pathetic yearning man truther

Part one

You're really lucky your former husband had no job and drove away all his loved ones except for you because it really makes passing his replacement off much easier.

One morning while making yourself and your husband some tea (he prefers no milk or sugar apparently) you notice that he seems a little agitated. It's been a week since you brought him home, you assumed city life would be a hard adjustment but maybe you should check if the forum says anything about-

You can't finish your thought because he suddenly shoots up from his chair, scraping it against the floor and making you flinch back on instinct.

You both freeze, he's clearly confused by your reaction and you puff out a little laugh to ease the tension, remembering that he might look near identical but this is a different person. He eyes you with concern, almost looking pained, and you slide him his tea, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm.

“It’s fine, I’m just a little jumpy today."

He nods his head but it's clear that he knows there's something else. You’ve seen that look a few times, you think he gets it when he’s remembering something from your ex’s memories that doesn’t add up with the present. It’s just like what someone from the forum said, they clearly don’t remember things in detail, it’s more like they mimic a person’s muscle memory. Though your mimic doesn’t seem to even remember much of that, he doesn’t really speak or move or act like your ex at all, even his expressions incredibly different.

Maybe your mimic is less experienced with mimicry or maybe he doesn’t care about your ex enough to mimic him right. That thought makes you smile just a little before you realise your husband is still looking at you with concern in his eyes.

You brush your fingers up his shirt,

“What's the matter?"

His fingers fiddle with the hem of your sweater, waiting a minute before asking,

“Can we go outside."

You blink, looking at the early morning sun peeking through the kitchen window.

“Now?"

He nods and you shrug your shoulders, “Why not."

He smiles, still a strange site to see on your ex-husband's face. The way he does it looks a little off, like he’s out of practice. You're not even a little concerned when he downs the mug of just boiled tea in one go, this is the same creature who ate a handful of dirt from one of your potted plants once when he thought you weren't looking.

You watch him march to the front door of your apartment and call out,

“You have to put some pants on, Babe!"

He whirls back around in confusion, “I’m wearing-” He looks down at his boxers for a long moment, you imagine him looking through your ex’s mind to evaluate the difference between baggy boxer briefs and pants. He looks back up at you, “Right.” and marches off to the bedroom.

The inexperienced mimic theory only strengthens.

Once you're outside, you walk him to where you're pretty sure he wants to go, holding his hand firmly so he doesn't get lost or overwhelmed by all the people.

He brightens up the moment he's under the trees of the city park.

“I know It doesn't compare to the woods we were in last week but…"

He smiles up at you, sitting on the ground picking at grass.

“It's nice…Babe."

His eyebrows furrow, the word must be unfamiliar on his tongue, your ex never called you by any pet names, none that you could call affectionate. He does that often, tries to do things he thinks you'd like to keep up his charade but it seems he has difficulty finding the muscle memory in his stolen body for any tender actions.

He clearly struggles with his wants and his desire for his nature to stay a secret, and it makes you wish you could just confess that you already know but everyone on your little forum advised against it. Nobody gives much information besides the basics, the location and what mimics are, you assume if you even hint at what you’ve done, you’ll be blocked and banned from the secretive group.

Worst case scenario is your mimic starts acting more like your ex in an effort to keep his secret safe. Maybe if you encourage him to do things your ex would never do then he’ll continue forming an entirely different personality on his own without even realising it.

He closes his eyes and lays flat on the grass, the site makes you stifle a laugh before you sit down next to him.

“Y'know, you could work here as park staff. You'd get to come here every day and look after the park and the animals, maybe improve your people skills a little?"

You confidence fizzles out a little as you speak, your ex would've had an outburst if you even mentioned him getting a job. He looks up at the trees and breathes in deeply, unlike the stiff mechanical breaths he usually repeats.

Your husband nods his head, turning to look at you.

“I want that."

You smile back down at him. He wants that. Not you nor your ex’s ghost. Him.

You’re both cuddling on the couch, eyes glued to the documentary playing on the TV, the calming voice of David Attenborough helping you relax after a long day.

“The leader raccoon and I are on good terms again."

Your husband mumbles, sliding his hand up and down your back. You hum for him to continue, head resting on his harder than normal chest as you breathe in his always piney scent.

“He wont be messing trash all over the walkways anymore.”

You mumble a little, “That’s great, Honey.” watching a very majestic humpback whale come up for air.

He says your name softly and you crane your neck up to look at him. The conflicted look on his face makes you pause.

“I used to work in I.T before I quit a few years ago… Why did you think I would like working at the park?"

You expected questions from him, far more than he’s actually thrown at you but you still tense up when he actually asks you something from your ex’s memories. You try to recite exactly what you practiced in your head many times over.

“Well…ever since that camping trip you've been acting different…in a good way. I think getting out there and reconnecting with nature really helped you out of your slump. You have a job now and a friend even though he's a raccoon."

He looks away almost bashfully, giving the TV a long calculating look before meeting your eyes again. “I changed… for the better?”

You nod, leaning up on your elbows to see him better. Maybe this is it, this is how you keep him from realising you know but also keep him from acting more like your ex for his own self-preservation.

“Yeah, that trip was good for you. You’re happier and kind and helpful and you don’t get so… angry all the time. I- I really like it.”

You stroke his cheek lightly, this past month has really been the happiest you’ve been in years. You just wish you could show him how much you want him, not who he’s failing at pretending to be.

“Even if it’s different?”

The hope in his voice lights up your heart.

“I love the new you... more than I ever loved the old one.”

He meets your eyes and it’s like you can see all his emotions in his blown out pupils. His fingers graze your cheek and he leans forward, bringing you into a kiss. You kiss him back, straddling his lap as he sits up. He pulls on your sweater, bringing you closer,

“You love me. You love me.” He mumbles like a prayer into your skin as he kisses your neck. This poor creature spent all this time thinking you wanted another man, probably carrying guilt at being the one to take said man away from you. If only he knew.

His hand carves through your hair and you think you feel him shiver before you softly bite his neck, not hard enough to hurt, just to leave a mark. He bucks his hips and moans, actually moans.

Your sex lives have mostly consisted of pretty vanilla fucking with him only letting out grunts every now and then. You figured that’s all he knew how to do and he just needed some time to get comfortable. It was far better than your sex life before him so you were sure to never complain lest he start trying to look into your ex’s memories for reference.

But hearing the sound he just made fired up something inside you that's been dormant for a long time. You want to hear it again so you bite down again but you were clearly too overzealous because he winces and pulls you back by your hair, making you let out a surprised whine of pain. Suddenly you’re not warm anymore, you’re freezing and the man in front of you isn’t your mimic anymore, it’s your husband. It happens in an instant, you push him away from you and scramble back to the other side of the couch.

He goes completely rigid and the horrified look on his face knocks you out of your panicked state immediately. He looks down at his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist and then looks back to you. It’s almost like you can tell exactly what memories you’ve just triggered, just by looking at his face. You crawl a little closer to him, trying not to shake too much.

“No, no, It's okay, It’s- I’m fine."

He shakes his head, suddenly standing up, straight and rigid like a tree.

“I need the bathroom."

He walks off, twitching slightly, shoulders tensed all the way up to his ears and you hear the bathroom door slide shut.

He stays in there for hours. Hours of alternating between frantic pacing and sitting on the couch with your head in your hands trying not to cry. What’s worse, killed by a monster you thought could love you or abused by said monster just like the husband you killed.

You want to believe your mimic wouldn’t do that to you but there was a time where you thought your husband would never lay a hand on you either. When it gets late enough, you decide to head to bed, not to sleep but to at least have somewhere soft to wait for your fate. You can’t run even if you wanted to, the other members of the forum made that clear, if it wants to, it’ll find you.

Curled on your side, you don't turn around when the door creaks open and he pads into the room. The footsteps stop at his side of the bed and everything is silent except for those distinct snapping sounds you haven’t heard since that night. You take deep breaths, readying yourself to get what you probably deserve.

You feel the bed dip and he pulls himself under the sheets. He slinks an arm around you, pressing you against his unmoving chest. He isn’t even trying to pretend to breathe anymore, not trying to seem human any longer because what would be the point?

You hear something from behind you, a whispery, scratching sound, you don’t even register that it’s coming from him at first. Eventually it becomes more distinct, a voice, his voice, not your husband’s but a voice that sounds airy and sharp, like leaves rustling in the wind.

“He’s dead.”

The bed dips further behind you, like he’s getting heavier somehow. You feel a strange thickness climb over your body under the sheets, it smells like pine and you let it slowly swallow you.

“We killed him."

Your tears flow freely and you pull the sticky, viscous form of your lover closer to you, seeking it’s warmth, it’s comfort. You cling to it, feeling vines wrap around your legs and sturdy bark under your fingers. It brushes your tears away with the softness of a flower petal.

“I will never let you suffer like that again.”

The smell of dirt and moss is strong, you welcome it into your lungs.

That’s how you ended up here—naked on the bed, thighs spread over Price’s lap while Gaz knelt between your legs like he’d been invited to dinner.

Price’s big hands were firm on your waist, keeping you pinned back against his chest. “She’s sensitive.” he muttered, almost clinical, but you could feel how hard he was against your lower back. “On with it, sergeant.”

Gaz’s eyes flicked up to yours, dark and hungry. “You ready for this, love?”

You nodded, already wet and aching just from the sheer thrill of the situation.

Gaz didn’t waste time. Two thick fingers slid through your folds, spreading you open. “First thing—don’t rush. Get her nice and wet.” He rubbed slow circles over your clit until your hips jerked, then pushed two fingers inside, curling just right.

Price watched every movement like it was a briefing.

“There’s a spongy spot here…” Gaz pressed upward deliberately causing your whole body to jolt. “Right there. That’s your target.”

He started pumping—steady, focused strokes that dragged over that spot again and again while his thumb kept pressure on your clit.

Price’s voice was rough in your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart. Let him work.”

Your orgasm built fast—embarrassingly so.

“That’s it..” Gaz praised, voice low. “She’s swelling up. See how she’s pulsing?” He added a third finger and the pressure inside became unbearable. “When she starts trying to close her legs, don’t let her. Keep going.”

Price’s hands moved to your thighs, holding them open. You came with a broken cry, but Gaz didn’t stop. He kept fingering you through it, rough and relentless, and suddenly everything felt tighter, hotter, like something was about to—

“There..” Gaz growled. “Let it go, lovely...”

With a whine, a gush of wetness flooded out around his fingers, soaking the sheets and his wrist. Price made a low, filthy sound behind you as he watched you squirt for the first time in your life.

Gaz eased his fingers out slowly, letting you ride the aftershocks, then lifted his soaked hand to show Price. “That’s the spot. Consistent pressure, curved fingers, and you don’t stop when she comes.. you keep going until she gives it to you.”

Price’s breathing was ragged. His cock was nearly throbbing against your back.

Gaz wiped his fingers on your inner thigh, then met Price’s eyes. “Your turn, Captain.”

Price shifted you forward, laying you down properly. He kissed the inside of your knee, voice low with promise.

“Watch close, Sergeant. I’m a fast learner.”

“What am I doing here?” you end up asking—not putting much real sentiment in it, as you’ve been witness to your own undoing more times than one by being thorns and no flower. You’ve learnt that, with any type of man, it’s best to be the flower.

Which is why you ask stupid questions like that as if you don’t already know. You’re a pretty girl, and pretty women, just like that cut of venison on your plate, is something people want. And this man in front of you, whoever he is, seems to be a man with certain influence if the size of this living complex is any tell. Working kitchen and living room with a fucking TV, and other doors leading to more luxury amenities, you’re sure.

Without doubt, this is the type of man who gets what he wants. “Are you gonna–”

He sets his utensils down firmly, effectively cutting you off as he reaches for the napkin draped over his lap, using it to wipe his mouth and stache before grabbing the pint of beer standing next to his plate. Dripping with dew, it leaves a ring on the tablecloth while he swallows a third of its contents in a few large gulps, exhaling with mighty satisfaction once he resurfaces.

And only after setting the mug down in its designated spot again does he bother to finally answer you with a curt and ambiguous, “That’s up to you.”

He picks up the steak knife and fork again, then continues with his meal. 

Explaining as he goes, “You can be a smart girl and show appreciation for all I’ve done for you today, and I’ll provide you with all your basic needs and more, such as good food, clean clothes, warm showers, and a safe place to sleep at night,” listing the circumstances as matter-of-factly as you would in any other life or death situation, and giving you the ultimatum just as straighforwardly, “Or you can decline, and be sent to the barracks instead, where you’ll have to do manual labor like the rest.”

So that’s the gist of this place, you suppose. A typical cast system, with the top brass living comfortably in their own chambers like the kings and queens in those fairytales from the before-times you’ve read about, leaders of the lower classes who do all the heavy lifting for only a fraction of the spoils.

Seems like your good looks have landed you the golden ticket.

Making a forestalling decision, you pick up the cutlery, eyeing the meat on your plate and sucking back the well of spit beneath your tongue before cutting yourself a chunk. Slowly, you put the small piece to your lips with a pause before opening your mouth and pulling it off the fork using your teeth. Once it’s on your tongue, your mouth seems to go into a rampage. You’d survived off of dog food and Twinkies for so long now, you’d all but forgotten the taste of real food, giving it only a couple of impatient chews before swallowing roughly and quickly succeeding the motion in a rushed set of repeats—all but throwing yourself over your plate like a wild animal.

“Slow down,” comes a stoic order from across the table. 

You look up with your cheeks stuffed, breath flared, gazing up at the dour set of eyes staring back at you. You swallow thickly, then promptly straighten your back again before grabbing the napkin—still folded into a neat flower on your right—you dab your lips, and iron it out against your lap just the same as him. Offering a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t reply to that, only keeps looking at you—assessing you, you would guess. Hopefully, concluding that you are the so-called smart girl he’d requested and not something they ought to throw back out.

“I won’t be forcing myself on you,” he states then, a little out of the blue. Or, at least you thought so until you spotted his plate, cleared already, with his beer halfway gone. “You understand?”

Nodding in return, you don’t think much of it other than a half-way sarcastic how nice of him, biting back a scoff while reverting your attention back to your meal.

But then he clears his throat, “I won’t be forcing myself on you, so you need to show me how badly you want it.”

Your features draw back just a bit as his meaning dawns on you. “Oh…”

You look back at your meal again, now halfway finished and way past going back—it’s like you’ve already signed some type of contract, with his side of the deal already squared and settled in your belly.

You’re not overly happy about it, feeling at a disadvantage, and yet, you had an idea of what you’d signed up for when you took that first bite.

“How?” you ask him then.

He reaches for his beer again, making you bitterly yearn for one of your own once more, thinking it’s kind of cruel of him to be the one drinking, when you’re the one who’s more in need of it, what with what he means for you to give him tonight—that is, if you’re not misunderstanding him.

“Smile, for starters. Make small talk,” he says. “Tell me about yourself.”

You rethink your situation—what cards you could play and which ones you’d better hold on to. Making a quick judgment as you consider the pink little dress you’ve been made to wear, and other details about his demeanor, especially that hungry way he eyes you, talking to you like you’re something in need of direction. You conclude that he, like most other men, wants them sweet—possibly a little clueless as well, a little ditzy even.

Yeah… you think you can manage that.

“Oh, well… I don’t really know if there’s so much to say about me, honestly…” you start, biting your lip anxiously, just for his amusement. “I don’t think I did much before it all started—I was really young, so… I don’t know what my parents did either, can’t really remember. Actually, I don’t even remember their names. I don’t think I’d stopped calling them mom and dad yet.” 

You decide to sprinkle a little sense of lost lamb in there, as well as playing your best sympathy card. Every man his age loves a girl with daddy issues, after all. You’ll make sure he thinks he’s found the perfect one, you decide while looking into your lap, all sadly, fiddling with your fingers as you lower your voice into a mumble, “They died early on…”

And then you expertly fake changing the subject at just the right moment, smiling that eager-to-please good-girl smile you know they get weak for, as you continue, “But uhm… What did you do before?” Appealing to his ego to further secure your place. There ain’t a man left in the world who can resist the urge to talk about themselves when given the opportunity, especially when there’s a pretty young thing taking an interest. “You know, before it started.”

It seems to please him, answering with pride, “I was a cop,” before giving you a patronizing look. “You know what that is?”

You play along, humming in thought, “Uhm, I think so.” Giving your best airheaded answer, “It’s a person who makes sure everyone follows the rules.”

That earns you a chuckle, soaked in ridicule and condescending amusement. “That’s right, for the most part.”

You take it in stride, acting like it goes over your head as you continue making that small talk he’d wanted, “That must be, uhm… pretty practical, right? Even now.”

He scoffs at it like the silly question you’d meant for it to be, “I wouldn't be sitting here otherwise.”

You’re successfully endearing yourself to him more and more by the second, you think, continuing the act with a chagrinned look. Smiling submissively with your voice coming out soft, “Right…”

He doesn’t stand a chance. Fully convinced it’s your true nature, he’s completely clueless as to how you could have your steak knife plunged all the way down to the hilt in his neck in the matter of a second if only given one short opportune moment, with the false sense of security you’ve lured him into.

“It’s a miracle you survived,” he states.

Deadly wrong, and yet you agree with a sheepish little mumble, “Yeah…”

He sighs in something closely related to sympathy,  “I bet it’s been hard out there.” And it’s with that that you know you’ve really hooked him, appealed to his protective nature so bad he’s started wanting to care for you like his own babe.

You admire your own work for a moment, silently, picking up your napkin again and smiling cockily to yourself, hidden from his sight. “At times. Not always,” you reveal pensively, like you’re about to bear your life’s trauma for him. “We’ve had peace in places like this. Made it work as long as we could, but nothing ever lasts… People die, taking more with them once they come back as the dead, and you don’t even have time to mourn before there’s another one gone.”

Yeah, it’s a real tear-jerker, ain’t it?

“You know? Before I got here, I was convinced I was just another corpse—just walking around aimlessly, eating scraps to stay alive, covered in death so thoroughly you wouldn’t even be able to tell us apart.”

You leave out the part of sacrificing men like him to the eaters so that you yourself could get away, as you doubt he’d find that part equally heart-rending.

“But now I’m here…” You give him a tiny smile as you finish your story, paired with adoring eyes as you behold him like he’s the savior you’ve been praying for each night. Voice fragile as though you’ve reached the final breaking point and are in desperate need of him to catch you before you fall. “I just hope it lasts.” 

Of course, he bites the bait.

Vowing, “You’re safe here.”

However… It’s not with the level of earnest you’d been aiming for. 

It’s got you miffed for a moment. But you suppose some guys are harder to wrap around your finger. 

No matter. You still have time. They all crack in the end, after all.

He sighs, shaking his head. You’re not sure if it’s at you or something else.

“People always blame the monsters… But here we acknowledge the truth.”

Oh, here comes the lecture. 

Lucky you.

“It’s people who are the real trouble. It was like that before the world turned to shit, and it’s like that still. That’s why it’s so important to have structure,” he chastises, giving you the same speech all men like him preach. You have to refrain from shaking your head and rolling your eyes while remaining perfectly doe-faced.

Only for the next words to slap it into reality.

“And why, when you’re finished with your plate, you’re gonna clear the table, do the dishes in that sink over there, until everything is nice and tidy. Then you’re gonna come to the bedroom, undress, and put away your clothes in the closet, before coming to bed and proving to me that you deserve to have dishes to clean and clothes to pick and choose from. Do we agree?”

You blink. Feeling, somehow, a little powerless suddenly, and not just as an act this time, but for real. You don’t know… It’s as though, somewhere along the meal, you’d accidentally swallowed your pride as well without even noticing.

It was clear now. This man, whoever he is, wouldn’t be as easily manipulated as the ones you’d dealt with in the past. Not that you think he’s on to you, but rather, that whatever act you put on, it’s not going to cut it either way—at least not without your face and body being the main part of the deal.

“Yes,” you end up agreeing, to which he promptly shakes his head.

“Sir,” he corrects you. “If you understand, you say yes, sir.”

And you do just that, repeating it back to him pliantly before even granting yourself the time to give it a thought, “Yes, sir.”

He smiles at that. “Good.” And then he gets up, leaving everything on the table for you to clear, as he walks over to a door at the other end of the room. “Don’t take too long now. I’ll be waiting.”

He closes it behind him, and you sit there. Feeling a little sick and confused as to why, only for you to place the feeling a little moment later. You’re scared. For the first time in a while, you’re not the one in control. You’d thrown your very best at him, and though he seemed to have enjoyed it, it wasn’t like the others before him. Throughout the dinner, there hadn’t been a single moment, not even one fleeting second of opportunity for you to strike. You’d been eyeing the teeth on your knife, envisioning how you’d plant it right through his Adam’s apple when he let his guard down, but it never did. Not once.

You look at the door you’d initially gone through when you’d been brought here. You even have all the twists and turns of the hallways behind it mapped out perfectly in your head, despite the sack that had been covering your head the entire way—you’d know exactly where to go to get out if you broke through.

But somehow, you’re not as confident anymore. He’s left you in the room all by yourself with every means of taking the chance, but instead of making you feel like reaching out and grabbing it, you hesitate, consumed by the feeling that it’s all a trap.

Breath abnormally tense, you start doing what he’d said, rinsing the dishes by hand before putting them away neatly in the cupboards above. It’s not something you’ve done often, and yet it still comes pretty naturally. 

You’re done too soon.

And so you use another moment to steel yourself—new plan. Continuing the charade, you’re going to get yourself well and good under his skin before making any moves. This one was going to take time, you could tell. Trying anything right now would be too risky.

You just need to get through this next part, that's all. It shouldn’t be any harder than what you’ve had to do out in the badlands. And you’ve already gotten a meal out of it. No, most definitely, you’ve done way worse for way less before.

You enter the bedroom silently, locking the door with a soft click behind you.

It’s dark, and warm, and smells of cologne mixed with personal musk—intimate—like you’d just stepped inside a den. And suppose that’s exactly what you’d done. 

Already undressed, he doesn’t say anything, only nods towards the open wardrobe where his things have already been neatly hung and folded. 

You take the hint without looking below his waist. Spinning around with haste as you scurry over to the closet, trying to keep it together as you feel your cheeks heat. Taking a moment as you stand there with your back to him and your heart in your throat, before shucking the spaghetti straps down your shoulders.

It makes goosebumps sprout across your skin, giving you a chill. You ignore it as you push the bunched fabric down your hips until it falls and pools at your feet before bending over to pick it up as you step out of both it and your heels.

You spot your hands shaking as you reach for the hanger, standing there, in the pretty little lingerie set you’d been told to change into after your shower this morning, when you’d been informed of how one of the officers had taken an interest in you.

Before that, you’d spent the better half of a month inside a container with other stragglers they’d found, all waiting to know what they planned on doing with you. A week in and you’d been convinced you were a living meat locker, the way one after the other would disappear. 

In all honesty, this is probably the best you could have hoped for.

Still, you flinch when his voice calls out. “Come here.”

Shaken from your thoughts, you breathe steadily through your nose, swallowing thickly before turning around again. You’re tense, looking at your toes as you slowly make your way over, crossing the carpeted floors in silence until you stand before him.

Still keeping your eyes fixed off to the side, you jolt when a thick finger slides up under your chin, lifting your head and gaze to look at him. Your eyes flicker as you do, breath a little hitched—and you’d love to tell yourself you’re still just playing the part of the weakly animal praying by the feet of the hunter, but you’re not so convinced anymore.

“On your knees,” he says, softly yet firmly, dragging his digit up and flicking it off your bottom lip before placing his hand atop your head and giving it a gentle but sturdy push, making you bend your knees until they were softly settled against the fuzzy floors below.

He smiles from above you, and you’re mind goes blank, feeling all but overrun by this sense of inaction, as if the very choice of doing anything but what was asked of you was out of your hands.

“Have you ever sucked cock before?” he asks after a moment of stroking your hair, enjoying the sight of you, it would seem, now that your wide eyes had finally taken in the thing looming right above your head, stroked lazily in his other hand.

You gulp softly, voice shaking just a bit as you answer. “No, sir.”

He makes a sound, kind of like a chuckle, but deeper and laxer than that, saying, “That's alright. It’s easy.” 

Despite his words, his fingers rake into your roots, getting a good grip as though silently telling you to pay close attention while he explains, “Keep your mouth open as wide as possible, tongue out, no teeth, and your throat as loose as you can. Understand?”

You promptly nod your head, slow and soft for him. Feeling bound by an invisible force, making you heed every word slavishly, even though you felt a tight knot in your stomach strangle itself as though punishing you for suddenly having become so docile.

“I don’t mind if you gag or throw up—just do what I tell you and it’ll be alright.”

Another chill runs rampant down your spine. “Yes, sir.”

Another smile stretches out across his face. “Good girl.”

Hands in your lap while you receive the words, you give yourself a squeeze just as your thighs do the same. Feeling something treacherous start to swish about down below—heart getting caught in the storm and tugging your breath along with it, rendering you but a feverish ball of anticipation. Mouth in the same state it was before tasting the venison.

"Now then..."

He hums, and you think it’s very likely that he has been able to see right through you all along.

“Let's put that silver tongue of yours to better use.”

♡ BNHA – oldman Bakugou, Enji, AFO ♡ JJK – cynical Nanami, Geto, Naoya, Toji, Kusakabe ♡ CSM – Kishibe ♡ AOT – cynical Erwin ♡ COD – Price

Uneven bricks, ochre and grey, cloaked by a pitched roof and tiles laced with moss and ashen lichen. A chimney peeks from the top left, darkened right around the top. There’s a stone path leading from the gravel where you parked your car to the front door—sturdy hardwood thing, painted a deep dark chocolate with bronze trims all around. Wooden fixtures for the windows, worked and etched in that way that makes them look old, but they clearly aren’t. Thick glass, maybe to isolate sounds—as if it’s needed.

This house is as pretty as it is lonely. Lost in the middle of nowhere.

At least you were right about one thing. Not even God would go this far to look after His disciples.

Out of four hours, you spent half driving through unpaved roads, with your car jumping over fat roots and potholes. Got lost once. Almost ended up in a ditch twice.

However, the landscape they led to is gorgeous as few. Worth the money that you’ll surely have to splurge on new shock suspenders.

It’s autumn, so there’s the occasional tree popping golden amongst an emerald ocean extending behind the cottage, farther than the eye can see. In front of the house, there’s a small grove. It rustles with the wind, coos with birds and owls, runs with squirrels and wildlife clawing up the trees. Evergreen bushes with the occasional pop of colour, whether red or pale orange, lean against the trunks. The sun is setting behind it, painting the landscape with the shadows of the fronds and a soft golden glow.

It's quiet, in that way only nature can be.

If you hadn’t been worried down to the bone marrow, you’d have lit a cigarette and smoked it with your ass on the trunk of your car while basking in the last shafts of sunlight of the day.

Alas, you’re not here for sightseeing.

You turn off your car and jump out of the seat. Gently, you stretch your arms; your shoulders pop, your back cracks like a fucking glowstick. Your knees aren’t faring better, clicking when you stand up fully.

With a withering sigh, you walk to the back of the car and open the bonnet. 

There are groceries for a lifetime stacked in there. Four bags from Tesco, two smaller ones from the chemist’s. Pain killers, vitamins, paracetamol, supplements, benzodiazepines, citalopram, escitalopram, and all the fucking prams the pharmacy had to offer. The list was long; you eyed Johnny worriedly when he gave it to you, but knew better than to ask.

You’re tired. Tired beyond measure. You went to work at the crack of dawn and then jumped in the car when you couldn’t take it anymore. Dropped everything, apologised to Kyle for leaving him to fend for himself with the diplomatic envoy, and when Price scrunched his nose disappointedly, you apologised to him as well and promised to do double the job once you were sure he was alright.

Because you hadn’t heard from him in days.

Not a phone call, not a text, not a sign that he was using his phone at all. Not a sign that he was alright, that he was still grumbling about the growing prices of groceries, that he was still nursing a nightcap in the evenings—that he was alive.

He used to tell you.

They don’t get it—Johnny, Kyle, Price. They don’t know about the texts, the calls, the photos, the messages sent in the middle of the night, the ones left just shy of dawn, just to wish each other a good day.

Your little secret, that. Your little something soft, developed in the ruthlessness of your job. Something amicable and familiar stuck in between the horrors of cold-blooded murder, of dead bodies scattered in your lives, and endless stacks of paperwork. 

You’d send him pictures of your pale tea—too much milk, if you asked him. Of your pies baked during downtime, of the Christmas decorations you’d hang on the ceiling. He’d send you those of birds landing on the hood of his car, cats he’d find along his walk that would nuzzle his calf.

SR: Don’t know why.

LT: they think you’re snow white

LT: because you’re pale and you have the sweetest big brown eyes

SR: Wouldn’t say sweet.

LT: in fact i said sweetest :)

SR: Flattery won’t work on your lieutenant.

LT: ha! but im a lieutenant too. you can’t pull rank on me

SR: I’m your L.T. 

SR: You’re my second lieutenant. Under my command.

LT: technicalities

SR: You’re L.T. too

SR: L.Too

SR: L2

L2: oi

SR: Haha

L2: rude

SR: Alright, L2.

They don’t get it.

SR: Sleeping?

L2: are you keeping tabs on me?

SR: You’d be surprised.

L2: won’t ask

SR: Shouldn’t.

L2: Fancy a chat?

And your phone would ring.

“L2,” he’d greet.

“Not funny anymore.” But it was.

“Reckon it’s bloody hilarious.”

“Been too long. It’s losing its charm.”

“Charm?” He’d breathe a laugh. Almost. “Right, then—El.”

Midnight, midday, seven AM, four AM, six PM. On and off the job. Christmases and birthdays and Easters and early Sundays and late-night Mondays—

His touch, secretive and fleeting. Warm hands on the hollow of your spine as he walks by, fingers tightening the straps of your vest, adjusting the holsters on your thighs. Watchful eyes chasing your shadow in the crowd, following your fingers as they deftly work through cables and buttons. Burning holes on the back of your hands as you aptly defuse an IED. His huff of relief, his palm warm on your shoulders. A pat, a caress.

“Good job, L2.”

“Fuck off with that,” you’d laugh. “Spooky fucker.”

“That’s my El.”

They don’t get it.

Or maybe they do. 

Price wrinkled his nose, but didn’t stop you. Kyle took over your shift. Johnny gave you the means to reach him.

Maybe they saw it—your eyes softening whenever he walked into a room, his shoulders unravelling whenever your voice crackled over comms. Two peas in a pod, birds of a feather. The moon and the fucking sun. Lieutenant Riley and his 2nd lieutenant. 

LT and L2. Ghost and El.

On the seventh day of no contact, you couldn’t take it anymore. You raided Tesco, you begged Johnny to give you his address (and thankfully, he was just as worried as you were—you’d have hated pulling rank on him), and he secretly passed you Simon’s medical file so you could pop by the chemist too.

Now, you find yourself properly hauling your own weight in groceries along the stone path leading to his cottage. You drop them with a grunt in front of his door. 

On your side, his car is parked. Second-hand. Onyx black. Bird shit on the roof, windows grainy with soil and opaqued with rain tracks. 

Unused for a while. Normal, in a way. It’s not like he can drive in that state. For any amenities, a nurse would come by, provided by the SAS. Sometimes he’d open and be cordial enough. Sometimes he would just tell them to leave groceries and whatnot at the door.

The nurse told Price it had been days since Simon even answered his phone calls, never mind open the door. Price told the team, but not you. Kyle passed you the intel with the same secrecy as a mole working for the enemy.

Gooseflesh crawls up your spine as you look at the weathered bronze of the doorknob. There’s no doorbell that you can see.

You knock.

“Lieutenant.”

Nothing.

The wind grazes your ears, ruffles the fronds as it intersects with the leaves. You dry the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand, and knock again.

“L.T.,” you say, trying to sound chirpy. “Special delivery!”

Silence.

You lean to the side and try to peek through an overgrown bush into one of the windows, but the curtains are drawn shut. You bring your thumb to your lips and nibble at a cuticle.

Knock.

“Lieutenant!” Again. Worry seeps through the cracks. “It’s me! It’s lieutenant—”

You chew on your name. It dies on your tongue.

“It’s L2!” You yell instead. “It’s El!”

Blood beads on your thumbnail, bitten short. 

Knock knock.

“Please open the door?” You venture. Your heart pounds in your ears. “I’m so fucking—so fucking tired and worried.”

Knock knock knock.

“Where the fuck do you live anyway, uh?” You sniffle. Your nose stings. “Was right, wasn’t I? You are fucking Snow White.”

Nothing.

Loudest silence you’ve ever heard.

You hate it. You want to fill it with more knocks, with more yells, with the sound of his footsteps, with the gravel of his voice, the crackle through comms, the clicking of his ankle when he rests his weight on it for too long, the burn of his cigarette in the coldest nights, the breath of a laugh he wants to swallow but doesn’t manage.

“Lieu—” You gulp. “Simon? Please.”

On the far right, there’s a bench whose greyish paint is chipping away. Old wood rots in the centre because of rain and constant humidity. Even though you sat in that godforsaken car for the past four hours and some, you feel your knees buckling the more you keep standing. 

So, you carry yourself over there. Drop down. The bench creaks. As predicted, it’s wet and it seeps through your jeans. You sigh.

“Alright,” you slam your palm on the wood. 

“I’m gonna sleep right—” Thud. “Fucking—” Thud. “Here, then.”

There’s no sound.

You look at the groceries.

“I brought you food!” You go on, “And if you don’t open the door I’m gonna eat it. Everything. Even your stupid chocolate biscuits—I’m gonna gobble them up in one sitting.”

The milk will go bad if you don’t put it in a fridge. The ice cream will melt. 

“The bourbon too,” you yell. “Gonna drink it all. Gonna get comatose on your stupid bench in this—in this fucking fairy grove you live in.”

The fruit will start softening. The meat will start rotting and smelling. And flies will run to it, conquer it, eat it raw, and lay their eggs inside. Their buzz will drive you insane, and you’ll lose your mind on this bench, in the middle of nowhere.

“And I’m gonna sleep here until you open that fucking door, you hear me?” Your voice cracks. “And I’m gonna get sick and—and it’ll be your fault, because you didn’t open the bloody door.”

You wonder whether you’d smell the same thing if you broke it down. If the buzz would be heavier, more persistent. If it would be something else driving you insane.

The image flashes bright and real. Smells like you have it within reach, before you, hanging from a chandelier, drowning in a crimson bathtub, or melting on the bed, stomach filled with pills and nothing else.

Your heart plummets at your feet. You feel claustrophobic, boxed in a square of cement that pushes in your shoulders and compresses your chest.

“Simon!” You yell, voice cracking. Droplets stain your jeans. It’s not raining. “You fucking cunt open the fucking door!”

Elbows on your knees, you drop your head in your hands. You’re so tired. You don’t even know if you can drive back home, especially now that the sun is setting. You’d gladly sleep in your car—fuck, you’d sleep on this bench if it meant finding him at the door the next morning, looking all cranky and grumbling about the mess you made.

All you can do is plead quietly, a breathy prayer you hope he can hear, even if only whispered.

“Please open the fucking door, please open the fucking door—"

Are you strong enough to break it down? You’re special forces, but you’re not a battering ram. You don’t have the tools that would help—you didn’t think you were gonna need them. 

Stupid.

Are you brave enough to open the door? To find what’s inside? Should you call the police? An ambulance?

The thought makes you retch. You cover your mouth and bite on your palm.

“This fucking idiot—” You whisper. Swallow thick. Your throat stings as bile rises. “I swear to God you selfish bastard, you better not. You better fucking not, Simon, I will—”

“Which bourbon?”

Your head snaps.

His shoulders, wide and hunched, fill the doorway, open enough for you to see him entirely. A grey shirt hangs loose around his torso. He’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers, but there’s a strain in his arms. Corded and rigid, tied in a way that shows in his neck, too.

A scar runs thick down the side of his head, starting from the centre of his forehead and tipping at the shell of his ear, following a curved line clearly left by a surgeon. Bulbous near his temple, where the flesh was too soft and took longer to heal. 

Darkness blossoms under his eyes, swollen and sunken at the same time; puffy with sleep, hollow with tiredness. He’s paler than usual, his cheeks are gaunt, and he’s so much fucking thinner.

But he’s alive.

His chest rises. His blood runs.

You blink.

A tear threatens to stream down your cheek, but you anticipate it, drying its path with the back of your hand. Your bones soften, muscles unclenched. Clumsily, you take a trembling breath, and it feels like it’s the first time you’ve ever done it.

“I-I don’t know,” you stutter. “Don’t drink the stuff. Asked the clerk for his favourite and he just—just tossed it in there.”

“Mh.”

His eyes look for the bottle amongst the mountain of food and drinks stuffed in the bags. 

“You better like it.” You sniffle and nod at the bags. “Fifty-five quid just for that thing.”

He snorts. Sighs. “Good enough then.”

You exchange looks.

Then, he nods his head inside.

“Help me out?” He drawls.

Dizzy, you nod. Your legs tingle as if they’ve just been awakened, your stomach rumbles like you haven’t eaten in days. The world turns upside down—relief so visceral and thick you feel like it’s drowning you.

You stumble to the doorway. Your guts squeeze and thrash. You might throw up, but you don’t, swallowing the tightening feeling clawing up your throat.

You stuff the smaller pharmacy bags inside the Tesco ones.

Simon leans in too, taking his hands out of his pockets.

You hadn’t seen the aftermath yet.

He’s missing the last two fingers on his left hand. Surgery scars run along the back of both, slicing the tattoo on his forearm in a cobweb of thick, ruddy lines. That is, where the flesh isn’t rubbery and burnt, convoluted as if yearning to weld itself back together in the aftermath of being torn apart. 

They shake—fiercely, like he’s experiencing an earthquake inside his body; unfolding before your eyes, shattering his bones.

You look at them. Transfixed. At the mangled flesh sewn back together, at the tremble that runs through his veins and tips at his nails. The strain of his muscles clawing up his arms, taut to the point of pain—like he’s putting all his effort to keep them still, to exert control over them.

Control he lost.

When you lift your eyes again, you meet his face.

Stone cold. Dreadfully frigid.

“The bags are heavy,” you croak.

“Carried worse,” he replies flatly, and his hands curl around the handles of two.

His fingers tighten, knuckles painted white. Nails bite his palms, but he perseveres. Swallows a groan of pain that rumbles in his throat and lifts the groceries off the floor. 

The plastic bags crackle like a gale is blowing furiously through them. The glass of the bottles clinks. You see, as he walks inside, the tension in his gait: forcing his legs to cooperate, to work by themselves, as he focuses exclusively on the stability of his hands.

Without looking back, he leaves the door open for you to follow.

You stand frozen stock still, arms down your sides, and eyes brimming with guilt.

Carried worse, he said.

Carried you, months ago, when the bomb went off.

Six Months Earlier

Intel’s rarely faulty when the source is the police themselves.

Granted, even in these cases, one should always take statistics into consideration: a mole, a diversion, the original source. However, things sometimes are so obvious that statistics fall flat.

Because in front of you, right now, there’s a big, fat bomb. No doubt about it.

A squared box, half as tall as you. It’s raggedly painted black, as if someone decided to spray the colour on the metal slabs at the last minute. Rust gathers at each corner, likely due to the humidity building up in this underground tunnel, which is also chipping away at the paint and leaving ruddy streaks scattered down the sides.

It’s not much different from the ones you’ve dispensed of already, at least at first sight. There’s no timer, not a visible one at least. Though from the looks of it, you don’t think this one is timed at all. If you’re fortunate, it needs to be manually detonated on site. Worst-case scenario, it can be set off remotely.

Thank fuck you’re wearing sturdy PPE, then.

With a huff, you flop on your knees before it. There’s a soft puff as the pressure pushes air out of your suit—a big, cumbersome thing that safely cradles you from head to toe. 

“Captain,” you call through comms. “You sure it’s off, yeah?”

The static preceding his voice buzzes softly through your ear, before John’s usual rasp fills the helmet shielding your head.

“Local bomb squad’s had a look already,” he says. “Said it’s old.”

Though the bomb in front of you looks untouched by the deft hands of a demolition specialist. You wonder how they concluded that the device is too old to be active, since there doesn’t seem to be a sign that it has been studied at all.

“Doesn’t look like they did anything, though,” you offer.

John grunts. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Right.”

His voice rumbles even through the distortion of the radio. “Just passing it on, L2. They want us to check it before they move it.”

You roll your eyes at the nickname. You knew it would stick—Simon’s convincing like that—though it is the first time John actually uses it.

You let it slide.

“And why’s that?”

“Signed by Konni.”

You tilt your head and easily spot the mark of Konni group sprayed on one side, dried red paint drawing a path downwards from where it dripped.

“Always nice to see an old friend, isn’t it?”

“Keep us updated, yeah?”

“On it.”

You squeeze your eyes through the visor of your helmet, focusing on possible entry points. Each breath you take is measured and quiet as you clear your mind to steady yourself.

“Alrigh’?”

Though considering the questioning drawl coming from beside you, you’d wager the suit is amplifying not only your voice, but also the heaviness of your panting. 

It’s fucking hot in this thing.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You give him a sidelong glance. He’s not wearing an EOD, only his usual uniform with an added clunky helmet, a bulletproof vest, and his stupid skull mask. “Especially not naked like that.”

“Naked, uh?” He snorts. “Better get a good look, then.”

You bite down a smile and return your eyes to your job. “Captain, the lieutenant is padding around in his birthday suit.”

Price’s voice crackles through the comms in your ear. By his tone, you can practically see the tight set of his jaw and the roll of his eyes.

“Ghost, either wear the EOD or leave the premises, for fuck’s sake. Don’t fancy scraping you off the walls.”

Simon gently kicks the side of your boot. “Rat.”

You turn your head around just enough to stick out your tongue at him.

“I asked the second lieutenant a question an’ she ain’t answered yet,” he drawls with his usual dispassionate tone. “Permission to kick her off the team?”

“You won’t hear a single fuckin’ word she says if you’re ground meat, Simon,” Price’s voice rasps. “Wear the bloody PPE and then we’ll talk.”

Static replaces John’s orders as communication cuts off on his part.

Only then does Simon pitch in.

“I asked you a question.”

You sigh, but it’s neither weary nor exasperated. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” you huff, already tinkering with your toolbox. “Why aren’t you wearing the gear?”

“I’m in good hands.”

“Thanks, I’m immensely flattered,” you quip. “Please go wear it now.”

“Thought it was too old to still be active.”

You don’t have time to roll your eyes, because as soon as he mutters his thoughts, you notice a familiar indented square in one of the panels. A carefully hidden entry point that, once popped open, will show you the intricacies inside the device. It’s like spotting an oasis in the desert.

You reach for a flat tip in your toolbox at your knees. Carefully, you wedge it in the embrasure.

It only takes a few tries, and it unhinges seamlessly. Metal clinks as you gently place the lid on the ground.

There’s no need for you to look his way—his presence is like a heavy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A shadow sewn to your own. 

“I won’t support your suicidal tendencies, so please, for the love of Christ, listen to the engineer—” you point at yourself with the screwdriver, “—and go wear the bloody bomb suit.”

Simon stays silent for a handful of seconds, only filled with the tinkering of metal of your tools.

“Worried ‘bout me, are ya?”

You huff. No use pretending, when he can see right through you. “Plenty.”

“Good heart.”

“Chop chop, Riley.”

“Aye aye, El.”

With a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Simon turns on his heel. His footsteps become distant until the soft thud finally vanishes behind the creaky door that first led you down here, slamming shut behind you.

You don’t turn around, too focused on studying the wires wrapped around each other in the panel you just opened. There’s an entire bundle crossing the opening diagonally and so shrouding most of the circuit board in the back. They’re held together by a couple of cable ties that look awfully cheap, like the rest of the device.

“Weird,” you mumble to yourself.

“What is?” John pitches in.

You flinch, not expecting an answer to your musings.

“Uhm, uh—” You shake your head to recollect yourself. “The bomb—it looks quite cheap. Not their usual MO.”

John hums. “Could be one of Konni’s earliest works. Disposal said it’s old, innit?”

“Yeah,” you huff. “I don’t trust a single word those fuckers said.”

“Right,” he grunts, though you recognise that hint of agreement in it. “Do what you can with it. Keep me updated.”

“Roger that, captain.”

Back on track. First thing to do is get rid of those ties to isolate the cables. 

You work quietly for a while, removing your gloves to minimise errors while doing such minute movements. The flush cutters are sturdy but the blades are small, and the thickness of the cable ties is stupidly non-existent. You want to avoid cutting things you shouldn’t.

However, you can’t quite ease the knot of doubt forming in your guts.

This device has literally nothing preventing you from disposing of it. Everything is poorly put together. The control centre was placed under a thin slab of metal, which you simply popped off using the flat tip of a screwdriver. There are corner store-level cable ties keeping together a bundle of wires. Each cable isn’t isolated, but either overlaps with others or knots on itself.

This is amateurish.

And you know, with utmost certainty, that Konni isn’t. The same Konni group that blew up an entire airport wouldn’t DIY a bomb and spray paint their signature on a slab of metal like a mere local gang of criminals.

Unless—

“El? You with us?”

Simon’s voice snaps you out of it. He sounds muffled and echoey, as if he’s speaking from behind a glass. You recognise that distortion: he put on the bomb suit.

Relief floods through you.

You shake your head to clear your mind. Sweat collects on your forehead. You feel each drop brewing on your skin, only to then slowly make its way to your brow, then your eye.

Your fingers close around the cutters, and the first tie snaps off.

Then, you squeeze your eyes to get rid of the burn.

“Yeah,” you huff. “They should invent more comfortable suits for us in demo. It’s fucking sweltering in here.”

Price’s voice crackles once more. “We’ll hire a fashion designer.”

Simon snorts.

“Look at you, captain,” you croon. “Providing jobs for the youth.”

You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes. “Do yours or you’ll lose it.”

But you know it’s an empty threat. Jokes tossed around to defuse the tension as you defuse your bomb. High stress situations require ways to destress in order to keep your mind clear and at ease, even as your life is on the line.

“Aye aye.”

And from then on, silence lingers, only interrupted by Simon shifting his weight on his feet behind you. The crinkle of the suit folding as he moves, the tap of his fingers against the pack he must be holding in his hands. There’s the occasional clink of metal when you drop a tool in its box, or the snap of plastic as yet another tie comes off. 

And finally, you manage to isolate the cables from one another. Carefully you pinch one between two fingers and shift it to the side, only so you can have a broader vision of the circuit board in the back.

It’s entirely dead. Singed in places, the lights are off, no sounds fill your ears unless it's the ones you’ve already recognised as familiar. The blasting cap has an old serial number on it, different from the most recent ones you came across. The base was once attached to a couple of red cables that have been cut from their root.

You exhale, emptying your lungs in a single, long breath.

“It’s dead.”

John huffs through comms. “Thank Christ, eh. Sending Garrick over. ETA 20.”

But you stay put, staring holes through the jungle of wires that intersect and crisscross like vines in front of you, draped on the circuit board.

Simon shifts from behind you and comes to crouch by your side. The same puff of air exhales from his suit. You turn your head to look at him, though with the helmet it’s hard to have a good view of his face.

He’s taken off the skull mask to favour the protective gear placed around his head. His eyes aren’t poised on the bomb, though; they’re on your face. He must pick up on something there that doesn’t reassure him, because he knows you better than he should.

“Hang on, Price,” he rumbles.

You stall for a moment.

It’s only a hunch that spurs you to negate certainty. You’re special forces, an engineer—sixth sense isn’t enough to support evidence.

But Simon believes in it. He trusts that tiny spark he sees in your eye, the tautness of your fingers as they curl into fists atop your knees. You hear him sniff, shift on his knees to get closer. 

“El?” He whispers, perhaps not wanting the radio to pick up on it.

Your stomach lurches.

“I mean—” You gesture vaguely at the device. “It looks dead. The circuit board is gone, and the wires have been cut from the detonator. Some of this shit could be older than me—"

John cuts through your conversation. He sounds irritated, and in turn, it irritates you, too. 

“Get to the point.”

You stare at the dead circuit board. The main piece of this puzzle. It doesn’t take an engineer like you to recognise that it’s long gone, but in a very peculiar way that you don’t know how to explain without sounding like a lunatic, it looks too long gone.

You smack your lips. “Something’s wrong. It feels—”

“Don’t care how it feels, lieutenant. Is it dead or not?” 

“Listen, John, I’m not here to fucking play—"

“Need to have another look at it, boss,” Simon cuts in. “Give us a minute, will ya?” 

“Roger.”

You sigh. You wish you could scratch your forehead. Your scalp stings as sweat collects on it. Each tiny, uncomfortable thing happening to you is amplified, including the knot in your guts. 

“I hate him with passion each time he acts like—”

“He can still hear ya.”

“Good.”

If John can actually still hear you, he doesn’t voice it. Thankfully, you think, because if he pitches in again with some more of his caustic sarcasm, you might just say things before your mind can properly filter them.

You take a couple of seconds to recollect your thoughts, guiding your eyes to study the device. It’s composed of rusted metal plates welded together and protecting the bomb inside. You’d need a plasma cutter to breach the plate, but the heat could set the thing off if it’s live. In fact, there are no entry points aside from a small, squared panel that you’ve opened with unexpected ease. 

Considering how the rest of the thing is protected, however, it feels out of place. Conveniently put there for you to declare that the device is gone, when it actually isn’t. 

A hunch isn’t enough to negate evidence, that is true, but it’s there, and you won’t allow it to gnaw at your guts.

Easy is never the right answer, not with Makarov.

“Pass me the snake cam.”

You hold your hand out to Simon, palm up, without sparing him a glance. 

Your ears pick up on sounds even if you’re entirely wrapped in protective gear, even if your heart pounds madly up your throat. A zipper being opened, a cable as it unfolds. His hands are warm when they place the cold wire in your palm, steady when they close your fingers around it.

“Get it in,” he says. “I’ll hook it up.”

In the corner of your eye, pale hands reach inside the pack at his knees to pull out a pad. It blinks to life as he taps his fingers on it.

Gently, you insert the tip of the snake cam into the opened panel, carefully steering the camera underneath the knotted bundle of cables and behind the seemingly dead circuit board. 

“Got anything?” You ask Simon.

“Too dark.”

“Turn on the flash.”

The pace of your heart matches the rapid tap of fingertips running across the pad. In a blink, a soft glow fills the darkness behind the board. 

Simon hums.

“Got something.”

You inhale sharply. Your eyes flicker around, sifting through your thoughts as if you can see them, rushing unrestrained with endless possibilities. You squeeze them shut, clearing out the sting of sweat as it builds up on your brow and fogs up your sight.

“Fuck. Let’s switch.”

Simon shifts until he’s kneeling behind you. The rustle of his suit precedes his arms as they come around your head, carefully taking the cable from your fingers. 

“Got it.”

Ever so slowly, you remove your hands, shuffling on your knees and ducking your head to leave the shelter of his body. With no minimal effort, considering the weight of your blast suit, you manage to stumble to where he once sat, grabbing the pad he left lying on the ground.

As he said, there’s something. The flash clearly highlights a darkened silhouette, bulky and squared, but the quality of the camera doesn’t allow you to make out much more of it.

Only one thing stands out.

A light.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Thought so,” he spits. “Fucking Makarov.”

You don’t have time to curse him as well, though you quietly share the sentiment.

“John.”

Like lightning, his voice crackles in your ear. “Send over.”

“We got something.”

“Details.”

“In a sec. Stay on.”

You look at Simon. He’s perfectly still, not a tremble in his fingers, exactly as you’d expected. He’d make an incredible demo specialist, though you know he’s an even better sniper.

“Gentle, Simon,” you murmur. “Need you to go south.”

He follows your orders, sliding the cable down inside the box.

“Gentle,” you repeat. “Slower.”

And without a single word, he heeds you. Trusts you. Lets the camera cover each corner, bit by bit, moving his muscles imperceptibly as he snakes the camera through the jungle of wires.

Now closer to the device, you can better make out its details on the screen. It’s not old nor rusted, not singed nor dead. It sits attached to one side of the box, each cable perfectly isolated and running on sinuous curves around the circuit board. One that blinks red, then green, then red again—beating like a heart, shifting its colours inside the darkness. 

Stacks of white rubber are slathered around it, bulky and thick. You curse under your breath.

“C4.”

Simon clicks his tongue. “Christ.”

“John, tell the local authorities to clear out the area now,” you order steadily. “Add that they’re a bunch of lazy cunts, too.”

“Will do.” Then, quietly, “good work, lieutenant. Stay safe, both of you.”

“Roger.”

The static on the radio goes dead. There’s only your heart pounding in your ears, falling in rhythm with the switch of colours on the screen.

Red, green. Red, green.

Simon’s voice reaches out to you. “See a blasting cap?” 

“Yeah.” You tongue your cheek. “South. Then move to the right.”

He follows suit, once again trusting you entirely. As the camera moves, you try to take stock of each tiny detail you can make out. The quality is poor, but you’re starting to have a general idea of what you’re working with. The serial number stamped on the blasting cap matches those of more recent detonators, causing the theory of the local bomb squad to completely crumble.

Red, green. Red, green. 

While you can’t make out the logo on the circuit board, you recognize the finish immediately: factory-made, not cobbled together in some basement workshop. New. Polished clean. A pale square chip mounted against the green lacquer of the board.

Red, green. Red, red, green.

You blink. 

“Stop.”

Simon falls still.

Red, green. Red, red, green.

There. Blinking in the shadows, off to the side.

“Right. Go to the right. Quick.”

Simon doesn’t put up a fight, though you can see the uncomfortable shift of his knees. Imperceptible and yet conveying the same nervousness festering in your eyes as they fly across the screen. He is quick with his hands to find the source of the light.

It ticks, ticks, ticks.

“Shit—Simon, drop it!”

And if the clock is right, it will tick only for two minutes more.

“Drop that shit and run!”

Simon bolts on his feet, awfully quick considering the bomb suit clinging to him. You hadn’t accounted for that. Fuck, you hadn’t accounted for any of this.

You told him to wear it. You put that extra weight on him. He would’ve been out of the place and far away enough to be safe if you hadn’t insisted, if you’d let the overwhelmingly stupid trust he had in you to win, for once.

“Fuck—” You drop the pad and stand up. Your knees buckle under the cumbersome weight of your suit and the sudden dread gripping your stomach.

“It’s timed, John!” You bellow. Your yell echoes inside the EOD helmet, ringing in your own ears. “We’re leaving—no time to defuse it. Less than two minutes and it goes off!”

An old, singed circuit board as a decoy to mask the real bomb ticking away just beneath its surface. Only a demolition specialist like those in the UKFS would’ve thought of venturing further inside the device. 

Makarov knew it. 

He knew the local authorities would have called the anti-terrorism unit as soon as they saw the Konni group mark. Makes sense that he signed the device so clearly, like a fucking amateur.

He wanted John’s team there. 

He knew those bastards wouldn’t be arsed to check further. Why would they take on the burden when they could leave it in the good hands of better-trained professionals.

Call the big guns and then call it a day.

“Run. Don’t look back and run, both of you.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You’re already panting, forcing your legs to move against the strain put onto them by the suit—not protection anymore, but a cage. Your knees don’t bend as they should, your feet struggle to hold you up. The sting in your eyes, the heart in your ears. 

Simon’s ahead of you as you trudge behind him. But he’s faster, stronger—able to carry the added kilograms of his blast suit as if it’s only a mere annoyance to him.

Though he must hear you—or rather, he must feel the lack of you by his side. 

He halts in his steps and looks behind to find you.

“Fuck—faster, El!”

“I know!” You’d like to yell at him to shut the fuck up, but that would be a waste of precious breath that you need to focus on using to run.

“Go!” Your voice cracks. “Fucking run, Riley!”

Though he’s been standing still for so long that you’re now by his side. 

You stagger past him, grabbing his hand to tug him with you—though that’s one arduous thing, rooted on the ground as he is.

“We got one minute at most—run ahead for fuck’s sake!”

It’s like you can hear it, now—each ticking breath exhaled by the device behind you. You wonder if it had always been there, signalling his presence as you knelt next to it, but you were acting too cocky to notice it.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault—

Your rushing thoughts recede to a trickle the moment you feel Simon’s hand slipping away from yours. As it does, he takes your own heart with him, as you feel it skip a beat inside your chest.

The momentum of your run makes it hard to stop, and you almost stumble on your own feet as the weight of the suit drags you forward. Thankful for a wall next to your side, you slam your palm against it to avoid falling face-first into the ground.

Though when you turn, it’s your stomach that touches it.

Simon’s already pulled at the quick-release cord hanging from the front of his jacket. 

“What—”

The contraption strapped around his torso unlatches from the back. While he struggles with it, he’s impressively steady as he rips at the sleeves to take it off, shimmying his shoulders out of it with ease—chest plate and all, until everything falls on the floor at his feet.

Initially, your eyes widen in shock. Then, your face morphs into a mask of unadulterated rage. 

“Are you fucking mad?!”

But he’s taking his helmet off, too. The thud of it as it hits the ground is deafening, echoing ominously in the otherwise quiet underground tunnel you’re stuck in.

“Simon what the fuck!”

“Come ‘ere an’ shut yer mouth.” 

He charges forward, running much faster as most of the extra weight that was hindering him now lies uselessly on the floor. He bends at the waist, using gravity to his advantage, and reaches towards you with his arms.

You don’t have time to think as breath is knocked out of you. His arm wedges between your legs, and the world turns upside down. Darkness and grey bricks swivel and roll before your eyes as the air catches in your lungs. 

Your stomach curves around his shoulders. He holds your leg with one arm, curled around your knee, and your opposite sleeve with his offhand. 

He stumbles at first, trying to find his balance.

“Simon—” 

“Keep still.”

And then, he runs.

There’s a rasp in his breathing that makes it sound as if his chest is being crushed. The gravel of debris crunches under his boots, stomping heavily down the tunnel. Each sound is amplified, but you’re unsure of what is real and what isn’t. 

He trembles. Groans fiercely for each step he takes, baring his teeth as if to scare an invisible monster ahead of him.

“I’m slowing you down!” You yell, hoping the chaos won’t mask your voice too much. “Put me down! I—I have the bomb suit on, I’m going to be fine!”

Though that’s a lie. He knows it, and you do as well. If the tunnel collapses, no miracle can bring you back. 

But at least your head would be protected, giving you a chance. Your chest, too. Your legs. A minuscule, tiny possibility to have a minute more to breathe as you wait for Search and Rescue.

A chance he doesn’t have, not with half of his suit now lying uselessly on the floor.

However, Simon doesn’t answer, just runs. Runs and runs and runs, towards the exit at the end of the tunnel. It’s close, maybe another handful of meters, and yet now it feels like an endless chasm ready to suck you in.

A black hole hidden underground. 

You don’t know how much time you have left before the bomb goes off. Your breathing picks up, hand reaching around to fist his shirt around his collar to make him please, please listen.

“Please Simon, please!”

His eyes are fixed ahead, feet as quick as can be considering the weight he’s carrying—yours, his own, the suits. He stumbles, pace naturally slowing down due to the effort, but it doesn’t deter him. Hits walls with his shoulders, slams your helmet and your boots against corners, but he never stops.

He just looks ahead, drunk on adrenaline and ignoring the unfathomable strain he’s putting on his body.

Your eyes sting with panic and tears. His face is red with exertion and lucid with sweat as it beads on his forehead. Then his run turns into a stagger, trembling legs forcing themselves ahead.

Simon bursts through the door. Your helmet knocks against it.

At the same time, the tunnel’s darkness turns blinding white.

He felt hungrier too, or rather, not so much hunger but an emptiness in his gut. Probably a side effect of the weight loss as well, the lack of his usual high protein diet leaving him wanting for more. But no that’s not right, that would mean he should be lacking in strength not feeling an abundance of it.

Your favourite mug lay shattered on the counter, he’d just grabbed it as roughly as he normally would—gentleness never having come naturally to him—yet this is the first time something of yours actually breaks in his hands. 

“Its just part of relearning your motor skills,” his physiotherapist had boredly explained during one of their sessions. But that didn’t seem right either. Physical injuries don't give, they take.

It must be PTSD. Some wires crossed wrong when his life flashed before his eyes. Good people see the light at the end of the tunnel, he sees dark blotches swirling behind his eyes; wakes up to screams he thought were yours at first, but his hoarse throat shows otherwise. It’s unnaturally cold and he feels naked like his skin has been peeled off, a mass of fleshy tender bits exposed for the vultures to pick at. 

You’re especially warm during nights like these, a grounding presence when he slowly starts to lose himself. He’s become needier now—if that’s even the right word for it. Thoughts turning from what he is to what he has. What he can’t lose. 

“Where would I go?”, you mumbled as you rubbed his cold sweat covered back. “Who would take me away?”

He might be going mad. Screws actually loose. Looking at Reddit forums, consulting Dr Google for a prognosis that actually makes sense. He’s not sure how he ended up on some abandoned blog from the early internet, reading the incoherent ramblings of some nutcase who was surprisingly worse off than him, a real sad fucker.

“I’ve Been Replaced!!!.” Every word capitalised, three exclamation marks to show the gravity of it. “Everyone says I should be dead, but I’m not.” Okay yeah buddy, you’re not the first. “I’m me but I’m also not me. I’m the same but different, like I've been cloned and replaced. Oh god maybe it’s Lycanthropy—” …Dumbass.

As he wonders if he should go back to therapy instead of skimming the edges of tinfoil hat wearing, moon landing hoax circles, a comment below the post stands out.

“Dude get some help, idiots should chill with the philosophical BS. All you’re doing is shittily applying the Swampman Paradox [Link].”

Maybe he’s the real dumbass for clicking on that link and subsequently spending the next four hours reading academic think-pieces when he barely finished secondary education. He may not be as well read as you but this is curious. Donald Davidson’s Swampman, a perfect replica of his memories, thoughts, feelings, down to his very atoms, but lacking in any real experiences that would facilitate the existence of such things.

“Is that what truly defines a person? The intangible we hold within ourselves,” you’d asked offhandedly after he showed you what he was reading. 

“If it were the case, what of those who suffer memory loss—neurocognitive disorders like amnesia or dementia—are they not the same person who had existed within their bodies and lives up until the point of no longer having any recollection of it?”

Even as the nightmares get worse, the physical symptoms turning him grotesque—to himself at least, it’s his thoughts that really scare him. Violent, brutal, possessive, with you right at the centre. A little pin cushion he wants to stab all these abstractions into. But it’s not hate, he can puzzle out that much, he could never have any thought or feeling remotely close to that when it comes to you. Perhaps it’s want, the opposite end of the spectrum, a want he doesn’t have the words for. That seems right.

The both of you are out of the house today, for the first time in a long while. Even if he may be “settled in” now, his space consists of just the two of you. In order to properly “readjust” he needs to get out, remember that the world is bigger than you.

That’s not right. 

He watches you from across the room—some small bookstore or was it a cafe, he doesn’t care all the same—and it’s here where something akin to grief finds him. In the middle of a sunlight room on a beautiful day. His brain suddenly conjures up the articles he'd read, the stupid Swampman clone thing. Alright fine, if he entertains the hypothesis that he really isn’t who he believes he is then what? What is he? What does he have to grasp onto? What of his life, his dingy flat, his—you? If you’re not his then he never had anything to begin with.

That thought has resentment taking root, but not at you, never at you. Resentment at the world, at the ‘him’ or whoever it was that took up his place before. If ‘he’ never got into that crash, never swapped places, then it wouldn’t hurt right now. He wouldn't feel the overwhelming loss of something that could never be his. He wouldn't worry about the secret he's hiding, the one that if true, could stop dead the way you look at him.

Light skims across your skin making you look like a mirage. His gaze holds you, confines your form within, even his eyes unwilling to let you go. He doesn't realise how predatory his stare becomes. So depthless and full of something that’s been hidden between the cracks in the walls, in the heat of the truck's headlights, in the old mountain that witnessed a death. 

Your voice comes through tinged with worry, dragging him out of the depths of wherever he had lost himself in. "Are you feeling okay? We've been out quite a while, do you wanna go home?"

“Yeah," he hopes you don't notice how strained that sounded. How his hands tremble a little as he intertwines your fingers and holds on tighter than he ever used to.

The grey bubble of the Captain’s last text is almost insultingly small. Takes up a miserly amount of space on your screen, dismissive in and of itself. 

You can’t help but burden the paltry effort with malice opposed to  ignorance. That’s all he said to you, and it was a week ago. You scroll up a little — past three of your own green messages, paragraphs much thicker than his — to his penultimate message: Sorry love. Busy here.

Rereading your own pitiful essays makes your stomach churn, so you skip those. You focus on his most recent text instead. You know I care about you. A bit of a conceited statement as far as you’re concerned. An overestimation of his capacity for affection, or support, or — well, care, so he claims to do, such that he can go as brazenly far as to assume you know it. 

You don’t. 

Not really. Not anymore. You thought you did, for a time. For that month or two after you were discharged and John took his leave of absence, when he invited you to live in his flat, and you soaked up the brief deluge of unabashed love he gave you. It felt real then. As warm and sweet and toothsome a love as you had dreamed of, unmoored from the rigid hierarchy that kept him above and you beneath since the day you met him. 

Seems it was a transient thing. Your time ran out at the end of November, when his own superiors demanded his return to the field, and he scooped his belongings into a duffel bag and departed before sunrise on a Wednesday. Left you with a kiss on the forehead and a nondescript apology. 

You don’t doubt that he feels nothing is wrong. That his distance from you is as inconsequential and temporary a thing as his closeness to you. It doesn’t matter that he’s not here, because don’t you know he cares about you?

Well, it’s your birthday today. 

A couple of your girlfriends took you out for brunch, and that was nice. Gaz gave you a call in the mid afternoon; snuck out for a too-long smoke break to wish you a happy birthday, and offered drinks at the pub another time. It’s a weekday, after all. A Tuesday. Who wants to go for a piss-up on a Tuesday? 

You certainly don’t. You’d be quite content on your couch with your Ben and Jerry’s and your fuzzy socks rewatching your vapid noughties rom-com, were it not for the very conspicuous lack of contact from your Captain. 

Not so much as a text from him.

Even Simon, the unsentimental beast of a man, sent you a message that arrived during your brunch: HB bird. From its timing you could glean that he sent it at the crack of dawn, the very first thing he did on his phone when he rolled over in his mosquito-ridden cot in Las Almas. If he of all people would take the time to wish you well, what possible excuse could the Captain scrape together? 

You can imagine his perfectly pragmatic reasoning, if you could ever bring yourself to interrogate him about it. 

I’m in the field, love, you know that. Can’t risk distractions, love. Have to focus, love. Lives are on the line, love. You know that. If you got really bold, too big for your boots, he might even revert to being the commanding officer you know so well. A force of habit, you’re sure, as much as your obsequiousness to him is yours. I’m busy. Don’t push it. I’ll call you when I can. Not everything is about you. 

Like clockwork, you next feel deeply ashamed of your resentment. He is busy. He probably has his finger hovering over a trigger right now, skulking through thicket in the gloaming, getting bitten by bugs and whispering orders over the radio. 

In fairness, you haven’t heard from Soap yet either. You’re sure he’s had a busy day. 

People have lives, you think, and you don’t and shouldn’t occupy their every thought. It’s no insult to you that the Captain hasn’t thought of you. The memory will surely strike him, he’ll reach out eventually, and it’s not the end of the world if he doesn’t.

The urge to prompt him itches in the tips of your thumbs nonetheless, as they hover longingly over your phone’s little keyboard. You won’t remind him that it’s your birthday, that’d just be embarrassing. No, instead, you could ask if he’s okay. Just checking in. Making sure he hasn’t been shot, or something. You type out a few things and delete them just as quickly. Everything OK? Bet you’re really busy. Hope you’re staying safe. 

Each of them more fawning and repugnant than the last. You can feel yourself beginning to spin down the drain, because your eyes are warming up, and your vision is getting blurry. 

You don’t want to have to prompt him to pay attention to you. You don’t want to have to agonise over being too needy or letting the distance grow so far that he forgets you entirely. You don’t want to have to worry that he’ll forget you at all. 

But you do. God, you do, and you just want him to think about you, you want him to reach out to you, you want a little grey bubble to pop up on your screen containing some fantastical reason for why he hasn’t spoken to you in a week, you want—

Bzzt. 

A notification drops down from the top of your screen. 

Coming over in 10. 

You sniff. That soap emoji makes your stomach tighten up, and the swelling under your eyes abates just as quickly. 

It’s twenty to nine, but you wouldn’t be surprised if Johnny has only just now finished working. He’s been working that desk like it’s a field op these days. Only thing he can do, really, now that he’s been deemed medically unfit for service. The poor boy lives in denial of that fact, though. 

You tap his message and reply to him. 

Oh yeah? 

His typing bubbles pop up immediately. Yep. Hungry?

Are u trying to bribe me? 

Nah. Don’t need to. Want chinese? 

You look at your half-empty tub of ice cream. Already ate. 

U gonna make me beg? 

You snicker at your phone. Maybe. 

Pls. 

Hmm…… it’s a bit late

Please, had a shite day. 

If there’s any way to win you over it’s a tug at your heart strings — but you were always going to let him come over. Obviously. 

Fine. Wontons pls. 

OK. Punctuated by a thumbs-up. 

The knock on the door startles you. Not like the Scot to be graceful, he throws his fist against the hollow panel with three hard bangs like he might beat it down if you take too long to answer it.

You’re at the door before he can, though, unlatching the chain and swinging it open to see him already filling the doorframe; post-gym, clearly, the black hair that crests his head is still spiked and wet from a shower, and you’re hit with the ice-blue smell of his men’s three-in-one. 

He smiles, and raises a little paper bucket with a panda logo printed on it. “Got yer wontons.” 

You snort, wordlessly inviting him in as you roll your head on your shoulders and lumber back into your apartment with him at your heel. He kicks off his sneakers and shuts the door behind him, before making a beeline for your sofa, and dumping his duffel bag of gym gear on the floor beside the coffee table. Adept at treating your place like his own, this one.

He snaps a pair of disposable chop sticks into two as you sit next to him, then hands them to you along with your takeout. You give him a placid smile. “Thanks.” 

“You look knackered, bonnie,” he remarks, through a grin, as he settles himself into the sunken couch cushions and hangs a heavy arm over the back. Great big legs cross over and land on the coffee table, one foot over the other. 

You nod simply as you shove a wonton into your mouth whole. A little soft now that they’ve been sitting in a box for a while. You chew a little bit before you reply. 

“Mh. Not like I’ve got an excuse to be, though,” you murmur. “Been inside all day.” 

“Tsh,” he scoffs disapprovingly. “Well that’s your reason.” 

You groan as you swallow and fish for another wonton with your chopsticks. “Not in the mood for a lecture.” 

“I’m not lecturing you, I’m just sayin’ you need sun on your bones and fresh air in your lungs or you’ll turn into — I dunno — fucken’ Gollum, tucked up in this cave o’ yours.” 

“Gollum?” You balk, trying to keep your mouth closed as you snicker. “Telling me I look like Gollum?” 

“Well, not yet. But eventually. I mean, you’re in here, curtains closed, half-naked, and—” He stops to laugh at himself, “Look at’cha, hunched over yer chinese like the one ring is somewhere in yer wontons.” 

At that you laugh, covering your mouth so you don’t spit your food out, and you free a leg to kick him in the side. He isn’t wrong — you haven’t showered today, haven’t shaved, haven’t gone outside beyond opening the window for a while to blow your cigarette smoke through the gap. You’re in the same oversized t-shirt you slept in — one of John’s old ones — and a pair of five-year-old flannelette sleep shorts too short to be visible under the hem of your top. 

“You’re such a dickhead,” is all you can say, because you have no defense. 

“I’m sorry. You’re beautiful,” he concedes through a smile, “I’m just sayin’ — wouldn’t hurt to get out and about. Shouldn’t be festering in here. ‘Specially on your birthday.” 

You swallow your mouthful and blink at him, a tad astonished. 

“Did y’think I forgot?” He chuffs, veritably proud of himself, “You think that low of me?”

You chuckle. “Well, you didn’t say anything all day, so…”

“I was gonna surprise you,” he says, shrugging. 

“I’m surprised,” you reply; but that’s not true. He hasn’t once forgotten a birthday in however many years you have been friends. 

“This isn’t the surprise, eejit,” he scoffs, and as he leans over to unzip his gym back, he barks at you: “shut yer eyes.” 

You giggle as you do as he says, feeling for the table to put your wontons down. You hear him digging through his bag for a while, the crinkle of paper, the hollow sound of cardboard, the flick of a lighter. 

“Alright, open ‘em.” 

When you do, you see him holding a white box in his hands, the card lid folded up, and a cupcake within. One with a decorated wrapper and a soft-serve swirl of icing on top, in which he has stuck a single candle with a little flame flickering at the top. 

At first you laugh. A true, keeled-over belly laugh, because you just cannot believe that he — the sweet boy, the smug prick — has gone to such an effort. You feel your eyes warming up again, so you cover them with both of your hands. 

“Oh my god,” is all you say. 

“I’m not gonna sing for you,” he says sternly. 

“Please don’t,” you plead, eyes still covered, because you don’t want to cry. “Don’t.” 

“I said I’m not going to,” he chides. “Take the bloody thing.” 

You snicker, then sniff, as you take the cupcake from its box and look at it more closely. Chocolate, by the looks, with vanilla icing, because you can see the wee black specks in the cream. You blow out the candle with a single puff, and the smell of waxy smoke that seeps from the wick makes you oddly nostalgic. You didn’t think of a wish in time, so you try to patch one together retroactively. I wish for someone to—

“Happy birthday, Dove,” he says proudly, patting your thigh with a solid hand. “Don’t tell me your wish.” 

“I won’t,” you say, before you open your mouth wide and take a hefty bite out of the cake at an odd angle; you get icing on your nose, you’re sure, as you sink your teeth in. “Mmmph.” 

“Good?” 

You nod cheerily, mid-mouthful. “Mhm.” 

He grins, happy with himself. “Thought you’d like it. Think you told me you don’t like red velvet, so.” 

“It’s good,” you hum, muffled by all the cake in your mouth. “Want some?” 

He shakes his head. “I bought a half dozen. Already ate the rest.” 

You snort. Of course he did. 

“Had to do a taste test,” he argues pre-emptively. 

“Obviously,” you agree, as you swallow your oversized mouthful. He reaches over to you, then, licking the pad of his thumb and wiping the lump of vanilla icing from the tip of your nose. Then he sticks it in his mouth and sucks it off, and you wrinkle your nose. “Gross.” 

“Got somethin’ else,” he declares, ignoring you, as he returns to his gym bag, and you busy yourself with the rest of your cupcake. It doesn’t take you long to wolf it down, and by the time he sits back up with something new in his hands, you’re down to the paper shell. 

“What’s this,” you ask, smiling, as you put the wrapper on the table and sit upright to receive it. 

“Just a wee pressie,” he tells you, and hands you a lump of a thing, shoddily wrapped in leftover Christmas-themed gift wrap. Far too much sticky tape for such a small object, and the thought of him working up a sweat trying to wrap it makes you giggle. 

You shake it gently beside your ear. It makes an odd sort of jingling noise. “What is it?” 

“Open it.” 

So you do. You find the corner of some tape and tear it loose, peeling the paper away to reveal — well, you’re not sure what it is at first, until you orient it in your hands, and discover that it is a chicken-shaped kitchen timer. A fat white hen sitting on her nest, notched with minutes in increments of ten, fashioned of shiny plastic and aged slightly yellow. 

“What the fuck is this,” you laugh, looking at it closely as you fiddle with it in your hands, twisting the timer and listening to its quiet ticking. The wetness brewing in your eyes belies your amusement. 

“Found it at a flea market,” he says, smiling but slightly defensive, “It’s — well, it’s a timer, y’know, for yer cooking. You’re always leavin’ shit in the oven, ‘n I thought, Birdie’s gonna burn her fucken’ building down one day, so — you can use this to make sure you don’t burn yer dinner.” 

“It’s—”

“I know — it’s daft,” he laughs at himself, “It’s not a proper gift, but, well. I thought of you when I saw it. And a chicken is a type ‘o bird, sort of, so — y’know.” 

You’re beaming at him. It is daft, the most peculiar little present, one you couldn’t have possibly conceived of when he handed it to you wrapped — but you’re beaming. 

There’s a hum behind your ribs, bright and buzzing and happy as you look at him; because you can picture him wandering through busy market stalls, looking at odd trinkets and ugly antiques and serendipitously spotting the odd wee chicken amongst the other rubbish — and thinking of you. He thought of you, and he bought it, and he wrapped it, and now he seems worried that you don’t like it, that you’re insulted by the silliness of it, as if that matters at all. 

“You’re so funny,” you giggle, because you don’t want to tell him that you love him to death. “It is daft. It’s cute, though.” 

“It’s practical,” he argues, slightly relieved. “Plus, thought it might help stop you overcookin’ in here.” 

He leans towards you, then, and taps you twice on the temple with the tips of his fingers. 

You snort. “What’s that supposed to mean.” 

“You’re good at stewing, y’know. Gettin’ stuck in your head ‘n all that. I thought, if you feel yourself gettin’ stuck, you can set it for fifteen or something, and then when it rings you know it’s time to stop.” 

You wonder, sometimes, if he knows you better than you do yourself. It seems that way, because he can always tell how you’re feeling, can always predict what you’ll do. He can pinpoint your habits better than your therapist. He listens even when you’re not talking. 

A warm dribble escapes the corner of your eye, and you wipe it with the heel of your palm. “Right, well, I love it.” 

He smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, standing up from the couch, “I’ll put it by the stove so I don’t forget to use it.” 

“That’s m’girl.” 

You venture into the kitchen and put it down next to your utensils, spinning it so the hen faces outward, and you give her a little pat before you head back to the sitting room. 

“Thank you,” you croon as you sit next to him, giving him a chaste hug, but he returns it before you can slip out of reach. His arms are warm and heavy, so you stay there for a bit. “It means a lot.” 

A wide hand strokes the back of your head before he releases you. “‘Course, Birdie. S’your birthday.” 

You snort as you separate from him, leaning backward until your head settles against the armrest and you cross your feet in his lap. “Yeah, well, tell that to John.” 

“No word from your old man?” He asks, a crease between his brows. Your old man is the only way Soap has addressed him with you since he left in November. At first it vexed you, but now you don’t feel as motivated to defend him. 

“Nope.” 

Johnny lets out a spiteful puff of air before he says anything. You know his feelings towards the Captain are far less rose-tinted than yours, and though he does his best to conceal his derision it is conspicuous in his expression. 

His qualms with the man are different. Personal. Far less complicated than yours. To Soap he is only Captain Price, and he is the one that sent him home despite his eagerness to stay. You’re certain Soap’s vitriol has little to do with the less-than-healthy relationship that you have with him. 

You expect him to say something bitter. Instead, he says; “I’m sure he’ll reach out, Bird. He’s probably just busy.” 

You’re surprised, and — though you shouldn’t be — a little perturbed that he’d defend him. “Yeah, he said he was.” 

“Did he?” 

“A week ago.” 

Johnny lets out a long, terse sigh, and his hand lands on your shin. You feel a bit guilty, then — or at least, slightly weird — bitching to him about your not-quite-relationship with your shared Captain. He’s your friend, perhaps your closest friend, and he has been so for longer than John was your commanding officer; but there is something off about it, almost selfish, burdening Soap with your hangups about your relationship. 

“Doesn’t matter,” you huff, an attempt to smooth it over. “Sorry.” 

He blinks at you. “For what?” 

“Bringing him up.” 

“You can talk to me about it,” he assures you, though the spite hasn’t quite dissolved, “I just — y’know I’ve got opinions.” 

“Like what?” 

“I mean,” he starts, but cuts himself off quickly. “S’not my business.” 

“Come on,” you urge. “What opinions.” 

“Birdie—”

“I want to know.” 

He grits his teeth. “Dove, it’s — I don’t — it’s not my place to chat shit about your, I dunno. Whatever it is you have goin’ on with him.” 

There’s an anger in his voice, despite his efforts to bury it, hoarse and tight in the back of his throat as he speaks. Directed at you or the Captain, you’re not sure. You feel compelled to push, though, to pester, because you want to hear him say it. Maybe you just want him to validate how you feel, you think, because you’re too much of a coward to confront the man yourself — but that’s not fair, and it isn’t his business, so you swallow it. 

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say. 

“Don’t need to apologise,” he says, and only once his grip loosens do you realise how tight his hand had been around your ankle. “You can talk about it if you want to.” 

“I — I don’t wanna talk about it. I don’t even—” want to think about him almost slips out, but you’re the one who brought him up, so you stop yourself. You pause with a sigh, feeling a bit awkward now, so you think of an excuse to move from where you lie across him. “Want a drink, or something?” 

“I’m alright, Dove,” he says, shaking his head. “Need a piss, though.” 

You snort, shifting your legs so that he can get up, and as he lumbers heavy-footed off to the bathroom — back in a tick, he says — you rub your hands down your face. 

You’re embarrassed, now, and you don’t entirely know why. Upset with yourself, because after all of his efforts and his guilelessly sweet birthday gift you went and brought up the fucking Captain. You couldn’t keep your bitterness to yourself for even half an hour. 

There are other people whose job it is to put up with it. Your therapist, for one. Your girlfriends, even though they don’t quite understand the broken, hierarchical, trauma-beset relationship you have with him. And, most obviously, the man himself. You should be bringing this baggage to him directly, you should be telling him that you feel abandoned, and upset, and insecure, and worried, and useless, and weak, and ugly, and unwanted — but you know what response you’ll receive, if any. Busy, love. Let’s talk when I get back. 

You’re not his problem while he’s gone. And you know that when he finally comes back, you’ll be too busy being relieved that he loves you again to even bother bringing up this very spiral. 

Now, though, that thought makes you angry. 

Johnny emerges from the bathroom with an impolite cough, scratching the back of his head on his way towards you. You feel the need to collect yourself.

“Wanna tell me about your shite day?” You ask gently, and he slumps back into the couch with a woeful huff. 

Seems he surrenders to gravity, because he tips in your direction, until his heavy head lands dramatically into your lap. 

Demands attention like a sulking dog, this one. You’d never begrudge his physicality, it’s always been par for the course with him; a hug here and a kiss on the cheek there, rarely untoward, always done in just enough jest that it could be dismissed as a quirk of his bubbliness. 

Head on the thighs, though, you’re sure that’d earn a spiteful glance from the Captain, and later a vague, not-quite-accusatory remark that’d leave you panicking for an excuse. Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Even still, you know Soap means nothing by it. That he expects nothing from it. That, if anything, it’s indicative of just how bad a day he has had. 

“Same old,” he grumbles. You feel the hum of his voice through his neck where it presses against your thigh. “Don’t wanna be a bummer on your birthday.”

“Psh, whatever. Tell me.”  

He sighs again, histrionic as he is. “I had a fitness test.” 

“Oh,” you murmur, unsure why your heart sinks. “How’d it go?” 

“Failed it,” he croaked. 

There was an all too familiar shame in his voice as he said it, softly like he was embarrassed to admit it, even to you. Though he hasn’t yet said it in so many words, it’s clear he has not taken his medical dismissal in stride. That he’s been wrestling with a sense of inadequacy ever since he was shipped home, forced into office drone work and weekly physiotherapy with no end in sight. 

He doesn’t like pity, so you never outwardly pity him; but you feel it. You feel terrible for him, worse that it was your fault he was discharged at all, because he put himself in harm’s way for you, and earned himself some neuromuscular degradation as a reward. 

You lay a hand on the top of his head, sweeping a thumb over his shorn hairline. “It’s okay,” you muster. “You’re still recovering.” 

He scoffs, and you’re not sure whether the ire is directed at you. 

“It’s not okay. It’s a joke, Dove. They ‘ave me typing up reports like a fucken’ intern. I’m a soldier. A good soldier, and I can’t even — I can’t even pass a standard enlistment test.”

“Enlistment?” You ask, barely muttered, because your chest is suddenly tight. 

You didn’t realise he had been trying to return to service, but as you consider it, it doesn’t surprise you at all. He was back in the gym the same day he was discharged from the hospital — though he shouldn’t have been — and that was six months ago.

“Yeah,” he says. “What else can I do? I’m doin’ nothing here. They need me out there but I’m too fucken’ weak to prove it.” 

“You’re not weak,” you say quietly, lost for better words to say, gently twisting tufts of his black hair between your fingers. You want to tell him that he’s strong. That you’ve never known anyone stronger. That it doesn’t fucking matter what the Lieutenant that tested him says. 

“I am, Dove,” he sighs, and you feel his jaw tighten against your lap. “Eight months and I can barely run a mile without shaking. All ‘cos of some damn gas.” 

“For God’s sake, Johnny,” you argue, “you ran through VX and you survived it. You survived it. You should be proud of the fact you’re even walking.” 

“They said I had minimal exposure,” he weakly corrected you. “That I could expect a full recovery. If this is full as it gets, Dove, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?”

He pauses before he deflates, slowly. Stymied now that you had interrupted the spiral he’s itching to tumble down. You watch his dark eyelashes flutter as he blinks, staring blankly at the coffee table. It’s a moment before he speaks again. 

“There’s another round of testing in May,” he says, a little more hopeful. “Reckon I’ll be up to it by then.” 

You want to argue with him. To tell him it’s a stupid idea, that he shouldn’t bother, and not because he’s too weak and not because he doesn’t deserve it. No, simply for the fact that you don’t want him to. You don’t want him to pass it. It’d be cruel to say that, though, wouldn’t it? 

Your tongue twists up as you struggle for what to say. You know he wants to hear encouragement, and that nice thing to do would be to tell him that you’re sure he’ll pass the next one. You open and close your mouth a few times before your voice comes out. 

“Johnny—”

Brrrrrrrrring! 

A shrill mechanical alarm interrupts you mid-thought, ringing out from the kitchen behind you. 

That daft chicken. You don’t even remember setting it. You scoff at yourself as you nudge his head, he sits himself upright to free you, and your thighs feel cold. You potter to the counter with your heart buzzing, because you had to swallow those tricky words and now they hum in your chest like bugs. 

You twist off the timer a little too harshly, and then you feel guilty, so you put it down gently. 

A fucking chicken. You almost laugh at it again, but instead you’re congested with a cold sadness that sinks deeper the longer you look at it. You can picture it: a year from now, when Johnny’s back in the field, and you wait by your phone for proof of life, staring at this chicken as plaintively as you do now; thinking about how you called it daft when he gave it to you, but now it’s the only thing you have left of him, a silly token of how deeply he cares about you even when he’s too far away to remind you. 

That’s what makes you feel ill, isn’t it? Just that. 

You don’t want him to be far away again. 

“I’m happy you failed it,” you croak. 

He lets out an amused puff. “Screw you, then.” 

Then you sob. Quietly, but in the silence of your apartment he must hear it quite clearly. The couch squeaks as he stands up and moves in your direction. You don’t turn to look at him. 

“I didn’t know you were trying to return to service,” you say, voice all shaky now that there’s a lump in your throat. 

He comes to a stop behind you. You wonder if he’s dithering about whether or not he should touch you. “Well, I am.” 

“Why?” You argue, slightly spiteful. 

“Because I want to,” he defends himself. “I need to.” 

“No you don’t.” 

He huffs, and you suspect you’re irritating him, that the last thing he wanted was to be interrogated by you — but here you are, on the brink of tears, bemoaning his efforts despite all that he’s done for you. 

“Yes I do, Birdie. It’s — you don’t understand.” 

At that you frown, and you can glean from the way his voice trailed off that he already knows the mistake he made by even saying it. 

“I do understand. I just — you’ve done enough for them. You’re—” strong enough stays unsaid. “You don’t need to.” 

“There’s not much else goin’ for me, Dove.” 

You scoff, wiping under your eye with the side of your hand. When you turn to face him, arms wrapped around yourself, his eyes are tight and his brows are in knots. Maybe you’ve offended him, maybe he thinks you don’t believe he can do it; but you know that he can. That’s why you’re upset.

“That’s stupid,” you whimper feebly. “You have lots going for you.” 

“Like what,” he asks, and you’re not sure whether it’s derision or amusement in his voice. 

“You have me.” 

He exhales all at once. “Do I?” 

To that, you’re unsure how to reply. You hesitate to dissect what he means by it. What he’s getting at. Might be that he’s being facetious, because obviously he has you, you’re a permanent fixture in his life whether he likes it or not. Might be that he’s asking you something deeper, uglier, not in so many words; does he have you, or does someone else? Have meaning what? What did you even mean by it?

“Of course,” is all you can think to say.

His heavy hand fixes to your shoulder, then, and he pulls you languidly into a hug; one of his all-consuming ones, you’re dwarfed by him, big arms wrapped around your shoulders and warm breath against the side of your head.

A storm brews behind your forehead, and you let out the only thing you can make sense of; “I don’t want you to leave.” 

He’s quiet for a while after that. Jaw clenching and loosening as though chewing on things to say. Considering how to tell you that he’s sorry, but it’s too bad, because he has made up his mind. That he doesn’t have a choice. That there are people who need him, people more in need than you. That not everything is about you. 

“I’m sorry,” you suddenly blurt, the silence tumescing to the point you can’t stand it, so you burst it yourself. “Don’t — don’t let me stop you. I don’t mean — I know it’s important to you. I know how that feels. I do. I just — I don’t want to lose you, I don’t want you to disappear again.”

Your words run on until they begin to muddle together, more emotion than sense, because shame knots your tongue. You don’t have the right to ask such a thing of him, and you don’t have the right to make him feel guilty for it. You owe him nothing but support. You owe him that. 

You open your mouth to say so, but then he separates from you, arms uncoiling and hands settling on your shoulders. He looks down at you. Even in the dim yellow light from the living room his eyes are pale as ash, and they dart pensively between yours. 

“Then I won’t,” he says. 

Your heart flips at that. 

Lips pucker and all, a childish pout to stifle the sudden urge to earnestly cry — because that was the last thing you expected him to say, and yet the very thing you wanted to hear more than anything else. 

The lovely man, is all you can think, he’s such a lovely man — you could not name another person on earth who would put your desires above theirs so blatantly, so frequently as he does. Not even the one you ostensibly love, the one who owed it to you to say the very same; no, he left. John was out the door before you could argue, because any argument you could conceive would mean nothing to him. Your feelings on the matter immaterial, because the decision was made, and the outcome was unalterable. 

Not so with Soap. You want him to stay, so he’ll stay. 

Once the shock settles, though, you feel profoundly guilty. He’d set aside what he truly wants just to appease you, and what do you have to offer him in return? 

“No, I’m sorry,” you sniff, shaking your head. “I’m being selfish, I — I don’t want to discourage you. If it’s what you want, you should go for it.” 

His lips pull into a soft smile. “Psh,” he scoffs, “honestly, Dove, I got no fucken’ clue what I want.” 

You let out a wet snicker, rubbing an eye with the heel of your palm before you meet his gaze again. 

“Me neither,” you say. 

Then you swallow. The words slid heavy out of your mouth, and they landed hard. Harder than you thought they would. His smile is smaller, and yours is gone. 

What do you want? 

His hands are warm where they sit on your shoulders, two gentle squeezes to remind you he’s there, listening. You wonder if he can feel the thumping of your heart in his palms. You wonder if he can read in you what you want, because he’s always known you better than yourself. You wonder if he can see how your eyes linger on his lips. 

Before you have the sense to stop it, your body leans in. Your head tilts up, lids fluttering, and — though you hesitate, for just a breath — you kiss him. 

A deluge of stifled emotion pours out of you as you collide with him, and for just a moment, he welcomes it by sealing his mouth to yours; tight hands slide from your shoulders to either side of your neck, to your burning cheeks, and his weight shifts forward as he leans into you, tipping you onto a hind foot. 

But, quickly as it started, he releases you. His mouth separates from yours and steals your breath with it. 

He turns away from you, white-knuckled hands fixing to the back of his head. Panicked breathing as he paces through the empty kitchen. 

Shame douses you like water, ice-cold, and it makes your skin prickle up and your fingers shake. Your stomach is in knots already. Eyes wide and dry, because you think you might be dreaming. What the fuck have you done? 

“I’m sorry,” you splutter quickly, “I’m — that was, I’m sorry, that was stupid. I just—” 

“Don’t,” he grits as he stops in his tracks, finally turning to look at you. Whatever turmoil you’ve stoked in him burns hot in his face as he stares at you. “Don’t do that, don’t — mph. You — that’s —” 

“I’m sorry,” you insist, tearfully now, so mortified you’re tempted to run and hide in your bedroom.

“Stop saying that.” 

“I didn’t mean — it was stupid, I shouldn’t have.” 

He groans. “Stop it.” 

“I’m — I…”

You can’t muster a defence. You’ve terribly misread everything. Your own emotions, your wants, his wants that you so cavalierly disregard. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this. Not burdened by whatever it is you’re feeling, not so tearfully, not so inappropriately in spite of your supposed relationship with the Captain. 

He wipes down his face with rigid hands, wrestling with himself, and you wonder if he’s about to yell at you. 

Instead the words come out strained. 

“I’ve tried so hard not to—” 

His voice breaks off mid sentence, before he curses at himself. “Fuck.” 

You blink at him, waiting for him to finish the thought — but, truthfully, you don’t need him to. 

He’s said everything already. He’s said it so many times before. He loves you. You’ve been ambivalent about whatever form that love took, because you knew — you thought — he had buried anything more complicated far earlier in your friendship. That all the stickier, thornier types of love he may once have felt for you were long gone, and the only one that remained was simple, uncomplicated, and easy to digest. 

It was that way, for you, while your attentions were on another man — one who demanded more than he gave, one who even still nettles in the back of your head like a blood clot — wasn’t it so easy to let Johnny love you and not once question why? 

Now look what you’ve done. 

You’re cruel. Unquestionably cruel, and the consequences of that cruelty are wrought in his face. With one misjudgement you’ve dug up something ugly that he has doubtlessly spent years doing his best to keep buried. For you. He kept it buried for you, because he knew it would hurt you if he ever tried to make you choose. Because he knew what your choice would be. 

You’re not sure what your choice is anymore.

“Johnny,” is all you can say, when he brings himself to look at you again. You barely breathe it. 

There’s a moment, then, of heartbeat silence. The air is leaden. Your palms are sticky. You feel it sinking in your stomach. 

You know what will happen next. The decision is out of your hands. 

He takes a heavy step forward, and so do you; as though pushed together by forces beyond your control, you meet him halfway, and your mouth crashes into his. 

Whatever hesitation remains in him lies more in an effort to resist grappling you too harshly; his big hands fix to either side of your head, fingers knotting in your hair, forward momentum knocking you off balance but his grip of you keeps you against him. Mouth opens to you, sucking your air down and you his, warm tongue smoothing against yours between teeth. Your wistful hands find purchase in the fabric of his t-shirt, then his shoulders, then the meat of his back as your arms reach up and around him. 

Something within you unwinds, you can feel it in your belly. Something that had been knotted and twisted in there for as long as you can remember; the pressure it releases makes your head spin and your vision blurry, so you finally let your eyes flutter shut. 

When they do, you see the Captain. 

You see his hazy form standing there, the parts of his face that you can remember furrow into a disapproving grimace, wrinkles of disgust between his low-set brows. You lick Johnny’s tongue and you can hear the Captain murmur, in his reprimand voice; I fucking knew it. Johnny’s teeth graze your lip and you see the Captain cross his arms over his chest, imperial as ever, glowering down his nose at you. 

He’s forgiven a few transgressions, but none so egregious as this. 

If he were here to witness you, there would be no forgiveness from him. Though you made no promises and nor did he, there was a precedent set; your unyielding loyalty to him and his ambivalence about anything but his work has begotten exclusivity and a measure of devotion — yet never a promise. Never enough devotion for you to feel like he would be yours until death. Never enough to feel kept.

You’re making excuses, you tell yourself — as Johnny’s lips press into your chin, then the ridge of your jaw, then the side of your neck to taste your heartbeat there — but no matter how you spin it, whichever way you might mould the truth to suit you, you cannot undo what you’ve done. What you’re still doing. 

You don’t think you could keep the truth from him, either. If and when he finally texts you, or deigns to call you, or God forbid come home to you — could you keep a straight face? Your voice steady? He’ll be able to see it on you, even if you could. He’d smell it on you like sweat. 

Sinking your face into Johnny’s shoulder, breathing him in, you feel sick with guilt. 

A paradoxical guilt, twofold; guilt for your infidelity, and guilt that you feel more guilty for dwelling on the Captain even now — as Johnny’s fingers knot in your hair, and he presses hasty kisses up the side of your neck, before his mouth returns to yours. Guilt for busying your mind with the man that loves you less than this one, who would lay down his aspirations simply because you asked him to. 

He kisses you with panic and the flavour of urgency, because he thinks this is temporary. Feels the need to rush and yet take his time. Worries that if he moves too quickly you’ll suddenly come to and remember that you shouldn’t be doing it at all.

Well, you’ve come to that realisation already, and — Johnny’s hand drags down to your waist, scooping his arm into the small of your back — you’re still doing it. 

His mouth peels away from yours, then, briefly. Lips wet and jaw loose, his forehead rests against yours. “S’this really what you want?” 

His pupils are blown wide and black, soaking yours in as your focus darts between them. 

You know the answer. It takes a moment to bring yourself to say it. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. 

With that, your remaining reservations dissolve. Turn to smoke in the air as you exhale what’s left of them. Your choice is made. 

You kiss him again. You mean it this time. There’s want in your mouth and you wonder if he can taste it. You can taste it in his — but you know he’ll never impose himself upon you, won’t put his hands anywhere he’s not supposed to so long as he’s convinced you’re uncertain. 

You are certain, though. You think you might never have been so certain about anything. An answer so obvious that you don’t know how you could have overlooked it for as many years as you have. 

Seems gravity has inched you closer to the counter, or at least his fervour has driven you there. The rounded edge of it digs into the base of your spine, and his weight against you is firmer, keener, as he kisses you with an open mouth. 

You know what you want. 

Your hand finds his wrist where he clutches your hip, nudging it downward, and he lets you move it without objection. His tendons stiffen once his fingertips graze the skin of your thigh, as though suddenly aware of the intended destination — you coax his hand inward, where the skin is softer and warmer, and his knuckles brush the flanelette of your pyjama shorts. 

That’s when he pauses. His head cocks back to look at you, hand hovering under the hem of your too-big t-shirt — rigid, though, he won’t let you move it any further. 

He tips his head downward, glare pointed and sincere. “Are you sure?” 

You nod in place of an answer. Brows curl and all, neediness no doubt lucid in how wide your eyes are. 

“Say it,” he pants, too desperately to be an order, but a demand nonetheless. 

You open your mouth to respond, but you’ve suddenly forgotten how to talk. You don’t know how to say it. Sure about what? About this? About him? About what it is you want? 

Your grip tightens around his wrist. “I’m — you — I want…” 

He lets out a harried puff of air. “I’m no’ touching you ‘til you say it.”

There’s a simple answer. You let it out with a breath. “I’m sure.”

You release his wrist as he shifts his hand, and his fingertips slide under the loose leg of your shorts unguided. 

His breathing catches when he finds you’ve got no underwear underneath them; fingers follow an unfettered path along the crease of your groin, until he pushes them into the tight gap between your thighs. 

He watches you as he does it, moonlight eyes bright and scanning your face for every little reaction as the thick tip of a finger splits your seam. Dips into the well of slick at your hole, and you hold your breath as he drags it upward until it meets your clit.

He focuses there, two fingertips glide up and down as though beckoning, and your forehead tumbles to the cushion of his chest. He fixes his other hand under your hair, wide enough that his thumb and forefingers press into the tendons on either side of your neck. 

You shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t feel so good. You should feel guiltier than you do, as you splutter pathetic little noises into the cotton of his black t-shirt, and your greedy hands claw up his forearm, feeling the tendons shift beneath his skin. Your thumb follows the rope of a vein where it threads up to a bicep as thick as your head. 

“Johnny—” You hiccup, aimlessly, knees a little wobbly so you take a handful of his t-shirt with your free hand. 

“Y’want me to stop?” He murmurs hotly into your temple, though he doesn’t. He persists in touching you like he has always known how to; perfect pace, steady pressure, right spot. It makes your head spin and pins and needles itch in your feet.

Your reply ekes out voiceless. “No.” 

But he stops anyway. Fingers slide out from between your legs, glossy and pruned. You stifle the want to complain, though it swells in your throat; until his hands glide to your hips, and you’re suddenly lifted up and backward until your ass is planted on the counter behind you. 

Took him no effort to do it, either. He’s strong. He’s always been strong, heavy-set and resolute, despite the weakness he claims to have suffered since Urzikstan. He’s so strong, you think dreamily, he’s so strong and still somehow soft with you. 

Your keen eyes follow him as he lowers himself, just measuredly enough to prevent his knees from hitting the floor too hard. Now your heart is in your throat, thundering so hard you can taste it — his head hovers between your thighs as he takes your shorts by the waistband and tugs them to your knees. Leans back to pull them to your ankles and off entirely. 

He plants his lips on your knee, then on the inside of your thigh, up and upward; until his eyes are level with your pussy, knees spread by the breadth of him. 

You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment you feel, making your knuckles tight and your face hot, as he looks at your cunt, inches from his face. He’s seen you nude before — many times, you think — but, obviously, this is different. He strokes the outside of your thigh and gazes glossy-eyed into your pussy like it’s a sight he wants to commit to memory. You wonder how long he’s thought about it. How many times he dreamt about it. If he ever fucked his hand to the thought of it.

He glances up at you through black eyelashes, assessing, a wordless request for permission — whatever expression you return is permission enough, it seems, because his head sinks between your thighs — you feel his hot, slick mouth envelop your clit and his tongue slide against your most sensitive spot. 

The noise you make is closer to a keen than a moan, high-pitched and airy, because the feeling of his tongue and the rushing in your head all at once makes you dizzy and short of breath. 

He’s good at it. Precise, cautious, hungry. You’re sure he’s had plenty of pussies in his mouth, because while he has never had a girlfriend for longer than a month, he has always drawn the eyes of wanting women. Obviously, you think dazedly, as you look down at the top of his head, and comb your fingers through his black hair — he’s a beautiful man, silver-eyed and tall, with dimples in his cheeks and a smile that could melt butter. You’d like to see his face again, but it's busy, and when he begins suckling at your clit your head tumbles backwards. 

He hooks your thighs over his shoulders, burrowing his fingers into the flesh of your hips like he’s kneading dough. As he carries on he gets greedier, eats you like you’re his last meal, one he has waited years and years for — your toes curl and your feet flex, you do your best not to kick him in the back as your legs twitch, and only then do you notice that you’ve been digging your fingernails into his buzzed scalp. 

There are things you want to say, words that swell in your mouth, but you can’t bring yourself to loose them. A comprehensible sentence would almost be impossible to string together, you think. 

You tip backwards until your head hits the tile backsplash behind you; he’s persistent, doesn’t come up once for a breath as he sucks your clit into his mouth, and your stomach suddenly tightens up. 

It won’t take him long, you can feel it tumescing between your hips — but all of a sudden you’re anxious, because letting him make you come feels the final, irrevocable leap — worse a betrayal than kissing him, you think, that you could abide him pleasuring you, eating you, laving at your pussy like an animal, even in spite of — the Captain, whatever he is to you, you don’t even want to think his name — and your head is spinning, and you wrench your eyes shut, and you hold your breath — I shouldn’t I shouldn’t I shouldn’t—

When you come in his mouth all your breath comes out at once in a weak cry; your thighs clamp tightly around his head, spine arching sharply enough to crack, and you think you might have drawn blood from the top of his head. 

“Mph — God,” you sob, hiccuping, face crumpled up because he doesn’t yet stop, “f-fuck, Johnny, you—”

He only draws it out, letting your clit spasm against his tongue as he laps at it, trying to make it last just a little longer. You briefly imagine having to fight him off — and if it came to that, you’d lose — but the moment your wanton whimpers turn into disputes, he separates his mouth from your cunt with a final kiss or two against your slit. 

Out of breath, his hot ear presses into your skin as he tips his head to rest against your inner thigh. His eyes are hazy as he looks up at you. Brows curled, cheeks ruddy. Reverent in how he watches you, in the way his wet mouth hangs open but curls into a gaping, proud smile. 

There are things you should say, you think, as you moonily stroke the side of his head — this was stupid, this was a mistake, this can’t happen again — but you can’t imagine saying them, because they wouldn’t be true. 

You gently tug at his head and he gets the message quickly; he lets your thighs slide from his shoulders as he stands himself up, rising to full height between your open legs until his head is above yours. 

You kiss him. His mouth and chin are wet with you, and you can taste yourself in his mouth. His hands weave with the hair at either side of your head, and as he pants against your lips and his body leans into you — a hard, heavy weight presses between your legs, and when your tongue grazes his you feel it jerk against your cunt. 

Sweet, patient man, you think — if you weren’t to mention it, you know he’d never ask, he’d be perfectly happy to leave it at that with your slick on his chin and his cock hard as iron. 

He deserves it though, more than anyone has deserved anything — and you want to, you want to make him feel good, you want to repay every favour he has ever done for you, to make up for the years you spent with your back to him while he waited so patiently. 

Your fingertips glide down his torso, feeling his smooth stomach beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt, until they stop at the elastic waistband of his sweatpants. His breathing catches as you tug at them, pulling the band away from his stomach enough that you can slip your hand inside. 

With a hand on your elbow, though, he stops you. Against your mouth, he softly asks again; “Are you sure?” 

You almost smile at that, the gorgeous boy, that he’d ask if you’re sure that you want to touch him as he touched you. It only makes you want to more, of course, so you nod, and kiss him. 

“I’m sure,” you whisper against his lips, as you push your hand into his boxers. 

His cock is molten when you take it in your hand. Hot and beating against your palm. It’s thick, you can barely wrap your hand around it, and it spasms when you try to — you glide your grip upwards, feeling the ridge of every vein under your fingers, until your palm wraps around the head, and you feel the slickness of precum against your skin.

He groans weakly into your mouth, and as you move your hand again, his heavy head tips forward until it lands against your shoulder. 

The noises he lets out into your skin make you lightheaded, hoarse whimpers from deep in his chest, as you run your hand up and down the rigid length of him; twisting just slightly at the tip and unwinding on your way down again. You run your thumb along the underside, pressing into the base of his head when you reach it, and his whole body twitches, knuckles turning white where they grip the edges of the countertop beneath you. 

You’d like to return his favour — to swallow his cock until he comes down your throat, you think debauchedly — but you’re too selfish for that. 

You want him inside you. His cock wedges against your cunt through the thick fleece of his sweats, and your thoughts are consumed by the picture of him sliding into you, as thick and long as it feels in your hand. 

So you let go of him, and he exhales hoarsely into your neck, before you grip his waistband with both hands and tug it downwards. 

Again, he stops you, this time with a big hand around both of your wrists. He lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is rather serious. 

“I don’t wanna fuck you here,” he says, voice different than what you’re used to — it’s rougher, breathless, by turns snarled and pleading. 

Your brows curl up. “Why not?” 

His hands are under your thighs before he responds, and he hoists you upward with a bounce. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and you hang your arms over his shoulders. 

“Wanna do it properly,” he pants, as he carries you out of the kitchen, and you surmise from the direction he takes that he is hauling you to your bedroom. 

Before you know it you’re unfurled and dropped gently on your back, bouncing as you land on the mattress, an unmade duvet wrinkled beneath you. He stands above you, broad chest rising and falling as he breathes, eyes raking down the length of you and back up again. Thick arms reach behind his back as he grips the fabric of his black t-shirt, before he pulls it over his head and drops it on the floor. 

You’ve seen him shirtless more times than you can count. You’ve seen him sunburnt and you’ve seen him pale as milk. You’ve seen him hairy and you’ve seen him shaven. You’ve popped a pimple or two on his back before, and you watched him get that tattoo on his pectoral. 

Perhaps your attraction to him was so deeply buried that you forgot it was there. That you forbade yourself from even considering it, because it was simpler that way, to see only a friend and nothing, nothing more. Denial was easy, then. 

Now it’s impossible to even consider. 

The light isn’t on in your bedroom, so what you see is dimly lit by the yellow glow from the hallway, but the light carves out his muscular form from behind. He’s so strong, heavy, thick in the arms and in the chest. Soft and yet hard, carved and yet rounded, with a dusting of black curls across his chest and a denser thicket trailing down from his navel. Blown-out tattoos and scars from battles you were alongside him for. The same watch around his wrist that he’s had since boot camp. 

Grey sweatpants distended by his erection is a sight you haven’t had the fortune of seeing until now. There’s a dark, wet patch at the peak, and you’re not sure if it’s precum, your slick, or both — but his big fist takes a handful of his waistband, and he tugs it down, pulling out his cock with his other hand around the base of it. Once they’re pushed down to his thighs, his pants fall to the floor in a puddle. 

You take your t-shirt off, then — John’s one, the thought smears through your skull — you sit upright to pull it over your head, and you toss it away. You hope it falls through a crack in the floor and you never have to see it again. 

Soap languidly strokes his cock as he stands between your knees, and you lean back on the mattress, watching him foggy-eyed. 

“S’this what you want?” He asks, again, murkier this time. 

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.” 

He doesn’t wait once you say it. “Okay, Dove,” he breathes, as he crawls up the bed, spreading your legs open with the breadth of him, until his head is suspended above yours. 

He drops his head to kiss you, and you open your mouth to receive him. You cup the sides of his head with eager hands, graze your knees up the side of his torso, and you feel his cock bobbing against your pussy from where it hangs heavy between his legs. 

His mouth smears from yours to your jaw, then to your neck, as his weight grows heavier against you, and he reaches beneath himself to align his cock with you. The blunt head runs up and down your slit until it nestles against your hole, pushing until it finds a spot with give — he sinks into you all at once, making you gasp, because you didn’t expect the stretch, nor the sting, nor the incomprehensible satisfaction the fullness brings you. A key in a lock. Something clicks into place that has long been missing. 

“Anythin’ you want, bonnie,” he slurs into the hot skin of your shoulder, as he thrusts into you, “I’ll do anythin’ you want.” 

You push down the guilt that rises in your throat, at the thought that he’s only doing this because you want him to, because you deigned to give him a chance. That he might expect this will only happen once, and afterwards you’ll regret it, this terrible mistake. 

You want to tell him that you won’t. That you couldn’t even if you tried, that it’s all so clear to you now — as he reels his cock out of you, then stuffs it back in, and his big arms scoop under your back, and he kisses where your heart beats in your neck — crystalline, even, that he has been in your heart the entire time. That you’ve been wrong, chasing your own tail, blinded by whatever sickness had coagulated in your eyes and turned the world grey and murky; all the while he has been here, waiting for you, whether or not you ever decided to acknowledge his presence. 

Now, you can see. His wet lips plant themselves on your cheek, then your lips, then your chin, and he fucks you halfway between cautious and eager, between tender and rushed, as though trying his best not to hurt you. He moans into your skin, and you echo him,  as you scrape your nails up the nape of his neck and across the soft muscles of his back. 

“F-fuck,” he whimpers, as you press a kiss into the shell of his ear, squeaking as his cock ruts steadily into your cervix. “Y’feel so good, Dove — mph — my lovely girl—”

The way his voice sounds like this — weak and broken by pleasure, sweet and desperate — it makes your chest tighten up, and your face burn, and your heart race. You want to hear it again, and again, you want to hear him say your name like that, to hear those ragged curses sputtered out as he fucks you, or as you touch him with your hand again, or as you take him in your mouth. 

You want him to be happy, you want to make him as happy as he has made you, with no expectation of what he’d get in return. He deserves it. You owe him that. 

His pace quickens as he fucks you properly, bouncing you up the mattress, cock pulling halfway out before plunging in again. Your slickness makes it easy to take the girth of him, cunt open and hot and willing to take whatever it is given — and you’re thankful for that, because you know it would hurt if that weren’t the case, given the size of it — but you know he’d never dare go anywhere near your pussy until it was dripping and wanting. 

You know that, because he loves you. 

You consider, then — as his teeth graze the tendon of your neck, but he doesn’t bite you — that he doesn’t know that you love him, too. He’ll think your love is the dilute, simple, tasteless love of your friendship, because your more complicated love is sponged up by somebody else. Somebody worse. 

Not anymore. That sponge has been wrung dry, and now it drips from you, oozes from every pore, collects in your mouth, and you want nothing more than to let it spill. 

“I love you,” you breathe, eked out between thrusts, directly into his ear. 

He halts all at once once you say it. 

Cock stills halfway inside you, and he lifts his head from the crook of your shoulder until it hangs above yours. 

His face is all pink, sheeny with sweat, but his eyes are wide and sincere. His expression is more stern than shocked, but the knit in his brows belies it. 

“What?” He asks, voice broken and uncertain. 

“I love you,” you repeat, a whine on your breath as he pushes back in, slowly, unable to deprive himself of the friction for more than a few seconds. 

“Don’t say that,” he pleads, weak and forlorn, and his forehead drops to press against yours. 

“But—”

“Don’t say it unless you mean it,” he implores you, fucking you listlessly, voice broken up by an amalgam of pleasure and heartache. “Don’t do that to me, bonnie.” 

Your eyes feel hot, because his doubt makes you sick with guilt. “Johnny…” 

“Please, Dove. Don’t.” 

Your hands fix to either side of his head, then, because when you say it again you want to look him right in the eyes. You want him to be as certain as you are. 

“I mean it,” you say, as adamantly as you can muster while his dick moves inside you, “I love you, Johnny, I’m — I’m sorry, I think I always have. I think I always have, but — agh —  I d-didn’t know it. I’m sorry.” 

He says nothing for a beat, letting the words process in that busy brain of his. Letting himself believe you. 

When he finally does, it comes out all at once. A tear lands on your cheek before he kisses you there, and then his lips find yours, and he kisses you hard, breathing you in as he does.  

“I love you too, Dove,” he moans against your mouth, kissing you between words, pistoning into you properly again. “Fuck, bonnie, I — I love you so fucken’ much, Christ, I love you—”

You just about giggle between whimpers, and you don’t know what this feeling is — this indescribable brightness humming within you, something voltaic, and you think it might glow as it buzzes beneath your skin. Like you’ve opened the curtains for the first time in months, and now the moonlight shines in, soft and silvery. Cool night air that fills your lungs as though the first real breath you’ve taken in years. 

It’s not something you’ve felt before.

“Always have, Dove,” he pants, lips against your jaw, his hand cradling the back of your head, “always — beautiful girl, I’ve always — f-fuck — always loved you—” 

His ruts begin to stutter, and he starts to take pauses between them, short breaks to take a breath so that he doesn’t come inside you. You almost tell him that he can, if he wants to, that you don’t care, that you just want him to feel good — but before you can, he’s swearing under his breath, and he pulls his cock out of you all at once. 

“Ngh — shit, agh, fuck, bonnie—” He whimpers, as his wet cock lands on your belly — it jerks against you, and you feel the hot spill of his come landing on your skin, pooling in your navel and between your breasts. His mouth seals to the crook of your shoulder as he moans, finishing himself onto you, entire body twitching as it squeezes out the last few drops. 

He pauses to catch his breath, laying sluggish kisses up the side of your neck, before he finally tips himself over and lands on his back beside you. 

For a brief, worried moment, you think that might be it — that he’ll go straight to sleep, like you’re used to, and you’ll have to plod shamefully to the bathroom to wipe the come off and have a cold shower by yourself. 

Instead he grabs your face with both hands, tipping your head towards him and planting a kiss on your lips — then your nose, your cheek, your eyelid, your forehead, your chin, your cheek again, and finally back to your lips for a proper, wet-lipped kiss. You giggle breathlessly against his mouth. 

You’re sure there are things to be said, but it feels, for now, like they can remain unspoken. He holds his forehead to yours, his thumb grazing over your ear, and you lift a finger to stroke the stubble on his jaw. 

“Think I might be dreamin’,” he murmurs, and you laugh. 

“Need me to pinch you?” 

“Might do, yeah,” he says, chuckling, “later, though. Don’t wanna wake up yet.” 

You snort. “You’re so dramatic.” 

“I mean it, Dove,” he pants, flopping over onto his back, arms outstretched. “Fuck me, I mean — I never — I didn’t think that’d ever happen.” 

“It already had,” you murmur facetiously, pointedly not reminding him of that one time back in boot camp. 

“Not that. Convincing you that you love me.” 

You laugh. “Convincing me?” 

“Yeah, knew you did,” he croons, smugly. “I knew you’d figure it out some day. Mighta been when I was already dead, but I was gonna leave you a nice wee note if it came to that.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” you chortle, reaching over to smack him, “don’t be depressing.” 

“Dear Birdie,” he begins, clearing his throat, “If you’re reading this, I’m—”

You hold your hand over his mouth, muffling his next words. “I get it, I get it.” 

He’s laughing into your hand, then, proud of himself. Once he’s done, though, he lays his hand on the back of yours, then kisses your palm; next he pulls it from his face, before he is suddenly up and getting off the bed. 

“Lemme grab you a towel,” he says, and your eyes linger lecherously on the sculpture of his back as he leaves the room. 

It’s a few seconds before he returns with a towel you had dropped in with the dirty laundry that morning. He climbs over you dutifully, scrunching the fabric in his hands and wiping down the length of your bare stomach. You snicker, because it tickles a bit, but his fastidiousness also amuses you. Once he deems you clean enough, he folds it up and tosses it onto the floor. 

You laugh as he crawls up the bed again, landing on the mattress beside you. Before you can make a derisive comment about the come-soaked towel on the carpet, his arms have scooped you up and over until your head rests on his chest. 

You drape an arm over his stomach, and your leg over his, as you settle against him. His body is scorching, and you can hear his heart beating under your ear, but you’re comfortable enough that you could fall asleep like that. Nestled into his side like a puzzle piece, notching into a space that was always meant for you. 

His lips are in your hair, you feel his breathing against your scalp. 

The quiet is soft as a blanket, then, draping over the both of you as your panting turns to listless breathing, and your eyelids feel heavy. Any worry about what the aftermath will be is stifled by sleepy satisfaction, and a warm, thumping glee that beats behind your ribs. 

“I meant it,” you whisper, in the silence, and your head rises and falls with his breath. 

“That you love me?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

He lets out a puff of laughter, then, as he strokes your shoulder. 

“I know,” he says. 

It’s another four days before you receive a text from the Captain. 

His silence hasn’t crossed your mind, in truth, because you haven’t been thinking of him much. Other, nicer things have been keeping you busy. 

Johnny took you out to dinner on Thursday — finally a proper date, so he called it, and he wore a button up and suit pants, bought you flowers and all. You hadn’t taken him for a romantic, so when he revealed them you laughed, before quickly bandaging it with a genuine thank you once he got defensive about it — are these not the ones y’like? I can grab different ones— 

You also went out for drinks with your friends on Friday evening, to celebrate your birthday properly — Gaz and Johnny and a few others — and you must have had a good time, because you can’t remember much of it beyond the pre-drinks at the pub and the stumbly walk back to Johnny’s flat. 

You wake up to the buzzing of the notifications landing in your phone, where it sits on the nightstand next to you. Not yours. You’ve woken up in Johnny’s bed, like you have for the last two mornings. You hear him stir beside you, his soft mattress bounces as he flops over to his other side, but he’s still asleep. 

You sluggishly pick up the phone and check your messages. 

There are fifteen from Gaz. Several incomprehensible ones from the night before, between the hours of two and four — and three from this morning. 

U and Soap were real cuddly last night eh??

Something u wanna tell me? 

Never seen him smile so stupid 

You grin dumbly at your screen as you type out your reply: Dunno what you mean. 

Next you read a few from Johnny. Similarly from the very wee hours of the morning, also riddled with typos by virtue of his drunken fingers. 

Wya

Coming back to mine? 

I wannna eat. Ur pussy again

Pls !!!!!

At those you stifle a snicker, because your attempt at a coverup for Gaz is pretty much null and void now that there’s a very crass paper trail. As blatant a piece of evidence of your exploits as there ever could be. He must’ve sent those while you were in the bathroom, and you’re amused by the thought of him trying to type it out with his thick, wobbly thumbs, too drunk to think better and too hungry to care. 

Then, last, you see the singular text message from John. It arrived shortly before you woke up, buried amongst the plethora of other texts. You’re not surprised to see how short it is when you open it. 

Hi love. FYI, tour got extended.

There’s a pang of guilt in your belly when you read it. It makes you feel a bit sick that he doesn’t know. That he’s on the other side of the world, still believing that you’re fawning over him from a distance, waiting like a puppy for his return with not a complaint to be made. 

Anger usurps it quickly, though. That’s all he said. He didn’t even call you to say so. And still no happy birthday. Had you been alone, unloved, neglected in your own apartment, that text would have sent you spiralling. You’d be in tears, dithering about whether to call him, then frantically trying to conceive of a reply that didn’t sound too desperate nor too upset. 

His text before that one feels more like a lie, now. You know I care about you. 

Now you know that he doesn’t. 

Before you can second guess yourself, you type out your reply and send it immediately.

That’s OK. This isn’t working anymore. You don’t need to text me again. Be safe. 

You put the phone back down on the nightstand, and roll over. Shimmy yourself closer to Johnny so that your face is against his back, and you hang an arm over his side. A sleepy, gravelly groan rumbles from his chest when he feels you there, and his hand strokes the back of yours. 

“You alright?” He grumbles, words slurred together, and you’re not sure if he’s fully awake. 

Can’t help but smile at the thought that even half asleep he can sense any worry in you. Whatever was there is gone now, though, as you exhale against his skin, and kiss his spine. 

“I’m fine,” you breathe. “Keep sleeping.” 

“Mhm,” he hums, as he lifts your hand to his mouth and plants a lazy kiss on it. “Love you.” 

You sometimes wonder if it's too soon to say such a thing. Only four days since the breaking of the dam and you've said it more times than you can count. It felt unnatural, at first. Not something you were used to saying nor hearing.

But, you think, the love was always there. Years and years it was sitting dormant, patient, unacknowledged until you finally, stupidly kissed him.

There's little point pretending otherwise, because now it feels as natural as breathing.

You whisper it. “Love you, too.”