saelire

*****

As a rule, he keeps work separate from his private life. It’s easy to forget the indolent luxury when he’s crouched on the floor tipping cold chili into his mouth straight from the bag. 

But, sometimes, he doesn’t want to forget.

He calls you at four in the morning, Johnny still sleeping the sleep of the heavily medicated. 

You answer on the third ring, voice heavy and rough. “Simon.” He hears the rustle of bedsheets, a click that might be the lamp turning on. “Simon. Are you ok?”

“Tell me somethin’,” he says, his whisper loud in the silent room. “Tell me wot’s been goin’ on this week.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “...is everything alright?”

Simon glances at Johnny’s hand where it rests on top of the white sheets, pale and still as marble. “Everythin’s fine. Just…talk.”

“Well…I had tea this afternoon with Moira and Clara.”

Who? It doesn't matter. "Yeah?”

“The tea was lovely, but the weather was downright dreadful, darling.” There’s more shifting around, like you’ve settled back in bed and made yourself comfortable. “It’s been raining since you left! Well, anyway, the wind took Clara’s umbrella straight from her hand and we had to chase it halfway down Berkeley Street.”

You laugh. Simon huffs, too. The images he’s been plagued with all night, the ones of Johnny taking a bullet in the chest and nearly falling out the window, melt away. He thinks instead of three women in the rain, tottering after an umbrella in their tea clothes.

“We were soaked through, naturally, so I’m sure we looked frightful. But it was rather fun. Let’s see…oh, Uncle Theo’s gotten a new horse, he insists he’ll go to Royal Ascot next year.”

Neither of you know much about horses, but you repeat everything your uncle had told you just for something to say. 

Simon lets your voice wash over him as he tips his head back, closing his eyes. The mental pictures of chasing umbrellas twist into horses galloping down green fields, their colorful jockeys making a hazy rainbow on the track.

You’re still talking when he falls asleep, and he doesn’t wake up until the phone slips out of his hand hours later.

He dreams of tea cakes and horses, and racing in the rain.

You’re not the only one drinking heavily throughout the evening. Entire barrels of wine seem to disappear in a matter of minutes, each cask draining faster than the last as the night deepens. As the alcohol flows, tongues loosen. Conversation that had been carefully-measured earlier in the day twists into something uglier, and, more than once, Simon hears a remark that makes even his ears turn red.

At the center of it all is your smiling, golden cousin. Lochlan works the crowd with a skill Simon might admire if the man wasn’t such an obvious shitstain, and the talk around him gets louder and messier with each passing second. 

He doesn’t know exactly who tips the balance into a full-blown fight, but hard words start flying from all directions. Nothing is off limits: mothers, fathers, affairs, money troubles. You stay out of it as long as you can. But it isn’t long before the topic of conversation turns to scandalous marriages. 

“My sister loves strays, you know,” Lochlan simpers, melting out of thin air to smirk in your face. “She just rescued another mongrel from the gutter. And that reminded me—how is your marriage going?”

A hush descends, every head turning in your direction. You take a slow sip of wine and smile, fighting to keep your composure, but Simon can see the way your hand trembles with anger.

Before you can answer, he takes a quick step forward. Lochlan flinches back, eyes darting between the two of you. Simon sees the moment he comprehends his own error: Lochlan is used to antagonizing pretty little partygoers who’re too proper to settle matters with their fists. He’s never tangled with a man like Simon, who’s made a profession out of solving his problems with violence.

But he’s cunning enough to know that even Simon can’t act here. Jutting his chin out, he cocks an eyebrow. “What, soldier? Going to shoot me?”

The dig about Simon’s military background doesn’t land like Lochlan wants it to. The rumor of his SAS career has traveled through your family like wildfire, and they’re all eying him now a bit warily.  No one laughs.

Simon lets the tension hang in the air, his hand drifting casually to his waist. Lochlan follows the motion, his face turning the color of spoiled milk. “Maybe, maybe not. Got anythin' else to say to my wife?”

His hand dips under his suit jacket, and Lochlan believes. With a final sneered insult, he pushes his way out of the crowd to stumble beyond the garden. Every eye remains fixed on where Simon’s hand is still hiding under his jacket.

Shrugging with feigned indifference, he flips his jacket back to show his hand.

It’s empty.

No gun, no holster. A bluff.

The crowd bursts into laughter, some of the men even slapping Simon on the back. 

Amid the chaos, you smirk up at him, reaching up to adjust his tie. “My clever mongrel.” Then, you snort. "Like you'd bring a gun to a party, honestly.

He, in fact, does have a pistol tucked against the small of his back, but he keeps that tidbit to himself.

Simon wheels you around the crowd once more before escorting you back to your parents. As you fall into conversation with your mother, he slips away unseen into the gardens.

Hunting.

*****

Simon finds him smoking on the back lawn, laughing rudely with a gaggle of other young men.

Stealing up behind them, he claps a heavy hand down on Lochlan’s shoulder. Lochlan turns with an insult on his tongue, but his arrogant sneer drops when he sees the hulking shadow at his back.

“Hullo, cousin.”

*****

The next morning, Simon's reviewing reports when you pop back into the bedroom after taking a call from one of your aunts.

“Lochlan’s decided to help his father with his companies in the States. We won’t be seeing him much, anymore.”

Simon can feel your eyes burning a hole into his forehead, but he doesn’t look up from his tablet. “A shame.”

You fold your arms and narrow your eyes. “He’d also like to apologize for his behavior last night.” A pause. “Lochlan never apologizes.”

“First time for everythin'.”

The mattress sinks as you perch on the edge of it, still watching Simon like a hawk. “What did you do?”

He looks at you, the picture of total innocence. “What’d I do about what?”

A brief standoff ensues, you watching him with suspicion while Simon looks back with raised eyebrows. Realizing you won’t get a straight answer from him, you flop dramatically down on the covers to rest your head in his lap.

Simon smiles, but tries hard not to look too smug. You sit quietly for a moment while Simon strokes your hair, but he suspects you have something more to say.

“Darling?”

“Mmm?”

You roll to your belly to prop yourself up on your elbows. “Could you terrorize a few of my other cousins, too?”

He doesn’t bother playing innocent this time, thumbing through his apps to open up a blank document. “Jus' say the word.”

You’re loath to leave the warmth of your burrow, but drag yourself upright. Slide your feet into the slippers waiting by the nightstand. 

Tonight, you’ll go have Christmas dinner with your family and friends. It’s difficult to go anywhere now without Simon as your buffer between you and your nastier family members, but you’ll be damned if you hide in your house for your social circles to pity. Poor little wife, all alone on Christmas.

No. You’ll go to your parties with your chin up and dressed finer than ever, and dare anyone to suggest you’re anything other than perfectly fine. 

On the dresser, your phone glows with dozens of messages, Happy Christmas! sent over and over again among group chats and private conversations alike. But there’s one text you pause over, sent from an unknown number early this morning.

It’s an audio message.

“Hullo, love.”

You hug the phone to your chest like a child, beaming. Simon’s voice is brusque, businesslike. Sharp in the way that tells you he’s talking in front of other people. But there’s a soft note in there just for you.

“By the time you get this, we’ll probably be off the grid. Dunno when we’ll get back. But. Just wanted to say I love you, and Happy Christmas.”

There’s a chorus of voices in the background, the other soldiers each adding in their Happy Christmases over Simon’s snarled shut yer gobs!

The message ends abruptly. You laugh, dabbing your wet eyes with the back of your hand.

The bedroom is still cold, but remnants of last night’s fire still glow in the hearth. You stir them to life with the poker, hot embers flaring and seeking something to burn. You feed a log in and worry it until it catches, bright flames licking up the chimney. Little by little, warmth seeps into your slippered feet. 

You don’t return to bed, sinking instead by the fireside to enjoy its heat. You play the message from Simon again just to hear him declare his love and wish you a Happy Christmas. After you’ve played it two more times, your cheeks are wet and the fire is leaping merrily, and you find yourself replying to the empty room:

“Happy Christmas, Simon.”

silver spoon masterlist