#fem!ghost

When Simon bursts through the door of your flat, you immediately know something’s wrong. It could be the way she seems to wheeze out breaths, the flush of her skin, or the way she’s clutching the grocery bags in a vice grip. But what really tips you off is the way she brushes past you to dump the groceries on the kitchen floor before beelining towards your shared bedroom.

This is beyond odd, as Simon wasn’t one to skip out on greeting you with a kiss whenever either of you returned home. You immediately spring from your perch on the couch and move towards the bedroom.

“Simon?” you call out, “Simon, are you alright?”

Shouldering the door open reveals a room devoid of your wife. At least, that’s what you think until you creep closer and find her on the other side of your shared bed. She’s slumped on the floor, eyes vacant. You drop to your knees and immediately begin assessing her.

“Si? Love? Can you tell me what happened? Are you hurt at all?”

Simon says nothing at first. That’s when you notice the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

“I…M'sorry,” she croaks out, “M’fine.”

“You’re clearly not! Si, please, just tell me what’s happened. I’ll kill whomever, I just need to know what’s going on.”

You can tell by the set of her jaw that Simon would rather swallow her pain than bring you into it, but she relents, nonetheless.

“M’fine, physically. I…I just…” As she trails off, you reach out to smooth your hands up and down her shoulders. “There was too much going on at the store.”

Your brows furrow in confusion. “’Too much’? As in what, were they having an event?”

“No, but it was crowded. And the lights were too bright. Felt like everyone was talking all at once, and I couldn’t think.” Simon’s hand comes up to cover her eyes. “Those lights…those fucking lights.”

You make a noise of recognition low in your throat. The lights at your local grocery store had a penchant for being a touch too bright, the fluorescent glare casting everything in a sterile glow. In your own trips to the store, you found yourself squinting your eyes while shopping and leaving with a headache and burning corneas. Considering the holidays were approaching, it made sense that the store would be more crowded than usual.

“Oh, doll,” You coo, “Should’ve gone myself, didn’t mean to put you through all this. I’m sorry.”

Simon hands fly off her face and grip onto your wrists. “No! No, it’s not your fault! I should’ve been stronger.”

“Stronger how? Si, you-” The rest of your response dies in your throat when the realization hits you: your wife, who had been a decorated member of the military for over a decade before retiring, felt weak. All that she had been through, all that she’d seen and faced off against, yet here she was crying over bright lights in a grocery store. She probably felt beyond ridiculous.

“Simon, my love, my darling girl, this isn’t weakness! You’re overstimulated. You’ve probably dealt with this before, but too much was happening for it to be addressed properly.” Your hands reach out to cup your wife’s face.

“This is completely normal. Too many things were happening at once and your brain is struggling to process everything. I deal with it all the time, you’ve seen it.”

Simon seems momentarily comforted before despair clouds her face once more. You speak up before she can even attempt to admonish herself.

“You’ve helped me through this before, right?” At Simon’s nod, you continue, “Then let me help you. Will you let me care for you? Please?”

The breath seems to still in your wife’s chest. You, someone she’d sworn to love and protect, were trying to do the same. Just like in your vows, you were trying to be her rock, her safe place to land.

It only takes another moment before her head nods again in agreement. You grin, leaping into action.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do: you’re gonna lie flat on your back, knees up, and I’m gonna go put the kettle on for a cuppa. We’ll see how you feel afterwards, yeah?”

Simon obliges, moving away from the bed and letting her body sink into the cool hardwood flooring. Her feet plant themselves firmly as she brings her knees up, and her hands find themselves folded over her stomach.

“Good job, lovie. I’ll be right back.” You brush a hand over her shaved head and press a kiss into the crown of it.

Before long, Simon’s erratic breathing slows to something more manageable. You reenter the room, the scent of green tea wafting from the mug in your hands.

“How’re you feeling?” You ask as you help her sit up. The mug is pressed into her hands, scarred fingers curling over the warm ceramic.

“Better. Thank you.” Simon can’t help the sincerity in her voice. It’s weird, she realizes, just how easy it is to be genuine with you. She’s told you things not even Price knows. You’ve seen the ugliest sides of her and decided she was worth sticking around for.

“Can you handle more touch right now?” You ask her, voice as sweet as the honey in her tea.

Simon can’t find a reason to refuse you, not that she wants one anyway. She leans her body towards yours, a nonverbal ‘yes’ that you pick up on. Your hands come up to run themselves up and down her back before wrapping her into a hug.

“You’re doing so well for me, sweet girl,” you whisper into her scalp.

There’s a part of Simon, deep down inside, that wants to feel ashamed. She shouldn’t like the way you dote on her. Doesn’t feel like she’s earned anything other than a steel-toed boot to the teeth. And yet, she can’t help but sink into your ministrations. There’s a part of her that’s always longed for this softness. The way you seem to cradle her very soul in your palms used to frighten her; it meant giving up control. It meant acknowledging she was human, that she had desires. As the Ghost, she could disappear into a stoic façade. She could be the killing machine everyone expected. But as Simon? As Simon she could be mortal. As Simon, she could be your wife. She could be someone worthy of your love.

“How’s this sound? I can run you a bath and order takeaway from that place you like. We can put on Paddington, too.”

A snort erupts from deep within Simon’s chest. Only you knew of her secret love for the British bear. Her mother had read the books to her and her brother growing up. The movies served as a way for her to sink into nostalgia.

“Yeah…sounds good, thank you.” Simon mumbles.

You press a series of kisses across her face before standing and pulling your wife to her feet. Simon lets herself be dragged into the front room, settling into the couch cushions as you confirm your takeaway order over the phone. Paddington is queued on the tv soon enough.

You snuggle next to your wife, letting her lean against your shoulder. You relish in the way her bulk softens against you. The food arrives soon enough. The pair of you are lulled into a calm, with warm food on the coffee table and the adventures of a fictional bear on screen.

-

When your takeaway containers are cleared and the movie’s credits roll, you stand and stretch. Simon follows in turn, albeit much slower. A blissful calm has settled over her, muddling her thoughts in the best way. Simon lets you pull her towards the bathroom, content to sit atop the toilet and watch as you turn on the faucets in the bathtub.

You run the taps til the water sloshes around the halfway point. Simon watches lazily as you turn to her.

“Arms up, doll.”

She obeys because why wouldn’t she?

Her burly arms stretch up and above her head. Your fingers curl along the hem of her shirt and pull up, revealing pale skin littered with age-softened scars.

Simon can’t help but like this version of herself; the one that's soft and pliant, all for you, only you. Only you are allowed to strip her, literally and metaphorically, and reveal her most intimate parts.

There’s something comical about the way your wife tries to sink into the porcelain tub. Though the tub is deep, her knees still hit her chest when she leans back. The water rises and splashes dangerously around the rim as she crams herself down.

You kneel on the floor, letting your gaze sweep over Simon. There are dark circles under her eyes but there’s a glow that seems to emanate from within her. The panic from earlier has faded, replaced with a calm you hope to maintain. Simon reaches a hand up from the water and runs it over her head.

“Been thinkin’ about growing it out again.” She mumbles.

You hum in delight. “How long you wanna grow it? Think you might match mohawks with Soap?”

Your wife shoots you a grimace that quickly turns into a chuckle. “Absolutely not. Would rather go completely bald.”

“Well, what’s the longest you’ve ever grown it?”

Simon falls silent and chews on her bottom lip in thought.

“Back when Mum was alive. Used to be down to my back. She’d always put it in braids and attach these cute little clips to it. But afterwards…”

Simon pauses, sniffs, then continues.

“It was just easier to cut it off. Kept finding reasons to keep it short.”

“And now?” You ask.

“And now,” Simon links a hand with yours, “I have a reason to take care of it again.”

-

Simon sleeps easy that night. You watch the rise and fall of her chest as she rests against you, face smooshed against your shoulder. It’s one of those moments you want to freeze in time; to keep your wife in this state of serenity for all eternity. Of course, you know you can’t do that. You know you can’t shelter this grown woman. But, even if you could, you know Simon would never let you.

And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe you’re not meant to be your wife’s savior. Maybe you’re doing what you were meant to do all along; to hold her when the world becomes too much.

And maybe that’s enough.

-

Months pass by without much thought.

Simon’s hair now brushes against her jaw.

You’ve taken to running your hands through it whenever you get the chance (which is often) and adorning it with skull-themed clips.

The pair of you have taken many a trip to the grocery store and emerged unscathed, though that could be attributed to wearing sunglasses and noise-canceling headphones the entire time.