(just) friends - pt. 1
cbf!soap x f!reader
[MDNI - NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS: 3.3k, childhood best friends to lovers (eventually), overprotective johnny, inexperienced reader, manipulation (ymmv), almost kissing, some touching, tears and emotional moments but nothing huge.]
“Soooo,” your roommate asked, the word spinning out nice and long in a way only he knew how to do; just to lightly aggravate you, “how was the date?”
His face was calm, relaxed even, but there was a mischievous spark in his blue eyes as he coiled himself in the corner while he watched you. His messy mohawk made him almost tall enough to reach over the top of the refrigerator and his span from elbow to elbow, with his arms crossed over his chest, about as wide. He would paint an intimidating picture to an outside observer, but he couldn’t intimidate you anymore. It’s hard to be cowed in anyone, even by a man of his strength and size, when you’d known each other for so long.
He had to know his question had landed like venom from the way your face involuntarily scrunched in the wake of his words. You tried to recover. Brushing him off, you busied yourself with grabbing a bowl and spoon for the snack you had come in to make. You let him stew in silence before you answered.
“Wasn’t a date,” you answered with a blasé mumble over your shoulder, still buried deep in the pantry. Oatmeal in hand, you let the door fall back against the cabinet before continuing. “More like a . . . I don’t know, a meet-up?” you said with a shrug, daring to shoot a confused look his way. His stare told you nothing, but he radiated tense energy. Like a viper about to strike. He hadn’t moved from his position next to the refrigerator, either, which was unfortunate, because you needed the milk. You tore open the packets, watching the contents dump into the bowl as you continued. “It was just something casual, you know, to see if we actually want to go on a real date or not.”
You stood over your dried oats, fingers ticking nervously on the counter, waiting for whatever witty counter-remark you knew he had ready for you. He was like that. You’d been friends since, christ, since nursery school. You’ve seen each other through both your stupidest, cringiest, years and the biggest, most important, moments. That closeness came with advantages, like the fact that you seemed to share something close to a psychic bond now. You only needed to feel something was off and Johnny, strong, persuasive, wonderful Johnny, would be at your side pulling you out. He never suffered a fool, either. Man or woman, if they so much as looked at you wrong you had better be there to stop him, because once that fire lit in his eyes, the metaphorical gloves were off.
There were the disadvantages, too, of course. Some days your Venn-diagram of pros and cons overlapped more than you were comfortable admitting. That protective streak was a mile wide and it scared away the guys you actually wanted to keep around. When you took issue with it, he would just scoff and laugh. “There’s bigger and meaner ‘n me out there, bird,” he’d claim as he roped an arm around your shoulders. A pleased little hum escaped his mouth as you relaxed against the press of his muscled chest. “I’ve seen ‘em. Not good enough for you if I can scare ‘im off, are they?”
You chewed on your lip in lieu of your oatmeal while you waited on and on for Johnny to speak, to say anything at this point, if only to break the silence. When he finally did, it wasn’t what you expected.
“Just don’t seem too excited is all,” he said plainly, almost bored. Silence fell around you again as he uncharacteristically waited for you to speak again.
You cupped your bowl in both hands, the cool material calming as you gathered your thoughts. “Milk?” you asked with pleading eyes, trying to sound indifferent. Johnny finally moved, rolling his eyes as he pivoted on his foot to open the refrigerator. The plastic jug landed on the counter with a dull thud quicker than you expected, contents sloshing inside as he shoved it toward you. He drew himself over to the island. He glared at you through his forehead with eyes like glacial ice as if trying to crack through your indifferent shell, all while you focused on making your snack.
He let you putz around the kitchen a few moments longer before he let his anxious foot-tapping get the better of him. He relaxed his hands from his sides, placing them palms down on the granite island that separated you from each other. “Gonna go out with ‘em or not?” he blurted out, his fingers tensing against the flat surface.. There was more anger in his voice than you cared to entertain from a friend and roommate in this situation.
You turned away from the hypnotic spin of the microwave long enough to answer. “Yeah,” you said with a half-committed nod, “If he wants to.”
“So you like him?” he asked immediately. You frowned at the floor. He was amazingly persistent today. You wondered what had set him off.
“Mmm,” you hummed with another shrug, turning back to watch the seconds tick down on your boiling oats. 20. 19. 18. “Maybe.”
“Oh,” he said with a trailing raise in his voice like he had uncovered just what he was looking for and he was very pleased with himself. You knew he would have that stupid, sly smile scrawled across his face if you turned to him now. 16. 15. 14. “So you don’t like him, is that it?”
“It’s not that I don’t like him . . .” 12. 11. 10. You trailed off your sentence nervously, hoping, praying, it was enough to persuade the buff, blue-eyed demon of a man across the kitchen to just drop the conversation already.
He didn’t drop it, just continued to lean over the counter, eyes switching between swimming with mirth and twinging with rage.
“Then what’s the problem, hen?” he asked, narrowing his gaze down on you. You breathed in a deep breath to steel yourself as you listened to his question. You should be asking the same damn thing.
9. 8.
“There’s no problem,” you exhaled, one hand flexing on the microwave door, the other clenched around your spoon like a dagger.
6. 5.
He shook his head at you. You saw his blurry figure move out of the corner of your eye. He was winding his way around the island, fingers trailing against the flat, cool stone as he circled toward you. Closing the distance between you like a predator. “Not acting like yerself. Know yer lyin’.”
3. 2.
He was right behind you.
“Just tell me-”
1-
You threw open the microwave door before the buzzer could ring out. A billow of steam rolling out with it, dousing your face and hair in an oat-scented wave. You quickly stirred the bubbling tan mess as it congealed back down into the bowl, ignoring the man behind you. You knew his dark eyebrows would be scrunched together over stormy eyes, mouth drawn tight in a disappointed grimace, those overgrown muscles of his tensing across his body. You knew because he’d had the same reaction ten years ago when he enlisted.
“Want tae get outta this piss-hole. See the world,” he had said with a sad twinkle in his eye, “Ma threw a fit whenae told ‘er, you know,” he said with a sigh, leaning away from where you sat together on the couch in your parent’s cramped rec-room. “Thought at least you would be . . .” he trailed off. Your eyes studied your shoes while he sniffled beside you. It had been a long time since you’d seen him cry – now that he was practically a man – and it pulled a guilty knot in your stomach. “Thought you would be happy fer me makin’ something of myself.”
You turned around, threw your hot bowl on the counter to cool, then faced him. He was your best friend, but did he need to know? He had wisely backpedaled away from you in the interim, taking up post at the corner of the island. You stared at each other. His arms were wrapped around his chest again. He was leaning over the counter, testing it with his hips, pulling away as if it was an anchor he was leashed to. The stone slab the only thing holding him back from where he really wanted to be: next to you. You didn’t know what to do in that moment. Didn’t really understand how to feel, so you dropped your eyes back to your oats. You tried to stir the mess in the bowl, but it was no longer liquid. It had transformed before you could blink into a solid mass of tan-gray. Your chance to change anything already lost. It was fitting, really.
You sighed, still scrapping at the lump, unwilling to let it go. “He’s nice,” you said softly, poking at the oats with the rounded tip of your spoon. Johnny didn’t speak. “I do want to go out with him,” you confessed with a sudden rise of confidence, but it quickly faded. “I . . . I could like him. I just-” You eyes drifted off your sad oats, past Johnny and out the kitchen door. Good god did you not want to talk about this right now. You wanted to wrap up these complicated, fucked up feelings, tuck them away in the back of your mind and never talk about them, actually.
Johnny slipped back by your side before you realized. His hand pushed your bowl away with a skittering clatter of ceramic as he stood, solid as ever, at your side; warmth pouring off him.
“Just tell me what’s wrong,” he said, soft and low and friendly, hand curling protectively around your shoulder just like always did. You didn’t answer. He leaned in, hugging you to his strong chest, words muffled in the top of your head. “Why’s it such a big deal? Just a date, like y’ said. Tell me what’s got y’ all worked up.”
You let out a long, exhausted sigh into his chest. Your breath came back into your lungs unexpectedly raking, gasping. Johnny pet at your hair, cradling your head in his palm as he massaged his fingers into your scalp. You melted into his body. His muscled arms held you safe and warm as he rocked you back and forth. Johnny had a talent for manipulating your feelings that went way back. He could make you feel safe, warm and happy – just as you were now – or he could turn everything against you, chilling the air with just a look; tanking your confidence and killing the mood, but that usually only seemed to happen when you got a bit too friendly with another guy in his presence. He always knew which buttons to push, how to look at you, and what to say. Maybe he knew that you fought a constant, losing battle to keep your feelings toward him on exclusively friendly terms. You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.
You didn’t care about the truth right now either. All that mattered was Johnny was your closest friend and you needed him. With your heart in your throat as you choked on air heavy with detergent and drug-store cologne. You grasped at his hand on your head, peeling away enough to let you breath a few breaths of clean air. Your eyes were still full of traitorous tears when you finally looked back up at him.
“I want him to like me,” you confessed with a weak, wavering voice. “I do, but guys never . . . they just never like me back.”
His eyebrows pressed together in concern, sharp blue eyes grown soft and dark. “That’s not possible, bon’,” he said stroking your cheek. “Y’ so beautiful an’ smart. Should have a crowd of guys fallin’-”
You shook your head, looking away, which made him pause. You had the strongest urge to just run. Bolt out of his arms and hide away in your room until the heat death of the universe. Anything other than talk about this particularly sharp and embarrassing part of your life. Your bottom lip quivered as Johnny slowly massaged your back, soothing you like an upset child. It didn’t so much to take away the fact that while, yes, you were an accomplished woman: a college graduate with a great job and a nice apartment overlooking the old city, you still didn’t feel complete.
“No one wants a girl who can’t kiss, Johnny,” you confessed. “Not a teenager anymore. No one finds it cute.” You thought your cheeks would burn after you finally got it out, that you would cry or he would laugh; something. But there was nothing. The strained silence remained unbroken as he continued to stroke down your back, knuckles pressing into your anxiously tight muscles. Amazingly, you did feel better though: clean and cool and empty.
“Can’t?” he asked after a long silence. A smile winced across your lips. Why was he always so frustratingly himself? “Wha’d’y mean?” he asked. He thought for a second, looking away to the corner of the room, before continuing. “You mean . . . like you never learned?”
“Yeah,” you sighed, blessedly happy he had managed to pinpoint exactly where your pain and frustration came from. You let out another soothing breath, pressing your cheek into the swell of his pectoral. “Picked things up kinda half-assed over the years but . . .”
“Feel like you never got a good foundation?” he asked, finishing your sentence. When you nodded back, he pulled you into a crushing squeeze of a hug; a short, tired laugh pressed into the crown of your head. This was . . . good? “Why didn’t you say som’thin’ before?” he asked nuzzling his nose into the crown of your head as his arm braced ever harder across your shoulders.
You almost gave his side a playful punch like you did when you were teens. Almost. Instead, you rested your hand along his ribbed oblique as you though about his question. Why hadn’t you told him? He was your closest and oldest friend. You two went back to a time when he was a rambunctious, snotty, pipsqueak, reassigned to your peaceful little nursery school table. You’d hated him back then. He didn’t print his name neatly at the top of his papers like your teacher had taught you, used the wrong colors in his drawings, and chased you around the monkey bars during recess. You’d begged both your mom and teacher to move him back. You were out of luck though, as he was instantly attached to you and behaved marginally better when you were there to “set a good example” for him. From then on, for better or worse, you were stuck together.
You sighed again as his hands massaged down your back, still patiently waiting. You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you’d held this back for the stupidest of reasons: he was a boy. Well, a man now, but that was all semantics. Weather it was digging for worms on the playground twenty years ago or suiting up for war now, Johnny was different from you. Even though Johnny had practically been your shadow (more like protector) all through grammar school.
None of the bullies, boy or girl, ever bothered you a second time after you ran crying to Johnny, though.
Even though he knew you better than anyone outside of your own mother.
You don’t think you ever told your mom the whole truth about how often Johnny lied for you, though. Taking the full blame multiple times for being back far past curfew because you didn't mind the time while you were stargazing or driving around in the back country.
Even though you knew he would never treat you different because you were a girl.
He didn’t treat you differently or make fun of you after you got your period in gym and bled through your shorts. He even borrowed you his sweater to cover up.
You held onto the old saying despite all evidence screaming out that it just wasn’t true: that boys would never understand what girls went through like other girls. So in this one portion of your life, the area of romance and relationships, you held him at arms length.
“I wanted to,” you lied, suppressing a groan as he worked his fingers into the muscles of your shoulder blades, “Just didn’t think you would understand,”
He pulled away and your heart sank. His hands clamped around your shoulders, forcing you a step backward so he could look down at you. You felt so small, so guilty, under his gaze. “Wouldn’t understand?” He spat out the words like they were bile. He looked aghast. His eyebrows pressed together, cheeks tight, mouth almost in a snarl.
You were shocked silent for a moment. Then, just as your brain had a moment to flush out the fight or flight reaction, you realized he was holding your face. You blinked a few times, staring blankly up at him. Why . . . why was he cupping your face like he- Like he was going to- He was even leaning down closer to you, noses just a breath apart. Your face flushed and he felt it, petting his rough thumbs over your cheeks.
“Y-you you a-always h-had-” you tried to say, fumbling and stuttering the whole way. Good god, you thought, mind racing. Here it starts. You’re going to become a nervous goddamn mess in front of fucking Johnny of all people and ruin the only good friendship you’d ever had.
“A girl?” he finished for you, petting his thumb under your bottom lip. You nodded.
“Made it seem . . . easy,” you confessed in a whisper. His nose slid ever closer along yours, forcing your eyes involuntarily closed in reaction. Your mouth hung open in a gasp as his arm wound around your waist.
“’s easy,” he breathed against your lips. You could feel the vibrations of his words on the sensitive skin as he spoke. “Dead simple ‘f a block-head like me ‘ken figure it out,” he said with a little huff of a laugh. “Smart girl like you? You’ll catch on quick.”
“I dunno about that,” you said with a shake of your head as you pulled away. Johnny’s hand palmed the back of your head, trying to prevent you from escaping. Your mouth pulled into a nervous smile as you continued, “Think I overthink things. It’s like I can’t let go and just enjoy the moment, you know?”
He nodded, looking back at you with hooded eyes. “I can help you, if y’ll let me,” he said, soft and low.
“Help?” you asked.
He nodded again. “Yeah,” he said with a clench of his teeth that popped a muscle in his jaw. “Of course. You know,” he said relaxing again, trying to lead you to the conclusion without outright saying it. “Teach you, bon. Like a good friend, yeah?”
You wouldn’t lie to admit that you started trembling then. Johnny. Your friend, Johnny. Your life-long friend, at that. Johnathan MacTavish-
His hand brushed up your neck and over your cheek, calming the incoming panic before it had time to boil over again. You closed your eyes as he slowly stroked his thumb again and again over your flushed skin. You fell into the weight of his hand, of the strong bones and delicate tendons and how they interlocked underneath. You let your eyes flutter open just a bit, just enough to catch the rainbows that danced through the fine hair on his arms from the light overhead.
“Let’s go sit’own,” he mumbled into your hair. He had been rocking you back and forth slowly with his hips like you were a fussy infant. He kissed your hairline before pulling away, hand dripping off of your face as he tapped the small of your back with the other. “’mon then,” he cooed, the warm hand pushing you out the kitchen from behind. “Let’s get comfortable together, like old times,” he said with a short, dark laugh; like it was a joke only he understood. “Sit down and I can show y’ some stuff, yeah?” he said against the shell of your ear, following you close out of the kitchen before hitting the lights.
-
