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Adam could cry with relief.
General White is letting him stay. She isn’t forcing him and Marion apart. She isn’t even punishing Marion for falling in love with him, beyond a slap on the wrist.
“This is not how we do things,” General White had told her, single eye icy. “I cannot argue with your results. But if I ever discover another indiscretion like this, we will be having a very different conversation. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Marion had said, even. Her hand was in Adam’s. It still is as they leave the gray, drab building.
Marion glances around, then rests her head on his arm. “That could have been much more unpleasant,” she says.
He lets go of her hand to wrap his arm around her. She’s walking on his good side, where his arm isn’t in a cast from…
He shoves away the memory of the pressure, the blinding crack as the bone gave, the desperation of not knowing what they wanted from him. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. He’s with the rebels now, for better or worse.
He can stay with Marion. That’s all that’s important. “It’s over, then? There’s no more interrogations, or…?”
She smiles. “You’re one of ours now. As long as you’re at my side, you have our protection.”
Adam is still, technically, on probation. He is Marion’s responsibility, and he can’t be away from her until he proves himself. He isn’t worried about that. He has no desire to cause any issue, and it’s not like he knows anyone else here.
Except…
“I should thank Freckles before we go,” he says. “She was good to me, before I went in.”
Marion’s face tightens. “Adam, this isn’t a good time to align yourself with a Rose Red.”
“She’s part of the rebellion. She’s been here as long as you have, hasn’t she? I don’t see why not.”
“Freckles is… complicated. Not everyone trusts him. And with you in such a vulnerable position… I worry people will take it the wrong way if they see you with him.”
Adam frowns. He understands her point, but… “I should at least acknowledge her– him? Even if I can’t befriend him, what’s wrong with thanking him?”
“General White will think you’re seeking him out.” Marion reaches up to her shoulder, takes his hand where it rests there. “Adam, love, you have to let go of the Rose Reds. Freckles isn’t Rose. All the others are our enemies. I know you feel guilty for the ones you killed rescuing me. But clinging to them will only get you hurt.”
“I’m not clinging to them because of Rose,” he says, trying, as he has so many times, not to envision the ones he killed. “Freckles was kind to me.”
Marion’s face is soft. “So was Rose. But trust me, Adam. It’s best to leave it alone.”
Adam sighs. Maybe she’s right. Besides, all Freckles did was talk to him, and give him some advice. It would probably be too much to thank him for that. Maybe it’s just pathetic, that he feels the need to seek him out for that little kindness. “All right.” He leans down and kisses the top of Marion’s head. “Can we go home now?”
Marion relaxes into his side. “We can.”
…..
Adam and Marion don’t have a home, not in a conventional sense. They live in whatever hideout on Beaumont will let Marion do her work and keep them safe from the Crown. Often, this is a set of personal quarters within a rebellion stronghold. In the three years they’ve been married, they’ve moved five times. Their possessions are sparse and practical, and always ready to be packed at a moment’s notice or left behind.
It certainly isn’t what he imagined his domestic life would look like when he was young. But he’s with Marion, so he’s happy enough.
Being married to a colonel in an illicit paramilitary organization isn’t always easy, though, especially when it comes to security. Adam acts as her bodyguard, and is happy to do it, but he can’t singlehandedly keep her safe. There have to be other measures. Adam is no stranger to safeguards– he lived with them as the son of Beaumont’s top general and as the head of a vast network of gangs. The rebellion’s security measures make both of those look as effectual as cardboard signs with “please keep out” scribbled on them.
Which means that Adam does not have a key, a passcode, or biometrics to the locks on his and his wife’s personal quarters.
“I don’t understand,” he says one evening as Marion is working on something on a tablet (one with a physical screen– another security measure that just seems archaic). “I’m not on probation anymore. Haven’t I proved I won’t give up our location to the Crown?” By now, even if he wanted to betray the rebellion, he’s well-known enough that it would do him no good. The bounty on his head says that much.
“General White insists on it,” Marion says, not looking up from the screen. “Any point of vulnerability should have as few points of access as possible.”
She told him the same thing when he asked why none of their quarters have had a window. “There’s an analog lock, three passcodes that have to be entered in order, and a biometric scan. Allowing me access wouldn’t make it more vulnerable.”
“It’s protocol, Adam. There’s nothing I can do.”
“She trusts you,” he argues, wishing she’d at least pretend to focus on their conversation. “You could argue my case with her. I should have access to my own living space.”
Marion sighs and puts the tablet down. “You know how paranoid she is. I couldn’t convince her of anything, when it comes to security measures.”
“What if we were separated somehow? What if you were incapacitated and couldn’t open it for us?”
“Adam,” she says, clearly irritated. “This is above my head. There’s no point in having this conversation. Please let me focus on making sure our troops are fed.”
He flinches, far more stung by her rejection than he should be. She’s right, of course. She has more important things to worry about than his gripes with protocols she didn’t create.
“You’re right,” he says, quiet. “I’m sorry.”
Marion looks over to him, and her face softens. “I’m sorry, Adam. After I’m finished, why don’t we watch a movie together? It’s your turn to choose, if I recall.”
Adam relaxes a bit, and reaches for her hand to give it a brief squeeze. “I’d like that.”
He never does get access to their quarters.
…..
He’s keenly aware of what he looks like. Hideous, jagged, ridged scars cover almost every inch of his face. His hands and arms and neck are the same. Part of his nose and most of one of his ears are gone. Hair doesn’t grow on parts of his scalp anymore through the thick scars there– part of the reason he keeps his hair at shoulder length is to hide the bald patches. He’s damn lucky to still have both his eyes. And that’s to say nothing of the slashes and burns across his back, all the bullet wounds long closed over, the neat line of brands down his torso. His body is nothing but a map of the ways he’s been hurt before, and a canvas for the ways he’ll be hurt again. It’s better for him to bear another scar than it is for any of his comrades, or, gods forbid, Marion to get hurt.
He’s terrifying to look at. He knows that. He’s been that way since he was eighteen years old. At forty-one, he’s well used to how he looks.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to other people’s reactions, though. Even people who are obviously trying to be polite, often even ones who bear heavy scars themselves, look away from him, flinch, grimace before they can force their faces back into friendly neutrality. It affects how they interact with Marion, too, he knows. He rarely speaks when he accompanies her on official business, acting as a silent, hulking shadow at her shoulder. He’s there to be intimidating. It works perfectly.
It’s been a long day of meetings with individual cell commanders. He’s seen plenty of them before, but many of the faces are new. Beaumont has functionally been in rebel hands for almost five years now, and that means a wave of people eager to join up, now that it’s a little less of a risk. Marion’s been organizing and subdividing new units, working to keep the growth organized and productive. New faces means new reactions to him, though, and by the end he’s exhausted. He just wants to return to their quarters and be with Marion, who has never once flinched at his scars.
As they walk back, Marion comments, “You’re quiet. Is everything all right?”
“Just tired,” he says. Then, jokingly, “You know, I wonder sometimes if these things would go better if I guarded you with a bag over my head.”
She blinks. “What are you talking about?”
“So my face didn’t…” he gestures. “I feel like half of the new lieutenants were paying more attention to me than to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Adam. Of course they weren’t.” She takes his hand.
He sighs. “No. It’s just… I hate the way people look at me sometimes.”
Marion leans her head against his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter how they look at you. There are far more important things.”
“I know there are.” He isn’t that vain. He can’t afford to be. “But it’s still… gods, Marion, you know what people think of me. I love being there to defend you, but it’s hard to always be looked at like I’m a monster. Especially when it’s because of the worst thing that ever happened to me.” She knows by now what Gabriel did to him.
They reach their quarters, and Marion starts the complicated process of disengaging the locks. “Let them look at you,” she says. “They don’t know you. They don’t matter.”
Adam shudders. “They don’t. But I hate still having him all over my skin.”
Marion pauses for a moment, turns, takes his arm and pulls him down for a kiss.
“He doesn’t matter, either,” she says softly. “He’s been dead for twenty years, and you’re still here. You’re my husband. And I love you more than I care about a few scars.”
It isn’t exactly a few, but he leans into her touch and tries to let her drive thoughts of Gabriel and what he did away. Marion doesn’t care what he looks like. She loves him despite it. She’s right– nothing else should matter.
…..
Adam’s heart pounds as the shuttle lurches upwards and he smashes the control to shut the exterior door. A few bullets hit it as it slides closed, but they’re up. As long as their pilot can avoid tracking, they’ll be fine.
He collapses against the wall, realizing his arm is bleeding. One of the Rose Reds must have managed to graze him. The pain barely registers; he’s had far worse. He’s more upset at the image of one of their heads exploding into shards of skull and brain after a lucky shot from him. He’s strong enough to handle a gun that damn near qualifies as a cannon, but he’ll never get used to seeing what it does to people. Especially when their face is so familiar. He shuts his eyes, trying to get the memory out of his head.
“Adam!” Running footsteps, and then Marion is holding him. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“Barely,” he manages. He looks at the tear in his sleeve.
As soon as Marion notices the wound, she’s examining it, pulling away the bloodied fabric. It’s nothing. It’ll barely even need stitches. She collapses against his chest. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”
He holds her. “...yeah,” he agrees faintly.
He’s safe.
Marion is safe.
And that Rose is dead, obliterated under his hand.
“What’s wrong?” Marion asks, reaching up to gently run her fingers through his hair.
He hesitates. She doesn’t understand how much he hates hurting the Rose Reds (especially since he’s gotten hints of what their lives are like from discussions with Freckles– not a lot; it’s mostly in what he doesn’t say. But Adam can tell it isn’t good, and it makes his heart ache). She’s always thought him foolish for it.
Marion can guess, though. He often gets quiet after fighting them. “Is it the Rose Reds?”
Adam nods, wordless.
She lets out a soft sigh. “Adam, they’re not Rose. They’re barely even human with how they alter them. I wish you wouldn’t worry so much about them.”
His eyes burn with tears. “You didn’t see her, Marion. Her head was gone.”
“I doubt it even felt it.” She pulls him closer. “Besides, if you hadn’t killed it, it might have killed us all. It could have hurt you, or me.”
He shivers. “I still wish I hadn’t had to. I hate hurting them, Marion. I hate it.”
“You’re too tender-hearted for your own good,” she says, soft. “Don’t dwell on it. It’s war, and they’re made to die.” Before he can protest, she adds, “Come on. Let’s get you to the medbay. I don’t want that wound to get infected.”
He can’t do anything but let her guide him up and follow her.
…..
Much of Marion’s work is secret to Adam. She’s one of General White’s most trusted officers, and General White does not let information circulate to anyone who does not strictly need to know it. Marion follows her lead, which means that even when he stands outside soundproofed doors, shoulder-to-shoulder with General White’s personal guards while she and Marion discuss rebellion matters, he usually doesn’t even have an inkling of what they might be talking about.
He understands. He knew what he was getting into with Marion when he married her. But as the war has dragged on, he can’t help but feel that General White’s reticence has rubbed off on her, and not just for matters too sensitive for him to be a part of. They’re going to be en route to Asmund-Signy in a few hours, and Adam still doesn’t know why.
“Marion, if I’m going to be guarding you here, can’t I at least know what the mission is?” he asks over breakfast.
“I’m afraid not. It’s best to keep the details as secret as possible.”
“I’m involved in the details. Shouldn’t I have an idea what I’m risking my life for here?” He can’t keep the frustration out of his voice. This is the fourth trip this year that this has happened for. He’s tired of being in the dark.
Marion reaches across the table and takes his hand. “You know I wouldn’t put you in danger without good reason.”
“Yes. But I should know what that reason is.”
“I’m sorry. General White doesn’t think you need to know. I can’t tell you this.” After a moment, she adds, “I promise, it’s important. And I promise you know everything you need to to keep us safe.”
Adam sighs and rubs his thumb over the top of her hand. “I wish you wouldn’t keep so many secrets from me.”
“I wish I didn’t have to,” she says, voice heavy. “Believe me, I wish I could tell you everything. I hope… perhaps one day, we’ll win this war, and it will be easier.” In moments like this, he can see her exhaustion from the years and years of fighting. She looks up at him with something like worry in her eyes. “Do you trust me, Adam?”
“Of course I do,” he says softly. “You know I do.”
She squeezes his hand, smiling wanly. “Thank you, Adam. I promise, that’s all you need right now.”
Whatever the mission is, it goes off without a hitch. Adam doesn’t ever learn what they were doing. Marion doesn’t tell him.
…..
It isn’t often Adam gets time off that he isn’t spending with Marion. But right now, she’s in a meeting with General White that’s so sensitive he hasn’t even been invited to guard it. These things have been happening more and more since General White transferred Marion, and by extension him, here to Winthrop. It’s strange to live away from Beaumont, for the first time in his life, and even stranger when he has so much time without Marion at his side.
But Freckles is here for a few days, in between his most recent mission and his off-rotation. He’ll be flying back to Mulberry soon, but it’s been close to a year since they’ve seen each other face-to-face. So tonight, the two of them are sitting in a rebel bar, catching up while they have the chance.
“How’s Winthrop treating you?” Freckles asks.
Adam sighs. “It’s only been a month, but I don’t love it. I’m so used to Beaumont, anything else feels alien.” Marion says he’ll get used to it before long. He still misses the mountains. And the cool nights. Even the length of the days there– he still isn’t used to Winthrop’s shorter rotation.
“You lived there for almost fifty years. That’s going to be weird no matter what.”
“I miss it,” he admits. “I always knew having to leave was a possibility, whether from being driven out or being reassigned. But I don’t think I was ready for how it would actually feel.” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t complain, though. You didn’t come here to hear about my homesickness.”
Freckles smiles slightly. “I came here to hear how you were doing. I’d be a pretty shit friend if I refused to listen.” He takes a swig of his drink, but he’s still focused on him. “Tell me about it. What do you miss?”
Adam hesitates. “I’ll be fine. It’s good for Marion. I’m sure in a few more months, I won’t even think about it.”
“Maybe, but it’s on your mind now. Come on. Talk to me.”
After a moment, he starts talking. Tells Freckles about how strange it is that the cities are so small, how they sit flat instead of clinging to the slopes. How there’s no organized crime, it’s just weary, mistrustful people, in what he’s seen outside rebellion strongholds. How even the green of the plants feels like it isn’t quite the right shade. Eventually, he trails off. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m rambling.”
“You’re fine, Adam. I asked.” He elbows him lightly. “What, you think I’m going to ask you a question and then get pissed when you answer?”
He shrugs, looking away. “I feel bad. I haven’t been able to talk to Marion about it; she’s been so busy, and she…” Even when he’s been able to spend time with her lately, he hasn’t been able to tell her about how he feels about her transfer. He feels selfish for even wanting to. She’s the one who’s dealing with all the new duties.
Freckles’ face is soft. “Well, I’m not busy. Not fuckin’ now, anyway.” He shuts his eye a moment and leans against the table, and Adam can see all the exhaustion of whatever he’s been dealing with this on-rotation. “Don’t feel bad for rambling. You’ve listened to me enough times over the years.”
“I don’t mind,” he says.
He smiles again– not quite a grin, but close. “Funny. Neither do I. So quit apologizing.”
Adam smiles, too, something in his chest loosening.
God, he missed Freckles.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
He takes his hand and squeezes it, brief. “Anytime, Adam. Really. You need to talk about something? I want to listen.”
They spend the rest of the night chatting, discussing near-misses in fights and Freckles’ plans for when he gets back to Mulberry and Adam’s boredom now that the last of Marion’s non-administrative duties have been passed down to someone else. They talk about how the war’s going and if it’s ever going to end.
A lot of it is grim. It’s been thirty years of fighting, and there’s no end in sight. Neither of them get to rest long until either the empire or the rebellion dies.
He still goes home that night feeling better than he has in months.
Maybe, he thinks, he should call Freckles more often.