Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Cleaning up Literature with Soap
The fluorescents in the AV lab buzzed like a nest of wasps someone had forgotten to evict, and Soap could feel the sweat already gathering at the small of his back beneath his tweed jacket. No air conditioning. Not in this building. Not in any building on campus that housed the humanities, come to think of it. The science faculty got the climate-controlled glass towers on the river, and Literature got the converted Victorian sanatorium with the radiators that either blasted furnace heat or sat cold as a corpse.
“Three minutes, Doctor,” Price called from behind the control panel, not looking up. The man ran the AV department like he was commanding a ship somewhere, all clipped orders and the quiet, implacable authority of someone who'd seen worse equipment failures than a dead microphone.
Soap adjusted his collar and glanced at the grad student perched on the stool beside him. Marlton Johnson. Second year. Quiet lad, the kind who sat in the back row of lectures and took notes in a leather-bound journal with actual handwriting. Soap had pulled him aside after a seminar on Donne and asked if he'd be willing to sit in for the podcast, and Marlton had gone so pink around the ears it was almost endearing.
“You'll be fine,” Soap encouraged, keeping his voice low enough that the mic wouldn't catch it yet. “Just ask the question we talked about. If Ah go off on a tangent, steer me back.”
Marlton nodded. His fingers were white around the edges of his notebook.
Behind the main camera, Kyle, Gaz, as everyone called him, was crouched behind the lens, fiddling with something on the side of the rig. Young. Sharp-eyed. The kind of technician who actually understood the equipment rather than just bashing it until it worked. He gave Soap a thumbs-up that was either reassurance or a signal that the camera was rolling.
It was the camera rolling.
“Right.” Price's voice cut through the hum. “We're live in three, two…”
A red light bloomed on the front of the camera.
“and we're on. Go ahead, Marlton.”
Marlton cleared his throat. The sound was enormous in the small room. He looked down at his notebook, then up at the camera, then, wisely, settled on looking at Soap.
“Dr. MacTavish,” he began, and his voice had steadied already, which Soap had to give him credit for, “I wanted to ask you about something you mentioned in last week's episode. You said that the metaphysical poets, Donne, Herbert, Marvell, represent not just a stylistic shift but a kind of epistemological crisis in 17th-century Britain. Could you expand on that? Because when I read them, I keep noticing how the language itself seems to be straining against what it's trying to describe, and I'm not sure if that's intentional or if I'm reading too much into the syntax.”
Soap felt something warm and bright unfurl behind his sternum. The good feeling. The one that happened when a student asked a question that wasn't just regurgitation. When they'd actually been thinking about the text, turning it over in their hands like a stone from a riverbed, looking for the grain.
“Oh, that's an excellent observation,” he complimented, and he meant it. He leaned forward slightly, the way he did in lectures when the material got interesting enough to forget the performative distance of the podium. “You're absolutely right about the syntax. Let me put it this way. What we're seeing in Donne specifically isn't just poetic ornamentation. It's a man who's been trained in scholastic logic trying to make that logic accommodate something it was never built to hold.”
He paused, let the thought settle. The camera's red eye stared back, patient.
“Think about “The Flea”,” he continued. “On the surface, it's a seduction poem. A man trying to convince a woman to sleep with him by comparing their mingled blood in a flea bite to the act of consummation. But the argument structure, the way he builds his case, premise by premise, with the formal rigor of a man constructing a syllogism. It's a theological argument being applied to a carnal subject. And the language buckles under the weight of that mismatch. The metaphors don't just illustrate, they crack. You get these moments where the conceit, the flea as a marriage temple, a microcosm of union, it starts to do more work than the framework can support, and the poem nearly collapses into its own logic.”
He could feel himself picking up speed, the way he always did when the ideas started feeding into each other. Marlton was watching him with the intensity of a good student. Not worshipful, but tracking, following the thread.
“And that's the crisis,” Soap continued. “Not just in Donne, but across the metaphysical tradition. You've got these writers who inherited a medieval worldview. Ordered, hierarchical, everything in its proper place, from the king down to the lowliest peasant, and God above it all holding the chain together. And then the world starts coming apart. The Civil War. The execution of a king. The rise of empirical science. The old categories don't hold anymore, and the language that was built to describe that ordered world suddenly has to account for chaos.”
He gestured with his hands without realizing it. Broad, sweeping motions that Price had told him three times to keep contained for the frame.
“So what do the poets do? They stretch the language. They twist syntax until it nearly breaks. They force metaphors to carry impossible loads. A compass, a flea, a pulpit made of a lover's body, because the old metaphors won't do the work anymore. The epistemological crisis is right there in the grammar, Marlton. You're not reading too much into it. You're reading exactly what's there.”
“So would you say,” Marlton prompted, and his voice had found its footing now, warm and curious, “that the metaphysical poets are essentially doing the same thing as the scientists of the period? Bacon, Hooke, the Royal Society crowd? Trying to build new frameworks because the old ones collapsed?”
“God, yes.” Soap nearly laughed. “That's precisely it. Donne and Bacon are two sides of the same coin. They're both responding to the same seismic shift in how human beings understood their place in the universe. Bacon looks outward and builds empiricism. Donne looks inward and builds these extraordinary linguistic machines that try to map the interior landscape. Neither one fully succeeds, and that's what makes the period so fascinating. It's all unfinished architecture.”
He caught himself. Glanced at the camera. Gaz was watching him with what might have been amusement behind the lens or might have been professional assessment of the shot. Price had his arms folded, expression unreadable.
“Soap,” Price broke in, indicating the segment was running long. “Wrap it for the mid-roll.”
“Right.” Soap turned back to the camera and found the slightly more performative register he used for the audience at home. The thousands of listeners, or dozens, or whatever the actual number was that he'd stopped checking and fretting over.
“We'll pick this up after the break. For those of you following along, we're reading Donne's Holy Sonnets this week, and Ah want ye to pay attention to Sonnet 14 “Batter My Heart” and ask yerself the same question Marlton just asked. Is the language holding, or is it breaking? And if it's breaking, what's pushing through the cracks?”
He held the pause for a beat. Gaz gave him a nod.
“And we're clear,” Price said. The red light died.
Soap exhaled. The sweat had migrated from his lower back to his hairline now, and he could feel a strand of hair plastered to his forehead. He tugged at his collar again.
“That was good,” Marlton complimented, and there was something almost reverent in it. “The thing about the language cracking. I've never heard anyone put it that way before.”
“It's because most people teaching this material are terrified of admitting that the texts they've built their careers on are fundamentally unstable.” Soap reached for the water bottle on the small table beside his chair. “Easier to talk about rhyme schemes and historical context than to admit that Donne might have been losing his mind on the page.”
Marlton laughed, and it was a real laugh, not the polite chuckle of a student humoring a professor. Soap found himself smiling back.
“Ye're doing well,” he said. “Really. Keep asking questions like that and ye'll have a thesis worth writing.”
The grad student's ears went pink again. He looked down at his notebook and made a small note in the margin, his pen moving with the focused precision of someone cataloguing something precious.
Behind them, Price was already resetting for the second segment, and Gaz was changing the camera angle with the quiet efficiency of someone who'd done this a hundred times. The fluorescents buzzed. Somewhere in the building, a pipe knocked twice, a dull metallic protest from somewhere in the walls.
“Sixty seconds,” Price announced, and Soap straightened his jacket, pressed the damp hair back from his forehead with the flat of his palm, and tried to look like a man who hadn't just spent the last eight minutes sweating through his shirt.
The red light came back on.
“Welcome back to Cleaning Up Literature with Soap,” he greeted, finding the camera's eye with the ease of someone who'd done this enough times that the performance had worn a groove into his nervous system. “Ah'm joined today by Marlton Johnson, a second-year doctoral candidate in the department who's been kind enough to sit in and keep me honest.”
Marlton offered a small wave to the camera that was either endearing or deeply awkward, depending on which side of the screen you were on. Soap decided it was endearing.
“Before we dive back into Donne, we've got a few questions from listeners that came in through the comments this week.” He reached for the printout Gaz had handed him before they'd gone live. A stack of A4 sheets with timestamps and usernames, the digital audience made briefly, physically real. “Marlton, would ye mind reading the first one?”
“Sure.” Marlton took the page, adjusted his glasses, and squinted at the text. “This one's from someone called LiteraryGhostHunter.” he paused. “That's quite a username.”
“Don't judge the audience by their handles,” Soap cautioned, and Gaz snorted behind the camera. “Read the question.”
“Right. LiteraryGhostHunter asks: 'Dr. MacTavish, in your discussion of Donne's syntactic strain, you mentioned that the language is buckling under the weight of new epistemological demands. But what about the inverse? Could the strain also be read as a kind of creative liberation? If the old frameworks are collapsing, doesn't the breakdown of syntax also open up space for something that couldn't have existed before? The way a forest fire clears undergrowth for new growth?'”
Soap's eyebrows went up. He hadn't expected that. The fire metaphor was clumsy, but the underlying point was sharp. The kind of sharp that came from someone who'd been sitting with the material, turning it over, not just parroting.
“That's… actually a very good question,” he complimented. “Marlton, what do you think?”
Marlton blinked, clearly not expecting to be put on the spot. But he recovered well. “I think they're right. If the language is cracking, the cracks are also openings. You can't have one without the other. The instability creates possibility.”
“Exactly.” Soap leaned in. “And this is where the metaphysical poets differ from their Renaissance predecessors in a way that often gets overlooked. Sidney and Spenser were building cathedrals. Ordered, harmonious, every line supporting the architecture of the whole. Donne and his crowd are building something more like, what's the word?”
“Scaffolding?” Marlton offered.
“Scaffolding. Aye. Provisional structures. They're not trying to rebuild the cathedral. They're building the frame that the next generation will fill in. And the syntax reflects that provisional quality. It's not elegant in the way Spenser is elegant. It's functional, it's urgent, and it's full of gaps where the thinking hasn't quite caught up to the feeling yet.”
He could feel the energy of it building again, that warm current behind his ribs, and he reined it in deliberately. They had more questions to get through.
“Good question, LiteraryGhostHunter,” he said to the camera. “Keep them coming. Marlton, next one?”
Marlton flipped to the next page. His expression shifted, a slight furrow between his brows, then something that looked almost like amusement. He glanced at Soap, then back at the paper.
“This one's from someone called Ghost.” he paused. “Just Ghost. No numbers, no underscores. Very minimalist.”
“Read it,” Soap prompted.
Marlton cleared his throat. “'Dr. MacTavish. First, I need to say that your reading of “The Flea” in the 2021 lecture series changed the way I think about poetry. I've listened to it fourteen times. I've transcribed the entire thing by hand because I wanted to feel the argument structure in my own handwriting. You have a gift for making the inaccessible not just accessible but necessary, and I think what you're doing with this podcast is the most important work happening in literary studies right now.'”
The heat that climbed Soap's neck had nothing to do with the broken air conditioning. He could feel it spreading from his collar to his jaw, a slow, mortifying bloom.
Marlton kept reading, “'The question: in your reading of the metaphysical poets as responding to epistemological collapse, I'm struck by the parallel to our current moment. We're living through our own collapse of frameworks. Political, environmental, technological, and the language available to us feels increasingly inadequate. Do you see contemporary literature performing a similar function? Are there writers today who are stretching syntax the way Donne did, and if so, who should we be reading?'“
The room was very quiet except for the fluorescent buzz and the distant knocking of the pipe.
Soap opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“That's…” he swallowed. “That's a very generous introduction, and the question is excellent.” He could hear the stiffness in his own voice, the careful academic register he deployed when something personal had snuck into the professional. “First, Ah want to say that no one should be transcribing my lectures by hand. There are transcripts available on the department website. Please use them. Save yer wrists.”
Gaz made a sound behind the camera that might have been a suppressed laugh.
“Second.” Soap gathered himself. “The contemporary parallel is exactly right, and it's something Ah've been thinking about a lot. If ye want to see syntax being stretched to its breaking point in response to a collapsing world, look at the climate fiction writers. Jenny Offill's “Weather”. Amitav Ghosh's “The Great Derangement”. The prose in those books does something remarkable. It fragments, it jumps between registers, it holds multiple contradictory truths in the same sentence because the reality it's trying to describe won't hold still for a single coherent narrative.”
He was warming to it now, the discomfort of the compliment receding beneath the familiar current of the idea.
“And that's the same impulse, isn't it? Donne faced a world where the old certainties, divine right, natural hierarchy, the Great Chain of Being, they were crumbling. We're facing a world where the certainties of progress, of human exceptionalism, of a stable climate, are crumbling. And the language rebels against both collapses in the same way. It refuses to be neat.”
“Ghost also says…” Marlton glanced down at the paper again, and something in his expression suggested he'd been saving this part. “'I'd add that your ability to hold both the historical and the contemporary in the same thought without collapsing one into the other is what makes your scholarship exceptional. Most academics either historicize to the point of irrelevance or apply contemporary frameworks so crudely that the text disappears. You do neither. You let the text speak on its own terms while showing why those terms still matter. It's rare. It's why I keep listening.'”
The heat was back. Worse this time. Soap could feel it in his ears now, a prickling warmth that he knew, with the absolute certainty of a man who'd spent his adult life in rooms full of judgmental colleagues, was visible on camera.
“Right,” he said, and his voice came out slightly higher than intended. He took a deliberate breath. “Well. That's… very kind. And Ah appreciate the question about contemporary parallels. Ah think we could do an entire episode on that alone.”
He looked at the camera. The red light stared back, patient and utterly without mercy.
“Price,” he asked, not turning around, “how are we on time?”
“Two minutes.”
“Right.” Soap turned back to Marlton. “One more question?”
Marlton flipped the page. “This one's shorter. From BardOfAvonFan42. They ask: 'Do you think Donne would have been a podcast host if he'd lived today?'”
That broke something loose. Soap laughed A real one, surprised out of him, and felt the tension in his shoulders ease.
“God, ken ye imagine?” He shook his head. “The man who wrote “No Man is an Island” hosting a weekly show? He'd be insufferable. The most self-important podcast in history. Every episode would start with him comparing the microphone to a pulpit and the listeners to his congregation.”
“Would you listen?” Marlton asked, and there was a genuine playfulness in it that Soap hadn't expected from the quiet kid in the back row.
“Every week,” Soap admitted. “And Ah'd be complaining about it the entire time.”
The red light held steady. Two minutes. They could fill two minutes.
“Ah think that's the perfect note to end on,” Soap decided, finding the camera again. “Marlton, thank ye for sitting in today. Ye brought a perspective to this that Ah dinnae think Ah could have managed on my own.”
“Thank you for having me, Dr. MacTavish.” Marlton was smiling. Satisfaction, maybe. Or relief.
“For those of ye listening, this has been Cleaning Up Literature with Soap. We'll be back next week with a deep dive into John Donne's “Holy Sonnets” and the architecture of crisis. In the meantime, send yer questions to the comments, or email the show at the address on the website. Marlton Johnson, everybody.”
He gestured to Marlton, who gave another of those endearing, awkward waves.
“And… we're out,” Price said.
The red light died. The fluorescents reclaimed their dominion over the room, harsh and unforgiving, and Soap let his shoulders drop a full inch. He could feel the sweat pooling at the base of his spine now, the shirt clinging to the small of his back like a second skin.
“Ye did great,” he told Marlton, and meant it. “Really. That question about the scaffolding was sharp. Use that in yer next seminar.”
Marlton was already gathering his notebook, tucking the pen into the spiral binding with the careful precision of someone who treated his tools with respect. “Thank you. I'll send you my notes from the session if you want them.”
“Please do.”
The grad student hesitated, then offered his hand. Soap shook it.
“See you in class on Thursday,” Marlton said, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Soap turned on his stool. Gaz was already dismantling the camera rig, his hands moving through the familiar choreography of cables and clamps, but there was a set to his mouth that Soap had known since university. The barely contained grin of a man sitting on something.
“Gaz.”
“Mm.”
“Gaz, look at me.”
Gaz looked up. The grin was fully deployed now, wide and unrepentant, the kind of expression that had gotten them both thrown out of a pub in Edinburgh in 2016.
“Did you set me up with that Ghost shite?”
The laugh that came out of Gaz was immediate and full-bodied, the sound bouncing off the cinderblock walls of the studio. “Mate, I swear on my mother's grave, that wasn't me.”
“Yer mother's alive, Gaz. She texted me last Tuesday about her begonias.”
“On my future mother's grave, then.” Gaz was still grinning, winding a cable around his elbow with practiced ease. “I had nothing to do with it. Price and Marlton picked the questions from the comments. I just printed them out.”
Soap turned to Price, who was leaning against the soundboard with his arms still crossed, the expression on his face suggesting he'd been waiting for this exact interrogation.
“Price.”
“Legit,” Price promised. “Every word came from the comments section. Ghost is a real person. Or at least, someone who's been leaving comments on every single episode since you started this thing.”
“Every episode?”
“Every. Single. One.” Price picked up his coffee mug, found it empty, set it back down. “First comment after each upload. Usually within the hour. Detailed, thoughtful, the kind of engagement most academics would kill for. The man knows his Donne. Knows his Marvell too, from what I've seen.”
Soap stared at him. The fluorescent buzz filled the silence.
“Fourteen times,” Gaz repeated, and the grin was back, worse than before. “Transcribed by hand. Because he wanted to feel your argument structure in his own handwriting.”
“Shut up.”
“I'm just saying. That's devotion.”
“It's a comment on a podcast, Gaz. It's not devotion, it's a hobby.”
“A hobby where he listens to your lectures fourteen times and writes them out by hand.” Gaz set the camera down on its case with exaggerated care. “A very normal hobby. Perfectly ordinary behavior from a perfectly ordinary listener.”
Soap rubbed the back of his neck. The heat had migrated from his ears to somewhere behind his sternum now, a warm, unsettled feeling that he didn't have a name for. Gratitude, maybe. Or embarrassment. Or something that lived in the narrow corridor between the two.
“Right,” he settled for. “Well. Whoever he is, tell him.” he stopped. Tell him what? That the compliment had made him feel seen in a way that was simultaneously thrilling and deeply uncomfortable? That he'd spent the entire second segment trying not to think about the fact that someone out there had memorized the cadence of his arguments the way he'd memorized Donne's?
“Tell him the question was good,” he finished. “And that Ah appreciate the engagement.”
Price made a noncommittal sound that could have meant anything.
Soap stood, and his knees protested the movement after forty minutes on the stool. He checked his phone. Three emails from the department, one from a journal editor, nothing from the person he'd been half-hoping to hear from, which was its own small ache he refused to examine, and slung his bag over his shoulder.
“Same time next week?” Price asked.
“Aye. Unless the building finally gives up and collapses on us.” Soap gestured at the ceiling, where a water stain had been slowly expanding for the past six months like a patient inkblot test. “Then we record from the rubble. Authentic Donne energy.”
Gaz snorted. “I'll bring hard hats.”
“Appreciate it.” Soap paused at the door, his hand on the handle. The metal was cool against his palm, a small relief after the stifling warmth of the studio. “Cheers, lads. Good work today.”
“Go grade yer papers, Soap,” Price said, already turning back to the soundboard.
Soap pushed through the door and into the hallway, where the air was marginally cooler and smelled of floor wax and the particular mustiness of a humanities building that had been standing since before anyone currently working in it had been born. His shoes echoed against the linoleum as he walked toward the stairwell, the sound bouncing off the walls in a way that always made him feel like he was being followed.
He thought about the comment. Your ability to hold both the historical and the contemporary in the same thought. He thought about the handwriting. The fourteen listens. The transcription.
Somewhere in the building, the pipe knocked again, twice, and Soap climbed the stairs toward his office and the undergraduate essays waiting for him, and tried very hard not to think about any of it.
--
Watching from his perch in the massive circular Victorian window, Simon Riley was silent as the grave. Dr. MacTavish emerged from the AV building like clockwork. Not safe being that predictable, Johnny, the big man thought.
The tweed didn't suit the professor. It was well suited for his job and tenure but just didn't seem right on him, beautiful bastard that he was. Someone must have said something to him about professionalism or some shit like that.
Ghost made a mental note to find out who it was and handle the problem.
He couldn't see those blue eyes from here. Shame. To lock onto them, hold that intense gaze while he drove his cock deep into his Johnny. That was a magnificent thought.
Soap had been here at the University teaching since he got his PhD in 2019. Born June 19, 1993. Grew up north of here, a wee bit north of Inverness. His family was huge from the sounds of it. Guess fucking Scots could breed. He'd joined the army in the year 2010. Ripe age of seventeen. Determined to see the world, or save it. That one depended on how Johnny told the story.
Made the SAS in 2015. Nearly unheard of, that. Story never changed. Tracked with his Uni bio, social media and public records. Impressive. Medically discharged in 2016. Shame that. Fatally wounded, so he tells it. Shot in the head by an arms dealer. He got better. Bad joke that always made Ghost laugh. Entered uni straight out.
Met his best mate there, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick. Does all the film work for the university’s podcasts and recorded online lectures. Teaches a couple film classes. Currently married to the AV department’s director, John Price.
Price directs all Johnny's podcasts and recorded lectures. Does a brilliant job. Ghost knows him. They've had drinks before. London boy. Moved here for the job. Former military. Retired SAS. Enjoys his work.
Kyle's a bit young for him, if you ask around. The students are none too nice about it. Old bear, young twink. Rude that bit. Kyle's 36, John's 48. Not horrible. Both adults. Both consenting. Some of the students need to be taught manners, and Ghost has a list.
Kyle was also SAS. Served with John for a stretch. Not with Johnny. Couldn't tell if you watched them together.
Johnny was a bad little lad, though. He tried dating. That was tedious. He didn't seem to understand that he was taken. Ghost was still working on that one.
The man was in his office now. In front of his computer. Probably grading. He had grad students for that. Stubborn bastard wanted to know what his students thought. Kind of idealistic thinking these kids trying to fill in a humanities requirement gave a shit about his assignments. The man read Donne, so what did that tell you?
“Hey Boss!” the familiar voice of his assistant librarian and possibly friend, Gary “Roach” Sanderson broke into his thoughts. Loud enough to hear, but not disturb. This was a library after all.
“Hum?” Simon acknowledged.
“Finished shelf Rr to Rse. All set.” he reported coming to stand beside Simon, appreciating the campus view.
“Good. We’ve got four checked out. Ah flagged them to be held when they come back. We'll get them updated in the system then.” he shared.
“Sounds good. We'll start Rsf tomorrow. You can take off when you like. Student workers actually showed today.” Gary grinned at him.
“Bout fucking time. You'd think with the hassle they go through to get this job that they'd be more reliable.” Simon grumbled.
“You'd think.” he agreed.
Gary left him to it, not asking what he was doing staring out the window. Respected the fact a man had to think sometimes. Good bloke.
Johnny had begun recording his lectures and making his podcast six years ago, when the pandemic hit. He was starting his second year at the university as a teacher. Prior to being awarded his PhD, he’d done some time teaching entry level English and Humanities while he worked on it. He credits a student for the suggestion in multiple podcasts.
Young for a Literature teacher. Usually that distinction went to old codgers who hadn’t read a new book in eons. But this guy, he was different. Wanted to reach this generation. The kids coming in right as he was going out. Good goals.
Simon had seen every one of Johnny’s podcasts. Watched every one of his lectures. Read his papers and essays. Man was brilliant. Loved him. Every bit of him. He was strong, handsome. Knew the value of honing mind and body. Johnny was in the gym three times a week. Morning goer, like Simon. Usually between 0600 and 0700 prior to classes. A little late as far as Simon was concerned, but that worked out. Gave him time to finish his own workout before keeping an eye on Johnny’s form.
Focused on the window until Johnny stood, Simon finally stretched his arms overhead signaling time to move to the next spot. The professor gathered his bag, shuffled papers into it with the carelessness of a man who’d done this routine a thousand times. Lights off. Door closed. The building would lock behind him automatically.
Simon moved from the window, taking the stairs down two at a time, quiet despite his size. Years of training made it second nature. He emerged from the library’s side entrance just as Johnny was crossing the quad, still in that bloody tweed jacket despite the warmth. The man needed someone to dress him properly. Add that to the list.
The distance between them was roughly forty meters. Simon kept it that way, matching Johnny’s pace from a building over, using the architecture as cover. Not that Johnny would notice. The professor had his head down, probably thinking about Donne or some other dead poet, completely unaware of his surroundings. Dangerous habit. Someone should teach him better.
Johnny cut through the gap between the Chemistry building and the old Mathematics hall, heading toward the faculty carpark. Simon paralleled him, staying on the opposite side of the Chemistry building, boots silent on the pavement. He knew where Johnny parked. Third row, fourth spot from the left. The man was a creature of habit. Beautiful, predictable creature.
Simon reached the carpark from the north entrance while Johnny was still crossing from the south. Perfect timing. He made his way to where his motorcycle sat, an older green Indian that he’d restored himself. Reliable. Quiet when it needed to be. He didn’t mount yet, just stood beside it, watching across the rows of vehicles as Johnny reached his car.
A blue Vauxhall Astra. Modest. Practical. The kind of car that said “I’m a literature professor and I don’t care about status symbols.” Simon appreciated that about him. No pretension. Just Johnny being Johnny.
Johnny tossed his bag into the passenger seat, climbed in, started the engine. Simon swung his leg over the Indian, settled his weight, but didn’t turn the key. Not yet. He waited, patient as stone, while Johnny backed out of his spot, turned toward the exit.
Only when Johnny’s taillights were pulling onto the main road did Simon start the engine. The rumble was low, satisfying against his thighs. He let Johnny get a decent lead, then followed, keeping two or three cars between them when he could. Not that it mattered. Johnny never checked his mirrors properly. Another thing to add to the list of concerns.
The route was familiar. Simon could have driven it blind. Left out of campus, right onto Ashford Street, straight through two roundabouts, left on Pemberton. Johnny’s flat was in a converted Victorian on the corner of Pemberton and Clarke. Nice building. Modest but well-maintained. Brick facade, white trim, small gardens in front of each unit.
Johnny pulled into the small carpark behind the building. Simon drove past, circled the block, parked his Indian on Clarke Street where he had a clear view of the building’s entrance but wouldn’t draw attention. He killed the engine, sat for a moment, watching Johnny haul his bag from the car and trudge toward the back door.
The professor looked tired. Lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there in the podcast. He needed rest. Needed someone to make sure he was taking care of himself properly.
Simon waited until Johnny disappeared inside, counted to thirty, then dismounted. He crossed the street with the casual confidence of a man who belonged, walked past Johnny’s building to the one directly opposite. Same Victorian conversion, same brick and white trim, but this one had been divided into smaller units.
He took the stairs to the second floor, pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the door to flat 2B. His flat. Had been for the past eight months. Took a while to get. Had to convince the couple here that they didn’t like this spot anymore. Perfect location. Perfect sightline.
Inside was sparse. He didn’t need much. A sofa, black leather, positioned directly in front of the window. A bed in the small bedroom, military corners on the sheets even though no one but him would see them. A small table that he moved around depending on where he needed to work. Right now it was beside the sofa, laptop closed on top of it.
The windows had discretion blinds, the kind that let you see out but prevented anyone from seeing in. Simon had installed them himself the first week. He’d also changed the locks, reinforced the door frame, and done a full security sweep of the entire flat. Old habits.
He crossed to the window, adjusted the blinds to the precise angle he wanted, and looked out.
Perfect view. Directly across the street, Johnny’s flat occupied the second floor of his building. The living room window lined up almost exactly with Simon’s. Through it, Simon could see Johnny dropping his bag on the sofa, shrugging out of that ridiculous tweed jacket, loosening his collar.
The professor’s bedroom window was visible too, slightly to the left. Simon had mapped out every angle, every possible line of sight, during his first reconnaissance. He could see into both rooms without moving from this spot. Could watch Johnny grade papers, watch him pace while thinking, watch him strip down for bed.
Simon settled onto the sofa, the leather cool against his back. He reached for the laptop, flipped it open, waited for it to boot up. The screen glowed to life, and he pulled up the surveillance program he’d installed.
Four camera feeds populated the screen. Living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom. Small cameras, hidden in smoke detectors, air vents, behind picture frames. Johnny had never noticed. Why would he? The man didn’t think like someone who needed to watch for threats. That’s what Simon was for.
The bedroom feed showed Johnny entering, pulling his shirt over his head. Simon’s eyes tracked the movement, the reveal of skin, the muscles in Johnny’s back shifting as he tossed the shirt toward the hamper. Beautiful. Every bit of him.
Simon leaned back, settled in, eyes moving between the laptop screen and the actual window. He didn’t need both, but he liked having options. Liked being able to watch Johnny without the mediation of the camera, even if the feeds gave him better angles.
This was his routine. Had been for months. Work at the library, where he could keep an eye on Johnny’s building from the window. Follow him home, make sure he arrived safely. Watch from here, make sure nothing disturbed him, make sure he was taking care of himself.
Protection. That’s what this was. Johnny didn’t understand yet that he needed it, needed Simon, but he would. Eventually. Simon was patient. Had learned patience in the service, refined it in the years since. He could wait as long as it took.
On the screen, Johnny was digging through his dresser, pulling out a t-shirt and joggers. Comfortable clothes. Good. The man needed to relax after a long day. Simon approved.
He watched as Johnny changed, as he padded back into the living room in bare feet, as he retrieved his bag and settled onto his own sofa with what looked like a stack of papers. Grading. Always grading. The man worked too hard. Cared too much about those ungrateful students who barely deserved his attention.
Simon’s jaw tightened. He’d been making his list for months now. Students who didn’t show up to class. Students who turned in lazy work. Students who spoke disrespectfully. He kept detailed notes. When the time came, when Johnny was finally his, he’d make sure those problems were addressed. Johnny would understand then. Would see that Simon had been looking out for him all along.
The laptop screen flickered slightly, and Simon adjusted the angle. The bedroom camera had the best resolution. He’d spent extra on that one. Worth every pound.
Across the street, Johnny was bent over a paper, red pen in hand, that furrow between his brows that meant he was concentrating. Simon had memorized every one of Johnny’s expressions. The way his face lit up when a student said something clever. The way he worried his lower lip when he was thinking. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, really laughed, not the polite chuckle he gave to colleagues he didn’t like.
Simon knew him. Better than anyone. Better than those friends Johnny went for drinks with on Thursdays. Better than the men Johnny occasionally brought home, though that happened less and less lately. Simon had made sure of that. A few well-placed anonymous comments on dating apps, a few carefully worded warnings to men who showed too much interest. Nothing traceable. Nothing that would upset Johnny. Just enough to keep the wrong people away.
Because they were all wrong. Everyone except Simon.
Johnny set down his pen, rubbed his eyes, reached for what looked like a cup of coffee on the side table. He took a sip, grimaced. Gone cold, probably. Simon made a mental note. When Johnny was his, he’d make sure the coffee stayed hot. Would take care of all the little things Johnny forgot to take care of himself.
The light from Johnny’s flat was warm, golden. Made him look softer somehow. Simon’s fingers flexed against his thigh, remembering the fantasy from earlier. Those blue eyes locked on his while he…
Not yet. Had to be patient. Had to wait for the right moment.
Johnny’s phone buzzed on the sofa beside him. He picked it up, read something, typed a response. His expression didn’t change. Probably Gaz or Price. They texted him constantly. Simon had considered doing something about that but decided against it. Johnny needed friends. Simon could allow that. As long as they understood their place.
The evening settled in, shadows lengthening across both flats. Simon didn’t turn on any lights in his own space. Didn’t need them. The glow from the laptop was enough, and darkness made it easier to watch without being seen, even though the blinds already ensured that.
This was his favorite time. When Johnny was home, safe, contained. When Simon could watch without interruption, without having to share Johnny’s attention with students or colleagues or the rest of the world. Just the two of them, separated by a street and a window and Johnny’s complete ignorance of Simon’s existence.
That last part would change. Soon. Simon had been planning for months, refining the details, making sure everything would be perfect. He’d learned patience in the service, but even patience had limits. And his were wearing thin.
Johnny yawned, stretched, set the papers aside. He stood, moved toward the bedroom, and Simon’s eyes tracked him on both the screen and through the window. The bedroom light came on. Johnny disappeared into the bathroom, no camera there, Simon had standards, and emerged a few minutes later in just his joggers, toothbrush in hand.
Beautiful. Every line of him. The scars on his shoulder and ribs from his service days. The tattoo on his left arm that Simon had memorized down to the last detail. The way he moved, economical and precise, residual grace from his SAS training that he probably didn’t even notice anymore.
Johnny finished brushing his teeth, killed the bathroom light, flopped onto his bed. He reached for his phone again, scrolled for a bit, then set it on the nightstand. The bedroom light went off.
Simon stayed where he was, watching the dark window, watching the faint glow of Johnny’s phone screen until that too went dark. He’d stay here for another hour at least, making sure Johnny was settled, making sure nothing disturbed him.
Then he’d review the day’s footage, make notes, update his files. He had spreadsheets tracking Johnny’s routines, his habits, his preferences. Folders full of screenshots and observations. A detailed calendar of Johnny’s schedule for the semester. Everything Simon would need when the time came.
And it would come. Soon. Simon could feel it approaching, inevitable as sunrise. He’d been watching for two years, waiting for the perfect moment, and it was almost here.
Johnny was his. He just didn’t know it yet.