#posh!reader

*****

Tea at Bluebird isn’t as awkward as Simon would have thought, if only because you’re determined that it shouldn’t be.

As you suspected, his tattoos draw a concerned look from your mother. When your father shakes his hand, it feels like he’s trying to break Simon’s fingers. Two can play at that game, but he suspects you’d be cross if he actually broke your father’s hand.

As the wait staff bring the scones and clotted cream, you seize your opportunity.

“Simon’s an officer.” You rest a hand lightly on his forearm, leaning close. The scent of your perfume is subtle and dizzying. 

“Oh, that’s lovely,” your mother says in earnest, some of her disapproval evaporating. You turn to your father.

“Dan Jarvis was an Army officer, wasn’t he, Daddy?”

“He was, indeed.” He gives Simon a speculative look. “Thinking of making a run for Parliament after?”

Simon would rather burn down the restaurant with everyone still inside it. You nudge him under the table with your knee. “Might've given it some thought.”

“Plenty of MPs have, you know. Served, I mean.”

He doesn’t know, but nods anyway. 

Conversation flows more easily after that, the temperature at the table growing considerably warmer, even fond. When they leave, your father claps him on the shoulder instead of shaking his hand, and your mother even gives him a hug.

*****

“Really, politics?”

You grin in front of the bathroom mirror, where you’re taking off your earrings. “You’ve got enough years in service left that they’ll forget about it. Plus, maybe we’ll have a baby by then—give them more important things to worry about.”

A baby. 

Simon has to grip the door frame for support. You meet his eyes in the mirror and smile, bright and happy.

*****

What Simon lacks in gentility, he makes up for with gruff kindness. In the shower, he pays special attention to your hair, laughing at your arsenal of shampoo and conditioner, yelping when you smack his hand away from the more expensive bottles.

His fingers feel good when they drag along your scalp, and it’s easy to melt into his chest. The masterful touch, the warm water, and the thrum of his beating heart are enough to lull you into a doze standing up.

You fuck again, naturally, but he towels you off after with a gentle hand and helps you into your dressing gown. When he kneels to help you into your slippers, you tell yourself that your cheeks are warm from the shower. You balance perfectly fine, but grip his shoulder for support anyway. 

Hands still on your ankles, he rests his cheek on your thigh and looks up at you with his dark eyes. Your hand cups his face of its own volition, thumb sweeping along his scarred cheek.

*****

He disappears for a while after that.

It hurts. You tell yourself that it doesn’t, but it does. 

Still, you’re the daughter of a prominent family and well-used to moving through society. You don’t forget him, but the memory of the night fades in a gaudy swirl of dinner parties and garden dresses. You take a friend to a wedding and let him coax you into bed back at the hotel. Another night, you go home with the heir to some tech company in Silicon Valley. 

They leave you both wanting. You disappear from their lives as completely as Simon disappeared from yours, avoiding their calls and leaving events the moment they arrive. They get the hint, and quickly find other women to cling to their arms. 

“Jordan’s seeing Sofie, I heard,” one of your friends tells you at brunch, eying you with some trepidation. 

You have to think about it. Jordan. Ah. The tech heir. “That’s fine.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“No.”

Something’s bothering you. But they don’t know what it is, and you can’t exactly tell them that you’d fallen for some one-night stand from Manchester.

*****

Someone knocks at your door in the early hours of the morning. You open your eyes knowing who it is, because you don’t know anyone else crass enough to call at this hour.

Robe billowing behind you, you glide down the stairs and into the foyer, doubling back only to check your reflection in the hallway mirror. You fix your hair and tie your robe before you reach for the door.

Simon leans in the frame, looking down at you with tired, dark eyes.

Your heart leaps. But you can’t make it too easy.

“Where have you been?”

“Working.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“3:37.”

You don’t have a clock on hand to check him, but don’t doubt he’s accurate down to the very minute. You purse your lips and put your hands on your hips.

“I didn’t think you were coming back.”

It comes out more honestly than you’d intended, and he pays you back in kind by rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

He doesn’t say anything more, and you run your tongue over your teeth, thinking. 

A self-respecting lady would send him away. Gentlemen don’t take women home and then leave them for months on end. He hadn’t even left a number to reach him.

But the memory of him kneeling in front of you is a powerful one. You reach up to cup his cheek again without thinking, and he leans into your palm like a touch-starved mongrel. 

His skin is just as warm as you remember.

*****

By the time he’s showered and settled in, the sky is beginning to turn grey, and you think he’ll go to sleep. He does slide between the sheets, but he pulls you in after him.

The robe is kicked somewhere to the foot of the bed, and the rest of your clothes follow swiftly after.

Skin-to-skin, it’s difficult to remember to be annoyed with him.

“See anyone else?” He asks, and you marvel at his audacity to ask about your other lovers when he’s still rocking inside you.

“I did, as a matter of fact.” You squeeze your legs around his waist, and his head drops to your shoulder with a choked-out gasp. “Two.”

“Any good?”

He’s smug when he asks, the cheeky twat, because he knows if they were you’d be with them instead of him. You rake your nails down his back in petty retaliation. “No.”

That pleases him, and you push at his shoulder. Simon’s too big to be moved, but he obliges you, rolling to his back and pulling you on top.

The sun is rising over London. Rays of brilliant light filter in through your curtains, washing over the bed in hues of pink and gold. You chase the patterns of light across Simon’s chest while he looks up at you with eyes softened by the morning. His hands move up your hips, your sides, and when they reach your shoulders, he pulls you down to him.

You bury your face into his neck while his hands roam across your back, your heart full enough to burst. Hiding like this, it’s easier to pretend like you’re whispering your secrets to your pillow, and not the man you’ve been thinking of for three months.

“Don’t leave me again.”

One arm tightens around your waist, and he cups the back of your neck with his other hand. Holding you close.

“I won’t.”

****

At the front door, the three men stare at you like you're an alien. You're the one that has to stick out your hand first.

They shake it with much delicacy, still looking around like they've never seen a home before. Finally, one speaks. Johnny, you think once you hear his accent, recognizing him from Simon's heavily-redacted war stories.

"Ye sure we're in the right house?"

You smile, understanding dawning. "You're Price, Kyle, and Johnny, right? Simon's friends?"

While their heads nod up and down as if on a string, your husband rounds the corner behind you to slip an arm around your waist. Over your head, he eyes his teammates in warning. "Alright?"

"Alright," they chorus back. Kyle and Price exchange smirks, while Johnny openly beams.

"L.T., you're a proper toff, you are."

"Piss off, Johnny."

But he is.

While Price and Kyle perch at one of your neat little tables with a cup of fresh tea in one hand and a stack of delicate biscuits in the other, Johnny follows you back into the kitchen. The appliances are all new and gleaming, the counters are lined with an array of useful gadgets, and the air is filled with what seemed like every aroma in the world.

Simon had insisted on a modest affair but, thinking of their long deployments full of nothing but MREs, you had sniffed and doubled your grocery list.

The result of which is a long table laden with the best Christmas spread Johnny's ever seen. Roast turkey, honey-glazed ham, and Yorkshire pudding. Brussels sprouts and carrots, gravy and cranberry sauce. And, at the end of the table, an assortment of mince pies and Christmas pudding.

You flutter over to the stove to peek into the oven. "Just a few minutes left for the stuffing. I hope you came hungry."

"Starving," Johnny croaks, and you miss the way Simon slaps the side of his head in response.

****

When they're all seated around the table later and you've been paid the compliments you're due (you wave them off gracefully while hiding your pleased smile in your wine glass), it's finally time to tuck in.

You're too polite to say so, but the men bring their field manners in with them. They spend twenty minutes talking shop before you're able to coax the conversation into more mundane territory, and when Johnny nearly puts his elbow in his own plate of gravy, you can't help yourself.

"Johnny-!"

Four pairs of eyes turn to you in surprise, and you flinch in your chair. It's rude to reprimand a guest. "Just...watch your sleeves, love."

He barely swallows before he replies, a big paw waving to underscore his words. "It's just a shirt, bonnie, got a dozen more at home."

You're too polite, but Simon isn't. "Elbows off the table, MacTavish."

It's his turn to squirm when his teammates turn to look at him instead, eyes wide. Price just stares, eyebrows raised. Johnny mouths elbows off the table in awe.

It's Kyle who laughs. "Yes, your Majesty."

Simon won't be living this down anytime soon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s empty.

No gun, no holster. A bluff.

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

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

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

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

Hunting.

*****

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

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

“Hullo, cousin.”

*****

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

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

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

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

“First time for everythin'.”

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

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

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

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

“Darling?”

“Mmm?”

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who? It doesn't matter. "Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s an audio message.

“Hullo, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Happy Christmas, Simon.”

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