the 141 coming home, finally taking their months long leave as they get to treat their darling wife for the days left when they weren't there?
Cute, but let's change the script shall we? (fem!141 X masc reader)
-_-
You just finished up baking the last batch of cookies before dusting off your apron, a smiling forming of the blouse and skirt your darling wives gifted you, always wondering about their darling husband who loves to bake feminine things, off shoulder to display your broad shoulders and thick arms while that skirt just barely cover the curve of your ass, thighs muscular enough to crush yet your softness is what made your darling military wives to woo you from that gay club all those years ago.
Chuckling to the thought, you leave the baked goods sitting on the stove with the rest of its brethren, pulling off the 'Makeout the chef' apron and letting it hang before reaching to the bathroom, finishing up your eyeliner and lipgloss, smiling to yourself.
"Oh they're gonna have a treat outta this," You grin to yourself, before the clinking of keys leave your eyes widening, checking yourself one more time before dashing to the living room, the biggest of them all as you watch on, swallowing the nerves from bubbling up as the entrance door finally opens, revealing a rushing Jeannie as a grumbling Joan tells her off while Kyla laughs at her antics and Siena sighing fondly towards them.
"Mo ghradih? Where are..." Her blue eyes widen when she spots you waving, the sparkle of your golden bracelet as it dangles on your wrist — gifted from your lovely wifey Joan — before she's dashing, managing to pull you off your feet as you're left squealing, letting your lips connect as you taste gunpowder and the scotch leaving her tongue before she lets you down. (How she managed to carry you isn't that surprising, considering how buffed out they are.)
She's grinning from ear to ear as you chuckle at her antics before more arms wrap around your waist and the scent of gun oil and aftershave wafts your nose, smiling when a low grumble escapes her throat. For a stoic, no-nonsense lieutenant, Siena sure is clingy when around you.
"Hey babe," You comb over to her dirty blonde locks, noticing that she pulled off her balaclava as she leaves pecks all over your neck and shoulder blade, her actions speaking loud than words could ever be spoken, which you appreciate. She doesn't get as talkative when she comes back from grueling missions, but you love her all the same. And sure it was hard, having to juggle a traumatized woman who grips a blade during sleep, which adds in to her insomnia and even more shitty mood.
But even then, your patience and loving presence warmed her up, warmed all of them up. And now here they are, huddling close around you, missing you.
Speaking of loving and missing you, Kylie comes barreling in after shrugging off her boots and gear, planting a kiss to the side of your forehead while combing over the apron, smirking with a satisfied nod while speaking up, "Our boy sure is rather dashing," Before leaning close to your ear, grinning, "But then again, you are always our dashing husband, right sweetheart?"
"Yeah," You giggle when they squeeze you just that little tighter, even feeling Siena's soft smile as Joan hums with a nod, shooing off the eager Jeannie while the youngest grumbles in Scots, coming close to plant a kiss to your nose, followed by both of your cheeks and ending on you waiting mouth, "Missed us darlin'?"
You grin, "Very."
-_-
@devil-in-hiding thank you for your butch!141 idea and for blasting me on my DMS, forcing my ass to write my fics 💀, this took fucking weeks but finally i got it out. it may be a bit rushed during the ending but honestly whatever, i did it!
please shout her with follows and smooches, and ill see yall... when i get out of my writing runt 💀
cw: hurt/comfort, very brief mentions of financial struggles, alcohol consumption, mental health challenges and a missing pet. feline behaviour written by someone that knows nothing about it (thank you temp and kitty), age gap (jo is in her early 40s, reader in their early 30s) reader is fat (no other physical descriptors), also shoutout to stelle for naming irving and always bouncing ideas around w/me
~
like any other morning, you were slowly walking behind your dog while accompanying him on his leisurely routine sniff around the block. the small creature's nose twitched happily as he followed one scent trail after another.
the much-needed early spring sun had coaxed you out of the house after nearly a week of rain, and the grass was nearly as tall as he was.
"oi, price! where are these ones headed?"
a gruff british accent startled you both from your revery before your eyes landed on the source—the uhaul parked in the driveway across the street.
there was a muffled response that came from around the side of the house, followed by heavy footfalls down the metal loading ramp. seconds later and out emerged what had to be the largest man you had ever seen.
he sported cropped blonde hair, shoulders twice as wide as a linebackers and a stack of three heavy boxes piled in his arms.
"yes ma'am," he grunted as he shouldered his way through the half open front door before disappearing.
with a shrug and a soft chirp, you brought your dog's attention back to you and continued the rest of your walk.
you weren't quite sure what happened faster—dandelions sprouting after mowing the lawn, or 'for sale' signs being switched out to read 'sold' as your neighbours tried to capitalize on the housing market. new families were moving in just as quickly as old ones were moving out.
the idea of owning a home was becoming an increasingly distant dream, with living alone following right behind it.
the rising cost of living was an ever-present nagging in the back of your mind. despite your best efforts, you were never quite able to spread your wings and fly the nest. living with your parents didn't seem so bad after listening to roommate horror stories from friends.
in fact, you considered yourself pretty fortunate that your folks were happy to have you around. they appreciated your help with physical tasks they weren't able to do as easily, splitting expenses eased the financial burden all around and they respected the fact that you are an adult and treated you accordingly.
you knew not everyone could say the same, but you were glad to have a living situation that worked for you.
~
josephine price had decided to pull the plug on her military career after twenty one years of service. the physical and mental load had become too much to bear and each deployment left her feeling more and more like a shell of herself.
at first it was liberating—she was free to carry herself however she wished, finally out from under her domineering father's thumb. her twenties and early thirties were easily summed up—work hard, play harder.
between missions, stacks of classified paperwork and a strict training regimen, time spent not working had become a haze of one too many bottles of whiskey, a constant parade of one night stands and winning bar fights against any unsuspecting fool who thought they stood a chance.
eventually the novelty faded, and the unpredictability of military life left her feeling off-kilter. two years post-retirement, she was still trying to find her footing.
despite the fact that she'd rather pull her own teeth out than show a lick of vulnerability, she was grateful that her former teammates had been there to help her settle into her new home.
kyle, johnny and simon had pushed her to branch out and find a place to settle in, as opposed to rotting away in her small flat.
her new home wasn't opulent by any means—a modest two bedroom, single level house with a small yard. the roof would need to be replaced before winter and the windows re-sealed. it was a bit of a fixer-upper on the inside but nothing she couldn't handle.
after the boys left for the day, she slumped back on the couch and watched through the window as the late evening fog rolled in.
"it is not uncommon to feel out of sorts after a transition like this. you're learning who you are all over again. what do you want your life to look like?"
her therapist's voice echoed in her mind and she found herself lost in thought once more.
retirement had pushed her into a particular daily routine, and most days that felt like the only thing anchoring her to reality. having lost all contact with her relatives years ago, the next closest thing she had to a family was laswell, the rest of 141, and her grouchy beast of a cat.
sensing the lack of ruckus now that the boys were gone, irving emerged from the hiding spot he had taken up in the shoe closet earlier that day and meandered his way over to the couch.
"my liege," she greeted the large black cat as he leapt up onto the couch before settling at her feet, responding with a meow that sounded more like a smoker's cough.
according to the rescue she adopted him from, he had been found on the side of the highway with a broken leg and covered in mange. two years later, he ruled jo's life with an iron paw and unrelenting demand for a very specific mixture of wet food.
~
"you wouldn't believe the deal i got on those heirloom tomatoes."
your mother nodded to the hefty orange fruit in your hand. giving one a gentle squeeze, you hummed in approval and continued unpacking her market purchases.
"i also met the new neighbour," she glanced up at you from where she was sorting mail into neat piles. there was a playful lilt in her voice and you immediately knew she was up to something.
tucking the milk away in the fridge with a sigh, you decided to indulge her.
"oh yeah? what do we think?"
"very nice, i think you two would get along."
you turned and leaned against the counter opposite where she stood, studying the stack of envelopes and flyers before meeting her gaze.
"is that right?"
as expected, there was a mischievous sparkle in her eyes and you couldn't help but laugh.
"quite tall…attractive too. if i were single and twenty years younger, i'd certainly—"
"alright mum, i get it."
the playful banter continued as you finished putting the groceries away, your mothers observations piquing your curiosity more than you were willing to admit.
~
after unpacking and settling in, jo threw herself into fixing up the house. over the last several weeks she had spent hours nearly each day burying herself in tasks to keep her mind from racing.
when she first moved in she made a mental note to take care of the broken screen in the side door. however between tightening leaky pipes, re-caulking the tub and replacing rotted boards on the back porch, mending the screen was pushed further and further down the to-do list.
it wasn't until she had finished up one friday night that she realized her mistake. cracking open the can of irving's wet food usually brought him running, but he was nowhere to be found even after scooping it into his dish.
dread ran down her spine and through her veins like liquid nitrogen as she glanced over at the broken screen flapping in the late evening breeze.
"fuck!"
pulling on her boots, she trudged outside and tried to make the most of the remaining daylight. searching through her yard, under the porch and in the shed, there was no sign of him anywhere.
in a final bout of desperation, she flicked on her phone's flashlight and headed into the dense wooded area behind her house.
it had been a year and a half since she adopted him, and jo had been careful to keep him inside. the thought of her beloved cat not returning home flooded her with a sickening rush of the very same feelings she had been trying to distract herself from.
eventually the 'low battery' warning flashed on her phone and she knew that stumbling about in the pitch-black brush would do her no good. reluctantly she trudged back home, already thinking about how she was going to continue the search first thing tomorrow.
~
every saturday morning you would head out early to the small cafe in town and treat yourself to an iced latte to-go. it had become something of a ritual, a little treat to punctuate the end of the work week.
after pulling into the driveway, you cut the engine to your car and hopped out. the sun was shining and you had every intention of getting your laundry out on the line as quickly as possible.
simultaneously lost in thought and mid-sip, you pressed the 'lock' button on your key fob and the sharp blast of your horn confirmed the car was secured.
in what felt like a chain reaction of events, the movement of something large and dark out of the corner of your eye made you jump out of your skin, choking on a mouth full of coffee and sending everything in your hands clattering to the ground.
with a shaky exhale (and a silent thank you to the universe that you weren't holding your phone), you immedlately head towards your garden to investigate.
the source of your surprise makes itself known with what you think is supposed to be a meow, but sounds more like a chainsaw being revved without gas.
"well i suppose we're even. sorry for interrupting your nap."
you crouch down to the feline's level, watching two yellow eyes blinking slowly at you.
it makes no move to run, watching you intently from where it was snoozing among your snapdragons. buried among it's fluffy mass of black and brown fur, you notice a collar with a little silver tag.
indoor cat.
being a lifelong dog owner, you definitely didn't consider yourself a cat-hater, but you weren't exactly well-versed in all things feline. regardless, you knew the creature in your garden needed to make it back home safe.
here goes nothing.
"c'mere kitty," you spoke softly as you held out a hand and shifted into a sitting position. you expected it to bolt and were caught off guard when it began sniffing at your outstretched palm.
holding as still as possible, you wait for him to move closer.
before you knew it, the cat was leaning into your hand and rubbing against your arm. after a little more cooing and gentle pets along the top of his head, you were able to turn the collar over to reveal his name and owner's phone number.
"irving, huh? suits you," you murmured as you pulled your phone from your pocket, dialed the number and pressed it to your ear.
~
as jo was getting ready to head out and resume her search, the shrill sound of her ringtone cut the silence of the house. wary of the unknown number, she huffed before pressing accept.
"price," she grumbled.
"um…hello, is this irving's owner?"
she cleared their throat, voice considerably softer this time.
"that's me."
"i found him napping in my garden. he's fine—doesn't appear to be hurt."
relief flooded her body when she got your address and realized irving had only wandered around the corner before disconnecting the call and grabbing his carrier.
jo wasn't quite sure what to expect when she arrived, but it certainly wasn't the sight of you perched comfortably in your driveway with her grouchy cat sprawled across your plush thighs.
you were petting him slowly from the top of his head to the base of his tail, hands gently brushing over the uneven patches of fur that never grew back quite right—in response he seemed to melt into your touch.
it was nearly impossible for jo to believe that this was the very same cat that clawed johnny to shit for walking too close, and she was almost reluctant to disrupt the serenity of the moment before clearing her throat.
"oh, hi!"
she returned your greeting before watching as you carefully cradled the relaxed feline in one arm, you use the other to support yourself as you stand after spending the better part of half an hour sitting on the ground.
unable to help herself, her eyes trailed along your face and studied the softness of your face before roaming down to the loose crew neck sweater that draped over the curve of your wide hips. shaking herself out of it, she addressed the cat in your arms.
"there he is, terrible creature."
instead of the brusque tone she had used when you first connected over the phone, there was an undeniable hint of relief in her voice. irving shifted, slumping against you and peering over at her as if to say took you long enough.
~
right before your eyes has to be the hottest woman you've ever seen.
she had piercing blue eyes and cropped brown hair with a touch of grey along the edges, stood nearly a foot taller than you and rocked a muscular frame with a healthy layer of fat that filled out her clothes perfectly.
you weren't aware an old black tshirt and worn blue jeans could look so good on a person.
"i don't know about terrible, but he did give me an awful fright when i found him in the garden," you admit with a chuckle.
it took a bit of shuffling to gently peel his claws out of the sleeve of your sweater and coax irving into the carrier. you can't say you minded being in such close proximity with the gorgeous woman before you—something told you she didn't quite mind either.
"i'm jo by the way," she held out a large calloused hand to shake. you slipped your own into her grip and introduced yourself, finding yourself enthralled by the way your name rolled off her tongue.
jo picked the carrier up effortlessly despite the massive feline inside and you scooped up the discarded coffee cup you dropped earlier.
before turning to leave, jo paused for another moment before speaking.
"nothin' worse than a ruined coffee. i'm gonna get him home and settled, then i'll swing back around to pick you up."
admittedly you were caught off guard and the casual confidence she seemed to carry herself with was replaced with a hint of uncertainty.
"least i could do," she added, her voice softening as she shrugged.
"you askin' me on a date, jo?" you prodded.
"only if the answer's yes."
~
returning home later in the afternoon, you practically skip into the house with a smile on your face and another date with jo scheduled for later in the week.
"what's got you in such a good mood?" your mum questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Your wife comes home woefully overstimulated from a trip to the grocery store. Good thing she has you there to care for her!
No beta, we die like [redacted].
Cw: Mention of a panic attack
Divider credits to @/cafekitsune
Hugeeee thank you to everyone who encouraged me and helped me drag my corpse through this fic!! Last one before I go on hiatus for Lent!
(DO NOT PUT MY FIC INTO AN AI GENERATOR, MY GOSH. NO C.AI, NOTHING. WRITE YOUR OWN STUFF.)
I personally hc Simon as being an absolute haterrrrr of bright lights. Yes, this is hugely ironic, considering the nature of her job.
When Simon bursts through the door of your flat, you immediately know something’s wrong. It could be the way she seems to wheeze out breaths, the flush of her skin, or the way she’s clutching the grocery bags in a vice grip. But what really tips you off is the way she brushes past you to dump the groceries on the kitchen floor before beelining towards your shared bedroom.
This is beyond odd, as Simon wasn’t one to skip out on greeting you with a kiss whenever either of you returned home. You immediately spring from your perch on the couch and move towards the bedroom.
“Simon?” you call out, “Simon, are you alright?”
Shouldering the door open reveals a room devoid of your wife. At least, that’s what you think until you creep closer and find her on the other side of your shared bed. She’s slumped on the floor, eyes vacant. You drop to your knees and immediately begin assessing her.
“Si? Love? Can you tell me what happened? Are you hurt at all?”
Simon says nothing at first. That’s when you notice the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.
“I…M'sorry,” she croaks out, “M’fine.”
“You’re clearly not! Si, please, just tell me what’s happened. I’ll kill whomever, I just need to know what’s going on.”
You can tell by the set of her jaw that Simon would rather swallow her pain than bring you into it, but she relents, nonetheless.
“M’fine, physically. I…I just…” As she trails off, you reach out to smooth your hands up and down her shoulders. “There was too much going on at the store.”
Your brows furrow in confusion. “’Too much’? As in what, were they having an event?”
“No, but it was crowded. And the lights were too bright. Felt like everyone was talking all at once, and I couldn’t think.” Simon’s hand comes up to cover her eyes. “Those lights…those fucking lights.”
You make a noise of recognition low in your throat. The lights at your local grocery store had a penchant for being a touch too bright, the fluorescent glare casting everything in a sterile glow. In your own trips to the store, you found yourself squinting your eyes while shopping and leaving with a headache and burning corneas. Considering the holidays were approaching, it made sense that the store would be more crowded than usual.
“Oh, doll,” You coo, “Should’ve gone myself, didn’t mean to put you through all this. I’m sorry.”
Simon hands fly off her face and grip onto your wrists. “No! No, it’s not your fault! I should’ve been stronger.”
“Stronger how? Si, you-” The rest of your response dies in your throat when the realization hits you: your wife, who had been a decorated member of the military for over a decade before retiring, felt weak. All that she had been through, all that she’d seen and faced off against, yet here she was crying over bright lights in a grocery store. She probably felt beyond ridiculous.
“Simon, my love, my darling girl, this isn’t weakness! You’re overstimulated. You’ve probably dealt with this before, but too much was happening for it to be addressed properly.” Your hands reach out to cup your wife’s face.
“This is completely normal. Too many things were happening at once and your brain is struggling to process everything. I deal with it all the time, you’ve seen it.”
Simon seems momentarily comforted before despair clouds her face once more. You speak up before she can even attempt to admonish herself.
“You’ve helped me through this before, right?” At Simon’s nod, you continue, “Then let me help you. Will you let me care for you? Please?”
The breath seems to still in your wife’s chest. You, someone she’d sworn to love and protect, were trying to do the same. Just like in your vows, you were trying to be her rock, her safe place to land.
It only takes another moment before her head nods again in agreement. You grin, leaping into action.
“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do: you’re gonna lie flat on your back, knees up, and I’m gonna go put the kettle on for a cuppa. We’ll see how you feel afterwards, yeah?”
Simon obliges, moving away from the bed and letting her body sink into the cool hardwood flooring. Her feet plant themselves firmly as she brings her knees up, and her hands find themselves folded over her stomach.
“Good job, lovie. I’ll be right back.” You brush a hand over her shaved head and press a kiss into the crown of it.
Before long, Simon’s erratic breathing slows to something more manageable. You reenter the room, the scent of green tea wafting from the mug in your hands.
“How’re you feeling?” You ask as you help her sit up. The mug is pressed into her hands, scarred fingers curling over the warm ceramic.
“Better. Thank you.” Simon can’t help the sincerity in her voice. It’s weird, she realizes, just how easy it is to be genuine with you. She’s told you things not even Price knows. You’ve seen the ugliest sides of her and decided she was worth sticking around for.
“Can you handle more touch right now?” You ask her, voice as sweet as the honey in her tea.
Simon can’t find a reason to refuse you, not that she wants one anyway. She leans her body towards yours, a nonverbal ‘yes’ that you pick up on. Your hands come up to run themselves up and down her back before wrapping her into a hug.
“You’re doing so well for me, sweet girl,” you whisper into her scalp.
There’s a part of Simon, deep down inside, that wants to feel ashamed. She shouldn’t like the way you dote on her. Doesn’t feel like she’s earned anything other than a steel-toed boot to the teeth. And yet, she can’t help but sink into your ministrations. There’s a part of her that’s always longed for this softness. The way you seem to cradle her very soul in your palms used to frighten her; it meant giving up control. It meant acknowledging she was human, that she had desires. As the Ghost, she could disappear into a stoic façade. She could be the killing machine everyone expected. But as Simon? As Simon she could be mortal. As Simon, she could be your wife. She could be someone worthy of your love.
“How’s this sound? I can run you a bath and order takeaway from that place you like. We can put on Paddington, too.”
A snort erupts from deep within Simon’s chest. Only you knew of her secret love for the British bear. Her mother had read the books to her and her brother growing up. The movies served as a way for her to sink into nostalgia.
“Yeah…sounds good, thank you.” Simon mumbles.
You press a series of kisses across her face before standing and pulling your wife to her feet. Simon lets herself be dragged into the front room, settling into the couch cushions as you confirm your takeaway order over the phone. Paddington is queued on the tv soon enough.
You snuggle next to your wife, letting her lean against your shoulder. You relish in the way her bulk softens against you. The food arrives soon enough. The pair of you are lulled into a calm, with warm food on the coffee table and the adventures of a fictional bear on screen.
-
When your takeaway containers are cleared and the movie’s credits roll, you stand and stretch. Simon follows in turn, albeit much slower. A blissful calm has settled over her, muddling her thoughts in the best way. Simon lets you pull her towards the bathroom, content to sit atop the toilet and watch as you turn on the faucets in the bathtub.
You run the taps til the water sloshes around the halfway point. Simon watches lazily as you turn to her.
“Arms up, doll.”
She obeys because why wouldn’t she?
Her burly arms stretch up and above her head. Your fingers curl along the hem of her shirt and pull up, revealing pale skin littered with age-softened scars.
Simon can’t help but like this version of herself; the one that's soft and pliant, all for you, only you. Only you are allowed to strip her, literally and metaphorically, and reveal her most intimate parts.
There’s something comical about the way your wife tries to sink into the porcelain tub. Though the tub is deep, her knees still hit her chest when she leans back. The water rises and splashes dangerously around the rim as she crams herself down.
You kneel on the floor, letting your gaze sweep over Simon. There are dark circles under her eyes but there’s a glow that seems to emanate from within her. The panic from earlier has faded, replaced with a calm you hope to maintain. Simon reaches a hand up from the water and runs it over her head.
“Been thinkin’ about growing it out again.” She mumbles.
You hum in delight. “How long you wanna grow it? Think you might match mohawks with Soap?”
Your wife shoots you a grimace that quickly turns into a chuckle. “Absolutely not. Would rather go completely bald.”
“Well, what’s the longest you’ve ever grown it?”
Simon falls silent and chews on her bottom lip in thought.
“Back when Mum was alive. Used to be down to my back. She’d always put it in braids and attach these cute little clips to it. But afterwards…”
Simon pauses, sniffs, then continues.
“It was just easier to cut it off. Kept finding reasons to keep it short.”
“And now?” You ask.
“And now,” Simon links a hand with yours, “I have a reason to take care of it again.”
-
Simon sleeps easy that night. You watch the rise and fall of her chest as she rests against you, face smooshed against your shoulder. It’s one of those moments you want to freeze in time; to keep your wife in this state of serenity for all eternity. Of course, you know you can’t do that. You know you can’t shelter this grown woman. But, even if you could, you know Simon would never let you.
And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe you’re not meant to be your wife’s savior. Maybe you’re doing what you were meant to do all along; to hold her when the world becomes too much.
And maybe that’s enough.
-
Months pass by without much thought.
Simon’s hair now brushes against her jaw.
You’ve taken to running your hands through it whenever you get the chance (which is often) and adorning it with skull-themed clips.
The pair of you have taken many a trip to the grocery store and emerged unscathed, though that could be attributed to wearing sunglasses and noise-canceling headphones the entire time.
I just wanted to think about Butch!Kyle’s muscles as she works the bellows and Butch!Simon rising hours before the sun to make rolls and bread for her girls to have when they wake. Price snagging a pastry and a feel when Simon’s back is turned. Picking up her sword that Kyle so lovingly repaired. All of them gathering at Soap’s tavern for a pint, a makeout session, and then bed. (Because of course they have a room at Soap’s.)
Sweaty Butch!Kyle grunting and slamming on molten hot iron
Butch!Ghost and Price meeting up for a little grope session
Soap just has to wipe down the bar and she’s got the girls wrapped around her finger
Cw: religious themes (this fic involves the nuances of two character's experiences with religion, namely Christianity/Catholicism). These views don't necessarily reflect my own, and they may not reflect yours either!)
Special thanks to @stellewriites for encouraging me every step of the way! This fic wouldn't exist without you💖🫂✨️Also, y'all should check out her fic that inspired this.
I highly recommend listening to Ethel Cain’s Preacher’s Daughter while reading this. I had Family Tree on repeat while writing, so if it feels like your bones are breaking and you taste blood in your mouth, that’s why.
Johanna “Soap” MacTavish was not a praying woman. Not normally, at least. Her years of seeing the horror the world had to offer, and her participation in them, stripped away what little faith she had remaining. And it wasn’t as though she’d never had faith.
She remembered being a wee bairn, legs kicking against the wooden pews as she listened to the hymns the choir sung. She remembered the smell of incense, the sting of the kneelers digging into her knees when it was time to pray, the way her hand flew through the motions when she made the sign of the cross.
It all meant something, once. A time where she felt that God was listening to her, that God even cared. If you asked her now if she thought that God cared, she’d respond that she had no idea.
She might even tell you she wasn’t sure if God was even real.
Add in being a huge lesbian and Soap found more than enough reasons to stay away from church.
And yet, when you come up to her on a random Saturday and ask if she’ll come to church with you, she finds herself agreeing.
“Ye take all yer dates tae church?” she quips. The joke is a feeble attempt at fighting back the rising panic in her chest. What she’s scared of, she’s not yet sure.
Soap notes the exhausted smile that crosses your face.
“Only the ones I really like,” you toss back. “But seriously, only come if you’re comfortable. I just…just felt like checking out that church a few blocks down the road.”
“Any reason ye asked me? Th’ others weren’t around?” It’s not that she minds, but Soap can’t seem to recall ever telling you she was religious. Or, at least, that she grew up that way. Maybe you pieced it together after glimpsing the cross necklace she kept tucked under her shirt.
“I don’t know, exactly. Had a feeling you’d understand my reasons for going. Thought maybe you’d get something out of it too.”
Before Soap can ask more about your cryptic answer, you make a beeline for the door.
“I’ll meet you outside your barrack at 0700 sharp. And I’ll bring breakfast!”
-
0700 comes sooner than she’d like. Soap wakes and dresses, pulling on a plain shirt and black cargos. Her feet are slipped into freshly cleaned boots, ones she stayed up an extra hour scrubbing the dirt from. Felt like bad manners to show up at one of God’s many houses and track filth in. Her hair has grown out past regulation length, but Price isn’t up her arse about it. A bit of water and a pea-sized amount of pomade nicked from Gaz helps tame her mullethawk.
For a moment, Soap wonders what she’s doing this for. She could have very well declined your offer. In some twisted way, she feels like a dog returning to its vomit; the church of her youth left her disillusioned and previous attempts to return felt like forcing open a locked door. She wasn’t sure why she even went back. Maybe it was for approval. Her parent’s or God’s, who’s to say? Her mother routinely asked if she kept up with her prayers and Soap never had the heart to tell her “Only sometimes.”
For all her doubt, Soap couldn’t help the occasional prayer for protection before embarking upon missions, and a word of thanks when the team made it back in one piece.
A knock sounds from the door. Soap grabs her jacket from where it hangs over her chair. Before she can fully cross the room, something tugs at the back of her mind. She remembers her gran’s rosary beads; the ones passed down after her death years ago. She digs them from where they rest in an ornate box stashed towards the back of her desk. They’re slipped from the box’s silk lining and gently lowered into a cargo pocket. Soap moves back towards the door, pulling it open to reveal you.
You’re dressed similarly, with nondescript trousers and a shirt with the logo of a band she’s never heard of. There’s a plastic container in your hands. You give her that same exhausted smile from yesterday and Soap wants nothing more than to cradle you in her arms. But, before she can, you pluck the top off the container and offer it out to her. The scent of cinnamon and sugar hits her nostrils.
“Ghost saved me a few of these. They’re from that bakery he’s been frequenting. Think he’s sweet on the bird that works there.”
Soap pulls out a cinnamon bun and immediately tucks into it. She wonders, briefly, if she should say grace, but this thought comes after she’s halfway through the pastry. Maybe next time.
You lead the way off base and down the road to a church Soap has passed many times before. It’s small, with stained glass windows and a tiny cross perched atop the steeple. The doors are open, and people trickle in. Soap notes how you hesitate before clenching your jaw and striding forward. She follows you up the steps and into the sanctuary where the two of you sequester yourselves in a pew farthest from the pulpit.
The smell of the church is a gut-punch of nostalgia, all old wood and onionskin paper. The cushioned seats of the pew are worn, threadbare, and do nothing to stop the varnished wood from pressing into your legs. Soap is surprised by how calm she feels. There’s none of the usual guilt and fear crawling under her skin and nestling into her bones. Peering over to you, the exhaustion in your eyes is still present, but you’re not as tense.
Soon enough, service begins, and the reverend takes to the pulpit. The congregation is led through hymns that take Soap back to her childhood. She finds herself swaying along with the rise and fall of voices. You do the same, albeit with less familiarity.
When they end, the reverend begins his sermon. It’s some variation of things Soap has heard before, an interpretation of Jesus’s teachings and how they relate to the modern era. She nods along at some points, frowning at others.
Jesus wouldnae say tha’, she thinks at one point. You, on the other hand, have a notebook out and scribble furiously across the page. When Soap leans over to get a closer look, you tilt the page towards her.
‘This guy’s a HACK’, she reads. It takes everything within her to hold back a laugh. You grin, continuing to write as quickly as the reverend speaks.
Communion is towards the end of the serivice. Soap had completely blanked on it being the first Sunday of the month. Her mother would be pleased to hear her wayward daughter had received the Eucharist the next time she called.
Congregants stand and shuffle into a line leading up to the pulpit. You end up in front of Soap, hands fiddling with each other while you wait in line. When you finally reach the front, you bow your head quickly before cupping your hands, left under right, to receive the rice cracker.
“The body of Christ,” the reverend says.
“Amen,” you demure, slipping the cracker between your teeth, chewing only twice before it basically dissolves. The reverend extends the chalice in his hands, full of red wine, and you accept it into yours, taking a modest sip. You move to the side immediately after and walk back to the pew.
There’s a slight nervousness stirring in Soap’s guts as she approaches. Her body moves through the movements on pure muscle memory, the “Amen” leaving her mouth without much thought. The cracker is dry on her tongue, the wine sweet in her mouth. She walks back to the pew feeling strangely renewed.
Service concludes soon after, with a parting prayer and a hymn for the road. The exit from the building feels less like an escape and more of an emergence into the late morning sunlight. Like Jesus on th’ third day from tha’ tomb, Soap muses wryly. When she turns to you the exhaustion seems to have been lifted fully. Your eyes are brighter, and a genuine smile graces your face.
“Hey, can I show you something? It’ll be quick,” you ask. Soap agrees, following close on your heels as you lead the way to the church’s garden towards the back of the building. It’s not lost on her that she’s been following you around for most of the day. Maybe, in some freaky way, you’re a shepherd that was sent to retrieve her back to the flock. If anything, Soap believes you have a slightly better sense of direction than her.
The church garden is small, with a wooden gazebo and stone benches dotted around the property. Flowers grow in manicured beds along the cobblestone path winding through the garden. Further in is a huge planter box crowded with fresh vegetables. A wooden sign leaned against the box advertises the vegetables as free for whomever wanted them.
You settle onto a stone bench. Soap wanders a bit more, ambling over to the planter box and plucking a tomato off the vine. She bites into it, eliciting a shriek of mock horror from you.
“Johnny! You’re just gonna eat it raw? You didn’t even wash it off!”
Soap smirks around the juice and seeds. “Not the only thing I eat raw, bon,” she jokes.
You grimace only for it to turn to laughter. Soap joins in, head tossed back and doing her best not to choke. Your laughter dies down soon enough, leaving the two of you to bask in the tranquility of the garden. Though it pains you to do so, you’re the first to break the silence.
“I come here sometimes, to pray.”
Soap finishes off the remnants of her tomato.
“D’you believe in it? Erm, in Him? In God?”
“Not sure. I think I’m trying to,” you hum. “I think… I want to. I want to believe in something bigger than myself, like it all means something, y’know? Like, this all has a purpose.”
“I get tha’,” Soap murmurs. “Been tryin’ tae figure this out for mysel’ fir a while. Grew up in th’ church, but things weren’t workin’ out.”
Soap turns to you, a question burning on her tongue.
“What’d ye mean yesterday, when ye said ah wid ken yer reason fir goin’ ‘ere?”
“I’ll be so honest,” you said sheepishly, “I kinda made that up. I just wanted someone to come with me and you were the first person that came to mind.”
Something warm blooms in Soap’s chest. She takes the opportunity to reach over and entwine her fingers with yours. You respond in kind, squeezing her fingers gently.
“Thank you for coming with me,” you say. “I don’t know if I’ll keep coming here going forward, but I wanted to try at least once.”
“And if ye ever dae come again…I dinnae think I’d mind comin’ with.” Soap says.
And, in a moment of bravery you didn’t think you possessed, you lean over to press your lips against hers. The kiss is soft and warm, much like the sun on your skin. Soap tilts her head to deepen the kiss when someone clears their throat loudly. The two of you jump apart and come face to face with the reverend.
“Pardon me,” he says bashfully, “But the gardens are due to close in a few minutes. I apologize for, uh…interrupting you two.”
You grin. “Not a problem! We’ll be on our way.”
Soap’s hand stays in yours the whole walk home, kisses snuck in every step of the way. You separate briefly when you get to the barracks, promising to meet back at hers once you’ve changed into something more comfortable.
Soap kicks off her boots and swaps out her clothes for a much rattier shirt and gym shorts. You return the same way, swaddled in a huge shirt and baggy joggers. You both slip under Soap’s covers for the most sacred Sunday ritual of all: naptime. Before Soap can fully snuggle in, she remembers the rosary still in her cargo pocket. She’s out the bed before you can protest, hand reaching in and cradling the rosary after fishing it out.
The box sits open, patiently awaiting its treasure. Soap makes the sign of the cross with it, pressing her lips to the metal crucifix before arranging it back within the silk lining. You welcome her back into bed with open arms, pulling her against yourself. Sleep beckons the pair of you in, letting the rest of the day drift by.
Johanna “Soap” MacTavish is an occasionally praying woman. For what could possibly be the first time in her life, she lets herself bask in the moment. There’s no panic in her chest, no fear in her heart. If heaven is real, she hopes it’s a lot like this.
