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RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER EIGHT

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | 18+ MDNI | MASTERLIST | AO3 PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, fluff angst & eventual smut, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment, flashbacks “Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past." CHAPTER CW: IMPLIED SEXUAL ASSAULT ((not from simon))

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14TH 2016 NORWAY, 1400 HOURS

"You're movin' too much, still."

"You are quite literally breathing down my neck. Kinda hard not to."

"Yeah, well, get used to it, love. 'Cause at this point you're always gonna have someone looming over you."

You huff, unamused, and it clouds out in front of your face as you squint through the scope of an unloaded rifle. Gloved hands grip the machine as you focus the scope on a point far-off at the other end of the course.

Four hours you've been out here, now, running a sniping simulation. The rest of your squad was split up in pairs across the vast landscape. You were left as the odd one out and, seeing as Walker had originally planned to just stick you carelessly in with another group, Simon volunteered to partner with you instead. Keep things equal. Which basically—as your superior—meant he had an excuse to sit back and smoke while you did all the work.

The exercise was simple; climb the mountain, find your post, sit and keep watch for flags until the next team tags you out. A sniping exercise as well as a strength and conditioning one.

You both made quick work of the mountain, ice picks cracking against the ice. Simon never really considered himself the competitive type, partially because he never needed to be and partially because there was no point—he's worked hard to ensure he's always the biggest guy in the room. Today, though, something in your growing annoyance as he yelled down keep up, sergeant or watch your footing every time you lagged behind stirred something in you, which in turn stirred something in him. It quickly became something of a race.

When his pick slipped and you finally surpassed him as he skidded down a few meters, he heard your laugh for the first time against the wind. For some reason, it made him smile, too.

"I hate sniper duty," you grumble. "Don't know how you do it—sit in the snow for hours."

"Same way I put up with your whiny ass."

"And what's that?"

"Patience."

You roll your eyes, but your lip quirks up into a smile nonetheless. A sight he's grown more accustomed to over the course of the past couple days of training and conversation. He's helped you out in little ways, stopping by the shooting range to offer some constructive criticism as you practiced, offering dietary and training advice to get your strength up, sticking his neck out for you when he could around Walker…among other things. As it would turn out, you were good company. Whiny, maybe—but good company, nonetheless.

You were improving, too. Temperament and strength-wise. How much of it is due to his company rather than his guidance, though, he isn't sure.

"You're not funny," you retort.

"You complained the whole way up the mountain, love."

You huff and shoot him a look. "Did I get it done?"

"Affirmative."

"And did I beat you while doing it?"

He shrugs. "More or less."

"Then you should watch your mouth, Lieutenant."

His eyebrows raise, amused. "Is that a threat I hear?"

"It's a promise to beat you again sliding back down the mountain, sir."

He imagines you throwing yourself down the snow in order to beat your own speed record, and he chuckles a little at the thought. "I'd like to see you try, Angel."

You smile, gaze focused through the scope. You've spotted three flags already, and you spot two more as another hour passes. The team that's supposed to take your place is getting closer, Ghost thinks it'll be twenty minutes before they rendezvous, and you both make your way back for the day.

"Ghost."

"Angel," he exhales another cloud of smoke and vapor when you speak, breaking the comfortable silence that's washed over you both.

You maneuver awkwardly to position your hand behind you, opening and closing your fist a few times.

"Hand me one of those," you say, your breathing puffing out into the freezing air. "And my lighter."

He shakes his head with an amused smirk. "You're supposed to be focusing."

"Can't focus if my hands are shaking."

"And what if this is a real scenario? You're not gonna have cigarettes in a life-or-death situation, sergeant."

"Yeah, well, you do," you flex your hand again. "So gimme."

He figures you're the only Sergeant on base he'd let order him around, but he doesn't let that thought take root in his mind. Instead, he shifts closer so that he's lying on his stomach next to you in the snow.

"Keep still," he tells you, plucking a cigarette from his pack. "You miss a flag Walker won't let me hear the end of it."

You seem slightly surprised, but you don't say anything as he slots himself next to you. He offers you the cigarette as you keep your gaze in the scope, and you use your free hand to slot it between your lips before he lights it. You inhale slowly, and he watches your lips as you do so; watches the tips of your fingers through the clipped tips of the gloves he gave you and watches you exhale. When he looks up, you're already looking at him. He's close enough to see where snow clings to your lashes.

A beat passes where you both just stare at each other. Simon finds he can't read your expression. Then, you shake your head and clear your throat, which in turn snaps him out of his daze, before you take another drag and lock your focus in once more.

"Another flag," you say, your brow furrowed. "At your twelve o' clock. About four kilometers out."

Simon shifts, putting some space between you both as he clears his throat because fuck. What the hell was that?

"Copy that."

You're quiet for the rest of the exercise, only speaking whenever you spot another flag. For some reason, Simon still finds himself fixed on the cigarette in your hand as you work.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14TH 2016 NORWAY, 1800 HOURS

Whenever both return to the base, there's a lot of whispering. He doesn't notice, at first, too busy sorting equipment and putting it away. You don't notice the lingering stares or the hushed voices either; or you're just pointedly ignoring them. Sorting through your own gear nearby, you're quiet, and you're done and ready before he's even folded his snowsuit. Nevertheless, Simon doesn't pay much mind to the name being whispered around until he can put the face to it.

Roger's Back.

Now, if there is one thing Simon isn't—it's humble. After years of hard work he's managed to pack on an impressive amount of muscle, taking him from a lanky, malnourished teen to the legend he was now. Not since Roba has he ever had an issue taking down anyone with the same experience, or sometimes more, than him. He's made sure of that and intends to keep things that way.

That is, until Simon happens to lift his head and peer down the hall towards someone he, for once, doesn't have to look down to meet the gaze of.

He's massive, is Simon's first thought. The same height as him, he wagers the bloke might be the only lower-ranked soldier here who actually matches his strength enough to maybe have the upper hand in a fight.

Simon's second thought is that bloody hell.

There's a long scratch across the man's cheek and the remains of a bruise around that of an eyepatch. There's a still-healing gash on the side of his head, scar tissue fresh and thick on the temple of a shaved head, flesh stretched inward from staples freshly removed.

Ah. Roger. The sergeant who's skull you cracked against the edge of a bar.

The man approaches you from behind and Simon stops in his tracks just down the hall, eyes flitting over to watch the scene unfold in the corner of his eye.

Keeping his face hidden had its cons, sure. Maybe he did nearly suffocate himself every time he sweat his ass off in the desert. Maybe underwater tasks were difficult and maybe he had to jump through all kinds of hoops to avoid getting his picture taken. In hiding his own emotions, however, he's become quite good at reading the body language of others.

And you're uncomfortable. Tense. Ready to bite at a moment's notice.

You stand rigid still as you sense his presence, your back to the man as he approaches lazily to stand behind you. Some words are exchanged. You, biting retorts that just barely count as professional and him…standing too close for comfort.

You hold your ground. You don't punch first—just like Simon told you. He watches the man's lips move, reads the threat that crosses his lips. Still, you hold your ground as Simon's fists clench and he realizes what's happening—why you punched first. Why you're struggling and why you put your training on halt for leave.

Next time, the man says. Next time, you're not getting away so easily, bird.

Simon watches you think about it. He watches your hands ball into fists, watches your eyes narrow and your nose scrunch with disgust. But you don't move, no—you don't shrink away in fear and you don't immediately go for the kill. You stand your ground just as Simon told you to.

You do so until the man looks away first, sauntering off. Simon watches you let out one breath, then another, before you grab your pack in a shaking hand and sling it over your shoulder. His eyes linger on you as you quickly leave the room, barely noticing how Roger approaches him to introduce himself.

It's not until the door shuts behind you that Simon grabs the young Sergeant by the front of his shirt and slams him against the wall. Roger lets out a startled yelp.

"You lay another finger on her," he snarls. "And I'll fuckin' cut it off, Sergeant, you copy?"

Roger's eyes are wide. The breath knocked from his lungs, he's panting, and his mouth opens and shuts again in shock.

"I said do you copy?"

"Yes—yes, sir. Copy and check."

Satisfied that his warning is taken seriously, Simon turns him loose with a hissed, "piss off."

Roger stumbles. Disoriented, he continues down the hallway, and Simon is still seething as his boots carry him down a wrong turn to Walker's office.

He doesn't walk out until your safety is guaranteed.

#simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #cod #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty modern warfare #ghost fanfiction #simon riley fanfic #ghost x reader #cod ghost #simon riley

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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Yes I re-read my own fics because I wrote them for ME

#for real like what #fuck's taking her so LONG

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER SEVEN

WEDNESDAY APRIL 24TH 2024 MEXICO, 0000 HOURS

The pain in your chest is getting worse.

It's hard to sleep that night for many reasons. One: with all the rain of the other night it's hard to find any wood dry enough for a fire. Mexico has relatively tame weather compared to what you're used to, but Springtime is a whole different beast, inconsistent and unpredictable. Nearly ninety degrees in the daytime and then dropping down to the fifties at night, you find yourself sweating all day just to be freezing and damp when the sun sets. The thin blanket you pull out of the back of a wrecked truck doesn't help much and neither does the fact that you've developed a fever.

Two: you're definitely sure you have at least one broken rib. The first day after the battle you had the adrenaline to numb the pain, but now that it's faded, it's easier to notice how it takes a great deal of effort just to breathe without your lungs spasming painfully. Each breath aches, rattling in your chest. You can't put pressure on your side without seeing stars and the bruises are damn near black across the expanse of your ribs. Still, you won't rest more than a few hours at a time—knowing that the second you do, you might not be able to get up again.

And that brings you to the last thing; the radio is still dead silent.

You're staring at the ceiling, leaning back against the truck's wall as you listen to it; the static. The charge has died twice now and both times you've revived it with an emergency battery. Once that runs out, you plan to charge it with the SUV. The longer you listen to the buzz of an empty signal paired with the steady sound of Ghost's breathing beside you, the longer you get to thinking about what might happen if nobody comes to find you.

You think about the first time you put your survival training to use; left for dead in some safe house during your tour in Yemen, left by your squadron in a rushed retreat. Back then, the pain in your side had been a nasty knife wound to your ribs, but now it was shattered bone and bleeding organs. The longer you listen to the static the easier it is to recall the coldness of concrete on your skin, the burn of sand-caked sweat and blood in your eyes. The sputtering static of your comms picking up no signal and the growing panic of being forgotten. The blood. The death. The memory once so far away now felt tangible again; real.

It's funny. The longer time went on the easier it was to forget about moments where you weren't so strong, but it was also easier to get lost in them whenever they unearthed themselves at the most inconvenient of times.

Then a warm hand on your shoulder shatters the illusion—and you panic.

Within moments, you're up again. You grab the unknown enemy by the front of his shirt and force him back against the floor with an audible thunk—causing weapons and gear to swing and the truck’s suspension to bounce. When the red clears from your vision, your eyes are locked with two tired, brown irises blown wide with surprise as your grip tightens on his wrists against the floor.

Shocked to your core, your body goes rigid.

You lost a lot of your usual muscle mass during your first few weeks in Camp Viking; after Yemen and everything else that happened. Stress, too much sleep or not enough, and a complete lack of appetite were a fatal combo to all the progress you made after signing your life away—so when Ghost met you, you were the weakest you've been since before joining the military.

Now: your shoulders are broader, arms and legs thicker and crisscrossed with ragged scars. Skin glistens with the sweat of a fever as you hold him, still bigger than you, pinned to the floor.

The breath knocked from his lungs; he's panting. You're close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your face, to see how your own labored breathing stirs the hair laying on his forehead. Close enough to realize you've only ever seen him out of breath like this one other time—

Christmas Day.

His eyes flash with something familiar and you know he remembers it, too.

You shoot off of him in an instant. Mind reeling, you turn to leave. Run. Do something to quell the fire in your veins and the burn of memories in your delirious mind.

"Angel, wait—"

The nickname falls on deaf ears. Before he can gather his bearings enough to scramble upright, you've grabbed the radio and disappeared into the night with a burning face and a newfound heat in your bones.

WEDNESDAY APRIL 26TH 2024 MEXICO, 0300 HOURS

"Echo 0-2 to Actual."

Your voice sounds rough with insomnia whenever you speak into the radio for the hundredth time.

It's been two nights since you've been in the van with Ghost, two nights since you've talked. You're avoiding him—it's just as clear to you as it is to him—and embarrassment ravages your mind as you continue to keep yourself upright, keep yourself moving. Now, the stretch of bodies was four lines deep instead of two. Now, sitting on top of the SUV with ruined boots dangling over the edge and a raggedy blanket on your shoulders; it officially burned like hell to breathe.

Above you, the stars are the brightest you've seen since Camp Viking. The night is just as quiet.

You close your eyes for a long time, dread settling in your stomach at the thought of staying here much longer; of what might happen if you're not found. You think about how long the walk from here to the next civilization might be—if, by some miracle, they don't shoot you on sight.

Bandaged, anxious hands hold the radio tight in your lap before pressing the button and bringing it to your face once more.

"Again, this is Echo 0-2 attempting to reach Actual. I've got a wounded Lieutenant with me…is anyone there?"

Static.

You try again, "Echo 0-2 to Actual. Watcher. Anyone."

Again, nothing. You sigh, batting the side of the small machine against the heel of your hand. Crickets chirp somewhere far off in the distance as you curse and eventually give up. Tired eyes fall over the pitch-black landscape before you, getting lost in the quiet. Your skin prickles against the cold air as your eyes sink shut. Shoulders slump for what feels like the first time in weeks as exhaustion, a gentle but swift current, sweeps you under.

"Nice night."

You jump and whip around, clutching the fabric of the front of your uniform.

"Fuck," you breathe out. "Just you."

He stands with what appears to be two of the American MREs you found in hand, his uniform notably cleaner now—having shed his dark, dirt-matted jacket for a dark compression shirt that stretches over thick muscles. He looks…better. Able to stand upright, at the very least. There's more color to his face but that could very well just be the cold. The fresh bandages you helped him put on the last time you talked don't show any signs of being bled through and he definitely doesn't have a hard time sneaking up on you—a good sign.

"Well…don't sound too excited."

You only huff at his remark, turning back around to look at the radio in your lap as your face burns with embarrassment. Your hands are still shaking as you take a deep breath to try and steady yourself, and you wait for him to finally mention it—acknowledge it. Your hands on his wrists. His heaving chest. Your breath on his face. Christmas Day.

He shifts and at first you think he might be leaving now that he knows where you are. Instead, he appears beside you, sliding down to dangle his legs over the edge and wordlessly hand you one of the MREs.

Your throat constricts at the very thought of food, staring down at the sad, brown package as he tears his open and sets it up to heat. You squint at the label to read the contents.

Cheese Tortellini in Tomato Sauce. Well, there are worse things.

"No luck?" He asks.

You let out a sigh of relief and mentally thank whatever God above he decided against bringing it up. Instead, you shake your head wearily as you set the MRE aside, deciding to save it for when you know you'll keep it down. Hypocritical, you know, but you've only been able to find a handful in the rubble thus far.

"No," you breathe, disheartened. "Still nothing."

A moment passes, filled only by the sound of crickets and the rustle of plastic packaging. There's movement in the distance followed by barking. Coyotes, no doubt.

You both sit in silence for a while and your thoughts slip back into dark territory. You rub your chilly arms as you stare out over the hellscape before you—wondering how many more bodies out there you have left to gather. How many families you're failing; leaving their beloved soldiers in the mud to rot because you're losing the ability to walk straight.

Then, Ghost speaks, ripping you out of the depths of your head.

"Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?"

You shoot him an incredulous look. Then, you shake your head with a scoff. You know what he's trying to do; lighten the mood, in his own strange way. For a moment it works, and it's easy to pretend you're somewhere else. A simpler time, maybe, where all you had to worry about was which hallways to take to avoid being seen sneaking around the barracks.

You try not to let his obvious attempt at lifting your spirits work. So, you only raise an eyebrow at him, "really?"

"Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?" He repeats again, nonchalant as ever, as he pushes his food around the package with his fork.

You stare at him for a while before deciding to humor him with a sigh. "Too many bananas…or something?"

"'Cause he's dead."

"Hm," you nod your head, pursing your lips into a line. "That was bad even for you."

He huffs, "too soon?"

"Far too soon."

"Noted." He shifts, placing his food to the side to take something out of his pocket. After all these years, it surprises you that even he's still off-put by the smell of death in the air. "You got a light on you?"

A stupid question—and he knows it.

"Always. Why?"

He pulls a full pack of Marlboro Reds out of his pocket, flicking the top open. The packaging is slightly crumpled but otherwise remains spotless, unlike the rest of him. He plucks one out and holds it out to you.

You glance at the cigarette, then up at his face—almost shocked he managed to keep them safe while the rest of him is so beat up. You notice bruises are beginning to show under his eyes from his broken nose and there's a stubble starting to form on his jaw, patchy with scars you never noticed until now.

You take out your lighter. An orange glow lights up his battered face as you flick it twice, let the flame catch, and then shut it again. He takes a deep inhale, sitting back on his other hand, before letting the smoke billow out past his chapped lips.

"Fuck," he sighs, already slumping with relief. "Could always count on you for a light. Good to know that hasn't changed."

"What can I say," you respond, managing what you can of a small smile. "I'm an angel."

He chuckles lowly. "You're anything but, Colonel."

He offers the cigarette to you. It's tempting, really tempting, but the pain in your lungs is far more annoying than the nagging effects of withdrawal.

"I'm good," you brush his arm away and attempt to hide the tremor in your hands. "I quit a few years ago."

"Hm," He seems surprised, or maybe he's humoring your obvious lie, you're unsure. Nevertheless, he presses the cig to his lips again. "Good on you, then."

You find yourself relaxing again slowly, anxious thoughts easing as you breathe in the smell of nicotine and look up at the stars above. It's silent save for the sounds of the desert, and you find yourself thinking about a time where you both sat just like this for hours. Getting by with nothing but the warmth of a heater, a flickering lantern, and a pack of cigarettes to keep you both company. You remember laughing until your stomach hurt at his dry humor, once upon a time.

"This place is hell," Ghost says, deadpan as ever, as he exhales another cloud of smoke.

Flashes of cold concrete, rough sand, and nauseating heat flash through your mind again. You realize, then, you prefer the warmth over the cold any day—no matter what you've gone through.

"I think I'd rather be in hell," you mutter, rubbing your arms. "At least it's warm, there."

He chuckles a little, and you wonder if he's reminiscing just as you are.

"That it would, Colonel," he says. "That it would."

It's quiet again. Years ago, the silence might've been filled by soft touches—a head against a shoulder or a hand on a back. Instead, you both just sit there. His hand is just centimeters away from your own, and you wonder if it would be easier to take it or pull away. Or just…talk. You want to speak, want to apologize or something—but the words are stuck in your throat. You want answers, you want closure, but your hand curls into a fist as you realize that fuck. You're not strong enough to break the question.

He's staring at you. You can feel when he does it. For some reason, you always have. After a moment, you hear him take a breath. He leans back on his hand as the other flicks his cigarette and comes up to touch the sore part of his head.

"You know…" He begins with a sigh. His mouth opens and shuts again, hesitant. Suddenly, he looks away. "I—"

"This is Watcher trying to reach Echo 0-2 and Bravo 0-7," a garbled, female voice interrupts him from the radio. "We hear you, Angel."

@crazy-phan-girl13

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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i need more people to write soap as a math and science genius

like he is a human calculator. gaz shows it off as a party trick even though soap is the one actually doing something. like

“oy, look what my mate can do- soap, c’mere!”

and soap, who has done this a thousand times before, walks over.

“ok, ok- someone ask him a math problem. like- literally anything.”

someone gaz is talking to goes “uhh… seven radical three times the square root of nine,” and soap blinks a few times, stares at the ceiling for a moment, his fingers flick around a little, and about ten seconds later he says “forty-five thousand three hundred and sixty.”

and someone pulls out a calculator and goes, “holy shit, he’s right!”

and soap is just like “are you done now?” so that he can finally go back to shamelessly hitting on his lieutenant.

#cod #we need more nerd soap in this joint

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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RA chapter nine needs some reworking but!! it's coming along guys probs later this week/early next week

might post an update for RM later today

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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gonna start posting regularly on the art account again I think

woah hey I'm not dead???

anyway quick sketchy ghoap style test

#cod

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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#cod

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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Soap: I was coughing and sniffing the other day because I had a cold and Ghost handed me a tissue and said “Enough”.

Soap: He's both, the nicest and meanest person I know and I love him.

#bro is definitely very kind #but like very much not nice when he does it #cod

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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"I am stronger than you give me credit for" reader and simon "if you need to be mean be mean to me" riley

#thats it thats the post #cod #simon riley

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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also I haven't forgotten about the zombie au dw!! first part is done working on the second part while I wait 2 hear back from the beta reader on RA chapter 9

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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Disagreeing with the Captain:

#TOO ACCURATE LMAO #cod

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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more crackshit headcanons are in the works since u guys liked the other ones

#courtesy of me being high as fuck talking to my coworker abt cod last night

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER SIX

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 10TH 2016 NORWAY, 2100 HOURS

"You watch yourself, Riley. Because the next bastard you work under ain't gonna be as forgiving of your attitude."

Was Walker's final biting comment as Simon stood in his office, towering over the other's desk with barely restrained frustration as his hands clench into fists. He was being dismissed—a simple wave of the hand shooing off Simon's entire argument. While normally, he was used to it, but when he knew that he was right—well—it was a different story.

He knew there was only so much he could do to defend you on your behalf. He still had people to answer to, people whose opinions mattered more than his, and he knew that. He could snap at every soldier who sent an unprofessional remark your way but, at the end of the day, if the captain did nothing about them—there was nothing Simon could do, either.

Your situation becomes much clearer over the course of the week as he starts to oversee drills and training. You're struggling, that much is clear. Your strength is lacking despite your rigid commitment to the job and although the torment from your peers spurs you on—your anger is explosive. Fragile. Prone to snapping, as the prick Captain who laughed when some Private tripped you would say. Some humbling from the others would do you some good.

It's clear something happened before you went on leave; something that couldn't be so easily forgotten. He swears he could recognize the signs trauma on anyone, nowadays, and perhaps the reason Simon was suddenly so hellbent on helping was because he saw himself in you.

It took him ages to get back on his feet, after Roba—to fully dig himself out of the metaphorical and physical grave. It took months to convince his handlers that he was fit to re-enlist to begin with, he couldn't imagine how it felt to be back on the field mere months after whatever happened to you—not that he knew what happened at all. And yeah, maybe he was playing favorites. Sue him.

He storms out of Walker's office without another word, and a few days later he's sitting at the bar; checking the time on his watch for what feels like the fifteenth time in twenty minutes.

There's only one pub on the whole base. It's relatively small compared to the ones he grew up with in Manchester; but the energy is the same. Neon signs, grimy countertops, overpriced drinks and Slavic rock on the speakers—it feels almost adjacent to home.

Simon can't remember the last time he was stationed anywhere that was stable enough to have a bar, and he's sure the other soldiers around him probably think the same thing. Still, it's early in the night, early enough that it's still relatively quiet so that you and him could speak in private.

If you show up, that is.

He sits at the very end of the bar, away from other people as his eyes sweep the small, dark building. He swirls a glass of whiskey in his hand, barely touched since he's sat down. It isn't until the very second his watch ticks 2100 hours that the door opens again, and you step in.

It's different seeing you in civvies. It gives Simon a glimpse of what you may be like outside the world of uniform camo and clipped professionalism—winter jacket swishing over a dark, fitted sweater and jeans as you shrug it off upon entering. The bruises on your exposed collar have pretty much fully healed, Simon notes, as your gaze meets his from across the dimly lit room. Your eyes flicker with an emotion he can't quite pinpoint before you cross the area to meet him, and Simon adjusts the jacket on his shoulders.

You slide in beside him with your brow furrowed before you talk in a low voice. "What do you want?"

He smirks a little under his balaclava, smug with the fact that his little idea had worked—without the uniform, you were more open to talk without rank getting in the way. "A conversation."

"With all due respect, Lieutenant, you couldn't have done that out on the shooting range?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Would you have talked?"

Your mouth opens and then shuts again, left without a response. You seem to realize, in that moment, his intentions; getting you somewhere you felt safe speaking. Without the watchful eye of your superiors looming over your shoulder and without the difference in rank to shut you down.

"Thought so," he says, leaning an arm on the bar as he studies your indignant expression. "Legend has it you got into a fight here."

You huff, rolling your eyes as you sit back in your seat. "Walker's been running his mouth, huh?"

"Affirmative," he replies. "But somethin' tells me there's more to you than just insubordination."

A moment passes where you just look at him. Then, your eyes narrow, "you've read my record."

The edge of his lip ticks up in a slight smile, "fantastic observation, Angel."

You scowl at the nickname, and he realizes he likes this—getting a rise out of you. Picking your brain to see what makes you tick. Seeing what buttons he can press to slowly break down your thick wall of discipline, revealing the person underneath.

"Just cut to the chase, will you?" You lean in a little, impatient. "Why am I here? You do realize what this looks like, right?"

That gets a low chuckle out of him. "It looks like a concerned Lieutenant and his rowdy subordinate havin' a discussion, love. That's all."

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Over drinks?"

He hums. "Over drinks."

"People are gonna talk, sir."

"People wouldn't dare to," he reasons. "Not about me, and not about you—if you hear me out."

Your tone hardens, stubborn. "I don't need your tutoring."

"'Course you don't," he lifts his mask up to sit on the bridge of his twisted nose. “I’m just curious…”

Not once do your eyes wander to his exposed jaw as he raises his glass to his lips. With his off hand, he gestures to other soldiers across the bar—part of your regiment and just a couple of the many giving you trouble. Your eyes flicker to them as he talks over your shoulder.

"Today; that cunt tripped you," he says quietly, gesturing to the drunk Private at the very end. "Why'd you let 'em?"

He watches your eyes darken on the group of soldiers at the other side of the bar as he drinks, and your hand on the table tightens. You don’t answer, not verbally, and he doesn’t press—watching each small shift in your expression. You swallow thickly.

"I don't know," you answer.

He raises an eyebrow, curious. You're strong—strong enough to win against someone in a fist fight, obviously—so why did you do it?

He wants to ask, wants to pry and figure you out just like another problem that needs solving, but he knows better. So he doesn't.

“They can torment you all they want but as long as they don’t throw the first punch; the fight’s always gonna be your fault.” he tells you lowly, eyes narrowing at you as you chew on the inside of your cheek in thought. He places a hand on your shoulder and you tense, eyes shifting back to him.

“So let them throw the first punch, Angel," he tells you, gaze darkening. "But don't let it land."

His words hang in the air for a moment, your expression resolute. He watches the gears turn in your head; watches you mull over his advice. Watches you study him as deep as you can through the mask and the leather and the cocky bravado.

Then, finally, you ask: "why?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you so interested in my progress?" You press, brushing his hand away. "I'm a complete stranger to you. Never mind a lousy-ass soldier."

"You are far from lousy, Sergeant."

"But I'm not half of what I was, right now."

He hums in agreement. Your question stirs something in him he can't quite explain. He sees himself in you, obviously; sees the potential hidden behind anger and frustration. Looking at your record tainted with bar fights and psych evaluations felt like looking in a mirror, in a lot of ways, and it struck something in him. Something that drew him to you.

But, like most things, he shoves that feeling deep into the back of his mind, tacking his sudden interest in you to the simple fact that he knew you could be better with just a bit of encouragement. Directing that anger of yours into work rather than a feud with your colleagues. His mind wonders, for a moment, what you could've been like before whatever happened to you. Were you just as fiery? Less so? More so?

"'Cause I've been there."

You raise an eyebrow at his answer, "been where?"

"Rock fuckin' bottom," he answers. "There's nothin' else to do but dig your way back up, but it's damn hard to do so on your own…hm?"

For a moment, it looks as if you're about to argue—to deny his accusations. He watches as you realize it's no use, that he's read your file and he watches you chew on your cheek as you glance away; ashamed, maybe.

Then, after a moment, you nod.

"Maybe…" you sigh, rubbing the side of your neck sheepishly. "Maybe I could use the extra help, yeah."

He hums. Satisfied, he sits back again, dropping the subject for now now that you've agreed. Instead, he picks up his glass and downs the rest of it before turning back to you.

"Good," he says. "Now what can I get you to drink?"

@crazy-phan-girl13

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