HUGEEE fan of the farmers trope and it’s always bonus points with johnny 🤭 could i humbly request farming with soap please?? :D i’m all for any genre you’d so kindly bless me with 🥹💕
tbi farmer soap x florist reader
Warnings: talks of brain injuries and disability
Summary: after his TBI, soap ends up in the country side finding his way into a manageable routine, he also finds his way to you
A/N: tbi Johnny I love you :,)
Johnny never thought he’d retire, and certainly not to a place like this. The farm is a family property, one that’s been unused for a good decade ever since his great uncle passed. When Johnny had inherited the place, he’d always planned to put it up for sale when he had the chance, but endless deployments and limited time off meant it sat getting overgrown and forgotten, the only real connection to him being the legal document. But now he finds himself grateful for the fact he hadn’t got rid of the place.
It’s a mess the first time he steps foot on the property, unkempt paddocks, rotted fence posts and the entire house looking as though the colour has been sucked out of it. But it gives him something to do which is more than a sterile apartment in the city has to offer. He’d gone against every piece of advice moving here, the doctors warning against being in a place so isolated, his old colleagues trying to sway him to remain close to the base so they could visit and check in on a regular basis. He tried for 6 months, not really having a choice anyhow as he recovered from the injury, having to relearn basic day to day functions. For a while it was… fine, too occupied with the rehab and the anger and the pain to think of anything more, but as that all finally subsided and allowed for further consideration, he realised the idea of staying so close to what he once considered home makes him feel sick to the stomach. So despite the protests, he left, the life he has known for the majority of his years now separated by international borders.
It’s taken him four hard months to revitalise the farm into something that can pass for usable. Long days of clearing land and prying down old wood paneling and many moments of painful frustration as the hand tremors or headaches prove too relentless to continue has led to where it is today.
The house is kept simple, comfortable but plain, he’d much rather spend his days outside in the sun than cooped away so he finds no point to unnecessary decorations that will go unappreciated. He follows a routine day in and day out, making it easier to ensure he doesn’t forget important tasks. He’s planted crops that are simple to manage and kept the livestock to a manageable number. The day always begins with the hardest jobs, the ones that take the most concentration or fine motor skills, gets them out of the way while he still has the energy. The afternoons are spent on the easier tasks, sweeping out pens and spreading fresh hay, collecting any eggs that have been laid. And then his evenings consist of whatever length of shower he can manage, a microwave dinner or cheese sandwich before being in bed as the sun sets.
Once a fortnight he makes the trip into the nearby town, taking advantage of the market locals put on to stock up on any food he should need, and get a small dose of human interaction that he knows he would neglect otherwise.
It’s at the local market that he meets you. A bright eyed, pretty thing that he’d managed to barrel into as his depth perception was lacking today. The bag you’d been carrying was knocked to the cobblestone, along with the basket of produce that Johnny had held in his shaky grip.
“Shite, sorry,” he doesn’t really look at you, just crouches and attempts to gather the fallen items as quickly as possible. His head was beginning to throb, which was a clear sign the noise of the crowd was getting too much. He processes the fact that you apologise in turn but the words go in one ear and out the other. You squat alongside him, helping to gather what was dropped. It’s as you hold up two of the apples in front of him that he finally glances up, only to feel as though his lungs have seized.
You don’t comment on the tremor in his hands, instead just slipping the fallen fruit back into his basket, your gentle fingers brushing against his with no amount of hesitance. Most people look at the scar he sports before anything else, but your eyes stay locked on his as though you hadn’t ever noticed. He’d never understood what people meant when they claimed someone could light up a room with their smile, but by god he thinks his world was black and white until he saw the gentle one you offered him.
When you stand, dusting yourself off, he does the same as though drawn in by your gravitational pull. You offer one last apologetic nod before weaving off into the crowd. Two years ago he would not have hesitated before falling in step beside you, offering his easy charm and bright grin that had yet to fail him. But he’s no longer that man, so instead you disappear into the thrum of people, and Johnny believes that is that.
He is slow to make his way through the weaving stalls, a small part of him hoping for another glance of you but knowing the likelihood is slim to none. It’s not like him to linger anyhow, he gets what he needs and then is on his way home, he has the regular sellers he goes to and nothing more. However, on the very edge of the market he notices a vibrant array of flowers he’d somehow never spotted before, or maybe he’d just chosen to ignore it prior. Flowers had never really appealed to him before, not understanding the point of something that will die in a few days, but something about the variety of hues draws him in. He’s so busy looking through them that he doesn’t even notice the person standing behind the main table until your voice floats out to him.
“Oh it’s you again! I hope none of your fruit is too bruised. I was in such a rush to get back to my stall after running to the bathroom, I can’t believe I ran into you.”
If your smile was a rainbow then your voice is a sound from the heavens. In fact for a moment he thinks he may have died and ended up there to stumble across someone like you.
He manages to shake his head, taking a moment to form a response, “fruit is fine.”
You let out a grateful sigh, “thank goodness, I would have felt awful otherwise.”
Johnny swallows hard, looking back down at the blooms littering the table. It takes a few seconds to find the word he wants, working through the list in his head until he reaches the right one, “beautiful.”
A light pink dusts your cheeks, lip caught between your teeth as you tilt your head forward, face becoming obscured by a few pieces of hair that fall from behind your ears, “it’s nothing much, just a few varieties that I make into bouquets to sell here at the markets. Pays the bills.”
He wants to reach out and brush the strands from your face, and that thought alone has his throat tightening. Instead he gestures to the different flowers, “your favourite?”
Your face lights up in a smile again, fingers drumming against the table once before pointing to one of the arrangements, “probably the snapdragons, they come in such pretty colours, and the name is funny too. Doesn’t exactly look like a dragon to me. Apparently the blooms resemble the face of one but I don’t really see it. Maybe if you squint really hard.”
You laugh softly before your face again brightens and you point to a different bouquet, “oh I also adore the chrysanthemums, they preserve really nicely if you are into drying flowers. I do it quite often. I've made this peg rack so I can hang them upside down above my dining table. It looks like a floral chandelier, though I do sometimes get petals in my food which isn’t ideal.”
Johnny can’t remember the last time he has heard someone talk as much and as enthusiastically as you. He is utterly captivated and you seem none the wiser. He slides a hand into his pocket, fishing for his wallet, “how much?”
That seems to startle you out of your ramble. You purse your lips and shake your head, for a moment Johnny thinks he has upset you somehow, preparing himself to apologise.
“Nope, it’s on the house, least I can do after almost ruining your produce,” grabbing one of the elaborate arrangements you turn to wrap the wet stems in a bag to stop it from dripping, then holding it out for him to take. Johnny tentatively takes the blooms, tucking it carefully into the basket.
You nod in the direction of the main town area, “do you live locally? I know most faces but don’t really recognise yours.”
“Uh…” words. What are the words, “farm. Out of town.”
You clap your hands together, eyebrows almost to your hairline, “you’re a farmer? That’s incredible, you must work so hard. I only grow the flowers and that’s difficult enough, I couldn’t imagine how long you must spend out in the fields.”
Johnny finds his lips twitching into a smile, nodding once.
A sudden gasp falls from your lips, planting your hands on the table, you lean toward him eagerly, “do you have animals?”
He hums, “cows and chickens.”
He’s not sure how it’s possible but your face seems to grow even brighter. “Oh I love cows, they’re my favourite animal. Did you know they have best friends? I always thought that was so cute. I wonder how they decide which other cow they like the best, it’s not as though they talk. Or they might, I guess it’s impossible to know.”
Suddenly you pause, stepping back from the table and tapping your hands against your legs softly, “sorry I uhh… get a bit carried away, you probably have other things to do that aren’t listening to me ramble on.”
Johnny doesn’t want you to stop, damn the farm, he’d stay and listen to you talk for the rest of his day if he could, “continue… please.”
You blink once, as though caught off guard, before your expression slowly relaxes and you step back toward him. He’s unsure how long you talk for, but when you finally stop the stall holders nearby are beginning to pack up. He’d barely said a few words, just enough to keep the conversation going but leaving the brunt of it to you, which you seem to not have minded at all.
Seeming to notice the world around you again, you too slowly begin to pack up your wares. “Well I… thanks, it was nice talking to you. Honestly I’m quite jealous you can spend all day with my favourite animal, maybe I should become a farmer.”
You laugh at the thought and shake your head, but Johnny doesn’t find the idea silly at all.
That makes you pause, putting down the table cloth you had been folding. “Really? No I- I couldn’t impose, you are probably so busy.”
He’d get down on his knees and beg if that is what it took, but first he’ll try to ask once more. “Please. Come meet them.”
You chew your lower lip and then nod bashfully, eyes darting around your tables, “Here I have a pen somewhere, you can write the address down.”
He stiffens. What a way to scare someone off, display the fact that as a grown man you can’t wield a pen. When you hold out the pen and paper in front of him he freezes, eyeing it like a snake about to bite. He swallows hard and reaches forward, only to have you withdraw the items quickly, chucking them aside.
“Actually knowing me I will lose the paper, maybe I could get your number and you could text me the address?”
Your phone is in his hand before he can fully process, your smiling face encouraging. He nods, clumsily typing in the number before handing the device back to you.
Immediately you are typing away,he feels his own phone buzz with what must be your message. Shoving the phone in your pocket you offer him one last dazzling grin before turning to the half packed down stall, “I really should pack up. It lovely meeting you…”
He clears his throat, “Johnny.”
“Johnny.” He doesn’t think his name has ever sounded as right as it does from your lips, he could get drunk on the sound alone.
He’s in a daze as he makes his way to his car. The whole drive back home happens on autopilot, any hint of the headache he had hours earlier completely dissipated.
Three days later and you have texted to tell him you are on the way and he feels like a school boy with a crush. Stood in front of the mirror trying to make himself look somewhat presentable. Typically he lives in one pair of worn jeans and a stained tshirt, but that seems unsatisfactory. He lets out a frustrated grunt, god why did he have to pick the shirt with buttons. He’s got half of them done up when he hears the knock on the door, making his fingers tremor harder as he tries to get the buttons through the fabric. When you knock a second time he realises that he’s been fumbling for too long. Should he change back to a tshirt? No, that would take too long. He spins in a circle as though a solution will appear, but when you knock a third time he panics and immediately strides down the hall to the door.
He wrenches it open too aggressively, the door slamming against the stopper. Your eyes widen in surprise, taking a step back instinctively. God he must look like a mess, shirt half button, door slamming, chest heaving. Honestly he expects you to turn and run, instead you surprise him.
Stepping forward you point toward the half open shirt, “may I?”
His heart seems to stop entirely when you reach out, carefully doing up the remaining buttons. You even straighten his collar before letting your hands drop to your sides. For a minute he forgets to blink, just staring at you in shock until you pull him out of it. You point toward the far fencelines, “is that your border?”
Johnny nods, stepping out onto the porch. He points out the border lines on each side of the property, you follow the direction of his hand, nodding along. After a moment you point to one part of the property, a barren area he’s neglected to plant anything in. “Why don’t you grow anything in that paddock?”
“No need for it, just extra work.” He doesn’t want to elaborate too much, to explain that he’s impacted by an injury and maintaining extra crops would likely push his body past its limits.
If you were curious for a deeper explanation you don’t show it, instead just turning back to him with bright eyes, “where are the cows.”
Two years later the empty field is overflowing with vibrant blooms, a rainbow painting the land. The house is no longer plain, the walls inside decorated with pictures and paintings, woven rugs lining the halls, a fresh vase of flowers on the kitchen bench each morning. No longer does he live off of microwave dinners and cheese sandwiches, instead his belly is kept full of home cooked dinners, already cut into bite sized portions. Several button shirts now occupy his closet and he no longer fears wearing them. You had never pushed for explanations, simply taking whatever he was willing to share with you as enough. Honestly there’d been very few things he has felt the need to tell, the hand tremors, how he will never pick up a book, the way he can take a few minutes to organise a sentence, you commented on none of it. You just… knew. Without saying it out loud, you just understood and you filled in his gaps with no hesitation.
Your laughter echoes through the walls of his home, your smile lights up every room and your touch keeps him feeling more alive than a shot of adrenaline. In his pocket sits a box heavier than any weight he’s carried, it’s been there since the day you moved in several months ago, waiting for the right moment to be offered. But Johnny is in no rush, not when everyday with you feels like a full lifetime, and he’ll happily live a million of them with you by his side. People say it’s best to live each day as if it were your last, and for most of his earlier years he had done so, it was a rushed existence as there is no guarantee of tomorrow ever arriving. Now he wishes to live as though each new day with you is his first, savouring it for as long as this life allows.
