I Crave Internet Validation

For all that the masked man would protest, arms crossed with the heaviest eye roll you’ve seen a man do- the two are attached to the hip. Courtesy of an energetic Scot who doesn’t like to let go of something once he’s grabbed on and an Englishman who allows the rarity of a personalized slot inside his close circle when someone pesters him enough. 

It was only natural then that you knew him too, being Simon’s ex girlfriend and all. (Not ex- the Ghost curled over your shoulder grunts, haunts you from the dark corners of your own mind, shaking his head ever so slightly. It wasn’t a mutual decision.)

There hadn’t been anything you could’ve done. Nothing short of some time machine to grab your past self by the arm as you’re exiting the gas station restroom, tug yourself away from the door and hastily point out the small window at the back. It’s dirty, coated in filth likely older than yourself, and small, rectangular with clear warped glass. You’re not certain if you could even fit yourself through, much less had no idea how to reach it in the first place, but it would’ve been worth a shot. 

But you don’t. Can’t. You (unfortunately) don’t have the clairvoyance of the future, and you don’t have a time machine, and if the government does then they wouldn’t let you use it for such a mundane purpose. 

You know it wouldn’t have changed anything anyway. Something deep inside of you, like buried old instincts, knows your fate had been sealed long before you’d stepped foot into the inconspicuous bathroom, months before you even arrived to America, dating nearly half a year back to when you were still on European soil, teary eyed as you placed a sealed envelope on the countertop before you turned and left with your tail between your legs, wheeling out all your possessions you could fit in a suitcase by your side. 

It had become too much, you’d admitted to your sister as you bounced her babbling baby on your knee, shoulders pulled tight and unable to meet her gaze. Her baby turned his head to stick his fingers in his mouth and regard you with bright blue eyes that made your chest clench. The radio silence on missions, the constant injuries, the abrupt calls. Half of the time you waited for Simon to call to apologize for missing yet another event due to a mission extending or abruptly setting off for another one, the other half of the time you waited for a call from his Captain to inform you of his passing. 

Your sister had extended a hand, both metaphorically and physically, patting you on the shoulder as she allowed you peace in the sanctuary of her home. Had taken you in and allowed you the room clearly decorated as the nursery of the newborn, waving that it was no big deal and she “had to look out for her younger sister.”

You hid in your sister’s home from the relationship you ran from and allowed the warmth to seep into your bones, cradle the cracks of your broken heart. 

It’s everything you wished yours was. Brimming full of life, a baby’s screeching laughter echoing in your ears, a husband that would appear when she showed the slightest signs of exhaustion, plucking the baby boy from her arms with a kiss on her forehead, sending her off to bed or a shower or to eat while she’d pout and reach again for her child. 

You watched, grateful for the inclusion, with envy coiling in your chest. 

Your sister and her husband made it look easy, effortless. The closest you could compare would be by staring longingly at the baby clothes in the shop windows while you and Simon went out, the latter slowed by your halt. He’d lean in, murmur promises that you’d have “so many, until you’re sick of them” once he retires. You’d avert your eyes, swallow the “which comes first? Retirement or a casket?” behind your teeth and nod dutifully, continuing your pace. 

But you can’t stay forever. Not when your air mattress obscured the majority of the nursery floor (“It’s fine! I have the baby in a bassinet by the bed in the meantime, no need for a crib”), not when your suitcase filled the closet (“They’re baby clothes! They’re tiny! They don’t need all that space”), and when you flutter uselessly in the dance your sister and her husband make, gathering the baby’s food and cooking dinner simultaneously. There’s enough work with a baby, enough stress and sleepless nights and trial and error. Despite how your sister smiles at the sight of you, her exhausted complexion bores a hole in your chest while her husband chances pinched glances at your intrusion. You can’t be another burden on her, no matter how much she insists. 

Simon may not have been around all of the time, he couldn’t show his affection in the typical mannerisms, was always hesitant on skin contact outside of the fortitude of your home and faltered when things would begin to escalate to the bedroom. But his job had certainly paid the bills and provided the housing. It allowed you to accumulate a cushy amount of savings, never a need to splurge or use them. 

You do now. A rental car is easy to find with the wonders of the Internet, something dependable, something hearty. You pack your belongings in the trunk, kiss your nephew on the head, hug your sister in a tearful goodbye, and drive. 

You’d always wanted to see New York, the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, the grandiose wonders the States had to offer. It’s certainly a learning curve, to drive on the wrong side of the road, but you manage. The city smog nearly makes you hack out a lung, the countryside rolling hills extend farther than the end of the Earth. It’s… nice. It’s nice, you decide, meeting the slow sunrise deep in a camping site as the woods wake around you, seated cross legged on top of your car roof. 

Of course, things can’t remain that way forever. You were never quite so lucky. 

It happens in Arizona, the desert rolling out further and further until it melts with the sky. You hadn’t known a highway to be this long, this desolate before, nothing but the heat and the dunes to greet you, sparsely broken by shrubbery or a stray animal. You sag with a sigh of relief when a marker for a gas station breezes by you, pulling in without a second thought. 

You wobble out, bones creaking and cracking. Groan as you stretch your legs for what must have been hours since your last stop. You’ll have to fill the tank to not worry of being left abandoned somewhere on the side of the road, miles from civilization. Need to find the nearest place that offers a bed to finally get some proper rest so your knees stop punishing you for sleeping in the backseat. 

But first, business calls. 

The breeze of chilly air is a welcome reprieve from the scorching rays of the sun as you push the gas station’s convenience store door open. It’s small inside, slightly sparse. But it has the necessities of what matters. 

You pass by the only worker, an older teenager sitting bored at the cash register, more focused on his phone than your passing presence. Not that you care, your destination well within sight at the back of the shop. A small, dimly lit hallway, branching to the right, two doors and a floor in need of a deep clean greet you. 

The restrooms. Bingo. 

You push your sunglasses onto the top of your head as you swing the door open, chancing a glance at yourself when you pass by the only mirror. Your skin has a slight tan to it, courtesy of the constant traveling. American weather seems to prefer the sun more than the clouds of Britain back home. Though you supposed you can’t attribute only your travels to it. You feel… lighter, no longer shackled to your home, always nearby in case Simon finally returns from his missions. There’s a slight glow to you and your smile comes easier. 

You grin at your reflection and she returns it. You like it, you like the new you. 

Of course, matters that take place in the washroom have no need to be spoken of and soon enough you find yourself washing your hands, reveling in the cold water. Several droplets slowly descend down your skin, threatening to soak the collar of your shirt after you splashed your face to keep from overheating. 

A time machine would’ve been good for now. But you don’t have one, and you pull the bathroom door open without a care, without a speck of expectation of the figure that meets you on the other end. 

“Bonnie,” Johnny greets with an easy grin, a forearm braced against the doorway, leaning so he fills the space. You startle for a split second, a half step taken back, hackles raised to bolt.  Before the tenseness eases out of your shoulders, your hands settling on your hips. “Johnny,” you greet in reply, lips curled at the edges in familiar affection. You withhold from reaching up to hug him automatically, not when you don’t have the standing for that anymore. 

“I didn’t expect to see you again.” You cock your head, your smile growing wider. Truly, you had missed him and his aptitude to fill the space of Simon’s stoicism with unruly jokes. You hadn’t had the chance to leave a final message for him as with your ex (too focused on running, too focused on making sure you didn’t leave anything behind as your heart bled onto the letter neatly folded into an envelope), you’d regretted never fully receiving the closure. 

“What are you doing so far out? Are you on a mission?” You question curiously, already expecting a vague reply. Simon practically never spoke of his work back when the two of you were together, much less now that you weren’t privy to neither his nor his best mate’s personal life anymore. 

“Something like that”, the Scot replied, a trickle of something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on slipping into his tone as his gaze slid to the side, down where the hallway curved into the convenience store. 

An uncomfortable mass lodges itself in your chest, pressing against your throat. “Is..”, you swallow thickly, reaching up to awkwardly paw at the hair on the back of your nape, gaze chained to the floor as your shoulders hitch uncomfortably. Suddenly aware of his strange presence in the middle of nowhere, recalling Simon’s many mentions of the two of them being paired together for their fair share of missions. “Is Simon… with you?”

Johnny’s gaze drifts back to you, pinning you to your place as you shift uncomfortably. He makes no move to answer. When the silence stretches into something taut and uncomfortable, you finally break it by clearing your throat, covering your mouth with your fist. 

“I think it’s best I don’t… we don’t... really see each other.” You lamely excuse, wincing at the reminder of your heartless rejection, too much of a coward to do it to his face. But you know you would have crumpled, one crestfallen look and you’d be crying as you cradled his face and muttered apologies. And then what? 

Your nervous shifting finally stills, feet planted firmly on the floor, a small stroke of anger lashing out. You continue to sit and wait for him years and years down the line? Until you’re nothing more than a doll who sits and nods and smiles when her husband finally looks at her? Always waiting until he turns the little wind up key on your back? You couldn’t handle that.

“Simon wasn’t happy”, your gaze snaps up to Johnny, his arms folded over his chest as he leans against the doorway and watches you. He cocks his head, eyes fastened on you unnervingly. “Came ho’e from a difficult, dangerous mission and his Bonnie lass wasn’ there. Nothing but a note.”

The hair on the back of your neck stands on edge, needles jabbing into your spine, instincts screaming that you were cornered by a predator. Johnny’s presence doesn’t seem so kind and inviting anymore, a sharp glint in his eye as he watches you without blinking. 

“I think-“ your voice wavers and you will it to hold strong, pinching your shoulders to force yourself to straighten. “I think I need to go.” He doesn’t stop you as you duck by him, nothing but his eyes following you, head shifting when you step around him. 

You’re tense the entire time, almost flighty, shifted to bolt the second he so much as twitches. He doesn’t move a muscle, only his gaze following, arms still crossed over his chest. 

You make it halfway down the hall on a speedy walk before you increase your pace, glancing behind you nervously. Johnny regards you with a self satisfied grin, still in the same position. Your hands grapple with the sunglasses atop your head, dropping them onto the bridge of your nose as you hone in on the only opening. Muscles bunched, ready to bolt once you break his line of sight. You cast one last glance back. A mistake that costs you. 

You shift, turning without looking, increasing speed before you even straighten forwards. And slam into a wall of toned muscles and a rough, scratchy fabric. Your glasses jam into the bridge of your nose, tears beading at the edges of your eyes as you flinch backwards, cradling your nose and hunching over from the startling pain. 

Did you break your nose?! It damn well feels like it!!

“Lemme see it,” a familiar voice washes over you, large warm hands prodding at your chin and lifting it up from your cradle while you freeze, wide eyes fixated on who’s before you. He’s not wearing his signature skull mask, likely too notable, needed to be discreet. But he’s still coated in a balaclava that covers everything but his eyes from you; fixated on your nose as he tilts the glasses upward and swipes the red section. 

You cringe and try to duck away instinctively- pain flaring from the gentle touch- but he holds your head firmly in place, tilting it upward for a better look. 

“Just a bit bruised,” his voice rumbles out, his other palm drifting to cradle the back of your head. “I’ll get you some ice for that.”

You swallow thickly, hands grasping at his thick forearms. “Simon...” your voice trails off, uncertain if it’s a plea, an apology, a question. 

I miss you, I’m sorry for leaving, what are you doing here?

Simon’s hands drift lower, curling over your arms and upper back as his head drops to your shoulder. He squeezes you tightly, a great big exhale flowing out of him. You can’t do more than pat at his side, arms locked to your sides by his grip. 

“Missed you.” Comes his rare, personal admittance, hardly loud enough for you to hear. “Came home and you were…”, his arms tighten, back tense again. “Gone. I thought you were taken.”

“I wasn’t.” You comfort, try to wiggle your arm from under his grip to comfort him but he only squeezes tighter. You opt to tilt your head against his, closing your eyes. “I’m all ok. I just… couldn’t take it anymore, Si.” 

Simon’s next exhale comes out as a shudder and he squeezes tighter before seemingly realizing his strength and loosening his hold.  Still not letting go, still trapped, but not suffocatingly so. “You promise? There’s no one else here? No one took you?” He peels away from you, casting a suspicious glance around the both of you. As though he expects someone to leap out from the nearest door, an enemy hiding in the decrepit supply closet nearby. 

You hum. “No. I just.. decided to finally go travelling. It’s been nice, fun. New York is so much more… busy than the photos show.”

You shift backwards slightly, tilt your head as you scrutinize Simon. “Are you here on a mission? Am I interfering?” You cast a backwards glance at Johnny for answers, who remains in the same position where you’d left him. 

Simon gently turns you back into place until you face him again, looking up at him curiously. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear with a familiarity that makes your heart squeeze uncomfortably. “Why’d you leave?” He ignores your question, hand shifting to cradle your cheek.

It’s much too familiar for two exes but you allow yourself to lean into his touch, grip tightening on his arms while you briefly close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge in the slight moment. Distance has made the heart fonder, time has taken the memory of how large and warm Simon is, how softly he holds you despite his overwhelming size and strength. The small, bruised part of your heart still misses him, still yearns to fall back into his arms and let him take you home. Your more rational part snaps and hisses at her, is quick to remind you of cold dinners and long nights and red rimmed eyes that Simon never sees. 

“I couldn’t take it anymore,” you admit, turning your head slightly to nose at his wrist, lean more of your weight on him because you know he’ll catch you. “You were gone just- so much, so so much. I cried myself to sleep so many times, cried at dinners because you said you’d be there and you weren’t.” Your eyelashes flutter open, settling on Simon’s face, expression hidden from you under the balaclava.

“I wanted a baby Simon, that’s no place to raise a baby.”

The man opposite you is silent for a long, long moment, watching you with unreadable eyes. Before he leans in to draw you closer once again. His arm shifts to settle across your upper back, light but firm, unyielding. Like cradling a bird as you set it free, keeping it from flapping erratically and hurting itself. But you had been free. Had unlatched your little door and hopped out, soared through the endless blue sky with more freedom than you could imagine. 

You allow the embrace to run past the small sand timer of socially-acceptable-length-of-time-for-a-hug as you curl your arms across his back, allow both of yourselves one last comfort, one last goodbye before you part ways. You doubt you’ll see him again, Simon has too many places to be, too much to do. You were lucky to share a chapter of your lives together, but now’s the time to tie it off with a nice little bow, separate on good terms. 

You shift finally, try to pull away, arms dropping, a foot raised in preparation to step back. Simon does not move, does not release you. His grip tightens, hands fisting your clothes.

Something inside of you drops, human instinct that knows danger-danger-danger- before you can even name it. 

“Simon.” Your voice comes out shakier than you’d like, tilted too nervously despite how you’d tried to control it. “What… are you doing here?” 

Simon greets you in silence, curled against your smaller form, suffocating your space. He doesn’t answer you, long enough for your heart to begin pounding, long enough for you to wonder if you’d said anything at all or only imagined it. 

Finally, he moves, pulling backwards, large, heavy hands drifting upwards to rest against your upper arms. Caging you, chaining you to the floor. “Taking you home.” He mutters, bright blue eyes honed in on yours. 

Your heart leaps into your throat, scrabbles at the sides, threatens to fall right out of your mouth. 

(You’re not being set free, you realize with the sinking realization akin to cold water splashing over you. You’re being returned to your cage.)

“No.” You shake your head, try to tilt the edges of your mouth into a smile. Like Simon is a child being told he can’t stay at the park forever, he has to come home for dinner now. “No, Simon,” your trembling hands balling into fists in an attempt to quell them, hidden by your sides. “We’re through. I left to…” you pause, swallow and will the next words out of your mouth, despite how they shake and quiver in the oppressive heat of Arizona’s air. “I left to find myself.”

Simon doesn’t regard you with an answer, only his gaze shifting across your form, following your eyes despite how they jump from one area to another. You can only hear your shuddering gasps in the space between you two. Not even the rustle of Simon’s camouflaged jacket. 

He tilts his head, nearly startles you with the motion as your gaze snaps back to him. The air around you holds its breathe, your own trapped in your chest as you wait for his response, unwilling to interrupt with even an exhale. 

“Well that’s too damn bad.” Simon’s eyes, despite the situation, crinkle upwards in that telltale way of his amusement, his rare moments of contentment and satisfaction. “I wasn’t asking.”

The slight exhale of his breathe as he speaks through the mask nearly bowls you over, held upright only by his permanent hold on you. You blink, jagged edges of his speech rattling in your mind, repeating over and over, looping over each other. 

I wasn’t asking.

I’m taking you home.

Wasn’t asking.

Home. I’m taking you home.

Wasn’t- home- asking- home.

Home

White walls and the empty air of his presence, dinners left cold and baby clothes hanging on racks.

You startle, like a bird with a broken wing with one last fight left in it, desperate, fitfully. First ducking under, like your legs have lost all their will before you spring forwards. 

Ghost doesn’t so much as twitch nor blink. Holding you motionless when you try to buckle underneath his grip, try to squeeze out underneath. You claw at his arms, at his hands, lift a leg in a desperate bid for a lucky kick before a third hand drops on your shoulders, knocks you out of your focus and snaps your attention to the side so fast you nearly break your neck.

Soap had crept closer, between one moment and the next, unnoticed at all. His gaze fixated on Ghost as he squeezed your shoulder tighter, stills you in your desperate flailing. “Need a hand?” He muses, gaze sliding down to you. 

Like it was normal. Like you hadn’t shared meals and drinks and stories and laughs. Like he hadn’t proudly brought desserts from that one bakery you like when you’d call him over for some “proper homemade food” when the boys are back from a mission. Like Simon hadn’t grumbled, pulling you into his chest to wrap around you like an octopus, that he could’ve gone to get you those too. You’d whack him on the arm with a spoon, reminding him through a failed attempt to hold back a grin to not let the sauce burn. 

Something heavy curls around your heart and yanks it to the pit of your stomach, down to your feet, and below the ground underneath you. 

Ghost snorts easily in response, pulling you closer, the action jostling the other’s hand from your shoulder. “I’ve got this.” 

Soap returns it with an easy grin, glancing down at you where you’re plastered to Ghost’s chest now, smile stretching further. He ruffles your hair as he passes, your frozen form much too shocked to react more than a startled flinch, eyes squeezed shut as you brace yourself. 

“It’s good t’ see you again,” he admits as he passes, before he turns out of view. You watch him go, mouth dry, the last dredges of hope that he’d help you sputtering out in your chest. 

You’re alone- you’re alone and no one knows where you are- wheres help- help help help- 

“Alright, up we go, “ Ghost mutters in that familiar, low tone, stooping to brace his shoulder to your midriff, sweeping you off your feet as he straightens to his full height with you slung over his shoulder. You startle into motion, shrieking, clawing and kicking as the steel band of one of his arms settles across your back, flattens you to him despite how you squirm. Your hands desperately claw for the utility belt always attached to his hip, flail for any corners or shelves to latch on as he begins walking off. 

Ghost avoids nearing anything you can grab, passing through the store at a steady pace, as though he doesn't have an entire kidnapped ex-girlfriend slung over his shoulder. You shove yourself upwards against his back as he passes by the cash register, eyes desperately searching for the teenager from before to shriek for help, to call the police. Your chest clenches when it's empty, when Ghost presses open the door and there's not a single person in sight to watch you be dragged off. 

You hardly catch sight of the large, idling vehicle stationed directly in front of the doors, not long enough to discern the make or the model or the damn license plate- before the back swings open. Ghost bends over with a grunt, lowering you into the gaping maw of the backseat as you scramble to slip underneath him, crawl over him, anything! please-. A second pair of hands catch you under the arms, dragging you the rest of the way inside as you kick and scream, a familiar large hand gently moving your flailing feet out of the way before the back door slams shut. 

“Easy,” Soap mutters above you, dragging you upwards into his chest as you try to lurch for the closed door. You choke on a sob, vision blurring as you desperately try to latch onto the seats, two twin arms settling across your chest and stomach like a child cradling a stuffed toy, pulling you further backwards until you're slotted against him.

The driver’s door swings open, your head snaps over as Ghost’s large form settles behind the wheel. The car rocks as he shuts it with more force than necessary, turning to peer at you over the center console. 

Your heart jumps into your throat, cheeks strewn with tears as you stare wide eyed at him, searching for- for what you don't know. A silent plea, a beg, that he'd come to his senses- anything!- He gives a hum as something in his shoulders finally loosens, turning back to face the front. 

“Let’s go home, darling.” Ghost soothes, reaching upwards to adjust the rearview mirror until your eyes meet. Baby blue alongside, red rimmed, panicked ones. The car rumbles as he pulls out of the gas station, back onto the road you’d been traveling mere moments ago. 

Outside the windows the dunes roll out, the road empty. Branches shake in the wake left behind the roaring vehicle, and the desert keeps its secrets.

A/N: It was only after I finished this fic that I realized I'd used the line "I wasn't asking" like in "Sharing is caring", though it does make sense from how close these two mates are

Moving on! *claps hands* The use of names or callsigns was- once again- very intentional in this fic! There is a world of difference from Simon and Johnny, your ex and his best friend, and the flip to Ghost and Soap, two trained military men in work mode.

Slash also hissed at Reader in our messages and would sell her out in a heartbeat lol I do hope that means I made a good effort to make both sides' actions understandable! Feel free to tell me your thoughts

You raise your face from your hands, casting a weary, relieved look out the window as you watch his large form turn away, lower to press himself closer to the buildings nearby, a critical eye scoping every crack, every crevice, every alleyway as he peers in. Pleads for you to return in a booming voice, in velvet wrapped promises that he’ll pardon you for good behavior, he’ll lessen your sentence.

You slump back against the back of the seat, hands clutched together as you try to will them to stop shaking. Because you hadn’t done anything. Because you didn’t deserve a parole or a sentence at all! Shouldn’t have ever wound up here in the first place, under critical eye of the law, hissed at for a crime you never committed.

You scrub your face, pulling sweat soaked locks from your face, hair wildly out of place from your desperate scramble and the cold sweat that had poured down your back, from the terror of being caught. The Militsioner had turned softer, kinder, when you’d gotten to know him, when you’d traded compliments and soft, casual, honest conversations. His critical eye had crinkled with a smile and you had seen his form curl inwards, closer to you on his palm, less tense. Shoulders drawn inward as though he were protecting you from the outside world.

But who would protect you from him? From the eye of the law that had befallen on you, a gravel knocked against wood and a finger pointed before you had even done anything? Who would protect you from being trapped in this town, herded backwards with a large palm and the trial that would follow? Everyone had seemed so certain you had committed the atrocity, and though you were an optimist at heart, you wondered if you’d even be allowed the choice of a lawyer to defend yourself.

The Militsioner has grown quiet, likely given up on his search of you, or perhaps so engrossed in it that he had shifted further away. It’s what gives you the confidence to shift yourself lower, peer out the window, if only to cast a quiet, mental goodbye at his back.

For all that the masked man would protest, arms crossed with the heaviest eye roll you’ve seen a man do- the two are attached to the hip. Courtesy of an energetic Scot who doesn’t like to let go of something once he’s grabbed on and an Englishman who allows the rarity of a personalized slot inside his close circle when someone pesters him enough. 

It was only natural then that you knew him too, being Simon’s ex girlfriend and all. (Not ex- the Ghost curled over your shoulder grunts, haunts you from the dark corners of your own mind, shaking his head ever so slightly. It wasn’t a mutual decision.)

There hadn’t been anything you could’ve done. Nothing short of some time machine to grab your past self by the arm as you’re exiting the gas station restroom, tug yourself away from the door and hastily point out the small window at the back. It’s dirty, coated in filth likely older than yourself, and small, rectangular with clear warped glass. You’re not certain if you could even fit yourself through, much less had no idea how to reach it in the first place, but it would’ve been worth a shot. 

But you don’t. Can’t. You (unfortunately) don’t have the clairvoyance of the future, and you don’t have a time machine, and if the government does then they wouldn’t let you use it for such a mundane purpose. 

You know it wouldn’t have changed anything anyway. Something deep inside of you, like buried old instincts, knows your fate had been sealed long before you’d stepped foot into the inconspicuous bathroom, months before you even arrived to America, dating nearly half a year back to when you were still on European soil, teary eyed as you placed a sealed envelope on the countertop before you turned and left with your tail between your legs, wheeling out all your possessions you could fit in a suitcase by your side. 

It had become too much, you’d admitted to your sister as you bounced her babbling baby on your knee, shoulders pulled tight and unable to meet her gaze. Her baby turned his head to stick his fingers in his mouth and regard you with bright blue eyes that made your chest clench. The radio silence on missions, the constant injuries, the abrupt calls. Half of the time you waited for Simon to call to apologize for missing yet another event due to a mission extending or abruptly setting off for another one, the other half of the time you waited for a call from his Captain to inform you of his passing. 

Your sister had extended a hand, both metaphorically and physically, patting you on the shoulder as she allowed you peace in the sanctuary of her home. Had taken you in and allowed you the room clearly decorated as the nursery of the newborn, waving that it was no big deal and she “had to look out for her younger sister.”

You hid in your sister’s home from the relationship you ran from and allowed the warmth to seep into your bones, cradle the cracks of your broken heart. 

It’s everything you wished yours was. Brimming full of life, a baby’s screeching laughter echoing in your ears, a husband that would appear when she showed the slightest signs of exhaustion, plucking the baby boy from her arms with a kiss on her forehead, sending her off to bed or a shower or to eat while she’d pout and reach again for her child. 

You watched, grateful for the inclusion, with envy coiling in your chest. 

Your sister and her husband made it look easy, effortless. The closest you could compare would be by staring longingly at the baby clothes in the shop windows while you and Simon went out, the latter slowed by your halt. He’d lean in, murmur promises that you’d have “so many, until you’re sick of them” once he retires. You’d avert your eyes, swallow the “which comes first? Retirement or a casket?” behind your teeth and nod dutifully, continuing your pace. 

But you can’t stay forever. Not when your air mattress obscured the majority of the nursery floor (“It’s fine! I have the baby in a bassinet by the bed in the meantime, no need for a crib”), not when your suitcase filled the closet (“They’re baby clothes! They’re tiny! They don’t need all that space”), and when you flutter uselessly in the dance your sister and her husband make, gathering the baby’s food and cooking dinner simultaneously. There’s enough work with a baby, enough stress and sleepless nights and trial and error. Despite how your sister smiles at the sight of you, her exhausted complexion bores a hole in your chest while her husband chances pinched glances at your intrusion. You can’t be another burden on her, no matter how much she insists. 

Simon may not have been around all of the time, he couldn’t show his affection in the typical mannerisms, was always hesitant on skin contact outside of the fortitude of your home and faltered when things would begin to escalate to the bedroom. But his job had certainly paid the bills and provided the housing. It allowed you to accumulate a cushy amount of savings, never a need to splurge or use them. 

You do now. A rental car is easy to find with the wonders of the Internet, something dependable, something hearty. You pack your belongings in the trunk, kiss your nephew on the head, hug your sister in a tearful goodbye, and drive. 

You’d always wanted to see New York, the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, the grandiose wonders the States had to offer. It’s certainly a learning curve, to drive on the wrong side of the road, but you manage. The city smog nearly makes you hack out a lung, the countryside rolling hills extend farther than the end of the Earth. It’s… nice. It’s nice, you decide, meeting the slow sunrise deep in a camping site as the woods wake around you, seated cross legged on top of your car roof. 

Of course, things can’t remain that way forever. You were never quite so lucky. 

It happens in Arizona, the desert rolling out further and further until it melts with the sky. You hadn’t known a highway to be this long, this desolate before, nothing but the heat and the dunes to greet you, sparsely broken by shrubbery or a stray animal. You sag with a sigh of relief when a marker for a gas station breezes by you, pulling in without a second thought. 

You wobble out, bones creaking and cracking. Groan as you stretch your legs for what must have been hours since your last stop. You’ll have to fill the tank to not worry of being left abandoned somewhere on the side of the road, miles from civilization. Need to find the nearest place that offers a bed to finally get some proper rest so your knees stop punishing you for sleeping in the backseat. 

But first, business calls. 

The breeze of chilly air is a welcome reprieve from the scorching rays of the sun as you push the gas station’s convenience store door open. It’s small inside, slightly sparse. But it has the necessities of what matters. 

You pass by the only worker, an older teenager sitting bored at the cash register, more focused on his phone than your passing presence. Not that you care, your destination well within sight at the back of the shop. A small, dimly lit hallway, branching to the right, two doors and a floor in need of a deep clean greet you. 

The restrooms. Bingo. 

You push your sunglasses onto the top of your head as you swing the door open, chancing a glance at yourself when you pass by the only mirror. Your skin has a slight tan to it, courtesy of the constant traveling. American weather seems to prefer the sun more than the clouds of Britain back home. Though you supposed you can’t attribute only your travels to it. You feel… lighter, no longer shackled to your home, always nearby in case Simon finally returns from his missions. There’s a slight glow to you and your smile comes easier. 

You grin at your reflection and she returns it. You like it, you like the new you. 

Of course, matters that take place in the washroom have no need to be spoken of and soon enough you find yourself washing your hands, reveling in the cold water. Several droplets slowly descend down your skin, threatening to soak the collar of your shirt after you splashed your face to keep from overheating. 

A time machine would’ve been good for now. But you don’t have one, and you pull the bathroom door open without a care, without a speck of expectation of the figure that meets you on the other end. 

“Bonnie,” Johnny greets with an easy grin, a forearm braced against the doorway, leaning so he fills the space. You startle for a split second, a half step taken back, hackles raised to bolt.  Before the tenseness eases out of your shoulders, your hands settling on your hips. “Johnny,” you greet in reply, lips curled at the edges in familiar affection. You withhold from reaching up to hug him automatically, not when you don’t have the standing for that anymore. 

“I didn’t expect to see you again.” You cock your head, your smile growing wider. Truly, you had missed him and his aptitude to fill the space of Simon’s stoicism with unruly jokes. You hadn’t had the chance to leave a final message for him as with your ex (too focused on running, too focused on making sure you didn’t leave anything behind as your heart bled onto the letter neatly folded into an envelope), you’d regretted never fully receiving the closure. 

“What are you doing so far out? Are you on a mission?” You question curiously, already expecting a vague reply. Simon practically never spoke of his work back when the two of you were together, much less now that you weren’t privy to neither his nor his best mate’s personal life anymore. 

“Something like that”, the Scot replied, a trickle of something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on slipping into his tone as his gaze slid to the side, down where the hallway curved into the convenience store. 

An uncomfortable mass lodges itself in your chest, pressing against your throat. “Is..”, you swallow thickly, reaching up to awkwardly paw at the hair on the back of your nape, gaze chained to the floor as your shoulders hitch uncomfortably. Suddenly aware of his strange presence in the middle of nowhere, recalling Simon’s many mentions of the two of them being paired together for their fair share of missions. “Is Simon… with you?”

Johnny’s gaze drifts back to you, pinning you to your place as you shift uncomfortably. He makes no move to answer. When the silence stretches into something taut and uncomfortable, you finally break it by clearing your throat, covering your mouth with your fist. 

“I think it’s best I don’t… we don’t... really see each other.” You lamely excuse, wincing at the reminder of your heartless rejection, too much of a coward to do it to his face. But you know you would have crumpled, one crestfallen look and you’d be crying as you cradled his face and muttered apologies. And then what? 

Your nervous shifting finally stills, feet planted firmly on the floor, a small stroke of anger lashing out. You continue to sit and wait for him years and years down the line? Until you’re nothing more than a doll who sits and nods and smiles when her husband finally looks at her? Always waiting until he turns the little wind up key on your back? You couldn’t handle that.

“Simon wasn’t happy”, your gaze snaps up to Johnny, his arms folded over his chest as he leans against the doorway and watches you. He cocks his head, eyes fastened on you unnervingly. “Came ho’e from a difficult, dangerous mission and his Bonnie lass wasn’ there. Nothing but a note.”

The hair on the back of your neck stands on edge, needles jabbing into your spine, instincts screaming that you were cornered by a predator. Johnny’s presence doesn’t seem so kind and inviting anymore, a sharp glint in his eye as he watches you without blinking. 

“I think-“ your voice wavers and you will it to hold strong, pinching your shoulders to force yourself to straighten. “I think I need to go.” He doesn’t stop you as you duck by him, nothing but his eyes following you, head shifting when you step around him. 

You’re tense the entire time, almost flighty, shifted to bolt the second he so much as twitches. He doesn’t move a muscle, only his gaze following, arms still crossed over his chest. 

You make it halfway down the hall on a speedy walk before you increase your pace, glancing behind you nervously. Johnny regards you with a self satisfied grin, still in the same position. Your hands grapple with the sunglasses atop your head, dropping them onto the bridge of your nose as you hone in on the only opening. Muscles bunched, ready to bolt once you break his line of sight. You cast one last glance back. A mistake that costs you. 

You shift, turning without looking, increasing speed before you even straighten forwards. And slam into a wall of toned muscles and a rough, scratchy fabric. Your glasses jam into the bridge of your nose, tears beading at the edges of your eyes as you flinch backwards, cradling your nose and hunching over from the startling pain. 

Did you break your nose?! It damn well feels like it!!

“Lemme see it,” a familiar voice washes over you, large warm hands prodding at your chin and lifting it up from your cradle while you freeze, wide eyes fixated on who’s before you. He’s not wearing his signature skull mask, likely too notable, needed to be discreet. But he’s still coated in a balaclava that covers everything but his eyes from you; fixated on your nose as he tilts the glasses upward and swipes the red section. 

You cringe and try to duck away instinctively- pain flaring from the gentle touch- but he holds your head firmly in place, tilting it upward for a better look. 

“Just a bit bruised,” his voice rumbles out, his other palm drifting to cradle the back of your head. “I’ll get you some ice for that.”

You swallow thickly, hands grasping at his thick forearms. “Simon...” your voice trails off, uncertain if it’s a plea, an apology, a question. 

I miss you, I’m sorry for leaving, what are you doing here?

Simon’s hands drift lower, curling over your arms and upper back as his head drops to your shoulder. He squeezes you tightly, a great big exhale flowing out of him. You can’t do more than pat at his side, arms locked to your sides by his grip. 

“Missed you.” Comes his rare, personal admittance, hardly loud enough for you to hear. “Came home and you were…”, his arms tighten, back tense again. “Gone. I thought you were taken.”

“I wasn’t.” You comfort, try to wiggle your arm from under his grip to comfort him but he only squeezes tighter. You opt to tilt your head against his, closing your eyes. “I’m all ok. I just… couldn’t take it anymore, Si.” 

Simon’s next exhale comes out as a shudder and he squeezes tighter before seemingly realizing his strength and loosening his hold.  Still not letting go, still trapped, but not suffocatingly so. “You promise? There’s no one else here? No one took you?” He peels away from you, casting a suspicious glance around the both of you. As though he expects someone to leap out from the nearest door, an enemy hiding in the decrepit supply closet nearby. 

You hum. “No. I just.. decided to finally go travelling. It’s been nice, fun. New York is so much more… busy than the photos show.”

You shift backwards slightly, tilt your head as you scrutinize Simon. “Are you here on a mission? Am I interfering?” You cast a backwards glance at Johnny for answers, who remains in the same position where you’d left him. 

Simon gently turns you back into place until you face him again, looking up at him curiously. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear with a familiarity that makes your heart squeeze uncomfortably. “Why’d you leave?” He ignores your question, hand shifting to cradle your cheek.

It’s much too familiar for two exes but you allow yourself to lean into his touch, grip tightening on his arms while you briefly close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge in the slight moment. Distance has made the heart fonder, time has taken the memory of how large and warm Simon is, how softly he holds you despite his overwhelming size and strength. The small, bruised part of your heart still misses him, still yearns to fall back into his arms and let him take you home. Your more rational part snaps and hisses at her, is quick to remind you of cold dinners and long nights and red rimmed eyes that Simon never sees. 

“I couldn’t take it anymore,” you admit, turning your head slightly to nose at his wrist, lean more of your weight on him because you know he’ll catch you. “You were gone just- so much, so so much. I cried myself to sleep so many times, cried at dinners because you said you’d be there and you weren’t.” Your eyelashes flutter open, settling on Simon’s face, expression hidden from you under the balaclava.

“I wanted a baby Simon, that’s no place to raise a baby.”

The man opposite you is silent for a long, long moment, watching you with unreadable eyes. Before he leans in to draw you closer once again. His arm shifts to settle across your upper back, light but firm, unyielding. Like cradling a bird as you set it free, keeping it from flapping erratically and hurting itself. But you had been free. Had unlatched your little door and hopped out, soared through the endless blue sky with more freedom than you could imagine. 

You allow the embrace to run past the small sand timer of socially-acceptable-length-of-time-for-a-hug as you curl your arms across his back, allow both of yourselves one last comfort, one last goodbye before you part ways. You doubt you’ll see him again, Simon has too many places to be, too much to do. You were lucky to share a chapter of your lives together, but now’s the time to tie it off with a nice little bow, separate on good terms. 

You shift finally, try to pull away, arms dropping, a foot raised in preparation to step back. Simon does not move, does not release you. His grip tightens, hands fisting your clothes.

Something inside of you drops, human instinct that knows danger-danger-danger- before you can even name it. 

“Simon.” Your voice comes out shakier than you’d like, tilted too nervously despite how you’d tried to control it. “What… are you doing here?” 

Simon greets you in silence, curled against your smaller form, suffocating your space. He doesn’t answer you, long enough for your heart to begin pounding, long enough for you to wonder if you’d said anything at all or only imagined it. 

Finally, he moves, pulling backwards, large, heavy hands drifting upwards to rest against your upper arms. Caging you, chaining you to the floor. “Taking you home.” He mutters, bright blue eyes honed in on yours. 

Your heart leaps into your throat, scrabbles at the sides, threatens to fall right out of your mouth. 

(You’re not being set free, you realize with the sinking realization akin to cold water splashing over you. You’re being returned to your cage.)

“No.” You shake your head, try to tilt the edges of your mouth into a smile. Like Simon is a child being told he can’t stay at the park forever, he has to come home for dinner now. “No, Simon,” your trembling hands balling into fists in an attempt to quell them, hidden by your sides. “We’re through. I left to…” you pause, swallow and will the next words out of your mouth, despite how they shake and quiver in the oppressive heat of Arizona’s air. “I left to find myself.”

Simon doesn’t regard you with an answer, only his gaze shifting across your form, following your eyes despite how they jump from one area to another. You can only hear your shuddering gasps in the space between you two. Not even the rustle of Simon’s camouflaged jacket. 

He tilts his head, nearly startles you with the motion as your gaze snaps back to him. The air around you holds its breathe, your own trapped in your chest as you wait for his response, unwilling to interrupt with even an exhale. 

“Well that’s too damn bad.” Simon’s eyes, despite the situation, crinkle upwards in that telltale way of his amusement, his rare moments of contentment and satisfaction. “I wasn’t asking.”

The slight exhale of his breathe as he speaks through the mask nearly bowls you over, held upright only by his permanent hold on you. You blink, jagged edges of his speech rattling in your mind, repeating over and over, looping over each other. 

I wasn’t asking.

I’m taking you home.

Wasn’t asking.

Home. I’m taking you home.

Wasn’t- home- asking- home.

Home

White walls and the empty air of his presence, dinners left cold and baby clothes hanging on racks.

You startle, like a bird with a broken wing with one last fight left in it, desperate, fitfully. First ducking under, like your legs have lost all their will before you spring forwards. 

Ghost doesn’t so much as twitch nor blink. Holding you motionless when you try to buckle underneath his grip, try to squeeze out underneath. You claw at his arms, at his hands, lift a leg in a desperate bid for a lucky kick before a third hand drops on your shoulders, knocks you out of your focus and snaps your attention to the side so fast you nearly break your neck.

Soap had crept closer, between one moment and the next, unnoticed at all. His gaze fixated on Ghost as he squeezed your shoulder tighter, stills you in your desperate flailing. “Need a hand?” He muses, gaze sliding down to you. 

Like it was normal. Like you hadn’t shared meals and drinks and stories and laughs. Like he hadn’t proudly brought desserts from that one bakery you like when you’d call him over for some “proper homemade food” when the boys are back from a mission. Like Simon hadn’t grumbled, pulling you into his chest to wrap around you like an octopus, that he could’ve gone to get you those too. You’d whack him on the arm with a spoon, reminding him through a failed attempt to hold back a grin to not let the sauce burn. 

Something heavy curls around your heart and yanks it to the pit of your stomach, down to your feet, and below the ground underneath you. 

Ghost snorts easily in response, pulling you closer, the action jostling the other’s hand from your shoulder. “I’ve got this.” 

Soap returns it with an easy grin, glancing down at you where you’re plastered to Ghost’s chest now, smile stretching further. He ruffles your hair as he passes, your frozen form much too shocked to react more than a startled flinch, eyes squeezed shut as you brace yourself. 

“It’s good t’ see you again,” he admits as he passes, before he turns out of view. You watch him go, mouth dry, the last dredges of hope that he’d help you sputtering out in your chest. 

You’re alone- you’re alone and no one knows where you are- wheres help- help help help- 

“Alright, up we go, “ Ghost mutters in that familiar, low tone, stooping to brace his shoulder to your midriff, sweeping you off your feet as he straightens to his full height with you slung over his shoulder. You startle into motion, shrieking, clawing and kicking as the steel band of one of his arms settles across your back, flattens you to him despite how you squirm. Your hands desperately claw for the utility belt always attached to his hip, flail for any corners or shelves to latch on as he begins walking off. 

Ghost avoids nearing anything you can grab, passing through the store at a steady pace, as though he doesn't have an entire kidnapped ex-girlfriend slung over his shoulder. You shove yourself upwards against his back as he passes by the cash register, eyes desperately searching for the teenager from before to shriek for help, to call the police. Your chest clenches when it's empty, when Ghost presses open the door and there's not a single person in sight to watch you be dragged off. 

You hardly catch sight of the large, idling vehicle stationed directly in front of the doors, not long enough to discern the make or the model or the damn license plate- before the back swings open. Ghost bends over with a grunt, lowering you into the gaping maw of the backseat as you scramble to slip underneath him, crawl over him, anything! please-. A second pair of hands catch you under the arms, dragging you the rest of the way inside as you kick and scream, a familiar large hand gently moving your flailing feet out of the way before the back door slams shut. 

“Easy,” Soap mutters above you, dragging you upwards into his chest as you try to lurch for the closed door. You choke on a sob, vision blurring as you desperately try to latch onto the seats, two twin arms settling across your chest and stomach like a child cradling a stuffed toy, pulling you further backwards until you're slotted against him.

The driver’s door swings open, your head snaps over as Ghost’s large form settles behind the wheel. The car rocks as he shuts it with more force than necessary, turning to peer at you over the center console. 

Your heart jumps into your throat, cheeks strewn with tears as you stare wide eyed at him, searching for- for what you don't know. A silent plea, a beg, that he'd come to his senses- anything!- He gives a hum as something in his shoulders finally loosens, turning back to face the front. 

“Let’s go home, darling.” Ghost soothes, reaching upwards to adjust the rearview mirror until your eyes meet. Baby blue alongside, red rimmed, panicked ones. The car rumbles as he pulls out of the gas station, back onto the road you’d been traveling mere moments ago. 

Outside the windows the dunes roll out, the road empty. Branches shake in the wake left behind the roaring vehicle, and the desert keeps its secrets.

A/N: It was only after I finished this fic that I realized I'd used the line "I wasn't asking" like in "Sharing is caring", though it does make sense from how close these two mates are

Moving on! *claps hands* The use of names or callsigns was- once again- very intentional in this fic! There is a world of difference from Simon and Johnny, your ex and his best friend, and the flip to Ghost and Soap, two trained military men in work mode.

Slash also hissed at Reader in our messages and would sell her out in a heartbeat lol I do hope that means I made a good effort to make both sides' actions understandable! Feel free to tell me your thoughts

So full disclosure again I have never watched even a minute of Squid Game, everything I know about it I've either learned from Tumblr or through pop culture osmosis. Also for naming sake I refer to the player as 222. I don't know if there's actually a canon player 222 and I don't care because this is MY rodeo and I get to pick which clowns go in the barrels.

It's a similar set up to the canon premise, but instead of "rich making the poor compete to the death for money/power because it's fun" it's "giants making tinies compete to the death for money/power because it's fun". Tinies are practically worse than second class citizens in this world and winning this game would grant them specialized protection and rights that they otherwise don't have.

222 is a tiny player. Cold and aloof, but not heartless, more like she prefers to keep to herself and ice out others to protect her own feelings. This is the last place you want to get attached to anyone in. And yet, by some stroke of bad luck, she's managed to attract the attention of one of the triangle guards that's stationed around the perimeter of the different courses.

Obviously, he can't directly interfere with games, can't even directly interact with her, but she starts to notice something whenever she catches him watching her during a game. He gives her hints, subtle little cues that would otherwise be missed. Nudges of his shoulder, a tilt of his head, a nod, a single shake -- things to direct her onto the correct path of a course, or when to stop before the timer actually calls, or shortcuts, or better hiding spots, or which option between 3 choices to pick.

She assumes he must have a bet or something on her. She's not a fan favorite or the audience darling, she's just another face in a steadily dwindling crowd. He's skewing her odds in his favor, or if nothing else is just making her his little pet project while he's on the clock, something to keep the boredom at bay. The reason doesn't matter at the end of the day, she's making it through puzzles much better than she was before, and it's not like he can help her through all of them. There's still plenty she's beating through her own luck and skill.