Chapter Text
It had been a case of bad wiring, the letter had said.
A few wires and the entire house had gone up in an explosion of electricity and smoke.
The only consolation offered in the note from your brother was that your sister, her husband, and your mother hadn’t suffered long- that they’d been asleep and died instantly.
If that could even be considered a consolation. The proffered reassurance didn’t console you at all.
It made you feel sick- that they hadn’t even had a chance to escape. No warning.
Your father had woken up to the smell of smoke, and that was the only reason he was still alive- because he’d gone to the living room to check the fireplace to ensure it wasn’t the source of the smell.
And now he lay in a hospital bed with burns to 70% of his body, on the other side of the world and with only your brother and his wife to sit by his side.
And the only thing your father had asked your brother to relay to you?
Don’t come home. Finish what you started. Your mother and I are so proud of you.
That almost hurt as badly as knowing that your mother was gone, that your sister and brother and law were gone.
Don’t come home.
Winters had been the one with you when you’d opened the letter, and when you’d dropped it in shock he’d been the one to pick it up and read it’s heartbreaking announcement under his breath.
Hearing the words was worse than reading them. It made it true. It made it real .
When you’d announced that you were going to need a minute in a broken whisper, he’d nodded and put the letter back in your hand with a tight ‘i’m so sorry’ whispered as you all but ran out of the CP and sought privacy in one of the still-standing structures of the small French town by the border.
It was only when you found yourself plunged into the darkness of the room that you’d allowed yourself to break. Silent screams burned your throat as you cried harder than you ever had in your entire life, your skin sweaty and your hands tearing at your hair like they could uproot the knowledge of what had happened from your mind and make it all go away.
It didn’t make sense. You were the one in the most danger, the one that wasn’t meant to survive.
How could you justify risking your life for the betterment of your family, when it had been a silent threat of poor electrical maintenance to take their lives? Why had you fought so hard?
How had you forgotten that people died from things other than war?
You’d cried until your eyes ran dry and your muscles ached from the heaving sobs that racked your body.
Don’t come home.
When you had finally managed to plop your exhausted body down on a crate, you felt like a hollow doll of yourself. Everything you did, all that you’d ever done had been for your family- and now that half of them were gone you realized you had no idea what to do with yourself.
What was the point of fighting if everything you fought for was dead and gone?
You weren’t sure how long you’d been staring at the wall before you heard the steady tread of booted feet creaking on the distressed wood of the floor, the sound startling you enough to blink out the tears that had gathered in your eyes.
You didn’t have it in you to wipe them away as they rolled down your cheeks, feeling completely wrung out and raw in the cool, dim room you’d sequestered yourself in.
As the steps came to a stop beside you, you sniffed and bit the inside of your cheek.
You didn’t need to turn your head to see who it was. You already knew.
There was only one person who it could be, only one person who wouldn’t announce themselves before coming over.
Ron Speirs didn’t care if you wanted to be alone.
When he sits beside you on one of the larger crates that were being housed in the attic-like room, you close your eyes and try not to find comfort in the warmth of his thigh against yours, the rough trace of his small finger ghosting over your knuckles.
He’d seen you at your worst many times before- when you’ve been sick and tired and smelly and the few times you’d felt so angry you swore you could kill a man.
Yet somehow, having him see you like this felt shameful. This felt too private to share, especially with someone like him.
But he must’ve known the state he was going to find you in- you were sure everyone had heard the news you had gotten by now. He knew what had happened and had come to find you anyway.
You didn’t want to think about what that meant, not right now.
His eyes were on you, you could always feel when he was looking at you. It had been happening more and more and despite the fact that it was becoming obvious to everyone else it didn’t seem to deter him any. It used to make you feel self-conscious, but now?
Now it felt like a hand on your shoulder- reassuring and secure and supportive.
You open your eyes at the sound of him sparking his lighter, turning your head slightly to watch him light the cigarette between his lips with the confident movements of someone who has done it a thousand times before. After taking a drag he holds it out to you, and when you take it he exhales the smoke from his lungs and leans back so his back is against the wall as well.
You offer a small smile as you take the cigarette from his fingers and bring it to your mouth, turning your head back to you’re facing the opposite wall once more.
The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, passing the cigarette back and forth. It’s during one of your turns with it that you find yourself suddenly wondering if smoke from a house fire felt the same as cigarette smoke in your lungs, and you can’t help the roll of pain that crashes over you like a wave.
Your upset must be obvious enough for Ron to notice, because he takes the smoldering cigarette from your fingers and puts it out on his boot before he murmurs your name softly. Worriedly.
“How do you do it?”
He seems caught off guard by the question, his brow furrowed and head slightly tilted when you turn to look at him again. Dark eyes search your face for a moment, as if he'll find some clarity in your drawn expression.
‘What do you mean?”
You swallow the thickness in your throat before shrugging minutely.
“Not care about anything... any of it. ”
Something flashes in his gaze, and when he sits up you can’t help but let your eyes trace over the broad span of his shoulders. He’s pulling out another cigarette as he answers.
“I care about things,” he says gruffly, and for a moment you wonder if you’ve offended him. “Plenty of things.”
You let the statement hang in the air for a second, giving him a moment to expand on it.
He doesn’t.
“Well,” you sit up as well, holding your hand out in his direction for the unoffered cigarette. He gives you a quick look before relenting and letting you pinch it between your index and middle finger. “You don’t seem to let those things affect you.”
“How would you know? ”
Now you know you’ve insulted him, at least a little bit.
“You don’t know what I care about, what matters to me.”
He isn’t angry- and while it’s never been directed at you , you’ve seen him angry before and know that if he truly were upset with you, he’d just leave and never speak to you again. As childish as it feels to think it, you almost feel like you’ve hurt his feelings .
There’s an unfamiliar defensiveness in his tone that has you feeling prickly, as if he somehow was the one who was being insensitive.
“ Clearly not . No one does.”
There are a few tense beats of silence, but when you touch the hand fisted on his thigh and offer him the cigarette back, his shoulders relax infinitesimally and he takes it from your fingers. In a move you hope comes across as apologetic, you shift your body to face him and bow your head until your forehead is pressed against his shoulder carefully.
As he sighs deeply, you know the gesture is well received. The way he lets his fingertips brush against the back of your hand serves as confirmation, the quick touch tickling the skin enticingly.
You have to wet your lips before you feel like you can speak again.
“I just...I don't want to feel anything anymore. I just want to shut it off— ”
“Feeling things isn’t a bad thing.”
The sentiment surprises you, and when you lift your head from his shoulder he meets your gaze with one of neutrality and offers a noncommittal shrug. “They aren’t convenient , but they aren’t bad.”
You furrow your brow at that, tilting your head to the side while narrowing your eyes
“That’s...not what you said to Blithe.”
“You’re not Blithe.”
That throws you for a loop. You don’t know where he’s trying to go with this.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“ Blithe wanted to be a frontline paratrooper.”
Ron turns so he’s looking at you straight on now, eyes serious as they watch you. “He wanted to fight and lead. You can’t lead if you let fear rule you.”
“And me ?” you press, bringing your legs up and folding them you watch him critically. “I’m afraid all the time—”
“ Your fear keeps you safe.” He says it like it’s obvious. “Being an intelligence officer is different from a frontline foot soldier. You can’t do your job if you ignore your gut instinct. Foot soldiers just need to learn how to follow their gut and not care if they get hurt while doing so.”
Before you can reply, Ron reaches for your canteen beside you and presses it into your hand, the wordless command making you scoff and roll your eyes.
He smirks minutely, bringing the cigarette to his lips and watching you as you indulge him with a few glugs of cool water.
“Happy?”
“ Thrilled .”
As you set the canteen down you find yourself entranced by the sight of the smoke being exhaled through his slightly chapped lips, the way it curls down his chin before getting caught in the more forceful stream of breath and dissipating.
When your eyes flick to his you realize that he caught you staring, and you quickly look down at your lap and pick at some dirt beneath your fingernail.
You swear you hear him huff a laugh, but when you look up again he’s stone-faced again.
A sudden boldness overtakes you. Maybe it’s because you feel like you have nothing left to lose anymore.
“Doesn’t it get lonely? Not letting yourself care too deeply for anything or anyone at all?” your chest feels warm from the riskiness of it, knowing that you’re starting to get close to the unspoken but respected boundary the two of you have.
The line in the sand that has been becoming harder and harder to see, the one that keeps this strange closeness between the two of you from taking what would probably have been a logical next step- if you had met back home in a world not at war.
Even though he has to know that the conversation is dangerously close to becoming intimate in a way that shouldn’t necessarily exist between comrades, Ron only pauses a moment before answering honestly.
“Of course it does.”
He looks at a spot over your shoulder for a moment, like he’s thinking carefully about what to say next. “It’s….. not about not caring deeply, it’s about using those things that matter to fuel your fight.”
You hadn't realized that you’d started to lean closer to him, or that your voices have become softer. And even when you do, you don’t make a move to correct it.
Your mouth feels dry, and when Ron looks back at you you feel extremely exposed in some strange way. If you were smart, you’d direct the conversation elsewhere- somewhere safer.
But you don’t want to. And judging by the way Ron’s eyes have softened, he doesn’t want you to either.
“ Ron ?” your voice is just above a whisper.
“ Hm .”
The sound is warm, his lips slightly parted in a way you find distracting.
“What do you care about?”
He answers almost immediately.
“ Things I probably shouldn’t. Things I can’t have. ”
You feel your cheeks darken, but you have met his gaze and under it you can’t even consider looking away.
“ Like what? ”
He shakes his head at that, releasing you from his unwavering eye contact in favor of watching his hand come up to cup the side of your neck, his thumb lightly brushing up and down against your too-warm skin.
You hear yourself sigh, heart beating a thousand times a minute and your breathing slightly hitched.
“ Why not? ’
A small, rueful smile curls the corners of his lips, and when he looks into your eyes again he gives you another light head shake.
“Because, it wouldn’t change anything. Because the truth isn’t always helpful.”
You can feel his breath against your lips, the hand holding your neck gently pulling you closer.
“Ron, I—”
“
Y/N!?
”
You both startle at the sound of Lewis Nixon hollering your name, whatever heady spell the two of you had been swept up in cracking like splintering glass. You freeze in place, unwilling to take your eyes from Ron’s face despite the knowledge that your moment of privacy has come to an end.
Ron, for his part, hasn’t stopped looking at you with heavy lidded eyes- as if he hasn’t heard Nix or if he simply is refusing to acknowledge the sound of the other man’s voice.
“ Y/N?! Where are you? Sink’s looking for us and you know I can’t be left unsupervised in professional settings for long…. ”
With a frustrated sigh, you give Ron a tight smile.
“If I don’t go now, he’ll just keep shouting until I do—”
“I know,” he says despite the fact that his hand is still holding you in place. “You should indulge him before it only gets worse.”
You sigh a laugh at that, forcing yourself to lean back and away from Ron’s touch. You notice that his hand lingers in the slope of your neck for a bit longer than it should have, but your head is feeling cloudy with confusion and a strange sense of guilt that you can’t explain.
As you stand, you cast another look at Ron, who has returned to his earlier position of leaning against the wall and watching you. Swallowing down the tightness in your throat, you give him a small nod and begin to walk away.
A thought crosses your mind, one that makes you stop in the doorway and turn back to look at him.
“I’ll never actually know you, will I Ron Speirs?”
When he smiles at you your heart begins to race, like he’s letting you in on a secret.
“That’s not true,” he says softly, eyes trailing over you before meeting your gaze once more. “You know me better than anyone else here.”
“Why me?”
This time, you know what he’s telling you is a truly private thing.
“Because I want you to. Because you should.”
With that, he tilts his head in the direction Nix’s voice had come from.
“You should go before he comes looking for you.”
You nod, taking a deep breath and leaving to go find your SUpervisor.
Ron, unsure why he decided to tell you that, makes a low sound in his throat before turning back to look at the wall.
Because you matter,
he lets himself think the words he wishes he could say.
You matter more than you know.