A fanfic based on the Alone Operator, for all the monster lovers out there
Pairing is: Alone Operator (aka Simon Riley)/ Gender neutral Reader / John "Soap" MacTavish
Prologue/Drabble: Tomorrow
Chapter One: Going into an abandoned military facility for a quick job for some extra cash wasn't your best idea
Chapter Two: You go to collect your reward and end up with leaving with more than the money alone
Chapter Three: Johnny didn't want someone who asked questions - to him, anyways. That didn't mean you wouldn't try to get your own answers
Chapter Four: 20% done - You try to talk some sense into Johnny and get Ghost the one thing he wants
I know I’m not the only one who took one singular, inquisitive glance at the new Alone Operator skin for the upcoming season and went “Would”. I need need need content on him
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If you had to rank all the terrible decisions you’ve made in your life, this would certainly be in the top ten. Breaking into an abandoned place was a bad idea on its own. Now multiply the magnitude of that by twenty, considering it was supposedly some kind of military facility at one point in time before it was left to rot. Then add in the factors that you were alone, without a map, and no cell service. Yeah, definitely not your smartest decision.
Dozens of garish yellow and red signs marked with a variety of warnings used everything under the sun (and law) telling you not to proceed decorated the corroding chain link fences that lined the property like it was going out of style. The crumbling facade of iron and concrete that made up the walls were made out to match. Everywhere you looked there was yet another warning, another thing telling you to turn back now. That should've been a sign, right?
Well, it wasn't the sign you were listening to. That one, the only sign you cared about right now, you had spotted stapled to a telephone pole as you were waiting to cross the street to go to your favorite grocery store. The crumpled, salmon pink flier hastily crammed in your backpack was your savior and your curse that brought you here.
The reason being a whole whopping $500. Something that would greatly benefit you and cause a whole less of a headache this month - and allow you a chance to breathe. It was a chance you couldn't pass up. And it's not like it was complicated. All you had to do was: get into the desolate fort, get proof of evidence of being inside there (photographic AND physical), and get out. Simple. Easy money. A task that even you could manage in maybe an hour or two, tops. You'd be an idiot not to do it.
Why anyone would pay that kind of money for you to go in there was beyond you. Quite frankly, you didn’t care. Money was money. Everyone had their reasons and if they were paying that much for a task that was that simple, then you weren't going to pry. All they had to do was pay up when the time was done, you'd never think about it again, and you'd be on your merry way a whole lot better off and a little bit richer.
Just to be certain that this wasn't a prank or someone trying to harass their ex with a pathetic attempt to get their number out there, you called the number scrawled hastily on the rain-soaked, faded poster. A harried Scottish accent confirmed without a doubt that this wasn't fake and was real as real could be. Truth be told, you didn’t understand much of what he said aside from “Aye”, which was close enough. He seemed to be talking at a million miles an hour in a near frantic tone. Surely, that was a red flag. But right now you were colorblind to everything except green.
It was enough motivation for you to throw some gear into a backpack and head out late in the night to the address of the once-important fort. The promise of cash and having it soon in your hand was plenty to get you moving.
Against your best instinct, against your gut screaming at you and telling you to turn back, and against all common sense - you went forwards anyways and decided today was the day when you’re going to pretend that you’re illiterate and those warnings meant nothing to you anyways.
Stale, stagnant air filtered through the respirator that hung snug on your face. If you breathed in a lungful of whatever was in here without it, it's likely you would’ve ended up with some new kind of respiratory disease previously unheard of - you're sure of it. Algae and lichen clung to some damp crevices, decorated with splotches of black mold the darkened the corners even more along the outskirts of the inky, lingering shadows.
Each cautious step forward onto the rubble and gravel covered ground ricocheted off the dilapidated walls of the corridor, fading into the abyss of black that stretched on far beyond what you could see. Though you doubted the protective eye ware helped you see better - it was probably more of a hindrance but you didn't want to take any more risks than necessary. The last thing you needed was a hospital bill.
The pathetic beam of warm, yellow light your flashlight provided scarcely illuminated the void that swallowed the hallway whole. What little you could see did nothing to motivate you forward. More disintegrating ceiling and rubble-buried winding halls greeted you with the same unwavering stillness as the rest of the place.
Crumbling, bleak, cold passages decorated with mildew, mold, and umber mystery stains you really didn’t want to think about alike stretched in a winding labyrinth you tried your best to navigate. Sparse nearly-disintegrated warning signs served as place markers to guide you through the otherwise directionless building, offering you the smallest sense of navigation and a sense of knowing where you were going.
One foot in front of the other, step by slow step, you made your way through the place untouched by light and people alike.
It shouldn't be that hard, you mused as you kept on walking. Whether it was just to reassure yourself with a steady mantra or confidence was left up to debate, but the fact remained: it was simple. Get an object that irrefutably proved you were here, take a picture - and that was it. That was all.
Now, that still left the question of what to take and what to get a picture of up for debate. Scouring the building hadn’t turned up anything worthwhile so far, except maybe some signage. But they were all too… generic. They were all something that could easily be faked and pulled from elsewhere. And a picture of them or another dimly lit, basic hallway wouldn’t do you any good. It would get you a door slammed in your face, a laugh if you’re lucky, and certainly no $500 which was the whole reason you were here in the first place.
Maybe you should’ve asked specifically what he wanted you to bring and a picture of….
Who are you kidding? You wouldn’t be able to understand a lick of what he said if you did. Maybe his accent was better in person, maybe he had told you in the hurried, almost anxious tone and you weren't remembering - but trying to talk to him again through the phone was a hopeless endeavor. Unless they were keeping a spare brain in here and translating software, you doubt you'd be able to even begin to try and understand the guy. All you could do was silently curse yourself for not asking, curse him for not being more coherent, and try your best to find something unique, snap a picture, and get out of there before you regretted stepping foot in this place even further.
With grumbled curse, knowing very well that you had to go further in the hopes that something actually substantial would greet you, you kept on going. There was no turning back now, no. You'd come too far. One more step forwards got you closer to that money and being out of here.
Yet lady luck wasn't making this easy, nor was she on your side today. A majority of doors you came across had been locked - barricaded, and certainly not something you could open. Their heavy, unyielding steel frames stood impassive, unmoving, and scarcely caring of your plight or any force used against them. It's almost like they stood there, mocking you silently for even trying. It was a waste of energy to even try with another one when the first twelve hadn't done anything more than groan slightly, giving the tiniest shudder before stilling in their frame.
Rounding what must’ve been the hundredth corner, you braced for yet another blank hallway and another unmovable door, but what greeted you was something different enough to cause you to halt in your tracks. An open door. A single, open door marked with a flickering, old bulb dangling above as if it were on its last legs, trying to stay alight. A wave of relief washed over you as you couldn’t help but to sprint forward, closing in on the hope that you could be done and out of here - and you’d have your money before you knew it! It was almost over. This aimless wandering with a stuffy mask and glasses to match was almost over.
Ignoring all common sense, you chased that feeling - quite literally. Caution was thrown to the wind as you darted into the room, your eyes flickered all over the first true, non-vacant room you’d found in here. Empty hospital beds with yellowed, stained linens haphazardly jumbled across their tops lined the walls. It wasn't a pretty sight but right now, it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
Panning your flashlight around, the warm, washed-out beam glinted off the dusty metal IV stands and carts littered about. Cobwebs spidered the corners of the walls and the rest of the surfaces alike, though their inhabitants seem to have left long ago.
Scanning the room, a few seconds ticked by before you finally found just what you needed, dangling off the foot of the bed by a worn hook. There it was, your holy grail: a brown piece of hardboard and rusted metal alike holding down frayed, yellowed pages. It's the only time you can officially say that you've been happy to see a clipboard - much less, elated and overjoyed to see such a simple piece of office ware. You could practically kiss it and taste sweet, sweet money right about now.
Swiping it from its place, your eyes flitted over the blotched, inky text scrawled on it, silently praying that it would have just what you’d need. The smallest corner of a logo stood in the top right corner, while the rest of the patient information seemed to have been rubbed at or swiped away. And your heart nearly sank in short-lived disappointment. Water stains distorted and warped the paper but your saving grace came in the form of a date and the name of the complex, officially signed at the top of the paper.
The warm, giddy feeling that had been so fleeting earlier came back with a vengeance that lit up your heart and face alike. This was it! This was just what you needed. Placing it down, you fumbled with the camera clipped onto your belt, the tremble of excitement in your hands doing little to aid you. Snapping a picture of the clipboard with a quick click and a flash of light, you stuffed your saving grace into the weathered backpack you had donned.
Task one - done. Now to get a good picture of the place and you'd be done. One simple click, one move, and one terribly annoying walk through the forever expansive hallways, and you would be out of here and back in your comfy bed before you knew it. Maybe you'd even get to catch up on a single episode of your favorite show.
Stepping back into a corner where you could find a vantage point, you held onto that flickering flame of hope as you pointed your camera and flashlight alike in the same direction to snap a quick picture of the room. With a simple click and a flash of blinding light, the deed was done. You could finally be out of here.
Or so you thought.
A sparse glint caught your eye as the bright flash ebbed away, the shadows returning full force aside from the gleaming, round lights that turned towards you. Your heart skipped a beat as you froze, your breath hitching as a wave of fear sunk the beginning of its talons into you.
No, no. Not a glint, you realized with horror. Six. Six luminous, reflective lenses glowed in the dark as they turned to look right at you. Staring.
Your heart sank even further into your stomach, your blood running cold, as the corner went dark once again for a fraction of a second before all six glowing dots were back and all were looking right at you.
With a trembling hand, you kept your flashlight lowered. You don’t think you wanted to know what that was. No creature - no living being that big would have six eyes.
You took a step back.
Then another.
Another.
The ice-cold sensation of your blood coursing through your veins, your heart erratically beating against your chest harder and harder, kept you from screaming. A creak of the protest from the old hospital bed sounded like a gunshot in the otherwise too-still room as the thing stood and started moving towards you with footsteps that were all too quiet, all too soft for a thing of that caliber.
Whatever breath you had been holding escaped you as it lumbered out of the shadows. An unearthly, sickening gurgle spewed from its maw as if it were choking on its own saliva.
Even through the respirator, the scent of putrid rot and decay wafted from it as it drew closer and closer, your stomach tensed as you gagged, the bile threatened to rise from your stomach as the urge to puke took you by surprise. If you weren’t wearing the respirator, you’re sure you would have - and maybe you would have noticed it in the room sooner if you could've picked up the stench of death.
The urge to run, all instincts screaming at you, pleading and begging you to run for your life simply didn’t work as you stood rooted to the spot as it finally stepped into the trembling, watery beam of light that cut through the speckles of floating dust. A scream of horror caught in your throat as you finally stared up at the abomination's mangled form with wide eyes.
Three heads, all fused together in a webbing of crimson, sinewy membranes moved in sync. Six eyes - six, now unblinking, cloudy eyes settled on you. Despite the milky, glassy sheen to the eyes settled and sunken deep into the heads (or in the raw membranous flesh in the case of one eye on the head to its left) - it tracked every single movement and breath, focused on you with near predatory ease. Five arms hung loose by its side, with two of them being partially fused together in a sick amalgamation. Bits of pallid skin had long ago sloughed off, exposing muscle that had blackened with exposure but somehow not rotted away.
Skull masks and balaclavas covered most of their faces - and you supposed that was a good thing. If the distended, broken jaws of the heads were indication of how it would look underneath, you’re happy declining on seeing what lay below. Drool spilled onto the fabric, or some mystery liquid, bubbling up as it made yet another noise. The motion caused your have to fly up to your covered mouth, your heart and stomach alike retching.
Torn tactical gear adorned the twisted cerberus, blackened with fluids, almost as if it had once had a purpose - to protect. But your mind wasn't there, it was on its existence. The abomination, the chimera, the thing that shouldn’t exist and went against all aspects of nature stood in front of you unmoving for a moment until you took a single step back.
It took a step forward.
Ever so slowly, as if moving through molasses, it drew three scarred hands up, reaching for you.
That was all you needed to take off. Up and out through the hall where you came, your legs strained as you sprinted. Each footstep echoed louder and louder down the void of black and gray you came from, flooding out the sputtered groan from it but you didn’t care. Consequences be damned, you didn't care how loud you were or how much attention you drew. You were better off getting caught by a guard or hell even the police - at least they’d have guns.
Every inhale scorched your lungs, the fire of fatigue seared deep into every strand of your muscles as you kept on pushing, but you didn’t stop - you couldn’t. Not until you cleared the hallways, skirting through the piles of debris and around the same desolate corridors you had meandered through prior. Not until the crisp, chilled night air finally greeted you as the stars twinkled above, oblivious to the sheer horrors below.
Not until you finally jammed yourself through the cut hole in the chain link fence, any pain of the metal scraping at your skin dulled out by the adrenaline flowing through your veins, empowering each sprinting step forwards until you were far, far away and back in the safety of your car.
Note to self: Don’t ever trust fliers you find on telephone poles.
This guy better be ready as soon as the sun graced the land again to hand over those five Benjamins. Hopefully he likes his mornings started with pounding knocks to his door and a middle finger to the face.
જ⁀➴
The darkness echoed with the patter of fading footsteps as the mystery person sprinted away, completely aghast with a look of sheer primal fear painted on their limited, exposed features.
They didn’t see how his fingers flexed, hands still outstretched in the air, twitching once again at the loss of something warm, something human that he came so close to grasping.
They didn’t see how he stared at where they were, not moving from the spot he stood. Nor did they see his clouded, hazy eyes downturn as he dragged his form back to the bed with great reluctance.
Nor did they hear the drowned out, garbled words that took all his energy to choke out and force his broken jaws to move.
“Don’t…. go….”
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Thinking of maybe making this a series! Any feedback is welcome and appreciated! It's been a while since I've written so forgive any mistakes,,,,
Edit: part two has been posted!
| You finally go get your $500 - and more than you bargained for.
A follow up to this post:
https://www.tumblr.com/ghouldtime/76173291
You’ve finally lost it. Gone off the deep end, as they say. But not just into the deep end of a pool, no. Straight into the Marianas trench, home to nightmares and abominations of nature alike.
There’s no way that you saw that… thing. There’s no way that thing could exist, right? There’s simply no plausible way. No mutation that horrible would result in anything living, sustaining, breathing. Nothing with that much dead, rotten flesh was alive. Nothing could be. Nothing should be.
Yet the picture that lay on your coffee table begged to differ. The glossy photo seemed more like found footage than anything as it lay there, almost mockingly in its freshly printed state. Blotted ink remained a little bit grainy and blurry around the edges, a little too dark - but the substantial figure was there, nevertheless, lying on the bed in the corner of the picture, tucked away in the darkness. All six arms lay on its chest, heads turned curiously towards you as it reclined.
Even if it was rough around the edges, there was no denying the proof that the nightmare of a creature was, in fact, real and not just a vivid hallucination brought on by the delirium of wandering through endless hallways and inhaling mold. It wasn’t a perfect picture, or even a good picture. But it was a picture, substantial proof, something you could wave around and say “SEE! I’m not making this up!” all the same.
The longer you stared at it, the larger the pit in your stomach grew. It had been there the whole time - watching you. That monstrosity had been there the entire time, lurking, watching. A wave of nausea hit you as the phantom smell of it resurfaced, your hand finding out mouth as you gagged and averted your eyes to the ceiling. You didn't want to think about it or look at it any longer.
Such a thing couldn’t be real. Shouldn’t be. There’s no such thing as monsters.
Sleep evaded you, lingering on the precipice of your consciousness, always just out of reach as you stared at the TV.
After all, what if that… that thing came after you? What if it followed you back? With six hands, surely it could pry apart the fencing and any door it wanted. And with how silent it moved, you wouldn’t notice it until it was too late. The only thing that brought you a modicum of comfort was the fact that it would have to pass several dozen houses and streets to get here, at the very least. And that wasn’t even including the drive it took to get there. Someone would notice it before it got to you.
But that doesn’t mean they would stop it. No one in their right of mind would confront such a thing.
You checked that every single door and window was locked with trembling hands and rechecked them again and again. Darkness bathed the inside in its inky wash as all the drawn curtains and blinds shielded you from the outside world that you wished would go away.
White noise from the TV sounded throughout the house as your favorite show aimlessly played loud enough to provide you something so you wouldn’t have to think. The voices were something familiar that you could hold onto amidst the raging storm of emotions and flurry of thoughts in your head. They were something that drowned out the chatter in your skull that nagged you, threatening to eat you from the inside out. But they couldn't tune out every rustle outside or every bump in the night.
Sporadic flickers of color and light danced continually as the hours waltzed on in agonizing slowness. The people on the TV prattled on and scenes changed, but you didn’t move. Not one bit. Every slight creak and shift of the house had you hunching down closer to the couch, eyes darting around as your heart froze and breath caught until the noise passed, praying for day sooner rather than later.
By the time the birds began singing their all too merry songs outside and the faintest slivers of sunlight finally peeked through the bottom of the curtains, you’d run over the possibility of how this thing could exist twenty times over, questioned your sanity nearly just as much, and were no closer to an answer.
You should just forget all about this, tear up the photo, and pretend it never happened. Maybe you could convince yourself that it was all one terrible, awful melatonin-induced dream if you tossed the damned photo down the paper shredder and fed the evidence to a blazing fire.
You'd never have to see - or think about it again. Out of sight, out of mind, was how the saying went anyways but a sinking feeling told you it wouldn't be that easy.
But the ugly, salmon colored flier reminded you of what awaited - of what you could get if you pushed through this nightmare long enough to throw the offending picture at the guy in exchange for the money you would really like right about now instead. It would still be out of your house, out of sight, and maybe one day out of your memory if you got rid of it fast enough.
Which, thinking about it - you didn’t know where to go to offload the accursed possessions you'd swiped. The guy had never given you his address. You only had his number and maybe he’d given his name, not that you understood much of whatever he said. A quick glance at the digital clock on your phone determined it was 7:30 AM. As far as you were concerned, that was early enough to make the call after the hell of a night you just had.
Dialing the number, the phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
And rang some more.
If it went to voicemail, you’d kill that son of a-
“Aye - John speakin’” The gruff voice crackled through, interrupting your thoughts.
You could’ve sworn you heard a yawn from the other end. The little bit of sympathy you might’ve had for waking him up ‘early’ went right out the window though with one quick, furtive glance at the picture of the being that would haunt your dreams for many moons to come.
“Hey, it’s me.” You breathed out, your own sleep-deprived brain not exactly being the best at conversations
The pause on the other end, the silence that lasted for what easily could've been centuries (or only a few seconds, it was hard to tell), shocked you into a slight stupor as you stuttered out in a single breath, “The person who spoke to you last night. About the flier.”
Licking your lips, you nearly grimaced at just how poorly you thought this call through. Maybe it would have been a good idea to take a nap before you dialed his number - or maybe an energy drink to stir yourself to alertness. Well, it was too for that late now. Far too late. “I went. Got what you asked.” You stated, trying to sound more confident than you felt.
The other end went still, silent, you couldn't even hear him breathing for a few, painstaking moments that drew on as the clock on your phone blinked 7:32. Checking to see if he hung up, you turned the screen of your phone on again before the voice came through once more.
“… you did?” By some miracle, you could distinguish the words through the slurred Scottish brogue addled with sleep.
“Mhm.” You tried not to look at the picture that watched you from all angles. “Got the, the.. thing, got the picture. Like you asked.”
Each unsteady beat of your heart thudded louder and louder against your chest as the seconds ticked away. Outside, someone starting up their lawnmower echoed through the silence. The steady humming of the machine in the near distance cutting through the air like a knife.
The man hummed a noise of approval, or what you’d classify as that. Maybe he just was a fan of awkward silences.
“Brilliant. When are you free?”
“Today. Now.” You wanted this done and over with before you could think about it anymore.
He paused for a split second before agreeing with a non-committal noise “Right. See you soon.”
It seems he too wasn’t keen on taking his time to meet up either. Before you could ask for the address, he hung up. Staring in disbelief at the now blank phone, a flare of indignation rose right in your soul. Who was this guy and what the hell was up with him?
First time you talked to him, he was near erratic and all over the place. Now he hardly seemed to be breathing. And he just hangs up on you? The gall of that man. You certainly were going to flip him the bird for all of this after you got your money.
Before you could text him a slightly passive aggressive message asking where, pray tell, you're supposed to go; a text bubble lit up the screen with the address. A residential address, come to find out with a quick mapping search. Great. Just great. Now you were likely going to this psycho’s house.
Once again, this really wasn’t your brightest idea and started to increasingly seem like a good way to find yourself lying six feet under, taking a permanent nap in the dirt. But money was money and turning back now meant kissing that sweet cash goodbye. Not to mention, it meant going through all of that would’ve been for nothing. At least you could cuss him out face-to-face if something else went wrong. Knowing your fortune, and luck, it was probably already written in the stars.
Turning the location on on your phone, leaving a note on the counter (though no one else would see it, aside from police investigators if everything truly imploded), and pocketing a switchblade, you grabbed your things and got in your car, ready to ride off to your doom.
The drive, as it turns out, wasn’t long at all. It was maybe fifteen minutes at best, including traffic. He’d been that close this whole time? You weren’t sure whether to laugh or to cry at the idea of this (possible) psychopath being almost in your own back yard. Maybe you'd even run into him at the store and not even known it.
The engine of your car sputtered out as you took your keys out and parked, your fingers tightening on the wheel as you stared out at the house in front of you. The address was exactly as he texted you. No errors, and no doubt about it. This was the place.
A normal, too normal, place. A residential neighborhood filled with cookie cutter houses and families alike.
Nothing about it screamed suspicious or intimidating or ‘likely a place you’ll be murdered’. Nothing about the neighborhood did, either. Plenty of normal people were out enjoying the early morning sun without the blistering heat of the day looming over them. They walked their dogs, chatted to one another, dug in their garden beds, all blissfully unaware of what was out there. They even waved to you, for Christ’s sake.
The quaint ranch style house settled in a cozy corner lot hardly seemed to be the kind of place where a man who knew of such horrors would live. It seemed like your average, basic, everyday house that you wouldn't think twice about; a house that blended in and was as in-line as the community surrounding it. A house where you just may meet your end.
Taking a deep breath, you let the air fill your lungs til it ached before you steadily exhaled to calm your frazzled nerves. Every lingering doubt and second guess was pushed to the corner of your mind. You’d come this far already. Okay. You’ve got this. In and out. If you could make it through the building and out with that… thing existing, you can go up to the door.
The dull thud of your car door shutting behind you sealed your fate as you steeled your nerves and approached. Graveled pebbles and stones alike crunched underneath your shoes as you strode up to the door. A river rock lined flowerbed dotted with daisies, red carnations, yellow pansies, and poppies wrapped around the front in a cheery garden that swayed blissfully in the light breeze. Bright, delicate petals dappled with dew sparkled brilliantly, so bright, so unaware of the world that you had found yourself in. They stood in stark contrast to the building dread that gnawed at your sanity, a polar opposite to what you'd seen.
Wooden planks creaked underneath your weight as you stepped up onto the tiny porch, moving even closer. With one final steady inhale, you rang the doorbell. The merry chime might as well be your death bell tolling.
Stepping back, you fiddled with the hem of your shirt as the shuffling inside began. Each small thump and pad closer matched a beat in your heart. Your breath hitched slightly as your hands grew clammy, the steps getting closer and closer, yet staying so far away inside all the same. Every tick of a second passing added another layer to your anxious anticipation as millions of questions ran through your mind. Was this a mistake? Was this really the right house? Did he know what was there in that building? Is that why he sent you?
All thoughts sputtered to a halt the moment the door swung open, creaking on its hinges, and you were greeted with a sight you never expected to see.
"Mystery man" was nothing short of classically handsome. You’d expected some batty old geezer with spectacles that made his eyes seem like full moons who wore his shoes backwards and smelled like old potpourri. Yet John, as he stood, was the furthest thing from it. A strong stubbled jaw, eyes as blue as the Circassian sea, and a grown out mohawk that curled on the top seemed more befitting of someone you'd see in a modeling catalog, not someone who would be tracked down by a poster haphazardly stapled to a telephone pole. Blinking in sheer, utter surprise, you nearly didn’t catch the words flying out of his mouth.
“-come in, then. No use in waiting out here. The lawn doesn’t deserve to be gifted my AC.”
Caught in your stupor, anything you had to say about not stepping foot in stranger’s houses or protest of “no really, I’m fine out here” died in your throat. A mute nod was all you could muster as you stepped in with tense reluctance, leaving your shoes on because you half expected to run out of there screaming anyways.
It is only when he held the door open for you that you realized the gap in the sleeve of his shirt. He was missing his left arm. All lessons about not staring at strangers, especially strangers who looked any bit different, that had been drilled in your head since you were a young kid (and were common sense and empathy, really) went right out the window as you couldn’t help but to look - you're not sure at what exactly, all of him was equally distracting. The whole ‘not being a batshit insane old man’ still hadn’t quite registered fully either and still rattled around in your skull. Or maybe it was the fact that he was unexpectedly attractive enough to make you forget the nerves that held you hostage the night before.
His eyes shone with a knowing gleam as he gave a lopsided grin, “I know, bonnie. The smile is… disarming.”
If you weren’t so caught up in the familiar heat of a blush rising to dust your cheeks a rosy hue, the pun wouldn’t have gone over your head for the first few awkward seconds. That was a thoroughly terrible joke. Much like this whole situation.
When it registered, the words slowly sinking into your brain instead of going in one ear and out the other, the warm blush only doubled as you half-heartedly chuckled. Like a deer in the headlights, you didn't know quite what to do now that he caught you staring. Your brows furrowed as you cleared your throat and looked anywhere but at him as your blush darkened, the warm feeling of embarrassment embracing you like the old friend that it was.
Unphased (much to your relief), he didn’t seem to think twice about it or read into the tension held in your frame as he led you into the house as unbothered as could be like this was a normal Sunday morning for him. Your limbs were on autopilot as you trailed at his heels, following him further in against better thought. A pungent, sterile whiff of rubbing alcohol and bleach caused you to wrinkle your nose as you passed into the kitchen but you snorted and pushed that aside. At least he liked to keep things clean.
Despite the cozy exterior, the inside more closely matched a modern museum in furnishings. Though the walls bore warm, flowery wallpaper and the appliances similarly outdated - nothing donned them. Every bit of furniture you set eyes on, from the couch to the tables and chairs, were sleek, cheap, and modern; as if everything had been bought in a rush and assembled in a weekend.
None of it fit with each other. All items stood mismatched in the same bland basic style that didn't remotely blend with the warm, earthy tones of the wooden accents of the floor and moldings alike. The feeling of unease crept up along your spine once more despite his welcoming presence, whispering in your ear about how you should probably hurry up and get out of here.
Like everything else though, it seemed fate wasn’t on your side. He pulled out a chair - John, you repeated his name to yourself, pulled out a chair and nodded for you to sit as he busied himself in the outdated kitchen. You watched as he buzzed around, moving pots and pans with seemingly little purpose or agenda aside from moving.
Once again, it didn’t register that he was talking until he was half-way through a sentence as he spoke a mile a minute. How fast he talked certainly didn’t help and your theory of him being easier to understand in person was only minimally true. Every bit of concentration you had went into straining your ears as you watched his lips, trying to figure out what he was saying.
“- so I’m sorry ‘bout the mess.” You weren’t even sure what mess he was talking about as there hardly seemed to be a speck of dust around, “Didn’t exactly expect someone…” He paused for a split second, nearly too fast to notice, “To take up on it and so fast.”
He finished polishing down the already spotless countertops, tossed the paper towel away, and headed back towards the table. Pulling out the chair beside you, he sat himself down. That bright, award winning smile back on his face beamed warmer than the early morning light streaming through the windows. “Now… best be on with it. Show me what you got.”
His unblinking eyes followed your movements, as your fingers jammed over your bag’s zipper. The intense stare didn’t ease your nerves one bit nor did it let up. Nevertheless after some awkward fumbling, you set the photo down on the table, pushing it towards him and the clipboard you had swiped too. You didn’t dare breathe a word about the thing you got a picture of. That was up to his own discretion and if he questioned, it would be his funeral.
With how nearly normal he seemed in person, he likely didn’t expect to see something like that. Sure he was a bit eccentric and things weren’t quite adding up, but showing a person a creature born of the abyss as casually as you might show them a picture of a flower you saw on a walk one day usually wouldn't elicit a great reaction.
Snapping up the clipboard the moment you placed it down with a motion so fast you jolted back, his bright blues frantically scrolled from smudged word to word. He didn’t say anything for a few, long moments as his eyes darted back and forth, his one hand near trembling as he grasped it. Silence reigned supreme as you sat on the edge of your chair, watching him with increasing unease. The turmoil only grew as he set the clipboard down and picked the picture up, bringing it closer to his face to study.
Nervous was an understatement to describe how fast your heart beat. Struggling to swallow, it was like sand clogged your mouth and lead had been poured in your stomach. Your nails dug into the soft flesh of your palms as you squeezed your hands together, trying to remain calm. Would he think it’s a joke? A prank? Photoshop gone wrong? Demand you get out and rob you of the money you so deserved? It was hard to tell the emotions going on behind his once expressive face as it drew into a contemplative line, the bags underneath his eyes that you hadn’t noticed prior seeming more pronounced.
An instant later though, he snapped back to the smile all too fast. Much to your joy, he didn't bring it up or think twice. But he smiled, a grin that didn't quite reach his sunken eyes. “Aye, that’ll do nicely. I’ll be right back with your money.”
Good, you thought. Breathing a sigh of relief to yourself, you watched with tired eyes as he stood up, taking the clipboard and picture to match along with him. He shuffled off, humming to himself, seemingly very pleased. And you simply stared at his retreating form. You didn’t know what to think about it, him, or any of this and you most certainly weren’t going to try to think too hard. Not when you were about to be out of here with money in hand and monster all forgotten.
In the other room, John moved at a leisurely pace as if he had all the time in the world. Nothing more than a slow shuffle as he whistled a tune too low to make out, the ruffle of papers flying and drawers opening and closing sounded through the thin walls.
Your fingers idly fidgeted with one another as you glanced around the stark home, trying to find something to distract yourself with. The contrast in the awkward environment reminded you much of John himself. Odd, to say the very least. There weren't any decorations or anything to note aside from the clash of it all. All of the furniture was brand new, cheap, but the bones of the house itself hadn’t been touched in years. There wasn’t anything personal - aside from a mangled wooden frame that caught your eye on the otherwise barren kitchen wall.
A lazy glance at the otherwise drab frame resulted in a double take. Two figures dressed in all black tactical gear stood side by side, illuminated by the blaze of a summer sun. Who you could guess was John, based on the bright grin and equally intense blue eyes, had his arm slung around a figure. A figure that caused your blood to run cold. In the same skull mask that you'd seen the cerberus, the mutant, was someone who bore a remarkable resemblance. An uncanny amount, as if they were twins.
Rising from your chair, your eyes widened as you took a closer look. The steady thump, thump, thump of your heart picked up bit by bit as things started to seem a bit too identical the longer you looked. The masked figure held nearly all the same gear you'd seen on the thing, albeit in significantly better shape. He had the same muscles and overall stature too. But instead of faded, opal eyes and too many limbs to match, it was a normal man with a cold, dark brown gaze.
“Not a bad picture of us.”
You jumped out of your skin as you whirled around with a suppressed yelp, your heart skipping a beat as you paled. John stood in front of you, so close you wondered how you didn't hear him sneaking up.
The forced, tense smile on his face didn't reach his wary gaze that drifted to the portrait. The contrast of bright teeth underscored by deep lines, etched into his face as his thousand yard stare drifted back to you made your hair stand on end.
“Uh… yeah…” You managed to stutter out as you choked down more of your nerves.
The lingering look he held on you dug in like thousands of knives, tearing you apart bit by bit, looking for a weakness. It made you squirm as you shifted from foot to foot, your teeth finding your inner lip the moment you sucked in a breath.
Gathering the confidence you finally asked, “So… the payment…”
You couldn't meet his gaze. Not when he was looking at you like that. An indiscernible, scrutinizing gaze that burned hot in your soul, as if he saw right through you and inter your mind.
There’s no way he didn’t know. There’s no way he doesn’t know that thing. There's no way he didn't know when he put that ad up.
And he knows that you know. Oh gods, he knew. You took the picture and were kind enough to pull that trigger yourself. You gave him the proof in a neat little glossy square and a clipboard alike.
Not a single word was spoken about it as he nodded, holding out a stark white envelope in his hand. “Sure, bonnie.” The eerie smile didn’t leave his face, nor did the unflinching stare.
Before you could take it though, he held it out of reach. Your brows furrowed as you looked at him in confusion. The tired, gaunt look in his face only seemed to deepen with the shadows as John leaned forwards, closing in on your personal space. Your hackles practically raised as you bristled, shuffling back a step that caused you to bump into the wall. The rattle of the frame was the only noise for those tense moments.
He didn't lean in nor did he cage you with his body, but you felt trapped, cornered, as he sighed. “You have every right to run and never speak of this again. But…” There always was a but, for fucks sake. Why couldn't he just pay you and let you leave?
You wanted to curse him out or at least do something vindictive and petty, and oh how you wanted to run. Yet you hesitated. For some, stupid reason you hesitated. The sheer tiredness etched all over his very being as he held your gaze tugged at something deep within you. He swallowed, forcing the smile to linger as much as he could.
“I need someone who won't ask questions. Someone who can help.”
Someone like you.
The silence between you spanned all too long as you simply stared, unsure of what to say or do. You didn't know exactly what he was asking you but you knew all the same. It has something to do with the thing in there. The thing he wasn’t outright acknowledging. The thing that both of you didn't dare say a word about but were talking about all the same.
“I'll pay you well. Name your number, I’ll have it. Please…” The last uttered syllable and the near pathetic look he gave you carved a like deeper into your heart than you care to admit.
Every word that fell from his lips was breathed out like a desperate prayer, a cry for help in a world that otherwise might not hear it. He was a man at wits end, a man who had no where else to turn. A man asking something of a stranger because there was no one else to ask.
It was your turn to study him as you held your breath, unable to tear your eyes away from the pitiful sight. The exhaustion radiating from him went beyond skin deep, deeper than the silvers of scars that littered his face. It set in his bones, the slight slump in his posture, ate away at all that he was, and consumed him in such a way he couldn’t hold the smile anymore nor did he bother to. The desperation was palpable as he glanced up at the picture, the only one there, once more for a second, before dropping his attention back to you and uttered a word so soft, it fell barely above a trembling whisper.
"Please."
You should've said no and run out. You should've put this nightmare behind you and never thought about the creature again. You should've told him he's utterly insane, especially to send you back to that thing and to ask you for help. You really should have. But since when did you make good choices?
When your eyes met his, you didn't say a word. But a simple barely-there nod cemented your fate and spoke more than any words ever could have.
જ⁀➴
The second the front door slammed shut as the new-found help hurried off in a scamper, Johnny collapsed onto the nearest chair. The littlest part of his heart left intact ached, feeling a bit bad for scaring the poor thing but the line of normality had long ago faded in the sands of time for him. There was no normal for a man damned by fate itself.
His chest heaved with shuddering, raspy breaths as his eyes misted. The weight of the world pressed down onto his shoulders for so long that he forgot what it was like to have an ounce of it lifted and replaced with a glimmer of hope. Hope. A word that tasted foreign on his tongue after it had evaded his clawing grasp for so long that he couldn't even remember the last time he had felt such a thing, always taunting him on the horizon of his periphery so close yet so far away.
His all too exhausted gaze went right back to the only picture on the wall - the very thing that haunted him every night but kept him going all the same. It always stood as a stark reminder of what had been, what should have been, and what he still should've had. As much as it ripped him apart, sent a harsh pang through his soul and plunged him into the icy depths of despair every time he thought about it, he couldn't forget. He couldn't let it go. Not when it's all he had.
For so long, he has clung to those desperate memories that still remained fresh in his tormented mind. Though faces changed and faded with time, though the words blurred, they never did when it came to the person who had understood him the most.
The person who he trusted with his life.
The person who he had failed.
Johnny didn't bother to wipe the tears that slid down his face. The crystalline drops marred his roughened, unkempt features even further. His chest heaved as he took a shuddering breath, blinking away enough tears to see the picture clearly; to see the man that he had lost.
He couldn't save Simon then. But now...
It's like the lights of heaven finally graced him for once. This was it. A second chance, the very thing he prayed for hours upon hours each night until his knees bruised on the wooden floors and his joints ached.
He was still alive in a way that mattered. And that was good enough for a man grasping at straws who had long ago given up any logical thought or reason. Such things didn't matter in manners of the heart and soul. The gaping maw of desperation and grief had swallowed him whole, torn him apart with its razor sharp teeth, and drowned him in the acids of madness before spitting him back up to wither away and rot.
But Johnny was a fighter. Nothing would stop him. Not even a challenge larger than life standing in the way with its scythe drawn and poised, ready for harvest.
Nothing.
"We'll have you back home, Simon." He breathed out to the portrait in a broken rasp, fingers rubbing over the tranished cross dangling from his neck.
"I promise."
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Part two! I'm honestly so grateful and overwhelmed by how many people liked my little drabble, I hadn't expected much from my silly idea. I'm turning it into a series with many more chapters ahead!
Any feedback is welcome, appreciated, and encouraged. Thank you all so so much 😭
Johnny didn't want someone who asked questions - to him, anyways. That didn't mean you wouldn't try to get your own answers
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Johnny (he insisted you call him that after you very reluctantly agreed to his deal, stating that "John" was too formal) didn’t need someone who asked questions. Asking questions meant thinking and thinking meant trouble. He didn’t need someone asking anything about the man framed in the only picture he had, nor did he need to be questioned on why there was an uncanny frakensteined monster that bore that very person's resemblance living in an abandoned military facility.
Of course, you’d still think of those questions. Anyone with a single braincell and any scrap of common sense would. You’d think about them until your brain melted and oozed out your ears as they ceaselessly tore at your mind, lingering on the edges of every other thought you had.
Asking him at this point though wouldn't get you anywhere, aside from maybe in a hospital bed. Pushing the already probably mentally unstable man further when he clearly had a whole storm brewing behind those distant blue eyes was a flat out stupid idea. When someone carried such a beastly burden day in and out, adding even a feather to the weight they carried could cause them to snap. If you wanted answers, you’d have to play it smart and ride the sands of time until the tempest faded into a mild breeze, taking the pressure that ceaselessly weighed him down with it.
Besides, you didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth and do anything to cost you your newfound side job that rolled into your lap when you needed it most. You needed it and the money almost as much as Johnny needed you.
Aside from a wonderful therapist, what Johnny needed was someone to run some errands for him. The way he phrased it could’ve made it seem almost normal. Almost. He just needed you to sometimes pick things up and drop things off for him - things he said he didn't have time to do.
Before you could even begin to regret agreeing or start gathering the courage to start verbalizing anything, another $100 was shoved in your awaiting hands the second he summoned you to his house once more not even two days later, effectively tying your tongue in a knot and forcing you to swallow anything that threatened to rise up back into the pit of your stomach where it belonged.
"You're certainly a wonderful sight for sore eyes" Johnny said as he held the door open for you, the lopsided grin that stretched slightly too far for comfort donning his face.
Underneath your fingertips, the crinkle of the crisp bill he'd shoved in your hands offered an ounce of comfort and familiarity as you stepped into the haphazard blend of the contrasting house. Once again, the overpowering stench of bleach reached your nose, causing it to wrinkle as your eyes watered. The soapy, pungent basic scent of unnaturally clean stood as far too much, like he had just scrubbed every single nearby surface with it twice.
Holding your breath just enough to make it through the hallway without burning your lungs, the shaky exhale that escaped you when you reached the kitchen was anything but certain, unlike the man who lead the way with a spring in his step.
"How 'bout a cuppa?" He offered as he gestured for you to sit in one of the uncomfortable, cheap, ugly modern chairs that lined the matching too sleek table.
Though the thought of something to drink was a nice gesture and tempted your slightly parched throat, it wasn't one you could accept. Drinking something from his house, even if he made it in front of you, had you on hesitate as uncertainty made itself known in the way your stomach twisted. Sure, it might give you something to sip on and take away from your nerves - but you didn't know what he'd consider normal or what he could put in it.
"Thanks, but no thank you. I'm good." You declined, your brows knitting together the smallest bit as your hands locked together, a closed-lipped smile donned your features as a polite peace offering.
Johnny simply tipped his head and shrugged in a 'suit yourself' gesture as he turned his back to you and took ahold of the kettle. "Maybe one day you'll come 'round to it. The Brits are wrong on many things but tea isn't one of them." He noted while he filled the blue metal device to the brim before setting it unceremoniously on the stove.
Humming in a truly neutral agreement that could be taken either way, you chose not to say anything in addition. A steady, rhythmic clicking broke through the silence before the gentle whoosh of the flames igniting quieted the air once more.
Johnny busied himself around the countertop and the island, whistling an off-tune song you couldn't quite recognize. While you weren't sure what song it was, there was no denying that his tone was off. Whether that was on purpose or not, you had no idea, but it made your skin crawl. A grimace crossed your features when the continual bad intonation didn't get any better. Why couldn't he have at least picked something to be on pitch with?
Thankfully the half-cringe that passed upon your face went unnoticed as he began searching through the orange toned cabinets and drawers at his own leisurely pace.
Naturally, your eyes were drawn to the man as he worked in his element. Your own natural curiosity tugged on the little part of your brain that egged you on to watch and try to figure out what he was doing. The weight of the world might have rested on his shoulders, judging by the slight tension he always held in his muscles and the lines carved deep into his face after many sleepless nights, but he didn't show it elsewhere.
He moved about as if the burden he carried were nothing more than a backpack, an annoyance that could eventually be shed. If you were able to look at his face closer, you're sure the shadows of dark bags would line underneath his eyes, darkening his features as if trying to externally express the gloom he felt.
To see that meant you'd have to look him in the eyes, though. You're not sure you were ready to meet the intensity of his head-on gaze again, or have to explain why you were staring. Blinking out of your stupor, you snapped your gaze to the tiled floor, trying to find something else to draw your attention.
The too stark, too barren kitchen loomed around you at all angles and provided no relief or point of interest. Looking anywhere else did little to help your nerves and thoughts alike when the clashing gaudiness of the wallpaper and the modern furniture greeted you no matter where you turned your eyes.
No matter what, you most certainly didn't want to look at the one picture on the wall - the one that reminded you of the thing you'd seen.
Though the man in the picture wasn't nearly as monstrous and had all the correct, human proportions (in the right number too, mind you), taking a single glance made your stomach churn. Sheer, primal dread and horror weren't an easy feeling to shake, especially when you caught glimpses of it every time you so much as turned your head to the side.
When he finally started talking again, a silent breath of relief escaped you as you relaxed marginally, thanking all heavens above he gave focus on other than the solitary portrait that hung on the empty wall.
"You don't know how... how happy I am."
Metallic clattering rang out as he shut yet another drawer before the one beside it was squeaked open from the rattling force. Though he spoke aloud, you weren't sure if he was more talking to himself or to you.
You didn't dare to breathe a word when he seemed to have paused for a moment, muttering something under his breath before he shut that drawer too and opened a cabinet below. "... to finally have someone to help me." He added as an afterthought as he popped back up, a small, rusted metal box in his hand.
Clunking against the counter as he gingerly placed it down, the rusty hinges squeaked in protest as he popped the lid, inspecting the mysterious contents with scrutinizing, unblinking eyes before he nodded to himself, clamping the lid shut once more before you had a chance to see what was in it.
"Things have been..." He trailed off with a small, dismissive circle of his hand as he turned his back to you again, upper cabinets flying open as he dug through the few items precariously perched in there once more.
He didn't continue his sentence, shaking his head to himself, the words he refused to speak evaporating into thin air. The grip you had on your own hands tightened as you bit your tongue - you weren't going to pry. No questions, you reminded yourself, as your mind filled in the blanks with many words that it raced to think of to finish his sentence for him.
Difficult? Terrible? Agonizing? Stressful? You're sure you could place them all on a Bingo card and score instantly.
No matter how much you wanted to ask, wanted to figure out what was going on, you weren't going to ask. You couldn't. The fragile balance that hung in the silence of the air depended on it.
Johnny seemed to like talking to himself anyhow, even if it was filled with beats and pauses and half finished sentences to match. It's like he either expected interjection or didn't know how to talk after having spent so much time alone.
"Ever since the exp- accident," He corrected himself in such a rush you didn't catch what he almost said, "Haven't been able to do nearly all of what I wanted."
Johnny didn't give you a chance to think about it as he huffed, his shoulders sagging, “Cannot drive anymore.” He spoke in a rougher grit, nodding to his missing left arm.
Frustration wrote itself all over his face in the unmistakable narrowing of his eyes and the tension held in his shoulders increasing tenfold as a scowl crossed his features. But like everything else with him, it hardly lasted a few noticeable seconds before the grin that was all too theatric made its appearance once more. “Unless you want to see the gas station version of Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift, I wouldn't let me get behind a wheel.”
His warm, mirth filled chuckle and toothy smile could almost be mistaken as genuine if he weren't staring right through you with a certainty that made your hackles raise. "That's where you come in. Real life saver, you are." He noted as he finally found what he was searching for, depositing it in a drawstring bag alongside the metal container.
Just in time, the kettle whistled a shrill pitchy noise. Steam billowed out of the small opening. Like a dog drawn to the beck and call of its owner, he trotted right on over to it, pouring it into a metal thermos he already had set aside in his impromptu kitchen rearranging spree.
Screwing the top on, he settled it in the bag before drawing it tight. Fabric cinched underneath the motion and, testing it to be sure nothing would spill, he finally picked it up and promptly deposited it on your lap.
"Well, best be off with it then." He said as he clapped a hand on your shoulders, guiding you to your feet. You swallowed, already knowing where he was going to ask you to go. "If you're fast enough, the water will still be warm when you get back if you change your mind on having a proper cuppa."
Going there in the evening light proved to be significantly less unnerving than visiting in the pitch blackness of the night. Considering you at least could see a hair better and knew what to expect as far as the layout go, it eased your nerves but the constant unsettled feeling remained on your shoulders as an unseen weight all the same.
On one hand, you now knew what was lurking in the dark. On the other hand, you now knew what was lurking. With six arms, three heads, and enough eyes to see into the past, present, and future at the same time, jumping to meet it again wasn't on the top of your to-do list.
Unlike the first time, though, it was a quick in and out. That was the mantra you repeated to yourself as you exited your car, crawling back in the small opening in the rusted, chain link fence. In and out. You'd be done before you knew it.
The steady thump of your heart against your ribs echoed far louder than any noise in the run-down facility as you trekked through the halls with careful steps. Every so often, you'd freeze and listen, looking for any clues of the thing - the very thing you were here to deliver a bag to.
You don't know why exactly Johnny wanted you to do this so bad or what he included in the very item you carried close to your chest. If he was trying to feed you to the monster, he was doing a piss poor job at it. And if it were something elicit, then why on earth would it involve a thermos of hot water?
Those questions were shoved to the back of your mind as you heard a small clink down one of the halls - a noise that sounded like metal on metal.
Goosebumps prickled your arms as your body froze. Placing the bag down next to the wall on a drop spot you, for once, listened to your heart and bolted.
You didn't wait around to see if the thing was lurking around the corners, watching your every move. You didn't want to see if it felt friendly today. In and out. You're just here to do your job - not here to be eaten.
True to his word, the water was still warm by the time you returned to collect your payment. Not that you were going to have any of the tea he offered, but it meant the job was done and you now had enough money to soothe your erratically beating heart as you justified your (probable) bad decisions.
Johnny was all smiles as he thanked you earnestly, ignorant to your internal plight. His earnest words that paired with his glee of, "Have an evening as lovely as yourself," lingered on in the air, going unanswered as you took your money and hurried off back to your dwelling.
Not wanting to deal with any more questions or thoughts regarding it or anything around it for the night, the TV went on the moment you got home. White noise filled the space as its distant chatter reverberated, the familiar flashing lights of the flickering screen soothing you as it wrapped around your senses like a warm blanket on a cold day.
Scarfing down your dinner, you settled on the couch for the night, letting the noise of the television lull you to sleep instead of your own mind.
Sleep held you as long as it could in its embrace as you dozed away, but it could only do so much to keep you down when an all too loud text pinged on your phone. Cursing yourself for not having put it on Do Not Disturb, you blearily blinked at the illuminated screen.
Blocky letters shone 5:15 am on the lock screen, yet another groan escaping you. It's too early for this. Setting it down for another moment as you squinted, you rubbed your eyes with the heel of your palm as you slowly came to your senses.
Focusing on the name would be fruitless when you already mentally calculated who would have the audacity and the lack of common sense to text you this early.
"Morning bonnie :), up for another task?"
No wonder he seemed so exhausted all the time, you mentally groused as you reluctantly went through your morning routine at none too fast of a pace. Anyone who woke up at the ass crack of dawn had the right to be. There's plenty of other things weighing him down but right now, all you could think of was how it was too damn early for this.
Even though it was too early, far too early for your taste to be doing anything, Johnny was all smiles as you pulled up, as if he'd already been up for hours and was almost happy about it.
This time, he wasn't fumbling through anything or assembling things together. Sitting on the old, creaky rocking chair on the porch, he already had a bag beside him. The worn canvas rucksack was considerably larger than the drawstring he'd had you take the day prior.
"Good morning." He greeted from the small landing as you sauntered out of your car, the usually present smile that put the pink lights of dawn to shame held itself upon his fine features once more. "Know I already said morning, but wasn't good til I saw you."
The warm, blush colors of the sunrise matched your cheeks perfectly as the familiar heat of a flush rose upon you in a matching warmth of the early morning's rays. It's too early for this....
Handing the bag off to you, his eyes followed your every movement once more as you took it from him into your grasp. "Same place as last time." He instructed without another word more.
The thermos settled on the side of the bag radiated warmth as it settled against your skin as you balanced the luggage out in your arms. How you wished you could feel the same warmth all over as you lay buried in your bed, dozing underneath your fluffy blankets as you should've been at this time.
Nodding, you offered a strained smile, ignoring how his fingers drummed in rapid succession on the armrest of the chair. "Got it." Was all you said before you turned on your heels before you could second guess what you were doing.
The third time through the building proved to somehow be even easier. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation or irritation that ebbed away the nerves that normally had you hesitating, but you carried on through the same path you'd trekked twice prior.
Exactly as Soap instructed, you went to set the bag down right where you had prior. Except when you got there, you froze.
There on the ground lay the same thermos you saw him fill and the deflated, compacted form of the drawstring bag. Folded with precision, the bag lay pinned by the thermos, as if it had been placed with delicate intent in mind.
Swallowing back the sudden dryness of your mouth, the small steps you took towards it now took longer than ever before. As if it may burn you, your hands shook as you held your breath when you reached out to grasp them. The light weight of the metal bottle shouldn't have caught you off guard, but it did. Whatever did this - no, whoever, clearly had great control of themselves.
It couldn't have been that thing, right? That was a monster, a beast. Maybe it was someone else - someone else here who he was helping.
You didn't want to think about it too hard or the implications of it. Taking a deep breath, you choked down your nerves and snatched up the bag and empty bottle before depositing the rucksack.
Looking back wasn't even a thought that crossed your mind as you hightailed it out of there, your mind racing faster than your feet.
By the time you returned to Johnny's house and rang the bell, he'd already taken a shower. The fresh scent of his cologne clung to his skin as he opened the door, the overgrown shag of his mohawk curled on the very fringes with dampness.
"Back so soon?" He asked, arching an inquisitive brow, his attention focused on the lines of your face the second you appeared.
Though you tried to hide the small tremors and the paleness of your features as your mind and heart raced despite the contrast of your feet rooted in place.
"Christ alive, everything alright? You look like you've seen a ghost." He asked as he tilted his head.
Alright? Alright?? How could it be alright when now for sure you knew that something, something possibly intelligent, was there. The thing you've brought something too held life, conscious thought, and yet weathered away every day in that building.
Seeing the bag folded so neatly opened a pandora's box of questions that you don't think you could ignore for any longer, but you weren't going to spill that to him.
Hurrying out a nod, you forced a smile and cleared your throat, trying to get yourself to appear normal. "Y-yeah! Fine, I'm fine. Just uh... a bit tired! Not used to being up this early." You said, trying your damndest to play it off with an awkward chuckle.
Pleasebelieveitpleasebelieveitplease-
His eyes studied you, a frown pursing his lips as he once again searched right though your soul with those intense, blue eyes. For those few, tense moments, you swore he dug right into your mind, trying to find reasons to call you a liar as he sunk his claws in and tore.
Yet his gaze softened as he scratched the back of his neck, the smile turning sheepish. "Sorry - forgot not everyone is used to waking up before the sun. Old habits die hard." As if trying to make up for his 'mistake', he didn't wait a second as he fished out the $200 from his pocket - no envelope this time.
The bills made their way into your pocket as you snatched them up. "Thanks." You rushed out as you took a step back. Johnny arched a single brow as he just kept staring, as if expecting something.
You couldn't bring yourself to meet his acute gaze as he simply kept staring the same, scrutinizing look pinning you down from afar. Averting your eyes, your offered a half-there nod as you took another step back, "Anyways I uh, have a long day ahead."
Your mind wasn't really in putting together neat sentences as it kept circling back to seeing the bag and thermos set so nicely, so purposefully, as if awaiting someone to return to them.
Shit, right. The things. Shaking your head, you stiffened at your realization. "O-oh! Right, almost forgot." Pulling your own utilitarian bag off of your back, the sound of a zipper broke the hush of the early morning air. Revealing the still-folded bag and his bottle, you held it out for him to take.
Surprised wasn't the exact word you'd say described Johnny. Though his brows arched and his grin faltered for a split second into something much bigger, he held his position. The slight shake in his fingers as he plucked the items from your hands was palpable as was the breath he held as he turned them over, the pads of his fingers tracing them as his attention dragged downwards into the paltry weight of the objects themselves.
For a few reverent moments, his whole attention focused right on those items his gaze piercing through it. While you were thankful that attention was no longer on you, it didn't help the unease that always seemed to follow, remaining slung around your shoulders like an old, uncomfortable pal who made their appearance at the worst times. When you shifted from foot to foot, his eyes snapped right back up as he blinked out of his entranced daze.
"Right, I won't hold you any longer. Thank you again." He said, as he steadied himself with a deep breath, "I'll see you tomorrow."
You didn't have a chance to protest before he closed the door, leaving you standing right there on the now empty front porch.
Turns out, Johnny preferably needed you to go every day of the week to that place. You weren't sure how to feel after discovering the fact that the thing was probably intelligent and was indeed capable of such delicate tasks - but the money talked far louder than your hesitancy. It's a wonder he didn't run out of cash but hey, you weren't complaining. Sure, it wasn't ideal to go there and to keep questioning your sanity, but money talked. And what it was saying was "Keep doing what you're doing".
Though unease lingered in every one of your hairs that stood on end and the goosebumps that prickled your flesh every time you visited, it became significantly easier as you fell into a routine. Nothing would stop the way you always found yourself glancing down the dark hallways with wary shifts to the balls of your feet, ready to bolt at a moments notice, but you no longer had to look over your shoulder or halt in your movements every time you heard a small noise.
Johnny would either have you come by early morning or late evening, and would hand off a bag. Sometimes you'd talk to him a bit or more accurately, he'd talk and you'd listen as he packed the bag. You'd then take it, go right back into the abandoned fort, and trade it out with the bag always placed with such neat intent and now-empty thermos.
Now, anyone sane would've suspected something extremely suspicious, if not illegal. After all, who would pay vast amounts of money to drop off a full bag and pick the empty up if it weren't dealing with illegal substances?
Johnny. That's who.
Much to your surprise, everything was normal in every bag you brought - it always was. He'd pack them in front of you or if they were ready to go, they held the same, ordinary objects. Not to mention, you'd always double checked them just to be sure you weren't playing an unwitting part in some smuggling operation. You didn't always make the best decisions but you weren't stupid. Yet they were never abnormal.
No matter what, there'd always be a thermos of hot water and a sealed, labelless letter. Otherwise, it was a mixed bag, quite literally. Sometimes he'd thrown in a fleece or woolen blanket, other times some personal hygiene items, or board games or decks of cards, or even photographs and books. It didn't take long for you to realize that they were care packages meant for what- no, whoever was in there.
You weren't dealing with an it or a what or a that or a thing, it was a who. Someone who he clearly cared about and someone who you sincerely suspected was the man in the portrait or had been at some point in time.
The more days that you found yourself delivering yet another package, the more curious you found yourself - and the less fearful. After all, this was clearly a being who clung to some part of their humanity - someone capable of considerate actions and thoughts alike.
Frankly, it he never went after you in the first place. You'd realized that as you spent yet another night pondering in your bed, staring up at the ceiling. By all means, he could have attacked and killed you. He could have done that the moment it saw you for the first time and taken you by surprise in the Tartarean void that he called his home amidst the decaying walls.
He could've chased after you and snapped your neck before you had a chance to run for it. Hell, he could easily ambush you as you dropped off the daily supplies. And he could probably do it all without flinching or missing a single beat, as if he were completing a task as simple as fetching the morning paper.
But he didn't. He never even came closer. You hadn't seen him since the first night. Instead, the only trace you ever saw that he was by was the neatly placed bags and the empty thermos, always properly set up.
No monster would do that. No true monster would have those manners or such a capability, unless it was playing the long haul to gain your trust before it feasted. But that would've been long, long ago.
You didn't know what to make of it. And you knew Johnny would be no help, as many thoughts as he had. Not once had he ever brought the beast up - nor did you. Talk around him was something you both danced around, never quite getting to it.
That didn't stop you from doing your job as kept on delivering all the same. You knew better than to ask who this being was to him beyond someone he'd very likely known - and known well. He wouldn't be ready to admit that. No matter how many times you caught him staring at the sole portrait that hung on the kitchen wall or smoothing his thumb over the silver cross that dangled around his neck, he never dare breathed a name.
Asking Johnny wouldn't help, so you figured you might as well bypass the middle man. Living in the dark was something you couldn't do anymore - and you're sure he (the temporarily nameless being that he was) would like to finally have some light shone on him for once. It was time to talk to the creature you'd tried to desperately avoid in the first place.
Finding him was out of the question. You most certainly weren't going to walk through the dingy, damp halls once more to throw yourself at him. You doubted he would want that either. Considering he hadn't been around, he likely valued some semblance of privacy.
He could read - you figured he could read. After all, Johnny had sent him many letters. If they remained unopened, you didn't know, but it didn't stop Johnny from writing them all the same. Before you could get ahead of yourself, though, you decided to try a simple trick.
Clinging to a whiteboard with one hand, bag in the other, you crawled through the dark halls you'd come to know like the back of your hand. You didn't need the headlamp anymore but it certainly helped when your eyes hadn't adjusted.
Setting the bag down in the usual drop-zone, you balanced the whiteboard on your thighs and uncapped an expo marker. The squeak of the black pen filled the air as you inhaled a slow breath, trying to calm the anxious, anticipatory beating of your heart.
"Hi! :) I'm -" You hesitated. Writing your name was a bad idea, especially when it was a place you weren't supposed to be. The last thing you needed was for anyone else to find it and track you down, as unlikely as that may be.
Settling on "A friend of your friend." You continued to write, " The one who has been bringing the bags. What's your name?"
Setting the board down and capping the marker once more, placing it just below, you took a step back. You didn't know for sure if he could write or read, but it was worth a shot and was better than nothing. The question wasn't revolutionary but if answered, you'd finally have an inkling of who you were dealing with and more importantly, a proper name to call him.
As you headed back to the exit once more, you glanced back for the first time. For some reason feeling a pang of disappointment you saw nothing lying in wait in the shadows and heard nothing to match. Shaking your head, you dismissed the ridiculous thought as you scampered off, taking the empty bag and thermos that had been left to hold up your usual part of the routine.
You'd never been particularly excited to go back, really just following through for the money (and maybe a scrap of pity for Johnny), but today your legs couldn't carry you fast enough through the halls as you came back. Pitter pattering in your chest, your heart hammered away on your ribs as the familiar burn of exertion tugged at your muscles but you refused to let it slow you down. If anything, it only fueled the burning desire to get there fast.
The moment the whiteboard entered your line of sight, you somehow picked up speed further before leaning into a sliding stop in front of it. A thump echoed as the bag fell from your hands, your breath catching as you stared at the sight that awaited you. Your eyes widened at the smudged ink and the one, half-shaky word scrawled underneath. A name.
Simon.
Rolling the name over and over in your mind until you surely wouldn't be able to ever forget it, you snapped a picture of the whiteboard so you'd have a piece of it forever. To finally know the name of the being you had delivered countless things to marked a huge step forwards. There were many, many things you wanted to ask but for now you knew one, very important thing.
His name was Simon.
You itched to write more, to ask him fifty million questions now that you knew he was human enough to answer, but you couldn't get ahead of yourself. Your hands trembled as you uncapped the marker, tracing each letter of his name with your finger as you erased it, the feel of the letters forever etching into your soul.
"Its nice to meet you Simon." You kept it simple to start as you pursed your lips, racking your brain for the proper route to go here.
How long had he been here? Did he know what day it was? Who was he to Johnny? Why was he here? How did he get like that? What does he eat? How does he eat? Why doesn't he -
No.
You weren't going to do that. No matter how much there was to learn, you couldn't force your thirst for knowledge onto him or overwhelm him with questions. Trust for those answers had to be earned, not given, if he was anything like most.
Considering that he likely hadn't had direct human contact and interaction in how long, being compassionate would do you well. Maybe you could earn his trust more by helping him out further and listening, even if you had yet to physically say a single word to one another.
"I'm sorry for running from you. I didn't expect anyone to be there." You continued, figuring an apology of any kind was overdue but a late one was better than none, "Is there anything I can get or bring for you to make you more comfortable?"
The apology wasn't the best or hell, even that great. Limited space on the small whiteboard, however, was quite a curse. And if he had any bit of humanity - the kind you had, he'd understand very well why you ran. Anyone would in your shoes. It wasn't anything personal but now knowing he had conscious thoughts, guilt gnawed at you.
Likely, you still would've run anyways, but when facing with the unknown and something as threatening appearing as him, it's better safe than sorry. He'd understand, right? You were just a human in the end. A human who had very human reactions in the face of danger.
Once more, you set the marker down and read over your words, double checking to make sure your spelling still held up and the words were big enough to discern. They weren't perfect, eloquent, or fantastic but they were a starting point and they were yours. That was good enough for now. Resisting the urge to linger in the hall, you capped the pen and made your way out of the building once more, following the same path you'd always taken, already yearning to turn back.
Thankfully, the night passed in the blink of an eye and lady luck decided to roll the ball in your court the next day as Johnny picked an early time. Your heart raced at the same rate as your body as you sprinted through the halls, all caution thrown to the wind that whipped over your head with the motions. Reminding yourself to at least set the bag down instead of throwing it, you glanced at the board, your eyes widening.
Scrawled in a much neater, larger handwriting that took up the board, your breath halted in your chest. The beating of your heart faded into a background hum as your blood ran cold, a pit growing and sinking in your stomach so fast its as if you swallowed lead.
There wasn't an item or thing requested. Underneath, just like the day before, there was a name. But it was a different one, one you had at the top of your contact lists.
Johnny.
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His many clouded eyes had stared at the simple, innocent question written on the white board. They stared and stared, until even in his constantly unfeeling state, they ached with soreness around the edges.
Anything.
Such a word was the most dangerous thing you could've offered to a desperate man who had long since drowned in the rivers of despair. To you, it was probably nothing more than a simple considerate thought. To him, it was a lifeline being thrown out in a tsunami, offering a thin rope to pull him out of the impossibly huge wave that kept him down. Attempting to grab it and crawl out may be fruitless but without any options left, the slimmest chance of improbable survival was always better than none at all.
So he took the rope you threw him and clung until his nails dug in and all six of his hands were burned and his skin chaffed. He held it close, grappling it with every ounce of strength he had left, tying it in knots to cling on further to the chance that was being offered - to have the anything, the only thing, he needed more than the second chance at life he had been granted.
He knew deep down that it might be an impossible request to pull him out, to get him what he needed beyond anything else in this world, to fulfill the visceral yearning that scorched his soul and burnt him with red hot pokers every day in an otherwise numb existence.
But when he had nothing left, nothing at all aside from his miserable existence in this liminal purgatory, playing the only Hail Mary he clung onto now that he was given a chance was his own way of accepting the line which you threw him and pulling back as he desperately tried to grapple out.
After all, a dead man had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
His everything that now stood just on the horizon, so close he could almost see those beautiful blue eyes again and trace over the silver of a scar that split his brows once more.
Wrote this because I was getting stumped on Chapter three. Have a little tiny Ghoap moment ;3
I love him so much look at him!! What a guy!! (Also being able to actually see him in motion has helped me so much trying to figure out how to write him)
Mwah I wanna kiss his face
CW: Mentions of blood, death and dying. Nothing too graphic but it's still very much there! It's angsty too
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Tomorrow.
Oh, how he loathed that one, single, simple wretched word uttered carelessly without as so much as a second thought by so many. How he hated tomorrow.
Tomorrow stood as an uncertain promise held aloft every evening as the sands of time trickled through their limitless hourglass, slowly emptying into the chalice that soon would turn as the earth once again shone a different face to the sun. Tomorrow wasn’t something anyone could truly count on when the tides could shift in an instance, changing everything you knew. Simon Riley knew that better than anyone.
Serving years slaving away in arid deserts and frozen tundras alike with nothing but the weighty gear on his back and a gun in his hand meant he knew better than any other that tomorrow was a measure of time, nothing more. No matter how many times tomorrow had been said, promised, spoken so truly imbued with intent already plotted on its horizon, it didn’t change fate. It didn’t change whether you were going to make it to then or not. The world didn’t care if you made it through or to tomorrow. It only made tomorrow happen.
How many tomorrows had passed since he had been trapped in this washed-out, colorless hell surrounded by walls damning him to eternal solitary confinement with no promise of escape was something he couldn’t answer. The sun had long since ceased warming him with its golden rays in the morning and the moon had made itself scarce, never showing when it hung in the twinkling night sky. A being damned to purgatory didn’t deserve such warmth or beauty. Every wall encasing him determined such a thing would be true as long as he lived in his unliving state. Cold and unfeeling, nothing he did could change the immovable fate that shackled him down and buried him alive in the cement cage.
That didn't stop him from etching the passage of everything he loosely guessed was a day into the walls. Keeping track of something, as minute as it may be, at least kept him saner than he would be with nothing else. Carving into the walls with the few tiny metallic medical tools that had been abandoned and left to rot, the same as him, stood as the only form of retribution against his prison that he could manage.
Each nick, dig, and mark struck against it stood in a silent testament to say that he lived despite death itself having clasped its frigid, clammy hands around his neck as it choked him out until his lifeforce faded. Every insignificantly significant tiny white line marring the concrete stood in testament that even if he was trapped, the bitter taste of defeat still remained foreign on his decaying tongues. His normal body may have long been forgotten and replaced with too many twisted limbs and cerberic heads, but he was still Simon; the very same Simon that would fight with all of his too many teeth and blackened nails until his true final breath.
Though his life had been forced from his mortal shell with the reaper's digging claws until it was pulled from his body, he still somehow lived. How fitting of an "end" for someone like Simon, someone who couldn't even catch a breath when the dark angel came calling his name, only to turn him back to the world as it took a part of him with it. True peace was never fitting for him, he supposed. When all of his life was spent dedicating to fighting, it's only expected he would go toe to toe with his own mortality too.
Yet this pathetic existence hardly classified as what he could call living. He breathed, yes, air filled his lungs but it served no function. Nor did the existence of his heart or any of his organs that were little more than placeholders these days. It was a blessing to be some form of alive and to still have his brain perfectly functioning, but being trapped in this shell stood as an eternal, tormenting curse. Punishment for escaping death one too many times, endlessly taunting it as he dodged all too many bullets, is often how it seemed.
Death would've been the preferable option than staying trapped in the decaying government facility alone and the body that held him prisoner to match.
How he wished he could be permanently buried in the dirt, his eyes closed in a true state of rest. The waking world was a poor imitation of what he hoped death's true embrace would feel like as it came calling his name once more and beckoned a single, crooked skeletal finger. Thin, yellowing sheets that covered the dusty hospital beds where he lay each night offered little comfort for the constant numbness surrounding him in a static void.
Every physical sensation that brushed against his poor-excuse for flesh drowned in the barrier of his unalive state before it could reach him. Heat, cold, pain, pleasure, hunger, thirst - none of those things mattered to a being who could no longer feel in such a corporeal sense.
The same couldn't be said for his feelings. Now that the pesky things such as normal human bodily needs abandoned his form, his heart and mind made up for their absence tenfold as they held him down and forced him to feel everything and anything in between in the murkiest depths of his soul. Like a twisting, red-hot blade they relentlessly engraved their grievances on chunks of his very essence, permanently scorching his soul as they scarred far deeper than any of the hundreds of weapons that had been turned against him ever could hope to.
Despite the stillness of his heart and the absence of what used to be a steady, rhythmic beat, his heart still burned as if it were thrown into the deepest depths of hell whenever he turned his gaze and locked eyes at the tiny picture on his nightstand of him and Soap together, blacked out in tactical gear. He should've thrown an arm around him and made their last picture together more memorable - but it was too late for that. Should've was already too late. He was too late.
The extra heads forced together by sinewy webbing never were much help when it came to focusing with his already clouded vision. Straining to look as he brought the picture closer to his faces, to truly see through all of his eyes, was minor inconvenience he could bare. For it meant that his eyes were graced with three sets, three times, the visage seared into his memory of the one who took on the world for him. The same one who fought for the world, his world, and so readily gave it up for him without a second of a hesitation. He deserved that at the very least - to be seen, recognized, admired. Johnny deserved that and the world itself.
Pouring pure alcohol into his veins and setting it alight would hurt less than the pang of primal agony that rippled through him, shredding his heart and spitting its venom into his soul, whenever he set the picture down and glanced at his left size where an arm - Johnny’s arm, lay fused to his own. Taught skin webbed between it and where his own original arm stood long before he became an abomination and a product of science going too far. The strong fingers that had cradled his hand so gently throughout some nights when the other thought he was asleep, the hand that strangled, shot, and killed for him - now usually clung to the tattoos that inked up his flesh as if afraid to let it go once more even in this harrowing state.
The single limb agonizingly sacrificed to him remained the only one didn’t have perfect control over. It never fully listened, much like the man it came from. No matter the orders he barked at the sergeant, he wasn't one to heed with his head alone. Sometimes that noble, brave heart of his that let him charge up the ranks so fast took the reigns before he could do anything about it.
Stand down, Johnny.
Get out of there, MacTavish.
Don't you dare, Johnny. It's not worth it. Not for me.
....
The longer he lived with the errant limb and dealt with the non-compliance, and the usual near constant grip on his forearm, in a twisted way, he didn’t want things to change. He didn't want it to listen. That wouldn't be Johnny's arm - that wouldn't be Johnny if it did. It wouldn't be the last solid reminder he had if it complied, even if it was connected to his consciousness now.
For now, it was something he could cling onto like a starving dog lapping up scraps of meat outside the back of a butcher shop. Deep down, he knew that he was feeding the delusions as he blindly clawed for anything he could cling onto as a reminder, but bringing himself to care enough to stop wasn't an option (as unhealthy as it might be). Living with the miniscule fantasy served as a balm to his gouged soul that bled out more and more as the seasons marched on and days tumbled forward into one another. It was enough for a man like him who would scavenge for anything his many hands could get ahold of, clinging to any threads as if they could carry him out of the abyss until they inevitably crumbled to dust under the crushing weight of him.
Some nights as he lay on the creaky hospital bed staring up at the same blank ceiling that matched the same gray that covered his senses in a blinding fog, he could almost pretend that Johnny was still here, still talking to him in the thick brogue that was so distinctly him, still smelling of the scotch he loved so much tinged with gunpowder from all the explosives he had set up.
If he closed all six of his milky eyes, the phantom sensation of Johnny's warm form beside him as he imagined him close once more nearly caused him to feel something along his sensationless form. Those deft fingers that worked along intricate wires of dangerous weapons never followed the same pattern twice as he traced his tattoos in the same routine he had many nights before as they lay near one another underneath a flimsy tarp deep in enemy territory, the uncertainty of their own mortal lives continuing for another sunrise strung along the stressful line of their work.
And sometimes if he truly shut off his brain, his mind could truly run wild as it conjured up the words he’d heard so many times before. The same point of contention uttered once more that Johnny always circled back to as he marveled the black lines marbling Simon's skin, “You really should let me color ‘em, LT.” He’d breathe, voice so quiet it could be lost on a breeze as he stared at them with the softest look he had seen on the sergeant’s face, a quiet contemplation written in the furrow of his brows.
If confronted, he knew it would be played off as a joke and nothing more. But the way the roughened pads of his fingers traced the whorls permanently etched into his skin spoke otherwise, echoing words and feelings that ran deep that neither dared to voice. Every moment he lay there alone in his new "life", regret sank its fangs into the vulnerable underbelly of his heart, the heavy feeling settling like molten lead in his stomach as he berated himself for not touching him back, even if it was a tentative hand smoothing a thumb over the back of his.
No matter how many nights and countless times Johnny fell into the routine of tracing his tattoos, Simon's dark gaze would fall right back over the other to trace the tired lines on the other's face and the stubble of his jaw with his eyes. His fingers always twitched restlessly as they lay folded on his chest, aching to feel something aside from the fabric underneath. Yet the ugly, grating voice of doubt pestered him until he hesitated, never letting him the courage to reach up and caress him, even for a second.
His turmoil was obvious to anyone who knew him like Johnny did. The tension in his body, the near constant movement of his fingers, the unblinking look in his eyes as he couldn't help but to stare. But Johnny was smart, significantly smarter than many gave him credit for. He knew better than to point it out with his voice alone but the small upward twitch of his lips spoke a thousand words as he shifted closer, closer.
“Add a little more color to your life. Things can’t always be black and white.” Johnny always insisted as he leaned further in, the weight of his body sinking in, nurturing the warmth blooming in his chest.
Breathing had never been harder as those blue eyes peered up at him through dark lashes. All air left his lungs in a flash, his heart halting as he stared into those eyes, helplessly held captive by those beautiful blues that would put the finest aquamarine gems to shame.
How he wished he listened.
What he wouldn't give to go back to that moment, if only for a fraction of a second, to get lost in those expressive pools of his newfound favorite color.
No amount of time nor disease would pry that memory from him as he lingered in the stagnant, abandoned base. The warmth he felt that night bloomed within his chest even now, even when hindered and reduced to nothing more than a faint fuzzy feeling tickling his chest.
Not even the fusion of the two heads on the side of his could even hope to gnaw it away with their own plaguing whispers and intrusive thoughts that bit through his skull as they tried to worm their way into his brain like the parasites that they were. But he wouldn’t let them. Nothing could.
No, nothing could make him forget Johnny. Not even the end of his world as he knew it. Death may have taken him temporarily into his clutches, dangling him between the precipice of life, but that wasn't enough. Because his world didn't end when he died, no. That was insignificant. His world ended not when he rasped his last breath, endless rivers of crimson spilling onto the operating table. It ended when he used the last of his energy to tilt his head to take one last look at Johnny, knowing that he would never see him again.
...
Endless amounts of tomorrows could add up in the gouges of more tally marks and scores into the wall, covering every nano angstrom of the base and he still would loathe them with all the contempt his heart could well up until it sat in a venomous soaked vat of his festering rage.
He hated tomorrows because each mark was another reminder of the tomorrow that wasn't to come, the tomorrow swiped from underneath his feet by fate's cruel hand, the tomorrow he promised, the tomorrow that would never be - the tomorrow with Johnny.
HIIII ITS ME AGAIN SCREAMING TO LET YOU KNOW THE THIRD CHAPTER IS SO GOOD!
I wonder if reader will take Simon's request to heart and actually ask Johnny this time what his relationship with Simon is? Will Johnny give an answer at all? Hmmm 👀👀
Take care of yourself, and stay hydrated!
- Biscuits 🌺
HI HELLO SALUTATIONS ITS GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN I HOPE YOU'RE WELL!!
THANK YOU 💚💚💚💚 I APPRECIATE IT SO MUCH. I've had such awful writers block that I just had to sit myself down in the little time I had and get it out
Reader is going to have to talk to Johnny because they really can't keep avoiding the elephant in the room because neither of them have still said ANYTHING about Simon. Johnny certainly hasn't acknowledged that he's even aware of his existence verbally - but his actions speak louder. Reader is the same way because there isn't an easy way to bring up, "so uh hey what the fuck is that? What happened?"
That's the most pressing part. Of course they're curious as to who Simon is to Johnny, because all they know is that he's likely the guy in the picture and is clearly someone he cares deeply about. He wouldn't do what he did if he didn't or if it wasn't someone who mattered that much to him. But they've not confirmed it. It's just putting the puzzle pieces together and context clues
Johnny's thing isn't ever giving full answers because he doesn't like the vulnerability that can come with it. There's also a lot that he simply can't bring himself to talk about. His thing is usually keeping any answers vague, open ended, and up for interpretation. It's less likely to bite him in the ass and no one can have a "gotcha" moment if he didn't say it
He doesn't usually explicitly lie but he certainly won't tell the truth or the whole truth. Reading into his body language is usually a much greater cue about what he's actually trying to say (or what he's leaving out)
There's also the fact that Johnny didn't exactly know where he and Simon lay before everything happened. They never exactly said anything specific to one another or labeled it, a lot went left unsaid
(also I love answering asks like these it's always so fun. I'm a certified yapper I can talk about them alllll day)
Sorry for not being around today! I'm reallllly feeling my illness and haven't been up for writing much of anything. I'm hoping it passes soon as I really want to get back to writing and answer everything in the inbox too/finally get this chapter out 👀
Writing Chapter Four is my focus right now! So have a snippet of it in the meantime
HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT YOUR CERBERUS GHOST SERIES I'M EATING THAT SHIT UPPPPPPP
I do have a question tho, and feel free to not indulge me if you don't have an answer or don't wanna spoil or whatever else! But why didn't Johnny go in the building himself? I'm guessing he knows that's where Simon was last seen but he didn't know until now that Simon's still (somewhat) alive. Maybe the building itself brings back terrible memories and it physically stops Johnny from entering, hmmm I'm intrigued 👀👀
I'M EXCITED TO SEE OUR BABYGIRL AGAIN!!! BOUNCING OFF THE WALLS AS WE SPEAK, I NEED TO HUG HIM KISS HIM LOVE HIM HE'LL NEVER BE LONELY AGAIN OH MY GOD THAT "don't..... go....." FUCKING DESTROYED MEEEEE
Sorry for the yap fest, hope you have a wonderful day/night! 🖤
- Biscuits 🌺
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AHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT!!
I honestly wasn't expecting many people to like it when I first posted my silly little idea 😭 but the support has been overwhelming and I'm so so grateful
Funny you should ask that- cause reader is going to ask the exact same thing in Chapter three. Of course, Johnny is going to give them a different answer than what's fully true
That is part of the reason (the full scope will be unveiled as the story goes on). That building is where Johnny last saw Ghost alive and he can't bring himself to go there out of sheer, overwhelming guilt and terrible memories associated there. That's also the same place where he lost his arm. Even thinking about entering there again has him sweating bullets and his stomach churning
But, at the same time, it's all he has (or had) left of Ghost aside from about 4 pictures (Ghost never was a fan of cameras). So he's stuck between a mental wall of his own limitations and what he needs to have, at this point, to keep himself somewhat sane. It's a work in progress
Now that he knows Ghost or part of him is alive though - he has a lot more motivation to go. How long that will take or if he will even manage to do it? That's up for debate and will eventually be answered in the chapters ahead
Our favorite guy will be back soon enough! I'm just about there as far as saying hi to his cute little face(s) in the writing progress for chapter three. 💚💚💚 And this time I PROMISE it will be much happier
AND NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR TALKING! I'm a certified yapper myself and will always wanna chat :3 . Asks are always open and I'm happy to write little blurbs and drabbles between chapters (hope you all are having wonderful days/nights/evenings wherever you might be!)
💚💚💚 I've had so much fun with this so far and y'all have been so super sweet!!! Thank you all so so much I'm so happy have liked it so far and I'm honored there's such interest in it 😭
