good old-fashioned boss fight

The figure beside you stood quickly, ducking away from the bed and some breed of fear clawed its way out of your stomach to bash its way into your chest. The shock had left as fast as it came when a squeal escaped you, the red-hot, constricting discomfort of fear encompassing your chest. You could feel your body fighting the breathing tube in your throat, so you could take in more air, hyperventilate. Because, how could he be here? He’s dead, you killed him, his face bashed in for everything he fucking did to you and could have done to your baby and everything you–

The overhead fixture flooded the room with harsh, fluorescent light, and that’s when you could see the perpetrator - but it wasn’t him at all. In a thin sweatshirt, an old pair of sweatpants, and a heavy set of eye bags, was Simon. Not Lloyd. He was dead. It was your husband, your Simon, your protector. 

Tears fell from your eyes, and even as new bodies invaded your view, your beat-up hand reached for him instinctively. The ringing in your ears forced you to rely on your whines as the nurses tended to you, taking the breathing and feeding tubes out, and checking your pulse and blood pressure. Your eyes stayed on Simon. His face looked sunken in, hair greasy, almost plastered down to his scalp. He was paler than usual, his eyes red, hands fidgeting as he cried. Your beating heart cried out for him; the second your mouth was free from the tubes, you tried to speak, but only a broken squeak escaped. The nurse moved out of the way and he was back at your side in a second, hands hovering over where they’d usually hold your face. The heave in your chest as you cried only made him shy away more. 

I need you. I need you to hold me and tell me everything's gonna be okay.  

But he doesn’t. He had no words. Not in his heart or his brain. Nothing but sobs and kisses to your unmarred cheek, and his nose pressed into your hair. 

How your brother looked at you when Simon brought him in made tears roll faster than ever. It was a look you’ve only seen once - when you broke your arm playing soccer as an eight-year-old. It wasn’t your fault; a girl had shoved you and another trampled over you, breaking it just a few inches from your wrist. Any closer and it would’ve fucked your ability to write. Jake sprinted across the field and picked you up, telling you it would be okay, even though his eyes were full of tears that matched yours. 

He settled in a chair beside you, opposite Simon, petted your head, and wiped your tears away with his thumb. In all of your years of following him around, always worried about getting in trouble or getting hurt, nothing had ever changed - he was still your comfort, the person you trust to take care of you when you’re hurt, and you knew that he would protect you with everything he had.

That comfort did nothing to lessen the guilt that plagued you once you realized you were happier to see him than Simon. 

“Didn’t mean to be late. I didn’t know you were awake.” He rubbed the bed just parallel to your arm. “How are you?”

“She can’t talk much,” Simon spoke quietly. You looked over at him. His eyes were irritated, his hair disheveled, and he held your finger left out of the cast. At least he was saving you from having to speak, talking hurt more than you cared to admit. You couldn’t tell them how you felt, what happened, or describe the flood of broken pieces on the shore that was your mind. 

Jake hummed in acknowledgment, your eyes fell on him. “Well, I’m glad you’re awake, and that you’re okay.” The feeling of Simon’s head against your thigh was normal to you now, the crown nestled just beside your knee, and you couldn’t help but raise your hand then lay it on the back of his neck. Jake watched with a tired gaze before he spoke your name. “I’m staying to help you as long as I can. With the kids, and you. Just until you don’t need me.” 

“Price is staying too,” Simon rumbled, and your heart stung again. Something akin to anger nestled there at the mention of the captain. Not at him, but more towards Simon - all you wanted to see when staring up at that cloudy sky, wounded and bleeding, was Simon, but you got John instead. 

“Thank you.” The whisper left your lips before you looked back at the TV, desperately fighting the disappointment in Simon. Jake nodded to himself in the corner of your eye, and Simon’s chest slowed to steady breaths as he finally found sleep for the first time since you woke up. 

You wished you were little again, back when you could pretend everything was okay by just forgetting about the pain; lying about whether you cried or not. Pretending you didn’t have nightmares. Lie and pretend. Lie and pretend. 

Easier said than done.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“But, you need to be.”

“You aren’t even a normal civilian therapist. All you’re gonna do is parrot everything I say straight to Price and get Simon in trouble.”

The woman took her glasses off, then moved the plastic clipboard from her lap before she leaned forward toward you. The blanket on your lap barely did anything to keep you warm. Curled as much as you could on your wheelchair, you watched the therapist in her blouse and slacks as she examined you like an organism on a petri dish beneath a microscope. 

“This is a safe space for you. It doesn’t seem like it, but it is. Kate Laswell specifically made sure you could meet with me right away. These appointments fall under HIPPA.”

“But you’re still military. This is for their record of what happened, so they can play accountant for the money they spent to save me.”

“This is your third appointment, and you just now have an issue.”

“I’m only here because it makes Simon feel better.”

Marli - the kind, indifferent therapist - looked at you with such…you couldn’t place it. It wasn’t sympathy, it wasn’t anger or bitterness or disgust, it was…your foggy mind couldn’t produce the word. 

“You’re not here because you want to be.” A statement. A correct one, but it stung to hear. 

“No.”

“And you’ve said multiple times that you don’t want Simon to hear or read the transcripts. Or Captain Price, or Sergeant MacTavish.“

“Only Gaz. If you have to give someone the report, Gaz.” 

“Only Sergeant Garrick, because he’s not as close to Simon.” 

“He’s close, just…” You sighed. “Kyle keeps secrets just fine. Soap’s a blab and Price…I don’t want his best friends to hear what happened and tell him. I don’t even…I don’t-” Your hand moved slowly to rest on your chest, below your collarbone, and above your heart. You applied pressure there with your fingertips. A comforting touch, something to stop the pain you get in your lungs when you start to think about what happened. “I know it’s our third session, I know they were to get adjusted to you from the last girl, but today’s not the day to talk about it. It’s just not.”

She crossed her leg over her knee and adjusted the blanket on her lap, her clipboard still in her tight grasp as she leaned back in her comfortable chair. “That’s fine. We can start slow, and build up to some things. The original retelling we have from you is-”

“I am not doing that again. I’m not–I’m not telling another one of you what happened, okay? It’s not fucking happening today. I just want to sit here and answer your stupid fucking boring questions so I can pretend I’m not a victim! For one fucking hour!” Your free hand hit the armrest of your wheelchair, emphasizing your position, before you tugged your blanket up to cover more of your stomach. “I want to leave. I want Simon. Tell him to come get me, I want to go home.”

Marli sighed, nodded, and placed her blanket and clipboard on the low side table beside her. She looked at you, as you looked away from her, focusing on the small fish tank again. “You won’t be leaving a session early after this. In our next session, we will be talking about the event. Prepare yourself.”

You waved her off as you watched the blue fish slowly peck at the glass that enclosed it. 

Everything is normal in your house. In your bathroom. Your husband washed your hair and ducked out to get your clothes, but you still needed to brush your teeth.

Normal. Normal things for the Riley household. 

The sound of clicking in your subconscious seemed to scratch at a wiry pocket in your brain, digging with dirty fingernails, the itch so deep that the sensation made you nauseous. You reached for your toothbrush with your dominant hand, your bad hand, but you shook your head and grabbed it with your sore, uninjured hand. Pinky and ring finger curled, grasp so flimsy that a breeze could throw your yellow toothbrush from your palm. A sharp pain radiated in your index finger, pulsing at the same rate as the click in your head. Click, click, click, click, click. Your eyes finally fell upon your task, seeing your swollen hand; stitch holes, and jagged, healing scabs from where you shredded the top of your hand on the stone and Lloyd’s face.

Lloyd. 

Your eyes stayed open, stung with every short breath of air from the fan and tears. If you blinked, you would be back in that basement, the sound of the sink running to hide Mellie’s crying, and your screams for Lloyd to get away. 

Click, click, click, click, click. 

A short rap at the bathroom door made your head snap to the left. Your heart stammered when you saw Simon, your clothes in one hand and a worried look on his face. He wasn’t good at hiding his emotions, but he tried. You wanted to let yourself fall into the overwhelming fear, let yourself scramble away and scream until he left you alone. You wanted to scream and cry until you couldn’t anymore, like you did two days before. You wanted to wallow in silence; sit in your bathtub, press your broken cheekbone to the cool porcelain, and knees to chest until you disappeared under the lip of the tub. 

In your need for solitude and overwhelming misery, only anger answered the haunting clicking in your head. Click, click, click, and your toothbrush was thrown to the floor, tears welled in your eyes. Unwavering rage climbed out of that stringy, tangled pocket of your mind and filled your body with a buzz. Simon was quick to stay in your sight and keep his hands near himself. 

“What do you need?”

A shovel and a baseball bat. One to dig Lloyd up, and the other to beat the shit out of his fucking corpse, because he deserved more of a beating than he got. He deserved to have his skull crushed even more, messy chunks splattered across the ground like a pumpkin. Lloyd has to be rotting in Hell, that is what you need to hear. You need his face to stop morphing onto Simon’s, and stop being plastered on random faces. You need the nightmares to stop, or something to escape them. Maybe a cigarette. Or an edible. Or a bottle of tequila. Or a large bottle of wine, or three. Escape reality for just a minute, a time when you’re not bordering on a panic attack in the bathroom where you miscarried your son, or being pitied by your brother and your husband, or unable to hold your children. All you need is to tuck their heads of curls into your chest. Take the jagged pieces of yourself and hide them away from the clicks and anger, just to save them from the flood. 

You’ll have to find the words sometime. It’s easier to conjure them for a stupid therapist that you don’t know than it is to scavenge them for Simon. There’s not much to say to your husband and nothing to say to the son of your…attacker.

Attacker. Let’s go with that. 

“Honey, what do you need?”

A breath rattled your pain-wrapped chest. “A cigarette.”

He huffed a chuckle, and his left hand grabbed your sleep shirt. An old, worn shirt of his with a faded Metallica logo on the front, well-loved by him, and then you. You’ve worn it for two years, the majority of your relationship, and it’s one of your favorites. Holes in the sleeve, and threads loose at the bottom so the hem is a little fucked; you weren’t sure why, but you pushed it away. With your bruised and swollen hand, not the cast one. 

Why not the cast? You pushed everything away with it—the stuffed animals, the blankets, the physical contact from anyone but your children. Why the sudden change? Did something turn in your brain when you saw the black t-shirt, the comfort of it? Did it no longer serve its purpose as a comfort item? Your bruised hand shoved at the pants and the underwear, and your stomach finally caught up to your brain - nausea settled in your cheeks like magma. The feeling of anything on your skin felt like a death sentence, the feeling of the bathtub against naked skin sounded like a grace of the angels, and why did you keep crying when the anger seemed to disperse like mice?

None of it made sense. 

You hated the look in Simon’s eyes. The look of confusion, of worry. He doesn’t need to be confused about this. You can do what you want. You’re allowed to be angry and upset and push away clothes that make you want to puke your guts out into the sink. 

Click, click, click.

If he could stomach leaving you, abandoning you, then he’d have to stomach this too. Him not being there, having broken his promise to keep you and your children safe. 

Your eyes followed Simon as he kneeled, picked up every article of clothing, then placed them back on the sink. His eyes observed your face, your eyes, and he took a half step back. “M’gonna change Mellie. Yell f’me if you need help getting dressed.” He was gone the moment after, the bathroom door pressed into its latch with a deafening click, and you were left alone again. 

Click, click, click. 

A warm sensation started in your chest, nestled deep in your sternum and came on as suddenly as it moved around your body, enveloping you. It made you want to remember, but you could not place the sound from where-

You had observed the basement door’s lock had to be jiggled around to be unlocked. There were usually three clicks when unlocking the door, followed by the henchmen talking or Lloyd appearing at your bedside. He would sit, hand on your knee as he spoke with an even tone about your life, his intent for you and your infant. The life you’d live as a trafficked woman, and how Mellie would be sold off to a wealthy family. The way he crooned about how you’d never see Winnie or Simon again, how he constricted your body to the bed with that fucking smile and-

A thud came as you fell to your knees, a warbled cry escaping your lips as your plastered hand settled on the rim of the sink - the free fingers curled around the edge. The soft cotton of what was once your favorite shirt grazed your fingertip, and disgust roared its nasty head in your stomach. 

What do you need?

Click. 

Your shaking lungs finally freed a breath you didn’t know you were holding, as you allowed yourself to melt onto the white tile floor. You don’t remember the last time you mopped - or much of anything - but it didn’t matter. There wasn’t an inch of you now that could care about germs, about the grime growing in the corners and crevices; only about how soothing the cool surface of the tiles felt. 

Half of your forehead pressed against the floor, you exhaled, and exhaustion sunk its claws deep.

Simon returned only a couple minutes later, his warm hands covering you with the softest blanket he could find before he settled himself in the doorway. When you woke up from your nap, he planned to help you back to bed. It was easier to keep an eye on you and his babies from the threshold. Winnie was still sleeping peacefully on an air mattress, covered in blankets at the foot of his bed, and Mellie finally nestled into a corner of her pack-and-play; Simon watched her nod off before he looked back at you. 

He wanted to reach out, stroke your face, fix your hair, but he didn’t. His hand sat limply on his lap.

Coward. Coward, coward, coward.

The nightmares only get worse as the days go on. Comforting you is easy.

But comforting Mellie? If Simon were a softer man he would’ve crumbled into dust. Holding his infant as she screamed, little fists hitting his face and chest, the endless wailing - feet kicking his stomach; he was sure that if he had eaten anything yesterday, her kicking would’ve made him sick. He gently rubbed her back, his cheek against her temple as she thrashed, exhausted and scared. It made Simon want to combust. 

He hasn’t been able to get close to her in days; see her little brown eyes, button nose, her three little bottom teeth when she smiles. All he wanted was to comfort his child, but she wanted nothing to do with him.

A sudden touch to his shoulder and Simon jolted. Mellie’s cries intensified as he turned to see Price - a tired look in his eye but his arms out. That was the routine now; Mellie would wake up from a nightmare, and Simon would try to help, but ultimately hand her to Price, who offered to be their live-in aid until you and the girls got back on your feet. Simon didn’t waste a second handing his child off to her godfather, who calmed her in the time it took Simon to wipe his face and sit in the rocking chair. Anger simmered like a pot to boil, hot water scalding Simon’s body with burns he’d never heal.

He had faith in, trust, and love for his brother-in-arms. But that didn’t ease the burn of watching how easy it was for him to fix what Simon should have had the balls to. 

It was so easy for a man who had nothing to repair Simon’s broken family, the family he disassembled, and it made Simon want to throw punches at a brick wall.

He had everything and he threw it all away for the job.

He found solace in the punching bag at the base gym, wrapped hands, and a tense stance.

One, two.

One, two.

The bag swayed with every punch. No headphones this time; the gym was abnormally quiet in this corner. Everyone decided that Lieutenant Riley needed his space, especially since every rookie who even breathed near him got to clean latrines with their toothbrush. Or paint all of the gravel on base a nice, thick coat of white. There was peace in this corner - a man and a quiet sack of sand to keep him on his toes. 

One, two, a deep breath, and Simon sent another two punches, harder than the last. His eyes narrowed, balanced on the balls of his feet, core tensioned to hell, he was full of rage, guilt, and a sick feeling of shame. With every punch, his knuckles felt fire, and his soul didn’t feel any lighter. He tried to stay out of his head and punch the bag, but all he could see was his father, bloodied and on the floor after Simon’s punch put him there. One two. He could feel how punching Lloyd felt again, so hard that he thought he had broken his fingers. With every punch to the bag, he tried to figure out how you broke your hand. By a certain point, he understood. He also wanted to beat Lloyd’s face in until he couldn’t move, and wouldn’t again.

“LT.”

Simon punched the bag again. “She done?”

“Twenty more minutes.” 

“Then why the fuck are you botherin’ me?” One two.

Soap stood off to the side, hands in his pockets as he watched his friend. Simon ignored his presence briefly and threw harder punches, making the bag sway like a leaf in the wind. His stance was tense, and completely closed off; the man was ready to rip a hole in the bag. Soap approached him, but only to be in his field of vision. 

“Widen yer feet, LT.” 

“Fuck off.” One two.

“Widen yer feet. Ye'r too tense. Ye'r gonnae break yer hand.”

“This is not the time to be my fuckin’ friend, Soap.”

“Th' babies are cryin’ fur ye. So, finish up 'ere 'n'-”

The bag suddenly swung toward Soap. He pushed it back. Simon punched it again, harder, and Soap pushed it back again. 

“Brother, we’re gonnae help whether ye lik' it or nae, but th' girls want ye. And ye need nae goosed hands to take care of yer babies.”

Simon punched the bag with all his might, throwing his full weight into it. The bag hit Soap before he turned away, his fists and teeth clenched. He hustled into the locker room, grabbed his bag from the locker in the corner, and threw a sweatshirt over his sweaty t-shirt. He was prepared for Winnie to comment on his stench, for Mellie to cry the second he picked her up, and to see your full expression before he wheeled you to the car.

The therapy sessions were daily now. Jake had returned to the U.S. a couple days ago, and Simon had no one to watch the kids at home. The daycare on base was the only option. Winnie was too old for it, but he refused to let her go back to school, at least for another few days. She wasn’t ready yet. He just needed enough time for you to get on your feet, into a new normal, then Winnie could go back to school and be the social butterfly she always was.

He’s glad the daycare is nearby, he was silent when he signed out the girls, keeping Mellie close to his chest and a firm and gentle grip on Winnie’s hand. He was early, but he didn’t want to talk to Soap. He didn’t want to talk to anyone about this. The carefully wrapped bandage holding his anger together was close to ripping, the pain and shame of not being the one to protect you, to save you and Mellie was destroying him. A sick part of him didn’t want to fix it; let himself feel your pain and suffering as punishment. He was already riddled with guilt that he couldn’t protect you going forward, not from your mind; and ashamed that his teammates were living in his house, taking care of his kids while Simon focused on your care. 

He should be able to do this alone. He’d lost a lover and raised their baby alone, he’d suffered years of abuse alone, and he was sure he’d die alone too. 

Mellie’s whimpers softened when you’re wheeled out to him, her little hand reaching out for you, and you stretched to meet her. Simon placed your daughter in your lap like always, and your bruised arms wrapped around her. Winnie squeezed Simon’s hand. He looked at her, the messy ponytail and worried look on her face, and felt nothing but gut-wrenching shame in his belly.

“Let’s go, girls,” he said softly, letting go of Winnie to push your wheelchair. “We’ll pick up dinner on the way home.”

It’s the middle of the night and Simon hasn’t left your side in hours. Your fingers curled in his hair as you finally slept peacefully, his head cradled against your chest. The TV hummed with the sound of an action movie you put on for him, which he ignored in favor of laying beside you, just…being in your presence, feeling your chest expand, listening to your heartbeat. He rested his hand on your belly, hoping to feel some sort of moving from your newest addition.

That peace was all he wanted.

He hasn’t allowed himself that comfort since he sat beside you in the hospital for two weeks straight. Then, you were like crumbling paper, any unplanned touch would destroy you. 

Yet, here he was. Head on your heart, sleep nudging at his eyes – but he fought it off. He was conscious of his weight, only his shoulder and arm on you. It had taken two more weeks to get to the point where Simon could sleep with you. The air mattress fucked with his hip, but he refused to complain. Both of you danced around what happened, but he knew that what you went through was worse than he could ever imagine. He thumbed your belly as he daydreamed about the normal conversations you should be having. Names for the baby, suspicions about what the sex could be, what you wanted to do differently, what color to paint the nursery. 

He wouldn’t tell you, but he wanted another girl. He wanted to keep the nursery yellow and move his office into the basement so Mellie could have that room. He’d been eyeing a nice floor bed for her to transition to. He had so many plans, so many things he wanted to do, but he needed your approval. Craved it. Wanted you to get better, mentally and physically, so you could enjoy a pregnancy together, for the first time.

He wanted Mellie’s upcoming first birthday to be exciting for you, marking the end of your first year raising a baby. He wanted you to see Mellie without vicious memories attached, her cries whisking you away to a place in your mind that he couldn’t save you from. He wanted you to look at Winnie without fear of losing her. He wanted you to stop looking at him like he destroyed you, not his father. He wanted you to stop finding safety in Price and Alejandro and Rudy, the men who located and saved you. He wanted to be the person who rescued you; he wanted that closure, the ability to unload his magazine into his father’s head.

Simon wanted many things. Yet, he kept them in his head like all of his opinions about the situation - it’s shit. He hated seeing you and the girls in pain, and he hated Price and Laswell for keeping the kidnapping from him.

He wanted to toss and turn. He wanted to throw off the blanket, go out to the garage, and have a go with the punching bag for an hour. No gloves, no wrap; just knuckles, and canvas - sure, some tears, anything for the escape. There’s selfishness in want, craving so insatiable at times that he had to give pause. A silent moment to breathe, let his mind wander, and define his needs - you and the girls. Those were his only needs. His “wants” could fill a thousand pages, all ready to fire away with the strike of a match. 

A fingernail scraped against his scalp and a low sigh escaped his chest. His cheek nudged your chest before he mumbled, “G’back t’sleep.”

“Off.”

He was instantly detached from you, little bubbles of darkness edging his vision from the dizziness as he flipped onto his back. His arm was still settled under your back, unsure if taking it back was the right move until you let out a whine of pain, and then-

A sigh of contentment as your cheek nestled on his shoulder, good arm settled on his chest, your hand gripping his ID tags. His arm curled around your back and he kissed your hair as you grew drowsy again.

“Love you, my missus.”

A weak hum left you. “Love you, Si.”

Simon’s head dug deeper into his pillow, and his eyes fell on the TV for just a moment before they moved to you. He almost didn’t want to look, out of fear of spooking you away. Voluntary touch was nonexistent until this moment, and he didn’t want to risk its end. Simon watched the delicate movements of your chest as you breathed, the blanket still tangled in your bodies, and reveled in your cold toes pressed into the side of his calf. He kissed your hair again before his nose found residency there, and his eyes finally closed. If there was a sense of bliss to be found, it would be right there in that bedroom, with a husband holding his wife as she slept peacefully. 

“…concerning behavior from her, and we’re not quite sure what could have brought it on.” 

He gazed at his daughter’s face, the tears and snot that ran down it, and the shame that covered it. She was a Riley, facing danger head-on - she didn’t break her father’s eye contact. If he were his father, her ass would’ve been bruised the second he walked into the office. 

But he wasn’t his father. Instead, Simon’s child stood in front of him, crying, but not scared of him. She felt safe to do so, and it made Simon feel confused. He was proud yet ashamed of his child’s actions and the thought made his stomach twist. 

“We know you and your wife have had a difficult month. Winnie has been fine the last few days, but we just can’t get her to stop…”

Crying. Bursting into tears in the middle of a lesson, and hiding in the corner with the stuffed animals. 

Simon let his hand gently brush her hair from her face, her little body trembling as she cried harder. He was quick to pull her into his lap, let her tears drench his sweatshirt, and her little hands hold onto him for dear life. He kissed her hair before looking at the headmaster, softly saying, “I’ll be keeping her home for the rest of the week.”

The woman nodded. “I understand.” She waved a little at the five-year-old, “Have a good week, Ms. Winnie.”

Simon grabbed her princess backpack, put it on his free shoulder, and kept her close to his chest. He weaved through the front office, out of the building, through the front gate, and started their walk home.  Winnie’s forehead was pressed to his neck as he looked both ways on the street before he crossed, even when the crosswalk light was green. The occasional thought rattled around in his head, but nothing of substance. He bristled when the breeze whipped against her hair and his face. 

The winter was letting up, getting warmer the closer it got to Mellie’s birthday, but Simon couldn’t find cause for excitement. Not when his daughter was sobbing and whimpering on his shoulder, and not when his baby wailed so hard that she turned blue in the face, not when his wife was fighting a battle he could not see.

He is the lone light atop a rocky cliff, guiding the boats taking on water to shore. And the house that holds the light is burning to the ground.

“Daddy.”

A few more streets to cross and they’ll be home. Simon felt Winnie shiver a little, and he huddled closer to her. “Yes, duckling.”

Her teeth chattering made his heart break. Even with her warmest coat on, she was still freezing. “Is Mama - a bad person?”

Under the snow-topped trees of the park, Simon Riley stopped mid-step. He had been cataloging every person they walked past, every pram that bustled by, every tree that crackled with the sound of ice thawing. He threw caution to the wind, pulled Winnie’s head from his neck, and looked her in the eye, “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

She tried to tuck her head back down, but he made her look at him. She wiped the snot on her face with her sleeve. “You always say that good things happen to good people.”

Dammit. Good parenting, always biting him in the ass. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little proud of himself, but he couldn’t deny how his heart burned with agony. 

“And bad things happen to bad people. Is Mama bad?”

“No. No, never in a million years is Mama a bad person.” His icy hand brushed her tears away, pushing down his fear, and spoke, “I am the bad person.”

“…You?”

He didn’t expect his nose to prickle, or his eyes to burn. “I’m the bad person that bad things happen to. My choices. I save the world, yes, but I have to do bad things to do it.”

“So…the bad people who took Mama and Mellie… did you-”

“No. I didn’t tell anyone to take them away. The people that I stop…they did that because they don’t like me.”

“But, Daddy, I think you’re a good person.”

Simon’s hand curled around the back of Winnie’s head, cradling it as he spoke even softer, “I know you do. Daddy is a good person. But when I wear the mask, when I’m Ghost…”

“Ghost isn’t a good person.”

“No, he isn’t, love. The bad guys made choices that hurt Mama and Mellie. And I’m trying to fix what they hurt.”

“So Mama’s not bad.”

He shook his head. “No. Just me.”

“No, Daddy’s good.” Her cold little hands settled on Simon’s cheeks, and his bleeding heart warmed just a little. “Ghost is bad.”