Evi

It’s a delicate balance you strike, as you step down the aisle that’s formed through the middle of the room, a crowd of strangers on each side of you. Your muscles are locked up tight, willing yourself not to visibly shiver, or trip, or look too stiff as you place one foot in front of the other. Looking weak is not an option, your mother’s voice reminds you, not in front of these people. 

Kryptonians. Your people, soon enough. 

It’s difficult to ignore their stares piercing through you, just as the cold does, observing every practiced, fluid movement you make. You’d hoped, in vain, that your groom might prefer a private ceremony, given the royal family had even permitted a few of your own relatives to attend — a highly unusual allowance. But the Kryptonians were communal by nature, and the tight-knit royal court would never pass up the opportunity to see their Prince wed.

At the end of the aisle, he stands tall, awaiting you. Watching you.

Kal-El, you remember, the name sounding foreign even in your mind.

The ceremonial robes he’s adorned with are a vibrant red, caped over the familiar blue and yellow military uniform of the Kryptonians, a stark reminder of why this ceremony is even taking place, and why it had to happen so quickly.

You’ve anticipated this day your whole life. You’re the last of your sisters to be married off. Your eldest sister left your home when you were just nine years of age, wed to the ruler of a kingdom across the sea in exchange for precious material resources, and no amount of wailing and pleading on your part would make her stay. The education you received as you grew only confirmed what you learned that day: that daughters of Kings had a duty to their country, to the good of their people, and your father had a duty to do whatever it takes to ensure the welfare of his kingdom. 

Or, more simply put: one day you would be wed, and you would not have very much choice in the matter. 

At least the purpose of your arrangement is more clear-cut, more urgent. An evident solution to an imminent problem, for both your realms. Krypton’s position as the supreme power on the continent grows more precarious with every day that the Thanagar Rebellion continues, and all the military might in the world can’t bring the Thanagarians to the negotiation table, if the past five years were anything to go by. It’s ironic, then, that Krypton’s beloved Warrior Prince was the one to realise your kingdom’s strategic value in ending the conflict, despite — or perhaps, especially because of — your people’s peaceful nature. Your father, the great Concilliator, has ended wars before, and clearly Prince Kal-El thinks he can do it again. 

For a price, of course. Your kingdom would forever be under Krypton’s protection, as the home of Prince Kal-El’s bride, and your people would never have to fear for their safety again. 

Even from across the grand hall, your groom is formidable. He towers above his people, broad-shouldered, chin held high like there’s already a crown on his head to balance. The sheer size of him is nothing like you could have imagined. When his eyes finally meet yours, azure and austere, you can only hope no one notices the gasp that leaves you.

You reach him too soon. Your measured, smooth steps forward have carried you down the aisle, and before you know it, he’s turned to face you fully, his eyes unreadable and distant, palm outstretched in offering. His hand in yours is the first warmth you’ve felt since you arrived. 

The priest, whose face is covered by a brilliant, glowing mask, steps forward from the altar, garnishing a stretch of red fabric, which he ties around your joined hands. He speaks, addressing you and your audience in a tongue incomprehensible to you, and to keep your eyes from glazing over as you listen, you sneak a glance at your poker-faced groom. 

Of all the stories you heard about the Warrior Prince of Krypton, none of them mentioned how blindingly handsome he is. The brutal strength you’ve heard tale of is undeniable, his arms thick with corded muscle that not even the fine fabric his uniform can disguise, his hand twice the size of yours; he could crush you, right here under the altar if he likes, just as he’s done to enemies on the battlefield. They say his presence alone can turn the tide of a battle lost. They don’t mention the dimples that appear on his cheeks as he gives the priest a polite smile, or that his voice is deep and stern, but not harsh. Steadying. The whole room holds their breath just to hear him speak. 

He catches your stare, turning his head to look at you. But then so does the priest, and everyone else in the room. Expectant. Your turn. 

Despite the hours you spent practicing the simple phrase — “I will stand firm in my vow to you” — you stumble, stuttering over the foreign feeling of their language on your tongue, your accent abysmal. You have to force yourself not to wince at your obvious mispronunciation, and ignore your governess’s voice in your head (“Disgraceful! Disrespectful!”). The Kryptonians, to their credit, do not laugh at your faltering, and if the Prince finds your mishap amusing, he doesn’t show it. He nods respectfully, his expression open as he repeats the phrase in a humiliatingly perfect accent.

The priest nods solemnly, accepting your vow exchange, then leads you both to a pillar in the middle of the altar. A carved steel chalice sits on top of it, filled with a clear liquid, and the Prince moves gently as he guides the hands you’ve tied together to pick it up. It’s a delicate maneuver, requiring your fingers to tangle together, the warmth from his palm radiating to yours, grounding you. 

He’s careful as he brings the chalice to your lips, tilting it slowly to clue you in, so you’re prepared to open your mouth and accept his offering. The liquid is pleasantly fruity, and he doesn’t force it down your throat like you might’ve expected him to, just a couple sips and then the chalice lowers. 

He thankfully doesn’t leave you guessing as to what the next step is, drawing the chalice up to his own lips, leisurely and subtle, so as to not give away his guidance (and your cluelessness). Your hand does not tremble as you tilt the chalice towards him, saving you the embarrassment of spilling it on his face. 

Your eyes can’t help but linger on the purse of his lips. The bob of his throat as he swallows. Your cheeks flush with heat as you realise just how beautiful you find him, and you’re glad to look away from him when the chalice is lowered back onto the pillar. The priest rambles on for a bit longer, looking between the two of you, before he seems to address the crowd, his voice rising to boom throughout the hall in declaration. The Prince uses your tied hands to tug you along, gently, to face him again. 

He takes a long moment to stare at you, his eyes no longer blank, but searching. Trying to communicate something you can’t understand. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and then he’s leaning in closer to you, pressing his lips to yours.

It’s not an unpleasant feeling. His lips are pillowy and soft, and only press to yours for a mercifully brief moment before pulling away, a mere brush of skin, before the hall bursts into cheers. The noblemen are too busy tossing flower petals into the air to notice the way you nearly jump out of your skin at the sudden cacophony, a rainbow of confetti falling around you. You mimic the wide smile the Prince wears at the celebration, covering up your shock quickly. 

He guides you, slowly, mindful of the difference in your height and of your hands still being tied together, down the steps to the altar and towards a door to the left, instead of back down the aisle like you expected.

You catch sight of your family then, a few rows back in the crowd. Your parents stand next to two of your brothers, the youngest of which has a watery smile on his young face, trying to hold back his tears. You will see him later this evening, at the reception dinner, and then never again. You send him a reassuring smile over your shoulder before the door shuts behind you.

You’re alone with the Prince now, tucked away in a small, circular room that’s no less ornate than the hall you’ve exited, the skylight ceiling bathing you both in fading sunlight. Tables line the walls, displaying a variety of canapes and hors d’oeuvres, sweets and cheeseboards and flutes of every beverage you could possibly conceive of. In the center of the room is a simple settee, decorated with plush pillows, large enough to fit two people. Your stomach drops at the sight of it.

This is the consummation room. 

“You’ll break your fast before dinner, privately. You’ll have your fill of amuse-gueules,” You recall your mother’s explanation. “And then, he’ll have his fill of you.” 

You can’t even bear to look at the Prince, your heartbeat quickening in your chest as you anticipate his bruising touch on you at any moment. The hand that isn’t bound to his clenches into a fist at your side, instinctually, dying to fight your way out, and it takes every inch of your willpower to loosen it. Your jaw goes tense, in the hopes that when he inevitably bends you over the furniture and forces himself into you, you can hold back your cries, for the sake of guests on the other side of the door. 

For your people, you remind yourself. For their peace. 

“Do you speak the common tongue?” 

Your head whips towards him, eyes wide. You didn’t expect much talking.

“Forgive me, I have not had the time I would’ve liked to learn your native ton-” He continues on. “I do. I speak- I understand you just fine. Your highness.” His title is tacked on at the end, your brain working too slowly to remember your etiquette. “My apologies, for my… less than impressive Kryptonian.” That makes him breathe out a laugh. Not polite, like before, during the ceremony, but genuine. He’s somehow even more handsome when he smiles like this, warm and sincere. 

“I’m told it’s a difficult tongue to master.” He reassures you, moving to untie the cloth that keeps your hand tied to his. “Are you thirsty? It’s best to save room for the feast, but a beverage might tide you over till then.” His concern for your wellbeing only alarms you further. Why is he drawing this out? Did he want to avoid you fainting during the act? Or perhaps prevent you from dropping a canape in shock, ruining the fine carpet?

You stand there, blinking at him in perplexity, even after he drops your hand and it flops back to your side, in a manner that could only be described as the opposite of graceful. But he’s not even looking at you, instead he’s striding across the room, grabbing a glass of fruit juice and planting himself down on the settee. 

When he notices that you’re still frozen in place — notices your fear — he softens, putting his hands out, palms facing up in surrender. “Please, sit. We’ll only have a few minutes to rest.” 

You move slowly, cautiously, plucking a glass of the same juice from the table and making your way to the center of the room to join him, never taking your eyes off his hands. 

You sit in disquieting silence, sipping sweet beverages and avoiding eye contact. He is your husband now, and you know you must obey him, but your body resists obedience with every ounce of strength it has. 

Which is not very much. 

You’d never been allowed very many culinary indulgences, but ever since the engagement was announced you were under very strict orders from your mother to “watch your figure!” while your brothers piled three different kinds of red meat and grain onto their plates, under the excuse of being "growing boys”, not men grown already. After long days of studying Kryptonian culture and dance classes and piano lessons — your brothers’ longsword training lessons in full view from the library window — you’d taken to falling into slumber during your evening baths, then being shaken awake by your ladies in waiting, alarm clear on their faces, telling you without words that you had taken far too long to wake up.

And yet, you still resisted submission to this man on the couch with you. Your face burned with shame. After so many years of contending with your fate, you thought this day might come a little easier to you, that eventually the satisfaction of being a perfect lady would set in with maturity and age and you would look forward to marrying the future King of the most powerful kingdom on the continent. But here, now, sitting and taking a breath right in the middle of the fanfare, the eye of the storm, you feel like your chest might be collapsing in on itself. 

“We can stay here as long as you’d like.” The Prince says gently from beside you. When you turn to him, he’s gazing at you knowingly, but not pitying.

“We cannot keep them waiting.” You reply, practiced. 

“They will wait for me.” He doesn’t sound haughty, just assured. Safe.

You nod, because words escape you then. You’ll take this little mercy, just before what will surely be the longest night of your life. 

Prince Kal-El never comes closer to you than the length of the couch. 

The food being delicious does little to assuage your nerves, lit afire by the cacophony of the dining hall as your wedding guests indulge in the reception feast. 

This portion of the celebration is the polar opposite of the ceremony, the torches along the wall and the mass of bodies dancing, eating, and bantering being more than enough to warm the freezing palace walls, though your hair still somehow remains standing on end. 

You stare out, a polite, practiced smile plastered onto your face in the hopes no one will notice the blank look in your eyes, as you try to reconcile the stories told about Kryptonians with the people in front of you. From your table at the crest of the dining hall, elevated on a stone platform, you have a full view of the banquet as it unfolds. The warlords and barbarians you read about bear little resemblance to the crowd in front of you, where everyone greets each other like old friends, singing songs that they all know the words to and knocking back hot ale and wine like it’s water. The same Lords that held their breath to hear their Prince speak his vows approach him like uncles now, clapping him heavily on the shoulder in congratulations, and he greets them with the same enthusiasm. His joy, you can tell, isn’t a farce; he loves these people like they’re his own family.

They are, it occurs to you. They’ve either seen him grow from a babe in his mother’s arms to the titan he is now, or grown right alongside him, and all of them — both the men and the women — have likely fought a battle or two with him. It’s a bond that’s incomprehensible to you, but it’s evident to anyone with functioning eyes. 

Despite the platters of food as wide as your husband’s shoulders and as high as your eye-level, you can only bring yourself to indulge in the bread rolls, warm and baked with herbs in the dough and perfectly buttered, and a bit of the poultry. After the first hour of you picking and plucking at the food on your plate, the Prince leaned close so you could hear him over the roar of the crowd and asked if the food was to your liking, and you nodded eagerly, flashing a smile so as to not worry him. He shot you a concerned look at first, but then one of his father’s generals approached your table and he was thankfully whisked away into conversation and congratulations, before you were forced to explain that your mother was watching you from her place just a few feet away. 

You excuse yourself easily to freshen up in the washroom, trailed by your new lady’s maid. You are a woman grown, a married woman, who still must be accompanied to the washroom, not even trusted to wash her own behind. 

Your mother waits for you in the hall when you’re finished, clearly intent on catching you in a moment alone, bringing you into a tight embrace, and despite the pit in your stomach that forms every time you see her, the scent of her arms around you will always be soothing to you. Sickeningly familiar. 

“Did it hurt terribly, my dearest?” She says, in your own language, so even the lady’s maid standing a few feet away can’t eavesdrop on your conversation.

“Did what hurt?” You say, confused. She pulls away, her hands coming to clutch your shoulders, looking at you in questioning.

“The consummation, dearest.”

“I-I didn’t- he didn’t-” You’re trying to get it across, but even you’re confused by the whole situation. The consummation was not exactly presented to you as optional, and yet, the Prince didn’t lay a hand on you, not until you stood and nodded to him silently, so he knew you were ready. And still, he did not take you, simply presented his arm for you to take and led you to the dining hall to make your grand re-entrance. 

Your mother is in disbelief, peppering you with questions about why and how and what exactly he said or did in your time alone together, but even you don’t have answers for her. His motives are a mystery to you. 

“Well, it is no matter. You must consummate tonight. Your marriage must be seen as legitimate, or the alliance between our kingdoms is null and void. Do you understand, my dear?” You nod, trying not to show the fear that clutches you at the thought, of consummation and of endangering your people. “You must not leave your marriage chambers unbedded.”

“Yes, mother. I understand. I won’t-” “Good!” She switches back to the common tongue, then. “Let’s not keep your husband waiting much longer, dear.” 

You’re guided back to your seat next to the Prince, just like you are guided everywhere. 

You can see your future in crystal clarity before you, being chaperoned from room to room, your skin plucked and your body penetrated till you die, hopefully before you’ll ever have to chaperone your own daughter. 

Your placating smile returns to your face for the next few hours, while the party rages on with no sign of stopping. It must be past midnight, but the Kryptonians seem to have boundless energy for a proper celebration, including your husband. His cheeks must be sore from hours of grinning, his stomach full as he’s cleared plate after plate, and yet he’s still jovial, conversing with his family and friends, knocking tankards together in salute with little regard to the ale that spills onto the floor and down sleeves as a result.

Eventually, he stands, taking your hand in his and moving to leave the table, causing groans to ring out around him. You descend the platform together and you trail after him as he slowly makes his way to the door, a long process, as he’s stopped every few feet by well-wishers, either bidding him a good night or cajoling him into staying a few more hours. He smiles widely at every one of them, hugs them tightly, but shakes his head at the invitations to stay, before thanking them for their attendance and moving on. It goes on like that till you reach the towering wooden doors that lead out of the hall, exiting with polite waves towards his people, and despite craning your neck in an attempt to see over the crowd, you cannot seem to find your family before the doors slam shut. 

Your ears ring even in the silence of the corridor, struggling to adjust as your husband leads you away from the dining hall, your steps echoing in tandem with his. Your heart pounds too hard and loud in your ears, and you have to force your breathing to regulate instead of hyperventilating; the corridors are far too echoey for your panic to go undetected, and the leisurely pace you’re taking leaves no excuse for your racing heart. 

You walk for what feels like an hour. These halls are long and winding, and the further you walk, arm in arm with your husband, the more terrified you are of ever having to find your way through this castle by yourself. It’ll take years, you’re sure, to learn the layout of your new home. You begin to wonder if your husband’s quarters — where you’re sure he’s leading you — is on the other side of the castle when you round a corner and find the entrance doors to the dining hall again, music and chatter still audible through thick wood. 

You look up at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. “Your highness, are we returning? Are we not-?”

“We will make it to our chambers eventually.” He explains, a lighthearted smile on his face. “We are simply… taking the scenic route.”

It hits you, then, that despite his humorous tone, he truly does want to delay the consummation, just as you do. That he is, in a way, a victim of circumstance as you are, marrying a stranger for the good of his people. That he might understand your reluctance better than most.

“Oh,” is all you can muster up for a response. “Alright.” “Unless you wish to retire?” “No!” You say too quickly. Improperly. Disrespectful!, your governess’s voice rings in your head again, as your cheeks heat and you refocus your gaze ahead. “I only mean, I wish to follow your lead, my husband.” He doesn’t respond, but he keeps his gaze on you, quiet and deep in thought. You walk in silence for a bit, past the dining hall entrance and around another corner, before he speaks again. 

“I want you to feel comfortable here.” He says, in that same comforting tone he used earlier, like he’s coaxing a feral animal out of its cage. 

“I will, your highness. You need not worry.” Your tone is measured, steady, confident, a voice you can recede into instinctually, before anyone senses your distress.

“Yes, but- I understand this isn’t- you did not choose this.” He stumbles over his words, sounding unsure for the first time since you’ve met him. You pointedly look away from him, eyes fixated on the walls, as if the intricate carvings on the bleached stone are the most interesting thing in the world, so he can’t see the way your eyes well up with tears at the acknowledgment that you are not here by your own volition. “Should you think of anything that will make you more comfortable, or give you some solace, or- anything. Anything you want, I will give it to you.” 

You switch your distracted stare from the walls to your skirt, your free hand coming to pick at the beading, clinking softly. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what he can give you that will make any of this better. No matter what, you cannot go back home. 

“Thank you.” It comes out as a whisper. Any louder, and he’d hear the tears that threaten to close your throat. 

He falls silent afterwards, thankfully. 

Your steps echo down more unfamiliar corridors, twisting and turning till you reach a courtyard on what must be the west side of the palace, judging by the sun’s setting rays beaming through the ornate glass ceiling, providing cover from the frequent snowfalls you’re told plague this kingdom. You’re a floor above it, and the Prince guides you to the railing to gaze down into this oasis in the middle of the palace, a spread of green amongst stone, flowering bushes and grass and a few trees, impossibly blooming. You don’t even notice the Prince slipping his arm from yours, allowing you to lean further over in amazement. 

“How?” You ask, looking back at him.

“Our groundskeepers work very hard.” He replies simply, like it’s not a marvel to have a thriving garden in the middle of winter. You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes you.

“This is- it’s incredible.” 

Your home was all rolling fields of grass and meadows of flowers, a rare patch of forest here and there. You’d come to accept you’d just have to get accustomed to Krypton’s snow-capped mountain peaks on the horizon, its climate far cooler than you’ve ever endured. As your eyes rove over the familiar sight of greenery, they land on a familiar sight, a bushel of red berries that you’d often eat in the mornings to break your fast. Your favourite, in fact. 

“I wasn’t aware that fragaria is native to Krypton, too.” You say it happily, knowing that at least you’ll have something familiar to eat tomorrow morning.

“It isn’t.” He responds. When you look back at him in confusion, he’s smiling fondly. At you. “When our engagement was announced, I asked for some flora native to your own kingdom to be planted.” 

You hate the way your eyes fill with tears again. You’ve done more crying today than you ever intended. But this time, they’re tears of gratitude. Of relief. 

“Thank you,” You say again. “Truly.”

“If you wish for anything else-” “I will tell you.” Your voice is truly sure this time. Genuine. Then, “Are the berries ripe yet?”

“I will have to inquire with Klinn-Il, he often tends to the fruit bushes.” You step away from the railing, slipping your arm around his again, resting your hand on his forearm as you continue on down the corridor. “If they are, they’ll be picked fresh for you on the morrow.”

“That would please me very much, your highness.” A genuine smile finally graces your face.

You walk at the same leisurely pace as before, but more comfortably. Pressed closer together, exchanging conversation rather than silently begging him not to say anything to you. He asks you questions, about your home, your family, and you tell him easily, seeing him nod intently, as if the life of the last-born daughter of a King was the most important matter in the world. You ask him your own questions in return. You learn that Krypton does get warmer, in the months opposite to your own kingdom’s summer, that he is close with his parents and has tea with his cousin, Kara, every chance he gets, though she’s quite the adventurer and is rarely home. You learn he is fond of cats, and of music. 

When you finally reach what must be the entrance to his chambers, you know each other just the slightest bit more. Not quite a stranger anymore, but your breath still stutters, the reality of what’s in store for the rest of the night slamming back into you like a kick to the chest. 

His room is not what you expected. The stained glass windows scatter mosaics of colours all around you, brilliant and shining in the sunset, illuminating the sitting area and warming the room. There’s a scattering of armchairs and settees, all in the colours of the House of El, surrounding the fireplace that’s already been lit for you. On the furthest wall from the entrance are double doors that lead to a private balcony, and to your left, a canopy bed. Every decoration is plush and extravagant, inviting. You try not to think about your own room back home, or how none of the colours are ones you’d pick out for yourself. This is the Prince’s room, and so you belong here, with the rest of his possessions. 

“Is it to your liking?” He asks.

“Yes.” You lie easily, but again, your body doesn’t cooperate. As he moves further into the room, you stay put in the entryway, as if remaining far from the bed will protect you from what’s to come. You both know the customs of his people. Even if he was kind enough to want to spare you, he could not risk the voiding of your marriage, not with the safety of your kingdoms on the line.

“Are you warm enough? I can add more firewood-” “No, I’m quite warm, your highness.” 

He looks back at you. Recognising your fear, again. You stand feet apart, both unsure, trepidatious. 

He stares down at the floor as he speaks to you, like he’s ashamed. “I will have to undress for bed.”

“As will I.” Your voice is distant.

“I will turn around while you undress.” 

“Your highness,” You shake your head. “It’s no use.” 

But he turns anyway. You hear the buttons of his coat pop open, slowly, like he wants to give you extra time. You sigh, knowing as well as he does that there’s no sense in prolonging the inevitable, but you comply with his wishes. You loosen the back of your gown clumsily, having to untie the laces by reaching back and fumbling around till the ties come undone, enough to slide the heavy fabric down and off, stepping out of your behemoth of a skirt. And then you’re left in your stays and chemise, grateful, at least, for the warmth of the room as you shed your few layers. 

When you dare to look across the room at your husband, you gasp quietly at the sight of his bare back. He’s somehow even broader, stronger with his clothing off, the expanse of his muscular shoulders, the dimples at the base of his back, right above- 

You avert your eyes again, trying to focus on removing your stays, but the laces start higher up on your back than the dress, hard to reach and even harder to untie, and there’s no lady’s maid here to help you. He must hear your frustrated whine as you twist and bend your arms to try and get ahold of the ties, because he asks if you need help, without even turning towards you, still keeping his promise not to look. 

You lock up at the question. Your cheeks are already heated from your frustration, but you can feel blood rushing to your face again at the prospect of him so close when you’re in such a state of undress, but you remember there’s no use. He will see much more of you, very soon. 

“Please.” You finally acquiesce, and only then does he turn, crossing the room as soon as you ask. 

You keep your eyes low, not wanting to scandalise yourself further with more glimpses of his body, and gasp at the feeling of his hands brushing against your back.

“Is this alright?” He asks, stilling.

“Yes. It’s fine, your highness.” You say, automatically, again. Powerless to deny him anything. 

He makes quick work of the knots, pulling the laces on your back loose till he can slip it over your head easily, then retreating from you. You frown, again, at his delays. Almost hoping he’d get it over with already.

When he reappears before you, he is clothed in a light tunic, loose and worn from frequent use, and similarly loose britches. He barely glances at you as he climbs into bed, burying himself under the thick duvet, as if truly readying himself for slumber. 

You stay put, in just your chemise, still lingering in the entryway like you could bolt out of the room. His gaze fixates on the ceiling.

“You may come to bed, if you wish.” He says. “Or sleep on the futon, or wherever else you desire. I will not interfere with your sleep.”

You step forward. Hesitant. Slow. Disbelieving. It takes you forever to approach the bed, and an embarrassing amount of effort to climb onto it, as it was clearly built with his size in mind. It’s expansive, much bigger than your own, and covered in more blankets and plush, goose-feathered pillows than you can count, the sheets like silk against your skin. There’s ample space between you and him, laying on opposite sides of the mattress.

“Your highness,” You start, once you’ve situated yourself comfortably on top of the bed. “Surely, you know that- that you must-”

“Sleep, my wife.” He says, exhaustion creeping into his voice, his eyes already shut. “Both of us must sleep. It’s been a long day, for us both.” 

You do not sleep. 

You sit there for a long while, unable to fall asleep as he does, studying him, watching his face go slack and his breathing deepen as he falls into his slumber. With him so still like this, unconscious to the world, you finally have the liberty of truly, openly staring at your new husband. 

He has been kind, against your every expectation. He has been considerate, and has never once shown you anger, even as you repeatedly displayed your fear in front of him, your fear of him. Your resistance hasn’t seemed to phase him. You remember again, staring at him like this, that he is incredibly handsome. The curls that had no doubt been slicked back this morning are falling onto his forehead, bringing a smile to your face, despite yourself. 

When you finally climb under the covers, settling into the mattress, with your eyes still on him, like at any moment he’ll transform into the husband you’d imagined you’d have, twice your age and unforgivingly brutal. But he remains the same, a peaceful expression on his face, quiet snores escaping him. 

You decide, then, to trust him for the night. And as you close your eyes, you allow yourself to wonder, for the first time, if you may have married a good man. 

Close-up magic was cool, definitely, but he knew it was just perfectly timed misdirection and sleight of hand. Tricks. Illusions. White Lies. That's not to say he doesn't believe in magic or miracles, no, because that's all you could possibly be, right? A miracle? A blessing from a God he thought he didn't believe in, until you happened? Because what you do to him is nothing short of magic.

How the chaos of his mind fades into static white noise at a simple touch of your hand. How your eyes always look to find his in a room, no matter how crowded, and how you always smile like a kid who won a stuffed animal at a carnival when they finally do. How some part of you always stays and lingers around him every day, be it in your perfume that he can still smell on his clothes, remnants of the mark you've left on him, keys you've misplaced at his place, your mug next to his where the dishes are stacked, or in the little notes you leave for him to find throughout his day, reminding him that even with all the death, pain, and destruction in the world, perfection like you is possible.

People look at their lives in their own way. Most people quantify the time lived by looking at it in parts— childhood, teenage/adolescence, adulthood, and old age. For Spencer, though, there was only one other time in his life that mattered— Before you. He swears that everything he knows, everything he has ever learned, everything that he has been through, up until the point that he met you, happened specifically so that he could do just that— meet you.

If there's anything the BA in Philosophy helped him understand, it's this. Existentialists argue that life has no inherent meaning, and individuals must create their own meaning through their choices and actions. By that logic, his choices and actions, having subconsciously led him to you, must mean that you are the true meaning of life. Not an existentialist? Not a problem.

Plato believed that the meaning of life lies in attaining the highest form of knowledge, which is the Idea of the Good, from which all good and just things derive utility and value. Considering how Spencer's pursuit of this exact idea is what led him to you in the first place, this must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you were the true meaning of life. At least to him.

Nihilism suggests that life is ultimately meaningless and that there is no objective value or purpose. Nihilists must have never encountered you, he concludes.

Living with Spencer Reid is usually wonderful. He’s relatively neat, but messy enough that you don’t have to walk on eggshells around him. He’s always willing to recommend you a new read, he doesn’t judge you when you spend an entire day slumped on the couch, and is always up to help you stress bake. 

It’s decidedly wonderful, until it’s not. A week into your living together, you’d realised what a workaholic he was. After the first time you’d caught him asleep on top of paperwork in the living room, you’d understood how much of a pain Spencer Reid really can be. 

Unfortunately, today is one of those days. Spencer returned from a case last night, and the moment you’d seen the slump in his shoulders, you knew you were going to have to work from home today. 

“You really don’t have to stay home. I don’t even have to stay home! I’m seriously not sick, I swear!” His voice is low, as if attempting to mask the rasp in it. It doesn’t work.

His rambling doesn’t cease, not the entire time you steer him away from the front door and into the living room. 

“Yeah? Spence, do you even remember the last time you got sick? I came home to find you lying on the dining table! I’m not going to leave and come back to you trying to climb out of the window or something.” You deadpan, watching him cross his arms and grumble something about ‘elevating the upper body’, and ‘actually very good for the immune system’. 

Having shoved him not-too-lightly onto the couch, you stand with your arms crossed, eyes narrowed on him.

“I can’t believe you were going to go to work! Living with you is like living with a child sometimes, god. You know you would have been sent home straight away, look at you.” You gesture wildly at him. 

He’s a pathetic sight, curled up on the couch looking distinctly sorry for himself. His hair is limp, flat against his scalp, his weak limbs shoved haphazardly in a button down and slacks. He hasn’t even knotted his tie, leaving it hanging loosely around his neck. 

Grabbing his phone out of his bag, you thrust it towards him. 

“Call your boss and tell him you need a sick day. You said it yourself, it’s just paperwork today, right? You can take a day off once in a while, Spence, it won’t kill you.” Once finished, you stomp out of the room, heading to his bedroom to grab him some clothes. Surveying his closet, you grab one of his Caltech hoodies and a pair of sweatpants, grinning to yourself when you hear his hoarse voice on the phone. 

As you walk back into the living room, he’s settled in, clearly resigned to his fate. 

“Yeah, Hotch, I need the day off. I’m sorry, I’m just- Oh. It’s okay? You’re sure? Um, okay. Thanks Hotch.” He hangs up, his eyebrows pinched as if he’s loath to admit you were right. 

You can’t help it, snickering as you dump the sweats and hoodie on his chest. 

“I told you so.”

“You’re so mean to me.” 

It’s nice, spending a day with Spencer like this, even with how whiny he is. Sitting at the desk in the living room, you’re not being incredibly productive, but Spencer’s fever-induced rambles more than make up for it. 

“So, some idiot made a blog called ‘What Would Carl Sagan Do?’, and Garcia - remember I told you about her, my coworker? She showed it to me, and oh my god, it’s so ridiculous! I mean, to start, all the entries were lifted from different sci-fi movies and books, and they were all so inaccurate, like, ‘The Martian Chronicles’ were good, but it’s been debunked so many times! Carl Sagan debunked it!”

He’s laying on his back on the couch, slender fingers waving in the air above him, eyes lidded as he speaks animatedly. 

“Yeah? What was wrong about it?” You rise from the desk chair, heading into the kitchen. “Also, do you want tea?”

His voice softens, speaking slower as he answers your question. “Yeah, that black tea you brought home last week, please.”

You can hear the moment he slips back into his rant, words growing more and more spirited as he continues to rail against whatever that blog was. Puttering around the cramped kitchen, you let his words roll over you, balancing two mugs and a plate in your hands. 

He doesn’t stop speaking, but flashes you a grateful smile as he takes a mug from you, swiping a cookie from the plate before delving back into the topic at hand.

“So, Bradbury, and a lot of the other sci-fi writers of the time, believed that colonisation of Mars would be possible within the 20th century. And then, in 1960, Carl Sagan, along with a bunch of other astronomers, discovered that Mars doesn’t have an atmosphere, so humans living there long term is virtually impossible without a huge improvement in technology, which probably won't happen until the latter half of the 21st century. And this moron with a blog is pretending like Sagan wouldn’t care, and that he would advocate for irresponsible space travel and I hate him.” 

He finishes with a huff, taking a large gulp of tea and sitting up against the couch. His eyes are hazy with exhaustion, eyelids drooping as he looks at you. You can’t help but giggle. He looks adorably dishevelled, and his eyebrows pinching together at your laughter only intensifies it.

“What? Why are you laughing?”

“I’m- I’m sorry Spence, you just look really cute right now, like you’re going to fall asleep.” You can barely get it out, body shaking with mirth. His eyebrows furrow further, a slight pout forming on his lips. 

His attempts to get you to stop laughing go unanswered, and he huffs once more, crossing his arms and settling against the couch cushions. 

It’s the late afternoon when a knock on the door stirs you from your reverie. Spencer is sitting next to you, your legs slung over his lap as he leans back, eyes trained on The Fellowship of the Ring on the television as his hands tap out something on your calves. 

“Are you expecting anyone?” He shakes his head no, not averting his gaze from the screen. 

You sigh, jostling his shoulder. 

“Spence. Spence, can you go get the door? It’s probably a salesman or something.” 

He hums, shaking his head once more. 

“Can’t. Too sick.”

You groan, tipping your head back in frustration before hauling yourself off the couch, flicking his shoulder as you walk past.

“You’re infuriating, you know that?” His only response is a grin, before he turns back to the movie. 

Grumbling under your breath, you trudge through the room to the front door, frowning when you look through the peephole to see two figures. 

One is shorter than the other, a woman wearing a hot pink and orange dress that should be garish, but looks completely natural on her. The man next to her is grinning, holding several plastic bags in one hand, the other arm linked with the woman’s. 

Not salesmen. 

Concluding that they’re probably not a threat, you swing the door open, causing their heads to pop up. 

“Hey, Reid- Oh.” The man speaks immediately, but pauses when he sees you. 

“You’re not Reid.” The woman concludes. 

You tilt your head to the side, confused. 

“Yeah, I’m not. Um, how do you know Spencer?” 

They share a confused look.

“We’re his coworkers. Derek and Penelope. Sorry, who are you? Do we have the wrong apartment?” 

You brighten, recognising the names from Spencer’s many stories about work. 

“Oh, that’s who you are! No, you’ve got the right apartment, of course. Come in.” You turn to the side, allowing them to walk in, although their expressions remain bewildered. “I’m Spence’s roommate, Y/N. He’s in the living room.”

“Roommate?” Derek exclaims before setting his sights on Spencer, striding over to him. 

“Hey, pretty boy.” Spencer jolts, the haze of sickness having made sure that he didn’t notice them till now. His voice is higher than normal, squeaky. 

“Morgan! What are you- Garcia? Why- why are you here?” Penelope smiles mischievously, plopping down on the couch next to Spencer. 

“Well, we obviously wanted to check up on you, Boy Wonder. This is the first sick day you’ve taken in the last two years - don’t try to lie to me, I checked - and now, we’re very interested in your friend here.” Her smile loses its teasing edge when she turns to you. 

A grin spreads over your face, recognising the same teasing affection you feel towards him in the two newcomers. Retaking your seat on Spencer’s other side, you pull your feet up on the couch, tucking them under Spencer’s thigh. 

Penelope squeaks quietly, but averts her gaze when you look up at her questioningly. 

“So, you guys have worked with Spence for a while, huh?”

Derek sits in the armchair across from you, chuckling under his breath.

“Since he was 22. Back when he straightened his hair and wore those sweater vests that were three sizes too big.” Spencer lets out a strangled noise of protest next to you, but you both ignore him in favour of continuing your conversation. 

“Seriously? I’ve seen one photo of him back then, but then he started hiding them all from me. You got any?” 

Penelope perks up, pulling out a tablet from her work bag. 

“Yes! Oh my goodness, sweetheart, I have so many. Did you know, he used to do this thing where he would gel his hair back, said it made him look older but it was honestly just really cute, hold on…”

She shifts and moves to sit on your other side, huddling over the tablet with you and Derek. 

Spencer is suddenly left in the lurch, stuck observing the three of you from the other end of the couch. He feels like he should be irritated, angry even, but he can’t do anything but watch, eyes softening. 

“Oh my god, Spencer, you were so cute, what happened?” Never mind, he’s feeling a bit irritated now.

It’s not endearing, no. No matter how lovely you look, your face flushed with excitement. No matter how easily you fit in with some of his favourite people in the world.

She slapped him with the cloth, rubbing his cheek with a smile that could have put the sun to shame. Simon’s dark clothes were covered in a fine layer of dust, ghostly handprints at his stomach and legs from where he’d wiped his hands. His scarf hung low on his neck, pulled down now that the worst of the sanding was over. He grasped the back of Y/n’s thighs, urging her onto his knee at the table so she could sit comfortably. She sighed in relief, curling into his side and running her hands over her belly. 

Her swollen stomach was becoming more and more of an obstacle to navigate around the house, and an even more cumbersome obstacle when Simon was in need of affection, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He kissed the top of her stomach, smoothing over the prominent swell in her dress and feeling a little kick in response. 

Y/n rested her hands on her bump, feeling the odd kick in her abdomen as the baby fussed. It had shocked the both of them the first time it happened. An internal and external kick that had Simon staring at her stomach like the child might jump out at any moment. 

Now, Simon was grinning like a schoolboy, nuzzling his face against her chest and speaking in low tones to the baby. 

“You’re an active one aren’t you? Will you even sleep in the cradle I so lovingly carved?” The baby gave an indignant kick and Simon tipped his head back in laughter. 

The skeleton of the cradle lay half-assembled by the door, sawdust trickling out the door at the beckoning of the wind and joining with the spirits that lingered by gravestones. Simon had worried about bringing a child into their small corner of the world. Worried that they wouldn’t have enough — that he wouldn’t be enough. But then Y/n had missed her monthly cycle and the fretting had eased the more and more she began to show. Now that spectral future, seemingly ripe with misfortune, had bled into something more tangible — something real that Simon could see and touch and protect. Something that promised strife for certain, but also hope and happiness in greater abundance.

Y/n and Simon had suffered enough at the hands of others, but they’d done so well in taking care of each other that they were ready for a child. Y/n especially cried at the realization that, with Simon at her side, a child could be something to love, not something to be feared. When she had been married to William Hall she’d anguished over the day where her son might be the one to raise a hand to her, outfitted with his father’s cruel eyes. Or the day when a daughter with her somber expression would be cast out into the world. 

But now she hoped her child might have Simon’s eyes, full of warm browns and easy kindness, so that others would look upon her child and see the man she loved. 

She softened against him, listening to all the gentle promises he made to his child. That he would love them forever. That he would always be there to protect and care for them. That he would kill every bug that scampered up their walls and plant every flower in the garden that could make them smile. 

Y/n leaned her head against his, coaxing his gaze up to her as he smiled easily. 

“My husband,” she whispered, swiping his chin with her thumb and forefinger. 

“My wife,” he murmured back. 

<- Previous chapter

She’d focused so much on surviving the wrath and wanting of men that she’d never learned how to handle her own desires. Never before had she pictured what it might look like to love the man she was married to. To want the man she was married to. To want him to want her back. 

Simon had changed all of that. 

He was a living furnace beneath the covers and she clung to him for warmth, stealing the heat from his skin as she burrowed further into his side. A rumble of laughter echoed in his chest just beneath her ear and she was powerless to stop her own joy at the sound. 

“You purr like a cat, Y/n.” 

“And you rumble worse than a steam engine,” she countered. 

Simon smiled, nosing at the crown of her head as he breathed in her scent. “You’re making it very difficult for me to leave this bed.” 

The winter winds banged against the windows and frost bloomed along the windowsills. Just yesterday Y/n had finished the laundry and the clean downy sheets were making him soft and slow. But there were always chores to be done if one looked, and Simon was not an idle man. 

He noticed when his wife grew still and silent beside him, as though waiting for a blow to come. 

“Darling, we spoke about this,” he whispered, gently smoothing her chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“I know.” 

“Then tell me what you’re thinking.” 

“It’s not—” 

“Darling.” 

Y/n shivered, feeling warmth flush her skin. Want pressed against her from the inside out, like there was something in her chest that wanted — no, needed — to crawl into Simon’s arms. She was aware of every movement she made against her husband as she propped herself up on her elbow. Carefully, she leaned over Simon’s face, feeling his breath curl around her neck. 

His lips lay flat and severe, brows drawn together in displeasure at his wife’s hesitance. He wanted her to tell him everything. To trust him with everything. 

She smoothed the lines in his forehead, coaxing his crow’s feet to deepen as his lips twitched in satisfaction. She was hovering very close, chest pressing against his and then—

There. 

Her lips finally met his, as sweet and warm as melted chocolate. Her breath curled into his open mouth, entering his lungs and setting his chest on fire with longing. Too soon she drew back. Her eyelids fluttered open, slow and heady. Her hair tickled his neck. 

With the slightest shake of her hand, she took his hand and coaxed it up her side. 

“I want you to touch me.” 

Simon swallowed thickly, feeling his blood rush from his head down south. “Y/n—” 

“I mean it this time, Simon. I trust you.” 

At those three words, Simon came to attention, sitting up in bed. She helped unbutton his shirt, tugging it off his body and taking a moment to fold it carefully in her lap. Simon smiled, took it from her hands, and tossed it expertly onto the corner chair. 

She’d seen him shirtless before many times but… it was different now. His skin glowed with barely constrained fervor. His eyes looked almost feverish, but his hands were careful as he began undoing the ties of her nightgown. 

“I’m grateful we’re doing this now,” Simon murmured. He slid the wide neck of her dress down, exposing naked shoulders that he pressed open-mouth kisses to. 

“Why?” Y/n asked breathlessly. When his lips traveled up to her neck she let out a small gasp as his tongue traced the blood rushing beneath her skin. 

He pulled her dress down further and further… and further until the fabric was bunched up at her waist. His fingers ghosted over her ribs as light as air before splaying over her back. Hot and heavy. “I don’t know how to undo your day dresses.” 

Y/n thought her skin was burning as he spread kisses over her chest and sucked. Nails scratched gently over her back in ways that made her arch, coaxing him closer and closer. The lower his hands wandered, the more she clutched him close, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in the crook of his neck. 

She was shaking, not in fear, but in excitement. In anticipation. He lowered her to the bed, pulling her dress off her body and staring. She shivered in the cold and under his gaze, squirming uncomfortably until he finally whispered, “I can’t believe my luck. You’re beautiful, Y/n.” 

How could she have ever worried about Simon’s opinion of her? 

She cleared her throat, smiling bashfully. “It’s impolite to leave a woman waiting.” 

He smiled, wide and unfiltered. “Is that so? Well we can’t have that can we?” He shrugged off the last of his clothes, dropping them to the floor with a rustle of trousers. 

Y/n gasped lightly, a fact that did please Simon. He climbed over her, pulling the covers up to rest loosely around his lips. On instinct she bent her legs, wrapping them around the backs of his thighs as he lowered himself on top of her, melting into her form. 

She was caged between his arms and pressed against his front. But she’d never felt more free. Never felt more safe. She reached up to trace the scar that ran across his cheek. The one that pulled at his smile and dipped into his lips. 

“Brutal. I know.” Simon murmured, suddenly looking shy. 

Y/n blinked up at her husband. “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, Simon Riley.” 

Oh how he melted at the sound of his name on her lips.

“And you,” he kissed the corners of her mouth, “Are the most divine creature I’ve ever laid my eyes upon.” 

Simon had never believed in talk of the occult. In witches or spells or angels or spirits. But when he felt Y/n shiver and break apart at his touch. Heard every sigh and moan that slipped from her lips like silk. When he dropped to his arms, sinking into her until there was no space left between them, he was certain that what he was experiencing could only be described as magic. 

Simon was so very warm, even naked under the sheets. 

“No.” The command was so unlike his wife that he paused. She was wrapped around his middle, cheek pressing into the ridges of his spine as he tried to slip out of bed. Her nails dug into the soft skin of his stomach. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” Simon asked, “We’ve been in bed all day.” 

Y/n blinked wearily, feeling the protest between her legs and the exhaustion seeping into her bones. The last thing she wanted to do was make lunch. Or was it dinner time now? But if her husband was hungry she should—

Simon pushed her back into bed, pulling the covers up to hide her from the cold and kissed her lips. “I’ll be right back.” 

As promised he returned soon after with bread, meat, cheese, and jam from the reserves. It wasn’t the best meal, but it was the fastest, and all Simon really wanted was to rejoin his wife in bed as soon as possible. 

He was immensely pleased to find his wife still deep beneath the covers. The shape of her curled beneath the blanket with only her hair splayed open on the pillow like a painting. 

They ate quietly in bed, not caring when a drop of jam hit the blanket. Simon scooped it up with his fingers, plopping it in his mouth without a care in the world as Y/n giggled with the jam knife in her hand. 

It was a small cottage in the middle of winter. The ground was frozen solid and wouldn’t bend beneath Simon’s shovel and the meal they ate was as common as could be. But for a long while Simon couldn’t imagine anyone happier than them. Couldn’t imagine that there was a single soul in the world who could understand what it was like to have decades of loneliness fall away to nothing. 

It was wintertime. The ground was frozen over. The graves Simon had prepared were slow to fill. The reserves were stock full and work was idle. 

In previous years this season had always been hell for Simon. Weeks spent indoors with nothing but Riley and snow for company and the sun in short supply had nearly driven him to madness. He’d go days without speaking, falling into a melancholy that was difficult to shake off come springtime. He’d sleep too much but never feel rested. He’d—

“Yes!” Y/n exclaimed, grabbing two of Simon’s pieces from the board. She’d never played checkers before and — after four consecutive games — was finally winning. She furrowed her brows in concentration, planning ahead four, five, six moves, and tapped at the pile of checkers stacked neatly at her side of the table. 

Simon smiled at her, moving one of his pieces forward a square without thinking. He didn’t care if he won at checkers when he’d won at everything else. 

Five turns later and Y/n clapped her hands in triumph, waking Riley up from his slumber before the fireplace. The dog regarded her with a weak wag of his tail before tucking his head into his paws and falling fast asleep. 

“I won!” She clapped her hand over her mouth almost in disbelief. 

“Don’t act surprised, darling. You’ve been winning the last few turns.” 

“But still!” 

Simon chuckled and flicked one of the game pieces in the air, tossing it like a coin before snatching it out of the air. Y/n didn’t know why she was so affected by that action, but suddenly she was walking around the table. After a moment of hesitation she coyly settled into her husband’s lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and pinching his short hair in between her fingers.

“You didn’t let me win did you, Simon?”

“Let you win? Never.” 

“Never.” 

He closed his fist over his heart. “I am a man of honor.” 

She nuzzled into the curve of his neck, breathing deeply and feeling the tension leave her body. She had never realized how tightly wound she’d been until meeting Simon, always waiting for something to go… wrong. Always afraid to ask in case it was too much. 

She didn’t want to keep living like that. 

Hesitantly, she spoke. “If you are a man of honor, Simon.” She fingered the neck of his shirt, feeling the stitches where she’d mended small tears. He hummed for her to continue. “May I have a reward for winning my first game of checkers?” 

Simon glanced up at the ceiling, giving her question more thought than she’d been expecting. “Only if I may have a reward for winning the first three games.” 

She unbuttoned, then buttoned, the top of his shirt. “What… What reward were you hoping for?” She asked carefully. 

Simon brought her hands up to his neck, helping her remove his shirt before kissing her throat reverently. “The kind of reward I think you will enjoy.” 

She became boneless in his hands, allowing herself to be carried up to the bedroom with his hand beneath her skirts before being stripped of her clothes. She was water flowing over Simon’s body, being moved to pleasure over and over and over again until all she was capable of was closing her eyes and letting sleep take her.

<- Previous chapter Next chapter ->

When he asked where the hell he was, you only replied with one word. “Home.” Then you told him to open wide, spoon filled with soup. When he didn’t, skeptical, all you did was smile, taking a sip yourself, reassuring him he was safe.

And that’s how the next few days went. You’d feed him, whisper sweet nothings in his ear, and look at him with a gaze that screamed obsession. When he finally demanded to know what this was, why he was here, you answered soft, like it was nothing more than a chat about the weather.

“I saw you at a cafe one day and knew you were perfect. That we were made for each other. So I stalked you, Si, and when I found the right move, I took you home. We’re soulmates, Simon.”

“You just need time to see that, though,” you added, peppering one last kiss to his forehead before walking back up the stairs.

The next time he woke, he was chained to a bed, both ankles and wrists. It was a change of scenery from the basement.

On the dresser in front of him sat a bottle of the cologne he wore regularly, alongside a woman’s perfume. Taped to the mirror were a few photos of you and him. All ones he didn’t even know existed, because he was asleep in his apartment in every one of them. One showed you kissing his cheek, grinning at the camera as you held it up.

The door creaked open. You walked in wearing one of his old shirts and pj shorts like you’d been living in his skin this whole time.

“I’m sorry I drugged your food earlier,” you frowned, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I just needed to make sure you didn’t leave me.” You caressed his cheek, before sliding in beside him, resting your head on his chest as you pulled the covers over you both, muttering a quiet good night.

Simon had expected many things when he woke up in that basement. Expected to die there. Expected torture. Starvation. Not to be chained to a bed while a pretty bird, who claimed she loved him slept soundly on his chest.

You were clever about it, too. Made sure the chains both in the basement and here were strong enough to hold him. Though Simon knew he could escape. Should’ve. Two weeks here, and he’d had plenty of chances. But he didn’t.

Didn’t know why. Maybe some sick, twisted part of him liked being taken care of. Liked being loved so much someone like you would go to the ends of the earth to keep him. Even with all the scars and the past he carried. Even after everything he’d done with his own hands, you still loved him.

You were an angel. One sent by whatever gods still gave a damn.

A deranged, beautiful angel that would force him to be happy. That would chain him up and feed him soup and love him like he deserved good things.

His angel.

She was out there now, kneeling in the soil with her straw hat slipping back from her head and digging around with her spade. Something stirred within him as a slip of her calf appeared then disappeared just as quickly as she straightened herself. She wiped at her brow, pulling back the strands of hair that clung to her neck with dampness and he felt his breath hitch. 

They’d taken to holding each other at night — no more awkward clinging to their respective edges of the bed like they were diseased. But they’d gone no further than that. No further than waking up with Y/n’s body tracing the curve of his side, arm draped over his stomach and her breath dipping into the slant of his neck. It overwhelmed him just to think of that touch. How one day she might want more. 

Y/n tossed her tools to the ground and stripped off her gloves. Riley, content to stretch in a sun-dappled patch of grass stood with her, stretching with a yawn before shaking his head and leading her indoors. 

“The planting’s done,” she announced with a smile. It was her great accomplishment of the day. 

Simon reached out to undo the ribbon of her hat before plucking it off her head and onto the nail in the door. A chaste kiss to her cheek sent the warmth roaring to her face. She was no better than a tea kettle. 

Hesitantly she leaned closer to him, smelling wood smoke and graveyard dirt clinging to his clothes. Her fingers brushed against the inside of his wrist, glancing off his rugged palm with a whisper of touch. Simon was better at this than she was, holding still as she pressed her lips to his cheek in return with nothing but the faintest intake of breath. His hand found her waist, rubbing comforting circles into her hip bone. 

They moved as one in the kitchen, some phantom thread holding them close, but not too close as they prepared for a simple lunch of bread and cheese. They ate comfortably while discussing the household’s maintenance — what would need to be bought from town that week, the state of their reserves, the success of Y/n’s jam making, and the graves that were to be dug. 

This was a topic that had once unnerved Y/n — death and all that involved in the process. But now talk of it held a sacred, albeit normal, place at their table. 

“Father Hughes caught me this morning. Said I should prepare two graves this afternoon.” 

“Where?” Y/n asked, sipping her tea. 

Simon paused, ripping a loaf cleanly in half and placing a chunk on her plate. “The potter’s field.” His eyes darkened and they both let the words sink into their small home. A somberness colored the mealtime. 

Though it was a small graveyard Simon cared for, there were still divisions within the land. The best plots and best headstones were placed highest on the hill where the sun could smile down on them and cast shadows over the earth. They were a testament to the wealth that could make their resting place so comfortable. The poorest were buried closest to the woods where shadows loomed close and weeds felt they had more claim to the ground. 

The first week she’d moved into this house she’d shivered hearing the cart come up the road with a plain coffin jostling in the back, then stared in awe as Simon took the body and hoisted it onto his shoulders, carrying it all the way to potter’s field. Though the family could afford no tombstone, Simon had taken a small wooden cross and sank it into the ground as a marker. He cared for those places as much as he cared for anything else, offering himself up as witness to every body buried on his lands. 

“I may be home after dark.” 

“I’ll wait for you, Simon.” He looked up surprised and suddenly overcome as his wife continued, “And I’ll have the bath set.” She spoke the words calmly and plainly. She looked at the hand he rested on the table, dirt trapped beneath fingernails so short they must have hurt, and rough with scars and calluses. She reached out and squeezed once. Twice. A silent communication of respect, if not love. 

After lunch, Simon put on his cap and mask and set off into the field with a shovel in hand. Y/n watched from the front steps as he wound through the graves, grim and forbidding and yet… soft. Protective. 

His fingertips grazed the tops of tombstones, plucking and scratching off moss that grew in vibrant tufts. Blonde hair peaked out from beneath his cap, catching the light like a halo around his dark figure. Black coat, rugged and raw, blowing around his legs. He hummed faintly. It was a song that Y/n liked to sing around the house. 

She went inside and waited as the sun dipped lower in the sky. Soon she heard the roiling of wheels and the jostling of the old wooden cart up the hill. A man by the name of Mr. Price sat at the helm with his chestnut brown horse. After a friendly exchange of words Simon pulled open the back of the cart and stopped. Only the strip of skin around his eyes were visible, especially from a distance, but Y/n read every sign of anger and disbelief written on her husband’s face as he pulled the first coffin out. He went out into the fields, just out of view, and came back empty handed. 

The second coffin was much smaller. 

Much, much smaller. 

Simon stared at the coffin he cradled in his arms before reaching out with one gentle finger to caress the face of the coffin. Y/n saw his mouth move beneath the mask, whispering kind, sympathetic words before he walked off and disappeared once more. 

Dusk covered the earth, stretching the shadows that creeped out over the hill like long fingers. Y/n kept dinner on the stove and pulled the large wash basin before the fire. She struggled to take the cauldron off the heat, shuffling to the basin and tipping the boiling water. She repeated it once more, allowing the water to stay as warm as possible by the stoked flames. She pushed back her hair, hearing Simon’s near silent footsteps near the door. 

He slipped inside wordlessly and stood with his back to the room, pressing his forehead against the door and turning the lock. 

“Simon?” He froze. He was so used to his own loneliness that for a moment he’d forgotten he had a wife waiting at home. A wife who had been keeping his dinner and bath warm. Y/n waited for her husband to turn. To move. To acknowledge her in any way, but he never did. Months ago this would have terrified her, and to her dismay it was still one of her first reactions to his silence. But then she moved. 

She tugged off his coat and cap before pressing herself into his back, wrapping her arms around his waist, and letting the curve of her cheek feel every rough stretch of scar tissue hiding beneath his shirt. 

She held him until time was irrelevant. Until Simon let loose a sigh that could have folded the earth in two and turned. She wiped the grime from his cheeks, tugging down his mask to reveal his freckled cheeks. His scarred lip in its perpetual frown. His strong, crooked nose. 

“There’s my Simon,” she murmured without thinking. She traced the line his mask had left on his face, brushed over the corner of his lip. Simon closed his eyes with a flutter of pale, white lashes, and melted into her hand. 

Her fingers trickled down to his chest, reverent as rainfall, and quietly began unbuttoning his shirt and trousers. His clothes fell with a whisper and he let himself be led to the basin. She tipped his head back into the warm water, combing her fingers into his close cropped hair until he was sighing and holding onto her waist, steady and strong. 

The day’s events were washed off. The dirt and sweat scraped off his skin. The tension loosened from his back as Y/n dared to explore the expanse of his skin. They’d seen each other naked before. First in blushing glimpses as they’d quickly changed in the same room, then in comfortable, almost routine fondness as they grew in their time together. A button done or undone here and there. A ribbon tightened. A coat pulled on and off with help. 

He pulled on fresh clothes as dinner was laid to the table, dropping into the chair with a barely audible groan of exhaustion. They ate in silence. Prepared for bed in silence. 

Y/n shifted closer to him in the candlelight, finding the shape of his body like it was a mold and she was wax. He smelled like nature, rough and wild and green, and soap, crisp and clean. Beneath his shirt she traced every dip and valley of his skin, feeling his breath come and go with her gentle movements. 

“My mother was buried in a pauper’s grave,” Y/n murmured softly. Simon’s hold on her tightened. “It was difficult to learn of it at the time, but… I know I would have rested easier if a man like you had been the one to care for her at the very end.” 

She felt his fingers comb through her hair and the press of his lips at the crown of her head. It was Simon’s way of saying he’d heard her and appreciated all that she’d said and left unsaid.

They fell asleep in silence, and when Simon woke the next day and prepared to go out into the fields once more, Y/n went with him and together they laid flowers on the two newly turned graves.

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