#multichapter fic

It starts, like many wonderful things, with a risk taken.

You’d moved to New York on fourteen years worth of birthday money and a dream. You’d scrambled at first, sure, but wasn’t that part of the glamour? Most new New Yorkers (say that ten times fast…) have to deliver pizza or bus tables or play guitar on the streets while they chase their dreams. Whether it be Broadway or Wall Street, few folks get off easy their first year or two in the job market.

Which is why it feels miraculous when you get an interview with Stark Industries. It’s entry-level, but they pay fantastic, even for New York, and you’d rather bring coffee to billionaires and scientists all day than wait tables in a loud restaurant where no one cares if you’re having a bad day. At least Stark Industries offers health insurance.

“It’s a great stepping stone in the industry,” the hiring manager tells you as he’s shaking your hand. The welcome packet tucked under your arm is thicker than some of your textbooks had been. “Plenty of opportunities for professional development. HR will be in touch within the week to set up your employee benefits package.”

Most of it flies over your head, like a lot of information seems to do lately. The position pays enough to comfortably cover your rent, and the 10am start time doesn’t hurt. Plus, you can’t help but be a little excited at the prospect of working under some of the greatest heroes the universe has to offer.

The first few weeks are uneventful. You keep your head down, follow the training seminars as close as you can, try not to leave your water bottle behind in the conference room. It’s a pretty typical admin job, though undoubtedly the most interesting you’ve ever had. It’s hard not to think about the fact that you could run into one of the Avengers in the hallway one of these days. Hopefully you won’t do anything too embarrassing. You’re one of the younger people in the office, after all, and you can hear your mom’s voice in the back of your head reminding you to keep it together, don’t let them think you’re weak.

A few of your own rules join the mix: don’t let anyone get too close. don’t seem too eager, too friendly, too weird. don’t try to fit in because there’s no point.

At night, you walk home to your (thankfully close by) apartment. You’d been able to find a studio at a decent price, though the neighborhood doesn’t feel the friendliest. You speed-walk down the street most evenings, but the sun is usually sinking by the time you’re crossing your doorstep. Then there are the upstairs neighbors who think 2am is the right time to rearrange the living room. Not to mention your own lack of furniture, partially because it’s expensive, but also because bringing real furniture to the third floor is difficult even with an elevator. Besides, you have what you need, even if it’s mostly the bare minimum. Stark Industries has a rampant internal promotion system, according to your welcome packet.

Your box of comfort items stays tucked at the back of your closet, but you can’t help but mentally inventory it from your bed some nights: soft blanket, softer plushie, a few coloring books and crayons, and a couple pieces of gear that bring warmth to your cheeks if you think about it too hard. All items that tempt a corner of your mind that you’ve been too afraid to explore since moving here alone. You’re a professional now, after all. You keep the box put away and try to let your imagination be enough.

It’s been about a month when the inevitable happens. When thinking about your first Avengers encounter, you’d imagined being seated at some quarterly meeting or teambuilding session while Tony Stark or Bruce Banner delivers a speech behind a podium.

You certainly don’t expect to run into Captain America.

You especially don’t expect to literally run into him.

“Woah, ‘scuse me—“ comes the voice over your head as you round the corner, but it’s too late. Your feet are carrying you as quick as they can, because it’s the last ten minutes of your lunch break and you’d gotten so lost in the book you’d been reading that you’d forgotten to actually eat. Your only thought is your lunch box in the staff fridge, not whoever could be rounding the corner.

It’s unfortunate for you that it’s Steve Rogers, and it’s unfortunate for both of you that he’s carrying an open thermos of (thankfully lukewarm) coffee. That fact doesn’t help your feelings much as your book clatters to the floor and the coffee splashes all over your front. It’s thanks to a steadying hand on your elbow that you don’t fall from the impact.

“I’m so sorry,” you sputter before he can say anything else, daring a glance up at his face. You’re expecting annoyance, maybe even amusement at your clumsiness, but the first thing you notice is his brow creased in concern. “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t see you, I know I should’ve been paying better attention —“

“Hey, easy, it’s alright,” he assures, seemingly expecting the flurry of repeated apologies about to leap off your tongue. He leans down and grabs your book off the floor, dusting it off before handing it to you. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I should’ve had a lid on this mug. Is your shirt…?”

You tug the offending fabric away from your skin, wincing at the dampness soaking through. He shares your frown, though he almost looks like he feels guiltier. “It’s okay,” you say quickly, scrambling to tug your shirt down despite the awful stickiness against your chest and belly. “I can, um, grab my coat from my locker, it’s no big deal.”

“No, hey, wait a second,” he cuts in, a hand hovering over your shoulder like he wants to keep you from bolting. “I have some old Young Avengers Initiative sweatshirts in my office, just gathering dust from the last storage clean out. Let me get you something dry to wear.”

“I-I don’t—“ you start, shaking your head, but the way he beckons you with one hand makes your feet follow him anyways.

“I’m Steve, by the way,” he says as you walk, like he’s your next-door neighbor and not a national hero working in the same building. “What’s your name?”

You mumble it quiet enough that you’re not sure he’ll catch it, but he smiles and nods like he has no trouble hearing. “Which department do you work for?”

The question makes your eyes widen as you remember what you’d been doing in the first place, and your head twists around to look for a clock. “Wait, my break is almost over,” you say, almost panicked as you scramble for your phone to check the time. “I’ll get written up.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says immediately, and even though you’d usually huff at that advice, something in his tone soothes the anxiety rising in your chest. “I’ll walk with you and let your supervisor know what happened. Let me get you a dry shirt, though, yeah? Good thing I hadn’t refilled my cup since this morning, or else I’d be walking you down to the medbay for burns.”

You crack a smile despite yourself, your nerves fizzling down to something manageable. You follow Steve to his office, which you hadn’t even realized was on this floor, nodding and humming in response to his questions. Despite the obvious warmth in his whole demeanor, shyness still keeps you from finding much to say, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Here, try this one.” He hands you a red and blue sweatshirt with Stark Industries Youth Outreach printed on the front, thick enough to protect against your chilly walk home later in the evening. He ushers you into a small adjacent bathroom to change, ignoring your protests that you can just dig something out of your locker (you don’t actually have anything, but that’s beside the point). You emerge with your old shirt in a plastic bag he’d given you, feeling very much like an elementary school kid after falling in a puddle on the playground. At least this donated sweatshirt is new and only one size too big.

“Comfy?” he smiles when you walk out, looking genuinely pleased when you nod. “C’mon, I’ll walk you back.”

True to his word, he walks right up to your supervisor (who looks ready to start scolding until he sees who’s behind you) and explains what happened, leaving out the part where you’d been rushing around a corner like an overexcited kid. Your cheeks are still warm, but the smile Steve gives you is genuine.

“I’ll see you,” he says kindly, and it sounds like a promise in a way that makes your chest feel full. The sweatshirt sleeves hang over your fingertips, and as your supervisor strolls by your desk, you almost expect to get a dress code reminder anyways. But he just nods as he passes, seemingly softened by Steve Rogers’ lingering energy.

When it’s time to pack up for the night, you can’t help but wonder if he’d felt as much like a strong adult figure as you’d felt like a silly little kid in that moment. If he had, it hadn’t seemed to bother him, or even inconvenienced his certainly packed schedule. You rub the fabric of the sweatshirt sleeve between your fingers as you take the elevator downstairs, mind already starting to wander towards the stress of figuring out what to have for dinner.

And between you and yourself, you hope it isn’t long at all before you see Steve again.

—————

“Don’t stare. That’s Mrs. Riley’s son. He won’t appreciate it.”

Your mouth was open as he walked through the entrance doors and into the reception area of the care home.

He was over 6 foot, the top of his head nearly brushing the lintel as he entered. He was as broad as he was tall, wearing tan cargo trousers, boots laced tight and uniform, and a black crewcut t shirt that showed every muscle on his torso. His biceps were large, easily the size of your head, and his left arm had a full sleeve of black tattoos. He was also wearing a black cap, with the peak facing forward, and a black surgical mask, the type you hadn’t seen on a civilian since the pandemic days. The cap was pulled low over his eyes, so you could barely make out an inch of his face.

“That’s her son?” You asked, turning to your line manager, Julia, who seemed far more interested in her chart than the militant, mysterious man who had just walked into reception. “The ‘sweet boy who looks after me ever so well’?” You quoted Mrs. Riley directly, from the conversation you’d had with her just this morning.

Mrs. Riley had moved into the care home you worked at as an administrator less than a week ago. She had no end-of-life ailments, she was just a sweet old lady who needed more care around the house than could be provided by her children. She was quiet, but also kind, and she spoke non-stop of her son, her sweet Simon, who would be visiting her any day now. You’d expected a kindly, baby-faced young man, not the hard muscled hulk of a man who was clenching his fists and surveying the reception area like he expected assassins to jump out from behind the magazine racks.

“He might be sweet.” Nicole, a young care assistant, leant over the reception desk to join in on your conversation, her eyes glued to your new arrival. “He’s hot, that’s for sure.”

“So sweet he put his mum in a care home.” Julia reminded you both, with raised eyebrows.

“He’s military.” You said. “Must be away a lot, right? Maybe there was no other choice. He’s paying for it all, apparently.”

You blinked when both of the girls stared at you.

“What?” You asked.

“How do you know he’s in the military?”

“Oh.” You blushed a little. “His bootlaces. My dad served in Afghanistan before he died.”

“No wonder you’re still single if you’re looking at his laces.”

“Nicole! You can’t say – Oh shit, he’s coming over.”

“Haha, bye!”

Julia and Nicole suddenly disappeared from the reception desk and you fought off the urge to curse them as you saw that the scary looking man was indeed walking over to you. He stopped in front of the desk, looming over it, and you. You peered up at him looking down on you, eyes shadowed under the cap and above the mask. They were brown, and hooded in a sort of resigned boredom. You felt like you were standing at the bottom of a mountain and looking up at the peak.

“Are you still allowing visitors, ma’am? I’m later than I was expecting to be.”

His accent was gruff, cockney, low and muffled incrementally by the mask he wore. It wasn’t out of place to wear a mask in a care home, and it was easy to believe that he was just being cautious, but everything from his attire to his guarded, boxy stance and the cagey look in his eyes told you he did not want to be looked at.

“Oh.” You were caught off guard by such a polite question from someone who looked like they could snap you like a dry twig – who looked like they did snap people like dry twigs on a regular basis.

You glanced at the clock. 3.40pm.

“There’s still 20 minutes left.” You opened the sign in book and pushed it across the desk with a pen. “Could you sign in here, please?”

He took the pen and you noticed that he was wearing gloves. Black gloves with skeletal hands printed on them, mimicking where the bones would be under his flesh.

He wrote his name down in the next available box. Simon Riley. Your eyes travelled over his arms while he did. They were thick with muscle, his tattoo sleeve was made up of skulls and guns, his biceps were vascular. The sound of the book being pushed back across the desk made you blink and look up. He was staring at you, his brown eyes hard as flint, and clearly unimpressed that he’d caught you staring.

“Uh, thanks.” You blushed, looking down at the book. He’d written 3.41pm as the sign in time and left the sign out time blank. Feeling guilty, you wrote 4pm down in the sign out box.

“There. You signed out at 4pm. You can stay as long as you like.”

His eyes wavered.

“Thanks.” It was a short, gruff remark and you knew that you weren’t forgiven for your misstep, but you could also tell that he hadn’t been expecting the generous action.

He walked from the desk without another word and through the second set of doors to the resident’s rooms like he’d been there before. Every single person in the reception stared at him until he disappeared and he didn’t acknowledge any of them. Maybe they were too short for him to see.

The next time you saw him was a little after 5pm. The reception was largely empty now, but even so, he was hard to miss – tall and built and intimidating. You glanced up on instinct and were surprised to find his eyes on you. He didn’t drop the eye contact, giving you a curt nod before he left through the double doors.

You blushed furiously, a result of that burning gaze.

…

He came back two days later.

You hadn’t expected it at all, bent down behind the reception desk to retrieve a file for Nicole, before straightening up and nearly jumping out of your skin when you saw the imposing figure of Simon Riley standing in front of the desk, unnaturally still like a statue. He was wearing jeans this time, and a black hoodie that was zipped up all the way, the hood pulled up over his head. He was still wearing the same black surgical mask and black skeletal gloves. You could see a tuft of blond hair peaking out from under his hood. The sight of his forehead gave you more of an indication of his age. He looked younger than you’d initially suspected. He looked different from the last time you’d seen him, too, if only for the fact that he was chuckling quietly.

“Scare you?” He asked rhetorically. The timbre of his voice struck you all over again. Gravelly. Deep. Like he’d been punched in the throat and never recovered.

“Yeah, sorry.” You shook your head, trying to not blush again and probably failing spectacularly. “Didn’t even hear you.”

He chuckled again, but this time to himself, like he was enjoying a quiet joke that you weren’t in on.

“Visiting mum?” You asked, putting Nicole’s file to the side and reaching for the sign in book.

“No, I’m here for the jelly.”

“It’s good jelly, understandable.” You joked, picking up on his sarcastic remark.

His eyes narrowed at your response, not in a nasty way, but rather like he was sizing you up.

He wrote his name down in the book and pushed it back to you.

“What do I call you?” He asked, inclining his head down to the book as you closed it and put it away.

It felt like you told him your name under duress. Did he even realise how intimidating his eyes were? How intense? Maybe they weren’t, maybe it was just particularly striking because you couldn’t see the rest of his face. You burned with the question of why he wore the mask. He was a big guy, and very attractive in a terrifying sort of way. You supposed his size and his razor straight confidence spoke to your cavewoman instincts, but then his guarded attitude and attire spoke to your gut instincts, and neither one of them could figure out what was more important.

You couldn’t imagine he was ugly, though, his eyes were too nice for him to be ugly.

He nodded in acknowledgment of your name before he took off for the resident’s rooms. You were so distracted by him that you nearly jumped again when the next person asked for your help, and you could even see them this time.

The third time you saw Simon Riley was outside of the entrance, on your way inside.

You were running late to your shift – your stupid bus hadn’t turned up and forced you to use a later service – clutching your bag, your coat and your water bottle and succeeding in tripping over your own feet in your haste to get inside.

“Easy.” It was a gruff voice in your ear and a firm hand gripping your upper arm and keeping you still as your water bottle tumbled out of your grip, rolled across the concrete ground and hit the brick wall of the building.

you recognised that coarse accent immediately and looked up to see Simon peering down at you curiously. He wasn’t wearing his hoodie this time, probably with it being a relatively warm day in drizzly Manchester. His shirt was crewcut, simple, black, and his surgical mask and cap were covering most of his face and head, the hand gripping your arm was gloved. Those damn skeletal gloves. Your eyes tracked the ink staining his skin as you looked at his tattoo sleeve, and it was only under the natural light that you really noticed the scars littering his flesh. Some of them were puckered marks and others were long, thin lines, pale white and pink and red, depending on how old and how big and how deep they were.

He released your arm and you blinked. He was unwaveringly still. You hoped he hadn’t noticed you staring at the scars on his arm, but you doubted that you’d gotten away with it. He seemed to notice everything, even now, his eyes were tracking your every movement.

This was the first time you’d been next to Simon without a desk between you and it made him so much bigger now. He was broad, he was eclipsing the sun in the sky behind him as he towered over you. You could smell him now. Soap. Deodorant. Something tangy you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“Thank you.” You said. He grunted and looked away from you and it was like the spell was over and your brain could finally focus on something else other than endless brown pools.

You spotted your water bottle by the wall and began to rearrange your bag and your coat to give yourself a free hand. You heard boots on concrete and watched as Simon walked a few steps and picked your bottle up. It looked tiny in his hand. He didn’t hand it back to you, instead he walked to the entrance doors and stood in front of them, letting his weight trigger the sensors that opened them.

“After you.” He said, inclining his head inside, his eyes still focused on you, like you were the only thing in the world.

“Oh, thank you.” You hurried forward, pink-cheeked, and he watched you pass him and trailed behind you.

Julia stared at you as you approached the desk, so did a few others, but Simon was only looking at you as he held his hand out. You took your bottle back.

“Thank you.” You said again, not even realising that you were repeating yourself. You just couldn’t relax around him. He was too big; his gaze was too intense. His aura was off, somehow. Different to anyone you’d ever met before. It was something that made him…dangerous? You weren’t sure. Not safe. That was more accurate.

“Got the book?” He asked gruffly.

Julia passed it to you, and you tried not to look flustered as you opened it. Simon wrote his name and the time in, left the pen on the desk, nodded at you, and then disappeared through the doors and down the hall. Simon Riley was enemy number one to lingering, apparently.

“He gives me the creeps.” Julia said, inciting a murmur of agreement from your surrounding colleagues.

You walked around the desk silently. You hung up your coat and put your bag down under your chair.

“Why does he cover his face?” Someone murmured.

“Probably dental, knowing this country.” A man replied.

“Or he’s on the run from the police.” A particularly salacious suggestion. “Can you imagine?”

“Why would he be on the run from the police?”

“Fucking size of him. Looks like he’d attack anyone who got too close.”

“He’s got cruel eyes. Only part of him you can see.”

“Should we even be leaving him alone with Mrs. Riley?”

You put your water bottle down on the desk far harder than necessary. Everyone stopped talking and stared at you. You were staring at the bottle, where the metal had scuffed where it had rolled across the concrete.

“Alright, love?” Julia asked kindly. “I was worried about you when you didn’t clock in.”

“Yeah.” You said blankly. “Sorry. Bus was late.”

…

The paramedics swarmed in down the corridor and you got yourself out of the way, watching a little helplessly as Nicole hurried past you and followed them.

You went back to the reception desk, still trying to look through the doors and down the corridor like it might give you any answers.

“What’s happened?” Julia asked, coming out of the back office.

“Mrs. Riley fell.” You explained. “She got out of bed to use the bathroom and tumbled.”

“Is she okay?” Julia looked concerned.

“I don’t know.” You admitted. “I hope so.”

It was a little over an hour later when Nicole came to the desk, the paramedics filing out behind her and leaving the care home.

“Is everything okay?” You asked.

Nicole nodded before she spoke.

“Yeah, she’s fine. Nothing is broken, thank god. The paramedics looked at her heart and her blood pressure, and they don’t think she needs to go to the hospital, we just have to monitor her for the next twelve hours to make sure.”

You nodded, relieved it wasn’t more serious. She was a tough girl, Mrs. Riley, it must have run in the family.

“We should call-“

“Already have.” Nicole interjected. “He’s on his way.”

“Right, good.”

“Listen, I’ve got to check on the other residents. Sally phoned in sick and Joe got called to another home last minute. I don’t suppose you could sit with her for a little bit? I know it’s not your job, but…”

“It’s fine.” You assured her immediately. “Go, I’ll sit in as long as I need to.”

She gave you a grateful smile before leaving the reception. You headed through the doors and to Mrs. Riley’s room, knocking gently.

“Mrs. Riley?” You called softly, opening the door and closing it gently behind you. “I heard you had a little fall.”

Mrs. Riley looked fine to you, if a little drawn out and tired. She was in her 70’s, her blonde hair greyed, and she smiled when she saw you.

“Oh, hello, my darling. Yes, it’s all a big fuss over nothing.”

“It wasn’t a fuss, they were keeping you safe.” You smiled as you perched on a chair beside her bed. Her skin crinkled around her brown eyes as she laughed.

“Don’t tell me they’ve asked you to babysit me, darling. You’ve got important work to do.”

“I certainly have.” You agreed. “I’ve got to spend time with you. I thought I could sneak in here and we could watch a few episodes of All Creatures Great and Small."

Mrs. Riley’s eyes lit up at the mention of her favourite show. You sat with her for the best part of an hour while Mrs. Riley ate strawberry jelly from her food tray and you were both discussing what good marriage material Siegfried would make when the door opened and Simon stormed in. He was wearing a black hoodie, but he looked soaked through. You weren’t surprised, with the rain lashing down on the windows.

His eyes looked wild, concerned, before narrowing into slits as he walked straight past you and knelt down by the bed.

“Oh, my sweet Simon.” Mrs. Riley cooed, taking his face in her hands and pulling his hood down. He had short, blond hair. You looked away immediately, feeling as though you weren’t allowed to see. “You didn’t need to come all the way here.”

“Of course I did.” Simon’s voice cracked and your head whipped to them both, surprised by it. He was holding his mother’s wrists where she was holding his cheeks. His eyes were wide and open when he looked at her. “You scared me.”

“Silly boy.” She wiped rainwater from his eyes with her thumbs. “Sweet boy. Everything is fine.”

His eyes fluttered closed and your expression softened. It was like watching an entirely different person. That strange feeling that you’d gotten before, of danger and apprehension, it all melted away when you saw him like this, knelt and seeking comfort, a boy with his mum.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” He sounded infinitely more relaxed, his eyes still closed. “I was…”

“It’s okay. I know you’re busy. Your work is important.” She said. “I’ve been looked after.”

Mrs. Riley smiled at you, and Simon opened his eyes and looked at you, too. You swallowed, shuffling from one foot to the other. Simon’s burning gaze was one thing, but this open expression made you feel uncomfortable. Not because you didn’t like it, but because you knew you were intruding on something intimate and private and not meant for you.

“I’ll leave you to it.” You said quickly. “I’ll just be at the desk if you need anything.”

Simon turned his attention back to his mother and you shut the door and went back to the reception desk. You could hear your colleagues murmuring and you had a pretty good idea what they were talking about.

“Don’t any of you have any work to do?” You snapped. You earned yourself a few glares, and a few more surprised looks, but they slunk off and left you alone regardless.

The rain got heavier and heavier as the evening went on, so did the wind, until it felt like the building was swaying from side to side. When you clocked out, it was a little after midnight, and you were exhausted. You hated this late shift, the only one you did a week, because it was a little bit too close to the last bus of the night for your liking.

You collected your stuff and grimaced at the lashing rain as you pulled your coat hood up and walked outside. You were soaked within minutes, and halfway across the car park when you pulled your phone out, shielded it from the rain with your hand and pulled up your travel app. You groaned loudly.

“What’s wrong?”

You whirled around in the middle of the carpark. Simon was stood there, half-illuminated by a streetlight casting an orange glow down on the vicinity. If you thought he looked intimidating normally, in the rain at midnight was a different story.

“I didn’t know you were still here.” You said. He’d crept up on you again.

“Mum finally went to sleep.” He said, spitting rainwater from his surgical mask with every movement of his lips. “She made me watch a show about a goat. Or a vicar. I couldn’t figure it out.”

You laughed, losing the fight with the wind and letting your coat hood blow down, soaking your hair to your scalp.

“Why are you standing in the rain?” He asked you.

“My last bus got cancelled.” You said. “Severe weather alert.”

He might have grunted; it might have been the wind. “I’ll give you a lift.”

You blinked in surprise. He didn’t seem to be joking. Maybe you should have been more apprehensive of such an offer, maybe you might have been before, but after seeing him with his mother, you knew you didn’t have anything to fear.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“It’s pissing down.” He grunted, fishing his car keys from his pocket. Lights flashed on something big and black a few spaces down from where you were standing. “Get in.”

You didn’t argue any further. You opened the passenger door and climbed in. It was dry inside the car and you shuddered from the chill of the rain as Simon got into the driver’s side. The screen on the dash came to life, connecting to his phone as he put his seatbelt on. You could have sworn the word Ghost flashed up on the screen before he reached across and thumbed a plastic button with his gloved finger. You made a little noise of surprise and appreciation as warm air started to fill the car. You were soaked to the bone, your clothes sticking uncomfortably to you. You peeled your coat off and stuck your hands out in front of the warm jets of air.

“Thank you.” You said.

“You say that a lot.” Simon made no move to remove his wet hoodie or wet mask. He did peel a sodden glove off of one hand with the other one and brought it up to the screen, calling up a sat nav with his bare fingertips. His hand was normal. A man’s hand. He had long fingers and scars on his knuckles from years of flesh splitting with every punch thrown.

“Where am I going?” He asked, inclining his head to you.

You rattled off your address without even thinking about it, forgetting for a moment that this man was a complete stranger, and not just a stranger, but a stranger you were fairly sure was a soldier, which meant he’d probably killed people before.

Simon drove out of the car park and you watched the little pulsing light on his sat nav as it pointed in the direction of your flat with more intensity than you’d meant to. You didn’t know what else to do with your face.

“I’m not kidnapping you.” He said gruffly, as if reading your mind. “There are easier ways to do it than this.”

“Like what?” You asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“Chloroform, plastic bag, good old-fashioned choking. No need to waste time on sweet talking.” He glanced over to you.

You shivered, and not because you were scared.

“This is sweet talking?” You laughed.

“It worked on you.” He quipped.

You shook your head with a resigned laugh, rubbing your forehead and scowling at how wet your face was. You must have looked a state.

“Should I be worried you know so much about kidnapping?”

He chuckled, eyes back on the road ahead. “You’ve got a good sense of humour for a drowned rat.” He flicked on the indicator and turned down another road. The headlights illuminated the roads in front of you. “I’ve met my match.”

“Crack a lot of jokes, do you?”

“Sometimes, when duty calls.”

You looked over at him. He was concentrating on the road, his one gloved hand and his one bare hand gliding over the steering wheel.

“You’re in the army?” You ventured.

His eyes snapped to you, and you looked at the road ahead, your cheeks burning.

“How’d you figure that out?” He asked.

You shrugged, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. “Dad was. You seem the type.”

He was silent for a long moment, and then: “I’m a Lieutenant.”

You nodded at the road, pleased that your intuition had been correct.

The conversation lapsed into silence after that, with neither of you really knowing what to say.

“Thanks,” Simon said finally. “For looking after mum.”

“Oh.” You fiddled with your fingers. “No problem. She’s lovely.”

It went quiet again, and soon after, Simon busied himself with slowing down to a crawl on your street, looking for your flat number. You opened your mouth to say that anywhere here was fine, but it only took him a moment to identify the building and pull up on the side of the road, right next to the front door.

“Safe and sound.” He said, looking at you. As soon as the car stopped moving, the rain began lashing even louder against the metal frame. It served to offset the comparative silence inside.

You gathered your sopping wet coat in your hands and thought about apologising for getting his passenger seat wet, but just the thought of the derisive look he’d give you stopped you. “Thanks, Simon.”

“Hmm.” He made a low noise, like he wasn’t expecting to hear his name. “Phone.” He said.

“What?” You asked.

“Your phone, give it to me.”

You passed your phone over with a bemused look on your face, wondering briefly if he was going to check it for bugs or something, but instead he just tapped the screen a few times and passed it back to you.

“My number.” He explained. “In case you get stranded again.”

You felt like it was a bizarre thank you gesture for sitting in with his mother, like some mafia-esque loyalty, and you were so confused by it that you forgot to realise that Simon had just given you his number.

“T-“

“Don’t say it.”

You pursed your lips, fighting off a smile.

Simon was looking you up and down, and you thought he was going to tell you something, before he apparently decided against it, looking back at the dashboard instead.

“Go on, get inside before you catch a cold.”

You hoped he’d never heard the way the people at the nursing home spoke about him. You also had no idea why that thought popped into your head at this moment.

“Yes, sir.” You smirked at him, opening the car door and hoping out. “Getting inside, sir.”

Simon shook his head, and then he laughed. “You’re a fucking nightmare, girl.” He said, and it might have been the first time you’d heard such warmth in his voice.

You gave him a stupid smile before you shut the door. You watched him drive away before you let yourself into your flat. You wanted to grimace at the wet clothes clinging to you, or scowl at how tired you were, but you didn’t.

You just smiled.

…

The days passed, and you didn’t see Simon again.

He didn’t come into the care home at all and you briefly wondered if he was actively avoiding your shift schedule, maybe regretting giving you his number, until Nicole lamented that she hadn’t seen the hot army man in a few days.

You supposed it was a little odd, he didn’t usually leave it this long between his visits, but then you didn’t really know him at all and this could have been completely normal behaviour. You didn’t look up every time the entrance doors opened, you certainly didn’t scan the car park every time you walked across it, and you definitely didn’t check his contact in your phone to see if he’d messaged you and the notification hadn’t popped up. What you did admit to doing was appreciate that you were acting like a schoolgirl, and that it needed to stop.

Luckily, the perfect distraction was right on the horizon. It was your mother’s 60th birthday party at the weekend and she’d invited you and other family and friends to a garden party at your childhood home. The forecast was for sun.

You went to the shops after work, buying her an expensive perfume she favoured, and a box of her favourite chocolates. You picked a card that was purple, with a teddy bear on the front holding a love heart that said, ‘I love you, mum!’ on it in gold print. You thought about all of the older women at the care home that spoke incessantly of their children who you’d never seen visit, and your chest constricted a little. You loved your mum, she was the only parent you had left, and you were only just realising how much you were neglecting your precious time together.

Saturday came around quickly. It was indeed as sunny outside as the forecast had predicted and you put on a cute sundress with yellow flowers and a little bit of makeup before you made your way to your childhood home. It wasn’t far from where you lived now.

You said hello to your mum and gave her her gifts. She hugged you before you went into the garden. There was a gazebo up over a table full of ice buckets, prosecco and finger food. A fair few of your relatives were already ploughing through the prosecco, judging by the raucous laughter you could hear.

“Hey there, gorgeous.” Your stepdad flung his arm around your shoulder and pulled you against his side.

“Oh, hi Clive.” You said, trying to hide your uncomfortable wince as he stroked his thumb over your bare upper arm. Your mum had married Clive a few years ago. You were happy for her, that she wasn’t alone anymore and she had someone to look after her, but you’d never exactly gotten on. He’d always lingered around you, and you didn’t like it.

Finally, he released you and you side-stepped away, nearly jumping when your mum offered you a glass of chilled prosecco, which you took and sipped quickly.

It didn’t take long for a gaggle of aunts and cousins to surround you, asking you questions about work and probing questions about your personal life because, of course, being unmarried and childless at your age was the hot topic of discussion at any event.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Your auntie asked you, and everyone in the immediate vicinity stared at you like your answer would hold the secrets of the universe.

“No, no, not at the minute.”

“There must be someone you like. Are there any nice men at that care home you work at?”

You blushed. “None under the age of 70.”

The tirade of questions began again, about how you couldn’t wait around forever to get married and how the biological clock was ticking, and Clive putting his hand on your shoulder made you jump.

“Come on, why don’t you help me check on the chicken, sweetheart?” He gave you a toothy smile and a knowing wink.

“Yeah, okay.” Goosepimples erupted on your flesh but then he dropped your shoulder and the pair of you went into the kitchen. You sipped your drink as he opened the oven and checked on the chicken roasting inside. It smelt pretty good, actually.

“Thank you for saving me.” You rolled your eyes at the absurdity of it.

“It’s okay.” He grinned. “Those vultures should know better. You’ll find someone when the time is right, there’s no point rushing it.” He lent against the counter, crossing his arms, and looked you up and down. You suddenly regretted the yellow sundress you were wearing, wishing instead for trousers and a hoodie. “You’ve grown up into a beautiful young woman, you won’t have any trouble finding a man.”

“Thanks.” You forced a smile, trying to relax. You were sure he didn’t realise how creepy he actually came across, especially when he was married to your mother. Some people were just overly friendly, right?

“Just being honest, sweetheart. You’ll attract any man looking like that.” He smirked, toothy and wide. “And not for nothing, but your tits look great in that dress.”

It was either like the planet slowing down to a stop or having ice cold water thrown on top of you, you couldn’t quite tell. Your stepdad was still grinning that lechery grin at you, chuckling at his joke. You weren’t laughing.

“Come on, let’s go back outside before anyone wonders what we’re up to.” He waggled his eyebrows at you. You started to walk outside of the kitchen like an automaton, like your feet were made of lead. You felt him walking behind you, and then you felt his hand trailing down your back. You nearly snapped the neck of your prosecco glass.

He left you alone in the garden, finding a group of your uncles to talk to, and you just stood there for a moment, wondering what the fuck you were supposed to do. Did you tell your mum? Were you overreacting? Would she be mad at you for ruining her birthday?

Your heart was thumping in your chest. You felt like you were going to be sick. After an age, you made a decision. You had to get out of there or your prosecco was going to make a reappearance. You needed to go home and then find the biggest jumper you owned and cover up forever.

“Mum.” You said. Both your mum and Clive looked up at you. He was draped over her. His eyes tracked down your chest. You held your glass strategically.

“Yes, love?” She beamed at you. You felt like the world’s biggest arsehole. Why couldn’t you just let it go?

“Um, I’m really sorry but I’m going to have to go, my last bus leaves in half an hour.” A total lie, they were running every half hour until midnight, but you couldn’t think of any other way of leaving without inevitably having to explain why.

“Oh, love.” Your mum’s face dropped.

“It’s alright.” Clive said, hugging your mum closer to his side. “I’ll drop you back whenever you want, you can stay as long as you like.”

“Oh, that’s kind.” Your mum’s face brightened up. “Isn’t that kind, sweetheart? You can stay for food. I don’t see you enough as it is.”

“Yeah, sounds great.” You forced a smile. There was no way of getting out of this now, and now you had to sit in a car with him, to where you lived, to where you lived alone.

You hovered by the drinks table, necking prosecco’s and wondering what the hell you were meant to do.

You were sure Clive would never try anything, but you sure as hell didn’t want to put it to chance. How were you meant to escape? How were you meant to convince that prick to leave you alone? You weren’t scary or intimidating.

You got your phone out and blamed it entirely on the alcohol when you pulled up Simon’s number. You stared at it for a long time. Did you really want to do this? Would he even come? Why did you want him to? You hadn’t seen him in nearly two weeks, what if he’d forgotten all about you.

He’d given you this number in case you got stranded again. He wanted you to contact him if you needed help.

The image of Simon’s brown eyes flashed across your mind, that burning look he always gave you. You were sure he’d hurt people, but not you, he’d look after you.

You dialed before you could talk yourself out of it, knowing that he wouldn’t answer.

He answered on the second ring.

“Hello?” That coarse accent. The greeting was barked.

“Simon.” You whispered into the receiver. “It’s me.”

There was a beat of silence, just a beat.

“What’s happened?”

“Can you come and get me please?” You really blamed the alcohol, you knew you’d start crying if he said no.

“Where are you?”

You were surprised, relieved, excited. You rattled off your mum’s address quickly.

“I’m on the way. Are you safe?”

It struck you as an odd question, a prepared question.

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine.”

“Don’t move.”

The line went dead but you didn’t put your phone down for a moment. You knew Simon never lingered, but was his haste because of that, or because of how quickly he was grabbing his car keys and heading out? His only hesitancy was to make sure you weren’t in so much danger he had time to reach you. You bit your lip and tried not to cry in front of everyone.

You had no idea where Simon was coming from, nor any idea when he’d get to you, so you composed yourself in the bathroom, grabbed another glass of prosecco – your fifth? – and made conversation with one of your cousins. She’d just had a baby, so you didn’t have to do any of the talking.

The party, getting louder and louder with more alcohol consumed, suddenly hushed to whispers and you turned to look.

The crowd parted like the red sea as Simon walked across the garden purposefully. His gloved fists were clenched, he was wearing khaki cargo trousers, black boots polished to a gleam and a dark top hiked up over his wide forearms, showing off a hint of muscle and ink beneath. He wasn’t wearing a mask, or a cap or a hood, instead he had a balaclava pulled over his face, with a skeletal jaw printed over the front of his mouth. His eyes were the only part of his face that was visible, blackened with war paint, narrowed and furious. He’d never looked more menacing than he did in that moment.

Every member of your family fell silent and shrank back, but you didn’t, the relief you felt was almost palpable.

He stopped in front of you, his eyes raking over you, taking in your dress and your drink, and you imagined he had a few questions about why you’d dragged him here.

“Are you ready to go?” He asked, although his voice left no room for argument.

You nodded immediately, putting your drink down. “Yes, please.”

“Love, who is this?” Your mum asked, giving you a puzzled look, and then giving Simon a horrified one.

Simon didn’t react, he didn’t move, he didn’t stop glaring and he didn’t release his fists.

“A friend, mum.” You said, the prosecco helped the words come easier to your mouth. “He offered to pick me up.”

“Wait, hold on a minute,” Clive moved in front of you, between you and Simon, puffing his chest out. “You’re not going anywhere with this man. He looks dangerous.”

Everyone was staring at you, erupting into whispers, some of them were even pointing. Not exactly the sneaky exit you’d been planning.

Simon’s eyes moved from you to your stepdad, narrowing as they did, like he had a sixth sense for picking up on exactly what the danger was. A sense, or years of experience.

“Sorry to drag her away,” Simon turned to your mother, relaxing his voice a little. “It’s a work thing, I’m afraid, it’s important.”

“Yeah, sorry mum, I’ve got to run.”

Your mum nodded, even though she looked confused and concerned. Clive shook his head, prodding Simon right in the chest.

“Listen here, mate, you can’t come onto my property and accost my daughter. I’ll call…”

Simon looked down slowly, lowering his shoulders to really peer right into Clive’s face, emphasizing the height difference between them.

“Try me, old man.” He growled. “I’ve put better men in the ground for less.”

It wasn’t even his threat that twisted your stomach, it was the growl in his voice. He was speaking a language your pussy understood and responded to with a clench.

Clive’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Your mum looked startled. You gave her a hug.

“It’s fine, mum, I promise. He’s a friend. From work.”

Your mum nodded a little plainly, stroking your back as she hugged you. “Okay, my love, thank you for coming. I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah, I’ll call you. Love you. Happy birthday.”

You gave Clive a blank look as you passed him, heading back into the house. You didn’t hear Simon follow you, but you knew he was, looming over you like a shadow.

When you got into his car, you watched in silence as he got into the driver’s side. He didn’t speak to you, he just peeled away from the house far quicker than you were expecting, throwing you around in the seat. The prosecco sloshed unhappily in your belly.

You peeked at him. He was glaring at the road ahead. He looked so furious that you half-expected him to throw you from the car while it was still moving.

“Thank you for coming.” You said, your voice small.

“What happened?” He barked, as if your remark had broken whatever was stopping him from talking.

You pursed your lips, suddenly embarrassed, and trying to find the words to explain yourself, to ask his forgiveness for dragging him there, for your overreaction and for wasting his time.

“It’s okay.” He assured you, his voice forcibly softer. It broke the tension like a hammer on granite. “You’re safe now.”

Your eyes welled up and he glanced over at you. His brown eyes weren’t angry, they were concerned. It knocked the air out of your lungs.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Here.” He clicked a button somewhere on the steering wheel and his dash screen started playing something quietly.

“I love Sleep Token.” You sniffed.

You heard him chuckle. You wanted to ask him so many questions, but you figured you owed him a few answers first.

“It was my stepdad.” You said quietly, chewing on your lip.

“The shrimp?”

A laugh erupted from you. Hearing that, and seeing how much bigger Simon was compared to him, made him look a lot less scary in your eyes. It relaxed you.

“You don’t have to explain arsehole dads to me.” He grunted, then ironically: “What did he do?”

“He, uh…”

Simon glanced at you again, noticing the way that you were hesitating. “Yeah?” He encouraged gently.

You didn’t know if he was actively choosing to be gentle with you, or if he wanted to be, but regardless, it made you feel safe with him.

You wiped your nose with the back of your hand. “He’s just a creep. He said something gross and…I don’t know, I didn’t feel safe.”

“What did he say?”

Your eyes hit the foot well. “He said my tits look good in this dress.”

Simon’s gloved hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“You shouldn’t have told me where he lives.” He said, his voice dangerously low.

“Why not?” You asked.

“Because I’ll kill him.”

It sent a shiver down your spine, because you knew he meant it. You weren’t even thinking about what an insane thing that was to say, you were thinking about someone going to those lengths to defend your honour. Your cheeks burned.

Simon pulled up on the side of the road outside of your flat – without putting your address in the sat nav, you noticed – and you didn’t know what to say.

It was silent, and awkward, for a few moments, until: “You look lovely.” Simon said, still looking extraordinarily pissed off. “Don’t let an arsehole make you feel bad for that.”

You blushed even harder, looking down at your dress. “Thank you.”

“Go on, get inside. Sleep that drink off.”

“You can come in, if you like.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Just for a bit.” You entreated. “He knows where I live and…” It wasn’t a complete lie. You were worried about Clive driving over in a fit of rage, but mostly you didn’t want to watch Simon drive away from you, not again, not yet.

“Fine, for a little bit.” He acquiesced, his tone suggesting he hated the idea.

You felt a little embarrassed opening the door to your flat, praying it was relatively clean and you didn’t have any errant pairs of underwear lying around. Simon trailed in behind you, standing in the hallway and looking very out of place, not sure what to do with his big body. It made you smile.

“Tea?” You offered.

“Yeah,” he relaxed a bit. “Thanks.”

“Sugar?” You asked, showing him to the kitchen.

“No,” he huffed, like it was funny. “I’m sweet enough.”

…

Simon rolled his balaclava under his nose to drink his tea, giving you your first view of his mouth. He was clean shaven, his lips looked soft, his teeth straight. You could see the beginnings of a scar on his top lip, denting it, pulling it up slightly, but the black fabric hid the rest of it from view.

You were curled up on the other end of the sofa, a pair of pj bottoms on under your sundress.

You focused on your own tea.

“Never seen the balaclava before.” You mused out loud.

There was a beat of silence.

“Wasn’t expecting to see civilians today.” He didn’t say anything else on the topic. Right. Army. Lieutenant. That explained his militant attire. You suddenly realised you might have pulled him from work.

“Oh my god, were you at a base or something? I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head. “It’s fine. I landed about an hour before you called. I was just doing paperwork before I went home myself.”

“Landed?” You asked, eyebrows raised. “Like a deployment?”

“Yeah, 10-day stretch.” He explained. He didn’t question your knowledge on the military; he remembered what you’d said about your father. “Fucking knackered to tell you the truth.” Your face betrayed that your brain was working overtime, and he chuckled and took pity on you. “I’m in the S.A.S.”

“Oh!” You suddenly understood so many things, and even less at the same time. So, Simon was scary – scary, then. “It might be pointless of me to ask where you’ve been, then.”

“Maybe a little.”

He hadn’t been avoiding you, then, he’d been god knows where doing god knows what. You wondered how many people he’d killed on his mission, how many people had tried to kill him, how many times he’d nearly died. You didn’t like the knot that thought created in your stomach.

“Why don’t you stay here tonight?” You said. “And don’t just say no. It’s the least I can do to thank you for today. You got me out of a tight spot.”

Simon actually looked a little relieved that he didn’t have to drive anymore today. “Thank you.” He said quietly. “Your mum didn’t look too happy to see me.”

You snorted. “You’re a single man with a working penis. I bet she was fucking thrilled.”

Simon’s head snapped to you and you froze.

“Oh, no. I just… before you came, they were saying about…me being single and…forget I said it. You might not be single. You might not have a…”

Simon smirked and you fell silent, not sure what to say.

“I’m single.” He assured you. “And it works just fine.”

You barely managed to stop blushing when you gave Simon blankets and closed your bedroom door. You put on a clean pj top and crawled into bed, but your heart was hammering as you stared up at the ceiling.

Simon was right on the other side of the wall, probably taking off his mask to sleep, maybe even slipping his cargo trousers off.

You rolled over and wrapped the duvet around yourself, trying to clear your mind and sleep.

Both were impossible.

…

You had about a thousand missed calls from your mum and from Clive, but you didn’t answer them, not yet. You were far too happy with your life at the moment, and you really had no idea why. Your relationship with your stepdad was irreparably damaged, at least from where you were standing, and your entire family had seen you walk off with a masked brute, after vehemently denying having a boyfriend. And the masked brute in question was a semi-acquaintance from your place of work who seemed to feel so sorry for you that he’d started basically babysitting you.

You didn’t care about any of that. Simon had come and saved you, perhaps in a very loose sense of the word, but he still had. He’d spent ten days abroad doing classified and almost certainly highly dangerous work and instead of going home and resting, he’d come to your aid with no questions asked. Well, one question. Are you safe?

Simon had left before you’d woken up the next morning, leaving your blankets and pillows folded up on the sofa far neater than you’d ever managed. Those military corners. You didn’t mind that he'd left. He’d just gotten back from deployment. The idea that you’d given him a place to rest, just for a few hours, made you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

The truth was that you liked him, more than you should have done. He might have been closed off and mysterious, but he made you feel warm and safe whenever you were around him, like no one could hurt you, like no one would ever hurt you again.

You found yourself daydreaming about him wrapping his strong arms around you and holding you tight, how warm and safe he’d feel, how you’d burrow in him and never come out again.

The excitement in your gut was nearly overwhelming when you clocked in. You put all your stuff away and stared at the entrance doors. You could have vibrated to the moon with how anxious and excited you were to see him again.

Nicole lent on the desk with her elbows and smirked at you. “Your boyfriend is here.”

“He isn’t my…” You lowered your voice, trying not to gather the attention of anyone around you. You imagined Simon hearing her say that, and the look he would give you. He wouldn’t be embarrassed or pleased, he’d probably be pissed off, or at best, crack some sort of dry joke about it. The cold, closed off soldier was a flirt, even if he did try to hide it. “Is he?”

“Yeah, he’s in with his mum. He brought someone along, this time.”

“Really?” You wondered who someone like Simon would bring to visit his ailing mother. Your brain immediately went to a wife, but then you remembered him saying that he was single the other night. You chewed your lip. Ex-wife, perhaps? Your stomach churned with jealousy.

In any case, you didn’t bother him in his visiting time. Instead you focused on getting your own work done: signing people in, filing paperwork, getting various requisitions signed and sent off, all that thrilling stuff, while keeping half an eye on the clock for the end of visiting time, which was dragging ever nearer.

You wondered exactly what you’d say to him when you saw him. Would you talk about the other night? Would he want to acknowledge that he’d spent the night on your couch, would he want to know what happened with your family?

You turned a corner in the corridor, heading to the kitchen for some much needed coffee, but stopped immediately by the corner when you saw Simon’s back, broad and covered with his hoodie, his hood pulled up, and talking gruffly to a man lent against the opposite wall. This must have been the friend he’d brought along. He looked older than Simon did, with dark, slightly shaggy hair, stubble on his jaw, dressed in jeans and a jacket and slumping against the wall. The two of them had similar features and similar builds, and yet looked like two entirely contrasting individuals.

“It’s a good place.” Simon was saying defensively, keeping his voice intentionally low. “The people are nice. She likes it here.”

“You put our mother in a fucking home, you wanker.”

You saw Simon’s gloved fists clench.

“What choice did I have? I could get called out at any minute and be gone for days. I might not come back.”

“She could have lived with me, arsehole.”

“No, she couldn’t.” Simon growled.

“Why not?” His brother’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

“You’re a drunk, sorry, piece of shit.” Simon stalked forward, towering over his brother. You could only see the back of his hoodie, but you could imagine how terrifying his usually so lovely brown eyes must have looked. “You’d be in prison if your ex-wife wasn’t too fucking scared to talk to the police.”

“I can visit my own mum whenever I like.”

“Once a month, under my supervision, that’s the deal, and that’s only because I don’t want her to know anything. She’s been through enough without knowing you’re just like him.”

Simon’s brother looked away from him, and saw you stood there, half hidden around the corner.

“Hi.” He called out. “Sorry, love, didn’t see you there. Ignore us.”

Simon’s back straightened and he turned. The minute he saw you, his eyes hardened to flint. You were half-expecting to see the skull balaclava again, but the surgical mask was back. The narrowed, furious glare he was giving you made you feel like the other day at the party and on your couch hadn’t even happened.

“Sorry,” you fiddled with your jumper sleeve. You’d heard a lot of things that you weren’t supposed to have heard, and Simon knew you’d heard them. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I was just heading to, uh…”

The shaggy haired man stepped aside, clearing a path for you in the corridor.

“Tommy Riley.” He introduced himself, holding out his hand. “This scary arsehole is my brother, Simon.”

You walked forward uneasily, you could feel Simon’s eyes still boring into you, and shook Tommy’s hand. Simon glared at the contact, like it was offensive for him to see it. His fists were tightly clenched.

“We already know each other.” He barked possessively.

“Oh, you do?” Tommy raised his eyebrows and then he grinned. It was toothy and cruel; it reminded you of Clive. “You sure mum is the only reason you’re hanging around here so much?”

The situation was so uncomfortable you didn’t know whether you wanted to laugh nervously or run away. Tommy was looking at you like you were a piece of meat, what did Simon just say about his ex-wife? Simon was giving you goosebumps, and not in a good way. You felt like he was going to lash out and knock his brother out any second. He hadn’t seemed so angry up until not, not until you’d showed up.

“I didn’t mean…” You tried.

“You should go.” Simon wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at Tommy, as if daring him to move or speak, but he was talking to you. His order was barked, like a lieutenant to his soldiers.

“Yeah, of course.” You squeaked. Your wavering eyes looked at him, waiting for him to tell you he’d come and find you later, or even just give you a nod goodbye as he was custom to do, but he didn’t look at you, he didn’t say anything, and you just turned around and left.

You didn’t go to the kitchen, because that would mean you would have had to walk back down this corridor again and coffee was now the last thing on your mind. You went back to the desk, sat down in your seat and stared blankly at your paperwork, trying to process everything you’d just heard.

It was hard to think of anything except the way that Simon had dismissed you, like you’d never exchanged more than two words with each other.

He wasn’t meant to hurt you.

You weren’t very productive for the rest of your shift, but you did do as much as you possibly could do in the back office, so you didn’t have to see Tommy again when he eventually left, and so you didn’t have to see Simon dismiss you again like you didn’t even exist.

…

Your mum looked like she’d been crying.

You looked at her worriedly as she wrapped her hands around her coffee and took a sip. The coffee shop you were in was relatively quiet, but you wished for some privacy. You didn’t think you could go to her house at the moment though, not after the garden party on her birthday. You still hadn’t spoken to either of them about it, and honestly, you didn’t plan to, either.

“What’s happened?” You asked softly.

“Clive moved out.” She sniffed. “We had a row after the party. He got drunk after you left and kept hitting on your aunts and your cousins, he made a lot of people very uncomfortable.”

“Oh.” You felt guilty for not saying anything at the time. Maybe if you had, you might have saved your young cousins some pain, but then you could never know if you’d have even been believed or not. “I’m sorry, mum.”

“It’s okay.” She gave you an unconvincing smile. “I told him to. I said I needed some time to think. Things haven’t been great between us for a while.”

“You never told me.” You frowned.

She shrugged and you didn’t press her. You knew she felt weird about dating other men when your dad never came back from Afghanistan, like you’d be upset with her for moving on, or something. You weren’t at all, you just wished she hadn’t picked such a creep to move on with.

“I support you,” you reached over and took her hand. “You’re strong, and beautiful, and you can do so much better.”

“Thank you,” she sniffed again, but she smiled this time.

“I’m so sorry,” you repeated, lost in your own thoughts for a moment. “I’ve been so caught up with myself lately, I…I’ll make more time for you.”

“You don’t have to do that, love. I know you’re busy.”

“I want to. All I do all day is see people cherish the time they’ve got with their family. Why don’t we go out for dinner on Saturday night, just us? Might be a bit too early to go on the pull but it might cheer you up.”

Your mum chuckled and then her eyes lit up like you’d just reminded her of something.

“So, who was that man?”

“Oh, god.” You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

“He was the biggest man I’ve ever seen! Clive was going on and on about what a weirdo he was and I was like, you’ve clearly never seen a soldier before…”

You put your hands down and saw your mum babbling on. “He’s from work.” You finally explained. “Seriously. His mum is one of the residents. He’s been visiting her.”

“Ah.”

You didn’t want to talk about this, but it was distracting your mum from her pain so you bit your tongue.

“Are you seeing each other?”

You remembered the day in the corridor. Simon’s argument with his brother, the way he’d gotten so angry when he’d seen you standing there, the way he’d told you to go away, and how you hadn’t seen him since. Your stomach tightened painfully.

“No. It’s not like that.”

“He was so hot.” Your mum whispered across the table to you. “Did you see his biceps?” She mimicked the size of them with her hands, and you went bright red, hiding in your hands again.

“Mum!” You groaned.

…

You left the care home at the end of your shift. The sun was low in the sky, it was dusk, the air was chilly and autumnal.

He was just standing there, beside the cluster of trees next to the car park, looking like a statue and watching you.

You walked over to him, unsure what to expect, cuddling yourself from the cold as you stopped in front of him. You half-expected him to tell you to get in his car, but he didn’t, he didn’t say anything. His arms were crossed, his hood was up, and he was watching you with critical eyes. He was wearing his skull-print balaclava today, which you knew meant that he hadn’t planned on coming.

“Hi.” You said lamely.

“I shouldn’t have come.” Simon responded immediately, confirming your thoughts.

“Why did you?” You asked.

“I wanted to see you.”

You didn’t know what to say, not after the day in the corridor, which he didn’t look like he was planning on talking about.

“Why?” You asked again, a little guardedly.

His eyes wavered, like he was doubting his decision.

“I leave tonight.” He said instead, sounding robotic. “Could be weeks.”

You could only imagine what deployment in the S.A.S entailed, which meant you knew what he was really saying. I might never come back. I might never see you again.

“Oh.” You felt your eyes collecting moisture. You didn’t know why. Maybe something about your dad, maybe because you liked Simon more than you should. Maybe because, even if he didn’t feel anything for you, which he most probably didn’t, you still didn’t want him to go.

“Don’t miss me.” His eyes hardened in their usual defiant, cold stare. “We can’t be anything.”

“I know that.” Still, your chest tightened. Still, you had to wipe your eyes to stop them from betraying you.

A gentle patter hit the concrete under you both, drizzle soaking your clothes to your body. The rain became a wall between you.

“I have to go.” He said, his coarse voice carrying over to you.

“Okay.” You said stupidly. The rain dripping down your face probably disguised your tears.

Simon stepped forward, closing the space between you and reaching up, swiping a gloved finger across your cheek.

“None of that.” He said softly.

You were too close to each other. Your hands found his chest and just rested there, pressing your face against his sternum.

You felt fingers under your chin, and then you were looking up at his slackened brown eyes. You kissed eachother through the fabric of his mask. It was coarse, and wet, and your hand left his chest and pushed under the black fabric until you felt his carotid artery pulsing under your fingertips.

Simon growled quietly and yanked the mask the rest of the way up, resting the bunched up black fabric on the bridge of his nose, just as he’d done the other night sitting on your couch.

Your hand touched his jaw, and the skin-on-skin contact felt electric. His brows furrowed in need and he pushed his head against your hand, like a big cat, and then his lips were on yours.

Simon made a noise low in his throat while you whimpered, his hands gripped your hips and pulled you against his front as his lips moved against yours insistently. It was raining harder now, but neither of you seemed to care.

He pulled back far too soon, his mouth parted slightly, his wavering eyes watching you.

You trembled against him, your head fogged, your body sluggish and unresponsive.

“I don’t…” You murmured pathetically. You couldn’t even finish your sentence. I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to leave me. “I can’t…”

Simon looked worried, and careful, but not regretful. Neither were you, even though you were still crying, and even if it would make everything hurt that much worse in the end.

He pulled you closer to him, until you could feel the fabric of his mask and the softness of his skin again.

“Close your eyes.” He breathed against your cheek.

Your eyes slid shut. You felt his hands move from your hips. You felt the cool air against your front when he moved back.

When you opened your eyes again, he was gone.

Jay continued to struggle with his nightmares and attended his weekly therapy sessions. He periodically brought home new instructions Dinah wanted us to try out to manage the symptoms, and we recorded any changes we noticed. Meanwhile I took my classes, patched up the occasional minor injury, and went to weekly training sessions with the Bats.

I was dropping the kids off at the manor one day when Alfred asked me to come in and speak with Bruce. I followed him to the office, not entirely sure what to expect. Bruce shook my hand a bit stiffly as I entered the room, leading me to the armchairs by the fireplace.

"… I know about Jason's appointments with Dinah." Bruce spoke in a calm, measured tone.

"… Ok?" I frowned a bit, not sure why he was telling me this. "Did … did she tell you?"

"No, no of course not. But when one of my sons is spending a few hours every week in a facility I fund, I notice." I nodded; if Tim had noticed, it made sense Bruce would too. "… I want to ask him about it, but … I suspect he wouldn't be receptive to that."

"You're probably right. So … what are you asking me for here, Bruce?"

Bruce picked up a sealed envelope, slowly turning it around in his hands. "I was thinking I could write to him. Maybe it would be easier for us to talk if we weren't face to face … would you give him the letter? Tell him I don't expect him to respond, but … I'm open, if he wants to."

I blinked a bit, grinning. "Of course! I … I think that's a great idea, Bruce. It can be easier to say what we mean when we have time to look at the words and think about them before sending them off. I think it'll help you both a lot."

Bruce's face softened ever so slightly as he hesitantly held out the envelope. I slid it into my bag, making sure it wouldn't get bent or crumpled. "… I don't expect you to tell me anything, but … whatever they're doing up there, it's going well?"

I considered him for a moment. "… Yeah, Dinah is great. She's been a big help."

"Good." He sighed softly, relief spreading across his face. "You'll tell me if he needs anything?"

"… No. But I'll encourage him to." I smiled softly, standing to go. "See ya next week, B."

Jason read the letter a dozen times before responding. Their first letters were awkward, stilted conversations, with no real substance; just overly formal small talk. But slowly, they found their way to real conversations. In one letter Jason mentioned a book he'd read recently, and by the time Bruce sent his next letter he had read it as well. They spent a month sending letters back and forth arguing about whether it was a romance or a psychological horror. Jason seemed quietly excited every time he sat down to read one of Bruce's letters, and he wrote lengthy responses. But no matter how often we saw the family, those conversations never left the page, and their in person interactions stayed about the same as always: awkwardly familiar, and a bit uncomfortable, though perhaps a bit less aggressive.

Dick and Tim decided summer was the perfect time to start up a monthly movie night at the manor. Jason took less coaxing than usual to agree to go; he said it was easier, being around them all, when the activity of the day was sitting silently and ignoring each other. Plus the manor's theater room was incredible; like a real move theater, but with recliners and couches instead of those uncomfortable little chairs. There were plenty of cozy blankets, and everyone's favorite movie snacks were always plentiful.

Life slowly developed a routine again. Summer greens gave way to autumnal reds and oranges, and the fall semester started for me, Damian, and Jason. More nights than not, the three of us would do homework at the dining table together. Jason took to his math and science lessons like a duck to water; he really did just need that little reminder before taking the GED test. We would look over each other's work and do flashcards for each other to prepare for tests. Damian was surprisingly well-versed in many of the topics I was studying, and made an excellent study partner.

When the letter asking for volunteers came around, I rejoined the PTA at the high school, despite Mrs. Webster's scowling. Some of the parents seemed glad to see me at least, and I enjoyed helping with club activities and events. Damian joined the after school program at the Arabic Cultural Center, finding tremendous comfort in the community there. He started to make friends in the teen program, and I continued to practice my Arabic with the grandmothers and parents. Many of them were eager to share their recipes with us, and my repertoire of Arabic meals and treats grew tenfold. Damian was always quietly pleased to see the familiar dishes, but ma'amoul remained his favorite.

Jason aced his finals, and took the GED test right before the winter break. The three of us stood in the kitchen together when the results came in. His trembling fingers ripped at the thick envelope, anxiety radiating off of him. He almost dropped the paper as he unfolded it, eyes filling with tears as he read off his results. Passed, with flying colors, as we knew he would. Damian and I hugged him tight as he collapsed into us, just whispering over and over; "I did it. I graduated …"

Walking into the manor for training that week had me buzzing with excitement. Jason cleared his throat as we entered the room, and the others all turned to face us as he pulled out the letter.

"So, … I got my GED. Th-" he didn't get a chance to finish; Dick, Tim, and Steph all started screaming and swarming us to hug him. Duke clapped him on the back, grinning, and Cass ruffled his hair affectionately. Finally, Bruce approached. He delicately took the letter from Jason's hands, reading it quickly. Tears filled his eyes as he looked at Jason.

He pulled him into a hug and I heard him whisper; "I'm so proud of you, Jaylad."

Jason cleared his throat, hiding his face against Bruce's shoulder; "th- thanks dad … there's a graduation ceremony in May, if-"

"We'll be there!" Dick grinned.

Tim nodded. "Yes, of course we will! What's this 'if'?"

"I know it can be hard to get everyone's schedules to line up, you don't all have to come…" Jay mumbled.

Bruce held him by the shoulders; "we will make it. No matter what, ok?"

Jason sniffled softly. "… Ok."

Autumn's crisp breezes blew the last of the leaves to the ground, and winter's fluttering snowflakes began to make their appearance. Jason's therapy was going well, and Dinah was finally able to confidently put a name to the disorder; complex post traumatic stress. Surprising no one, the burden of childhood poverty is not wiped from one's mind when they're adopted into wealth. Jason had been prepared for it to be C-PTSD, Dinah had been gently leading him toward the conclusion for months, but he was hesitant to accept that it had started so early.

Death was traumatic, his especially, he knew that would be part of it. And he could even accept that Bruce training him to fight crime as a teen, and the things he'd seen as Robin, had probably not helped him in this matter. But as hard as his early childhood was, he wasn't an unhappy kid. He remembered his mom cooking with him, before the drugs, and playing catch with his dad in the alley behind their apartment. He remembered kind smiles, and gentle hands, and warm hearts. They tried, he insisted, tried so hard to keep him safe and warm and fed. They were good, they didn't hit him or hate him, or let other people hurt him. They weren't all good, of course, they were still human, and there were plenty of bad days, especially near the end. But he insisted they weren't that bad, they were his parents. They loved him. Other kids had it much, much worse. So he couldn't fathom how Dinah could suggest that the C-PTSD had started so early.

It broke my heart, watching him come to terms with the fact that trauma had made a home of his mind, not after his family was ripped apart by poverty and crime, but from the very beginning. Dinah was almost painfully gentle as she explained how going to bed hungry and cold changes your brain chemistry. How the mind is affected by watching one parent fall victim to drugs while the other is bringing home the stress of working for a mob boss.

It took almost a month for Jason to accept it. In that time, he pulled further away from his family. His responses to Bruce's letters slowed, and he even skipped patrol without a word some nights. On those nights I had to text the Bats on the Oracle app to avoid a panic. Tim took to visiting on Wednesdays, using the excuse of dropping Damian off after school, to check in on his big brother. Jason still wasn't ready to tell him about his Tuesday appointments with Canary, but seeing the younger man every week did seem to help his mood. The three of them sat in the living room, mostly talking about their weekend patrol plans and playing video games.

Slowly, Jason started inviting the others around as well. I came home from class one day to see him and Dick sitting in the living room with a pizza. Another time he was playing uno with Duke. And once, he was sitting in comfortable silence with Cass on the other side of the room, each reading their own books. Everyone seemed to realize something bigger was going on, but nobody brought it up. I suspected Tim had made some recommendations to the others, given how they all seemed to intentionally keep the conversation on light topics. I did my part by making sure there were always fresh, home made treats in the kitchen, just in case someone showed up.

Winter started to melt away, and one day I found a composition notebook on the dining table. The cover had a sticky note with my name in Damian's angular handwriting, so I picked it up. I assumed it was homework of some kind; something he wanted help with, or a study guide for me maybe. I sat at the table, cracking it open.

Ukhti,

Father and Todd's relationship seems less strained as of late, presumably due to their letters. I also have things I wish to say, but struggle to express in person. If you are amenable, I propose we also attempt this form of communication.

I quickly drafted a response and took the sticky note off, leaving the notebook on his bedside table.

Yours,

Damian

Of course we can, Sweetheart! If you think it will help, I'm happy to try! First can I ask, have I done or said something to upset you?

♥️

Ukhti,

You have done nothing wrong. I apologize, I should not have left room for you to doubt yourself like that. I am simply struggling to find the words for these emotions. Written word seems easier. More private.

This will stay between us?

Damian

Of course! How would you like this to go? Would you like me here as a sounding board, to help you put a name to the feelings, or something else?

Yes to all. I would like to use this notebook to ask for advice, and to name the feelings, and I suppose to have somewhere to put them. Does that make sense?

It does! So, what would you like to start with?

I am struggling more than I anticipated, in cutting off Mother. I of course knew it would be hard, and the family has endeavored to make it bearable. And it has become more bearable, as Todd said it would. I suppose I'm experiencing one of those "bad knee flare ups" he spoke of. I do not miss the way things were with her, but I want … something? Something I cannot name.

When do you notice the "bad knee" most? Is there a situation or a person that it's happening around? Or maybe a feeling or sensation that you do recognize that comes with it?

It seems to occur randomly. The first one I recognized was at school. A classmate's mother brought in their diorama for them. And a moment later, I was furious at nothing. It took me days of reflection to realize that I was angry because Mother would never have done that for me. It's a simple task, to bring the project for the last class period. But the request would not have been taken well, perhaps even seen as weakness. I would have been expected to make my own solution, and would most likely end up carrying the item around, or have to find a safe place to store it until the appropriate class.

Other students have such simple relationships with their parents. It feels unfair. But then I remember just how much family I have, and how much you all have been willing to do for me, and I feel quite selfish for that. Most people in this country only have a mother and father, maybe a sibling or two, to assist them. I have so much more than them, but I still feel so empty sometimes.

Other people's family structures have no bearing on ours - you are entitled to your feelings about your family, the good and the bad, no matter how much you seem to have. One secure relationship is worth more than a dozen unstable ones, and as much as the Wayne family loves each other, there's a lot of pain and trauma on all sides. It's very difficult to love someone without also hurting them when you're running from monsters only you see, you know?

The parent/child relationship is particularly difficult to break, so when it does break it leaves a noticeable wound. It makes perfect sense that you would be hit, seemingly out of the blue at times, with revelations like the one you had about that class period. Anger at the situation makes perfect sense; you have had an incredibly unfair childhood. And most importantly, you are allowed to feel your emotions, even the hard, ugly ones. If you don't take the time to feel them, you won't ever know how to handle them.

Thank you for saying so, Ukhti. The part that is confusing me right now is that Mother does love me, I know she does. And she has done things for me none of my classmates' mothers would be capable of. She has killed for me, she has taken tremendous steps to ensure my well-being, she has even sent me away for my own safety, something most of my classmates mothers would not have the mental fortitude to do, and she allowed me to stay with Father when I initially requested to do so, even though it saddened her. So why should such a little thing, a hypothetical at that, stick in my heart as it has?

Life is built on the little things, Damian. You can't feasibly do a big gesture every day, or even every week. They're supposed to be rare events, to mark special occasions, or to promise that a mistake made won't happen again. A relationship is not built on big gestures, it's built on the little daily things. I think when little things matter more than they seemingly should, it's because they're being neglected, and through that neglect the relationship as a whole is hurting.

I don't like that there's nothing I can do about this. It hurts, and I cannot change it. The only person who might be able to is Mother. Though I do doubt that she could, and I'm uncertain at this time if she would even try.

All there is to do is to experience it, habibi. It sucks, but you can't run from these feelings. If you do, they will build until they completely overwhelm you. It hurts, and that is a fact. But you do not have to face it alone, and that is also a fact.

We wrote back and forth for months. Damian divulged more and more stories from his childhood, mostly processing events that he had thought were normal but that were decidedly not. Until one day, I opened the notebook to see a shakily written message;

Sometimes I regret how I responded to Todd's jokes calling you 'mommy'.

It still feels wrong, and I'm happy with our relationship as it is. But every once in a while my friends will talk about their parents and I get this feeling in my chest, like … that's you. You, and Todd, and Grayson.

In the League, Todd's behavior towards me existed in a limbo state between a big brother, a father, and a pet. He needed me, and I needed him. And since coming to Gotham, he has continued to be somewhere between a big brother and a dad.

When Father was gone, Grayson took care of me. And by the time he returned, Grayson was firmly placed in that category as well; not quite a dad, not quite a brother. And now I have you. Not quite a sister, not quite a mother. But somehow, maybe both…

And all of that is so much more complicated than what the rest of my friends have. I don't want to chime in with "my sister" or "my brother's paramour", I want to be able to say "my mama", like they do. But I never do, and I don't know if it's because I'm afraid of how mother would react if she ever heard I had replaced her in that role, or if it's something else.

I'm not even entirely sure why I'm telling you this. I suppose I just needed you to know.

I'm glad you told me, sweetheart. I don't know if there's anything I can do or say to help you through this, but I want you to know that it wouldn't bother me if you wanted to change how you refer to me. Whatever title feels right to you, whether it's fluid from one situation to another or remains the same all the time, we will always be family, and I will always love you.

And as for how your mother might react, we can address that situation if and when it comes up. I once had to assure Bruce that I wasn't trying to steal you and Jay from him; if you two reconnect some day I can do the same with Talia. Until then, it's not her business how we address one another.

♥️

The notebook remained with Damian for quite a while after that. One night around midnight my phone started flashing green; Oracle was calling. I opened the app and was immediately directed to my messages;

Oracle: Robin enroute to the Nest. Suspected sprained wrist. ETA: 5 minutes.

Me: Copy 5. Any other injured birds forthcoming?

Oracle: Negative. Batman and Red Robin have subdued Hatter, just waiting for the officers to take custody.

Oracle: B wants a report when Robin enters the Nest.

Me: 👍

I made my way down to the clinic. The first time I would be using it for someone other than Jay had me a bit anxious. Jason brought me bullet wounds, cuts and scrapes, that sort of thing. A sprained wrist was very different. I double checked my supplies and prepared a splint before pulling out some pain killers. As I was filling a glass of water, the door to the garage opened. Robin stormed inside, muttering quietly. I texted Oracle that he'd arrived before setting my phone aside.

"Hey kiddo…" Robin sat in a chair next to the counter, grabbing the water and taking a big gulp.

"Father is making out like my arm was ripped off. I am fine." He grumbled.

"Good. Then this will be nice and easy." I smiled softly, holding out a hand for his arm. He rolled his eyes, but held his arm out to me. I carefully removed his glove and gently rolled his sleeve up. The wrist was swollen, and I delicately tested his range of motion, feeling for grinding or any obvious breaks. He barely responded at all, just staring me down.

I looked up at his face; "any pain?"

"I've experienced far worse."

I sighed softly. "Habibi…"

He released a breath slowly. "… It is … tender. There was a brief, sharp pain when Hatter pinned my hand behind my back. Probably a torn ligament."

I nodded, offering him the pain killers. He hesitantly took them, and I fitted the splint on his wrist. "Well, a week or two and you should be good as new. Be gentle with it for now, and take the painkillers as needed."

He nodded once, mumbling into his chest; "thank you … mum …"

I blinked a bit and smiled softly. "Wh- what was that?"

He slowly looked up at me, entirely expressionless behind the whites of his mask; "… Robin is not the son of Talia Al Ghul. So … she cannot object to Robin calling someone else mom … right?"

I smiled softly, gently wrapping an arm around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. "Makes sense to me, baby bird."

He leaned against me a bit, sighing softly. "… Can I stay tonight?"

"Of course you can. I insist."

He buried his head into my shoulder, mumbling; "… Thank you, … mama …"

May rolled around, bringing Jason's graduation with it. The whole family was there, filling out the first row of the guests section. Oracle had informed the GCPD that the Bats would be 'busy with Justice League matters' for the day, and reported that they were scheduling extra officers. And Dick called in a favor, getting Kid Flash to cover Signal's patrol for the day. An unusual allowance from Bruce, but not unwelcome; the whole family wanted to be there for Jason. Roy and Lian ran in shortly before the ceremony started, dropping into their seats with the rest of us.

The music started and Dick and I got our phones out, his set to film and mine set to take pictures. A moment later, the graduates began walking down the aisle. I had been expecting maybe a dozen people, but GED prep courses were apparently a booming industry in Gotham; Jason's graduating class was bigger than mine had been! I briefly wondered if that was the fault of the Gotham rogues, or the flourishing drug trade, before deciding it was probably some unholy combination of the two. I recognized a couple people in the crowd; young adults who had been meant to graduate with me, but had become hospitalized or dropped out during our high school tenure. It felt like a full circle moment, that they would graduate with Jason -with the Red Hood- instead.

I watched the graduates file past us to their seats. Jason stood a good head taller than most of them, making him easy to find. He locked eyes on our group after briefly scanning the crowd. The tips of his ears started turning pink and a little grin spread across his face as he saw all of us. He glanced down at the ground as he walked past, pointedly ignoring the hooting and hollering of his siblings.

The university president got up and spoke about tenacity and how proud they should all be of themselves before finally announcing the graduates. Bruce and Alfred were blinking away tears as Jason walked across the stage to receive his GED certificate. He waved to us, beaming with pride. I snapped a few more photos before he returned to his seat for the rest of the ceremony.

Everyone joined us for dinner to celebrate. The house was decidedly not designed for such a large group; we had people in the living room, the kitchen, and throughout the backyard. Duke, Tim, and Dick had picked up food from three local restaurants, all Jason's favorites, and Steph and Cass picked up a cake. The house was full of music and laughter, and Jason was right in the middle of it all. He was trying to contain himself, but the big dumb grin on his face told us all exactly how much this meant to him.

I got a couple extra pictures throughout the party, excited to fill out a photo collage frame I'd gotten for the occasion. I wanted it to be a reminder for him - that he was smart, and capable, and loved. I snapped a photo of him and Bruce, finally talking in person about the sequel to the book they'd been writing about. Bruce had picked up two copies so they could read it immediately, and they had nearly identical smiles and excitement in their eyes. As I glanced at the photo, Tim slipped the camera out of my hands. I looked over to him, and he gestured for me to go sit with them.

"You've been behind the camera all day. Time to get in the shot."

I chuckled softly; "thanks Tim."

He was far more particular than I was, getting the three of us lined up just right for the photo. But when he finally returned the camera to me, I couldn't deny his results; it was the perfect picture. Bruce looked every bit the proud father, I was leaning against Jason in a way that looked cool and intentional, and Jason's eyes sparkled with joy.

Divider by: @/saradika-graphics 

Fanart in the header by: @/crowkip

Taglist (always open):

Pale blue light heralded the approaching dawn, casting your sleeping face in ethereal softness. Grisham almost held his breath, unable to take his eyes from you. 

You stayed. 

He almost thought he was still dreaming when he’d woken up to the unfamiliar but comfortable weight of you next to him. To your warmth, to your scent, and to the steady lowness of your breath. He wasn’t alone, Zorua was likely curled against his back, and Grisham could spy Sylvie at the foot of the bed even without his glasses on. 

This was new. 

He’d never woken up next to a lover. 

Lover. 

The word bloomed in his chest. Is that what you were to him? Was that the right word to use for you? It didn’t feel… wrong. So to speak. It felt nice. A little too early, and certainly unmoored by not knowing if you would have accepted the title. But nice. 

He smiled, carefully brushing the hair from your face and kissing your forehead. Behind him, Zorua stirred, pressing more of his weight against Grisham’s back. You didn’t stir, you stayed asleep. And Grisham marveled at the sight of you. 

You stayed. 

And he hoped you would continue to stay. 

Eventually, he carefully slipped out of bed and made way towards the bathroom, clothes in hand. 

You awoke to the sound of the shower running, lingering warmth, and a dull ache between your legs. The memory of last night soon greeted you. You were in Grisham’s bed, where you had fallen asleep in his arms. 

In the light of the morning you could see Grisham’s room. There wasn’t much to it, but it was kept clean and tidy. There were photos next to the closet, colorful depictions of Cafe Nouveau at various stages of its development. A book of poetry was on the bedside table, you’d seen him annotating it once or twice in the time you’d been living with him. 

It felt safe. Mostly impersonal. Temporary. 

But the bed smelled like him, and there were hair ties on the bedside table, his clothes in the hamper. It was his room. That eased the slight discomfort as you stood and dressed yourself. It seemed that Grisham had brought in a change of clothes for you, a comfortable outfit he’d seen you in plenty of times. You were thankful to not have to risk going into the living room in the nude to retrieve your clothes, otherwise you weren’t sure how Grisham would’ve felt about you wearing one of his shirts. If it was too soon to even do so, or if it was something he would have welcomed. Maybe even expected. 

You made his bed before you went out into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, heart hammering in your chest when you heard the shower shut off. 

You slept with him. You were going to have to talk about that and that talk was rapidly approaching. Was it a mistake? A one-off slip up? Or was it the start of something more, something akin to a friends-with-benefits? But you had said you loved him. And he had said it first. 

The bathroom door opened, and Grisham paused, taking you in at the table. Hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, another one waiting for him, and a question on your face. 

“Let’s talk.” Grisham nodded, sitting across from you. His hair was still wet, dripping into the towel around his shoulders. Even as casually dressed as he was, he still carried himself with an air of measured grace, softened as it had become in the last few weeks. 

For a moment, you tried to find where to start, but Grisham was the first to move. 

“I don’t regret last night.”

“Even when you said you loved me?”

He didn’t respond right away, mulling the question over while his hands wrapped around his cup of coffee. 

“Especially that.” 

Your heart skipped. Your cheeks burned. 

“Maybe it was a little soon.” He eased, “I’m sorry if I-”

“I said it back.” 

Grisham sat still, but you had heard the short intake of breath. 

“You did.” 

You swallowed hard, willing your heart to steady itself. 

“And I meant it.”

The smile that bloomed across his face was a small one, hesitant, but genuine. Hopeful. 

“I meant it too. I love you.” He said it with gentle conviction, nothing at all like the broken desperation you’d heard him say it before. That reverence was still there, clear as the daylight that now spilled into the apartment. 

It made your heart flutter, a warm lightness spreading over your body. But, confirming it wasn’t enough, and your next question grounded you.

“What does this make us?”

“Lovers would be the easiest description.” Grisham shrugged, “But we never really… it feels temporary to call you my lover, like you could leave—which, you can if you want, I don’t want you to feel trapped here but I do—”

“Grisham.” Your hand flew to his, halting his spiral before it could take him over the edge, “What do you want us to be?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled.

“I want this to be serious.” 

“And?”

“I want this to work. I want us to work.” 

“I’d like that.” You reassured, your hand hadn’t left his, “I’m willing to put the work in.”

He nodded, his hand leaving his coffee mug to hold yours. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. 

“I’m terrified I’m moving too fast into this.” His voice was barely above a whisper, “Am I moving too fast?”

“Maybe. But if I feel the same then… why not? Let’s give this a shot.”

Grisham nodded, gently squeezing your hand. You squeezed his hand back. 

“Lovers then.” 

“Lovers.” You nodded. 

He held your hand in his, anchoring himself to you. An amused note chimed from him as his smile turned from content to amused. 

“I just remembered we’ll have to tell Griselle about this.” Probably for the best. Definitely for the best.

“Should we tell her when she’s home?”

“Depending on her mood.” 

“Right.” She should be in a good mood, given that her own date went exceedingly well. But it was never easy telling someone you lived with you were dating the only family they’d ever known… were you dating? Being lovers was one thing, simply dating was another. This was starting a life together.  

“We should figure out what this looks like though.” Grisham took a sip of his coffee, as if reading your mind, “Sleeping arrangements, you moving in—if you want to that is.” 

It might have been moving too fast, but you had to be honest with yourself, you’d been sleeping on their couch for a couple of weeks. Sleeping in a proper bed again was a delight and not just because of the man you shared it with. Sharing a room with Grisham though was a big change from having your things in a suitcase in their living room. It meant rearranging things, making space, and adjusting to one another in a closer capacity than before. 

But he had already done that hadn’t he? Letting you live with him, work for him. Involving you in plans for the future. He had already made space for you, you just had to take it, and stay. 

“I wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with you more.” You began, “As for fully moving in… let’s take our time on that. This is still new and I don’t want to hurt you by rushing in head first.” 

Grisham blinked, a spark of surprise twinged across his features before quickly returning to the gentle smile he’d been regarding you with the entire time. 

“You won’t hurt me.” Grisham lied, hoping it gave you comfort, disappointed to find you shaking your head in patient disapproval. 

“I’m still human after all, arguments are bound to happen.” 

“Sure.” Grisham agreed, “But we’ll work through it.”

You nodded. Hopeful. 

A comfortable moment enveloped you, your hand in Grisham’s, the taste of coffee on your tongue and the warmth of a new relationship burning in your chest. This was nice. 

---

Griselle had noticed it the moment she had walked through the apartment door. The air had shifted. You and Grisham cooked together, nothing unusual there, you sometimes worked together with either of them. 

But the smiles, the glances, the way Grisham hummed a pleased note when he lightly brushed his shoulder against yours. Her eyes narrowed. Even Sylvie seemed more energetic than usual, watching you and Grisham with her tail practically wagging and her ribbons bouncing with each step she took.  

Dinner was served. Crammed around the kitchen table, your knee knocking against Grisham’s, those same glances exchanged. The almost giddy atmosphere between the two of you… the lingering gaze Grisham held, and the way his gaze flicked to your lips and back to your eyes. 

You hadn’t said anything yet, but you didn’t need to. Griselle leaned forward, resting her head in the palm of her hand. There was a lull in the conversation, then…

“Did you two finally fuck while I was gone?” 

Grisham’s fork clattered to the plate, a wild red blush spread across his face and burned the tips of his ears. You knew exactly how red your face had gotten. 

“I—we—How did you—?” He was stumbling over his words, trying to find solid ground while the smile on Griselle’s face grew.

“Finally!” She threw herself back in her chair, “I’ve been watching the two of you dance around each other for weeks now! Honestly, I thought I’d walk in and find the two of you at each other at some point. Kinda glad I didn’t, but in the future maybe you could give me a heads up if you’re going to—” 

“Griselle, please.” Grisham begged, burying his face in his hands. He knew she would do this. 

“No no! No. You don’t get to take this from me, Grish, let me have this.” She sat back upright, “So. Are you two together now?”

There was an angle to her question, a careful prodding without outright saying what she wanted. Almost like a child checking to see if it was safe to come out of hiding.

“As of today, yes. We are.” You confirmed, “Is that alright?”

Griselle’s shoulders settled, her expression softened, almost as if something in her had been comforted by that.

“Of course it is.” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft, the smile that grew across her face was genuine and brighter than any you’d seen from her before. Gone was the mischievous ‘told you so’ air she’d carried before, “Of course I’m alright with that. More than alright, actually. I’m happy the two of you are finally together.”

You were waiting for her to make a joke, to brush aside the weight of whatever feelings she was having as she always did. But this time it wasn’t so, this time, she meant every word of what she said. And you knew it. 

“Be good to her, alright Grisham?” 

Grisham had reached over and taken your hand in his, giving you a reassuring squeeze.

“I intend to.” 

---

Grisham laid across from you, his hand wrapped around yours. Part of him hadn’t expected you to stay in his bed again that night, this time without the sex. It was uncharted territory sharing a bed with someone who didn’t want him for his body, that loved him romantically. Something in him was healing, an emptiness he hadn’t thought to fill, finally finding fulfilment in your presence. 

He was glad Griselle approved, though he realized he had nothing to worry about. Griselle liked you, and honestly, she probably would have been fine with anyone as long as they made him happy. But it was better that it was you. 

For the first time in his life everything felt normal. And it was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. He whispered your name, checking to make sure that he still wasn’t dreaming. You made a small noise, something affirmative and on the edge of sleep. 

He smiled, pulling your hand to his lips and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your fingers. You were his lover, by choice. 

The green expanse opens wide, vivid and radiant beneath the scorching midday sun of summer. The fields stretch endlessly, shimmering under the golden light that pours down from above. Children dart across the open plain, chasing one another, laughing, and playfully jabbing their friends as their joyous voices ripple through the warm air. The echoes of their laughter fill the space. Makes it even brighter and livelier.

Among them sits a boy apart from the commotion, a sickly, fragile child whose frail body contrasts sharply with the energy around him. Draped in a silk kosode and wearing a polished wooden sandal, he sits quietly on the grass, arms wrapped tightly around his knees as if to hold himself together. His posture is reserved, knees drawn close to his chest, the elegance of his garments contrasting the rough play of the common children before him. His gaze follows the other children, eyes wide with silent wait. He blinks, watching them run and tumble and shout, hoping that they might turn toward him, call his name, and welcome him into their games. But the laughter continues without him, and no one seems to notice the small, still figure sitting in the middle of the boundless green.

“U-um… please, I want to play with you all too!” the boy finally says, his voice trembling with a mix of hesitation and irritation. His thick eyebrows draw together in frustration, and his dark eyes glare at the children running across the field.

“No! You’re too slow! You always trip and fall,” one of the kids shouts back, not even pausing in his play.

“Higuruma, you’re such a bother!” another yells, laughing loudly as the others join in.

Hiromi’s small frame stiffens. He rises to his feet, fists clenched tight at his sides, jaw tightening until his teeth grind together. “Then why do you all always ask me to bring tonjiki and eat them, huh?” he snaps, voice breaking with anger.

“Because you’re rich!” one of them calls out, grinning. “Whatever you’ve got, we’d like to eat it!”

The laughter rings in Hiromi’s ears, sharper than the summer sun above. His hands curl into fists before he even realizes it. His jaw tightens, lips pressed into a trembling line.

“What’s so funny?” he snaps, his voice slicing through their laughter. “Say it again.”

The kids pause, startled for a second, then one of them grins. “Oh, the rich boy’s mad now?” another teases.

That’s the last straw. Hiromi storms forward, his silk kosode flaring around his legs. His geta dig into the dirt as he closes the distance in three quick steps and shoves the loudest boy hard in the chest. The boy stumbles back, losing his footing.

“You call me slow again!” Hiromi yells, his voice cracking but fierce. “Say it one more time!”

The taller kid stares at him with shock, “You think you can fight, rich boy?” he barks and swings a hand out, pushing Hiromi’s shoulder. But Hiromi doesn’t back down. He pushes back harder, shoving him again and again until the other kids rush in.

Hands grab at sleeves, someone yells, and the air fills with dust and scuffling feet. Hiromi ducks under a wild swing and hits the boy square in the side, his small fist landing with more will than strength. Another kid tugs his hair, and Hiromi twists, elbowing him away. It’s messy, desperate  and full of childish fury.

“Stop it, stop it!” one of them shouts, but Hiromi doesn’t stop. He lunges at the boy who mocked him, tackling him to the ground. They roll in the grass, dirt smearing across Hiromi’s fine sleeves, the expensive silk creasing and tearing at the edge.

“Take it back!” he yells, breathing hard, his voice hoarse and trembling. “Take it back!”

The boy beneath him squirms, face red, finally gasping, “Fine! Just get off me!”

Hiromi slowly stands, brushing the dirt from his knees, his breath still unsteady. “If you hate me,” he mutters, voice low but firm, “then stop eating what I bring.”

“Get him!” one of them yells.

A kick lands against his ribs, another hand yanks his hair. Hiromi lashes out, hitting, scratching, doing anything to fight back. Tears sting his eyes, not from pain but from humiliation.

“Think you’re better than us, huh?” one boy sneers, panting. “In your fancy clothes?”

Hiromi’s breathing turns ragged. “I didn’t…” he tries to speak, but another shove sends him sprawling again.

Then, from the edge of the group, a thin boy with a sly grin says, “Let’s take him to the Oni’s house.”

The words fall like a chill wind. The others go quiet for a moment, their laughter faltering.

Hiromi looks up, confusion flashing across his red face. “What… what are you talking about?”

The sly boy grins wider. “The abandoned house by the woods. They say an Oni lives there. Maybe he’ll like eating spoiled rich kids.”

The others exchange glances, half scared, half thrilled. The idea catches like wildfire among them. “Yeah,” someone snickers, “let’s see if the Oni wants him!”

“No! Let me go!” Hiromi shouts, struggling violently as two of the boys seize him by the arms. He kicks and thrashes, wooden sandals scraping harshly against the dirt, but they are stronger, their grip does not loosen at all. The others laugh, cruel, as if they have never seen anything this entertaining in their entire life, closing in around him.

Before he can regain any footing, two more boys grab his legs. Hiromi’s small body is hoisted into the air like a cut-down tree log, limbs dangling helplessly as the group starts moving toward the forest at the edge of the fields.

As they march through the forest, hoisting Hiromi like a heavy log, the boys begin to chant in a teasing, sing-song rhythm, their voices louder with each step they take closer to the forest:

“Rich boy, weak boy, what a surprise, Off to the forest where the curse lies! Oni waits with eyes so wide, Step inside, get eaten, no way to hide!”

The sun blazes above as they drag him toward the tree line, where the green turns darker and the air cooler. Hiromi struggles, breathless and furious, the once-bright field shrinking behind him.

“Let me go!” he screams, voice cracking. “You’ll regret this!”

The Oni’s house looms ahead, a dark silhouette against the blazing green of the fields. Every villager has whispered about it in hushed, fearful tones, that this is a cursed place, they say, where anyone who steps inside is doomed to bear the curse forever. Its walls are warped and cracked, the roof sagging like it might collapse under its own weight. Even the bravest of men avoid it, crossing to the far side of the street or running past with quickened steps. The air around it feels heavier, as if sunlight itself hesitates to touch its shadow.

Hiromi struggles against the grip of the older boys, but they drag him closer with cruel insistence. “The Oni will get you!” one of them hisses, half-laughing, half-shivering at their own story. “You’ll be cursed forever!”

His small heart pounds, fear and anger mingling. He’s always been frail, always been careful, yet now he’s being forced toward the house no one dares approach. He glances at the crooked doorway, the broken shutters, and for a moment, the whispered warnings of the village crawl into his mind.

The children throw Hiromi toward the dilapidated hut and then scatter, their laughter fading into the distance. The wooden walls rise unevenly around him, warped and jagged, enclosing him in a tight, oppressive space. A narrow, rotting veranda runs along the front, its planks cracked and splintered, some hanging loose like broken teeth. The faint creak of the boards under Hiromi’s feet echoes through the empty space as he steps onto it, sunlight filtering through gaps in the weathered roof and casting jagged patterns across the dirt floor inside. Shadows pool in every corner, crawling along the walls like dark fingers.

He moves cautiously, eyes scanning the ruined interior, when a low hiss cuts through the silence. On a pile of broken planks near the far wall, a snake coils, tongue flicking, fangs bared toward his ankle. Hiromi freezes, a shiver running through him, small hands shaking in fear.

“A-Ah!” Hiromi screams.

Then, a sudden movement. A boy with messy pink hair, taller and broader than Hiromi, lunges at the snake. His hands clamp around the slick body, twisting and tearing with feral strength, blood spraying across the dirt and the splintered veranda planks. The snake writhes and hisses, but he holds firm, finally tossing its lifeless body aside.

He straightens, chest heaving, and grins at Hiromi. Two teeth are missing from his jagged smile. “Don’t worry,” he says with a shrug, blood smearing his sleeves. “I’ve got this.”

Hiromi swallows hard, the terror of the snake still thrumming in his veins, and glances at the rotting veranda, the splintered boards and warped railings surrounding him.

“T-thank you?” Hiromi stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. He keeps his eyes fixed on the boy before him, studying him with a mix of awe and unease. The boy is larger than Hiromi expected, a bit stout, and somehow carries the restless energy of a wild animal, like a tiger cub pacing in a cage. One side of his face is peculiar, the flesh twisted resembling that of a burnt mark, and also two extra holes as if he has an extra pair of eyes, and his messy pink hair falls in uneven strands over his forehead.

He wears a small, torn-down kimono, clearly tailored from an old woman’s garment. The fabric is patched and frayed, tied hastily around his torso with loose knots, as if he had dressed himself in a rush. The boy sits back on his heels, rubbing his belly absently, eyes lingering on the snake he threw aside, blood still streaking on its body.

Hiromi’s gaze drops and freezes. One of the boy’s feet is bound by a long, heavy chain, the metal link rattling faintly as he shifts. His breath catches. The boy notices Hiromi staring and tilts his head, a small, almost sad smile curling across his jagged grin.

“My mother… she kept me shackled,” he says simply, voice soft yet edged with something like pride. “So I don’t curse other people.”

Hiromi blinks, confusion knotting in his chest. “C-curse…?” he murmurs. He is a just a kid like him, how can he even curse others?

Before Hiromi can even gather his thoughts, the boy’s stomach growls loudly, the sound startling the quiet of the hut. He presses both hands to his belly, eyes squeezing shut, as if trying to quiet the twists inside of his stomach. When he opens his eyes, they land on Hiromi, and that’s when he notices his eye color.

Red orbs look like gemstones, his father often bought from foreign merchants.

“Can I… eat the snake?” he asks softly, voice tinged with hesitation.

“Ehhh!” Hiromi almost yells, stepping back instinctively. “Never! No!” He straightens, fists clenching at his sides, heart hammering with disbelief.

The boy glances down at his belly again, poking it lightly with one small index finger, lips curling into a pitiful little pout. “B-but I’m hungry… I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday,” he mutters, his words soft, almost childlike.

Hiromi swallows hard, and for a moment, his mind flickers to the image of a small, pouty tiger cub from a picture book he once saw, a tiny, round face, pink fur, and wide eyes.

“Hold on a minute!” Hiromi jumps from the veranda. “I will get you something to eat!” Hiromi starts to run towards the greenery but pauses midway and turns his back.

“What’s your name?” He asks.

“Sukuna. Ryomen Sukuna.” The pink haired boy says. “And you?” he whispers.

“Hiromi. Hiromi Higuruma. Nice to meet you, Sukuna.” Hiromi waves at Sukuna. “I will come right back with lots of delicious food!”

Hiromi runs away, keeping Sukuna seated on the veranda. Sukuna cannot but think to himself if he has scared the child away, or if eating the snake would be a good choice.

At least he can fill his belly till his mother comes in the evening.

He tries to reach it, but fails, because his feet do not allow him to move that far. He has thrown the snake quiet far away from the house.

Sighing, he presses his belly once again.

He is so hungry, it hurts, his belly hurts.