ghost in the passenger seat.
pairing: married!heathcliff x male!reader (Part 2.) warnings: heavy emotional angst, internal spiral, alcohol mention, pining, and descriptions of combat-related injuries.
summary: the "arrangement" was supposed to be simple. you were the warm body, the placeholder, the jolly fool who loved a man who only loved a ghost. but then you stopped. Now, the mission that required the marriage is over, and Heathcliff has to face a reality where he's just a colleague now.
The Mephistopheles was never a quiet place. Between the roar of the engine, the constant ticking of Dante’s head, and the bickering of twelve dysfunctional Sinners, silence was a rare commodity. But for Heathcliff, the bus had become a vacuum.
He sat in the seat that had once been "yours"—the one directly behind him where you used to lean forward and rest your chin on his shoulder, whispering some ridiculous joke about the way Vergilius looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.
Now, that seat was empty. Or worse, it was occupied by Sinclair, who was currently asking Faust for help with his homework. You were further back, huddled in a circle with Rodion and Gregor, the three of you dealing out a deck of cards that looked like they’d seen better days.
"I’m in for two!" your voice boomed, followed by that hearty, jolly laugh that used to be his anchor.
Heathcliff gripped the handle of his bat until his knuckles turned white. He had told you to be "jolly" somewhere else. He had told you he was sick of your adoring eyes. He had told you that you weren't Catherine.
The universe, in its cruel irony, had listened.
He watched you through the reflection in the window. You looked healthy. Your cheeks were flushed with life, your eyes bright with the thrill of the game. You weren't the pining, tragic husband anymore. You were just a man among friends. And every time you called out "Nice one, Greg!" or "Your turn, Roddy!" It felt like a serrated blade sawing through Heathcliff’s ribs.
He was the one who had the ring in his pocket. He was the one who still woke up in the middle of the night reaching for a warmth that had moved to a cot in the galley.
He had won. He had his "freedom."
So why did he feel like he was the one trapped in the moors now?
The mission in the "conservative" Wing was wrapping up. The LCB had successfully navigated the cultural minefields, largely thanks to the "legally bound" status of two of their Sinners. It had provided the perfect cover for infiltration.
Vergilius had called a meeting in the main cabin.
"The contract with the local authorities is concluded," the Red Gaze stated, his eyes glowing with that familiar, terrifying intensity. "As of midnight tonight, the legal requirements for the marital status of Sinner #7 and Sinner #13 are no longer necessary for operational success."
Heathcliff felt his heart stutter. He looked over at you.
You didn't flinch. You didn't look at him with a desperate hope that you might stay "bound" anyway. You just gave a sharp, professional nod. "Understood, Mr. Vergilius. I’ll have the internal LCB dissolution papers filed by morning. No sense in keeping the paperwork cluttered, right?"
You laughed—a short, breezy sound—and patted Heathcliff on the shoulder as you walked past him toward the front of the bus. "Good run, buddy! We really fooled 'em, didn't we?"
Buddy.
Heathcliff stood there, frozen. Even Dante’s clock seemed to slow down, the ticking becoming a heavy, rhythmic thud. <Heathcliff? Are you alright? > the Manager clicked.
"I’m fine," Heathcliff snarled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He turned and followed you, catching you just as you were about to descend the stairs to the galley.
"Hey!" he barked.
You stopped, turning around with a polite, inquiring smile. "Yeah, Heathcliff? Need help with your gear? I can sharpen that bat of yours if you’re busy."
"The papers," Heathcliff said, his voice low. "You’re really just... filing them? Just like that?"
You tilted your head, your "jolly" expression softening into something more like curiosity. "Well, yeah! I mean, that was the deal, wasn't it? We did it for the mission. And you were pretty clear about how much you hated the... well, the 'domestic' side of it. I figured you’d be the first one wanting to sign off."
You chuckled, rubbing the back of your neck. "Honestly, I was worried you’d beat me to it! I didn't want to make it awkward by being the one to hesitate."
Heathcliff felt a wave of nausea. "You aren't... you aren't even gonna talk about it? A year. We lived in that room for a bloody year."
"And we were great roommates!" you said cheerfully, reaching out to give his arm a friendly squeeze. It was the same squeeze you gave Don Quixote when she was being particularly loud. "I learned a lot from you, Heath. Truly. But like you said, I’m a 'warm body.' And now that the bus is heating up and the weather’s turning, I think we’re both better off with a bit more legroom."
You winked—a casual, platonic wink—and vanished into the galley.
Heathcliff stayed at the top of the stairs, the gold ring in his pocket feeling like a hot coal. He realized then that he hadn't just pushed you away. He had trained you. He had spent a year teaching you how not to love him, and you had proven to be his most attentive student.
The next mission took them into the heart of a District 14 Nest. It was a messy affair—corrupted tech-mobs and rogue security bots. The air was thick with the smell of scorched metal and ozone.
In the past, combat with you had been a dance of mutual protection. You would always be a step behind him, your rifle covering his blind spots, your voice a constant stream of "On your left, Heath!" or "Watch out, love!"
He had hated the "love" part. He had told you it was distracting. He had told you to focus on the enemies, not on him.
Today, you did exactly that.
Heathcliff found himself swarmed by three security bots, their electric prods sparking dangerously close to his neck. He swung his bat, shattering one, but the other two closed in. Usually, this was the moment a well-placed shot from your rifle would blow the head off the nearest bot, followed by a "Got him, Heathcliff! Go for the legs!"
Instead, he heard your rifle crack on the other side of the courtyard.
He glanced over his shoulder. You were perched on a balcony, providing cover fire for Gregor. The veteran was pinned down by a larger drone, and you were methodically picking off the smaller units surrounding him.
"Clear, Greg! Move to the pillar!" you shouted.
Heathcliff took a hit to the shoulder—a sharp, burning sting of electricity that sent him to one knee. He looked back at you, expecting the frantic cry of his name, the sudden shift in your aim to save him.
You didn't even look his way. You were focused on Sinclair, who was struggling with a shield-bearer.
"Dante! Get Meursault to the flank!" you called out, your voice calm and tactical.
Heathcliff gritted his teeth and hauled himself up, swinging his bat with a desperate, localized fury. He didn't need you. He didn't want you. He was Heathcliff of the LCB, the Great Lion, the man who survived the moors alone.
But as the battle wound down and the Sinners gathered to lick their wounds, he watched as you hopped down from the balcony and jogged straight to Gregor.
"That was a close one, Greg! You alright? That drone almost had your good arm," you said, your hand landing on Gregor's shoulder with a familiar, easy warmth.
"I’m fine, kid. Thanks for the save," Gregor grunted, though he looked at you with a softness that Heathcliff hadn't seen him show anyone else.
You laughed, ruffling the older man’s hair. "Anytime, buddy! That’s what teammates are for, right?"
You eventually made your way over to Heathcliff. You looked him over with a professional eye, noting the scorch mark on his coat. "Ouch. Looks like that prod got you good. You want me to tell Faust to grab the med-kit, or you got it handled, Heathcliff?"
"I got it handled," he spat.
"Righto! Just checking. You did great out there—those swings were brutal!"
You gave him a thumbs up—the same thumbs up you’d given the vending machine that morning when it actually worked—and walked away to check on Sinclair.
Heathcliff watched your retreating back. He wasn't your priority anymore. He wasn't even your second priority. He was just a Sinner on the field, another unit to be monitored and supported according to the Manager's plan.
He had told you to stop looking at him like he was the sun.
Now, he was just another star in a sky full of them, and you were no longer looking up.
It was 2:00 AM. The bus was silent, save for the low hum of the ventilation and the occasional groan of the metal frame.
Heathcliff couldn't sleep. The room—his room—felt too big. The air was too still. He found himself sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty pillow where your head used to rest. He remembered the way you used to hum in your sleep, a low, rhythmic sound that he used to find annoying. Now, the silence was deafening.
He stood up and walked to the galley, hoping for a glass of water or perhaps some of that cheap booze Rodion kept hidden behind the flour sacks.
He found you there.
The galley was lit by a single, dim lamp. You were sitting at the small table, a mug of steaming cocoa in your hands and a book open in front of you. You looked cozy. You looked... content.
"Oh! Hey, Heathcliff," you said, looking up with a sleepy, friendly smile. "Can't sleep? The engine’s a bit louder tonight, I think."
"Something like that," he muttered, moving to the counter to fill a glass with water. He stayed there, his back to you, listening to the soft sound of you turning a page.
"I filed the papers," you said quietly.
Heathcliff’s hand tightened around the glass. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Dante signed off on them an hour ago. We’re officially... well, not 'officially' anything anymore. Just Sinner #7 and Sinner #13. It feels kind of good, actually. Less weight on the shoulders."
Heathcliff turned around, his eyes dark. "Was it really such a burden? Being married to me?"
You looked at him then, and for a split second, the "jolly" mask slipped. Your eyes weren't adoring, but they weren't cold either. They were just... tired.
"The marriage wasn't the burden, Heathcliff," you said softly. "The pining was. The trying to be enough for someone who was already full of ghosts... that’s what was heavy."
You took a sip of your cocoa, your gaze returning to the book. "I’m a jolly fellow, Heath. I like to laugh. I like to be around people who laugh back. I spent a year being a placeholder, and I did it because I thought that maybe, if I was warm enough, the ice would melt."
You looked up again, and this time, you gave him a small, sad smile. "But some ice isn't meant to melt. Some ice is just part of the landscape. And I realized I was freezing myself to death trying to change the weather."
"I... I never asked you to change," Heathcliff said, his voice a rasping whisper.
"You didn't have to ask. You told me every single day. Every time you pushed me away, every time you mentioned her, every time you told me I was 'suffocating'... you were telling me that who I was wasn't what you wanted."
You stood up, stretching your arms over your head. You looked lighter. Your hands, bare of any rings, moved with a grace that Heathcliff had never truly appreciated.
"So I stopped. And honestly? I’ve never been happier. I like being friends with you, Heathcliff. You’re a great fighter, and you’ve got a twisted sense of humor that’s actually pretty funny when you aren't trying to be miserable. I like being 'buddies.'"
You walked over to him, and for a terrifying second, Heathcliff thought you might hug him. He wanted you to. He wanted to feel that warmth again, even if it was just for a second.
Instead, you just patted him on the arm. A firm, platonic, teammate pat.
"Get some sleep, Heath. We’ve got a long haul tomorrow."
You walked out of the galley, leaving him alone in the dim light.
The "buddy-fication" of your relationship had an unintended side effect: your friendship with Gregor flourished.
Without the emotional drain of trying to save Heathcliff’s soul, you had more energy for everyone else. You and Gregor became a fixture on the roof of the bus. You shared stories, you shared cigarettes, and you shared a kind of quiet understanding that comes from two people who have survived the City’s grinders.
Heathcliff watched them one evening from the window of the bus.
You were sitting close to Gregor—not "husband" close, but close enough that your shoulders were touching. You were laughing at something Gregor had said, and you reached out to playfully shove his arm. Gregor caught your hand, his bug-arm moving with a surprising gentleness, and he said something that made you beam.
Heathcliff felt a roar of static in his brain. It wasn't the "Catherine" roar. It was something different. It was a sharp, possessive, ugly thing that wanted to storm up there and rip you away from the veteran.
He climbed the ladder, his boots slamming against the metal rungs.
"What’s so bloody funny?" he demanded as his head cleared the roofline.
You and Gregor both looked over. You didn't look guilty. You just looked... annoyed.
"Just a story about the smoke war, Heathcliff," you said, your voice losing that warm, intimate lilt it had just had with Gregor. "Nothing that would interest you."
"I’m interested," Heathcliff snapped, stepping onto the roof.
"Really?" you asked, tilting your head. "I thought you hated 'aimless chatter.' You used to tell me to shut up whenever I tried to tell you stories."
Heathcliff winced. "I... I’ve changed my mind. Tell me the story."
You looked at Gregor, then back at Heathcliff. You gave a little shrug. "Well, Gregor was just telling me about this one time his unit got lost in a fog bank in the District 11 outskirts. It’s a long story, though. We were just about to head down and get some dinner."
"I'll come with you," Heathcliff said.
"Oh! Well, okay," you said, standing up. "But I’m sitting with Sinclair tonight. I promised to help him with his combat drills."
You started toward the ladder, leaving Heathcliff standing there with Gregor.
The veteran took a long drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing bright orange in the twilight. "You’re doing it again, mate."
"Doing what?" Heathcliff growled.
"Chasing a bus that’s already left the station," Gregor said, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. "He’s happy, Heathcliff. For the first time since I’ve known him, he’s actually, genuinely happy. Don't go messin' it up because you finally realized you’re thirsty after you poured the water down the drain."
"He's my husband," Heathcliff said, though even to his own ears, the word felt like a hollow shell.
"The papers say otherwise," Gregor countered, his voice quiet. "And his eyes say even more. He doesn't look for you in a room anymore, Heath. He looks for a laugh. He looks for a friend. He looks for someone who sees him, not a placeholder for a ghost."
Gregor stood up, patting Heathcliff on the shoulder—the same damn pat that you gave everyone.
"You got what you wanted. You’re free. Now let him be free, too."
A week later, the bus was forced to stop near a stretch of desolate wasteland in District 23. It wasn't the moors of Heathcliff’s home, but the resemblance was haunting—gray grass, rolling fog, and a sky that looked like a bruised plum.
Heathcliff was spiraling. Every time he saw you laugh with someone else, every time you called him "buddy," every time he saw your bare hands, he felt like he was being erased.
He found you sitting on the edge of the bus’s roof, your legs dangling over the side as you watched the fog roll in.
"You’re really okay with this?" he asked, his voice coming out as a strangled cry.
You didn't look back. "With the fog? Yeah, it’s a bit spooky, but it’s kind of pretty in its own way."
"Not the fog! This! Us! Me!" Heathcliff stomped over, his shadow looming over you. "You spend a year tellin' me you love me, tellin' me I’m everything, and then you just... you just stop? How does someone just stop?"
You finally turned around. You didn't look jolly. You looked... sad. But it was a distant sadness, like looking at an old photograph of a person you used to know.
"I didn't 'just stop,' Heathcliff," you said softly. "It was a slow death. Every time you told me I wasn't her, a little piece of that love died. Every time you pushed me away, another piece went. I just... I ran out of pieces."
"I can be better!" Heathcliff blurted out. It was a pathetic thing to say, a desperate, childish plea, but he didn't care. "I’ll wear the ring. I’ll... I’ll stop talkin' about Catherine. I’ll listen to your stories."
You looked at him for a long time. The wind whipped your hair across your face. You reached out, and for a heartbeat, Heathcliff thought you were going to touch his cheek.
Your hand stopped an inch away.
"I don't want you to be better for me, Heathcliff," you said. "I want you to be better for you. Because if you’re only doing it to get me back, then you’re still just using me as a placeholder. You’re just replacing the ghost of Catherine with the ghost of who I used to be."
You stood up, your movements easy and fluid. You looked so much taller than you had a month ago.
"I’m not that person anymore. I’m not the adoring lad who will take your insults with a smile. I’m just a jolly fellow who wants to live his life. And I like the man I am now a lot more than the man I was when I was with you."
Heathcliff reached into his pocket and pulled out the two rings. He held them out, his hand shaking. "Please. Just... try. One more time."
You looked at the silver band—the one that had meant everything to you once. You reached out and touched it with a fingertip.
"It’s a beautiful ring, Heathcliff," you whispered. "But it doesn't fit me anymore. My hands are lighter now. I can reach out to my friends. I can hold a rifle without it getting snagged. I can... I can breathe."
You stepped back, away from the edge. "Go back inside. It’s going to rain."
You walked to the ladder and descended, leaving him alone in the gray grass and the rolling fog.
Heathcliff sat on the roof until the rain started—a cold, biting drizzle that soaked through his coat.
He looked at the two rings in his palm. They were just circles of metal. They didn't have power. They didn't have souls.
He realized then that he had been right all along: he had married you out of duty and want. But he had been wrong about what he wanted. He hadn't wanted a placeholder. He hadn't wanted a warm body.
He had wanted a sun. And he had spent so long complaining about the glare that he hadn't noticed the world was freezing until the sun had finally set.
He walked back to the room—his room—and opened the small wooden drawer. He didn't put the rings in the back. He placed them right in the front, where he would see them every single day.
He walked to the mirror and looked at himself. He looked like a man who had survived a storm, only to realize he had lost everything in the process.
He heard your laughter from the galley—a bright, booming sound that made the whole bus feel a little less like a prison. You were telling a joke. You were happy.
Heathcliff closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the mirror.
He wasn't a placeholder anymore. He wasn't the center of your universe.
He was just a Sinner. Just a teammate. Just a "buddy."
And as the rain hammered against the roof of the Mephistopheles, Heathcliff realized that being your friend was the hardest mission he would ever have to survive.
Because every time you smiled at him with that casual, friendly warmth, it reminded him of the love he had thrown away—a love that was no longer a ghost, because it had finally found a home in someone else’s laughter.
He reached out and touched the glass, his fingers tracing where your reflection would have been.
"Goodnight... buddy," he whispered to the empty room.
The only answer was the ticking of the clock and the distant, joyful sound of a man who was finally, beautifully, free.
This is Part 2, goobers! ٩(^ᗜ^ )و I hope you enjoyed the read! Also, thank you so much for worrying 'bout me—my heart is officially mush now. I’d really also appreciate any feedback so I can level up my writing skills and keep giving you guys the good fics you deserve! ദ്ദി(˃ ᵕ ˂ ദ്ദി)
