#i just can't get over simon trying to stay mad and being resolute and then

[leojfitz]

And you expect me to thank you? Is that it? I just wanted you to know.

[sigh-tofm]

being mrs. price, your house is routinely visited by the men in your husband's task force. johnny drops by to deliver last minute reports. kyle (having already finished, signed and handed in his reports in a timely manner) now and then stops by to lure john into going jogging.

and ghost comes by for dinner, rigorously once a week in the periods he’s home. you think it might be the only meals he ever eats hot, apart from the mush they get in the cafeteria on base. so you take extra care to season just right, make sure the meat is nice and tender, the produce fresh and green.

you don’t know much about ghost, mostly because there isn’t much to know. no significant other. no parents or siblings, no family at all. john has become his stand in for a father, a mentor, johnny and kyle his unruly siblings and friends.

and you? well.

you’re slivers away from sleep when john speaks.

"honey?"

"hm."

"i think simon’s lonely."

you don’t move, still intent on falling asleep. "mm."

"honey."

"'s a grown man."

"yeah, but… it’s not easy for him."

"what."

"this life. being a civilian."

you don’t answer.

"he doesn’t have a partner."

you sigh, but resolutely keep your eyes shut. even though the bedroom is dark and john can't see you anymore than you can him, you can feel his eyes boring into you. he's waiting for you to say something. you could agree and move on. no, he doesn't. so what? you could go to sleep, or at least pretend to.

but it feels a little heartless.

"his private life isn't your concern, john," you eventually mutter.

john shifts. you can hear the sheets rustle and feel the mattress sway slightly under you. now that you've said yours you're content to sleep, unconsciousness tugging lightly at the edges of your mind, when he speaks again.

"i wouldn't mind... sharing with him."

his words tears you to the surface of alertness and you sit up abrutply, your mind halfway addled with residual sleep. what did he just say?

"what-" you fiddle with the lamp on the nightstand until it turns on, revealing john quite innocently looking up at you from where he's resting on his pillow. did you even hear him right? you replay what he said over and over in your mind until you're sure you in fact heard him correctly.

"john price, go sleep on the couch!" you exclaim and push at his solid shoulder to get him to move. you don't know what to say, apart from that. not only is it adultery, it's ouright nauseating, readily suggesting offering up his own wife like that.

john, after excusing his behaviour, kisses your temple and pulls the duvet up over your shoulders, then exits the room. you hear the creaky staircase serenade his descent and you try your best not to think about your husband’s colleague and subordinate, asleep in the next room over because a surprise snowfall didn’t let him drive home after tonight's dinner.

you can’t stay mad for long. john is so good to you, so considerate. he's cooking up hash browns, fried eggs and sausage downstairs when you wake up the morning after, the scent wafting in from under the bedroom door. simon left early, john tells you as you come down and put on the kettle. you remark that you hope he ate something first, and john assures you he he gave him a big plate before he had to go. something about working out with johnny. you hum as you make your tea the way you like it john's tea the way he likes his. last night seems a distant memory. by midday you're not it even sure it happened. at dinnertime it's forgotten entirely.

but a week later, you're reminded of the conversation and john's remark. in fact, after your midnight exchange and your subsequent subconscious pondering of it all, you realize john's right. simon is lonely. when you three gather around your hardwood dining table a week later, it's like a veil has been lifted from your eyes. you can't help but send sideways glances at simon as you part a broccoli floret with you steak knife and sip your wine. he looks so lonesome and pathetic, hunched over in a kitchen chair that really is to narrow for him, that his brooding stare and pulled up hoodie don’t make up for it.

it's something about the way his eyes are set, how they move. always observing and analysing, rarely acting on it. like a trusty work horse he answers without fail to any semblance of an order or request, be it from you or from john. maybe the implicit obedience is what makes him a good soldier, you idly wonder, although you know the scars across his lip and through his eyebrow, the crookedness of his nose, tell a different story. passive obedience doesn't earn one a lieutenant degree.

as offensive as john's initial proposal was, you're still ruminating on it. it's not like you're not curious, but you're not sure how far the curiousity stretches. another week passes and the thought doesn't repulse you anymore. dinner is fish this week, and simon is dutifully cutting up his filet even though you know it's not his favourite. but you care about him and his omega-3 intake, and so you make fish once a month for your shared dinners.

another week later, at midnight, as john is about to fall asleep, you concede.

"fine. once."