Quiet Hate

Agony

I cry into the late hours of the night, and wake up swollen. I quickly press my ice roller to my eyes while I make myself a double espresso, and pop a couple of aspirin so my headache will subside in time for work.

I roll in a lot later than normal - so on time, I guess. The 141 is out for training today, so I can breathe a bit easier knowing I don't have to see König. I get a ton of work done, and plan a presentation for the next team meeting at the end of the week.

The next day arrives. With dread, I hear the team enter after their early-morning combat session at the training center. I've told Simon I'm feeling under the weather this week and can't make it to our nightly training. When he comes up to check on me, it's clear that he believes me.

"My god," he says. "I thought you were bailing out on me, but you're clearly out of it."

I'm pale from worry, my eyes are still a little pink from how hard I cried the other night, and my nose is raw from the continuous tissue use. I look the epitome of poor health.

"Yeah," I say. "Just a cold or something."

"I'll bring by soup tonight," he says, walking away with a pinch of my ponytail before I can say no. I feel a pang in my heart for lying to him, but I really don't feel like training, especially not training that started because of König and I's so-called tension.

I work with the rest of the intelligence team that day, ignoring the 141 completely.

That night, Simon does come over. I've spent the past couple of evenings scrubbing my house clean of any König DNA.

"Smells like Lysol in here," Simon says, balancing his soup in one hand while a bottle of Sprite is in the other. "Heard you Americans drink Sprite when you're sick."

"It helps," I defend, and take the covered bowl from him so he can kick off his shoes.

He plops at the counter, pouring the Sprite into the glasses I've slid his way while I ladel the soup into bowls.

When I turn around, I find, shocked, a lack of skull balaclava in sight.

Sandy hair and sharp jawline, Simon says, "Sorry, I figured it was time. Plus I don't want to get soup on my mask."

I decide to take it in stride, choosing to not think about another mask removal that I've experienced. "Alright," I say, walking towards the seat next to him, handing him his bowl. "I didn't peg you for a blonde, to be honest."

"Light brown," he corrects, running a hand over his head.

It takes some getting used to, but over the course of the next hour while we settle into the couch and watch a stupid gameshow that's showing, I get used to Simon's face.

I really am exhausted, I think to myself. Tucked against the side of the couch with my feet next to Simon's warmth, I'm so comfortable. I drift off, the host's hypnotically enthusiastic voice droning on in the background.

I wake up, tucked into my bed, a text from Simon on my phone.

You fell asleep so I took you to your room. See you tomorrow.

I smile at his kindness, but frown at the memories I have in this room. It's been hard to sleep in here, and the guest room is tainted, too, so I just suffer in my own bed.

It was really just one weekend. I shouldn't care so much.

But it wasn't one weekend. It's been months of hatred that, somewhere along the way, turned into fake hatred, which turned into tension, which turned into... whatever last week was.

It's early in the morning, so I go ahead and get ready for the day.

The next few days at work, König is gone with Price for some leadership-only training, and I thank everything divine, because I could not handle seeing him at the next meeting.

Come the next Monday, I'm feeling a little bit better. Simon and I have plans to go on a run, instead, which, though definitely physically worse than combat training, is still productive and a good time to spend with who's slowly becoming my best friend.

König walks in by himself that morning. Once again, I feel his presence, but I ignore him. It's painful, but I make time pass anyway.

The next few weeks are filled with training with Simon and hang-outs with the group, König excluded, of course. They briefly mention how bizarre it was that he came to Soap's party.

"You got stuck with him alone, didn't you?" Price asks. "We left you to go to the yard."

"And I beat your ass," Soap says.

For a moment, I think they know about the laundry room, and then I realize they only know about the living room.

"Some drunk people stumbled in so I hid in the bathroom for a bit, to be honest," I say, which is close enough to the truth - it's what I had meant to do, anyway.

"Did he say anything to you?" Soap says. "He was looking at you an awful lot.

"Fucking weirdo," I say. "Probably because when he tried to say sorry for being a dick I told him to shove his apology up his ass, but it's so crowded with his own head in there I doubt there'd be enough room." It feels nice to get out my anger, but for a second I feel bad for insulting him when he's not here. I toss my guilt to the side, knowing that he's probably forgotten me, anyway.

The whole room erupts into laughter. Simon pats me on the back with pride.

Soon enough, the two-week countdown begins until the next mission. This whole time, I've actually managed to completely avoid König. He hasn't asked me any questions and he's steered clear of my desk, and any time other than that, he's doing training for the upcoming mission.

I've slowly made it back into working with Simon, and fueling my anger into combat skills has actually expedited my improvement. So much so, that he suggests I join one of the 141's morning sessions.

So, the next morning, I show up bright and early to the training center. I feel nervous, but know I only have the team's support.

"Won't hurt you too bad," Soap says, grinning. It's been decided that, for my first - and maybe only - time in here, I'll go against Soap.

I laugh. "God, I hope not."

"Let me do it," comes an Austrian voice from the doorway.

König.