Join me on a journey to become a better writer, and I hope you enjoy yourself along the way.
..In a language I rarely speak. So when I take a god-forsaken amount of time to update, it's because I’m drowning in synonyms and verbs, trying to figure out the magic (basics) of storytelling.
Masterlist under construction.
Simon Ghost Riley
Night Crawler
What's left of us
Bucky Barnes
Struggle with New Year’s Eve - The short blurb about how you helped him.
Doesn't do Valentine's Day - The short blurb where he does, in fact, do Valentine's Day.
Frank Castle
Shatter Point - The short story where he finds love again, and it breaks him like wars never could.
Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.
▸ PAIRING: Farmhand!Bucky Barnes x Pop Star!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public sex, no condom (don't try this at home), fingering, penetration, creampie, bucky is bossy in bed, brat diva!reader, sex tape leak mentions, hurt/comfort?, bucky calls her princess in a loving and lowk nasty way
▸ WORD COUNT: 23.8K
▸ A/N: i wanted to write a hannah montana: the movie au so i wrote a hannah montana: the movie au. partially inspired by the movie but with my own liberties!! im almost sorry for the length, idk why i cant shut up. thank you again to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab, excited to share my second contribution!!! check out my first one here <3
↤ main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist
Just when you think your father can’t find any new ways to torment you, he stoops to an all-time low. He’s done plenty of insane things throughout your life and your career, risks that you still question to this day whether they were worth taking, but this one takes the fucking cake.
“Turn this plane around right now,” you snap, arms crossed with a scowl stitched into your brows. Your pink heels tap impatiently before him, a new purchase as a reward for finishing one song for the new album.
He doesn’t even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. He’s treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, you’re fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented — and look where you are today.
However, he knows what he’s doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private plane’s cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest… incident.
Your lips twist. It’s not fair; this one wasn’t even your fault.
The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order — after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because she’s good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.
You’re not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’d be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.
But that’s never been you — there’s a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. What’s the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?
Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny — combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick — is not one for the weak of heart. You think you’ve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.
Now he’s committed the biggest betrayal of all.
You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.
Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after you’re in the air that you’re on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.
The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.
“I paid for this private charter,” you growl, “I can turn it back around if I want to.”
“Booking’s under my name, darling.”
“Paid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You can’t just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that won’t come twice. What kind of manager are you?”
“The kind that is your dad first,” he gives you a pointed look.
“Is this because of what happened? You know that one isn’t my fault!”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You know it isn’t.”
“Regardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh air—”
You deadpan, “It smells like literal horse shit everyday.”
“Let’s not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.”
“You would know,” you mutter under your breath.
The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not hurt, it’s not disappointment. It’s sympathy. You’ve just insulted your own father and he’s pitying you.
Perhaps rock bottom isn’t a long way down after all.
“I’m sorry,” you quickly sigh, “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know you didn’t.” He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. “But this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.”
You jerk back. “Weeks?!”
Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.
With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that you’ve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper that’s peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.
Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you haven’t heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. It’s one of your grandma’s favorites, and she’s no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldn’t breathe a word to the press.
The only thing that’s drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.
“You better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I don’t care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.”
You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. “That’s not going to happen. You know my dad; when he’s got his mind made up like this, nothing’s going to change it. He thinks I need a break.”
She says something else in her mother tongue, one that you’ve learned over time translates to something along the lines of I’ll break something else of theirs. “Do you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you I’ll make it happen.”
Do you want to be disowned and be shown your father’s look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No.
Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You haven’t seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park.
“No, I’ll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe he’ll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a long—”
“Two weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolan’s calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.”
Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. “I know. I’m trying to get out of here earlier, but we’ll see how it goes.”
“I can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.”
It’s tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. You’ll spare your dad from that today. She’s loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.
“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelena’s voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. “Will you?”
You can’t say for certain. You haven’t been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but it’s no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; it’s like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.
You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if you’re back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you haven’t touched in years, because that isn’t what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dad’s old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.
Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music you’ve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. It’s the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.
But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up.
Now that you’re at the top, you don’t want to find out if you’ve reached the ceiling.
This is a part of your life you don’t like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.
“I will be,” you murmur.
“Maybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.”
“Alert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.”
“Darn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.”
A giggle slips past your lips. “Alright, diva.”
“Let me get your schedule sorted and I’ll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?”
Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.
“You’re cute when you’re being funny,” you drawl.
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Then you’re left in the silence once more.
There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.
You’ve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you can’t taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.
Still, things have always happened within your control.
This situation right here is out of your control.
It’s fazing you.
You’re not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girl’s mental health, placing it above her career that’s paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.
No, you’re talking about these damn chickens.
You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that you’re sane enough to survive that, he’ll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.
Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasn’t touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.
They’ve squawked. They’ve pecked. They’ve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.
There’s about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits don’t let you get their eggs.
You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you — your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.
Fifteen minutes later and you’re flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isn’t the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.
It’s only when you’re this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.
“Need some help?”
A snarky “you think?” sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.
Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, you’ve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. It’s the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men you’ve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders and–
He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.
Fuck, he’s hot.
He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. He’s got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.
High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously.
But then you remember the “incident” and you remember how many times you’ve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesn’t look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that he’s put that look on your face.
“If you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.”
“We try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.”
God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson with sex and men.
“Alright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.”
“Four.”
You cock an eyebrow.
“I’m joinin’ for breakfast so it’ll be breakfast for four. Why don’t you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.”
I’d like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.
What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.
(You’re lying to yourself because you know that wouldn’t be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)
“And who are you again?”
The corners of his lips tip up higher. “Don’t remember me?”
“I’ve met a lot of people. I don’t remember everyone.”
“I’d think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.”
Your brows pinch in a confused frown. “Who?”
“You pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?”
Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. “Only the ones that clearly deserve it.”
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I’m not the only one then.”
If there’s anything worse than a man, it’s a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.
“Well, he-who-must-not-be-named, I don’t really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?”
The man smiles. It’s not a smile you trust. “Anyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?”
“Please,” you grit out, caving far too quickly — but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.
His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like he’s about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way they’ve been coming at you.
With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. It’s unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours — there’s something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you don’t.
You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind.
He makes a gesture towards the door. “Shall we?”
The man doesn’t try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house — no, your grandma’s house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. He’s even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair.
Seriously, frustratingly hot.
You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. “Farm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like ‘em? Scrambled? Sunny side up?”
The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you.
“Oh, I see you’ve met Bucky!”
Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?
“Ma’am. Sir. Morning.”
“What a lovely day of reunions,” she chirps.
Reunions? You don’t get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. “You didn’t have any trouble with the chickens, darlin’? They can be nasty. Been a while since you’ve done it.”
You can hear Bucky’s cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. “Of course not. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear.
“They teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?” Bucky’s voice is close — too close. He’s ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper.
You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. “Yeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.”
His lips twitch. “Attractive, huh?”
“Don’t act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.”
“You don’t know me, princess.”
Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. “I’m not a princess.”
“Five-time Grammy winner, America’s pop princess,” he recites and you nearly get whiplash.
That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows it— you didn’t trust him before, you trust him even less now.
“Stalker much?”
“Your grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.”
You didn’t even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You haven’t had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when you’re prioritizing work opportunity emails.
Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much she’s aged.
A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. You’ve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you haven’t had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else who’s supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams.
After all, she’s constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you).
Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, “She’s doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything you’re doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. She’s always been a firecracker, it’s where you inherited your temper and energy from.
“It’s been a busy few months,” is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girls’ tears.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to.”
“This is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.” He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.
The next few days don’t get any better. Your grandma’s been so busy with an issue in town that you’re been mostly left to your own devices.
By that, you mean you’ve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.
Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand who’s been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you haven’t seen in some time. She’s one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her.
“She doesn’t do well with strangers.”
Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. “I know that. She’s mine.”
“I know,” Bucky echoes with a small smile. “Wanna ride her?”
For a second, you’re embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower that’s much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky — your new arch nemesis — to see you fail.
“Maybe later.”
He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.
You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but you’ve met enough people that you can’t seem to remember the children you spent time with — no matter how many times they try to slide into your DM’s with “Oh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?”
Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyone’s messages. He probably doesn’t even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses.
That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think there’s a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you can’t seem to do anything to help around the house.
He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.
“Really? You’re going to town in that?”
You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. “What’s wrong with this?”
Bucky’s gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat — and you apparently seem to like it.
“I packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.”
He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. You’re too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves.
“I’m not wearing this,” you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.
“It looks nice.”
It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent — masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky — seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever he’s lifting bales of hay.
Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. “Whatever.”
“I think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.”
“I have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. I’m this generation’s Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.”
Bucky blinks at you. “You always look good.”
And you’re not sure what to say to that.
But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you can’t help but shoot him a smug smile.
The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but that’s not news.
She worries about the two of you being at each other’s throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner — which is a whole other question because why is he always here?
While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones.
One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking you’ve just done something to get on his nerves.
Except, it doesn’t. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever he’s doing work and he doesn’t break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them.
It sours your mood — partly because your ruse didn’t work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You don’t need another reason to find him attractive when you’ve already got a list longer than the Nile.
When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, you’re extra prickly because— “Why do I have to be nicer to him when he’s the one being annoying with me? Aren’t I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.”
“You did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. It’s like riding a bike.”
“Riding a bike didn’t have me breaking my fresh manicure,” you say pointedly. “And I didn’t have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.”
Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. “He’s just a kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails.”
His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you weren’t so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.
So no, he doesn’t have a crush on you. In fact, you’re convinced that he hates you. In his mind, you’re probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life — which isn’t incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know the shit you’ve been through to make it in the industry, how many times you’ve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.
If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.
“Well, we’re not kids anymore,” you huff, “and I don’t like bullies.”
Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where you’re sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why you’re so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.
“You do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.”
Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldn’t stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.
“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a crybaby then,” you shrug instead with a huff.
Your grandma’s grin stretches a little wider. “I think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.”
Oh god. You’ll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandma’s shared, it sounds like you’ve put him through the wringer.
Then again, Bucky has grown — and he’s grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horse’s mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunk—
You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.
What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You don’t need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly don’t know Bucky well enough to trust him — no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.
“He’s a good one, you know,” your grandma smiles softly. “Been with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.”
You hate to point out the obvious but— “That’s his job, grandma.”
“He’s also one of your biggest supporters,” she says with a look. “Has all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever you’re on it.”
Your jaw practically drops to the ground. “That’s ridiculous,” you sputter, “there’s no way.”
“Yes, you should ask to see his place sometime. He’s quite proud of the collection, even said that he’s going to ask you to sign them one day.”
You have a feeling he’s burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Bucky’s place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you.
“All I’m saying is, give him a chance. He’s not a bad fella.”
You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Sal’s Diner. It’s the best diner here — arguably the only diner here.
“No, I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,” you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish.
You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. You’ll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.
That and you’ve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly.
“You’re out of your mind,” Bucky chuckles. “Everyone knows that Sal’s crown jewel is his waffles.”
Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.
You can’t tell what you want to eat more — your toast, his waffles, or him.
He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have.
“Alright, try yours then try mine. We’ll decide here and now.”
You’ve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles.
Based on your grandmother’s stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesn’t seem like a troublemaker but you wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. That’s what he’s been doing with you all this time.
“Now mine,” he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, and— fuck.
It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that you’ve had a taste of this.
The waffles are Sal’s masterpiece.
Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.
You quickly school your expression.
You’d never admit this. You’d never admit that Bucky’s right. Over your dead body.
“It’s fine,” you shrug nonchalantly.
“Bullshit,” he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. “You like it better.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my lunch now.”
When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you can’t stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Bucky’s mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, princess,” he grins, “I can see right through you. If you ask nicely, I’ll take your toast and you can have my waffles.”
“I’m fine,” you grit out again.
“You sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?”
“This is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up your—” the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth.
Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You don’t like where this is going. “I think I know what the problem is.” You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you just don’t know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.”
A scoff falls from your lips. “They have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. It’s definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.”
His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well then maybe you’ve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think you’re too good for everyone else here, including your family.”
The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isn’t enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter you’ve been isn’t exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound you’ve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.
Fear.
Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that you’ve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you don’t even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when you’ve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?
Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you about making it to the top — to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until you’re looking down at what you’ve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it.
Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where you’re forced to reckon with everything you’ve lost and everything you have to lose.
A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Bucky’s no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. You’ve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“It’s whatever,” you mutter.
“No, it’s not whatever. I crossed a line.”
You don’t appreciate the look on his face. It’s an expression akin to pity. You’ve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you don’t need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. You’re a strong, successful woman who’s achieved everything you’ve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you.
In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. “I’m full. I’m going to head out first.”
Ignoring Bucky’s shit, wait, hold on, you’re slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears.
Deep down, you know that it isn’t Bucky you’re upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home.
You start walking — somewhere, anywhere — just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. It’s one thing to think about how much you’ve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, it’s another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you.
“Wait,” Bucky’s voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. “Don’t go.”
“Let me go, Bucky.”
“How are you going to head home?”
“I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” you snap.
Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. “Don’t do that, that’s not safe,” he murmurs, “please. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He licks his lips. “I know you don’t need it. You’re perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.”
You yank your wrist away from him. “I’m good. Seriously. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I don’t need to do anything. I can’t do anything but worry when it comes to you,” he practically spits out, “I wish I could stop worrying, but I can’t. Not when you look like you’ve lost everything good in your life. Not when you don’t smile the way you used to.”
That stops you, your movements halting.
“It’s not just your grandma who’s concerned about you. Do you think I don’t notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?”
“Go fuck off your high horse, Barnes.”
“I’m not on my goddamn high horse,” he defends, “I’m just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.”
“Oh, so you think you know me now?”
“I know you. I’ve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. There’s a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not the person you knew.”
“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?” He whispers, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m saying that you don’t have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you — your grandmother, your dad, m—” He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”
“I—” you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time.
Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.
“Is this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!” More flashes. More questions.
Your blood runs cold.
You should’ve known that trouble would follow you here. You’re quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.
The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.”
Don’t give in. Don’t respond to this fucking moron.
“Aw, you’re always so sweet in front of the press. Now that it’s just me, you won’t even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think you’re a fucking bitch?”
Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. He’s still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and don’t be a stuckup bitch.
You don’t respond. You’ve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, they’ll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and they’ll label you a cunt and move on with their lives.
However, it’s only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. “This your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. How’s she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and I’ll even put your face on the paper.”
“Will you piss the fuck off?” You snap.
His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. “Pop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.”
“I am here on vacation. Leave us alone.”
“It comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why don’t you tell me about this stud, huh? What’s your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and I’ll pay you. Triple if you’ve got a video like the last one.”
Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you don’t want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesn’t need his face splashed on the front page just because he’s doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch.
Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesn’t seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips.
“Just ignore him. He’s not worth it.”
“Whatever she’s offering you, I’ll give you more! Name your price.”
His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage you’ve never seen with him. “Leave it alone, Buck.”
His eyes melt, if only a fraction.
You don’t try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. “You leave me alone or I’ll sick the cops on your ass.”
“Public space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.”
“And when I get you barred from every press event I attend? I’m about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this — with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what you’re doing before you keep running your mouth like that.”
With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again.
It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like it’s about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.
Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until you’re frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter.
“Shit, sorry,” you wince.
“Hey, you’re good. You’re safe,” Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart.
His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. You’re momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead.
Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandma’s house.
His hand is still on yours.
You pull it away quickly. Habit. You’re always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping.
“You’re fine. He didn’t follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” you exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.”
Bucky tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?”
You open your mouth, only to realize that you don’t have an easy answer. “Um, well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
“His own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.”
He’s not wrong. It’s annoying. All this guilt that you shouldn’t even be feeling.
“I guess,” you mutter.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault — him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.”
With a grunt, you press your lips together. “I know that. It’s just… unfortunate circumstances.”
“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, “though, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it won’t happen again.”
You can’t even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. “I’m not a fan of the word princess.”
That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. “That so? You used to make me call you that all the time.”
“What were you then? The prince?” You drawl sarcastically.
“Actually, you designated me court jester.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat — probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now.
“Find it funny, do you?”
“A little bit.”
“I should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.”
Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. “You could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.”
“I think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.” A gasp falls from your lips. “I was helping her clean the attic. She’s got quite the collection.”
Your cheeks warm. “Haven’t you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.”
You’re not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where he’s pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours.
“I’d prefer to experience the real thing for myself.”
All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Bucky’s looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need.
This can’t be happening. Not right now. Not when you’re supposed to have a clean slate.
Not with Bucky of all people.
However, your grandma’s in your ears, whispering, He’s not a bad fella, is he? He’s not. He’s a good one — perhaps the only one left — but he’s still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another?
“Too much too soon?” He asks gently.
“No,” you choke out. “Not at all.”
Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you’re momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitch— “Don’t tempt me, princess.”
Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and you’re forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you.
“I’ll check in on you later, yeah?” Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn.
Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears.
Something shifts between the two of you after that. It’s nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when you’re not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity.
The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how you’ve lost your skills. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when all he says is “easy there” before he’s encouraging you back on the saddle.
The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you can’t help but feel like you’re finally home.
However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and he’s tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesn’t do anything more or less.
He keeps a comfortable distance — close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away.
As someone who’s always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move.
Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. You’ve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. You’ve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. You’ve even given him enough sultry looks that you’re starting to get a twitch in your eye.
Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didn’t have until today.
You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmer’s market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. You’re cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.
“If business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,” she beams.
“Good to know that I’m only useful for marketing,” you drawl with a teasing lilt.
“Oh, honey, what can I say? You’re not much help around the farm.”
You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky who’s chuckling to himself on the sidelines. “You’re not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?”
“Was that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?” Bucky prompts.
With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. “Two traitors, that’s what the two of you are.”
Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. He’s tall. He’s blonde. He’s rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. He’s got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. “That looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?”
The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. “‘Course. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.”
You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and you’ve got a hook, line, and sinker. As you’re pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.
Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. “John.”
“Bucky,” the man — John — smiles easily in response to Bucky’s tight lip curl. “It’s been a while, man. How’s the farm?”
“Good.”
Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who you’ve grown to understand is very talkative. “Good to hear,” John responds, voice light, “I see you’ve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet you’re the reason the stall’s doing extra well today, sweetheart.”
You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. “She’s great. Why don’t you run along now? I’m sure there are other people you can pester today.”
“Pester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?”
Yes, but you’re not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. “No, definitely not. He’s a customer, Bucky. Play nice. He’s buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.”
“Am I?” A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.
“You are, sir.”
“Well, if the lady says so, then it must be true.”
You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Bucky’s nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You don’t like his look, but you do like the color on Bucky’s face right now. The perfect shade of green that you’ve been waiting for.
Because of that, you can’t help yourself. You up the ante a little bit — giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Bucky’s blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.
Still, he doesn’t say a thing — at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didn’t know how much longer you could’ve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.
“He’s bad news, you know,” Bucky utters next to you.
You’re busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, “Sometimes I like bad news.”
He frowns. “You can’t be serious. Him of all people?”
“If not him, then who?” You deadpan, turning to look at him.
Bucky’s mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.
“Hey, kids, I’m just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. He’s been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.” Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.
You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. “James?”
“My first name,” Bucky shrugs.
“James,” you repeat — then it clicks, “James the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.”
At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.”
You bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me you’d let me do whatever I wanted.”
“You were a spoiled princess after all.”
Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, “What’s going on with Mr. Oliver?”
“Developers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. They’ve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.”
“Who in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?” You crinkle your nose.
Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. “Who knows? Guess they found a market for it.”
“That kind of sucks.”
“Yeah, the town’s been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, they’ll get priced out and before you know it, everyone’s going to be gone.”
While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.
“How much have y’all raised so far?”
Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not a lot. It’s tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but it’s not easy, not many care about a small place like this.”
But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times you’ve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?
“Why don’t we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I don’t need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.”
“You’d do that?” His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.
You give him a look. “You think that lowly of me?”
“No, not that I don’t think you’d do it,” Bucky quickly clarifies, “It’s just— it’s obviously a lot to ask when you’re trying to stay incognito here.”
“I just have to convince my dad.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dad!” You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.
“I didn’t come here so you could be the center of attention,” he brushes off, “again.”
“This is different.”
“This is going to attract unwanted press.”
“This is the kind of press we want.”
The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.
“In all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,” your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your father’s wrath.
“Sounds to me like she’s trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?”
You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. “Honestly, they can say what they want. At this point, they’ll pick on anything I do. It doesn’t matter if I have good intentions — or even if I don’t do anything at all, they’re going to find something to be upset about. They’ll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because that’s what they do. It shouldn’t stop me from living my life — or supporting things that I care about.”
Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first — his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what it’s like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.
These people are vultures and, while there’s nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.
Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.
Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. He’s silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. He’s searching your eyes — for any doubt or uncertainty — but he finds none of it. Because you haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time.
“Alright, fine. We’ll make it a community event. We won’t use your name because we don’t need a frenzy; this may be a small town but you’re not a small name, darling. I don’t need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.”
You’re throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. “Thank you! Thank you!”
He chuckles, “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’m expecting you to do a lot of the planning.”
“Wait, what?” You balk, jerking back.
“You proposed this so you need to see it through.”
A pout forms on your lips. “But—”
“I’ll help,” Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. “You’re doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.”
“You can set up a livestream?” You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.
He smirks, “Such little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.”
You’re not one to argue with him so you can only nod. “Okay then, let’s do this.”
Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.
“Smile.”
You force out a grin before it’s quickly wiped away from your face. “Are we good?”
“You’ve got something on your face. I think it’s the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.”
Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesn’t work because then Bucky’s coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.
His eyes don’t leave you once.
Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You don’t get a chance to question him before he’s clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet “got it.”
With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, you’re in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. It’s beautiful and cozy. Perfect.
Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Bucky’s flannel layered over you; the latter isn’t by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.
With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.
“Ready?” Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.
“Yeah. Of course. I do this all the time.”
The corner of his lips quirk up. “It’s alright to be nervous, you know.”
You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. “I’ve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?”
“Because it matters this time, because you care, and that’s a good thing,” he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be right there with you.”
“What if nobody else wants to perform? I’m only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?”
“Darling, you know your grandmother. She’d get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.” A giggle rises from your chest. “You’ve got good people here and everyone’s here for a good cause.”
“If it’s dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,” you snort softly, “he apparently had been my court jester in the past.”
Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. It’s one that most people won’t blink twice at, but you know him better than that.
“What’s with that sound?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. That’s the sound you make when the spare ribs don’t fall off the bone. So what gives?”
“I don’t like that boy.”
You shoot him a look. “You don’t like any boy.”
“That’s also true.”
“Grandma says he’s one of the good ones.”
It’s your dad’s turn to give you a look. “He’s a boy. There are no good ones.”
Your lips curl into a smirk. “I haven’t seen you go all protective in a while.”
“Well, none of them were serious before. This one — this one looks like the type who can break your heart.”
Both your glances wander over to Bucky who’s helping your grandma set up the food table. It’s still early enough that nobody’s filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. You’ve raised a good amount of money already and that doesn’t even include the massive success of the live stream sales.
But Bucky — heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether it’s fame or fortune — or both, you’re merely a gateway to it. You’ve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you that’s how you know you’ve made it.
However, you’re not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe you’re allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.
“I know,” you murmur. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”
Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” you smile softly up at him. “For trusting me this and… for bringing me back here.”
“Anytime, darling.”
Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. There’s no shortage of people wanting to perform — anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).
People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that he’s already looking right back at you.
Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.
You roll your eyes. If he doesn’t do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.
“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?” The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. He’s got that boyish smile on his face again. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”
You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if he’s not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.
Sliding your hand over John’s outstretched one, you nod. “I’d be delighted.”
John’s a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how you’re working on your next album.
“I sure hope you’d save me a backstage pass for your next tour.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” you force out a smile.
On top of that, he’s too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like he’s trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.
“Anything going on between you and Barnes?” John asks.
You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably John’s. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, it’s near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.
“No, nothing,” you answer honestly.
“He looks like he wants to cut off my head,” he chuckles.
“That’s just his normal face,” you brush off brusquely.
“If you say so.”
However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky who’s now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.
“You don’t like to share your toys, do you?” You smirk.
“I don’t share, period,” he mutters.
“Then you should’ve claimed your prize from the start.”
Bucky’s brows meet in the middle. “You’re not… a prize,” he begins, “you’re more than that. I didn’t— I didn’t know how to even begin to approach you.”
“You had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.”
His shoulders shake with laughter. “That’s different. That’s my area of expertise.”
“And this isn’t?”
His lips thin. “I’m not… experienced with all this.” He clears his throat, “Romance. Women.”
“You’re kidding,” you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. “You look like this and you’re telling me you don’t have experience with people?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you’re hot, Barnes.” Bucky jolts back in surprise. “Come on, that is not news to you. I’ve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.”
His fingers tighten on your waist. “They wanted me to introduce them to you.”
“That’s an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Bucky huffs, “How would you know?”
“Because that’s what I would do. You’re a catch, Bucky.”
“High compliment coming from you.”
You swat his chest playfully. “Playing humility when you are anything but isn’t a good look, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have,” Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.
“Yeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?” You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.
However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.
Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. “Go get ‘em, princess.”
It’s a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. It’s one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, it’s another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.
Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.
“Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyone’s havin’ a good time!” The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. “We’re all here because we love this town and I’m happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. There’s no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldn’t have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.”
The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangers’ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma who’s waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky — Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, you’re greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasn’t cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.
I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have.
The echo of his words have your ears burning.
By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.
“Sometimes I forget how good you are live,” Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.
“Please, when was the last time you heard me live?”
His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. “Your Nashville show last year.”
You can hear your jaw land on the floor. “You went?” He shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldn’t make it out.”
“You didn’t know me, princess,” Bucky chuckles.
Well, he’s not entirely strong. But still. “Grandma could’ve told me. You shouldn’t have to pay.”
“Why not? I’m supporting a good cause, aren’t I?”
You exhale a laugh. “So I’m a charity case now?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny—” Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. “I didn’t want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We haven’t spoken in years and I would’ve gone anyway even without the free ticket.”
Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You haven’t been in love in a very long time, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it yet — especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.
“Plus, I was talking Madeline. Her mom’s our foreman.”
“Playing chaperone, cute,” you murmur. “Next time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.”
“Noted, appreciated.”
You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. “So, I sound good? I’m not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting here—”
“It was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.”
It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play — coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.
“Yeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,” you smile.
“Well, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.”
You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. “Come on, let’s go help my grandma clean up.”
“Hey,” Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost… nervous? “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.”
“We’ve done that before,” you say slowly, puzzled, “but I’m down.”
“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”
That’s when it hits you. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?” The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think you’re poking fun at him. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t teasing you, promise. I think it’s cute.”
Bucky’s mouth twists a little. If you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have known that he was sulking. It’s such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.
“Bucky, come on. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah, I know.” Does he? “I know I’m probably not as… I don’t know, cool as all the guys you’ve dated before but—”
You take his hand in yours and squeeze. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve just— I’ve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, you’re still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.”
He chuckles, ears still red. “Alright, will you go on a date with me?”
“Yes, yes, I will,” you grin, “now, was that so hard?”
“Might be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.”
You gasp, “That’s uncalled for.” He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that he’s holding yours now. It’s your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. “Okay, let’s go help grandma, casanova.”
The ride shouldn’t be any different. You’ve done this route a million times before. You’ve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldn’t feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe it’s time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure it’s not a seizure.
“You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” Yelena says from your laptop. “I think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.”
You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. “I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.”
As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, “Nobody knows that I’m getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.”
Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. “I’m serious, Yelena. This isn’t cool. I’m not being cool.”
“No, you’re being a girl with a crush.”
“I’m this nation’s favorite pop performer. I don’t get crushes.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been there a little over a week and I’ve never seen you smile this much.” That explains why your cheeks are aching. “Face it, you’re head over heels for this man.”
You rub your face furiously. “God, this is so uncool. What if he’s making me uncool?”
“Then you guys can be uncool together.”
“That’s not an option,” you grumble, “what do you think?” You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.
“Perfect. They grow up so fast,” Yelena mocks a tear.
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“I’m the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think he’s good for you.”
“You’ve never met him.”
She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. “But I know you and you haven’t been like this in a long time.”
Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. “Since when are you such a lovergirl?”
“Since I realized it makes you less of an asshole.”
“Rude.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” you grin.
“Have fun, kiddo.”
You’ve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. You’ve tested a few perfumes and there’s one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.
By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.
“Morning, sunshine,” your grandma smiles, “don’t you look lovely today?”
“You’re saying I don’t look lovely everyday?”
“You have your days,” she jests with a pat on your cheek.
Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. “Morning,” he murmurs, “you look beautiful.”
“I know,” you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. “You ready?”
“Packed and ready to roll.”
You roll your eyes but can’t bite down on your smile in time. “You’re so lame.”
He only chuckles.
“I don’t need to give you the talk, do I?” Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. “No funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is at—”
“Oh my god, Dad!” You snap with your own scowl at him. “We’re not kids. We’ll be back whenever we’re back.”
“Still living under my roof, darling.”
“Technically my roof,” your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. “Take your time. Have fun. Be safe.”
“But—”
Your dad’s full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. You’re pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.
“I’m so sorry,” you grouse, “he’s so overprotective sometimes.”
“He means well. I can see why he would be,” Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.
“He’s overbearing is what he is,” you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that you’re settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.
The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in — the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. It’s even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesn’t feel natural. It feels necessary.
Out here, it just… exists.
Sometimes, you miss that — simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma — and now, Bucky.
“You seem deep in thought.” Speak of the devil, he’s unpacking the lunch he’s tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep — crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.
Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Thinking about how nice it is out here,” you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.
The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river — all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.
Bucky laughs. “It’s always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.”
“My schedule is crazy enough as is,” you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, “I’d love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.”
“Have faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.”
Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. “Maybe,” you sigh, “I’m just tired.”
Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.
“Maybe, what you need is to cool off.” You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. “There’s an old rope some kids put up a while back.” He points in the direction of the trees. “The water’s deep enough to break the fall.”
Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. “You want me to jump in there? Wearing this?”
“Unless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.”
Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. “Perv,” you mutter.
“Live a little,” he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then he’s launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.
Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.
“The water’s fantastic.”
“You’re insane,” you deadpan. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”
“Man, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your ass—” you gasp, he laughs, “—but I guess I was wrong.”
“I do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.”
Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. It’s then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms — like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. “You can always buy more Prada. You can’t buy another day like today.”
“Think I’ll take my chances.”
“Alright, princess. I didn’t know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.”
That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking you’d ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before you’re tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.
“Wait, you’re really—”
“What? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?” You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.
You look at the rope and take a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You can do this. It’s just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, you’re already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.
“Shit, it’s freezing. You didn’t warn me.”
Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”
“Feels like I’m about to catch a cold.”
The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.
He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like it’s been set on fire.
You’re well aware of how little you’re wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.
Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Bucky’s watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.
You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.
He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. There’s a depth to his gaze that you can’t read, but you’re almost too scared to ask.
“What?” You try to play off.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.
“You’re just saying that because I’m practically naked,” you taunt, fully aware of how much you’re showing now that you’re out of the water.
“I’m saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think I’ll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.”
Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. “What makes you think you have to?”
Bucky inhales sharp, deep. “Do you know what you’re saying right now, princess?”
“I am,” you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.
He takes a step closer and suddenly you’re backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.
His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Bucky’s blue eyes, warm where they’re focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.
“This okay?” He whispers.
You only manage a nod.
“You’re gorgeous, princess.”
The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. You’re too busy looking at how Bucky’s lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.
He lets out a garbled sound. “Fuck, you’re so soft.”
“Generally how tits are, Barnes,” you try to tease.
A flush sprawls across his neck. “You’re such a brat. I should really shut you up.”
“Why don’t you try?”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.
“I don’t like how you did that so quickly,” you mumble against his lips. “Have you been practicing with other girls?”
“Just good with my fingers,” he chuckles.
“Good answer,” you grin.
He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow — all the while heat accumulates between your legs and you’re reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.
But he doesn’t let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand — a working man’s hands — are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.
“Bucky, come on,” you whine.
“Patience,” he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.
“Move it along, Barnes, or I’m gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.”
Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. “You’ve really got such a mouth on you,” he snarls, “been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.”
Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.
His lips curl into a smirk. “Is that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?” Bucky’s nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. “I can do that for you — all you have to do is listen.”
An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.
“Language, princess.”
A whimper climbs out your throat. “I want you.”
“I know you do,” he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, “but you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?”
You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You don’t register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. It’s only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.
“I can tell you’re so wet already,” he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, “is this all for me?” Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. “Tell me it’s for me.”
“‘S for you,” you choke out.
“Good girl,” he breathes out, “shit, you’re so wet. I can feel you through this lace.”
Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and it’s not from the heat.
“Gettin’ shy on me?”
“What if someone sees?” You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.
“Nobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.”
Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that you’ll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until you’re squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.
“Come on, Buck.”
“What is it?” He feigns confusion.
“Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, “Properly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.”
“I need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.” Your lips stubbornly sew shut. “Come on, you can do it,” he coos.
It’s patronizing. It’s demeaning. You shouldn’t let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nation’s favorite pop star, you don’t need a man to—
“I’ll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. I’ll make sure you’re good and ready for my cock. I promise.”
Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Please.” The plea escapes you. “Please finger me, Bucky.”
“That’s a good girl,” he beams, “that’s my girl.”
Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldn’t be so easy to get to you. You’ve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldn’t be fazed by such a simple phrase.
But it’s different — because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.
When he calls you his girl, that means you’re his, and that’s that.
Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and you’re curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.
“My pretty girl,” he murmurs sweetly, “look at you. So easy for me when you’ve got something in this pussy of yours.”
The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.
“Such a good girl when you’re filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I should’ve done this that first day. Should’ve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.”
His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.
“I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet you’d feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know you’ve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.”
“God, Bucky, please.”
“I know, I know,” he utters tenderly, “I’m here, princess. I’ll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.” His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. “I need you to use your words for me.”
“You know what I want,” you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.
“I know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.”
Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. “Bucky, please. I need you.”
He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.
“I want your cock. Please. Please,” you whine, “I want you to fuck me open.”
Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. You’re soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. You’d be more ashamed if you weren’t so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.
“Attagirl,” Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast — fingers ripping off your panties so you’re exposed to him. You don’t get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. You’re suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. “Don’t hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.”
He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while he’s nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.
“I’ve got a condom,” Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. “In the bag.”
“You brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?”
“Expect, no. Hope? Always,” he offers a wry smile.
“Fuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?”
Bucky stifles a laugh. “No, just the one,” he smiles, “just you.” For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. “I should go get it first,” he says, making his move to pull away.
You aren’t sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. “I’m clean,” you mumble, “I don’t want to wait.”
“Princess,” Bucky says slowly.
“Please, Buck.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m clean, I promise you, I got tested after—”
“That’s not my concern,” he interrupts cautiously, “I’m asking if you’re sure about this. With me.”
You give a small nod. “I trust you.”
“Shit,” he hisses, “can’t say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.”
“Again, what makes you think you can’t?”
Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like you’ve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like it’s drawn.
He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve had before.
“I—” you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.
“Did you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.”
“No, that’s not it— I’m just—” you look at it for a heartbeat then two. “You’re really big,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I can fit you.”
His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. “I’ll ease into you, princess. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says then pauses, “it might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?”
Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. It’s a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.
For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.
A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.
Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to cum right now,” he rasps.
And because you can’t help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.
You’ve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.
“Look at this pretty pussy spread open for me,” Bucky groans, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. I’m gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure she’s full.” His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.
His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that you’re okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.
Bucky’s name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. “My perfect girl, squeezing my cock like you’re tryin’ to milk me. You feel like you haven’t been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.”
He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyone’s witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open.
“Shit, princess, look at you,” he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, “you’re creamin’ all over my cock. Soakin’ my cock so easy.”
“Bucky, please,” you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies.
You can feel it. It’s been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Bucky’s cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like you’re desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.
The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow it’s not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how there’s no way anyone has been in here before.
“Not with how your cunt is choking me, princess,” he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. “She’s so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I can’t wait to cum inside you.”
That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that — to be filled to the brim with him.
“I’ve never—” you gasp, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me.”
Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. It’s hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. “Won’t you let me be the first?”
Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.
“Yes,” you whimper, “please, cum inside me.”
Another deep groan resonates from his belly. “You’re going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilin’ me rotten like this, you’re gonna get me used to cummin’ inside this gorgeous cunt. I’m gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cock’s buried in this pussy.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I can’t—” oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, “I can’t hold it— I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,” Bucky groans.
Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Bucky’s touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you.
The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching.
“You’re a bad influence,” you mutter, smiling.
“You’re one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,” Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. “Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold.”
He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.
It certainly doesn’t help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.
“Figured this would be warmer,” he clarifies.
“Thanks,” you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.
Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.
“Are you okay? Was I too—”
“Stop,” you wave a hand to halt him, “I’m fine. I’m not made of glass.”
He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think it’s some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that it’s awe. He’s looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest.
As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Who’s to say this isn’t the same? It’s a quick money grab. Who doesn’t want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that you’ve already had one of these—
“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Bucky’s hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but he’s already shaking his head. “I can tell something’s goin’ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes. It’s a sweet thought. “It’s a personal thing, don’t worry,” you insist, but he’s not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. “Trust. It’s not an easy thing when you’re in the spotlight. I’m tired of constantly second guessing people’s intentions, why they do what they do with me. I’m scared of being the subject of another public issue — mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I just— I hate that I’m putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if I’m fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? It’s just the way the world works. Regardless of whether you’re a real villain or not, you’re put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.”
Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. “You are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. You’re living your life, you’re defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,” he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. “Need you to know that you got a lot of people here — and out there — who love you and will protect you. We don’t give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“So as long as you have us around, we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s not because we have to, but because we want to.” Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. “We got you, princess.”
You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. You’ve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown — you can’t help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when he’s irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cock—
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts.
It is then you realize that you’ve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isn’t innocent. It’s a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation.
Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until you’re gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how you’re so fuckin’ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see America’s favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway.
And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you don’t quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised.
For once, you’re not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that one’s going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more… you.
He doesn’t know that it’s inspired by him.
In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. You’re a blip, a shooting star that’ll fizzle out the moment you leave.
The thought hurts more than you expect.
However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasn’t completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.
“What?”
“Lovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,” Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. “Have you checked your notifications?”
That’s never a good sign.
You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happened—
“I’m sure it’s different,” Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.
Your name. Bucky’s. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like they’ve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.
Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here — and yet here you are again. Fuck.
“I need to—” your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. It’s more red on your ledger and you’re running out of ways to wipe your slate clean.
“Listen,” she interrupts softly, “I don’t want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what you’ve been up to very well.”
“It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I’ve been doing,” you hiss, “better yet, who I’ve been doing. I just didn’t think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.”
“You don’t think there’s a chance it could be— no, it couldn’t possibly.” She’s quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesn’t allow you to. “Right?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I’ve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember but—”
What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things you’ve said to him. You acting up—
Been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess.
You shake your head. There’s absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs.
But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction you’ve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time you’ve spent with him the last couple of weeks, you’ve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even — no, especially — ones as charming as him.
“You should talk to him first. I doubt he’s the one who spilled.”
You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isn’t. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister.
You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits — criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Bucky’s worth as your partner.
It doesn’t sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, he’s trying to make it out of here.
Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory you’ve had with him.
Coming down for breakfast, you’re sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that you’re ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, he’s standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.
He smiles wide when he sees you, “Hey, I’m making some french— what’s wrong?” The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion.
“You’re fucking kidding me right,” you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You don’t bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You don’t bother paying attention to the way Bucky’s eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.
“Gonna have to give me more than that, princess. I’m not followin’.”
You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: America’s Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. It’s a disgusting piece but all the details are there — censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all.
“Maybe I should’ve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. I’m an idiot.”
It takes him a second before he’s whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. “What? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?”
“I don’t know what to think! It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with and—” and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. “And it doesn’t matter,” you say, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this.”
Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart.
“I should’ve known better,” you mutter, “this shit just isn’t worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. What’s the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?”
“Because it’s worth it,” he insists, hands catching your arms. “Please. You gotta believe me, princess. I didn’t do this. I would never do this to you.”
You offer him a wry smile. “That’s what the last guy said too.” Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. “I can’t do this, Buck. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway and I can’t risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.”
“That’s not on you—”
“I know that!” You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. I’m aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesn’t change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. “So, what? You’re just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck they’re putting you through? You’re going to let them win?”
“No, I’m playing their game. I don’t have to like it but what choice do I have?”
“Stand up for yourself. Don’t let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you — including the very people in this house.”
It’s easier said than done. It’s too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isn’t one that permits it. You’ve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that it’s possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky — lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place.
“Appreciate the vote of confidence, but this won’t work, Bucky.”
He looks like he’s about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed — and that’s the end of it.
On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. It’s just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if you’ve invited Bucky, you tell that that you’d rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesn’t press further.
As you’re doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything — the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesn’t shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows that’s the least of your problems.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she whispers as you tuck herself into her side.
“I know,” you murmur, “I know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. It’s just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you can’t, and I’d rather… not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.”
She flicks your forehead gently. “That’s not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and — yes, you’ve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know who’s in the wrong, and it is not you.”
“Thanks, grandma,” you smile, “but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isn’t for everyone — your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. It’s a lot to ask of someone.”
Her laugh tinkles through the air. “You’d be surprised.”
Then you’re heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat.
Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car.
Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that you’re working on your album full time, it’s hard to find time for anything else — which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days you’re tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how he’s doing, but you stomp down on that urge.
It’s better this way.
The paparazzi hasn’t let up. They’re at your door, they’re outside the studio, they’re camping out the restaurant that you’re at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter.
“So, that’s it then?” She asks when you give her the full rundown of what’s transpired. “You have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? You’re really living the Hollywood life.” You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. It’s that kind of night. “Your dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesn’t like anyone.”
That has you stopping. “What? How do you know that?”
“He told me,” she shrugs, “we were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isn’t a bad choice. I saw the pictures, I’m sure he’s more than enough.” Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.
“I didn’t know he said that,” you mumble. “Bucky is a good guy. He just… deserves better. He doesn’t want this life.” You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. “And I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I don’t want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.”
“Better a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.”
You bark out a laugh. “Just made that up?” She states that it’s a Yelena original. “It’s a nice thought in theory. I don’t know. He hasn’t reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe he’s realized that I’m also not worth all this. It’s a fair assessment, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.”
“One day, you’ll realize that you’re worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.”
The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever they’re absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. It’s one weight off your chest.
But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life.
When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it.
When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far.
The second emotion that lands is panic. You’re immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that he’s a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security.
It’s even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction.
“Not here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.”
“My dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?”
“I figured you wouldn’t take my calls so I reached out to him,” Bucky clears his throat. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure, that’s what most people do anyway. It doesn’t matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,” you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s fine. He’s met you,” you relent, “what’re you doing here?”
“To set the record straight.” He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. “Everyone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.”
John… isn’t he the—
“Yeah, that guy,” Bucky drawls out in annoyance. “Apparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.”
“Fucker,” you spit out venomously.
“Tell me about it.”
“You could’ve told me all this over the phone.”
He cocks an eyebrow, “Would you really have picked up?”
“An email would’ve sufficed too.”
“I wanted to make sure you couldn’t avoid me.”
Blue washes over you and you can’t help but give into the pull of the water. “I’m sorry for thinking it was you,” you murmur, “I knew — I knew that deep down it wasn’t.”
“You couldn’t have known for certain,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.” His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. “Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m out here because I missed you.”
Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, “What?”
He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you don’t move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.”
“Wanted?” You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.
“Want,” he emphasizes, “Present. Always.”
“You think I’m a bitch,” you choke out.
“No, I think you’ve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,” he smiles softly, “I think you’re smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I don’t want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.”
Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and — for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. “Bucky… this could never work.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, we live in different places.”
“Planes exist.”
“For how long? I’m never— I’m never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.”
The corners of his lips quirk up. “There are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. I’m a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.” His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. “I’m laying it all out on the table. I’m ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?”
A whimper crawls out your throat. “It’s going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.”
“I’m one of them. Next question.”
“Paparazzi will be hounding you.”
“I know ten different ways to say fuck off.” You’re scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to scare him away. This is it. “What do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?”
He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that you’re used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. “Yes,” you whisper.
“Good girl,” he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. “Now, let me take my time showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”
“Better make it worth my time, Barnes,” you laugh breathlessly.
“Always will, princess.”
+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!!! longest bucky fic to date but holy heck, glad i finally finished a wip ha. shoutout to @singulartoast for being my farm x city lover too with her fic!!!
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)
Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.
cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection
Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body.
The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception.
But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.
There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way.
They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.
Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.
They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.
Stamped, more like. Branded.
Survived.
And soulmates shared scars.
Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.
He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way.
It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one.
There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing.
Better he was alone.
The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance.
A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.
A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.
Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.
And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate.
Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would.
But, sometimes, he wondered.
He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing.
It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again.
He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.
It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him.
Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.
If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already.
He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable.
It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent.
He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.
Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear.
It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.
The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.
Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land.
A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.
“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.”
Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?”
Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”
Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head.
Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was.
No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him.
But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds.
.
.
.
The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices.
Each place had caveats.
The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it.
Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there.
The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day.
The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors.
The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone.
A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty.
He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.
Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators.
It was a regular, routine, quiet place.
So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted.
Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.
The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck.
The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air.
Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward.
There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp.
Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to.
It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it.
You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?”
Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs.
Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere.
He would know his own face anywhere.
He would, apparently, know you anywhere.
Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat.
Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it.
You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs.
His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart.
Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone.
The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain.
Nausea swept into the back of his throat.
“Are you okay?”
He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes.
You saw him.
Simon was not to be seen.
Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze.
Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked.
Not anymore.
He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—
The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace.
Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Sir?”
Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat.
Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.
As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency.
You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire.
You hadn’t recognized what he was.
And he was going to keep it that way.
.
.
.
It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it.
He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it.
Better yet, through you.
Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery.
One sure way to free himself was your death.
It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them.
Simon understood the urge.
He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides.
Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this.
It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse.
It was wrong.
He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.
The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.
Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up.
Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it.
Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.
Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light.
Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp.
Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were.
Fuuucking hell.
Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room.
Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal.
He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache.
Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders.
You yawned, eyes still closed.
He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would.
Ghost backed away, left you to your peace.
The weight in his chest intensified again.
He hated you for it.
He went back the next day.
And the day after that.
.
.
.
Anchor might be a better descriptor.
Hook was too violent.
Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that.
He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things.
You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t.
You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin.
You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it.
You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night.
You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else.
They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in.
Absolutely bloody foul.
Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile.
And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed.
You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers.
You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you.
He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous.
You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough.
Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them.
He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him.
The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important.
That used to be more important.
Now his every thought was asterisked by you.
Distracted.
He didn’t do well with it.
He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it.
Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.
He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly.
After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk.
Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest.
It was enough to be where you had once been.
That was as close as he cared to be.
He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again.
.
.
.
He went by Ghost, you learned eventually.
His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely.
It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith.
It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut.
Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true.
Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request.
It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception.
It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.
When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.”
The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.”
Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.”
You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note.
There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.
You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way.
Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it.
You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.
You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back.
“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?”
This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands.
The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.
“Have I passed?”
His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?”
“Your test?”
“Think I’m testin’ you?”
“You moved my desk.”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it.
It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.
You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.”
“Should.”
“Maybe.”
“Especially in the field.”
“I don’t do field work.”
He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond.
“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”
He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office.
Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company.
All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone.
Ghost was strange, slightly off putting.
You liked him.
Maybe, you thought, he’d come back.
.
.
.
Ghost visited regularly after that.
Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work.
His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling.
You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.
But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.
Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind.
The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.
You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.
The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others.
Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it.
You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain.
He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag.
In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently.
But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him.
If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said.
“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.
Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle.
He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.
“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.
“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“
“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”
“Yep. Got something for you, too.”
He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?”
You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”
He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”
“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”
“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”
Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway.
When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed.
It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.
.
.
.
When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.
You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor.
It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window.
In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift.
He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier.
“It’s for you. I knitted it.”
He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”
Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?”
“Who else would have?”
He grunted. “You knit?”
“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”
His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck.
“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.
You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.”
Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.”
“What?”
“Silly.”
The way he grunted the word made you laugh.
“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”
“Reckon you just did.”
You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?”
“Just two.”
It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.”
“And out of questions.”
You laughed again.
He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.”
“Where are you from?”
The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?”
You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.”
He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer.
The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back.
“Why do you come here?” You asked instead.
This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.”
“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.”
He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.”
You decided not to take offense at being called noise.
You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch.
“Hungry?” You asked.
“Tryin’ to see my face?”
You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.”
The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.
“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.
You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.”
He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.”
You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.”
“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it.
When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.
“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.”
Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?”
You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”
His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all.
“From somewhere warm?”
“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.”
“Must be nice, that.”
“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.”
“One you enjoy.”
“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.”
He snorted again.
You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle.
When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.”
“Hm?”
“Where I’m from.”
His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead.
“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“
You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”
“It’s your fucking accent.”
“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?”
“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered.
You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”
“Suppose it does.”
“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.”
He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?”
You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”
“They make it wrong too.”
You groaned. “Not you too.”
Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container.
“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.”
You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?”
“I love tea.”
It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.”
He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called.
Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.”
He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.”
“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.”
Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone.
.
.
.
It should be a good thing.
You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other.
But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.
The thought festered, burrowed.
“Laswell.”
She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead.
“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.”
Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?”
“What do you mean?”
“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”
Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that.
“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?”
Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall.
You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.
As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working.
When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working.
He walked you to your car around midnight.
“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you.
“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered.
You just laughed.
.
.
.
“Tea?”
You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain.
It would need remedied.
But first, this.
It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Unfortunately not.”
You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.”
“What’re you still doing ‘ere?”
“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?”
Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.
“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.”
“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.”
“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.”
“Hilarious, you are.”
You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?”
He nodded. “C’mon then.”
You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.
Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain.
The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.
“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”
“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.
“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.”
He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”
“Got a head start then.”
You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it.
If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody.
The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged.
Simon ignored it.
When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw.
“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off.
He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?”
“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it.
“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?”
Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.”
“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.”
He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it.
The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.
“To hide my face.”
“Your identity, you mean.”
“My identity,” he agreed.
“Why?”
He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop?
Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.”
You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead.
“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.”
“Part of the job.”
Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.”
Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.”
“I take offense to that.”
You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.”
“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.
When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not.
“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.”
“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time.
He huffed. “Better all the time.”
“And I have you to thank.”
Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check.
Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his.
“Thanks, Ghost.”
“”S just tea.”
You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation.
“What’s tha’?”
“I know how to make tea for you now.”
“Like it?”
“I love it.”
You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.”
He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.”
You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well.
“Noted.”
Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so.
.
.
.
Things settled into a pleasant rhythm.
A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in.
You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach.
People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond.
You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary.
It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.
It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes.
“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?”
“Oh,” you said. “I—”
It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest.
You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.
Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door.
“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.”
“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?”
Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.”
“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.”
“Okay.”
His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office.
So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there.
And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work.
“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.”
“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.”
“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated.
Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life.
You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all.
.
.
.
Monday.
There was a knife in Simon’s pocket.
Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot.
The one in his pocket, though, was for you.
A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one.
The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over.
It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays.
And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away.
Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away.
When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished.
Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”
Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't.
“All right?”
“Hm?”
“You’re quiet.”
“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.
There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?”
You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.”
“Try again.”
Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.
Simon waited, but you did not reemerge.
He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—”
“Nice weather.”
“I can see that.”
“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.”
Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”
“C’mon, then.”
You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm.
“Lunch.”
You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow.
Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right.
Just his luck.
Didn’t matter though.
He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled.
The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain.
“So, what are we doing?”
“Walking.”
“I can see that.”
“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?”
You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway.
The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply.
He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter.
Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.”
He didn’t deny it.
“What are we doing back here?”
Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.
You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?”
“Sometimes.”
“Secret’s safe with me.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”
He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own.
They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish.
Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.
He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him.
Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved.
Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own.
He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking.
He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too.
He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed.
Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.
When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms.
“What ‘appened?” He asked.
Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?”
“Affirmative,” he said.
You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.”
“Stalling.”
“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.”
Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?”
“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.”
“He’s a prick.”
“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.”
You looked very small, and alone at that moment.
“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”
The chill spreads outward.
It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life.
He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this.
You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again.
And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands.
You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves.
“Have you found yours?”
Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.”
You nodded. “Me either.”
.
.
.
He walked you back to your office.
You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find.
Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs.
Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair.
You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way.
Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk.
Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch.
A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges.
He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.
“A knife.”
“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.”
“Why?”
“In case you need to.”
“Is this about me staying late?”
“No.” He did not elaborate.
“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—”
“But you don’t carry a gun.”
“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”
He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.”
You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.
“Okay.”
His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” you agreed.
.
.
.
If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well.
You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began.
You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.
What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic.
Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.
This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow.
On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope.
You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?”
Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud.
You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?”
“Better to be prepared, yeah?”
“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh.
After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison.
His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours?
Rough, warm. Safe.
It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing.
Stupid, silly.
If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask.
“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate.
“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”
“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.
“Not a game, bird.”
“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.”
“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.”
“Is that it?”
You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.”
It wasn’t easy.
For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back.
Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.
Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in.
“On your feet.”
Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good.
It didn’t feel like you were doing good now.
By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands.
“You’re hurting me,” you gasped.
He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion.
But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way.
“Shit.”
.
.
.
The window was open and you were not in your office.
Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently.
He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.”
Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds.
When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.”
“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.”
“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.”
Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”
“Forgot it.”
Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it.
“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“It’s okay—“
“Wasn’t a suggestion.”
“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.”
He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity.
“Gonna rain,” he commented.
You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget.
When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again.
“I can see you won’t leave it alone.”
“Affirmative,” he said.
You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours.
Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted.
You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.”
He grunted, followed you closely back inside.
As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen.
He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”
Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.
“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled.
“Who’s this then?”
You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.”
“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”
“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.”
Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?”
“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice.
But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?”
Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.
“Very becoming, lass.”
You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?”
“Aye, all mine.”
“Ah, luck.”
“Lucky indeed.”
Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.
“Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat.
“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.”
“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.”
“That’s for sure, bonnie.”
“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?”
Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”
“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.”
Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—
“It’s need to know,” he snapped.
Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”
Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess.
“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”
Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into.
Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold.
.
.
.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!”
“She doesn’t need to know.”
“Yer name?”
Ghost leveled Soap with a stare.
Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?”
“Stay out of it, MacTavish.”
Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.”
He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”
“It won’t.”
Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“
“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.”
“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”
Simon ignored him.
But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.
Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him.
.
.
.
Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it.
He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too.
Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged.
Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.
The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you.
But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender.
You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends.
Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.
Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it.
Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date.
He didn’t know what to do with any of it.
One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.
You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see.
Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?”
A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.”
“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?”
“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.
Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.”
“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—”
“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”
“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.”
“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.”
“You sweet on me or something, bon?”
You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match.
The silence was suffocating.
“All right?”
You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little.
He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?”
You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—”
“You’re apologizing for Soap?”
Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”
“No.”
“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.”
He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.”
“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—”
He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”
“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.”
“Mm.”
“I’ll make space.”
He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him.
“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.”
“Aye, LT.”
He chuckled. “Take care of that.”
“Teach me how?”
He nodded.
“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.”
“I know.”
Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier.
“‘Course you do.”
.
.
.
Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain.
His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain.
The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to.
He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.
You said he didn’t, after, but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry.
You’re hurting me.
It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable.
You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over.
He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain.
His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls.
There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins.
Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little.
“Johnny.”
Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—”
“Does she feel it?”
“What—”
He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”
“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.”
Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Deserves better.”
Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.”
Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father.
Fucking perfect.
.
.
.
Two months deployment.
The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it.
He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore.
Maybe, he didn’t really want to.
Maybe, Johnny was right.
He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with.
Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle.
Not as empty as they thought.
Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward.
Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise.
When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her.
The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang.
Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes.
“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked.
“What?”
“Soulmates.”
Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes.
“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—”
Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again.
It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence.
“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side.
It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you.
All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers.
Just to be sure.
It took them a long time to get her to leave the body.
.
.
.
Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months.
September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag.
You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of.
You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together.
Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day.
But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—
Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.
You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.”
“That disappointed to see me?”
No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.”
He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.”
You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.”
“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.”
His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong.
You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?”
He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained.
He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand.
“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”
Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question.
“Scars.”
You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales.
It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before.
Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them.
“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”
He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”
You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”
He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.”
His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.”
“What?”
“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?”
Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly.
“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.”
“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—”
But Simon was determined, his mind set.
“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.”
“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?”
Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed.
“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall.
You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you.
He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—”
“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be.
The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly.
You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck.
“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.”
You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught.
You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they.
It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet.
You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.
You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold.
You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like.
“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind.
You opened your eyes.
“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand.
He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.
You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap.
But if he was yours—
If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him.
He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear.
You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“You don’t understand,” he rasped.
“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.”
The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.
“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”
He finally returned his gaze to yours.
“Did it hurt?”
“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.”
He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.
“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.”
Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.
You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.”
His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.”
Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.
“It’s not fair to you.”
“What isn’t?”
“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?”
You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?”
He made a pained sound. “Don’t.”
“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”
“You’re supposed to need things from me.”
He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—”
“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.”
You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.”
“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat.
“Can.”
Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours.
You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.”
“How long?”
“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.”
“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—”
“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.”
You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?”
“No.”
“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—”
He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin.
You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul.
You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you.
In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss.
When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.”
“Just turning on the lamp.”
He released you.
As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair.
“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”
When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa.
Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly.
“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?”
“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth.
He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.”
Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped.
“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers.
“You don’t want me.”
It wasn’t a question.
He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours.
“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.”
“Obviously it’s not, bird.”
Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”
“Simon,” he corrected.
“Simon,” you echoed.
He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.”
You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—”
“No.”
You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.”
His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.
It didn’t feel close enough.
You wished it were all different.
That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted.
“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?”
He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded.
“Go on, then.”
Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head.
You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling.
Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic.
Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—”
You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together.
“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Good.”
“Can I touch you?”
“Can do anything you like to me, bird.”
You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.”
He made a content noise of agreement.
You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.”
“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?”
“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.”
His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little.
Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.”
“What—”
He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.
“No more pain?”
“None.”
“Good.”
You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.
“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”
His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins.
It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips.
“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly.
He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples.
Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.
“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.
The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.
if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!
tw & content: Exes to lovers, female reader, Timeskip/flashbacks, fluff, angst, hurt, mentions -and descriptions of depression, alcohol consumption, heartbreak, insomnia, agression, hinting at domestic violence.
Night Crawler Masterlist
Previous: WLOU - Part 1
As if the bike is doing it on its own, Simon finds himself on the same country road he first took you to in your early days. With shoulders bowed and head lowered, he consciously slows down. As the speedometer ticked steadily downward, even the overworked engine sounded as if it were grieving.
Warm evening light spilling over dark compression sleeves and black tattoo-covered arms, yet he stays cold. Wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze and birds circling over him. It feels like mocking this time. It's the kind of beautiful day that feels cruel when you’re miserable.
As the bike kept moving forward, his heart pounded in his ears, and his dark, tired eyes were blinded by the sunset that felt wasted on someone like him.
The bike came to a sudden halt. Caught between choices, the engine hesitantly gets cut. Simon's head is lowered in defeat. The white-knuckle grip loosens, and with a final silent sigh, it is evident the fight has left him entirely.
If he cried, no one would know. The nearest neighbor is half a mile down the road, and the mournful creak is from an old farm gate in the distance, moving in the breeze. Simon is certain of that, as he knows exactly where he is.
He won't lift his gaze just yet. Can't stomach it.
If he does, he’ll see lavender and wildflowers outside an old wrap-around, wooden porch that needs fixing. He would see fruit trees, soon-to-be ripe pears, and golden apples with no one to harvest them.
Yes, if Simon were to open his grieving eyes, he would see honey-colored stone walls and white painted window frames weathered by rain and sunshine. And an empty, crooked mailbox sits at the end of the gravel road, with faded green paint. Waiting patiently to be named.
Simon feels his heart break all over again as he reaches into his pocket. A small piece of silver metal rests in his palm. It glints slightly in the sunlight when he turns it between his fingers. It feels heavier than it should for something so small.
He had hold on to its ragged teeth for some time now, as if a locked front door and an empty house somehow counted as hope. Fucking stupid.
Without ever taking in the horizon or the scenic route, he closes a chapter of everything that should've been.
“Enough...” he mumbles. “That's enough”. Maybe the wound would heal if he stopped coming back to it.
—-
You would think turning the page and taking the first step towards something new would give someone the blessing of finally breathing properly.
To Simon, it only gave him a grey, foggy slate, staring holes through the bedroom ceiling.
New roots refusing to take hold. Heartbreak, grief, and overall sadness suddenly gave way to a deafening numbness. The ache dulled into nothing as the pain had burned itself out.
Simon has felt like this a thousand times before. When he consciously finds the off-switch, the rage of Ghost gets to run riot on the fields, increasing his kill count without any second thought. Simon doesn’t feel a thing.
Therefore, he easily blames Ghost when he starts thinking back to the night he first saw your piece of shit fiancè. Ghost let anger in.
It was a night out (at what feels like a haunted bar, trying to kill him, at this point). Price had given orders that somehow appear to work outside of the task force.
“Get your coat. Now”.
That's how he found himself sitting in that god-forsaken pub the first (out of two) times the devil tried to get to him.
Lost in his beer, Price fortunately let silence exist more than he attempted to hold a conversation, letting Simon's wandering focus run free.
At the table beside them sat a group of men in designer suits that looked more expensive than practical, hair perfectly slicked back, and teeth too white. With the way they spoke so loudly enough for half the room to hear, and obnoxiously laughed at their own jokes, it turned out to be difficult to ignore them.
“She has this bloody habit of arguing with me,” he laughs, adjusting the golden watch, worth more than all of Simon's belongings combined.
“Think she's always right”.
Simon rolls his eyes, still watching his now lukewarm beer.
“Got her sorted eventually”, the prick cheers with his entire entourage at that—disrespectful shit.
“Anyway, the wedding is in October”.
“Keeps showing me those countryside houses. Want wildflowers at the wedding and everything.”
Simon's entire body went rigid.
“Every weekend is a new cottage viewing. She’s delusional if she thinks we’re moving to any other place than a penthouse in central London. Tired of listening to the same old story about drinking iced tea on the porch when we’re eighty. It's getting embarrassing”.
You. The fucking bastard is marrying you, isn’t he?
A pressure built behind his ribs until it hurt to breathe. Nausea rolled through him in waves as rage burned hot in his chest. Unworthy son of bitch, he thinks.
“She’ll learn soon enough.”
One fucking, arrogant wanker to another.
“She’ll come around. They always do”.
Simon almost broke the glass he's holding on to for dear life. Price had noticed the tension right away, but decided against poking the bear. He could see Simon's urge to punch a bastard face in, from miles away —always has.
“You know that guy?” Price casually took a sip from his beer and stroked the foam out of his profound mustache.
Simon didn't answer. It took everything in him not to look over at the pen full of prize-winning cattle with a bank account. If he did, he’s certain he’d lose all restraint and lurch forward and break the man's neck.
“I know her”. Simon growled out, as if it pained him, because it absolutely did.
____
Yeah, anger is a manageable feeling. Made peace with rage many years ago. What Simon can't let go of is you being with someone so fucking dismissive. Someone who is annoyed by the things he loves the most.
Simon knows the type. Scared a bloke like him, trying to get a drunk woman to get in his Mercedes one night. Good times.
Still, he’ll never question how you end up with men like that. Never has. Their confidence oozes safety somehow. And after years of uncertainty with Simon, that must be the most attractive thing in the world.
He’ll probably make plans immediately, know which restaurant to book, know the wine order, and never second-guess himself. He is everything Simon is not, and somehow they’re both fucked. None worthy of you.
And when his true self shows someday, you’ll be convinced you can love him enough to change. Giving him way too many second chances. You always see the best in everybody. Simon knows this, cause that’s what you gave him. A fuck-ton of chances he didn’t deserve. All because he couldn’t get out of his own head, scared he’ll ruin something beautiful —so it all fell apart anyway.
All he wanted was you. And save you from himself, at the same time. For every major step forward, he takes two steps back. Eventually, he had pushed you so far away that he practically carried you in the other man's arms.
Simon can almost hear you say it. “It's nice not to guess where I stand. I spent years guessing with you”.
He tries to sleep that night, he really does. Being awake feels like a constant punishment, and a break from imaginary visuals of him snuggling up to you on your wedding day would be fucking fantastic.
Hours went by, but sleep never came. Simon is so sleep-deprived that he sees through hooded, glassy eyes. The line between memory and reality blurred, and his focus drifts in and out.
He almost doesn't hear his phone ring. He chalks it up to his imagination.
When the ringing in his ears won't stop, he rolls over in bed and reaches over the nightstand, putting an end to the tinnitus from hell.
Ending the call somehow felt like setting the future on fire. As though some instinct deep inside him knew he’d just turned his back on something important. Again.
As he’s closing his eyes once again, eyelids feeling like sandpaper, the phone rings one more time. Feels like screaming.
He mindlessly searches for the phone he threw away and answers, irritated yet distracted, never checking the Home Screen.
«Riley».
On the other end, there is a shaky breath, followed by a thin, unsteady voice. «I would like to place a takeaway order, please? It’s for delivery».
Simon groans, exasperated. «Wrong number, sweetheart».
«It’s for apartment 1804, Bridgewater Heights.» The voice is on the verge of crying, begging, and trying so hard not to be overheard.
Simon refuses to acknowledge the feeling of something breaking in him. Yet he can’t for the life of him find the strength to hang up.
Ghost pushed through, though. «Look, you're barking up the wrong tree, miss». It comes out like thunder to someone who apparently is so fucking terrified already.
«A steak… steak sandwich…»
Simon sobers up instantly. Every trace of exhaustion vanishes. Chest heaving, every muscle locks as blood drains from his face. In its place comes something far worse.
«Well done».
Thank you for your order. Delivery confirmed. A deeply unfortunate evening coming right up.
eddie munson ptsd whump 🙂↕️ im talking mega breakdown with a side of comfort from reader 🙂↕️okay 1,2,3 go
Eddie Munson x Reader
1.6k - tw: PTSD - thank you anon for the request and the challenge. It really helps! Hope you like it. (I’m scared).
The sunset went down at Mirkwood Creek. A deep orange glow washed over the tall pine trees that framed their campsite that early summer weekend. The smell of sunscreen lingered in the air, and a modest campfire crackled nearby. Dustin's distant, exasperated groans as he tried to shake the sand from his sandals drew a giggle out of Eddie.
His eyes crinkled as if he had just gotten away with something. —Knowing damn well Dustin would pull on a pair of fuzzy socks that night, only to discover they felt like sandpaper. Weird how grit and gravel make their way into people's belongings just like that. Especially if those belongings were tucked safely inside a side pocket of Dustin's backpack.
You could notice Eddie's shenanigans from miles away. “What did you do?” you snickered and bumped his sun-warmed shoulder with yours.
He’d been a menace all day—more than usual. Everybody paid the price. He had driven recklessly on the way there, and when the air was cool enough to raise goosebumps that morning, he had picked you up bridal style and thrown you in the bone-chilling lake.
Eddie had been doing his worst helping Steve with his tent, starting with the manual's last page. Saying it's not his fault; good looks don't come with an average IQ.
So, as you toasted yourself a marshmallow and Eddie poked the embers with a stick, trying desperately to keep the fire alive, Steve still hadn't gotten the god-forsaken tent up.
At one point, he’d made it his personal mission to ruin every single scenery shot Jonathan tried to take. Bonus points if he could put them in an «explicit nature» category.
To everyone else, Eddie looked overly enthusiastic and highly caffeinated. To you, he looked on edge and extremely stressed out. Even as Dustin struggled with said sand, Eddie kept glancing towards the treeline.
Eddie's mouth curled into a grin, but it somehow didn't reach his eyes as it used to. His eyes flickered back to the pine trees ahead. “Oh, whatever do you mean? I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. I’m a beacon of virtue. Angelic. Heaven-sent”.
You looked at him more intently, trying to meet his eyes as your words came out all soft. “Yeah. You are.” You gave him a warm smile and blinked softly. “You're also misunderstood. Sensitive.”
Eddie cleared his throat and suddenly had a hard time stopping his leg from bouncing. Although clearly uncomfortable, you gently pressed on.
“…and quietly hurting?”
«You’re being ridiculous.» The smile was gone, and so was the glimmer in his eyes. He poked the fire even harder.
“You don't have to keep it to yourself”. You tried to lay a reassuring hand on Eddie's shoulder, but he abruptly snapped up in a tense position, giving you no time to recalibrate the situation.
“STOP!” He looked right at you then, like he’d taken a bullet to the chest. «You need to fucking stop!»
He could see you trying to scramble for the right words to smooth things over with something —anything. But Eddie couldn't have you saying another word. In desperate need of keeping the almost see-through wall intact, he got right up in your face.
“Just because you’ve got that fancy degree doesn’t mean you’ve got me all figured out! I’m not one of your case studies!” Eddie's breaths came in quick, shallow bursts.
Everybody stood speechless at the commotion in front of them. Steve made a nervous, half-hearted attempt to calm everything down, but to no avail.
“So stop looking at me like that!” Eddie had frozen in place and still hadn't fucking blinked.
“Like what?” Oh, you knew how you looked at him, with a downward smile and glistening eyes filled with sadness that wasn't your own.
He points at you with a trembling finger as he gets even closer. “Like you know shit!”
You stared each other down. Both are out of breath. Eddie forced down a swallow, finding his mouth dry. And as if the motion grounded him for just a second, he suddenly forced himself to take a brief look around.
The campfire had burned low. The darkness had crept closer than he’d realized. Back stood the group in its entirety, dumbfounded, the ones that had supported him since that cursed day. Suddenly, nowhere felt safe. Not even with them.
The air felt heavier, and alarm bells rang in his ears. The uneasy feeling in his gut only grew stronger. He couldn't bear to look at you again. Instead, he took a couple of cautious steps back before turning around completely and breaking into a run through the dark forest.
The camping trip was supposed to be fun. Now every snapped twig made Eddie twitch, dread getting stronger every passing minute. He had signed up for bad jokes and burnt hot dogs. Now the smoke reeked of fear. Now he had to deal with this shit. Again.
The forest only became more unsettling as he went on. It swallowed all sound, leaving only his own footsteps and hammering heart.
The sudden sound of a bird flapping was the final nail in the coffin. He had heard that sound before —bigger, louder, and closer. And he had been alone in this kind of darkness before — colder, mustier. More depressing.
There, he had fought for the lives of the very people that had to drag him out of the damp, rotten earth -dying. Now he had promised them a normal get-together that summer. And he couldn't even give them that.
Eddie's lungs started to burn to the point where he couldn't for the life of him catch his breath. The racing pulse made him dizzy and weak-kneed. His legs gave out beneath him as the forest blurred at the edges.
He felt disconnected from his body and yet still braced himself for danger as he lost control over what was reality and what was not.
As Eddie's vision blurred fully, tears slipped free unnoticed. He didn't realize he was crying until he tasted salt on his lips.
——
You found him sitting at the base of a pine tree, shoulders hunched and head bowed, and for a moment, you just stood there, taking him in. His knees hugged his chest, and his back shook with anxiety.
“Eddie?” His name left your lips softly, to let him know you’re there, careful not to startle him. You didn't expect an answer, and you didn't get one.
“Mind if I sit with you?”
When Eddie didn’t object, you slowly lowered yourself onto the forest floor a few feet away, making sure he could see every movement you made. Making sure he felt he could ask you to leave at any time.
For a moment, words felt unnecessary. So you waited.
“I’m… I’m struggling to…To breathe”. His eyes flickered to you, then everything came crashing down, and you didn't want to wait any longer.
You took it as permission to come close. And as you held Eddie in your arms, he cried. You took slow, even breaths, a little deeper than normal, hoping he would catch on.
Eddie cried until the woods settled around them, filled with only the rustles of summery leaves and the soft murmur of the lake. He was exhausted, and the fight had drained out of him in the end.
“I’m here”, you soothed him, slow and steady. “I’m here”.
His shoulders seemed to sag ever so slightly. Your thumb continued its slow path across his skin. Eddie could smell the comforting scent of your sunscreen, could see your golden necklace shimmer in the moonlight, and could hear your steady heartbeat. Fear left him slowly.
“You’re right, you know? I don't know what happened that day”. You tested the waters carefully and swallowed. “But I know you, Eddie.”
Eddie sniffled and used his t-shirt to rub the tears from his eyes. “They see you joking around. Acting as nothing happened.”
“But it did happen.” You looked at each other, and the sight almost broke you. With no walls left to hide behind, he showed signs of months of exhaustion.
“You jumped right back into life like you didn’t almost lose it. I must be hard feeling like you're stuck, watching everybody else move on.”
Eddie's eyes filled with tears once again, not from fear but from bone-deep weariness. The lump in your throat made the next words come out even quieter as you blinked away your own tears. “I don't want you to keep pretending you’re okay, Eddie”.
“I'm so fucking tired,” he groaned through his tear-soaked shirt.
“You want to go home?” you said it so easily, and without a second thought, Eddie almost didn't have to feel guilty for saying yes. Instead, he pondered for a second.
“I don't know.” He said, still so defeated. Too worn out to choose.
“I’ll stay with you, and we'll figure it out in the morning”. You held Eddie close and ruffled his curls.
He hugged his knees and leaned a damp cheek on his arms, looking back at you with red-rimmed eyes. “I'm sorry”.
“Don’t you ever be sorry”. A moment passed without a sound, before you let out a laugh through your nose. “…I’ve seen you do worse things than cry”.
He raised an eyebrow at that. “Jesus Christ, read the room”. He tried so hard to hide a smile. “What?”
You side-eyed Eddie with a smirk, taking your time. “…You trying to flirt.”
The gasp Eddie let out was heard all the way over to Steve's fortunately done tent. And as the group made their way to their warm sleeping bags and sandy, fluffy socks, they could hear the familiar, laughing banter as a calming lullaby.
If you have any prompts, drabble ideas, tropes, dialogue snippets, or emotional damage you’d like to inflict on Simon Riley (both in the Night Crawler universe or something completely different), Eddie Munson, Bucky Barnes, or Frank Castle, my ask box is open. 👀
I’d love some inspiration and an excuse to write something in between night crawler chapters, to improve my writing.
Can't promise i wont get performance anxiety. But right now… I got nothing.
New readers are welcome! Each volume follows a different stage of Simon and Reader’s relationship and can be read as a stand-alone. Bite-sized chapters (1.5-2k words). Easy to pick up and put down.
NIGHT CRAWLER
Strangers to lovers
The one where Simon rediscoveres his bike
The one where the saviour needs saving
The one where he gets a sweet taste of what ifs
The one where he fucks up and has to sit with it
The one where he steps outside his comfort zone -and gets rewarded for it
NIGHT CRAWLER: Whats left of us
Exes to lovers
Simon Riley has survived a lot of things. Losing you might not be one of them
tw & content: Exes to lovers, female reader, Timeskip/flashbacks, fluff, angst, hurt, mentions -and descriptions of depression, alcohol consumption, heartbreak, insomnia, agression, hinting at domestic violence.
Night Crawler Masterlist
Previous: WLOU - Part 1
As if the bike is doing it on its own, Simon finds himself on the same country road he first took you to in your early days. With shoulders bowed and head lowered, he consciously slows down. As the speedometer ticked steadily downward, even the overworked engine sounded as if it were grieving.
Warm evening light spilling over dark compression sleeves and black tattoo-covered arms, yet he stays cold. Wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze and birds circling over him. It feels like mocking this time. It's the kind of beautiful day that feels cruel when you’re miserable.
As the bike kept moving forward, his heart pounded in his ears, and his dark, tired eyes were blinded by the sunset that felt wasted on someone like him.
The bike came to a sudden halt. Caught between choices, the engine hesitantly gets cut. Simon's head is lowered in defeat. The white-knuckle grip loosens, and with a final silent sigh, it is evident the fight has left him entirely.
If he cried, no one would know. The nearest neighbor is half a mile down the road, and the mournful creak is from an old farm gate in the distance, moving in the breeze. Simon is certain of that, as he knows exactly where he is.
He won't lift his gaze just yet. Can't stomach it.
If he does, he’ll see lavender and wildflowers outside an old wrap-around, wooden porch that needs fixing. He would see fruit trees, soon-to-be ripe pears, and golden apples with no one to harvest them.
Yes, if Simon were to open his grieving eyes, he would see honey-colored stone walls and white painted window frames weathered by rain and sunshine. And an empty, crooked mailbox sits at the end of the gravel road, with faded green paint. Waiting patiently to be named.
Simon feels his heart break all over again as he reaches into his pocket. A small piece of silver metal rests in his palm. It glints slightly in the sunlight when he turns it between his fingers. It feels heavier than it should for something so small.
He had hold on to its ragged teeth for some time now, as if a locked front door and an empty house somehow counted as hope. Fucking stupid.
Without ever taking in the horizon or the scenic route, he closes a chapter of everything that should've been.
“Enough...” he mumbles. “That's enough”. Maybe the wound would heal if he stopped coming back to it.
—-
You would think turning the page and taking the first step towards something new would give someone the blessing of finally breathing properly.
To Simon, it only gave him a grey, foggy slate, staring holes through the bedroom ceiling.
New roots refusing to take hold. Heartbreak, grief, and overall sadness suddenly gave way to a deafening numbness. The ache dulled into nothing as the pain had burned itself out.
Simon has felt like this a thousand times before. When he consciously finds the off-switch, the rage of Ghost gets to run riot on the fields, increasing his kill count without any second thought. Simon doesn’t feel a thing.
Therefore, he easily blames Ghost when he starts thinking back to the night he first saw your piece of shit fiancè. Ghost let anger in.
It was a night out (at what feels like a haunted bar, trying to kill him, at this point). Price had given orders that somehow appear to work outside of the task force.
“Get your coat. Now”.
That's how he found himself sitting in that god-forsaken pub the first (out of two) times the devil tried to get to him.
Lost in his beer, Price fortunately let silence exist more than he attempted to hold a conversation, letting Simon's wandering focus run free.
At the table beside them sat a group of men in designer suits that looked more expensive than practical, hair perfectly slicked back, and teeth too white. With the way they spoke so loudly enough for half the room to hear, and obnoxiously laughed at their own jokes, it turned out to be difficult to ignore them.
“She has this bloody habit of arguing with me,” he laughs, adjusting the golden watch, worth more than all of Simon's belongings combined.
“Think she's always right”.
Simon rolls his eyes, still watching his now lukewarm beer.
“Got her sorted eventually”, the prick cheers with his entire entourage at that—disrespectful shit.
“Anyway, the wedding is in October”.
“Keeps showing me those countryside houses. Want wildflowers at the wedding and everything.”
Simon's entire body went rigid.
“Every weekend is a new cottage viewing. She’s delusional if she thinks we’re moving to any other place than a penthouse in central London. Tired of listening to the same old story about drinking iced tea on the porch when we’re eighty. It's getting embarrassing”.
You. The fucking bastard is marrying you, isn’t he?
A pressure built behind his ribs until it hurt to breathe. Nausea rolled through him in waves as rage burned hot in his chest. Unworthy son of bitch, he thinks.
“She’ll learn soon enough.”
One fucking, arrogant wanker to another.
“She’ll come around. They always do”.
Simon almost broke the glass he's holding on to for dear life. Price had noticed the tension right away, but decided against poking the bear. He could see Simon's urge to punch a bastard face in, from miles away —always has.
“You know that guy?” Price casually took a sip from his beer and stroked the foam out of his profound mustache.
Simon didn't answer. It took everything in him not to look over at the pen full of prize-winning cattle with a bank account. If he did, he’s certain he’d lose all restraint and lurch forward and break the man's neck.
“I know her”. Simon growled out, as if it pained him, because it absolutely did.
____
Yeah, anger is a manageable feeling. Made peace with rage many years ago. What Simon can't let go of is you being with someone so fucking dismissive. Someone who is annoyed by the things he loves the most.
Simon knows the type. Scared a bloke like him, trying to get a drunk woman to get in his Mercedes one night. Good times.
Still, he’ll never question how you end up with men like that. Never has. Their confidence oozes safety somehow. And after years of uncertainty with Simon, that must be the most attractive thing in the world.
He’ll probably make plans immediately, know which restaurant to book, know the wine order, and never second-guess himself. He is everything Simon is not, and somehow they’re both fucked. None worthy of you.
And when his true self shows someday, you’ll be convinced you can love him enough to change. Giving him way too many second chances. You always see the best in everybody. Simon knows this, cause that’s what you gave him. A fuck-ton of chances he didn’t deserve. All because he couldn’t get out of his own head, scared he’ll ruin something beautiful —so it all fell apart anyway.
All he wanted was you. And save you from himself, at the same time. For every major step forward, he takes two steps back. Eventually, he had pushed you so far away that he practically carried you in the other man's arms.
Simon can almost hear you say it. “It's nice not to guess where I stand. I spent years guessing with you”.
He tries to sleep that night, he really does. Being awake feels like a constant punishment, and a break from imaginary visuals of him snuggling up to you on your wedding day would be fucking fantastic.
Hours went by, but sleep never came. Simon is so sleep-deprived that he sees through hooded, glassy eyes. The line between memory and reality blurred, and his focus drifts in and out.
He almost doesn't hear his phone ring. He chalks it up to his imagination.
When the ringing in his ears won't stop, he rolls over in bed and reaches over the nightstand, putting an end to the tinnitus from hell.
Ending the call somehow felt like setting the future on fire. As though some instinct deep inside him knew he’d just turned his back on something important. Again.
As he’s closing his eyes once again, eyelids feeling like sandpaper, the phone rings one more time. Feels like screaming.
He mindlessly searches for the phone he threw away and answers, irritated yet distracted, never checking the Home Screen.
«Riley».
On the other end, there is a shaky breath, followed by a thin, unsteady voice. «I would like to place a takeaway order, please? It’s for delivery».
Simon groans, exasperated. «Wrong number, sweetheart».
«It’s for apartment 1804, Bridgewater Heights.» The voice is on the verge of crying, begging, and trying so hard not to be overheard.
Simon refuses to acknowledge the feeling of something breaking in him. Yet he can’t for the life of him find the strength to hang up.
Ghost pushed through, though. «Look, you're barking up the wrong tree, miss». It comes out like thunder to someone who apparently is so fucking terrified already.
«A steak… steak sandwich…»
Simon sobers up instantly. Every trace of exhaustion vanishes. Chest heaving, every muscle locks as blood drains from his face. In its place comes something far worse.
«Well done».
Thank you for your order. Delivery confirmed. A deeply unfortunate evening coming right up.
Thinking about Night Crawler Simon, who bought an old farmhouse with a scenery for you two to grow old in, only for you to step on a rusty nail on the porch, on the way in.
Not the reason he thought he would carry you over the threshold for the first time, but here you are.
“We have to get you to the doctor. Move”. He says it with extreme urgency, yet entirely calm.
You notice the gravelly bite seeping through, and can't help but give him a mockingly side eye.
«What? Blaming yourself for a hundred-year-old nail? Your ego is massive if you think you control the oxidation of metal.”
Simon doesn't respond right away. He is too busy picking you back up, bridal style, murmuring something about you being too stubborn for your own good, and that you need a tetanus shot.
“Put me back on my own two feet, Riley. I’ve learned my lesson —metal is sharp, you’re old, and I’m grounded. Happy?”
As Simon reached the car, he put you in your place —literally, and as he walked to the driver's seat, he grumbled angrily,
“I’m burning the whole fucking thing to the ground, and building her a new one”.
Simon Riley survived a lot of things. Losing you might not be one of’em.
Biker Simon Riley x Cheeky, Stubborn Reader
tw & content: Exes to lovers, female reader, Timeskip/flashbacks (I hope it reads the way I want it to), fluff, comedic relief, angst, hurt, mentions -and descriptions of depression, alcohol consumption, heartbreak, brief mentions of getting sick and vomiting, imposter syndrome, reckless driving.
Previous: Night Crawler. But can be read as a stand-alone.
After discovering his long-lost love for motorcycles two years ago, Simon rarely reaches for his car keys. The day he saw you come out of your shared bedroom with a short, wine-red, backless dress, with flared chiffon sleeves, was one of those times.
No delicate gift-wrapped present of his will have her ribbon untied in windy turbulence, on the back of a bike.
«Not bad. Not bad at all», Simon murmurs as you slowly come closer, and he gets to wrap an arm around your waist, the other caressing your cheek.
You close the distance, letting him get a breath of you, while he sultry whispers, “I’m tempted to stay in. Keeping a low profile”.
Manicured nails smooth out his black Henley before giving him a once-over. Tight-fitting black jeans make you almost forget the intoxicating smell of leather, tobacco, and soft spices that always make you all mushy when he’s close.
«Honey, with those shoulders? Low profile was never an option. Come on, I want to show off my high-value target”.
Simon stands put when you playfully walk towards the door and throw him his car keys.
People will wonder how the fuck he tricked you into this. Into that restaurant, your hand in his. How he tricked you into his home -boxes full of your belongings, into his, no, your shared bed every evening. Wonder how he gets to hear his name being breathlessly called through the late hours of the night. He himself wonders every day.
Imposter syndrome is real, and it takes up way too much space. At some point, he will drown in it, he thinks.
“The sooner you put that tank with a heartbeat in gear, the sooner we can have dessert at home”.
Simon smirks and looks at you through his eyelashes as you once again bring his head over the deafening water, keeping him alive.
—
Finally seated at the restaurant, you are fifteen minutes deep into the menu, trying to order something that counts, something memorable. Not because you’re normally this fancy, but because you want Simon to feel like he didn't bring you here for nothing.
Being here costs Simon more than any paycheck he has ever bled for. Shed of any tactical gear since he came home last week, in a crowded, dimly lit space, making it difficult to have a sense of control. And to top it all off, he’s accompanied by a warm hug in human form. A woman who is wholeheartedly his, —he knows as much, cause you told him that on several dark and haunting occasions.
Still, he is convinced you will vanish the second you realize you’ve given your devoted time, warmth, body, and love to someone who is so incredibly unworthy. He’ll ruin it somehow, like he always does with pretty things.
Simon is lost in thought, staring at you, trying to navigate your way around the wine list and appetizers. You suddenly meeting his eyes is what snaps him out of it.
“You’re not even reading it”, you state the fact before getting back to the overwhelming menu.
You’re so cute, and on the brink of an unmanageable state of hangry, Simon can't hide an amused snort for the life of him.
«Dont need to».
You glance up at him again, eyebrow raised. «What? You memorized it?»
Simon matches your mocking face with a daring one. «Steak».
“That’s it?” With an adorable crinkle of your nose and an exasperated breath, you conclude that this cuisine selection will be the death of you.
«Does the job», he says with a small shrug.
You stare at him for a second longer, until you lower the menu slowly. There’s something almost offended in your expression.
“We’re in a nice restaurant. Trimmings exist, you know, side dishes? Have I taught you nothing?”
“Still steak”. Simon bites back a smile, keeping the smug look on his face. As if overthinking potato variants and side salads is a waste of time. It is. It was. —until you made it for him. Here, they don't matter.
You huff softly, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable”.
He doesn't react in the slightest. Just watches you quietly. Steady. Admiring.
“Fine”. You set the god-forsaken menu down and lean back. “I’ll have steak”.
Good. That settles it. Simon nods once, thankful his woman would get some well-needed nutrients before angry smoke starts seeping out of her. Wouldn't want to get turned on while stuck in here now, would he?
“..well done”.
The silence is loud. Simon stops what he’s doing, and his eyes lift slowly to yours.
“No, you won't”.
You bite back a smile. Barley. You take a minute to neutralize your expression before continuing with your usual rage-bait.
“Maybe I will”. You look around, trying to find a server ready to place your order.
“You won't”.
“And why not?” He'd better believe you've got time today.
There's a shift in him then. Something more certain. He knows you. Two years of herbs and spices in the kitchen, 24 months with the taste of fresh berries and sugar on your tongue. (Counting the months he’s been away, —cause lord knows he can still taste you).
“You don't do things halfway.”
It comes out softer than he intended. Sweeter than you expected. So for a second, you simply look at him, until a smile slips through.
“Relax,” you say, picking your menu back up. “I'm not ruining a perfectly good steak».
«..But if I ever do..» you glance at him over the menu, winking at him. «You‘ll know something’s gone very wrong».
Simon doesn't smile, but his eyes never leave you.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I would”.
—-
The couch doesn’t even have a single little dent in it yet.
Simon sits on the far left side, head in his hands. The right side was yours. Supposed to be, anyway.
You had taken off and jumped on it the second you saw it at Barker and Stonehouse Furniture. You had made yourself so casually comfortable, not giving a flying fuck about other customers or what employees would say, per usual.
Simon was too blinded by the fact that he would give everything to make you look like that at home, you resting your head in his lap, stretched out like a kitten who had found her forever home, to feel any embarrassment at the scene in front of him.
«We’ll take it», he said silently to the cashier before you could register any of it.
It was delivered on a rainy Saturday that spring. April showers were pouring down outside, and you had been firmly determined on making a slow-cooked beef stew that afternoon.
There's no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable comfort foods.
—
This time, though, the raindrops on the window were hidden behind dark curtains. Every drop is taunting Simon with what he once had, gnawing on his mind.
He pulls at the blond mane, presses shaky hands to tired eyes, and his knee bounces with unease.
Unlike his vivid memories, Simon hasn't eaten in days.
It's been a rough couple of months. At some point, he didn't think he would even survive it. Heartbreak is funny like that. Sometimes it feels like dying. Sometimes it feels like it's better to do just that. Dying.
He almost pulled through. At least that's what he’s telling himself. Soap even managed to get him out of the apartment before he wasted away at the last second.
—
Soap guilt-tripped Simon into buying cheap whisky at the pub. —Being in town for only a couple of days and all. Soap knew it wasn't the smartest choice for the time being. But he felt like he had run out of options, and he had to start somewhere. Simon's darkness felt terrifying.
Simon was at least one bottle of hard liquor in when the universe came crashing down at the worst possible time.
From his dark corner at the pub, he hears commotion but is only met with Soap's desperate expression.
“Simon, look at me. Hey! Eyes here. Let’s head out and find somewhere a bit quieter. It’s gettin’ too rowdy in here, mate. My shout for the next round, let’s go."
Years together on the battlefield make Soap's poor attempt at a distraction less than fruitful. Simon is drunk and depressed. Not fucking stupid.
Simon scoffs, lifts his head, and scans the room.
It takes him two seconds to find familiar eyes. Last time he saw them, they were filled to the brim with unshed tears. From his doing.
What he saw next made him feel like he was about to chunder. His legs almost gave out, and as you called out for him, Soap steered him out immediately.
Bachelorette party.
In a dark alley, on what felt like safer ground, Simon wretched his gut out. He fell on his knees first, as the reality settled. He felt like he had lost you all over again. And he doesn't know if he has it in him to sit in it.
—-
Soap hasn't heard from Simon since that night. He ignored every phone call, every knock on the door.
The noise dies down as Soap's departure time approaches. Left is Simon, alone on a couch made for two, staring a hole in a black velvet box in his hands.
He sniffles. Fucking pathetic.
Big hands made for rifles and combat, opening the delicate box as if the insides would hurt him. —Cause it does.
A thin golden band with a dark, fractured diamond. Black, grey, never quite clear.
It was meant to be personal, different, a loud statement. Something that would catch people's eye. Show that you were unmistakably his.
It feels stupid now. Of course, you would want the one he saw you with—a blinding, rounded, clear diamond on a silver band. Classic.
Simon never cries. Hasn't since he was a little boy. Unlike others' beliefs, it's not because he feels like it's a sign of weakness. It's just that he simply can't anymore.
So when he can feel his eyes stinging, and an involuntary mewling escapes him, he panics.
Almost on autopilot, he reaches for the keys to his bike and considers leaving the matte black helmet you got him that Christmas.
He usually drives responsibly. But without his most valuable cargo, what's even the point?
—-
The line finally clicks open.
Soap’s voice cackles through the comms.
“Christ, Simon..”
The engine only roars louder, drowning out the rest.
“I know it stings, Riley. But whatever you do — please dont take it out on the road.”
The engine screams as the rough gear shifts. It's aggressive and too fast.
“Simon.”
Soap can hear the uneven, heavy breathing and the howling wind cutting in.
“Oy - Ease up, mate.”
Another burst of throttle, but no answer.
Soap's voice drops. “Don’t outrun your guardian angel, mate”.
The engine doesn't slow.
Simon's voice is low and muffled when he finally answers.
Simon Riley survived a lot of things. Losing you might not be one of’em.
Biker Simon Riley x Cheeky, Stubborn Reader
tw & content: Exes to lovers, female reader, Timeskip/flashbacks (I hope it reads the way I want it to), fluff, comedic relief, angst, hurt, mentions -and descriptions of depression, alcohol consumption, heartbreak, brief mentions of getting sick and vomiting, imposter syndrome, reckless driving.
Previous: Night Crawler. But can be read as a stand-alone.
Night Crawler Masterlist
Part 2
After discovering his long-lost love for motorcycles two years ago, Simon rarely reaches for his car keys. The day he saw you come out of your shared bedroom with a short, wine-red, backless dress, with flared chiffon sleeves, was one of those times.
No delicate gift-wrapped present of his will have her ribbon untied in windy turbulence, on the back of a bike.
«Not bad. Not bad at all», Simon murmurs as you slowly come closer, and he gets to wrap an arm around your waist, the other caressing your cheek.
You close the distance, letting him get a breath of you, while he sultry whispers, “I’m tempted to stay in. Keeping a low profile”.
Manicured nails smooth out his black Henley before giving him a once-over. Tight-fitting black jeans make you almost forget the intoxicating smell of leather, tobacco, and soft spices that always make you all mushy when he’s close.
«Honey, with those shoulders? Low profile was never an option. Come on, I want to show off my high-value target”.
Simon stands put when you playfully walk towards the door and throw him his car keys.
People will wonder how the fuck he tricked you into this. Into that restaurant, your hand in his. How he tricked you into his home -boxes full of your belongings, into his, no, your shared bed every evening. Wonder how he gets to hear his name being breathlessly called through the late hours of the night. He himself wonders every day.
Imposter syndrome is real, and it takes up way too much space. At some point, he will drown in it, he thinks.
“The sooner you put that tank with a heartbeat in gear, the sooner we can have dessert at home”.
Simon smirks and looks at you through his eyelashes as you once again bring his head over the deafening water, keeping him alive.
—
Finally seated at the restaurant, you are fifteen minutes deep into the menu, trying to order something that counts, something memorable. Not because you’re normally this fancy, but because you want Simon to feel like he didn't bring you here for nothing.
Being here costs Simon more than any paycheck he has ever bled for. Shed of any tactical gear since he came home last week, in a crowded, dimly lit space, making it difficult to have a sense of control. And to top it all off, he’s accompanied by a warm hug in human form. A woman who is wholeheartedly his, —he knows as much, cause you told him that on several dark and haunting occasions.
Still, he is convinced you will vanish the second you realize you’ve given your devoted time, warmth, body, and love to someone who is so incredibly unworthy. He’ll ruin it somehow, like he always does with pretty things.
Simon is lost in thought, staring at you, trying to navigate your way around the wine list and appetizers. You suddenly meeting his eyes is what snaps him out of it.
“You’re not even reading it”, you state the fact before getting back to the overwhelming menu.
You’re so cute, and on the brink of an unmanageable state of hangry, Simon can't hide an amused snort for the life of him.
«Dont need to».
You glance up at him again, eyebrow raised. «What? You memorized it?»
Simon matches your mocking face with a daring one. «Steak».
“That’s it?” With an adorable crinkle of your nose and an exasperated breath, you conclude that this cuisine selection will be the death of you.
«Does the job», he says with a small shrug.
You stare at him for a second longer, until you lower the menu slowly. There’s something almost offended in your expression.
“We’re in a nice restaurant. Trimmings exist, you know, side dishes? Have I taught you nothing?”
“Still steak”. Simon bites back a smile, keeping the smug look on his face. As if overthinking potato variants and side salads is a waste of time. It is. It was. —until you made it for him. Here, they don't matter.
You huff softly, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable”.
He doesn't react in the slightest. Just watches you quietly. Steady. Admiring.
“Fine”. You set the god-forsaken menu down and lean back. “I’ll have steak”.
Good. That settles it. Simon nods once, thankful his woman would get some well-needed nutrients before angry smoke starts seeping out of her. Wouldn't want to get turned on while stuck in here now, would he?
“..well done”.
The silence is loud. Simon stops what he’s doing, and his eyes lift slowly to yours.
“No, you won't”.
You bite back a smile. Barley. You take a minute to neutralize your expression before continuing with your usual rage-bait.
“Maybe I will”. You look around, trying to find a server ready to place your order.
“You won't”.
“And why not?” He'd better believe you've got time today.
There's a shift in him then. Something more certain. He knows you. Two years of herbs and spices in the kitchen, 24 months with the taste of fresh berries and sugar on your tongue. (Counting the months he’s been away, —cause lord knows he can still taste you).
“You don't do things halfway.”
It comes out softer than he intended. Sweeter than you expected. So for a second, you simply look at him, until a smile slips through.
“Relax,” you say, picking your menu back up. “I'm not ruining a perfectly good steak».
«..But if I ever do..» you glance at him over the menu, winking at him. «You‘ll know something’s gone very wrong».
Simon doesn't smile, but his eyes never leave you.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I would”.
—-
The couch doesn’t even have a single little dent in it yet.
Simon sits on the far left side, head in his hands. The right side was yours. Supposed to be, anyway.
You had taken off and jumped on it the second you saw it at Barker and Stonehouse Furniture. You had made yourself so casually comfortable, not giving a flying fuck about other customers or what employees would say, per usual.
Simon was too blinded by the fact that he would give everything to make you look like that at home, you resting your head in his lap, stretched out like a kitten who had found her forever home, to feel any embarrassment at the scene in front of him.
«We’ll take it», he said silently to the cashier before you could register any of it.
It was delivered on a rainy Saturday that spring. April showers were pouring down outside, and you had been firmly determined on making a slow-cooked beef stew that afternoon.
There's no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable comfort foods.
—
This time, though, the raindrops on the window were hidden behind dark curtains. Every drop is taunting Simon with what he once had, gnawing on his mind.
He pulls at the blond mane, presses shaky hands to tired eyes, and his knee bounces with unease.
Unlike his vivid memories, Simon hasn't eaten in days.
It's been a rough couple of months. At some point, he didn't think he would even survive it. Heartbreak is funny like that. Sometimes it feels like dying. Sometimes it feels like it's better to do just that. Dying.
He almost pulled through. At least that's what he’s telling himself. Soap even managed to get him out of the apartment before he wasted away at the last second.
—
Soap guilt-tripped Simon into buying cheap whisky at the pub. —Being in town for only a couple of days and all. Soap knew it wasn't the smartest choice for the time being. But he felt like he had run out of options, and he had to start somewhere. Simon's darkness felt terrifying.
Simon was at least one bottle of hard liquor in when the universe came crashing down at the worst possible time.
From his dark corner at the pub, he hears commotion but is only met with Soap's desperate expression.
“Simon, look at me. Hey! Eyes here. Let’s head out and find somewhere a bit quieter. It’s gettin’ too rowdy in here, mate. My shout for the next round, let’s go."
Years together on the battlefield make Soap's poor attempt at a distraction less than fruitful. Simon is drunk and depressed. Not fucking stupid.
Simon scoffs, lifts his head, and scans the room.
It takes him two seconds to find familiar eyes. Last time he saw them, they were filled to the brim with unshed tears. From his doing.
What he saw next made him feel like he was about to chunder. His legs almost gave out, and as you called out for him, Soap steered him out immediately.
Bachelorette party.
In a dark alley, on what felt like safer ground, Simon wretched his gut out. He fell on his knees first, as the reality settled. He felt like he had lost you all over again. And he doesn't know if he has it in him to sit in it.
—-
Soap hasn't heard from Simon since that night. He ignored every phone call, every knock on the door.
The noise dies down as Soap's departure time approaches. Left is Simon, alone on a couch made for two, staring a hole in a black velvet box in his hands.
He sniffles. Fucking pathetic.
Big hands made for rifles and combat, opening the delicate box as if the insides would hurt him. —Cause it does.
A thin golden band with a dark, fractured diamond. Black, grey, never quite clear.
It was meant to be personal, different, a loud statement. Something that would catch people's eye. Show that you were unmistakably his.
It feels stupid now. Of course, you would want the one he saw you with—a blinding, rounded, clear diamond on a silver band. Classic.
Simon never cries. Hasn't since he was a little boy. Unlike others' beliefs, it's not because he feels like it's a sign of weakness. It's just that he simply can't anymore.
So when he can feel his eyes stinging, and an involuntary mewling escapes him, he panics.
Almost on autopilot, he reaches for the keys to his bike and considers leaving the matte black helmet you got him that Christmas.
He usually drives responsibly. But without his most valuable cargo, what's even the point?
—-
The line finally clicks open.
Soap’s voice cackles through the comms.
“Christ, Simon..”
The engine only roars louder, drowning out the rest.
“I know it stings, Riley. But whatever you do — please dont take it out on the road.”
The engine screams as the rough gear shifts. It's aggressive and too fast.
“Simon.”
Soap can hear the uneven, heavy breathing and the howling wind cutting in.
“Oy - Ease up, mate.”
There’s another burst of throttle, but still no answer.
Soap's voice drops. “Don’t outrun your guardian angel, mate”.
The engine doesn't slow.
Simon's voice is low and muffled when he finally answers.
You don't think much of it when you post the photo.
It's just Instagram, just you in that burgundy dress your friend insisted you wear, champagne glass tilted in your hand, mid-laugh at something the bride said. The caption is simple: "To love and borrowed heels." Someone's arm is slung around your shoulders. The sunset does that golden-hour thing that makes everyone look like they're in a movie.
You're three drinks in and riding the high of a night where no one's shooting at you, where the loudest sound is bad wedding DJ music, where you're not Sergeant anything - just a friend who showed up and remembered to bring a card.
It feels good. Normal good.
You don't think about the fact that Simon follows your account. You definitely don't think he'd care.
The likes trickle in while you're dancing barefoot on the venue lawn. College friends, distant cousins, a few people from base who you're pretty sure just follow everyone. Then some comments:
"STUNNING"
"Who is she!!"
"Save me a dance next time?"
That last one's from Matt - college boyfriend-adjacent, never quite official, still friendly. You liked the comment without thinking, because that's what you do. It's polite, and it’s nothing.
You don't see Simon's username in the list. No like, no comment. Which makes sense, because Simon Riley doesn't exactly engage with social media. You're half-convinced he only has an account to lurk, maybe keep tabs on operational security, make sure no one's posting anything stupid.
You slip your phone back in your clutch and let your friend pull you back toward the dance floor.
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Monday morning, you're back.
The base feels smaller after a weekend in the real world, like putting on boots that don't quite fit anymore. You drop your bag in your quarters, tie your hair back, and head to the gym before the briefing.
Simon is already there.
He's at the bench press, headphones in, face obscured by the black surgical mask and that eternal thousand-yard stare. You've worked with him long enough to know he's clocked you the second you walked in but he doesn't acknowledge it.
"Morning," you say anyway, heading for the locker.
He grunts. Standard.
You start your warm-up, letting the rhythm clear your head. Five minutes in, you catch him in the mirror. He's sitting up between sets, and his eyes are on you - just for a second, flicking away the moment you glance back.
Weird.
"Good leave?" you ask, because the silence feels heavier than usual.
"Just fine."
"Do anything fun?"
"No."
Classic Simon. You grin despite yourself, upping the incline. "Yeah, me neither. I just attended a wedding. Ate cake, cried during the vows like a cliché. You know, the usual."
You're not sure why you're telling him this. Maybe because he never asks, so it feels like you have to fill the space for both of you.
"It looked like you enjoyed it," he says.
You almost trip.
Your head snaps toward him, but he's already lying back down, gripping the bar like he didn't just admit he saw your post. Looked. Past tense. Which means he went to your profile. Which means–
"You saw that?" You don't know why your voice pitches up. "Didn't think you were the Instagram type."
"I’m not."
"Then–"
"Soap sent it to the group chat."
Oh.
Of course he did. You make a mental note to strangle Johnny later.
"Right." You clear your throat, face heating. "Well. Yeah. It was nice. Being a person for a weekend."
Simon doesn't say anything.
You finish your workout in silence.
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It's small things after that.
He's always been quiet, always been distant - it's part of the package with Ghost. But now there's something else, something you can't name. He watches you longer across the briefing room. Stays an extra minute when you're cleaning your rifle in the armory, pretending to check his own gear. Asks Soap where you are when you're ten minutes late to drills, voice flat, casual, like he's just wondering.
You don't know what to do with it.
You've had a thing for Simon for months now.. maybe longer, if you're honest. It's the kind of crush that feels silly and impossible at the same time, because he's Ghost. He barely speaks to you outside of ops, and even then it's clipped orders and callsigns.
But sometimes, late at night when the base is quiet, he'll sit with you in the common room. Won't say much. Just nurse a tea while you read or scroll your phone, like he's keeping you company without acknowledging that's what he's doing.
You like him there.
You hate how much you like him there.
It's Soap who finally says it.
"Simon's been weird, yeah?" he asks one afternoon, leaning against the doorway of your quarters like he belongs there.
You throw a towel at him. "Get out."
"Answer the question first."
"He's always weird, Johnny."
"Nae." Soap grins, that troublemaker glint in his eye. "This is different. The lad's been brooding more than usual. By the way, he checked your Instagram account during the briefing last week."
Your stomach flips. "He did not."
"Did too. I was sitting right behind him." Soap taps his temple. "Saw the username clear as day. He even scrolled a bit."
"Why would he–"
"Oh, come on." Soap's grin widens. "You're not that oblivious."
You are, apparently, exactly that oblivious.
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You don't confront Simon.
You don't know how. Don't even know if there's anything to confront. Maybe he just thought the dress was nice. Maybe you're reading into nothing because you want it to be something.
But then it's Friday night, and you're alone in the rec room, halfway through a mission report that's putting you to sleep, when he walks in.
No gear. Just a black hoodie, jeans, the mask. He pauses when he sees you, like he's deciding whether to stay.
"Don't let me chase you off," you say lightly, not looking up.
He doesn't leave.
Instead, he crosses to the kitchenette, puts the kettle on. You listen to the familiar sounds - the click of the burner, the quiet settle of him leaning against the counter.
"Tea?" he asks eventually.
You blink. Simon doesn't offer. Not usually.
"Yeah, sure. Thanks."
He makes two cups in silence, sets one beside you. Earl Grey, splash of milk, no sugar. Exactly how you take it, which means he's been paying attention, which means–
"That friend of yours," he says.
You freeze. "What?"
"The one in the photo. The comment."
Oh, God. You're going to kill Soap.
"Matt?" Your voice is careful, confused. "He's just.. we went to school together. It wasn't–"
"It's alright."
You set down your pen, turning to face him. Simon's still standing. There's tension in his shoulders, the same tension he gets before a drop, except you're not going anywhere. You're just here. Both of you.
"Simon," you say quietly. "What's going on–"
"You looked happy."
You didn't see this coming. Your chest tightens.
"I was," you admit. "It was a good night."
"Different," he says. "Out there. You're different."
"Is that bad?"
"No." The word comes fast, rough. "Just… sometimes I forget you've got that. A life outside this."
Outside us, you almost hear.
"I've got both," you say. "The night-outs, the friends, the silly Instagram photos." You pause. "And this. The base. The team."
You.
You don't say it. But it hangs there anyway, in the two feet of air between you, in the way he's looking at you like he's trying to figure out if you mean it.
"Someone's gonna see you one day," he says finally, voice low. "In a dress like that. And they're not gonna let you go easy."
The words hit you sideways. There's something raw in them, something that sounds almost like resignation. Like he's already decided how this ends.
Your throat feels tight. "Maybe that's not really up to them."
His eyes meet yours, and for a second - just a second - you see it. The way he's holding himself back from something he won't let himself have.
Then he picks up his mug, takes a long drink, puts it down, and steps back.
"Finish your report," he says, voice returning to that familiar gruffness. "Price wants it Monday."
"Sim–"
"And get some sleep." He's already moving toward the door. "Got drills at 0600."
And then he's gone.
You sit there in the quiet rec room, your tea cooling in your hands, his mug abandoned on the counter beside the kettle.
Something opened between you tonight. Just a crack, just enough to let you see inside.
But Simon's not ready to walk through that door yet.
And you're not sure if you should wait for him, or if waiting is just another way of letting yourself hope for something that might never come.
You head back to your quarters, lie awake for a long time, replaying his words.
The one where he steps outside his comfort zone, —and gets rewarded for it.
Biker Simon Riley x Cheeky, stubborn reader
tw & content: Insecurity, suggestive undertones, female reader, fluff, angst, comedic relief, strangers-to-backpack-to-lovers, semi-slow burn, no smut, not proofread.
Word count: 1.9k | Part 1 | Part 4
Night Crawler Masterlist
Dividers by @uzmacchiato, header by me.
Simon didn't think time could go any slower than it did when he first arrived at base. However, the last week after he heard from you was torture. His intrusive thoughts once told him to get WIA again to get home sooner than later—another secret he will take with him to the grave.
With only a few days left before he returns from deployment, Simon has stopped fidgeting altogether, to Soap's greatest pleasure.
When the lads stay for small talk after debriefs, Simon doesn't leave. —He doesn't necessarily participate in any conversations, but he lingers with loose shoulders and easy breaths. And when someone mentions loved ones back home, his eyes crinkle. Just a little. He hides an almost-smile behind his mask, but years at Ghost's side have made even the most haunting balaclavas transparent.
Soap, notice the small, unconscious smile. His gaze is not as sharp; it’s relaxed rather than scanning. The overall lack of tension makes Soap question Ghost's sanity.
“Who’s got you like that, then?”
Johnny grins when Simon doesn’t answer.
“What? Some bird? A lass back home waiting for ya?” Soap keeps winding him up now; he almost vibrates at the thought of Simon having his own plaything back home. Fucking finally.
«That’s three times in five minutes you’ve checked that phone. Waiting on her to send you something worth the trouble, then?”
Simon turns and gives him a lethal look. Trying to reduce you to something casual like that. Fucking Scotsman.
“No bird”. Simon's jaw tightens as he exhales through his nose and adjusts in his seat, as he once again avoids eye contact. He pauses for a moment. “Woman”.
Johnny lets out a low whistle. “Oh, we’re in trouble then”. Silently, he thanks whatever holy spirit that the deployment is coming to an end. He’s not so sure Ghost could see enemy lines through shimmering, clouded heart eyes.
When Simon doesn't move to end the one-sided conversation, Johnny presses his luck—just a little.
“You can't ask a real woman to make peace with this life if you haven't, mate”.
Johnny’s smug smile is long gone. He has never seen Simon this pensive and lost in thought. There's no malice in it. He doesn't want to see Simon get hurt, that's all.
But it lands wrong anyway, and sends Simon spiraling in a whole different direction entirely.
I’m not there half the time.
Someone else would be.
I don't know how to keep her.
This is all I am. -The job.
I don't know how to be anything else.
Simon's teeth press together, and his throat tightens as he swallows hard. Johnny senses his distress and is about to make it right when Simon abruptly stands up and speaks as if the words have to get through barbed wire.
“Makes my head quieter. Makes me want to stay”.
He leaves and puts an end to the conversation before Johnny gets the chance to answer.
———
The last flight before home arrival is too long for a too-large, tired form. As the quiet and low chatter possibly could lull him to an uncomfortable sleep, his head is elsewhere.
Would you want anything to do with him?
What would he even say?
You might look at him differently. Like whatever this was, it doesn't hold up outside of it —outside of casual backpack rides and friendly meals with a soundtrack.
Simon's jaw tightens, and he shifts slightly in his seat.
Doesn't change anything.
He's going anyway.
———
Coming home to his own flat doesn't give any relief at all. Everything feels wrong. The PT shirt is still where you left it. Everything else is where it should be, but it doesn't feel the same. There's nothing really missing—but to him, it is.
Simon leans on the kitchen counter, head hanging low. If he takes a deep enough breath, he can almost smell the mixture of your perfume, damp skin, and buttery toast on kissable lips.
The counter is cold beneath his palms, and nothing will ever feel warm enough after he experienced the soft heat of your cheek in his hands.
Simon is in deep shit, and he has no idea what it's going to cost him.
But after weeks with the feeling of constant restlessness, and a dull pull in his stomach that won't fucking go away or be ignored, even in dessert, he finally acts on it.
——
He's been outside your apartment longer than he’ll ever admit. The sun isn't even up yet, but after some errands the evening before, he couldn't sleep, so here he is. Standing outside like a Ghost who refuses to stay gone.
As the sun begins to rise, your window reflects the first light of morning. Simon leans on his bike, rigid, set like stone. Helmet still on, hiding the way he bites his cheek and lower lip, trying to keep his dark thoughts at bay.
His arms are crossed, fingers digging into his biceps, frozen in place, waiting as he has already decided that he won't move. No matter the outcome.
His thoughts are cut off mid-track when he suddenly sees the window being opened. His breath catches, and his nerves spike.
Weeks of anticipation turn to tension, and as everything else fades out, his focus sharpens on the mission ahead. He needs to see you.
He revs the engine once. Twice.
Nothing.
He revs it again.
——
You jolt from your irritated state on the bed, and back to your now-opened window. You take a deep breath before parting the so-called blackout curtains that currently don't do anything but let you overheat.
And there he is.
A restrained hellhound, only held back by an iron beast. Solid and unmoving. Almost looks out of place in the sunlight. Gaze fixated on you, only you.
Arms and legs crossed like he’s been there a while, nonchalantly leaning on the black monster on wheels. If you look closely, you could see his chest rise and fall in a way that makes you think he’s growling under that helmet, keeping himself back.
You slowly lean away from the window frame, as if the wolf could close the distance in a second, if you gave him a reason.
As soon as you’re out of sight, you run to the bathroom to freshen up; lord knows the midnight sweat hasn’t done you any favors. Nor has the sudden appearance of a brute of a man. Christ..
You ruffle your hair to a respectable volume, wipe away any mascara residue with your fingertips, and adjust your oversized Prodigy bandshirt so it doesn't show more arse than necessary. The short cotton bottoms are like wearing nothing at all.
The front door clicks open, and with careful steps, you make your way down to him.
With no building keeping you apart, you unexpectedly feel stripped bare of any confidence. You lift your gaze slowly, and your stomach flips. That menace of a man has taken off his helmet in the meantime. Leaving only a balaclava and dark, piercing eyes.
He follows your every step intently without moving a muscle. And for every one you take, you remind yourself who you are, how he pushed you away, and that it won't fucking work.
You double down and meet his eyes just as intensely. Queue swaying of the hips for a tempting, disarming effect.
You’re so close you can smell him. Clean, something cedarwood-like. Eyes never leaving each other, apart from the occasional slow, lazy blink. After giving him a once-over and sizing him up, you mirror him, crossing your arms. You’d be damned if you show any sign of nervousness or anticipation. You have cards to play and a poker face to maintain, woman!
“You always lurk outside of people's windows, or am I just special?”
There’s a pause. Bastard still hasn't moved, and you can feel yourself starting to squirm at the way he… looks at you.
“Just you”.
Yeah, right ok, that makes your chin dip and eyes flick away for a moment.
“You’re bold, showing up like this”, you try.
“Didn't think you’d scare easily.”
That gets a huff out of you. “I don't”.
You truly don’t. You’ve seen your fair share of shit, and when you said you had room for someone like him, you meant it. Your life wasn’t handed to you. He’s not too much.
He just hasn’t stayed long enough to realize it.
“Good”. A trained eye could see how his stare instantly softens, despite how rough it comes out.
The silence stretches for so long, you’re getting exasperated. “What are you doing here, Simon?”
The tired look on your face makes him tense up a bit, and he answers before you even reach the end of that question. He can't have you fleeing.
“I’m not done with you”. He says it steadily. Too steady. Like a demand.
He’s not desperate. But he won't know what to do if you are done with him.
“What does that even mean?” You roll your eyes, but only to distract him from the goosebumps forming on your skin.
Simon's eyes drop to your lips for a second, without really thinking.
For the first time since meeting Simon Riley, you see him take a small inhale, like he needs to prepare for something. He leans forward slightly but holds himself back. His lips part, then closes.
His eyes drop to your lips again. Not quick this time. Something in him drifts, just for a moment. And as he slowly shifts closer and looks up through his lashes, he smirks.
“We never finished that toast.”
Simon's stare looks like a question if you ever saw one. You bite down a smile, with a glimmer in your eyes. A newfound boldness seems to find you right then and there. You straighten your back, tilt your head, and squint at him.
An obvious flicker to where his mouth hides behind his mask. “Do you plan on finishing it… “
—then back up to his dark, blown irises. “..Riley?”
Simon looks at you for a long moment. like he’s wanting to say something. Do something.
The helmet goes back on instead. “Get on”. It rumbles, and it makes your ears ring. Who does he think he is, making commands like that after asking you to leave the way he did?
“Make me,” — cause you got more backbone than that. Right? Right?! He went dead silent on you for weeks. Making you dream of motor oil and exhaust fumes for Christ's sake.
Before you get the chance to react any further, he turns, reaching behind him. When he looks at you again, there’s another helmet in his hand—black, untouched. Yours.
He steps closer, visor up, eyes locked on you like a predator sizing up his prey. The helmet is held out, waiting. He’ll find a way to say he’s sorry somehow, he thinks. A way to be deserving of you. He’ll figure it out. He has to.
“Get on.”
There’s no hiding your smile at this point. Still, you do your best not to go all soft, settling for a bratty grunt as you take the helmet and stomp past him toward the bike.
“Oy—go easy on the kung fu. I like this bike.”
The smug git closes the distance in a few long strides, and before you can protest, he lifts you and settles you onto the back seat in one smooth motion.
You’re never living that night down, apparently.
Safely behind Simon, you reach around him, soft to the touch, and with pouty lips, you mumble, “You’re enjoying this way too much”.
Simon bites back a smile, and as if double-checking that you’re doing it right, he places his hand on yours, keeping it there, making sure it's secure. The engine growls to life, and his hand tightens around yours just slightly.
He might be an asshole, but if he’s anything at all —it’s safe. Someday he’ll tell you everything and brace himself for impact. And if you’ll leave, he’ll stand there and take it. But not right now. Not now.
“Hard not to”
…lovie”.
The bike pulls away before you can answer.
That's it for this one 🤍 —But I have a devastating Volume 2 if anyone is up for it?
As always; all kind of interactions makes my eyes shimmery, cloudy and heart-shaped.
Ghost with demons!
TF 141 with dogs🐶
It's been a while painting full rendered pieces, enjoyed a lot!
Inspired from awesome @yourfaithfulauthor's request.
