'Overgrown' - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader | Chapter Two
(photo credit: me [@honeysickledream])
warnings/tags: F!reader, no use of Y/N and no physical descriptions of reader, reader is a healer and midwife, this is set in a very vague ‘middle ages’ time, forced/arranged marriage, some angst, slow burn (heavy emphasis on slow for this entire series), miscommunication, relationship issues, relationship doubts, no smut this time around (again) but still minors DNI, brief mentions of: pregnancy (side character), childbirth and recovery (same side character gives birth off screen) | that's all, I think, but if I missed anything, lmk!
word count: ~1.2k
synopsis: You had married Simon four months ago, the whole thing some stupid forced arrangement. You had left everything you knew behind to live with Simon in his cabin a few miles out from his hometown. You weren't sure you could classify your relationship as a marriage, or even say truthfully that you lived with him because he wasn't around very often. Some part of you hopes things improve, but you're not unwillingly to do what you can to live the life you'd originally planned for.
a/n: a bit shorter than the first part, but that's what I get for procrastinating my first paper of the semester. i have to get my procrastination under wraps (they say after not doing so while in undergrad)
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The walk to town seemed further today. For every step you took, the dirt path seemed to stretch another mile. You’d been up since a little after midnight, deciding to be productive with your time instead of wallowing in your bed, fuming. Four loaves had been baked, the open hearth cleaned of ash and the wood replenished for today’s use. Clean sheets had been folded and put away, a chore you had been putting off since you first hung the linens on the line, and the shelves in the larder had been dusted for the first time in well over a month. You’d even fetched water for Simon’s bath after your own, leaving them before the clean hearth to heat at his leisure. When he was around, he often fetched his own water, but you’d felt the need to do it for him today. Maybe it had been your guilt for how you acted last night that led you to the kind task.
A small, silent apology. A show of care, awareness.
You supposed it was another sign of guilt when you’d left a little before he woke, still on edge from his return and not wishing to subject him to any more crankiness. No, you decided to bottle up your crankiness in case someone got on your bad side, like the nosy or overly-opinionated family members your patients seemed to have in spades.
The south portcullis had just finished rising as the town came into view and the woods were left behind. All but the western portcullis were left closed during the night, though you weren’t sure why. The early risers were already on the streets, the town relatively quiet, a few businesses open and preparing for customers. The baker, a sweet man with a perpetually red nose and an apron that always seemed to have a new flower embroidered on the hem by his daughter, was displaying his fresh loaves with the usual remarkable precision. Across the road, the butcher and his apprentices—his twin sons—were laying out fresh hides on the racks beside their shop.
A mother exited her home, flanked by her small army of sleepy children who all had their own ways to grump at her for getting them ready for the day. An elderly couple you’d gotten to know well these last four months, both regularly needing new pots pepper pastes and lavender, barely poultices for their joint pains, were slowly walking their usual route. When they waved to you, you waved back and gave them a warm smile.
They had been married for ages, had a gaggle of children who each had gaggles of their own. Their oldest son and his family had moved back to the town a few weeks ago to be close to the aging couple and you saw them often when you did your house-visits. Nice enough folks, the oldest son and his family, and they always made sure to stay out of the way when you went about your business. The son had even tried to give you some extra coin for tending to his parents, which you kindly declined, telling him that you charged the same for everyone, no ifs, ands or buts about it.
You turned down narrow road and made your way to the fifth door on the left, rapping your knuckles against the faded red door three times. Today was a one patient day, the other healers and midwives in the town tending to your usual patients as well as their own, and for good reason. The woman who answered was sweaty and out of breath, teeth clenched. You glanced to her gravid belly and gave her a sympathetic look. Apparently your suggested methods of inducing labor had worked, and by the tension in her shoulders and the exhaustion in her eyes, early labor had been going on for quite some time, and the likelihood of a quick transition to active labor now that you were here, was slim.
***
The late afternoon had been greeted by the sweet wails of a newborn, and those stopped outside the home, waiting with bated breath for babe’s arrival, broke out in cheers and song. Once the mother and babe were clean and situated, you began the second part of your duties as midwife: tending to the home for an easier transition. You sent the dirtied sheets and the mother’s shroud to a laundress paid for with the money from your skirt pocket, then prepared a light meal for the family since such excitement and tension could cause a heavy meal to not sit properly. After the new mother’s husband returned, and your final check for her and the babe’s health was completed, you took your payment, stuffed your messed apron into your medical bag and left.
As was your tradition following a successful delivery, you popped into the bakery and ordered a small fruit tart. You ate it slowly as you stood outside and watched as the evening crowds began to form as the sky turned a sweet mixture of lilac and peony. The tart was flaky, the sugar on top not yet dissolved, and the fruit inside had just the right amount of tang.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a familiar figure: Simon.
Simon?
Your heart painfully skipped a beat as your eyes followed him as he went to the butcher’s. You finished the rest of your tart quickly and dusted your hands off as you wove through the crowds to catch up to him. Seeing him in town was a first, you were nearly sure of that. And you were entirely sure that it was him when you peered through the window of the butcher’s shop, catching the eye of the butcher himself, his twin sons, and finally Simon whose brows rose slowly at you.
There was a passing of coin and scribbled-on parchment, then Simon headed right for the door. Right for you. You quickly pushed away from the window and turned to face the crowds of people as if nothing had happened at all. Except it had, and you were sure you were about to be given a plethora of strange looks by Simon.
Yet he didn’t give you a strange look. He did search your face, though, then looked you up and down. His eyes lingered on your torso, noting the absence of your apron, you supposed. “Done for the day?” he asked.
You nodded. “I only had one patient today, and I’m thankful for that.” You chewed your cheek as you stood there beside him, the two of you looking towards the townspeople who didn’t pay either of you any mind. You looked down and noticed the basket in his left hand, the list inside it, and the money in your skirt pocket seemed to suddenly weigh a ton.
Your mind wandered to the flimsy floorboard in your bedroom, the one by your door that you pried up almost every day, and what was underneath it. Money. Most of the money you earned from your profession went into the satchel hidden under the floorboard. A failsafe, an escape plan in case you couldn’t bear to remain in the marriage.
“Are you headed to the market?” you asked before you could stop yourself. There was an opportunity lurking if he was. When he nodded, you followed suit. “I’ll come along,” you told him. “Maybe we could talk, too?”
