LEGEND: sensitive topics (mental health, DV, abuse, addiction, major character death, past trauma) —note, COD, superhero, spn, and first responder fics include, in general, content that could be upsetting like: violence, disaster, and death
COD
Simon “Ghost” Riley
COMPROMISED // ghost x reader … part 1 , part 2 , part 3 , part 4 , part 5 , part 6 , part 7 , part 8 , part 9 , part 10 , part 11 , part 12 , part 13 : after being forced to fake her death, f!reader must raise her son without the man she loves while continuing the missions given to her by her friend and handler, kate laswell
BOO! // simon “ghost” riley x reader: you’re sneaking around and simon notices that you’re hiding something… #happyendingsallaround! #woohoo
Johnny “Soap” Mactavish
gaz’s sister and his best friend // johhny mactavish x reader : you’re drunk at a bar and an old friend is in the right place, looking out for you like he always used to
soap x rune!reader : featuring the side character that appears in the “waves of three” series
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
(Captain) John Price
9-1-1
Evan “Buck” Buckley
buck x reader … dogs , go fetch : reader has undergone a trauma and seeing her old best friend on TV, in trouble, might just get her out of the house and back to being okay. meeting evan buckley, might just do more than that… if he stops being an ass, that is.
on the scene // buck x reader , you’re back in town and meet your ex after an accident on the freeway
Eddie Diaz
eddie x reader (Moose) : reader is escaping a bad relationship and her cousin’s best friend might just be her saving grace. if help is something she can accept…
The Rookie
Tim Bradford
slipping smiles, reckless smiles : tim bradford x reckless!reader who’s his rookie #grumpyxsunshine
panicking in secret // tim bradford x reader : the reader has a panic attack on patrol after a DV call brings up past-triggers
ignorance isn’t always bliss // tim bradford x reader … part 1, part 2 : tim and reader are married until he has an affair with lucy chen. in part 2 tim is not the love interest (don’t stay with a cheater babes, you deserve sm better)
cops & chaos // tim bradford x wife!reader … part 1, part 2, part 3 : reader is kidnapped, dun dun dunnnnn
DC
Superman (IF the request inspires me!)
Jason Todd (Robin, The AK, Red Hood)
red hood x striker … red makes your business his, you defeat red’s target : fighting crime is hard when the red hood makes (annoying, trailing, helping) you his business
quite the pair // jason todd x reader : you and jason are best friends and you’re sick
Damian Wayne
better than hemmingway // damian x ironrot!reader : you and your boyfriend have WEIRD sleep schedules, your nemesis is a bird, and you’re a villain (sort of)
Tim Drake
Dick Grayson
set it up // dick grayson x reader : you get locked in a food pantry with him and things are revealed
Garfield Logan
Marvel
Steve Rogers
Tony Stark
Bucky Barnes
Peter Parker - any version!
Frank Castle
Deadpool
Ginny & Georgia
Marcus Baker
MLWTWB
(My Life with the Walter Boys) (s1)
Cole Walter
blue walls, blue eyes, and the blue blanket // cole walter x reader : you don't have a good home life and end up unofficially moving in with the walter boys.
best friends // cole walter x reader : reader and cole are best friends and after sharing a significant moment, she leaves, afraid that her feelings will complicate and ruin things...
the cole walter effect // cole walter x reader : you fall victim to the cole walter effect, then he, falls for you.
extra credit // cole walter x reader : you and cole had a falling out. you're not friends anymore but you still can't sit back and watch him fail all of his classes-when you decide to tutor him, things are revealed, and things are fixed.
Alex Walter
sticky note // alex walter x reader : alex is in love with jackie, you leave him a sticky note that explains how it makes you feel.
Supernatural
Dean Winchester
small city, small problems // dean winchester x reader : you move to lebanon kansas and have two run-ins eith the winchester boys. in one, you're awesome, in the other... well...
Sam Winchester
Miraculous Ladybug
Adrien Agreste and/or Cat Noir
concussed // adrien agreste x reader : falling in love with your best friend in and out of the suit goes a little like this...
Suits
Harvey Spectre
Mike Ross
Stranger Things
Steve Harrington
The 100
Bellamy Blake
whatever the hell we want // bellamy blake x reader : reader didn't care much for living but the eldest blake sibling made it his mission to change that
John Murphy
Criminal Minds
Spencer Reed
Aaron Hotchner
Derek Morgan
The Hunger Games
Finnick Odair
focus // finnick odair x reader : the story of finnick’s game, reimagined. you’re involved, and then… you’re not. #majorcharacterdeath #angst
Outerbanks
JJ Maybank
if the teacher leaves so do we // jj maybank x reader : detention sucks so you decide to leave and a HOT blonde follows
drunk fools to lovers // jj maybank x reader : a drunken hookup has a better ending than anyone expected #brothersbestfriend
John B Routledge
Pop Heyward
Rafe Cameron
Misc.
Lucifer Morningstar, Lucas Scott, Loid Forger, Seeley Booth, (feel free to suggest more!)
Requesting Rules/Info.
Requests are ALWAYS open! I love to write and will do so for any/all of the above characters! I can write f!reader and gn!reader but because I’m most familiar with writing female characters, reader will likely identify with female pronouns and descriptors unless otherwise stated / requested.
- I write a LOT of sad shit because it helps me cope with my sad shit. I am especially familiar with mental illness and neurodivergence, so if anyone would like to request a reader with anxiety, OCD, depression, disordered eating habits / and eating disorder, I’ll do my absolute best.
- That said!! I’d love to practice writing happy things! Just might need some guidance, some extra instruction (if possible!)
- I also don’t mind writing platonic relationships, or familial ones —specifically with father figures: Tony Stark, Frank Castle, Bruce Wayne, etc.
warnings: swearing, accident + injury + hospitalization, mentions of a break-up, (definite medical inaccuracies) (school me nurses and doctors and med students) (your girl loves to learn)
Traffic was heavy in Los Angeles, as always. You were in the driver’s seat of your Porsche 911 (you had a nice car, a really, really nice car) and on your way to work. Or… to what you hoped would be your place of work. After having it recommended to you by a friend, you had applied to the Metro Dispatch Centre – allegedly, they were always short-staffed and always hiring. You, having some experience in the realm of working in high pressure situations and saving people, received a quick call-back.
You weren’t naive, though. Your background was no guarantee.
There would be lots of training, protocols to cover, a probationary period.
Assuming you liked it. And assuming you got there in time–that you weren’t late, because the lights up ahead were stuck on red. Had been, for upwards of five minutes now. No, you weren’t exaggerating–you’d been looking at your phone off and on (yes it was illegal, and no, that wasn’t exactly priority #1) and the first time you checked it was 6:42 and now it was 6:47.
“Dammit.” You stretch in your seat, making yourself taller and peering out the windshield at the equally irate cars in front of you. Someone slams their horn down, the noise blaring, and in response another driver rolls down their window and stuffs their outstretched middle-finger out of it. “I can’t control the lights, jackass!” is screamed in retaliation.
You take your own hand against your wheel, hitting the top of it, and groaning. Ignorance in these kinds of situations helped a whole lot of no one. Patience, courtesy, kindness, or general anger directed at the real problem: the city, and their fickle traffic controls, were the only things worthy of your time. Time. Start-times. You grab your phone and call your friend. A shit-move, since her shift is starting in, let’s see… eleven minutes, too. Still, she picks up on the third ring. “Maddie, hey!”
“Y/n, hi. Are you okay? Having second thoughts?”
You chuckle, “no, but I think the bosses are about to be. I’m stuck in traffic, the light’s been red for… for like, seven, no, eight minutes now.”
“Sue is really really understanding. And you’re just shadowing me or Josh today so it should be fine. Just have security let me know when you get here?”
“Of course. Thanks Mads.”
“Y/n/n?” she asks, “have you still not told Buck you’re here?” and there was the golden question. Thank god, it was paired with a green light. You began to accelerate and Maddie gasped, “are you calling and driving? Y/n!” you chuckle at her scolding, mumble apologies, and say: “I just… want to get settled in before he tracks me down, you know? But yeah, yeah, you’re right. I shouldn’t be on the phone. Love you Mads, I’ll seeya soon,” and you hang up.
You’re accelerating, climbing onto the ramp to access the highway that will take you straight-to-work. You glance down at the passenger’s seat, tossing your phone down onto it, and when you look up, it’s too late. The world explodes around you, bright lights blind you; head beams shine in your eyes—your eyes that are open wide in fear and shock. Horns honk, you hear rubber burning against pavement (a sound that in your hometown, had been a welcome one—now, seems far from it), breaks squeal (yours, everyone else’s who’s involved in the accident’s), metal squeals against metal, crashes, smashes. And then the screaming stops. But speaking of stopping. You can’t, not in time. Your life is flashing before your eyes and not in that cool Seven Minute Slideshow you imagine. No, in the full-of-regret-way, in the you’re-fucking-terrified way. You don’t think there’s a chance in hell you’ll be able to stop before contributing to the pileup, before crashing into something else, not even as you press your foot all the way down. The breaks whine, so do you, and then… you stop. You’re barely an inch away from the chaos. The front end of your car is inches away from the others, and the exhale you let out is full of nothing but relief. But it’s fine, you’ll be fine. You unbuckle your seatbelt and push open the door—
Another car hits. You’re rear-ended.
The screaming stops for a moment. Just one, and then it’s back again. You’re half out of your car, nearly split in half by the swinging door and the inflating air-bag The air-bag that’s in your face, your left side aching as it squishes into your chest, your stomach, everywhere. Your medical knowledge comes in handy and you surmise that your shoulder is most definitely dislocated, and your ribs, they’re bruised badly or broken…
Please don’t be broken.
You extract yourself from the car and lean against it, for a moment, your head spinning. You press two fingers to your ribs and yup, you hiss, broken. Definitely. Aw, shit. Okay. You lean away from the car, veering sideways and you grind your molars into each other, brace, and, “shit. Shit, that hurts so bad,” you’re not sure exactly which direction the dislocation is, just like you’re unsure if there’s a fracture you would worsen by the tried-and-true TV wall-slam-and-pop-back-into-place. Instead you take off your shirt, thankful for the coverage your sports bra supplies–it’s more like a crop top, if that matters. You tear the fabric along the seams and rip it with your teeth.
You rig a sling.
Then, you dive in.
There’s at least ten cars in front of you, one behind. The man in the vehicle that smashed into you lumbers out onto the overpass, staggering. He has a streak of blood swashed across his forehead; more airbag driven trauma (but god knows what would’ve happened without it) “Sir!” you call. He looks over at you with that confused look on his face, frowning. He doesn’t seem to realise what’s happened, or where he even is, so there’s no point holding onto any sort of anger. You jog over to him, even though it hurts, and you get him to sit down. “Help is on the way,” or at least it should be, “stay sitting, right where you are, until the paramedics get here. I think you’re concussed.”
“HELP! Help!” someone screams. You shoot one last look at the man and rush towards the voice. There’s lots of them, yelling, crying, screaming. The woman who caught your attention is blonde. She’s middle-aged and screaming, hand over her mouth, tears heavy as they slide down her cheeks. “She… she’s not breathing.”
“Who, ma’am?” and she points, with a shaking hand to the passenger side.
You rush to the door—it’s already open, and the girl, she’s choking on air. “Her name is Isabella,” says the woman watching. “It… it’s our anniversary. We were headed to the airport to—to…”
You lean in close to Isabella and feel no air. She isn’t breathing. She can’t. Her airway is obstructed or swollen and there’s no way she has time to wait for 9-1-1. You used to be a doctor. It’s how you met Maddie, how you and she became close, and in your time you’d performed a tracheostomy or two (hundred). Just never in the field. Never in an unsterile environment, never without proper equipment, but… she can’t breathe.
“She’s going to die!” shouts Isabella’s partner and you can tell the girl you’re leaning over believes it too. You reach over her and unplug her seatbelt. Then, you pull her out of the car and lay her down flat onto the pavement–you’re a woman living alone in downtown LA, so you have the blade covered–and pluck a small salvation army knife from your pocket. The tube though, that’s tricky. “Do you have a purse? I need it,” and the woman dumps her leather bag onto the ground for you to sift through. There’s a reusable straw and holy shit—this is crazy, but it will work. That’s what you tell yourself at least, as you make the incision and insert the section of straw. As her eyes snap back open and you hear a gasp. “You’re going to be fine, Isabella. Try not to move. There should be a RA unit here soon to take you to the hospital.”
Someone else runs up to you, frantic. “Please, please, you have to help. My brother, he’s stuck in the truck. He can’t get out.”
You look at Isabella’s partner, “keep her still, and come find me if anything happens, I’ve got to go. Someone call 9-1-1 and figure out where the hell help is!”
“Someone has called 9-1-1, right?!” you shout, and someone waves their hand, pointing to the phone and that’s enough for you to start running towards the person who needs help.
He’s stuck in the truck and it’s rolled on its side. You climb inside and help him to unpin himself, but it’s evident his leg is crushed. “I’m going to climb topside and I’ll give you my hand,” he stares at your arm and says “Are you sure?” you laugh, as you hear the first sign of sirens in the distance. “I have two hands, don’t worry. This one’s good,” and you do half of jazz-hands with your injured one. “I’ll pull you up. C’mon.”
You pull yourself up onto the side of the truck. You use one of the headrests as a step-ladder and with everything left in you, you manage to climb out. The man in the truck gives you his hand and you try so hard to pull him out. You don’t think you've ever tried harder to do something.
The firetrucks arrive, with the ambulances, and the police cruisers pull in slightly after. “Hey!” you yell, “Over here!” because as proud as you are, as much as you would love to be able to do this yourself, you can’t, and it’s a man that suffers if you don’t get him out of here. “I need some help!” and a moment later there’s a presence behind you, reaching over you. All you see from your angle is a deep blue T-shirt, bunched high on a very built bicep. “I’ve got him miss, you can let go.” His hand overlaps yours and oh no. What even is your luck? You turn to the side to confirm your suspicions and… Dirty blonde hair that’s nearly brown, it’s fluffy, and his eyes are as blue as the day you last saw them. His brows are straight and soft and they accentuate the birthmark by his eye that’s so distinctively him. It’s unique and–and it’s Evan. Buck. It’s Buck. He looks at you in that way only he can, like a kicked puppy. Somehow sad and surprised and soft all over. He keeps staring at you this way, with a hint of confusion and a lot of everything else: of all the memories you two shared, the concern he felt at seeing your state, maybe even the anger. The man below says, “Hey! Not sure what I’m interrupting but It’d be great to get out of here,” and you both snap out of the reunion-spurred trance you’re in. “I’ve got him,” says Buck, brows creasing with concentration.
His hand is layered overtop yours when you refuse, shaking your head ever so slightly.
Maybe it’s because you’re determined to get your would-be-patient out of the truck.
Maybe it’s because you’re taking this whole thing as an excuse to keep touching Buck, to keep holding his hand.
Maybe it’s because you hit your head. Yeah. Yeah, let’s go with that one.
But even though your hand is tugging on the man’s, Buck is the one who does all of the heavy lifting. His bicep flexes as he hauls the man out of the cramped cab and passes him off to Hen and Chimney. Chimney who frowns, “is that Y/n?” and Hen tells him, in the same low tone, but hissed: “Focus! Chim, we gotta deal with this man’s leg, it could–”
You hop down from the truck’s top, landing somewhat unsteadily, but Buck’s beside you and in his fix-it nature, he makes sure you’re stable. “It’s compartment syndrome. You need to–”
Hen interrupts you right back, “We’re trained, Y/n. We know what to do, you–” and the hostility falls away for a moment when she sees the makeshift sling you’ve made for yourself. “Do you need medical attention?”
The bad blood is very much there between you and the 118. When you and Buck broke up (this you know from Maddie) he was wrecked, and seeing Buckley like that took a toll on the team of firefighters he worked with. The 118 was family and you had hurt one of theirs; you weren’t a part of that family anymore. “I’m alright,” you say, brushing them off, is Isabella?”
Chim’s eyes widen, “You mean the girl with the straw in her throat?” and when you nod, he says, “she’s on route to the hospital, right now. You saved her life. Field tracheostomy, impressive stuff, L/n.” He pauses, “You’re sure you won’t let me take a look at that? You’re refusing treatment?” and you nod. “I’ll get it checked out. Just, I don’t need to waste your resources.”
“Y/n,” says Buck. Voice low and almost like a warning. Buck’s seldom been serious in the time you’ve known him so it gives you pause.
“Evan, I’m fine. You know me. All I need is a Mcdonald’s smoothie.”
“And I’ll get you one, if you just let them look you over.”
You wave him off. You’re feeling fine (minus the obviously very excruciating pain) and you’ve never liked looking weak in front of anyone–especially not Buck. He’s woefully understanding and expertly navigates anything thrown his way: few too many times it has been your issues, your problems he’s been made to deal with. And it’s simple as this, now. You aren’t his problem anymore.
You start walking away and he matches your pace. “Guys, guys!” he tells Hen and Chim, “I’ll be right back. I just have to–”
“Go! Go,” Hen urges and he doesn’t need to be told twice.
He follows after you, talking with his hands. “C’mon Y/n/n,” he corrects himself, “Y/n. Just let them take a quick look. You know Chim and Hen are good. It won’t take long, you’ll get back to whatever it is you were doing soon.”
And you shake your head again.
“Okay, okay, that’s fine. Talk to me, Y/n. What are you doing in LA? How long have you been back?”, it’s no coincidence that your head starts to spin at his line of questioning, “Are you staying? Have you found a place to stay or are you just visiting? Does–does Maddie know you’re in town? I know she’d love to see you.” Buck’s voice is rising in volume and he’s talking faster, something you know he does when he’s stressed, and you’re not making it easier on him, not at all. You’re not about to ease his worries because when you open your mouth none of the right sounds come out, and all you can manage is the one thing you’ve never been able to forget: his name. “Buck–” you say, your own eyes widening, and you stop walking and reach your hand out to his chest, grabbing the fabric of his shirt. “Buck.”
He says your name, blue eyes blown wide.
He reaches down, tucking one of his arms under your knees and the other under your arms, and he pulls you to your chest. You let out a loud cry and he starts to run with you, while you try and mouth your explanation, ‘R-ribs.”
“H-head.”
“You’re going to be okay, baby. You’re going to be okay,” he promises. You, himself, does it matter? “Chim!” he yells, “CHIM! I need you over here, right now!”
“Buck, she didn’t consent to treatment, I can’t–”
“I don’t care!” he yells, “HELP her!” and there’s no arguing. None, not as Chimney starts his work, checking you out and situating you in the ambulance. “I’m sorry, but I’m riding with her,” Buck says, and Bobby nods. “Go. Go with her,” he says, giving his permission.
You wake up in the hospital with Buck at your bedside. The doctor reads you your symptoms and checks in about your pain-level. “A severe concussion,” she says, “the trouble speaking was expressive aphasia. We’ll keep you here for a few days for observation. Your husband here has been very worried,” she says, voice a low whisper, “He hasn’t left your side. You’re very lucky to have him,” she speaks as quietly as she does so not to wake Buck, whose sleeping with his hands crossed and resting on his bedside and his head resting on your thigh. “I am,” you’ve found your words.
The nurse leaves after letting you know what button to press if the pain gets too much and you need medication. When she’s gone, and the door to your room is shut, you place your hand on his head. Thread it through his hair and watch as he wakes slowly, eyes peeling open, landing on you, lazily. “Husband, huh?” you tease and Buck’s cheeks turn pink as he grows flustered. “I– they don’t tell you anything if you’re not family and they don’t let you into the room if– I just… It just slipped out. The word Husband was my–”
“If only I was so lucky,” you say softly.
Buck freezes. “Wh–What?”
“I missed you.”
He sounds hopeful. “Yeah?”
“Mhm,” you humm. “Think you’ll give me a second chance? You can come over to my place and I’ll bake those cookies you really like.”
“Every chance I have to give is yours, Y/n. But you’re not the only one who screwed up. It’s a date, and I’ll bring one of those smoothies you like.”
“Come here.”
Buck leans over you and– “ow. Ow, not there.” He moves and you wrap your good arm around him, hugging him tight. “Thanks Buck. Thank you so much. For everything.”
Dick Grayson has given up. His back is against the wall (quite literally) and he’s taken off one of his rings, and is now rolling it between his thumb and index finger.
“I’m going to kill Batman,” you seethe, red with rage, as you jam your lock-picks into the door to no avail.
“Want to say that a little louder?” asks Dick (never in your life had you seen someone be named so accurately) “Say it loud enough that Tim can hear it on security cameras? That way I can have you thrown in Arkham for conspiracy to commit murder?”
You shoot him an insincere smile, “I’m not sure ‘conspiracy’ is an Arkham-worthy crime, but maybe, just maybe, I’ll kill you and that will be more then worth the sentence. Twelve to life, whatever the hell it is. It’d be worth it as long as you weren’t here to—“
He interrupts you, “To save you whenever you’re in over your head? To be my irresistible and charming self? To—“
You grab one of the cans from the shelf and launch it at him, “To shut the fuck up? Have you ever tried that?”
Now, whether or not your aim is perfect (it is), Dick catches the can in front of his face and considers it, “Chicken soup. Not terrible but…” he frowns at you, mocking, “predictable. Surprised? Cause I never am. Let me guess, you’re going to throw some more things? Scream a little?”
“I hate you,” you spit.
He rolls his eyes. “Try telling me something new. Like I said, predictable.”
You jam your shoulder into the door, pushing. It doesn’t budge. Not at all, and you let out an agitated groan. “Don’t you have a tool-belt, or something? Aren’t you like, known for carrying everything under the sun to compensate for your lack of power?”
“And yet, you and all of yours can’t get out of a fucking food pantry. I’m real impressed.”
You jam your shoulder into the door. Once, then twice. It doesn’t work. Just aches. Dick Grayson watches you with complete disinterest while you try, to no avail, to open the door. You switch strategies, planting on of you feet behind you and slamming the other one into the door near the lock. The first kick lands and you swear, the door rattles. You try again and instead of the sole of your foot landing on the wood, the corner of your shoe does. It twists to the side and a sob forces it’s way from your throat as you slide down the door (the one that remains very closed), wrap your hands around your throbbing ankle and rest your head on your kneecap. Tears are gathered in your eyes, and you won’t let them fall—you won’t. Not with Dickhead Grayson judging you so completely.
Speak of the devil, he’s leaning over you, to your side, whispering something about how stupid that was—or you are, and dammit, you just don’t want to here it right now. You cry quietly. At least you’re good at that. Unfortunately, something you can’t do is shake subtlety. Your shoulders tremor, wracked with sobs and then Dick’s hand is underneath your chin, the other on your cheek, and he lifts your head—you fight that, but he’s not playing around like he usually is. “Hey,” he says, “none of that,” and he swipes your tears away as they fall either the pads of his thumb.
And you’re so embarrassed.
He pokes and prods your ankle in several different places, asking where it hurts and receiving his answer in winces. “I don’t think it’s broken. Definitely sprained, though.”
“I even screwed up a break, huh?”
He scowls. “You didn’t screw anything up.”
“You weren’t saying that yesterday. Or this morning for that matter. You—“
“I’m an idiot, okay? And you almost had that door, I swear. I though you did, but Bats, all of his stuff is reinforced to high hell and back. Even the pantries.”
“I know how to kick open a door, Dick.”
“I know you do. You almost had it.”
“I screwed it up, Dick. Like I screw everything up— like I always screw everything up,” and you start sobbing again, start shaking.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey, where’s this coming from?” and he pulls you into his chest, wrapping you in his arms, and propping his knees up. “Gonna keep it elevated, okay?” he tells you, moving your ankle to their peak.
“I mess everything up, Grayson. It’s why you hate me so much. I… I ruin things. Our mission, briefings, your pancakes, when it’s supposed to be my turn making breakfast.”
His head dips and he speaks into the crux of your neck and shoulder, still holding you tight. “I fucking love those pancakes,” and you laugh but he’s not done. Nowhere near it, “and I don’t… I don’t hate you. Not even close. What we have? This thing between us? It’s the farthest thing from hate that I’ve ever known.”
“But…”
“No. Yeah you piss me off sometimes. Yeah, sometimes I’m so angry with you that I can’t breathe because you takes risks you shouldn’t and those risks? The only person they ever put in jeopardy is you, who in case I haven’t made it clear with all the ridiculously obvious flirting I’ve been doing, I care about a lot. Too much, really. Y/n, I love you so much it makes me stupid.”
“You do?” And nevermind your ankle, you turn to face him. Already being in his lap, your faces are inches apart. You smile, “you do look stupid,” and you crash your lips against his, kissing him hard. To catch your breath, or so he can catch his, you pull away for a moment. His eyes open wide in surprise, because out of all the ways he saw this playing out? The thing he’d been fantaising about for months hadn’t even made the list. “You make me pretty stupid, too, Grayson.”
He smiles down at you, adoration the most obvious emotion he’s ever worn. “You’ve never needed help with the pretty part.” Then, like he’s forgotten something incredibly important, he frowns, “you kissed me,” and oh– “Oh, I’m sorry, you rush. Is that not– did you not want…”
“No. No, Y/n, that’s all I think I’ve ever wanted, but, I was supposed to kiss you.”
Your smile is back–just where he wants it. You tap your lips, “I’m right here, Grayson.”
The pantry door is wrenched open and you fall right on top of him. In the kitchen, stands Jason, Damian and Tim. “So. When’s the wedding, big brother?” asks Damian.
Dick helps you off of him, he carries you to the stool situated at the kitchen island (even though you have one completely uninjured leg, ripe for hopping) and he storms over to his three brothers. “Whose bright idea was that?” he snaps, and all of them, save Jason, look somewhat afraid. Oh, and Damian, of course, he’d never be scared of Dick. Nope. Not even a little bit–if anyone ever asks, that is. “Mine,” says Jason, unafraid of consequence. “And it had a pretty happy ending if you ask me, so. I’ll take thank-yous in cash and yeah, of course I’ll be your best-man.”
Dick has seen the security footage. You and him, together, on Tim’s laptop. You, with your ankle lifted and swollen. “Who thought it’d be funny to keep the door locked after she hurt herself?”
Tim rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I… I told you we should’ve let her out,” he hisses in a low and fearful tone. “My best man?” says Dick, “You want to me my best man?” He raises his fist, ready to strike and Damian starts sprinting away. “I’M SORRY RICHARD!” he screams over his shoulder, as Jason tosses a lazy thumb in his direction. “It was that kid. Tim didn’t even want to access the footage. Felt bad about invading your privacy and worse about everything else,” Jason claps Dick on the shoulder before he gives chase. “Don’t worry, brother. I emailed you the file.”
“DAMIAN!!!” Dick shouts, chasing him down the hall. “GET BACK HERE! I JUST WANNA TALK!”
You chuckle and Jason presses and icepack into your palm. “Took you long enough. Sorry we had to intervene. It was getting embarrassing. For everyone. Iwas starting to feel like I was walking in on something unholy whenever I saw you two together.”
“So you decided to record it instead?”
He looks at you straight-faced. “Hate to break it to you, bud, but your boyfriend’s a freak. I highly doubt that’s the last camera that’ll see you kiss him.”
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings:swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i’ve missed.
Chapter Thirteen
Johnny looks away when you start shaking and shedding layers. When you insist on throwing said layers out of the helicopter and Simon looks terrified that you’re going to try and throw yourself out, too. When he dresses you in his massive jacket you settle, though.
No one will ever mention it.
BACK AT BASE: 4 DAYS LATER…
The doctor is irritating. Both the medical one and the mental one. Simon stayed by your side for the first few days but he had been relieved, convinced by his Captain, Captain Price, to go home and shower and rest because he hadn’t, because of you, in around a week. Convinced, is a weak word, too. Ordered, is more fitting. “These symptoms you’re experiencing are normal given what you’ve endured. Anxiety, nightmares, panic, they’re all a part of PTSD but it’s important to know that you’re not alone. You have a support system. You have people that care about you and want what’s best for you,” explains the psychiatrist in a soft voice you know she must reserve for her most damaged patients. You still maintain that this is useless. You’re fine. You’re fucked in the head, this is nothing new nor groundbreaking. “You don’t have to be alone in your healing, Miss L/n,” and you don’t correct her use of your maiden name because you’re still not sure where you and Simon stand. You don’t know what he’s thinking, you don’t know what he’s feeling, you don’t have the support system you need, and you do feel alone, because even though it makes sense (you understand that Thomas shouldn’t see you like this) all you want is your son.
“Care to share what you’re thinking about?” prompts Doctor Lenner, sitting down in the blue arm chair, making herself comfortable.
“I’m thinking I’d like to leave,” you tell her, for what must be the fifteenth fucking time.
And she responds like she always does. “Soon. Once we’ve settled on a plan for outpatient treatment, going home (do you have one?) is the next natural step. First we need to assess your wellbeing and then we can decide which kind of therapy is the best choice for you and whether or not medication is necessary. Remember, anything you tell me is confidential unless…” you are at risk of harming yourself or others. You know the drill.
You nod and play nice until Lenner leaves and then you decide it’s high-fucking-time for you to, too. Your injuries have healed, you detoxed from the Zombie Drug on your third day because the usage wasn’t too prolonged (this time) and your labs came back normal from the Blue toxin exposure on the second day. It was day #4 now and you were done with all of these fucking precautions and treatments and glass-walking. Everyone tiptoed around you, Simon barely looked at you, and you were labelled a “flight risk”.
With you being military before you were declared “KIA” they kept you in the medical wing on base. Which, yeah, made escape a little more difficult. But you knew the 141, knew Captain Price, and Gaz, and Soap, and Simon. Knew how they looked at you (how they didn’t) and hell, you even knew Faith, a little. And you knew other people. Other soldiers. How they functioned, how they would react to someone they perceived as really fucking traumatised. They might try to lead you back to the med-wing but if anyone understood PTSD it was soldiers, and if you were a betting woman you would put money down: No one would force you back to the hospital bed, no one would restrain you, or inject you with anything–be it harmless sedative or not.
The window was bolted shut but you had your ways. You twisted the knife you smuggled into the med-bay in the screws and wow, who doesn’t love fresh-air? You slide along the wall of the building for a moment before jumping down, and landing in a crouch. Your knees whine in protest upon connecting with the ground but you ignore them. It’s nothing bad, just the cost of being laid up and kept away from the gym for such a time. You’re in the home-stretch, but of course, you can’t sneak through the gatehouse and the greenie working the gate has some balls, at least.
“Captain Price,” you greet at his approach.
“Rook.”
You almost smile–you had missed that name.
“I’d like to leave, Sir.”
“I can see that. You jumped from a second story hospital window. That I was told was fuckin’ bolted shut,” he’s looking at you like you’re ridiculous, like your a kid whose bullshit he’s getting tired of, but he’s not looking at you like you’re broken. Like you’re something fragile (nevermind if you are), like you’ll cry at the drop of a hat, like you’re porcelain.
“I think you should get better bolts.”
“Better security’s more like it. Speakin ‘o. I’d like you to go back to the medbay.”
“I’d like to leave.”
“We’ve established that, Rook. I think you’ve left Simon enough though, no?”
You scowl. “It’s not like that, John,” it’s the first time you’ve addressed him as anything other than Captain Price. You might be pissed, too tired for this, or it might just be Kate’s influence finally fading. “I’ve got a kid,” and he’s got what feels like five, your point is?
“From what I hear, he’s not just yours. That’s a story I’m sure.”
You scoff, “don’t act like you, everyone on base, and their dog,” dog, dog, dog, “hasn’t heard it.”
“We haven’t. Simon kept it quiet. The rescue mission he and Soap took off on? Unsanctioned, off the books. I had no idea about it until the shites were calling for extraction.”
Oh. “I’d still like to leave.”
“He’ll be gutted.”
“He’ll know where I am.”
RUNES PLACE…
You’re sat on the floor playing Monster High Dolls with Thomas. “Are you ‘kay, Mommy?” Tommy asks while waddling his Cleo doll towards the Laguna one you’re holding. “Yeah bud,” you tell him, “I’m so much better now. I missed you so much.”
“I missed you lots more.”
“You did?” You doubt it, but you'll let him have it. He nods enthusiastically and you have The Talk. You hope that Simon won’t mind. You’ve had a lot more time to acclimatise to being a mom than he has to the idea of being a dad. “Tommy, bud, have I ever told you about your dad?”
He senses the seriousness in your voice and sets Cleo face down, wades over to you and plops down in your lap, looking up. “Some things. Tha he’s big and strong and if I eat my veggies I’ll be like him when I’s big.”
“And?”
“That you love him so much and he loved you lots and it’s why I’m so full of love.”
“And?”
“You miss him. And someday I’ll meet him–” Tommy pauses. “Mommy. Is it some day?”
“Soon, buddy. Real soon. I got to see your dad again when I was on my work trip. He helped me so much and… you know Auntie Rune’s friends that were here the other night. The big guy with your same eyes. That’s your daddy, baby.”
He hugs you. So tight it steals your breath. Then he looks up at you, bobbing his head. “You picked me a really good daddy, mumma. S–eye-min, Simon,” he says, squishing the syllables together, “is the one who put me to bed cus Ruey was nappin. He read me boox. Books.”
“He read you a bedtime story?”
“Yes. I yike him lots.”
“Mommy?”
“Yeah bud?”
“You ware rweally good at picking people to love.”
THE NEXT DAY…
The beeping starts and Rune rolls her eyes, silencing it with a click on her phone. “Loverboy’s here!” she whispers to you. “Tommy and I will go play a game and you can… do your thing.” Rune smiles, pats your shoulder to try and transfer some of her blind optimism and hope and confidence to you, “You got this, bro. Go girl, go.”
You look at her like she’s crazy. She shrugs, “I’ve been reading Dr Seuss to your kid. And I’m glad I did–no, like, Y/n, you don’t understand. I’m a poet and I didn’t know-et. It’s ruining me.”
You laugh, she smiles, and waves you off.
You meet Simon on the deck, nevermind that it’s pouring, “Hi,” you say.
“You left.”
“I didn’t leave you, Si–mon,” you don’t know if you’re back in nickname territory yet, if he’s okay with that. “I left the hospital and that cardboard coffin bed, and the tests, and the doctor.”
“Before tha’?”
“I was compromised. That mission I left on, Kate… she told me then. She said you would be a target if I stayed, and…”
“I could’a handled it. You… you were pregnant. You…”
“I named him Thomas.”
“Tommy,” he says, soft.
“I told him about you. And… he said that I picked really good people to love.”
His voice homes out rough. “Yeah?”
“I know you told me not to apologise in Urzikstan, but we’re not overseas anymore, Simon, and… I’m so fucking sorry. I am. Leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. You and Thomas are my everything. My entire fucking world. I love you and I’m sorry for everything. I love you and I’m sorry and thank you for getting me out of there. I don’t know what–”
The rain is making small puddles, bouncing off the wooden deck, landing on you, slicking your hair to your head and Simon’s to his. It pours onto your face but you blink past it, through it. Your eyes stay locked to each other's and his hand cups the nape of your neck.
Your lips mould together and kissing him feels like home. He feels like home. Simon kisses you like he’s starved, and in a way he is; he has been starved of you. He tastes you, your lips, your open mouthed gasp. “I love you. Not a day since we met that I ‘aven’t,” he says, breathing warm against you, eyes full of everything else you leave unsaid. You scrunch the fabric of his collar in your fist and pull his face back down to yours, kissing him again. Your desperation mixes with his. Groans, his low and gritty, yours lighter and just as need-filled, echo out, and you hear the jingle of a doorknob. Rune peaks out onto the porch, and Thomas runs out past her, his legs little but determined.
Rune stifles a laugh, eyes darting between you (tucked against her siding) and Simon (gripping the railing with unprecedented strength, maybe restraint) who both are breathing hard, heavy, and sharing glances. Simon looks at you, looking hungry. You look at him, a near-satisfied small smile painted on and then Thomas splits the charged silence.
He looks at Simon, then at you.
You nod.
Tommy squeals and launches himself at Simon’s legs. He hugs him tight and Simon moves one of his hands from the railing to the little boy’s back. Tommy grins up at him. “Hi dadda,” and you swear you watch the formidable Simon Riley, the big bad Ghost–melt. “Hey Tommy. Missed ya, kid,” and Tommy puts his arms up in the air. Simon, he picks him up and holds him close.
You love these boys with all the pieces you have left.
ONE MONTH LATER… Yours, Simon’s, Tommy’s Place…
You’ve been married for years. Now, more than ever, Simon likes to keep you close. You’re not on active duty anymore, not active military and not not a part of Task Force 141 even though occasionally, they request your expertise much to your husband’s dis-fucking-pleasure. The choice to leave the field was a hard one but Simon’s opinion, his fear, were why you caved easier than you ever had. Simon pays mind to you, too, to your fear, and stress, and he goes on less missions than he’s ever, but no one minds–not Price, not Gaz, not Soap, not Faith.
Even after all this time, he keeps you close—in the grocery store, on missions, in bed, squished against his chest, trapped under his arm, Thomas wedged between you. He’s still scared you’ll disappear but you kiss him soft and tell him if you do, he’ll find you, he’ll bring you home. And he would.
He’s still worried he’ll be a bad father but you know it’s bullshit, now. Thomas adores him, looks at him like he’s hung the moon and the sun and the stars in the sky–he has hung yours. You and Simon are pieces of work, but, like you always have been, you’re pieces that work together.
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings:swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i’ve missed.
Chapter Twelve
Rune wakes up without confusion weighing on her this time. She’s laying on her couch and Thomas is nowhere to be seen. Johnny is taking a nap of his own, ball cap (that he borrowed from Gaz) pointing low and hiding a large portion of his face. Twin shut eyes, included. When he wakes up Rune is on top of him and there are many scenarios where he wouldn’t mind that but she’s holding a knife to his throat and (there’s a few situations in which he still wouldn’t mind but this isn’t one of them because she’s) crying. Tears are running down her cheeks and he doesn’t dare move. Not out of fear–he could disarm her easily–but because she’s crying. Happy go lucky Rune is crying. “What did you do?” she seethes. “Where is he?”
Oh. Realisation dawns on him at the same time Simon breaches the archway. “I put th’kid to bed. He looked bloody exhausted.”
Rune sags in relief. It’s only Soap’s reflexes that allow him to take the knife and set her right again. “Yer alright, Runie.”
“Tha’s not been decided yet,” says Simon, ignoring his mate’s glare. “You’ve got some fuckin’ explaining to do.”
Not as much as she thinks, though. Simon and Johnny, they’re both smart men.
Smart and articulate remain to be two very different things, though. For all the ideas in the world, all the theories, all the long-ago smothered hope, Simon can’t bring himself to say it. Johnny does the talking for him. “His Ma is Reaper, ain’t she?”
Rune fiddles with her fingers.
“No lies,” says Simon, in that gruff assertive tone of his. Then, his voice morphs. It takes on an edge of desperation that Rune sees in his eyes, too. “Please.”
Even Johnny seems surprised. He’s quite sure he’s never heard Simon say that six letter word before. Quite sure, that if they were back on base and not in the middle of such a sensitive situation, that he would mark it on his calendar or make an announcement from the top of a cafeteria table in the meal hall.
“Yes,” she says.
“She’s Reaper, ain’t she?”
Rune takes a deep breath and promises to send you a text except for the fact that… oh god. She buries her head in her hands so she doesn’t have to see their reactions and confirms again, “Yes.”
“Say it,” Simon chokes out. “Say it.”
“Y/n’s alive. She… she’s Reaper.”
Rune and Johnny both watch Simon with the veiled interest one would watch a bomb. With the same intensity, too. They’re waiting for him to blow up, to explode–because he will–and Simon is wishing for his mask. He turns away from the two of them, doesn’t bother excusing himself, and lights a cigarette on Rune’s front porch. He smokes three. Drag after agony filled fucking drag. You had died. He had your wedding ring on a chain around his neck, your dogtags, he wore them around his neck because when the world finally took him, all anyone would need to know, to know him, was who he had loved. To know Simon Riley you had to know his wife. His wife who hadn’t died, who had a kid–his kid, there was no mistaking that, and had named him Thomas. Tommy. Fucking Tommy. She had done all of that and left him anyway. But… she was alive to leave him. She was alive, above ground, she wasn’t gone. Just like that, the love of his life, the woman he had mourned for three years, wasn’t dead. His wife was alive. His wife, who he had seen in Urzikstan, who he had touched. Who had been hurt. Simon grips the balcony and he pukes over its edge. He smokes another cigarette, he pretends his eyes aren’t red and he wipes the bile from his lips.
Johnny and Rune ignore his red eyes, too.
Rune has been spoken to by Johnny. “The truth is out, you might as well tell ‘im the rest of it,” he had said.
“Yer tellin me she left her wee one here and took off with a hit-list? That she's gone tae Urzikstan to kill Naseer Hadi and cut off coms. Who the fuck is Naseer Hadi?”
Simon is hazy on those details, too. What he knows is this. Sometimes, you woke up screaming that name.
Rune gnaws on her lip. “He’s a bad guy. A really bad guy and I think he… I know he…”
“He what?”
And Rune explains it. How you were recruited by the CIA at 19 in 2009, how you and two other operatives were taken in 2011, and how you were the only one to escape in 2012.
“And how d’ya know this?”
Rune doesn’t want to answer. “I… I accessed the CIA’s files on the operation and on Y/n. Simon… you don’t want to see this. It’s not…” but he looks anyway, at your statements, at the report of your injuries. He looks at everything.
“Her list.” Is all he can manage.
Rune retrieves it. She tells him Murphy is dead, and that her targets in Urzikstan are Naseer and his three most trusted men. Simon looks to Johnny, who fills in, “I’m thinkin’ he wants ev’ry name mentioned in his–in ‘er file,”
Simon nods and Rune curates him his own hit-list, she sends it to his phone with no notes. Simon reads it. “M’gonna kill every fuckin one of ‘em.”
IN URZIKSTAN…
“Oh flower, how I missed you,” coos Naseer when The Bounty Hunter throws you onto the ground at his feet. You want to tell him to get fucked, you want to tell him that he’s a freak and you’ve spent every night since you last saw him pleading with the universe that he get his. That he choke on every terrible thing he’s ever done and that he then, choke on his blood. You’ve wanted this man dead for nearly as many years as you’ve been known as Reaper. You want to tell him that you would pay all the money you have made and will ever make to see him tucked into the earth or turned to dust, to ash, that can be made into celebratory fucking fireworks. Instead, you look up at him and play your part. “I missed you too. So much.”
You make yourself sick.
“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, Flower.”
He doesn’t like apologies. It’s one blessing, since you don’t know if you can force yourself to say “sorry” to the cockroach of all cockroaches. You say nothing and let him continue his monologue.
“You burned one of my compounds to the ground—don’t think I didn’t recognize your handiwork, Flower, though I think you’ve forgotten mine. You stole my girls,” the sentiment makes you gag. Human trafficking scum like Naseer deserves a fate worse than death; you’d love to give it to him but you can’t even lift your head. An hour, it will be an hour before you regain autonomy. Maybe slightly less than that, as you’re much stronger this go around, “You killed my men. You’ve completely forgotten your place. Your job. You’ve forgotten that you’re mine, haven’t you Flower?”
“I haven’t.” You tell him— “I know that I’m yours to do whatever you want with. I know I’m at your mercy.”
He tuts, “And I wish I could believe you. I wish I could trust you but I don’t even know you anymore, Flower. I don’t know if you’re still worthy of me and my affections. We’ll see, won’t we?” Naseer procures a syringe, and you feel true bone-deep fear for the first time in quite a while. The liquid is Blue and you think your face might turn green. It’s what killed Lux, what almost took you with. “Please,” and the begging is not pretend. “Don’t—I’ll be better. I’ll…”
Naseer delights in your panic. “You’ll get your chance, Flower. If you’re worthy,” and he kneels overtop you in a way that makes your heart rate rise. He grips your cheeks and squeezes, forcing your mouth open, and then he pushes the plunger and squeezes a full dose of Blue onto your tongue.
The world passes in half-second flashes.
Time isn’t real.
Nothing is.
Sounds are earsplitting. Abrasive. You hear the CREAK of a wood panel, the SLAM of a door, the CLASH of chains and the CLICK of a lock.
The sun blinds you and you squeeze your eyes shut—the pressure the action creates inside your skull is too much. Your head is like a balloon that’s overfull. It’s ready to burst. Ready to crackcrackcrack open on the pavement, you are on pavement, right? It’s ready to splittttttt—
“Flowerrrrrrrrr,” you hear sung. You hate flowers. Daffodils, daisys, hate, hate hate.
A whimper tears itself from somewhere. Not from you—it can’t be. Your voice is hoarse, then gone. Your hands dig in the dirt, nails clawing at the earth in an attempt to hold yourself in place but you can’t. You can’t and you’re spinning and spinning and spinning and sweating. Water has stuck your shirt to you. You’re soaked and you shiver, your teeth gnash against each-other and your shirt is wet and then it’s gone.
You’re cold and you're hot and your body aches and it burns. Your heart is loud, you hear your blood. Badum, Badum, Badum. You hear the single lightbulb, you see Naseer’s smile. His narrow angry eyes. His missing ear, his burnt jaw.
His laugh.
Everything echoes: noise, colour, memories.
Everything aches:your veins, your head, you’ve bashed it into the floor during the seizures, your fingers bleed and so does your abused scalp.
It stops eventually.
5 DAYS LATER… (almost one week, not quite)
After however many days. He deems you worthy, injects you with a dose of Zombie Drug and has you dragged to his quarters. The maids dress you seductively, in lingerie, to make up for lost time and you think that maybe you’ll kill them, too. Naseer takes his time because he wants you to sweat. You don’t, you’re ready. You count the seconds, test your awareness even in your post fever haze. After thirty minutes you can wiggle your toes. Your mouth is untouched, able to spit vitriol, to speak and to scream. It’s a piece of the drug you had seldom taken advantage of. Your voice, it did nothing here. Chains anchor each of your limbs to a respective corner bedpost and when Naseer comes into the room, crooning, and telling his guards to leave the left wing. Left wing, left wing, left wing–you had your plan. The tears pooled down your cheeks and he lapped them up with his tongue, his foul breath painted your face and he moved over top of you. Naseer began to kiss up your neck. Then he began to crawl further up you; he gave you his neck and that was it. This was it.
Finally.
All you were was a dog. A dog who had tasted blood, a dog who had bitten, who would bite again. You sunk your teeth into Naseer’s throat and you, as a veteran life-taker, were familiar with anatomy. When his poisonous blood began to spray against the wall, into your mouth, you knew you had hit the artery you intended. With all your acquired strength, you shook your head and ripped. Skin tore, Naseer staggered. “You b-bitch,” but his words were slurred. Weak. He was dying. Fucking finally. You laughed. You smiled. He fell onto his knees and then onto his face, resting in a pile of his own fucking fluid. You spit Naseer’s skin onto the bed beside you and though no one can prove this fact, you cried.
An hour later you had your strength back. But, strength or not, you were no match for iron restraints. Your wrists, your ankles, they were both red and raw. Bruised. Bleeding.
Sometime later, gunshots rouse you from your state of dissociation. The silence in Naseer’s mansion is interrupted by shouting and shooting and you’re not too sure what’s happening. You’re sure you need to get out, though. Your research had told you nothing of a turf war, of no one that dared oppose Naseer’s iron (smelling) rule. You dislocate your thumb and pull your hand through the shackle. You lean across yourself and do the same to your other hand, freeing it. But your ankles. Your fucking ankles. Does Naseer have the keys? Probably. You paw over to his corpse and check his pockets, nauseous at the prospect of your hands on him, of his skin touching you again, of… keys. Does he have a gun? A knife?
You find a knife. It’s nothing heavy-duty but you’ve felt it on your skin before.
You’ve taken knives to gunfights before.
You slot the keys into the lock and spring from the bed. You wrench open the armoury and the clothes are all his. You’d nearly rather go nude. Your hands shake as you trade the lingerie for a pair of black cargo pants and a navy blue button up. Your fingers barely manage to lock the buttons into their places, you shake and shake and shake. But you’re ready.
(You’re not)
(You have to be)
(You have never been a person with choices)
The shooting is closer. You hear bullets embed themselves in people that are oh-so deserving, and the door to Naseer’s room slams open.
Naseer’s second looks between you and his boss and he raises his gun. He points it at your head. At this point, it is what it is. What your head is full of, right now, is nothing good.
It’s not that you want to die, it’s that you’re not sure how to live. It’s that you’re fucking tired, and you’ve just relived the worst moments of your life (and some), it’s that you can’t do it anymore. It’s that you don’t know if jumping out of his sights is worth it. You’d rather be shot in the head than shot in the shoulder, in the thigh, in the stomach, the arm, and then die anyway. You don’t move, you let him look at you, look at his very very dead boss. You wait for him to start monologuing or to pull the trigger. He raises the gun, aims at your head, and then there’s a sharp crack and a bullet in his.
–He does go down hard, Rune was right.
A man behind him fills the doorway, he has broad shoulders and a broad chest. His firearm falls to his side, and with his other hand, he pulls his mask off.
It’s him.
Your mouth opens to say his name, to say something. To say sorry, to explain, to beg for forgiveness. To tell him you didn’t want to lie to him, or disappear on him, to tell him you love him, to– you sob. It’s loud, it’s sudden, it explodes from your chest with a certain power. The noises you make are that of an injured animal. Desperate, confused. You’re sick. Sick, sick, sick, and Simon bridges the too-big space between you in three strides. He wraps you in his arms. One around your bank, and he tucks you to him. He holds you against him and you cry and cry and cry. Simon Riley is many things, and not a liar, never to you, so it would be unfair to say his eyes stayed dry. They didn’t. He presses his lips to the crown of your head and before discarding his weapon, he empties the mag into Naseer’s corpse. The man’s body ripples as bullets bury themselves in his head, his chest, his groin. When Simon’s done, he tosses the gun on top of him, and you let out a tear-filled laugh. Nothing’s funny, not really, but he’s gone. The monster who has tormented you for years is gone and so are his men. So is agent Murphy. So is everyone that knows your identity, and would dare whisper it allowed. They’re all gone and you’re free.
The strength leaves your body. The fight, the energy. You slump in Simon’s arms and you can’t stop crying. His hand finds the back of your head. He holds you, effortlessly, and it’s all you’ve ever wanted as you cling to him. The sleeve of the blue button down gets in the way and you nearly puke. “I– I…”
“I got you.”
And he did.
“I love you.”
And he did.
“I– I love you too, S-Si. I’m so… So sorry.”
Simon doesn’t ever want you feeling like your voice isn’t heard. He’s never been one to let you say stupid shit to him, either, though. “None o’ that, luv. Hear me?” and you look at him, more uncertain than he’s ever seen you. More broken. “Y’don need to apologise to me for wha’ever you had to do t’survive. Not righ now, yeah?”
You nod against his chest.
Mactavish appears in the same doorway Simon did. He lets himself look at you, but not for too long. It’s not his place to comment on the blood smeared across your face, on your face, the one that’s bruised and as scared as he’s ever seen it. Not his place to do anything but use his Scottish charm. “It’s good to see ya bonnie,” then to Ghost. “The floor is cleared. ‘Copter’s waitin.”
Simon picks you up. He doesn’t offer you the choice: walk or don’t, because he knows you, no matter how long it’s been. He simply carries you, he simply takes you home.
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings:swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i’ve missed.
Chapter Eleven
CIA agent Murphy AKA the Director of International affairs did not live well. You paid him a respect he was likely undeserving of, by letting him die that way: well. Agent Murphy had been easy to track down. His office, his home, his home-office. With the expert help of the hacker RUN3 you had uncovered all of the above addresses with minimal effort on your part. On hers too, you supposed, as she had found all of the information in less time than it took you to read it. Rune was a personality. Loud, warm, friendly, fun. She was helpful too; you came to realise it was simply her nature. The stories you had heard from Soap, leaning back on the coffee coloured leather couch, feet on the table, were the beginning of this theory. Then, the interactions you’d had with her not too many hours ago, after breaking into her home is what solidified it. After talking to her for the time it took Thomas to watch four episodes on her massive TV, you trusted her. By episode five, you considered her a friend. Your first, since leaving the 141, your first, since you unfriended (yes, that was what happened) Kate Laswell and her wife, whom you had never been all that fond of.
Rune even sent you the locations of all the security cameras she had detected near the above sights. She told you where the cameras inside the CIA were, at her own risk, and told you where the cameras that “protected” Murphy’s home were, at no risk. After you left in your car, your phone chimed again, and Rune had sent you a list of possible vantage points. She supplied the coordinates for the places she thought you would have the best luck taking a shot from and paired each bullet point with a note of some kind that was so very her.
“Bay view windows to the soul (his)”
“You can play Mission Impossible music and rappel down from the roof after.”
“Apartment B is empty. Booked the couple living their an itty bitty cruise with Bathboy’s card. Ik I’m So Cool you don’t have to tell me (unless you really want to)”
“You can hide in a BUSH ;)”
“Oh, Rune,” you mumble, scrolling through her other numerous suggestions. None were especially bad, but agent Murphy was at home. One of his insanely expensive cars was in his driveway, his door was hardly locked, and his cameras, the were InstantAlertReadyReport which despite its incredibly consoling name, was far from one of the best security system companies in the States. You toss on a different mask and the outfit you slip into is built with misleading padding in places that changes the angles of your body. Your shoes (they’re a size and a half too large, with technology that distributes your weight equally built-in) make you slightly taller, your long pants reveal none of that. This won’t look like a hit, not a targeted attack, just a break in that by the time the alarms alert the police, will have ended in blood and death.
You’re not Reaper, not as you pick the lock and let yourself inside. Not as you stuff items in bags silently, and then not-so. You’re not Reaper as you meet him in his office with a gun, not Reaper as he begs you to spare his life. “I have money, I have jewels, I have anything you could ever want. What do you want?” he begs, voice turning desperate. You walk him around the room, so his back is to the camera in this room—it has no audio capturing features but you don’t want to chance any skilled lip readers uncovering the contents of this interaction. All they need to see is the body drop, and drop it will. “What do you want?!” he cries again as you play the part of an angry robber. You wave your hand in the air almost to say, ‘you weren’t supposed to be here!’ despite his being here being the only reason you are. You speak calmly and evenly despite your erratic actions, “I don’t want anything money can buy, Agent Murphy.”
You’ve heard everything in the book when it comes to begging. People like to, for their life. Something compels them to try and reach their assailant's conscience; to appeal to their emotions and their own morals, “Please!” He cries, “I have a family.”
A father who doesn’t speak to him, a brother he’s disowned, a bastard child whose existence he’s ignored for the past eleven years, and no partner.
Some family.
Not that it’s your place to judge.
“It’s not personal,” you say, swiping your arms across his desk and knocking things onto the ground, “I just need your silence and that’s something money can’t buy. Bullets?” you wave the gun, preparing for the finale, “they’re what buys silence.”
“Take my tongue!”
Okay… so you thought you’d heard everything. “See I would, but then I'd have to take your hands so you couldn’t write. Then, because I’m paranoid I would worry about you learning to communicate with your feet, so I would have to take them, too. And what if you learned to paint with your wrists and ankles? What if you communicated by blinking, you know? Then I’d have to take your eyes and if you didn’t, then maybe you’d communicate by nodding ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and you see where this is ending up, right?”
“Please,” he begs.
“People need to mind their own,” you say.
“I will! I’ll never tell anyone—“ the first bullet lands in his carotid killing him immediately but you fire several others off to make the shots look accidental, to make the crime match the nature of the other crime.
On your way to the plane to Urzikstan, you have a small bonfire. You burn your crime-coated-clothes and when you drive across a big bridge, with rapids underneath, you reach a gloved hand out the window and drop the bag of rich-man’s spoils you had taken from the late Director’s home.
You don’t love planes.
You don’t hate them, either.
On the flight you scroll through the pictures of Tommy that Rune has sent you. There’s your son, playing with his train, playing with dolls that look too worn, too played with to be directly from a package (dolls that must’ve belonged to Rune or perhaps, a niece of hers), there’s Tommy singing a song–that video, is one you replay nearly twenty times, and Tommy eating snacks. In all of them he’s smiling.
You don’t regret your choice of babysitter. Not at all.
Urzikstan is a country of unrest. You don’t know if the streets have ever known true peace, or if they ever will, and frankly, that is not your concern. The state of the world has never been your responsibility no matter how many times you attempted to carry it on your shoulders. When you were younger, you had dreams of changing everything–dreams of peace, of people who resolved conflicts with soft spoken words instead of anger and rage and the garbage that was deeply rooted in the chest of most people you’d had the misfortune of meeting. As a teenager you discovered a semblance of realism: the world was a broken place and it wasn’t within your power to fix it. You weren’t without hope, then, though. You still believed it was possible to do good and to make a difference so you tried. God, you tried. So hard.
An explosion in the distance rocks the earth you stand on. At your current age, you’ve learned. You know better: know, that anything you fix will be broken again by people who don’t care. Or, by people who care too much–for the right things, for the wrong things.
You tuck your hands in your pockets and hunch your shoulders, doing your best to seem small. You slip between stray bodies in the street, and resist the urge to snatch anything away from the vendors. That hadn’t gone so well last time.
Was a stolen snack the catalyst to your No Good Awful Day that awarded you several new scars and a masked-man on your back? No, probably not. Had it helped to tip the karmic scales (the ones that had been stacked against you for a very long time?) the universe dealt in? That was another definite no. No, it had not.
You didn’t need a three-peat.
Naseer had bested you enough.
You had weapons on your person. Tucked into holsters underneath your clothes and elsewhere. There was a knife on your thigh, one strapped to your calf, another tucked into your sock, and one under that, under the insole you had jammed into your lace-up combat boots not an hour before touch-down. You had something up your sleeve: literally. Another knife with edges so ragged and rusty they were a weapon on their own, you had a package of poison sealed adequately in the locket you were wearing; as deadly as it was shiny. An old acquaintance known for her love of jewels and tools (once, you offered deadpan to have her a tee shirt made) had gifted it to you, and you were not one to spit in the direction of true generosity.
You had plenty of weapons. The knives of course, the poison, your fists and your red hot rage, your mind – not duller than your sharpest knife, among the collection.
You were ready.
You were prepared.
You crept through the streets of Urzikstan. Rune had provided you with names and faces–not needing to do that for Naseer, as his was one that you would unfortunately never forget. She had given you names, descriptions:
“Dude looks like Captain Hook! Not the hot one from OUAT” (whatever that was) “either! Yuck.”
“This guy likes to take hands. Keep yours please!”
“Ugly. Evil. Will fall hard. You probably shouldn’t yell but maybe whisper Timber if there’s anyone around” were the notes RUN3 had decided to pair with the profiles she’d curated for you of Naseer’s closest three.
Speaking of, #3 was walking ahead of you, on a mission. He had a bandana wrapped around his forehead–this was “Hands” and you made sure to stick to the shadows, stick underneath the colourful market canopies, as you followed him and ensured a healthy distance. At all times, there were at least three people between you. Randoms, that kept you and your plain and unassuming clothes from his view. Five was your preferred amount of human-shields but beggars can't always be choosers. Can’t often be choosers.
The clouds overhead darken and it’s approaching nighttime. Day one will end with head number one, or three in this case, on a pike. You follow him carefully, your steps are featherlight and dust doesn’t even stir where you step. You move through the market like a ghost, and when he leaves the chaos, you don’t stray from your objective. You climb onto someone’s low-hanging straw roof and transfer to a clay one, then stone. Hands moves with purpose as he walks through the small and winding streets of the town. At the end of the row of buildings, is a barber shop, that he renders confidently.
He leaves with more. Less hair, however.
You follow him to a watchtower on the outskirts of town.
It’s funny, that he should die here, by the very hand he is likely searching for. “Surprise,” you tell him, dropping down from the rooftop and landing in a crouching position. “I heard, Hands, that you know my name.”
“Naseer’s bitch,” he sneers, an no, that’s not quite it, “back again for more?” His smile is an evil one and it pairs well with the rest of him.
You feign nonchalance. You wish you didn’t have to pretend that none of this bothered you; you wish it didn’t. You wish that your hands, the one holding a knife and the one helping to twirl it, weren’t sweaty, you wish that your heart wasn’t beating so quickly you could feel it wanting to jump out from underneath your skin. In your neck, in your head. You hear the blood rushing.
Soon you’ll see it. “Oh,” you say, “I do plan to pay Naseer a visit. He and I have some unfinished business, you see.”
“I don’t know why he’s so obsessed with you. You’re just a whore.”
“A whore who's going to kill you. A whore who probably killed your friends, and a whore,” you smile in the same way a demon would, “who’s most definitely going to kill you.”
He yells. Maybe the man thinks it’s akin to a battle cry, maybe, he’s just had enough of your speaking. Lord knows you’ve had more than enough of his. His scratchy voice, his awful words, the confidence that stained every single thing he said despite the knowledge (he had to know, didn’t he?) that he wasn’t leaving this building. He lunges while he shouts, you sidestep his first attack and ready for his second. He wrenches a handgun from his belt and fires off two shots. One nearly kisses your skin, and the other embeds in the stone wall when you slam his arm against a pillar and drive your knee up into his groin. He groans and the gun falls to the ground. You toss it out onto the roof you came from, and throw the ammo down the spiral staircase. “Cute trick,” you bait, and he throws himself at you again. This time you let him grab you. His hands close around your throat and he squeezes. One, two, stab.
There’s a knife in his stomach and his hands fall away from your throat. “Always watch your opponents hands, Hands,” and you watch as he splutters, as he coughs up blood, as he begins to smirk. Hands laughs a little, partway through bleeding out, beaming, and you start to feel like you’re being left out on some kind of joke. He laughs, blood spilling down his chin, “Naseer,” he coughs, “knows you’re here. He knows you’re here!”
He laughs and laughs and laughs and– there’s a gap that widens in his neck. A cut that you make, that you widen.
Hands dies and you wipe off yours. With your foot, you doodle a heart and an “R”.
Naseer would know who did this regardless.
You pull out your phone and consider it. Rune won’t love this and Kate would expect it. You’re no one’s dog anymore. You’re wild, near feral, and you’re off the leash. You open your messages with Rune and type out:
“Naseer knows I’m here. Will check in by next week. Ditching comms. If I don’t check back in you know what to do. Thanks for everything.”
You press send.
You’ll go in dark.
You grind your phone beneath your foot, you take the pieces and open Hand’s mouth with your gloved fingers. You stuff the phone into the corpse's mouth and resist the urge to spit on it.
Naseer’s one step ahead, as always, but… your plan isn’t specific. There’s no hard timeline, no need for any particular or predictable order. It’s simply a bullet point list. A to-do list, if you will. Naseer is at the top of it, obviously, like he has been at the top of the Christmas list you’ve made with Thomas each year. The kid can’t read, so it’s okay that the top of your list has consistently been a dash with a plea for a bad-man’s death.
You find Captain Hook next. You know him. You remember him. It’s the third day of your stay and you’ve slept for a mere three hours. It’s fine, is what you tell yourself, because it is. Because it will be, at least.
“Boo,” you tell Naseer's second, driving a knife into his back. You have to do it quick so the doubt won’t creep in and stop you. “Suprised to see me, Mattias?” you sever a nerve in his back and his limbs all go lax. You’ve effectively paralysed him and you lean close, inches away from the man. You’re in an alleyway, it’s not exactly private but you two have history and he knows better than to scream for help–you’ve had many comfortable silences, what’s one more? “Not in the slightest, Y/n,” he says, and the bastard watches you contemplatively. He doesn’t rage, doesn’t weep, instead he smiles. Just like hands.
You know you’re about to develop some kind of tooth-related complex.
“Mattias,” you say, and this murder–this victim–is a bittersweet one.
Chains dug into your wrists and your ankles. Your bones pitched unsettling tents underneath your skin and even lifting your hand to your face expended more effort than you could spare. You were weaker than you’d ever been and still couldn’t understand why you were alive when your team wasn’t. One reason was that you had lost your cyanide pill. Kelly hadn’t, you were there when he split the glass with his molars and swallowed, there, when he convulsed and his eyes rolled back into his head. You were there, tugging at unmovable iron to get to someone who had chosen death. You didn’t blame him but god. God, you had wanted to stop him. And Lux. Her name hurt to think, after what they’d done.
You two had come up together in the academy and… well, she was just like you. Just.
Seeing her die had killed another part of you. It was good, in some ways, that there were so many pieces of your being. So many you could lose, so many you could gain.m It was almost like you had been looking in a mirror when Naseer injected her with a blue serum and watched her writhe. You both shivered for hours. You shook and sobbed and when he administered the antidote when you finally stopped, Lux never woke. Her last moments were painful, terrifying, and they were painted across her face. Bile was beside her head, Blue stained her lips, tears on her cheeks. Naseer had left her there with you for days. You didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, not that you had been able to previously in a place like this. You just watched her eyes. Her lifeless eyes. On the first day, Mattias bent over and brushed them shut. On the third, he dragged her body from the cell, took her god knows where, and on the fourth, he tossed you a wet sponge. “Clean yourself or the floor.”
Naseer came back with more serums.
When you pulled through the third time he declared you were worthy. Of him, of his love. Mattias was the one who broke this news to you. He told you in not so many words that you had been chosen by his boss. That he wanted you and that he always got what he wanted.
He calls your name before he appears because he knows what happens when he doesn’t. He knows how you flinch when someone surprises you, he knows how you cry and because he knows the reason for your tears is someone whose service he has subscribed to, he doesn’t wish to add to your pain. “I’ve brought medication.”
Your voice is small when you thank him. “From your sister? She is…” you rub at your raw throat and he passes you a glass. “She’s a nurse?”
“She was. She is now a doctor. She has made our entire family very proud.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yes. She says… she says to take a pill every morning and night. It will help with…” he trails off, unable to say something that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. You both know the words he bites back, the ones he swallows shamefully. The pain, the hurt, him.
“Thank you,” you tell Matthias. You mean it. Your life before Naseer is a distant memory. To think about it and the things you used to find joy in is to rob yourself of the moments now, presently, that make you consider smiling. The bed beneath you creases as you move to sit up. It is mid afternoon, but you swallow a pill with a mouthful of water anyways and pray it works.
“Naseer does not mean to–”
“Don’t.” You demand. It is the only fight Matthias has heard in your voice in months. He nods his head, tells you, “Okay,” and he leaves.
You’re clinging to the bedpost, hauling yourself off the ground, up from the pile you were turned into, when Matthias knocks his fist against the door. It’s a new signal he’s developed; a way of warning you without actually doing such.
You don’t talk anymore. Not often anyways.
But you’re not completely silent. You whimper when he touches you, when he helps you sit on the chesterfield and brings you ice that you can only press to your wounds for as long as he is present. He brings you medication and sometimes small portions of stolen-antidote that counteract the Zombie Drug that Naseer often injects you with.
You’re dressed in a beautiful ballgown, there’s a tiara on your done-up hair, and Matthias finds you staring into a broken full length mirror. A crack splits down the center and a large shard is missing. Found, immediately, by his eyes. “Oh. Oh no. No, no, no, Y/n,” he whispers, approaching your side.
He eases your shaking, bleeding hand, and the glass inside, away from your neck. He looks at you the way you assume someone would look at their younger sibling. He is a big brother, you remember. Your eyes are wet with tears and so are his. “I… I can’t, Matthias.”
He takes the glass from you. “You can,” he swears. He means it. He presses a knife into your palm. The uninjured one. The knife is custom, a wooden hilt, a stone stuck in it. You tilt your head, confused. He’s stopped your attempt to provide you with a better tool? To provide you with a quicker way, you realise. Oh. It is a kindness. An unexpected one. Your hand still shakes but you take a deep breath. “No.” He says.
“You need to leave, Y/n. And not in that way.”
“But–”
“When you’re taken to the church. Naseer will be busy. Many guards will be occupied. You have a knife. You’ll fight, yes?”
“Yes.”
PRESENT…
“Thank you for the kindness of not making me feel this,” he says.
“I have a debt to repay in that department. Matthias… I wish you would’ve left him. Left with me.”
He shakes his head. “Our futures were not aligned, Y/n. I have family here. And Naseer. This is the only way I was ever going to leave this place. Thank you for being the one to guide me there.”
“It’s the least I could do. Does… does anything hurt?” your voice is quiet and small, you hope you’ve done this right.
“No. Not at all. I feel nothing. I expect this would be how your body would feel in the above if I was not headed to the below. I must… warn you, Y/n. Naseer… he is sick. He… always has been.”
“That isn’t new, Matthias. I know he’s coming for me. Don’t waste your words. We can just sit. You always did like the silence. Ours was comfortable.”
“He has… help. He’s hired a… a bounty h–hunter. A good one…”
“Who, Matthias?”
But his eyes don’t blink in the lazy way they have been. They stay open until you shut them, as he had for your friend all those years ago. You rest your hand on his still chest and mumble your goodbyes. “I wouldn’t be so sure you’re destined for damnation, my friend. And if you are,” you thump your hand against his chest. “Save me a seat next to you.”
You rig yourself up in a tree while you sleep. You’re out of sight, secure, and safe.
Except that you haven’t been safe in eight years. Except that a dart pricks into your thigh and you can’t even unhook the carabiner from your belt loop before you’re losing your facilities. Before the knife you reach for falls to the ground and your muscles relax to a point of pain.
You’re dragged down from the tree and slung over a man’s shoulder. The bounty hunter’s, you presume.
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings:swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i’ve missed.
Chapter Ten
This time, when Rune’s system begins to blare, she has the foresight to enable security measures. She’s here with a child, afterall. Her and Thomas are snuggled up on the couch watching Monster High: Friday Night Frights (sue her, she has a perfectly reasonable excuse and Thomas is having a perfectly good time) with a blanket draped over their heads, two of the corners are tucked behind the couch, one hooked over a faulty lamp–hacker or no, Rune has never been an electrician, and the other pinned through the side of a large bookshelf with a tack. They’re inside of the Ultimate Fort which was coined by Tommy, the almost-three year old with a vocabulary that rivals hers. Aside from some annunciation issues, Tommy can hold his own in a conversation. He has more advanced communication skills than his dad, Ghost, that’s for freaking sure. “What is the noise, Ruey?” he asks, pressing his palms over his ears.
Thomas is a trusting kid, and he liked Rune. In under twenty four hours they had become fast friends. Who would’ve thought? Tommy liked Monster High, too. They played with the dolls for awhile, they watched all the TV they wanted, ate snacks, and even played tag and charades. Tommy was not so good at charades but it made sense when the only things the kid knew to act out were barn animals, (newly discovered) Monster High dolls, cars and planes, and his mom, who when he was making all kinds of wild gestures, trying to get her to guess, he hugged the air, blew kisses, and mimed picking someone up and mouthing ‘I love you’
Rune might’ve cried.
She kind of wanted to, now, as she tucked Thomas into her. One of her hands overlapped his, over his ears, helping to shield him from the noise as she opens her phone. Her first glance was spared checking your location–were you back already? You had eliminated the Director but Rune thought you were taking a flight straight to Urzikstan, not straight back here. Your tracker was mid-air, mid-flight, and golly, she hated how she was literally always right. Rune’s second action was arming the house. The step that the first time, she had been too slow for. Was she once again?
Not an option, Rune. Not a freaking option. You’re responsible for the life of a really really adorable little kid with a really really scary mom and you are not going to screw this up. No way, no how. Rune didn’t have much, if the intruders made it in. But you had left behind a gun and she knew how to point one. To shoot one, if need be.
–She had done it once before.
Brazil.
She let out a shaky breath and gathered Thomas up into her arms. “Everything’s going to be fine, little man. I’ve got this really cool music-maker that I’m going to slip on your little ears so the noise won’t bother you and I’m going to deal with it,” Rune’s hands tremble as she slides the headphones onto him and adjusts the volume of a playlist she swears she curated solely for Nostalgia, or with the future-telling-scenario where a super scary assassin left her responsible for a little human life. Rune opens the bathroom door because it has a lock on it and she can tell him to sit still (if kids can do that) and to stay quiet (if kids can do that) but no– No, Rune shuts the door, frantic. She can’t leave a baby alone in a bathroom! Not with running water (and no, she doesn’t have time to shut it off), not with a bathtub shehadseenwhathappenedwithJee-YunandMaddiewasrightthere! and not even with a toilet because water was water and ohmygosh. Rune rushes into her room and wrenches open her closet doors, thankful it’s such a massive mess. Type B! I’m a type B friend, she tells herself, despite being pretty sure she only (maybe) has one adult friend (you) and that she definitely won't have that (or anything–a house, a face, a beating heart) if anything happens to her new little friend. She sets Thomas down on the ground with the bag of chips she had been feeding him and all the Monster Highs that were attached to the handful of doll hair she had seized. She tucks him into the closet, on top of her clothes (tomorrow's, last weeks, next weeks) and doesn’t even care if he covers them in crumbs and potato chip salt. She lifts one of his headphones and says, “Tommy, I gotta go do something, okay? You stay right here and play with the toys and eat your snacks, okay? But, but you have to stay quiet. Don’t make a noise and don’t move, okay, mister man? It’s a new game, called the Quiet Game and I have a… friend coming over and they think they’re the best at hiding seek ever, but, they don’t know what you and I do, right? They don’t know that you’re the reigning champ and the quietest ever and that you always win Hide And Seek so we need to prove it to them, okay?”
Tommy nods, looking determined and raises his index finger to his lips. Rune puts the headphones back on right, turns the volume up two clicks and gives him two big thumbs up and an encouraging smile that makes her feel like she’s running around wearing a sign that says ‘FRAUD’ in great big bubble letters.
She shuts the closet door, locks her door from the inside (she’ll kick the thing down if she cant find the key, when it’s safe to do so) and she closes it, too. Then Rune runs to her computer room and starts working overtime. She turns on the soundboxes–they’re strapped to the base of some of the trees that speckle her property, that follow the long driveway up to the house on the hill, and plays the first noise. This one, is of branches breaking. Snapping. She wants to unnerve the intruders. To make them feel like she does as her hands shake violently atop her keyboard. She sifts through the footage and sees that the intruders are men. Great, great! That’s so freaking awesome. She almost cries, her breathing is erratic and unsteady as she types out more instructions. Barbed wire emerges around the window panes, should someone try to jump through one. She hits another button and pieces of her outside decks lower, swapping themselves out for faux wood made to break and swallow limbs. She pressed another button, activating the electric output and essentially super charging all of her doorknobs. The voltage in them, and bouncing around her metal doors is enough to temporarily incapacitate, Lastly, she powers on the motion sensing lights.
Rune leans back in her chair, flexing her trembling hands, before scrambling up. She grabs her gun, and– frig. The camera at her front door reveals one man wearing a skull balaclava and the other. He reaches out and knocks on the door.
Ohmy.
Rune jams the top of her fist against her mouth as she does a half wince/half laugh when Johnny is thrown back onto the deck that immediately tries to eat him.
Oh balls. Rune throws herself at her keyboard and disables the security she had set in place and runs to the kitchen. She keeps the gun tucked into her waistband because it makes her feel kind-of like a B-A-D-A-S-S and she swings open her front door, eyes looking up (at Ghost) and then down (at John– at Soap), and Rune? She smiles shyly.
This isn’t so bad.
Actually. Actually, oh gosh. It is so bad! Not quite as bad, admittedly, as having two random strangers in tactical gear attempt to break into her house, but not too far off in terms of oh-crap, if she thinks about it. She’s standing here, looking at your husband who thinks you’re dead, with yours and his son, who he doesn’t know exists, stuffed into a closet. Which, now that Rune’s thinking about it, would probably be VERY frowned upon by all babysitters in the history of ever. Or, aww, in the history of ‘forvever’, as Tommy says.
Rune moves to Soap’s side and helps him up, untangling his foot from the (now) tension-less hole in her deck. “Got soap on your boots, or something?” she asks him.
“The fuck was all a’that?” asks Ghost.
Rune shrugs. “I’m a single woman living on my own in the middle of butt-freaking-nowhere. I like to take precautions,” and Johnny pulls her against his chest, trapping her there with one of his (very. Oooooh) strong arms. Rune yelps and squirms when Soap pulls the gun from her pants and messes with it. He lets her go and she scowls, “Give that back. It’s mine.”
“It shouldnae be,” he removes the bullets and stuffs them into his pocket before handing the gun to Ghost for him to study. “Where’d you get this?”
Rune smiles and takes it back from the brute, bullets or not. “It was a gift. If you could kindly give me back–”
Johnny does. “Don’t load it unless you’re planning to shoot it, hen. It’s been altered, there’s no safety.”
Hmm, hums Rune. You live, you learn. “Back to business. What the heck are you two doing on my doorstep? You’re like… pretty far away from your home, boys. Soap, if this is about the doordash, it’s literally the least you can do for me. I need my iced caps if I’m going to be working on your freaking goose-chase of an ask.”
“And the snacks?”
“Are you food-shaming me, Mactavish? You have a problem with–”
“No. Not ah all,” he rushes.
“Can we come in?” asks Ghost, but he doesn’t wait for Rune to give him her answer (no), he simply steps past her into her house, his gargantuan form nearly filling her entire doorway. She’s pretty sure he ducks.
“Hey buddy! So, no! You can’t!” Rune chases after him tugging on his vest but he’s undeterred, surveying the room and his eyes are mega-narrowed, which can’t be good. Rune looks to Soap, who shrugs, wholly unhelpful. “Can you get him out of my house?” she pleads, “I don’t want either of you here, this is my space. Get out! Why are you even here?”
“Somethin’ was up with ye, Rune. We came out to see what it was.”
Ghost has moved to Rune’s kitchen and even as she slots herself between him and his search, it does nothing to slow it. Ghost makes it to the sink where he spots three sets of silverware, three cups, and three bowls. “Johhny. She’s not alone,”
“Oh, get out!” cries Rune, somewhat desperately. Soap’s hackles have risen because never, not even in Brazil, has he seen her react quite like she is now.
Simon and Johnny turn to Ghost and Soap, soldiers, Lieutenant and Sergeant, near instantly. They comb through the house, checking for evidence–finding the clothes you left behind, the fort, the toys. “Ye think Rune has a wee one?” asks Soap, lowly, for his LT’s ears alone. Rune follows them frantically, trying to shoo them away as the search the place, guns and flashlights raised. They make it to her door and Ghost tries the handle. He frowns when it doesn't open and Ruin uses that flicker of confusion to starfish in front of it. “You’re not going in there,” she spits. She fumbles with the gun but Ghost takes it from her quickly and she punches him and– “ohmygosh what is your face freaking made of,” Rune shakes out her aching hand. It’s broken, it has to be. Oh well. “That is my room. You’re not allowed to go in there.”
“Wasn’t askin’.”
“Either was I,” she snarls.
Ghost isn’t put off. “Johnny,” she pleads. “Please. Not in there.”
“What are ye hiding, Runie?”
She knows she isn’t winning this. Her shoulders roll forward, defeat weighs heavy on her. “Fine. Fine, but we do this my way.”
Ghost says nothing.
Rune sighs. “I’m babysitting, okay? There’s a little boy hiding in there because I didn’t know who was trying to break into my house and he’s sensitive. I don’t want to scare him and you two brutes will. And… and if you point a gun at that little boy you’ll die a painful death,” it’s not Rune’s threat to relay but she thinks you’ll appreciate the sentiment. “You want to check out the house, sure,” her computers are all protected by code that would make whatever education Ghost and Soap had look like primary math class, “but if you want in that room, you put your freaking guns away and you,” Rune points to Ghost, “You take that stupid halloween mask off and go wash your face.”
“He doesn’t take the mask off, Runie,” says Soap, who has sheathed his weapon.
Rune smiles. “Why? Cause he’s scared of us seeing his face?” she taps at her phone and pulls up a photo of the one and only Simon Riley, “now that we’ve got that out of the way. My house, my freaking rules, boys. Wash up, it’s almost time for supper.
When she asks, with a soft smile (because she can’t find the key) Johnny kicks the door open for her.
Rune meets Simon and Johhny at her kitchen table, Thomas in tow. “These are two of my friends, Tommy.” Rune’s smile does not meet her eyes as she scoops Kraft Dinner onto everyone’s plate, “this is Johnny,” ‘thwack’, and this is Simon,” ‘thwack’. “Boys, this is Thomas. He’s a cutie and my new best friend. I think I like him more than you.”
Thomas gasps, “Ruey, that’s not nice.” Then he turns to Simon and Johnny, and says softly. “S nice to meet you. I like ta be called Tom-mee.”
Simon looks like he’s seen a ghost (ah-hahahahahah, Rune is about to lose it), Johnny does too, as he looks between his friend and the little boy who has the same eyes. The little boy with the same name as Simon's brother, with the same hair. Johnny’s not sure how he feels about coincidences. Simon hasn't reconciled anything yet, but… again, things are feeling off. He swallows his suspicions. “It’s nice to meet ya too, kid.”
Rune looks between all of them. She watched Simon and Thomas shovel food into their mouths in the exact same way. Watches them wipe their lips with a piece of paper-towel-turned-napkin too, identically. It’s when she watches Johnny notice these things, too, that her heart plummets into the sole of her foot. Johnny Mactavish is the farthest thing from stupid she’s ever had the displeasure of encountering. He pretends to be dumb, lets others think he’s not all that bright, and uses it. Johnny is the smartest idiot Rune has ever met and she knows he’s piecing things together. She knows he knows, or is on the track to, and Rune has no idea what to do. It only gets worse when her phone pings with a message from you.
“Naseer knows I’m here. Will check in by next week. Ditching comms. If I don’t check back in you know what to do. Thanks for everything.”
Rune stands from the table. She mumbles something about grabbing seconds despite her plate still being all the way full and the pot on the stove, all the way empty. She staggers when she stands, she can’t catch herself on the counter and Johnny can’t catch her from the opposite side of the table, no matter how good his instincts are.
Rune, she passes out.
Tommy sighs. “She’s a rweally tired girl. She falls to sleep ah lot.”
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings:swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i’ve missed.
Chapter Nine
Unconsciousness is a welcome reprieve. In fact, Rune has never felt better than she does right now, as she’s sleeping. Her mind never stops, her imagination is overactive and she’s always calculating something… numbers wreak havoc on her psyche, they roll through her mind, cartwheeling and different solutions, different combinations, and different, possible answers, they flash brightly behind her eyelids. Rune is always thinking, her mind is always full, except when it’s not. Except when she takes a handful of melatonin, or stays up for four consecutive days until she crashes hard. Until–
“Hi,” says a little boy. He’s got a mop of hair on his head, wavy or fluffy or tangled, or something. He has really blue eyes that she’s seen carbon copies of recently, and Rune swears, he’s looking into her soul.
“Hi,” she answers.
The boy hops down from the couch and takes the remote from the coffee table. Rune’s eyes flick to the television, where a myriad of colours flash, and friendly faces pause. The boy holds out the remote to her, grasping it in his tiny, chubby hand. “You wanna show? You’ show?”
He looks sweet, he is, she realizes as he offers her the remote. Rune takes it, hesitantly. “Why are you–” she stops herself. Don’t spook the kid, he’s done nothing wrong, she tells herself, scolding. The TV is frozen on a frame where Thomas is smiling on the tracks, at another train which is admittedly more irrelevant. Rune presses play and she hands the remote back to the little nameless boy. “You can watch your show, little man. I don’t mind. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Thomas & Friends.”
“Thomas!” you shout.
Rune’s head floods with the facts: The woman yelling is Reaper. Ex-CIA agent Reaper is in her house, Y/n L/n who went by the callsign Rook who had been proclaimed KIA, Y/n Riley was in Rune’s living room and holy moly, she could definitely see why she woke up on a couch. “I passed out?”
You shoot Rune a look, mask-free. You’ve hurried to Tommy’s side, neglecting the handful of bottles and the tall glass of water you had been carrying towards her on an end-table, in order to drop to your knees and kneel beside your son. You pat him over with his hands, checking for invisible injury, invisible hurt. “You fell asleep,” you correct, almost daring Rune to argue (there’s no need! Really! She won’t!) “You were tired and you took a nap.”
“Yup. That’s me. Super sleepy, all the time.”
You motion to the glass and the bottles placed beside them. “I didn’t know what you took and I assumed you’d want some medicine because you bumped your head a little.”
“Should I get her a ice-pack?” asks Thomas. You look at Rune and aside from the evident surprise she wears, the confusion, she doesn’t look to be in pain. You shake your head, “No, baby. She’s gonna be okay. You want to say ‘hi’ and introduce yourself?”
“Who is she momma?” he asks.
You look at her, waiting. “I’m your mom–” she looks to you for confirmation and you nod, “I’m your mom’s friend. You can call me Rune. What’s your name.”
“My name’s Thomas but I yike Tommy more. I am almost three!”
“That’s pretty cool, Tommy. I’m almost twenty-one. Do you like popcorn?”
Tommy nods enthusiastically and Rune props herself up off the arm of the couch. She hands the little guy the monster-bowl of popcorn and he grins like he’s won the lottery.
Thomas & Friends is still playing and you and Rune excuse yourselves quickly, moving to the computer room. “I’m guessing you're expecting an explanation?
She laughs. “I wouldn’t hate one. I… I’m pretty lost.”
“I know you from Brazil. Soap, we were close a long time ago, and I was with him when…”
“I know,” says Rook. “I didn’t know you but I knew of you. Of Rook, that is. I knew of everyone who was involved in Brazil and I kept tabs on them. It’s why I knew you’d…”
“That I’d ‘died’?” you fill in, voice a hushed-whisper just in case Thomas has gone and developed the ear-equivalent of 20/20 vision. “Yeah. My handler, Kate Laswell informed me that I had been compromised and said that my staying with the 141 would be endangering them. I was told the CIA was faking my death, that I had to operate under the radar for the foreseeable future, and I was pregnant. I feel like a complete chatterbox telling you all of this but I need your help so I feel like I owe you…”
“You don’t,” Rune interjects, “but as much as I mess around, I can be serious, and I can listen. I’m a good listener and you look like you haven’t had anyone to unload on in a long time.”
She feels safe. You have to trust that. “I loved him, yknow? Still do. Simon was my one great love, my everything, and leaving him killed a huge piece of me but I couldn’t risk him being in danger. Seeing him hurt is the worst thing I’ve ever had to see. Anyways, after I was ‘dead’ I resumed my missions as instructed by Kate. Then, flashback to recently, my mission was to recover operative Faith from the 141 and Si—Ghost, he was on that mission, too. It went wrong like it always does when Naseer’s involved and that’s when I’m guessing you were roped into things.”
Rune nods.
“Then, Kate informed me the CIA had given me a burn notice. She said I had to hide again, tried to get me to leave Thomas,” your voice cracks, falters and threatens tears. You choke them back, “I made her give me a list of names. Of people who knew my identity. If they’re gone, Tommy and I can live a normal life. A regular one. There was you, a CIA Director, and Naseer.”
“What do you need from me? What do you need to end this?”
“I need to know where the Director of International Affairs is going to be and what window I can shoot him through. And I need to know everything you can find out about Naseer Hadi, his operations, and his higher ups. And…”
“And?”
“I need a babysitter.”
Rune nods. “I can do that.” Thomas seems like a pretty cool kid, too, so that helps. Plus, Rune’s just a big-kid, herself. She still has a collection of Monster High dolls from when she was twelve and no, it’s not a crime that she buys a new doll every once in a while when there’s a cool release. It’s not like they’re drugs.
“How long will it take you to get the information?” you ask Rune, who's already sat down at her computer, fingers flying over the keys. Your phone pings and you look down at a collection of files. “The Director,” Rune supplies. “Deal with him first and I’ll send you the address for somewhere you can stay in the area–I have your location information, and I’ll contact you with everything you need on Naseer when you deal with target #1.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh! Question?
“Shoot,” you say, and Rune raises a brow at your word-choice.
“Can Thomas have sugar?”
You laugh, “I’m not a monster. Sure he can. If you give it to him after 5PM–usually, he knocks out around seven thirty–it’ll be your funeral.”
“Instead of yours?”
You roll your eyes. “Ha-ha-ha, Rune. You’re a comedian.”
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings:swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i’ve missed.
Chapter Eight
Rune spent 99% of her day parked in front of some kind of screen. Was it healthy? No. Was she chronically online? Yes. This girl was borderline brain-rotted. Seriously, her brain would be in danger of melting, of turning to complete mush, if half of her insane screen hours weren’t educational-adjacent. Rune, she was always learning things. Learning about people–their bank statements, their SINS, their deepest darkest laundry and the skeletons in their closets; her blackmail file truly was something impressive. With dirt on almost everyone in the US government (and Canada, and Brazil–she had needed that–and Urzikstan and Belize and Latvia and Italy and Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and England–yes, of course she had dirt on the royals, she had dirt on… well, name a powerful person. If she has nothing, she’ll find something) Rune has secured herself a special kind of immunity. One that keeps her feeling a little safe, and a lot proud of herself while she does most things.
Rune is reclining on the couch. Her legs are stacked at the ankles and she’s binge-watching a TV show (she maintains that there is simply no other way to do it) and eating a box of popcorn. Yes, a box. She tossed all the bags in the microwave because one simply wasn’t enough and then poured them into an absolute monster-sized bowl. Then, she finished off by dumping almost a full can of flavouring into the mix. “I am a genius,” she says to herself with full confidence, and continues her snacking until season six of her show is over. “Ugh,” she sighs, “I’m so happy Maddie and Chimney are fixing things. And their baby! Ahhhh, Jee-Yun, she’s so freaking cute. Squishy cheeks and tiny hands and she’s talking now!” She tosses another handful of popcorn into her open mouth, “Babies are sooo perfect. When is it my turn?” and of course Rune talks to herself. She’s great company. The most interesting, most fun person she knows.
Rune doesn’t know many people buuuuut she was told once, by a teacher in middle school, that she was a great judge of character. So, that said: Rune was a good judge of character and she thought she was awesome, so… she definitely is.
She tosses another handful of popcorn into her mouth and something starts beeping. A look at the large flatscreen tells her that it’s not her show. Oh. Oh.
Rune scrambles up, sets her gargantuan bowl of the stuff down onto the coffee table and rushes to the computer room. Six of her screens are flashing and she is talented (and oh-so modest) but she only has so many sets of eyes.
Security footage has registered the filters that Rune placed in motion. The screens are flashing with output from different cameras and now is one of those times that Rune wishes she was slightly worse at her job. With so many screens to watch it’s hard to focus on where these cameras are. Especially when the footage overlaps and holy shintaki mushrooms is that– “Is that my freaking back yard?” Rune’s mouth drops wide open (not for popcorn this time) and she neglects the screens in favour of peering out the window into her backyard where she sees a whole lot of nothing. “Okay–okay… If I were a badass disavowed CIA agent why would I be coming to the house of someone who's been trying really really hard to find out everything about me… oh gosh. Oh my. She’s going to kill me,” and Rune rushes to the kitchen and opens up the drawer of knives to find–
“Missing something?” comes a voice from behind.
Rune swears she dies right there. She’s probably going to.
In the distance, she hears the sound of what she’s 90% sure (the other 10% is lost to the fact that Rune is still clinging to the idea she’s hallucinating. Wouldn’t that be nice!) that she can hear Thomas & Friends playing from her living room. Whatever it is, definitely isn’t her new favourite show, 9-1-1.
“I am missing something actually,” says Rune, quite quickly, “a lot of somethings, actually! One, two, three, four knives, the gun I was really hoping was in here, and my mind. I’ve definitely lost that because I’m standing here talking to the Reaper and I swear I hear Thomas & Friends coming from my TV. Please don’t kill me?” she squeaks, “I’m only twenty one. Oh gosh I’m lying, I’m lying, I’m only twenty. I say twenty one so they’ll let me into the bars but you’re not a bartender you’re ex-CIA and we’re not at a bar, we’re at my house–why are you at my house?”
“Take a breath, kid. That’s a lot to unpack.”
“Sorry. Sorry. I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Like, a lot-a lot.”
“I can tell.”
“Sorry. But uh… you’re not here to disappear-me?”
You–Reaper, chuckles. “No. And you’re right, Thomas & Friends is playing on your TV. I hope you don’t mind, I brought my kid with me.”
“You–” Rune feels like she’s going to pass out. “You have a kid? You brought a kid–”
A Little Bit of Soap by Paul Davis starts blaring from the computer room and Rune looks ready to be sick again. You catch this, and press. “What is it?”
“I’m getting a call… that’s a ringtone.”
“Whose calling?”
“Thepeoplethatwantedmetofindoutwhoyouare.”
You nod thoughtfully, somehow having caught all of that quite easily. Maybe, it has something to do with the fact you can speak more than one language, maybe it has something to do with the fact that you spoke to the man you fell in love with through a mask for over a year before seeing his face for the first time, or maybe, it was that you were the mom to a toddler. “And the people who want you to find me, you call them regularly?”
Rune nods like a bobble-head.
“If you don’t answer they’ll be suspicious."
More nodding.
“Text them, say you’re in the bathroom, that you’ll call back in a moment. Don’t hit send.”
Rune follows your instructions to a tee, she hands you her phone when she’s done and you hit send before turning back to her. “I’m not going to hurt you. My kid is on your couch and I need your help. But… you can’t tell them I’m here. You can’t tell them anything. Your clients. Who are they? Are you working for Naseer?”
Naseer, Naseer… Rune isn’t sure why that name sounds so familiar. “No. An old almost-friend and his friend hired me. They’re military so they have funny sounding names but they aren’t their real names, they’re their code names. Callsigns, and you knew that already because you have military training of some kind,” and one of your brows raise because Rune’s still sharp as a whip, sharp as Soap– “Holy shit,” you breathe. “Your clients. Soap… Soap and Ghost? Johnny Mactavish and… Simon Riley.”
“How did you know?”
“I’ll tell you after. I swear. But we need to call them now and get them off our backs, okay? I know Soap and I know Ghost and if they think there’s something going on, they won’t leave well enough alone until they figure out what it is. Please, Rune. I’ll explain everything but I need your help.”
On the way to the computer room, Rune was planning to send a message to Johnny. One that showed up on his screen and read:
Help! Being held hostage by Crazy Lady! Bring cuffs! Two pairs ;)
–but she peaked into the living room and there was a little boy with a blanket on his lap, a toy in his hand, and a show on the TV. By the time she reaches the computer room she’s changed her mind.
She calls Johnny and Simon and when they answer she does her best to play pretend. She acts as normal as she can and throws some sass around like always. The banter falls flat and Johnny says, “Yer no’ actin’ like yerself, Runie. Is everything okay?” and he sounds oddly serious, oddly concerned. Rune notes, from the corner of her eye, how yours are glued to Simon.
“I’m okay, Sudsy. You don’t have to worry about me. Seriously, I’m sooo great. And in more than one way, yaknow? Cause I have news. Big, big, news.”
You shoot Rune a sideways glance that you hope conveys that you’ll actually Shoot Her (even if you won’t) and Rune waves you off subtly. But subtly enough? You don’t know. “My software notified me of a Reaper-spotting and while I wasn’t able to find out who she is underneath the mask, nor was I able to follow the camera footage because she realized she was on one and broke it, I was able to collect some measurements from the imaging,” and Rune starts talking (you don’t think she ever stops). She tells them your height, some BS fun facts and assumptions, and she picks apart your psyche based on the way you look in the recording. She says you carry trauma in your shoulders, that you’ve dealt with massive amounts of loss, and that you feel a lot of regret about a lot of things. She says it’s likely your career began because you had no other family and an older mentor steered you towards the direction of a recruiter and that you began to trade work for scraps of validation that you clung to like lifelines. Rune, the twenty year old, reads you to fucking filth, and you just have to sit there and watch with your mouth slightly agape.
“Tha’s well an fun,” says Ghost.
You almost beg her to keep him talking. To hit a record button somewhere so you can listen to him over and over again.
“But how is knowing about ‘er trauma going to ‘elp us find her?”
“Uhmmmm! So it isn’t! Not yet, at least. But it’s what I have so far and you guys call everyday so I always feel bad if I give you nothing ya know? Some inferences paired with some healthy fun facts, some footage-facts? It’s all I got for today.”
“This is takin too much time, Johnny,” grumbles Simon and Rune mistakes your yearning for upset and irritation.
“Speaking of taking too much time!” she hollers, “This conversation hasssss. Buh bye boys, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” and she hangs up, leaning back in her chair, and blowing out a breath of relief. “You said you’d explain afterwards.”
You hang your head. Snag your hand in your mask, and tear it off.
Rune sees your face and hits the floor–passed out.
You nudge her with your foot, “I’m that ugly, huh?” and woah, she’s. Out. Cold.
MEANWHILE…
“I ken I think too much sometimes but… that was weird, right?”
“It was weird,” Simon confirms.
“Are we goin tae do anything about it?”
Simon thinks about that. He sits with his options, and considers them for a few moments. He knows to trust his gut, whatever it tells him, and right now? It’s telling him to make a house-call. To investigate. “I think it’s time you meet your online girlfriend in person, Johnny. Second time’s the charm and all a that. Let Price know we’re takin’ a little trip in the mornin’, would ya?”
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings:swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i’ve missed.
Chapter Seven
Kate and you sit in her office and it’s not the look on her face alone that tells you that you’re not going to like what she has to say. It’s the energy in the room: violent, volatile like something might explode. That something, is likely to be you, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s the set of her jaw and the softness in her eyes. You’ve always been able to read Kate’s expressions. It’s why you became fast friends, why you had chosen to trust her for as long as you had.
(Too long) Whispers a voice you know intimately. Your conscience, however weak it’s grown. Your intuition.
Kate takes a deep breath. “The CIA has issued a burn notice. Agent Reaper, you’ve been disavowed.”
You say nothing. None of you is surprised. Not the part of you that was anxiously bouncing her foot against the carpet under Kate’s desk, not the part of you that left your husband for the same agency now turning their back on you, not the pieces of you that are fractured and broken and ruined. Not the piece of your heart that’s dead, that doesn’t beat anymore.
“They’ve decided that they no longer need your… expertise.” Kate says carefully.
She’s waiting for you to snap. She’s waiting for you to scream. To bark, to bite.
You wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if the hand of hers you couldn’t see was clutching a handgun under the table. Just in case.
You know as well as she does that you don’t just release a dog whose tasted blood. You don’t cut them loose, you don’t unleash them unless you have a sedative on hand and an appointment to euthanize in the calendar. You don’t let a dog who has bitten go, because it’s a fact of life: they’ll bite again.
“All of your operations will have to cease. You no longer have authorization by the US government to play judge, jury, and executioner. With you acting independently, and that is what they will claim if you’re caught, no matter the truth, you will be tried. Given your crimes, execution is not off the table.”
Your crimes. Your victims. How quickly it had shifted from missions to crimes, from targets to victims. Perspective sure was something special.
“You’re in danger, Re–” she cuts herself off, clears her throat, and says your name. Your first name, the one she buried. “You’re in danger. You… you need to disappear again. For good this time. You need to go into hiding.”
“I thought that was what this was. Me and Thomas, staying with you. In hiding.”
You know what’s coming.
You think you hate her. You don’t think you’re friends. Not anymore.
“I’m sorry. You can’t stay with us anymore.” You. Just you–she says nothing about your son, not a thing about Thomas, the boy you know she wishes was hers. The boy that isn’t hers. Not hers, not her wife’s. “But, you have to know. It’s hard to disappear with a child. Thomas is young and it’s not safe for him out there,” with you is unsaid, but you hear it all the same. Loudly. Clear as day, “but I’ve spoken with my wife and we’re willing to take him in,”
Like you were willing to take me in?
“Thomas could have a real life with us. (Implying he doesn’t now, with you) We could adopt him, and it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary because some of our friends know we’ve been wanting kids for a while now. Even Price (and she mentions him, to what, make you cave because of your closeness with the Captain? Because she knows you trust his judgement and no longer trust hers) knows that we’ve been considering adoption. Thomas could go to school and have two parents. He could make friends and most importantly, he would be safe. (Implying he isn’t with you) We know that you only want what’s best for him (Translation: what’s best for him is giving him up) and it’s the only reason I even thought to bring this up. Besides, I know you. You never wanted to be a mother. (No. You were scared to be. There’s a difference) You’ve been so scared to mess him up and you don’t need to be. We know that Thomas knows about your nightmares. But, my wife, she’s taken an early childhood development class and we have the money to afford the best therapists. Assuming he remembers you and any of the trauma, you can trust that we’ll handle it. You–”
Your fists are clenched so tightly you’re wondering when your fingers will break. Your skin already has, the crescent moons that your nails have left an imprint of on your palms fill with bright red. Your jaw is starting to hurt. Nowhere near as much as your head. It pounds, her words cycling like some kind of painful unending short-film. You didn’t want to be a mother? The hell did she pull that from? Yes you were scared of ruining him, yes, someone you had thought to be your best friend was sitting in front of you with a pitiful gaze, reaffirming your worst fears and pretending it’s what’s best for you. You feel unstable. You feel like you’re about to snap, to bite. There’s anger in you and it’s molten and red, it’s ugly and raw and painful and you’re not sure what will happen if it boils over. What you do know, though, is that you can’t be here, in front of Kate Laswell when it does. You can’t be in front of Thomas, either because you’ve messed him up. You have. To the extent that Kate is sitting there telling you he’ll be okay if you leave because he’ll forget you, because he’ll be better off without you, and because she’ll find him a therapist on the off chance he remembers.
She wants to take your son from you.
She wants him to be hers.
Wants Thomas to call her and her wife Mom or Momma or Mommy instead of you.
Wants you gone. Dead. Not here.
“Why the burn notice, Kate?” you ask, voice scarily calm.
“Too many people inside, and outside of the agency, know your identity. It makes you a liability; a loose end, and you know how the CIA feels about loose ends.”
“That they need to be burnt off. Cut, tied. That they need to be dealt with.” Are you going to deal with me, Kate? Tie me up, cut me, burn me, deal with me, and play house with my son? “How many people is too many, Kate? Are you apart of that count.”
“I am, but my loyalties are solid. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t sell you out. My name is all over the things you’ve done.”
“So who is it? Who knows, Kate. I need names.”
“The new Director of International Affairs. He’s a legacy hire, more money than sense, and despite his position there are numerous doubts had by other operatives, and then outside of the agency, there’s… Naseer. He’s still alive and wishes you weren’t. It’s believed his three most trusted men know of your identity, too, and I believe… well, there’s been a bounty placed on your head. You’re wanted alive.”
“But as far as the world knows, I’m dead.”
“Reaper is wanted alive.”
“Is that all?”
“Almost. There’s also an extremely reputable hacker poking around. She’s digging into your life. Dissecting your missions, retrieving whatever files she can.”
“Her allegiances?"
“Unknown.”
“Her fucking name, Kate?”
“She calls herself RUN3. All we know is that based on her data servers, she’s in the US. She’s been involved in several large scandals, namely one in–”
You knew that name sounded familiar. “In Brazil,” you finish. “And, and if these people were gone? Then, I’d be clear?”
“You’ve been disavowed, Y/n. You’re no longer a part of the CIA.”
“I don’t give a shit about the CIA,” you tell her. “If those people are dealt with, then will I be clear to live my life? The CIA won’t pursue me? I’ll be left alone.”
“Technically, but–”
You have no time for her excuses. No time for her, anymore, if you’re being honest. “A yes or no, Kate. That’s all I’m fucking asking. Yes or no.”
“Yes. You would be left alone. But, Y/n, if you’re caught… there’s not a thing I can or will do to help you.”
“I didn’t expect your help Kate,” you tell her. You stand up from the chair, pushing it away with the backs of your legs.
“Where are you going?!” she shouts after you.
With your back to her, you scoff. Where does she think you’re going? You walk into the loungeroom where Thomas is playing inside of a pen-type-thing. It’s not a cage by any means but it is an enclosed space where he sits waving zoo-animals through the air at each other. He looks up when you’re halfway to him, and watches as Kate’s wife slots herself between the two of you. Her eyes are fearful and she looks like she’s about to cry. She’s caught up, then. “You can’t just, you can’t j-just take him!” she cries, pulling on your shirt.
“He’s my son,” you tell her, whether or not you should have to. “He’s my son. Not yours.”
“Mommy?” Thomas asks, meeting you at the gate. “What’s ‘appening?”
“Mommy’s got to go on another trip, baby. You’re coming with me, this time. We’re going to have an adventure and all the sleepovers you’ve ever wanted,” and your boy, yes, your boy, he beams. You don’t know if you’ve ever seen him happier.
“Say thank you to your aunties for taking care of you when I was busy, bud. Tell them you love them and that you’ll see them later, yeah?” and Thomas nods. He says his thank yous and his goodbyes–Kate returns them while her wife bawls.
“You CAN’T take him! You can’t! I was there for him. Me! Not you! Me and Kate,” snot runs down her face, mixing with the cocktail of tears she’s crying. “You–you can’t take him! More people know who you are Reaper! I’ll tell– I’ll–”
“Kate,” you say, eerily calm. You “fluff” your blouse with the hand you’re not using to hold Thomas, revealing the piece you’re carrying, and you mutter the most anti-feminist thing that’s ever left your lips, “control your wife.”
You and Thomas are packed into the car when he says: “Mommy, what’s a reaper?”
“It’s a nickname, buddy. But one that really hurts Mommy’s feelings,” you explain, hoping that will be enough to keep your kind boy from repeating the moniker you soon plan to leave behind.
“Why did Auntie call you it then?”
“Auntie had some pretty hurt feelings, too, bud. She’s going to miss you a lot.”
“Are we going to visit?”
“Someday. But we’re not going to live with them anymore. Is that okay?”
“That’s okay Mommy,” says Thomas. “I just want to live with you forvever.”
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings:swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i’ve missed.
Chapter Six
“Ruinie,” says Soap, in a singsong-voice that makes both the hacker and Simon cringe. It’s clear as day that the scott is having far too much fun with this. “Have annythin fer us yet?” and Rune huffs. Her moniker has been feeling quite accurate, lately, and whether that was luck or karma for choosing it, irony is most definitely a dog in heat. Rune this, Rune that. The only thing ruined was her sleep schedule, her peace of mind, and whatever plans she might’ve made had she not been roped into the 141’s bull. “Shut up, Mactavish,” she snaps, sending him a glare that should melt glaciers but only makes Johnny’s grin widen.
“We need ‘er,” says Simon, disapproval heavy in his voice. “Easy.”
“Yeah, Dropped-The-Soap. Easy,” snarks Rune, and holy shit, Ghost realizes that he has not made any of this easy on himself. Being stuck in a room with Soap and his latest online obsession, on the flat-screen TV, is not his idea of a break. And yet, here he is. Because something isn’t sitting right with Simon, and he’s learned if there’s one thing he should trust in this lifetime, it’s his gut.
Right now, it’s stuck on you. He’s stuck on you and he can’t… he can’t put his finger on why. There was just something about you and he needs to know what it was. To uncover that, though, first he needs to find out who you are. Who Reaper is, under the mask.
–Yes, the hypocrisy was so potent he could taste it.
In the few days that he and Soap had been corresponding with Rune, their daily (sometimes twice daily) communications have gotten fancier. Instead of talking through the phone, the boys speak with Rune via the large television in the lounge room now. Don’t tell Price, but Rune has hacked the system, just slightly. “It’s white-hat things, boys, it’s fine,” she had sworn, to which Soap had scoffed and said, “because you were so trustworthy in Rio.” Now that made Rune’s face stain with embarrassment. Her eyes narrow and she begins to type away viciously on a small wireless keyboard. As her keystrokes slow, her expression begins to morph into a victorious one. Rune giggles, and the girl might as well have kicked her feet with childlike glee, the way she smiles at Soap who had (rightfully) began to get a bad feeling. “Check your phone, Sudsy.”
Slowly, Johnny pulls his phone out of his pocket. Hesitantly, he turns it on. The keypad appears and he punches in ‘1141’, his password, to be met with the message:
“WRONG. Lol, you suck. Two more tries before lock-out ;)”
Soap is all but frothing at the mouth, spitting angry scottish word bile with an accent so strong Simon nor Rune can understand what he’s saying. Ghost is quite sure (positive, really) that Rune wasn’t upset by this. It was quite clear she was the opposite.
After another round of creative and colourful curses, Soap throws his hands up in the air, bloody exasperated. “You changed it ta a word passcode, really? Ye fuckin git, making the damned code: Rune is the best!, first ta all, are ye fucking five? Rune’s the best? Yer kidding.”
And Rune isn’t the slightest bit deterred. “Awwwww, Johnny. You’re just a big old soap-smelling teddy bear aren’t you? That was your very first guess. You think I’m soooo cool, huh? I should mark this on my calendar, dontcha think? Maybe tomorrow I’ll change your password to ‘RuneIsBetterThanSoap’ and then, ‘RuneIsABaddie’ and then some for my extended enjoyment of course! Like… like, ‘SoapyDishes’ or ‘JohnnyDroppedTheSoap’, or–”
“Yer real obsessed with my arse, Rue, if ye–”
“Tha’s quite enough,” interjects Simon, voice like gravel. “You two can fuckin play later if tha’s what you want but Rune, do your fuckin job, and christ Soap, let her. Type in your new password and say thanks, since she didn’t rob ya blind,”
“Wellllll,” drawls Rune, “I did Doordash myself an iced capp and a donut with your card. You have Dashpass, dude. I couldn’t resist.”
“Focus.”
Rune doesn’t dare to roll her eyes. She might not give one about Johnny’s rage (might delight in it, actually) but Simon Riley is a scary mothertrucker. A scary mothertrucker who does scary mothertrucking things. She takes a breath, and there’s some stray clicking. On the flatscreen, Simon and Johnny watch as she drags a mouse in front of her across the desk. “So. Prefacing this by saying that this chick is good. And if she isn’t, whoever’s playing tech-guru in her pocket, is. Good news, though boys? Is that I’m better. Bad news, is that as is, there isn’t much to find. I’ve grabbed her files and all I have from them is her missions. There’s not a lick of personal information to be found. Yet.”
“Yet?” —Simon.
“I’ve set up some recognition programs. Reapers height, build, known gear, they’ll all notify me if caught by any public-ish security cameras. She really likes knives, too, and the majority of them are custom. So, when there’s an order I’ll be able to see who placed it—“ there’s a ‘ping’ and Rune grins, like a toddler with her hand dipped in the candy jar, “speak of the devil. Andddddd, one Kate Laswell ordered another ten sets. Ten, get that.”
“Kate’s involved?” asks Johnny.
Simon already knew this. “s’not new. She was running evac, s‘who dropped us off. Reaper’s handler, I think.”
“Y’know when I asked you for information that might be helpful? It would’ve been that,” says Rune—groans, rather. “Sure would’ve helped these!” and she points to the pigmented dark circles beneath her eyes.
Neither Ghost nor Soap look anything near sympathetic and she can’t not roll her eyes. “You’re the worst of worst, boys. I’ll call back when I have more,” and the screen narrows, blinking black, and then the TV switches to a Soap (ha) opera at full volume. Then, the screen flashes and Baby Shark starts to blast.
IN AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION…
“Mommy, what happened?” asks Thomas, toying with a strand of your hair. Then, he softly rests his small hand overtop of the bandage on your shoulder. You avoid wincing, “I had a little fall but I’m okay baby, I promise. Auntie Kate took me to the hospital and the doctor gave me some medicine and now I’m good as new.”
Thomas nods thoughtfully. “okay. S’good you feel better.”
“I always feel better when I’m with you. And hey, look,” you pull a little wrapped package from your bag—the hospital’s gift shop had come in handy. You grin down at Tom as he peels back the brown paper you had wrapped around it. He rips the wrapping gently, tearing it down the middle. Then he removes the toy from the package and cradles it like it’s something precious. “A train,” he says, beaming, “‘sa train.”
“His name is Thomas, too.” You tell him, “He’s pretty great just like you, bud. He has his own TV show, too. I’m going to download some episodes for us, and we can watch them tonight.”
Thomas smiles, showing all of his tiny teeth at once. “Sleepover?”
You nod enthusiastically. “That was my idea.”
And then Kate appears, leaning in the doorway. Her wife walks into the room, past both of you, and picks Tommy up. Your hackles rise as she hugs him to her chest, Tommy’s little hand reaches for you and your hands, they ball into fists. Your mouth opens— you’re about to say something, to shout, to snatch the boy that maybe they’ve forgotten is yours back, but… Kate’s hand lands on your shoulder. Your injured one, and not in the soft way that Tommy’s had.
“We need to talk,” she says. Then, voice a whisper, even as her wife covers Tom’s ears, “it’s bad.”
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings:swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i've missed.
Consciousness finds you violently. Most things do—you’re being hauled into a helicopter, a hand is snagged in your collar and one is wrapped around your wrist. Simon lifts you by the arm (the one that feels like it’s barely hanging on, barely connected to your body (yeah, that one) and he drags you into the ‘copter. Maybe it’s revenge—maybe, maybe he knows who you are and he hates you for what you’ve done to him, maybe he wants you to suffer (god knows you have been), maybe this is the start of that. The ripped skin on your shoulder stretches and the word ‘painful’ isn’t strong enough. You scream, you think. Your own voice sounds foreign; like the enemy it is, as your boss, your friend, as Kate Laswell looks at you with a glare so strong it shakes you to your very core. It says everything she never has, it says: ‘Shut the fuck up,’ it says ‘Keep your mouth closed, this is your own damn fault,’ it says, ‘You’d have been better off dying,’ and ‘Don’t blow your cover,’ and somehow, also: ‘This pain will be a fraction of what you’ll find if he figures out who you are. What you aren’t.”
She pulls you down into the seat next to her and you bite your own tongue until it bleeds to suppress another pained noise from escaping.
Simon snaps a belt across Faith’s lap, then turns to his other side and pulls one across the kid, securing her, too.
Kate mirrors his actions and buckles you in. You feel like an infant and it’s not lost on you, that you look absolutely pathetic and unlike the one-woman-rescue-team you had described yourself as, to Faith. You can’t even lift your arm to adjust the belt that digs into your waist awkwardly. Kate, she had to strap you in (you felt like a tot) and you wish she hadn’t — part of you, as the heli rises, wishes you were still on the ground. Or, that you’d fall there.
Oh, to be Kyle.
What a guy.
You’re flying high above the war-torn streets or Urzikstan. From the sky, the houses look like saltine crackers. An odd comparison, but an accurate one. The people, as you get farther away, look like ants scrambling around, running from a hill that someone dumped gasoline and a dropped a lit match onto. They were fire ants. Red, like the blood the streets were painted with.
You’re probably concussed. Definitely concussed; that would explain the oddity of your comparisons, the airyness and space in your mind between each individual thought, and how your body tingles slightly. Fuzzy, like the edges of you aren’t solid, like they’re bleeding into the tense, thin air surrounding you.
There’s shrapnel in your leg, in your forearms, and you have no idea if you have a bullet buried inside of you or not. You can’t very well check for an exit wound, not with your current state. You twist so Kate has access to your blood-soaked shoulder and she makes the neckline of your top much wider with a knife, so she can take a look. “Ghost,” she barks, “grab me the medkit,” and of course he does. Ever the soldier.
Kate doesn’t bother with sympathetic glances or soft spoken warnings—she gives you no notice, and promptly pours alcohol onto the wound to sanitize it.
You’d rather have the infection.
Right here, right now, so long as it acted quickly.
It’d save you from the blinding pain you were feeling. From the scrutiny of Simon’s gaze–the gaze Kate seemed to be pretending wasn’t pinned onto you. Simon was a sniper, and his sights were set on you. Locked. You could almost see the red dot between your eyes.
“There’s no exit wound,” says Kate, and instead of twisting around and jamming your good arm, your good fist, into her face (like you want to) you grab hold of the seat, knuckles burning, protruding.
Simon passes her a metal instrument and then she's digging around—she’sreachingunderyourskin. She hits nerves, you know she does. She nicks muscles, the cool metal is scrounging around inside of you. Coldness, ice, swiping through your warm blood. Because being shot was apparently not enough, the bullet had decided it wanted to come home with you. The mask you wear, you owe your life—your life, Simon’s, Kate’s (your husband wasn’t one to let anyone hurt you and live), your ego and reputation. Because as Kate digs, as the forceps twitch and twist, as they move up and down, and they dive deeper and deeper, tears (big, angry, hurt ones) pour down your cheeks.
You throw up in your mouth too, but that’s neither here nor there.
Something that sounds like nails tapping on a chalkboard echoes in your head, you feel something ‘clink’, and Kate sighs in what might just be relief. “Got it,” she says, and— oh shit.
You see the blood erupting from your shoulder before you feel it.
An artery? Did she–
The kid starts wailing, and Faith, she tugs on Simon's arm–your Simon’s arm–and screams “do something!” while all you can think is don’tdon’tdon’tdon’t
For the second time in what can’t be more than an hour… You lose consciousness.
2019… (the next day)
The second the helicopter touched down, Kate all but shoved Ghost, Faith, and the kid out onto the tarmac. The only kindness she spared was warning Price, who met half of his team and the civilian they’d aided in rescuing with a group of medics flanking him. Ghost helped the kid limp towards the stretcher lying in wait, supporting most of her weight with the arm he had wrapped around her midsection. Faith, she approached the medics with a strong stance; approached her Captain the same way, unwilling to let any semblance of weakness that wasn’t painted on as her bruises were, undermine her. “Captain,” she says, “it’s good to see you, sir.”
Price motions for one of the medics to check her out. “Good t’ see you in one piece, Faith. They’ll sort you out. Let them,” not an ask–an order, it’s clear in his voice, all authoritarian. Crystal.
“Ghost,” he says.
“Cap’n,”
“Follow me.”
He does. Simon “Ghost” Riley walks into base and falls in line after his captain, ignoring the way everyone pauses and stares. No one expected him back so soon. Some, the new recruits, were naive enough to not expect him back at all.
The atmosphere remains tense; frigid, even after they duck into Price’s office. Even as he sits, and motions for Ghost to do the same. “You disobeyed direct orders.”
There’s no point arguing. “The orders were bullshit,” Ghost adds a last minute, “respec’fully.” He crosses his arms over his chest, “You’d have never left Soap behind. Not Gaz, not me,”
“Except by pulling what you did, you forced our hand and we had to.”
“You’re not mad,” Ghost states.
Price doesn’t argue. “It’s the job–someone’s got to do it. Someone had to go get Faith, and if you hadn’t, Kyle would’ve. You’re a better shot than he is, so no. I’m not mad. You pull that shite again, without lettin’ me know your plan, though? You’ll be doing the fuckin’ paperwork yourself.” Price snaps, shaking a report, and a piece of paper with a letter of reprimand printed on it, in the space beside his head, before tossing it on the desk. “The headaches you lot give me.”
“Ask the medics for some advil, sir?” Simon asks, keeping his voice impossibly serious.
Price shakes his head and grumbles, “The fucking nerve on ya, Simon. Get out of my face,” and Ghost does. His boots press into the floor and he stands. His hand encompasses the doorknob, and he twists. “Get some bloody rest, tonight, yeah? Captain’s orders.”
Simon nods dutifully and slips into the hallway where he runs straight into Johnny.
Johnny, who launches himself, like a coiled spring at his LT, and wraps his arms tight around him, “Missed ye, you fuckin’ numpty,” he says, pulling Simon into a hug that neither soldier fights. “Missed you too, Mactavish,” says Ghost, returning the sentiment by thumping his open palm against Soap’s back. They separate, and Ghost glances down at his comrade, at his best friend, one of his only ones in this lifetime.
Soap returns his gaze with equal weight. “Thank ye for bringin her home. Gaz would’a lost wha’ever mind he’s got.”
Simon nods once, and gives a gruff, “I said I would, Johnny. No need t’thank me.”
“Aye. Y’did.”
“You can do me a favour, though.”
“Anything ye need, Simon.”
“Call that friend of yours?”
“You’ve got to be a wee bit more specific.”
Simon begins to walk down the hallway, wary of the prying eyes of passing recruits and the lingering curiosity they wear like hunger. Johnny follows him, at his side, though there’s barely enough space for the two to fit shoulder to shoulder in the narrow hallway. The bulk of them acts as a deterrent, and clears everyone else out of their way. Two hulking men sauntering down the hall, not willing to stop their pace or slow it, are not something anyone wants to be in the way of. Soap and Ghost reach the lounge-room, it’s a place that the 141 have a not-so-silent claim stamped on, and the second that the boys’ boots pass the threshold, soldiers are scrambling from the room. Up and off of the leather couch, tossing cue sticks down onto the green pool table-top, disrupting the solids and stripes that had been in play. At the counter, a man sets down his glass mug, amber liquid sloshing inside of it and all of them duck, heads dipped, eyes downcast, as they slip through the door, that Simon forces shut when the last outsider disappears.
“Your friend from back ‘ome. The one who we’ve had on comms a few times. The hacker,”
Recognition flashes in Johhny’s eyes and a smile tugs at the corner of his lip. “Ahhhhh. Ye want Rune’s help? I can call her. She owes mae a few dozen favours.”
“And you’ll cash them in?”
“O’course. What's goin’ on?”
“I wasn’t out there by myself, Johnny. I had help bringin’ in Faith. You’ve heard of agent, Reaper, yeah? The one with the spo’less fuckin reputation,” and Johnny nods, brows creased in something like confusion, “she found Faith, she’s the one who got ‘er free. Rescued some kid, too. Something was off about the whole thing though, and I’d like t’know wha.”
“Off how?”
“Can’t say. M’hoping Rune can.”
Johnny nods and pulls his cellphone from one of his pockets. His fingers dance across the keypad and three shrill rings later, there’s a voice spilling through his phone. “Rune, aye need y’ta do somethin fer me.”
“I’m busy, Johnny. Go find some other poor sap to–”
“Aye was busy too,” Johnny says slowly, carefully, “in Brazil, Runie, but I made a wee bit o’ time in my schedule for ye. Think you can do the same?” and while Simon doesn’t know what happened in Brazil, whatever it was, is enough leverage. There’s a pause, a beat of silence that lasts too long to be comfortable and then Rune exhales so loudly that it spills through the speaker.
“You’re a butthead, Mactavish. An actual plague.”
“That a yes?” says Simon, cutting in.
“Simon Riley. Wowwww. How lucky am I?” sarcasm and code are the only languages Rune seems to speak, that, and more recently, defeat. “Gray-hat-hacker at your freaking service. Here to help you with all your less than legal hopes and dreams,” and the faux-cheer that couldn’t have ever been mistaken for anything else, drops, “What do you want?”
“Reaper. We want everything you have on agent Reaper.”
“…”
“That a problem?”
“I’m not a genie, Mactavish. You don’t get three wishes, you hear? I do this for you and you shut the heck up about Brazil. Permanently. You got it?”
Johnny looks at Simon, who nods, and that’s that. “Got it,” they both say.
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings:swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i’ve missed.
Chapter Four
5:57, 5:56…
The sky was painted in shades of grey. Smoke blew through the air—red and orange already, foreshadowing the carnage: current and coming. The hostiles who’d stayed behind to fight, or who hadn’t been invited to escape in the armoured vehicles that sped away were all lying on the ground, dead, or close to it. They were in the next life, or robbed of the facilities they needed to end yours.
Because of him.
Simon “Ghost” Riley had made a vow once, to protect you, and all these years later he was still keeping it. Whether he knew it or not.
You slide back behind the scrapped car where the girl is. She looks fucking petrified and you… all you can think to do is ask her a question. “Your name, what is it?” the kid answers, meekly, and you tell her that she has a lovely name, but what else is there to say? Hell, you probably shouldn’t have even asked, but in a situation like this—where there are no guarantees—not knowing it, feels like betrayal. You tell her “it’s going to be okay,” and well, ‘it’ is certainly subjective. “You’ll be okay,” you amend, “I’ll get you out of here and you’ll be okay,” she nods though it’s unclear if she believes that. If she believes you, even a little. There’s hesitance in her eyes when she wraps her arms around your neck again, mindful of the blood staining your clothes. “Don’t worry about me,” you grit, jaw clenched so tightly that there’s a small crack. The dentist isn’t cheap—the CIA pays well, thankfully.
5:30…
“Hold tighter. Don’t worry about hurting me. If we don’t get out of here soon…” they’ll be bigger things to worry about—or rather, there will be nothing to worry about because we won’t be alive to stress. You avoid saying that last bit, because, who the fuck would say that to a kid? You might not be winning any Mother Of The Year medals anytime soon, but you’re not completely useless.
With one of your gloved hands you pinch her wrists together, tugging, to show her that the pressure doesn’t bother you. It does, obviously, but you pretend the pain isn’t dizzying, you stand, and you haul her off of the ground. “See? I’m tough. You are too, kid. You’ll get through this,” and you fucking mean that. That’s your mission now, getting her out of here. Simon has Faith covered. She’s with him now, and he’s always had an affinity for making things turn out okay.
5:00…
You and the kid head towards the gates—split wide open per the impromptu “evacuation”, and a glance back over your shoulder, because you just need one. One more look. One more glance at the man you love loved (who are you kidding. Love, you still love him. You never stopped) has you freezing fucking solid. He’s still on the goddamn roof. He has a med kit open and he’s tearing a piece of tape with his teeth, tending to Faith and… didn’t she tell him? Didn’t she tell him there’s no time?
4:48, 4:47…
There’s hardly enough time to get clear of the blast radius from here. Let alone to scale a fucking building, but…
Sometimes there’s no choice to be made.
You can’t sit the kid down, can’t leave her, not with the fear so clearly painted all over her face. “Hold tight,” you tell her again, turning around and waving like a fucking madman. Simon’s back is to you, and Faith, she’s not paying attention. Maybe Kate hadn’t picked well. Faith’s observation skills were fucking lacking, her memory too, if she hadn’t remembered to tell Simon there was a BOMB.
You can’t yell—Ghost, Simon, whateveryou’resupposedtocallhim, he knows your voice and he can’t even know you’re alive. Fuck. Fucking shit, why is everything so complicated? “Can you yell? Loudly?” you ask the kid. She nods, she tells you: “I can try,” and that’ll have to be good enough—so she isn’t too confused, you explain the gist. “That guy up there…” nope. Abort, abort, abort. “Those people up there, I can’t talk to them—“ and that still sounds stupid. Dumb, like one of those bullshit you’re-too-young-to-understand explanations you hated receiving at her age (or around it… truthfully you have no idea how old the kid is. malnutrition can make people look a lot younger than they are so she could be anywhere between 12 and 20. younger than you, though, for sure, and by extension… a kid) that made you feel stupid and defensive, and more than a little irritated.
“Liar,” you remember Simon saying.
Liar, liar, liar.
Use it.
“Talking hurts. One of the guys choked me and—I don’t want to strain my voice anymore. It could cause permanent damage.”
“Oh. Okay. What do you want me to say?”
“I need you to get his attention. The man with the mask. I need you to tell him we need to get clear of the compound, that there’s a bomb, and it… it’s set to detonate in four minutes.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. I’m… I’m gonna stop talking now but I got you. You’re safe. I’d just like them to be, too.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding determined. “Okay, here goes.” The girl clinging onto you, like you’re her lifeline, lifts one arm into the air and waves hard. “HEY!” she screams, voice so abrasive headphones become the stuff of dreams. “HEY! YOU TWO! UP THERE!” and wow, the kid has a serious pair of lungs on her.
On the roof, Simon turns to face you. Faith points, likely spouting something about recognizing you… “GET DOWN FROM THE ROOF! THERE’S A BOMB AND IT'S GOING TO GO OFF IN—“ she peers over your shoulder, her chin touches it. Owowow, didyoumentionow? “EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BLOW UP IN THREE MINUTES. YOU WILL EXPLODE IN THREE MINUTES IF YOU DONT GET OUT OF HERE—“ and by the time she’s done screaming, Simon’s helping Faith rappel down the side of the building. Using the wall’s uneven textures, the ledges, balconies, and windows, they make it to the ground in ten seconds.
2:50, 2:49…
It all happens so fast. There’s shouting, not the kid’s, Simon’s—Faith’s. “We’ve got t’get clear of the building,”
“Ghost,” says Faith, pulling at his arm, “that’s who rescued me.”
“That’s Reaper?” he says, incredulous.
You’d be insulted if you weren’t so fucking dizzy. You flash your watch, the numbers blinking red, 2:28, 2:27, and you hold onto the kid as tightly as you can rushing for the door. You feel airy and this isn’t your first rodeo—it’s the blood loss. Thoughts mix together with the wind, and you stumble slightly. Simon and Faith run beside you and you aren’t quite aware enough to notice how he watches you from behind his skull-mask. You’re not aware of much until the weight on your back is gone and—fuck, you stop, thinking that she’s fallen, that in your state you dropped the kid you swore would be okay. “‘ve got her,” says Simon, “worry about yourself, Reaper.”
How does he— oh, oh Faith told him. That makes sense. You think it does at least.
You run as fast as you can, but even though you manage to keep pace with Simon, it’s all a blur.
Your shoulders burns.
1:30…
Your legs burn.
1:00…
Your lungs burn.
0:30
The watch on your wrist blinks up at you and you don’t know how far away you are—or how far away you need to be. You follow Simon as he weaves through abandoned streets, slipping into and through narrow alleyways that even in your lesser state, you notice that he seems eerily familiar with. How long did Captain Price say he’d been “MIA” for, again? How long had he been scoping this place out? How long—
Your foot snags on a crack in the cobbles, pieces of gravel embed themselves in your knees and before you can consider standing back up, a gloved hand on your collar makes your choice. Simon hauls you up before you can finish falling and your watch is blurry. You blink down at it, trying to see it clearer to read the numbers.
0:05,
0:04,
0:03,
0:02,
0:01…
KAABOOM!!!
You end up on the ground again. Heat kisses your back, pieces of wood and metal, pieces of stone, of glass, they sail through the air, all exploding outwards from a blast that rocks the ground beneath you. You taste soot and iron, the sun is gone—hidden behind a mushroom cloud, behind debris, dust. It’s so fucking loud. Everything is stinging your ears—everything is sharp, high-pitched, aching. Eye protection, a bulletproof vest (itwasntbulletproofenough, was it), and no ear plugs? Really? Ear protection, headphones. Oh god, you wish you had headphones.
You’re on your back—and you’re looking up. You think you’re looking up. The air is the furthest thing from clear.
It’s muddled. Fuzzy. All mixed up.
Just like you.
You’re dizzy. Your head hurts. Your shoulder, too. Everything.
There’s a ringing in your ears and you can’t hear anything. Not the screams you know are there, not the sobbing, not the pained groan you know slips through your parted lips. Not… not anyone else.
Your mind should default to Faith—to the mission.
To the kid.
It doesn’t.
Your arms feel like they’re made of glass—the same shattered kind that’s all around you, from the shops whose windows exploded outwards—as you lift your head and glance around. Rolling onto your side (the mostly uninjured one) you search all around you.
Faith is lying on the ground. Unconscious, but her chest is rising.
The kid is tucked against a wall, hands over her head. Her chest is rising too—rising and falling at rates indicative of a panic attack. You don’t blame her. Her reaction is normal. Yours, on the other hand? Fucking hardly.
Simon, Simon.
Where’s Si—
You see legs. There’s a pillar and… have you ever heard the stories? The ones in which adrenaline gives someone the strength to lift a car? To do something impossible—that’s you, as you neglect the screaming pain flooding through your body and lift with all your might, flipping the pillar away from him and…
It’s not him.
It’s not Ghost.
Not your Simon.
The man, he isn’t even breathing.
A hand grabs onto your uninjured shoulder and you whirl around. Blue eyes surrounded by eyeblack look down at you and ohgod— ohgodohgodohgod. He’s okay. He’s okay, ohmygod. He’s okay.
You’re not.
You don’t even care.
“Reaper!” he’s shouting but his words sound like they’re whispered. It’s from the blast, you know it is. “You’re hit,” he says, pawing at your gear. You shove him off. Never-mind that you’d love nothing more than to have his hands on you, never mind that his hands are the only ones you’ve ever been okay with touching you, nevermind that you’d do anything to have him hold you—to have the comfort you know he’d give to you if not for the stupidfuckingmask. “Evac!” You shout, hoping that the gravel in your voice and the ringing in his ears is enough to keep your identity under-wraps. “Behind the tavern!”
“You’re not gon’ make it to the fuckin tavern.”
“I don’t want your help.”
Liar. Liarliarliar.
“I’ll be quick. You’ve lost a lot’a blood,” and he reaches for you again but no—no. Low visibility or not, Simon knows every inch of you. Your scars, your birthmarks, your fucking collarbone. If he sees your skin, your cover is blown. And these last three years, they’re for what?
“Touch me and you’ll lose a hand,” you seethe. “Evac is behind the tavern,” and you force yourself to stand again, force yourself to—
His hand wraps around your wrist. “You gotta death wish? ‘S tha it? Too much of a coward t’put a bullet in your own brain so yer lettin’ a simple shot to the shoulder be wha takes you out? ‘S fuckin pathetic. I’ve heard all about you Reaper an I’m fuckin disappointed.”
You rip your hand away from his and show him your knife. “It’s a good thing I don’t aim to please then, huh? There’s someone capable of patching me at the evac point. Now do your fucking job and get Faith and the kid there.”
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings:swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i've missed.
Chapter Three
What the fuck was Kate thinking?
—Maybe she wasn’t, maybe that was the problem. Maybe, you’d left your son in the care of a crazy-lady and her accomplice AKA her wife. You’d pickup your phone and call, you would scream, cuss her out, and shout the only words your mind seemed capable of stringing together (what the fuck), had you not decided to be the predictable freak you always were.
Damn it. Damn it all to hell.
When the jet touched down, you detached your radio from your belt, and ground up the tracking device underneath your combat boots. When your feet landed on solid ground, you repeated the motion twice. First went your sim-card. Then, your phone. You’d lost the sentimental attachment to the mobile device around number five and this, it had to be in the mid-hundreds.
Reaper was a prolific CIA agent, one of the best to ever walk. She was more than that, too. She was whatever they needed her to be—a thief, a protector, a killer.
A liar.
2013…
Kate was your friend your handler and she had told you about a new mission. She seemed relieved, happy for you and the man she said you were to listen and report to. His name was John, but you would call him Captain Price, no matter how anyone else addressed him. Kate, included. He was a military man through and through—you could tell by his build and the way he carried himself. You could tell by his eyes, too. The ones you pretended not to notice as they scraped over you, sizing you up. “John,” says Kate, not unkindly. She walks up to him and wraps in a quick hug and that tells you to lower your hackles—it tells you Kate trusts this man enough to let his hand near her back without expecting a knife in it. Captain Price brightens when they draw apart, “it’s good to see ya, Laswell. The wife doin well?” and Kate tells him of course, she’s as perfect as the day they met. Then, she steps aside and makes room for your approach. He outstretches his hand, you grip it firmly and shake. He introduces himself and waits for you to do the same. Your mission objective flashes in your mind: work and train among the 141. Keep them safe without letting them discover that is your role. The work they do is important, keep them breathing so they can keep doing it. “Y/n L/n, sir. It’s a pleasure.” He watches you for an extended moment, and you answer what he hasn’t yet asked. “I’m an infantry soldier, sir. Private L/n,” and Captain Price looks to Kate, obvious doubt in his eyes. “She’s the best I’ve seen in combat, John. I wouldn’t stick you with a rook,” and still, the man looks conflicted. He takes in the way you stand with the confidence someone of your make-believe-rank shouldn’t have, next to him. You play your part well—like you always do. “No disrespect, Laswell, but I am a rook. Never-mind my training scores, Captain Price has seen battlefields I’ve never dreamt of, and organized and ran ops that will either be read about in history books or the reason there isn’t a new war on some poor sap of a college kids’ syllabus. I’m a good soldier but I have plenty to learn. I am a rookie,” you direct your gaze to Captain Price, lifting your head slowly and allowing determination to flood your features, “but anywhere you need me, I’ll be. I’m a quick study and honoured to be joining your task force, sir,” and shit, you should’ve been a used car salesman ‘cause you could sell anything. You could weave a lie like an author with pen and paper. Captain Price and Kate exchanged words you weren’t supposed to listen to, and then he grasped your shoulder. “Welcome to the 141, Rook.”
You were really good at lying.
2014…
“We’re taking fire!” shouted Gaz, ducking behind a wall of some beaten down burning shack. “Hostiles are everywhere, it’s an ambush. It’s a fucking ambush! We need evac—or air support! Shit,” he cursed as the smoke thickened, threatening to choke him out. To finish him before the enemy did. It was dizzying and the fabric he raised over his nose didn’t help a thing. His radio was crackling: it was Captain Price. “Backup is 6 minutes out,” and Gaz let out what he’d never admit was a sob. He didn’t fucking have six minutes and… he’d been separated from Rook—shit, Rook. “Cap,” he rushes, “Rook and I, we were separated back by the fountain. I, I don’t see her. There s’much smoke—“ and Ghost’s voice crackles over the walkie, too. “Sit tigh’, I’ll come get you and we’ll find ‘er. Bastard’s not answerin’ her coms,” and Gaz is certain this is it for him. He doesn’t want it to be it for his team, too. Not Ghost, not Rook. “There’s too many of them and too low visibility! You won’t make it to me, LT. Just… head to the fountain, she’s got to be around there somewhere. And her walkie, it must… it must be broken,” he says—or rather begs. “S’always fuckin broken,” grumbles Ghost and thats when Gaz hears the first BANG! There’s a clock tower several buildings away and in it, is a sniper. The bodies drop one after another. The enemy is picked off everytime they so much as twitch. Gaz watches blood smear across the window of a building he didn’t know was full of hostiles. Bullets split the wooden walls and screams explode from everywhere, “your a live saver, LT,” Gaz breathes, meaning it completely. His lieutenant has just saved his life. Man, oh man; he’d really thought he was a goner. “s’not me,” says Ghost, and then they meet you at the tower’s base. You knew they were coming, of course, though Ghost impressed you. All that bulk, and you’d only had one opportunity to paint the walls with his brain. Gaz… well, he was lucky you were the sniper, lucky that you liked him. Ghost, your lieutenant reached you first. You slip the sniper rifle you had taken a part and into pieces, into your bag, and shoot him a nod. It isn’t enough, evidently. He grabs you and forces you to face him. “We couldn’t reach you,” and you tell him that maybe your walkie broke when you and Gaz were— “s bullshit, Y/n,” he hisses. Using your first name in the field? Woahhhhh, buddy, and Gaz is giving you space, for some reason. Watching your six like you should be watching theirs while— Ghost looks you up and down and fucking scowls under that mask of his. Narrowed eyes tell you that maybe, you’ve never seen him mad. He prods your side and no amount of teeth gritting can stop him from noting the pain that flicks through you. “You’re hurt.” A statement, not a question. “It’s nothing, Ghost. I swear,” and he snarls. He’s yanking up your tac vest, and your shirt and spitting molten, “nothin’ but a fuckin liar.” Your name, he says softly though. He barks orders at Gaz and drags you back inside the clock tower to patch your wounds.
You’d always been so good at lying. Then, you met him. He saw straight through you and never let you forget it. You felt seen. You felt known—
(STILL) 2014…
“You scared to spar the lass or what?” asks Soap, fully on Team Rook. Thank god, because you needed some kind of backup, because this? This was a losing fight. A fight you’d lost over and over again—a fight you’d really love to win. “Come on, Ghost,” you goad, “it’s my birthday-wish. Happy 24th!” At that, Soap gives you a look and mumbles something you don’t quite catch, “yer off yer heid,” or something like that? Fuck if you know, fuck if you care. Gaz laughs from where he stands in-front of the dartboard, “if all you want for your birthday is to be thrown around a little, I could hop in the ring with you,” and you roll your eyes at his offer, “I could put you to sleep in ten minutes, Garrick. What I want is a challenge,” and you think maybe Ghost takes this to heart. When he leaves the common room, he dips his head and tells you to meet him in the ring, in twenty. You count down the seconds—and excuse yourself, with your practiced poker face. “Gonna turn in for the night, boys,” you lie, and receive your ‘gd’nights’. You meet Ghost in the ring. He doesn’t look phased; that said, you wouldn’t know if he was. If Ghost was a book, you were dyslexic. “You don’t want to fight me, Rook,” he says when you step inside the ring, when you size him up and look for weak spots that aren’t there. You laugh, “Oh yeah? I don’t? The hell do I want then, Ghost?” he shrugs and dodges the first punch you throw—he recognizes that there’s no real weight behind it, and you try not to. “You’re supposed to tell me that. It’s yer birthday,” and why did he come down here if he was just going to dodge? You land a hit and nothing changes, he doesn’t hit you back, just keeps moving, just keeps his eyes on you. “I want you to fight”, “we are,” he says. “I want you to try,” you tell him, fists raised to stop a punch you know isn’t on it’s way. “No,” he says, “you want me to hit you.” He stops engaging, stops moving — but keeps on watching you, because of course he does. “I’ve watched you fight. Y’let hits lands that shouldn’t. You skip out on the medic unless I drag you there. Rook, m’not draggin you there tonight on your fuckin birthday,” and sue you because you’re feeling stupid. Like a fool. Embarrassment burns your skin, you feel exposed, laid bare (and not-in-a-fun-way) so you take a step back. “The fuck did you invite me down here for, then? I’m not interested in being psychoanalyzed”, “You’re not interested in much, are ya?” and you tell him to go fuck himself. “Happy birthday, Rook,” he tells your back, as you storm off.
2015…
“I hate you,” you tell him, eyes glued to his chest, to the needles you’re dipping in and out of his skin, to the thread part of you wants to tug on. “I fucking hate you, you stupid fucking—“ and Ghost, his mask is lifted up and rests on his nose. His lips, wet with spit and blood, they curve into a small smile. He says this next thing tenderly, with a softness that makes your hands tremble. “Liar.”
(STILL) 2015…
Bullets are flying everywhere and you can’t find the civvy you were sent here to save. The stock of a rifle slams into your face and shortly after, a boot jams into your side. It’s Naseer’s. You sob. Since 2011 you have wanted one thing and it’s for him to leave you alone. For him to stop touching you. Your body doesn’t feel like yours. It’s never been, not really. There’s an explosion. Red, and orange, they’re everywhere. Hot and angry flames, hot and bright blood, pouring—fuck, fuckfuckfuck, it’s everywhere. You’re pressing your hands over a gaping hole in a squad mate’s stomach–it’s Lux’s and she’s crying. Or… no, no, you’re the one whose crying. “It’s okay,” he tells you. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” but yes it does. And there’s Kelly, he’s seizing, oh god, oh god. It hurts so bad you think you’re the one dying. You’re screaming and then someone else is grabbing you. There’s pressure everywhere and someone’s saying your name. Hands. Hands are on you everywhere. Lux is dead. Kelly is dead, he’s dead and it’s not him—can’t be, because Kelly didn’t know your name, not your real one. No one in this graveyard knew your name other than Naseer and Y/n wasn’t what he called you so, so… “Breathe, c’mon. Open your eyes love, c’mon,” and it’s Simon, it’s Simon, it’s Ghost. It’s your lieutenant, lord knows he’s more than that too, and you’re crying in his arms. You’re sobbing and he’s holding you. You’re in his lap, curled into his chest and he’s whispering instructions in a tone that you follow instinctively. You breathe, you calm down, and you stop shaking. Then, you push at his chest because you want to wipe your face, wipe the tears, wipe the evidence away. You want to leave—every fibre of your being is screaming: RUN. Simon doesn’t let you, and when he finally does let you go, your breathing has evened itself out. He pats the bed and you sit beside him, offering feeble assurances, ones even you don’t believe. “Just a nightmare,” you say. “Just a bad dream.” He doesn’t say much, just looks at you, blue eyes more expressive than you’d ever seen them. “A little more than that, yeah?” and yeah. Yeah, it was. “You wanna tell me about it?” he asks, offer gruff yet pressure-less, and for some reason, you do. Not everything, but enough. You tell him, that with your eyes closed you watched two friends you served with die and you relieved the worst parts of your service, of your life. He stays the night, and you don’t even have to ask him to. Then, in the morning, you catch him shutting down whatever gossip was circulating, stemming from your loud cries. In the evening, he shows up outside your door. He has no expectations but he wants you to have choices. He wants you to feel safe; to sleep soundly. “You don’t have to sleep in here,” you tell him. “Last night won’t happen again. I’ll be fine. I have been all this time and—“ he calls you a liar again, in that same soft way. He slips past you into the room, “s more for me than you, yeah?”
2016…
He keeps you close—always. In the shops, on missions, in bed (he keeps you squished against his chest because somewhere along the line, he’d learned your favourite sound was his heartbeat), he’ll wrap an arm around you, curl a finger in your belt loop, hold your hand. “You like physical touch, huh?” to which he replies, still heavy with sleep, “‘Jus like you, love,” and all of these little things add up. It hits you like a brick to the teeth, that he’s terrified to lose you. He’s scared you’ll leave him, be killed in the line of duty, scared that someday he’ll be made to wake up without you next to him. You reassure him, “You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving you, Si. I’d never do that. Never,”
You’d always been a fucking liar. That time, you didn’t know you were lying—honest. You wonder if he had.
Simon.
He was here.
Working the same unofficial op that you were.
That Reaper was—Reaper, not Y/n. Not Rook, not his wife.
You had to find and rescue Faith.
Simon wasn’t part of the mission but… no. Fuck, no. You can’t, Reaper. You can’t, you tell yourself. Your head is buried in your hands, while you argue with your own damn self.
He’s an unpredictable variable, he complicates things (and ain’t that the truth), I’ll just lay eyes on him, make sure he won’t interfere with my mission, make sure he’s—
No.
Find Faith. “I’m here to find Faith. Si—Ghost, he’s not the mission. He can’t fucking see me. He doesn’t need to, either. He can take care of himself,” you say aloud, speaking what must happen into existence, trying to create some invisible contract that you can trap yourself in. That will force you to listen.
You finish scrutinizing the documents in front of you. The photos, the blueprints—you look at the layout of his mansion and commit it to memory, you do the same with warehouse number two but there’s not too much you need to study there. You know the hallways (you see them some nights), you know how the basement is arranged. Which doors are locked, where the windows are. You know where the cages are, where he ties his victims up, where he cuts them up. You read the shipment schedules Kate has provided you with, and the profiles on all of the men closest to him. There’s a woman, too, called “Telayne”, how progressive of Naseer, hiring a woman instead of beating her. Instead of drugging her autonomy away and poisoning her. Too bad you’ll kill her too, if she gets in the way.
You’ve never had a problem with gender equality. All bodies bleed the same, and all that.
You dump the arm-load of papers into the fireplace, even though you’re tempted to keep the photo of Naseer, to pin it up and practice throwing knives or darts or especially sharp forks.
The floorboards aren’t sound—you appreciate this, when you’re lifting one up, jamming the weapons you don’t need underneath them, between rotting wood and dirt. You don’t remove anything from your holsters, they’re all discrete and hidden anyways. All you take from the slew of weapons Kate sent you with, is the mini, and some ammo. You bring ammo for guns you haven’t gotten yet, too. Reaper—you are a scavenger.
Grenades lie at the base of your bag and in your pocket, there’s a small dose of poison. Enough, should you need it. The memory of Kelly had given you the idea.
—You won’t need it, but being prepared was never what got people killed.
Bag slung over your shoulder, mask pulled up to your nose, your goggles bridge the gap between the bandana that covers the rest of your face—you tug down your hood, still, peering out of glass that appears matte black to the outside eye. You see through them perfectly and regard them fondly. They’re among your favourite pieces of gear. They protect your identity, robbing everyone else of the chance to see the Reaper. “The grim Reaper’s coming,” you murmur to yourself, nearly chuckling at how silly it sounds to say something like that about yourself, as you slip between body after body.
By no means do you look inconspicuous but it’s pissing down rain and everyone has better things to do as you slide into the compound behind a man whose lack of awareness is his downfall. You follow him down the hallway and into the mansion. The door to your left is a supply closet and you thrust your blade through his back and directly into his heart. Your hand clamps down over his mouth, stifling whatever pained noises he makes when you twist and twist. The closet door eases shut and you continue on your way. Staff cleans the place on Saturdays, only. That man won’t be discovered for ages, not until he starts to stink or… or until his blood seeps under the door.
It’s a rookie mistake. You push past it.
There’s tunnels below the mansion, and they lead to the respective warehouses. The plan had been—maim and kill Naseer and retrieve Faith but your priorities had changed now. With Si—with Ghost, in tow, lurking somewhere, being a liability; something you couldn’t even try and predict, you had to get Faith out first. Drop her somewhere he could get to her and conveniently arrange for them to stumble upon the evac-point. Kate would be surprised to see Ghost step onto the jet with your mission objective beside him… or would she be?
It was probably her fucking plan all along.
Two missing operatives for the price of one.
What a di—
Gunfire rings out. A man, he’s shouting in a language you don’t understand, one you don’t need to, to know that these tunnels are about to be flooded with the enemy. They’re dirt—excavated by folks Naseer forced into servitude. You remember seeing some of them, shackles on their ankles. Shovels, pickaxes in their clenched fists.
Ruining their hard work feels disrespectful.
You pull the grenades pin anyway. You lose a knife, sending it through the man’s eye socket. He falls to the floor and neglects his gun while you dive past him, into tunnel number two, and drop the grenade behind you.
Dirt rains down upon you. Rocks come loose and you dive out of their way, scrambling to avoid the contact that would end life just as easily as a bullet to the head, would. The grenade triggers a cave in. The earth you’re running from is disappearing. The ceiling is falling, everything on top of it might, too.
This could be it but—
It never is.
Warehouse two greets you like a bad omen. There’s a cluster of militiamen waiting for you at the archway but their bullets whiz past, aiming high, and you dive low, right through them. Tendons are slit and bullets ricochet. The walls are metal and the acoustics in this forsaken place announce the blooming firefight. Running to dive behind a stone wall, you use a man as a meat shield. His flesh bounces as he’s hit, and like rocks on industrial grade jello, he ripples but stays solid enough that you manage with only one bullet nicking you. Just a graze, just a fucking graze.
You didn’t need those blueprints. You slip into a room, already knowing what it is and look down at salvation—Naseer’s latest creation sits un-fucking-guarded. A bomb, it’s set on a timer, it’s a big one. An explosion that will decimate everything in a 10 kilometre radius, at least. Thank-you-Mactavish, for the explosives knowledge.
You set the timer—on the bomb, and on your watch, and you close your eyes when you use your knife to sever the wire the same colour as your eyes. It was Naseer’s favourite and had to be connected to a failsafe, to something that could be used to stop detonation, and that simply wouldn’t do.
There was no stopping this.
No stopping you.
Big red numbers appear on a small screen that resembles an alarm clock. 30:00, 29:59, okay. That’s… it’ll work. It has to. You leave the room running, “left you a present!” you shout and when you’re whipping around the next corner the panic begins and the countdown is discovered. “That crazy bitch!” is shrieked, but no one's running in your direction anymore, not as you head further into the facility while they try to flee it.
Down the stairwell, you’re responsible for two more men falling to the ground, bullets in their brains.
28:32, 28:31…
Down the hallway, a third dies by your hands after making the mistake of wrapping his around your throat. The struggle lasts longer than you’d have liked and working air back into your lungs, stings like your eyes do.
26:49, 26:48…
You find the cages. There’s a few girls curled up in the largest one, the sight is nauseating. They wear hardly anything and are covered in dirt, in blood, in grime. The whole entire room reeks of piss and shit and blood. You take the hatchet from your bag and break the bars, knowing from experience that the locks would never give. “Can you walk?” they nod, save the smallest of the bunch. “If you can run, run. This building is going to be dust in,” the watch on your wrist is blinking red, “in 25 minutes.” You shuck off your bag, and hand the strongest of them weapons. “Point and squeeze,” you tell them. Knives press into their shaking palms, too, but you pair the blades with a warning. “Don’t let anyone close enough that you need to use these.” Then you’re playing tour-guide, barking directions and screaming at them to “go, go, go!” they do, one, shooting a fearful glance back at the girl who can barely stand, let alone sprint. “What about—“
“I’ve got her. You worry about yourself.”
The girl slumped against the wall looks up at you, “you can go. You… can worry about yourself, too.”
Frankly, fuck that.
“That’s not my style. Though, I do… I have a pit stop I have to make.” You hand her the last gun in your bag, this one acquired from one of the men you’d reaped, “like I told them, kid. Point and squeeze—not at me, though, preferably. ‘Cause I’ll be back for you there’s just someone else here I’ve got to get free, first.”
She nods.
You’re in agreement, then.
“I’ll be back,” you swear, running through the hallway. You have a handgun left, your knives, a few rounds. Your knife buries itself in the shoulder of a fleeing militiaman you recognize. He’s got an ugly scar across his face and you lift your goggles for a moment just so he can see who’s about to give him another. “You—“
20:00, 19:59…
“I don’t have the fucking time!” you shout, full of rage you don’t have time to feel. Now’s not the time for a trip down memory lane. You slam him back into the floor and drag the knife through muscle, towards his throat, as he screams and begs for mercy. “The receiving end, isn’t, so nice… is it?” you heave with effort. The blade, its edges are serrated, and it’s a bitch to saw through so much. His eyes widen and when they glaze over you push yourself off of him.
The hanging room is empty.
The cutting one isn’t. There’s Faith, carved up like Thanksgiving dinner and strapped to the chair that—you hinge at your hips and puke, having barely enough time to lower your mask.
Groggily, she lifts her head. “What—“
“I don’t usually do that.”
“Are you—“
“Your one-woman-rescue-team?”
Nausea aside, you move to untie her. The jagged end of your dagger cuts her binds and hell, she doesn’t look like she can walk either.
Faith surprises you. She hauls herself to her feet even as unsteady as they are and she grabs a scalpel from the metal tray next to the chair. It’s caked in blood, all hers.
“You can have this, if you’d rather,” you say, handing her your gun.
“Who are you? Who sent you?”
“That last bit’s classified,”
“And the first?”
“I’m called Reaper,” the watch reads 18:00, “if you can’t keep up, tell me. We’ve got seventeen minutes to get clear of this place before it’s gone and I don’t know about you, but I’m not looking to be made any more of a victim by Nas—“ you stop yourself, bite your tongue until it’s bloody. “Hurry up, soldier.”
Something flashes in her eyes at the reminder. She follows you, “we can go this way, it’s where they brought me in—a short cut,” she shouts, tugging on your shoulder. A glance back reveals that no matter her determination she isn’t faring well. She needs that shortcut. “Go! Go, I’ll be behind you when I can be!”
“What? No way, you just said this place was going to blow.”
“There’s a girl—I promised her I’d go back for her,” and I’ve broken enough promises, is what you don’t say. “I’ll be as quick as I can. If you can leave, do it; 10 kilometres from here will have you completely out of harm's way. Evac point is in the woods, there’s an old tavern—it’s a straight shot back. ‘Copter will be there at 2100, be on it. With or without me.”
“I can’t just—“
You weren’t a rookie when you joined the 141. You were pretty damn far from being a private, like you’d told Captain Price, too. The authority seeps into your voice easily, the order isn’t one to ignore, “that’s a fucking order. I didn’t save your ass just to hear you’ve turned into pink fucking mist. You copy?”
“Copy.” Faith nods, and takes off, as ordered.
Kate gave the 141 a breath of fresh air—someone who listened.
Good for them.
You rush back to the girl. “Don’t shoot!” you call, announcing your presence and good thing—next to her are three dead men. She hands over the gun and you realize she’s emptied it into the corpses surrounding her. The gun clatters to the ground, with no ammo it’s useless. You have your knives though, still. “You did good,” you tell her and you’ve got 15:00.
–Reaper. Get out.
She wraps her arms around your neck and you haul her up. She isn’t heavy, thankfully. “Hang in there, you’re gonna be just fine.” Physically.
There’s 8:30 left when you bust through the warehouse door. 8:29 when you dive for cover, realizing that not everyone’s left. Bullets whiz past you and dumb luck can only last you so long. Rolling onto your side, you stop a bullet hurdling towards the girl on your back with the only thing you have left: your body. It rips through your shoulder and you’ll have to deal with it later because you’re pinned down and you’ve somehow brought a knife and a malnourished teenager to a gunfight.
Shitttt.
Fucking shit.
“Here, stay right here.” You secure her behind a piece of wall that isn’t going to budge for a whole seven minutes forty-three seconds, and you find a fresh body. One of the militiamen is dead, his firearm alongside him. You run for it—it’s all you can do. Bullets fly from above you but none seem to be targeting you. Deja-vu hits you like a bullet to the shoulder (ouch) and after sliding back behind a junked car, you look up. It’s like the clock tower all over again but this time the roles are reversed. Simon lies on the roof, offering support, and Faith is next to him. With him.
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings: swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i've missed.
Chapter Two
THREE YEARS LATER: 2019…
Mum?” asks your son, tugging on your pant leg. “Where are you going?”
The short answer is what you tell him, “I’m going to work, baby. You know my job sometimes needs me to take trips,” and the long answer is one of the many things he can never know.
“I can’t come?”
The innocence that bleeds from his voice reminds you that Thomas is the only good thing you have in this life anymore — the only good thing you’ve contributed to, the only thing pure you had ever touched and god, oh God, you’re so afraid of ruining him. Your boy looks up at you with big, bluebell eyes, and a stuck out bottom lip, and you can’t even meet his gaze while you give your answer, “No, bud. Not this time. You’re going to stay with your aunties.”
“Again?” He whines, sounding disappointed.
You kneel down, so you’re level with your world. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I’ll be as quick as I can and I’ll bring you a toy back from my trip—anything you want.”
“I just want you, Mumma.”
You’ll bring yourself back to him, if you can.
Shame cuts through you like a knife. It hurts less than the multiple you’ve been cut by, you’re sure. “I’m sorry—“ it’s all you can say. He’s only two, and already, already you’ve begun to wreck him. Your absence is poison not unlike your presence. The boy knows what a nightmare looks like before he’s had any of his own, he knows what tears look like, what they mean. He knows you’re sad, and he knows you leave him often. That each time, you come back less his mom and more something else… that the longer your “work-trip” is, the louder you cry when the sun sets.
Thomas, he doesn’t like your job.
He can’t communicate that how he’d like to though, not at two years old. Three, in a month, but whose counting? —Kate, her wife, you.
You’ll be back by then.
You will.
And yet you’re the only one you’ve spoken that promise to, unwilling to set your son up for disappointment should you… should you not be.
You pass Thomas off to Kate’s wife after a huge hug, after prying his arms from around your neck, and give her an appreciative nod—it’s the most you can manage, before you climb in your car and drive to the debriefing location.
Thank you for parenting my son better than I can.
Thank you for keeping him safe better than I can.
Thank you for being better with my son than I am, for knowing more about children and their needs.
Thank you for being a better role model than I am.
Thank you for giving him the stability I can’t.
Thank you for telling him the stories about his dad that I can’t.
They all feel like failure. They all are failures. They’re all things you can’t admit when handing your son, your boy, over to someone who's done so much better by him than you’ve been able to.
Kate is expecting you, as always. Her arms are folded noncommittally across her chest and she looks between you and a large screen. On it is a map that displays a flight-path from the US to Urzikstan.
She waits for you to look, to understand where you’ll be going.
You nod. Travel arrangements are not high on your maslow’s hierarchy of needs. You’ll go where she wants you, you’ll do what she wants you to. Kate is your friend—was, at least—the distinction is fuzzy now. It has been for quite some time… since when she took you from him. From the life you’d begun to build, and had been naively optimistic about.
You understand, you swear you do. Sometimes, though, you wish she would’ve taken pity on you then and just put you down like the sick dog you feel so much like.
No. No, you know that’s not your role. Death isn’t meant for you anymore, not with Thomas (he’d be better off with the Laswell’s, you think, and hate yourself for it) depending on you. Loving you, at the least.
—You don’t feel very dependable.
But whether or not he knows it, your son has lost more than enough.
So, sick-dog or not, you’ll stay on your leash, you’ll play fetch if that’s what Kate needs from you. You’ll bark when she says so, bite, when she says the same. “Get on with it,” you growl, no real vitriol in your words. Just exhaustion, your permanent state.
Kate clicks a button and a face appears on the screen — a girl, your age, but who looks much younger. It’s the joy, you think.
Anger ages you.
She’s dressed in very familiar tac gear but she has a wide smile, bright eyes, and no tension in her jaw and shoulders. You trust your gut, rarely has it been wrong—and this girl, she doesn’t feel evil. Not like the kind you’re sent to purge. “This girl isn’t a target, is she?”
Kate clicks another button and a second image appears—she takes her time, doesn’t she? She still has flair for the dramatics after all these years and if you had it in you anymore, you might be impressed. Amused even—
This man. You… you know this man. Or rather… he knows you.
The photo isn’t a good one (but that’s to be expected), the man, he has swatches of dirt across his face, his lips, crinkled by age and stained by expensive cigars are twisted into a smirk you’d love to saw off. (yes, saw) And his eyes—those fucking eyes. You notice that the photo doesn’t show off your handiwork very well. The way his hair, shoulder-length now, is arranged hides his missing ear and burned jaw from view.
“Please,” you begged, uselessly. You knew it was pointless, that your words only fueled his sadism but you had reached a point where you no longer knew what else to do other than beg. Fighting stopped being an option, escape was a fever dream. Tears ran down your face and you could feel his hands on you, over you. The bruises were least of the damage he’d done and a small, sour, rotten piece of you envied Lux and Kelly. They were free from this. From Naseer, from the cruel way of life you had been forced into. This life of servitude ruined you. Each day you spent in chains, each day he took whatever he wanted from you, each day he hit you or crooned at you with that voice full of fake sweetness. “Poor, Flower. All alone. All mine.” Not honey, but venom. Each and everyday you spent in your cage, pieces of you broke. They shattered. Disintegrated.
2019… (PRESENT)
You’d hoped he was dead.
The key word there was one that had failed you many times. Hoped. Hope has never been something that treats you well.
Kate looks at you, hoping (ha. goodfuckingluck, you want to say) to gauge your reaction, but you keep your face blank.
It’s a talent. Truly.
“He’s your target,” she says.
“I was under the impression he’d died.”
The look she gives you is clear. It says: obviously, he hasn’t.
“And the girl?” you ask.
“She’s… been abducted.” Kate chooses her words carefully, you can tell. It’s either because she’s thinking of your history with the target, or… “She was my recommendation to the 141.”
Or your history with TF141.
Both, is what’s likely.
“My replacement,” you say aloud. Kate doesn’t argue with you as she’s fully aware there’s no point. No matter what she says, her words are as empty as you’ve been lately. Still, you remain objective. It’s the job. It’s the job—it’sthejobit’sthejobit’sthejob. You, you’re the job. The job, nothing more. You’re not Y/n L/n, and you haven’t been for years. That version of you: friend, soldier, wife, is dead now. Dead. Buried. Engraved in a tombstone you’ve visited a time or two. That name (that name, not yours, not anymore) is gone with the life you had, with the ring and the dog-tags that were taken from you the same day your identity was. “Is she good?”
You don’t ask because she’s been abducted. You’re very aware that with this man, having skill does not stop you from being taken–especially you. You ask, because you want to know that Kate didn’t rob your—the 141–of what they needed when she pulled you. You ask, because even if the memories are distant, coated in fog, they’re the ones you treasure most. Price was the closest thing to a father figure you’d ever had, Soap and Gaz were like brothers to you, and Simon… well. He was…
“Reaper?”
Your eyes snap to Kate.
You’re not Y/n anymore—you thank her internally for the reminder, for the wake up call. Now is no time for reminiscing.
“Laswell,” you answer. Your posture turns to that of a soldier when she uses your code name. “Is she good?”
She nods and wastes no time explaining that she’s being made to repeat herself—she simply does. “She is. She’s greener than you were when you joined the 141, but she was my personal pick. Her accuracy with a rifle is the best I’ve seen since—“
She stops herself.
You don’t know whether she was about to say since you, or since Simon.
—You appreciate that she says neither.
“Call sign: Faith.” You adjust the bag slung over your shoulder. Everything you need is on the jet, waiting for you, but you’ve been known to bring extras. To bring your own supplies and neglect using what’s given to you. You nod, take the file Kate has in her hand, and turn your back to her. “Have some, yeah?” she says, attempting a joke that more than falls flat. Have Faith? Wow. Fucking hilarious.
“Yeah” right.
Have faith? Really though, who the fuck did Kate Laswell think she was talking to?
The plane ride doesn’t feel long. Nor does unloading. Soon, you’re sifting through ammo and stuffing it into a bag. Kate sent you with lots of weapons—many of them too large, too unsubtle. Even after all this time of shipping you out to fix what the government hasn’t been able to, she hasn’t figured out how you do what you do, or what you need to do it. Oh well. You take some custom combat knives (whether or not you have them tucked into holsters and stashed on your person already, is irrelevant) because at least those, she’s gotten right, you take a shotgun, an M1922 (two), and MP5, and a mini-uzi. And your already half-full bag, of course. That said, if you need all of that, you might as well use one of the grenades you’ve brought with to blow yourself up (for real this time)
Naseer doesn’t know the half of what he’s done.
Doesn’t know that with you after him, he won’t have time to do much more.
You walk through the crowded streets with your head down, and fabric shielding you from view. Your hand wanders once, when you find your stomach snarling and food from the market finds itself in your pocket. You’ll eat later, when you make camp. That it’s there is nice though. A pastry is preferable to the MREs you have, any-day. You make your way through the town—Kate didn’t give you much for specifics because you’ve been here before.
You know where to go.
Where not to.
You slip into a home on the outside of Naseer’s compound. All of these people live under his rule, his blood covered thumb (you’ll take that from him too, you think) so you watch for awhile, until you find the guilty. From the shadows you stalk as one of his militiamen returns home to an empty house. You watch for another day and note: this man (no guiltier than you, but guilty all the same) has no family. No family, and blood on his hands.
No family, then blood on his throat.
You push past him and into his home under the guise of dusk. You watch as he gurgles and as his hand flies to his open throat. He reaches for you and you frown, the soft sound of his front door shutting, echoing behind you. “Too deep, huh?”
You watch him squirm for a moment, disappointed in yourself for severing his vocal cords—there’ll be no interrogating this one—and then, you finish the job and tidy up just as quick.
His house becomes yours. It becomes point A—mission central. You know Naseer cares little about the men who work beneath him. You know that no one will come by for a welfare check. The coffee table is where you hunker down: files, all the information you have is strewn out in front of you.
You read.
And read.
And read.
The 141 was here. —This, it makes sense. Why else would Faith be captive (you know why else, you wish you didn’t)
Task force 141 was in Urzikstan not too long ago, stopping a terrorist attack you hadn’t even known about, let alone known that it was a major threat. Fucking Kate, you think.
Things went wrong, as they often do. The attack was stopped but Faith was taken and declared MIA. The 141 prolonged evac for hours until they were forced to return to base. Soap, your eyes burn as you scrutinize the page, was injured in combat but… thank god. You allow yourself to breathe again—it was hard, it had been so hard, for a moment. Soap was hurt but had been dragged to safety by Captain Price. This was… 30 days ago. Shit. That’s… that’s not good.
There’s a second incident report. Not formal, only scrawled in Price’s handwriting.
‘Ghost Lieutenant Riley ignored a direct order to return without Faith and failed to meet at the evac point. He’s MIA but not believed to have been taken like because of prior communications where he yelled explained that he thought the course of action was bullshit in choosing to leave Faith behind and regroup was the wrong one. He’s cut off communication and has gone rogue is unaccounted for at this time.’
series summary: formerly called “waves of three” this is a work in which you are a CIA agent and… simon’s wife. main tropes included are: secret identity and secret baby. this is a very dark series. read at your own risk.
warnings: swearing, weapons, violence, death, assault (physical, sexual, verbal), human trafficking, suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempts, drugs, and there may be more. feel free to point out any i've missed.
a/n: I’m tagging the following in this first rewritten part because they expressed interest / support in the comment section of previously posted installments and they’re followers / readers of mine who have made my heart so full. i've been struggling with writer’s block (these SSRIs I was on were so good for my mental health but completely killed my creativity–i’ve stopped taking them now. YOLO, and all) This series, in its entirety, is dedicated to you: @versacelizz @reree22222 @sgreer123 @theyarereal
Chapter One
Tragedy, trouble, whatever it was you wanted to call unfortunate happenings, they came in waves. Good things were temporary and so, you clung to them, nails scratching, clawing, teeth sunk in. Happiness was fucking fleeting but you had found it, god, you found it—found him, and for once you didn’t have to hold on as tightly because he was there, holding you too, from the very beginning.
2013…
You stood in the centre of a briefing room, pretending to pretend not to rot under the scrutiny you faced. Your face stayed solid, a mask of nothingness not unlike the one the tallest man in the room wore, and your posture stayed perfect–back ramrod straight, shoulders square. You stood so perfectly and pretended to have faults that weren’t quite there. Nerves sept into your eyes, and your toes tapped slightly in your boot, causing you leg to tremor just so slightly as you looked out into the room of Task Force 141 operatives. You knew their names, their ranks, how they worked together (seamlessly and also not), you knew the weapons they worked with. You knew the sniper, Callsign: Ghost’s longest distance shot. “Boys,” announces Captain Price, “this is our new recruit. Callsign: Rook. She’ll be joining our team. I’m assured she’s competent, don’t go easy on her,” and he elaborates, explaining that your first mission, as a team, will be in one weeks time. That you should train and brush up on your skills. You don’t need to, but if it will help the team’s comfort levels, you’ll sweat until you bleed in the ring, you’ll beat a heavy bag until it breaks, you’ll shoot through targets until there’s no paper left in their centres. Whatever’s needed, you’ll do. It’s the mission. You don’t fail missions. Kyle Garrick approaches, he sticks out his hand for you to shape, “They call me Gaz, it’s nice to meet you,” and then Johnny Mactavish approaches. “Aye ahm Soap, s’cause I clean house,” he says as you shake his hand. Simon Riley gives you a wide berth. He looks at you and offers a single head-nod of acknowledgement. “Dinnae worry about him, bonnie,” says ‘Soap’, “He dinnae ken how to treat a lady. He’s called Ghost. Fits, don’ it?” and you nod. You offer smiles that Gaz and Soap register as real, smiles you know that Lieutenant Riley doesn’t. It makes you frown right back at him, the way he seems to look through you. The way you can’t do the same, not while he wears that mask. When the morning of the mission arrives so does he, beside your bunk. For a man so large, he is so silent. You flinch when you wake, when his shadow is cast across you. The first words he says to you are: “Don’t fuck this up caus’ yer eager to prove yourself,” and it relaxes you, because it reassures you Simon “Ghost” Riley can be wrong. He doesn’t know everything, not that you’ve proved yourself tenfold in situations more precarious than this, not that to you, Task Force 141 is a vacation. A fucking rest-stop.
2014…
Your lieutenant always watched your six, saved your life a few times to which the thank you’s were brushed off easily “would’a done it for any of the guys,” gets grunted in your general direction, “No one left behind,” you hear that once or twice, too. Then, the one time you save his ass it’s a problem. It’s a problem, like it’s not the whole fucking reason you’re here, among their ranks. Your missions have never been failures before; you have no intention of letting this be a first for you. Ghost is livid. He’s held you at arms length since you joined under Captain Price but why, shit, why the guy is so pissed that you’re saving his ass is beyond you. You’ve been a part of the 141 for a year now, so he knows you’re capable—it can’t be that he’s so worried about. You’re taking fire, hiding behind a brick wall with about as much (structural) integrity as the scummy family that built you. Your lieutenant, he’s bleeding pretty badly. Not a pretty little break in skin, but the kind of blood loss that haunts families and memories and poor coroners. You’re half-knelt on top of his muscular thigh, and no, it’s not the best time to be appreciating that but you’re only (barely) human and you’re having to pop up from behind the “wall” slash pile of bricks to fire at hostiles—a high stakes game of jack in the box to which you likely won’t be the winner. “Go,” he growls, and you give him a glare that could freeze hell, “I’m not leaving you,” and you’re stubborn, stubborn and disobeying orders that you could care less about, because they’re stupid. You radio Soap, tell him your position, ask him to send some fucking help and he is, he is, but it’s five klicks out. Do you have that? No, but, you’ve always been good at making time. You force a quick tourniquet around his leg (the one that you aren’t kneeling on) that has essentially become dead weight, and he grunts, “get th’fuck out of here, Rook. Tha’s an order,” but… you’ve never been the best listener. You have no excuse for that, either, as you’ve grown up a soldier. You’ve been brought up to heel when told, to sit, to lay down, you’ve been raised on orders and commands and instructions. You’ve been raised on a leash, with a muzzle, and you suppose that being with TF141 has freed you from the fear of the Dog House. Maybe you disobey his direct orders because in the true chain of command, the one where you’re ranked higher than he is, orders from a subordinate are win-blown whispers. But that’s just a maybe. The real reason you ignore him isn’t because you don’t respect him, it’s because you do. “I’m out of bullets, give me your gun,” and he does because he thinks that means you’ll use it to fight your way out of here, to leave, to get to safety but– you guard your space. You shoot down hostiles and you stay right on top of Ghost, fighting to keep him alive with pressure on his wounds and pressure on the enemy soldiers hellbent on ending you both. “Fuckin’ leave,” he growls, and you might press down a little extra on the bullet wound, “Get out’a here, Y/n. Fuckin now!” and the last bit is screamed. A guttural demand, a pain-full order, “Negative sir,” you tell him, and all those protests? You ignore them. You lie, you tell him the gunfire has your ears ringing, “Can’t hear ya, LT,” you chirp, and you tell him to stay the fuck awake, too, because he doesn’t get to leave. Not after you refused to. Not when you’re staying right here, right with him. Soap brings backup and you both make it out of there—barely. Your lieutenant doesn’t speak to you for a week, not after he chews you out initially, but… no matter where you are after that, he’s there too, not far off and always ready to repay the favour should the need arise.
2015…
He rests his arm around your shoulder, your reassurances are subtle then, when you let him. You fall asleep on him once and, and he’s fucking honoured that you trust him enough to be vulnerable around him. Because he’s noticed trust is not something you do. Not something you’ve ever been willing to give out, no matter how many times he or the guys proved they were worthy of it. When you’re asleep, you’re defenceless, but not with him–and maybe that’s why, for the first night in too-long, you have a dreamless sleep. A nightmareless one. While you slept, no one could come near you without fearing for their life, no one disturbed you (not only was he a good pillow, he was warm, and he was better than any Do Not Disturb sign you’d ever bought) and, though you never said anything, your eyes said enough. You woke with a small gasp with your head in his lap instead of against the back of the plane (the now empty plan) and his eyes found yours. “Oh my god, Ghost. That–shit, I’m sorry. How long have we been back for?” he pushes you back up into your seat, “Fuckin’ pilot has been late more times than I coul’ count. Y’don’t have to worry about that, Rook,” and you apologise again because that was unprofessional and you know better. “All ‘o us need sleep. Quit wit the apologies, yeah? M’not mad. If I cared I’d have moved ya.”
You’re vulnerable with him in a different way one night, after a particularly difficult mission. You need comfort and you find it in the way bodies do, tangled all together. In his room, you trade your sounds, breathy moans echo in the space between you, around you, heat and something close to passion, pent up emotions, pent up desire. It’s an explosion, a culmination of something larger than you both, the night that the two of you see all of each other for the first time. Respective masks are exchanged; abandoned, and that night you meet Simon. Simon, not Ghost. In the morning, he looks at you as you climb out of bed and start rifling around on the floor for your clothes. Your shirt, your pants, the underwear he ripped—a non-apologetic half shrug is all you get for that when you bring it up later. Simon’s not a heavy sleeper so it’s no wonder your shuffling around wakes him. He leans back against the headboard, watching you struggle into your thigh high boots and he cocks a brow “Ya leavin’?” and god, he hopes that didn’t sound as pathetic to you as it did ricocheting around in his own ears. He’s not bloody awake yet and he’s finally had you, after two years of silent fucking pining and what, you’re gone now? He barely gets to have you and you’re done wit’ him? He thinks he loves you and you think he’s a good shag? Fuck him for falling, fuck him cause he knew. You were too good for him, too good to want him. You laugh, bright, cheery, good (you’re a fake. fake, fake, FAKE, and he knows it. He sees it, he usually does, at least. Sees past your act, through it, through you) sounds before you swipe at the air, “I’m just going to pick up breakfast. I’ll be back. I swear the only thing that could get me away from you is my coffee and breakfast wrap. I ordered you tea, cause you’re a stereotypical fucking brit and I figured I’d get you a bagel too. Didn’t wanna wake you but—“ buy yeah, you had, because neither of you sleep soundly without the other one there. Simon agrees to go with you, for breakfast. It’s domestic in a way that has Soap fighting to keep his jaw from unhinging. You suggest Simon try a blueberry bagel and that might just become his favourite pastry.
Your wedding was six months later. Kate Laswell and her wife attended and so did all of Task Force 141. There were no flowers at your wedding. “I don’t want them,” you had insisted, “it’s just a small ceremony,” and Simon did his best to give you everything you wanted. You didn’t want flowers, so there were none. At the alter, you both said your vows and “till death do us part”.
A damning fucking sentence, if you’ve ever heard one.
2016…
Bad things come in waves of three. The morning before the first wave, you throw up. You empty your stomach into the nearest fucking can and shit, because you’re wheels up in 10, a mission or something—solo, and it’s been awhile since one of those but you’re not worried. Intel retrieval, like old times. You’ll get more details when you get where you need to [LOCATION: currently undisclosed] and fuck it if you’re not feeling well. It’ll be over quick, like always. In and out. Simple, easy, just like that. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, you brush your teeth and you paste on your best smile. You kiss Simon, “I love you,” and he returns the sentiment of course; traps you in a hug that you don’t want to escape. “Be fuckin’ careful” and you tell him “Of course, baby,” and then you climb on the plane and make your way to the back where you shut yourself in the cramped, compact bathroom, and drop to your knees. You throw up again. The fuck are you, pregnant? Your face falls, ghastly, you look down at yourself. You’d gained a little weight but that was normal. Happy weight. Relationship weight. You… no. No fucking way. You pocket the possible information and plan to revisit it later. After landing, a black SUV picks you up at the airport, Laswell’s there and you haven’t seen her, you’re old friend, in awhile so that’s a welcome surprise. You give her a hug, then you make her stop at the gas station. “I’ve gotta piss, I’ll be a few,” and you take three minutes. Maybe four, and another wave hits you—two lines, it’s positive and shit. It’s not terrible, but the timing is. You decide to ignore it, in and out, the mission'll finish and you can take some days off, tell Simon, maybe distract him a little so he doesn’t get too upset… (blame the hormones! You can do that now!) Simon’s relationship with his dad was about as good as yours is with your dad, so you know he’s worried he’ll be a bad father but frankly, you know that’s bullshit. You’re both pieces of work but you’re pieces that work together. You’re worried about motherhood (was there anything maternal about you? other than the rage, that protective, stubborn rage?) and he’ll worry about fatherhood. You’ll worry, but you’ll worry together.
Laswell takes you to her house. “Kate…” you say, suspicious now.
Then comes the next wave.
It hits you so hard you’re knocked unconscious. Before you were 141 (SAS) you were CIA, and, “You’ve been compromised,” are words you’ve never wanted to hear.
“You need to disappear,” she tells you.
“I have a life, Kate, I—“
The argument dies on your tongue.
“You can’t anymore, Y/n. You were Reaper first. I’m sorry, I am, but we’ve worked alongside each other long enough that I know you. That husband of yours is the first target, the first who’d be killed if you… if you weren’t.”
“You’re saying…”
“I’m saying you can stay with me for a while.”
“And you need these,” you say, your hands tangling in your dogtags. And this, you give her your ring. Your wedding ring. The physical representation of the man whose the only peace you’ve ever known in this god awful place.
She nods and you swallow hard. “He’ll…” (you might get sick again; you swallow back the bile) “He’ll want to see a body…”
“It’ll be an explosion. Too hot, too much fire, the bomb, too strong. There won’t be one.”
You laugh bitterly because this is so… so! So fucking absurd. “You’ve got it all figured out.”
“I’m sorry. I wish there was another way”
You nod, you give Kate Laswell your dog tags, your ring, and try not to picture Simon’s face—anything about him, really… and… Kate, she points you in the direction of her bathroom. You’re really that predictable, really that sick looking.
Happiness is fleeting. It’s fucking fleeting and even if two people cling to it, there’s no guarantees in this world.
warnings: none? not really? it’s kinda angsty for a moment but 🥁🥁🥁 there IS a happy ending
a/n: so i kinda love this. no idc that halloween was a month ago
You ease the front door open and slide into the porch, scuffing off your shoes on the mat without using your hands because… well, they’re occupied. You’re trying to be stealthy so when the floorboards refuse to whine you’re more than grateful. Your hands are in your pockets, warm, in your pockets, and you press your back slowly into the door , effectively shutting it with nothing more than a faint ‘click’. You take careful steps, clad in your jacket, jeans, and socks, and pad into the kitchen, big eyes searching for something, someone, that you’re pretty sure is home. Life 360 (the app you downloaded per his request) said so at least.
But… your tip-toes reveal that there’s no one sitting on the couch, and no one in the kitchen. You shuffle around your bag, taking a hand from your pocket to slide the bag from your shoulder, and you wrench the zipper open and grab the container. You tuck it into the microwave for five seconds, stop it at four, so it doesn’t beep, and put it in for another six, stopping it at five this time. You stir it with your finger and cradle the little bowl with one hand, you turn around and— “ohmygod,” you hiss, still whispering for some reason. Your fingers go lax, bowl slipping from your hands and being caught by, “Simon...”
He looks down at the bowl and moves it to the counter carefully, before looking down at you and tilting his head to the side, oh so slightly, in that way that always makes your face flush. “Si,” you say again.
He repeats your name back to you. It’s soft, but there’s a something buried in his words, warning, amusement, question. All things, that after being engaged to him for two years now, you can recognize almost instantly.
“Hi,” you say, cheeks warming.
“Hi,” he answers. He leans in close, stealing the space you’ve never needed from him, but have been hoping to maintain just this once. You squeak, stepping back, and bracing one of your hands against the counter, the other, you untangle from your pocket and place on his chest. Simon respects the space you’ve made, but leans down: “why the sneakin’ around, love?”
You sputter. “I’m not—I’m not sneaking.”
You don’t lie to Simon. Never. So both of you are shocked by this. Your words surprise you. But what surprises him? Simon has been aware of you since you entered the apartment (regardless of if you wanted him to know or not), so what shocks him, is that you felt the need to sneak around, that you felt the need to lie to him, that you’re being so squirrelly and insisting on space. That you’re flustered, more-so than usual.
You’re hiding something. The possibilities slide through his mind: something happened at work, you’re hurting (his eyes find no injuries but sometimes these things can’t be seen), he’s done something. Has he messed up? Done something wrong?
Simon sobers up. He takes a step back, giving you the space you seem to really need. He says your name. It’s a question this time. He notes the desperation he feels, the tightness in his chest, the anxiety clawing its way up his throat. “Love…” he stops himself, pausing a moment. Is that not appropriate? If you’re upset with him he shouldn’t be trying to smooth that over with pet names. Shouldn’t be taking advantage of you or your kindness. Of your goodness—god, you’re too good for him. He should’ve known. He did know. Had, since the very beginning. “Are you alrigh’?”
“Am I—“ you laugh nervously, “of course I’m okay, Si, I just—“
“Wha’ever it is, you tell me. No need t’lie.” A hesitation, slight. “If I did something—“
“Oh god no!” You shake your head frantically, feeling terrible that you made him think he’d done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything, Si. Not at all. You’re… you’ve been perfect.”
Mew.
Your face burns again, your hand slips into your pocket, and you repeat yourself shyly. “Purrr-fect?”
From your pocket, you pull an all-black ball of fluff. Meow, she (you think it’s a she) chirps, “I found her when I was on my way home. I uh… I walked instead of getting a drive because my coworker, the one you uh, had the background check on, had to drive her other friend home, and… oh, I’m rambling.” You look down a moment, feeling remorseful and embarrassed.
His eyes have softened despite the news that you walked home. Alone. In the dark. “S’alright, luv. Your voice ‘s my favourite sound.”
“Well, okay. I was walking and I heard this noise so I went to investigate… Simon, don’t look at me like that, I—I know it wasn’t the safest choice but… I heard her and then I found her in a trashcan, Si. She was crying and someone left her there.” It’s you who’s close to tears now, your wide eyes filling with moisture. He wraps his arms around you, mindful of the fluff-ball you have snuggled beneath your chin. “Your ‘earts too big, baby,” he tells you. With one hand, he picks up the bowl and he holds it out to the little thing, whose pink tongue darts out and laps at the cat-milk enthusiastically. His other hand rubs against your upper back, slow and soft.
You coo at the little creature tucked against your chest with a smile that warms his heart, and when you glance up at him, pouting a little, and say, “Si, baby. Can we keep her? Please?” there’s not a world in which he can say no to you.
“Can we call her Boo? “ you ask, your voice small and sweet, “Like, you know, cause you’re Ghost?”
