mysocksrgrippy

"You need to replace it every few months," he said, voice flat, "Make sure the arrow is facin' the right way when you put the new one in."

You leaned against the wall and smiled at him, waiting for the dry look, the muttered comment, the tiny flick of humor he usually saved for you, but it never came. His tired face was drawn so tight it looked painful.

You let your smile slowly fall off your face, pushing down the joke you typically would have made as you watch Simon slide the new filter into place with steady hands. The same steady hands that always fixed things before you could ask him to, checked the locks twice before bed, topped off your gas tank without being asked, and carried in the groceries, refusing to let you do it yourself.

Simon had always taken care of things; that was one of the ways he showed you he loved you.

So when he shut the grate and turned to look at you with hard eyes, telling you to try it yourself next time, something cold and strange uncurled in your chest.

Three days later, he stood under the hood of your car in the driveway just before sunset, the fading light catching the sharp lines of his face, making him seem harsher, more hollow. He walked you through checking the oil, changing it, topping off coolant, and pointing out parts you'd never had to think about because Simon always took care of things.

When he asked you to point out where washer fluid was and pointed to the wrong cap, he exhaled impatiently, "No," he snapped, "Pay attention."

The words hit harder than they should have, because he didn't use that tone with you, not unless he was frightened, and Simon never let fear show unless it had already sunk its teeth in deep.

You tried to laugh it off anyway, "What is this? Husband boot camp?"

"Just learn it," he said before clenching his jaw so hard it popped.

So you did. You learned how to add air to your tires, where the jumper cables were, what certain dashboard lights meant, and how to change your wiper blades. Then came the leaky tap at the kitchen sink, the one Simon normally would have fixed before the drip ever became annoying. Instead, he called you over, crouched beside you on the tile, and showed you how to shut off the water valve, tighten the fitting, and stop the leak before it became an issue.

Dread started to set in when the self-defense lessons began, as if he hadn't taught you enough.

He went over how to break a grip, throwing an elbow hard enough to matter, how to use your keys, where to aim, and how to evade a threat if it came to it. His corrections were clipped and mechanical; his hands on you were brief, as if every careful touch wasn't meant to linger, as if tenderness had become painful.

After four years of marriage, you learned Simon's silences, each one holding a different weight, whether it be exhaustion, anger, or the past having its grip around his throat again. You also learned that he'd be so wound tight and restless after certain ops that he'd wake up from a nightmare only to pretend he hadn't, that he'd stand in the kitchen at three in the morning staring into the dark like he was waiting for something to find him.

This kind of silence was different, almost methodical, as he tried to put pieces of your life back into your own hands instead of his.

Time after time, you asked him about it, and each time it felt like his restraint in remaining level-headed wavered. He became increasingly agitated each time you dug for answers. At first, he would brush it off, then he started saying he was tired, then he told you not to start. By the fifth time you asked about it, silence made the house feel haunted.

You found him in the kitchen past midnight, after you were met with nothing but silence. He had one hand braced against the counter, the other dragging slowly over his mouth like he was trying to contain whatever was trying to claw its way out, and for once, he looked less like your husband and more like a man being hollowed from the inside out.

"Simon."

He didn't so much as react.

"What's going on?" you asked quietly with careful concern, like you knew he was ready to break.

For a second, neither of you moved. Ordinary sounds continued: rain tapping against the windows, a neighbor's car door slamming, a toilet running somewhere in the house. Sounds that kept going when the world was about to split open.

One gentle touch to his arm was all it took before he turned to you so fast that it made you flinch. His face twisted into something beyond anger and fear. "There's a risky op, okay?" he snapped, the words being dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling.

You stared at each other for a moment before he forced himself to look away, swallowing down the words he refused to say.

Everything he has tried to teach you recently came rushing back—the air filter, the car maintenance, the leaky tap, the self-defense. He hadn't been teaching you to be more independent or to learn how to survive without him for a few months. He had been teaching you how to survive after him.

"I just need to know you'll be able to handle things," he said barely above a whisper, staring down at the cracked tile he forgot to fix.

By then, it smelled like gun oil, old coffee, damp laundry, and too many people breathing the same tired air. Boots lined the doorway in a crooked row, rations were stacked in cupboards that never quite shut right, someone started to scratch a tally mark into the kitchen table for every day spent waiting on the next order, the next lead, the next chance to leave.

It was supposed to be merely functional, but you made it something more human.

Simon noticed it the first time you came back from a supply run, holding an armful of old tin cans, mason jars, and whatever else you could find to your chest, as if it were treasure. You filled them with the soil that you noticed in the backyard, pressed tiny seeds into the dirt with careful fingers, and lined them up in the kitchen.

No one said much about it. Soap laughed once and asked if you were starting a homestead. Everyone else quietly laughed about it and moved on; the only person who didn't react was Simon.

Over the next few weeks, the safehouse, void of anything thriving, changed quietly as green began to push through the soil. First, thin stems; then, soft leaves.

Simon noticed how you checked them every morning. Sometimes it was before your morning coffee, before getting ready for a day in the field, before anything else, like it was your one small joy in an otherwise circumstance.

He noticed the way you would softly touch the leaves after rotating them a little every day, so every side got sunlight, and how the room looked less like a place left behind and more like a place where people belonged.

Until a day in the field went wrong.

Intel said the building was abandoned, nothing more than a simple sweep, which technically it was abandoned, just rigged with a tripwire. There was no time to call it or retreat before the explosion tore through the building.

Instinctively, you shoved a teammate away, taking the worst of the impact. Shrapnel sliced across your forearm, elbow to wrist, another piece clipped your shoulder near your collar. Dust was in your hair, blood staining your skin and sleeve as the medic patched you up enough to move.

Back at the safehouse, once you were properly patched up, the medic said you'd survive. You tried to shrug it off, tried to make it sound smaller than it was, but Simon saw the way your mouth tightened when the medic stitched you up despite the pain meds, saw the slight tremor in your hand afterward.

Still, half out of it, you asked if someone had opened the curtains long enough for the plants to get some of the evening light.

"Yeah," Simon said after looking at you for a beat too long.

Familiar sounds filled the safehouse once you let the meds pull you under. Maps spread across the dining table, low voices exchanged as rain tapped at the windows, a rile being cleaned somewhere.

As the light rain picked up into a thunderstorm, pipes knocked, and the house groaned with each strong gust of wind.

Simon couldn't sleep; that wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the fact that he let his feet carry him to the kitchen.

The kitchen was dark except for the gray spill of moonlight through the window. The plants sat in a row on the sill, leaves silvered in the dark. A leaf had unraveled since the morning, green and fragile, the sort of thing that didn't belong in a world at war.

Simon stood taking in the details of the new leaf, and before he could think about it, he grabbed the kettle.

He crouched slightly and touched the soil with a rough fingertip, remembering the way he had seen you do, feeling how it was dry. Of course, it was dry; no one but you had cared for the plants until now.

He filled the kettle and poured some water into each plant, careful to not flood the soil. Once satisfied, he rotated the plants as he had seen you do every day.

"Can't let your hard work go to waste, can I?" Simon muttered to the empty kitchen before looking towards the hallway, half expecting someone to tease him.

By morning, Simon was already up, drinking coffee as he leaned against the kitchen counter when you walked in, one arm carefully held to your side, steps dulled by painkillers and fatigue.

Simon watched your gaze go straight to the windowsill, as it did every morning, noting the small crease in your brows when you noticed the dark soil.

"You watered them?" you asked softly, turning towards him.

"Someone had to," he said, low and rough.

He didn't say he checked on you twice last night, didn't say that something twisted in his chest at the sight of your spilled blood, didn't say the only useful thing he was able to do with the lingering ache in his chest was care for your plants the way you did, or try to at least.

"I didn't think you cared," you said, reaching out with your good hand, gently touching the new leaf.

Simon's gaze shifted from the plants to your face. "You do," he said, with a shrug that made it seem like it meant nothing.