Ghastly Bird

It’s obvious you haven’t been well. The circles under your eyes are sickly and off color, worse than when you stay up to wait for them to get home, and you look weary, overwhelmed, exhausted. Your hair is stiff, pulled out of your face but heavy around your forehead, and your skin is dry, an easy tell that you haven’t been drinking enough water. Johnny suspects that your clothes are dirty as well, judging by the stain on the front of your shirt above your breasts, and his heart skips when he realizes it’s his old t shirt, the one you usually wear around the flat. It all makes Johnny’s head spin, makes him feel like he’s got a thousand pounds sitting on his chest and when he looks closer, he can just see the broken capillaries spreading across your cheeks like spider’s webs. Did they do this to you?

“Oh, love.” He whispers. Your eyes water, and he feels the weight of his own fear, his own sadness tenfold. You’re hurting. You’re hurting so badly. How did they not see this? 

“Let us in.” Simon demands, and you chew on your lip. “Please. Whatever it is, we can fix it darling. Just let us in.” Simon’s voice softens, slipping into something he only reserves for you, and Johnny reaches for your hand, it’s ice-cold chill startling against his own.

When you don’t pull away from him, a small seed of hope blooms in his heart.

Something wakes him from his sleep. Maybe it’s the low drone of the television from the living room, or the fact that the middle and left sides of the bed are completely empty. He sits up, groggily, straining to listen, but all he hears is the laugh track of a sitcom. 

When he enters the living room, he raises an eyebrow. Simon is sitting in his boxers, on the floor, back against the couch, remote in one hand, and your hand in other. Your fingers look so small intertwined with his, your arm draping down over his shoulder from where you’re lying on your belly, mouth open, dead asleep. He rubs his eyes. 

“What’s this?” He keeps his voice low. 

“She couldn’t get back to sleep. Didn’t want ta wake you, but she was keepin’ me up, thrashing around.” Johnny frowns. He traces a thumb across your forehead, moving a stray piece of hair behind your ear. Simon strokes his fingers up his thigh, rubbing the back of his leg, his skin hot in the thick of the summer night. He glances at the clock on the stove before settling on the rug too, notching his head next to your arm, and Simon shifts to accommodate him before turning to press his lips against his forehead. 

“Was it a nightmare?” 

“She’s still havin’ em.” Simon whispers, and he leans to pull him closer. “Didn’t want to talk about it.” He sighs. 

“What’re we watchin’?”  

You settle on the edge of the bed, pulling your knees up to your chest, eyes unmoving from the floor. Simon stands against the dresser directly in front of you, arms crossed, body stiff and thrumming with concern, strung tight with stress. The room is quiet, lit only by a small lamp that you have flicked on, and he tries not to look too closely at anything, at this place you’ve been living in when you should have been at home. 

“Love?” Johnny clears his throat, sitting down next to you, tilting his head to catch your gaze. He avoids looking at your blood crusted cuticles, or the crescent moon marks that are imprinted in your palms. “When was the last time you ate?” You shrug.

“Yesterday.” Simon shifts his weight, as in tune to the waver in your voice, the tell of the lie, as Johnny is. He shoots Johnny a look, before going down on a knee in front of you, hands gentle, a palm cupping your calf and giving it a squeeze before releasing. You don’t pull away. A knot of tension releases between the two of them.

“Will you tell us why you left?” Johnny tries to keep from pleading, but he knows he will beg you if he has to. Beg you to tell him why, beg you to come home, beg you to let them back in. Your eyes dart back and forth between them, your fingers nervously pulling at the ends of your hair, and Simon cuts him a stern look, a very clear message: Slow the fuck down. Don’t push her. Tears drip over your cheeks onto your knees and then your voice cracks.

“You were g-gone for almost thirty days. What if, what if you never came back? What if you just picked up and left? Started over? You ha- have each other… you don’t need me.” A chasm splits open inside Johnny, splintering across the three of you, the weight of your fear and doubt bubbling to surface, pushing past the truths they’ve worked so hard to make you see.

“We could never do that. You’re a part of us.” Simon’s tone is serious. 

“You mean the world to us, darling. We don’t want to live in it without you.” Johnny says, fingers grazing along your shoulder.

“Don’t lie.” You croak, and he frowns.

“He’s not lying.” Simon says but you don’t respond.

“We love you.” Johnny whispers, and your eyes slam shut, tears spilling out between your lashes. “You know that, don’t ya?”

“N-no.” you cover your face with your hands.

“Yes, you do.” Simon pulls one of your hands away from your face, taking it in his own. “I know it’s hard, when we’re away-”

“No you don’t!” you sob as you cut him off. “You have each other! You always have each other. I f-feel… I feel like I’m on the outside.” Your breath hitches. “I always feel like that.” You tell them miserably and Johnny’s heart breaks for you.

“You’re supposed to talk to us, when you’re feelin’ bad about things.” Simon’s voice is gentle, as he tries to soothe you, tries to ground you. “Look at me, darling.” You turn your head, eyes up and full of trust, searching between the two of them.

You still trust him. You still trust Simon. There’s hope. 

“I know.” You whisper.

“It doesn’t work unless we’re honest, and we tell each other how we’re feeling, even when it’s like this.” Johnny keeps his tone soft, but it’s heavy with emotion, drowning beneath your own sadness, the feeling of your despair.

"I know that. I do… but it doesn’t change anything.” Panic erupts through his veins like he’s been doused with cold water. Doesn’t change anything? Doesn’t change what? That you left? “It won’t change the fact that I’ll always feel like this… like I’m separate from you.” You blink furiously, tears trickling down your cheeks, chest heaving with shallow breaths, and Johnny feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

“Alright, darling. That’s okay.” Simon settles you, and Johnny gives him an incredulous look. Alright? Alright?! On a base level, he knows what Simon is doing, but it does nothing to quell the storm of feelings rising inside of him. They could lose you. What if they can’t fix this?  “Johnny’s gonna get ya some food.” He grimaces and pulls his phone free to search for the room service menu, looking for something that will be easy on your stomach without overwhelming you. “D’you think you could manage a shower while we wait for it to be brought up?” He holds his breath. You could say no. You could tell them to get out. It took your deepest level of trust, to let them care for you like this, and in this moment, it felt like it wasn’t there.

When you don’t say anything in response and nod instead, he lets the air leak from his nose slowly.

“A bath.” You whisper, eyes still trained on the floor. You look at them intently for a moment before you get to your feet without another word and disappear into the bathroom. When the door clicks shut, Johnny whirls.

“I want to take her home. She’s not thinkin’ clearly.”

“We have to go at her pace, you heard what she said.” Something sad flickers across Simon’s face before he smooths it away. “She needs time, to remember. That’s all.” He tries to reason, and Johnny knows he’s right, but he can’t fight the burning sensation in his chest when he thinks about how you’ve been alone, in this room, for the last week and half, falling apart without them.

“Si. She…”  He doesn’t have to finish the sentence.

“I know, Johnny. I know.” His partner’s fist is clenched around the balaclava, eyes tight with worry. They both look towards the closed door, and then Johnny glances down to the glaring light of his phone.

“There’s no soup.”

“Toast?”

“And a fried egg, if she can get it down.” Simon gives a curt nod of agreement, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted. Yeah?” Johnny presses his nose to Simon’s neck and takes a deep breath to steady himself.

“Yeah.” He motions to the bathroom. “Join ya in a minute.”

By the time he has the food ordered, you’re already sitting in the tub, water thundering from the faucet, knees pulled back up under your chin, skin dotted with goosebumps. There’s enough room for him to get in behind you, like he usually does, but he doesn’t want to push you, so he reminds himself to be patient. Simon is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, murmuring something softly that you’re occasionally nodding at until you speak.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” You croak.

“It’s alright, darling. We’re just happy you’re safe.” Simon reassures, and when you don’t say anything else, panic swirls in the pit of Johnny’s stomach. Be patient. He needs to be patient. 

He can be patient, but he doesn’t have to fight fair. Not when it comes to you.

“Can I wash your hair?” he asks you sweetly, and you nod almost immediately. Later, he hopes, once you’ve pulled out of this and you’re all together again, you’ll give him shit about using your weakness against you like that. He hopes. 

You tilt your head back eagerly, eyes slipping closed while the tips of his fingers massage your scalp, and he alternates between soft and firm pressure, making sure he gets the lather as deep into your roots as gently as he can.

“I missed you.” It’s barely a whisper, a light whistle on your lips, but they both hear it, and Simon reaches for your hand, large fingers folding over yours, his touch gentle and slow while Johnny rubs the pad of his thumb along your shoulder blade before he speaks.

“Not as much as we missed you.”

“Oh shit.” You giggle from where you sit between Johnny’s legs and he presses his palm to your mouth playfully, lips grazing along your shoulder. Simon’s footsteps thunk down the hall, his voice calling both of your names. 

“Shhh.” Johnny murmurs, the warm bath water wrapping the two of you in a soft, sublime feeling that’s gone straight to his head. When the bathroom door swings open, you raise an arm like you’re dancing, and beam. 

“Welcome home!” Johnny tries not to laugh at the serious expression on Simon’s face, and he snakes an arm around your middle to pull you all the way back into his chest. 

“Having a relaxing day?” Simon dead pans, and you nod, back of your head against Johnny, face turned upward to stare at Si who’s dressed in uniform, no doubt completely exhausted after a long day of travel to the ‘local’ office and back. Water beads off your skin when you push off from Johnny to rise to your knees, and he can’t help but reach out and trace a line across your hip while your palm slides up the front of Simon’s pants, leaving wet spots in its wake as you lick your lips. Johnny leans all the way back, fitting into the curve of the tub, arms on either side, and watches you pull the zipper down to free Simon’s cock from his briefs. When you glance back at him, he gives you a smile in return, excitement settling in his stomach as he watches you, his own hand sinking beneath the surface of the water to palm his cock, his eyes never leaving where you’re stroking Simon, your head tipped backwards and eyes up. 

“Darling…” Simon grunts, the word a harsh exhale, and your mouth cracks into a smile where you’re wrapped around him, your tongue flat against your teeth, jaw relaxed as you work. His hand drifts down to the top of your head when your lips part around length of his cock and a shiver runs down Johnny’s spine, the weight of love, of adoration vibrating in his bones.

His. This was his. You were both his. 

Your free hand reaches for him in the water, and he laces his fingers in yours with a reassuring squeeze before sitting up on his knees himself, his body pressing against you, gentle fingers wrapping around your throat to still your motion. 

“Hold still, darling.” He coaches, reaching for Simon’s belt loop to pull him closer, folding his grasp along his hip until he’s pressing into the back of your mouth. “Fuck her throat, love. That’s what she wants.” You try to nod enthusiastically, and Johnny chuckles, brushing a kiss across your cheekbone. “Isn’t she sweet?” He asks, and Simon’s hand tightens in your hair, just a tad, enough to hold you steady as he begins to rock his hips back and forth. “That’s it.” He encourages, hand never leaving Simon’s hip, the other still gently cradling your throat. He talks Simon through it the entire time, his own cock hard against the curve of your ass, his thumb occasionally smearing across your lower lip. “Fuck, Si.” He marvels, “Doin’ so good for her. Givin’ her what she wants.” He releases Simon’s hip and strokes a finger down your lower belly and across your thighs before teasing your clit, and your breath stutters through your nose when he presses against the swollen bud, your body tensing against his. He noses along your jaw while he works your clit in a circle, matching his rhythm to Simon’s pace. You make a strangled sound in your throat when Simon slows, and Johnny smirks, mirroring the speed until you’re whimpering, throat stuffed full and your thighs trying to rub together around his hand. He’s not going to let you come, not yet, so he pulls away and you whine, eyes widening in protest, but you stay steady, jaw lax to accommodate Simon, and Johnny praises you. “Good girl. Takin’ him so well.” Simon grunts, and then his mouth drops open as his hips begin to thrust unevenly until he’s coming, a little moan slipping from you when he spills down your throat. 

He bends to kiss you afterwards, swiping his tongue into your mouth, lavishing you slowly until you’re pulling at his belt loops again. 

“Want to get in?” 

“You know I won’t fit, darling.” He perches on the side of the tub, leaning down to brush his lips against Johnny’s, fingers dipping into the heat of the water. 

“Well?” Johnny prompts, and Simon grimaces, watching you as he speaks. 

“Tomorrow. Sixteen hundred.” He feels your muscles go tense, your languid state draining from your body, tension running through you in its place. He squeezes your arm affectionately, pressing a kiss above your ear. 

“It’s alright, love. Won’t be too long.” 

“It’s the apartment.” You say quietly from where you’re now laying on the bed, wrapped in a robe with your hair twisted into a towel. You eye the pieces of toast that are on the tray with a sigh. He holds one out to you, like an offering, and your lower lip trembles. “My stomach hurts.” you protest.

“I know it does, love. But you’ll feel better after this, I swear it.” Your hand reaches for his, and his heart soars, but he tempers his relief quickly. “Please? For me.”

“What about the apartment?” Simon interrupts and a shadow moves across your face.

“It was yours, before. It feels like I don’t belong there, sometimes.” Like you don’t belong? The contrast startles him, forcing his spine straighter and he considers your words. How could you possibly believe you don’t belong? 

“Then we’ll get a new one.” He blurts, without even fully thinking it through. He only knows he’s desperate to reassure you, desperate to show you that they’d do anything for you. Your face shifts, from forlorn to hopeful, surprise crinkling the corners of your eyes as you glance between them.

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You've only known him in pieces. Patches. Barely enough to make a whole picture, but you could still fill in the empty spaces with that grizzled anger of his that seemed to roll off of him in waves.

(no wonder he burns so hot—it's all that fury.)

Mostly, he'd come to dress you down in front of everyone watching. Snapping at the sight of your desk—organised chaos a true oxymoron (and for the most part, that seemed to be what he thought of you: a moron)—and how you handled files, and how you waltzed around like you owned the place—

and do you, sweetheart? do you own this place, mm? is that why you never listen to a goddamn thing i tell you?

All-in-all: a miserable fucking man.

And one made of sharp, brutal contradictions. Paradoxes layered over each other. Sealed with fury—of the righteous, pragmatic kind—and reinforced with an utilitarian core. Forlorn hope in the distinct shape of a man, one always readying himself for a pyrrhic victory (but a victory, nevertheless).

Easy, in hindsight, to deal with when you knew how to navigate the frothing gyre of anger and juxtapositions that made up the man who brute force, physicality, to get what he wanted.

By sharp contrast, the version of him who stands before is more enigmatic than the mangled mess of savagery and labyrinthine defenses. Almost unknowable. Unfathomable.

Even more so when he lifts his hand—scarred up, still blistered and bruised from fighting his way through fire and kin to get to you—and presses those mangled knuckles to the swell of your cheek, as tender as a man like him could ever allow himself to be, and runs a soft, shallow line down the side of your face. Eyes—still that same, dizzying blue—darken into liquid sapphire as he stares at you. Inexplicably soft. Lids crested. Half-mast in pleasure as if staring at your face was relaxing. Comforting.

Something swirls in those deep, endless lagoons. Some implacable emotion—all at once too much; too heavy—frissoning over his feature. A paroxysm. You can't catch it. Can't define it.

It's unquantifiable. Unknowable. And yet—

You know, instantly, that John Price would never look at you with something this archaic, this intense, brimming up like geysers in the endless spill of blue that can't seem to look away from you.

This man is not John Price.

But when he pulls you into a kiss—one softer and sweeter than you'd ever imagined the infamous captain could ever be capable of—you let him.

In fact, you kiss back.