Goldfish

Simon Riley and reader/oc - no relationship, apocalypse

"A mutt. Course."

You woke up to a gun in your face and a man dressed for the cold you were trying the escape.

You were a mutant—animal people born and turned when the apocalypse first started. Most were identifiable as a certain animal or multiple, you weren't one of them. Tall ears with short fur, a long and tapered tail with fur just as short. You were digitigrade too, your paws reminiscent of a raccoon's. So you were odd to say the least.

It had been about 6 years since mutants turned up and people got sick. The sickness crazed people, making them willing to kill whatever was near. People called the sick zombies. They weren't actually dead, not yet anyways, but they mind as well be. Many made parallels between the sickness and mutants, though no one is sure what truly came first. Some were born as mutts though those kids weren’t around much, others were transformed. From what little knowledge is spread, mutants came from the same sickness, but it was a different strain.

Now the world was more dangerous because of the healthy, not the sick. So you traveled. You’d been travelling for the last 2 years at least, but it’s not like you stayed long anywhere in the last 6 years. It was getting colder with each day now, and you had been on the hunt for a new town, one you could get some better clothes in and eventually find a hole to hide in for the winter.

This hunt lead you through the forest surrounding the previous city you’d been in…what happened there is not something you don’t want to remember, so your moving on. As you’ve been travelling through this forest, you tried your best to hide your tracks, but something that wants to you hunt you will find a way no matter how hard you try. Which finally lead back to this moment. Early morning with the sun just kissing the sky, you stayed dead still as you stared at the man, taking in his tactical gear and the brown camo—you wouldn’t be surprised if he had white camo for the winter too, he was well kitted out.

“Hands out—slowly” He demanded as you complied, not that there was many other options. You slowly pulled you hands out of your sleeping bag, holding your palms out beside you head.

“I’m not feral.” You stated, hoping to calm then man’s grip on his gun.

“Don’t care wether you are. Still someone in my territory.”

“Your territory?” You looked around for any markers, you didn’t remember passing a fence, or any tree ties. “Was I supposed to smell it or something?” It was stupid, you were stupid while in danger. But only in the mouthy way, you could take it seriously as long as you shut up.

“What? No. What are you doing out here?”

“Travelling through.” You stated, slowly testing the waters of sitting up, which it seems you were allowed to do.

“To where?” Simon adjusted his hands on the shot gun, making sure he followed your head as you sat up.

“Whatever’s past. Just looking for a town.”

“Then you’re going in the wrong direction, there’s a city south east of here. You’d find towns by following roads, not going through forests”

“Following roads kills. And I’m leaving that city, I know I’m walking away from it.”

Simon was quiet for a moment as he digested your words. He kept his gun trained on you when he finally spoke. “You’d leave the city this close to winter? What are you running from?”

“Who says I’m running from anything? Maybe the city is just already raided and there’s no use for me to stay.”

“The city will always provide even six years later. No one would leave when it’s already getting colder.” He corrected. It seems you weren’t going to fool him.

You sighed, his gun didn’t scare you, you’d honestly be happy if he pulled that trigger. It would mean you are free from this hell called living. “So what then? What if I’m running from something? I won’t tell you the details so you mind as well shoot.”

“You running from people? That’s all I can think a mutt has to be scared of. Can’t get sick after all.”

“Some of us can. And getting eaten alive it getting eaten alive. It’s not the sick that kills it’s the blood loss.”

“You’re not answering.”

“Then shoot”

They were both quiet after that. Simon looked you up and down, and then motioned for you to stand. “Slowly”

You complied and got out of your sleeping bag, always keeping one of your hands up until you full stood and raised both of them. It seemed to both Simon that he had to look up at you.

“What’s it to you if I’m running from shit?” You asked.

“It matters cause you could bring others out here. I enjoy my peace so I’d much rather keep others far away from me.” Simon explained, his finger moved off the trigger to rest on the guard instead. One small sept in the right direction.

“Well I can get very, very, far away from you if you let me.”

“I don’t trust you alone either.” He stated, his eyes doing another analyzing sweep.

Okay, so he was gonna be the difficult type. You looked down at your bag laid next to your ‘bed’. There’s a gun in there, but this guy would surely shoot before you get it… so you did the next craziness and stupidest thing. Grab the bag and run.

“Ohh ho ho, you’re stupid.” Simon muttered, running after you.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x GN reader/oc - 1774 words

Note: I am writing this for myself so the reader is not completely neutral. There are mentions of being an artist that works on commissions, as well as serving in the military, hence why this is “reader/oc”. I didn’t know a better way to indicate that. I am also not proofreading this, I think it’s gender neutral but let me know.

“So, what brings you over?”

You were sat on your balcony, legs through the gaps in the fence and Simon sat beside you. The day was early—very early, 3 in the morning or something, you don’t know.

“… Been thinking. Too much.”

Simon had texted you only 30 minutes prior, asking if you were up—which you were—and asking if he could come over. You, being the worrier you are, immediately invited him over no matter how shitting the place looked right now, because you needed to be there for Simon. “Yeah? These shareable thoughts? Or would you rather not talk about them?”

“I don’t know. I… I hate talking.”

“I know. But you’re here now. Why did you come if not to talk? Even if it’s just about something else.” After a moment of silence, you decided to ask more direct questions to prompt him to speak up about one. You knew he bottled up feelings. He did it subconsciously to the point where he genuinely forgets what made him feel shitty in the first place. “Did you have a bad day? Maybe a bad sleep? If you have gotten any at all tonight, that is.”

“No, I haven’t slept yet. My day was the same as always.”

“Well, is the same day always bad?”

“No.”

“… no?… that’s it?” You sighed. You know and always prepare for how hard it is to get him to communicate, but this early in the morning is making it more frustrating. “How about boring? Not a bad day, but boring? Is it the wording?”

“… Supposed you could say it’s… too simple?” He rubbed the back of his neck. He wanted to ask for help, wanted to share because he knew you had good advice most of the time, but it was always so hard to just share his feelings. He wasn’t raised with such an idea.

“Simple.” You repeated, thinking about the things that could mean. “What do you do in a day?”

“Eat, drink, watch tv, go on a walk, work out, sleep. Thats about it.” He stared down at his hanging legs. Sitting outside made him want a cigarette, but he’d been trying to keep those as a work thing only. It was getting bad.

“So you do the basics to keep yourself surviving? Is there something you want to be doing?”

“No. I do what I need to do, I don’t understand what people do with the rest of their time.” He really didn’t. Living wasn’t how he grew up, surviving was. “What do you do in a day?”

“Uh, a lot of different things, I-“

“Today. What did you do just today. The whole day.”

You looked at him, at his side profile as he watched his feet. The scars of his face were lit my the moon and you were reminded that this man served, if he didn’t have that job, there’s a good possibility he may not be here. He needed to learn how to live.

“… I woke up at 6, pretty unwillingly. Couldn’t get back to sleep so I went to the toilet, turned on the tv cause I like the background noise, and I poured some cereal for breakfast. Ate it while I watched a show and then got ready—teeth, face, hair, clothes…. I went on an hour walk, came home and decided to work on some of my art commissions. I did that for most of my day. Took a lunch break and many stretches. Played some video games after dinner. Read some online stuff, and tried to sleep. Didn’t work obviously, and now we’re here.”

“So you worked?”

“Uh, yeah, you could say that I suppose.”

“It’s fucked then. This is what it’s like to have a job you can’t work on all day.” He looked up at you, as if to make his point more clear.

“What? No. Simon you just… you need some hobbies, man” You huffed, of course that was his conclusion after hearing about one single day.

“Hobbies. I am not a civilian, I don’t do hobbies.”

“They aren’t exclusive to civilians Simon. Hobbies are just what people like to do to pass the time. I’m sure your teammates and captain have them too.”

“I don’t do hobbies. Don’t have any.”

“Then get some, try shit out until one clicks—until a few click even.”

“It’s not gonna happen. No interests, no hobbies, no desires”

You huffed and stood up, walking back inside your home without a word.

Simon didn’t know what to think while you were gone. You just up and left. Was he that hopeless? He didn’t know why he came here exactly, something about you being helpful, but now you left, he must be helpless. Not that that bothered him at all—he was fine the way he is…

You came back and tossed a sketchbook into Simon’s lap, sitting down again and handing him a pencil.

“The hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“I don’t know Mr. Lieutenant? I’m pretty sure you can make a bomb out of trash, I think you can figure out this puzzle to.”

“I don’t draw”

“You don’t anything .” You rolled your eyes and opened the sketch book.

“No one said that this is your hobby. But we have to start somewhere. So just try. Please.”

He frowned—pouted even. Holding the book and pencil with ease, but staring at them like they were foreign. It took a hot minute, but he eventually spoke. “What am I supposed to draw?”

“Anything that comes to mind. Shapes, objects, lines. Abstract or referenced, just something ”

“Not helpful.”

You sighed. “Fine. An apple. Draw an apple.”

“I can’t draw an apple. I can’t draw.”

“Oh my god dude! Yes you can!” You were just a little fed up with his avoidance. “You can sketch a layout and a map, you can draw an apple. I don’t wanna hears anything about it ‘not being good’. If you intend to draw an apple and I can identify it as one, then it’s a drawing of an apple, no ‘I can’t’ bullshit.”

He grumbled something, likely having his rebuttal already dismissed. He adjusted the pencil in his hand a lot, long before he started drawing and plenty during. “You can’t judge me”

“I wasn’t going to.” You moved your focus up to the stars to put less pressure on him. You wish you were further from the city, there could be so many more stars. Then you could watch them with Simon for hours, not just minutes.

“There.”

You looked down at his work as he handed the sketchbook back to you. I was an apple. Sure, it wasn’t some million dollar masterpiece, but it looked like it was done by someone who knew what they were doing somewhat. He was a very quiet man at times, he no doubt got very good at observing his surroundings in different ways, a good trait in a great artist, he understood shape and light to an extent.

The lines were confident, the shape a little off, some attempt at shading—that told you something. The average person would just draw a few lines, a stick, and a leaf. He added lighting, he put more effort into this. “I like it. It looks like an apple.”

“It’s bad.”

“It’s not. Did you like doing it?”

He was quiet. That made you smile.

“There’s no shame in enjoying something Simon.”

“It could be better.”

“Then get better. Draw another”

He took the page back and drew another, taking a little more time to do this one. It looked about the same, just more proportionate, like more effort or time was put in.

“It’s not much better”

“It’s got going to be, Simon. The point is you build the skill if you like the process. I like drawing, and I like what I can make in the end, so it’s one of my hobbies. Some people like reading, some people writing. Watching movies, analyzing them, building puzzles, making soap. All sorts of shit.” While you spoke you began to doodle on the paper as well, drawing an apple, drawing another. “You just gotta find something you like enough to improve in. You’re not gonna be great at everything.”

Simon sighed, he knew that, it’s not like he was great at basic before he trained. But this was different, this was for himself, he didn’t do things for himself. “I understand that. It’s still hard to think of myself going anything, I don’t do leisure things- what are you doing?”

“Drawing. I’m listening, don’t worry.” You showed him the page since he was looking over your arm.

Simon took the sketch book once again staring down at the two apples you drew in a mere two minutes. “You did these fast.” They were good in his eyes. Not perfect, not hyper realistic, but stylized, and clearly done with an understanding of form. He wanted that, he wished he could make something like that in such little time.

“I guess. It’s not like I was putting much thought into it.”

Simon was silent for a moment before he muttered, finding a small drive “…I suppose I could try drawing more… not that this is some magic fix to my days”

“I know it’s not Simon. But it’s something for you to do.” You handed him the pencil back and looked back down at the book in his hands. “Why don’t you draw another later on? After trying to draw some other things, you can come back to this page and draw another apple? It’s a new sketchbook, so you can keep it.”

“I can get my own, I don’t want to take from you”

“You aren’t. Just take it Simon. I am giving it to you because I want to.”

He closed the book and looked at you turning it over in his hands. “…I needed this. The talking I mean. Thanks”

“I am always here. And I’ve got a lot of hobbies to share when you feel like you’re in need.”

“You are surprisingly good at helping me feel more civilian”

“Well I had to learn this once too, just passing on the knowledge”

“…you served?”

“Something like that.”

It was maybe a week after that night that Simon sent you a picture. The afternoon was late and the text was just a photo, no words, none were needed. It was an apple. A simple, clean one. And if you were getting this photo, that meant he was proud of it, that made you confident that you helped. Simon needed some hobbies.

I have never written something like this and I also had about a million different ways I could have written this but I needed to just choose one, so this isn’t something I’m super proud of, but it was an experiment.