🕯Hello Lovie🕯

You’d rather stay home and play board games, but Laurie had convinced everyone that it was a good night for clubbing. You hated clubs— The noise, the crowds, the smell of sweat and alcohol and hormones— and spent the better part of club nights standing outside chain-smoking, or crammed into a dirty bathroom stall holding back a friend’s hair as she threw up blue curacao because she didn’t listen to you when you told her to eat dinner before going out. Tonight didn’t look like it was going to end up with anyone puking their guts up, at least. Laurie’s flirting with a gorgeous hunk with a devastating smile, and Alex and Hannah are dancing, so you go out the side door into the alley for some fresh air. Or air, anyway, since the alley’s where folks go to smoke. You light a joint, because at least that will dull the effect that the sound is having on your head. It’s getting close to midnight, which at least means the night is almost over, so long as someone doesn’t drag you along to some weirdo’s house. “Hey, wha’s a bonnie thing like ye doin’ out here all alone?” A voice purrs in your ear. You jump, surprised that he could get so close with out you noticing him, especially once you turn and really look at him. He’s huge, not that tall, probably your height when you’re not wearing boots (You have about an inch and a half on him in your shit-kickers), but broad and way more muscled than anyone has any reason to be, wrapped in a too-tight shirt, and smiling at you, bright blue eyes fixed on yours with unnerving intensity. He pats your shoulder. “Didnae mean to scare ye, lass, just wanted to say hello.” You take a big step to the side, establishing a new bubble of personal space without him in it. “Well, hello,” you say dismissively. “Goodbye.” There’s a snort from a few meters away, a big fellow with a kn95 mask dangling on one ear, his hand up in front of his face, a cigarette clamped between his fingers. “Och, dinnae be like tha’, hen.” “Don’t like it?” you ask, glaring at him. “Go away. Plenty of girls in there’ll go for whatever all this is.” A sweeping, unimpressed glance from his boots and ripped jeans up to his stupid mohawk would usually do the trick, but it only made this fellow smile wider. “No’ enough fer ya? I can sweeten tha deal some. The big fella doesnae mind sharin’ a sweet lass with me noo and again. There’s plenty of ye ta go around.” “Johnny,” the big fellow in question says sternly. His mask is back in place, covering the lower half of his face. “Dun’t look like she’s interested.”

you didn't share many mutual friends by then, and nobody that would feel comfortable passing a message along from john to you. everyone knew the minefield that lay between the two of you; no one was going to navigate that to relay a message past enemy lines unless they lacked some common sense.

fortune has it, john runs into one such friend that's always been a bit of a gossip. he remembers you griping how you could never share anything personal with them, as it'd inevitably find itself right in the hands of the person who shouldn't be told.

he relies on this still being the case.

no, please. don't tell her. i wouldn't want her to put her in an uncomfortable position. she's been through enough because of me, y'know? just glad to know she's doin' well. thanks. cheers, mate. good runnin' into you, too.

—

two weeks. an email from a different email address, one he's never seen you before.

» sorry to hear about the diagnosis. hope you take care of yourself, john.

he imagines your voice bitter like parentheses between the words: (but i begged you to stop smoking for years and you hated me for it) (hope you regret ever turning it into a fight) (i was right all along)

when he's alone in the house, he likes to remember how your voice sounded in each room. snappy and sour when he'd piss you off. low and jagged when he'd get you under him.

takes him a bit to decide what to reply, unsure if it'll go through.

» just a matter of time like you always said. thought you should know you're still the beneficiary. never got around to changing the paperwork after all was said and done.

eventually:

» please remove my name. you had informed me you were going to be transferring it to the new one.

» realized too late that whatever's left of me should go to the one who got the worst of me.

—

he knows he has you when you eventually switch over to text. you reply infrequently, but it's a step closer.

» is someone bringing you food?

» don't worry about that. you've done plenty of that already. delivery is just as easy.

» john

» promise you (sweetheart, he almost adds), i'm up for it. no trouble at all.

three days later, you're on his doorstep with homemade freezer meals and meds for nausea. your hair is now lit up with kinked grey hairs and your face is softer than before, rounded by the years since he last saw you. your eyes haven't changed one bit — bright and hard like a bird's — and it gives his stomach that familiar jolt when they pass over him.

you look like shit, john.

when you stand in the sun-sweet kitchen that used to be your domain, your seat of power, his prick gets hard. it's just right, seeing you there like that, lit up and glowing.

what happened to your mates? they don't take care of you now that you're not their boss?

he protests, defensive, but you ignore him and walk around, eyeing the spices he keeps on hand for himself. check what's in the fridge, make a sound of disgust, clip it shut.

pathetic.

he pushes back. it's just me and my appetite's not what it was. can't be arsed to do much more, darlin.

you leave after he says that, silent and queenly.

—

his appetite improves when you bring over home-cooked meals. depending on the day, you might dine together in the kitchen like the old days, or he'd take supper in bed while you washed up.

he begins to listen to you; first time for everything.

when you chuck out his cigars, he smiles fondly at you. you tell him to get some sleep and he does. you tell him to rest and he does. you encourage going for walks and he asks if you'll accompany him. he doesn't go into his office, leaves that room shut for once. he'll sit at the kitchen table, or the nearby living room armchair, and chat about your day while you putter around the kitchen, seeking things to fix and organize and reorder.

in crumbs, he learns that your new marriage isn't a happy one, that you've been discussing divorce. you don't want to be divorced a second time, but at least there are no kids involved again. besides, you're looking forward to retiring in a few years, single and free to travel as you like. you're making the best of it; always have.

it takes you weeks until you sit down while he's got the tv on. weeks longer for you to sit beside him like you used to, your feet kicked out onto his lap. his hands are still strong, knowing your heel is your soft spot, loosens nearly your entire body when he grips it tight. still gets a moan out of you after all these years.

—

the sex is tender and strangely slow and a bit teary. you treat him like he's fragile and he hates that. but it's proper lovemaking, like married couples do, so he'll take it. take anything.

happy to make you feel good again, whatever it takes.

willing to wring himself dry to get you back.

—

you don't come with him to his appointments; he's old-fashioned, man prefers a bit of privacy to discuss things with his doctor. you have loads of questions, but back off when he's just happy to sit with you without having to think about it at all.

don't like it mucking up a nice day. aren't we havin a nice day, sweet'eart?

you make him feel better by telling him he still looks healthy as a horse.

wouldn't know you're sick at all, honey.

—

takes you longer than it should; canny woman you are.

—

simon and kyle and johnny come by in a cluster to visit a few months later. you'd emailed them and said john'd be up for company.

arriving to the house and noticing right away that your stuff's been moved back in. a woman's touch, pressed back into place over the house that john built.

you kiss their cheeks and welcome them in; been years since you've seen them. johnny and kyle are subdued, but happy to see their old captain in such good hands. privately relieved that the latest ex-wife tossed herself to the side; she'd never have had the mettle to endure a situation like this, like you have.

simon watches you quietly, always. eyes slowly moving from you at john's bedside to john laid up in bed, a fond smile fixed on your face.

he's having a good day today.

it's polite, is what it is, because their former captain looks like dog shit: flat glazed eyes, pale mouth, and a smaller body under his blankets. makes simon look away, anywhere, out the window.

johnny and kyle've always been good about keeping spirits up. they chat and update the captain on the goings-on, nothing that'll get him goin' but enough to keep him fed on old business.

he starts to flag and you stand up, patting his hand. the lads stand in unison and march downstairs.

at the door, thank you so much for coming by. you don't know how much this means to him.

—

upstairs in your shared bedroom, you crawl into bed with john. take his hand in yours again, feeling its warmth and a trace of its former strength.

that was nice, huh. sweet of them to come by.

he squeezes your hand and turns his head to stare at you, eyes flitting from the smile on your lips to the bright sharp look in your eye.

tired, huh?

you plant a soft, affectionate kiss on his dry mouth. you look at him with the most loving expression, an echo of a time long passed.

ready for your medicine? i made some stew to go with it.

his hand squeezes yours.

aren't you so sweet for me now.

-