Summary: While Belfast burns outside you’re forced to share a bed for one night and walls come down. In the dark, they’re not fighter and legend — just two tired souls finding safety in each other’s breath.
brendan hughes x fem reader warnings: slowburn and political unrest (violence mentioned)
You didn’t sleep much after that first night.
Not from fear — not that you’d admit — but because your head wouldn’t shut up. Every time you blinked, you saw Brendan Hughes’s face in the cigarette-glow darkness, half shadow, half something unreadable.
You finally understood why the name stuck.
It wasn’t just the hair or the heavy moustache shadowing his mouth.
It was the eyes — like he carried a graveyard behind them and dared anyone to dig.
You told yourself you weren’t intimidated.
Lying came easy when no one heard it but you.
Three days later, he gave you your first real job.
Just a folded slip of paper and his voice low against the morning drizzle.
“Straight to the bakery by the Casement Road. Hand it to the man behind the counter. Ask for soda bread. Don’t linger.”
Simple. Simple enough you almost felt insulted.
Still, your stomach twisted like a fist.
“Soda bread. Riveting. Bet this shook the Brits to their core.”
He didn’t smile — not fully — but one corner of his mouth lifted beneath the dark moustache like he was fighting it.
“If you’re finished performing, get moving.”
God, you hated how much he got under your skin already.
You tucked the paper in your coat pocket, head high, boots hitting pavement like each step dared someone to stop you.
Two streets from the bakery, a patrol rounded the corner — rifles slung casual but eyes hunting.
You felt your pulse slam against your ribs.
Your hand twitched toward your jacket pocket — then stopped.
Don’t look guilty. Don’t look scared.
You forced your body to do the opposite of what your nerves screamed: relaxed shoulders, bored expression, the slow drag of a cigarette lit with steady fingers.
One soldier stared a second too long.
You stared right back, chin up, like he was an annoyance not a threat.
Sarcasm saved you again — not out loud, but in the lift of your eyebrow that said, What? Never seen someone smoke before?
You exhaled slow — only shaking when you turned the corner.
The bakery was warm, smelling of flour and butter — too normal for a world full of barricades and shouting.
A bell chimed as you entered.
The man behind the counter had tired eyes and flour on his sleeves.
He glanced at you, then down at your coat, noting rain and nerves.
“Aye, love? What’ll it be?”
Your voice didn’t betray you. You were proud of that.
He nodded once — understanding more than the words — and took the note from your fingers in the same motion he took coins from the till.
Danger wrapped in the mundane.
Everything was normal again in an instant. You walked back out into the rain as if you’d bought nothing but bread and boredom.
You didn’t make it three streets before you saw him — leaning against a brick wall, smoking.
Of course he didn’t trust you yet.
You marched straight up to him.
“Enjoy the show?” you snapped.
His gaze slid to yours, dark and unreadable.
“Wouldn’t call it a show. More like… rehearsal.”
“Meaning you didn’t get nicked. Good start.”
Your heart was still racing, blood buzzing. His calm only fueled your irritation.
“So that’s it? No ‘well done’? No pat on the head?”
His mouth twitched — half amusement, half warning.
“What do you want, a medal?”
“I’ll settle for basic human acknowledgement.”
“Aye,” he murmured, voice low. “You did well.”
The praise — small as it was — hit harder than it should.
You hated him a little, for it.
Dusk bled into night fast. Patrol trucks roared past. Curfew hit like a slammed door.
You were halfway to your street when Brendan’s hand closed around your arm — firm, pulling you into shadow.
The rumble of boots echoed ahead — street blocked. You swallowed.
He jerked his chin toward an alley.
You could’ve argued. You had the fire to.
It was a small flat above a shuttered shop, lit only by a stub of candle.
You shivered — partly from nerves, partly from the night chill creeping through the cracked window.
Brendan shrugged off his coat and tossed it at you.
“Put that on. You’re freezing.”
Almost told him you weren’t fragile.
But the warmth swallowed you like a hug you didn’t ask for.
You buried your nose in the collar — smoke, wool, rain. A man who lived outside more than in.
He noticed — of course he did — but said nothing.
He sat near the window, watching the street below like a wolf guarding a den.
Silence thickened between you.
“So this is glamorous revolutionary life? Damp rooms and stale air?”
“You expected silk sheets?”
“Expected something other than mildew and your charming personality.”
His laugh was quiet, surprised — real enough to soften the room.
“Aye. Still here, aren’t I?”
He looked at you then — fully — and in the candlelight you saw something raw, a tired soul under all that iron.
“That’s what worries me,” he said, voice low.
It was truth — sharp as a blade.
“It’s not yourself I’m worried about,” he murmured. “It’s the world that doesn’t care how brave you think you are.”
You didn’t answer — couldn’t.
So he filled the silence, softer now:
“You did well today. Better than I expected.”
It shouldn’t have meant much.
The flat was colder than it looked. Damp walls, the hum of the city pressed tight against the glass, every sound outside sharp enough to cut through bone. Curfew nights always felt like the world held its breath.
Brendan pulled the curtain tighter, checking the street one more time. You were still wrapped in his coat, arms crossed to keep your hands from shaking—not from fear, obviously. From the cold. That’s what you told yourself.
The candle burned low. The shadows between you seemed alive.
You’d decided on the damp couch in the corner, the springs threatening mutiny with every shift. Brendan turned from the window, took one look at the sad thing you were trying to lie on, and frowned like the furniture had offended him personally.
“If I wasn’t stubborn,” you muttered, “I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”
His jaw twitched—something between amusement and exasperation. Then he nodded toward a small side room.
“There’s a bed through there.”
You blinked. Slow, suspicious.
“And I suppose you magically don’t need sleep?”
“Right. And tomorrow I’ll take a stroll down the Shankill in a tricolour dress. I’m not letting you pass out upright like some tragic statue.”
“We both fit,” he said finally. “If you stay to your side.”
You stared. He stared back.
Challenge in your eyes, warning in his.
“Just keep your moustache away from me,” you muttered, pushing past him into the tiny bedroom.
“It’s staying attached to my face,” he replied, deadpan.
He huffed a laugh, following you.
The bed wasn’t much. Lumpy mattress, thin blanket. Better than concrete, worse than comfort.
You dropped onto your side of it like you were claiming territory in a war. Brendan lay down carefully, boots off, coat folded. He kept his back to you. You did the same.
You could have touched him if you moved an inch—not that you would. Obviously not. Ridiculous thought.
The room smelled of rain, candle smoke, and him. The kind of scent that crept in when you weren’t paying attention.
Silence settled. Heavy. Awake. Alert.
Then his voice, rough and low:
You rolled your eyes—grateful you were facing the wall so he couldn’t see the flicker in them.
“Careful, Brendan. You keep complimenting me and I’ll think you’ve gone soft.”
You smirked into the darkness.
“You sure? Because offering me half your bed’s a bit tender, isn’t it?”
“It’s practicality,” he muttered.
You felt him inhale, like he was biting back a retort.
“A request,” he said quietly. “You’ll need the rest.”
Something in his voice anchor-dropped into your chest. Concern, rough around the edges. Hard-won. Unwilling to be spoken aloud.
You shifted, pulling the blanket up, and the mattress dipped slightly beneath him—solid weight, steady breathing, warmth radiating through inches of distance.
Not that you’d ever admit either.
Outside, boots thundered past, echoing through the street. You held your breath without meaning to.
Brendan’s voice came low, certain, unshaken:
You exhaled. Slow. Controlled.
You hated the way that comforted you.
You hated how real it sounded.
You hated that you believed him.
You whispered, barely audible:
“Don’t get used to sharing beds.”
His voice, a quiet hum behind you:
But neither of you moved apart.
Sleep didn’t come easily.
Shadows shifted. Boots echoed far away. Every time the wind rattled glass you felt it in your ribs.
At some point your breathing hitched — only for a second — but he noticed.
Of course he noticed. He always did.
The mattress dipped. A hand hesitated behind you, suspended in the dark like a question he wasn’t sure he should ask.
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
That was enough permission.
Slow, deliberate, Brendan shifted closer — an inch at a time like he feared startling you.
His arm slid around your waist, nothing claiming, nothing bold — just solid warmth anchoring you to something steady in a city that never stopped shaking.
No one had held you like that in a long time.
He didn’t pull you tight, didn’t trap you.
He was there, not taking — just offering.
A quiet, human moment in a world that rarely allowed softness.
His forehead brushed the back of your shoulder, a barely-there touch, like he was checking you were real.
You felt him breathe — slow, grounding, tired deeper than bones.
Then fingers — rough from cold nights and harsher decisions — threaded gently through your hair.
Not possessive but protective.
“Try to sleep,” he murmured, voice low, almost a rasp.
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Your throat had gone tight, heart doing something it had no business doing.
You weren’t supposed to need anyone — especially not him.
But his hand kept moving through your hair, slow and steady, like he was soothing a ghost only he could see.
The city outside stayed cruel.
But in that thin-walled room, in that narrow bed, neither of you had to be iron for a moment.
And somehow, without either of you meaning to —you slept.