pairing(s): fraser minten, connor bedard, will smith, macklin celebrini, matt rempe, michael kesselring x fem!reader
summary: green flag things/habits they do in your relationship
warnings/contents: pda, fluff, mentions of bars, drinking, lingerie
author's note: each individual part is a bit long (sorry if you don’t enjoy that) i got carried away, let me know if you like this !!!!
Fraser Minten (FM93)
Walks closer to the road
You never really noticed he did it until one of your mutual friends pointed it out. You were hanging out downtown Boston with Fraser and a couple friends, holding hands and catching up. The boys had went into a store wanting to look while the girls opted to stay out, sitting on a bench surrounded by high-rise buildings and the sound of the city. You were scrolling on TikTok, trying to find a video you had saved to show one of the girls when she spoke.
“He did that a lot, huh?” You looked up, confusion on your face. “Does what?” She looked at you with a raised eyebrow, “he always puts you in the sidewalk side with him closest to the street - like, all the time.” You were surprised, and it probably showed on your face as she replied, “you haven’t noticed?”
You really hadn’t. Maybe it was because you never payed that much attention to it in the moment, or that it had become second nature. When you thought back to memories of you two walking together down streets and sidewalks, you do remember him trading places if you weren’t already furthest from the road.
And it wasn’t just roads or sidewalks either - if you were at a family skate or at a rink while back in Vancouver, he was always closest to the center when you were skating side-by-side (meaning when you weren’t trying not to fall with him leading you), making sure you weren’t in the area that could get you knocked over.
You had brought it up to him that night in your apartment. You were both dressed in your pyjamas - Fraser in a pair of plaid pants and a grey sweatshirt, glasses perched on his nose while you were in a pair of his boxers and t-shirt, fluffy socks you had gotten from Chantal the year before at Christmas on your feet. He had gotten to grab some ice cream for you both, and when he sat down and pulled you to curl into him, you asked him.
“Why do you always make sure you’re closest to the road?” He had looked at you, cheeks red like he’d been caught doing something bad. “What do you mean?” He replied, spoon in his mouth. “You always make sure you’re closest to the road or I’m on the sidewalk side when we’re walking. Why is that?” Fraser just shrugged, taking the spoon out and getting more ice cream, “I don’t know. Just want you to be safe - didn’t really realize I was doing it. Does it bother you?”
You just smiled, dipping your spoon into the ice cream as well, “no. Quite the opposite actually.”
Connor Bedard (CB98)
Holds your bags
Connor holds your bags with no complaints, and does it out of his own will. You never asked him, not even once, not before it started and not during. Even if he gets teased for it online or by teammates, he just shrugs. It doesn’t matter if you have one bag or a million, heavy or light, he grabs it before you can even reach for it.
Bags full of things at the mall? Connor looks like a bellboy, bags on his arms from stores like Victoria’s Secret and Aritzia. Even if he has his own bags (probably from Lululemon or whatever stores sell shirts), he takes yours from you. At first you fought it, but you’ve now just learned to accept it.
Connor loads and unloads suitcases into cars and overhead cupboards in planes. Photos of you two leaving airports or hotels with Connor carrying everything and you carrying nothing except your purse or both of your phones had gone viral, and people had been upset at you - calling you lazy and ungrateful - until a reporter asked why he did it.
“I don’t know. Just don’t want her carrying things,” he scratched his neck, “plus, have to use my strength for something.”
The only time you ever carry things is when Connor is too drunk to remember. When he’s tipsy he still insists to carry your bag, or to give your bag to someone else so you don’t have to carry it (which makes you blush out of embarrassment). When he’s plastered he doesn’t realize or remember anything, and usually ends with you having to put him in sleep clothes or brush his teeth.
Any other time, he carries any and all bags you have. Doesn’t matter if they’re from a lingerie store or “girlie” store, he doesn’t bat an eye.
Will Smith (WS2)
Opens the car door for you
Will Smith was raised to be a gentleman. Always be respectful and polite, say your please and thank you’s, make eye contact, use your manners, and always open the door for someone (especially a woman).
You were surprised when he showed up on your first date. Most guys you had been with or been on a date with stayed in the car while you got in, but Will texted you when he was coming, met you at your front door, and followed you to the car, opening the door. You felt like a princess (as stupid as that sounds). That type of stuff should be bare minimum in a relationship, but it wasn’t. He got out and opened your car door again when you arrived at the restaurant, was respectful and nice the whole night, and opened your car door two more times. You ranted to your friends over the phone with blushed cheeks when you got back.
When you got together, you figured that this habit would end. That he didn’t have to “whoo” you anymore, and that once this honeymoon phase was over he’d go back to what he usually was like. But it didn’t. Because that’s how he was all the time.
Even if you’re in a hurry, or Mack is waiting in the car, Will will get out of the car and open your door for you. Fans had caught this and it became a thing on social media, always posting photos or videos of it happening. One time while you were texting Will’s mother Colleen, she had sent a video that had came across her timeline. She had sent a text along with it saying “you let me know if he stops and I’ll kick some sense into him”. You had chuckled and replied that he probably won’t stop.
Macklin Celebrini (MC71)
Always buys two snack options
You know the videos online of girlfriends saying they don’t want anything and then wanting whatever their boyfriend has? That’s you. You’re indecisive and you know - you’ll say you aren’t hungry and then want whatever Mack is having, or you’ll say you want one thing and want something different. Macklin has learned this about you, and after dating for awhile he knows how to solve this problem every time. You say you dont want anything? He gets extra of whatever he’s getting so you can have some.
When you’re driving and you pass a gas station, or you’re in a hotel and you pass a vending machine, and you say you want something? He’ll get what you want and something else you like (or another of one of his snacks) so you won’t be upset. He doesn’t worry about the extra money that it adds up to, he wants you to be happy. You both never really noticed it.
But others did. During the sleepover with Will and Toffoli, Tyler had brought it up after the younger boys had ordered their cookies and milk. He was on his cot, Mack and Will snacking away when he spoke, “when you do this with Y/n do you get another type as well or just this?” Mack had made a noise of confusion not knowing what he was talking about, but Will did.
“You always get two different things or something for her when you’re out, even if she says she doesn’t want anything.” Macklin just shrugged, going back to his phone. “I don’t know, I just know what she likes and want her to be happy.”
This was definitely going on the offside podcast when Tyler was on.
Matt Rempe (MR73)
Makes sure you get the first bite/waits for you
We all know Matt is a big guy, and he gets hungry. And before he was dating you, he wouldn’t wait to dive into his food - whether that was at home with his family or out with his teammates. But when he started dating you, something inside him screamed that he should wait for you. He didn’t know why he had that feeling, he just did.
If restaurants served him his food first, he’d just wait, his attention fully focused on you. You noticed it one time, and told him he could eat, but he just smiled at you with a lovesick look on his face, “I don’t need to. I’ll wait.” You raised an eyebrow, “you sure? It could get cold.” He just moved his hand from his lap to on the table, palm facing up and made a motion for you to put your hand in his, “I’m not worried about that.”
If you were staying in, food being delivered or reheated, Matt would wait. Sometimes you’d heat it up, put it on the coffee table in front of the couch and mumble that you’ll be back, he lets it sit there until you come back. Shared food and dessert he always lets you have the first bite. Late night drives to get ice cream from a specific gas station near you and sharing snacks on movie nights always looks like Matt letting you eat first.
He even does it at family dinners, the whole family diving in while you and Janice were still in the kitchen. He waited, hands in his lap, his eyes looking like a lost puppy waiting for their owner (according to Alley). When you came back and sat down, you kissed his cheek and when you finally ate, he did too.
Michael Kesselring (MK8)
Will switch shoes with you
The first time it happened was back in Utah. You had gone out to a bar with the team, you opting to walk and Michael coming because he would never let you walk alone if he could be there, day or night (especially at night, though he knew you could handle yourself). He had bought you some cute, black kitten heels a couple weeks before because he noticed you looking at them on a tab on your computer, and you never ask for anything (even though he tells you not to worry and he wants to spoil you, but you still don’t ask), so he bought them and you came home to find the exact pair you were eyeing on the bed.
Maybe you should’ve thought about what it would be liking walking to the bar, spending the night in them, and then walking back to your apartment, but you were too excited about them. Michael had a feeling you would get sick of them, but didn’t say anything. The night was spent dancing and drinking, Michael having an arm around your waist or midline, or around your neck swaying to the music. You were there for a couple hours, and close to the time you had planned to leave you had migrated to a stool at the bar, still present but getting off your heels.
When you walked back together, you tried to be discreet about the discomfort you were feeling, but the backs of your heels were causing blisters to form and the front were squishing your toes. You refused to accept defeat, asking to sit on a bench before you continued. Michael was leaning against a lamp post, watching you. You were rubbing your heel, about to put them on when he sat down beside you, “switch with me.”
He took the heel out of your hand and moved to remove other and placing them on a space on the bench beside him before untying the laces on hos sneakers. “Michael . . .” You trailed off, not knowing what to do. But your boyfriend is stubborn, shaking his head while saying not happening and placing the sneakers on your lap. You were too tired to care that they were dirty and sticky with alcohol, but you probably were dirty too - sweaty from dancing and drops of alcohol falling on you earlier.
You put the shoes on, tying the laces as tight as you could to not trip because your boyfriend was a giant and had giant feet. You look up once you’re done to see Michael standing in your heels, feet barely fitting in them. One part of you wanted to laugh, while the other wanted to tell him to sit down and give you your heels back, but you could tell from the look on his face that he knew what you were thinking and that it wasn’t going to happen.
You managed to make it to your shared apartment, slowly due to the tripping hazard from the other’s shoes, but no one complained once. Michael never protested or blamed you, and he didn’t even really talk about it after, just setting the shoes down and getting ready for bed lie usual.
Since that night you tried to wear more comfortable shoes to bars and restaurants, but sometimes the shoes went too good with the outfit and Michael even encouraged it, knowing how the night would end. He didn’t care, and he wants you to be happy.
You’re surprised there haven’t been pictures of his 6’5 form stumbling around in heels on the internet.
If you happen to be okay with doing twisted wonderland fics could you do one of an mc that doesn't eat a lot and usually shares food with their partner as a love language, they make some of the food themselves like a baker or cook. Could you do it with Ruggie, Riddle, Idia, Azul, and Vil
(Im not sure on the limit of characters so I tried to keep it short, also my apologies if your not taking twisted wonderland right now)
Yes of course!! You’re my first request for twst actually lmao.
Half For You
Featured characters: Riddle Rosehearts, Ruggie Bucchi, Azul Ashengrotto, Idia Shroud, Vil Schoenheit
Tags: I apologize if it isn’t lore accurate, it’s my first twst fic so give me some grace
❤️—————————————————❤️
Riddle Rosehearts:
Riddle notices it the third time.
The first time, he assumes it’s coincidence. You slide half your tart onto his plate with a small smile, insisting you “made too much.”
The second time, he frowns—but accepts it anyway, because refusing would be… impolite. And also, if he’s being honest, your baking is far better than anything the Heartslabyul kitchen produces on a rushed afternoon.
The third time, however, he sets his fork down.
“My rose,” he says carefully, eyes narrowing just slightly, “you have not taken more than three bites of your own portion.”
You freeze.
“I—I’m not that hungry,” you reply, a little too quickly.
Riddle’s gaze sharpens. He has memorized the rules of tea time, of nutrition, of proper conduct. And something about this—about you quietly giving away your food—does not sit right.
“That is not acceptable,” he says, tone firm. “You require proper nourishment. You cannot simply—simply redistribute your meals as though—”
He stops.
Because you’re looking at him strangely. Not upset. Not guilty.
Just… soft.
“I like sharing with you,” you admit.
It throws him completely off balance.
“…What?”
“I don’t eat a lot,” you continue, quieter now. “But I like making food. And… I like when you eat it.”
Riddle’s breath catches.
This isn’t disorder. This isn’t neglect.
It’s… intentional.
A choice.
For him.
His ears burn faintly red. He clears his throat, straightening in his seat as though regaining control of the situation—but his voice is noticeably less sharp.
“…Then we will amend this behavior properly,” he declares.
You blink. “Amend?”
“Yes. If you insist on sharing your meals, then it will be done correctly.” He lifts his chin. “You will remain seated. And we will divide the portions evenly.”
“Riddle—”
“And,” he adds, softer now, gaze flickering away for just a moment, “you will allow me to… reciprocate.”
Your heart skips.
“Reciprocate?”
He pushes his untouched slice of strawberry tart toward you.
“…It would be improper for only one party to give,” he mutters. “That would violate the balance of the exchange.”
But when you take a bite, smiling—
Riddle can’t quite hide the small, quiet warmth in his expression.
☀️ —————————————————☀️
Ruggie Bucchi:
Ruggie notices immediately.
Of course he does.
You don’t survive the way he has without clocking stuff like that—who eats, who doesn’t, who saves, who gives things away.
And you?
You give.
“Oi,” he says one afternoon, eyeing the way you push your portion of food toward him. “You tryna fatten me up or somethin’?”
You laugh a little. “You eat more than me anyway.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I need it,” he shoots back, but he’s already pulling the plate closer.
Still… he watches.
You pick at what little you kept. Barely anything. Meanwhile, he’s halfway through what was supposed to be your meal.
That doesn’t sit right.
The next day, he tests something.
You hand him food again—some homemade bread this time, still warm—and he grins, takes it… and then snaps it clean in half.
“Hey—”
“Deal,” he says, shoving one piece back into your hands. “I take yours, you take mine.”
“That’s not how it—”
“Sounds fair to me,” he shrugs. “You give me food, I make sure you actually eat.”
You hesitate.
Ruggie tilts his head, watching you closely now, sharp eyes catching every little reaction.
“…What, you only like it when I’m the one eatin’?” he teases, but there’s something quieter underneath it.
You look down at the bread.
“…I just like seeing you enjoy it.”
For a second, he doesn’t say anything.
Then he clicks his tongue, looking away.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, taking another bite, “I don’t take freebies.”
You glance up.
“So if you’re gonna keep givin’ me stuff…” he continues, nudging your hand with the bread still in it, “then you’re eatin’ with me. Got it?”
It’s not a request.
But when you take a bite, smiling just a little—
Ruggie grins back, satisfied.
🌊 ————————————————— 🌊
Azul Ashengrotto:
Azul is… suspicious.
Not outwardly, of course. Outwardly, he remains perfectly composed, offering you that polished, charming smile as you place a neatly wrapped box of pastries on the table in the VIP room.
“For you,” you say.
“How generous,” he replies smoothly. “And to what do I owe this delightful gesture?”
“No reason.”
That’s the problem.
Nothing is ever for no reason.
Azul has built his entire life on understanding exchanges. Value. Cost.
So when you sit across from him, sipping only tea while he opens the box—and realizes it’s filled with carefully made sweets—
He watches you instead of the food.
“You aren’t eating?” he asks lightly.
“I’m okay,” you say. “I made them for you.”
For him.
Not for leverage. Not for negotiation.
Just… for him.
He picks up one of the pastries, examining it.
“…You expect nothing in return?” he presses.
You blink. “Why would I?”
Azul pauses.
That answer shouldn’t unsettle him.
And yet.
“…You intrigue me,” he admits quietly, before taking a bite.
It’s good. Very good.
Homemade. Careful. Thoughtful.
“You truly derive satisfaction from this?” he asks. “Providing for others?”
You nod, a little shy. “Especially you.”
His grip tightens slightly around the pastry.
Something uncomfortable—and unfamiliar—twists in his chest.
Because there was a time when giving like this… being seen like this… would have been everything he wanted.
“…My pearl,” he says softly, voice losing some of its usual theatrical edge, “you must allow me to compensate you.”
You shake your head immediately. “No contracts. No points. Nothing.”
“…Not even a small arrangement?”
“Nope.”
Azul exhales.
Defeated.
“…Very well,” he murmurs. “Then I will simply have to find… other means of expressing my gratitude.”
The next time you bring him food—
There’s already a plate waiting.
Split neatly in two.
🔥 ————————————————— 🔥
Idia Shroud:
Idia doesn’t notice at first.
Not in person, anyway.
In person, he’s too busy trying not to combust from social anxiety.
But online?
That’s different.
“You didn’t eat dinner again,” he types.
You stare at the message on your screen.
“How do you even know that??”
“Pattern recognition,” he replies instantly. “Also you always send pics of food you made but never of you actually eating it. Suspicious behavior. 10/10 red flag.”
You huff, typing back: “I just don’t eat a lot.”
There’s a pause.
Then—
“Then why make so much???”
You hesitate.
“…I like giving it to people.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“…oh.”
The next day, you show up outside Ignihyde with a small box.
You don’t expect him to come out.
But after a few minutes—
The door creaks open just enough for a tablet to peek through.
“…You brought food,” Idia’s voice crackles through it.
“Yeah.”
“…For me?”
You nod, even though he can’t really see it.
There’s a pause. Then the door opens a tiny bit more, just enough for a hand to awkwardly take the box.
“…You didn’t have to,” he mutters.
“I wanted to.”
Silence.
Then—
“…Wait.”
The door shuts. You hear shuffling, muffled noises, what might be Ortho saying something in the background—
And then the door opens again.
This time, Idia himself stands there.
Avoiding eye contact. Hood up. Clearly suffering.
In his hands is… another container.
“…Trade offer,” he blurts. “You give food, I give food. Fair exchange. No emotional debuffs.”
You blink.
“You made this?”
“…Ortho supervised,” he admits.
You smile.
And when you take it—
Idia’s flames flicker just a little brighter.
“…Also,” he adds quickly, “you have to eat it. That’s part of the quest. Non-negotiable.”
For once—
He’s the one insisting you don’t go without.
🍎 ————————————————— 🍎
Vil Schoenheit:
Vil notices—and disapproves.
At first.
“You made this?” he asks, examining the delicate pastries you’ve set down.
You nod, a little nervous. “I thought you might like them.”
He takes a measured bite.
The texture is perfect. The flavor is balanced. Not overly sweet.
“…Acceptable,” he says, though the faint lift of his brow betrays genuine approval.
But then—
He watches you.
Or rather, the lack of action.
“You’re not eating,” Vil states.
“I’m fine,” you reply.
He sets the pastry down immediately.
“No,” he says firmly. “You are not.”
You blink, startled.
Vil stands, crossing his arms as he looks down at you—expression sharp, but not unkind.
“Beauty is not maintained through neglect,” he continues. “Your body requires proper care. Nutrition is not optional.”
“I do eat,” you insist softly. “Just… not a lot.”
“And yet you expend effort baking for others?” he presses.
“…I like it.”
Vil pauses.
There’s no insecurity in your tone. No self-criticism.
Just quiet honesty.
“…You express affection through service,” he concludes.
You nod.
He exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving his posture.
“…Very well,” he says at last. “Then we will refine this habit.”
“Refine?”
“Yes.” He sits back down, sliding the plate between you. “If you insist on sharing your creations, then you will also partake in them.”
“I already—”
“Properly,” he corrects. “Not as an afterthought.”
He breaks a piece off, holding it out to you.
“Eat.”
Your face warms, but you listen.
And when you do—
Vil allows himself a small, satisfied smile.
“…There,” he murmurs. “Balance. Effort deserves to be experienced—not just given away, sweet potato.”
~~~~
Tag list: @edwardhartenjoyer @genevathekitty @bao-yu-sarah-morningstar-wang-9
blurb: it's her birthday and Simon will not be late.
word count: 2k
includes: a man after my own heart, soft simon, established relationship, f reader, stressy simon
notes: it’s my birthday tomorrow, this is pure indulgence. Not edited or proof read at allll lol
masterlist // ao3
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪⋆.˚
Simon wakes to the buzz of his alarm, and the faint warmth of her pressed into his back. For a moment, he lies still. Wants to stay here as long as he can. Her arm is draped over his waist, fingers tucked into his shirt. Always does that, like she needs to know that he’s still there, even in her sleep. The alarm buzzes again. He shuts it off.
Her nose wrinkles against his shoulder as she stirs, pressing her face into his back. “Stay home today.”
He slowly unravels himself from her hold, “Sorry, love.” He kisses her forehead as he heaves himself out of bed.
She groans, reaching out for him. “Don’t wanna share you with the army today.”
“Air force.” He corrects automatically, then snorts softly because it doesn’t even matter.
He tucks her back into bed, placing another kiss on her forehead. He steps back and allows himself a second to take her in. Face pillow creased, hair mussed. Soft. He runs a thumb across her cheek. “Happy birthday.”
Her lips twitch in a sleepy smile. “You remembered.”
“Course I bloody remembered.” He leans in again, placing a soft kiss on her lips.
When he pools back, he’s reluctant. If he stays here, he’ll end up very content and very late.
“Simon?” Her voice catches him before he leaves the bedroom. “Don’t be late tonight, okay?” Her eyes are searching his now. Not accusatory, just… hopeful. “You know how I hate to sit alone like the abandoned wife.”
Her words hit something old, mean in his chest. The first year they were together and he’d missed her birthday dinner entirely. Lost track of time on base. No excuse good enough to erase the image he’d walked into. Her, in a pretty dress, make up smudged by the tears, candles burnt down to pools of wax.
He swore he’d do better.
He turns to look at her. “I won’t.” He says, voice steady. “I’ll be there.”
He forces himself out of her gravity, out of their house, grabs his gear from the garage and starts the truck up. The drive to the base is cold. He’ll be there.
Base smells like coffee, damp concrete and jet fuel when he gets there. The sky has turned from steel to a pale blue, the clouds hanging low. It’s going to rain later.
He moves through the motions on autopilot. Check in, gear up, briefing room. The others are already there when he walks in. Soap tipped back on his chair, boots on the table. Gaz scrolling on his phone. Price leaning over a stack of papers with the weary focus of man who’s done this dance a thousand times and still expects it to go wrong anyway.
“Riley,” Price says without looking up. “Good of you to join us.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Sir.”
He takes his seat. His phone is on silent but the weight of it is heavier than usual in the pocket of his cargo pants.
Price runs through the day. Nothing major planned, just drills, debrief, admin bullshit that never ends. Simon listens, pen moving across paper in neat, precise notes. His mind is split down the middle; one part on routes and contingencies, the other counting down the invisible hours.
He’s got it planned. Off base by 16:30. Home, shower, change. Pick up the flowers he ordered ahead. Drive to the restaurant he booked. A small place she’s mentioned a dozen times over but never gone because “it looks too fancy for us”. Table in the corner, already paid the deposit, told them it’s her birthday but asked them not to do some mortifying singing routine.
He’s not half-assing this.
They break. Drills run long. They do an extra round because some newbie screws up and Price is in a mood. Simon doesn’t complain, never does, but the repetition nicks time away like a razor slice. By the time they hit debrief, his shoulders are tight enough to creak.
He checks his phone when there’s a lull, a quick flick of his thumb under the table.
13:41.
A text from her, sent at 11:02. Bored. Tell you captain my birthday is a national holiday and I demand he releases you early on grounds of divine law. Another, a minute later. Kidding. Love you.
His mouth does that traitorous thing where it softens around the edges. He types back under the table. No power in heaven or earth will get him to do that. Love you. I’ll be on time.
Out of debrief at 15:51. He feels the shift in the air a second before they’re dismissed, muscles coiled to spring, mind already halfway out the door.
“Riley,” Price says, catching him as he stands.
“Sir?”
“Need you to sign off on the after-action reports. Been some question from the brass about the comms failure last month.”
“Tongight?” The question slips out of his mouth before he can clamp down on it.
Price’s eyes flick up, brows lifting, “Problem?”
Simon opens his mouth. It’s her birthday. The words form, sit heavy on his tongue, stubborn. But it feels… stupid, saying it out loud here. Like admitting to something soft and fragile in the middle of steel and bullets. He hesitates a fraction too long.
“Nothin’ that won’t keep.” He mutters.
Price’s gaze lingers, sharp. The man misses nothing. After a moment, he nods. “Won’t take long. I’ll try not to keep you.”
Simon inclines his head. “Appreciate it, Sir.”
And he does appreciate it. He just wishes “won’t take long” meant what normal people think it does.
It doesn’t.
By the time he’s free the sky outside has fully clouded over and the corridors are thinning of bodies. A low rumble of distant thunder vibrates somewhere over the hangers. Simon checks his phone again as he strides towards the locker room.
17:46.
“Fuck,” he exhales under his breath.
The reservation is for 18:30. It’s at least forty minutes from here with decent traffic. He could ring her, tell her to push it back, but he sees her face so clearly in her mind, that hopeful tilt of her chin this morning and something in him digs in its heels. No. He’s not calling to say he’s late. He’s just going to not be late.
He barrels into the locker room, slams his locker open. Gear off. Layers shed with ruthless efficiently. Pulls out his civilian clothes he’d packed into his duffle this morning just in case he found himself in this very situation. Someone says his name, he ignores it.
He drags on his jeans, shirt, the jacket she likes on him. He reaches into his duffel, fingers brushing the small box tucked at the bottom. Blue ribbon, slightly crooked. Took him three attempts and a string og muttered curses to get it to look even half-presentable last night.
“LT,” Soap’s voice cuts through the haze of his focus. “You staging a jailbreak?”
Simon slams his locker door shut, turns on his heels harsh. Soap is leaning in the doorway, still geared up, smirk primed.
“Birthday.” Simon says, short. Desperate to get out. “If anyone asks, I’ve gone home.”
Simon pushes past him, and Soap mumbles something. Simon flips him off with a wave of his hand. He hits the parking tarmac like it’s a lifeline, almost jogging to the truck. He drops into the driver's seat, starts the engine, prays when it struggles to life, thanks god when it finally does, pulls out
The clock on the dash reads 17:58.
Traffic is a nightmare and because he used up a lifetime of prayers to god asking him for the truck to start, all he can do is sit there. Stare at the white end of a Rav 4. Move when it moves.
Rain has started up again, and the wipers move across the screen agonisingly slow. His jaw grinds. Knuckles wrapped white around the steering wheel. He keeps seeing her in his mind.
Sitting at that table by herself. People glancing over with that quite pitying look that civilians get when they see a pretty girl all dressed up, waiting too long. Her checking the door everytime it opens.
He was the one who saw that look on her face, years back. Coming home three nights late in a row. Promises broken and apologies starting to sound like broken records, excuses even to his own ears. She’s told him calmly one night, blinking back tears, standing in the white, stark light of the kitchen.
“I know your job is important.” She’d said, “I know it’s not a nine to five desk job. I knew that when I chose this, but I can’t be the thing you remember last. I am not an optional extra.”
It had lodged under his ribs, that. His pretty girl, trying her best not to cry as she told Simon how it would be. Still there, hadn’t dulled with time.
He looks at the clock again. 18:19.
His phone buzzes once in the cup holder. He glances down at the screen at another red light.
At the restaurant. No rush. But tell me if you’re going to be late so I can order a bottle of wine and look mysterious and intriguing instead of sad and stood up.
A tight, almost pained breath escapes him. It’s nerves disguised as a lighthearted joke. The light turns green. He goes. He doesn’t text back. Not yet.
He spots her before she spots him. He’s barely out of the truck before he’s checking the time again. 18:41. He’s eleven minutes late but it might as well be an hour in his mind.
He walks fast, cutting through the rain, hand solved into his pocket to curl around the gift box. The restaurant door swings open with the warm rush of spices, roasted meat and quiet conversation.
He pauses just inside, lets his mind and eyes adjust. Let’s a breath out. Forces his shoulders down from his ears. And there she is.
Corner table, view of the door because she knows he likes it. Candlelight paints a faint gold on her cheekbones. One hand wrapped around a glass of wine, the other resting on the table, tapping out a nervous rhythm. She’s in that dress, the one he likes. Hair done in some style he doesn't have the vocabulary for. Make up soft.
She looks… beautiful. And a little tense. Jaw set in a way that tells him she’s trying not to be annoyed, upset. Her gaze lifts, tracking movement around the room. Lands on him.
He sees it all happen in real time. Surprise, then relief and that small, quiet irritation that she doesn’t even brother to hide from him because he is the one person she won’t perform for. He deserves that.
He crosses the distance quickly.
“Love, I’m sorry.” He says as soon as he’s close enough, voice low, words pulled straight from somewhere deep. “Work ran late.”
“Doesn’t it always?” She says, but there’s not as much bite as he deserves and for that he’s grateful. “You’re here now.”
“Yeah, told you I’d come.”
He asks about her day and they fall into quiet companionship. He relaxes, bit by bit as the conversation floors. That’s what she does to him and she doesn’t even notice. Untangles his nerves, makes him human again. All of a sudden, he’s not Ghost, LT, the big scary man with an untraceable kill record. He’s Simon, a normal man, out for a birthday dinner with his pretty girl.
The food comes, warmth and spices and the comforting weight of proper meals. They talk about small things and big things. The leak in the bathroom. The neighbours cat who has adopted their windowsill. That holiday they swear they’ll take and never do. He knows he wants things he can’t give her.
This job demands too much of him. “I’m tryin’,” He says, low. “To be… better. At this. With you.”
“I know, Si.” She says, eyes crinkling in the way they do when she smiles at him. “You’re here though, aren’t you? That counts.”
He thinks of clock, always ticking against him. Thinks of the traffic. Thinks of the way he ripped his gear off. Thinks of the flowers he wasn’t able to pick up. “Barely.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She says, kindly, softly, “I don’t think they measure love in minutes.”
furthermore on the dog-coded eliot agenda: if he’s being stubborn about taking painkillers for something, parker and/or hardison hide them in a slice of cheese or a spoonful of peanut butter or something like that. eliot knows what they’re doing (hardison’s not a great liar around him, and parker watches him too intently as he eats whatever it is for her to genuinely just be offering him a snack), but he lets it slide because he trusts them not to be giving him anything weird, plus he was actually kinda hungry anyway. maybe the thought of hurtin a little less ain’t bad either. and yes, he rolls his eyes when p/h scurry off into the other room to clearly find the other and high-five/hiss a yessss!! over their victory, but listen, they’re his idiots, okay?? and he loves them forever
It’s not anything, Eddie tells himself. Buck is at work. They probably just got called out, and Buck can’t pick up because he’s busy hauling a hose line or keeping someone’s blood inside of their body. He’ll call back when they’re back in the engine, or maybe when he’s back at the station and has some privacy.
And besides, it’s not like Eddie has anything urgent to tell him. He can wait. It’ll be fine.
He drums his fingers all through the next passenger, has one star docked off his rating for it. Driver seemed distracted, the comment says. The atmosphere was kind of tense.
Which is ridiculous, because he’s not tense. He’s—normal. Just a normal guy waiting for his—waiting for a friend to return a call. Like people normally do.
He tries Buck again, gets his voicemail again. The message is so familiar he can mouth along with it, word for word, and usually the smile in Buck’s voice coaxes a matching smile out of him, but not today.
Which is ridiculous, he tells himself again. There’s nothing to distinguish today from any other day.
But it doesn’t make the tension go away.
Buck doesn’t call back during his next passenger, or the one after that. Eddie tries to call again, and at this point he’s not surprised when he gets voicemail again.
Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, he tries to rationalise, but he doesn’t believe it anymore.
If he ever had.
It’s been hours. Buck should have called back by now. Texted, at least, a quick note to say he’s on a call. The fact that he hasn’t means—
Eddie doesn’t want to think about what it means.
He clocks out on the rideshare app and turns towards home. It’s about to hit rush hour and he should really keep driving for a couple of hours more, but he’s not—he can’t—
It’s been hours since he’s heard from Buck, and he can’t—
The TV is on when he lets himself into the house, Christopher parked frozen in front of it. “What’s goi—” Eddie starts to ask, and trails off as his eyes focus on the screen.
On the chyron: LOS ANGELES FIREFIGHTERS TRAPPED INSIDE BIOHAZARD FACILITY.
On the engines parked outside the building, bright red against the pavement, the number 118 clearly emblazoned across them.
Oh.
“Is—” he starts to ask, and the word comes out as a croak, the rest of them stuck somewhere in his throat. He doesn’t even know what he was going to ask, doesn’t know if Christopher would have answers, doesn’t know if he even wants the answers. If it would be better to teeter on the edge of the chasm forever than to fall into it.
But the decision isn’t his to make. The television cuts back to a reporter clutching a microphone, her expression grim. “We’ve just received word that at least one of the firefighters trapped inside the facility has contracted a deadly viral disease. At least one firefighter is known to be otherwise injured. Authorities remain tight-lipped, but we’ll bring you more information as soon as we get it. There is no word yet on when—or if—these firefighters can be extricated.”
Oh.
Eddie’s heart drops into his stomach, falls out the bottom and keeps going. Buck is—Buck might be—
Buck could be dead. Buck could be dying at this very moment, and Eddie is—
Eddie is eight hundred miles away, gripping the back of the sofa like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
Buck could be dead, and all Eddie wants to do is pick up the phone and call him, pray that this time, by some miracle, he actually answers. All he wants is to see Buck, to hear his voice, to tell him—
summary: Riza comes to a realisation - it felt as though she’d been hit with a bolt to the chest
rated: g | words: 972 | tags: young love, pre-canon, yearning
read on ao3
snippet:
The feeling crept up on her.
It was startling.
The morning was just like any other, then he entered the room, freshly shaved and washed. His hair slicked back and posture straight as is proper. Fully suited in his military blues with a sleek, shining black coat tossed over his arm. Riza had been peeling vegetables for her soup that afternoon and after one, prolonged look at him, she almost dropped the carrot on the table. Riza fumbled and managed not to slice the skin of her fingers, grasping at the knife and vegetable with now shaking hands.
“Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”
“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.”
Or:
How to live well and get railed through the power of compliments.
Part 1 of 3, 5.8k words, mature, cw: alcohol, cannabis, bisexual lusting in every direction
Read on AO3 I Read part two | Read part three
"I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. "
Frank O'Hara, "Meditations in an Emergency"
“I just think people should compliment each other more, that’s all,” you declare, biting the cherry off the plastic sword that Kat, the bartender, had stuck in your Dirty Shirley. “Like we think these things all the time. Her scarf is pretty, or that guy’s got a cool haircut or whatever. We notice them, we think about them, but so rarely do we sayit, you know? Even though being complimented is the best,” you say emphatically, using the tiny sword to punctuate your words.
Kat nods and gives you a second cherry because Kat is good people. Kat serves you doubles while charging for singles and listens to you ramble and lets you spread your notebooks and laptop on the bar when it’s slow, like tonight.
It’s early on a Friday evening which means you’re supposed to be writing. You pay the bills as a ghostwriter during the week, and you like it, you do. The flexibility to work strange hours late into the night, remote so you can write in coffee shops and cocktail bars and anywhere loud enough to drown out the more distracting of your thoughts.
The problem is you devote so much time to other people’s work that you’d promised to use weekends for your own ideas. Easier said than done, without an irate publisher on the other end setting deadlines and demanding pages. The other problem with your ideas is that you just have so many of them; find it hard to complete one without getting distracted by another, your hard-drive a graveyard of drafts in various states of decomposition. But routine helped, so there at the bar you’ve sat every Friday night for almost two months, even if you’ve spent proportionally less time writing than people-watching and sweet-talking Kat into making you interesting drinks off-menu. (“This is a dive bar,” she’s told you more than once. “We don’t have a menu to be off of.”)
It’s not not part of your writing process, you reason. You’re a firm believer that life is stranger than fiction and many of your most delightful ideas have come from chance observations and surprising interactions—the very reason you’d been thinking about the importance of compliments in the first place.
“I just think we should be more intentional about finding joy in each other. For example, what would you say, darling Kat,” you begin, batting your eyes at her sweetly, “if I told you that you look fucking incredible now and always, you’re so hot it gives me hives if I look at you straight on, and more specifically that little curl that’s coming out of your ponytail is particularly fetching and I like it a lot?”
She rolls her eyes, which is as good as a smile from Kat. “I would say you should slow down on the Shirleys.”
You wouldn’t say the two of you were friends, not really, but there was a familiarity and ease in the relationship now that warmed you. You’d met her your very first night while on your usual ramble to learn a new place, strolling until you make sense of its curves and corners and spirit.
The neighborhood you’d found an apartment in wasn’t the best, but it was furnished and month-to-month and good enough for you. Best of all, you’d only needed to wander in the late fall snow a couple blocks before you’d struck gold: drawn like a moth to a blinking neon sign and a door just opening, spilling warm light and the sounds of overlapping laughter into the night.
Inside it really was a dive, all sticky floors and dollar bills pinned to the ceiling, a jukebox that took dimes and a blonde bombshell behind the counter who served with a decided lack of smile. But a week of you showing up and chattering at her had cracked that icy shell enough to get a name and a few raised eyebrows, instead of complete silence. By the time you’d earned your discount as a regular around the third week, she’d occasionally deign to comment on your more interesting trains of thought; offer some piercing observations of her own if she was in a good mood.
Fast-forward a month and change, and now you know her well enough to bring a second iced coffee when you breeze in for the evening, Kat pulling a bottle of Irish cream from the well as you pop off the lids in a dance thrilling in its routine.
Your coffee’s slowly melting beside you, abandoned in lieu of the syrupy-sweet mess Kat had waiting for you. She sips at the dregs of her own as she considers her verdict on your compliment, hip propped against the side of the bar.
“I don’t know if I’d particularly appreciate a stranger saying that to me. Don’t want strangers saying anything to me, really,” she frowns, “but particularly the bit about the hives.”
“I might have gone too hard out the gate with that one,” you admit. “But more importantly, I think you might be in the wrong profession for strangers not talking to you.”
She flips you the bird causally as she goes to greet the two regulars slipping into place at the end of the bar. It’s early in the night and still mostly empty; only a few singles and two-tops stopping for an after-shift drink, giving you and Kat plenty of time to talk. It’d get rowdy enough later on—the voices louder, the jukebox queue a little more violent—but you’d found among the chaos was when you were at your best.
“Hives aside, you know what I mean though, right?” you pick back up when Kat returns. “Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”
“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.”
You wave this aside, already mentally on a sailboat somewhere sunny, tropical, salt-air in your face. “I always thought it’d be fun to be a sailor,” you say dreamily, propping your chin on your hand. “Kerouac was a Merchant Marine, did you know?"
Kat makes a face. It’s upsetting how prettily she pouts.
“What, you didn’t like the book?” You’d loaned her a copy of The Dharma Bums the week before, slim and beloved enough that you carried it with you instead of borrowing a copy from the local library, like you usually did. You kept a collection of those library cards rattling around in an old Altoids tin—the only souvenirs you kept from all the various cities you’d visited in your travels.
“It was fine. Good, even, if you’re into that sort of thing,” Kat offered, swirling her coffee around. “He’s just so fucking mopey. I wanted to shake him, like c’mon man, you need to stop thinking about your life and actually fucking live it,” she finishes, as animated she ever gets. Which, admittedly, is only slightly more expressive than usual: eyes narrowed a touch further, three degrees more derision in her tone.
Kat prefers nonfiction. History. Facts. Still reads everything you recommend, but rarely finishes one without getting frustrated with protagonists making dumb decisions and whining about their life choices. And while some of the books she recommends to you are a little dry at times, they’re certainly illuminating—and the last one about organ harvesting was surprisingly catalytic for story ideas.
You shrug, acknowledging the point. She’s not wrong, but you live most of your life in your own words and your own worlds, so it doesn’t quite bother you in the same way. Although, now that she mentions it…
“You know, all of that is kind of to my earlier point. Giving someone a compliment is like the ultimate shortcut to living outside your head. You’re not all wrapped up in your own thoughts and issues, but appreciating the world and the people around you. Even if you don’t say it—which you should—it means you’re paying attention. Noticing.”
You drain the last of your Shirley, swapping it out for the coffee and swirling around the diluted ice. “Proposal: we make a game of it, tonight. We notice.” It wouldn’t be that different from what you and Kat normally did: share little observations about other patrons, trade theories on this person’s job or that person’s backstory. They’d just be a little more…intentional about it tonight.
"Keep your eye out for any interesting hats or weird pins or extremely sexy noses and come and tell me. That way we can both enjoy it,” you entreat her, clasping your hands together in anticipatory delight.
You know better than to suggest Kat actually compliment anyone. You’re optimistic, not delusional.
“What constitutes an extremely sexy nose?” she asks, frowning at you beautifully.
“Oh Kat, some things can’t be taught,” you tell her with a pitying shake of the head.
She rolls her eyes and heads to the other end of the bar, greeting a nicely-dressed couple as they sink onto the cracked vinyl stools. Looking around like they might be feeling just a wee bit out of place. You catch the gaze of one of the women and smile. “I love your dress,” you tell her, and feel the joy of her answering blush bubble sweet and bright in your veins.
…
You pride yourself on having excellent ideas, but this is easily one of your best. You get a tremendous amount of writing done, unusually productive riding the high of giving out compliments left and right. Not so many that it feels insincere and never any you don’t mean, but Baader–Meinhof is a real sonofabitch because it’s true that the more you look the more you see to appreciate.
Like Bobby, the union electrician who wears his name in blue, embroidered on the pocket of his work shirt. Not machine-stitched but hand-made, the careful stitches illuminated when he leans over to call out his order. His wife’s handiwork, he shares when you ask. “Paid special for her embroidery but still makes time to do all of my shirts. So I can carry her love around all day,” he tells you proudly, unabashed even when his friends rib him good-naturedly.
After Bobby comes the lady whose leopard print nails match her furry coat, the one who winks at you when she catches you looking admiringly from across the bar. Then there’s the burly biker who sits down to share a themed photoshoot of their toy poodle when you compliment the photo on their lockscreen. Others in between, some you speak to, some you don’t—but all you appreciate in a way you vow to do more in the future.
Inevitably, little pieces of what you observe trickle onto the page, fleshing out bits of characters and sparking ideas you jot down in bursts of inspiration. You won’t know until later if you’ll end up keeping any of it, but you like the thought that that you’ll always have some part of this moment—the people, the place, the time—woven into your writing. A little souvenir in-and-of-itself.
Though the night gets progressively busier, Kat swings by from time to time to share her observations: money fished from strange locations, custom bank cards, funny pins she spies when customers lean close to shout their orders over the music—partially your fault, after you compliment an old geezer’s song choice and spend twenty minutes combing through the catalogue with him, cackling as you feed dime after dime and queue enough yacht rock to last a fair few hours.
All told, you’re feeling fucking incredible as synth solo from Toto’s “Rosanna” sends you wriggling in your seat. You’ve a few thousand words under your belt and the high off all those little moments of kinship is making you feel sparkling and happy and well, which, historically speaking, can sometimes be a challenge for you.
Not tonight, and you grin at Kat when she slumps next to you, enjoying a brief reprieve from new customers.
“Whatcha got for me, killer?” you ask her, fishing in your bag for a granola bar. She takes it with a grateful look, shoving half of it in her mouth and words mumbled as she chews.
“You’re gonna fucking love this. A mohawk, dude. In 2024.”
You perk up. It’s pretty packed now, but you can’t believe you missed a cut that attention-getting. “Liberty spikes?” you ask hopefully. You adored the punks of your acquaintance—always had interesting thoughts and insider tips on the local music scene.
Kat shakes her head. “Nah, it was short. Gym rat type, I think. Good tip, nice accent. Scottish,” she clarifies around the last of the granola bar. “Talked some shit about the ‘self-evident superiority of whisky over bourbon’ as he ordered a Maker’s for his friend.”
You hum, craning your head. “See where they sat?”
She shakes her head. “Asked about smoking though, so probably on the patio.”
Calling it a patio was generous—a small bit of grass with a couple white lawn chairs and an ashtray, mostly. But there was a heat-lamp that worked roughly sixty percent of the time, which made the bar very popular with those in the know on cold nights like this.
“Speaking of, ‘bout time to take your break?”
If it wasn’t too busy Frank, the bouncer, would watch the bar while you and Kat split a joint in the back, sitting in companionable silence and pointing out shooting stars and passing satellites—clear skies a benefit of the city’s frigid nights. Kat knew a startling amount about astronomy but absolutely zilch about astrology; could tell you the history of the universe up to the surface of last scattering but only blinked when you’d asked if she was a Capricorn or a Scorpio.
Kat pushes her bangs off her sweaty forehead and checks the clock, then whistles to get Frank’s attention. You shove your laptop into your bag but don’t bother with a coat—your cheeks are flushed from the warmth of the crowd and you don’t mind the cold, not really.
The patio initially looks abandoned, silent but for the wet sound of car tires moving through the snow-choked alley. Not totally surprising; most balk at below-zero temps even with the lamp. Snow clumps heavy and wet on the plastic chairs and the overturned garbage pail that serves as a footrest, but the sky is clear—a thousand tiny pinpricks visible in the heavens.
You breathe in until the night air fills your lungs and you feel fresh and clean and cracked open wide, just pouring out love into the world.
Movement in your periphery catches your eye and oh, Kat was right, not a punk at all.
You’re not quite sure what to make of the two men standing half-shadowed near the lamp. Big is the first word that comes to mind and perhaps that’s sufficient for now, since you can’t seem to stop ogling the breadth of their shoulders and the curve of those mouthwatering thighs long enough to bother with anything else.
Kat had thought gym-rat but you’d put money on those muscles not being just for show—there’s too much strength, too much potential for carnage disguised in that plush softness that comes from power in repose.
“Why hullo there, barkeep,” the one with the shaggy, soft-looking mohawk greets Kat, his accent just as charming as promised. “And barkeep’s friend,” he nods warmly to you as you come close enough to get a good look at his face. To latch on to details like the too-blue shade of his eyes and the too-sharp canines in his smile, the silvery-white starburst of a scar across his stubbled chin.
“Christ you’re pretty,” you hear yourself say. This happens sometimes, your mouth just venturing off on its own to get you into trouble.
Kat groans overlap with the man’s chuckle. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” he purrs, propping the lit cigarette between his lips and sticking out a hand. His palm is broad and callused against your own as you properly introduce Kat and yourself.
“I’m Soap, this here’s Ghost,” he offers in turn, nodding towards his friend who steps forward, murmurs a quiet greeting. He’s enough in the light now to reveal dark eyes shadowed under a hood, skeleton gloves and a matching skull-print balaclava pushed up far enough to accommodate a lit cigarette.
“Fuck me, that’s cool as shit,” you grin goofily at him, immediately charmed by the weirdness of it all.
“Well, since you asked so nicely,” the man says affably, his voice a rumble deep in his chest. He doesn’t smile but there’s a little twist of his mouth that could be amused, if you squint.
“Jesus Christ,” Kat’s eyes shut briefly in second-hand embarrassment. “She’s on a mission about compliments tonight. Noticing people,” she tells them with bemused emphasis as she clears off the chairs, kicks snow off the garbage can.
“I just think it’s important to be more open with our affection, even with strangers. Especially with strangers,” you argue, dropping into one of the seats.
You pull out the battered Altoids tin that holds your stash and a few pre-rolled joints.
“Will this bother you?” you ask the men, holding one up.
They shake their heads, amused.
“Good, because it’s my fucking bar,” Kat snorts, plucking it from your fingers and dropping into the chair next to you.
“What, you own this place?” you say, flabbergasted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Kat holds the joint in her mouth and cups a hand around her lighter flame, coaxing it to life despite the wind. She takes a deep drag, tilting her head up before releasing a thick cloud of smoke into the air.
It looks wicked cool right up until she folds in half, coughing desperately on the tail end of the exhale. You can’t fucking blame her; you’d bought it off your teenage neighbor, a science prodigy who claimed to have developed the perfect strain. Ivy League, he called it, since it had paid for his entire college fund.
Kat straightens up, red face feigning composure as she passes you the joint. “You never asked,” she finally says, voice a little strained.
And that was just…well, fair, actually.
“Huh,” you say brilliantly, struggling not to cough on your own exhale and bidding adieu to any dreams of looking cool in front of all the fucking fashion models around you. “You know, I did wonder when you’d get in trouble with your boss about the free drinks thing. And the drinking on the job thing. And the this on the job thing,” you say, frowning as you contemplate the joint.
You offer it up to the men and Soap takes it, your hands brushing long enough to send a little frisson through your blood.
“You’ve known each other long, then?” he asks, taking a puff. Turning a vibrant shade of red as he heroically—and futilely—tries to hold in a cough.
“Oh, we go way back,” you say very sincerely. “I helped her bury the body of her ex-husband years ago, a mafioso named Jimmy the Janitor because he cleaned up, if you know what I mean.”
“I met you two months ago. And I’m a lesbian,” Kat contradicts blandly.
“I didn’t know that, either!” you exclaim, smacking her in the shoulder. “What the fuck, dude, I would have started flirting with you ages ago.”
“You’re not my type,” she says devastating, and Ghost snorts when you mime a dagger to the heart. The joint glows red between his full lips, crossed with scars that shine silvery in the moonlight and trail up beyond his mask. Exhales in one long, smooth breath and looks suitably smug about it, the fucker.
“I do seem to remember you saying something earlier about me being ‘so hot I give you hives.’” Kat reminds you. “You telling me that wasn’t flirting?”
“Nah, that’s just being neighborly,” you beam at her.
“I shudder to think what your flirting does look like.”
“That’s the appropriate response, honestly.”
Ghost barks out a laugh and you shoot him a cheeky wink before turning back to Kat. “Alright then killer, gimmie the goods. What is your type?” you prod, hooking your ankle around her own. “Is it a black cat, golden retriever thing? I can bark, babe, just say the word.”
Soap damn near chokes on his drink but Kat only sighs, more fond than exasperated. She takes the joint and leans in, bringing your faces only a few inches apart. You watch, riveted, as she brings it to her cherry-red lips and inhales deeply. Holds your gaze and leans ever so slightly closer, the moment stretching into eternity as she releases a slow, deliberate cloud of smoke directly into your face. You bring a hand to your mouth, think you might actually be drooling.
“MILFs,” she answers finally, devastatingly. She tucks the joint between your fingers before patting your hand and heading back inside—as good as a kiss on the mouth from anyone else.
“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” Soap's voice is rough as the door closes behind her.
“You’re telling me, pal,” you sink comically in your chair. “I think she broke me.” You’d already been drunk off the night’s joy but now you feel lightheaded with desire, literally dizzy with it.
This is not an uncommon response to Kat, you suppose. Nor, you expect, to the pretty lads that remain.
You summon your forces and sit back upright, kicking over the newly empty chair in offering. Ghost takes it, the plastic frame creaking under his bulk while Soap drops down on the garbage pail, resting his elbows on jean-clad knees. You pass around the rest of the joint in companionable silence, and it’s just…nice, all of it. The cold at your back and the heat of the lamp on your face, the fading alcohol buzz replaced by the sweeter, steadier high of the weed, always better at gentling your nerves and clearing your head. The easy camaraderie of smokers cast out into the cold, the same thing in almost every city and country you’d ever seen. You smile, thinking back on all those shared lighters and bummed cigarettes over the years. All those ships passing in the night.
“Gettin’ us a refill,” Soap finally says, standing up and snagging Ghost’s empty glass, hooking their pinkies together briefly in the action. You note it and immediately drop the thought, scalded. Know you will literally, actually combust if let your brain run-rabbit imagining the two of them together. All that muscle, all that strength, curved around each other, curved around you…
“What’ll it be, bonnie?” Soap’s warm voice snaps you out of your reverie and you flush, sure from his smirk that he can read the direction of your thoughts. You were legendarily bad at poker—couldn’t keep a neutral expression if they paid you to.
“Dealer’s choice, please and thank you,” you grin at him despite your embarrassment—turning down a free drink was against your moral code.
He gives you that shark-like smile and Ghost tsks as he heads inside. “You’ll probably regret that, birdie. Johnny’s got atrocious taste.”
“Ah can fucking hear you, you Manc twat,” Soap calls from the door, a little extra Scottish in his snark. Ghost chuckles low, stretching his feet out into your space.
“It’s Manchester then, our kid?” you ask, kicking your foot playfully against his boot. Leaving it there when he lets you. “Whose your fighter then, Liam or Noel?”
He considers for a moment. “Liam. I like his spunk.”
“‘A man with a fork in a world of soup,’” you quote, nodding approvingly. “I get that.”
You toy with the Altoids tin, debate lighting up another one. Ghost fishes a pouch of rolling tobacco out of the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and holds it up questioningly.
“Clever boy,” you praise, and he leans forward to pass it to you, big hands dwarfing your own.
When he settles back in his chair, he tangles his feet with yours properly and you feel a little flutter low in your belly.
You prep the blunt in a practiced motion, balancing the tin on your knees as you sprinkle the peaty tobacco overtop the flower evenly. “I’ve always been more of a Blur than Oasis fella, myself,” you finally offer to distract from the weight of his gaze. “Damon Alburn, the man you are,” you murmur, putting a fervent hand to your heart.
“Oi, we talking about the Gorillaz then?” Soap calls out, juggling glasses as he kicks the door shut behind him, muffling the chatter from inside. “Fucking choon after choon, them,” he declares, dropping back onto the pail.
He passes Ghost a rocks glass filled with an inch of amber that matches his own, his eyes tracking where your tongue runs across the filter paper, wetting it. He trades you the finished smoke for a glass with something alarmingly orange in it, a pink plastic sword stuck with three cherries on top.
You sniff skeptically, all sweet and citrusy and strong. “This must be off-menu.”
“Dive bar innit, no menu to be off of,” Soap points out, and you smile at the familiar response.
You take a curious sip, looking up in surprise when you taste a bright splash of orange and vanilla across your tongue. “That’s fucking incredible,” you say, eyes wide. “What is it and why haven’t I been having it all night?”
Soap grins at you, looking suspiciously pleased with himself. “Had a feeling you were a lass that’d enjoy a slow, comfortable screw against the wall.”
Ghost groans, and you squint skeptically at Soap. “Who doesn’t, what’s that got to do with my drink?”
Soap laughs, delighted. “That’s the name of the drink, bonnie. A Slow Comfortable Screw Against The Wall,” he says with emphasis.
Ah. Well. That’s—oh, motherfucker. “Does Kat know that?” She’s probably laughing her ass off in there, the sadist.
“Oh, aye. She seemed amused. Though she made a fucking unnerving amount of eye contact while stabbing the wee cherries,” he says, eying the garnish. “Scariest fucking thing I’ve seen in a minute. Reminded me of a friend of ours, actually,” he says, giving Ghost a wry look as he takes a sip and sets the glass down.
He pulls out his own lighter to coax the blunt to life, a battered Bic with SOAP scrawled in thick, Sharpied letters. He lets out a pleased sigh as the opaque smoke curls through the cold air, then leans forward to rest his elbows back on his knees.
“Now, as for why you weren’t getting it slow, comfortable, or otherwise before now, I couldn’t say,” he tells you, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “But I think I speak for both of us when I say we’re more than happy to provide for the rest of the night. Isn’t that right L.T.?”
“Right enough there, Johnny.” Ghost’s voice is closer to a growl, setting off a delightful curl of heat in your belly.
You nibble on your straw and pretend their attention isn’t going straight to your head, twice as good as the drink or the drugs. “You know what they say about variety and spice of life. Might get bored with just a screw against the wall. Got any thoughts on horizontal surfaces?” you tease, enjoying the way Ghost smirks around the blunt.
But oh, is that a dimple you suddenly see carving out of one scarred cheek? Before you’re even conscious of it you’re leaning in for a closer look, balancing with one hand on his thigh. “I adore your dimple,” you tell him sincerely, undoing any hope you had of appearing cool and hard-to-get. “It is very cute.” You give him a businesslike pat on the knee and start to pull away, but he catches you gently before you get too far.
“Oh, sweet girl,” he purrs, petting over the soft skin of your wrist with an adoring thumb. “We’ll keep you entertained, don’t you worry. Bored is the last thing you’ll be, right Johnny?” Ghost say. He squeezes gently once before letting go, settling back with a satisfied smile. You try to play your delighted shiver off as one of chill, but you suspect your violent blush isn’t selling it.
“Oh, I fuckin’ swear to it, L.T.,” Soap answers, winking at Ghost before unfolding his big bulk from the garbage can. “We’ll give you what need, bonnie, promise. Starting with this.” Then his arm is around your waist and you’re in the fucking air and—
Oh, that’s not so bad, actually.
Soap sinks into the lawn chair and settles you across his lap, surrounding you with delicious warmth and a scent like whisky and salt air. Your brain goes a bit soft and cottony for a moment and you latch on to the gentle pressure of his arms. Manhandling has always been a shortcut to your most devastated self, the kind of stupid and sweet and sated that you’ve only found once or twice through chemistry or luck or sheer fucking determination, and it bodes very well for the night to come.
Besides, for all he wears only a bomber jacket, the Scotsman is radiating heat like a furnace and it’s the perfect sensory foil to the plummeting temperatures, a few clouds coming to fleck the sky.
“Saw you shiver. Couldn’t let our girl be cold now can I?” Soap says, chucking you under the chin like a kid. Should be stupid but you fucking like it, can’t help but smile up at him. Can’t remember the last time someone treated you so sweet, like you were something to protect. To indulge.
Ghost’s eyes are fond on the pair of you, reaching out to trap Soap’s feet the same way he had yours a few moments before. One of his hands reaches to splay possessively over your thigh, resting it there and turning your insides liquid.
There’s no reason it should be as easy as it is, getting all wrapped up in each other as the night stretches on and the clouds continue to gather, chatting quietly and smoking through the rest of the blunt and finishing your drinks just as the first fat, fluffy flakes of snow begin to fall.
You watch, delighted, as the storm kicks up in a sudden flurry; a magical, glimmering coat that turns the world into one whole thing. Untouched and perfect and silent except for the tides of your breath and the slight hum of the heat lamp, small sounds within a vast, quiet night.
You sigh in Soap’s arms, totally and unexpectedly content, luxuriating in the way your blood hums in anticipation of the night’s inevitable conclusion.
People asked if you got lonely, sometimes, traveling the way you did. Never staying anywhere for more than a few months, only occasionally breezing through past towns for a few loved-up reunions before the wind starts pressing at your back.
And though it’s true you’ve been seeking a place of your own, a place where you could belong, this, too, means something. To have these beautiful, fleeting moments of connection with once-strangers, to lose yourself completely in the headiness of such quick intimacies, no less passionate or kind or devastating for their brief duration. All those countless moments of connection—romantic, sexual, platonic—coalescing into a kind of soft sweetness to hold on to long after you’ve forgotten a name or had a face grow fuzzy with memory.
All of that sweetness is swirling inside you as you nudge Soap’s chin with your head, drawing his attention from where he’d been conversing softly with Ghost, one hand petting absently at your waist.
“Take me home?” you ask softly, and his eyes melt at the question, his hand coming up to thumb a little desperately at your mouth.
“Oh, the Cap’n would love that,” Ghost drawls. “Fall arse-over-tits over a sweet thing like you walking through the door.”
“My home,” you clarify, though you’re not opposed—especially if their friend (captain?) is anything like them. “I live like four blocks that way,” you chuck a thumb vaguely over your shoulder.
“Well why didn’t you say so, bonnie’,” Soap says, standing up and dumping you on your feet. Before you can be too offended, he grabs your chin and presses his mouth against yours, searing hot and leaving you breathless when he pulls away too soon. You look up at him a little dazed and he pets his thumb across your chin, grinning. “Ghost is right. Too sweet for your own good, darlin’. T’wouldn’t be right for us to let you walk home alone, sweet thing like you. Not in a neighborhood like this.”
“Au contraire mon frère, I’m fast as shit,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes. This occasionally happened when you got crossfaded in particularly the right way, became possessed with the urge to tear off down a darkened street; drunk on the feeling of wind against your face and your heart hammering in your chest. Feeling like you could fucking fly. “No bad guy’s gonna catch me, no way.”
“That right, little rabbit?” Ghost moves as silent as his name, a sudden warmth at your back without you even noticing he’d left his chair. He curves that big body around you, nipping at the soft skin at your neck and caging you in against the firmness of Soap’s chest. “Gonna let us chase you?” he near growls.
The thought sends goosebumps rising along your arms. To be wanted, to be chased. To be caught.
Ghost groans when you lean back against him, tipping your head back to nip at his jaw in return. “Home. Now,” he commands lowly, pulling down his mask.
You can’t help your shit-eating grin as you tug them through the door and the thinning crowd to collect your long-abandoned things from the bar.
Kat eyes the three of you suspiciously. “If I find cum anywhere on that fucking patio I will have your balls in a bear trap,” she threatens.
“No promises,” you wink at her, laughing when she flips you the bird. You shrug on your coat and pick up your bag, which Ghost immediately appropriates, slinging it over one shoulder. He ignores your amused tug on the strap, looking over your head to plot the swiftest exit.
“Don’t wait up, babe!” you say, blowing a kiss to Kat as Ghost tows you and Soap toward the door.
“Call me if you need help burying the bodies,” Kat offers in response, and you cackle at the uncertain looks the late-night crowd shoots you both.
And then it’s just the three of you and the cold and the night, pressed together like you’re one body in the snow-crowned streets.
