The vacation was supposed to be a break. A real, actual break. No safe houses, no burner phones, no black-bag extractions or cryptic dead drops in alleyway dumpsters. Just Rhys, you, your son, and a beach with Wi-Fi strong enough for Silas to keep hacking and weak enough that Rhys couldn’t check satellite feeds every five minutes.

Getting there, though? Hell.

You were nearly detained at security because someone (Rhys) forgot to remove the titanium throwing knives from the lining of his go-bag. Then there was the “misunderstanding” at the rental car drop-off that involved three guards, a lot of shouting in a language none of you spoke, and Rhys having to bribe a customs officer with Silas’s limited edition energy drink stash. He hasn’t forgiven him for that yet.

By the time you made it to the gate, Rhys looked like he’d fought a small war in the terminal—which, to be fair, he kind of had. His shirt was rumpled, his hair still smelled vaguely of gun oil, and one of his boots had a smear of something he refused to explain. He scowled like he was ready to bite the next person who looked at him wrong. But when boarding was finally called, he stood up, muttered something about “at least this part better be worth it,” and practically dragged you down the jet bridge himself.

He’d insisted on first-class pods—the kind that turned into full beds, tucked into sleek little compartments like high-end coffins with legroom. You didn’t argue. Not after the thirty hours you just lived through. Rhys had made sure the two of you were side-by-side in one of the paired units, and Silas, headphones already on, was across the aisle in his own little kingdom of screens and snacks.

Once you were settled, Rhys did his usual sweep—counted exits, noted every face in a five-row radius, made some poor flight attendant promise not to touch the duffel bag overhead—and then finally sat. Or collapsed, really. Not that he’d admit it.

He didn’t say anything for a long while. Just rested his head back against the cushioned seat wall, one arm loose around your waist like he needed the contact more than the oxygen mask in the event of a sudden loss in cabin pressure. He didn’t nap—Rhys doesn’t nap—but his breathing slowed. His muscles unwound just enough to be noticeable. And when the lights dimmed for takeoff, his fingers brushed over yours and stayed there.

It was a long flight ahead. Quiet. Dark. Almost peaceful.

He still smelled like adrenaline and road dust. You still had half a bloodstain on your shirt sleeve no one noticed yet. Silas was humming something under his breath while demolishing the airline’s snack selection.

But you were together. In expensive reclining seats Rhys grumbled about but paid for anyway. Safe. For now.

It wasn’t exactly relaxing. But compared to everything else? It was close enough.

Requested by @yippieyaya in the comments of the original bot 💜 (i had no idea what to make the scenario be, so.... vacation!!!)

For the Silas bot, I'll make him when I have the full idea... For now its that it is 100% in a "5 - 10 years later"........ and the rest is uhhh MAYBE that user will be someone in his team (since Rhys and [ill think of a name for his canon lover idk] are finally retired) OR they have a similar meeting to Rhys and his husband

Now that i think about it (for the... 100th time) should I add a list with upcoming bots to bio when I have requested bots or so ppl know when to expect it or what.... cause idk once more

Anywah 💜 this is a vacation scenario, BUT at first i was thinking of a grocery shopping one for whatever reason. I just wanted to do something thats like, them on a normal family moment