#cod series

Each day brought dozens of farmers and city folk complaining to your family of the strife the cold months had brought to them. It only proved to anger you even more. Not only were you serving an unexplained penance, but now there was no ignoring it. Blankets may have been able to shield you from the torment while you lounged in your chambers, but knowing your people suffered was a pain even worse than the persistent chill that clung to your bones and threatened to freeze your blood to solid ice.

Your eyes scanned the rolling fields in search of anything beyond that damned white mist. There was nothing, of course. Just white and cold waiting there for you, a threat lingering so menacingly in its inescapability.

“Sir Riley,” You called out to the man standing just 20 paces away from you, guarding the door as if he himself could keep the world away from you. “Would you please call for the servants? I cannot go on with this cold. I require a bath. Quickly please.”

“Yes, Princess,” he grunts. He kept his eyes down as he obeyed. He hadn’t said much since it happened. You didn’t want him to anyway.

It was best if you didn’t think about the pain, the fear. You had been certain in that moment as you laid alone, blood seeping into the stone ground in the courtyard, knife deep in your stomach that you were going to die.

It had been weeks ago now, but the scars would be etched into your skin forever as a sick reminder. The blood a cruel painting of suffering on your dress.

Simon was never far from you now. Not that he had ever really been far from you. You could see it in the way he stood, the shame of not being there at that one particular moment oozed out of him like tar, threatening to trap him and consume him.

He had sworn himself to you just a few years ago. No one had expected you to pick a knight like him. Older, a bit brash and unfriendly to anyone who stepped in his way. Though, there had been something about him, something about the way that he held himself with confidence but an undeniable respect. For you, it was never a question that he was the most honorable choice.

He was the one who found you there, nearly dead in a pool of your own blood. Much of what he had said you had forgotten now. The disorientation had wiped most of what you remembered. You were grateful for it, but more grateful for him. If he had not come when he did, those surely would’ve been your last moments.

You had told him not to be ashamed. It was not his fault that he had been called away. The fault was only yours. You knew not to wander alone when the price on your head grew every day. Besides, he had been there in mere moments. No one but him had saved your life.

One of the servant girls pulled you from your stupor, her voice soft, almost anxious. “Princess? The water is ready for you.”

“Thank you. You are dismissed,” you said politely as you moved towards the large opulent tub in the corner of the room.

The girl bows her head and turns to leave you. “Thank you, Princess.”

You hesitate, turning towards her again. “Wait-“

“What may I get you, Princess?” She asks, back straight and eyes focused.

You poured the rose oil into the water as you spoke. “Please bring Sir Riley back in. I require him.”

The girl stammered anxiously, knowing your request was one she must question, even if she didn’t want to. “Princess, he is not permitted-“

“Then I permit it,” you snap, harsher than you had intended, voice quickly softening in apology. “Please, bring him to me.”

She gives you a nod before finally retreating. “Yes, Princess.”

You knew Simon was not allowed in your chambers when you bathed. No man was. It mattered not to you. He was not lecherous, not improper. He was a man of his oath and you of all people knew he would not break it. 

He stands by the door, eyes respectfully downwards. The warm water did little for your comfort. Even the smell of the rose oil, a usual favorite and a luxury even to someone like yourself, did nothing to calm you. Your thoughts still lingered on the developing scar on your abdomen and the frigid winter beyond the stone walls of your keep.

“Sir?” You say as your head turns to him, watching him standing as straight as ever, posture almost statuesque in its severity. 

He keeps his eyes turned away from you as he replies, mindful of his manners, even now. “Yes, Princess?”

“I have meant to thank you,” You say softly, lips hovering just above the water. “For saving me.”

He hardly moves at all as he speaks. “I was only doin’ my duty. There is no need for thanks, Princess.” 

You smile just slightly. For someone so committed, so loyal and in your opinion, brave, he was quite humble. Or perhaps he was smart enough to not boast to a princess. “Still. Everyone in this castle has a duty to me, yet it was you who saved my life.”

He merely shrugs, as if keeping you from bleeding to death was nothing at all. “I was closest.”

You shake your head, though there was no frustration in it. “Accept the thanks, Sir.”

He gives a short, polite nod. “Yes, Princess.”

Even for a knight he was so quiet. You had heard little about his life before his training and the service. He had never been one to share even when questioned. His reservations seemed odd to you, but you refused to push. He would share in his own time. As frustrating as it was to have a huge silent man there, refusing any sort of friendship. Not that that was particularly allowed anyway. You cared not. He was a member of your service, therefore you cared for him. 

“The doctors say you shall heal fine,” he states casually.

You chuckle at him. “With a nasty scar,” you reply. You might be alive, but the physical reminder will always be there.

“Battle wounds. If you were a knight, you would be well regarded,” he says almost reassuringly, though reassurance has never been his forte, or even something he enjoys. It was evident in the look in his eyes. You would almost call it shyness, if you didn’t know better.

You sigh, eyes travelling back down to the now pink gashes decorating your skin like they belonged there. “But I am not one.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he shrugs, voice gruff and blunt in his delivery.

“Sir!” You exclaim in shock, sitting up a bit straighter. You almost laugh at his proclamation. You’ve heard him curse plenty, just never at you.

His eyes finally meet yours, simply blinking as if he did nothing out of the ordinary, as if he did not just curse in the presence of royalty. “I mean it. You survived an attack. Most soldiers can’t say the same. It is a scar worthy of respect.”

You laugh openly now, hand going to cover your mouth. “Quite scandalous to swear at a princess.”

“You won’t tell,” he chuckles, quiet but unmistakably there. 

Your smile grows at the sound of it, delighted. “Fair enough, Sir.”

—

Your father, the king, had been on the search for your attacker for weeks. Committing to a neverending quest to bring them to their knees. There was a tenseness in the keep that seeped through every wall. Everyone inside walked on eggshells, too frightened to do much more than shuffle quietly and keep their heads down. Simon had joined your father and his advisors in their meeting. If anyone was trusted in regards to your safety, it was him. He spent his days with you, protecting you and had been the one to step in and save your life. Hardly anyone’s insight was valued more in your father’s eyes.

“And what do we know? What information do you have for me? A man infiltrated my home and tried to kill my daughter! There better be answers and they better come now!” Your father bellowed, his anger growing into a hulking beast after the weeks of strife.

An advisor is the first to speak, quiet and anxious in the presence of your fuming father, praying his wrath did not turn to him “Well, Your Grace. The servants saw nothing and-”

“That is not an answer!” Your father slams his palms against the table as he stands, chair scrapping back and hitting the floor with a deafening clatter, sending the room into a tense silence.

Seconds pass as the silence stretches, eyes darting anxiously around. “I understand, Your Grace-”

Your father lifts his hand, pointing an accusatory finger in his advisor's direction. “You do not!” His anger was thick and suffocating, so intense you thought he might explode where he stood.

Before the trembling man could speak again, Simon stepped forward from his spot behind you. “Makarov. It was Makarov.”

Your father pauses, head snapping to Simon’s direction, intrigued. “And you know this how, Sir?”

Simon lifts his chin confidently. He has encountered Makarov’s men countless times, he knew they were the type to do this. “He is a long standing enemy of this kingdom, he ‘as threatened the royal family before. He is not above this.”

“Hmm,” your father nods, hands resting flat on the table as he lowers his head. “Yes. I believe you have a point, Sir.”

His advisor scoffs, face scrunching in disapproval as he adjusts his gold embroidered vest in a show of propriety, needing to make it known that he was Simon’s superior. “What does he know? He’s just a knight.”

Your head whips to the side, eyes boring into the pretentious man. How dare he speak that way to your family, let alone about the man who saved your life. “Shut your mouth.”

“Excuse me?” He falters, mouth falling open in shock, the directness unexpected and deeply unwanted. 

“You heard me. Shut your mouth. I don’t remember you ever putting your life on the line for this kingdom, or for me. You know politics, sure, but you do not know what Sir Riley does. You will regard him with respect,” you retort, eyes blazing with a deep fury. 

“Thank you, Princess,” Simon says quietly, eyes glancing at you quickly.

“Sir Riley, how many men can we spare for this? I want us on his doorstep as quickly as we can manage,” Your father continues as he sits again, finally starting to calm. The thought of retribution soothing him, tension dissipating slowly.

Simon doesn’t hesitate. “We can spare 200. That should be more than enough.” Simon wasn’t one to offer his men up willingly. Many were young and still training, hardly even out of boyhood. Sending them off would be a risk.

Your father sits back in his chair, a distinct look of surprise etched into his face at the offer. “200? You are sure there are enough?”

Simon nods quickly, “without a doubt, Your Grace. I will send our best. There will be retribution.”

“Good,” your father smiles, lips curling at the corners. “I want this problem ended.”

HOW DO YOU OUTSMART MEN WHO HAVE NO SET ROUTINE?

Instinctively, they already seemed well accustomed to the vulnerability of manipulation. They functioned true to their own roles yet still had a pattern you could not quite identify. You wondered if it had always been like this, and it just seemed normal. Or had they specifically decided to change trajectory because of your flight from the nest?

Your life had unraveled, busted at the seams of what you once thought was safety. Were you safe? Had you ever been? Or had your men been playing with their dinner, feasting off of what you provided before ultimately you'd be another casualty? It wasn't fair that they did this to you. This confusion in your bones was aching, making your poor head hurt.

The bile hadn't left your throat.

And the worst part was that you weren't entirely sure you wanted to fly the coop.

You loved your life with them. Had. Or you still did. There went your scattered thoughts. Both sides were tugging at your useless body, making you humiliated to even entertain the thought of staying. Why would you? You were a ticket to their cruelty. Their hungry malice.

You were going to die prematurely due to the stress they had caused you.

It was dark. Your lovers had left you to stew. To linger in your doubt. You had so much time to process, to make sense of what wasn't supposed to be understood, and yet you made no progress at all.

Torn.

All you had to do was put one foot in front of the other. If you couldn’t speak the truth of your lovers' lack of humanity, perhaps you could write it. You would surely be killed for it, but it would hit the shelves before they could do anything. Before they knew…

So why did you feel like you weren't supposed to?

Had the manipulation rooted so deeply that you could no longer rationalize with yourself? Maybe it was the unknown of what waited for you if you became the messenger. But why did you care so much if you lived? People had already died. You knew the truth. You had a duty to avenge them. Right?

You tossed in the bed. The blankets were as they had always been. Soft. Fluffy. Full of warmth. You had your own space, and yet you usually ended up with one of the guys by the time sleep weighed your eyelids down. There was a security there.

They banked on your pliant body.

The door creaked, wrestling you out of your mind. You turned your head to the blackened doorway, breath catching in your throat as if claws were going to sink into your feet and drag you free of your cocoon. You barely moved as you listened to the footsteps as they approached your bedside.

"Doe?"

Johnny's voice sounded much louder in the stillness of your quiet fear. You blinked, unsure of what to say. Tell him to fuck off surely would've been an appropriate response. Staying silent? Less effective, but still valid.

Words always got you in trouble.

Johnny answered for your lack. He peeled back the blankets and found the warmth of your body. He shuffled into your space like every other night. Nothing changed for him, and yet your world was imploding as his hands cupped around your belly. He let out a pleased little sigh as he settled.

"Ye feelin' better?" He asked, stroking over your stomach like the sickness in your body was merely a viral infection and not a conflict of your very heart.

You didn't answer. You just closed your eyes and wished for his touch to be gone. It just made your deterioration worse because any sliver of contact made your heart yearn for more. You wanted it to be easy to shatter any good light you had perceived them in.

"Cap feels bad fer what he did," Johnny continued. "Kyle said he took care of ye, though."

The bath you took with Kyle still sweetened your skin with whatever scent the bath bomb had been. You had taken that bath and skipped dinner, acting like you locked yourself in purgatory when really you knew you were still under their bend. The lock turning outside your door showed as much.

How long had they been planning on imprisoning you behind the walls where you used to bloom?

There were things you never thought of but were revealed to you at slow, agonizing speed. Taunting. Driving the hammer further down on your heart. The queasiness in your stomach never left. It became an uninvited guest prowling in your guts.

"Please dinnae be mad at us," he whispered. He pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder. "We want the best fer ye."

A warm hand cupped your face and turned your head. You could barely see him, but you felt his breath as he analyzed the situation. You used to crave the way his eyes alone would pry you apart because it made you feel seen. Like you finally found someone who completed you. They all had their strengths of making you feel desired and understood.

Now the analyzing just put you on edge.

Johnny hummed as he placed a quick, almost chaste kiss to your lips. But you knew better. He was a dog. A man always hiding his true intentions for just a moment before he got impatient. He could never sit still for long.

His lips sought yours again, this time more demanding. More taking. He rolled your body until it was beneath him, his legs bracketing you. His whole brawny form enveloped you, a powerhouse of desperation and malice. You sunk beneath the waves for him, instinct coiling tight in your belly as your hands rose and traced the lean muscle of his stomach.

God, what were you?

Johnny smiled against your lips, "There ye go, doe. Ah'm right here fer ya."

You let his body drape over yours, molding into the bed like some paperweight. Your brain was buzzing, but your body was one foot in the complete direction of damnation. You were accustomed to the smell of him, the way he pried into your rib cage like it was his own. You didn't want to let that go, but deep down, you knew you might have to. You could not call yourself a good person if you let the victims evaporate in their premature tombs.

Johnny's kiss was insistent, pressure against your lips in a way of claiming. He sighed into the kiss, sloppy and hungry for your submission. For your acceptance of what was and would be. You could taste metallic seeping into your mouth, and you faltered slightly. He pressed his hips into yours, rolling softly just to hear the slight catch in your breath. You just let him. Selfishly, you wanted one moment of not thinking about reality before you dove headfirst into the rocky bank.

Johnny's fingers trailed down your torso, seeking and admiring as they dipped below the waistband of your pants. Just as he delved into the heat between your legs, clarity slammed into you. What the fuck were you doing? You made a noise of protest, pushing at his shoulders. You ignored the hiss of pain he made when you pressed too hard on his right shoulder. You could care less.

"No. Stop," You demanded. Your breath was heavy, and you could feel the warmth of his against your face. "You don't get to do that. Not like nothing is wrong."

Johnny was silent for a moment. You couldn't completely see him in the darkness of the room. You couldn't see what look he held or what he was scheming. You knew he would try. Johnny was stubborn. And he would be loyal to John first before he would ever try to sympathize with you.

You squirmed from underneath him, reaching for the beside lamp. You'd have more control in the light. The knob was turned, and suddenly, all the details you were deprived of came into the forefront.

Johnny was still hunched in the same position, head tilting in your direction to look at you. He was already shirtless, bruising along his shoulder where it looked like he was roughly grabbed. It matched a new, deep bruising along the right side of his torso—you noticed a wince when he moved, suddenly favoring the other side. There was a cut on his lip as well, explaining the metallic you had tasted before.

"Yer leavin' me, doe?" He asked pitifully.

"All of you," you corrected, trying to keep your footing. As long as you kept your head, they couldn't hurt you anymore. Right? "What you do… it's wrong, Johnny. You…"

Johnny's hand enclosed around your ankle, blue eyes boring into yours. You kept his gaze for a moment before your jaw tightened, and you broke it. You despised the way he did that, like it was your fault you found their extracurricular activities distasteful. Like you were the one who wasn't supposed to have morals.

"Ye dinnae understand," he said firmly. "That's all it is."

A scoff left your lips, "Right. Because I'm supposed to understand murder."

Johnny's face twisted. You tensed like you were waiting for a blow. You didn't know who you were facing in situations like these. Because clearly, all your assumptions had been misguided by pretty little lies the whole time. It made you sick, your stomach rolling as you thought about it.

"Ye willnae be safe out there," Johnny insisted. "Not alone."

Your head was spinning. Before you realized you were doing it, your foot planted itself against his chest and pushed. He moved, didn't say anything as you tried to create distance. You needed more time to think, and he was not helping. It was making you uneasy.

"Get out!" you snapped. "Get out!"

"Doe…" he tried to reach for you again but you picked up the water glass Kyle had left earlier, and held it up. "Feck. Jesus. Ah'm goin'!"

You didn't feel any less weighed down when the door closed behind him. And you listened to the lock click from the outside with your heart dropping into your stomach. You ended up chucking the cup anyway, listening to it shatter against the far wall in frustration. You couldn't think properly while being trapped right in the hornet's nest. You needed to get out, but you didn't know how.

You curled up into the bed again, body active and alert as you stared at the far wall. You analyzed the window, wondering how easy it would be to drop two stories onto the ground. You couldn't do it unless you were adequately prepared. You needed to think about that, something that would have to wait until tomorrow.

A tomorrow that would come slowly.

But no one else bothered you after your moment with Johnny. At least sparing you some silence.

♡◇♡

Simon nudged you awake the next morning, no pleasantries offered for your weary soul. You blinked open your eyes, head pounding from the restless sleep and the lack of food. You lifted your head, watchful and suspicious. Simon was one of the hardest to read. Or maybe the easiest. Because you at least knew he was far harder to please. Johnny and Kyle hid behind boyish grins and sweetness. It was almost less surprising for Simon or John to betray you than it was Johnny and Kyle.

All at once? Yeah, you didn't quite like the feeling of hurt that bubbled in your body. It made you feel pathetic and childish. Made it harder to grasp stable ground.

"You need to eat," he said simply.

His arm was already tugging you off the bed, giving you no room to protest as he dragged you towards the door. You let him. You knew that no matter what your plan was, you were going to need your mind operating to its full extent. You wouldn't get far with half a mind and stomach empty.

The others were already downstairs when you both entered. There was an open spot between John and Kyle, Simon forced you into the seat without a word. He plopped down right across from you, Johnny slightly tensing as he did so. You narrowed your eyes at the display.

"Sleep well, darling?" John asked. His meaty hand enclosed around your upper thigh, squeezing softly. A gesture that could easily be mistaken for affection, but it just made your stomach burn like you ate something rotten. Every action now was glossed over with new meaning, disrupting the sanctity of your life.

You didn't answer the question, gripping your fork in a tight grip. Play indifferent until you had a full plan.

"You'll learn," John was so sure in his words. Like he knew the script that was always bound to happen. "Eat up. The lads all pitched in. We still want to take care of you, even if you're a little misguided right now."

"Misguided?" You couldn't stop yourself from saying. "Do not talk about me like I am some child throwing a fit. You are all monsters!"

John chuckled dryly. "Never claimed to be good. You only saw what you wanted to. Never questioned what you already knew deep down."

You didn't have a rebuttal to that. Because maybe he was right about that. You never chose to look into their curiosities about your writing. Never questioned why there were rules in place that limited your freedoms to being alone and going to certain areas of the property. You never questioned why they came home with a certain air about them.

You believed the lies because all along maybe you were surviving.

You stabbed your eggs like they were laced with poison. You wished they were. The moment you started to eat, so did the others. You hated the way they orbited around you. It was confusing you, making you feel more guilty about what you were waiting for the right mind to decide. Did you ever have freedom?

John leaned in close to your ear, "If you ever step out of line again, I'm cuffing you to the bed again. Your choice on how you wish to play out, darlin'."

Your spine stiffened at that threat. He knew you exactly what you were planning. Knew you'd try to find some way to trick them. He had to. He knew games because he was the master at them. Which is why you had to be extra careful about what you did. Or you'd get nowhere at all and your restrictions would be even more brutal.

Then John was smiling disarmingly, squeezing your thigh again and finally biting into his own food.

"You'll see what we're doing for you. All in due time."

TAGLIST

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Volunteer might not have been the right word. Pounced was closer.

Soap had actually shouted “UNCLE DUTY!” before you’d even finished the sentence, nearly dropping his pint in the process. Gaz leaned back in his chair with a grin and promised, “Don’t worry, I’ll be the responsible one.” And Ghost, without looking up from cleaning his weapon, muttered, “Keeping them alive is part of my job description anyway.”

So on a frosty Saturday morning, you and John bundled your daughter into her puffy coat and handed her over to three of the most dangerous men in the country, armed with a bag of snacks, a list of emergency contacts, and strict instructions about bedtime.

Soap clapped his hands together, eyes sparkling like he’d just been promoted. “Piece o’ cake. We’ve handled bombs, ambushes, and bureaucrats. How hard can one toddler be?”

You gave him a flat look. “That’s what worries me.”

“Oi!” Soap gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “I’m brilliant wi’ kids. She loves me, don’t ya, lass?”

Your daughter giggled, immediately raising her arms to him. “Uncle Johnny!”

Soap scooped her up under one arm like she weighed nothing, spinning her around until her curls went flying. She squealed with delight, tiny boots kicking against his chest.

“See? Natural,” Soap declared, grinning at John. “She’s safer wi’ me than with Father Christmas himself.”

John raised a brow, unimpressed. “If she comes back wired on sugar and feral, you’ll be explaining it to her mum.”

Gaz, already juggling the juice pouch you’d packed like it was a live grenade, gave a solemn nod. “Don’t worry, Cap. I’ll keep him in line.” He crouched to your daughter’s level and offered her the pouch like a treaty. “We’ve got a deal, right? No chaos, no mutiny?”

She took it gravely, nodded once, then whispered, “But only if you give me two biscuits.”

Soap hooted. “Aye, that’s our girl!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Bribery already? It’s been thirty seconds.”

Ghost, standing a little apart with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, finally spoke up—voice dry as winter air. “I give them an hour before they’re outnumbered.”

Soap shot him a look. “Have some faith, mate.”

“I do.” Ghost tilted his head toward your daughter. “In her.”

That pulled another giggle from her, and she clapped her mittened hands together. “Uncle Ghost is funny.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Gaz muttered, but he was smiling all the same.

John crouched then, his big hands steady as he zipped her coat the rest of the way. He pressed a kiss to her curls, his voice a low rumble. “Be good, peach. I’ll know if you’re not.”

She leaned back in Soap’s hold and grinned up at him, eyes mischievous. “I’ll tell Santa if you’re not.”

Soap nearly dropped her he was laughing so hard. Gaz choked on his own breath, wheezing. Even Ghost let out a sharp huff of amusement, the kind of sound that counted as a belly laugh for him.

John straightened, looking skyward like he was asking for strength. “Bloody brilliant.”

You tried—and failed—not to laugh. “You’ll be fine. It’s only a few hours.”

Soap threw you a mock salute. “Go on then, off with ye. We’ve got this.”

Gaz gave you a thumbs up. “Text if you get worried. Or if Soap breaks something.”

“Oi,” Soap protested, still bouncing your daughter like a sack of potatoes. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Ghost’s low voice cut through the cold air, deadpan as ever. “Everything.”

The city center glowed like something out of a postcard—fairy lights strung across streets, wreaths swaying gently from lampposts, shop windows frosted with painted snowflakes and cardboard reindeer. Carols drifted faintly from a speaker somewhere overhead, tangled with the sound of footsteps on wet pavement.

You and John strolled side by side, gloved hands twined together, the folded shopping list tucked neatly in his coat pocket. Every so often, you tugged it free to tick another item off in careful pen strokes: a dollhouse, a new set of art supplies, stacks of books, the bright red scooter she’d been eyeing for weeks.

John carried the bags without a word, arms laden but steady, the weight never seeming to touch him. Every now and then, though, he’d glance at you from beneath the brim of his cap—eyes warm, beard twitching like he was holding back a smile.

“You’ve gone overboard, love,” he rumbled once, adjusting the handles in his grip.

You shot him a look over your scarf. “She’s only little once.”

“Aye,” he said, soft as snow. And he kept walking, the bags swinging at his side, not a single complaint on his lips.

At one shop window, you paused—gold light spilling over rows of stuffed animals dressed in Santa hats. John stopped too, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. He looked at your reflection in the glass more than the toys, his voice low. “She’s gonna lose her mind when she sees all this under the tree.”

You smiled, tucking the list back into his pocket. “That’s the point.”

He kissed your temple right there on the crowded street, bags and all, and you thought maybe—just maybe—you were the luckiest person in the world.

It happened so quickly you might’ve missed it, if you didn’t know him as well as you did.

As the two of you walked past a small jewelry store, John’s stride faltered. Just a fraction. His eyes flicked toward the window display—rows of velvet cases lined in gold trim, diamonds and bands glinting beneath the soft amber light.

He didn’t linger. Not really. But you caught it anyway—the way his gaze snagged there, how his jaw tightened the second he realized what he was looking at.

When you turned to him, his cheeks were touched with color, subtle under the edge of his beard. He cleared his throat like he’d been caught out doing something he shouldn’t.

Your heart gave a sudden, traitorous kick.

So you glanced deliberately away, pointing instead at the shop next door, where a cascade of glass baubles dangled from the ceiling—tiny stars painted silver, catching the light. “Those are cute,” you said lightly.

“Mhm,” John muttered, low, rough—except he wasn’t looking at the baubles. His gaze still hovered a beat too long on the velvet trays behind the other pane of glass.

You bit the inside of your cheek, warmth flooding through you.

Neither of you pressed. Neither of you spoke.

But as you walked on, the space between your hands felt warmer. Charged. Humming with something you both knew, even if you hadn’t said it yet.

The café was tucked on the corner of a narrow street, the windows fogged with steam, golden light spilling onto the snow-dusted pavement outside. Inside, it smelled of espresso and cinnamon, the kind of cozy warmth that made you both linger longer than you meant to.

You sat across from John in a corner booth, a mug of hot chocolate between your hands. Whipped cream was already melting into froth, tiny marshmallows bobbing like lifeboats. He’d insisted on ordering you one, muttering something about “tea’s no good after a long day in the cold.”

John had his own mug—black coffee, of course—but it was sitting mostly untouched. His attention was on you. Or rather, on your hand, which he had reached across the table to cover with his own. His palm was broad and warm, thumb brushing absent circles against your skin.

“Good day,” he said simply, his voice low in the bustle of clinking cups and chatter.

You smiled, sipping your hot chocolate. “Think we bought enough to last her until next Christmas.”

His mouth curved, that faint smirk you loved. “Spoil her rotten, you mean.”

“She’s only little once,” you said, mock-defensive.

“Aye,” he agreed after a pause, eyes softening. “She’ll remember this Christmas.”

Something in the way he said it made your chest tighten. Like he wasn’t just talking about the scooter or the dolls or the books. Like he was talking about all of it—this life, this home you’d built together, these little moments that stitched into something bigger.

The silence stretched—not uncomfortable, but weighted. His thumb was still stroking your knuckles, steady, grounding.

You cleared your throat softly. “You’ve gone quiet.”

“Just thinkin’,” he said.

“About?”

He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his beard brushing against his scarf as he gave you that look—the one that saw too much. “About how bloody lucky I am.”

Your stomach flipped. You ducked your gaze to the swirl of marshmallow in your mug. “You say that like it’s surprising.”

“Feels it, sometimes,” he murmured. His hand tightened just a fraction around yours.

Neither of you mentioned the jewelry shop. Neither of you needed to. The thought of it lingered anyway, quiet and unspoken, humming beneath the warmth of cinnamon and cocoa and his thumb against your skin.

The night air was crisp, the streets strung with lights that winked against the frost. John kept you close the whole way back, his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders, the shopping bags swinging lazily from his other hand. His warmth bled into you, the steady weight of him grounding you in the quiet bustle of the city winding down.

“She’s going to lose her mind on Christmas morning,” he said, voice low, threaded with a fondness that curled deep in your chest.

You laughed, breath puffing in little clouds. “She’s already suspicious. If Soap has anything to do with it, she’ll end up demanding a rocket launcher instead of a scooter.”

That earned a chuckle, rough and warm. “Aye. She’ll be in one piece when we get home. Can’t say the same for my living room.”

By the time you reached the house, the windows glowed soft against the dark, like the place itself had been waiting for you. Inside, the scene nearly stopped you in your tracks.

Your daughter was curled up fast asleep on the sofa, cheeks flushed from play, Buzz Lightyear clutched tight against her chest. Someone had tucked a blanket over her small frame, and her curls peeked out from beneath the edge.

Around her, the most dangerous men you knew looked anything but. Soap was out cold on the rug, a streak of glitter smeared across his cheek like war paint gone wrong. Gaz had nodded off in the armchair, a Disney storybook still open in his lap, thumb marking the page mid-sentence. And Ghost—mask still in place—sat silent in the corner, his posture deceptively loose, but his eyes lifted as you entered. A single nod. Told you I’d manage.

Your throat tightened. You moved quietly, laying another blanket across your daughter’s small body, brushing a curl back from her forehead. For a long second, you just stood there, heart so full it ached.

Across the room, John was watching you. That look again—steady, certain, as though this right here was all the proof he’d ever need. Like he was already imagining a lifetime of nights just like this.

And you knew, without a word spoken, that so were you.

(Extra) Operation: Babysit the Captain’s Kid

The second the front door shut behind you and John, Soap crouched down at eye level with your daughter, grin wide and dangerous.

“Alright, Little Peach,” he said in a mock-serious tone. “Yer in charge now. What’s the mission?”

She squinted at him, finger on her chin. Then she pointed at the kitchen. “Snacks.”

Soap’s grin widened. “That’s my kinda commander.”

Gaz sighed, already rubbing the bridge of his nose. “She’s two, mate. Snacks means juice boxes and animal crackers.”

“Snacks!” she repeated, stomping one fuzzy-socked foot.

Ghost, who had been silent up to this point, reached into his cargo pocket and produced—of all things—a sealed packet of biscuits. He set it on the counter. Your daughter blinked at him, then lit up like he’d hung the moon.

“Uncle Ghost is my favorite,” she declared.

Soap clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “Et tu, Peach?”

Gaz smirked. “Can’t argue with biscuits.”

It only went downhill from there.

8:03 PM – She convinced Soap to wear a tiara from her toy box. He didn’t just wear it—he strutted through the living room like it was a crown jewel, blowing kisses to Gaz until Gaz threatened to lock him outside.

8:15 PM – Gaz tried to start a bedtime story. She interrupted every page with questions. (“Why is he in the woods?” “Where’s her mom?” “What’s a porridge?”) By page three, Gaz gave up and said, “You tell me the story.” She did. It involved a dragon, Buzz Lightyear, and Soap tripping over his own sword.

8:40 PM – Ghost thought she was finally winding down. She climbed onto his lap with her coloring book. Ten minutes later, he was still holding her pink crayon while she “directed” him like a foreman. “Stay in the lines, Uncle Ghost!” she ordered. His jaw ticked when Soap whispered, “You’re doin’ brilliant, princess.”

9:10 PM – Soap taught her how to salute. She spent the next fifteen minutes storming the hallway, smacking her hand to her forehead and shouting, “YES SIR!” at every command, no matter how ridiculous. (“Go brush Buzz’s teeth.” “YES SIR!”)

9:30 PM – Juice box exploded. No one’s admitting how. Soap swore Gaz did it. Gaz swore Soap leaned on it. Your daughter just shrugged and said, “Oopsie.” Ghost muttered something about containment protocols while mopping the floor.

9:50 PM – Bedtime attempt number one. Gaz read Goodnight Moon. She laughed so hard at the word “cow” that Soap had to leave the room.

10:05 PM – Soap tried a lullaby in his terrible singing voice. She joined in, louder, making it a duet. Ghost walked out and closed the door behind him.

10:30 PM – Bedtime attempt number two. Gaz finally got her to close her eyes. Soap whispered too loudly, “She’s out!” She popped up like a jack-in-the-box: “NOT OUT!”

11:00 PM – Ghost finally took over. He didn’t say a word. Just tucked Buzz under her arm, adjusted the blanket, and sat in the chair until she drifted off. She muttered, half-asleep: “Uncle Ghost is best.”

Soap whispered, wounded: “I danced with her for twenty minutes straight.”

Gaz patted his shoulder. “Hierarchy’s clear, mate.”

Ghost didn’t gloat. Didn’t move. Just sat there, one big hand resting gently on the back of the chair until she snored softly.

🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪

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A two story timber cabin constructed with cedar shingle exterior and exposed timber framing. The structure sits on a raised stone foundation along the shoreline of the fresh water lake. The roof, a steep A-frame with extended side overhangs, supports its primary architectural feature: a full height glass facade that dominates the lake-facing wall. Its estimated footprint is approximately 12 to 14 meters wide and 9 to 11 meters in depth. A timber deck spans the lower level made of pressure-treated lumber with timber railing. Located at the center of the deck is a primary staircase with 14 observed steps that leads to a dock at the shoreline.

It is not cared for well.

There are 7 points of exit: central sliding doors (deck), secondary deck door, possible rear street-side door, and windows for emergency egress.

There are 4 points of compromise: large glass windows that provide minimal concealment for occupants, a single staircase choke point, an exposed dock entry route, and a tree line that allows for concealed observation within 10 to 12 meters of the structure.

As the sun rises, it paints the interior gold, making the place look less like a structure and more like a sanctuary. When you wake on the couch, tilting your head back to bask in the morning light, the glow holds you both in silence.

Good morning.

* 

[9-29 10:45AM]

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to text my ex, but you can fuck a guy with no face?”

“Tara, that’s different,” you say, half listening, half cursing the state of the speedrack. Whoever closed last night did a shit-fucking job. Garnishes left out, bottle pourers uncovered and sticky with sour mix. You silently mouth who the fuck before catching yourself. It was you. You did a shit-fucking job. 

“Different because he has a face?” Tara asks. 

“Different because Ethan was an asshole to you,” you say, flipping the rag from your shoulder to clean each bottle, returning them to the rack one by one. 

“And that guy wasn’t an asshole?”

You shoot a look over your shoulder as she leans against the back bar. She almost looks her age with her hair pulled back and her pink rimmed glasses on. They’d be swapped shortly for contacts before the lunch crowd. 

“Does it matter?” you ask.

She scrunches her face in thought. “Shouldn’t it matter?”

You press your tongue against the wound in your mouth from the night before. You return to work. “Clean something. Please. Patrice’ll be in soon. I can hear her already–”

“Time to lean, time to clean,” Tara imitates, pushing herself off the bar with a sigh. She drags her feet into the back as if she’s dying. 

You work in silence, cleaning up your own mess, before slamming the last bottle into the rack.

“Fuck ‘em mean, hope they’re clean,” you say to the empty stools. They’re flipped upside down on the bartop, with their legs spread above their head. Mocking you.

Tara was wrong. Assholes didn’t matter when you were an asshole, too. 

You stock glasses, fill ice wells, and purge the lines of yesterday’s foam. Tara cuts her cuticles and two limes. She wins rock-paper–shoot and gets to dictate the playlist. You count dimes at the register to Sabrina Carpenter. 

Eventually, you hear the familiar shoulder-check thunk, then the scrape on the floor. The front door sticks before it opens after years of lake damp air. On instinct, your eyes shoot up to check the large amber mirror that sits behind the bar. 

It’s the first regular. 

Tara waves as if signalling the usual characters to their places. Her hair is pulled back in a clip and she claims the first couple of rounds. Lunch begins. 

Two more. Then three. You pay the mirror at each thunk of the door, before retreating to the back register of the bar. You’re happy to let Tara work, even though you only get paid in tips. You haven’t conjured enough small talk to sell just yet. And you like hearing Patrice hum in the kitchen before the orders get hectic.

You help by pouring soft drinks and sliding beers. You smile and disengage, reminded of your mouth wound every time you fake it too long. You fill the time by drawing on receipt paper at the register. The pen steals your time until you’re summoned; which Tara does just a few seconds-hours-minutes later as she peeks over your shoulder at your drawing.

“Is it like some kind of cultural thing?” She asks, before looking at herself in the mirror’s reflection. 

You scrunch your face in confusion, resisting the urge to flip it over. It’s not like it was any good. “What? It’s just a bunch of—”

“Not you,” she corrects. “Him.” She points over her shoulder into the dining room, her eyes still on her own reflection as she inspects her make up. “Sasha Colby once judged this queen wearing the wildest Hot Topic head piece I’ve ever seen and instead of being rude she said, Is it a cultural thing? And I just love that so I stole it and—”

You look up, wondering what the hell she’s talking about. 

When the fuck did he get here?

In the darkest corner in the booth farthest from the bar sits the Lieutenant. Hood up. Mask on. Menu in hand. 

“It’s some kind of stupid thing,” you say.

He looks worse in the daylight. Like some statue whose features had been stripped from years of bad weather. He’s shoved himself in six different shades of black between the jackets and jeans, hood and mask. His gloves clutch at the menu like two tactical clamps. His head is tilted down to read, but his eyes stick to the door.

“He looks lonely,” Tara says to you.

“He looks stupid,” you say. 

She grins, before turning around to shout, “Hey!” while waving at him from her toes. “You look lonely!”

“And stupid,” you say louder, turning with your arms crossed. Leaning with your back against the register.

You think he glances at you, but he’s unreadable from this distance - especially with the mask. You wonder if he always sits with his shoulders hunched like that, as if the world pressed at his back. But that can’t be true. He’d been so much broader when you were raking your nails over him the night before.   

“Grab a seat if ya wanna eat!” Tara continues, plucking a menu and waving that too, “Specials are on the back!”

He stays still, not acknowledging her. Drops the menu on the table and goes back to looking at the door. Watching or waiting or whatever.

You return to your drawing. Trying not to think about the kind of company that he prefers to keep. The people in your town weren’t exactly a tender lot. Lots of hunters and ex husbands, service-outcasts, gun enthusiasts and cops. 

Ugly fucking cops.

You crumple the drawing and shove it in your pocket.

“Havin’ a smoke,” you say, avoiding eye contact with Tara. You slip past her before she responds with her usual script. You know it’s bad for you. You know that it’s early. You know you can just drink instead. You ignore them, opting to disappear through the kitchen doors — where Patrice is waiting with a smile. 

“Who’s stupid now?” she asks, wiping her hands on the front of her apron before leaning over the expo table. It’s a pink number with flowers that her son gifted her for Christmas. She matches her lipstick to it, regardless that no one sees her from the kitchen line. 

“Havin’ a smoke,” you repeat, rifling through the coatrack. Your heads down as you fish through the pockets of your jacket, avoiding her eyes as well. According to the lilt in her voice, she already knows. 

“Y’mean havin’ a bloke?” She slaps a poor British accent on the last word making herself laugh. 

“Porque no los dos?” you ask, tipping your head over your shoulder to smile at her, cigarette already perched between your lips. She laughs as you push through the door, the cold air licking at your fingers. Then stop. 

Jacket?

You roll your eyes, grab your jacket, and slip out into the back lot. When the door slams behind you and the cold takes you under, you still. You breathe. 

You loved the back lot. Inside, everything was noise - glass on wood, radio greatest hits, voices stacked atop each other needing things from you. Out here, it all fell away. No one followed you here. A little piece of something unclaimed and unbothered. Something just yours. Somewhere to be alone. 

You kick down the steps, knees creaking as you lower yourself down to sit, shoulders loosening, the tension draining out of your spine inch by inch.

And then you stop again.

There, on the top step, right where you’re about to sit—

The lighter.

You know it immediately. Cheap and covered in skulls. The same one the Lieutenant had kicked from your hand the night before. Standing up right. Deliberately placed.

You stare at it. 

Stupid thing. 

You glance at the treeline, half-expecting to see him, but there’s nothing. Shadows and branches. You stare at it again before leaning forward, picking it up slowly, turning it over in your hands. You should have felt uneasy. Someone had been here. Someone had been in your space without you knowing. Without your consent. Your space had been changed. You weren’t alone. 

Your thumb flicks the wheel once, the flame sparking to life before you realize what you’d done. You watch it for a second, the small, steady burn, then snap it shut. 

A faint smile pulls at the corner of your lips. 

You walk back inside without lighting your cigarette. 

The door thuds shut behind you, and the noise rushes back in like it’s been waiting for you: laughter, stainless steel appliances, the drag of other people's conversations over Tara’s radio hitlist. You hang your coat on the same hook, fingering your smoke back into a pocket, but the lighter stays in your hand. 

“Well that was a quick one,” Patrice says, materializing from the walk-in. Her arms are full of raw vegetables as she shimmies past you, still smiling: “You’ll quit in no time.”

You press your tongue against your cheek. The little pain drowns her out. 

You pull yourself together before returning to the bar. Fix hair, fill bra, hike pants. But the Lieutenant’s not in his seat by the door when you push through the kitchen doors and maybe he’s gone because it’s not like you’re looking for him. Then you see him. 

He’s sitting in Jake’s seat. 

Right there, at the corner of the bar by your register. One elbow resting easy, body angled just enough to watch the room without looking like he’s watching at all. 

You smooth something invisible off the front of your shirt and step towards him. You set the lighter down in front of him with a deliberate clink on the bartop. There’s dirt in the seams from where it should’ve stayed in the woods.

“Shouldn’t leave your shit around,” you say, leaning back against the register. “And stop going back there. The owners don’t like it.”

The Lieutenant turns towards you, body first then eyes, dragging it out as if he’ll miss something in the dining room. He stares through you as if seeing nothing. Present, but gone, making you wonder if he heard you. If he was in front of you at all. 

You scoff. And something in him switches on.

“Hellcat,” he states, as if it serves as a greeting. It’s not like he knew your real name anyway. You hadn’t offered it and he hadn’t asked. He scoops the lighter, with his weathered glove before perching it upright again. His eyes shoot to yours, “Lighten up.”

You squint, then cock your head. Should you kill him? Should you laugh? You cross your arms and measure your response. “...is that some kind of joke?”

He keeps his eyes on yours as if expecting something. 

“No,” he says evenly, “It’s a lighter.”

You stare at him. Locked in some kind of contest where you try to keep your face as still as possible. Hyper aware of the tightness in your lips that keeps trying to betray you by making you smile. It makes the inside of your cheek hurt. You taste copper. 

“You’re in Jake’s seat,” you say, pushing off the register. You place a sponsored coaster in the seat to his right, setting a place for him at the unclaimed spot. Napkin next. If he orders food, it will raise your tip percentage. 

“Doesn’t seem to need it,” he says. You can feel his eyes on you. 

You look back at him, considering if it’s worth arguing over, before returning to set down cutlery, “Yeah, well. You should move. He insists on that shit.”

“Insists,” he repeats as if discovering the word for the first time.

You place a steak knife. “He tips well.”

“Well,” he says, shifting in his seat to fully take it up, “My tip’s bigga.”

You don’t laugh, alright? And you don’t smile when he taps the bartop, indicating where his place setting should go: right in front of where he's already seated. You flick the lighter, sending it into his chest. It hits him with a soft pap, then skitters on the bar floor.

“What’re y’drinkin?” you ask. The question comes out without thinking. You’re paid to be a doll with a draw string at your job, after all. 

“Same as last,” he says, as he gingerly reaches towards the coaster to slide it in front of himself. He watches you as if you’ll say no, then adds: “And a pint of lager.”

Right, you think. Waiting for someone.

Muscle memory moves you. Second coaster at the seat beside him. Glass, tap, pour, place the beer. Glass, rack, pour, place the bourbon-whiskey. It doesn’t mean anything to you when you set the rocks glass in front of the Lieutenant, but it must to him because he hums and nods in approval. 

People like being remembered.

You retreat to your register, pressing the touch screen to close Jake’s tab and open one for…fuck, what was his name? Lieutenant…Rocky? Rudy? It was some fuckin’ dog name you didn’t care about remembering. You punch “LIEU” for Lieutenant into the system. Good enough.

“Anything from the kitchen?” you ask, turning back to him. A little bourbon is gone and he’s adjusting the mask back down his chin. Maybe he’s butt-ugly under there. Absolutely deformed. You can respect that you’d want to hide that too. 

“Meat,” he states, like it’s a normal order and not something a sociopath would say after pretending to look at a menu for the past 30 minutes. Your face says what the fuck. He continues, rushing through his response with a frustrated wave, “Protein, scran, ah dun’ fuckin’ know. Wah'eva's good." 

“And your friend?” you ask, nodding towards the second seat, now set with a cold beer. “Getting something started or waiting til they get here?”

He considers you, eyes tightening like he’s working something out before answering: “Meat as well.” 

“...right,” you state, hesitating before turning to the register to punch in what ever the fuck meat might mean. It’s tempting to upcharge him to something expensive; a 15% tip on two surf-and-turf dinners with booze would cover at least one of the dinners you had to scrounge for this week. You feel dishonest over the math and punch in two steak-bite plates instead. 

“Meat,” Tara says, appearing at your side to pull a bottle of Rumplemintz from the wall. “Stupid meat.”

You laugh. The ticket spits. And just like that, the conversation with the Lieutenant is over. Your script has been delivered. Small talk offers only. You acknowledge him with a soft, customer service smile and retreat, pen in hand, back to your register until called.

Eyes, face, lines, skulls. You draw as the bar hums around you. People clinking, their glasses speaking. You glance into the mirror in intervals as you wait for that feeling - the one the Copperline taught you over the years. The feeling of eyes on your back. The snap of fingers or the lean-in voice that wants you to turn around. 

Regulars like Jake had conditioned you into it. Trained you with the constant pull of performance while not-so-silently promising more tip money if you laughed at their jokes. If you turned when they tapped at the bar. If you danced. You got used to checking, over and over. Automatic. Like blinking. 

You do it now. Catching the regular’s snapping at Tara for another round. Catching the skidding silhouette of a car in the lot. Catching the Lieutenant’s…nothing. You tilt your head. Nothing-nothing. He’s still as a post, fingertips pressed against his glass doing nothing. Dead eyes on his own reflection in the mirror. No focus point. Nothing. 

Weird.

You’re the one looking now. And you shouldn’t be (you weirdo). You turn away. Adjust bottles that don’t need adjusting. Wipe a spot that’s already clean. You don’t look again until you do. You want him to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone. Scroll or check the time. Act like a normal person sitting alone at a bar who’s waiting for someone who’s late, but he doesn’t. He nothings. 

Thunk.

The door bangs open. The McGuires. Regulars that are loud and familiar and immediate as they walk into the bar. You’d puked in their backyard on your way home more times than you could count. They never knew. 

“Christ,” you say, turning from the mirror with a familiar smile to gesture at the door. “You guys live here or something?”

They laugh. (They always laugh.) You fall into it without thinking - grabbing glasses, pouring before they finish ordering, suggesting a side, a second round, something to pad the tab. Easy money, easy rhythm. 

“Expo!” Patrice calls, her voice rings like a bell. 

Oh. Right. Meat. 

You move to the window to grab both plates, enjoying the way the heat bleeds through the bottom against your palms. It feels like real food, compared to the cold take-home containers you pick from during your shifts. This steamed, each piece of meat seared by the kiss of the grill with a soft pink inside, carrying the mean smell of salt and char and browned garlic butter. You set the first plate down in front of him, then the second, ceramic clicking against the wood. It’s only then that he moves, lifting his head to look at you with a short nod. 

“Meat,” you say, imitating his accent for the first syllable. “Good luck eatin’ without a mouth, Lieu.” You bring your palms to the front of your face, pulling them apart toward either side of your head, signaling ‘mask’, before turning away. Back to your register. Picking up your pen. Minding your business. 

You know yourself too well. You don’t need answers as to what lies under his mask. Don’t need to know about his lips or his teeth or his jaw. It’s better to press your heel down on the thought while it's a small seed without roots. God forbid there's a crooked smile under there. You bite the inside of your cheek again. 

Sketch. Pour beer. Shade. Pour wine. Scribble. Pour bourbon. The back and forth rhythm of the shift takes hold, allowing you to take rounds and tips. Pacing the same length back and forth and greeting the same faces. You tell yourself to forget the Lieutenant at your back who doesn’t look at you, even when it’s your job to look at him. Just to check on him. To wonder.

He eats like a savage. Uses his hands to shovel his food into the void (where his lips would be), covering his already dirty gloves in grease and blood. Hides his face with his hood up, hunching over his plate like a snarling dog. You think about stealing a piece of meat just to see if he’d bite at your finger tips. Or if he’d lick them clean.

Tara’s laughter spills behind the bar, shaking her head and waving at the air between her and an older customer. Of the four rum-and-cokes he ordered, he was pushing one back to her, pressuring her to take it. 

“I couldn’t!” she squeals, making a show of picking up the glass and bringing it to her lips. “This is too kind, babes. You’re gonna get me in trouble!” She strings them along with little coos and laughter before taking a sip, then scrunches her nose. “Phew! Give whoever poured this a big tip, am I right? Such a strong pour.”

First drink of the night.

You both prefer money over the free drinks people tip you, but it’s not like you can say no. Saying no meant no tip. No tip, no income. Learning to say yes to things you didn’t want was a skill that took years to learn. Fortunately, it got easier every time. 

You got easier. 

You do your rounds, one by one like an assembly line, collecting plates, closing people out, refilling drinks, checking each patron before you retreat. Not hard, since you only have four parties: two are in their cups, the third an-early-bird-dinner and the fourth…

Two empty plates sit at Jake’s seat, neatly stacked and wiped clean. Beer glass empty, rocks glass gone. The Lieutenant isn’t there. Just an empty setting with a credit card pressed on the bar top. 

“Huh.”

You’re not disappointed that he’s gone, alright? You’re relieved. Nothing new will slide into the empty seat after him. Which is good, because it’ll be someone you don’t want to watch. Instead of this random fucking bloke named – you pluck his card between two fingers and read it - “Kate Laswell?”

You stare at the name, thumbing each letter in silence. 

Of course. 

You press the card back on the counter. Laugh.

Of course there was a woman somewhere. There almost always was with these military types. Always someone waiting with one of their shirts, hoping the scent would bring them home. Parts of you wish you were a better person. But at least you were better than her last night.

“Havin’ a smoke,” you say to Tara.

Outside, the sun slips behind the trees and the night bites through your shirt. The woods beyond the lot stand black and crowded, all bare branches. You wrap your arms around yourself to shield the cold, but immediately lock up and groan. 

“Fuck, dude,” you say, trudging down the steps, hands flying in frustration. “Come on. Are you actually fucking stupid or something?”

The Lieutenant is there. Of course he’s there. Standing just beyond the yellow smear of light, half in it, half out. He leans against the wall, rocks glass in one hand, a flip-phone in the other, both swallowed in his gloves. His hoods up, but you catch the sliver of his jaw from the side. Pale. Stubbled. White guy action figure type of chin you want to chew. 

“The owners do not want people back here,” you state. The pressure rises in your chest.

He clips his phone closed. It’s an old one. A burner. The kind you’ve seen passed around by men who didn’t want their bosses, dealers, parole officers, or wives knowing where they were. He tucks it inside his jacket pocket. Takes a sip of his bourbon. 

“And you shouldn’t be drinking back here either,” you add immediately. 

You can’t tell if he’s smoking. He isn’t looking at you. His breath comes out in pale clouds, rolling slowly in the cold. 

“And I mean it, Lieu,” you continue, kicking down the steps, slamming your heels, “Don’t leave your shit here. Someone will take Kate’s card right off the bar and max it out.”

He looks at you. Or you think he does. It’s impossible to tell where his eyes settle with the mask in the dark.. 

“I don’t want to deal with bank calls or fraud alerts from angry-military-wives or whatever comes with you people so just-” you claw at your pockets, retrieving your pack of cigarettes, “Handle your shit.”

He says nothing, standing there with his secrets tucked in his jacket and his face hidden behind fabric. Doesn’t deny or explain. Barely acknowledges that you spoke outside of a single, slow nod, like that’s supposed to cover all of it. You wait anyway. Like an idiot. Waiting for him to answer or argue or give you something to push against. 

He doesn’t. 

“Great talk,” you spit, settling on one of the steps, looking towards the treeline. You actively focus on ignoring the little live wire in you that sparks. The part of you that wants to fight. 

You pull a smoke from the pack and set it between your lips, then start digging for your lighter. Front pocket. No. Back pocket. No. Front pocket. Your hands turn sharp with frustration, making your movements look more desperate than you want it to and –where the fuck? How the fuck do you keep doing this? Y’can’t even handle your own shit and…

He whistles. Your head snaps up before you can stop it. Hate that. You glare. He holds one hand out toward you from where he is at the wall, palm up, two gloved fingers curling in a slow gimme gesture. 

“Oh fuck off,” you hiss, words shaping around the cigarette lodged at the side of your lips, “What? You need something from me? I’m on break.” 

You roll your eyes and return to checking around your seat. Maybe it fell out of your pocket. At the edge of your vision, he paws his mask back down his face. Takes a step closer. Clears his throat.

“Need you to get a jacket,” the Lieutenant says. He towers over you like this when you’re sitting, reminding you how small you are. How cold. He points at your cigarette, then curls his fingers with another gimme gesture. You do as he asks, dropping the smoke in his palm. He places it in his mouth, bobbing from the mask as he produces a lighter (the lighter).

 Tchk. 

It flares to life with the bite of his thumb. He takes a deep pull to ensure it takes, causing the tip to burn cherry red, then exhales a plume of smoke. He offers it back to you, perched between two fingers. You think he’s kind as you reach for it but he nicks away. Chuckling. He brings it to his ‘mouth’ for another drag. 

“Shouldn’t smoke with a mouth injury,” he states. White clouds roll from his mask as he speaks. 

“Oh double fuck off,” you spit, eyes like daggers, resisting the urge to crumple your pack and throw it at him, “You gave it to me.”

“An’ stop fuckin’ with it,” he continues. 

“I don’t fuck with it.”

“Won’t heal if you keep fuckin’ with it. Rot ya mouth,” he says casually, leaving you at the steps to lean back against the wall. He ashes the cigarette with a flick of his thumb, “An’ good luck bitchin’ wit’ no mouth.”

“Yeah?” You’re standing now, challenging, arms crossed to contain the boiling in your chest.

“Yeah.”

“Anything else?” 

He lifts his glass, shaking it towards you, “Another.”

“Fuck you.” You snatch the glass from him with a snarl, hard enough that bourbon sloshes over the rim and spills across your knuckles. Before you can think better of it, you suck the liquor from your skin. It’s too expensive to waste: Old Turkey Rare Breed at $14 a glass. You pull it against your chest as you settle back down on the steps, keeping your eyes pinned on him, “I’m on break.”

The Lieutenant laughs. 

“Not for long,” he levels. He steps towards the front lot, then pauses at the edge of the light: “Not without a jacket.”

He disappears into the dark. 

Fuck him. You scoff, taking a sip of his drink after he’s gone. The smell of it brings you back to last night, when it was pumped down your throat in the passenger seat. It warms your lips, your cheeks, then your throat.  Grease smears along the sides. Blood too, from his meal, stuck near the base from his gloves. 

“Filthy boy,” you hiss and swig. Your fingertips worry at the marks on the glass. How dirty were his gloves last night when he touched you? Or… had he touched you? You take another sip. You don’t remember all of it. Not cleanly anyway. You remember his truck and the brass bullets on the floor. His mask in your teeth and the blood in your mouth. But he didn’t tear at you. You know that. He didn’t claw at your tits. Didn’t rip some wet part of you open. Didn’t take anything you didn’t offer first. 

He just held you. (You sip again). He hurt you, then he held you. Then he let you go.

You down the rest and welcome the burn.

It’s a stubborn ten minutes before you pour yourself back inside, empty glass in hand, slipping past Patrice and Tara to return to the bar. The Lieutenant’s back from wherever the hell he went. Back in Jake’s seat at the end of your bar. Back to doing nothing with nothing in front of him. Did he notice how long you lasted outside with out a stupid fucking jacket?

You decide to work the bar with Tara. Really work this time, checking on each customer with a custom charisma that lets you earn your keep. You fill your hands with their orders and your head with their noise and suddenly you have use. You make jokes where they fit and smile with your teeth when someone tips well enough to deserve them. It’s another ten minutes before you make it down the line, grinning with a bottle of Rare Breed in hand for the Lieutenant. 

“Don’t cover this one in blood,” you say, setting a new glass before him on the bar. You grin with all the spite and anger from the back lot crackling under your skin. You want a reaction. You want—

“Wasn’t his,” he whispers, his eyes dropping from the mirror to his gloves, “They said tha’ mattered but it don’t matter…” 

You cock your head in confusion. You can barely hear him. Barely recognize the words or how he says them beneath his mask. You know they aren’t meant for you, but you take them anyway. 

“Doesn’t matter,” you correct, pushing the glass into his hand. You wait for his eyes to drift up to yours, but he stays lost in his palms. So you continue to run your mouth. “Who actually wants to matter, anyway?” You flick the rim. “Can you imagine that? Mattering to someone? Must be so fuckin’ awkward.”

He scoffs, shaking his head, looking at you with something unreadable in his eyes. Fucking mask. You know the little lines gathering at the corner of his eyes mean something. You hate not knowing what.

”Where’zee then?” The Lieutenant asks, picking the glass up and gesturing to the rest of the bar. The volume is back up on his accent. His shoulders seem to swell with it, filling out his jacket, making him look broader than he already is.

“What?”

“Yer boyfriend,” he states, “The one who insists.”

Jake. You scrunch your face in revulsion. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“No?” He asks mockingly, cocking his head with a malicious ignorance. “Thought we were makin’ assumptions today.”

“There’s no we,” you state.

“No ‘he’ either, it seems,” he says, cheers-ing the empty seat beside him before bringing the glass to his face. He pauses, as if remembering the mask and adds: “No ‘she’ neither.”

“What, y’disappointed he didn’t show?” You ask. You’re idling when you know you should be leaving, pressing your palms against the bar. “Ya lookin’ for a fight or something?”

“Always,” he says. You believe him.

You bite back a grin. “I’ll fight you, Lieu.”

“Nah,” he chuckles, brushing you off with a lazy gesture. You remember how his low laughter felt when it rumbled inside of you.

“I could,” you assure him, crossing your arms. You mean it. He doesn’t know you. (You’d lose, of course, but—)  

He nods. “Sure ya could, Hellcat.” 

“I should.”

“Y’should,” he agrees softly. His eyes scour your features before they tick back to your own. He places his drink on the bar top then leans forward wolfishly, “But y’won’t.”

“An why’s that?” You can’t help it. You’re leaning on your palms, chin up, challenging him to say what they all say. (‘Because you like me.’ ‘Because I’m great in bed.’ ‘Because I’d kill you.’)

“Cause y’fockin’ hate me.”

Laughter bursts out of you before you can stop it. Not a bar-one, a real one. Sharp and sudden with your head tipping back and your neck exposed. You feel the eyes of the bar on you and quickly correct yourself, tucking your shitty grin between your teeth. The wound in your mouth is on fire. 

“Not enough, apparently,” you say. 

“Or not at all…” he ventures, placing the words gently between the two of you as if testing the weight of them. With his amber eyes and those little lines all pointed at you. Watching you. Wanting you? 

No. Not wanting you. (You remind yourself.) Wanting you to want him. (You should know the difference by now. Idiot girl.) You taste blood.

You grin and cautiously pluck his glass from his grip. There’s already grime from his gloves on the edge. His eyes follow. You bring it close, then spit directly into it. 

“Get fucked, Lieu,” you say, placing it back before sucking the residue from your thumb.

His gaze stays on yours. For one second. Two. Then he picks it up. His other hand rises to the edge of his mask, hooking one gloved finger beneath the black fabric. He rucks it up just enough to bring the glass to his lips. He drinks. A large swallow of bourbon, ice and you. His jacket obscures how his throat takes you down, but his mask stays over his lips to give you a brief, brutal glimpse of his face. 

Stubble and scars stretch over a hard chin. The narrow stripe of his lower lip and the fresh wounds that split it. The carved and wicked thing that counted as the corner of his mouth. Real skin where myth could have been but he made himself human. He keeps his eyes pinned on yours the entire time. 

He places it down, then pulls down the mask before sliding it back towards you, “Another.”

You scoff or laugh or hum, shaking your head where words should go. He watches you, waiting with his gloves cupping his glass. After a moment, he asks: “You walkin’ home tonight?” 

“If this is about a jacket—“ you start. 

“No,” he shakes his head. Pauses, then starts again, “Lemme give you a ride home.”

“Why?” (You know damn well why.)

“Wot, y’think it’s safer to walk home alone in the dark?” 

“Safer than showing a stranger who’s got my blood on his mask where I live?”

He stares at you in silence, probably letting you hear how bitchy you sound. He’s unreadable when he answers you: “Six and a half minute drive.”

The words hang between you. 

The front door swings open before you decide what to do with them. Cold air rushes in with a half dozen voices. Tara shepherds them to their places with: “Anywhere you like!”

It’s the sounds of a paycheck.

The bourbon sits between his gloves. You reach out and tap the side of his glass with your knuckle. “If something happens,” you say, almost apologetically, “I’d deserve it.”

Your eyes catch his one last time before you push away from the bar and throw yourself back into the shift. 

_

The rush swallows you whole. Tickets multiply faster than Tara can stab them on the rail. Extra sides of ranch. Shaken not stirred. Wings but only flats. A birthday group. Some argument about the pool table. Smile. Swipe. Change. Next. Smile. Swipe. Change. 

The rhythm of it gets you by the wrist. By the time the crowd thins, you’ve convinced it’s been hours. And maybe it has. Because when you finally return to your side, wiping down the stretch of bar where the Lieutenant had been sitting, he’s gone. The seat is empty. And the whiskey glass is gone too. 

In place sits a tidy stack of cash. Crisp enough to fight each other as you count them. It’s enough to pay for the meal twice over. Tucked within the stack is a piece of torn receipt paper with scribbled letters you don’t understand. 

SOZ

SR

LOO

The center letters are struck through so hard the paper almost tears. Under it all, a crude little drawing of a skull. You stare at it longer than you mean to, letting your thumb run along the ink. You fold the note once, then slip it into your pocket. 

Closing comes slowly. The kitchen closes. Stools go upside down and the lights dim one row at a time. Tara makes you count the tip pool because she hates the feel of new bills on her hands.

“Check-in with me when you’re home,” she says as always, when she leaves thirty minutes before her shift ends.

“Never,” you answer as always, when you stay thirty minutes after your shift ends. You pour yourself a drink. And so what if it’s Rare Breed again. (There’s a sweet spot with it, you’ve learned, that keeps you warm for the walk home.)

“I’m serious,” Tara says abruptly, peering through the mountainous layers of her pink winter coat. She breaks your usual pattern, idling near the door with her hand on the lock. “Humor me. I’ve got a bad vibe.”

“Try changing the batteries,” you offer with a smile. She frowns. She knows you too well to let you avoid her (and she doesn’t get the joke). 

“Be for real, Hellcat,” she says, emphasizing the name with a devious smile. It leaves no room for you to run away from who she’s talking about. You hide your embarrassment by taking a sip. She continues: “That’s the second day in a row he hasn’t asked for your number. Or asked for your name. Why do you think that is?”

“Because he’s taken,” you answer into your cup. 

“No,” she corrects, “Because he might already have it.” She pulls her hood up, her face disappears behind a porthole of white fur. “His friend, that hot one from the other night, doesn’t have volume control when he’s drunk. They’re not like the grunts around here.”

“You mean they’re British?”

“I mean they’re the real deal. Dangerous. And like, let’s be real,” she says, fussing with the fur lining in her face. “That’s really hot. So maybe you should consider asking for his number next time. And text me when you’re home. Especially if he’s in the lot tonight waiting for you again…you know what? Just give me your phone, I’ll set the automatic check-in text. Gimme.”

It’s another five minutes of Tara before you’re left to close. Another thirty for you to finish your whiskey. You snug the fuck up, zipping and snapping and clasping before the whiskey steals the use of your fingers. The winter gear makes you eight years old again, packaged by your Mother for a snow day. It’s a relief no one sees you like this. (You vulnerable, waddling Stay-Puff Man, you.)

“Unless he’s in the lot tonight waiting for you…” you say in Tara’s accent. 

“There will be a new member of our task force-for a few months. They’ll be working with us for operation Beta.”

John stood in front of his boys in the debrief room with his arms crossed and eyes sharp, Laswell stood by his side holding a tablet.

Kyle leaned forward, “Who? Does he work on the base?”

“Not to stick ma nose into this but- we don’t really need anyone with us for this. Adding someone else might make it more complicated than it has te be, Cap.” Johnny spoke up, running a hand thru his mohawke.

Price sighed, “You don’t know them, but you may have heard of them, they serve in the SBS- have been for a few years. And this was Laswell’s suggestion, we need an extra pair of capable hands for this op, Johnny.”

“The temporary addition to your team is Y/N ‘Tigress’ L/N. She has been-”

Simon, sitting in silence behind his mask finally spoke up, “Tigress?”

Laswell nods, “Yes. You may have heard of her, has quite the legacy for such a young age- 27. She is more than capable, specialising in close contact force, something you will need during this op.”

Johnny sits up, like an eager dog, “Tigress as in the woman who supposedly beat up a shark? That one?”

“-What?!” Kyle sits up, staring bewilderedly between Laswell and Johnny.

Laswell sighs closing her eyes, “Supposedly yes, but let’s not digress from the main point. She’ll be here for a few months, close quarters, training, eating- everything you guys do, she’ll be there. This won’t be a problem?”

The boys shake their head.

John claps his hands together, “Good. Well, she’ll be here tomorrow. I want you boys on your best behaviour, especially you Johnny.”

Soap grins cheekily, “When am i not, Cap?”

They file out the room, kyle whispering to Johnny,

“Did she really fight a shark?”

“Where d’ya think she got ‘er callsign from?”

They make their way to the cantine, nods of respect greeting them round every corner; Ghost trailing behind like a shadow.

“Yeah but- i mean c’mon. A shark?”

Johnny continues sauntering through the cantine doors, straight towards the half arsed excuses of food.

“Well, she’s in the SBS, ship got a hole in the bottom. She had to swim down there to pull the emergency lever- apparently she can hold her breath for twenty minutes- and then a shark came in and started swimming towards her, ‘er bleeding attracted it. Anyway-“ He begins grabbing the food on his plate, piling mashed potatoes over the sausages, drowning them in gravy, “It swam right towards ‘er, she ripped its gills of, killed it, and cut one of its teeth out before swimming back up.”

Kyle crossed his brows, “like a souvenir?”

“Yeah, or proof she did it.”

Ghost stays silent, like usual, doubting any of this story to be true. He trails behind the two boys, piling his plate more than Johnny as usual.

“Oi, Lt. What d’you think?”

He looks to Johnny, his face immersed in that annoying grin Ghost can’t seem to ever dull, no matter how many times he tries.

“I think it’s a load of bollocks.”

Kyle slaps his shoulder, snickering under his breath as they make their way to their table.

“How ‘bout we make a bet?” Johnny mumbles between mouthfuls of potato’s.

Kyle nods, “Go on then”

“If it’s true, you both owe me drinks- all of ‘em when we go to the pub. If it’s not, i’ll pay for yours. Deal?”

Kyle shakes his hand smirking, “Looks like we’re gonna have a treat, innit Lt?”

“Looks like it Gaz.”

————