cw: nightmares, ghost's christmas trauma, worry that you're dead
Maybe it was the last mission he went on, the one that went tits up before he even stepped into the field- maybe it was the hostages they rescued, one of them with eyes like yours but so full of fear that it stopped him in his tracks. Felt like it was you in front of him for a moment before he reminded himself you were safe at home.
(He almost didn't leave until Price promised to watch over you for him, and even then, he nearly had to be dragged to the tarmac.)
Or maybe it's that Christmas is creeping up, the worst day of his life looming on the horizon, the day he lost his family. The knowledge that he's coming back from Mexico- just like he was then- to a home with a loving family waiting for him- just like he was then.
Or it's just regular, plain old nightmares.
Whatever the reason is, Simon can't stop dreaming about you night after night. In his dreams, he comes home to an empty house and an inescapable, clawing dread in his chest, and somehow, he just knows you're gone just as simply, inexplicably, and assuredly as he knows his own name.
Or he's taking you out somewhere nice- that one place you'd been talking about for the last few weeks- only for a laser's dot of red to trace from your shoulder to your forehead for a blip of a second, teasing him before you crumple, red staining your favorite clothes.
Or you've been taken hostage by some awful man coming after him, and he fights to get close enough to just barely touch the rope binding your wrists before you're ripped away from him forever.
Each night is a new horror, but you're always at the center of it.
Begging him to save you.
He never can.
It makes him itch to go home, to make sure you're alright, to feel your pulse beneath his fingers.
And it makes him want to never go home again, to not have to see the state they've left you in and the blood staining the rug in the living room that you spent so much time picking out or ruining the bed you make up for him even on the nights he isn’t coming home.
Maybe that's why he lingers on base.
His feet hit tarmac nearly two hours ago, and when he'd usually rush to get home to you, he finds himself outside, leaning against a metal railing. An unlit cigarette crushed between his fingers, he stares out into the blanket of white snow covering everything and ignores the shivers wracking through him.
By this time, you’d have him well-fed, showered, and in bed, curled up around you like a guard dog.
Warm.
From the meal you made especially for him, from the shower and the gentle toweling off after, from the thick winter pajamas you insist he wears because they match yours.
From the feeling of you in his arms.
He’s so cold.
But home might be even colder.
Red stains his mind, turning his stomach.
A hand slinks around his waist, a body presses against his for warmth, and a forehead leans against his back.
He goes still, breath catching for a moment, before he drops the crinkle of paper and tobacco to take your hand, fabric-covered fingers encasing your ungloved ones to save you from the chill.
"Been waiting for you," you say, the words muffled into his coat.
"That's what I was scared of," he admits, words hardly a whisper on the wind, breath almost too cold to form a cloud anymore.
Part of him still worries this might be a dream that'll turn to a nightmare as soon as he turns to face you. That you might fall limp against him, eyes blank as your body goes cold and red stains the snow beneath you.
A shudder racks through him.
You know what he's thinking about.
You know him.
He's bigger than you, a wall of muscle and mass that doesn't move unless he wants it to, but still, you manage to weasel your way between him and the railing the hand not holding yours has clung so tightly to.
You gather up your little soldier boy in your arms, pulling him as close to your body as is physically possible, and guide his masked face into your neck. It fits like it belongs there, though he has to duck to accomplish it.
Even with the fabric of his mask between you and him, you can feel the cold of his nose as he buries himself into you.
He brings a hand up to cup your face, gloved thumb tracing your cheek, rosy from the cold. His fingers slip down your neck to feel the beating of your heart at your pulse point.
"I'm here, Simon," you promise him. You settle a warm hand on top of his; you know he needs this. "Nothing could ever take me from you.”
"Swear it," he whispers, voice rough and hardened with the knowledge that this isn't something you can promise.
"Swear it," you echo like you can. "Let's go home."
HELLLOOOOOOO IM BACK
found this mostly finished thing in my drafts and wanted to share it; i think it was supposed to originally be a bad ending(?) but i can't remember lol so you guys get the good ending
thanks for reading, and thank you for all the support even as i’ve been gone! a very special thank you to those of you that sent me really nice notes in my asks; i read them over so many times while i was gone, and they always brought a smile to my face :)
sorry chat I just can’t stop thinking about simon dealing with a sick kiddo - my heart can’t take it 😭
simon was supposed to be at a meeting over an hour ago. instead, he’s at home, laying on the couch with his daughter curled up on top of him.
her flushed cheek is smooshed against his chest, and drool marches in a line down her chin to pool on his shirt. her breaths come in little puffs through her mouth because her nose is too stuffed to draw any air in through.
it’ll make her sore throat a dozen times worse when she wakes up, but there isn’t anything that can be done.
she must’ve picked something up from school or something- you’d told him something was going around.
it isn’t anything serious, just a cold, but he couldn’t leave her like this, especially not with how she wobbled out of her bedroom in her pajamas despite it being nearly two in the afternoon, calling with for her dad with a barely-there voice. mussed hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, she plopped herself onto his chest and fell back asleep in seconds.
he didn’t think twice about digging his phone out of his pocket, shooting Price a text that he wouldn’t be there, and turning his phone off entirely.
he’s still there nearly an hour later.
watching over her intently, he murmurs soft words of comfort as she sleeps and rubs circles into her back. he tosses or tugs on the blankets pooled around them accordingly as she alternates between shuddering and sweating, and every so often, he presses the back of his palm against her forehead to check her temperature.
a door opens somewhere in the house, and padding footsteps approach the living room.
you wobble into the room, face just as flushed as your daughter’s; like it usually goes, your daughter picked up the bug from school, and you got it from her.
sniffling, you slowly sink to the floor next to them and settle on your knees. you prop your too-heavy head up on one arm and reach out with the other to brush your fingers through your daughter’s hair.
“she feeling any better?” you rasp, but speaking makes your throat tickle and throws you into a coughing fit that has your eyes watering.
“you’re s’posed to be in bed, lovey,” he reminds, eyes soft and concerned as he takes in the sight of you. he reaches out to press the back of his palm to your forehead, too, wincing at how warm it is.
“can’t sleep, not when my baby’s sick,” you grumble in response. “how is she?”
sighing, he indulges you. “about the same.”
you hum and drop your head onto the arm rest, watching the pair of them. sometimes, seeing him like this makes you wonder how anyone could ever be scared of him. he’s so gentle and doting and good. but, you suppose, you’ve never seen him in action before, and he won’t ever let you see him in the mask.
your eyelids grow heavier as you sit in the quiet safety of your home, your baby and your husband within reach.
you’re just about to slip away where you’re at, slumped against the couch, when simon taps your cheek and calls, “sweet’eart.”
“hmm?”
“join me?”
“hmm.”
maneuvering slowly and carefully, he shifts, so you can squish onto the couch next to him. he tucks an arm beneath your waist to pull you into his side, and you drop your head onto his chest near your daughter’s.
you brush your hand through your daughter’s hair as simon runs a hand up and down her back.
your daughter starts to shiver, and simon shifts to tug the blanket over the three of you.
“mmhh- mhh,” you grunt, much too hot, and barely manage to worm your way out of the blanket without falling off the couch. “too hot.”
simon hums. he presses a kiss to your forehead and then to your daughter’s.
he’ll spend the rest of the afternoon switching between pulling the blanket off and on you and your daughter, always opposite of each other, but he isn’t complaining in the slightest.
and when he’s sick two days later, because of the two of you, he’ll gladly take the time off to spend with you two and rest.
your daughter will play doctor as he lays on the couch, sniffing and coughing, and you’ll bring him all sorts of teas and soups and assorted medicines. but what helps the most is when the pair of you settle on the couch with him, a shitty movie on the tv, and the three of you fall asleep on the couch once more.
pulled an all nighter yesterday to do an essay I’ve been procrastinating for a month and fried my brain 💀 hope this is coherent
thanks for reading and for all the support 😭 love you guys 🫶
cw: past mcd (gaz, soap, and ghost are dead), grief, heavy but it gets better
at the corner booth of the bar sits the same man who’s taken residence in that booth every single day for the last two weeks.
head hung low and voice even lower, he orders the same four drinks he always does, and when you bring them over to his table, you already know where they go.
the bourbon sits across from him, in line with his glass of whiskey.
next to the bourbon is a glass of scotch.
and to complete the square, a glass of brandy next to him.
after they’re placed where they should go, he never touches any of them, not drinking a sip out of a single glass but the one in front of his.
when his glass is empty, his fingers twitch for another, like they always do. but he never gets one; it’s rude to drink a second drink while the rest of his (pity) party is still on their first.
today, his shoulders are slumped worse than ever, and the booth is the only thing keeping him upright. he’s an abandoned building collapsing in on himself. no more love, no more laughter, no more purpose to fill the echoing chambers of his heart, to ease the ache of his hollow chest. the weight of his grief is too heavy of a burden.
maybe that’s why you do it.
you’ve watched him every day for the past two weeks without reaching out, too scared to open a wound not yet fully healed.
but you can’t watch on any longer.
today, instead of dropping the drinks off in front of him, you take the time to set them out in their places, hoping to ease him of the burden he’s carrying if only by a little.
he tenses at the unexpected service and tilts his head up just far enough for his bloodshot, bagged eyes to stare up at you from underneath his ratty boonie.
he stares at you for a long time, and you do your damned best to not falter beneath his gaze, holding steady like a lighthouse in a storm, ready to guide him into calmer, easier waters.
then, his head hangs once more.
if not slightly less than before.
———
emboldened by your last interaction, you take it a step forward.
you’re not sure how far is too far to push, but you need him to know that whatever happened, he isn’t alone anymore.
that he doesn’t have to bear the weight of the three people haunting him alone.
maybe that’s why you come in on your day off long before his usual arrival time and settle yourself at a chair you’ve pulled up to his booth.
not sitting in anyone’s seat.
you’re giving him an out, this way. if he doesn’t want company, he can pick a different table or leave entirely. but if he does… you want to help in whatever way you can.
he trudges in the same time as always, head low and body dragging towards the booth, but when he sees you at his table, he freezes.
there’s a flash of panic, and his eyes are wild as they dart around the booth, terrified that you might’ve taken one of the seats reserved for his guilt- and when he sees you haven’t, his eyes flash with a different kind of fear. they glance towards the exit, and there’s the ghost of something in him, something cunning and calculating as he weighs the risks and maps possible exits.
you hold your ground and sip at the drink you’d brought over, the same drink he gets every time.
he stares at the glass in your hand for a long time before looking around the table and realizing you’ve already brought over his and his boys’ drinks.
that’s what has him falling apart- or maybe melting. the tension in his body leaks out as he deflates like a balloon with a hole hidden in it somewhere, and you worry, for a moment, that he might keel over here and now.
you twitch to stand up and help him, but he manages, by stubborn will alone, to drag his shutting-down body to his usual seat.
there’s silence between you two as he sips at his drink and you sip at yours.
and, when you’re done, you push upright to leave.
a hoarse, “thanks,” floats behind you as you put your chair back where it came from and walk out the door.
———
you glance at the clock, counting down the minutes until your break.
he’s sitting at his table, like he always his, but his eyes aren’t downcast and focused on the untouched glasses around him.
instead, they keep glancing up towards you.
hesitant, guarded, but hopeful.
finally, it’s time for you to take your break, and you hustle around the bar, snagging the orders you’d placed and hurrying towards his table.
when you get near, you slow your approach, giving him plenty of time to decide if he wants your presence or not.
he makes no move to escape.
you set the two plates down, one in front of you and the other in front of him. greasy hamburgers and fries saltier than they have any right to be, mitch’s special.
there’s surprise in his eyes at the unexpected offering.
you say nothing in response as you tuck into your food.
for a moment, you wonder if you’ve overstepped or if you should’ve placed more orders for the three empty seats that haunt him.
but then, he lifts his burger and bites into it.
he hasn’t eaten much in the last few weeks- you’ve watched his body lose its fat reserves, grief sewing cracks into his physique, before his strength splintered, too.
he attacks the burger almost wolfishly, like his hunger has returned all at once.
you’re glad to see him eat.
and finally, when he finishes his plate, he starts to talk. “don’t think you wanna sit with me, lovey,” he rasps, his voice rougher than sandpaper.
“think i do,” you counter, firm but gentle.
he swallows, throat bobbing up and down. his fingers twitch for a second drink he won’t ever order.
you slide over your half-drank glass.
he closes a fist around it but doesn’t bring it to his lips. swishing the honey-colored liquid in the glass, he stares at the ice cubes in it like he might melt them with his eyes alone.
and, maybe, you’ve stepped too far.
you’re about to stand up and whisk away the empty plates that sit before both of you when he starts to speak once more.
the words are rough, like each one cuts his throat.
“you’re safer not knowing me. knowing me will get you killed.”
you give him a moment, a breath to see if there’s anything else he wants to admit, a second to think of a response that’ll ease his hurt without making it seem smaller than it is.
three empty seats, three untouched glasses; his grief is many.
“then i won’t know you,” you say.
his eyes dart up towards yours, brows bowing under the weight of his own miserable loneliness, irises flashing with desperation for you to change your mind and stay. he hasn’t got many people left, and he may not know you well, but he can’t lose you, too. he can’t add another empty chair to this table.
“i’ll sit with you, though,” you say, “and listen to you if you want me to. you won’t ever tell me your name, and i won’t tell you mine, and you’ll never get me killed. but i’ll sit with you and your pain.”
he swallows once more before nodding.
he takes a sip of your drink, and you sit together.
I keep making myself sad, I’m so sorry
as always, asks are open for comments, request for any characters or ideas or continuations you wanna see, or if you just wanna pop in and say hello :)
cw: run in with an abusive ex-boyfriend & effects of the trauma, self-harm in the form of cutting your nails painfully short, panic attack - stay safe out there loves 🫶
your nails are longer than they ever have been.
you take pride in it, spending longer than you need to trimming, filing, and coating them in nail-strengthening serums as well as massaging oil into your cuticles.
and, your favorite part, painting them.
johnny loves to help you, spending hours with your cold hands tucked between his big warm ones, face drawn up in focus as he paints intricate patterns onto your nails. sometimes, as he works, he’ll ramble about anything and everything. other times, you will, and he’ll listen as intently as he paints your nails.
hell, he loves it so much that he actively searches for new tools to use and has downloaded pinterest for the sole purpose of making a board for your nails.
it has become a routine at this point.
every other week- or when the paint has chipped too much- he’ll carefully take off the old design and paint a new one onto your nails.
when he’s deployed, you keep the old paint on until he comes back, unbothered by the way the pattern chips beyond recognition. you know how to paint your nails, but you love when johnny does it- and you love the way he scoffs at the sight of your mostly bare nails covered in little leftover flecks from his last masterpiece, secretly pleased that you kept it on and didn’t paint over it.
that’s the state your nails are in now.
johnny comes home tonight, and he’ll most likely want to paint them tomorrow morning.
you can hardly wait to see the design he’s chosen; he’s been teasing it since he finished your last set, texting you hints and even going as far as making his pinterest board private so you couldn’t snoop.
one more day, and you’ll get to see it.
but for now, you need to go grocery shopping.
you’re making johnny’s favorite, like you do most of the time when he comes home, and you’re even making his favorite dessert, too, since this deployment was longer than most.
and for that, you need ingredients.
you’ve got your list in one hand and a basket in the other as you wander down the aisles haplessly, searching out the ingredients you need one by one. you take your sweet time, so you can kill the waning hours between now and johnny’s arrival.
“kitty’s got claws now, huh?” comes an all-too-familiar voice.
your heart plays pinball as it drops from your chest into your stomach, banging against your ribs and knocking the air out of your lungs.
you draw in a short, wheezing breath, worst fears confirmed as you turn around to find your ex-boyfriend- your abusive ex-boyfriend- standing in the middle of the aisle.
curling in on yourself, you lift your nails to study them as if they’d gotten that long without your noticing. “yeah,” you answer, voice as small as it used to be, before johnny taught you to be unafraid to talk louder. even smaller, you say, “my boyfriend likes them.”
you hope it’s enough to get him to go away- if you aren’t single, he doesn’t have much of a reason to talk to you- but he just moves closer.
his face twists at your words, like the taste of something sour crawled into his mouth and is now sitting stubbornly on his tongue. “he’s lying, you know. no man likes nails as long as yours, especially not on you. oughta get yourself declawed again.”
your heart squeezes until your vision nearly whites out, and you draw in a small, ragged breath.
declawing.
that’s what your ex used to call it when he’d hold you down and cut your nails painfully short.
they’d sting for days.
your fingers throb at the memory alone, and your body trembles.
your ex crowds closer to you, snatching a hand to look more closely at your nails. “could help you if you need it,” he offers, and you-
you’re gone.
you hardly register your shopping basket hitting the ground or the sound of its contents spilling out.
or the sound of his voice calling after you.
your body controls itself as you scurry through the store, pushing through the front doors, slamming your car door shut, and locking it as quickly as you can.
the drive home is a blur.
then, the next thing you know, you’re at home, nail clippers in hand.
———
johnny can hardly wait as he leaves base, driving home. he’s excited to see you, but he’s also so excited to paint your nails. the design is something he’s been working on for weeks; you’ll love it. it’s better than any of the ones he’s done before, and he can’t wait to see you wearing it around for weeks, a subtle mark on your body that your his and he’s yours.
he’ll paint them tonight, he decides. he can’t wait a moment longer.
when he finally gets home, he drags his duffel in and drops it at the door, too excited to find you and start painting your nails to deal with his things at the moment.
there’ll be time later.
“dove?” he calls, poking around the house only to find you aren’t anywhere to be found.
you’re not in the living room or the kitchen or the office the two of you share, and you’re not answering the calls of his voice or the calls of his phone.
finally, he stumbles upon the shut bedroom door, and he sighs in relief. you’re probably napping or something.
except, when he pushes the door open slowly, you’re sitting on the bed, your back facing him.
your back shudders as the sound of your short, gasping breaths fills the air, and your entire body trembles.
“love?” he calls, hurrying to your side. he falls to his knees before you. “hey, hey, what’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“i cut them,” you wheeze out, shoving your trimmed nails towards him. they’re cut so short that the sensitive skin beneath is exposed in some places, stinging at the feeling of air touching it.
“oh, sweetheart,” johnny murmurs. his hands envelop yours gently, and he brings your hand up to inspect the damage, wincing in sympathy at what he finds.
oh, god, he doesn’t like your nails short.
that’s all you can think about.
he doesn’t like your nails long, and he doesn’t like them short, and he’s going to leave you just for that your mind tells you in a voice that sounds suspiciously like your ex-boyfriend.
your breath is caught in your throat. you gasp for air that won’t come, tears burning your eyes as they flood down your cheeks.
“c’mon, breathe with me,” he orders gently. he presses the palm of your hand against his chest in order for you to feel the dramatized rise and fall of it.
you hiccup, lungs spasming, before you finally manage to draw in a slower breath.
“just like that,” he praises. he gathers you up against his chest, holds you close, and starts to gently rock you back and forth.!
“the design?” you croak into his neck the second you’re able to talk around the lump in your throat again, oxygen in your lungs once more. Guilt pumps through your body, thick and suffocating, and you cling tighter to him. “what about… the design..?”
“dinnae even worry about that, love,” he promises. pressing a sweet kiss to your temple, he adds, “yer nails’ll grow back, and ah dinnae mind waiting.”
“thank you.” you press your face closer to him and hug him impossibly closer.
“let’s get yer fingers bandaged up, okay?”
at your nod, he settles you against the bed, tucking you under the blankets, so he can go grab some bandages and first aid cream. it’ll keep the sensitive skin from drying out and will reduce the stinging, throbbing of your fingers hopefully.
he bandages you carefully and with precision, ensuring all of the bandages are as comfortable as possible.
and as he works, you explain in a hushed voice. “i saw him- in the grocery store.”
johnny already knows who you’re talking about. he knew from the moment you showed him your too-short nails. he hadn’t seen them this short since you two started dating, and you were still in the habit of cutting your nails too short, like you were expecting your ex to do it for you if you didn’t do it yourself.
it took him a long time to coax you into letting them grow back out, but he never gave up.
he even started painting your nails. that had started as a mix of encouragement to keep your nails longer and a distraction from the negative feelings you felt about having long nails. every time you tried to inspect their length with your eyes, you got caught up in the designs instead.
then, as you started to enjoy having long nails, he kept painting them out of pride for how far you’d come.
he won’t give up now, either, even if it takes months more of convincing you again that you don’t deserve the pain of too-short nails and that he loves you, no matter the length of your nails.
crawling into bed with you once the bandaging is done, he tucks you up against his chest once more. “ah love ye,” he murmurs.
“i love you, too.”
abuse is a serious issue, and if you or a loved one are experiencing it, please please please take care of yourselves and get help 🫶
also, sorry for disappearing for a bit, college doesn’t mix well with undiagnosed adhd 😅
on a lighter note, thank you for over 200 followers! the support i’ve gotten on these stories is lowkey insane; thank you all so much!
Screw Johnny’s parents. They better get over it. And soon.
Simon comes back from his mission. Maybe he retires. Maybe TF141 goes private, mercenary, or rogue.
Ily 😘
through johnny’s very verbal corrections and you learning to stick up for yourself, they do eventually get over it, and eventually, the four of you can get along well enough to actually have that nice dinner you always wanted :)
and yeah simon’s definitely coming home against all odds; i don’t like writing stories that don’t have happy endings lol
he’s not coming home from this mission, and he knows it.
the odds are impossible, more impossible than he’s ever faced before, and fate has never been particularly kind to simon riley.
if he didn’t already know, the way his team is acting would’ve confirmed it.
price gives him the details of the mission with eyes full of sorrow and the kind of premature grief that comes with saying goodbye and knowing it’ll be the last one ever said between them. when the meeting ends, he stands and pulls him into a hug with an intensity that has his ribs creaking and their eyes burning.
johnny and kyle stand in a silent vigil outside of price’s office, listening to words they shouldn’t hear.
when simon comes out, shoulders drooping with the weight of his death sentence, they press themselves on either side of him and guide him outside. the three of them sit on weathered cement, shoulder to shoulder with their backs against the brick wall, passing a cigarette and a bottle of something strong between each other.
a celebration of life for him. his first funeral.
underneath the stars and with his impending end weighing on him, he can’t help but think of his family.
of his dead family.
tommy, beth, joseph, and his mom all waiting for him on the other side.
but of this family, too.
price, johnny, and kyle.
you.
all waiting for him here, in vain.
he says his final goodbyes and leaves base to spend one last night with you before he’ll leave in the morning for the last time.
unlike johnny, price, and kyle, you don’t know this is it. you don’t know this is the last time you’ll see him alive.
he can’t bring himself to tell you.
not when you’re laying on top of him on the couch, your head on his chest and a blanket lazily pooling around the pair of you.
his hand is cupped in yours, and your fingers trace gentle patterns around it, favoring his ring finger. so painfully oblivious to his sealed fate, you’re mumbling about a set of matching rings, one on his finger and one on yours, as you blink sluggishly and listen to his heart beating so steadily beneath your head.
“after this mission,” you say dreamily, “we’re getting married.” a soft, sleepy smile stretches across your face at the thought.
he swallows down the lump in his throat and promises, “after this mission, love.”
“d’you want a… courthouse wedding? or s’thing bigger?” every word you say pushes you closer to the brink of your day-dreaming becoming just dreaming.
“fallin’ asleep on me?” he asks, laughing softly and wishing this moment could last forever.
it takes you a bit to shake off the sleep trying to drag you down and even longer to respond. “mmhh-mmhh- jus’… answer.”
“whatever you want.” his arms shift to hold you closer, and one of his hands cups your head against his chest, a steady and familiar weight that has your eyes sticking shut for a moment and a contented sigh slipping from you.
“and… flowers..?”
“baby’s breath,” he admits quietly. they were his mother’s favorite.
he hopes you’ll put them on his grave.
his hand starts to brush through your hair gently, and he leans down to pepper a line of kisses across your relaxed brow.
“baby’s breath.” you’re so far gone that the words hardly push off your tongue. “all over.”
simon smiles, both at the thought of your wedding and at the sight of you drifting off in the safety of his arms. he finds he isn’t not strong enough to keep the tears that have been steadily pooling in his eyes from falling anymore.
“i love you,” he whispers hoarsely. “so much.”
you tilt your head up, cracking your heavy eyelids open just far enough to take in the glistening of wetness on his cheeks.
too far gone to find words, you press a kiss to the tear track instead.
his chest shudders beneath you, and his voice quavers as he whispers, “get some sleep, love.” he presses one last kiss to your forehead, and you’re gone.
—
he doesn’t sleep.
he can’t waste his last few hours asleep, not when he’ll be doing that permanently soon.
instead, he stays up and watches over you.
he memorizes the steady weight of you laying on top of him, the softness of your skin, the sweetness of your scent. there’s not an ounce of tension left to you; you trust him wholly in your most vulnerable state.
and you cling to him. even in sleep.
one of your hands fists his shirt, and the other is splayed across his chest just above where his heart beats.
he watches over you and thinks of the wedding you’ll never have, and he cries as silently as he can manage, thinking of how the news will crush you.
he whispers to you, too.
a thousand confessions of how much he loves you, and a thousand more apologies for how much this will hurt you.
much too soon, the time comes.
you’re awake, still in your pajamas and half asleep, grumbling at how unfair it is that he has to get up so early to leave.
that’s not all that’s unfair.
he’s all done up in his gear, one hand on the door, painfully aware of the fate that sits on the other side of it.
he turns to look at you, at your watering eyes, and pulls you close one last time. presses a selfishly long kiss to your lips and another one to your temple. “i love you,” he says. his last words to you. “always.”
“i love you, too,” you croak, kissing him back.
you think, for a moment, about asking him not to go, but it’s too late.
he’s gone.
chat i made myself sad, i’m so sorry
thanks for reading! also big thanks for all the support on my writing! love you guys 🫶
also I’m probably gonna go back and write the next parts to some of my older posts sometime this week :)
maybe johnny’s dad had always been a bitter man, always showing visible disdain for the people around him
maybe margarie is johnny’s mom’s best friend, and they’d decided long ago that their kids would marry each other without once thinking about what their kids would actually want
nevermind that margarie’s daughter sees johnny as more of a brother than anything- or that she doesn’t like any man like that and is perfectly content with her wife
and nevermind that johnny loves you so wholly and purely and completely that it’d be ridiculous to even imagine him with someone else, much less suggest it
but since you just so happened to be the wrench thrown in that plan, they put all the blame on you, and as your marriage has thrived, their dislike for you has only grown stronger
and maybe johnny, knowing his parents, is the reason you only ever met them at the wedding. he was too afraid they’d chase you off before he could marry you if you met them before the wedding, and once he saw how openly they hated you on the happiest day of your life, he kept you from them afterwards to keep you safe
except, it turns out he was a little too good at protecting you from it because you weren’t aware of how much they hated you. in fact, you were so oblivious that you asked him to invite them over for dinner. god, he couldn’t say no to you, not even over this, so he invited his parents over and vowed to protect you from finding out about their hatred
you found out anyway, of course, but johnny still tried to shield you from the brunt of it and comforted you after
anyways lol, thanks for indulging me in my ramblings :)
you, johnny, and his parents- your in-laws- tucked into your cozy little dining room, sitting close together at a table with fresh flowers you’d picked from your garden as the centerpiece and eating food you’d worked all day to prepare.
the four of you are supposed to be having a nice time catching up, laughing and getting to know each other a bit better since you’d only ever seen them at the wedding. not before. not after.
and despite your effort, it isn’t a nice little dinner.
you very quickly realize the reason you haven’t seen much of johnny’s parents is because they don’t like you.
the moment johnny welcomes them in- without you there because you’re finishing up on the kitchen- his mom is already asking, “finally leave tha’ lassie a yers?”
johnny snipes, “my wife is in tha kitchen, ma.”
you can’t help but overhear; they aren’t exactly talking quietly. mactavishes, you’ve learned, are all prone to talking louder than they think they are.
and their footsteps are the same way.
you just manage to tug a strained smile onto your lips as johnny comes into the kitchen, dropping a hand around your waist and pressing a kiss to your temple, wordlessly apologizing for what his mother has said even though he doesn’t know you’ve heard it.
so, yeah, you already know this dinner will be hell.
you lean into johnny and turn your head just far enough to press an answering kiss of forgiveness to his skin.
only to freeze when a voice grumbles, “ach, no’ a sight ah wanna see,” from just outside the kitchen. two pairs of footsteps follow the complaint into the room, faces painted with barely-hidden disdain.
it takes everything you have to hide the thread of shame stitching itself into your chest.
“hello,” you greet, voice smaller than you mean for it to be.
johnny picks up on it immediately. his hand twitches on your waist before pulling you closer. a frown tugs onto his lips for a moment, a too-brazen display of concern for you.
“what’d ye say?” johnny’s dad snaps.
your face burns hot as you repeat, “hello.”
“hello tae ye, too.”
you nod and squirm your way out of johnny’s arms to check on the dish that’s in the oven, studying it for longer than you need to. you can still feel their eyes on you, and your face heats up. to save yourself, you offer, “you can- you can go sit at the table if you’d like.”
“wha-“
johnny, unwilling to watch them embarrass you any further, argues, “ye heard her.”
he leads his parents out of the kitchen, grousing at them to back off of you, but their excuses float back towards you. “och, john, just tryna teach yer bird tae speak up. no one’ll ever listen tae her if she’s so quiet," and "why're ye tryna pick a fight wit' yer da, johnny-boy?"
you fumble around the kitchen aimlessly. anything you can think of to delay the inevitable of sitting down with them, you do.
you're about to start reorganizing your damn silverware drawer when johnny comes back in, the scowl on his face softening into a smile at the sight of you.
"ready?" he asks, and both of you know he isn't just talking about the food.
"just about." you take the dish out of the oven and set it on a potholder on the counter. "can you get the salad out of the fridge?"
when you bring the food out, you find his parents seem to be scrutinizing every inch of your dining room. they nitpick a detail silently, nudge the other into noticing it, too, and have a wordless conversation with their eyes about it.
and when you and johnny set the food down and settle into the seat across from them, they turn that same kind of focus onto you, too.
you can't help but feel scraped open, like all your deepest secrets have been put on display. like they might somehow know about the time you went out drinking with your friends with a fake ID or the fender bender you got into when you were first learning how to drive just from looking at you.
shifting in your seat, you clear your throat and present the dishes with an almost quavering voice like you're in a food competition, staring down sneering five-star chefs that know a thousand times more about cooking than you do.
you might as well be, with the way their lips curl and their noses scrunch in sync.
no words are exchanged as the food is dished up, nor does anyone say anything as the four of you wait for the food to cool. it isn't until you're bringing a forkful to your mouth that the tense silence is finally broken.
“when are ye leavin’ fer yer next deployment?” his mom asks, the first thing she’s said all night that hasn’t been a poorly-disguised jab at you.
“next week," johnny answers warily.
she squints and scrunches up her nose, an expression that's on her face more often than not, you've found. “thought ye just got back a month er so ago..?”
“yeah.”
her lips twitch into a frown, and her eyes glance towards you before they find john once more. “ah mean maybe if ye hadda sweeter bird keepin’ yer house- margarie's daughter is still single-"
the tears that burn your eyes shock everyone- including you.
it's one thing for them to treat every bit of you with disdain- but it's another thing entirely to openly suggest that he replaces you.
“ma! that’s enough outta ye!” johnny finally snaps, tugging your chair closer to him and looping an arm around your waist to pull you against his chest.
except, you squirm out of his touch.
your chair squeaks as you push it backwards and stand abruptly, taking your plate and escaping without another word.
as you leave, his parents' excuses haunt you: "shouldnae've picked such a sensitive bird."
you can hear johnny cussing his parents out- can hear their absolutely outraged screeching, can hear their stopping and the slamming of the front door- but it doesn't matter as you hurry away from them.
taking refuge in your office, you drop into your chair and curl in on yourself.
after a while, johnny finds you there, your plate of food untouched and your knees to your chin, arms wrapped around them. there are tears in your eyes as much as you wish there weren't; they don't deserve to be cried over because that's exactly what they want from you.
"hey, sweetheart," johnny greets softly, kneeling before the chair you're curled up in. he reaches out to take your hands and squeezes. "ahm so, so sorry about them, doll. they'll never treat you that way again. swear it."
you uncurl slowly, reaching out with shaking arms to cling to johnny. "thank you," you croak, burying your face into his neck.
"ye deserve the world, darling. just wish they could see that," he mumbles before holding you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "someday, maybe. fer now, ye worked really hard on this meal, so let's enjoy it, yeah?"
you nod, smiling softly. "i love you," you murmur.
"i love you, too."
hope this makes sense lol, I’m half asleep
hope you enjoyed, and as always, if there’s some trope or character you wanna see, hit up my asks :)
thanks so much for reading and for all your support 🫶 i appreciate all of you!
hello! i just wanted to let you know that i really like your writing! it feels natural and it's enjoyable to read, and the way you characterise both the reader and the character in question feels so, i'm not really sure how to word this, pleasant, nice, in character, like you have this firm grasp of who everyone in the story is and you do a really good job at communicating it
i'm sorry if this wasnt worded the best- i'm really scared of sending things like these but i just had to let you know that you're doing a fantastic job!
i look forward to your updates, but please make sure you take care of yourself and dont burn yourself out! (once a day is SO impressive but can also be really tiring)
anyway have a nice day!
thank you so much! this is so kind and sweet of you 😭🫶 i appreciate you pushing past your fear about sending things like this just to tell me how much you enjoy my writing, and i’m really glad you like it! also, thanks for the feedback; it’s always helpful! and yeah, don’t worry, i’m taking care of myself :) have a phenomenal day, and take care of yourself, too 🫶
for the first time since the two of you started dating, you aren’t there to greet kyle when he comes home.
he tries not to let disappointment curdle the relief he feels at stepping into the home the two of you have built together. he's finally home after a long deployment that only got longer, his return date pushing back time and time again, and he's home in one piece, something he has to appreciate every time it happens.
but there was supposed be relief, too, for the ache that's sat in his chest since the moment he left, an emptiness around his heart at the prospect of leaving you without knowing if you'd ever see him again.
but you aren't propped up at the kitchen table, biting at your nails as you worry and wait, lighting up the second you see him.
you aren't on the couch in the living room either, half asleep but so damn happy to see him, all the fears that keep you up at night tamped down for a little while at being able to reach out and touch him, to kiss him again.
he frowns as he drops his duffel in the entryway and tugs off his boots.
it isn't too late at night for you to still be awake- not that that's ever stopped you before; you've waited up until four in the morning just to see him before- but it's hardly pushing eight. you're never asleep by then.
and your car is in the driveway, so he knows you're not gone.
you're just... not waiting for him.
his frown deepens. a shot of worry shoots through his system, burning like alcohol as it does so, that you've given up on waiting for him to come home altogether, that you're so used to him being gone that him being there makes little difference.
if he could choose to never leave you again, he would, but his work is just...
someone has to do it.
you've always understood that- has that really changed?
he wanders deeper into the house, poking his head into your office because maybe you'd gotten too wrapped up in work, but you aren't there either.
it isn't until he reaches the bedroom the two of you share that he finally finds you.
you're sprawled out on his half of the bed, half of your limbs splayed out and the other half tucked close, face mashed into his pillow. your legs are tangled up into the blanket, like you tried to kick it off and failed.
and then, that relief finally hits, a deep breath coming easily to him for the first time in months. his shoulders droop, and the tension in his body melts.
you're just asleep.
you aren't sick of him or no longer phased by his coming and going; you just fell asleep much earlier than normal.
his weary body settles next to yours on the bed, and he reaches out a hand to brush through your sleep-mussed hair, a soft smile tugging at his lips at the state of you. fondness threatens to drown him- god, he loves you.
your head lolls to the side at the touch, and your brows pinch together before your stubbornly stuck-shut eyelids open.
you blink at him for a long time, eyes glazed over for a moment- and then it takes even longer for your brain to process his presence and- "kyle- you're 'ome- 'n safe," you rasp out, voice hoarse and hardly above a whisper.
"hey, lovey," kyle greets softly. so affectionately and full of sweet concern for you. "you feelin' alright?"
"ach," you scoff, but it only leads into you coughing. "jus' tired- took a..." your mind blanks, and you blink up at him. "a... nap."
kyle laughs, eyes cheeky as he prods, "a nap? sure you're not sick?"
"mhh-mhh." you push yourself onto your side and scootch closer to drop your head onto his lap, pressing your face into his stomach. your body curls around him as he sits on your bed. into his stomach, you begin to ramble out all the reasons you aren't sick, but they don't hold much weight, not with the heat radiating off of you and the deliriousness in your voice.
kyle just hums along anyways, running his hands through your hair and brushing his hands down your back, and letting you talk about whatever comes to mind, like denise- no, janice- no, definitely denise from work and how you despise her and how you saw this ad for a movie the two of you should see.
and eventually, your ramblings die down until you're not saying anything at all, no sounds escaping you besides soft little snores muffled into his stomach.
kyle holds you like that for a long time, relieved at having you close again and so utterly fond of you.
he's already running through a checklist of all the things you'll need and want to help you feel better, like him making you his mom's homemade chicken noodle soup recipe, lots of cuddles, and swapping between heat and ice packs for the muscle aches and chills that come with being sick.
he'll handle everything later, but for now, he just wants to hold you close, memorizing how you look curled up in his lap, so soft and sweet even in sickness.
thank you for over 160 followers- that's insane, where did all of you come from lol
thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed :)
as always, my asks are always open if there’s a trope or a character you wanna see :)
I hadn't realised I binged, liked, and reposted almost all of your posts ahsbsshs. I'm sorry for those notifications😭. Anyway, Happy belated birthday! I just wanted to tell you that I love your writing so much. The scenarios and the way you write the cod men are so sweet I just— *malfunctions*. Thank you for deciding to post your writing😳.
I loveeeee seeing these notifications, don’t ever apologize 😋 also thank you for the happy birthday and for this sweet message! it made my day! and I’m glad you enjoy my writing :)
simon has just sprawled himself out onto your couch, feet propped up on one armrest and head on the other, and closed his eyes when he hears a pair of footsteps padding towards him and the clicking of an accompanying pair of paws.
he cracks one eye open.
“got you a pillow and a blanket,” you offer, holding out the biggest blanket you’ve got and one of the pillows off your bed.
he blinks at you and takes the stack from your hands. he shouldn’t be surprised at the unexpected display of kindness, considering how kind you’ve been to him thus far, but still, he is. he’s been starved for kindness his whole life, always giving his everything to everyone and never getting anything in return; he’s never been on the receiving end.
“thanks,” he mumbles and busies himself into getting situated, so he doesn’t have to think about the warmth blooming in his chest or the flush to his cheeks.
“goodnight,” you say before heading back towards your room, riley at your heels. you pause at the end of the hallway, a foot hovering over the invisible line that separates the living room from the hallway that leads to your bedroom. turning back to him, you ask, “light on or off?” and nod to the little lamp sitting on your tv stand.
god, you’re so good. so thoughtful.
“off,” he says, and you click it off, drenching the living room in darkness. giving him one final murmured goodnight, you and riley are gone.
and left alone in the darkness with that odd warmth still burning in his chest, all he can think about is how good you’ve been to him. letting him stay. letting him take a hot shower in your bathroom, using your products. eating your food- hell, you’d heated him up a freezer dinner instead of just tossing some granola bars at him.
he’s a stray dog you’re feeding, and he’s worried it might have him coming back.
he tucks himself under the blanket you provided. it’s soft and massive, big enough for him to fit comfortably under, unlike the functional throw blanket he used to sleep with that hardly covered him at all.
it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep, not nearly as long as it usually does, and couch be damned, he sleeps well.
—
he’s still sleeping.
it’s been nearly fourteen hours, and he’s still passed out on your couch, snoring away.
you were surprised when you woke up, wandered towards the kitchen to get some breakfast, and found him on your couch. honestly, you’d thought the whole thing was a dream or a hallucination or something.
but, no, he was real, and he was still sleeping.
you had tucked his blanket back up from where it’d fallen before slipping into the kitchen. being as quiet as possible, you made yourself a quick breakfast and set a portion aside for him.
having the day off from work, you poked around the apartment for a while, doing little odd tasks while waiting for him to wake up, you stopped occasionally to make sure he wasn’t dead, sticking a hand under his nose to make sure he was breathing, pressing a palm to his forehead to make sure he didn’t have a fever.
riley, just as worried as you, pressed herself up against the couch and stayed there, occasionally nosing against his hand.
lunch came and went, and you set a portion aside for him then, too, boxing it up and putting it in the fridge for him if he ever wakes up.
and now, you've finally given up on waiting.
you choose to at least handle the landlord situation, so he doesn’t have to once he finally wakes up. except, it turns out that mr. smith is just as much of a cunt during the day as he is at night, and no matter how much you plead with him on simon's behalf, he says there isn’t really anything he can do.
he won’t help you find a place for him to stay, nor will he ever rent to him again. and so, you’re stuck.
in all honesty, simon probably has a place to go. maybe he's got friends or family nearby, or maybe he'd even be more comfortable in a hotel or something than staying with you, considering you're complete strangers to each other.
but you’d feel bad sending him off without time to make proper preparations, especially with the state he’s in.
even now, he still looks exhausted, heavy eyebags beneath his eyes. there's tension in his body even asleep, a thrum of anxiety that never shuts off so no amount of rest is ever enough.
not to mention the bruise on his cheek or the cut on his forehead and god knows what other injuries are hiding underneath the blanket.
and you know he hasn't eaten since you fed him last night.
you can't just send him off like that.
maybe just one more night.
you'll give him one more night just so he has time to get things situated. to get a plan and gather himself and rest a bit more before he leaves, so you don't have to worry about him once he's gone.
you nod to yourself before wandering back over to him to check his breathing once more. just for your own sake.
and then, finally, you decide fuck it. he needs food in his system and water, too, more than he needs more sleep- and he can go right back to sleep after you get some sustenance into him if that's what he wants.
reheating the leftovers from lunch, you take that and a glass of water to his side, setting them down on the coffee table with a warning to riley to not eat it first.
then, you quietly call, "simon, it's time to wake up."
oh, god, it's almost oddly endearing the way his eyelids flutter open, and his face lolls to face you, blinking slowly as his system starts to come back online. his eyes soften as they take you in, something subconscious and sweet and meant only for you, before he comes back to himself a bit more.
"whassit?" he mumbles, bringing a sleep-stiffened hand up to rub haphazardly at his eyes.
"need to get some food into your system," you explain, "then you can go right back to sleep." you help him into a more upright position- he's too tired to protest, too tired to attempt to place himself and his surroundings and you- and you set the plate into his lap.
as he starts to eat, you watch over him. you see the way his eyelids keep dragging down for longer and longer, the yawns that fight their way out of him between bites, the way he lists too far to one side before correcting it.
"wiped out, aren't you?" you murmur, and he blinks as if just remembering you're there.
"thankshh," he manages to push out, tongue uncooperative, and you nod, taking the now-empty plate from him. he lists to the right, eye drooping, before snapping back upright and trying to blink his eyes open to look at you.
"you can go back to sleep," you promise. you aren't even sure if that's what he's looking for, but the second you say it, he settles back down onto the couch.
riley takes the opportunity to make herself at home between him and the side of the couch, laying her head on his chest.
for a moment, you think about calling her down, but simon's eyes crinkle and a grin tugs at his lips. he brushes a hand over her fur before it drops back down to his side.
and then, he's gone again, and riley follows, falling asleep on him.
you only get one more day of this.
next
i'm boutta pass out. take this, i hope it's coherent lol
you’ve hardly been asleep for ten minutes when your eyelids peel halfway open, staring up unseeingly at the ceiling above you. your eyes trace something from the ceiling towards your chest.
kyle, who’d been rather contentedly watching over you as you fell asleep, frowns. worry pricks at his heart as he asks in a voice hardly above a whisper, “babe? you alright?”
you don’t answer. your breath hitches, and whatever you must see must’ve gotten too close for comfort because your shaking hands jerk into action, tossing the covers off yourself. your body yanks upright, and you begin to pat yourself down, chanting, “what the fuck- what the fuck- what the fuck-“
kyle’s heart slams against his chest as he jolts upright, too, dropping a hand onto your back. “hey- hey- talk to me, love, yeah? c’mon- tell me what’s going on-“
you shake your head, breath still hitching in too-short gasps as your heart pounds so painfully against your ribs it seems to be attempting to escape them and-
“breathe,” kyle orders, pulling you against his chest and rubbing your back to ground you. “follow my breathing.”
you press as close to him as you can, hiding yourself away in his arms and burying your face into his neck.
eventually, your heart slows and your breathing evens out.
and eventually, your brain comes back online, and you blink yourself into awareness, blinking back at kyle.
“sorry… had a dream there was a spider on me,” you mumble sheepishly, face blooming red at how stupid it sounds.
you had been teetering that line of half awake and half asleep, and somehow, your mind was conscious enough for you to be aware of your surroundings and yet unconscious enough to inject a nightmare into them.
a spider crawling towards you, its web stretching down from the ceiling towards you, the thin white strand glinting in the low light. the spider growing bigger and bigger and bigger and getting closer and closer and closer towards you until it finally jumps and drops onto your chest.
your reactions had been entirely instinctual as you were still half asleep when panic with the sole purpose of getting that hallucinated spider off of you charged through your system.
“scared the shit outta me, love,” kyle grumbles, but he tugs you back down to lay with him and presses a kiss to your temple to comfort you.
pulling you closer than before, he wraps a hand around your wrist to feel your heartbeat as it evens out slowly. his other arm lays across your waist, a steady weight to keep you close and keep you grounded. it also lets him feel as your chest evens out its risings and fallings, your breaths turning slow and deep as you start to slip away once more.
he watches over you once more, making sure your journey into the dream world is much more comforting than the last, before he tucks closer to you and drifts away, too.
based on me, half asleep, thinking a spider was coming down at me from my ceiling, and freaking the fuck out lol
take this very short post today because I’ve been busy 😅
thanks for all the support on my silly little drabbles 🫶 I’m working on part twos to some of them right now 😋
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