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@ghostlyrose2
I’m doing a reread of the Kings Men and realised how fucking funny it is that Andrew wore Neil’s clothes after they showered together
For what 9-10 months they made fun of his clothes then Andrew just wore them without a second thought. Yes I know he had no clothes but then he wore them OUT to brunch. He could’ve changed once he got into his dorm but decided to wear them
It’s really funny
Imagine long distance andreil right?
Its past 2am, Neil wakes up from a weird dream but thinks nothing of it and goes back to bed.
Only to slip back, finding himself in an airport, waiting for Andrew's flight to touch down. Its 20 minutes past when he should have arrived, but baggadge claim takes a while, sometimes. When suddenly all the indicators for where to wait for the people on that flight change. No information can be found about the flight, it's like it doesn't exist.
He approaches the info center. Asks what's going on, where to wait, maybe the location changed, happens right? The lady at the desk looks at him, worry and pity and guilt on her face.
"Sir, we can't contact the flight, it's gone missing."
"What do you mean missing???"
"There was a sudden storm, and the communications stopped."
He feels panic rising though his chest. He can't even help, he has no knowlege of flying or weather patterns, and hell. Even if he did, he isn't on the goddamn plane. Other worried people crowd the desk, crowd Neil, but he doesn't notice. He doesn't care. Andrew is... he isn't right? He can't be gone, just like that?
Neil suddenly jolts up in his dark dorm. His breathing hard, the usualy comfortable sheets like a net around him. Sticking to his skin from the cold sweat. It was just a dream. It's just a nightmare. Nothing more.
But the panic still sits in his heart, it weights him down and his eyes sting. Neil grabs for his phone, next to his bed. is just past 4am.
His hands shake a little, his breathing doesn't even out and finally some stray tears escape his grip. Neil knows it wasn't real. He knows Andrew is safe, on the other side of the country. Probably already asleep, with cats bundled up with him. He can see it, clear in his mind, but the feeling doesn't disapear.
Neil's fingers speed dials Andrew before he can think about it. The phone reaches his ear whrn he remembers it's 1am for the other man. He is about to stop the call when Andrew picks up after the second ring.
"What's wrong?" his voice even as usual, but Neil can hear the sleep in it.
"I just needed to hear your voice. Had a nightmare." he mutters out, trying to sound as calm as possible. Of course theres a big chamce Andrew doesn't buy it, hears the panic.
Theres some silence, then shuffling a little, when Andrew starts telling him aboit his day. About how practice went, how King tried to hunt a bird and knocked her head into the window. He mentions he will have to stop by the store because theres no ice cream left in the house. How his neighbour was being loud again during mornings.
It settles him. The few tears that decided to run, already dry. His breathing slow and steady and when a yawn finally leaves his lips, Neil feels hsi eyeslids growing heavy again.
"Thank you." is all he says. And Andrew doesn't answer. The line just goes dead and Neil goes to put his phone back to charge, before pulling the sheets back up again and settling into bed.
Wash Day Routine
or how you and Kyle fell in love over doing his hair
kyle “gaz” garrick x reader
a/n: is this entirely self-indulgent? yes. is it my personal belief that if kyle garrick joined the military at 16, like canon suggests, this man would’ve relied on two-in-one for most of his young adult life? also yes!
You know as soon as the door opens.
Kyle stands in the entryway, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, boots heavy and worn, whistling as he drops his keys into a bowl.
The hat is what gets your attention.
He freezes when he sees you on the couch. Kyle has never performed guilt well; his mom claims he learned how to charm his way out of anything by the time he was speaking full sentences.
“No,” you say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
You narrow your eyes and a smile flashes across his face before he forces his face into something serious.
“Which is how I know you’re up to something. You have that look on your face.”
You leaned back against the bed, tears on your eyes, they fixed on the photo of the Tinder profile on your phone, you read Gaz's profile.
Was all what was on his profile plus a blurry photo of him.
tall, military man, loves pancakes
His hands were also on the photo, flexing perfectly to draw any women's eyes.
But there wasn't one thing.
The expensive wedding ring that matched yours, which was on your wedding finger.
The same ring he held in that private mission, right after the kind of missions that makes you remember you aren't eternal.
"I promise to be with you, next to you, till the day I die, there's nowhere else I'd rather be were I could be half as happy as I am with you"
Those words, the sweet memory of them made an ugly sob leave your throat and you threw the phone to the side carelessly.
Vs
Gaz who snatched the phone from Soap's prying hands
"Fuck off mate!, I hate those dating apps shit, and I'm married!, don't you get it?, MARRIED!"
Gaz practically yelled to a laughing Soap, frustrated, he tried to delete that profile, but he was old, and that was noticeable on the weird way he was holding the phone and the even weirder match he had with "Melissa" that sounded a lot like your best friend's name.
It was Ghost who finally hit the back of Soap's head, which made the Scottish yelp, and said coldly
"Not all of us has a wife and kids to go home, Johnny, delete that shit from his phone"
With a terrifying glare that made Soap gulp awkwardly, and take Gaz's phone.
"M', sorry mate, Ghost's right"
Before he could do anything,a small ping was heard from an upcoming notification, Roach read the phone silently before he got a little pale.
"What?" Gaz asked with dread.
Roach cleared his throat, reading out loud the most recent message from Melissa.
"You're a fucker, asshole I'm sending this to your wife"
Before getting blocked.
They all stood frozen as Ghost's eyes fixated on how Gaz's expression crumbled, but before letting the tears fall off he snatched his phone, muttering a curse, grabbed his jacket and left the pub, heart shattering into a million pieces at the thought of you crying in your shared bed.
Part two here!
Compared to you.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You hated when people looked at you after they looked at Simon.
Because it always happened in that order.
Their eyes would land on him first— broad shoulders stuffed into dark clothes, that permanently tired stare, the kind of presence that made rooms quiet without him even trying — and then they’d shift to you.
And every single time, you swore you saw the same flicker of confusion.
Them?
It made your sick.
Here's a little bit of what I'm writing; tell me what you think and if you'd like to read it.
Outside, there’s peace. The only sounds of the night are the crickets and the occasional whisper of the breeze, but not inside you. There is no peace there. Not now.
The first number you dial is John’s, not because he’s the oldest or because he’s your captain. It’s because he was the first one to appear in your contacts list. You sniffled quietly and listened to the phone ring.
One… two… three… four…
Then he answered.
“Hello?”
Price with a partner who sleep talks
pairing: John Price x gn!reader cw: sleeptalking wc: 903 an: price, the man you are. id forgotten my obsession with him until I found my Tumblr archives on my pc. this was SOOO fun to write, enjoy!
John Price had never been a heavy sleeper.
While it was a part of himself that had been apparent to him since before his time in the military, it would be foolish to say it didn’t play an important role in it. He rarely got more than a couple of hours of sleep, which his body had adapted to over the years—not without putting up a fight, that is.
He’d always struggled with the civvie life. Before you came into his life—a whirlwind of colour and a warmth he did not believe himself capable of deserving—he’d hated sleeping outside of the comfort of his quarters. His house was suffocating in its quiet loudness.
He had become acquaintances with the cat who rummaged through his trash at three in the morning, on the dot. He still woke up whenever the fridge clicked without explanation in the middle of the night—that sharp, sudden noise that had him shoving a hand under his pillow before he could even process the fact that he didn’t need to aim his gun at an electrical appliance. The electrical line that had been busted for almost three months, constantly emitting a loud buzzing noise, had pushed him to the edge.
Then you’d come along. Quietly, sneakily—like mould. And, God help him, he’d never been more grateful for anything in his life. A toothbrush here, spare socks there, your things all over his house. What could only be described as a parasitic infestation had never felt better.
Along with your banter over lunch and your tea in his cupboard, came your…peculiar nightly habits.
Ghost with a sleeptalking partner
pairing: Simon Riley x gn!reader cw: mentions of sleeptalking, honestly just fluff wc: 1085 an: STAWWPP this is so cute, i had so much fun writing this. I used to sleepwalk (and talk) like crazy, so maybe im projecting here. I might like this version more than Price's. Enjoy!!
To say Ghost’s sleeping schedule was thoroughly fucked would be an understatement. Even before he enlisted, he’d had his fair share of reasons to indulge in insomnia. Sleep had never come easy to him, no matter what pills he took, which meditation techniques Gaz wouldn’t shut up about, or the amount of times Soap had offered to knock him out with the butt of his gun—tempting, but not sustainable.
Which is why it was so jarring to have met you. A soldier, hardened by bloodshed and angry COs who, somehow, was able to fall asleep on command. At first, it was odd to find you sleeping in every possible place, flat surface available or not. Briefing room, supply tent, comms building, mess hall—sometimes your head would fall against a table, sometimes you’d be seated, sometimes, somehow, you’d be standing up, asleep like a mummy.
He didn’t understand how you’d developed the habit—not until he slept with you for the first time. It was that night, when both of you were covered with a shit blanket that did little to keep out the cold, that he realized why you were exhausted all the time.
You talked in your sleep. And not just talked—you rambled like crazy. It made sense why you got no rest, given you spent most of your time asleep arguing with people who didn’t exist.
Pumpkin Patrol — Task Force 141 + König & Roach x Reader
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The air was crisp, carrying the smell of hay, cider, and woodsmoke. The pumpkin patch stretched across golden fields under a lazy October sun — a far cry from deserts and gunfire.
You tugged your scarf tighter as you walked between rows of pumpkins. “It’s called relaxing,” you told Soap, who was kicking at vines like they’d offended him.
“Relaxin’? This feels like work,” he said, squinting at a misshapen pumpkin. “Do they come pre-carved? I want one with a skull already on it.”
“Then pick that one,” Gaz said, pointing to a lumpy gourd. “Looks just like your head.”
Soap gasped. “Rude.”
Price hid a smile beneath his beard, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “You lot are hopeless. We’re here to enjoy ourselves.”
Ghost stood silently behind him, black hoodie pulled up, surveying the field like it was a tactical op. “Define enjoy.”
Before you could answer, a massive figure appeared from behind a corn maze sign — König, half-hidden behind a wool scarf and a ridiculous beanie with a pom-pom on top.
“Hallo, meine Freunde!” he called cheerfully, arms full of three enormous pumpkins. “I could not decide, so I took all of them.”
Soap groaned. “Show-off.”
König looked sheepish. “They are... for decoration,” he said, setting them down with a thump.
“Sure they are, big guy,” Roach said, appearing beside you with a smaller pumpkin balanced perfectly on his shoulder. He smiled through his mask’s clear visor — that gentle, quiet grin he rarely showed on base. “You picking one too, or just supervising?”
You shrugged. “Maybe. Depends if I find one that feels right.”
Gaz leaned in. “You’re one of those pumpkin people, huh?”
“Better than you, who picked one shaped like a kidney bean.”
Soap burst out laughing. “She’s got you there, mate.”
Even Ghost’s mask seemed to tilt like he was hiding a smile.
After half an hour of banter, König and Roach pulled the cart loaded with pumpkins, Ghost carrying one the size of a boulder like it weighed nothing. The team made a slow procession back toward the farm stand — passing families, hayrides, and kids clutching caramel apples.
At the stand, Price bought everyone hot cider. “No arguing, lads,” he said. “It’s good for morale.”
Soap sniffed his mug suspiciously. “Does it have whisky in it?”
“Not this time,” Price replied. “We’re off duty.”
The words made everyone relax just a little more. König hummed softly, tapping his cider cup against yours. “To peace and pumpkins,” he said warmly.
You smiled. “To peace and pumpkins.”
That night, at base, newspapers were spread across tables, knives laid out, and the 141 plus two honorary members prepared for pumpkin warfare.
“Rules are simple,” Price announced. “No explosives, no cheating, and for the love of God, no fire until we’re done.”
Soap held up a small carving knife like it was a weapon. “Aye aye, captain.”
Roach’s pumpkin ended up adorable — tiny eyes, goofy grin, little bat wings made of paper. König’s was… elaborate. He carved an entire castle scene with moonlight windows that glowed when lit.
Gaz’s collapsed halfway through. Soap’s was too ambitious — one wrong cut and the whole top fell in.
Yours turned out lopsided but charming, crooked grin and all.
Then everyone turned to Ghost. His massive pumpkin sat untouched until he silently picked up a knife. A few minutes later, he revealed a perfectly carved skull — symmetrical, sharp, and unnervingly realistic.
Soap groaned. “Show-off number two.”
Roach leaned over to inspect it. “That’s… actually amazing.”
König clapped loudly, eyes gleaming behind his hood. “We must make this tradition!”
Price lifted his cider mug. “Agreed. Next year, same time. No complaints.”
As the candles flickered in each pumpkin, shadows danced across everyone’s faces — laughter spilling easy, the warmth of cider and soft teasing filling the room.
You caught Ghost’s rare chuckle. Roach nudged your shoulder, König offered you a cinnamon donut, and Soap tried to stick googly eyes on Gaz’s failed pumpkin.
For once, no one was a soldier. Just friends, safe and whole under the amber glow of autumn.
You end up on this incredibly long recon op where you’re not even certain you’re in the right place. Kate had sent the team here on some “informant’s” word that a terrorist cell was here, but you were all seriously starting to doubt that. So here you were, week 2 of sitting in this rundown apartment across the street from an ice cream shop Kate’s informant claimed was a cover.
“Must be a slow week for international crime.”
“Kyle!”
“What! Why else would we just be sitting here for two weeks!”
You rolled your eyes at them. He was right, though. This was sooo borrrinnggg.
There really was no need for all four of you to be here. Honestly, this should have been a job for someone lower on the totem pole than you lot. Maybe Kate really was just keeping you occupied.
Regardless, only two people needed to be on watch at a time and right now it was Price and Ghost’s turn. Johnny and Kyle were playing cards and you were just sitting there. So. Bored.
You tried to remember what you used to do as a kid to kill boredom. Cartwheels? No, room’s too small (are you even flexible enough for that anymore?). Play outside? That’ll blow your cover. Draw? You didn’t exactly bring crayons to your super secret spy op. Making bracelets? Nope, no material—actually…you do have rope.
Hey that’s not a bad idea. You could use your paracord to make bracelets. Hmm, do you even still remember any patterns? …is Price gonna get mad at you for using your supplies like this? Whatever, if you need it you can just unravel it later.
So you jolt up from where you’ve been wallowing in boredom, grab the rope from your pack, and get to work. You think you remember a couple of patterns? Only one way to find out if they work.
So for the next 4 hours (you might be out of practice) of Simon and John’s shift, you sit there weaving away at the cord. The boys are mildly curious about what you’re doing, but not enough to investigate thoroughly. By the end of it, you have 5 unique bracelets. You ended up pilfering the boys rope for different colors too, so now you have a green, blue, black, red, and orange.
Okay that was great, boredom cured, but now what the hell do you do with all these fuckass bracelets? …well you guess the team should all have their paracord back, what does it matter if it’s in their pack or on their wrist?
So, with a shrug and without a word, you go around to the boys delivering their newly made bracelets.
Blue goes to Johnny. “What’s this then? Made a wee craft did we, lovie? Ah yes it matches me eyes! Thank you.”
Black to Ghost (honestly you think if you gave him anything else he would clothesline you). “Cute.” You’re going to choose to pretend he wasn’t being sarcastic.
Price gets green. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Kyle gets red. “Did a nice job, love.”
And you keep orange! “Now we match!”
They all try to play it off, but their hearts all clench a little at that thought. They all just chuckle or scoff as you change who’s on watch, and try not to make it too obvious how they keep looking at their newly acquired friendship bracelets.
You’re a chronic under-dresser. Maybe it’s pride or forgetfulness, but whenever the weather starts to turn, you kind of just…ignore it.
Which has put you in more than a few unideal situations. Like standing in a full blizzard in a shirt or being in negative temperatures with no gloves. So your team has started to accommodate for you in an effort to not lose you to frostbite.
So when you’re about to step out into a foot of snow with no coat, Kyle sounds the alarm.
“Wait!” He flails off the couch, grabbing a small bundle of fabric from the top of the coat rack and lunging for you, “We have a code blue!”
“Code blue? What the he—“
You’re cut off as Kyle smushes the fabric over your head. In his eagerness, he goes too far and it’s pulled over your eyes completely.
“Kyle!” You try to ignore the spice of his scent coming from what you now know to be his beanie.
“Help is on the wee, dear!” Before you can drag the beanie off of your eyes, Johnny is on you wrapping a scarf around your neck.
You jut your arm out in panic, being blind and all.
“Ah! Me eye!”
You cringe, “…sorry, Johnny.”
But hey, it’s honestly fitting you hit his eye. Good payback. And now you’re smelling the fresh citrusy scent of Johnny which is not helping.
You go to fix the beanie again, until a strong hand grabs your wrist to straighten your arm, “ah, ah, ah, not yet, sweetheart. Need a coat.” John’s sandalwood and smoke now.
“Is this all really necessary,” you come out a little muffled through the scarf.
“We like ye with all yer digits, birdie.”
You’ve given up on fixing the hat, so you just keep your arms extended, waiting for the last person you know is coming.
A light touch finds your hand, caressing up to your wrists before sliding on some gloves that are far too big for you.
“All done, love.”
You finally reach up to fix the beanie, bringing Simon’s warm amber to your nose. Finally you can see again, only to find you’re swamped in their winter clothes.
“I look like a marshmallow.” You say unamused, trying to ignore the fuzzy feeling being surrounded by their scents is making.
“A warm one.” They all smile back.
You roll your eyes like you hate it. But you don’t.
You were so fucked.
It was the only thing you could think as you looked at the rest of your team in their gas masks, yours lying shattered on the floor.
You’d gotten some intel about a new terrorist weapon being manufactured in this warehouse. The tip said it was gaseous, so you had come prepared with gas masks. From the surveying the team had done, the warehouse seemed fairly empty. You entered on a stealth basis, hoping to get a sample, maybe sabotage the production, and get out. Of course, things are never that simple.
The team was split up: Ghost and Soap on gathering info from the office, Price on overwatch, Gaz getting a sample of gas, and you setting charges to destroy the warehouse. But of course, just when you thought you had all the enemies accounted for, one came in from a side door in your blind spot. The only warning you got was,
“We have one entering the warehouse from the west.” Came Price’s gruff voice over the comms.
By that time, you were already grappling on the ground, both having knocked your weapons away from each other.
“I’m seeing that, thank you!” You struggled out through the strain of the fight. “We’ve gone loud! I’m in contact—“
The enemy rips the gas mask from your face. “Shit!”
“How copy?” You hear Ghost but you’re currently in an arm wrestle over a gun, “we’re on our way to your last known location, hold on.”
You win the arm wrestle, securing your gun and aiming it at the enemy. In a last ditch effort to save his ass, he lunges for a lever on a tank next to you, ripping open a valve and sending a rush of green gas directly into your face.
You flinch away, abandoning your aim in favor of finding clean air. But you’ve already inhaled, you can feel it stinging your throat and lungs, causing you to cough violently.
“—status? Come in, sitrep now!” You barely hear Price, your brain getting fuzzy fast. The lines of the building start warping, contorting and stretching until the walls look they’re falling on top of you. When you look down at your hands they’re covered in blood, several fingers missing. A roach crawls from the back of your hand to start skittering up your arm. You try to swat it away, breathing heavily and shuffling back. More bugs now, crawling all over you. You don’t know where they came from or what to do, you can barely comprehend everything you’re seeing.
So when you started to scream, your comms still open, their hearts drop. Ghost and Soap round the corner fast, quickly followed by Gaz and Price busting through separate doors.
They don’t know what to make of what they see. You’re hyperventilating, brushing your arms and shaking out, squirming on the floor like you’re trying to get something off of you.
“Get off!” You screech, alongside other barely sensical pleas. Ghost shoots forward to grab your arms and stop your struggling. But when you’re faced with a large, scary man in a skull mask, it just sets you off more.
You see a man whose face is melting off to reveal the skull underneath, grabbing at you with sharp claws and shouting in your face. Suddenly you don’t care about the roaches, a new fresh monster greats you.
Your screaming gets worse, shoving harshly at Ghost, “no no no, stop!”
You’ve attracted the attention of the other people in the warehouse.
“Fuck…Ghost, Soap, sort that out and get to exfil! Gaz, you’re with me, we’re holding here!” Price gives the order.
You’re frightened by this face-melt man. “Please don’t hurt me!” You cry out. Simon’s heart breaks a little. You’ve never been scared of him before.
Simon rips off his mask, “hey! It’s me, it’s Simon!” He’s trying to make sense of what you’re seeing, why you’re so freaked out. He doesn’t care right now about the dangers of taking the mask off. He just cares about you.
Johnny comes next to you both, crouching down to help. “Hey, there, birdie…they gotcha good, eh?” He speaks like he’s trying to calm a spooked dog. He shares a concerned glance with Simon.
Your breathing slows marginally, recognizing their faces but not understanding what’s real, brain going too slow to understand what they’re saying.
A sob bubbles out, “what’s happening?”
“Not sure, sweet’eart, but we gotcha,” Simon grunts out while swooping you up.
The world tilts, nausea filling you quickly. You let out a whine.
“‘S alrigh’, hen, we’re gettin’ ya outta here.”
The rest is a bit of a blur. You hear gunshots and feel the jostle of being carried. It’s hard to differentiate between what’s real and what’s your scary, gas-induced visions. They get you into the exit vehicle, and Price and Gaz pull out of the building, blowing it up with the charges you managed to set.
Still, you’re inconsolable. Screaming and crying and shaking. Nothing they do makes any difference. They just have to sit there and listen to you suffer. They try to hide their flinches at your noises of fear. It takes a while, but finally you settle and pass out.
Eventually, hours later, you find yourself in the exfil vehicle, laying in the back with your head on Kyle’s lap.
“Hey, pretty…how we feelin’?”
You still feel dizzy and slightly nauseous, and you sense you’re missing some time. Looking around, the walls are no longer warping and Kyle looks…normal. Not like he’ll become a scary monster at the drop of a hat.
“Wha—“ you try to get out, but your throat is incredibly sore.
“Johnny, water.” Kyle demands.
He sits you up and you’re able to drink some water and get your bearings, trying to ignore the concerned looks being not-so-subtly thrown your way.
Finally when you’re ready, “what happened?”
They all toss glances to one another, asking without words who will get the duty of explaining.
John speaks first, “some sort of…hallucinogenic gas, as far as we can figure. There was some in the air and you didn’t have your mask. You were…distressed, to say the least. Going on about stuff that wasn’t there.”
You think about the things you saw, flinching a little at the memory. You rub your head, “right…shit, did we destroy the compound?” Your head shoots up at the thought.
“It’s gone.” John assures. “We’re getting you medical ASAP. Don’t know the full effects.”
Normally you’d argue, spew some bull about being fine. But to tell the truth, you felt like shit. You just nodded and mumbled an “m’kay” before looking out the window. Which did nothing except concern them more.
John spent most of the ride looking in the rear view mirror to see you. Kyle ended up pulling you down to have your head on his lap again, while your legs went to Johnny’s lap. Kyle rubbed your head at one mention of a headache, whereas Johnny found comfort in caressing the exposed strip of your ankle. Simon reached back from the front seat to grab your hand, and all the assurance from them meant you were quick to find sleep.
You didn’t wake up again until you were in the base hospital, still surrounded by your boys.
TF 141 x Abused!Reader, Part 3
Part 1 | Part 2
CW: Discussion of domestic violence
You tap on the open door of Price's office, the sound alerting him to your presence as he looks up from his work.
"Captain, I'm getting ready to head out for the night. Is there anything you need before that?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. Why don't you take a seat, sweetheart, I wanted to have a brief chat. Close the door?" He asks with a warm smile.
You do as he asks, stomach sinking. This is, without a doubt, the first time in your life that you're hoping a boss is calling you into their office to discuss your performance. As you sit, Price fixes his eyes on you, smile fading slowly. You try and fail to resist fidgeting under his gaze. The silence stretches longer, and you feel pinpricks of sweat start under your arms.
Finally, Price leans back in his chair and speaks. "Anything you need to talk about?"
Your smile curdles just a bit. "Is this about the bruise?"
He shrugs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "If that's what's on your mind."
"I wouldn't say it's troubling me. I forgot to mention it, but I left some shoes out in the living room, tripped over them and hit my head. Lesson learned, I guess." Your attempt at a breezy chuckle falls incredibly flat.
John's eyes stay on you, and you feel like a pinned insect. "Shoes, huh? Heard from Lieutenant Riley that it was a cat."
Your stomach plummets at your mistake. "Did he?" You ask thinly. "He must have misheard."
Your knee bounces as you wait for the Captain's response. Simon Riley is not a man who forgets details, and you both know that. Your boss lets you sit with your lie for an uncomfortably long moment before he grunts, eyes trailing back to his computer screen.
"Right."
He's clearly not convinced, but he's at least not pressing further. The relief of that realization crashes through with a force that makes you lightheaded. You breathe through it, unclenching your hands when you realize you've been digging your fingernails into the flesh of your palm. You swipe your thumbs over the reddened crescents left behind, a feeble attempt to erase the evidence of your anxiety.
When John says nothing more, you rise. "Well, I appreciate you-"
"Sit."
You drop back into the seat without hesitation, nerves flairing back to life.
The steel that undercut his last command is absent from what he says next. "I had to update security clearances today, and found something troubling."
Your eyes fall from Price's stoic expression to his fingers, idly scrolling on his computer mouse. The digits are thick, callused, fingernails cut short and blunt. Unprompted, your mind runs over all the ways hands like that could cause harm to another. You screw your eyes shut, trying to smother the nausea roiling in your belly.
His eyes meet yours, rendering you frozen in that arctic gaze.
"Something about your husband."
You make a desparate attempt to control your expression, to try and mold it into a facsimile of gentle concern. But you're exhausted- physically, mentally, and emotionally. The weight of everything you've been carrying alone cripples you, and the mask you've been maintaining with limited success shatters completely. It's not like it was much use against a man like John Price- a soldier who has trained for decades to analyze people, learning how to catch the smallest of tells. You're no match for him, you realize, and you never were. You wait, consumed with dread.
"Man's got some history." His voice softens, trying to ease you into his next revelation. "Including three restraining orders brought against him, from separate women."
You hear the words, see his mouth move as he delivers them. But your brain doesn't- can't- transform the statement into something you can understand. The words just sit there, lead in your gut, pulling you down, down, down.
Even as you sink, you throw out a denial, muscle memory keeping you kicking and scratching against the rope tethering you to an anchor. "No, not him. You must have the wrong man, Captain."
Price doesn't bother with a reply, just tilts his head towards you slightly.
"I- I would have-"
I would have known. Except that wasn't true. Your husband never bothered to share details of his life with you. You had argued about it relentlessly back when you still tried to make things better. Back when you still had some life in you.
You can't lie to the captain, can't sit in his office with the carcass of another untruth laying belly up on his desk. You settle for another flimsy denial.
"It must be wrong." You rasp.
In that moment the pity in Price's gaze, the smothered frustration in his exhalation, it hurts you more than the blow you took to the head. He leans towards you, lays his hand palm-up on the desk, an offer of comfort that you won't let yourself accept.
"I genuinely wish that were the case. But you and I both know it isn't." You wonder distantly how shocked new recruits on base would be if they saw the John Price, captain of the revered taskforce 141, offering someone such kindness. "Tell me what happened, sweetheart."
Your chin dips to your chest, eyes screwed shut. You can't take any more of this. The visible concern, the soft gazes that invite your vulnerability. Everything is fine, you are fine. What will it take to make people believe that? Your husband has a temper, sure, but you're always the idiot that makes him so angry in the first place. You don't need pity or soft words, don't need kind gazes offering a port in a storm. What you need is to go home to your husband, and get dinner started.
You rise from your chair, and this time, John doesn't stop you. "Like I said, Captain, I fell. I can't control whether you believe me or not, but that's the truth. I appreciate your concern, really. It- it means a lot." You can't hide the hitch in your voice on that last part.
He doesn't say anything, just nods once, and you leave his office. It feels like all you do anymore is run away, from people and problems, and it makes you loathe yourself. The base has been your one salvation these past few months, the one place where you do things right, where you can pretend you're competent and useful. But that's spoiled now, the members of the 141 finally seeing you for the pathetic mess you are.
You rush to your car, a bitter smile cutting across your face. It seems you're good at one thing, at least- running.
You were so drunk.
It was a Saturday and you felt a little bad for going out. It was one of those rare occasions where the boys had time off. But it was your friend‘s birthday and they had insisted it was fine that you went, and admittedly you were having a great time.
You were maybe a few too many drinks in, but you were always very responsible. So you drank some water and went to the bathroom before your group stumbled outside to switch bars. Despite your efforts, you were unbalanced and giggly and couldn’t feel the cold at all.
Your friends were chatting, split into groups of two or three to hold each other as you started to walk to the next destination. You’re only temporarily taken out of your revelry at your phone buzzing.
“Hope you’re having a good time, bug.” It read.
Your smile widened. Ugh. You love Kyle. You tuck your phone into your arm so your hands are free to grab your friend, excited to continue your conversation and talk about how much you love your partners. What you don’t notice, however, is that you accidentally sent him your location with no explanation.
Kyle wasn’t necessarily expecting a response, he knew you’d be busy dancing probably. So his heart did drop at the message containing a pin for your location.
He stood immediately, startling Johnny whose head was on his lap.
“Huh—“
“Up, we’re going.” He said in a tone that Johnny knew meant business, so he didn’t question further, just got up and got ready for whatever was next.
Were they beating someone up? Did they get called in for an emergency mission? He didn’t know, he just scrambled to put his boots on.
Kyle moves with purpose to the kitchen where John is leaning his hip on the countertop, beer in hand, keeping Simon company as he makes a grilled cheese.
John sees his expression and stands to attention. Kyle flips his phone to show the text, and John is immediatley in business mode too.
“Simon, keys.” John starts toward to safe where they keep their more…dangerous tools.
Simon saw their faces and was also put into action mode despite not knowing what the situation was. He spares a final sad glance at his sandwich before going to get the car keys.
Before anymore words are exchanged, they’re all piled into the car, more armed than probably necessary. But where you were involved, John wasn’t willing to take any chances.
Simon’s driving with Kyle in shotgun, directing him to the pin you sent. Every member of the 141 would ride without context if one of them asked (and they just did), but now knowing it was for you brought tensions up even higher. Simon doesn’t want to get ahead of himself, but the idea that you needed help wasn’t a situation he liked to imagine. He gripped the wheel harder, foot pressing the pedal to the floor, and just hoped they were there on time.
You were having so much fun.
This new bar had more people in it, and the DJ was better, and their drinks poured heavier. You were jumping around with your friends, trying not to spill too much of your drink as you did.
That is until you hear the guy behind you exclaim “hey man!” and then you’re being flipped around by hands on your shoulders.
It’s Kyle!
“Kyllleeee!!” You throw your arms up, heart clenching. Your boyfriend is here! How much better could this night get?
He steps closer to you, alarm falling off his face and into relief, revealing the rest of your partners behind him. The night could get better!
“Hiiii, baby!” You wave to Johnny, stepping into Kyle to hug him.
You frown suddenly. “You guys weren’t invited. You should know better than to come to a birthday party uninvited that’s rude—“ you stumble over your shoe, but Kyle steadies you.
“Honey, you sent us your location with no context.” John still looks concerned, looking around the bar like some threat will jump out.
You pout. “No I didn’t.”
Kyle shows you his phone. You have to concentrate harder than you’d like to in order to decipher what you’re looking at. You see your contact, him telling you to have fun, and then a pin to your location.
Your mouth opens, you bring your cup up and sip.
“Okay,” Kyle mumbles, grabbing it from you.
You frown but let him take it, “hmmmm, I guess I did. Oopsies!”
A guy stumbles into you, but Kyle has a secure grip on your hips. It doesn’t stop Simon from saddling up behind you. One intimidating step toward the guy and he’s scurrying away.
“Siii, don’t scare people awayyy,” your head flops back to look at him upside down which makes you giggle.
“He hit you.” He says it like he should now have the right to kill him. He gets close to you, also grabbing your waist, so now you’re sandwiched between two of your favorite guys.
You hum contentedly until you remember that they aren’t supposed to be here.
“Hey!” You push away from them both, “no boyfriends allowed at the bar tonight!”
John shakes his head affectionately, “heard, sweetheart. Sorry…we got worried you were in trouble.”
The sound of multiple friends going “awwww” resonates from behind you.
“Don’t encourage them!” You say over your shoulder to your friends, happy to see that they aren’t upset with you. “They’re way too protective to begin with.” You say quieter, meant only for the four of them. You complain, but you like it. Knowing they would be that ready to defend you if you needed it.
Still, you feel a little bad that they came all the way out here, “sorry for scaring you…” your lip juts out, hand grabbing for John’s forearm even though you’re supposed to be getting them out of here.
“‘S alright, hen. Ya didn’t mean ta.” Johnny pecks your temple. “We’ll get outta your hair.”
They start to walk out, Kyle handing you your drink back.
“Wait!” You stop them, “…thanks for coming when you thought I needed you.” You smile bashfully.
Their smiles are warm. “Always.”
cw: none
× previously (fuck nonchalance)
The rain taps against the window like it’s trying to get inside.
Inside the flat, it’s warm, the kettle’s just clicked off, and Simon Riley—Ghost to everyone else, now Si (or babe) to you—is currently losing his mind in the best way possible.
You’re on the couch in one of his old hoodies and a pair of soft sweatpants, legs tucked under you, reading some dog-eared paperback you got at the library.
Simon stands in the doorway, arms crossed, staring like you personally invented colour and ice-cream.
He’s been home forty-eight hours, and he hasn’t let you out of his arm’s reach for more than ten minutes at a time.
You glance up, cocking an eyebrow. “You okay over there, handsome?”
He blinks like he’s been caught committing a crime. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m—” He clears his throat, scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Just lookin’.”
You flash a soft smile and go back to your book.
And Simon lasts approximately eight seconds before he’s crossing the room, dropping onto the couch beside you with zero grace, long legs sprawling, shoulder bumping yours on purpose.
“Hi,” he whispers, like you haven’t been breathing the same air and fallen asleep in his arms for two days straight.
“Hello,” you whisper back, amused.
Is it cute idk
Simon isn’t dramatic about food.
He eats what’s there. Always has. Doesn’t complain, doesn’t ask for changes, doesn’t send things back. It’s habit more than choice. You don’t risk being difficult. You don’t draw attention.
Still, you notice patterns.
Mushrooms always left on the edge of the plate. Picked out carefully. Passed to someone else if he can. Never mentioned.
So when you take him out; actual date, low lights, menu longer than a briefing, he orders without thinking.
And when the plate arrives, it’s full of them.
You see it immediately. The pause. The way his fork hesitates, then moves anyway.
He’s about to eat one.
You stop him with two fingers around his wrist. Light pressure.
“Simon.”
He looks at you. “It’s fine.”
“No,” you say quietly. “You don’t like those.”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
It does to you.
You flag the waiter, calm and polite. “Sorry, could we get this remade without mushrooms? He asked for it that way.”
Simon goes still.
When the plate is taken away, he leans closer, voice low. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“I know,” you say. “I wanted to.”
That’s it. No speech. No explanation.
Just that.
When the new dish comes, he eats more easily. Slower. Comfortable.
At some point he glances at you, expression softer than usual.
“…no one’s done that before,” he admits.
You don’t make it heavy. You just smile. “You’re allowed to have preferences.”
He nods once.
But something settles in his chest.
Because for the first time, someone noticed what he avoided, and chose to protect it without making a scene.
And that stays with him.
Long after dinner’s over.
