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lovesickeros · 4 months

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☆ decadence divine [ act I ]

{☆} characters arlecchino, neuvillette, furina {☆} notes yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings yandere content, stalking (implied), kidnapping (implied) {☆} word count 2.3k

ARLECCHINO

Arlecchino was wont to leave social gatherings to her subordinates– the private meetings were where she thrived. It was so much easier to lure your prey into a trap when you didn't have prying eyes and ears waiting for the barest hint of blackmail.

She clicked her tongue in distaste, her eyes narrowing beneath the mask of the fox as she set down her cup sharply. It was difficult as it was to draw them from the safety of their bubble– at the slightest hint of danger, her quarry would run. A chase would be fun, but she couldn't risk getting caught here. The political nightmare it would cause..it already gave her a headache. She had to be discreet.

They weren't making it easy, however.

Which is why she never liked crowds. But this chance didn't come by every day. She wasn't going to simply let it pass by because of a little danger. She'd have them eventually, it was just a matter of how. There were already numerous of her own lingering in the crowds, hidden beneath the masks that every patron bore. It was difficult to stand out amongst the flurry of masked patrons constantly shifting around the room, moving from one conversation to another, gliding from one dance partner to another.

Her heeled boots clicked sharply against the tile as she stalked through the crowds, keeping a wide berth yet always lingering nearby– she was sure they could feel the vague sense of being watched, but with the huge crowds..her lips quirked into a grin with the barest flash of teeth. There were a great many ways to break them in– she'd spent a great amount of time and mora to get anything she could for blackmail, if she so wished. She had the backing of the Fatui as well if she played her cards right– it wouldn't be difficult to convince them that they were a valuable target, and none of them would dare to question just what she did with them afterwards.

Perhaps a bit of play, first. Test the waters. She was familiar with playing the polite gentleman, despite her status as a Fatui Harbinger. Stage something for her to intervene, perhaps, to look the hero. The look of shock when she revealed the wolf beneath the wool..she could see it already. That wide, doe-eyed look as they realized the monster they've followed blindly like a lost lamb..she was beginning to see the appeal.

All it took was a few hushed words and subtle signals before the tiles started to fall in place, her hand gliding along their lower back as she leaned over their shoulder with a thin, predatory smile. She'd have to organize for the agent to be released later, her eyes following as the Gardes dragged him out of the room in a flurry of curses, but for now..she tilted her head to peer down at them, polite and almost apologetic.

"You aren't too startled, are you? Now now, there's no need to look so..scared, poor thing. I won't let another lay a hand on you," She cooed in a sickly sweet tone, the husky rasp of her voice whispered in their ear like dripping honey. "You have my word. Now, why don't we get you some fresh air? Come. Allow me to escort you."

Her lips pulled into a jagged grin at the relief in their eyes– the blind lamb following the shepherd as it led them into it's maw. Just a little longer, and she could finally have her own caged bird– a pretty thing to admire, to protect, to possess.

Something no one else would ever touch again. Something hers.

NEUVILLETTE

Neuvillette was not one for parties. The intricacies and delicate handling of public relations he oft left in the capable hands of Furina, rather then himself. It was only at her behest he even attended at all, but he still felt rather..out of place amongst the bodies constantly shifting through the ballroom like a constant rush of water from one end to the other, no rhyme nor reason to the flow. The only thing that kept him afloat among the tides was the mask of the deer obscuring his face– even if it was exceedingly difficult to truly hide himself among the crowds, most passed over him without second thought.

Though he had to be honest with himself, even if he couldn't bring himself to admit it to Furina despite her insistence that his attendance was mandatory. He had his own reasons for coming– selfishness that left a sour taste in his mouth. It was purely by chance he'd seen the briefest glimpse of them prior, and he..was intrigued, that was all.

He refused to let his thoughts linger on the sleepless nights he spent prying every piece of information he could from loose tongues and obscure documents, every moment he managed to squeeze in between trials spent lingering in their most favored locations– cafes, stores, restaurants, the like.

Now a masquerade.

He tried not to let the guilt gnaw at his conscious, but it lingered like an age old scar that still ached.

So he relegated himself to simply residing in the further corner, nursing a goblet of water like a fine wine, trying not to let his eyes stray to the brief glimpses of them through the ever moving bodies filling the center of the room, dancing like puppets in music boxes.

Still, his hand twitched in an instinctual desire– a need to clasp his hand in their own, to touch his lips upon their knuckles, to indulge in a moment of reprieve and unshackle himself from the mantle that bears heavy upon his shoulders. He seeks reverence, worship, but not of himself– but towards the one who had drawn the eye of the dragon amongst the waves of humans he'd seen come and go for a great many years.

No one could compare, he is certain. None have left him as breathless, as hopelessly infatuated, as the one who made him wish only to kneel at their feet in senseless reverence until he could no longer speak. A hopeless man, indeed, if he has never even truly met them.

Instead he's spent his time prying into their life from the shadows. Caution, or simple cowardice?

He dares not ponder.

Yet in his ceaseless pondering he'd blocked out the world without, failing to notice the figure stepping up beside him until their hand brushed against his elbow– just the briefest touch, but it had his pupils narrowing and his entire body tensing like a coiled spring. That touch..bliss. It left him breathless and lightheaded as he tilted his head to regard them, his lips parting in a shaky sigh. They are as beautiful as he remembers– even with their face obscured beneath the mask, he would never forget them.

"Greetings, Monsieur– I hope I didn't frighten you too much." Their laugh made him feel rather faint, just the sound of their voice making his hand tighten around his cane. "..Not at all. I was simply lost in thought." He admitted apologetically, trying to reign in the urge to cup their face between his palms. A dangerous thought. He didn't want to scare them off when they'd provided him a priceless opportunity.

"My apologies, you must have needed something. It was rude of me to have been so absorbed in my thoughts to have ignored you." He continued, gently turning to set his goblet down– offer them his full attention, be a gentleman. The words rang in his skull like a ceaseless alarm, blaring and rattling his thoughts as he gently took their hand in his own. It was a split second decision– an indulgence, but he could simply not help himself. Even with his gloves between them, he felt like he was going to lose his composure just from such a brief touch..

He truly was a hopeless man before an altar, praying for a salvation he intends to bury deep beneath the waves– to keep it hidden in the darkness of the depths that only he can reach. A selfish man, he must be, to even think of it, but it is an itch that he cannot scratch. A need that must be satisfied. He cannot allow any hands but his own to tend to them, to know what it feels to touch them, to hear their voice and see their eyes as he prays– prays like a man starved, devotion born of desperation.

"I hope I did not make you wait too long." He smiles, soft and affectionate, like the bloom of spring beneath the winters chill– yet just as deadly, only masked by the sweet fragrance of flowers.

He had waited too long.

No longer.

FURINA

Furina was right at home amongst the crowds– where the masks obscured the identities of most, it was impossible to not recognize the charming banter of the Hydro Archon beneath the mask of the lamb as she graced the masquerade with her presence, speaking with a silver tongue to any who would listen. A truly enthralled audience fitting for the grandest of performers in Fontaine.

But her eyes lingered not on the people who's praise dripped from their lips like honey– yet so very bitter upon her tongue. Even the mask obscuring her expression did little to hide the longing that had her visibly deflating like a popped balloon. She hated all the eyes on her, really– it was suffocating. She was only putting on a show in the foolish hope that they'd finally pay attention to her. Just her luck, she supposes, that instead she's had to throw herself straight into the role of Archon without a pay off..

They hadn't even spared her a glance! It would be infuriating if not for the fact she couldn't even keep her composure just seeing them across the room. They didn't even have to look at her and she could feel the heat rush to her ears as she forced another smile at the crowd gathered around her. It was unfair how easily they could fluster her without even knowing it– her heart was thumping so hard against her ribcage she felt like it might burst.

Her only solace was the fact none of the patrons seemed to realize she'd clocked out of the conversation, her thoughts and eyes lingering on the distant figure– what a lovestruck fool she makes..it was a chance encounter she'd seen them during one of her outings. That was all it took to enthrall her, evidentially, try as she might to have ignore it for months.

They never left her mind for longer then a day, in the end, and she had to face the fact they had managed to enrapture her so deeply she felt like a newborn lamb learning to walk whenever she so much as thought of them. What an embarrassment! She..she was the Archon, she had a reputation to maintain, she couldn't be seen fawning over a human.

But oh, she still longed for it, beneath the veneer of a God. She'd watched them more times then she'd admit even to herself, wishing to find herself in place of those who'd hands were cradled so casually in their own– to hear their voice, their laughter, as often as she pleased..like a fine delicacy she so badly wished to taste, yet so far from her reach.

Would they think her pathetic for her infatuation? She pursed her lips at the thought, trying to bury the sour mood beneath her faux image of the Archon. Yet it lingered, and with only the quietest of excuses, she slipped into the crowd like a ghost– she needed to leave before she did something..stupid. Neuvillette would surely have a few choice words with her if she did, and she was inclined to avoid such a fate.

She..she just needed a moment to collect herself was all. That was it. She could go back to playing Archon for a little longer, she just needed a moment to herself. At the very least, the balcony had been regarded as off limits so late into the party– which gave her an opportunity to slip out of the public view for the briefest of moments. A welcome reprieve– she was starting to feel suffocated amongst the crowds.

Perhaps on instinct, she reached for the mask, lifting ever so slightly away..only to let out a startled yelp at the touch of a hand on her shoulder, the mask slipping back into place far too easily. It made her lightheaded, even now, but she dared not to dwell on it.

But when she turned sharply on her heel to chew out the person who'd followed her and had the gall to scare her..oh, she was done for, her ears flush with heat. The brief glimpse of their eyes beneath the mask, the curl of their lips as they smiled– her heart stuttered in her chest, and she was certain it had stopped all together when they clasped her hand.

"Y–you.." She wanted to be angry, to brush them off and leave with her rationality in tact, but the warmth of their hands on her skin rendered her speechless. She was no better then a fish on land, struggling to fill her lungs with air as she drew in a shaky breath. "Ahem, you caught me off guard. That's all. Surely you do not make it a habit to sneak up on people?" She huffed in indignation, trying to mask the fluster that threatened to break through her carefully crafted facade.

Ah, what a cruel twist of fate..she'd slipped away to escape their allure, but here they were, dragging her back into their orbit without even knowing how deep her infatuation ran. They were alone, too..it was a chance she wasn't sure she'd ever get again.

Maybe, just this once, she could do something for herself rather then everyone else.

She buried her guilt, the fear– buried it beneath the need to be seen.

"But if you want to make it up to me.."

#genshin impact #genshin impact yandere #genshin yandere #neuvillette x reader #yandere neuvillette #yandere neuvillette x reader #arlecchino x reader #yandere arlecchino #yandere arlecchino x reader #furina x reader #yandere furina #yandere furina x reader #fic tag #pats neuvillette this noodle dragon can be so pathetic #aiming for pathetic desperate and slightly guilty. it gnaws at him knowing he's keeping you like a bird in a cage #esp if you react extremely negatively hes like a kicked puppy #not outwardly but internally hes a MESS. sobbing crying wailing #furina and neuvi sopping wet kittens u found in a cardboard box in an alley #vs arle thinking abt all the crimes shes going 2 commit in the process w/o an ounce of guilt. blackmail? check. kidnapping? check.#a little murder for flavor. as u can see im coping horribly w being practically snowed in rn i need 2 be put down #its like 4 degrees out rn (fahrenheit) and getting colder ueueueue i am dying..........#only thing keeping me going is my furinameow plushie coming. eventually. staying strong just for her.................#also needs 2 be mentioned all the stories r separate ksjfkhdsf #no not everyone in fontaine is yan and trying 2 kidnap sorry for getting ur hopes up..#yet #anyway u cant convince me arle isn't bribing (or just straight up forcing) her agents into doing stupid shit so she can “save” you #and make you owe her #two silly goofy little creatures vs the personification of gaslight gatekeep girlboss (heavy on the gaslight)#also split this up in 3 parts bc. lol. lmao. im not writing 9 characters at once goodbye #also all the masks do actually have significance i have an entire essay on why i gave each animal to specific characters okay

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sprout-fics · 10 months

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Falling Down to Earth (Part One)

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Four of Snowblind

(Part Two Here)

Rating: Mature Wordcount: 7.6k Tags: Slow Burn, Heavy Angst, Trauma, Found Family, Taskforce 141, Team Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, Unreliable Narrator, Self Esteem Issues, Referenced Familial abuse, Mom Laswell, Domesticity Warnings: References to childhood verbal abuse A/N: Three part character study of the medic named Fix, therapy included

There's exactly nine hours and ten minutes on the plane ride from England to Washington D.C. for you to finish falling down to Earth.

You sit in a far corner of the C-17, curled up on a seat and away from the other troops. Mostly American, some Canadian. They chatter for the first hour or so, and there's excitement, relief that buzzes through them. There’s smiles and laughter that drowns the fatigue of the things they've seen, the nightmares they'll all have. It doesn't matter right now. They're going home. Home to loved ones and familiar places, to joy and relief before the memories set in.In their camaraderie, someone produces a deck of cards, and there’s jovial laughter and friendly jibes as hands are played.

You listen from afar, gather bits and pieces of their lives- where they were stationed, for how long, where they're going home to, the people waiting for them. There’s an ounce of something that remains untouchable between them, refusing to speak of the bullet, the bombings and bombardments that scream in the silence of your mind. Some of them exchange numbers, share pictures of spouses, children, pets. There's a woman a little older than yourself who confesses she'll be proposing to her girlfriend the moment she lands, and the announcement is met by cheers and hardy claps on her shoulder.

You should join them, let the brightness of their joy drown away the dark pit that opens inside you with every mile that grows between you and the men you called brothers. Instead, every bit of illumination in their eyes seems to only make you sink further into yourself- wanting that happiness desperately for your own tender soul and far too afraid to reach for it.

There's no one to return to when you get home. Nobody to embrace you as you land, to burst from the door of a house and cry as they wrap their arms around you. Nobody to take you out to drinks even as you search the crowd for a familiar dark hoodie, a baseball cap, listen for a smoky, gruff voice or the lilting accent of a Scot. The only people for you are the people you've been forced to leave behind, staring across the sea and hoping maybe they'll think about you too.

You see the way the other troops eye you from afar, see the lost shape of you in your eyes that have long since stopped being able to shed tears. You think maybe one of them will come over, try to drag you from your thoughts, and for a moment you want so desperately for that to come true. It doesn't, and as the buzzer sounds and everyone finds their seats, you feel yourself descending to Earth once more, buckling away that horrid loneliness of you for whatever task comes next.

True to story, there's a small crowd of folks who welcome back the returning heroes with signs and embraces and delight. You tug your cap down a little farther, push past them and towards the direction of the base gate to grab a cab to...somewhere.

There's no one here for you. Not that you expected there to be. It's been a long time since you talked to your family. They'd tried to contact you while you were in university, and even now you can remember your father's commanding voice, warning you against the foolishness of your current path. He had been tempered only by your mother, with her docile, sad tremble, pleading for you to listen, to come home.

You stopped having a home with them a long time ago.

The last time you had heard from any of them was from your brother, the golden child, asking if you'd please consider coming to his candidacy announcement. Sweet, apologetic, filled with false niceties the result of only forceful ignorance.

"I don't know what happened between you and Dad, but maybe consider he said whatever he did because he cares about you?"

You hung up the phone, took your deployment papers, and never looked back.

Now, in a city that you've grown up in, one that feels like a foreign land, you falter, look to the wind for guidance. Air rushes past your form as you feel the center of yourself falling, an Icarus desperately reaching for the sun as you hurtle down into the dark waves of the ocean below. There’s no hands to catch you, nothing to stop your fall as you desperately grasp for an anchor against the gravity that forces you down into nothing.

You turn on your phone, watch it light up and prepare to call yourself a cab to a hotel. You're pretty sure your lease ended a long time ago, apartment cleaned out of the few things remaining there. You didn't bother to check, never expecting you'd be anywhere but here.

Surprisingly, you see a little green bubble pop up from one of the only numbers you have saved.

Laswell.

Fix. It reads, and you can almost hear Kate's clipped, wry tone in her words. If you're looking for a place to stay, come to this address. I've got a spare bedroom, and it sounds like you could use it. Let me know if you make other arrangements.

Attached is an address on the other side of the city, an hour's drive from where you are. You're ready to tap on it when there's one more message that appears beneath your thumb.

Text me when you get this. The boys want to know you made it home safe.

You're glad Kate isn't here to watch the sorrow color your eyes at the reminder of the men who have left you behind. You send a quick reply, summon a ride, and once more feel the world spin once more beneath your gaze as it rushes upwards, uncertain of where you will at last land when you sink through the clouds and into the ruin of yourself.

--------------------------------------------

It’s a nice house, you think.

Pressed up against a small thicket of trees, the brown brick bungalow exudes solitude, tucked away at the end of the aspen lined lane. The roof slopes steeply upwards, shingled and crossed over at the eaves with German styled paneling. It's older than many of the homes on the same street- newer, trying to appear older than they are with the faux stone exteriors and freshly installed windows.

The house before you is one of the few that has remained the same, steadfast against a changing world. Worn, tiles on the roof in need of mending, the stone steps gritty with dirt and age. It's quieter, yet somehow warmer than the homes around it. Like a hearth, it beckons you closer, offers the temptation of sanctuary. You can see a window jutting out into the direction of the side yard, a hidden perch that whispers of a quiet, needed withdrawal.

A glance down at your phone shows Kate’s message, the white letters contrasted against the gray darkness of your screen.

I won’t be home until after dinner, but Paula will be home. She’ll show you around :)

You shoulder your bag- standard issue military duffel- onto your back, trying to swallow down the gnawing sense of reluctance that paces the inner confines of your thoughts. The wince at the motion comes before you can stop it- the reminder of your suspension still scathing fresh against your skin. The lace of pain in your side instantly summons the memory of words fired between the sterile whiteness of a hospital room, aching with that same hurt.

“You have nothing to prove, Fix.”

“I have EVERYTHING to prove!!”

Even now, the freshly healed bullet wound you’d carefully concealed aches with an insistent, dulled sharpness against your ribs- almost worse than Price’s devastating command, thundering down onto you with dreaded finality.

“You’re suspended. Come back when you’ve got your head on straight.”

It hurts.

Not the wound itself, but the consequences you’ve reaped in the act of hiding it from the others- thinking that your injury would betray your own inner weakness. Deeper than a bullet, the horrifying, dreaded result of your own actions wind around your limbs like shadowy tendrils, dragging you down with an inertia you can’t control, wax wings melted by the sun.

Yet here the windows of the house glow warmly in the drawing dusk, candles in the dimness flicker, summoning you into their gentle embrace.

The hollow knock on the old wooden door seems to mimic the emptiness in your own heart, crying out in an emptiness you’ve always known, one you won’t be able to fill even with the insurmountable number of your disappointments.

The one who answers the door isn’t Kate. No, it’s a figure that’s a bit shorter, brown-eyed, coiling hair pulled away from her face. Still, the warmness of her eyes when she smiles, the brightness of her stare feels familiar, welcome.

“You must be Fix.” Kate’s wife greets, standing aside as your toes balance on the threshold. “I’m Paula. Please, come inside.”

You murmur a thanks, quiet and muted, eyes gazing down at your feet. You shuffle inside, perch precariously in the foyer as she shuts the door behind you.

This feels…wrong.

You desperately want it to not be so. You want to enjoy this- a warm house, a friendly face, a place to stay, to catch yourself. Yet there’s ghosts here, ones that whisper of chandeliers and polished centerpieces, beautiful tapestries and furniture meant only to look at. An artificialness you thought you abandoned long ago but persists even now. The scent of your father's office in your nostrils mutes Paula's gentle words.

“You can put your bag right here, we’ll get you settled later.” Paula gestures to a couch in the room beside you, where a dozing German Shepherd lies splayed against a frayed blanket. He gives you a few lazy thumps of his tail, raising a grey muzzle before flopping back once more. “Don’t mind Whiskey, he just had a run in the backyard, he’ll come say hello in a bit.”

Wordlessly, you drop the bag down on the cushions, turning back to Paula. Yet when your lips part, there’s no words. What do you even say?

I don’t want to be here. I want to be with them. This feels too much like the home I used to know, the same one I want to forget.

…Do you know where I can find myself again?

Your eyes find Paula’s, and all those words seem to be conveyed in your gaze alone. Heartbreak, bitter disappointment, longing, despair, a fury muted only by your own inescapable loneliness.

She takes a step forward, and you almost want to retreat, to press yourself away from her on instinct, a fragile thing that even a gentle touch might shatter. Yet there’s no threat in her eyes. Instead, there’s a warmth, a sadness that’s stifled by something that feels dangerously close to tenderness, to hope.

When her arms wrap around you, it feels less like a sentence and more like the inevitability of falling into a place where you want to rest the tender, hurt fringes of your soul.

You bury your face into her shoulder and sob like the child you never got to be.

--------------------------------------

True to her word, Kate comes home well after dark, bags under her eyes heavy as she drapes her jacket across the back of the couch. Whiskey, who until that point had been sitting attentively by your feet as you idly stroked his ears, barks and bounds over to Laswell, feet splaying forward and tail wagging. You watch as the fatigue in Laswell's eyes brightens to fondness, and she kneels to offer the German Shepherd a ruffle of his neck and a few tender words.

When she stands, she notices you past the door of the kitchen, perching on one of the barstools as Paula finishes making dinner.

"Fix." She offers in greeting, and she sounds oddly pleased, different than her usual, severe instruction to you and the team. "Good to see you."

You swallow around a piece of cracker and cheese and offer her a hesitant, shy glance with a smile that doesn't reach your eyes.

"Hi Chief." You supply in turn, and Kate waves a hand at you as she passes into the kitchen, Whiskey at her heels.

"You can drop the honorifics." She tells you, humor concealing the drain the day has had on her. "You're in my kitchen eating food from my pantry. This is about as informal as it gets."

"That would be my kitchen, actually?" Paula supplies her with an arched eyebrow as she stands over the stovetop, overseeing the steaks in the cast-iron pan. Yet as Laswell reaches her the feigned annoyance in her eyes fades to something sweeter, and she cranes her head as Laswell delivers a fond peck to her wife's cheek. "Hi hun, long day?"

"Aren't they all?" Kate replies, peering over Paula's shoulder and making a pleased noise at what she finds.

You shift a little where you sit, feeling suddenly as if you're deeply intruding on a very private moment between the two women.

Kate seems to notice, and she turns to you, grey eyes regarding your stiff, uneasy figure perched beside the counter. You're still dressed in your fatigues, haven't yet retrieved a change of clothes from your bag still dropped onto the couch. It makes you feel strangely out of place. Within the dim, ambient light of the kitchen, in a place that feels like the tender warmth of a hearth, the green and grey camo of your uniform makes you seem a whole world away.

You think Laswell might follow you there, might immediately ask about what happened in England, about your fight with Price, about the healing bullet wound in your side, about how long you'll be here.

Instead, Kate smiles and asks: "Chocolate or pistachio?"

You falter, perplexed by her non-sequitur, eyes blinking as you provide: "Choc...olate?"

Kate nods sagely and vanishes back in the direction of the living room. You hear her rustle around for a moment before she appears once more, hands full before she deposits a plastic container on the kitchen counter in front of you. You blink at the dessert, once more feeling a bit out of place with the strange mundanity Kate has bestowed upon you.

"Cannoli." She quips, and it startles a little gasp from Paula, who turns and delightedly snatches a plastic container from her wife's hands.

"Eastern Market?" She asks happily, and Kate nods, looking a touch pleased with herself. "No wonder you were so late."

Kate offers a tired shrug, taking a bite of her own dessert, to which Paula tsks.

"Dessert before dinner?" She inquires, and again Kate shrugs. Yet this time there's that wry smile of hers tugging at the corner of her lips as she leans against the counter beside you.

"Who's to say we can't?" She replies, and when she glances at you her eyes flicker down to your own dessert and then up to you with a meaning there you don't fully understand yet. Her grey gaze rests on yours as if she's trying to convey a message through her stare alone. It remains to be deciphered, unwritten and unspooled just like the depths of you.

When you take a bite, the sweetness coats your tongue, and there's a small, foreign part of you that twinkles with joy, like the barest sound of wind chimes in a warm breeze.

-----

Kate shows you to your room after dinner and dishes. It's sparse. A bed, a dresser, a desk, a lamp, a closet. The window you saw earlier looks into the backyard, a cushion seated inside the frame like a silent lookout. It pleases you, oddly, scratches the part of your brain that instinctively seeks perches from which to set up a sniper position.

"It's not the Ritz Carlton." Laswell tells you as you stand, frozen on the threshold. "So, you'll have to bear with it."

"No." You whisper mildly. "It's...it's perfect."

You've spent so much time sleeping in trenches, on rooftops, on planes and in safehouses and not sleeping at all that this- this room with the downy white comforter and the soft hazy light of the lamp by the bedside...is more than you think you deserve.

You lower the duffel onto the bed with a considerable amount of hesitation, feeling Kate's eyes on you as you trace the print on the decorative pillow nestled at the headboard. She's silent, in that way of hers that you know is watchful, contemplative, discerning the secrets of others like sifting sand through her fingers in search of sea glass.

"Thank you." You offer after considerable silence, feeling and gratitude beyond words, trying to swallow down the protests that threaten to spill outwards.

I don't deserve this. You think. How can I possibly stay here, with you, after you chose me and I failed? How can you forgive me for that?

When you turn to Kate, she somehow sees all of this and more written across your gaze, and she sighs.

"Fix." She begins, and normally that's enough to make you panic, shift inwards and prepare yourself to be defensive, to receive orders and bury any doubts in exchange for duty. You expect instructions, constraints, consequences in the way you've lived all your life.

Yet Laswell holds her breath, looks at you with an emotion that feels too wise and sibylline to be pity or concern. Instead, it reminds you of the prophecy she held in her gaze in Ethiopia, where she told you to find her once more, had drawn you in like a moth to flame as if she knew you needed to be burned whole to find yourself amidst the ashes.

"Whatever you need." Kate offers at last. "I'm here. I mean that."

You want to believe her, want so desperately to bask in her comfort and ask of her more than you can bear, but the whisper of something deep and dark and unknown coils in your ear, drags you down and muffles any other sound than "Thank you."

It doesn't seem to satisfy Kate, because the line of her mouth goes taut and grim, form a little tense and it's hard to not think of it as disapproval.

"There's something else." She supplies in the silence that follows. "Price...mandated that you see a therapist while you're on leave. I'm supposed to sign off when you're fit to return to duty."

You can acutely hear the sound of your own heart hammering in your ears, feel the world spin in dizzying chaos once more as you process Kate's words.

"I thought you should know." Kate tells you as your face shifts in something close to fright, anxiousness. "But in exchange you can't keep pretending like there's nothing wrong."

There is nothing wrong. You want to tell her, knowing that it's a lie. So instead, you offer her silence, refuse to damn yourself further with your protests.

Kate paces over to the desk, pulls a drawer and produces a journal, places it gingerly on the surface of the desk before looking back to you.

"You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. You don't even have to tell your therapist if you want. If you tell no one else, at least try and tell yourself."

You don't respond. What is there to say? Confess why you know you're here, that you think this is wrong despite that? That somehow for all the ruin in you, you're being punished?

Kate holds your gaze for a long moment before she closes her eyes, seemingly in resignation, pacing over to the door.

"The others..." She tells you, halfway turned to you, dim shadows slating across her form. "They care about you, Fix. We all do. I hope you remember that."

There's a pain then, one that flashes through you, makes something dull and rotted inside you crave towards brightness. You don't truly understand why it hurts until much later, curled in bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkness and trying to uncover the secrets of your own heart.

You think, deep inside, it's because you want to care about yourself too.

-------

The days that follow inch by.

You try your best to make yourself at home, memorizing the schedules of the women who host you. Laswell wakes first, at an hour most would consider ungodly, making herself a meager breakfast composed mostly of coffee before she kisses Paula and heads out towards the Pentagon. Paula follows later, flitting about the house muttering about misplaced papers, keys, glasses, her purse. You learn the first evening with them that she's counsel to a large immigration defense firm in the city, her hours intense but fairly flexible. She's usually back by early afternoon and manages to retain a wealth of energy Laswell seems to lack upon her arrival. The days repeat themselves, and every morning you watch them leaves, ears ringing in the quiet, empty house they've left behind.

You try to relax, as Laswell has ordered you, at least for the first few days. You read books, leaf through the Washington Post, go on long, rambling walks with Whiskey and end up with his head in your lap as you flick through movies on TV. You watch the characters there fall into silly, desperate love, jump from burning buildings and look into the camera with dewy, glowing gazes. It feels so foreign to you, so very detached from the things you've experienced, the life you've led.

The journal on your desk goes untouched.

Kate arrives back in the evenings, and sometimes she's too tired to even talk, forcing herself to eat and then collapsing on the couch for an hour, Whiskey splayed across her front. You join her in mutual company, curl onto the other sofa and sink into the confines of your own thoughts in mutual silence. Sometimes you join Paula in the kitchen, aid her in washing dishes and cleaning the remains of dinner. Yet the unwavering warmth in her, the brightened chatter she offers feels too sharp, too indulgent against your frayed, muted senses.

Instead, you find yourself with Kate, who talks in a low, quiet voice. The tone of her feels like the ocean casting gently against a pebbled beach, rhythmic and soothing, cradling you as the clipped, wry intonation of her drops away in the solitude of evening. You feel for the first time as if you're observing not Laswell but Kate. Somehow softer but just as resilient, a glimmering glass that reveals the machinations of the world itself.

Kate talks to you about music, about politics, to which you find yourself closely aligned, about pop culture that Paula chimes in on, about her travels. She regales you with stories about her missions abroad, spending time in the dust bowls of the Middle East, of beautiful tea shops and warm people. She spins images of ruined buildings but the people there straining against injustice and wanting desperately to not just survive but to thrive. She tells you of trips down into the heart of Sub-Saharan Africa, of tracing networks of terrorists through jungles and of the many languages she's spoken to find them.

She doesn't tell you about the lives she'd lost as a result.

She's careful not to talk about work, you notice. Any intel she has to share, that which you would normally be privy to, remains conspicuously absent in your conversations. There's no discussion of intel on AQ, on Russian gangsters or foreign mercenaries or underground criminal networks. She's purposeful, calculated, and more often than not you're led by her conversations so much so that you forget the questions you want to ask.

What did you find? Where? Who? Will you send them? Which ones?

...How are they?

The mere thought of the 141 aches you to the bones, makes you hurt so badly it cracks at the very foundation of you. You haven't heard from them since you left England, and every day that passes you catch yourself staring into the messages last sent by them. Gaz, inviting you to come watch a soccer match with him and Price, one that ended up drawing all of you as Soap groaned in defeat and Gaz stood proudly on the couch whooping at the TV. Price, reminding you wheels up in fifteen, suggesting you double check your medic kit one more time before you all leave. Soap, a selfie of you and the others at a bar, where Price and a dark hooded figure sit passively in the background.

Ghost, with your message a parting, aching gift you sent while you were recovering from your original injury after being shot. He had texted to let you know he and Price would arrive shortly, bring you a change or two of clothes from your bag, that they were five minutes out.

You had sent back "See you soon."

It's on more than one night you hug your phone to your chest, chest lacing with a pain where you can't discern the phantasmal from the physical. It feels like a curse, one with no remedy, a dangerous, sacrilegious hypocrisy you scream against with no escape. It's a reminder that you, you were the one to put yourself here, the rope that bound you to them frayed by your own mistakes and snapping into nothingness, watching them rise far above you atop the summit of impossible expectations you built for yourself. You scrabble to climb it anyways, carrying stones to place at the zenith so you'll never reach the apex of your own victories.

You shake apart in your bed at night, tremble in the dark and find echoes in your sorrow. You feel your chest weigh down with the poisonous solitude and sink you further into the abyss of the ocean, far from the sun. It's dark, cold, insufferably lonely and despite the soft comfort of your bed it feels like at the slightest touch you'll splinter into irreparable fragments of yourself.

You wish you were still with them, and the pain of it draws you taut like a bowstring. Their fingers skim along your thoughts and memories, along the tether of you so they can listen to the hum. At a moment's notice they'll recoil away from you in your thoughts, snap and release. You crave the temptation of allowing yourself to shudder into their grasp, their hands embracing you and tracing along your surface like trying to coax poison from a wound. You want so desperately for them to not leave you behind, to stay in their hearts where they might someday accept you with grace, listening to the whisper of your surrender in being loved by them.

When you wake in the mornings you don't recognize the birdsong outside, mistaking it for the whistle of impending missiles.

You sometimes wonder if they died while you were asleep.

------

It's that second week into your stay that you go to see your issued therapist for the first time.

Despite your protests Paula takes time off work to take you there herself. You assure her you can call a taxi or even walk there if you have to. You've hiked kilometers wearing your whole gear set and pack before, this is not difficult. Yet Paula merely hushes you, reminds you once again of your injury, and you realize it's a lost cause to argue with her.

Even so, you squirm uncomfortably in the car on the way over, cheeks warm, feeling like a little kid again being taken somewhere you don't want to go. The sensation follows you inside, as you sit ramrod straight in the waiting area, too tightly wound to relax even an inch. Paula had given you the grace of leaving you there by yourself, but for some strange reason you wish she hadn't. Even in your shame of attending this mandatory punishment you wish selfishly that maybe she'd return, cover your hand and let the erratic thump of your heartbeat settle in your lungs.

Eventually the door to the interior office opens, and out steps an older man, hunched over with a cane, grey hairs sticking out from under a cap that reads 'Vietnam Veteran'. He glances at you over his glasses, pauses just long enough to give you a nod with a smile that barely contains the grimace underneath. It's only once he's passed that the doctor behind him calls for you, and you shoot to your feet, a live wire rigged with electricity.

The inside of his office is...quiet. It's a little strange, admittedly. There's knick knacks scattered across the shelves, wedged between acclimations and awards, plants with long stems spilling across the windowsill behind his desk. More of them perch on various stands and stools, tenderly cared for and alighting the space in greenery. The bookshelves scarcely contain the number of books within them, some stacked slightly askew to make room for more. Yet despite the crowdedness it isn't messy. It simply feels...full. Cozy, like the warmth of an open heart.

"Fix." You correct him when he sits across from you. You realize he doesn't bother with a pen and paper, doesn't sit in front of a laptop screen. You weren't sure what you were expecting- perhaps a dry, sterile office in pastel colors with motivational poster and a man clinically scratching down shorthand with a murmur of 'and how does that make you feel?'

"Fix." He agrees with a kind smile, and the sound of your own name is enough to make your leg stop bouncing.

He doesn't launch straight in, taking a moment to inform you of your rights and responsibilities as a patient, the things he is and isn't allowed to share. He reminds you that you still need to pass a psych eval before you're cleared for duty, and you swallow the urge to ask him if you can do that part already, recite the answers you already know and get back to where you belong. Yet you know Laswell, with her keen perceptive eyes, would only sigh in disappointment, recognizing the transparency of you.

"I'm a medic." You tell him in response to his prompt to introduce yourself despite the fact he's already read your file. "I'm the designated medic for an international terrorism taskforce. I can't tell you the name."

He waits expectantly, as if for you to provide something else. You falter, trying to figure out if there's anything else you should add. Yet nothing appears, nothing else than your identity built through purpose, a thing designed inherently to be useful for others.

"Do you do anything outside of work, Fix?" He gently pries, and again you hesitate, trying to find something in yourself you aren't sure exists.

"I...sometimes go out with my teammates." You offer after a pause. "Pubs, usually. Soap and Gaz, they..." You trail off, feeling once more that pain pulse through you, a hard and heavy burst of awareness against your ribs that makes the air in your chest catch. "Soap and Gaz, they like to go dancing sometimes. They dragged me along once but I didn't like all the noise and the crowds so I didn't go again."

"Sounds like you're fairly close with them." He remarks as he sits back in his chair, and you try not to grimace at his words. There's a deep ache in your chest that makes you want to press a hand there, feel the hollow where the absence of your team lies.

"Maybe." You reply enigmatically, shifting your eyes away, letting your gaze trace the electric clutter of the room, the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. You think about the veteran you just saw, wonder if that’s how he sees you too- some scarred, broken thing with eyes looking distantly to the past where your nightmares echo into your soul.

"Where are they now?" He goes on, and the chest ache deepens, forces the air low in your ribs as your brow knots. You think about the faces of Soap, of Gaz, as they lingered outside your hospital room after you pushed them away. The guilt, the tearing regret inside you threatens to choke your lungs, send warmth flooding to your eyes with the memory.

"England." You answer, voice very small. "Or...I don't know. They could be deployed. I haven't been told. They..." You trail off, feel the downward spiral open inside you once more, your awareness circling the drain into where your deepest, darkest thoughts lie.

"I failed them." You say suddenly, surprising even yourself with the abrupt confession. It's more to yourself than to anyone else, a solemn reminder of the person you are, the things you couldn't achieve, the deep frost of the shadows they cast on you as they hike ever onwards into the hills.

"How so?" The therapist asks, and you look down into your fingers webbed together, upturning your palms as if they have answers.

"I...fucked up. Got myself shot." You breathe after several long minutes of silence, where you think he will fill the void, and instead waits for you. He takes a deep inhale, lets it go in contemplation before speaking.

"I don't think getting shot counts as failing them, not when you're in our occupation." He provides, and it makes your head shoot up, blinking as you meet his gaze.

"Our...?" You echo.

"Former army medic." There's a gentle smile on his face as he explains. "Left the service and went back to school. I still help soldiers, just a little different these days."

"Oh."

You're not really sure what to say to that, face turning downwards towards your hands once more. You think about the times they've been caked with blood, how often you've felt someone else's pulse bleed across your fingertips. The memories of the men and women you'd treated amidst the hail of gunfire, the whistle of incoming mortars and the distant thunder of tanks rise automatically- a warm, wet pulse on the underside of your skin. You remember every face, every set of eyes on the people you've saved, the horror of death looming in the distance.

All of them. Afraid. Confused. Desperate. Lost.

Just as you are, you think. Lost in a fate you can't seem to control no matter how desperately you strive against it. You’re constantly trying to strain towards the heavens even as you hurtle down through layers of clouds, watching feathers cast an abstract of loss behind your descending form.

"Can you tell me about what happened after you were shot?" The man before you offers once more in the silence that follows, one filled only with the thrum of your heartbeat. You breathe shaky, unsteady sigh, trying to calm the twisting knot in your stomach as you struggle to answer against the pain of recalling what events led you here.

"I went back to our home base with them" You answer at last. "...But they had to be called away on another mission, and I was still healing so I couldn't go."

You remember Price. You remember his hands on your shoulders, his face turned down. Weary but kind, stern but gentle, all the things you desperately wanted in him, soothing the balm of forgotten memories. The sound of the oak door in your father's office shutting behind you with a click that spoke of finality.

"I...was trying to heal faster." You go on, leg bouncing once more as you fail to contain the rising, frenetic energy inside of you. "I was trying to make sure I could be fine once they got back, but..."

You trail off, feel silence press heavy on your shoulders.

"But?"

"I ended up really fucking things up instead." You reply, voice small, and it hurts. The volume of your words sounds like childhood, of the echo bouncing back from the repository of the things you longed desperately to shed, to be made anew. "Made a right mess of things."

"How so?"

You grimace, feel tears threaten in your eyes. The taste of a sob sours on your tongue, and you force yourself to swallow the bitterness of it instead.

Don't cry. Don't cry. You remind yourself. Don't show them. Don't let them know.

They might leave you.

When you don't answer, let minutes lap into nothingness, his voice at last fills the emptiness between you. Gentle, coaxing, reminding you of a smoke laden reassurance that shudders through you with longing.

"It sounds like you put a lot of pressure on yourself." He observes quietly.

You pause.

Your bullet wound hurts.

"Yeah, well, someone has to." You at last reply ruefully. Your shoulders feel too tight, aching with the weight of the wings you’ve used to loft yourself towards sparkling heavens, only to reach too far and instead witness the looming maw of darkness under you.

You hate this.

You hate the feeling of someone peeling back layers of your skin, slicing through the exterior of you with a scalpel like gaze. You hate how gentle his eyes are despite how wretchedly vulnerable you feel, despise the way he can be so soothing and yet somehow reveal the rotten interior of your soul. It burns, and the pain concentrates on the center of your failures, where a bullet ripped flesh from your form and rendered you lost in the labyrinth of yourself, unable to find a way out.

"-and that person is you? Why?" He asks, and his voice echoes out, feels like it reverberates in the hollow center of you, bouncing endlessly in an irreligious choir that sings of the things you don't understand.

"I...don't know." You answer, and it's a lie. You know it is. You know the tether that binds you extends years into the past, is wrapped tight in the fist of the one whose voice echoes in the cavern of your thoughts. He dwells in the ocean below, where churning, disastrous waves of emotion close over your drowning form.

"Worthless."

The man before you pauses, seems to consider the things you've said, and the words that stay unspoken in the silence. It reminds you a bit of Laswell, of the way she can pluck unseen things from the mist and discern them like the tides of the world itself. You're caught in the rip current, carried to an unknown destination as the men you hold dear drift further away from you, their backs turned from your voice that refuses to call out.

You wish they’d turn and cast their eyes upon your form, that maybe they'd rescue you.

You're too afraid to ask.

"I think we can find out, Fix." The man before you offers at last, and it feels both like a shimmer of light in the darkness and a shadow that blots out the sun. Hopeful, terrifying, entirely foreign but somehow wanted.

"Will you tell me more about your teammates?" He goes on to ask, and you do raise your head at that, blink into his spectacled gaze with his warm smile that feels like an embrace you don't deserve.

The words tumble out before you can stop them.

You tell him. You tell him about the men you've served with, of your brothers. You tell him about Soap, with his brawny and boisterous voice, of his playful and endearing banter. You tell him about how the Scot was the first besides Price to welcome you to the team, was the one to give you your nickname when he had bled into your hands. You tell him about the moments where Soap is softer, gentler, offering himself to you in a way he hoped you'd might one day return.

Gaz, with his softer smile and unwavering focus, his deep loyalty to his team members that bolsters you all. He sees the things the rest of you don't, gaze sharp like the scope of a rifle you're all too familiar with. There's a softness to him unlike the others, one that you will sometimes forget in the midst of him at your back under a hail of gunfire. You know the sound of his laughter, know the bump of his arm against yours and the tenderness in his eyes at the things you won't admit.

Then Price, with his stern guidance that you never fail to adhere to, the hand on your shoulder that conveys more than words. You feel safety under the shelter of his wing, look to his stare that looks past the obstacles that stand in his way. He paves the way before you all, secures the ground behind you, stands in unrelenting, furious opposition to the forces that dare advance upon your mission. Yet despite his violence you feel the trust he shares in you, and you desperately crave to someday live up to it.

Ghost.

Ghost, whose real name you don't yet know, just like so many things about him. The first time you met him was in a briefing room, Price standing tall beside you and announcing you to the team. Ghost had leveled his dark, dead gaze at you from afar, and despite the urge to shrink away you had instead returned his stare wordlessly, allowing your own resilience to shine through. You remember how his eyes had widened a mere fraction, a tell you would come to learn as interest.

You know it had been him who had taken off your boots when you collapsed into your bunk after Nepal. You know it had been him to give Price the thermos of tea to bring you in the hospital. You know it had been him who had gently lowered you onto the floor of the plane upon your return to England, ensured you wouldn't wake up sore and hurting.

You know it was he who had told Price of your failures- had revealed the depths of your own self-hatred blossoming like carnations across the skeletal grasp of his glove.

You know he's always been able to see you more than anyone else.

You don't say all this, of course, the secrets of your wishes and desires for these men stay close to your heart. You know by now the sacredness of things left unsaid, even if the swell of them inside you threatens to fester your bones, rip feathers from your flesh.

Don't let them know. Don't let them know. Don't let them know because you'll find out just how disappointed they are. You'll find out they never wanted you to begin with.

At last, your therapist nods, as if to himself, before leaning forward a bit so his elbows rest on his knees. He looks at you, and in your weary heart left in the wake of your memories, you feel the clairvoyant gaze of him pierce into your ribs where the ache of it all dwells.

"Can you come back next week?" Is all he offers.

You aren't sure. You want to say no, that this is far too much, that you've already spoken more than you want to. You're afraid if you share more he might somehow decide your fate for you, might pull the strings of fate so you will never return to the place you're supposed to be.

Yet, somehow, you say yes instead.

------

You go home, silent on the drive with Paula, who gives you grace in the absence of words. You are silent for the rest of the day too, offer scant bits of conversation as you pick at dinner. The world feels different somehow. The air rushing past your ears feels quieter, the wind not as sharp against your skin. You’re still falling, still sinking, still watching the heavens loom too large above your form. You recall the memory of being younger, smaller, looking up at the unfathomable expanse of the world and wondering when you would grow to meet its size.

You stare up at it in the darkness of your bedroom, hear the gale howl in the silence of midnight. There’s questions left to you that you have no answers for, upturning your palms once more and trying to sift sand through them in search of something there you don’t yet know.

"That person is you? Why?"

It has to be me. You think to yourself, hearing the sound of your own voice hush against the emptiness of your room. Nobody else is here anymore to do the same. I have to be better. I can't fail. I can't disappoint them. That way they can't see the failure I am inside.

Don't let them see. Please, dear God don't let them see.

It's a desperate cry into the midnight, a hand thrown up in desperation that sears against the sun. The blistering brightness of it burns against the back of your eyelids, rendering you blind to yourself. White consumes your vision, and you hear the fated whisper of snow blindness echo against the fraught fringes of your soul once more.

"I see you. Just you."

You blink, once more feel the tug of pain in your side where his hand had clamped down on your scarlet wound. The sight of his eyes is inescapable in the realm of your thoughts. Dark, grim, gazing into you as if somehow he is discerning himself. You remember those same eyes as you had bled over his fingertips, had begged him to please, please not look. You remember seeing something that flickered across his stare, that had shaken you to your core, trembled the foundation of the earth under your feet.

Grief.

You rise from your bed, stare into the darkness of your room, feeling the Earth rotate under your falling form. You spread your arms, trying to slow your descent as you pace over to your desk where the gift from Laswell lies.

If you can't tell anyone. At least tell yourself.

You pick up the journal and begin to write.

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@dankest-farrik @zwiiicnziiix @moondirti @sritashimada @ladiilokii @yeyinde @sandinthemachine @verdandis-blog @guyfieriiii @fan-of-encouragement @starlitnotes @alicesfracturedmirror @rentaldarling @mockerycrow @atenceladusiaawfytbwb @tinykaka @dumb-djarin @homicidal-slvt @soapskneebrace @nightingale-ghost-writer @selinn777 @nachtcirce @jujubashow @mutuallimbenclosure @kkinky @trash-boi-4-life @scatter-mind001

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon 'ghost' riley #mw2 #cod mw22 #Simon ghost riley x oc #reader insert #cod x reader #fic: shadow and bone #oc: fix #I'm actually really proud of this #and honestly this series isn't as beloved as some of my other faster dirtier sloppier pieces #But I'm okay with that #because at the end of the day this story is and has always been for me #It isn't something I choose to write #It's something that's existed in me all along #and even if people don't like it I am desperately in love with Fix's world and that's what matters

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