you get is a curt shake of his head and a gesture towards your dinner plate. "Don't wait for it to get cold. You're eating for two now, Bonnie."