OMG ITS HERE! And thus starts Stanley’s journey into the unknown… And ends the first portion of this funny little AU. There will be more to come…. Eventually. Seriously, I have plans.
Big plans. And apparently so does our good pal Mx Lottie. Are they being genuine? Or is it all one big trick? What could possibly go wrong?
The air was thick with the sharp tang of whiskey and the faint sting of antiseptic. Lando slouched in his chair, his knuckles paling as he pulled the cotton bandage tighter around his ribs, teeth gritted against the dull throb of pain. The cut wasn’t deep, but it burned like hell—just another reminder of how quickly things could turn sideways in this world.
Tonight was a disaster.
Noxium’s breakthrough in the drug market had sent shockwaves throughout the city. The Reaper’s Circle had monopolized the most potent product in circulation, one that rivaled anything the Leclercs or any other syndicate had their hands on. It should’ve been a victory, something to celebrate.
Instead, it made things worse.
The pressure had doubled overnight, with competition growing sharper and their threats more calculated. Enemies were watching, waiting.
Then there had been tonight.
He wasn’t supposed to get hit. It was sloppy. He had been sloppy. And now, the consequences settled in his gut, heavy and inescapable.
The blood on his hands—his own blood this time—was proof of how close things had come. How messy things were becoming. The bottle of whiskey sat half-empty on the table beside him. He’d already numbed the worst of it, but the bitter warmth wasn’t doing enough to quiet the chaos in his head. He kept drinking anyway.
One more sip. Just a little more.
Slowly the room blurred at the edges, his grip on reality slipping slightly as the bottle was emptied of its contents, just enough to feel that familiar pull of recklessness creep in.
Fuck this.
Lando stood abruptly, wincing, the room swaying ever so slightly as he grabbed his signature coat. He needed air – to clear his head, to sober up. The walls of this castle were suffocating him, and the scent of blood and whiskey only made it harder to breathe.
The streets were quieter at this hour, the city breathing in its own way—hushed murmurs of distant cars, the occasional flicker of neon signs reflected on the rain-slick pavement. Lando didn’t have a destination in mind, just the need to go.
And yet, somehow his feet carried him to her doorstep.
Books & Brews.
He stared at the sign for a long moment, jaw clenched. He wasn’t sure why he was here. Was it the coffee? The quiet? Not that it mattered, of course.
The bell above the door of Brews & Books chimed softly as he pushed it open, the scent of coffee and old paper replacing the spice of whiskey in his lungs. The place was nearly empty, save for a few scattered chairs still tucked against tables, a stray regular, and the lone figure behind the counter.
Y/N.
Lando barely realized he was still standing there until she turned around, blinking at him in surprise.
“Liam?”
He hated that name.
Lando forced himself to move further inside, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat– a part of the signature that earned him the moniker of the Reaper. “Hey,” he greeted, the word coming out rougher than he intended.
She glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. “Just a heads up, we’re closing up soon,” she informed him, jutting her chin in the direction of the last regular – a kind guy named Alex, an engineering student only a little older than her. He’d often come round with his homework, and other times just for the conversation with a warm blueberry muffin. Tonight, he’d opted to stop by for a single cup of tea before the shop closed for the night.
Lando nodded in acknowledgement, running a hand through his half-damp hair. He shouldn’t be here. He had no reason to be here. In fact, he had half a mind to turn right back around and let his whiskey keep him company for the rest of the night.
But his mouth worked faster than his mind.
“Just needed a coffee,” he told her.
That’s what you tell yourself.
Y/N gave him a long look, assessing him from head to toe. “Yeah, I could do that. You’re lucky. I haven’t cleaned out the espresso machine yet, so… one last cup it is.”
She moved around the counter, pulling out fresh beans and setting up the machine. Her movements were rhythmic, the faint hum of the grinder filling the air. “Long night?” she asked, her voice light, her gaze focused on pulling the espresso shot.
Lando smirked dryly. “Somethin’ like that.”
Y/N didn’t press. She just nodded and kept working, as if the answer had been sufficient. That was something he liked about her – she didn’t pry. She didn’t demand anything from him.
The coffee machine hissed, filling the silence.
Lando shifted, wincing slightly as his coat brushed against his injured side. He could still feel the warm trickle of blood beneath his bandages.
Y/N caught the way his jaw tightened out of the corner of her eye.
“You okay?” she asked, voice softer now.
Lando looked up, eyes locking with hers. He should lie. He lied all the time.
Instead, he just shrugged. “Been worse.”
Y/N watched him for a moment, then went back to assembling his drink.
“Spiced black coffee. That’s what you had last time, right?”
Lando raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “You remember?”
She laughed, leaning against the counter. “You’re not exactly forgettable.”
What was he supposed to say to that? He found himself watching her again, the way she moved, the way she hummed under her breath, the way she didn’t seem afraid of him—even though maybe she should be.
Maybe she would be one day.
But for now, she just poured him coffee, let him exist in this quiet little shop, and didn’t ask too many questions.
Maybe that’s why he came back.
As the scent of coffee filled the air, Lando allowed himself to lean against the counter a little more. For a fleeting second, he wondered what the hell he was doing here.
But when Y/N slid the ceramic mug in front of him, offering him the smallest, most unassuming smile, Lando figured he could afford to stay just for a little while. She didn’t rush him. If anything, she seemed to be taking her time—lingering, the same way he was.
What was he supposed to do with that? People either feared him or wanted something from him. That was how the world worked. But this girl who had stumbled into his life by pure accident was just… here.
It was weird. This was weird. She was weird.
He exhaled, breaking the comfortable quiet. “You’re here late.”
Y/N glanced at him over her shoulder. “I mean, so are you.”
Lando smirked, amused by the easy way she shot the question back at him. “Touché.”
He nodded toward the book she had been sorting earlier. “What’s with all the late-night reorganizing?”
She gave a sheepish smile, rearranging the last of the used books onto the shelf. “I got distracted reading during my shift again. Happens sometimes.”
Lando raised an eyebrow. “You got distracted… readin’?”
Well, that’s stupid.
Y/N laughed, the sound soft and unguarded. “What, you don’t?”
“Not exactly my thing.”
“That’s a shame.” Oddly enough, she seemed sincere in saying that, like it was a real loss. She then tiptoed, reaching to slip the last of the historical-fiction books onto the topmost wooden shelf. “Books are one of the few things in life that can make you forget everything else for a while.”
Lando hummed, encircling the coffee cup between his palms.
Funny.
He had a much different method of achieving that.
Half an hour passed as Lando nursed his coffee, the remaining warmth of the mug seeping into his calloused hands. The coffee here tasted different. Warmer, maybe? Smoother? He’d had some expensive Italian roasts before, but the one before him could give any of them a run for their money.
Eh, he’d probably figure it out eventually.
Even as an hour ticked by, Y/N still didn’t rush him.
She moved through the shop quietly – wiping down tables, organizing books, tucking away the last of the pastries from their display case. She could’ve hurried, could’ve nudged him toward the door with a polite smile and a cheerful thanks for stopping by, but she didn’t.
He appreciated it. Silently, of course.
He watched as she reached up to rehome a book on one of the higher shelves, standing on her toes to nudge it into place. The hem of her sweater shifted slightly, revealing a sliver of skin at her waist before she settled back onto her heels. It was small, insignificant. And yet, for some reason, he found himself looking away.
“So,” Lando finally broke the silence, his voice low but steady he stared at the coffee lines in his mug. “Why are you here so late?”
Y/N turned, hands dusted with the faintest trace of powdered sugar from the pastries. She blinked at him, then huffed a quiet laugh. “I, uh, work here…?”
Lando chuckled at that. “Yeah, I figured. But this late? Shouldn’t you be home by now?”
She shrugged. “Closing shifts run long sometimes. It happens.”
Lando arched a brow. “You don’t mind staying here past, like, fuckin’ midnight?” he asked incredulously.
He found that hard to believe. "D’you always work this late?"
Y/N glanced at him over her shoulder. “Most nights, I guess.”
"Doesn’t seem safe," Lando mused. “Bein’ here alone.”
“It’s peaceful,” she admitted with a shrug, walking back around and leaning against the counter across from him. “I kinda like having the place to myself for a bit. It’s like… I don’t know. Calming?”
"Alone?"
Y/N smiled faintly, almost embarrassed. “I like the quiet.”
Lando studied her for a moment. He didn’t understand her. She was a walking contradiction—reserved but warm, awkward but self-assured.
Intriguing.
“You don’t seem the type,” he murmured, tilting his head. Bringing the cup to his lips, he took another sip.
Y/N raised a brow. “The type?”
“To be comfortable alone, I mean.”
She considered that for a moment before offering him a small, knowing smile. “I think people misunderstand what it means to be alone.”
Lando leaned back slightly, interested despite himself. “S’that so? Alright, let’s hear it then.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, sheepish, but played along anyway. “Being alone isn’t the same as being lonely,” she said. “Loneliness is… a void. Being alone is just… existing in your own space? Like with your own thoughts. And I dunno– I like that.”
It took a moment for that to sink in. He didn’t know what to say to that, because it made too much sense.
Because he was alone all the time, and he wasn’t sure which one he was anymore.
Lando studied her for a moment, then surveyed the shop around them. He supposed he could see it—the dim lighting, the scent of teabags and specialty syrups lingering in the air, the quiet hum of the world outside present but not intruding.
It felt a world away from his reality. No gunmetal, no blood, no power plays. A little bubble, away from everything else.
“Huh,” he mused. “Guess I can see the appeal.”
She smiled at that, soft and fleeting. “What about you?” she asked. “Why are you out so late?”
Lando hesitated, his grip on the mug tightening ever so slightly. The truth wasn’t exactly something he could offer, given his line of work. But she didn’t ask it like an interrogation. There was no suspicion or underlying edge to her voice. So, for the first time in a long time, he answered honestly—if only in part.
Half truths count, right?
“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugged casually, gaze dropping to his drink.
Y/N nodded as if she understood. “So you drink coffee?”
Lando smirked, glancing back up at her. “Genius, innit?”
She laughed then, light and genuine, and the sound did something strange to his chest.
Somewhere along the way, the last regular slipped out the door with a soft goodnight, leaving the shop empty except for the two of them. Neither of them acknowledged it, wrapped up in the steady rhythm of back-and-forth conversation
They weaved in and out of topics, talking about everything — coffee orders, late-night habits, why certain books never seemed to sell no matter how good they were, how rain sounds different in the city than it does in the countryside.
It was… nice. Surprisingly bearable, in fact.
That was a problem. Lando wasn’t the kind of man who had nice things. He took what he wanted, controlled what he needed, and discarded whatever didn’t serve him.
The thought irked him more than he liked.
Eventually, Y/N glanced at the clock and gave him a sympathetic smile. “I should probably close up.”
Lando leaned back slightly and stretched, as if only now realizing how much time had passed. He frowned, something between reluctance and indifference. “Sorry ‘bout that, didn’ mean to keep you.”
She shook her head, brushing the concern away with a small wave of her hand. “Margot won’t mind, as long as I remember to lock up.”
“Margot?”
“Oh, the owner!” There was a fondness in her voice. “She’s been running this place for years now, took me in when I first moved. Gave me this job, helped me settle in. She’s… kind.”
Kind.
Lando didn’t know many people who fit that description, and those who did rarely lasted long.
There was something warm in the way she spoke about the older woman, something fond. Lando found himself watching her, caught on the edges of that softness.
It was a foreign thing, hearing someone talk about care and kindness so freely. He couldn’t remember the last time he had. For a brief moment, he wondered what it would be like—to be spoken about with that kind of familiarity, that kind of trust.
But the thought was dangerous, so he let it go.
“Your, erm, boss– she won’t mind that you’re closing up late?”
Y/N shook her head. “Not as long as I lock up. And besides…” She hesitated, tilting her head slightly, seeming a bit shy, moving to wipe down the last of the counter. “You looked like you could use the company.”
Somehow, the night stretched longer than he anticipated.
The last regular left an hour ago, and the door sign had long been flipped to closed. The streetlights outside hummed faintly in the darkness, yet there was no real rush to leave.
Eventually the clock displayed a time long past that of any reasonable hour and Y/N collected her things before locking up, making sure to switch the lights off before turning the key in the lock and pocketing it. At the same time, Lando pulled his coat back on, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Guess I’ll see you around, then.”
She smiled at him, small but sincere. “Oh, yeah! It was nice seeing you. Night, Liam.”
He acknowledged her with a nod before turning away, stepping out into the biting night air.
He felt lighter than when he came in. Strange.
Must be the coffee.
Lando didn’t hesitate.
The moment he stepped onto the cold marble tiles of his residence, shedding the warmth of the evening for the cold, sharp edges of his real world, he got to work.
He leaned back against his desk, his jaw tight and phone in hand as he scrolled through his contacts. He’d ended up at Brews & Books three times now—perhaps three times too many. If anyone wanted to get to him, if anyone had been watching, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the location.
So securing the place was the logical thing to do — smart, efficient.
It had nothing to do with the girl locking up the shop at ungodly hours, walking home half-asleep and vulnerable in the bad part of town. Nothing at all.
His thumb hovered over a name in his contacts list before pressing down.
The call picked up on the second ring.
“Spin,” Lando greeted smoothly.
A low chuckle came through the receiver. "That’s Mr. Spin to you, boss."
Lando rolled his eyes. Kids.
“How’s your knife collection?”
“Thriving, thanks for asking. What do you need?"
“I’ve got something for you.”
A pause.
“Is that so? Personal or business?”
Lando ignored the question. “There’s a shop. Small place, nothing special, but I want it covered.”
“Brews & Books,” Logan Sargeant stated, deadpan. Logan “Spin” Sergeant – a pain in the ass, but a useful one. He was the kind who could talk his way out of trouble just as quickly as he could throw himself into it. A ghost when it suited him, a menace when it didn’t. He handled surveillance, odd jobs, and—most notably—knives. Lando had seen him twirl a blade like a magician with a deck of cards, all casual skill and reckless delight.
Lando stilled, his grip on the phone tightening. “What?”
“Mate, you think I don’t notice when you do something out of character? You don’t just stumble into coffee shops in your free time. You don’t even really drink coffee. You hate it.”
Lando exhaled through his nose. “It’s a security risk.”
Logan hummed, clearly amused. “For you, or for her?” he asked teasingly.
Lando ignored the question. Again. “I want eyes on it, especially at night. Anyone so much as looks wrong in that direction, I wanna know about it.”
"Right, right,” Logan drawled. “And do you want her knowing she’s got a knife-wielding psychopath looking after her, or am I supposed to be subtle?"
Lando ran a hand down his face, exasperated. "Just– Don’t be a psychopath, and don’t get caught."
“Come on, boss. You’re killin’ my vibe here.”
"Just handle it."
Logan chuckled. “Already on it.”
The line went dead, and Lando lowered the phone, staring blankly at the floor for a moment.
It was a simple security measure. A precaution.
Nothing more.
a/n: pls pls tell me what you think! feedback motivates me to write more and also helps me feel less cuckoo for cocoa puffs about my own writing
Synopsis: Rafe Cameron is a "bad boy" motorcycle creator known for his thrilling rides and shameless thirst traps, which attract a massive following. Y/N is a thoughtful and passionate Bookstagram influencer who thrives on sharing deep literary insights and reviewing the top trending books.
Part 1 of this original western whump fic can be found [Here]
Hunted, wounded, and certain he won't survive another sunrise, a shackled man risks his life to save a widow from a violent attacker--only to find himself taken in and given the first safety he's known in years.
Warning: This will get very whumpy (in the best possible way) and there will be no cutting away from the hurt or comfort scenes. Adult themes may be touched upon in this story, these moments will be written with care and not gratuitous.
Part 8
Sarah sat on the edge of the bed and watched Wyatt in the daylight. A finch making a sweet per-chick-o-ree call outside.
He looked unsettled—his brow drawn tight and damp with a faint sheen of sweat, his cheeks flushed. Soft moans and whimpers slipped from his lips, sounds too small to wake him to stop but too troubling to ignore. His breathing was wrong—uneven and shallow, as if his body had forgotten the rhythm on its own.
Whatever place he’d gone to in his sleep, it wasn’t one that let him rest.
She placed a hand gently over his, curled tightly against his chest, fingers knotted in the sheets. He stilled at her touch. His fist loosened. His breath smoothing as the nightmare loosened its grip, releasing him.
He was warm. Warmer than yesterday. When she pressed the back of her fingers briefly to his temple, the heat was unmistakable.
But he had been improving, not even a week after all this started, he was sitting up with help and eating eggs, bread, stew. Beneath his dark beard, the hollows of his cheeks were beginning to fill again. Maybe this wasn’t a fever. Maybe it was just her mind imagining the worst.
Wyatt stirred.
His eyes opened, unfocused, pupils sluggish as if focusing on the light took effort. It took a moment for his searching gaze to find her.
“Hey,” she said quietly.
“G’morning.” His voice was rough, the words thick and slow.
“Afternoon,” she corrected.
That seemed to unsettle him. He blinked once, then again, as if sorting through pieces of himself before deciding which ones he could manage.
“How’re you feeling?” she asked.
“Fine.”
The word came too fast, too neat and hollow. It sat between them like a poorly mended seam.
She didn’t push. “Ready for some food?”
He closed his eyes for a moment before giving a faint shake of his head.
“What about broth?” she tried. “Just a little. To keep your strength up.”
He nodded once. Reluctant.
When she returned with the cup, she helped him sit up just enough to drink, one arm braced behind his shoulders. His body leaning heavily into hers, his hands struggling to hold the cup steady on his own.
He took a careful sip. Then another. He refused another after the third, turning his head slightly away.
“That’s good enough for now,” she said immediately, easing him back down. “We’ll change your bandages later.”
She pressed a cool, damp cloth to his forehead. His eyes didn’t leave hers—soft, tired, searching. Maybe he was just worn down from the nightmares. If he hadn’t been sleeping well, that could explain today. That could explain this.
Then she saw it.
The way his color drained. The sudden beads of sweat. His attempts to swallow.
“Sar—” he moaned, eyes widening.
“Hold on,” she said, already moving, pulling him towards her and guiding his head over the edge of the bed towards the waiting chamber pot below.
His sides heaved violently with effort, his body rigid and slick with sweat, fingers white-knuckled around the wooden bed rail. The first wave came before she could center him properly—broth and bile spilling over her apron.
Sarah pushed past her own body’s reaction and pulled him further over the edge, wrapping his arm across her shoulders just in time for the second wave. His hand fisted in the fabric of her dress, shaking from the effort.
The third and fourth waves brought nothing but dry heaves that wracked his already devastated body, folding him inward as if he could disappear into himself.
“I—” he sobbed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” she said rubbing the back of his neck, holding him steady as he sagged against her, trembling from the effort. “Just breathe.”
She pressed a cool, damp cloth on the back of his neck as he spat the taste from his mouth.
When it passed, she eased him back against the pillow and slipped off her soiled apron, folding it in on itself and setting it over the chamber pot.
Through eyes wet with tears Wyatt mouthed silent apologies. His body shivered in small, involuntary tremors.
“Shh,” Sarah soothed, laying the cool cloth against his fevered skin. “There’s no need to apologize.”
She cleaned him as gently as she could—cool water, a cloth wrung nearly dry, careful not to press too hard. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, silent and humiliating in a way that had nothing to do with pain.
She wiped them away with her thumb.
His eyes closed almost immediately, exhaustion claiming him the moment his body finally loosened.
Sarah rolled him carefully, settling him on his side and slightly forward, tucking a folded cloth beneath his mouth in case the nausea returned.
She gathered her soiled apron and chamber pot, letting Wyatt rest while she cleaned herself up. She sighed as she left the room, she could no longer deny it.
Wyatt was getting sick.
Later, when the light had shifted and the birds outside had gone quiet, Sarah returned with Ruth. Between them they carrying bandages, a basin of hot water, salve, and whiskey.
Wyatt’s breathing was steady but shallow, his eyes open but unfocused.
“Wyatt,” Sarah said. “We’re going to clean your wounds and change your bandages.”
He lay very still, unwilling—or unable—to respond.
Sarah folded the wool blanket down past his thighs and removed the cloth from his midsection. His naked body was ghost-pale against the sheets, ribs rising and falling too visibly—a body that had been used hard and given nothing in return.
She soaked the first few bandages before touching them, letting the warm water seep in. When she began to peel the first bandage back, it resisted—just slightly.
She felt him hold his breath.
“Easy,” she murmured, pausing until his sides moved again. Only then did she continue, slow and patient, lifting the cloth a fraction at a time.
Some places came away clean. Others clung.
Each time she paused, waiting for him to breathe, waiting for the tension beneath her fingers to ease. He never flinched. Never spoke.
“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t answer.
“Just let me know if it hurts too much.” She added softly.
She could tell it did. She could see it in the way his shoulders were held too rigid, the way his fingers curled into the sheets.
With the bandages gone, his back down to his thigh told a story of pain, the wounds were redder now, the surrounding skin swollen. She glanced at Ruth, uncertain how much her sister could see.
Ruth’s face said everything, her brows drawn, nose wrinkled slightly, she could smell the faint edge of infection.
Sarah splashed whiskey into the basin of warm water, then another measure, hoping the extra whiskey would help fight off the infection without burning too badly.
She cleaned each lash mark carefully. His hips bucked weakly into the mattress when she cleaned a particularly angry wound that stretching from his lower back, across his buttocks, and down his thigh.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, washing her hands in the whiskey mixture.
Ruth handed her the jar of honey. Sarah dipped her finger into the thick, golden liquid and traced the length of each wound. She felt Wyatt ease beneath her touch. But she could also feel how warm some of the deeper cuts were.
Next came the salve, warmed by the hearth. Sarah layered the fat and crushed plantain leaves over the honey, his skin prickling faintly at the contact.
Ruth passed her the clean bandages, covering each wound. Sarah covered Wyatt’s midsection with a modesty cloth and pulled the blanket back over his shoulders.
“All done,” Sarah said, “you did great.”
A thought slipped in uninvited—Justin, laying silent in this very bed. On his final day he had stopped speaking, stopped crying, stopped fighting. He had fallen asleep and never woken.
Sarah shut it down immediately.
Wyatt wasn’t as broken. He wasn’t fading from the inside out. He was wounded, yes—but he was still here.
Still, as she looked at him lying so unnaturally still, the decision settled deep in her bones. Damn the explanation she would have to give or the danger it might put them in.
Tomorrow she would fetch the doctor.
Medicine would help. It had to.
She smoothed the final fold into place, rested her hand briefly between Wyatt’s shoulders, and listened to his breathing—slow, even, stubbornly alive.
To be continued...
Shackled: Swallowed by Shadows
A/N: We stand at the precipice, this whole time the roller coaster has been climbing to the top of the hill, from here we start our steep decent and really begin the ride. Hands up and enjoy!
The cockpit of the Pulaski didn't just vibrate; the old girl snarled with a violent, bone-shaking tremor as the hybrid engines clawed their way to life. There was a series of rhythmic, metallic clanks—the Cardassian power relays protesting the sudden surge—followed by a wet, coughing sputter from the Starfleet-spec impulse manifold. For a terrifying three seconds, the lights flickered to a deep, bruised purple, but then the vibration shifted. The jagged roar smoothed out into a low-frequency, velvet hum that pulsed right through the soles of their boots and into their marrow.
Miles let out a breath he’d been holding since the first spark, his grease-stained hands steady on the LCARS-Cardassian interface he toggled back and forth. He looked over at Will, a grin of pure, unadulterated triumph splitting his bearded face.
"Like butter from me ma's kitchen, eh, William?" Miles crowed, his Irish lilt rising over the steady, organic thrum of the deck plates. "Smooth as a pint of the black stuff! Lord love a duck, she’s purring now!"
Riker , who had been bracing himself against the secondary console with his large, hairy forearms, let out a huffed, skeptical laugh. He adjusted his thick grey mustache, his blue eyes dancing with the reflected orange glow of the engine monitors as he watched the way Miles’s sturdy shoulders bunched with the effort of the ascent.
"Butter? Miles, that sounded like a Klingon we both know passing gas after a three-day blood-pie bender," Will rumbled, his voice a deep, teasing bass that vibrated in the small cockpit. "I thought for a second the nacelles were going to decide they'd rather stay in San Diego than follow us into the black."
"Ach, she’s just clearing her throat! She’s got character, Billy," Miles countered, tapping a sequence to retract the landing struts with practiced agility. "Something you wouldn't find on those sleek, pampered Sovereigns you're used to. She’s temperamental, aye, but she’s honest."
The Pulaski lurched upward, the gravity plating groaning as it compensated for the sudden lift. Through the forward viewport, the San Diego skyline began to shrink, the golden sunrise reflecting off the Pacific in a blinding, beautiful sheet of light.
"Character is one word for it," Will murmured, his smirk softening as he watched the altimeter climb. "But she’s holding together. And I have to admit... the tempo of these engines? It’s got a better soul than a retired Admiral’s desk."
He looked over at Miles, the getting-hotter intimacy of the night before lingering in the small, vibrating space of the cockpit. "Where to first, Captain? Are we playing it safe, or are we going to see what these 'clanking' engines can really do?"
---
Miles leaned into the console, his calloused fingers flickering over the LCARS panel to open a wide-band hailing frequency. "San Diego Traffic Control, this is the freighter Pulaski, Registry NCC-7419," Miles said, his Irish lilt professional and sharp, though his "new ship" pride leaked through. "Requesting final departure clearance for the Archanis vector. Cargo manifest is locked, and we're showing green across the board."
After a brief pause, the controller responded, "Copy that, Pulaski. You’re cleared for departure via Corridor Seven-Alpha. Safe travels, Captain O'Brien. It’s good to see that old hull back in the rotation."
Miles keyed the off-switch with a satisfied smirk. "Hear that? They still recognize a legend when they see one."
Will leaned back in the co-pilot's chair, his large hands laced behind his head in a classic Riker stretch that caused the slate-blue fabric of his jumpsuit to pull tight across his broad, hairy chest. "They recognized the ship, Miles. I think they're still trying to figure out why a former Chief Petty Officer and a former Admiral are running supplies to a bunch of miners."
"Let 'em wonder," Miles muttered, his eyes fixed on the atmospheric altimeter, though they strayed for a second toward the silver-black curls peeking over Will’s collar. "As long as they stay out of our way."
He gripped the manual thruster toggles—the ones he’d reinforced with Cardassian feedback loops—and felt the Pulaski respond to his touch like a living thing. The sky outside the viewport was deepening from a pale violet to the true, velvet black of the vacuum.
---
As Miles guided her through Corridor Seven-Alpha, the viewport was dominated by the terrifyingly clean lines of the new Behemoth-class warships. These weren't explorers; they were jagged, tactical grey fortresses that seemed to swallow the light. As they drifted past a massive dorsal phaser bank, the turret tracked the Pulaski with predatory precision.
O'Brien gripped the flight stick, his knuckles white. "It’s a feckin' shame, it is, boyo," Miles muttered, his voice dropping into a low, mournful register. "I remember when seeing a Starfleet hull meant help was on the way, not that you were being measured for a coffin."
Will sat low in the co-pilot’s chair, his gaze fixed on the gargantuan nacelles overhead. "The galaxy got smaller, Miles," Will finally said, his voice a weary rumble. "That’s why we’re in this bucket, isn't it? To get away from the guns."
"Aye. To get back to the work that matters," Miles agreed, regaining his command edge. "Prep the warp core, William. Let's leave the soldiers to their fortress."
---
Miles didn’t just nudge the throttle; he slammed it home with the calloused palm of his right furry hand. The Pulaski didn't slip into a warp bubble; she bucked. There was a violent, structural groan from the deck plates, followed by a physical snap! that rattled Will’s teeth.
"Woooo-weeee!" The shout burst out of Miles’s mouth, raw and uninhibited, his Irish lilt cracking with pure, adrenaline-fueled joy as the streaks of warp-light danced across his face.
Riker had been thrown back into the padded leather of the co-pilot’s chair, his large hands white-knuckling the armrests. His heart was hammering a rhythm he hadn't felt in decades.
"God damn, Miles!" Will barked, his voice breathless as he stared at the blurred streaks of space. "Is there Romulan Ale in the gas tank? I haven't felt a warp drive kick in that hard since I was sitting behind Zephram Cochrane on the Phoenix!"
Miles laughed, tapping a rhythmic beat on the Cardassian tuning panel, his sturdy, hairy forearms glistening under the cockpit's amber glow. "The Phoenix? Ach, that old bird was a museum piece! This is NCC-7419! She’s got the soul of a prize fighter and the kick of a mule!"
Will finally let out a long, shaky exhale as the Pulaski settled into a steady, vibrating cruise. He looked at the warp-field geometry—it was jagged, aggressive, and perfectly stable.
"It’s definitely not Starfleet Standard," Will murmured, a slow, predatory smirk returning to his face as he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He looked back at Miles, the building chemistry in the cockpit feeling more intense than the warp core itself. "But I think I could get used to the 'kick,' Captain. It’s certainly more honest than a dampener that hides the speed."
Content: Hospitalization, recovery, cohabitation, use of 'lad' (gendered language?), nightmares, gay stuff, fluff, happy ending.
Follow up to Something to look forward to
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley | Male
!!!SFW!!!
When Simon "Ghost" Riley is injured protecting you, his recovery means a month confined to home - that is, after two weeks of sedation in the base medical wing. Captain Price requests you stay and assist. Through highs and lows, you stand steadfast by Ghost's side. As feelings begin to emerge, Ghost must confront what it means to open his heart some more and whether a future beyond warfare could truly be possible or if he'll continue fighting alone.
Tag List: @a-sleepy-dissapointment
(Thanks to @loneghostwolf for permission to use this image)
You had been sitting outside of Simon's room in the medical wing as Price came along to have a 'talk' with him. You weren't too far from the door, but were close enough to hear Price's deep, commanding voice as he scolded Simon like a father would to a child.
Simon had been protesting his medical leave recommended by the staff. There was rarely an opportunity for them to get the Ghost in for any type of examination, and now that he had been there for a little over two weeks, they were recommending a month of medical leave, and this did not go over well with Simon.
So Price had made a request of you first, asking if you'd be willing to continue to watch over Simon when Price sent him home for recovery. You of course agreed, you'd become rather fond of that lumbering, stoic idiot.
And now here you were, unintentionally eavesdropping on Price and Simon.
“Simon Riley, I swear to God if you fuck this friendship up, I will put a bullet in you myself, you damn muppet!” Price fired back.
“I'm good to go, Price. The wound is healed, I just need a little training to get back into proper form... it shouldn't take more than a couple days at most, sir.” Simon replied, clearly trying to charm his way back into work with his confident tone.
Price was having none of it.
“Absolutely not.” Price shot him down without question. “I can't spare this room much longer, I can't spare Soap or Gaz to watch over your ass for a whole month, and I can't trust you to sit down and relax on base for the next month.” He grumbled with annoyance. “My best option is that wonderful lad out there who, for some reason, has been here for you since you were brought in. No complaints and no problems. He wants to be here, he wants to be your friend, and he wants to watch over you for the next month!”
Price stopped his tongue-lashing long enough to catch his breath, and Simon sat silently for a moment as his brain processed everything.
You of course were sitting in the corridor with a shit-eating grin on your face. Price was likely the only person on Earth who could talk to Simon this way and live, and it tickled you to know that Simon would bend to Price's will if enough pressure was applied.
“Fine.” Simon finally huffed. He surrendered to Price's demand. “But...”
“No 'buts', Simon. He will be accompanying you back to your flat and staying with you for the next month.”
You didn't need to be in the room to know the look Simon had on his face.
“Fine.” He said again in a tempestuous tone.
An image of Simon sitting in the bed with his arms crossed came to mind and you let out a breathy chuckle.
“When will I be discharged into his care?” Simon asked, pulling you from you daydream.
“Seventeen hundred hours, when he's technically finished his work for the day. You'll be loaded into a vehicle together and driven home.” Price explained. “I've already gone ahead and had Soap and Gaz prepare your flat for the two of you, since they had a few hours to spare today. You'll have groceries stocked and beds turned down. Soap may have ate the chocolates meant for the pillows, though.” Price joked.
With nothing more to say, Simon was resigned to his fate.
“Good lad.” Price said before leaving Simon's room. He flashed you a look and smile, “He'll be your problem in a few hours.”
“He always was.” You joked, giving Price a nod as he continued on his way down the corridor.
You woke up to the smell of something burning and a voice cursing form the kitchen in a Manchester accent. Simon. You threw the blankets back and begrudgingly sat up from the small cot Gaz and Soap had placed in the den of Simon's flat for you. It took a moment to gather your thoughts and boot your brain up enough to wander out into the kitchen to see some charcoal – apparently eggs – in the frying pan on the stove. There were some sausages cooking in another pan as well. Simon was limping around the kitchen looking for a solution.
“Little early in the morning to be trying to kill us both, don't ya' think?” You yawn as you walked over to the stove and pulled the pan off, tossing the chunks of eggs into the sink.
“I didn't ask for a babysitter.” Simon grunted. You notice him wince as he reached for something on the top cupboard, and you shake your head.
You drop the burnt pan into the sink and grab a new one, not quite hiding your frustration.
“Then stop acting like a fucking baby.” You shot back with a bit more vitriol than intended. “Think you can manage a cup of coffee for me and some tea for yourself?” You shot a second time, flashing him a tired and irritable look.
“Think so.” He grunted before moving to grab a couple of mugs.
You grabbed a fresh pan and placed it on the burner, turning the heat down and waiting a few minutes before cracking some fresh eggs. This man could dismantle bombs and take on multiple men in hand-to-hand, but was seemingly lost in his own kitchen.
“How do you like your eggs?” You asked, already cooking some sunny-side up eggs for yourself.
“D'innit matter.” Simon said as he worked away to prepare some drinks.
You shrugged and cracked some more eggs into the pan. Sunny-side up all around.
“Why are you so damn stubborn, Si?” You asked, tying to mask the sadness in your voice. You knew why, it was easy to figure out with a man like Simon Riley, but a part of you wanted to hear it from him.
“Don't need anyone to take care of me. Been takin' care of myself long enough.” His voice betrayed his words and you were, of course, unconvinced of his statement.
“Well... I'm here to help while you recover. I already agreed to do the cooking and cleaning while you caught up on paperwork – which was generous of Price to allow – and getting yourself back in shape for deployment.” You remind him, aiming the spatula at him.
Simon took a seat at the kitchen table as the water boiled in the kettle and simply stared at you. You were right, but it would be a cold day in hell before he said it out loud.
By the time the food was ready, Simon had a steaming mug of coffee for you and a tea for himself. You plated the eggs and sausages, as well as some toast you had made.
“Eggs... without a kitchen fire or the fire department. Enjoy.” You winked at him while buttering some toast.
“Thanks.” He mumbled into his tea.
Despite the attitude Simon had been giving you, you knew his gratitude ran deeper than he let on. He did eventually give you a small smile while he ate, which helped lighten your own mood, though you still had twenty-six days to go.
You were sitting in the living room with Simon, tapping away at your laptop as you worked well into the evening. You'd fallen behind in your work and decided to spend some time today catching up – and you were almost done as the storm outside really began to rage.
There was a crash of thunder that startled you; Simon looked over and his chest heaved as he silently laughed at you.
“Control... S” You murmured to yourself as you saved your work. Lessons had been learned years ago about this very situation.
“Power's bound to go out soon.” Simon sighed as he closed his book – one you had bought him at the market.
No sooner had those words escaped his lips than the lights flickered.
Then again.
And then died, plunging you both into almost complete darkness, your face illuminated by the dimmed screen of your laptop. Without the sounds of appliances or the TV, you could hear the roar of wind and pattering of the rain on the windows.
“I'll get the candles.” Simon advised as he got up off the couch.
You closed the lid of your laptop and got out your phone, turning on the flashlight and following close behind him. “I'll help.” You volunteered, tossing your laptop aside and jumping from the chair.
Soon his living room was flickering with the warm light from the candles. You sat on the couch next to him silently as the storm continued outside; you'd kill for wi-fi right now.
You pulled the skull throw you had gifted Simon from the back of the couch and wrapped it around you. It wasn't particularly cold, but it was comforting. You didn't have the courage to tell Simon you had a minor, teeny fear of the dark.
“Y'know... this storm reminds me of a camping trip I took when I was a bit younger.” You said, breaking the silence.
Simon simply stared at you, waiting for you to continue.
“Well, I stupidly dropped my compass and broke it... that should have been the first sign of things to come.” You chuckled as you recalled the memory. “Then of course the storm moved in and drenched me. I ran to cover, totally forgetting that you aren't supposed to take shelter under trees. A bolt of lightening reminded me as it struck several trees nearby.” You exhaled loudly, a smile playing on your face as you remembered just how close a call that experience was. “But because I also happen to have an overactive imagination, and was full of adrenaline and fear already, I could have sworn I saw a pale figure staring at me from the trees. It shrieked like a banshee and I damn near pissed myself. I was a Goddamn mess when I finally made my way back to my friends.” You let out an awkward laugh and looked over to Simon.
“Sounds terrifying.” Simon replied in his usual flat tone, though his eyes did dance with interest as he stared you down. “You're a brave lad to have emerged from that and carried on.”
There was no undertone of sarcasm of teasing in his tone, catching you off guard.
“You have any 'scary' stories?” You asked him, making yourself more comfortable under the throw.
“Aye..." MacTavish's influence seeped through. "...got a real spine tingling one for ya.” Simon nodded.
He leaned in close and lowered his voice. His eyes narrowed and he stared intently at you. “I was once a child.” He deadpanned.
You desperately wanted to keep your composure, but you felt the twitching of your lips as you started to crack. You let out a shaky chuckle before breaking into a full on laughing.
As you wiped the tears from your eyes, you could see Simon sitting back slightly, a tiny smile tugging at his lips in the dim light of the candlelit room.
“You're such a cunt.” You tittered.
Shifting his tone, Simon cleared his throat. “Thank you.” He rumbled alongside the thunder. “...its not so terrible, having you around.” He confessed.
The earnestness of the words surprised you; an admission you could never have predicted Simon to make.
“...and no one will ever believe you if you tell them I said that.”
There is was. You rolled your eyes.
“You're tolerable.” You shurg.
Simon chuckled, enjoying the playful banter between you two in the darkness of his flat. Even if parts of him were screaming to stop opening up to you.
You woke up groggy and confused as something slammed hard against the floor. It was coming from Simon's room and you moved as quickly as your heavy body would allow to get out of bed.
Walking down the hallway, you could hear the terrified sounds of Simon's distress. Standing at the doorway, you hesitated; your hand hovering over the door knob. Should you really go in? Simon's room was a bit off-limits since you agreed to watch over him. You had wanted to ensure he had one space to himself.
CRASH!
Something else hit the floor. You sigh and grip the door knob, turning it slowly and pushing the door open cautiously.
“Simon?” You murmured through the crack in the door.
You could see Simon thrashing around in the darkness of his room, unable to wake up from the nightmare that was consuming him. He was murmuring someone's name and pleading. Pleading! Simon!
“Fuck it.” You declared, resigning yourself to whatever fate awaited you.
“Simon.” You say, giving him a firm shake. “Simon!” You say louder.
You opened the door a bit further – enough to walk through – and strode over to his bed. You leaned down close to him, and once again hesitated. You looked around to see his lamp and phone on the floor and a spilled glass of water.
Turning your attention back to Simon, you placed a hand over his damp shoulder.
Simon doesn't wake up, stuck in the depths of his terror.
You muster up the courage to do something you never thought you'd do; yell at Simon Riley.
“SIMON, WAKE THE FUCK UP!” You howl at him.
His eyes snap open and he shoots up in bed; his chest heaving and covered in a sheen of sweat, it take him a moment to orient himself.
As his eyes fall on you, and shame creeps into his eyes. You were never supposed to see this. You shouldn't be in here and he shouldn't be this weak in front of you.
You reach out and place your hand on his bicep, giving it a squeeze.
“Are you okay, Simon?” You ask in a soft, concerned voice.
He turns away from you, his chest still heaving but doesn't answer. A bit of ego, but mostly humiliation.
He shrugs your hand off of him and all you do is smile.
“Okay, okay... be that way.” You tease him as you turn to his end table. You pick up the lamp and place it back on the tabletop, then place his phone beside it. “You're safe now.” You speak tenderly to him.
You stand and give him a stare for a moment before leaving his room.
Returning a couple minutes later with a small towel, you kneel down and clean up the spilled water as Simon just sits on his bed.
“You seem calmer now.” You remark as you wad up the towel and toss it to his laundry basket.
“'M fine.” He grumbles.
Liar.
“Alright.” You nod, though he's still not looking at you.
You stand up and sit on his bed, your back to him. You take a deep breath before swivelling yourself around and laying down on the bed beside him.
“...and what are you doing?” Simon rumbles as he feels the weight of your body moving on the mattress.
“What I was asked to do. Take care of you for a month.” You reply bluntly.
You make yourself comfortable beside him, choosing a particularly plump and soft pillow to rest your head on.
“Don't need your help.” Simon protests.
“Sounds like a you problem, Si.” You fire back, pulling your phone from your PJ pocket and unlocking it. “I'm staying, as per Prices request.” You didn't explain that you'd text Price when you left and he'd given you 'orders'.
Simon sits there through seven rounds of solitaire, two crosswords, and a good twenty minutes of scrolling through socials before he finally concedes and lays down beside you. He drapes his arms over his stomach as he stretches out and relaxes; as much as Simon Riley relaxes.
“Don't wanna talk about it.”
You don't look away from your phone.
“Don't have to.” You reply.
“You don't need to know what goes on in my fucked up head because of my fucked up life and job.” He continues.
You like a particularly cute video of a puppy.
“Fair enough. We're all entitled to our secrets.” You nod.
“Did I... say anything?” Simon prods, curious and anxious.
You lower your phone a bit and look over at him. You purse your lips and think about how to respond. So far, you've never lied to Simon, and you don't exactly want to start now.
“Well?” He asks after you hesitate a little too long.
“Yes.” You reply, swallowing the lump in your throat.
“What did I say?” Simon inquires, a bit of horror framing his face.
“I thought you didn't want to talk about it?” The words come out a bit harsher than you intended, and you're already cursing yourself.
“What did I say?” He repeats with annoyance.
You let out a sigh and rest your phone on your chest.
“You were begging.” You reply. You roll your head to the side to look at him. “You were begging for forgiveness and to 'switch places' or something to that extent.” You confess to him, barely managing to choke out the words.
“Fuckin' hell...” Simon grumbles. He stares up at his ceiling. “I....”
“You have terrible taste in people.” He says in an almost teasing tone.
You don't let him finish, “You don't have to say any more, Simon. Not if you don't want to.” You explain. You reach over and tap his abdomen with the back of your hand. “I just want you to know that I don't think any less of you. Never could.”
That elicits a deep laugh from Simon as he shakes his head.
“So I'm told.” You reply, going back to your phone.
“You're really not going to leave, are you?” He asks suddenly.
“What do you mean? Here and now, or before the month is over? Or... ever?” You question him, resting the back of one hand on his body.
“All of the above, 'spose.” He shrugs.
“I'm not leaving. All of the above.” You reply earnestly.
You both fall into a comfortable silence as Simon considers what you've said.
After a half hour or more, Simon hears a thud. Turning to look at you, he notices you've dropped your phone on the floor and are fast asleep on his bed.
You roll over on your side and Simon lets out a low grunt, feigning annoyance – though he's not sure why – before he sighs and grabs the blanket and pulls it over you.
He rolls over so his back is to you and closes his eyes. Somehow your presence here relaxes him enough to let him get a couple hours of sleep.
Maybe domestic life was for you after all. It had been a full month since Price had made his request and here you were; In Simon's kitchen and cooking him one last breakfast before you packed up and returned to your own flat.
Simon had spent most of the early morning in his room just laying on his bed before eventually rolling out and jumping in the shower.
As you finished preparing the large, artery-clogging breakfast of sausages, eggs, hash browns, pancakes and bacon, Simon finally emerged in gym shorts and a tank top.
“Ready to kick my arse out?” You asked, suppressing the tinge of sadness that welled inside you. You really did like being here this last month, though it was difficult to tell if he felt the same way.
Simon huffed and made his way to the table where a tea – just the way he likes it – and took a seat, staring at the back of your head.
He took a sip and thought it over for a moment. “Y've been a goddamn nag.” He finally said, a smile on his face.
“All a part of the job!” You fired back, turning to give him a wide grin.
“Still no idea how Price talked you into it.” Simon mused, looking away.
You pate the mountain of food for the both of you and join Simon at the table. You lean back in your chair and pick up a piece of bacon, eyeing it before taking a bite.
“Didn't take much, to be honest.” You shrug.
Simon defaulted to his usual gruff grunt, “Guess if hasn't been entirely unpleasant to have you around.” He confessed. He couldn't help but fight his own happiness.
“Someone had to make sure you didn't burn the place down.” You tease. "And we nipped that in the bud on day four."
Simon digs into the breakfast you've made for him, silently chewing away and ignoring your joke.
You sipped at your coffee and ate your breakfast as well.
This was a moment that seemed to stretch on for a while, neither of you wanting to admit how the last month truly affected you.
“Y'know...” You say, breaking the silence. “We never did see that movie.” You remind him. Through everything that's happened since Simon was injured, neither of you actually ended up dragging the other to that stupid movie.
You give a shrug. There will be plenty of time for movies.
Simon simply looked up at you and continued to eat.
“It's good.” He said, holding up a forkful of food.
You could tell he was uncomfortable, but you couldn't figure out why. It couldn't have been about the movie.
Maybe it reminded him of being stabbed? Unlikely.
Or maybe he felt... disappointed? Like he let you down?
You could just ask, but that was too easy, and you were both too stubborn to talk about it outright.
“I'll be heading out just after noon, if that's fine with you? I just need to do some work before I leave.” You practically murmur.
“'S fine.” Simon nodded.
As you finished your breakfast and placed your plate in the sink, Simon surprised you with what he said.
“How about tonight?” He asked.
You turned to look at him with a confused look on your face.
He was still sitting at the table with his phone in hand.
“The movie. Its still playing... how about tonight?” He asked again.
You nodded. “Y-yeah. Tonight works for me. What time?”
“Eleven-hundred hours. You... can stay the night again. My flat is closer to the theatre than yours.”
You were too shocked to say anything, so you just nodded again.
