🍟 Fries 🍟

long term teammates, tolerable conversation, a perfectly adequate, non romantic relationship.

that's what you and Simon had.

you'd known the alpha for years at this point, you had met before the task force, both serving as young sergeants in the SAS . it was an acquaintanceship, passing comments over comms or emailing documents for superiors.

when you'd both been invited into the task force for a secret operative (that turned into multiple), it became something closer. something more subtlety intimate and tension filled. whether it was sharing MREs wordlessly or quietly smoking together behind crumbling buildings, you did it together, and no one was allowed to say a word.

meanwhile, scents and primal urges were never a real problem between you two thanks to the uniform scent blockers and his seemingly obvious un-attraction to you. not like you cared... he was hot, of course, smoking hot. but you had gotten used to alphas preferring omegas.

on your second year in the task force, hed been placed in a simple in-and-out opp in south America. once hed gotten back he started getting more agressive and territorial, even pacing outside your door at night? when price found out hed been scented by a bolivian con-woman he was banished to his quarters until he was civilised. you, being the only beta on the team, were asked to use your scent to neutralise his rut urges, a common request for betas, being the mediator and all. but seeing him in such a viscous (horny) state (even if it turned you on), upset your instincts. so you also made time to help your poor simon bathe and rest and hydrate.

a knock was placed on his door with your forehead as you carefully balanced two trays of tuck from the mess hall, his one being significantly heavier, making you wobble. "hrmph.." you heard him grumble from inside, he sounded like an agitated dog.

"don't start, I'm being so good to you." a firm acknowledgement as you carefully manoeuvred the door open whilst balancing the trays of semi-hot food. he shuffles in bed, covering his nude lower half and peevishly glaring at you from amongst the covers and sheets before sitting up to eat.

the room was moist, and the smell that lingered wasn't something you wanted to think about Simon doing, so you focused on giving him the food and cutlery. you gave him water, ran a bath, tidied up his quarters, and you ended your pottering by opening a window as he finished eating. you cleared your throat and looked at the huge miserable man, who was already piercing his eyes through your head. "you okay, si? need anything else? you look super fucked out."

"tired. horny. angry. no. thank you."

"mhm, your welcome. you're sure you dont need anything else? i can scent you to help with the pain?-"

he grumbled again, low in his chest. the sound flipped your stomach and made a heat crawl up your spin. 'ew? no? now you want to fuck him? when he's acting like a rapid dog?? you're sick.' you mentally scolded yourself as he writhed around uncomfortably in the sheets further before answering truthfully this time.

"all i can smell is you, luv. and its not neutralising shite. i feel like a horny mutt ‘round ye." he whimpered, the most embarrassed you’ve seen him look.

you froze in place awkwardly, standing stiffly at the end of his bed by the window. you hardly thought before retorting, its like your brain didn't even want to process what he'd said whilst stumbling out a petulant reprimand and avoiding the hot eye-contact he was forcing. "nah… beta scents can't make you horny, i think its just your hormones talking-"

"you’re so pretty, wish i could smell ye all the time… wish you’d let me do what i need to, i’ll be so good.." he shuttered as he mumbled, voice course from whining and growling into his pillow for days. you stood frozen in the middle of the hot, sex perfumed room. your face was flushed and your insides were tingly, you don't think you've ever been this pitiful in your life.

he was hunched over himself, still, peering at you like a predator through those midnight eyes. you'd never felt like prey before as a beta. his short, choppy, blonde hair was messy and arousing but less entertaining as your eyes trailed down his plump pecs and solid biceps. his tummy and champagne happy trail protruded slightly and the moist bedsheets were bunched at his abdomen, hardly covering his unrelenting erection.

"you’re being dramatic… you’re not into me like that anyway-" never have you been so flustered and visibly pathetic in your life. you tried to reason with yourself aloud on his behalf when he cut you off. "i am. have been for a long time. can you ‘least sit on my face?… please.. i need this.. you…” he let out a whiny please and fluttered his pretty eyelashes at you…

it's a hot one tonight, and the churning air feels cleansing somehow, keeping you cool as you take in the scene below you. you don't recognize this place- the trees along the sidewalks look unfamiliar, the street signs and traffic lights not like the ones you see locally. you squint into the night to see if you can parse out anything that might tell you where you are, but no dice. you're too far up, moving too fast, and it's too dark out to look for clues, so you just hang on for the ride as you slowly descend.

suddenly, gunfire pinging off the metal frame of the chopper. the pilot yells something about small arms- moments before a white streak flashes up through the night sky, headed straight for you.

"rpg!" a man screams nearby, his warning nearly cut off by the sound of impact- a shrill whistle before a boom that shakes the solid floor from under your feet, sending you sprawling over the cold metal as you slide along with the listing of the chopper. it's deafening- the cacophony of gunfire, the roar of the engine, the shriek of alarms, all with your pounding heartbeat playing harmony.

bits and bobs are sent flying through the air- metal canisters, a handgun, little metal bits that you can't identify but look like they'd hurt to be hit with. you deliriously think to yourself that if the crash doesn't kill you, maybe the shrapnel will.

because face it- this is it. you're going to die out here, falling to your death our in god-knows-where for god-knows-what-reason, and it's going to be painful. and it's going to be now.

the thought sends you rocketing upright in your bed, panting and sweating and shaking like a leaf. the soft glow of the moon through your sheer curtains is grounding- you're at home, you're in bed, you're safe. there's no crash, no fires, no mobs waiting on the ground to murder you on sight.

it's so much worse at night, so much more terrifying to see through someone else's eyes when you're unconscious and unaware of what's happening. at least now, awake, you can process the scene with a bit more detachment. you aren't the one in the helicopter, after all. you can still see and hear it all- everything is so loud, red lights illuminating the dark hold of the chopper, panicked face of the pilot looking back as the bird goes down. there are mere moments for a stranger's hands to grab the rope dangling nearby and swing to the safety of a nearby rooftop, crashing on hard concrete as the chopper crashed onto the street below. someone else lands bodily close by, and they're slow to get up. fire illuminates the streets below, around where the helo landed- but maybe that was there before the crash? it's hard to say.

after all, it's not like you're in charge of the movie playing in your brain.

slowly, you pad through your dark apartment, not bothering to turn on lights as the scene continues to unfold in your mind.

a gun in hand, scared office workers terrified of a threat just outside, a uniformed man with an ugly beard barking orders both at the workers and over his radio- but the vision is imperfect, faces of everyone but the soldier slightly blurred, their words slightly muddled, as if the whole scene was slightly underwater. in your experience, that means the memory is older- maybe a six or seven years, based on the clarity of some details.

kyle's home, you think to yourself as you pour yourself a glass, leaning against the counter as you sip, trying to regulate your breathing again. normally, you have some sort of warning that he's coming- his thoughts are so loud that you can usually detect him when he's at the end of the block- but tonight he got in too late for you to be aware of his arrival, too late to make plans with friends or a last-minute hotel reservation. it's jarring to have the circus of violence, gore, and morally reprehensible foreign policy to not only act as your alarm clock, but to continue to play out in your mind long after sleep has been shaken loose from you.

it's funny, in a way. you've been able to read people's thoughts ever since you were a little girl, but with everyone else you've ever met in your entire life, it's been manageable. sure, you've heard some fucked up shit that people dwell on in the privacy of their own minds, but for the most part people's thoughts aren't very interesting and just fade into the background like white noise made up of shopping lists, regrets, memories, wishes, and the songs people get stuck in their heads. but your neighbor, kyle? he's unlike any of the rest of them, the contents of his brain seemingly on a mental bullhorn of sorts, coming in more vivid and loud than anyone else you've ever met- which is why it's so awful that he happens to have the most violent job you've ever seen.

in your heart, you're convinced that if you actually met the man that he'd probably be lovely. according to his (loud, inescapable) memories, people really seem to like him. faces light up when he enters rooms, everyone laughs at his jokes and give him easy smiles, people of all genders flirt shamelessly. according to all of his memories that take places in pubs, back gardens, birthday parties, and brunch with loved ones, kyle (or 'gaz', as he's sometimes called) is a stand-up guy. a good son, brother, friend, and teammate. a charming young man with a nice smile and the right mixture of cocky and clever that wins over most everyone he meets- especially mums and grandfathers. they think he's a 'good guy', someone even-keeled, patient, and safe.

you know different.

late at night, his darker memories drift through your wall, robbing you of sleep, appetite, and concentration. bodies being chewed up by the bullets that kyle himself is firing at them. kyle shooting an empty pistol at a child with a pillowcase over his head, and being surprised at the lack of bullets. throwing live grenades and watching the bodies explode, only to march over and shoot the mangled and screaming survivors right in the temple. buildings collapsing under his feet, aircraft falling out of the sky, a man being shoved over a railing moments before the bomb strapped to his chest explodes. kyle's memories are a circus of death and violence, a spectacle of gore and war crimes.

he's a soldier, from what you've gathered. you've seen flashes of places made familiar from the news, of men in uniform clapping him on the shoulder and following him into battle, of meetings you shouldn't know about, of loading in and out of government planes and trucks. all of that interspersed between bodies being blown apart, slashed open, shot, broken, and crushed- all watched through unblinking eyes.

that's the worst part of it, you think. in all his memories, he never looks away from the carnage, never flinches from it. he just moves on, like a machine, his bullets chewing indiscriminately through bodies as he snakes through homes, villages, laboratories, and office buildings. you've seen the memories of him getting praised for it- and felt the pride of being called 'brutal' by his lieutenant,of his captain clapping him on the shoulder and praising him for the carnage he'd left in his wake.

his pride in it all makes you sick.

nothing has ever made you feel less patriotic than the knowledge that kyle thinks he's doing this to protect you and everyone else in this building. it makes you feel downright sick, frankly, to think that he believes that your mere existence in this country merits the violent deaths of all those people in his memories. if you weren't so terrified of the myriad of inventive ways you've seen him kill people, you'd probably call him a murdering wanker to his bloody face.

but you are. so you don't.

instead you currently content yourself to sip at your water, mentally mapping out where in your bathroom cabinet the sleeping pills are, trying to decide if you want to just sleep until the morning and try to find a hotel in the morning, or potentially just sleep through the whole next day instead. your neighbor's thoughts and memories are usually at their most horrible and vivid right after deployment, and prior experience has taught you to either conk out or stay away from home for the first few days after he returns.

god, you should really call your therapist. you'd only started seeing her out of desperation, when kyle's memories were starting to cause you to lose sleep, appetite, and your own will to live. every moment he's home is exquisite torture, and every moment he's away you're just anxiously awaiting the torture to start back up again- and now it has, in the middle of the night, waking you from an otherwise dreamless sleep.

in your sessions you'd been vague about certain details in order to keep from seeming outright delusional- instead opting instead to mention bad dreams, anxiety, and the way that you avoid being home when intrusive memories pop in. your therapist diagnosed you with ptsd on the spot, and you couldn't help the bitter laugh that burst out of you when she said the words. after all, if you're fucked up from all those memories that aren't even yours, how fucked up is the guy actually living them? sure, you're still broken up about witnessing a little boy with a bag over his head having a gun pointed at him- but what the fuck is wrong with the man who actually held the gun? who pulled the trigger and was surprised there were no bullets?

the gunfire and screaming in your mind fades as you head to the bathroom, as kyle's thoughts have turned to something else. he's staring at the phone in his hand, idly scrolling on messages, catching up on stuff he's missed. 'mum' has texted him 14 times over the three months he's been deployed, 'mummy' has texted him over 100 times. there's messages from his sisters, uni friends, and a bunch of flirty texts from unsaved numbers. he flips through those, actively seeking any nudes, not bothering to read the actual messages before he moves on, slowly chipping away at his number of unread messages until he reaches zero.

with any luck, he'll go out looking for someone to go home with tonight. he's horny and restless and looking for a distraction, that much is obvious, and it's only midnight on a friday. he could easily go to a club or something and find someone. he does that sometimes, and it's a beautiful respite for you, especially since he doesn't tend to think about his hookups too much after he's done with them. your eyes slide shut as you watch through his as he weighs his options, checking himself out in the bathroom mirror, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over his stubble as he tries to decide whether or not it's worth going out or just jerking off and going to sleep.

god, you should move. you really should. the problem is that the rent is cheap, the other neighbors are relatively quiet, and it's just a few minutes walk from the bus stop. kyle's presence is literally the only thing ruining it, and you almost feel bad about how much animosity you have towards a man who doesn't even know you're there. he thinks your apartment is vacant, because for the most part, when he's home, it is. you're either in a pill-induced sleep that's only technically not a coma, or earning the rest of your year's rent in marathon basement poker games that keep you occupied for days on end. you just keep on privately resenting him and loathing his career while he remains blissfully ignorant of the fact that you even exist.

it's not healthy, you know that, but a sick sort of hope does keep you hanging on to your lease- after all, his job is dangerous. you've seen it firsthand through his eyes. there's been plenty of close calls, tough scrapes, and life threatening injuries- surely one day he just won't come back from a mission? maybe one day he'll leave and get killed on an op, never to return and plague you with a replay of his various war crimes.

you dry swallow the sleeping pills as soon as kyle decides to stay in tonight, opting to watch a video his buddy 'soap' sent him- a home made porno of some poor girl choking down a hard, ruddy cock with tears clumping and streaking her mascara. the lighting is harsh, and you wince in sympathy as she squints into the too-bright light, clearly not expecting this amateur director to have his phone out. you already know it's soap based on his voice, the way the scottish brogue plays on his vowels as he brushes her tears from her cheek, telling her how bonnie she looks, what a good lass she is for him, to give a little wink for his mates. you don't know if the girl in the video knows this is being shared around their squad. you don't know if she gave permission. what you do know is that kyle never asked either, content to save it to his phone with his hand in his trousers, hand idly stroking himself as he watches the video.

kyle imagines himself with her, how much rougher he'd be, grabbing her pretty blonde hair by the root and forcing her down until she chokes on him, the way her throat would convulse around her cock, how she'd slap his thighs in a wordless plea for mercy. the way her eyes would go big and sad and almost accusing when he wouldn't let up- and then soften up into something more akin to pride when he praises her and tells her how good and sweet and special she is.

the face in his fantasy shifts to a new girl on her knees, a woman you know to be his ex based on the memories you've seen. her appearance makes him recall that he'd looked her up a few months ago and saw she was married- and he spits in his hand and strokes a little more vigorously at the thought of it, his imaginary self violently fucking her throat. soap's video is forgotten, phone discarded as the poor girl's face gets coated in cum and kyle opts to close his eyes in order to ruin his pretty, doe-eyed ex with imaginary punitive sex.

all you can do is watch as you stand in your bathroom, eyes staring into the drain and hands clenching the sides of the sink, praying to god or satan or whoever the fuck it is responsible for giving you this ability to take it back, take it all away, please make it stop. your bathroom is as silent as a tomb, but it's so, so loud in your head. you can hear everything- the imaginary ghlk ghlk ghlk of a poor girl whose only crime was loving kyle once, the refrain of 'take it, take it' both said in his fantasy and muttered out loud in his apartment, and the sound of wet skin-on-skin as he chases his orgasm with a vindictive snarl on his face. when he finally cums, he groans loud enough for you to hear through your shared wall, and it feels like hearing it in stereo as you also listen to it at full volume in your mind.

it's therapeutic, in a way, to let more mundane thoughts and memories wash over your mind and cleanse your palate of the horrors your neighbor had been unwittingly subjecting you to. it's a much more intimate method of people-watching, and you enjoy sitting in your corner with the book you aren't reading propped in your hand, trying to match what memories and thoughts belong to which customer.

the young professional squinting at his laptop screen is likely the one who's trying and failing at making complicated financial data make sense. the young teenager waiting for her iced coffee is likely the one that's agonizing over a bad test score. you're pretty sure it's either the barista or the pretty goth girl that's still in line trying to mentally plan their next manicure and wondering if their nail tech is up to the challenge of a particularly ornate design. it's a total toss-up which four folks have their minds totally distracted by the big fluffy samoyed that's sat outside the big windows, patiently waiting for it's owner to finish her animated conversation with her friend about how her work acquaintance is likely embezzling from the company.

your coffee is delicious, the cafe' is full of wonderfully mundane thoughts and memories, and the weather is gorgeous. a thought floats across your mind- one of your own- and you wonder if you should try making a little money tonight. after all, there's a back room poker game later on this evening- god knows it's an easy way to pad your pockets and kill several hours away from home. it's not a terrible idea, really, but there's a mental exhaustion that comes with actively reading multiple minds at once and strategically bombing on occasion so as not to arouse any suspicions of cheating again.

after all, your pinky never did really heal right after the first time you were questioned. it arches away from the rest of your fingers, not bending fully around your coffee- a crooked reminder to not get cocky or comfortable when you're playing cards with sharks.

the only downside to choosing to play poker all night is that it's a cash-only game- which means you have to go back to your flat, braving the contents of kyle's mind just long enough to grab the stack of cash hidden in your closet and slip away again. with any luck (and a lot of strategy) you can walk away from the table with enough extra money to hole up for a week in a nice hotel. you can soothe your stresses in a big jacuzzi tub and order room service and-

your planning grinds to a halt as you feel outside thoughts gradually growing louder and more vibrant in your mind, and it freezes the breath in your lungs as you slowly realize what's happening.

-then it's just two more bloody days until i can get back and finish what we started. better remember to get mum's birthday flowers ordered when i get back to the flat- a flash of a bouquet, peach colored with little bits of pink and yellow- maybe i'll order takeaway for dinner while i'm at it- a rolodex of local restaurants flips in his mind, landing on your favorite lebanese place- i'll have to ring soap and see if he wants to play fifa tonight, that could be fun-

it's almost shocking how normal kyle's thoughts are when he's out of his flat. you stare out the window, looking for any sign of your neighbor heading your way, your eyes wide and mouth agape in shock. you've never seen him in person, really, but you've seen him looking in the mirror before plenty of times. the sound of his thoughts grow steadily louder, and any hopes you had of him simply passing some other direction die as soon as you spot his blue baseball cap bobbing down the street and heading straight towards you.

-so bloody knackered, probably coffee instead of tea today. cappuccino, maybe- a stylized cup of coffee floats through your mind, image sharpening with every step your neighbor takes- yeah, that sounds nice. i wonder if that redhead still works here. what was her name? nina? marina? fuck, she had a nice arse. wonder what it would take to get her to let me fuck it. probably not much.

you can't help the exasperated sigh that slips out of you. it's not like you're a prude- after all, you've had a lifetime of hearing people's most sexual thoughts about one another since way before you were old enough to know what any of it meant- but by virtue of it being from kyle, someone you're already biased against, it's the most obnoxious thing in the world.

a pretty red headed girl smiles she hands over an americano. it's wintertime, she's wearing a turtleneck and the sky is grey outside the cafe windows. christmas music is playing softly in the background, muted by steamers and the low din of chatter in the cafe. she turns to work on another drink, and kyle's eyes catch on the curve of her ass as she bends to pick up a dropped lid.

in your heart you know you should take your coffee and leave, but you're too curious. for one, it's interesting to you that the murder and mayhem you're used to seeing from him is suddenly gone now that he's out and about and not just puttering around his flat. maybe that's just what happens when he's bored- his mind fills the gap between active thoughts with memories, good and bad, because it can't stand to just rest. the epiphany almost makes you feel bad for the man... until you remember the things you've seen him do while on deployment.

hm. maybe karma is real.

it's not until he's crossing the street that you see his face for the first time, and it feels so strange to see him in real life like this. you've managed to avoid running into him for years, and now here he is, just on the other side of a pane of glass, stepping back onto the sidewalk and then pushing open the door to the cafe. he really is a handsome man- and even prettier in person, if you're honest. he looks like a model as he tucks his cap under his arm, flashing a charming smile to the barista behind the counter that gets her twitterpated and giggly.

it was such a surprise the first time you'd seen him through his own eyes in the bathroom mirror- never in your life had you imagined that a face with such kind eyes would be capable of the brutality you'd seen him dole out. it was a shock to the system and a memorable re-enforcement of a lesson long since learned: never ever trust appearances.

it's hard not to stare, but you do make a valiant effort to finally pretend to read your book as he puts in his order. your eyes lock onto a a slightly smudged looking 'b' on the page, watching through his eyes as he dicks around on his phone, texting his sister about birthday plans for their mum as he waits for his order to finish. it's strange to see yourself in the periphery- out of focus, but still very much there, the red cover of your book standing out slightly against the beige and white decor of the cafe.

"americano for kyle?" a pleasant voice rings out over the din of noise, both in your ear and in your head. kyle's attention snaps back up off his phone as soon as he taps 'send', and you sneak a glance right as he happens to look your way.

the shock of it- making eye contact with yourself through his eyes, of the way his thoughts skid to an abrupt halt at the sight of you- almost makes you flinch. instead you drop your gaze back down to your book, pretending nothing happened, waiting for him to move on, to do another sweep for the redhead before he leaves-

he's watching you sit in the corner, eyes lingering on how your round ass fills the seat you occupy. he sees that you're staring down at a book he vaguely remembers hearing someone talk about, and he knows you're not reading. he's noticed your eyes aren't traveling across the pages,instead stuck still on one spot- shit, fuck, goddammit- oh, now they are. how interesting-

bootfalls come closer and closer as you skim your book, strategically choosing to turn the page despite having retained nothing of what your eyes had glossed over.

-just sit close enough to see, but not close enough to raise attention. fuck, what a pretty thing, he thinks as he sits a few tables over. bet i could really bite down on that arse- there's so fucking much of it. i could just sink my teeth in, dig in my fingers, fuck. been a while since i followed a big girl home, wonder if she's a screamer-

flashes of half-formed plans to seduce you flit across his mind, and you wish the samoyed was still here, that kyle could've been distracted by the big beautiful dog instead of you. lebanese, fifa, and flowers for mum are all wiped clear from his thoughts- he's determined to get you in his bed, to bite and fuck and use you as he likes.

there's absolutely no way you're letting that happen- he might be pretty and he might have a big dick, but you've seen the kind of man he really is. you know the things he's done. you're not about to let a goddamned war criminal between your legs.

i'll just catch her eye again, flash her a smile, and ask about her book. that'll get her to talk to me. it'll be easy after that.

his confidence would be sickening if you didn't acknowledge how right he is. if you couldn't hear his thoughts, that beautiful smile paired with that handsome face would make you putty in his hands, there's no denying it. you've seen the memories of him flirting- the man has game. you wouldn't stand a chance.

you pretend to check your phone for the time, pretend to suddenly realize you're late for something, and pretend to be in a massive hurry to leave. it's not an oscar-worthy performance, but it's enough to make your sudden exit plausible, and that's all you need. kyle chuckles to himself in mild surprise when you don't even glance his way, sipping his americano as he watches you through the window, fantasizing about what it would be like to bounce his hips off your ass as he fucks you from behind.

fuck, where are you going, babes? where are you hauling that big fat arse to? bloody hell, look at the jiggle on that girl. what's i'd give to see her on a trampoline-

kyle makes no move to follow, and it's a relief when you're finally out of his sight. the intensity of his little fantasy fades the further out you get, and by the time you're home it's at a much more manageable level, barely distinguishable over the worries of the old woman next door who isn't sure if she forgot to take her meds or if she took her meds and already forgot.

you pull your phone up to your ear, phone already calling a contact that you have saved simply as a red diamond emoji. the call connects, and you don't even wait for a greeting.

"what's the buy-in?"

"it's off." a familiar voice says, clearly annoyed. big d is, on the best of days, a gruff motherfucker anyways- but there's something else happening here. something more than their everyday levels of irritation.

you blink, hard, staring at the inside of your closet where your little portable safe is tucked away under your winter coats and behind your boots.

"it's off?" you repeat, surprised.

"s'wot i said, innit?" d snaps. "the kraut earned 'imself an hmp 'oliday, and until we know wot's been said, it's off."

ah, shit. if that big dumb austrian's been pulled in by the police, god only knows what will happen next. he's a weird one, to be sure- when he's not playing cards and focusing on putting hands together, his thoughts are usually just... empty. nothing there at all. no stray curiosities or memories or even to-do lists. as far as you can tell, the space between his ears is vast, cavernous, and filled with fuckall.

god only knows what a man like that does and says in police custody.

"ah." the phone disconnects in response, and you sigh as you slide it back into your pocket, closing the closet door. so much for your evening plans, you guess.

you preheat your oven for a small frozen pizza as you mull over your run-in with kyle. it's encouraging that he's only replaying his nightmarish memories when he's stagnating at home- and it makes sense, you suppose. you also start thinking about rancid shit when you start feeling stir-crazy, and a man who routinely jumps out of aircraft and gets shot at probably feels restless the second he's off-base and off-duty. with any luck he found someone else to lust after, some other fat girl to follow home and work off some steam with so you can have a peaceful night with mediocre frozen pizza, a joint, and a few good documentaries.

two slices and a half a joint in, you start to feel kyle's thoughts growing louder again. he must be coming home, you reason, and take another deep toke as you brace yourself, cursing your optimism that he might go somewhere else for the night.

-even if it is french. still, could be good. can't remember the last time i read anything for fun, busy as i've been. ghost's a reader, wonder if he's read this. wonder if he liked it. was it him that was telling me about it? or was that raven? so bloody hungry, i should've gotten more than a coffee for lunch. i wonder if that girl is a regular there. i should go back tomorrow, see if i can find her again. wouldn't mind taking a bite out of her, fuck that arse really did look thick enough to sink my teeth into- a proper bite, no holding back- an image flashes in your head, a woman who looks a lot like you, but isn't you. her skin is too clear, hair too perfect, eyes just a little bigger, tits a little perkier. she's an idealized version of you, still fat and sat in the corner of the cafe, reading your book, glancing shyly over the cover.

ugh.

through kyle's eyes, you watch him approach your building, shopping bag rustling on his arm as he fishes out his keys in the lift, mentally finalizing his dinner order for tonight. fantasy-you giggles and smiles at him in both of your minds, and you take a particularly deep toke and turn up the volume on your documentary, david attenborough's voice nearly loud enough to drown out kyle's fantasies as he narrates the journey of a particularly cute looking penguin. it's somehow just enough to distract you from when he imagines you bent over the edge of his couch as he slides the key into the door, toeing off his shoes and digging out his phone to order dinner.

it's not until later, as the credit roll across your screen as orchestral music swells, that you even notice kyle's thoughts again. it's not a memory-it's too vivid- the image playing clearly in your mind: a man in a straw hat and a pale little girl walking across farmland. the little girl speaks simply of god and angels, and they pass by an abandoned church- hey, wait a second.

focusing a little more, you realize that not only is kyle reading, he's reading the same book you'd had in the coffee shop. he must've gone to a bookstore this afternoon and picked it up before heading home. closing your eyes, it's like getting a private movie of your novel, one entirely imagined by your neighbor. it's incredible how clear and realistic his imagination is, and it's better than any film adaptation could ever be. the remote finds your hand, finger instinctively turning off your television as you opt to lean back, eyes closed, head resting on the back of your couch as you let kyle's imagination illustrate your book. for once in your life, the strength of kyle's mental signal to you is an asset, allowing you to enjoy the book at the same time as him.

it's hard to say how much time passes like that, with you blissed out and dozy as you lie back and let your neighbor's imagination wash over you, but it's brought to an abrupt end as a loud knock at your door stirs you from your reverie.

through the peephole is a teenage boy clearly delivering food, little cardboard boxes adding shape to the plastic bag in his hand.

"delivery from agora." the boy says in a bored voice when you open the door.

"oh, uh, i didn't order anything, i think maybe for my neighbor-"

as if summoned, the door to number 542 opens, and your neighbor pops his head out. as the delivery driver peers at the receipt in his hand, you watch kyle's face run through a range of emotions: surprise, disbelief, confusion, and giddiness.

flashes of you on your knees, bend over his couch and smiling coyly over your shoulder, pinned to his mattress underneath him- ugh, god, it's too much too suddenly and you are way, way too high for this.

"goodnight!" you practically squeak, and as the door closes behind you, and you can practically feel kyle's rush of excitement as he stares at your door, the number burning into his memory as he takes the food from the apologetic driver.

a thought that is not of your own mind rings out loud, clear, and full of awe through your wall:

You had yet to eat anything he’d made for you, snapping at his fingers when he tried to feed you himself. Water was harder to ignore. You sipped from the cups he left by your bed, but only when you were certain he wasn’t around. Enough to keep you alive, but make him think you were abstaining. You still fought sleep, choosing small intervals of fitful rest over a full night.

Today - what you believed was the eighth day - you paced the small room, chain clinking against the concrete floor with every step. Three steps to the kitchenette in the corner from the bed, seven to cross back over to the bathroom, ten from the bed to the farthest the chain would reach - just a few feet from the way out. Your surroundings had been updated in the past few days - a rug, some books on a small stand, a potted plant you chose to give all your water to. All of it came from your apartment. Your home.

The familiarity of your belongings only sharpened the knife of loss - they all whispered the same thing; He was in your space for months. He knew you better than you realized.

Aizawa returned later that evening, the skylight an inky black. He carried a tray with warm tea, rice, and vegetables. His eyes scanned you immediately, noting the tension in your shoulders, the way you clenched your fists as you walked.

“You’re still refusing to eat properly,” he said, voice low and even as he set the tray down. “Your body is weakening. I can see it.”

You turned away, staring at the wall, “Good. Maybe I’ll fade away and you’ll have nothing left to control.”

He sighed, the sound heavy with something that almost sounded like sorrow, “That’s not what I want. I want you alive and healthy. Here with me, where I can keep you safe from everything out there.”

You turned back to him, face twisted in anger, “People will look for me. I’m sure they already are. It’s only a matter of time before they find-”

“No… they won’t find you.” He sounded almost remorseful as he spoke, a look of faux pain etching his features, “I’ve finalized the details. A sweet, innocent civilian - taken by a villain with a teleportation quirk while walking home from her shift. No evidence, no trail, no clues. A tragic story, really.” He spoke softly, eyes gentle as he gazed at you from his spot across the rug.

You felt tears welling in your eyes, spitting at him, “You’re a sick fucking freak!”

“I love you,” he countered. He made no move to get closer - planted by the nightstand as you cowered at the foot of the bed - but you could see his eye twitch. “Everything I’ve done for you has been out of love.”

You gestured around wildly, “This isn’t love, Eraserhead, this is-”

“Shouta.” He interrupted you calmly.

“Oh my god- Whatever! Fuck you, Shouta,” you sneered at him before throwing yourself on the bed like a child, covering yourself with the blanket. “Get out.”

Silence followed. You heard him sigh softly, the shuffle of carpet, and then the door - open, shut, lock.

You laid there in silence for what felt like hours, peering out to a dark room, lit only by the small night light he had installed. You felt weak, exhausted from dehydration and lack of food. You knew he didn’t like that - he wanted you healthy, he’d often say. As of now, your health was the one thing you could control.

Already deciding tonight was not one for sleep (that would be a victory for him), you took to pacing the room again. In the light of the small bulb plugged into the wall, your shadow stretched across the floor, long and imposing. It ended in the corner, the top of your head lined up with the edge of the kitchenette counter. A counter that was, perhaps, more dilapidated than Aizawa had planned for.

The sharp rock edge connecting to the wall had a chip in it. Not big at all, hardly enough to notice unless you were looking for it. But, you were. Looking for something, anything, to hurt him back.

You steeled yourself as you padded over to the counter, chain dragging across the floor behind you. The chip had created a sharp edge - sharper than the rest - on the counter. You rolled up the sleeves of the shirt he had given you, pressing your inner forearm to the sharp corner.

Just enough to hurt him.

You shoved the hem of the shirt in your mouth and pulled your arm back - fast - creating a gash from elbow to wrist. It was more than deep enough to bleed, the little red dots turning to rivers down your skin. The shirt muffled your cry enough to keep the door from slamming open.

You grabbed a spare shirt, wrapping it tightly around the wound. You weren’t trying to die, just prove that he didn’t have you on as tight of a leash as he thought.

You could feel your consciousness starting to slip as you sat back down on the bed, forearm cradled in your other hand. The sharp, throbbing pain felt negligible in your concrete prison, a reminder to survive, if anything. The bleeding had slowed to a dull flow - dehydration was on your side in this effort. Any faster, and you were sure you would’ve bled out to an unmanageable degree.

You laid down in the bed, pale and shaky, shirt pressed to your wound, and waited for morning to come.

~

Morning showed itself in the form of the skylight bleeding gray light across the concrete floor. Your arm throbbed in time with your heartbeat, the makeshift bandage stiff with dried blood. You hadn’t slept more than twenty fitful minutes at a stretch. Every time your eyes drifted shut, you jerked awake at the phantom sound of the door opening up.

The lock clicked. Real this time.

Aizawa stepped inside carrying a fresh tray - steaming miso soup, rice, grilled fish, and a small bowl of sliced fruit. His hair was tied back, capture weapon absent for once. He looked… rested. The sight made your stomach turn.

His eyes found the bloodied counter first, then straight to you. The bloodied shirt. The way you clutched your arm to your chest. For a fraction of a second, something raw flickered across his face - pain, maybe, or fury - but it smoothed into that calm, exhausted concern he always wore.

“You hurt yourself.” It wasn’t a question. He set the tray on the nightstand and crossed to the bed in three strides. You tried to scramble back, but the sudden movement sent black spots dancing across your vision.

“Don’t touch me,” you rasped, voice cracking from disuse and dehydration.

He ignored you. One large hand gently but inexorably pried your fingers away from the wound. The shirt fell open. The gash was ugly - jagged, still seeping sluggishly. His jaw tightened.

“This is what you do to yourself the moment I give you more freedom?” His voice was low, edging into anger. “I trusted you not to try anything reckless. And you repay that by trying to bleed out on my floor?”

“I wasn’t trying to die,” you spat, but the words sounded weak, even to you. “I just wanted- wanted you to feel something.”

His thumb brushed just beside the cut, feather-light, and you flinched hard enough that fresh blood welled up. He sighed, the sound heavy with something that sounded dangerously like sorrow.

“I feel everything you do, darling. Every tear. Every time you look at me like I’m a monster.” He reached into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out a small first-aid kit you recognized from your own bathroom cabinet. “That’s why this hurts me more than it hurts you.”

You laughed - a broken, ugly sound, “You’re sick. You kidnapped me. You faked my death. I fucking hope it hurts.”

Aizawa didn’t answer right away. He worked in silence, cleaning the wound with careful, practiced hands. The antiseptic stung like fire, and his touch was so gentle it made your skin crawl. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter,

“Have I ever told you about the first night I saw you?”

You didn’t care - didn’t want to know. You didn’t move either, but he continued anyway.

“You were walking home in the rain. No umbrella. You stopped under an awning and laughed at your own bad luck. Just… laughed. Like the world hadn’t already tried to crush you a hundred times,” His fingers paused on the gauze. “I’d had a bad patrol. Lost a kid I couldn’t save. And there you were, soaked and smiling anyway. It was the first time in years… I felt something other than exhaustion.”

Tears burned your eyes. You felt emotion clawing up your throat. You hated how his voice wrapped around the memory, turning into something shared.

“I started watching to make sure you stayed safe. One night turned into weeks. I saw how hard you worked, how kind you were to people who didn’t deserve it. How you came home every night to an empty apartment and still tried to take care of yourself,” He taped the bandage securely, then cupped your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, intense, “You were breaking, little by little. The paranoia, the fear. I couldn’t watch it anymore.”

“So you made it worse,” you whispered. “You became the thing I was afraid of.”

His thumb stroked your cheekbone, “I became the only thing that can protect you. Out there, villains don’t care about your smile. Heroes burn out. Laws fail. But here-” He gestured to the room with his other hand, to your belongings carefully arranged around you. “Here, nothing touches you unless I allow it. Not even you.”

You tried to pull away, but he held firm, not painfully, just… inescapably.

“I know you hate me right now. That’s okay. Hate me. Scream at me. Hurt yourself if you need to,” His voice dropped, soft and devastating. “But every time you do, remember that I’m the one who will sit here and stitch you back together. I’m the one who will hold you through the nightmares you used to have alone. I’m the one who loves you enough to risk everything - my name and my career - just so you never have to be afraid again.”

A sob tore out of you before you could stop it. He pulled you against his chest without hesitation, one arm wrapping around your back, the other cradling your injured arm so it wouldn’t jostle. You wanted to shove him away. Your body wouldn’t obey. Exhaustion and blood loss and the sheer weight of his words pinned you in his hold.

“I don’t want this,” you cried into his shirt. “I want my life back.”

“Your old life was killing you slowly,” he murmured into your hair. “I know how lonely you were. How you wondered if anyone would notice if you just… stopped showing up. I noticed. I’ve always noticed.”

The words sank claws into your chest. Because some terrible, exhausted part of you recognized the truth in them. The late nights. The empty weekends. The way you’d joked with friends about your ‘mysterious stalker’ because admitting the fear felt safer than admitting the isolation.

Aizawa rocked you gently, like you were a child. “Eat for me. Please. I can’t stand seeing you waste away. If you get sick because of this…” His voice hitched - just enough to sound real. “I don’t know what I’d do. You’re all I have now, too.”

After a long minute, he guided a spoon of soup to your lips. You turned your head at first. He waited, patient as ever.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly. “Neither are you. We have time. All the time in the world for you to understand that this is love. The kind no one else could ever give you.”

Eventually, your cracked lips parted. The soup was warm, salty with tears you couldn’t stop crying. He fed you slowly, murmuring praise between each bite - “Good girl. That’s it. You’re doing so well for me.” - until the bowl was empty and your stomach ached from more than just emptiness.

When he laid you back down, he didn’t leave. Instead, he moved to the chair at the foot of the bed, eyes trained on you.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll be right here. I won’t let anything happen to you. Not even yourself.”

You wanted to fight. You wanted to scream that this was still a cage, no matter how softly he lined it.

But, your body was done. Your mind was fracturing under the weight of his quiet certainty. As your eyes drifted shut, you felt his hand gently caress your chained ankle.

“I love you,” he said, a promise and a threat all at once. “Even when you hate me.”

You did hate him. You hated the structure - this bunker he’d put you in. You hated the food he cooked and the tea he made. You hated the way he brought items back from your old apartment like it would make you feel better about all this. You hated the way he’d talk about his day like you cared, like it mattered what villains he took down today when he had you chained up underground. You hated him for holding you when you cried, sobbed, about the loneliness clawing away at your bones.

You hated that as the weeks passed, you felt yourself giving in. You hated that you didn’t hate the way his chest felt against your head anymore. You hated that his voice sometimes, only sometimes, made you feel a little safer. You hated that you wanted him to stay every night, to sit in that damned chair while you slept.

He’d been getting sloppy lately, too careless. Leaving your dresser drawer slightly open, not refolding your shirts after running his hands over the soft fabric, leaving windows unlocked that you swore you double-checked. Nothing like the precise break-ins he’d been completing for months. Quiet, brief moments in your apartment - whether you were there or not - where he’d update himself on your life. What new clothes you bought (he'd taken more than a few pairs of panties), or who you’d been texting recently (your phone password is very easy to guess, silly girl).

You were starting to notice his presence, he could tell - he wasn’t a passing feeling anymore, wasn’t just hairs on the back of your neck, or a strange notion you were being watched. Over time, he became a muddy footprint on your balcony after a particularly rainy week, a blanket tucked under your chin that wasn’t there when you fell asleep.

He could see you starting to crack over the weeks. More nights full of restless sleep, checking your six every few steps, installing a security system inside your apartment. Sometimes you swore you heard breathing outside your windows, or a creak of the floorboard when you took a shower. You’d chalked it all up to villain-induced paranoia - up until you found the broken security camera.

He had made quick work of it on his latest visit, dismantling it in silence as you slept. Left the discarded pieces on your kitchen table for you to wake up to, as a reminder - of what, you didn’t know. The police had told you without fingerprint evidence there was little they could do besides upping patrols in your neighborhood.

Regardless, you’d stopped sleeping entirely after that. Staying up all night, knife in your hand (cute, like that would stop him), pumping yourself full of caffeine and stress for almost two days. You weren’t being very good to yourself anymore. That was Shouta’s cue to step in fully.

He watched you - perched on a light pole in the dead of night - as you walked home. It was the third day of no sleep. You were starting to fray the edges; seeing shadows in your peripherals, drifting off as you stood in line for coffee, stumbling into work that afternoon like you’d been walking for days.

You had a late shift - he knew that, like he knew all your shifts - and hadn’t been able to head home until the clock on the wall read 11:37. Perfect for Aizawa; who thrived under the cover of night, who followed after you from the rooftops - just a quick flash of darkness cutting through the moonlight above your head.

You were almost home now. That was good. He could slip in through your window while you unlocked the door, be there to greet you when you walked into your bedroom. You would be scared of him at first, of course, but you’d realize in time that he was meant for you. You were meant for him.

Shouta Aizawa was a patient man. He could wait for you to realize your love for him. He knew all you needed was a little push.

~

You could feel eyes on you - you always could these days. The feeling made your skin crawl as you curled in on yourself, speed-walking home through the quiet, foggy night. The moon was full, lighting up the ground in front of you between street lights.

You felt exposed - too vulnerable with nothing but your work clothes and the items in your purse to keep you safe. What if, whoever was following you was here now? Watching you from behind an alleyway or a parked car, or right behind you-

You spun around, breathing heavily. Predictably, no one was behind you. You couldn’t even find another living thing in your line of sight. You shuddered anyways, turning back around to continue your trek home. Every step echoed off the ground, practically an invitation for evil.

By the time you reached your doorstep, you were sweating, tears brimming in your eyes. You fumbled with the key, missing the hole multiple times as you shook. Slamming the door behind you, the first thing you noticed was your lights. You always, always left the kitchen light on, ever since that aching feeling of being watched crept into your bones. It was not on. Instead, your apartment was completely dark, an eerie quiet settling in.

You moved slowly, cautiously to the kitchen - flipping on lights as you went - willing your now-socked feet to be silent on the creaking hardwood. By the grace of God, they obeyed, and you found yourself standing in front of your ajar bedroom door next - steak knife in hand.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared into the small window of darkness. What the hell could you do? If there really was someone in your apartment, they certainly knew you were home by now - they had to have heard the door slam. The lack of movement in the air made you nauseous.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, heart hammering so loudly you were sure it would give you away. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to call the police, to do anything but stand frozen in your own hallway. It didn’t matter - your legs wouldn’t move. The knife in your grip felt pathetic, useless. Slowly, with a trembling hand, you reached forward and pushed the bedroom door open just a little further, the hinges giving a soft, betraying creak.

Moonlight spilled across the floor from the window, cutting through the shadows. And there, sitting calmly on the edge of your bed like he belonged there, was a familiar figure - long dark hair, long scarf draped loosely around his neck, tired eyes already fixed on you.

…

“E-Eraserhead?” Somehow, you felt even more exposed in front of him than you did on the street.

His voice was rough and flat, a low pitch that you felt in your bones, “Hi, darling. You can call me Shouta.”

Darling? Something sharp in your gut twisted at his words, “Sh- W- What are you- …Why are you in my apartment?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, knife clutched in your hand like a lifeline.

“I’ve been watching you,” he spoke matter-of-factly, rising slowly from his spot on your bed. He didn’t move towards your way, just raised his palms in a gesture of peace, “I worry about you, dear.”

“I’m not- Don’t call me that,” you forced the words out, pointing the knife his way. “Please, just leave. I won’t- Nobody will know you were here. Please.” Your voice dropped to a whisper again at the end, the tip of the knife shaking.

You could see the corner of his mouth twitch in the low light, “I can’t do that… I got reckless, too eager,” he growled, “And let you know I was around.”

He stalked towards you, hands still raised. You backed away as he spoke, “You were doing so good without me. I almost thought I’d never have to step in. Then you stopped sleeping… all because of a broken camera?”

He slowly forced you out into the hall, the cool press of the wall against your back stopping you in your tracks. The knife stayed clutched in your fingers, more of a comfort for yourself than a threat to him.

Eraserhead continued, just a few feet away from you, “That was a reminder that all you need is me.”

“And you… called the cops.”

His words landed heavy between you. His jaw clenched - tired eyes narrowed.

“Eraserhead, please. I don’t- I don’t understand,” there were tears in your eyes threatening to fall, “...a reminder?”

The tension in his body wired itself deeper as he corrected you, one finger twitching, “Shouta.” He took a measured step towards you. “I left those pieces there to make you feel better.” One more move into your space. You tightened your grip on the knife. “You don’t need flimsy electronics to keep you safe, you have me.” Another, and he was close enough to touch. He kept his hands raised even still, eyeing the shake in your outstretched arm with disdain, “You’re afraid of me.”

“Of course I am!” He raised an eyebrow at your outburst, but said nothing. “You- You broke into my apartment! My stuff- you’re-”

You cut yourself off with a choked inhale, whimpering softly when you spoke again. He stayed stone-still and silent, eyeing you through fallen strands of hair.

“What do you even want with me?”

He sighed at your words, a weary sound - like you should’ve already known the answer, “I want nothing with you. I just want you, dear. The same way I know you want me.” His eyes flicked from yours to the window - where the sound of a siren passed.

You took the moment of his distraction to try and cut at him with your knife. One practiced hand shot out to grip your wrist, twisting in a way that forced you to drop the weapon. He kicked it away without looking, turning you around to press your face in the wall. He was rock-solid, warm and terrifying against your back.

You thrashed wildly, panic flooding every nerve as you tried to twist free, elbows jabbing back at him, legs kicking uselessly against the floor. A desperate, animal sound tore from your throat - half-scream, half-sob. “Eraser- Get off me! Let go-!”

Aizawa's grip only tightened, one arm banding across your chest like iron while the other fished something from the pocket of his belt. “Shouta,” he corrected calmly, voice low and steady against your ear, as if you were simply forgetting an important detail rather than fighting for your life. “You keep forgetting, darling. That’s alright. I’ll remind you as many times as it takes.”

You felt the sharp prick of a needle in your neck before you could even register his hand moving up from his belt. Cold liquid flooded your veins, spreading fast and heavy through your limbs. Your struggles slowed almost immediately - muscles turning to lead, vision blurring at the edges, “N-no… please… Sho- don’t-”

The attempt at his name on your lips drew a soft, approving hum from him, “There we go. Good girl.” He caught your collapsing body easily, scooping you up against his chest as the world tilted and faded. The last thing you registered was the brush of his scarf wrapping around you like a cocoon, the faint scent of him - black coffee, something minty, the night air - before everything went black.

~

When awareness trickled back in, it was slow and disorienting. Your head throbbed, your mouth was dry. The surface beneath you was soft - a bed, but not yours, though it did have your sheets. The air smelled different - colder, quieter. You tried to sit up, blinking away your headache, only to find your wrists loosely bound to the bedposts.

Panic clawed up your throat, but your body still felt heavy, sluggish from whatever he’d pumped into you. You tugged at the soft ropes binding your wrists to the bedposts, testing them. They held firm, but didn’t bite into your skin. Almost… considerate. Almost.

The room was sparse but familiar in the worst ways - your pillow under your head, a few of your clothes folded neatly on a chair in the corner. There was a nightstand next to you, a connecting bathroom, a small kitchenette in the corner. A chair at the foot of the bed.

But the walls were different - concrete, reinforced, no windows except a small skylight high above. A safehouse? Underground? The quiet pressed in like a weight.

Footsteps approached from beyond the half-open door. You froze.

Aizawa stepped inside carrying a glass of water and a small plate with what looked like rice and vegetables. He had changed into a plain shirt and sweatpants, hair tied back, eyes as tired as ever. He looked… domestic. Like this was normal.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly, setting the items on the nightstand. His voice carried that same low, steady tone that had haunted your nights for months. “The sedative should be wearing off.” He held the glass to your lips, “Drink this slowly.”

You turned your face away, heart hammering. “Don’t touch me.”

He sighed, but didn’t force the water on you. Instead, he set it aside, placing himself on the edge of the bed, close enough that you could smell the faint coffee on him again. His hand rested on the blanket near your ankle.

“I know this is frightening,” he murmured. “But, you weren’t taking care of yourself. Three days without sleep. You were going to collapse on the street if I waited any longer. This was necessary.”

“Necessary?” Your voice cracked. You yanked harder at the ropes, the bed creaking. “You broke into my home. You drugged me. Let me go, Eraserhead, please. I won’t tell anyone, I swear-”

“Shouta,” he corrected gently, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your damp forehead. You flinched, but there was nowhere to go. “And I told you. I can’t do that.”

The words hung between you. He watched you with that piercing, exhausted gaze - like he was cataloging every micro-expression, every tremor. Like he’d been doing it for months already.

“You can’t do this! What- What about your reputation? You’re a pro hero, if someone finds out-”

“Nobody will find out. Because, you won’t be getting out,” he spoke plainly, like he was telling you about the weather outside. “The sooner you understand that, the easier this will be.”

The finality of it stole the air from your lungs. You stared at him, tears spilling over now, hot and angry, “You’re insane. They’ll look for me. My job, my friends-”

“They’ll find nothing,” he said, voice unchanging. “A tragic disappearance. Villain attack, maybe. I’ve already handled the loose ends. Your security system logs, the camera pieces, the police reports… they lead nowhere useful.” He leaned in slightly, dark eyes softening in a way that made your stomach twist. “You’re safe here - with me. No more paranoia. No more nights wondering if someone’s watching. I am watching. And I’ll keep you safe the way no one else can.”

You sobbed, twisting against the bindings. Part of you still expected the hero - the Eraserhead from the news, the tired, principled man - to snap out of it. But the way he looked at you now was different than the TV. It was possessive. Like he’d been waiting years for this moment.

He let you cry for a while, simply sitting there, one hand eventually resting on your knee through the blanket. Not restraining. Just… there. When your sobs quieted into shaky breaths, he spoke again.

“I know you’re angry. Scared. You’ll fight me for a while. That’s alright,” His thumb brushed a slow circle against your leg. “I’ve waited this long. I can wait for you to see it too - that you belong here.”

He stood slowly, taking the time to release your dominant hand from its restraints, “Eat when you’re ready. I’ll be back to check on you soon. The ropes are only until you stop trying to hurt me. We’ll move to something gentler once you settle.”

Before he reached the door, he paused and glanced back. The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips - tired, but genuine.

“You’re home now. Rest, darling. I’ve got you.”

The door clicked shut behind him, the lock engaging with a soft, final sound. You were left in the quiet, wrist bound to your own familiar sheets, the weight of his words settling over you like his scarf had in the dark.

Outside, in the hallway, the hero leaned against the wall for a moment, eyes closing. He could still hear your muffled cries. It stung more than he expected. But, this was right. You needed him. And in time - weeks, months, however long - he would make sure you understood that you wanted him, too.

The second strike comes and you make a sound that is somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, delighted and involuntary.

"Sunshine.”

"Yeah in a minute ooooo, there's another one, Si, did you see that one?"

He has not seen that one. He is lying on his back with one arm over his face in the dark of the bedroom while his wife stands at the window in her pyjamas conducting a private love affair with a thunderstorm.

"Come back to bed."

"In a minute."

He opens one eye.

You are standing at the large window with both hands on the glass, your face turned up to the sky, lit intermittently by the lightning in a way that makes you look angelic.

He opens the other eye.

"Si," you breathe, "look at that one."

He looks. Through the window the sky splits white and enormous, the whole landscape thrown into a second of stark relief — the garden, the lavender, the fields beyond the fence — and then the dark comes back and two seconds later the thunder arrives, a low rolling thing that moves through the glass and into the floor and into his chest.

You turn to look at him with a smile, eyes bright and glassy.

"Come look," you say.

He should say no. He should say “it's two in the morning, sunshine, come back to bed.” He should say a great number of sensible things and none of them are going to make any difference whatsoever.

He gets up.

He crosses the room and he stands behind you, settling back against his chest, his arms coming around you, your hands covering his on the windowsill now.

Outside, the lightning is coming in intervals now, the thunder close enough that you feel it as much as hear it. The rain arrives properly, sheeting against the window, and you make that sound again, the delighted involuntary one.

"There," you say softly, as another strike splits the sky. “It’s so pretty Si.” You sigh, a happy lilt in your voice.

"Yeah,” he says. Into your hair.

All your reservations came crashing down that fateful week of his injury, insecurities boiling up and making you threaten to leave. That wouldnt even be the worst thing, if he hadnt chosen that time to kiss you, and then you asked for more?!

“Why did I do that?!” You groan loudly, rolling over to hide your face in your pillow in hopes it’ll knock you out enough to forget all this. You kissed your Lieutenant and you have no idea what the hell you’re going to do about it— what the hell even are you meant to say?!

“Sir i just had romantic relations with can i eat breakfast with you and the team without my face burning up every five seconds?”

“Hey Lieutenant i just kissed, do you mind if i sleep in your bed and i get clammy and freeze up every five seconds like a right idiot?”

“Hi guy i just kissed, do you mind if we do it again?”

You groan louder this time, using your hands to push the pillow against your face because this really should be the death of you. How did you even get yourself here? 

“Poor method of killin’ yourself, bird. Recommend ya at least add some water first.”

You sit up immediately in horror to see him standing there in the doorway, stature sluggish from a trip out, duffel bag in his arms. As soon as he could walk again, he had to go down with the 141 somewhere, not that they made him do anything too strenuous. 

“What’s with the deer stare? I’m fine, promise.” He raises a brow at your terrified face. 

“Y-you’re early.” You eventually manage to squeak out. You’re not worried about his injuries this time— he was supposed to be back next week. And you were still figuring out what the hell you were gonna do.

“Thought it’d be a good surprise, or not? If you want to have a bath today you still can.” Surely he must’ve encroached upon some plan you previously had, but you just meekly shake your head.

“No, it’s okay. How long are you back for?”

“A while, wrapped up somethin’ big so nothing for a while.”

Shit.

—————————

“Sergeants want to watch a movie in the rec room, you comin?” He had just finished up in the shower when he got the text from them, apparently spontaneously deciding when they got a good deal on a takeaway too.

“Umm..” You’re playing a game on your phone, clearly having not even processed his question yet as you narrow your brows at the screen in concentration. 

“Hello? You lost in your pretty little head again?” He waves his hand in your face, effectively making you miss your attack and you quickly swat his hand away. “What is it?”

“Movie night, yes or no, love?”

“Depends, are you going?” You repeatedly tap the screen and yet the boss is still standing, what is this thing made of? 

“Yes, and they bought snacks. So that’s basically a yes from you, wash up and we’ll go.”

The game ends with a success on your end and you grin, letting it drop to your lap as you finally look up and register all the words he had just said to you. “Oh, sure, a movie night sounds good. I mean i’ll watch what— wait, what did you say before?”

“I said you’re lost in your pretty head again.” He repeats so casually like it didn't just rewire your entire brain chemistry. You watch as he tucks away some of the papers he was working on earlier, locking them in his draw before walking over to you. “You good, love?”

“Y-yeah, just deciding if i need to uh.. check my armoury or something, yeah..” You mumble out, quickly standing and heading into the bathroom with the soft slam of the door. You were not surviving tonight.

———————

You passed out on the couch almost immediately after that to save yourself from any more embarrassment. Except, now you couldn’t help but crave for even more of his attention like that.

It didn't hit you until a week later, in which you joined them on a mini operation of a sorts. Really you were just in charge of watching the cameras for them since the usual soldiers were all caught up on something. It all went smoothly, and you started the drive back to base except.. a storm had started thundering down and having the heating racked up caused the petrol to run out faster than planned. So you all stopped off at a petrol station in the dead of night, the rain still pattering down as you and the sergeants rushed in. 

“Not always safe in there, i’ll be outside, okay?” Simon mumbles, following you to the woman's cubicle, and you sleepily nod knowing that some creeps liked to linger in these places.

Thankfully you had no such troubles, and it was even actually clean! You grin to yourself as you wash your hands, already thinking about the bag of m&ms you were just about to buy for the way back.

“All done!” You hum as you step out and he stands from where he was leaning against the wall. 

“Gotta grab some stuff first, car’s acting up a bit.” He starts walking and you follow, watching him look at a rack of engine oil and coolants. Truly you probably would be able to help, but you’re kind of tired right now so you just leave him to it. Instead you over the top of the aisles, noticing the lack of anyone around. Johnny’s mohawk seems to peek out near the fridges, along with Kyle’s cap, but that’s it apart from the cashier. 

You turn your attention back to Simon again whose picked up one of the coolants, looking it over at rhe details. His other hand hangs useless at his side but with his gloves off for once— and yours cold from the rain— you can't help but stare at it a bit too longingly. Before you can really think twice about it, you lightly tap your hand against his, before gently slipping your palm against his. He glances at you for a moment, but you keep your gaze stuck to the floor, half expecting him to pull away with a roll of his eyes.

Instead, his fingers lock your hand in place, pulling you along to the next aisle with him as you let a smile spread across your face. His hand warms the chill in your body, making even your face start to feel warm too. “What d’ya want?” He’s pulled you into the chocolate section, mandatory for any late night drive.

“M&Ms please.” You squeeze his hand as you crouch to look at the offers on the bottom shelves. “Reckon we have to get some sour gummies too.”

He nods, and then cocks his head towards the bag of wafer rolls and you practically look at him with stars in your eyes. You grab all of them, his hand still in yours as he heads to the counter. It’s even harder to push down the rising warmth as the cashier smiles at your romantic display despite the late hour. Maybe Simon was just doing this just to make you seem more normal, just like the cash he fishes out his pocket and places on the counter. Cover the tracks, right?

You notice Kyle’s hood as he stands by the door, waiting for you too and embarassed, try to pull your hand away from Simon. Unfortunately for you, he just squeezes it tighter, giving you a knowing look. “Wha’s wrong? Eager to hold it before, why not now?”

“Simon!” You hiss and he chuckles, waiting until the very last moment to finally let you go, making you grumble at him.

“Price said the weather will clear up in a bit, then we can call Laswell and share some info.” Kyle hums as he walks beside you two to the car. He pauses for a second, and then a cheeky smile lifts across his face. “Lt, I’m gonna take your place in the front, you can take the middle seat.”

You don't even get a say in the matter as you’re immediately squashed against the window, the weight of him constant beside you. The car starts moving again, snacks open and pass around, and then just as he passes you the chocolates his arm settles around your head. Just resting there, like a personal pillow. 

“Uh.. rookie?”

You snap out of your thoughts, looking up to see Kyle staring right at you. “Y-yeah?”

“Just was gonna ask to have some but you look a little too comfortable there.” He teases, a smirk rising on his lips before you shake your head adamantly, practically shoving the chocolates in his hands.

“I’m being squashed. It’s all your fault for sitting upfront.”

—————

It’s been a few days since, and thankfully he’d been so caught up in other work he forgot to even address that at all. Wait, were you supposed to be the one to address it? Did it need addressing?

Regardless, he’d been called out for another mission and so a few days spans into two whole weeks. Usually you were fine with him being gone, so why did your chest ache every time you saw his neatly folded sheets? It got to the point you had to mess them up, sleep in his bed for one night even if it killed you more laying there without him warm beside you. 

All of a sudden, you were noticing his abscense everywhere. The lack of his stupid alarm that made you groan into your pillow, none of his clothes hanging to dry in the bathroom, the bathroom always available for you to use. And yeah, you had friends you could hang around and often did while he was here, but there was something so incredibly lonely about returning to a quiet room with not even a sign of him there. Not even one of his spare masks hanging off his chair.

Even when you got pissed off at a cocky soldier, said somethings you probably shouldn't have and had gotten glared at by a superior, his office door was still locked shut. You couldnt even go in there and get scolded by him. 

You officially cant take it anymore after another week goes by with absolutely no news at all; it’s not like you exactly had an outlet to get information from either. So you sulked, and spent your evenings sitting on his desk chair, on his bed, maybe even wearing the old hoodie he had chucked out months ago.

“Wait! Are you seriously throwing that out?”

“Well.. it’s too small for me. Nothing i can do about it unfortunately.”

“Can I have it?” He raised a brow at the time, but you knew how soft they were from the odd chance you were sorting a muddled laundry pile. It was really good quality, better than you could ever splurge on. 

“I mean.. my title’s faded anyway.” He had shrugged it off, leaving the room before you even got a chance to slide it on yourself.

It was warm, so warm, and even though it’d been a while you could still make out the one cologne he swears by. You made a few small adjustments so it’d fit better, damn men’s clothes and sometimes fitting weirdly, but now it swallowed you perfectly.

Something startled you awake tonight, making you wearily blink as you roll over to check your small clock. Only twelve am, it wasnt even that late. Must be the foxes mating again. You groan at the thought of their noises all night, before trying to fall back asleep again. Except you cant, at all. You toss and turn and toss and turn to absolutely no avail. What frustrates you even more is than when you roll back over, his bed is still as empty as ever. 

Even better, you totally forgot to refill your water bottle before knocking out. So now you have to get out of the warm covers, grab your shoes and water bottle and walk the three whole minutes to the rec room. You suddenly stop right outside, seeing light peeking out from the crack beneath. Only you and the rest of them had the key, or well that was what you were told. Maybe that CIA agent had come by?  

Laswell you think.. or maybe not. You’re too tired to care, what are they gonna do, sue you?

You push the door open, immediately freezing in place. Simon is stepping towards the counter, stripped down from his gear and clearly having recently returned. His hair is still damp from a hot shower, a few streaks of black still smudged around his eyes. Worst of all, his hand is hanging wrong, and you can see the way his shirt doesn't sit on his arm as well as it should.

It makes tears prick in your eyes, because regardless it is still him, and he’s here after what? A month? A whole four weeks, thirty or so days away? 

You barely make out more than a squeak before the door swings shut behind you, the soft sound of your slippers pattering against the floor. Then out comes his immediate huff, the air forced out of his lungs when you suddenly throw yourself against him. 

“Love—“

“It’s been a whole month! A month! And you come back now— randomly- and you didn't even wake me up!” You curse him, contradicting your arms that are tight around his middle as you hug him with all your might, utterly determined to take everything you’ve missed for months.

“Though you were sleepin’. It’s late, bird.” He chuckles at your angry words before his uninjured arm strokes down your hair.

“So is this like..?” Johnny is the first to break the silence, and it’s only then that you realise the other three had been settling down on the couch when you barrelled into Simon.

Quickly, you scramble back, completely awake now as you frantically glance between Simon and Kyle’s phone that had been directly pointed at you too. “I- i— he’s injured! I wanted to make sure he’s okay!”

“So you arent wearing his hoodie right now?”

Now that you had stepped back, the sight of you was all Simon could focus on. Your hair tousled and tucked beneath the hood, eyes drowsy and slippers tucked on beneath your cozy pajama bottoms. Of course, his hoodie swallowing your upper half, his surname written across your back and front. 

You swallow hard, would he get angry at you for being so careless. What if he didn't want them to know about your relationship? What if this wasnt even a relationship?!

“I didn't even know you had that..” He mutters, making you blink back towards him whilst desperately trying to defend yourself. For once in your life he genuinely looks somewhat speechless, just staring at you.

“Well?” Kyle is pushing, you know it from the cheeky smirk across his lips that you want to let your fist collide with. 

“She’s mine.” Simon says, leaning down to kiss your lips right before them, not even a care in the world. You’re speechless because you thought he wouldn't be as shameless as that and clearly the sergeants have similar thoughts from how they immediately shut up aswell.

Price finally breaks the silence with a fake scoff.  “I thought I was in charge of soldiers, not a bunch of teenagers.” He directs the last bit towards the Sergeants who still have their jaw gaping in disbelief.

“You knew about this, didn't you?” Kyle huffs, offended and Johnny nods in tandem.

“Simon- stop!”

You groan, wiping your cheek with your sleeve after he presses another kiss to your cheek, practically smacking his lips on purpose to piss off the other two.

“Just showing my love for you.”

You all give him practically the exact same look, and you’re positive that if someone had their thermal scope on you they’d see a fiery red and you’d encourage them to take the shot.

“Y’want tea, bird?” He pulls away to attend to the kettle that just finished boiling— of course, he did.

“Hot chocolate, extra sugar.” You grumble which he only chuckle at, pulling out the bag of marshmallows from the cupboard.

“Ye know ye cant go out with us anymore, right?” Johnny suddenly says, arms crossed over his chest and giving you a look like he came straight out of mean girls.

“What?” You raise a brow and Kyle dramatically nods along, turning away from you to grab himself a mug for his cuppa. 

“Our pub nights are for the single people, not the ones lipsing our friend.”

“He’s the one lipsing me!” You argue, unsure if they were really joking. The single thing was supposed to be a joke, right? “You cant kick me out!”

“Well, we’ll consider your place with one condition.” 

Johnny adds, snatching your hot chocolate before Simon can hand it to you to take much more than a sip, earning him a glare. His lips lick off the whipped cream coating his top lip, chocolate sticking to the bottom one as you steal it back. “You gotta introduce us to some of your friends. Your nurse one is a real bonnie lass…”

“No way!” You shake your head adamantly, not because you dont want your friends to be happy, you really do. But these two..

“You dont even wash your hands before you eat sometimes! And who knows how often you even clean your clothes.”

“Oh come on, Lt wears one bloody mask, he probably stinks.”

“Why’re you complaining at me? Every time we go out, Kyle gets asked for his number at least twice.”

As you direct your squabbling to Kyle, Simon hands Price his own steaming mug which he takes gratefully. “So, you finally told ‘er then?”

Simon grunts in return, even as he chooses to sit right next to Price, knees touching him as he watches you point a finger right at Kyle and argue. “When I got injured.” He reluctantly says, pausing to take a long sip of the tea. “She got really upset— said she was only burdening me ‘cause she doesn’t have experience like i do.”

Price chuckles at his words, since it was a situation he could imagine fairly quickly with you who wore your emotions more openly than the rest of them. He was glad that Simon had you, the Lieutenant had worked hard for too long without a reward, and of course the sergeants got a taste of normalcy when they interacted with you. 

“I want front row seats at the wedding, son.” He pats Simon firmly on his shoulder, already having finished his drink and now standing to place it in the sink. It was time to get some sleep too.

Simon doesn't roll his eyes at the implication, nor does he even grumble at the teasing tone. Price had a habit of getting what he wanted, and this time he couldnt deny this request.

————

“I can’t believe you got hurt and you’re just walking around no problem. I mean, is it not kind of fun complaining?” You raise a brow at the thought, knowing the hard way how much his stab wound hurt. 

“Reckon Price would laugh in my face if I asked him for a day off.” He grunts and you snort, because you know he totally would. Not because he wouldn't give him one, but more so the fact the Lieutenant would have to be joking to ask for that.

He steps out of the bathroom, caught immediately on the sight of you sitting against the pillows of his bed. You’re picking at the insignia on his shirt, a simplified version of the taskforce symbol, as you wait for him to come and join you. But the fact is that you look gorgeous dressed in his clothes, the way they seem to make you just glow from their dull colour. 

“Sorry for keeping you up.” He mumbles, turning off the mainlight and shrouding the room in darkness. He pats the bed first, making sure he wont squash you as he slides beneath the covers. The duvets move as you do the same, until your hand finds his uninjured arm and soon enough you’re clinging on.

“If i knew you’d be back, i would’ve waited.”

You huff, and he knows you’ll get annoyed tomorrow that he didn't give you better updates. It’s not his fault he prefers surprises. The both of you fall silent for a moment as you readjust, you curling into his side as his arm settles behind your head— his bicep a very comfortable pillow.

“Cant believe i almost didn't see you in my hoodie.” He grumbles suddenly, and you groan, feeling your cheeks warm all over again.

“I told you i didn't mean to! It was my last sleep shirt.”

“Doesnt matter, it’s a bloody sight.” You feel his lips press against your cheek again, a silent reassurance. 

“Si?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” His hand rubs your waist gently, the warmth of him radiating so hot it makes you melt even further. You cant believe you almost missed out on this tonight.

“Think i got a crush on you.”

That makes a laugh rumble through his chest and your hand that lays across it, the breath he exhales blowing the top of your head. “I must be bloody whipped then, huh?” You feel him relax properly now, making your smile only grow knowing you’re the sole reason for that. 

“You gotta say if you like me back.” You feign annoyance and he huffs properly this time, kissing your head. 

“I love you, sweetheart.”

He feels your finger stutter against his chest, like you froze up just from the confession, before your nose pushes into him as you hide your face. 

“I love you too, Si.”

——————————-

Rookie Masterlist Buy me a coffee!

OH MY DAYS I ACTUALLY DID FLUFF FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A HOTTTT MINUTE now i need someone to get brutally injured so the scales are balanced

Also the taglist is now unfortunately closed because i have 2 and im scared im gonna get like attacked for tagging too many yk

taglist:

Pushing his way through Price's door, Soap is all but expecting you there. You're sitting quietly, flipping through manila folders while Price types away at his laptop. You barely acknowledge him as he clears his throat, instead catching the attention of his captain.

"Bonnie," Soap is surprised to see you. Today, you're actually dressed to fit in on base - fitted Under Armour athletic shirt with cargo pants and combat boots that give you a few inches, not as many as the heels did though. You have on armbands, which tells Soap that you've already worked out or are planning to. "You avoidin' me or somethin?" he leans against the doorframe. Price peeks up from his laptop raising an eyebrow at the Scot. Soap is suddenly scrambling to push himself into the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Hm?" you pause your reading, looking up at Soap. "Sorry sergeant, you talkin' to me?"

"Yeah, I've gone by your room the past few days and you haven't answered."

"Oh, right," you use a paperclip to press the edges of the page you'd left off on before shutting the manila folder. "I've not been staying on base, I've been stayin' in a flat with Laswell." Soap looks to his captain in disbelief.

"You could have bloody told me that," he sends an accusatory look to Price. Price pauses his typing to put his hands up in defense while Soap moves his eyes to you. "I came in 'ere yesterday askin what room ye were assigned to!"

"S'not my fault y'weren't specific."

"Why aren't you stayin' on base? You've a cozy room I reckon. An' you'll be safe, not too far from Gaz an' I. Ghost too, if you sprint." Soap slightly fibs about the last one, knowing Ghost's room is damn near on the other side of the building. And honestly, if you were to catch Ghost on a bad day, he might be the one you need a safe space from. But he's right in that your room would have been around the corner from Gaz's and his'. "Fancy a workout, we've also got a pretty nice gym."

"Kinda defeats the whole 'no attachment' thing if I'm neighbors with you guys, no?" you shrug.

"You're taking this thing pretty seriously." Soap makes the observation under his breath, but you hear him nonetheless. "We're just coworkers, bonnie, can't blame us for wantin to get to know you." you let out a hum of disapproval.

"You and Kyle have sisters," you lift the stack of manila folders, revealing you were studying up on them. "Think there's a psychological study out there from Stanford that implies that you both'd get attached to me pretty quickly."

"Yeah, an' I'm pretty sure getting attached to coworkers is part of the job, s'natural." he was very content with the friendships he formed along the way; it was a miracle he got Ghost to crack and he wasn't about to let you slip through his fingers either.

"So is losing your coworkers," this causes Johnny to frown at the thought. "Also, part of the job."

"If y'ask me, tha's a pretty stupid reason to deprive yerself of friends." Soap says truthfully.

"I do my job and go, that's how this works."

"Yeah, but you work with Laswell, right? This ain't the first an' only time you'll be workin' with us."

"Listen kiddos, I don't mean to interrupt this sweet conversation, but I've got a meeting." your eyes meet Price's and he's proper shoo'ing you out of his office with his hand. You grab the folders, tight-lipped as you approach Soap. "Ah," Price tuts disapprovingly. "Those stay. Confidential and all, you can read them after I'm done here. I'll give you a call." you spare a glance to the captain, shaking your head at him as you drop the manila folders on the couch adjacent to his desk. He gives you a nod before you leave his office, Soap shutting it behind himself before running after you.

"Ey, we're not done!" Soap exclaims as he catches up to you.

"John MacTavish," you repeat the name you'd seen on his folder. "You go by Johnny?"

"No' really, just by my folks at home an' Ghost." you nod your head at his response.

"Your documents doesn't say it, so forgive me if I'm wrong- Your sister... She's not a Jane, is she?" your question immediately perks Soap up, confirming your thoughts. "Dated some loser named David." Soap grabs your forearm, turning you around.

"The hell do you know about David?" he's immediately sizing you up at the mention of his sister's ex.

He distinctly remembers Jane talking about how mentally draining he was; he was controlling and would guilt trip her into not going to visit her own brother. David never physically put his hands on Jane, but he threatened it. He was manipulative and everything that came along with it; on one occasion, he'd planted fake screenshots in her camera roll to justify him slashing her tires. And when Soap had visited last Christmas, he found that Jane was free of him.

"I know that I took care of him." your eyes harden when you turn your gaze to look down where his hand grasps over your skin. Loosening his grip, he keeps his eyes pressed to yours - he doesn't release you, not seeming impressed with your answer. "Soap, please don't tell me you need me to explain my side hustle again." that makes Soap release you.

"Right. Sorry, I should've known." Soap clears his throat before offering another apology.

"She's happier now, I've heard." heard, seen - it didn't matter that your source was her Reddit account where she'd confessed to feeling like a weight was lifted from her shoulder.

"Yeah, loads. Thanks to you," since being formally on their team, you never seized to amaze Soap. He already saw you as some sort of hero, but you helped someone so personal to him. "Y'know, you can't tell me these things and expect me to be okay with you wanting to be distant coworkers."

"Right, should've expected that. Not good at conversation, just needed to pull the topic of conversation away." you huff, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn the corner of the corridor. "Maybe if I kick your ass, you'll change your mind?"

"You know, you're more similar to Ghost than I imagined. Y'should remember that if you ever change your mind about the 'friend' thing," Soap comments, dodging a group of soldiers roughhousing in the hallway. "Have doubts you could take me down bonnie, 've been at your door asking nearly all week."

"You say that now... Just wait til you see what I did to Sergeant Gaz."

"You did that?" he doesn't believe you. He's looking at you up and down again, reminding you that you're smaller than they are. Like you can read his mind, you roll your eyes in response.

"Oi. You having more body mass than me means nothing."

"Only one way to find out."

"You fancy beating up my sergeants?" Captain Price saunters into his office with a bag in hand. Following him in are the aforementioned sergeants and Ghost. You look up from your homework, putting the cap on the highlighter you'd fished out from Price's desk.

"Did I beat them up or did they put themselves in the position to be beaten up?" your hands come up in defense, eyes narrowing and smiling at Soap's busted lip. Gaz's flowering bruise has turned into a dark purple, though come tomorrow you know it'll have specks of yellow hugging the purple. "Had all the time in the world to tap out."

"Something tells me you don't play fair." Ghost comments, taking a seat next to Gaz on the couch.

"You're right, I don't." you scoot your chair so that Price could pass by behind you to his own chair. "But their cases were special, so I made an exception." you begin to push the papers scattered all over Price's desk back into its original folder. You organize the stack while standing up.

"Where y'going?" Soap questions, hearing shuffling from your side of Price's desk.

"It's getting late so I should probably head back."

"Nonsense," Price calls out. "It's Friday." he says as if that should mean anything to you. "We eat dinner together and switch off who provides it. You've got next week." Price tosses you a paper bag. You catch it swiftly, opening it to reveal what looks like a sandwich wrapped in parchment. "Call it part of the team-bonding experience."

"You guys are not going to let me be lonely, are you?" you ask, and there's clamor amongst the men in the room with you. You can make out Ghost saying something along the lines of 'well if it were up to me...' and you don't expect anything less. You thank Price who only gives you a nod in acknowledgement.

"You can keep doing what you're doing. We'll just be here." Gaz tosses a paper bag to Soap before carrying two to the couch, one for him and one for Ghost presumably.

"What are you doing?" Soap's chair on the other end of Price's desk is suddenly beside you, shoulder pressed against yours. This guy could learn a thing or two about personal space. His fingers are spreading your paperwork across the end of the table. And privacy. "Studying us?" the tips of his finger graze over your highlight marks on Gaz's paperwork.

"Yeah, apparently."

"Y'know, if you have one of these for yourself, it might get me off your back for a few days." Soap is still pressed into your side. He's so close, you can hear his jaw move as he chews. If you didn't already feel bad for putting him on his ass, you'd shove him away. So you tolerate him as a silent apology for kicking his ass earlier.

"I could probably get Laswell to send over a revised one." from beside you, you can see Soap put his fist up in some sort of victory. "But I'm not sure how good it'll do you, might be smaller than Ghost's." consider his joy short-lived, as his wrist shrinks down and a scowl plays at his lips.

You've seen what Laswell's put in your personnel file; she's not authorized to have one of you, but when it comes to you, you can expect all bets to be off. Birth certificate and a few (of many) cases you helped her with, of course a lot of involvement had to be redacted. Kate had to include your involvement with one of the biggest crime organizations in the US, that much couldn't be avoided - the CIA did allow for redactions to be made though, strings that she pulled that only strengthened your allegiance to her.

You were willing to do the dirty work for her if it meant she could keep the closet that held your skeletons padlocked, tucked away, and sunken somewhere at the bottom of an ocean.

Your thoughts are interrupted by laughing. Your ears perk up as the man beside you shares the events from earlier. How he was able to pin you for a few seconds, Gaz protests and says he’s over exaggerating, it was half a second. You eat silently as Soap tries to describe what it was that you did to him, only he can’t even put it into words. As he tries to explain, Gaz cuts in with agreement, since your swift moves were similar in how his head smacked against the ground.

From beside Gaz, you can’t help but notice Ghost’s eyes already on you. You don’t remember his personnel file mentioning anything about a staring problem, though you can’t say you’re surprised. And he’s not surprised either when you hold his gaze. Pretty brown eyes. They’re softer when you’re not pissing him off. His balaclava is pulled up to his nose so he could eat and you realize you preferred the surgical face mask he wore when you first encountered him because you could see more of him. From his paperwork, you understood why he was more private when it came to his appearance and personal life.

Your eyes leave him first. You don’t even know if he’s silently celebrating his win because you engage in Gaz’s and Soap’s conversation. They’re a very talkative bunch, these two are, and you wonder how they fair during missions where they don’t have to be as quiet. You and Simon chime in when it matters, which isn’t all that often since Soap would rather speak over you guys anyway.

The night draws in before you know it. Too deep in your homework, you fail to notice Gaz and Soap trickling out, picking up the rubbish for Price on the way out. Price lets out a huff, closing his laptop before turning to you.

“I reckon it’s too late to get you back to Laswell at this hour.” he states firmly. You furrow your brows and look at the clock hanging above Price’s doorway and surely, it’s almost 2300. “Very well, you can continue this tomorrow. I’ll have Ghost escort you back to your quarters.”

Oh, right. Him.

Your eyes trail toward him and he’s already looking at you, elbow rested on the arm of the couch, his chin planted in the palm of his hand. His eyes look heavy and yet he doesn’t look tired.

“Bout time.” Ghost’s voice gravels deeply, it almost tickles your ears.

“No one said you had to wait for me.”

“Pretty sure my captain just did.” Ghost is already standing with a stretch from sitting too long. He also knows how men can be sometimes and if some of the soldiers see a bird like you wandering around, it might not end pretty. He might not like you, but he’s not a complete monster. You mutter a good night to Price before following Ghost out.

The silence is thick, the only thing cutting into it are Ghost’s heavy boots on the ground. You remembered him being quieter. The walk isn’t very far, which tells you Ghost’s walk back to his room will be much longer. Before you can tell him thank you, he’s already got his hand up.

“Get some rest, you’ll need it.” he’s demanding it almost.

“For what?”

“Taking you to the shooting range. I’ll see you at 0400.”

Your mind is hazy, blurring what your nightly routine would normally look like. Somewhere along brushing your teeth and changing into more comfortable clothes, you lost yourself in bed. Nothing outstanding, just a stiff bed that you needed to remember to bring extra blankets for extra plush. For the later nights of your extended stay, of course.

Slumber took you faster than you could recall and unfortunately, its end was quicker, sneaking up on you while your defense was down.

“Wow, you really are shite at this.” Ghost comments truthfully. Normally, he reserved this sort of honesty to his teammates, his boys who he knew could handle his candor. But it was you, so he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to tell you how he really felt. “Stance shite, angle shite. You might be blind in one eye, however you’re bloody good at rollin’ em.” he clocks you before you even realize. Ghost takes a few steps forward and suddenly you can feel the warmth radiating off his body.

Contrary to popular belief, he’s not as cold as his heart is giving off. His hand is suddenly at the center of your back, pressing so you tilt your body the way he needs you to. His other hand is hooked under your jaw, guiding your head against the scope so you can see better. Once he’s got your head in the correct positioning, his hand drops to your arm angle it in a more comfortable spot. You don’t even realize he’s holding his breath until he exhales sharply. He’s avoiding inhaling your scent, probably because it smells better than his balaclava and the last thing he needs to be thinking about is burying his face in the fabric of your shirt.

“Holy shit, I did it.” you whisper to yourself and you don’t even notice his warmth missing from your side.

“Hey, how ‘bout that, you finally marked something we can see.” Ghost says. The bullet hole wasn’t anywhere near the head by any means, it didn’t even touch the body of the silhouette, just barely nicking the edge of the paper. “Again, without my help.” you shoot again the bullet cleanly goes through the paper shoulder.

Ghost makes a mental note of how quick of a learner you are. After a few more shots, he moves you to a different location where a draft can be present and instead of still targets, there’s moving ones. He remains on standby, just far enough to not feel your body heat but enough to where he can get a good idea of which target you’re aiming for. Unfortunately for him, that means the scent of your body lotion and shampoo fills his lungs like they're meant for attacking his internal organs. He finds himself audibly laughing when you lick your finger and stick it in the air to feel what direction the draft is coming from before adjusting your angle. His fingers tingle, yearning to reach out and adjust your positioning once more even if it is spot on.

You clip your first shot through the neck.

Ghost doesn’t celebrate with you. He's quiet, beside you at a respectable distance, focusing on how his hands burn and his head dizzies.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" the voice of Evelyn Laswell is on the other end of your call. There's a lightness to her voice and you know she expected to hear from you, maybe sooner even.

"Well, seeing as our operations are being held up, I'm getting a little stir crazy," you reply back and you earn a laugh from her. "Need you to give me access to The Web."

The Web was a digital database Evelyn and yourself had come up with, Kate Laswell's only involvement being the name of the database. Fitting for someone called Widow, she would say. It could pull reports and news articles about victims of domestic disturbances. It also pulled from online forums, keying in on specific phrases that could give you an idea on if someone was being abused.

While Kate wasn't super involved in your adventures of The Web, she did check it from time to time when she had the freedom from work to do so. Especially when it involved you needing a pardon.

"Thought you were going to be in and out of there." Evelyn hums, noting the IOU between you and her wife. You can hear her fingers running across her keyboard in the background. You stare at the night sky while you peer out your window from the room you've taken lodging in from Kate's flat. It was under Evelyn's maiden name to serve as an extra layer of protection, giving you enough privacy to stow away.

"Yeah, it was supposed to be." you puff through your cheeks, rubbing your hand over your face. "Then it became personal."

"You and personal? That's quite the picture, ain't it?" you can hear Eve smiling to herself. "I know it's classified, so I won't ask. If it's personal, then I must say - you've got this handled. You're strong and you've got Kate and I in your corner."

"Thanks Evelyn." you say quietly, but enough for her to hear.

"There you go, you should have full access to The Web. I've approved of the IP over there, so the missus can view it if she needs as well." On your bed, your laptop chirping back to life.

"Not sure if she will, but I'll mention it to her." typing away on your laptop, you use your admin privileges to access the database and render a scan of Hereford and anything within a 6 hour drive; a luxury you didn't have in the States since England was smaller than the US. "She's got her hands tied with this team here."

"141? John Price's team?"

"Yeah, you know 'em?" you question with a quirk of your eyebrow even if she can't see you.

"I've had dinner with John Price a few times. Once with the rest of the boys." Evelyn says. "They're lovely boys." you hum in recognition.

"They're alright."

"I think they'd be a good influence on you, nice little bunch."

“I don’t need any distractions.” you bit out sharply, same tone that you used with Kate when she said the same thing. You hear Evelyn sigh deeply.

“Not a distraction. A nice group of friends, lord knows you need one.”

“I don't even know them. And you know why I can't do that.” you shake your head. "And besides, I thought you and Kate were my friends."

“And you and I both know that’s not a real reason to keep yourself from making real friends. If Kate trusts them, that should be enough for you.” That admission lands harder than you'd like. The silence that fills the air is enough for her to know that it did too. It doesn’t help that your first instinct is to abandon this mission. "Plus, Kate and I don't count."

The desire is there, pushed so far back in your mind and Evelyn & Soap’s words keep reigniting the thought, the longing for connection. Healthy distance will keep you, collectively, safe.

It didn’t stop you from thinking about your observations of the group here. Soap’s warm personality, he was persistent to a fault; his friendliness radiated off of him as if it was his purpose on earth. Or Gaz’s thoughtfulness, how if the conversation didn’t involve you, he was quietly dipping his head to find a way to include you, even if you didn’t mind just listening. Price tries to take on a paternal figure, and maybe it’s because he was the captain of the team; he was always making sure you knew you had him at your disposal for whatever resources you needed. Plus if he wasn’t feeding you, he was reminding you to feed yourself. The broody lieutenant was another story...

You were used to people hearing that you didn’t want to get close and they just left you alone, not wanting to push their luck with the help. No one was ever eager for your company the way Soap was, though it didn’t stop a few soldiers from making unwanted passes at you - you promptly kicked their asses for it too. And on the other side of the scale, no one ever really took it personal and decided to further push you away for it. If you could ruffle his feathers so he would push you away, that was the only way you could feel fulfilled with the distance. There was something more there; you could tell it amused him to have you bite back.

Distance was healthy.

a/n: trying to get stuff up before my bday on sunday eeee lskdjfdskf