⇢ Pairing: John "Soap" Mactavish/Reader & Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader
⇢ Length: Oneshot
⇢ Synopsis: Your boyfriend's best friend doesn’t like you, that you’re more than certain of. Soap isn’t so convinced.
⇢ A/N: Ghost is the definition of the meme: what do you mean ominously staring at someone from across the room isn't considered flirting?
You gape, mouth wide open and eyes fastened to your boyfriend lounging beside you on the couch, grinning far too gleefully for what he’d just said.
“Johnny,” you snap, irritation winding tight inside of you at his easy going expression. “Are you insane?”
“What?” He drawls, grin stretching further, his thumb drawing soothing circular motions on the back of your clasped hands. “I was just sayin.”
“No!” The anger ebbs and flows, tips over the rim of the cup inside your chest. “Do you even hear yourself right now?!”
You snatch your hand back harshly from his grip, cradling it to your chest as you glare at him. “I- you-“ fury ties your tongue into knots, cages your words in your mouth. You settle for a deep glare instead, brows drawn low, briskly standing up as you round the side of the couch.
“Wait wait wait- babe!-“ A hand catches your wrist. You snap your head down to the sight of Johnny having hastily thrown himself over the length of the couch to grasp onto you, balancing on his knees on the cushions in a position you might have laughed at in any other scenario. “I’m serious! He’s head over heels for ya!”
“Stop.” You hiss through clenched teeth, trying to yank your arm back. “This isn’t funny, John.”
A term you rarely use, booked only for moments when you’re especially furious at him. You don’t know where he got the idea, if his teammates put him up to this or some stupid prank video he saw. But you’re not laughing, not entertained in the slightest.
”Whaddya say to me an’ Ghost sharing yah?”
Sharing? Ghost?
That man could hardly stand you. The memory of your first meeting is still lashed in your head like a wound that won’t heal, scabbed over with how you constantly pick at it. You’d been nervous, smoothing your sweaty palms over your dress for the millionth time, checking every five seconds with Johnny that yes- yes you did look put together and he wasn’t just saying it. Yes, Ghost was going to love meeting you and everything would go just fine.
Your weak knees had nearly given up on you the moment your boyfriend had perked up, waving someone over, and you’d followed his gaze. A behemoth of a man easily made his way to the both of you, each one of his strides double yours. The gear strapped to him would make you bowl over at just an attempt to hold it and the arsenal of weapons strapped to his broad figure certainly didn’t help ease your nerves.
You’d had to tilt your head back when he’d stopped several paces in front of you both, gaze flitting to Johnny first as he nodded his head in greeting, grunting something you couldn’t make out. Then his eyes had fallen on you, pinning you to the ground; like a bug on a corkboard, a needle shoved through it, stilling it. It was hard to make out any expression over the mask pulled over his head, the skull pattern in the fabric not aiding in the matter.
When Johnny had finally finished introducing you, his words nearly lost in the roar of your own blood in your ears, you had nervously stepped forward. Had plastered on the best smile you could in your state and extended a hand out into the space between you two. A peace offering.
Bright, blue eyes stared down at you, the dust hung heavy in the air, spectating the moment, a tightness coiling in your chest tighter and tighter.
He refused to move.
When your hand hung alone in the air for several more seconds, the rejection spoken loud and clear, you hastily drew it back to yourself, nervously creeping backwards to plaster yourself to Johnny’s side. Your boyfriend was speaking something, obviously animated on your behalf as his arm looped around your back and pressed yourself closer to him, the loud rumble of his voice vibrating through you. But any words were lost in the tsunami of your mind, anxiously curling your arms into a self soothing hug as you stared down at your toes.
Had you worn the wrong dress? Given the wrong impression? Johnny had mentioned so many times how close he and Ghost were. Was this an outright rejection? Had you offended him somehow? Would Johnny break up with you now since you didn’t receive his best mate’s blessing?
Only Johnny’s grasp on your arm as he turned and angrily stomped away broke you from the confines of your own mind, dragging under his chin as he murmured reassurances and peppered kisses to the top of your head. You’d shuddered, clasped the front of his shirt with a tight fist, and allowed his words to chase the dredges of darkness from your mind, if only for the moment.
Despite your attempts, Ghost never eased up to you, seemed to put his foot down on the matter from the very get go and never changed his mind. To your relief, the issue didn’t persist with the other members of Johnny’s team. Captain Price would clap a hand on your shoulder when you’d visit, asking kindly of your health, your schedule, ensuring Johnny was treating you right.
Gaz was a welcome reprieve after the mess of a meeting with Ghost, greeting you with a bright grin and a tight hug, joking of “How did he ever pull you??” and “Now I can finally get a break from his constant lovesick whining.” and “If he ever hurts you, I’ll beat him up for you.”
You’d laughed good naturedly while Johnny dragged you away and protested on the last part, curling his arms around you in a backwards hug as he pouted. (“Whaddya mean I can’t pull er!? I wouldn’t be stupid enough ta break er heart after I finally got a chance!”)
It didn’t matter what you did. Homebaked sweets you’d drop off in Price’s office for the team, small restocks of their personal kitchen, herbal teas after Gaz complained about headaches and Price griped about muscle aches. Ghost never touched anything you’d brought (not in your presence anyway, though you very much doubted even outside of it). He’d stand to the side, the personification of the grim reaper, eyes boring holes into you while the others would extend praises and appreciation that made you fidget nervously in your spot, red creeping up the back of your neck. Before Johnny would swoop in to plant a kiss against your cheek, drag you into his side with a heavy arm and brag about boyfriend rights to you.
Ghost never spoke to you and you got the message after you’d tried only once again, a small, pitiful box of lavender tea as an attempt at a peace treaty.
(It’d come up during one of your late night conversations with Johnny, eyes weighed down by the siren’s call of sleep, curled as close to him as you physically could within the bed. Your head had been planted on his bare chest, lulled by the steady thump of his heartbeat as he murmured above you. You’re not certain what topic you’d been on for him to mention it, but you’d eagerly gripped the information with both hands and squirreled it away in the back of your mind when your eyes eventually drifted shut. (“Lt doesn’t do good wi’ sleep.”))
Lavender was good, you considered, a box of a well known brand gripped in your hand when you’d passed the tea aisle during a grocery run. Good for stress relief and sleep, you’d read online, the small print on the packaging boasting as such as well. It’s what allowed you the courage to cautiously step in when you’d found him alone in the break room, padding closer until you’d presented the bright cardboard box on an extended palm.
He’d stoically stared down at you, making no move to accept it until the judgmental silence had become too much for you. Until you meekly pointed to a cupboard and notified him in a strained voice that you’d leave it there for him. (In every following visit, you noticed the box never moved from its spot, abandoned within the cupboard. You’d deflated, willed the pang in your chest away. Had repeated the self assurances that “not everyone likes peaches, you’re a perfectly good peach” and “maybe he just doesn’t like lavender” while you willfully ignored its burning presence. You’d stopped trying after that.)
“That’s a pity,” Johnny frowned, tilting his head ever so slightly. Despite his stature, the man has an uncanny ability of the biggest, saddest puppy eyes you’d ever seen on a man. In spite of the ebbs of anger that still linger in your chest, some of the tenseness in your shoulders loosened, turning to face him more.
It was alright. It was just a stupid joke, something Johnny said without thinking. Every couple has their arguments, the both of you were long overdue for yours. Nothing a good, healthy conversation on why it wasn’t funny and you didn’t appreciate it couldn’t fix. Honestly you should’ve slapped him at first for the stress he put you through.
“I wasn’t asking.”
The temperature in the room drops.
Your boyfriend’s eyes are narrowed into something more predatory, gleaming with self satisfaction. He grins without teeth but it feels like he’s baring fangs all the same. A predator who finally drops the innocent act, the reward latched between razor sharp teeth.
There’s no sound of the door opening, no creak of the floorboards. Simply between one moment and the next the air is filled with him. Like a ghost that drifts into the room, past the walls, and above the floor, freezes the air you try to breathe.
You stiffen, but don’t turn, can’t, your blood frozen, rigid mortis settling into your bones. It’s overwhelming, it’s suffocating; he’s all around you, pressing in on every side.
There’s nowhere you can go, not when Johnny’s grip on your wrist tightens, keeps you pressed to the arm of the couch. Not when a pair of arms extend from behind you, caging you against it, trapped between sturdy fabric and a warm wall.
Not when they occupy the air, their scent mingling into one as you shakily inhale and it settles like a weight on your chest, like your lungs can’t expand.
Lavender, your mind clings to desperately as you feel Johnny’s hands snaking higher up your arm and Ghost’s big head slowly lowering to hover atop your shoulder, his breathe raising goosebumps through the mask. His chin brushes your shoulder and it feels like a wolf that’s finally lunged from the shelter of the trees, snaps its teeth round your neck and shakes you as it drags your bloody corpse into the dark reprieve.
Ghost smells like lavender.
A/N: Gee :) I wonder why Ghost smells like lavender :)
Moving on- the use of names or callsigns for the characters was very intentional in the fic, I hope that's easy to pick up on. I did also have a second part from Ghost's pov started but we'll see if it ever actually reaches completion (maybe I'll post it as a short drabble some day)
Your knees shake, legs giving out from under you as you collapse on one of the hard, uncomfortable benches on the train. The Militsioner’s voice is still booming, pleading, searching when you drop your head into your hands, prop your elbows on your knees and try to force in a shaky breathe while your heart threatens to burst out of your chest.
In, hold- it breaks into a coughing fit, desperate panicked gasps- exhale, inhale- not too fast-
You raise your face from your hands, casting a weary, relieved look out the window as you watch his large form turn away, lower to press himself closer to the buildings nearby, a critical eye scoping every crack, every crevice, every alleyway as he peers in. Pleads for you to return in a booming voice, in velvet wrapped promises that he’ll pardon you for good behavior, he’ll lessen your sentence.
You slump back against the back of the seat, hands clutched together as you try to will them to stop shaking. Because you hadn’t done anything. Because you didn’t deserve a parole or a sentence at all! Shouldn’t have ever wound up here in the first place, under critical eye of the law, hissed at for a crime you never committed.
You scrub your face, pulling sweat soaked locks from your face, hair wildly out of place from your desperate scramble and the cold sweat that had poured down your back, from the terror of being caught. The Militsioner had turned softer, kinder, when you’d gotten to know him, when you’d traded compliments and soft, casual, honest conversations. His critical eye had crinkled with a smile and you had seen his form curl inwards, closer to you on his palm, less tense. Shoulders drawn inward as though he were protecting you from the outside world.
But who would protect you from him? From the eye of the law that had befallen on you, a gravel knocked against wood and a finger pointed before you had even done anything? Who would protect you from being trapped in this town, herded backwards with a large palm and the trial that would follow? Everyone had seemed so certain you had committed the atrocity, and though you were an optimist at heart, you wondered if you’d even be allowed the choice of a lawyer to defend yourself.
The Militsioner has grown quiet, likely given up on his search of you, or perhaps so engrossed in it that he had shifted further away. It’s what gives you the confidence to shift yourself lower, peer out the window, if only to cast a quiet, mental goodbye at his back.
And it’s what gives you a full view of his face, crouched nearby, eyes locked on your form.
⇢ Synopsis: It had become too much, the radio silence, the fear, the constant unease, the late nights and cold dinners. Never knowing if your lover would return in a casket. So you leave, pack your life in a suitcase and a letter awaiting Simon.
Perhaps you should've discussed that with him first.
⇢ A/N: This started as manhandling practice. Now its 4.5k words.
⇢ Follow up/concepts
Soap finds you first.
Or- to put it more accurately, Ghost allows him to approach you first.
For all that the masked man would protest, arms crossed with the heaviest eye roll you’ve seen a man do- the two are attached to the hip. Courtesy of an energetic Scot who doesn’t like to let go of something once he’s grabbed on and an Englishman who allows the rarity of a personalized slot inside his close circle when someone pesters him enough.
It was only natural then that you knew him too, being Simon’s ex girlfriend and all. (Not ex- the Ghost curled over your shoulder grunts, haunts you from the dark corners of your own mind, shaking his head ever so slightly. It wasn’t a mutual decision.)
There hadn’t been anything you could’ve done. Nothing short of some time machine to grab your past self by the arm as you’re exiting the gas station restroom, tug yourself away from the door and hastily point out the small window at the back. It’s dirty, coated in filth likely older than yourself, and small, rectangular with clear warped glass. You’re not certain if you could even fit yourself through, much less had no idea how to reach it in the first place, but it would’ve been worth a shot.
But you don’t. Can’t. You (unfortunately) don’t have the clairvoyance of the future, and you don’t have a time machine, and if the government does then they wouldn’t let you use it for such a mundane purpose.
You know it wouldn’t have changed anything anyway. Something deep inside of you, like buried old instincts, knows your fate had been sealed long before you’d stepped foot into the inconspicuous bathroom, months before you even arrived to America, dating nearly half a year back to when you were still on European soil, teary eyed as you placed a sealed envelope on the countertop before you turned and left with your tail between your legs, wheeling out all your possessions you could fit in a suitcase by your side.
It had become too much, you’d admitted to your sister as you bounced her babbling baby on your knee, shoulders pulled tight and unable to meet her gaze. Her baby turned his head to stick his fingers in his mouth and regard you with bright blue eyes that made your chest clench. The radio silence on missions, the constant injuries, the abrupt calls. Half of the time you waited for Simon to call to apologize for missing yet another event due to a mission extending or abruptly setting off for another one, the other half of the time you waited for a call from his Captain to inform you of his passing.
Your sister had extended a hand, both metaphorically and physically, patting you on the shoulder as she allowed you peace in the sanctuary of her home. Had taken you in and allowed you the room clearly decorated as the nursery of the newborn, waving that it was no big deal and she “had to look out for her younger sister.”
You hid in your sister’s home from the relationship you ran from and allowed the warmth to seep into your bones, cradle the cracks of your broken heart.
It’s everything you wished yours was. Brimming full of life, a baby’s screeching laughter echoing in your ears, a husband that would appear when she showed the slightest signs of exhaustion, plucking the baby boy from her arms with a kiss on her forehead, sending her off to bed or a shower or to eat while she’d pout and reach again for her child.
You watched, grateful for the inclusion, with envy coiling in your chest.
Your sister and her husband made it look easy, effortless. The closest you could compare would be by staring longingly at the baby clothes in the shop windows while you and Simon went out, the latter slowed by your halt. He’d lean in, murmur promises that you’d have “so many, until you’re sick of them” once he retires. You’d avert your eyes, swallow the “which comes first? Retirement or a casket?” behind your teeth and nod dutifully, continuing your pace.
But you can’t stay forever. Not when your air mattress obscured the majority of the nursery floor (“It’s fine! I have the baby in a bassinet by the bed in the meantime, no need for a crib”), not when your suitcase filled the closet (“They’re baby clothes! They’re tiny! They don’t need all that space”), and when you flutter uselessly in the dance your sister and her husband make, gathering the baby’s food and cooking dinner simultaneously. There’s enough work with a baby, enough stress and sleepless nights and trial and error. Despite how your sister smiles at the sight of you, her exhausted complexion bores a hole in your chest while her husband chances pinched glances at your intrusion. You can’t be another burden on her, no matter how much she insists.
Simon may not have been around all of the time, he couldn’t show his affection in the typical mannerisms, was always hesitant on skin contact outside of the fortitude of your home and faltered when things would begin to escalate to the bedroom. But his job had certainly paid the bills and provided the housing. It allowed you to accumulate a cushy amount of savings, never a need to splurge or use them.
You do now. A rental car is easy to find with the wonders of the Internet, something dependable, something hearty. You pack your belongings in the trunk, kiss your nephew on the head, hug your sister in a tearful goodbye, and drive.
You’d always wanted to see New York, the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, the grandiose wonders the States had to offer. It’s certainly a learning curve, to drive on the wrong side of the road, but you manage. The city smog nearly makes you hack out a lung, the countryside rolling hills extend farther than the end of the Earth. It’s… nice. It’s nice, you decide, meeting the slow sunrise deep in a camping site as the woods wake around you, seated cross legged on top of your car roof.
Of course, things can’t remain that way forever. You were never quite so lucky.
It happens in Arizona, the desert rolling out further and further until it melts with the sky. You hadn’t known a highway to be this long, this desolate before, nothing but the heat and the dunes to greet you, sparsely broken by shrubbery or a stray animal. You sag with a sigh of relief when a marker for a gas station breezes by you, pulling in without a second thought.
You wobble out, bones creaking and cracking. Groan as you stretch your legs for what must have been hours since your last stop. You’ll have to fill the tank to not worry of being left abandoned somewhere on the side of the road, miles from civilization. Need to find the nearest place that offers a bed to finally get some proper rest so your knees stop punishing you for sleeping in the backseat.
But first, business calls.
The breeze of chilly air is a welcome reprieve from the scorching rays of the sun as you push the gas station’s convenience store door open. It’s small inside, slightly sparse. But it has the necessities of what matters.
You pass by the only worker, an older teenager sitting bored at the cash register, more focused on his phone than your passing presence. Not that you care, your destination well within sight at the back of the shop. A small, dimly lit hallway, branching to the right, two doors and a floor in need of a deep clean greet you.
The restrooms. Bingo.
You push your sunglasses onto the top of your head as you swing the door open, chancing a glance at yourself when you pass by the only mirror. Your skin has a slight tan to it, courtesy of the constant traveling. American weather seems to prefer the sun more than the clouds of Britain back home. Though you supposed you can’t attribute only your travels to it. You feel… lighter, no longer shackled to your home, always nearby in case Simon finally returns from his missions. There’s a slight glow to you and your smile comes easier.
You grin at your reflection and she returns it. You like it, you like the new you.
Of course, matters that take place in the washroom have no need to be spoken of and soon enough you find yourself washing your hands, reveling in the cold water. Several droplets slowly descend down your skin, threatening to soak the collar of your shirt after you splashed your face to keep from overheating.
A time machine would’ve been good for now. But you don’t have one, and you pull the bathroom door open without a care, without a speck of expectation of the figure that meets you on the other end.
“Bonnie,” Johnny greets with an easy grin, a forearm braced against the doorway, leaning so he fills the space. You startle for a split second, a half step taken back, hackles raised to bolt. Before the tenseness eases out of your shoulders, your hands settling on your hips. “Johnny,” you greet in reply, lips curled at the edges in familiar affection. You withhold from reaching up to hug him automatically, not when you don’t have the standing for that anymore.
“I didn’t expect to see you again.” You cock your head, your smile growing wider. Truly, you had missed him and his aptitude to fill the space of Simon’s stoicism with unruly jokes. You hadn’t had the chance to leave a final message for him as with your ex (too focused on running, too focused on making sure you didn’t leave anything behind as your heart bled onto the letter neatly folded into an envelope), you’d regretted never fully receiving the closure.
“What are you doing so far out? Are you on a mission?” You question curiously, already expecting a vague reply. Simon practically never spoke of his work back when the two of you were together, much less now that you weren’t privy to neither his nor his best mate’s personal life anymore.
“Something like that”, the Scot replied, a trickle of something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on slipping into his tone as his gaze slid to the side, down where the hallway curved into the convenience store.
An uncomfortable mass lodges itself in your chest, pressing against your throat. “Is..”, you swallow thickly, reaching up to awkwardly paw at the hair on the back of your nape, gaze chained to the floor as your shoulders hitch uncomfortably. Suddenly aware of his strange presence in the middle of nowhere, recalling Simon’s many mentions of the two of them being paired together for their fair share of missions. “Is Simon… with you?”
Johnny’s gaze drifts back to you, pinning you to your place as you shift uncomfortably. He makes no move to answer. When the silence stretches into something taut and uncomfortable, you finally break it by clearing your throat, covering your mouth with your fist.
“I think it’s best I don’t… we don’t... really see each other.” You lamely excuse, wincing at the reminder of your heartless rejection, too much of a coward to do it to his face. But you know you would have crumpled, one crestfallen look and you’d be crying as you cradled his face and muttered apologies. And then what?
Your nervous shifting finally stills, feet planted firmly on the floor, a small stroke of anger lashing out. You continue to sit and wait for him years and years down the line? Until you’re nothing more than a doll who sits and nods and smiles when her husband finally looks at her? Always waiting until he turns the little wind up key on your back? You couldn’t handle that.
“Simon wasn’t happy”, your gaze snaps up to Johnny, his arms folded over his chest as he leans against the doorway and watches you. He cocks his head, eyes fastened on you unnervingly. “Came ho’e from a difficult, dangerous mission and his Bonnie lass wasn’ there. Nothing but a note.”
The hair on the back of your neck stands on edge, needles jabbing into your spine, instincts screaming that you were cornered by a predator. Johnny’s presence doesn’t seem so kind and inviting anymore, a sharp glint in his eye as he watches you without blinking.
“I think-“ your voice wavers and you will it to hold strong, pinching your shoulders to force yourself to straighten. “I think I need to go.” He doesn’t stop you as you duck by him, nothing but his eyes following you, head shifting when you step around him.
You’re tense the entire time, almost flighty, shifted to bolt the second he so much as twitches. He doesn’t move a muscle, only his gaze following, arms still crossed over his chest.
You make it halfway down the hall on a speedy walk before you increase your pace, glancing behind you nervously. Johnny regards you with a self satisfied grin, still in the same position. Your hands grapple with the sunglasses atop your head, dropping them onto the bridge of your nose as you hone in on the only opening. Muscles bunched, ready to bolt once you break his line of sight. You cast one last glance back. A mistake that costs you.
You shift, turning without looking, increasing speed before you even straighten forwards. And slam into a wall of toned muscles and a rough, scratchy fabric. Your glasses jam into the bridge of your nose, tears beading at the edges of your eyes as you flinch backwards, cradling your nose and hunching over from the startling pain.
Did you break your nose?! It damn well feels like it!!
“Lemme see it,” a familiar voice washes over you, large warm hands prodding at your chin and lifting it up from your cradle while you freeze, wide eyes fixated on who’s before you. He’s not wearing his signature skull mask, likely too notable, needed to be discreet. But he’s still coated in a balaclava that covers everything but his eyes from you; fixated on your nose as he tilts the glasses upward and swipes the red section.
You cringe and try to duck away instinctively- pain flaring from the gentle touch- but he holds your head firmly in place, tilting it upward for a better look.
“Just a bit bruised,” his voice rumbles out, his other palm drifting to cradle the back of your head. “I’ll get you some ice for that.”
You swallow thickly, hands grasping at his thick forearms. “Simon...” your voice trails off, uncertain if it’s a plea, an apology, a question.
I miss you, I’m sorry for leaving, what are you doing here?
Simon’s hands drift lower, curling over your arms and upper back as his head drops to your shoulder. He squeezes you tightly, a great big exhale flowing out of him. You can’t do more than pat at his side, arms locked to your sides by his grip.
“Missed you.” Comes his rare, personal admittance, hardly loud enough for you to hear. “Came home and you were…”, his arms tighten, back tense again. “Gone. I thought you were taken.”
“I wasn’t.” You comfort, try to wiggle your arm from under his grip to comfort him but he only squeezes tighter. You opt to tilt your head against his, closing your eyes. “I’m all ok. I just… couldn’t take it anymore, Si.”
Simon’s next exhale comes out as a shudder and he squeezes tighter before seemingly realizing his strength and loosening his hold. Still not letting go, still trapped, but not suffocatingly so. “You promise? There’s no one else here? No one took you?” He peels away from you, casting a suspicious glance around the both of you. As though he expects someone to leap out from the nearest door, an enemy hiding in the decrepit supply closet nearby.
You hum. “No. I just.. decided to finally go travelling. It’s been nice, fun. New York is so much more… busy than the photos show.”
You shift backwards slightly, tilt your head as you scrutinize Simon. “Are you here on a mission? Am I interfering?” You cast a backwards glance at Johnny for answers, who remains in the same position where you’d left him.
Simon gently turns you back into place until you face him again, looking up at him curiously. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear with a familiarity that makes your heart squeeze uncomfortably. “Why’d you leave?” He ignores your question, hand shifting to cradle your cheek.
It’s much too familiar for two exes but you allow yourself to lean into his touch, grip tightening on his arms while you briefly close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge in the slight moment. Distance has made the heart fonder, time has taken the memory of how large and warm Simon is, how softly he holds you despite his overwhelming size and strength. The small, bruised part of your heart still misses him, still yearns to fall back into his arms and let him take you home. Your more rational part snaps and hisses at her, is quick to remind you of cold dinners and long nights and red rimmed eyes that Simon never sees.
“I couldn’t take it anymore,” you admit, turning your head slightly to nose at his wrist, lean more of your weight on him because you know he’ll catch you. “You were gone just- so much, so so much. I cried myself to sleep so many times, cried at dinners because you said you’d be there and you weren’t.” Your eyelashes flutter open, settling on Simon’s face, expression hidden from you under the balaclava.
“I wanted a baby Simon, that’s no place to raise a baby.”
The man opposite you is silent for a long, long moment, watching you with unreadable eyes. Before he leans in to draw you closer once again. His arm shifts to settle across your upper back, light but firm, unyielding. Like cradling a bird as you set it free, keeping it from flapping erratically and hurting itself. But you had been free. Had unlatched your little door and hopped out, soared through the endless blue sky with more freedom than you could imagine.
You allow the embrace to run past the small sand timer of socially-acceptable-length-of-time-for-a-hug as you curl your arms across his back, allow both of yourselves one last comfort, one last goodbye before you part ways. You doubt you’ll see him again, Simon has too many places to be, too much to do. You were lucky to share a chapter of your lives together, but now’s the time to tie it off with a nice little bow, separate on good terms.
You shift finally, try to pull away, arms dropping, a foot raised in preparation to step back. Simon does not move, does not release you. His grip tightens, hands fisting your clothes.
Something inside of you drops, human instinct that knows danger-danger-danger- before you can even name it.
“Simon.” Your voice comes out shakier than you’d like, tilted too nervously despite how you’d tried to control it. “What… are you doing here?”
Simon greets you in silence, curled against your smaller form, suffocating your space. He doesn’t answer you, long enough for your heart to begin pounding, long enough for you to wonder if you’d said anything at all or only imagined it.
Finally, he moves, pulling backwards, large, heavy hands drifting upwards to rest against your upper arms. Caging you, chaining you to the floor. “Taking you home.” He mutters, bright blue eyes honed in on yours.
Your heart leaps into your throat, scrabbles at the sides, threatens to fall right out of your mouth.
(You’re not being set free, you realize with the sinking realization akin to cold water splashing over you. You’re being returned to your cage.)
“No.” You shake your head, try to tilt the edges of your mouth into a smile. Like Simon is a child being told he can’t stay at the park forever, he has to come home for dinner now. “No, Simon,” your trembling hands balling into fists in an attempt to quell them, hidden by your sides. “We’re through. I left to…” you pause, swallow and will the next words out of your mouth, despite how they shake and quiver in the oppressive heat of Arizona’s air. “I left to find myself.”
Simon doesn’t regard you with an answer, only his gaze shifting across your form, following your eyes despite how they jump from one area to another. You can only hear your shuddering gasps in the space between you two. Not even the rustle of Simon’s camouflaged jacket.
He tilts his head, nearly startles you with the motion as your gaze snaps back to him. The air around you holds its breathe, your own trapped in your chest as you wait for his response, unwilling to interrupt with even an exhale.
“Well that’s too damn bad.” Simon’s eyes, despite the situation, crinkle upwards in that telltale way of his amusement, his rare moments of contentment and satisfaction. “I wasn’t asking.”
The slight exhale of his breathe as he speaks through the mask nearly bowls you over, held upright only by his permanent hold on you. You blink, jagged edges of his speech rattling in your mind, repeating over and over, looping over each other.
I wasn’t asking.
I’m taking you home.
Wasn’t asking.
Home. I’m taking you home.
Wasn’t- home- asking- home.
Home
White walls and the empty air of his presence, dinners left cold and baby clothes hanging on racks.
You startle, like a bird with a broken wing with one last fight left in it, desperate, fitfully. First ducking under, like your legs have lost all their will before you spring forwards.
Ghost doesn’t so much as twitch nor blink. Holding you motionless when you try to buckle underneath his grip, try to squeeze out underneath. You claw at his arms, at his hands, lift a leg in a desperate bid for a lucky kick before a third hand drops on your shoulders, knocks you out of your focus and snaps your attention to the side so fast you nearly break your neck.
Soap had crept closer, between one moment and the next, unnoticed at all. His gaze fixated on Ghost as he squeezed your shoulder tighter, stills you in your desperate flailing. “Need a hand?” He muses, gaze sliding down to you.
Like it was normal. Like you hadn’t shared meals and drinks and stories and laughs. Like he hadn’t proudly brought desserts from that one bakery you like when you’d call him over for some “proper homemade food” when the boys are back from a mission. Like Simon hadn’t grumbled, pulling you into his chest to wrap around you like an octopus, that he could’ve gone to get you those too. You’d whack him on the arm with a spoon, reminding him through a failed attempt to hold back a grin to not let the sauce burn.
Something heavy curls around your heart and yanks it to the pit of your stomach, down to your feet, and below the ground underneath you.
Ghost snorts easily in response, pulling you closer, the action jostling the other’s hand from your shoulder. “I’ve got this.”
Soap returns it with an easy grin, glancing down at you where you’re plastered to Ghost’s chest now, smile stretching further. He ruffles your hair as he passes, your frozen form much too shocked to react more than a startled flinch, eyes squeezed shut as you brace yourself.
“It’s good t’ see you again,” he admits as he passes, before he turns out of view. You watch him go, mouth dry, the last dredges of hope that he’d help you sputtering out in your chest.
You’re alone- you’re alone and no one knows where you are- wheres help- help help help-
“Alright, up we go, “ Ghost mutters in that familiar, low tone, stooping to brace his shoulder to your midriff, sweeping you off your feet as he straightens to his full height with you slung over his shoulder. You startle into motion, shrieking, clawing and kicking as the steel band of one of his arms settles across your back, flattens you to him despite how you squirm. Your hands desperately claw for the utility belt always attached to his hip, flail for any corners or shelves to latch on as he begins walking off.
Ghost avoids nearing anything you can grab, passing through the store at a steady pace, as though he doesn't have an entire kidnapped ex-girlfriend slung over his shoulder. You shove yourself upwards against his back as he passes by the cash register, eyes desperately searching for the teenager from before to shriek for help, to call the police. Your chest clenches when it's empty, when Ghost presses open the door and there's not a single person in sight to watch you be dragged off.
You hardly catch sight of the large, idling vehicle stationed directly in front of the doors, not long enough to discern the make or the model or the damn license plate- before the back swings open. Ghost bends over with a grunt, lowering you into the gaping maw of the backseat as you scramble to slip underneath him, crawl over him, anything! please-. A second pair of hands catch you under the arms, dragging you the rest of the way inside as you kick and scream, a familiar large hand gently moving your flailing feet out of the way before the back door slams shut.
“Easy,” Soap mutters above you, dragging you upwards into his chest as you try to lurch for the closed door. You choke on a sob, vision blurring as you desperately try to latch onto the seats, two twin arms settling across your chest and stomach like a child cradling a stuffed toy, pulling you further backwards until you're slotted against him.
The driver’s door swings open, your head snaps over as Ghost’s large form settles behind the wheel. The car rocks as he shuts it with more force than necessary, turning to peer at you over the center console.
Your heart jumps into your throat, cheeks strewn with tears as you stare wide eyed at him, searching for- for what you don't know. A silent plea, a beg, that he'd come to his senses- anything!- He gives a hum as something in his shoulders finally loosens, turning back to face the front.
“Let’s go home, darling.” Ghost soothes, reaching upwards to adjust the rearview mirror until your eyes meet. Baby blue alongside, red rimmed, panicked ones. The car rumbles as he pulls out of the gas station, back onto the road you’d been traveling mere moments ago.
Outside the windows the dunes roll out, the road empty. Branches shake in the wake left behind the roaring vehicle, and the desert keeps its secrets.
A/N: It was only after I finished this fic that I realized I'd used the line "I wasn't asking" like in "Sharing is caring", though it does make sense from how close these two mates are
Moving on! *claps hands* The use of names or callsigns was- once again- very intentional in this fic! There is a world of difference from Simon and Johnny, your ex and his best friend, and the flip to Ghost and Soap, two trained military men in work mode.
Slash also hissed at Reader in our messages and would sell her out in a heartbeat lol I do hope that means I made a good effort to make both sides' actions understandable! Feel free to tell me your thoughts
(also thanks to her for help on the baby section- I am woefully lacking)
Y/N yelped, suddenly airborne as a pair of hands easily wrapped around her midsection. Large enough to span her waist completely, as she was easily placed on the cool countertop.
The female froze, wide eyes staring up at her kidnapper-Konig, he’d insisted- in front of her, his eyes crinkling underneath the hood of his mask. He shifted to lower himself, Y/N’s heart in her throat as she cautiously raised her arms as he moved in.
He pressed his face against her stomach, large arms, capable of so so much more than just lifting her as if she was a feather, wrapped around her back ever so cautiously. As if she would break at the tightest squeeze.
Y/N swallowed thickly, trembling arms lowering, hesitating, before she placed them on his head and back. Konig melted underneath her touch, shuddering as Y/N petted the top of his head.
⇢ Synopsis: Life keeps kicking you even while you're long down and curled into a ball. You'd needed just one moment to yourself. One night at a bar where your worries couldn't reach you past the haze fogging your mind.
⇢ A/N: A "choose your own stalker masked cod man" fic. Pick your poison yourselves, I couldn't make up my mind
Your kidnapper is… kind. Surprisingly so.
He certainly has the looks for it; towering over you with broad shoulders and a thick frame. Arms wider than your head, a permanent mask affixed to his face until the only thing you can make out are his eyes (always watching).
But he doesn’t push for anything. No fake niceties to get your guard down and then pounce. (Not unless he’s playing the long game for months- you doubt anyone could have the level of patience for that- not while you’re already under his thumb). Doesn’t encroach on your space or push too hard.
Not like your job had. Not how life had, before your world became one small living space. Pressing and pushing and prodding, staring at you under a spyglass then tearing another wing off just to watch you flounder helplessly.
You’d had the memo drilled into your head from a young age. “Stranger danger”, she’d said, your mother, kneeled to your level as she warned you not to trust strangers with candy or unknown men calling themselves friends. Had lessons in school, the “I survived” stories, the speakers behind a podium.
“Never let them take you to a secondary location.” The police officer called in to teach your class had stated, leaned backwards on his hands against the teacher’s desk, heavy gaze lingering on each small student to ensure the words sink in. “Possibility of rescue drops significantly.”
Nothing much you could do when you were unconscious, when you put yourself in that situation.
You can’t even recall what day of the week it’d been. Maybe Tuesday, maybe Thursday, the bar had been far too empty for a Friday, and your stifling uniform noted it wasn’t the weekend. The days had melted together, an unending stream of weekdays that overlapped in neverending tasks and sleep that eluded no matter how you tossed and turned. The weekends were no better, mindlessly flowing into one day, hardly a few hours after you’d blink the sleep out of your heavy eyes before your alarm was blaring again and the paperwork awaiting.
Groceries were more expensive by the day, your car shrieked at you with newfound issues each time you received your paycheck, and the hallways of your workplace whispered of cut wages and let go personnel.
When your hours began to deplete and your landlord sent a notice of a rent increase, you found yourself at a bar. No recollection of the walk there nor the decision made, simply a blink and the worn wood of the counter was before your seat.
It was nothing noteworthy. You’d come before with your girlfriends, with dates, even coworkers after a successful quarter. The drinks loosening lips and ties until you could insult your narcissistic boss with a snicker, leaning against the other’s shoulder to hold yourself up as they giggled with more humor than the joke entailed. The place wasn’t one to boast, certainly not the prettiest place you could be. But it was close and convenient, and the drinks sung for themselves.
You’d needed just one moment to yourself. A second where you could inhale without a grating screech ringing out behind you about “wasting company time”. Without planning your finances and how many meals you could cut back on and how much longer you could drive before your car broke down on the side of the road.
You’d grabbed anything in front of you. The drinks a steady stream, the fire burning down your throat as your head lightened.
Maybe you’d taken something bad. Maybe somebody had slipped something in. Or maybe it’d just been the liquor, not at all bothering to count your glasses.
You only halted once the counter swayed with each blink. Pushed yourself off the stool only to stumble and nearly fall as the ground seemed to shift under your feet. Struggled out the door as the floorboards tried to trip you up and the sidewalk would lurch out from under you.
No one had bothered to notice, to care more than a passing glance. Not their person, not their problem. Enough of their own dealings going on, they’d defended to themselves, pointedly turning their gazes away.
(He had. He had seen everything, had watched you crumble and fall apart from his darkened corner. Had watched you stumble and trip your way to the exit as he rose silently, gliding behind you like a second shadow.)
You can’t recall how it happened. Only the dredges of the cool, chilly air sobering you just the slightest, before you were waking with your hangover jackhammered in your skull, pulsing with your heartbeat. Had pressed the pads of your palms to your eyes and willed yourself that the pain was a good thing, meant you were still up and kicking.
When you could finally breathe without your stomach roiling in protest, you’d pulled your hands away from your face, blinking at the intrusion of light.
And promptly realized you weren’t at home.
The memories came back sluggishly as you pushed your aching body up on trembling arms, surveying the space. It wasn’t a dungeon, as you had imagined as a child, nor a wet, dingy warehouse, as you’d expected.
It was a guest bedroom. Comfortably furnished, but devoid of any personal touches. You’d settled yourself into a sitting position, legs thrown over the side of the bed. Something tight in your chest unfurling from relief when you glanced down to find yourself still in the same clothes from yesterday. Wrinkled, in need of a good wash (yourself included), but intact.
It had given you hope, as you pushed off, then faltered as your brain pulsed in protest. More logical, coherent ideas forming in your aching head as you grasped it with one hand and padded across the carpeted floor to a wooden door with light spilling out from underneath it. Maybe a coworker who had found you, maybe a friend of a friend, maybe a good samaritan even.
Your opposing hand extended for the door handle, fingertips brushing the cold metal. Before the light disappeared from under the door. It turned on its own before you could react, slowly swinging inwards.
And every hope shattered to the ground as your heart dropped to your stomach.
You stumbled back as a figure filled the entryway, tripping over your own feet as you gaped up at him. From this angle he only appeared even taller. Large, imposing, blocking the light attempting to scurry in. You couldn’t make out his face from the mask, only a pair of eyes as he stared down at you.
Then he blinked and the moment was broken. He cautiously stepped by you, stopping by the bedside table to set down the tray in his hands. Then turned to look back at you expectantly.
You glanced at the open door for a moment, considered it, then came back to reality as your head pulsed in reminder. You were already weakened, certainly in no marathon running state (punctuated by your sway and how you nearly toppled over as you slowly rose, vision threatening to go out like a light). Much less against him, his strides double yours, his hands large enough to wrap around your arm with ease (or your throat, you considered morbidly), plopping yourself back into your previous position with a grunt.
He’d nodded in approval, the motion hardly noticeable, before extending a closed fist to you and a cup of water. It took you an embarrassingly long time of staring in confusion before the intentions clicked, extending an open palm under his.
Two small, circular, red pills dropped into your waiting hand. You squinted, stared at them silently, before their familiarity finally sparked. Ibuprofen. Just Ibuprofen, just painkillers.
“Don’t take candy from strangers.” a chiding tone in your head remarked. “Be careful about weapons in your Halloween treats. And don’t accept unknown substances- they could be drugs.” (Would take a Herculean amount of effort to conceal drugs in such a small pill, you considered, peering closer. Especially when you were in a weakened state already, hardly a threat against his muscles and tall form.)
He held out the glass of water next, silently watching you reach for it, then down both. He nodded again as you finished, gathered the cup from your loose hand, then turned and- in several strides so much longer than yours- left. The lock clicking into place to signal the finality of the encounter.
You surveyed the door for a moment, watched his shadow disappear from the gap underneath. Then turned to the tray expectantly, as if it’d answer anything.
A slow blink. No slop in a metal tin, no measly granola bar to sustain yourself. An innocent sandwich nestled on a paper plate and a steaming bowl of soup stared back at you.
A/N: After sitting over this and debating heavily, even asking for outside opinions, I finally decided to post this work.
I wasn't in the best of mental states as I wrote this, and it reflects in the Reader. I struggled to finish it with a writer's block, stressing myself so much over my word count that I made writing a chore and not a passion.
I'm in a much better state right now, and this was honestly somewhat cathartic to get out. I originally planned for it to have 2 more chapters, but I need to put myself in back into a bad headspace to do so and I don't have the energy for that. For the time being, this'll remain completed at one chapter. With hope I'll be able to come back to it someday.
I want Soap to want legs like a deprived Victorian man.
I want him to whistle lowly as you pass by in a shorter dress or shorts, reaching out to pinch the fat of your thigh before you sharply slap his hand away with a “It’s too hot for this Johnny!”
I want you two to be lounging on the couch, your feet resting on his lap as you both do your own thing. Him idly massaging your feet before he digs his thumb into a soft spot that makes you hiss, tightens his grip on your ankle when you try to drag it back and grins wolfishly. Maybe he even yanks it to slide you down the couch, off center and under him as he looms over you.
Want him obsessed with leaving bites on your thighs and legs until you complain that you can’t wear anything short for summer or they’ll show.
Want you to stand before the mirror, pouting as you turn this way and that. “I don’t like how big my thighs are,” you whine. “Crush my head with them.” Soap responds in a heartbeat, seated nearby at the kitchen table and dodging whatever you throw at him.
There’s someone following you. The slight scuff of a boot against the pavement- you whirl around, heart in your throat- nothing. An empty street. Deserted. Despondent.
You swallow thickly, curl your hand together over the strap of your handbag. The other pawing anxiously at the pepper spray inside, finger curling and uncurling over the trigger.
They want you to know they’re there. A scuff of their shoes, a sudden misstep, allowing you to hear two pairs, not just your own heels clacking against the sidewalk. Enough to keep you on your toes. Enough to make you raise your speed, attempt to cast discreet glances behind you.
But nothing. Each time you’d peer at a passing store window, glancing at the other street, behind you as far as you can see. Every time you’d be so bold as to whirl around, catch the creep off guard. Nothing. No one.
Only your heavy breathing echoing in your eyes and the dim streetlights flickering in warning.
It’s late. You need to get home.
Your hands slip from the pepper spray to your phone, curling around its cool plastic frame. No police, no emergency services. What would you even say? I think someone’s following me but I can’t see anything? Describe the suspect? No, no I don’t know.
No phone calls. They’d hear. And you need to be able to hear them. Catch when they lurk too close. React fast enough. You glance inside, hand clammy and sweaty, the phone attempting to lurch from your grip.
A cab. An Uber. A Lyft. Whatever comes first. You’re too exposed on the street. You’d rather take your chances up with one creep in a car. One you can see. And actually hit. You swipe away- just for a moment, a split second- your location first, to a friend. Just in case.
Soap still remembers the moment, had turned it over and over in his head like a sucker in his mouth. Tucked it safe under his tongue and felt it bleed into every crevice.
You’d been saying something, walking alongside him on the town’s streets, passing rows of fresh green laws and pristine family houses. Something funny, or perhaps annoyed, with the way your hands had been animated, a second storyteller. Soap can’t recall anymore.
But he recalls the next moment, picture clear, like a children’s storybook. A dog, something big, something dark, maybe a Rottweiler, had lunged at you. Teeth bared, a growling bark, spit flying. The chain around its neck had pitched, pulled taut and held in place by the stake in the ground as it barked and growled and bared its teeth at the both of you.
You’d been startled, had gasped on a shriek and nearly leaped into his arms, slammed into his side and gripped at his shirt as you jumped away. Soap braced an arm around your backside, tucking you in further, pulling you along as you kept your eyes glued on it.
“Dogs that can’t be controlled should be muzzled,” you’d muttered, something sour curdling in your tone as you turned your head to keep track of the dog. There was something there, buried in your tone.
Soap should’ve prodded further, gently unearthed what made you so terrified, or laughed out a joke to soften the atmosphere.
Instead his throat tightened at a vision of you turning to look up at him, terrified expression turning sharper, more sultry. Eyes half lidded as you’d snag the collar of his shirt and drag him down to your level with a single finger. “Have you been a good dog, Johnny?” You ask, breath fanning his face as you stare into his eyes while he attempts to flit from your gaze. You don’t allow him to, yanking him lower, lifting yourself higher, closer on the balls of your feet. “Should I muzzle you?”
The vision snaps, real life rushing back in as you peel away from his side, continue your story with less emphasis than before but steadily gaining the energy back in your voice.
Soap, very intentionally, does not look at you as he nods absentmindedly along.
