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adore-laur · 3 months

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REWIND: PART ONE

Reese likes to play an imaginary game using the sixteen squares above the produce section.

The grocery store ceiling bears a resemblance to a checkerboard, its tiles creating a stringent pattern with alternating colors of fluorescent white lights and grainy brown drywall. The juxtaposing design is an eyesore, and she has to play on a smaller scale compared to the standard board, but she makes it work. The challenge is a perfect distraction.

Moving her dark piece diagonally to the upper right, she ends up being captured by her pretend opponent. Two squares kitty-corner from the ploy, a light flickers...

Rewind.

There's a piece tucked in the bottom left corner that illuminates from the flash. It can be moved without being overthrown, so she plays her turn again. No consequences occur this time. That's much better.

Alas, a bleached retina will do Reese no good if she stays in a trance of staring at the ultraviolet beams, so she tears her eyes away and instead focuses on the array of freshly-misted vegetables directly in front of her.

Rutabaga. What the hell does a rutabaga look like?

The paper list in her pocket feels like an anchor weighing her down. She prefers not to go shopping alone, but her detrimental procrastination and social anxiety problems have led her to the place she currently stands at a quarter past midnight. No one else is around except for the zombie-like employees that roam the vacant aisles and robotically stock shelves, which is the exact reason why she decided to venture out at the odd time.

Reese roughly swallows down the apprehension that crawls up her parched throat and sidetracks herself by counting the heads of iceberg lettuce. Two, four, six, eight...

Rewind.

Her single mission is to find rutabaga, so she mouths the ill-sounding syllables and scans the rows of cruciferous vegetables, attempting to find one that might look unfamiliar. There's kale, cauliflower, and radishes, but nothing that appears as a godforsaken rutabaga. It's the last item she needs on her list, and with her pathetic luck, it happens to be an impossible hunt.

Reese just wants to go home. It's late, the rain is pouring outside, and her eyes burn from either insomnia or her long game of ceiling checkers. The skin of her cuticles has been picked raw, and her cheeks are starting to become prickled with heat because she's getting frustrated. She could ask for help, but that would be a crippling recipe for disaster considering her social skills amount to zero. There's also no need to be a burden, especially to minimum wage workers who also want to go home.

Taking out her phone from her sherbet orange puffer coat that she bought because it looked like a Creamsicle, Reese slides down on the cracked screen to open the search bar. She types in a few incorrect spellings of the unknown vegetable — rootabega, rootabayga, rutabayga? Thankfully, spell check comes to her aid.

A muted gasp escapes her mouth when the first picture loads. It's possibly the most horrendous-looking food she's ever seen. It almost doesn't look edible with its skin that looks like mold.

According to WebMD, it's a turnip that's not quite a turnip, therefore making everything more confusing to her. Sighing under her breath, Reese begins foraging again now that she sort of knows what to search for. The reason she absolutely needs it is because it's required for her Halmoni's infamous rutabaga and parsnip soup. She's disabled, so it would have been cruel to ask her to come to the grocery store at an ungodly hour, but she desperately wishes she were here right now to assist her. Speaking of her grandmother, she should probably...

Rewind.

Reese reels back the tangled film of her brain. If she could just focus for one second, then she could get home quicker. Just find the rutabaga!

"Broccoli!"

A voice that's not her own comes from her right, making her jolt a little. It's scratchy and it seems to be directed towards someone younger since it goes a pitch higher than what she's usually used to hearing from a man. She was too lost in her own head to realize someone was in the same aisle as her, evidently looking for broccoli and, lucky for them, successfully finding it.

Reese's phone is still in her hands, so she opens her empty messages and pretends to text a nonexistent person so she can peek over at the honey-voiced enigma. Shifting her gaze to the side, she instantly locks eyes with a bundled baby in the seat of a shopping cart. They're already staring at her, green irises and a button nose emerging from the hood of a coat that engulfs their tiny body. Their legs kick in the seat, and their hands hold a squeezable pouch of applesauce, the mushy substance dripping onto the mittens that they wear.

Reese's cheeks color with a rubescent flush when they point their hand and begin making gurgling noises of nonsense. Regret instantly seeps into her nervous system.

The mysterious voice playfully gasps and says, "Yeah? Tell me more."

Stuffing her phone in her pocket, Reese wanders further away from the potential awkward position she might put herself in. She doesn't dare to look at the man as she hastily turns her back to them and heads over to the display of vibrant fruits that are opposite to the vegetables. Bright lemons with leathery peels distract her eyes, but her ears are still tuned into the two people that have also decided to go on a late-night grocery store run. She assumes it's a dad with his baby, or perhaps a babysitter. Maybe someone with their niece or nephew. Either way, she doesn't want to disrupt them.

Rewind.

Dammit, she just needs to find the rutabaga and go home.

"Excuse me, ma'am, do you work here?"

Her heart plummets and her hands become clammy with anxiety. She feels as if she's in a horror movie, the moment when the main character turns around and is confronted with their worst nightmare. In this case, Reese's worst nightmare is socializing.

Taking a shallow breath, she slowly twists her head around. She might as well just press play. The nightmare, it turns out, is a handsome man that now holds the baby who was staring at her in his arms. Sat on his hip, the baby, who Reese guesses to be around the age of one, gnaws on a yellow teething ring that's clipped to the man's wrist. They're mesmerized by the stalk of raw broccoli that he holds in his other hand.

"Hi, do you work here by any chance?" he asks quietly.

Reese believes his face could make Jesus weep, surely. It can only be described as kind from first impression. Flawless skin decorated with a few beauty marks make him seem put together, physically and mentally. He has a nose that fits perfectly on his face, sloped and dotted with faint freckles. Further down, his lips that look as soft as pink sand dunes curve up into a bashful smile. He also has compelling green eyes that identically match the child's, confirming to her that it must be his daughter. The V-neck striped sweater he wears with earth tones of autumn orange, creamy white, and sangria purple goes well with his slightly tanned skin. His hair is an attractive length with soft, brown strands curling up at the ends. The rings on his fingers glow under the fluorescent lights, every scratch and bit of rust on the metal visible. It's devastating how pretty he is.

He doesn't look much older than she is, maybe mid-twenties based on pure estimate. If her guess is true, then the fact that he already has a kid makes her feel incredibly behind in life, but she shouldn't assume his family or relationship situation.

The man suddenly brings his pointer finger to touch his ear and the brings it down to his mouth, his lips forming the question: Are you deaf?

Good lord. How long has she been ogling him in silence?

"No," Reese finally manages to say, her voice sticking in her throat. "No, I can hear. And no, I don't work here."

He nods with an apologetic yet friendly smile. "My mistake. Sorry to bother you."

She forces herself to keep the conversation going. If she ends up stuttering and making a fool of herself, at least she knows she'll never have to see him again.

"It's okay," she says, doing a terrible job at trying to maintain eye contact. "Hey, um, do you know where the rutabaga is? I know you don't work here either, but I can't seem to find it anywhere."

That's good, right? She's doing well. She's honestly glad she didn't come across one of those sketchy old guys who slowly lurk by her in the aisles and tell her that she should smile more.

His eyebrows raise as he asks, "Is it that ugly-looking vegetable?"

"That's the one," she replies awkwardly while shifting her feet.

He jerks his head to the side. "I think I saw some over there. Here, I can show you."

He begins leading the way while hiking the baby up on his hip, their head lazily bouncing with each step. They look back at Reese and smile with tired, blinking eyes.

"I'm a pediatrician, so I have to know a decent amount about vegetables since my daughter is starting to eat solids," he says, stopping in his tracks and examining the display of organics. "Surprisingly," — he holds his pointer finger up and beams innocently at her— "rutabaga is a good place to start."

Reese doesn't know how to respond, so she just nods and tucks a braided strand of hair behind her flushed ear.

"I'm Harry, by the way," he adds as he picks up a discolored bulb. He then points to his daughter who is drifting off. "This is Marlowe. She had trouble falling asleep tonight, so we decided to go on a little adventure. It seems to be working."

"I'm Reese," she mumbles shyly. "She's your daughter, right? She's very cute."

Harry looks at her with a steady, hypnotizing gaze. "She is. Thank you, Reese." His eyes drop down for a brief second before he says, "I love your style."

Reese looks down at her outfit. It's casual, but she prides herself on the way she's able to coordinate unique vintage pieces. "Oh, uh... thanks. I like your sweater."

He hands her the rutabaga and then rolls his sleeves up, revealing inked skin. "I got it at a thrift store near Sister Bay. Are you from around here?"

"I'm from here, yes. I've been to that thrift store a couple of times."

"Strange that I haven't run into you at one." He grabs a bundle of carrots and inspects them. "It's beautiful this time of year, isn't it? All the trees are changing colors. And the early sunsets."

Maybe he hasn't run into her because she rarely leaves the house, and her only friend is her grandmother. It's probably why she's single, but that's beside the point.

"I love northern Midwest skies," she replies, watching his daughter slowly close her eyes and rest her head against his shoulder. "I think the aurora borealis was supposed to be tonight, but I'm pretty sure the rain ruined it."

Harry points his thumb behind his back. "I saw it on my way in! No joke."

Reese supposes she's been in the store for way longer than originally planned. Or maybe it's her mind playing tricks on her. She doesn't even want to know what time it really is.

"Really?" she asks, trying to catch a peek out of the store windows over the tall shelves.

"Yeah, it's gorgeous. It's raining pretty hard, so the lights are a bit faint, but..." he trails off.

"Shit, it'll go away soon." She immediately slaps her hands over her mouth. "Sorry! I didn't mean to swear in front of your kid."

He grins, deep dimples indenting his cheeks. "No worries. You should be able to see the lights if you just look north where Lake Michigan is."

"Thank you so much, Harry" she tells him, teetering on the heels of her feet. "Um, I'm going to go look for them. Thanks for helping me find the rutabaga."

He just politely nods and waves, then continues shopping. After Reese checks out, she grabs the two brown paper bags full of her groceries and heads through the automatic doors. The rain is coming down hard, slanted and pelting the pavement. The parking lot is empty except for about five vehicles spaciously sat getting a free car wash from nature. Her sneakers squelch with each step as she veers left to try and catch a glimpse of the lights. Raindrops cascade off her coat, and her mom jeans are becoming splattered with dots of wetness. Her sleek black hair sticks to her face, but she oddly loves the feeling.

Eventually, she stops walking and looks up, goosebumps immediately spreading from her neck down her spine when she sees the polar captivation. The faint neon green and violet streaks painted over the starlit horizon are mesmeric. Her eyes don't want to break away from the atmospheric phenomenon. It's dreamlike, yet surreal. She feels as if the earth is putting on a show just for her, the brilliant curtain of colors dancing across the sky.

She stays frozen in place for several minutes, admiring the flickers. It's much more interesting than the grocery store ceiling. This is real life, not some mythical game she created to escape her mind.

This is the perfect distraction.

Reese suddenly hears footsteps from behind, splashing noises from the puddles echoing around the empty lot. She turns around to see Harry walking towards her, a long, plaid coat thrown over his sweater now. One hand carries his daughter and the other holds a clear umbrella over his head, along with three heavy grocery bags. He's lifting them with incredible ease.

"I told you it was beautiful!" he calls out.

Reese purses her lips and squints up at the sky. "It really is."

He strides over and holds his umbrella over both of their heads. "Worth getting soaked for?"

He's close. So close to the point where she notices a small silver earring in his left ear that reflects off the streetlights in the parking lot. Her gaze then falls upon Marlowe as she's fast asleep in his arms, her face squashed on his shoulder and her lips pouted.

"So worth it."

"Hopefully she stays asleep," Harry murmurs, adjusting his grip on the grocery bags.

"Does going to the store usually help?"

"Anywhere but home seems to help. Being a pediatrician means I sometimes work the night shift, so I take her to the hospital with me. That's probably why her sleep schedule is a mess. I don't really have any other choice, though."

She doesn't want to pry, so she simply responds with, "That sounds rough."

He sighs and says, "You could say I'm in desperate need of a babysitter. It's such a small town, so it's difficult to find one that's not already booked. My family doesn't live here either, which means they're not able to watch her."

Reese's brain fast-forwards before she can stop the tape. It reels past every logical outcome, pausing at an accidental place.

"I can babysit," she blurts. "I mean, I'm not a professional or licensed by any means, but I have a little brother who I watch all the time and I'm sure babies can't be too hard."

Harry blinks once. "You're serious?"

She can back out. She can preserve her social battery. She can say goodnight and never run into such a gorgeous specimen again.

"No, yeah. I'm super serious."

Rewind, rewind, rewind.

No! Press play!

Reese is going to do this for her grandmother. She can't sit around being unemployed anymore and expect money to grow on the tamarack trees. She needs to start pushing past her trepidation and get a kickstart on something that reaps benefits. What she really needs to do is start letting life happen naturally and in real time. If working for a hot dad can pay next month's rent, she should snatch that opportunity immediately.

"Wonderful," Harry says enthusiastically. "I'll want to do an interview and run a background check if that's okay. I just met you, so I hope you understand my being a bit wary."

Reese nods quickly. "Of course. That's not a problem."

"Awesome." He kisses the side of his daughter's head. "Can I get your email or phone number so we can set up a date and time?"

She takes her crinkled grocery list out from her pocket as well as her lucky pen she brought along that she clicks whenever she gets anxious.

"Also," Harry says, clearing his throat, "Marlowe is deaf. I really should have prefaced that. It's why I asked in the store if you were deaf because... I don't know why, actually. I guess it's just a habit for me now."

"I understand," Reese assures while writing down her number. "That's not a hindrance to me at all. My grandmother is partially blind and in a wheelchair, and I know it's not quite the same as deafness, but I have experience dealing with—"

"You'd be helping me immensely, Reese," he softly interrupts. He then smirks and narrows his eyes. "If you get the job, that is."

She laughs, breaking eye contact because goddamn, he's scarily easy to talk to. "Well, I'll be expecting a call."

He clicks his tongue and takes the paper from her. "Absolutely. Have a good night, yeah?"

"You too."

Harry looks at his daughter who has now woken up. She's already studying him as he bends his fingers down to touch his palm twice. "Say bye-bye, Mar."

She smiles and looks at Reese, imitating his gesture with her tiny hand. She awkwardly returns the gesture, then waves one more time to Harry before making her way to her car.

On the way there, her rutabaga falls through the soaked paper grocery bag and rolls past her sneakers, stopping at the back tire of her car. She probably should have wrapped it in a reusable produce bag.

Don't rewind, she tells herself. What's meant to be, will be.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles fluff #harry styles x oc #dadrry #dad!harry #harry styles #adore-laur #rewind series

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imtherain · 1 year

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Soup

So here I am again, having feelings about a man who kills people.

This is for, about, around Simon “Ghost” Riley. From Call of Duty, a game I never in a million years thought I’d care about. But here we are.

Warnings? Hurt/Comfort I guess. Some female mentions for “you” (mentions being an auntie etc.) A lot of sort of sad feelings. Talk of trauma, injury, near death, all that fun stuff. Allusions to past relationships. No pancakes. But hey, there’s soup.

I apologize if you misread the title as Soap, as I have a few times. He’s lovely too, but this one is for Ghost.

Anywho

It was one of the hardest things you'd ever done, but after that last mission, you hadn't really had a choice. You'd been just about blown apart by a rain of gunshots. There was an explosion you didn't remember and three weeks of time you lost. Another three lost to a coma.

~~~~~

You had left the 141 six months ago.

And while you carried the scars and some pain the doctors said would never go away, what hurt you most was the look in your lieutenant's eyes when he told you you were going home. The way his eyes were hard chips of stone behind his mask when he told you he wouldn't let you come back.

That was the last time you'd talked to Ghost. And you tried not to think about how much his silence hurt you. You had been so close to him for so long. He always had your back and you always had his. You couldn't count the times you'd spent nights together, trying to deal with all the shit you had to do, there were too many. Maybe there were all of them. Then there were the times when you fell into each other's arms because there was nowhere else to go.

And he sent you home without saying anything that even resembled goodbye.

But that was half a year behind you. You had begun to pick up the bits of your life that could be salvaged. Your sister helped a lot. She was the only family that knew you were back, that even knew you were alive. She lived across town from your apartment, but she made sure to stop by to check on you as often as she could.

You had taken to making food when the things in your head got too loud. You made beef stew and thought of Soap. How he always told you to add more potatoes and made jokes about the Irish in good humor. You made chicken noodle soup for cold nights in safe houses. Leek soup for when it rained and for stomach aches. And you made cakes and pies and cookies for Price and Gaz, both of which had terrible sweet tooths and always tried to steal the batter or taste the dough.

You left a bowl empty for Ghost because you didn't know what else to do.

Tonight you made turkey soup. Lots of root vegetables from a friend of a friend who had a farm south of the city. Good fresh earth still clung to the turnips when your sister brought them to you. She had a whole bag full of turnips, parsnips, carrots, and rutabagas. Onions from the store.

You made the broth with the carcass of the turkey you shared with your sister and her husband two nights before. At their place with their kids. The house, full of color and joy and laughter and life. You got to be Auntie y/n and not a soldier. Not a broken thing left for eternity to find left behind.

Sometimes it was easier to forget the 141 when there was laughter around you.

Sometimes you drove home and cried.

The soup was delicious, warm. Tasted like the stuff that kept you alive with a hug.

You'd gotten good at making soup, as though it was the only thing you knew how to do. Your sister always made bread. Your whole apartment smelled like a Hallmark movie. You sat together at the table, three bowls, two now dirty, and all three empty.

Your sister had stopped asking why a while ago. You figured she knew it was a type of mourning. She always knew you in ways you didn't tell her. Knew how you only wore earrings when you wore dresses. How there was always a knife close at hand. How you slept with a gun, loaded, strapped to the side of your nightstand.

How you always made soup when you missed them.

You had picked up your bowl and your sister's when you heard a knock at the door. All of your alarms went off, thinking the worst at first. But then you remembered how there was a single mother down the hall who you often told could come asking for dinner when she smelled it. Knowing she needed good food sometimes for her and her twins. Remembered just how far your sister’s bread recipe could carry down the hall.

You covered the peephole with your hand before looking through it. In case whoever it was had a gun waiting for you.

There was a shadow outside the door. Tall, broad, black sweatshirt. They were looking down the hall, towards the exit sign that glowed faintly red along the white parts of his mask.

You opened the door and he turned to you.

"Who is it?" Your sister called. You were frozen in the doorway.

"I shouldn't have come," was all he said, turning with his duffle bag to head towards that glowing red light. You caught his sleeve before he could flee.

"Can you do me a favor?" You call over your shoulder back into the house. "Go hide in the bathroom, I'll let you know when you can come out," you stepped out into the hall and closed the door enough that she wouldn't see him. You knew how he was. How he liked his privacy.

"What? Why?" Your sister's confused voice.

"Just do it, I'll explain later," you call back. Ghost hadn't tried to pull away yet. You just held his eyes while you both listened to your sister grumble as she did as you asked.

"You have company," his voice was gravel, just like you remember it. The accent slides around his words like silk.

"She's my sister, she watched my place while I was gone." You told him. You hadn't talked about family, there had been no room for it amongst the gunfire. "If I ask her to go, will you stay?" You didn't want to feel the hope that tried to block your throat. You didn't want to admit how badly you missed him. How being apart had made you realize just how fucked you were, falling in love with your LT.

But he wasn't your LT anymore. Not your commanding officer in any way. So what was he?

"Simon?" Your voice is smaller than he remembers it but hearing his name in your throat brings him back to earth.

"Affirmative," he said. His voice was smaller than it used to be too. As though he didn't want you to hear it. You pulled on his sleeve.

"You can go to my room while I send her home, she wasn't going to stay much longer anyway." You tell him when he resists your tug. "You can take a shower if you want, it'll feel good. Or you can just…" whatever other suggestions you had died in your throat. "Just, don't leave, ok?" This time he only nodded.

He pulled off his boots inside the door and followed you to your room. You didn't see him look around your apartment, didn't see the way he took in the mismatched furniture, the loudly colored rugs, the blankets and pillows that filled the arm chairs. You pointed him into the darkness of your room, flipping the switch to light the lamp on your bedside table. The only light you kept in your room these days.

He looked somehow more massive in the space of your room. He glanced at the dresser which had a mess of body sprays and lotions your sister kept bringing you. There was another chair, filled with clothes this time. The bed was made up with bright colored blankets and more pillows than he'd ever seen in one place before.

"They say the more pillows you have the lonelier you are," He spoke like it was a joke.

"That they do," you didn't agree but you knew better than to lie. "I'll be back in a minute," he dropped his duffle on the floor next to the bed and nodded.

You sighed heavily and went to kick your sister out.

She was worried about leaving you with Ghost. You had told her more than enough to make her nervous about him. But you trusted him still, even if he had sent you away. Even if he hadn't said goodbye.

She promised to call you in the morning and you locked the door with all three locks.

When you came back to your room, you could hear the shower running. The duffle was opened and a few pieces of black fabric were spilling out. You weren't surprised that he wore only black when he played civilian.

"She's gone," you called through the door of the bathroom. "Take your time," you added.

A few minutes later the bathroom opened and Ghost came out. A simpler Balaklava over his face now, a black long sleeved shirt, black pants. The steam from the shower spilled out into the room and backlit him with the harsh light over your sink. He was barefoot as he stood on your carpet.

You didn't know what else to say to him.

He went to his duffle and put his things back. You thought of all the times you'd imagined him here, how he'd look amongst your things. Mourned how you'd never find out. But here he was.

He stood and faced you.

"I didn't know you knew where I lived," you finally said. You weren't surprised he could find you, but you didn't know how else to break the silence.

"I've known for a while," he replied.

"So why now?" You had your arms crossed as you watched him think of what to say. Maybe you imagined it but there was something sharp in his eyes, something like fear or loss or… something.

"I had to see you…make sure you were ok,"

"Why?" You didn't want him to know how fast your heart was beating.

"I had to know," you felt anger flare at his attempt to answer you without telling you anything.

"Had to know what, Simon? Had to know if I was still alive? Had to know if I was still going to the doctor's, to rehab? Had to know if I was living alone or with someone who would actually fucking care about me?" It wasn't fair to accuse him. You knew that. But it had hurt so much when you were sent away. Hurt like a battery acid injection. Hurt like a thousand paper cuts that could never figure out how to heal.

When he didn’t say anything you laughed. Of course he’d stay silent. He never quite figured out how to talk unless it was to give order, to tell off color jokes, or to grind out dirty words into your ear.

“It hurt like hell when you told me to go home,” You said. “Did you know that? It felt like you were kicking me out of the 141, out of all of your lives…out of your life. As though you couldn’t stand to so much as look at me.” You weren’t looking at him anymore, so you missed the way his eyes snapped to your face.

“You almost died, y/n,” He said. “Because of a bad call I made. I had to watch you get shot to shit, watch you bleeding out while Gaz did all he could to keep you from dying. It was a miracle we got you to a hospital at all.” You felt tears gather behind your eyes, pulling angrily at your throat as you tried to keep them inside.

“I never blamed you for that,”

“It doesn’t matter if you did or not because I fucking did,” Ghost snapped. “And then I had to see you hooked up to all those fucking tubes and machines, not moving.”

“You didn’t have to stay,” You tried to ignore the way your heart clenched at his words.

“Three weeks. I had to see that shit for three weeks before you opened your eyes again.” He took a step forward and you watched him cross the space until he was before you. You looked up at him, his frame so large in the dim light. You knew people who would be terrified of being so close to him. But not you. Never you.

“And first chance you got, you told me to get the fuck out… forced me to retire,” His face was hidden by his mask, but you could see the way his shoulders fell as your cheeks grew wet. You wiped at your eyes with your hands and pretended it didn’t kill you for him to see you like this.

“I couldn’t…I couldn’t see you like that again,” His voice was soft now. When you didn’t look at him, he sank to his knees, his hands coming up to touch your legs, gently, as though he was afraid you’d break. “Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you laying there, bloody or plugged up with so many machines…” He shook his head as if to displace the memories. His hands moved up your sides. You didn’t want to forgive him, didn’t want to understand.

“You told me not to die, and I didn’t,” You said. “And you paid me back by leaving,”

His head dipped down into your lap as his arms closed around you. He was hurting too. Just as much as you were. Your hand moved to the back of his head, wanting to comfort him even after all this time. You knew he wouldn’t be here if it didn’t matter, if you didn’t matter to him. But it hurt so much for so long.

“Didn’t know what else to do,” A confession at the altar you built to hide your heart from the world. You felt the walls, the temple you haunted, start to shake and crumble.

“Why are you back?” Your voice was small as your hand traced the back of his head. You’d never seen him like this before, and it meant something to you. It had to.

“Soap said I was a dumb fuck for letting you go,”

“That’s all it took?” You could almost laugh. You used your hands to bring his face up so you could look at him, but frowned when you saw his eyes, dark as always, but more haunted than normal.

There was more to it than just Soap talking shit. “Tell me what happened, love,”

“Bad intel, shit went sideways.” You felt your heart clench.

“Who?”

“Whenever I closed my eyes all I could see was you all shot to shit, bleeding out like you were in a hurry to die,”

“Simon,” You pressed.

“Me,” He finally said. You had his face in your hands, but he pulled away and ripped the balaclava off, showing you his face. You’d seen him before, but seeing him now, his eyes angry and wet, caught you off guard. There were no new marks on his face, but you studied him just to be sure. “I was the one bleeding out… and you weren’t there to see it.” Your heart dropped like a nuclear bomb, but when it hit bottom it didn’t explode. It just sat there, heavy.

“But you’re ok now,” You said. You were telling yourself just as much as you were reminding him. “And me, I’m here, I’m safe too,” Your thumbs brushed his cheeks, something that, even when you were together, you’d rarely gotten to do.

“I thought it would be better if you weren’t there,” He continued. “That I wouldn’t keep looking for you,” You wondered how long he’d been keeping this to himself, knowing he didn’t usually open up to anyone. You wondered if he’d told Soap, and that’s why he’d called him a dumb fuck.

“It sucked being here without you,” You said. “Not hearing from you. Soap calls once in a while, checks in. Price even offered to come visit. But I told him no.”

Simon looked at you for a long time, not saying anything more. You held his face, knowing he’d run out of words. After a while, you just sighed and leaned down to kiss his forehead, holding the kiss for three counts too long.

“Should I go?” He asked. Your hands were on his shoulders now, his still along your waist while he knelt on your floor. You shook your head.

“I made soup, if you’re hungry,” You told him instead. He thought for a moment before he nodded. It took him a minute for him to pull away from you enough to stand. You picked up his mask and handed it to him before taking his hand. He laced his fingers with yours.

If he was going to stay, you were going to have to start over. And if you were going to start over, you’d do it right this time. Soft touches, gentle kisses. Not fast fucks in the desert. Not sloppy quickies behind the barracks. Not moans concealed by gloved hands.

He dutifully followed you to the kitchen and took the chair you offered him. You went about reheating the soup, as it was cold now. You didn’t say much, and he didn’t say anything. But his eyes followed you, face still open and empty of his mask. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen his face this long in a single go before.

It was nice.

“My sister made the bread, it’s fresh,” You told him, handing him a thick slice. You couldn’t help but touch his face one more time before turning back to the stove with his bowl.

You sat with him while he ate. Watching as he dipped the bread in and brought it to his mouth. You wondered if he liked any specific soup best. Maybe squash soup, or tomato, or mushroom bisque.

“What?” He asked after you’d stared at him too long.

“I missed you,” You said, knowing better than to lie. His lips threatened to turn into a smile.

“Missed you too,” He speaks carefully, as if the words were new, before returning to the soup.

You were content, for now. He was here, he was clean, he was eating. You could touch him.

And the empty bowl was full.

[Masterlist]

#simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #hurt/comfort #simon ghost riley #soup #imtherain #lackofpamcakes

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