Chapter Text
The water splits, enveloping the small group of free-divers who plunge into its crystal depths. Bubbles cling to their forms, gliding over skin and wetsuits, before dissipating into loose clouds as the divers descend.
Simon wants to sigh in relief as the sea caresses his body, but resists the urge. Instead, he closes his eyes to indulge in the serenity, and lets his muscles go lax. His relaxed form sinks, hands clasped in front of him, legs loosely kicking to counter the natural buoyancy that wants to pull him back to the surface.
Slowly, he tilts so he’s almost upside-down, and undulates, using his abdominals and legs to guide himself into the depths. Practiced, smooth, not unlike the motions he’s learned to mimic from the merfolk he’s studied over the years.
Fascinating creatures, ones that had jump-started Simon’s obsession from an early age.
It started with an encounter, when he was child, on holiday with his parents. Dolphins. So playful and curious, they’d splashed about in the surf with Simon until the boy could no longer stand, exhausted to the bone. Simon’s natural connection with the merfolk had left his parents stunned, and Simon unable to stop talking about them for years after.
The lasting impression on young Simon never left him, only strengthened his resolve to find more pockets of merfolk to interact with.
As time inevitably marched on, a pit of regret filled Simon, having never pursued a career in marine biology or oceanography, but he’s decidedly making up for it now.
After retiring from the military, Simon was drawn back to the ocean. He earned his diving certificate and immediately started teaching others, so they too could have the opportunity to experience these amazing creatures.
His small diving company was renowned for its thoughtful and safe practices, protecting both human, and mer, alike. Offering exciting dives with local mers, that no competitors could compare to, Simon holds a niche market that he takes great pride in.
And it’s all thanks to the relationships and trust he’s built with the merfolk around the UK. The task hadn’t been easy, or fast, but well worth the effort. He’s spent his retirement instilling respect and awe for the merfolk he’s come to love, and wouldn’t have it any other way. Anything to spread a positive light on the elusive beings, and continue to keep them safe.
Although not rare, most merfolk are usually wary of humans, and keep their distance. Centuries of hunting and capturing of their kind would make any species cautious. Now protected, the merfolk have slowly started to trust humans again, but it’s not without its challenges.
While most remain distant, the groups that Simon’s earned the trust of enjoy the interaction, and actively seek out the contact when the diver and his employees approach. Some prefer to retreat once the humans leave, only to return when the select few visit. Solitary and private, a way of living Simon can understand, and will never question.
But in seas like this, unlike the comparatively chilly waters he’s used to, the merfolk are more friendly, eager to explore the constant stream of tourists that flock to the warm, Florida waters Simon now meanders in.
Around him, the other divers have already gone their separate ways, impatient to poke around the surrounding reefs. Instructors, same as him.
They work for another retired veteran, Simon’s former captain, John Price.
The draw to warmer climates, and the promise to help with an old colleague's conservation efforts, led Price to Florida, where he now resides full-time, having found it too difficult to part from what should have been a temporary project.
Simon always knew Price was a softy at heart, but he would never say it out loud. They’ve been through too much over the years to give away such a secret. Simon owes that man everything...
Which is how Simon ended up here, answering Price’s call-in for a favor — asking Simon to cover for one of his instructors. An injury left them unable to lead their scheduled dives, right in peak season. Price couldn’t afford to cancel almost a month’s worth of business.
So, with all expenses paid — flight, lodging, food, rental car — Simon readily jumped on that waiting plane. Price must have been desperate for another experienced diver, and Simon wasn’t about to say no to a free trip.
Rarely does he get to visit across the pond. It would be foolish of him to say no, especially with the chance to see species of mers that aren’t common in his stretch.
Oh, and catching up with his captain... That’s nice too. Stupidly expensive cigars, a pier off his private stretch of beach, and nice house nestled in the dunes… Yeah, not turning that down either.
Reaching the reefs below, Simon allows himself to float in place, observing the impressive displays of color from flowing anemone tendrils, branched corals and vibrant fish that dart between them.
It’s a cursory glance, one given in haste as he kicks off to pull in a deep breath at the surface.
It would be far easier to dive with his tank, but Simon doesn’t want to be hindered by his gear. Not today.
Ever since Soap decided to be a cheeky bastard and steal one of his fins, Simon realized he needed to stop relying so much on his oxygen supply. He’d lost his breath too easily chasing the menace...
So, with determination on his mind, and nothing but a skin-tight, full-body rash guard, goggles and fins, Simon is set on increasing his lung capacity. Sinking back down, he counts the seconds, the minutes, and realizes that at a leisurely pace, he’s able to last three and half, before feeling any discomfort.
Not awful, but he knows he can do better. It’s easier when he’s not exerting all his energy in one-sided pursuits.
After sticking close to the boat while he adjusts, he fills his lungs, then pushes for the reefs once more.
While more eager to seek out humans, the resident merfolk can still be elusive. They have their loosely defined territories, but tend to wander where their whims take them. The search for food and shelter is never-ending in their environment, and they must go where the tides lead.
Milling lazily about the sandy ocean floor, Simon spots a small group of lemon shark mers. A rise of excitement wells in Simon’s chest. Not a species that lives in his neck of the seas, Simon can’t believe his luck tracking some down on his first day here.
Mentally marking their location, Simon darts up for another lungful of air, then finds a place among the coral to observe them. Price had given him a rundown of the area, filling him in on which mers and creatures were amiable, and which to avoid, but Simon wants to make his own judgments.
The merfolk chatter with each other in cheerful trills, barks and clicks, much like the nuisance of a mer Simon’s grown fond of. The sounds pull a tender smile to his lips, quickly pursed so he can remain focused.
Similar to humans, each species has their own dialects, but center around a common theme. Schooling sharks, in particular, favor short, sharp noises to go with their mouthy nips, and tactile brushes of limbs and tails.
They’re happy, darting around each other in bursts of energy, play-fighting, and kicking up sand as they search for food. So different from the few sharks he gets to see in the wild back home. Simon’s are more reserved, taking to low hums and calm touches.
Simon watches, careful not to disturb them. He prefers to initially keep himself hidden, so he can get a better idea for how this particular group functions. He also doesn’t want to scare them off if they’re distrustful of humans. One unfavorable look, and they would most likely never return to this area again.
One of the merfolk squeaks when another swims up to her, an offering of food in his arms. Clearly mated, they bump against each other and share a tender headbutt before the female snatches up the fish, and rips into it with ravenous chomps. There’s a fondness in the male’s gaze as his pregnant mate selects another.
Hunger dulled enough to show her appreciation, she pauses, flashes him a wide grin, and nuzzles in close, nose to his neck, where she latches on and closes her eyes.
Curious, Simon watches as she bites down harder and wriggles, her purrs loud enough to be heard even from this distance.
The male waits until she lets go, a deep impression left behind, with no blood to be seen, then does the same to her shoulder. Their tough skin allows for playful bites such as these, no pain or discomfort caused. She laughs and squirms around, tail bending around his as she links her arms over his shoulders.
They’re both purring and nibbling between their feast, intimate exchanges starting to make Simon feel like a voyeur. But, he can’t tear his gaze away as the male cups his mate’s face and tilts it, biting down once more on her exposed throat.
Her expression softens, lips parting and eyelids drooping as she now ignores the remaining food in exchange for her mate’s undivided attention. Back and forth, they nibble, bite and touch, until Simon knows he can’t encroach on their loving exchanges any longer.
He respectfully turns his gaze to the rest of the group, roughly fifteen others going about their business. Simon leans on a rock not completely covered in corals and sea life, and watches them instead.
His lungs are starting to ache and his throat bobs with the need to draw a breath in, but he resists it a beat longer, knowing he can get to the surface quickly enough if he needs to.
Some adolescent mers are being menaces to the adults, darting around them, nipping at their tails, tugging on fins.
One in particular is pushing his luck, continuing his vexations, despite the warnings he’s received already. The mischief-maker is tackled by two mers, who have had enough of his mithering. They tumble in the sand, with barks and yelps, until the large female holds him tight to her chest to restrain him.
He whips around in protest, but can’t break free. It’s not until a third swims up and grabs his tail, that he realizes how much trouble he’s in, and finally settles. One of the males turns the young one's head and squeezes his cheeks together in his hand, growling and baring his teeth.
In an attempt to appease his elders, he trills and sticks his tongue out, feigning innocence. He’s thoroughly scolded, despite his best efforts, and is eventually released. He doesn’t get away without an exchange of gentle nibbles from the adults, which is quickly returned, before the young mer zooms away to cause more trouble. Forgiveness, after the punishment...
Simon’s eyes narrow, not at the display, but at how similar all these nips and bites are to… No. He banishes the thought of Soap’s incessant displays of affection, and tries to keep his mind clear. Pure coincidence. It’s just a social means of communication.
But the gears won’t stop clicking together. Simon’s face goes so red and hot that he thinks the water might boil around his cheeks. Propelling himself to the surface, gasping for air, Simon smacks the calmly bobbing waves and shakes his head.
“Bloody hell…” Simon mutters to himself.
Their various bites are a form of…
Kisses…
And here was Simon, allowing Soap to nibble, poke and prod, and basically fucking court him without even realizing it! And he allowed the sheltered mer to bite at his neck, a seemingly intimate gesture, meant only for mates... Which to be fair, only happened once. But in this case, once seems enough...
Simon wonders if Soap even realizes his own behaviors, having been sheltered almost his entire life in the aquarium. Any of his bonding with other mers had been when he was a pup, leaving him severely lacking in the social graces he would have otherwise grown up with.
Driven by instinct, Simon realizes Soap might simply be acting on what his hormones are telling him to do.
Court the diver he likes so much, so he can make him his mate…
Suddenly consumed by the implications his revelation might lead to, Simon swims back to the boat and clambers onboard.
“Done already, Simon? I figured we’d have to scoop you out with a net, and drag you back to shore.” The captain of the boat is former CIA agent, Kate Laswell — the very woman who roped Price into joining her passion project. She crosses her arms and stares down at Simon from the upper deck, trying to hide the little smirk that wants to creep up.
“Somethin’ funny?” he mumbles.
“Just amazed to see The Ghost all worn out after a little swim. You’re losing your touch, Simon.” She lights a cigarette and takes a short draw, shaking the pack in Simon’s direction to see if he wants one.
“Ah, sod off… I’m retired.” But, he nods his head at the offer. “I’ll tell your wife you’re smokin' again.”
Laswell purses her lips around the filter and shoots Simon a warning glare. She waves her hand dismissively, telling him off. “You wouldn’t dare.”
She’s right, he wouldn’t, but when banter’s started up like the old days, he’s going to play into it. Besides, Laswell probably knows exactly where to dump a body out here, to never be found… Simon’s not risking it.
Hauling himself from the swim platform, he flops into the boat, and rolls onto the deck with little grace. He lays there, catching his breath.
“So, blaming your retirement? Never expected that of you.”
“Think I might still be jet-lagged…” Simon lies as he scoots his way to the side, and slides onto one of the benches, dripping on the white, textured deck. He takes off his goggles and fins and leans his head back.
He changes the subject before Laswell can grill him further. “Found some lemon sharks. You familiar with them?”
“The school with all the young ones?” Laswell’s voice carries down the narrow stairwell as she pads down in her bare feet to meet Simon, shoes long-since tossed into some forgotten container under the seats.
“Yeah.”
“Mhmm. They’re a friendly bunch, but very excitable. Can’t keep them away from our divers once they know we’re around. We haven’t brought any tourists to them yet. With so many rambunctious ‘teenagers’,” Kate quotes with her fingers. “We’re worried someone might get unintentionally hurt. For now, we’ve been the only ones working with them.”
Simon nods and closes his eyes. “If you don’t mind, can you bring me back out tomorrow? I think I’ll be set after that.”
“Sure. You owe me gas money for the extra trip.”
“For this thing?” Simon accepts the cigarette Laswell offers him, and cups it so she can light it. “Tha’s highway robbery, Kate. How ‘bout dinner?”
Laswell taps her jaw and hums, mulling over his bribe, not convinced it’s enough.
“Bring the other half? I’ll pay for drinks too."
“Now that sounds like a deal.”
“’Course it does,” Simon chuckles.
While they wait for the other divers to finish up, Simon slings his arm over the side of the boat and stares over the ocean. He never thought his life could have such a peaceful lull, not after so many years of death and carnage. But, he supposes, everyone must get their chance. A second try at life.
Tapping his fingers against the hull, Simon can’t help but smile when he sees a shark fin pierce the surface, quickly followed by more. The divers aren’t far behind, tailed by the lemon sharks Simon had been so engrossed with.
One of the mers pops up right next to where his hand is and tries to take a cheeky bite. Quick to react, Simon grabs the young one’s chin and growls, giving it a shake. A gentle scolding to warn that it isn’t nice to bite humans. A much kinder reprimand than she’d receive from any of her elders.
The young mer chirps and bumps her head to Simon’s hand instead, grinning up at him to show she means no harm in her overzealous actions.
“Li’le brat,” he coos.
Trilling, the mer grabs his wrist in her hands, and holds it close to her face. Simon remains calm, but his heart-rate spikes in anticipation of pain. He’s had his fair share of bites and scratches, and knows he would only make things worse by wrenching his hand back, if she decides to sink her teeth in.
Instead, she points at the shiny, black lacquer on his nails, then to her clear, milky claws. Letting out a soft huff, Simon scrapes a flake off with his thumbnail and laughs when she wrinkles her nose in confusion.
“I paint them.” His words are lost on her, but she hums in return as if she understands, scratching at another one of his blunt nails until more polish peels away.
Simon lets her scrape until the entire nail is exposed. The mer smiles in triumph, and places her claw next to Simon’s finger, pleased that they’re now the same color.
“Happy with yourself, now tha’ you’ve ruined my manicure?” Simon jokes.
With a final grin, chirp, and flick of her tail, the mer is gone, curious to see the other divers.
Sure, Simon could jump back in, enjoy the opportunity as well, but he decides to stay put in the comfort of the boat. He’s content with what he’s experienced today, knowing tomorrow will offer equally fulfilling interactions.
Besides, his mind is too far gone, caught up once again in what-ifs, how-comes, and, dare he admit it, a tiny sense of pining that simmers beneath it all.
Seeing these beautiful creatures play and cavort around the open ocean sends a pang of sadness through Simon. All he can think of is Soap, and how he’s subjected to living the rest of his life in the aquarium.
Big, strong geezer like him belonged out in the wild, with his kind. Maybe with a pretty little mate to dote over and have lots of pups with... Leopard sharks are social mers, much like these lemon sharks, preferring to school together, most sticking with their families for life…
But not for poor Soap — solitary, not having any clue on what he’s missing. And perhaps that’s for the best. If he was aware, he would probably die of a broken heart in that tank, unable to come to terms with the fact that he’s contained, never to return to the ocean from which he came. A life stolen from him without his knowledge.
At the same time, if he were to ever be released, Soap would be at a disadvantage. While at his peak in age and strength, his handicap couldn’t be overlooked. It isn’t a problem within his sheltered tank, but out in the wild, having an amputated pectoral fin would be the death of him.
Normally fast as lightning, Soap had a tendency to tilt, or lose his trajectory when swimming too fast. His corkscrew maneuvers, which most think are all for fun or show for the crowds, are a means for him to cover up his momentary lapses.
Simon caught Soap metaphorically trip over himself, tail thrashing and webbed hands the only thing keeping him from crashing into a decorative mound of rocks at the bottom of his tank.
Soap tried to play it off, but was clearly embarrassed that he almost ate shit in front of his favorite diver, all while trying to show off. Soap’s balance was fucked, and the mer had to make a conscious effort every day to keep himself upright, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
Simon had brought it up right away to his handlers, to little avail. Already stunted socially from living in the aquarium for the better part of two decades, even if fitted with a prosthetic fin, Soap couldn’t safely be released. Although smart and capable in his sheltered life, the aquarists weren’t sure if Soap would be able to hunt, or assimilate himself with any existing schools of mers without getting himself killed.
They’d asked Soap if he wanted a new fin, but he declined, conveying that he didn’t need it. Stubborn fool… Perhaps he didn’t want to admit that it might help him, having survived this long without it…
Simon can’t blame Soap. He knows he’s being sour and unfairly projecting onto him. It’s ultimately his choice if he wants a new fin, or not. After the countless injuries he’s suffered over his career — both careers — Simon’s as bullheaded as the mer.
Either way, Simon pities Soap, in a way that almost physically hurts. He wants the best for Soap, and currently, his best isn’t good enough…
Sighing, Simon lays down on the bench, tucks an arm behind his head, and closes his eyes. The sun warms his damp body, swiftly heating up the black material of his swimsuit. Not that he minds. Simon enjoys the warmth.
He wonders how Soap is doing. He’d had a sit-down with the mer to explain that he would be gone for close to a month. It went about as well as expected...
Time frames aren’t very clear to Soap, other than week by week, so Ghost helps him visualize it by holding up four fingers.
“Four Sundays, Soap.” he repeats, trying his best to make sure Soap understands. “I’ll be gone for four Sundays.”
Soap hums, his brow furrowing as he processes the information, not sure he likes what Ghost is inferring. The mer shakes his head, as if his protest is law, enough to keep his diver from leaving him for so long.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it. One of my instructors is gonna take over while I’m gone. She’s nice. You’ll like her.”
Soap bares his teeth in a nasty snarl, one of discontent and thinly veiled anxiety. Ghost can’t help but find the way his nose scrunches to be incredibly cute.
“You bite her, I shave your stupid mohawk off,” Ghost warns.
Soap hisses at that, pulling his lips back further as his dark, grey tongue darts out from between his teeth.
“Then be nice!”
Another hiss, tapering into a heavy sigh of defeat. Soap resorts to whining and Ghost has to spend the next twenty minutes cuddling and consoling before he can leave without the mer howling after him.
It was in that moment, when he walked away with a heavy heart, that Simon finally allowed the realization to wash over him — that what he feels for Soap isn’t normal. It’s more than a bond formed between a diver and a mer.
Simon had only offered his services to the aquarium for a rare chance to learn about a species he’d never seen in the wild. And look at where that landed him — in a confusing mess of emotions with no satisfying answers.
By society's standards, it’s not what a human should feel toward, what most would consider, just another sea creature.
But they’re so human. So achingly sentient and intelligent to be wrongly categorized as anything less than on par with Simon’s kind…
Most won’t see it his way. Maybe he’s just making excuses to justify his growing feelings.
They’ve gotten too attached, in all the wrong ways… Now Simon’s caught up in a taboo mating dance with Soap, neither sure of exactly where it will lead them…
Simon knows he should have seen the signs a long time ago, but he so willingly turned a blind eye to spend another day, another week, another month, all to have just one more minute with Soap.
He wonders if anyone else can see it — the way he smiles at Soap, affection exuding from the human as he touches the ridge of his mer’s cheekbone, tracing to the soft of his cheek, all to hear him purr. Or the way Soap guards him while he cleans, keeping any curious critters away so his diver only receives his touches and nibbles.
From an outside perspective, it’s so painfully obvious that the two are sweet on each other…
But it’s something to be kept hush, even if anyone wants to bring it up.
Grunting, Simon shifts his arm over his face and tries to purge the thoughts from his mind.
He doesn’t know what to do…
Maybe he needs to get laid. It’s been a while. The frustration of going without sex for too long may have clouded his judgment, leading him to pine over a damn mer instead…
Deep down, Simon knows that’s not the case, but the thought makes him feel better — slightly…
Ugh…
Not at all…
He groans, and flops onto his belly, aware that the sun is starting to burn his face, the telltale tingle against his cheeks and nose the first sign. Sunscreen be damned, Simon was destined to burn no matter what…
“Why can’t I be fuckin’ normal?” he mutters into the crook of his elbow. “Dammit, Soap…”
Yeah, that’s right, blame the mer for your feelings…
Seagulls pad their way around the thick pylons, screaming at each other as they fight over scraps under the pier.
Low tide offers the raucous birds an opportunity to gorge themselves on tiny fish that find themselves trapped in tidepools.
Simon silently observes them, taking a sip of his bourbon as they squawk and squabble. He leans on the metal cap of one of the supports and taps the ash from a cigar he’s nicked from Price’s stash.
It’s been a rewarding few weeks. Simon’s finally lost the stubborn sunburn from his first few days, leaving the fair skinned Brit a freckled, tanned stunner.
He’s certainly been the crowd favorite with the ladies, with his deep, gruff voice, foreign accent and impressive form while wearing his diving gear. Not to mention his air of mystery, always wearing a mask, never letting anyone but his diving team see his face. Quite the magnet for attention he prefers not to have, while on the job. He wants to keep his professional relationships just that, having too much experience with how messy things could get, if acted on otherwise.
Simon’s become a master at slipping away unseen though. The second their boat touches shore, he’s gone like a ghost, avoiding any advances as his old call sign reigns ever true.
Past Simon, still full of suppressed frustrations of being forced into early retirement from the military — severe injury, liability to the team, all that bullshite —, would have scooped up one of those lovely lasses in a heartbeat. Without a second thought, he would have bedded and fucked them until they couldn’t walk the next day.
But not now… With age, and therapy, Simon has since mellowed out, now more selective on who he welcomes into his bed.
Men, once a rarity for him to pick up, have become more frequent, a change in his tastes over time. Simon likes to be in charge — lead the pace when he gives into his desires. So, he woos the men he knows will be happy to be under him. It gives him that sense of power he still misses, on occasion. Maybe it’s not the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but damn if it doesn’t feel great to indulge once in a while.
Seeing a pretty bloke stretch his lips over his cock sets his mind ablaze. Simon likes them prone on their backs, so he can kneel over them as he fucks their throats.
Chasing away the thoughts that force him adjust his stance, Simon finishes his glass, pours himself another drink, and tilts back half of the liquor in another, deep gulp.
Fuck, maybe he’s more pent up than he thought…
Not like that matters. He’s not up for the challenge of picking someone up for a one-night stand. He’s had his fair share of being a disappointment, not quite what his admirers expect of him. Large, towering bloke like him was assured to match downstairs, right? Well, he would, if he’d had the forethought to bring his strap. Even if he had it, there was always the ever-present anxiety that his partner would be too turned off to continue.
No matter… Best to pack those thoughts away.
But his mind continues to betray him, clawing at the heat building in his gut, fueled by the alcohol.
Maybe Price would be up for a round, for old time’s sake… Simon isn’t sure if he’s moved on from that part of his life though, and isn’t about to pry. It’s been years, and neither of them have brought it up since Price moved. Not like they were dating anyway, having used sex as a means of release, not affection.
The tide starts to roll back in, leaving Simon with nothing but the sound of the waves lapping against the wooden poles below, and the distant din of the seagulls.
His fishing rod jerks, snapping him from his musings. The handle shifts in the holder it’s locked into, creaking against the post. Simon waits, eyeing the rod until it bends, the line rushing through the metal guides.
Shoving his drink and cigar to the side, Simon snatches up the rod and starts reeling in his catch. Just as he’s kneeling down to net the mahi splashing about in the water, a mer leaps from the surf and nearly steals it from Simon, had he not been paying attention.
The dolphin clicks and grabs onto the low pier, hauling his upper body onto the rough wood, barking his protest at his easy meal being taken from him.
Simon shuffles back, not willing to lose his dinner for the night.
“Hey!” he shouts, trying to deter the pushy mer. “Nowt for you here! Go on!”
The mer bares his teeth and growls, large, black eyes narrowing at the realization that he can’t quite wiggle his way onto the pier.
Still, Simon keeps a safe distance as he quickly dispatches the tuna.
The mer is persistent, changing tactics as it whines and purrs, begging for some scraps. Must not be his first go around… Some of the other residents must feed him, because Simon sure as hell knows Price wouldn’t do so.
The dolphin blinks at Simon, his eyes now wide, eyebrows pitched and close together as he lays on the charm.
“Sure you’re not a siren?” Simon jokes as he guts the fish and starts descaling it. Clearly, it doesn’t understand English, but the light tone in Simon’s voice is enough to keep it settled in place.
It reaches out a hand, palm up as it continues its mooching.
“Bloody hell… Fine.” Simon slips the skin from the filet of firm, translucent white flesh with a sharp knife, and tosses it to the mer.
Greedy and eager, the mer catches it before it hits the deck and stuffs it into its mouth like one would a succulent strawberry.
“You remind me of someone…” Simon muses, relaxing now that he knows the mer isn’t a threat, only hungry and lazy.
Why Simon’s talking to the mer as if he can understand him, he’s not sure, but it’s nice… A familiarity that tastes like home… A good distraction.
The mer cocks his head and rests it on his forearm as he watches Simon cut the slabs of meat into manageable portions.
“A leopard shark, named Soap,” he continues, regardless. “I know, stupid name, huh? The aquarium gave it to ‘im when he was a pup. Said he wouldn’t stop squirmin’ when they tried to handle ‘im — slippery as a bar of soap through their wet hands…”
Simon sits on the pier and scoots closer. He holds out a chunk of fish and smiles when the mer grabs it directly from his hand. The rest of the mahi is safely tucked on his other side, safe from the creature’s clutches.
“It suits him… More?” he holds up another piece.
Of course, it’s taken without hesitation. The mer is purring like an engine now, content to listen to Simon, as long as the human keeps feeding him.
Prime cuts of meat dwindling, Simon offers the bones and head, not sure if they’ll be well received after the feast he’s offered.
But, those are taken just as enthusiastically, the sound of crunching joining Simon’s rambling.
“Didn’t think I’d miss the bastard this much…I wonder how he’s holdin’ up.”
Simon slides closer. Not getting any warning signals, the diver reaches out and touches the mer’s head. It stiffens for a moment, but relaxes when Simon starts rubbing the tips of his fingers against his scalp.
Food forgotten, momentarily, the mer sinks his chin to the pier and closes his eyes, purrs rumbling from his chest.
The familiar sound brings a stinging sheen to Simon’s eyes, which he blinks away before it can gather and fall.
“What do you think? Am I bein’ daft? ‘Ave I lost my mind?”
Simon jumps when the mer thrashes into motion, expecting to be bitten at the sudden display of fear. It grabs its remaining offering and dives back into the water, swimming away so swiftly, Simon thought it had seen the devil.
“I think you’ve lost your mind if you’re talking to merfolk like they can respond to you, Simon.”
Frowning, Simon tilts his head back to see Price standing behind him.
“Scared the shite outta me…” he hisses. Despite the harsh tone, he holds his hand out and makes Price help him to his feet.
“Haven’t lost my touch,” Price chuckles as he hoists Simon up. He pats his arm before letting go.
“What were you waxing poetic about?” Price teases, leaning back against a post and plucking up his stolen cigar. He relights it and takes a few puffs before offering it back to Simon.
Taking the cigar, Simon draws it in deep, lets the earthy notes fill his mouth, sink into his soft palette, and invade the lower cavities of his sinuses, before inhaling it into his lungs. It plumes back into the humid air through his nostrils, only a wisp clinging to his lips as he sighs.
“Does it mah’er?” he murmurs, eyebrow cocked, subtle smirk on his lips. Cryptic talk isn’t uncommon between them, toeing the line of flirtatious, especially now that they’re both retired. If Ghost and Price had their fair exchange of heated conversations in the past, that was between them, and no one else.
Price’s gaze lingers on Simon’s mouth before he shrugs and smirks, biting his own tongue in favor of good company.
“I s’pose not. I see you’ve got dinner for us.” Price tilts his head toward the fish laid out on the pier, only protected from the wood by a piece of discarded skin Simon hadn’t forked over to the mer.
“Mhmm. Mahi-mahi… Fish tacos?”
“I’ll have to run out for some shells and slaw, but that’ll give the fish some time to marinate. Coming with me?”
Simon happily hums out a yeah and bumps against Price’s hip before crouching down to collect his things. Perhaps he can take care of this stubborn desire to rut, after they’ve stuffed themselves, of course… Price has always been a willing, submissive participant, allowing Simon to take control from the bottom.
“You really do attract them everywhere you go,” Price muses as he steals a sip of Simon’s bourbon.
Simon raises a brow and turns his head to hide his light blush. The banter puts him at ease. Makes him feel at home. “Guess I just have tha’ charm.”
“You? Charm?” Price scoffs. “No, I think it’s a gift. I’ve never seen anyone able to get so close, so quickly.”
A soft hum of acknowledgment rumbles in Simon’s throat. While he knows it’s true, Simon never thinks of it as a gift. It’s all about how you approach them. Read them. Once you’re familiar with their social tendencies, it’s easy to gauge the individual.
There’s a vibration in Simon’s pocket — his phone. He ignores it, in favor of gathering his fishing supplies. Their dinner is wrapped in a piece of parchment he’s stuffed in his tackle box, but another series of buzzes distracts him.
“Fuck’s sake…” he mutters.
He hands the box to Price and fishes his phone out, heart dropping to his stomach when he reads:
Hey Ghost. Soap isnt doing great. Txt/call me/the director back when u get the chance pls
… Sent 1943
Not trying to be pushy, but I didnt mention that he hasnt eaten since u left. Were getting worried. Wld u be able to do a video call with him in the morning, our time? I know thats late for u, but were desperate…
… Sent 1946
It’s Soap’s lead handler, Marcy. She wouldn’t text him, knowing he was overseas, unless she was at her wit’s end.
Simon swallows the lump in his throat and quickly texts her back:
Anytime you need, I’ll call. Let me know.
…
Ur the best. 7am thx
“All good, lad?” Price asks as they walk back to his house.
“Don’t know…” Is all Simon can manage.
Hunger, and any lingering arousal is suddenly gone. The thought of eating, or fucking, makes him feel sick…