my silly life

Pluk.

Like a lunatic, he’s got the medical staple gun pressed against the agitated skin, making a sloppy attempt at closing the wound. Your heart is thumping in your ears, and you stand there with the stupid clipboard like a deer in the headlights as you watch him adjust the gun slightly lower, pulling the trigger again. Even without any kind of numbing cream all that slips past his lips is a low grunt. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Your voice is strained, the question just slipping over the lump in your throat as you think about the amount of paperwork you’ll have to fill out. 

“You was takin’ a while,” he doesn’t even give you the grace to look in your eyes, just takes a sharp breath in and fires the thing again, crimson pooling under his fingers. “I ain’t got all day.” You’re dumbfounded for a moment longer until your body is moving on its own, striding over to his side and grabbing his wrist before he does more damage.

“Stop that,” prying the gun from his hands is useless, not when he’s double your size like this, practically looming over you. You move your hand away so he can put it down himself, a heavy breath of relief falling from your lips—less paperwork, no arguments. “You’re fucking crazy,” it’s not meant to be said aloud, it’s barely even a whisper really, but when it’s only the two of you in the room it’s deafening.

He’s still masked, the familiar skull hanging over his balaclava. It’s the only thing you know to identify him by—Ghost—his name always making the rounds at the nurses station. “He’s massive,” one of the girls would whisper, “stood next to him the other day and I couldn’t even see his face when I was looking straight!” Matron would always somehow manage to interrupt the conversation at the perfect time. “Ladies, back to work.”

Even concealed, you can feel the way his eyebrows raise at your words and you can also feel the sudden pit of fear rush through you. His voice is like gravel, condescending when he scolds you. “Watch your mouth. ‘M still your superior.”

So much for superior, you think, he’s supposed to be intelligent but here he is stabbing himself with staples. It’s unlike you when you bite back at him, the whole situation igniting something fiery in your veins. “I’m the one trying to stop you from getting an infection,” you step back so he can see your face, disrelish written all over it. “Or sepsis. Which seems to be what you’re going for with the way you’re handling this.”

The lieutenant glares at you through the mask until his bloodied hand is snaking to his neck, tugging the woven fabric up his face. His nose peeks out from beneath him and even though you really shouldn’t, you let yourself look at the forbidden skin—scarred and broken from years of service, lip split just ever so slightly.

He coughs awkwardly when you’re staring for a little too long, embarrassment clawing at your hot cheeks. “I’ll be quick if you comply,” you provide, trying to cut through the unsettling tension between you two. It doesn’t take you long to snap your gloves on and assess his injury, diligently cleaning off the thick blood and preparing the site for stitches. “Would you like me to explain or just get on with it?” Only after you ask do you realise that it was pointless.

Nonetheless, he offers you a low grunt about the latter and you're starting the procedure with careful precision: a shot to numb the area—although you’re not sure if he really needs it—tweezers to pull out the messily punctured staples, and then the needle is in your hand closing the skin together. Your work is slower than his, but it’s neater and you amuse yourself with the thought that he’ll be more grateful when he walks out with no infection and a smaller scar.

“If you could stand up please,” you watch as the muscles of his exposed leg ripple, stitches pulling a little more taught. “Does it hurt to put pressure on the leg?”

“No,” he pulls the balaclava back over his chin, hiding away the skin you're sure any of the nurses would kill to see. 

“If you sit back down but scoot towards the edge of the table,” you say, reaching over for the ointment and bandage roll as he does so. You notice the way his trousers are soaked with blood, instinctively grabbing the scissors to cut the dead weight off. 

“What’r you doing?” He asks before you can make the first cut.

“It needs to go if I’m gonna wrap it.” You’re unhesitant as you try to snip at the fabric, suddenly more eager to get yourself away from the lieutenant. Ghost’s hand catches your wrist, almost painful with how easily he keeps it still, calloused fingers pressing into your veins. “You’re not cuttin’ it.”

“What does it matter? They’re gone anyways.”

“‘M not walking around the base like a clown,” he snaps, releasing his grip. “Do it without cutting it.”

Now you understand why the Matron has a vendetta against the lieutenants. So goddamn stubborn. While arguing with him and getting your way would quench your thirst, you decide that it’s below yourself—and your pay grade—to do any differently than what he commands.

It’s clumsy work, fingers awkwardly trying to wrap the bandage around the back of his thigh without dirtying it with blood or grime, having to fiddle with the mesh as you pass it around without really being able to see. You try to hide your frustration and annoyed puffs of breath for the sake of professionalism, but deep down you want him to know he’s ridiculous. There’s a lot of things you'd do to see his ego knocked down a notch.

Before he can retreat you have him sign papers which he barely glosses over—just rolling his eyes and murmuring curses about 'damn medics’. When he stands to readjust himself as you begin cleaning up after his mess, his eyes roam over your figure, almost glaring at you with menace. 

“You ever talk’t me like that again and I’ll have you doing laps with the recruits.” The lieutenant's voice is stern, almost cruel with how he towers over you, turning to the door and pulling it open, leaving the infirmary with a limp as the door slams shut. The room suddenly feels more quiet than before save for your light breaths, something steady thrumming in your chest as you watch his fading figure from the window—big, brutish, looming. Only once he’s completely disappeared does ‘yes, sir’ fall from your tongue.

The months drag on, and too soon it’s November.

During the winter the infirmary becomes packed with flus and colds and injuries. You’re stretched thin across your work, the shifts become longer while the days are shorter and you lose the time to even think about your interaction with Ghost. 

You barely see the lieutenant in the time that passes, only in brief flickers across halls and med bays. You’ll catch his eye for a brief moment only for him to be distracted by something else—a call of his name or being shuffled into an office. The nurses continue whispering about him, always giggling and teasing you about how you dislike him for one simple interaction.

“Oh come on. He’s just like that because he has a reputation to uphold,” Katie laughs while you’re having lunch. Still sitting at the computer and stabbing at your salad, you try to reason with her yet again. “Just because he’s got a reputation doesn’t mean he needs to be an ass.”

She hums, eyebrows raising as she slides herself over on her chair closer to you. Glancing over at your screen, she pulls just slightly away. “You're trying to apply for the training to become a junior doctor right?”

You look over your shoulder at her amused expression, uncertain of what she’s going to say next. “Yeah, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“You’re not that dense, honey,” she smirks, that sickening nickname making you cringe. Trying to ignore her, you turn yourself back to the seemingly endless amount of words on the screen—everything you need to study up on if you’re going to even be considered for training. Despite your ignorance, she continues on anyway. “If you’re going to be considered you need someone to put in a good word for you…” She trails, waiting for your response which never comes. “Someone who everyone respects…”

It clicks in your head far too easily, spinning yourself on the chair to face her. “You’re not serious.”

Katie’s wide, toothy smile and passionate nodding tells you otherwise. Too quickly you find yourself rejecting any possibility that he could have anything to do with your future. True, he was a bit of an ass when you’d first come across one another, but you also willingly moved your foot across a line which never should've been crossed. You don’t think someone of lieutenant Riley's reputation would pardon an encounter like that. 

“Stop overthinking it,” she demands, taking the fork out of your hands and puncturing a quarter-slice of tomato on the metal. “Whatever happened, I’m sure it’s all smoothed over and you never know, maybe he liked that you had a bold character. I think it might even help you with your application.” Her lips wrap around the fork, chewing and swallowing your food. “No one needs a doctor who can’t make their case.”

Those words flick through your head for the rest of the week as you consider the possibility of getting the lieutenant in your good graces. It couldn’t hurt and from what you’ve heard from your friends his reputation exceeds anything you can imagine—everyone knows who he is, everyone knows that he has good judgement. As much as he seems like an uncooperative brute, you can’t fool yourself into thinking Katie’s idea was a bad one.

Your only issue comes with going through with it—getting him in your corner and seeing your drive to do this. From what you know he’s unreachable to someone like yourself, always busy, always away on one mission or another. A respected man is a wanted man. But you’re nothing but determined. If he’s the guy you need in your corner to get what you deserve—what you’ve been working your ass off for—then gods be damned you’ll do what it takes.

Within a small amount of time you come up with so many plans in your head you’ve almost exhausted yourself from thinking about it—the longer shifts and shorter days have you lethargic and achy anyways, but somehow without even properly becoming involved with him, he’s managed to drain you of your energy. 

You’re almost out of ideas when Matron comes along the next week and serves you your ticket to him on a platter. You’ve never loved pre-mission check-ups more.

“Katie if you could look over Sergeant MacTavish,” her grey hair had almost glowed silver and gold with the fluorescent lights of the infirmary, a halo formed over her head—your very own angel. Calling out the names had dragged on for so long, until finally she’d said who you’d been assigned. The only one left: “I need you to tend to Lieutenant Riley.”

It’s like deja vu when you walk over to the same room where you’d first met him, everything so familiar except for your new ambition. You flick through his record in your hand, pushing the door open with your back as you turn your gaze up to him.

His whole figure is nothing but impressive, the black tee with his name printed over a pec hugs every single muscle, abs and biceps almost bulging from the tight fabric. He’s on the phone, almost silent as the person on the other line drags on before his gruff voice is giving a chaste goodbye and cutting the line. You notice how he’s still got the same balaclava on, brown eyes practically piercing through you as he waits for you to say something. 

“Lieutenant Riley,” you fumble, staring at him a little dumbly for a moment, caught up in the moment. You watch the way the eyebrows of his mask move in confusion, “tha’s me, yeah.”

Right. You introduce yourself as clearly as you can, you need to make sure he remembers you. “I’ll be doing your assessment for today, do you have any questions before we begin?”

“How long’s this gonna take?” He asks, visibly disinterested. You approach closer to where he’s sat on the edge of the exam table, and you notice how his shoulders tense the slightest, his chart open as you go over the details of his medical history.

“Should take about thirty minutes,” you respond, focused on his most recent injuries reported. You pretend to ignore the way he huffs in annoyance, “are there any injuries, issues or concerns that I should know of that aren’t recorded?”

“No.” He gives bluntly.

“Okay then,” you continue, looking over his body to gather just a few of the smaller details you need to assess—a cut, a bruise, the same wound that had you in this room in the first place. Moving across the room so you can start preparing, you place the chart down on the counter and begin to wash your hands. You have your back turned to him, unhesitant to get started. “For this exam I’m going to need you to take your shirt off.”

By the time you turn back around, throwing the damp paper in your hand in the bin his shirt is discarded next to him, and it takes everything in you not to gasp. Attraction or not, it’s undeniable to believe he’s anything but some Greek statue come to life, his body carved to perfection. Chiselled like marble, beautiful, sharp. When he breathes his chest rises and falls heavily—a testament to his size, the way his abs contract and his pecs move just slightly, his dog tag settled perfectly in between them. 

And then there’s the scars. So many of them everywhere, long and short and jagged and pinched. One across the top half of his peck and under his arm splayed; an old burn, the skin wrinkled with age and pain. He is a soldier not only by name, but by his body too. Like a trophy cabinet, each tinged line another day he’s survived—or each day that was almost cut down. Anyone would find it hard to hide their awe—yourself included. 

But you have a job to do and an impression to make, so you push past the feeling of appreciation and stand before him, his mask still on—the chart advised not to bother asking. “I’m going to begin by examining and feeling your skin for any abnormalities, let me know if you need me to stop,” you explain, placing a hand on his bare shoulder.

His skin is incredibly warm when you touch it, and he shivers when you make contact with it. “I’m sorry, my hands are a little cold,” you murmur, beginning to slowly press with two fingers, moving them over inch by inch as you trace old healed scars.

Even after a few minutes, when you’ve made it across to the other shoulder and start assessing his arms he’s tense underneath your hold, muscles taught and stiff, making it harder for you. You’ve dealt with men like him before, all tough and apathetic, but his stance beneath you is different and you feel the need to ease some of his tension. 

“Why did you join the military?” You ask him, it’s simple, most people give the same answer: to escape, to do some good. Your fingers move down to his elbow, pressing into it to check for tenderness.

“Does my medical record need’t know that?” He responds, almost unimpressed—like you’re some kind of stupid for even asking him that question. You look up at him to see him impassive but still wound up tight, and you’re a little offended by the way he just has to be so uninviting. 

“You’re tense,” you provide instead, something in you tells you he’s more of a brute fact type. Maybe you just need to say it like it is. Your fingers trail down to his forearm where his tattoo barely hides the scars and prominent veins. “If I’m going to do this assessment I need you to relax, so I’m going to ask you questions, and I don’t care if you make up answers or just grunt—as long as you stop acting like you’ve got something pressed in your behind. Lieutenant.”

You don’t dare look up from where you stare at his tattoo, turning his arm over so you can check the other side before you take both of your hands and press your thumbs into his wrists. His pulse is so strong underneath the pads, you can almost hear it with how silent it is between you. You’re about to move onto the next stage when you notice a rough line at the base of his tattoo, it’s healed over but you train your focus on it for a moment—instinctively brushing a finger over as you realise what it is. What pain he’s been through.

He jerks, almost as if trying to snatch his own arm away from your grasp. There’s something painful hidden in his expression when you look back towards him, but he dismisses it before you can ask. “I’ll answer your questions,” it’s rough, concealing any feelings which might’ve lingered. “Jus’ watch yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, letting him take his hand back to his lap. And even though you think that after your slip up he’ll remain like a stone underneath your touch, you observe how his shoulders relax slightly, dropping down to large slopes. His breathing slows just a little, and he just looks at you expectantly. “Wha’s next?” 

You let yourself take a deep breath, you need to remember your goal here, but more importantly remember he’s just human too. Putting on a smile, you go through your mental checklist, smirking at him just a little when you know what’s next. “I’m gonna need to check my own handiwork, sir. If you could pull up your shorts a little, please.”

His scarred hands pull at the edge of his shorts, rolling them up his thighs until you see it—pinker than the rest of the healed wounds, neat and short. You nod as though you’re intently looking at it, but really you’re biting at your bottom lip trying to contain your self-pride. It’s the best work you’ve done—almost perfect. 

He speaks from above where you're feeling the wound, “you did’a good job.”

It’s hard not to beam at his words, ecstatic at the simplest praise only because it means you did something right last time, because then trying to keep impressing him is not a fruitless cause. You stand back up to full height. “Did you have any trouble with it? Like pulled or ripped stitches? Lingering pain?”

“Nah,” his voice is cooler, and you know that he’s finally loosened up. “Proud of yourself?” Moving back towards where his chart is on the counter, you begin to make brief notes on it. “Is it bad for me to say I’m a little surprised?” You laugh, letting the confession out easily.

“‘M a Lieutenant f’a reason. If you’re implying I'm unintelligent, you’d be wrong. I know how to take care of a wound.” You turn back around to find his gaze fixated on you, arms folded across the wide expanse of his chest.

“I’m sorry Lt, but with that stunt you pulled—you made me seriously doubt it.” You reach into your breast pocket for your light, pulling a lollipop stick out of a container on the side. “This is the ENT part,” you explain, coming in between his legs. “I’m gonna need to see your mouth.”

You’re waiting for him to resist, to yell or refuse—but he just shrugs, fingers reaching up to grasp at the fabric at his neck, dragging it up his face so anything beneath the bottom of his nose is exposed. Surprised by how easily he complies, you let yourself stare for just a moment longer than you had last time at the long scar which extends the line of his mouth on one side—drawn all the way to his cheekbone. It’s deep, just a shade darker than the rest of his skin. There’s another one on the other side of his lip, vertically cut through the flesh.

To think this man holds so many memories that he cannot erase or forget about. You’ve seen the way soldiers have broken under the pressure—from the trauma of this work that they do—left to live like empty shells. You can’t even begin to imagine the physical and mental challenges he’s been subjected to

Your thoughts don’t stray far as you continue on with the checks, diligent in your work but also attentive. He just sits calmly, letting you do what you must, answering your questions with brief answers and you come to enjoy this strange company of his. When you’re finished, he tugs the balaclava back down, hiding away the painful results of his hard labour. 

“I’m going to check your eyes now,” you note, standing impossibly closer to him. “Have you been having any trouble with your vision recently?” 

“None,” he says, following your instructions as you hold your finger up in front of him. Only this close do you see the lighter flecks of amber in his irises, glowing under the bright lights. They’re so unique, the lighter parts almost hidden by the rest of the colour—as if hiding some precious treasure. You’re reaching for your pen light again when you hear him quietly clear his throat, “how did you become a nurse?”

You look up at him confused for a moment, but then you see the genuinity in his eyes and you bite your lip to try to stifle your laugh. His nervousness seems to cost him some of his common sense, and he just waits for you as you click the light on.

“I went to medical school, sir,” you smile, the smallest giggle slipping past your lips when you see the way realisation dawns on him. “You’ll feel my fingers for just a moment,” and you place the pad of your index on his eyelid, lifting so you can check behind it. 

He looks down in turn, met with the plush of your parted lips and he swallows hard. “Oh right.”

“I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry,” you chuckle, taking your hand off his face and you notice his usually indifferent expression replaced by something else. It almost looks like he’s flustered. But only almost—there’s only so much you can infer from a masked man. “Look up at the ceiling please.”

He remains still, lost in thought with his focus set downwards and you close your lips as you awkwardly wait for him. “Sir, could you look up?”

His eyebrows raise slightly as he snaps back into himself, huffing and embarrassed as he looks upwards, murmuring “sorry.” You just smile at him brightly, stepping away to move onto the next part.

For the rest of the exam he keeps his mouth shut unless you ask for it, a delicate silence stretching between you as you take his vitals. He’s still cooperative, but you know that after making a slight fool of himself twice he’d rather not have it happen again. But you’re content like this, getting to shuffle around and tend to him with sharp focus. It’s a nice break from the mayhem going on outside the room.

When you’re finally done and he’s shrugging his shirt back on, you run through his results. “Flying colours, Lieutenant,” you hum, impressed. It’s not everyday you see soldiers of his experience and background do so well—without any background info someone could assume he’s still in his early twenties. “If anything changes, be sure to inform us as soon as possible.”

Nodding, he signs the forms you’ve handed him—this time without complaining—and you feel an urge to keep him for a little while longer. Something about the way he’s softened to your touch and presence tickles you happily, and for some reason you find yourself longing to drag your fingers over the ridges of his scars. 

“Is that it?” He asks, handing back the papers and standing to his full height. You check over each page, the tangled scrawl of his signature dragged over the blank lines. “Yeah, that’s everything, you’re cleared to go.” You reply, tucking everything back into his chart and picking it up to take with you, “let me walk you out.”

“‘S not necessary,” and he’s moving towards the door when he spots something directly outside the window. He practically grunts, suddenly focused and approaching the glass, capturing your attention until you see it too. 

Sergeant MacTavish grabbing a handful of Katie’s ass as they talk about god-knows-what. 

You choke on your laugh, both amused and shocked at the way her face grows hot and flustered at his debaucherous touch. But you see a disappointment in Ghost—that of a parent to their misbehaving child—and he’s knocking at the glass before you can even intervene. 

MacTavish’s head snaps over his shoulder to see his Lieutenant shaking his head, reprimanding him through the look of his eyes alone, burly arms crossed over his chest. The former doesn’t tolerate it though, snarling before throwing a middle finger towards Ghost, keeping an arm slung over Katie’s shoulder as they walk back to the front desk.

“Fuckin’ bastard,” Ghost murmurs, “tell your mate ‘m sorry about him. Always gettin’ carried away.” You nod in agreement with him, coming up to the door and opening it so he can get through. He accepts the gesture, and you notice how he ducks down ever so slightly as he enters back into the centre of the infirmary.

As much as you’d like to keep him for longer, to see how much more pleasant company he can offer, you can see he’s itching to go. Like on command, his phone rings and by the look on his face it’s important. “Sorry, ‘ve got to take this,” he murmurs, and when he says your name and thanks you, you know you’ve done something right.

As he walks away, you blurt out a final offering—something to solidify that he will remember you. “Lieutenant,” and when he turns around, you feel warm across your face. “Good luck out there.”

He nods, answering the phone and you’re left wondering when—or if—you’ll see him again.

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All murmuring conversations around you fade into white noise. Every childish giggle and the scrape of chairs along the freshly lacquered floor. You read off the carefully scrawled out numbers before you. The paper is hastily torn. Printer paper shredded for a quick note to be doused with rich dark ink. It swirls and cuts in sharp corners and dashes. A moment of disbelief settles over you before you’re able to swallow down the fact you’re staring at John Price’s number. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, voice low and hushed. “I know it’s a tall order, but it would settle my mind a little. We’ve never been apart so long before. Call me an overbearing parent, if you want.” 

Setting the paper face down on your desk, you carefully push yourself to your feet. Your eyes glance over to Amelia’s desk where she’s busy fetching last week’s homework from her dinosaur bag. You notice there’s a new charm on the zipper — a stegosaurus with comically large googly eyes. Her movements are slower than usual. Heavy lethargy pulls at her body as she sorts her items. When she turns, you see the irritation rimming her eyes. The crystalline blue hue of her iris looks nearly translucent by comparison. 

“How long will you be gone?” you question, turning your attention back to John. 

“Only a week,” he assures. “Normally I can weasel my way out of these sorts of conferences but didn’t get so lucky this time. She’ll be staying with Diana, of course, but she’s not… the most talkative with me. Don’t want to irritate her by just trying to get information about my kid.” 

“She doesn’t tell you about Amelia at all while she’s watching her?” you ask, baffled. 

“Only the important things. Pictures and daily updates aren’t on that list, unfortunately.” 

Nodding, you allow your brain to soak in the information John’s tossed your way. A phone number. A trip. His daughter. Your student. It’s a simple task. Inconsequential. It isn’t wholly uncommon for teachers and parents to exchange numbers. Oftentimes it’s easier to communicate over text than in what little office time you have. Yet, this feels different. Wrong. It’s wrong because you still think about running into him at the tea shop the other week. You can recall his wet clothes clinging to his chest, and how you touched yourself to that very image later that night with shame broiling deep in your stomach. 

Could you keep your fingers off your phone long enough — off your cunt long enough — that it would be professional? Healthy? Can you fully separate the John standing in front of you now and the John whose side you once curled up against? Whose sent you bathed in? 

“It’s a tall order, and I know I’m askin’ a lot of you already…” he continues. 

“No, not at all,” you cut him off. “It’s not a problem. I couldn’t imagine having to be away and not get to talk with your own child.” 

“You’re sure?” he asks. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to do me any favors.”

Shaking your head, you smile. “It’s fine, John.”

A huff escapes with the chuckle he gives you. He looks different today, you realize, than all the other times you’ve spoken with him. His hair is more mussed than normal, and the lack of his usual business casual attire isn’t lost on you. A plain charcoal grey t-shirt fits snug and close to his torso, and you try not to stare at the thick hair that decorates his arms. His shoulders are… big. Bigger than the dress shirts he normally dons would have you believe. Dense and wide enough to get lost in. 

“Daddy?” 

Both you and John turn to find Amelia anxiously pulling at her skirt. Moisture brims so heavily in her eyes you’re surprised they haven’t spilled over yet. You’re reminded of that day she tripped on the playground with shredded knees and fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Now, the scabs have healed and you can’t even make out the scars. Amelia Price is stubborn. She refuses to cry the same way she did that day, no matter how much the pressure builds behind her eyes. 

“Are you leaving now?” she asks, bottom lip trembling. 

“I’ll be back before you know it, pumpkin,” he promises. John sinks down to kneel in front of Amelia. She looks puny next to him. Doting hands straighten out her uniform, attempting to undo the anxious wrinkling going on in her skirt as the fabric is clutched between her fists. “Granny’ll take good care of you.” 

Their farewell is tearful and long. Long enough that your other students begin to whisper and stare, so you attempt to control the damage before it fully starts. John embraces her. Lifts her small frame into the air to hug her tightly as he cradles her head like it’s the last time he’ll ever see her. All eyes are on you by the time they’re finished sending one another off, and no questions are asked as Amelia returns to her seat. John leaves the room with a tight lipped smile and a wave to you. You refuse to let your eyes linger on the wet patch on his shoulder. 

For the rest of the day, Amelia seems to be merely a shell of the girl you had grown to know. Despondent and quiet, she hardly participates in any of the activities you’ve prepared for the day. Her curious mind seems just as silent as she is. She does not raise her hand in question or quirk her head in curiosity throughout any of your activities. That vivacious girl is hardly present at all. Stuck in her mind. Thinking about nothing but her father and how much she wishes he was home. 

You try to rekindle that spark inside of her. Feed it all the fuel it could ever dream of consuming with engaging stories and silly voices. Nothing rouses her. Even the coloring project you have them do for their English time fails to bring a smile to her face. Her usual love for art has dissipated into dust just like everything else she ever seemed to enjoy. She sits, curved forward over her coloring page as she lazily draws inside of the lines with peeling, cracked crayons. 

“Wonderful job, Amelia,” you croon, kneeling in front of her desk. 

Your praise hardly stirs a response from her other than a sheepish smile that quickly fades into a quivering lip. All your students have good and bad days. Children her age aren’t exactly known for their emotional maturity, but she’s downright pitiful like this. Like a wounded animal. 

Tapping your fingers on her desk, you quietly grab her attention before you lean closer to whisper. “When you’re finished, why don’t you let me take a picture? I’ll send it to your dad.” 

For the first time that day, Amelia’s eyes illuminate with something other than tears. Mouth agape and crayon still firmly in hand, she stares up at you, dumbfounded. 

“Really?” she asks. 

You grin. “Really. Take your time, and come find me when you’re finished, okay?” 

She grins back. “Okay!” 

When Amelia finishes her coloring, she demands to be in the picture you send to her father. She holds the paper out like it’s a work of fine art. Something she’s slaved over for months. A toothy grin graces her lips as she tilts her head to the side in the way little kids always seem to do. She giggles profusely when you show her the picture, and you quickly text it off to the number John gave you before the next lesson starts. 

Amelia is quite the artist today!

It takes him some time to respond. You can already imagine him, half awake, head held up by the tips of his fingers as he sits in some meeting too far from home. Maybe he’s slouching like he did that night at the club. Legs spread far and wide, head tilting to the side as he listens to whoever’s speaking. You wonder if he’ll visit you — visit Saffron — again when he returns home; his way to unwind after a long trip. It’s been a while since you — Saffron — last saw him. 

Your thoughts are mercifully interrupted with the quiet buzzing of your phone. 

Glad to see her smiling again. Thank you.

Once Amelia’s learned you’re her new, unimpeded access to her father, she’s consistently requesting you to send pictures and messages to John. You can see the way she holds herself back. Quietly separating the important stuff she wants to tell him now, from the stuff she’ll tell him herself when he gets home. Still, nothing matches the way her cheeks get rosy and her lips pull into a grin when you read off a response from him during what little down time the kids have between lessons. It’s simple enough, and John is polite in his responses. Professional. Proper. 

This is a respectable relationship to hold with a parent. 

You have to keep that mantra in your head lest it degrade into something terrible. 

On Friday, Amelia arrives to class, beaming. She doesn’t greet you like she usually does, but every time you look at her while lecturing or reading, she’s grinning. She’s held that expression so long you’re certain her face is going to freeze that way. Forever joyous. Patiently waiting for… something. 

It isn’t until their first recess that you’re able to sniff out the reason for her behavior. Her hair is different. Adorable. Long, inky locks are half pulled up into strands that gently swirl down her back. A fat, puffy bow adorns her hair, keeping the strands of her hairdo together. It’s a pristine white, but you can see small designs that you can’t quite discern from a distance. You watch it bob and bounce as you lead them outside into the dwindling summer heat.

Before she has the chance to run off and join her friends on the playground, you catch her attention. “That’s a pretty bow, Amelia. Is that new?” 

Giggles burst free from her lips as she sways back and forth. They’re sharp and shrill, as if she’s been holding them in all day. Blue fabric swirls around her knees as she moves, nearly buzzing inside of her own skin. 

“Granny bought it last night. I saw it, and wanted it because it reminds me of your dresses!” she explains, eyeing your clothing. 

Now that she’s closer, you’re able to make out the pattern. Little lollipops and hard candies adorn the white fabric, giving the appearance that it’s polka dotted. You have a dress that’s eerily similar in patterning to it hanging up in your closet at home. Today, you’re wearing daisies and moons — doesn’t quite match, yet her enthusiasm is touching all the same. 

“That’s so sweet of you. It looks beautiful on you.” 

“Can we take a picture? For papa?” she asks. 

Refusing to deny her request, you sneakily fish your phone out from the pocket of your dress to open the camera. You attempt to get her to pose — big smile! — but she only looks at you with pinched brows. 

“No, you have to be in it, too,” she insists. 

“Do I?” you challenge. 

“He has to see that we’re matching!” 

Hesitant, you bite into your bottom lip. Sending pictures of Amelia to John is something you have no gripe with. It’s his daughter — after all — but a picture of you? It unsettles your stomach. Disrupts the bile and has the muscle angrily churning in protest. In want. Just as you open your mouth to make up an excuse, or explain that it’s not proper, you lose the will. When she stares at you with eyes so wide and hopeful, you find it difficult to deny her anything. 

“Alright well… maybe a video will be easier,” you give in. 

Propping up your phone on a nearby bench, you let Amelia take the lead. You’re awkwardly in frame behind her, hands politely folded in front of you as she rattles off her story. She makes a show of displaying her new bow, and telling the camera all about how her grandma got it for her. How it reminds her of you. When she’s finished, she does a cute, clumsy spin to show it off properly before she looks at you expectantly. 

“Okay. Spin,” she directs, swirling her finger at you as if it were a wand. 

Chuckling, you follow her command with stiff, awkward limbs. You try not to be too showy. Too much. Too anything. Luckily, your lackluster performance satiates Amelia long enough for you to walk back up to your phone and cut the recording. You send her off to play with her friends before her break is used up and wasted talking to you. The video is already sent John’s way before she even reaches the top of the slides. 

For the rest of the day, you try your best not to look at your phone. It’s not a difficult task to accomplish. Children this age need a lot of attention and looking after. Besides, you have a job to do, and talking with John Price isn’t on the agenda. You spend your time reading stories, instructing writing, and leading projects. By the time all your students are gone and off enjoying the weekend with their parents, you’re tired to the marrow. Fatigue seeps into every cell in your bones, webbing cracks into the structures until you can do nothing but sit and rot in your chair as you grade easy assignments with a red pen and stickers. 

You’re yanked out of your thoughts the moment your phone vibrates against your thigh. Allowing yourself a quick mental break, you pull it free and unlock it to find the preview of the video you sent John staring back at you, along with his response. 

My girls.

You can’t stop staring at it. Those two words. One of them is certainly a mistake. Girls. Girls. Plural. More than one. More than one and his. His girls. It’s a typo. An error. It should be singular. Girl. His girl. His daughter. Nothing to do with you. You’re not his. Nothing of his. 

The words seep into your brain. They take purchase in the raw, messy parts of you where they feed off the sparse nutrients lurking in your grey matter. The worst desires you try not to crave. As you read the words again, you hear them in his voice. Low and deep. Quiet. Tired. As if you’re pressed against his side again attempting to keep his mind off a long day. It ruins you. Shreds apart the most delicate parts of your skin until all of you is an open wound begging to be saved. To be kissed. To be loved. 

The screen goes black and you slam it face down on your desk. It’s a typo. That’s all it is. And still your heart pounds in your throat as if to choke you and put you out of your misery. 

A pitiful squeak leaves the chair as you stand. Every ounce of blood in your body rushes to your core. You feel it pool in your face, ears, and chest, leaving you with clammy hands and colder feet. Everything within you is telling you to run. To flee. So you do. You shove your phone back into your pocket with no intention of responding to him, and you leave with your bag hastily thrown over your shoulder. 

“Goddammit,” you mutter. 

Simon pulled in, the car bouncing slightly as it hit the gravel carpark, his hand swerving into a spot before he turned to the back. “You excited, baby?”

Ella’s face lit up as she fumbled to take off her seatbelt, “Get me, Daddy! Get me! I wanna see the lions!” It was refreshing knowing she still viewed Simon as her hero, no matter how distant he was in their lives. You knew that even though your ex-husband was rarely around, his time with them did everything it could to mend the time apart. Toby woke up at the commotion, the toddler having slept the whole way there despite his older sister’s constant bickering about what animals she had to see first.

Everything seemed to flash past you as you walked inside, the whir of kids and noise sending your brain into overdrive as your eyes flickered to Simon with Ella swinging around on his shoulders and Toby kicking his legs in the stroller. You looked away; breath shaky as you attempted to compose yourself. This was supposed to be a happy day, for all of you, yet seeing him with your children, something that was supposed to be normal, felt so distant and unknown. Gathering yourself, you plastered a fake smile, hands reaching out to pinch your son’s cheeks as you grabbed the stroller.

Your heart hammered in your chest for the remainder of the day, fingers tingling with anxiety that bled into your veins, consuming your lungs with what seemed like everything but oxygen. It was a series of squeals and commotions from your young ones, their elation evident through the bright glow of their face, soft red resting on the apples of their cheeks. As the day quieted down, Toby slumped in the stroller as you tucked him into the car seat, his new plush crocodile cradled into his arms, mouth wide open as subtle breaths snored out.

Ella was cradled into Simon’s shoulder, her shoes half hanging off as she clutched onto him, dead asleep. You settled into the ride home yet your anxiety only seemed to heighten. You were alone with Simon, with no kiddish voices to break the tension, brown orbs glaring into the side of your face.

“Should we talk about this morning?”

You scoffed. “You have some nerve asking to talk about this morning,” you screamed into a hush, “What you did was completely disrespectful. Not only did you break into my house and kick my date out, but you left our kids in the car! What the fuck were you thinking?”

He cleared his throat, almost like he wanted to hold back how he felt. You noticed the white in his knuckles as he gripped the wheel, right eye twitching as he stared at the squiggles of tar ahead. “I don’t want our kids growing up thinking it’s normal for parents to separate. They need their mum and dad together, y/n.”

The world silenced for a second, the screams of the wind rushing past you seemed to slow as your voice cracked, seeps of emotion pouring out as you choked on your breath, “Then you should have fought for your family, Simon. There is no us anymore, it’s just them. They’re all that connects us now.”

You felt like all the ivory had been sucked out of your eyes, endless pits of your pupil consuming you whole, blurring your vision with fog as you blinked, hot streams of liquid salt spilling onto your cheeks, brimming at the cracks of your lips as you sniffled. You could feel his hesitation as he looked at you.

His words regurgitated in his throat as he stammered, tangled limbs reaching out to grip yours as you pulled away.

“Just drop us home.”

Your eyes had dried now, soft stains of bare skin caving through your foundation as you smudged your fingers against it. Simon stuttered as he pulled up to the driveway, tyres screeching to a halt as you sat in silence.

The soft strum of fingers caught your attention as you turned around, the innocent face of Toby looking back at his parents, tongue blabbing out of his mouth. “Dadda! You have dinner?”

“No, sport. Daddy’s gotta go-“

“Yeah, baby. Daddy will have dinner with us.”

You blinked at your own words, Simon’s surprised expression meeting yours. The wrench in your heart would never subside, the entirety of the beating organ still belonging to your ex-husband, but being a mother was a sacrifice. And you would sacrifice yourself in every existence you become one if it meant your children didn’t have to battle the same internal wounds.

“They’re tucked in,” Simon said, voice soft as he noticed your withered body in the couch. Your hair was messy now, strands spitting out as you anxiously tucked them back in, smoothing them down with the dampness of your palms as you ran around all night, ushering to the demands of your children.

“Thank you.”

You felt ill, your tongue cascading down your throat as you palmed at your knees, desperate for him to leave yet desperate for him to stay. Simon stilled, keys jangling in his hand before he sat down next to you, his weight disrupting the couch as he shuffled around.

“I need you to know that I did want to fight for you, y/n. I have counted every single day since you handed me those papers, waiting by my phone every single night on deployment hoping for you to text me, call me, fuck - blow my phone up. I never wanted the temporary absence that we had apart become permanent. Everything I said,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly as he looked away, “Everything I said on October 6th, 7 years ago, I meant. You weren’t supposed to get away from me - I shouldn’t have - I shouldn’t have let you get away from me.”

It was strange. Simon was never one for feelings, the brutality of his job allowed for any harsh emotions to crack through his fingers as he pulled a trigger, any dampness of tears would sweat through his skin as he pummelled a blade into an enemies head.

But it was you. And you weren’t violent, or any enemy, you were his wife, the person he vowed his entirety too.

Your anxious cascade cracked as you whimpered out a sob, chest heaving as you buried your face, tight with tears, into the pillows of your hands. You felt warmth spread through you, the texture of Simon’s fingers burning through you like wildfire, every ember he felt scorching through your flesh as he pulled you in.

Arms tangled together, intwining like wool as he wrapped you into his chest nimbly. A zephyr ran through you, your wrists clutched in his hands as you straddled him, the weight of you feeling like the grandest treasure upon him.

It was nothing strange, nor sexual but Simon recognised that cry, the differing pitch as you shuffled your frame into his. Simon knew you like the back of his hand, every crevice, every crease, every scar. He knew your backstory, and the one you made up to impress people. He knew the hex of the colour of your eyes and the print of your thumb. No papers would take that away from him.

Soaked eyelashes clumped into one as you looked up at him, orbs resembling once of a doe, innocence seeping through every inch of a salt-stained tear. His eyes met yours, apertures of cocoa reflecting your weary frame as you gripped onto him.

“Let me come home, please.”

Simon’s voice was desperate, it was raw, any shed of arrogance erased through the lines, eyebrows knotted together as he rubbed at the small of your back.

Your nod was subtle, but he could practically hear it, calloused hands gripping at the plush of your cheek and seeping through the tip of your spine, thumb rubbing at your earlobe as he clutched onto you.

Hot, seething pricks ran through your limbs as your lips connected, saline lining your mouth as he lapped at the heat of your tongue, rough groans leaving his lips as he savoured the taste.

Any diffidence left your body as familiarity sunk back into you. Hands pawed at the globe of your ass, gripping the flesh as anguished limbs wrapped around Simon’s waist.

With an easy tug, he lifted you, your hands wrapping around his neck as he pulled you in closer, teeth kissing. You never questioned Simon’s strength, and you wouldn’t start now as you felt your back hit your mattress.

He tugged at his shirt, the black fabric pooling on the floor as you sucked in a breath. Your eyes traced every scar, lighter flesh engraved into the skin of his torso, a short trail of hair disappearing into his pants as you stared at his burly physique.

Simon gripped at your shirt, the material practically ripping before his hands were at your chest, grabbing at your flesh desperately as you tangled your fingers into your bra, sliding it off. His mouth was hot on your chest, the sound of moans and pants filling the air as he positioned himself between your legs, teeth grazing the hard nubs, sucking with fervour as you whined, your hand at the base of his head, cradling it.

“Missed these so fucking much,” he practically whined, groping your tits as he pinched your nipples, lips sucking deep marks of possession into the soft skin. Your pants were desperate, begging him for more as you pulled his hair, fingernails clawing at his scalp.

Your hands fumbled with your pants, hips raising as he slid them off, clumsy fingers chucking them across the room as you laughed, lips connecting once more in a giggly state as his thumb pushed against the wetness of your panties.

“Missed how fucking wet you got for me. Such a good fucking girl,” he groaned, fingers rubbing at your heat through the thin cloth eliciting a pained moan from you.

“Simon - I need more, been so long.”

He choked out a laugh as his fingers hooked into the fabric, lace dribbling down your leg before he mewled at the sight of you. His hands held your thighs apart, your soaking cunt on display as it throbbed, slick folds glistening in the poor lighting.

“Prettiest fucking pussy,” he choked out to himself, placing your legs over his shoulder as he knelt down. Your back arched as you felt his tongue lick a long stripe of your pussy, his body seething for a taste of you as his lips found your neglected clit.

He lapped at you mercilessly, your cries and moans moulding into one with the filthy squelches of his mouth against your heat. Long digits circled your entrance, teasing you, before they curled in.

Your eyes rolled, pools of ivory exposed as you let out a guttural moan, your thighs tightening around his ears as he smirked against your pussy. Cocky fingers rubbed at the right spot, favouring the clench of your tight hole as he pulled every noise he could get from you.

You were barely cohesive as he lapped at your slick, the throbbing of your clit edging him on as he soothed your g-spot with the pad of his fingers. The coil you had only ever felt with Simon began to build, the familiar sensation pooling in your stomach as you stuttered out a whimper.

“Si- too much - I’m gonna-“

“That’s it baby,” he cooed, pulling away from your pussy for a second to take in your expression as you came, your face contorted with pleasure as your legs jerked, pussy wrapping tighter around his abusing digits as he fucked you through it with them. You looked down at him, saliva and your slick coating his mouth and chin as he grinned.

You stammered out a groan as his mouth attached back on your pussy, slurping up your liquid gold as you attempted to push his head away in overstimulation.

“Oh my- fuck - Simon - too much,” you whimpered your words commanding him to continue as he guzzled around your clit, teeth grazing the sensitive bud as your legs shook uncontrollably.

It wasn’t long before the continuation from your previous orgasm rose again, heat swarming your lower belly as you screamed out, your hand slapping over your mouth as you felt Simon’s spare hand wrap around your thigh, squeezing tightly.

You pulled at his hair, tugging at the ashy roots before you were gushing around his fingers and tongue again, sloshing liquids soaking your sheets as he groaned at the taste, mouth lapping it up with vigour. You whined in humiliation, the overwhelming pleasure becoming too much as you heaved.

“Si - no more -“

“I’m sorry baby, too fucking good. Will never get enough of your pussy.”

His words were filthy yet only held the truth, his continuous slurps against your heat causing your body to jerk as you relentlessly bucked your hips. Simon’s abuse continued on your pussy, your pussy gushing and coming another 6 times before he was satisfied, the sheet under you drenched in both your slick and squirt as Simon milked your overwhelmed cunt, claiming he was “making up for the months lost”.

You were dry heaving, throat dry as he captured your lips in a kiss, the taste of you infiltrating into your glands as you groaned, his hands reaching to tug at your breasts as he took in your fucked out state, legs jiggling and twitching as your pussy convulsed at the number of orgasms he dragged out of you.

You felt like you had been lying here for hours, yet you weren’t satisfied. You would only be content when he was inside you, stretching you to the brim as he pumped a load inside your worn-out hole.

“Simon - please - I can’t… I need you now,” you were practically crying, tears shedding at the brim of your eyes, bottom lip jutting out as he tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear, slicking back the sweat on your forehead.

“I know baby, done so well for Daddy, hm? Even after all that you still need to be plugged full of me don’t you?”

You nodded as a harsh slap landed against your clit, your body jolting as you squeaked. “Yes, please,” you cried, “Please Daddy.”

His hands were like clockwork, tearing at his jeans as they released his cock, a satisfied groan leaving his body as he gripped at the tent in his pants, a sticky wet patch soaking the material before his length throbbed out, angry tip slapping his stomach as a trail of precum glistened against the base of his cock.

His dick was flushed red, begging for release as he ran it through the squelch of your sopping folds, rubbing against your manipulated clit as you moaned.

Your hands gripped his head as he leant down to kiss you, his arm holding him up while the other positioned himself at your entrance. He stilled for a moment, cock almost pressing in before he whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you.”

The words were soft yet meaningful, your eyes interlocked as he began to push inside, your mouth gasping open as you clutched onto his shoulders. It was hard when you were together all those years to get accustomed to his frightening length, and now it had been a year and the stretch was searing through you.

“I know, sweet girl, you can take it. Such a tight cunt for me, so fucking good.”

Fingernails clawed at his back as he pushed in, your whines muffled by the palm of his hand as he held himself up his elbows. “Holy fuck,” he spluttered as he bottomed out, his lips connecting to your neck as he sucked, resting inside you for a second as you whimpered.

The burn slowly faded as you rutted against him impatiently, the tip of his cock resting against your sweet spot as you gasped.

“So fucking impatient, always been such a slut for me. Haven’t you?”

You nodded, whining as he began to move, moving his hips slowly as he rubbed inside you perfectly, your mouth wide open as your head lolled back. A series of expletives tipped from your tongue as you choked on the air, Simon’s pace picking up at your dramatic noises.

“Fuck - taking me so well-“ he grunted, hands groping at your tits as he watched your pussy absorb his length. It was an obscene sight and he loved it. Every fibre of your being belonged to him and it was something he constantly craved.

“All fucking mine - shit - my fucking pussy,” he grunted, thumb rubbing at your clit as you mewled, twitching below him as he spat, “my fucking wife - got the tightest fucking cunt just for me.”

You clenched around him at his words, knowing it was true as his balls slapped against your ass, skin spanking against each other as the sound filled the room, ecstasy roaring through both of your veins as you made love.

The squelch of your pussy was taboo as he lapped in the missed sound. His eyes took in the way your body reacted to every movement, no matter how small. He took in the way your breasts bounced with each thrust, lower stomach bulging as he pounded into you.

“Fuck - Simon - oh my God,” your words were a mere blabber, barely making sense as you clutched onto him, pulling him down to meet your lips.

“I can’t pull out, baby - fuck - gotta cum in this pretty pussy. Give you another kid, hm? - shit -“

His hips didn’t falter as his pace fastened, chasing his own high as he rubbed at your clit, your breaths growing shallow as your orgasm began to build. “Gonna fill you with my cum until it takes. Need your belly round again and your tits full - such a good fucking mum, makes me so fucking proud.”

His words were the final straw as the build up in your stomach popped, your whole body convulsing as your pussy clenched around him, a loud groan leaving his throat before you felt the hot splashes of his cum pumping inside you.

“That’s it baby, milk my cock. Such a good fucking girl for Daddy, gonna break you apart everyday on my cock until you never forget who you belong too.”

He didn’t pull out immediately, his cum plugged inside you as some seeped out, rolling down the crevice of your ass below you. Your eyes shut, gentle pants leaving your lips as you felt Simon’s absence before a soft cloth was wiped gently across your sex and masculine arms were gripping onto you, carrying you into the guest room before engulfing you into a thrill of heat, Simon’s chest against your back as you fell asleep.

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