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Simon is a liar.

Well, it’s not that he lies often, but he does do it and you have no idea unless it’s with the girls. Getting them to sleep by telling them that they’ll get candy in the morning instead of eggs, telling them the tooth fairy has the day off on Fridays, and even telling his toddler that he goes and saves puppies some days instead of the world. He lies, but not without reason.

But as he follows you around as you shop, he feels the need to lie. Tell you that you look good in an ugly color dress just to get you to laugh. Deny that your grip on his hand hurts. Say that he doesn’t want another leather jacket, even though he does. He wants the one you keep showing him - nice detailing, shiny silver zipper, and thick lining to keep him warm. One that wasn’t ripping at the seams, has cigarette burns, or holes that dotted its worn flank.

“Simon, please, I just want to buy something nice for you.” You say, looking at him with those sweet eyes and genuine care.

He hates himself at that moment when he lies.

“I’m alright with what I got.”

The nod of understanding, knowing that pushing will not get you far, distressed him. He knows he shouldn’t be this way, that he should bend at the knees every time you even begin a sentence. But the leather jacket is something he can’t do that for, and he can’t stomach telling you the reason.

You pull out pretty dresses and tops to show him, he always agrees with the ones that make your eyes pop. Your hand squeezes his every time you walk back and forth in this little boutique and he knows quite well that you’re purposefully passing this perfect leather jacket multiple times. Exposure therapy.

He doesn’t like upsetting you. He knows you want him to have nice things instead of the worn down clothes he has, but he cannot allow himself to have better things when the money should be going towards his children and their needs. He can go without a new leather jacket, even if you had saved over the course of a year for it. He’d rather buy Winnie the dollhouse she really wants, buy Mellie the beanbag she always has him look up online, maybe even something for the baby like a new high chair. He could buy you a nice ring with that leather jacket money, even though you’d say no.

In a way, you two are the same.

You finally stop the games and stand next to the jacket, hand squeezing his impossibly tight before loosening. “Do you not like it?”

“It’s nice.”

“Then try it on.”

He shakes his head. “No, ‘m okay with this. We can use the money on you.”

Your shoulders droop, his heart hurts, and you softly murmur, “Why aren’t you letting me do this for you?”

He feels the need to lie, the itch that takes hold of his throat and shakes it. His head dips down, his eyes level with yours. “Because this jacket means a lot to me. Don’t want to start over with a new one.” Another lie, it doesn’t mean a lot, it means everything.

You stare at him for a while, digging in his eye with such a disappointed glare. Stiff, aggravated, but still docile. “What’s so special about holes and torn seams?”

“I first met you with this on.” He confesses. “First met Winnie with this on. Mellie fits in a wrap in it like a glove, and it was Tommy’s.” His hand comes to rest on your bump where the baby kicks lazily, your forehead rests against his.

In the back corner of a shop, he tells the truth. Says a prayer as he kisses you, thanks God when you finally see the ratty jacket for what it truly is - a symbol of loyalty.

Another kiss pressed against his lips before you move away, your hand brushes his hair away from his forehead before cradling his jaw. “That’s all you had to say. No more lies.”

Simon is a liar, it’s sometimes all he knows. A second skin, a way to protect the keloids made from wounds he suffered forever ago. But when he looks in your eyes, cradles your belly that grows his baby with a ring on his hand that matches your own, and lets you in his marred head, he can’t bring himself to lie to you.

“No more lies.”

Happiness [27]

Indigo. 4.8k. You're just trying to get a grip on reality, drowning in your mind with only yourself to save you. That is until a friend throws a life jacket, all while ignoring Simon as he flails too.

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The sheet and blanket were almost too hot for you as you rolled around in Mellie’s nursery, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. An old quilt from your aunt covered you, the pillow from your bed soft against your pounding head. 

You had yelled at Simon. You’ve never yelled at Simon. Never wanted to, never thought you had to - but it had been done. The worst part of it was thinking that it could have helped, but looking at his hurt expression only made you feel worse. 

You haven’t seen him since. Soap brought your dinner up to the temporary bed you fashioned, next to Mellie’s crib. Mellie’s little hand still poked out in your direction between the slats, even though she had fallen asleep hours ago. You’d spent a while just holding it between your fingers as a way to ground yourself. You were home, standing guard at the window they got into the house initially, just like you had the first few nights you had come home a month earlier. You almost rebroke your fingers when you slammed it closed, and kept hitting it until Price pulled you away. He was the only person who could. You would hit anyone who got close and crumble when your daughters were in sight. A wounded and rabid woman.

You were somewhat thankful the nightmares didn’t start until right before Mellie’s birthday. The small blessing left enough time to get her readjusted as best you could, enough time for your hands to lose the casts and stitches. It wasn’t long enough for you to push the swarm of howling monsters in your head. You were drowning with no lighthouse in sight. Sleep evaded you, a fickle friend that lured you in with promises of safety and comfort, only to wake up shrieking and having to be restrained before you redecorate the room with your blood. 

Forced separation was said to be good, give both of you some time to cool off and recuperate. Simon asleep in your bed, you laid on the nursery floor, unable to doze or relax. 

You kissed Mellie’s baby fingers. She snored in response as you raised to your feet and wrapped your blanket tightly around yourself. Finding sleep was not as feasible as you wanted it to be, so escaping to the snow outside felt like a new freedom. A new view through your broken lens. You took a deep breath as you entered the hallway, your gaze ended up on your bedroom door - it was shut, no outline of light underneath. Simon was asleep. A sigh escaped you and you sucked in another breath, attempting to follow your therapist’s advice. You descended the staircase while thinking of things that calm you.

The fish in your therapist’s office was a gentle thought, the blue light and shimmering scales as bubbles floated to the top. A distraction, one you used often to ignore topics you couldn’t speak on. You tried to envision the moonlight on your living room floor as the water, the shadows that danced as the fish, and you were the bubbles that led to the surface - outside.

The garden door creaked as you pushed it open, he only glanced at you before he tapped his cigar on the side of the ash tray and looked back at his phone.

“What’re you doin’ awake?”

The suffocating presence that was John Price made you shrink for just a moment, just as you slid by him to sit in the empty porch chair on the other side of the table. “I didn’t…I just wanna go outside for a second.”

Price glanced at you before he sighed and tucked his phone back into his coat. You were sure he was about to take you back upstairs but he moved the cigar back to his lips, his muscles as taut as stone.

“Heard your spat earlier.”

Constellations hung like garland above your heads. You only looked up at them for a moment. Grey clouds dotted the atmosphere, almost as dense as the fog in your head. The therapist - Marli, you think - says it’s normal. Post traumatic stress disorder comes in all sorts of ways. You can go through Monday with a smile and be completely normal; Tuesday, you’re locked in your closet and going through panic attacks, one right after the other. You had remarked that it was more like going from the slow to the fast lane in free for all traffic, everything passing by in colorful blurs. 

“Sorry.”

A tap to the ashtray and a chuckle that sounded more like a soft roar. Price murmured, “Don’t be. The boy needed a smack on the head and you needed to let some of that anger go.”

“I know.”

It’s all you know, truly. Empty images outlined with hazy feelings rot your brain until they develop into high resolution replays of every moment you spent in the basement. Routine was key - you washed your face to keep yourself awake, held Mellie every time they entered the basement, and quietly pulled at the loose bookshelf until it popped out, your only salvation. Routine kept you sane then, Simon’s voice guided you with knowledge he’d taught you long ago, and fear ran rampant like a rat in a cage. At least it felt more free than you do in your own house, your birdcage made of brick and mortar. Three operators worked in your basement to uncover the rest of Lloyd’s operation and God knows what else, meanwhile they assisted Simon in taking care of you. In the shadows loomed four guard dogs, jaws snapping and hackles raised but their bellies still shown to you.

“John?”

“Yes?”

Your thumb rolled your wedding ring around your ring finger, the (gold/silver) diamond ring spun several rotations as your eyes settled on the English Oak tree. Gaz had been practicing his throwing knives earlier before he got scolded by Simon. You didn’t care much, just rolled over on the couch and pretended you couldn’t hear him. You thanked your lucky stars he didn’t sound like Lloyd, but out of the corner of your eye, he might as well be his father’s spitting image.

Fuck him. Fuck him, fuck them, fuck everything.

“Lloyd’s dead, right?”

There was a moment of silence, but you could see the man beside you nod.  “Yes, he is. He’s long gone.”

“And none of his shitheads are alive?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Okay.” 

“I’ve got ya, Missus, we’ve got ya.” John turned his head, shouting, “I’ve got her!”

There was rushed Spanish from above, your eyes focused on the gray clouds above you once more. An inkling inside you wondered what they would feel like; nothing? Or little pin pricks against your skin? Maybe like the snow you’ve laid in for who knows how long. 

“Melody, Melody…”

Something warm was wrapped around your front, reeking of pungent cigar smoke, and you just wanted to fall away from it. The warmth felt like fire, a thousand needles into your freezing body, even as you try to embrace it. The crystalline tears that map your cheeks fall into the snow below, your eyes focusing on your husband’s friend, your children’s godfather. His face contorted into panic, something you felt was rare for the captain. He spoke into a radio - you couldn’t make it out over the sound of your pounding head. 

Only your daughter’s name came from you, Price’s face escaped your vision as your eyes rolled back to the sky again, watching something float above you. 

You don’t pretend you could keep your consciousness, even as Price kept yelling at you to stay awake. Even as you felt clawing hands at your chest, your head, your hands - you blinked again and it wasn’t Price above you, but Lloyd. His bludgeoned face fading in and out, going from the lifeless look to the enraged one he had the night before you escaped.

You shook the memory away, your neck creaked in defiance. “I think I’m going crazy.”

“And I’d say that’s okay, given the circumstances.”

“I yelled at Simon.” 

The ashtray clinked against the table as Price settled his cigar on it. “And he deserved it. Simon can handle a lot more than you may think.”

“That may be true, but that still doesn’t mean I enjoy hurting him.” The few ornaments that hung from the fence glimmered from the moonlight, little dots pranced around on the snow like ballet dancers - delicate and slow-moving like you. The wind whistled, your eyes followed the dance as your stomach tensed, then your chest cracked open, your feelings and heart spilling,  “It makes me sick to look at him, his…his face, it’s…”

“You gave him a few good shiners.”

“He looks so much like Lloyd and I can’t- I can’t get myself under control and understand that he’s dead. He’s dead and I- and Simon would never do that to me. He would never. I know he wouldn’t, I know he couldn’t, but I still look at his face and I…” The words almost turned to ash on your lips, and only a whisper followed, “I think I’m scared of him.”

“I could lie to you and say that it’ll go away, but it won’t. It’ll morph into somethin’ else, sure, but what happened to you…it stays forever. You’ll be afraid, for now, but you’ll persevere. We’ve seen you do it before. And it’ll be rough this time. There’s nothing like your abuser’s face being so close to you all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“Imagine how Simon must feel to wear both his and your abuser’s face.” John hummed for just a moment, a slow drag of his cigar as the chair clicked when he pushed back. “Give him some grace, Missus, but do not give him more than an inch. Your bleeding wounds matter more now than his healed ones.”

A friend, lending a hand or extending a branch with growing olives. His resolve to save your family and protect it almost felt like your own was fierce, like gnashing teeth and growls heard from miles away. Yet, he was the other side of the coin. While you laid your neck bare to protect your family, he fought with every tooth and nail he had, just like Simon. A friend. A confidant. Family. His right hand man, and now yours.

“Would it…” The tears on your face felt bitter, now that you tuned back into your body. The tingling in your nose, the pounding in your head, the weakness in your voice, “Would it be bad if I asked him to wear the mask?”

“Couldn’t hurt you.”

“Mellie’s…Mellie’s scared of it, but I…”

“Need it?”

A tremor in your bleeding heart and a sigh as you now found yourself staring at your hands. Rough, leather-like, raw with dark pink lines that covered your knuckles like a drawing. A sick, beautiful sketch. “Yeah.”

“Just tell him.”

“I can’t.”

John rustled in his chair, the smell of sweet tobacco hit your nose. “So you shouted. So what? You hurt his feelings, you lashed out, and you’re upset about it. He’s not going to ignore you for having feelings for once.”

Excuse me? Your head whipped up, cracking from the sudden movement as you met John’s eyes, “What do you mean by that?”

He huffed a chuckle through his nose, the smoke from the cigar reaching for the stars. “I mean that you are docile, at best. You coddle yourself and your husband because you don’t like to be angry. It’s an ugly monster and I’m sure you’ve experienced someone’s anger towards you before, right? Your mum? Dad?”

Your face heated with embarrassment as you realized you sometimes forgot his rank. A captain, a man who can dissect humans down to their very soul with one glance, and use it against them if need be. The dagger pointed straight into your pupil, ready to slice the delicate membrane to dissect everything in your brain.

“And you didn’t want that for your kids, so all you do is put your husband on a pedestal and be a docile little plaything because you don’t want your children to be exposed to those ugly emotions like you were. Am I close?”

You didn’t answer, your tear-filled stare was the only response. 

“Thought so.” He leaned forwards onto his knees,  “Missus, there’s great benefits in communication. You and Simon have your marriage worked out well, but the situation has changed. You have changed, Simon has not. Whatever happened in that cabin has killed a part of you.”

“John-“

“I can see it. You’re like a caged animal in that head of yours, and you have no emotional outlet. A couple mom friends, you haven’t spoken to your parents since before Mellie was even a thought-” How the fuck- “Hell, you barely even speak to your brothers.” 

A flame of rage ignited in your ribcage, your own teeth gnashed as you snarled, “That's an invasion of privacy!”

John’s look was firm, unwavering and harsh. Almost as if he was reducing you with his gaze, the blaze began to shrink. “No, I’m profiling and protecting you. You’ve isolated yourself and refuse to show any negative emotion because you don’t believe you have them. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not about to coddle you like they do. Answer the question.”

Knife pressed, slicing layers into your brain. Methodical. Deliberate. He’s a friend with an iron grip that broke the olive branch, he’s a mad man in a war hero’s body.

“Yes.”

“As much as you hate it, take it out on Simon. He can handle it.” Another drag, the smoke dissipated quickly. Your eyes met the garden door to see if there was any unwanted attention, but there was no shadow, no Winnie coming to ask for a glass of water. Alone with your friend, the man dissecting your life with a single train of thought. “I’m not sure he would ever think less of you. We sure as hell don’t.”

“You might after my session on Thursday.”

Out of the corner of your eye, John’s face steeled. “And what does that mean?”

Healing knuckles tightened. “I’m telling my therapist what happened. Again.”

“And you think I’m going to give it to Simon to read.”

“No, I…” The tears on your waterline spilled again - quick, almost as if they were never there. “Yes.” Don’t lie and pretend everything’s okay to the man who saved your life. He saw what you had done. “I don’t want anyone to read it and think less of me.”

“Missus, do you know what we do for a living?”

“No.”

“We- Are you serious?”

“Simon doesn’t tell me anything about it. I know better than to ask.”

He paused, your eyes moved to your hands again. Keep going back to things that ground you like the fish tank in Marli’s office. The pink lines on your hands, the pain in them, the disgust you feel when you remember beating Lloyd and smiling. You killed a man and smiled, and you are trying everything to stop it from eating you alive. John continued, “Do you think I’m a good man?”

“Yes, I do.” You have never been given a reason not to.

“Do you think Simon’s a good man? Gaz? Soap? Alejandro? Rudy?”

“Yes.”

“We kill people for a living.”

“Isn’t that just the military anyway?”

“No. We are Special Forces. We kill multiple people every mission. Folks who had families, lives outside of their work, but we still killed them. We kill mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, all in the name of world peace. But we also kill purple that the government just has a plain ol’ distaste for.” Fish tank, pink scars, pain, fear, terror, nausea - fuck, your eyes screwed shut as you squeezed your hands. “You killed your father-in-law. So what? You protected your child from being bloody trafficked, and you thought we’d think less of you? Come off it. The man deserved what came to him,  and you deserved to kill that man-”

Defend yourself. Fear, terror, nausea. Fish tank. Ornaments. Scars. Anger, hatred, terrified, even as you cried now, you still mourn the loss of life that was dealt by your broken hands. “He was still a human being, even if he-”

“The man who took you and your daughter away from your husband was a virus, a disease, and he needed to be put down.”

Your attacker needed to be put down, but you still killed someone.

“I’m not…I’m not you. I can’t…He was still alive. He hurt me and-and was a bad man but he was still alive.” A rough gasp came from you, the tears felt like the shield and cross you couldn’t help but bear. “But he deserved it. Deserved everything I gave him for-for trying to take my babies away from me. And I’m a bad person for liking being the person who killed him.” Roughly, you clawed at your eyes and ripped the feelings away before you placed your hands in your lap again. 

His chair creaked, but you couldn’t look away from your hands and the imaginary blood that covered them. “You’re the strongest person I know. You’re not bad. You’re traumatized, injured, and paranoid because of what you experienced at his hand.” You’re not like him, your friend. You’re not like Simon, even though you had thought you understood so many parts of him. You don’t understand the praise, the fear, the truth. “I’m proud of you for killing him. You protected your family. You took away your family’s abuser.”

“Attacker.”

“Sorry, attacker.” Silence fell like bird wings, the wind whispered against your cheek and shivering was your only option now. John cleared his throat, the ashtray clinked again. “I know you’re upset at my decision with keeping Simon away until you were safe, but it was to protect you. Simon’s… Simon isn’t your husband behind the mask.”

“Yes, he is.”

John’s lips pressed into a thin line, your gaze turned down to your hands that ached like no tomorrow. Pink scars, jagged fingernails. “It couldn’t hurt to ask him to wear the mask, and he might for your comfort, but don’t expect him to be normal.” Silvery scars covered yours as John patted your hand with his own, and it wasn’t lost on you the way his voice softened and cracked, “He was once Lloyd’s prey too.”

•••

“Hey, you need anythin’?”

Simon’s voice scared you, your head darted up from the book in your lap. His head was poked into the room, a hand on the door, and he looked tired. “Yeah. Can you…come in here?” 

You closed your book and placed it on the little table next to the rocking chair as he shuffled in and sat in front of you. Your eyes glanced towards the slightly open nursery door and your shoulders slowly declined. Escape was directly in front of you, the baby in her crib and it’s a quick grab if you need to-

No. No, stop it, it’s Simon, he’s Simon. 

Pressure began to build on your throat, dryness raked its claws too and you suddenly found it hard to meet your husband’s eyes. The hot splash of shame in your body made your eyes dart down to your hands that sat limply in your lap. Shame because you couldn’t understand your feelings, because everything you have told Simon caused him pain. Shame because this was the one thing you thought you could never ask.

“Can you wear the mask for me?”

His breathing faltered for just a moment, and if you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have noticed. In your peripheral vision, his hands were settled at his sides, but had curled into fists. It was then that shame reared its ugly head and fear roared loudly. What was he going to do? He wouldn’t hit you, but how do you know? How do you know that you can trust yourself with Simon anymore? That he won’t hurt you like Lloyd did?

Your eyes flickered to his fist, the balaclava bulked the side of his sweatpants. The one with the print, you hoped. Skull plates tend to be awkward when shoved into pockets, don’t they? Does it get hot when he wears it? Is it itchy? Has to be when he has his beard. He shaved it before he left, before you were taken, before you were-

“Why?”

The way his voice strained made your stomach instantly squeeze. Red alert, alarms screamed in your head, you had overstepped. You’ve done it before, but…he could do so many things to you if he wanted. 

“I’m- I’m scared.”

He could be just like Lloyd, he could grab you by the throat here and take every ounce of trust you have in him and destroy it. He could be a monster too. He was a monster, and you knew it this whole time. You just refused to believe that Simon could hurt anyone.

The fist that squeezed against his side grew whiter every second. It wasn’t purposeful, the way you moved back, away from your husband and the possibility of what pain could be created by his hand. Gone were the nights you let him touch every inch of you without fear, gone were the days you could be jumpscared by your husband without fearing that he’d hurt you. He’s killed so many people, but his list of enemies was still longer than the whole length of Manchester. He was other people’s nightmares and once your favorite daydream, and now you sit here in front of him, praying he wouldn’t lay a hand on you too.

“I can’t.”

Even if his hand did not move, your heart was still ripped out of your chest. Your teary eyes darted up to his face, his piercing eyes drilling holes into yours. Tears escaped quickly, your own hands baffled at your sides. “Why not?”

“I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

Monster. He was a monster and he stood in front of you like a well trained dog - Simon and Ghost bled into one being instead of their strict divide. Panic began to bubble in your chest, shame screamed as fear cried. 

Your husband growled through gritted teeth, “Because I will not let you hide from me too. Do you understand?”

The sob that left your throat was like a prisoner escaping, unwanted and quiet. You could do nothing more than hang your head, your hand pressed against your mouth as you tried your best to stay afloat next to your screaming emotions. Even if Simon Riley, a man you truly believed was good, wasn’t a monster before, the way he just broke your heart made you afraid of the dark. 

•••

No one had seen him all day, but he knew you could hear him. He was cleaning the bedroom, folding laundry he hadn’t had the chance to. You’re upset and it’s his own fault, but shame was a powerful feeling. The mask sat heavy in his pocket as he zipped up Mellie’s onesies, folded them, and placed them into her laundry basket. He’d have to go back in soon but he wasn’t sure he could face your sobs again. His heart squeezed in agony with every beat, his own tears silent as they fell onto every piece of clothing. 

He wanted to put his hand through the wall. He wanted to scream, bring his father back to life and kill him again; he wanted everything to go back to normal where the monster was still in the shadows and all he was to you was a husband. Your Simon. He didn’t miss the fear in your eye, in your body, when he came close to you. It was like a neon sign flashing above you. But he didn’t do anything about it. He didn’t know how to show you that he would never lay a hand on you, or the kids.  That he would never raise his voice to control you. The only thing that kept you calm was your baby, and Price, the ever-calming figure and leader. In some way, Simon was jealous, and angry that John could easily talk you down, but he also understood. You knew he was the one who rescued you, it created some strong bond, just like the one he has with his captain. A savior with a bad smoking habit, one who had an affinity to talking down scared Rileys. 

He nearly folded another sweatshirt of yours from the basket. You’d only been wearing comfortable clothes, stuff easy to get in and out of because of your back. The doctor said you’d bruised your ribs and pulled a few muscles during your tumble down the cliffside. It was hard enough trying to get you to stop carrying Mellie around, so he wasn’t going to fight you on wearing warmer things like sweatpants or a thicker sweater. There were so many cogs turning in his head, panic and anger buzzing in his fingertips. There was too much to do. Laundry, bathe you, pick Winnie up, grab groceries, ask John when he’s able to beat the shit out of the lackeys they captured in the cabin where they held you. They had good hits to their heads, he’d seen the pictures - they were still knocked out cold by the time Rudy had apprehended them. He had praised you endlessly for it, fighting just how he told you to. Dirty and as fast as you could. But he still couldn’t get the look of your face out of his head, the way you cowered in fear every time he was even in the room. Simon was well aware of how much he looked like his father from a distance, but he looked so much like his mother up close. The softness of his face in the places it counted - cheeks, smile, eyes, even the myriad of scars on his face changed the way he looked.

It didn’t matter. He can’t change the darkness that has you trapped.

In a way, he has you trapped. The thought almost made him throw up on your jumper. 

Yet, there’s an insatiable need to understand what happened. To pry open your head and watch your memories like a movie, understand why you decided to fight Lloyd instead of running, why you didn’t take a gun from the table near the door in the cabin, why you refuse to be left alone without Mellie. As much as it would destroy him, it would still help you. It would tailor his drive to help you and the baby. 

Simon also wanted to know exactly what his father did to you in the cabin. The nitty gritty details. The withering bruises and the mental wounds you refuse to speak on. He just wanted to understand, but he also didn’t. He didn’t want to know if…if the worst happened. Destroying the house would be too hard to resist. A rampage wouldn’t be enough, he needed everyone responsible to be killed by his own two hands. Pressure beneath Ghost’s fingertips, the feeling of hard bone and pulsating arteries as he ripped jaws out of socket or twisted a neck so violently that the whole base could hear. And if something had happened to Mellie, the entirety of the Russian Mafia would be up in flames by the end of the week. 

Can you wear the mask for me?

He rested your jumper on your stack of clothes, his thumb brushed against your university’s logo. You were still working on your degree, you were watching every sports game and cheering like you were in the arena, the last time Simon was home before you were taken from him, ripped from the sanctuary he so carefully built. Sanctity of his home was sacred to him, a little corner of Manchester he made his own, somewhere he could hide and protect his family. Ruins lay tainted in his hands by the one person he hated the most. 

The report was long, as to be expected with a spouse and child of his rank being kidnapped. They got a barely intelligible recollection of the events from you, but all he could hear was you repeating, “Nothing happened. Nothing like that.” in a shaky voice. Your husband hasn’t heard you lie before, but you were lying then. He knew you and it tore him apart to hear you cry in that recording, and to hear you cry now. 

You would never ask me to do that for you if nothing happened in that cabin.

Simon wiped the tears from his face with a rough hand and stood, pocketed his phone and left the laundry on the bed. Winnie would be done with school soon, he needed to get groceries, but all he wanted to do was curl around his girls and keep them safe in his arms. 

As he passed the nursery, he paused as he heard you softly talking to Mellie. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the door, let alone knock. He kept walking. 

stares in a distinct way. like in a way that my head is at a 90 degree angle

i genuinely need someone to bleach my brain of john price. there’s too many ideas for him in there. i have seven orphan fics right now and i have to feed them