#love thy frenemy/tenderness au

[random-thot-generator]

Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 10

(Frenemies/Tenderness AU)

TEN: Let the Sleeper Awake

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

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Summary: Simon returns in time for the May Day celebration, wanting to surprise his doll, but watching her perform has him viewing her in a very different light.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Spice- just a pinch, Mention of masturbation, Fluff & Feels, Simon checks out doll, Doll checks out Simon, Idiots in love lust, the 141 have a chat sesh, No use of Y/N

(Notes: Beltane (a.k.a. May Eve/May Day) is a fire and... ahem!... fertility festival. So, I thought, what better time for Simon and his doll to finally realize that there's a little more than friendly feelings between them. Let the sleepers awake. 😏)

Word Count: 2.9K

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Chapter 10

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“Beltane magick here we sing

Chant the rune and dance the ring

Joy and blessing shall it bring 

Let the sleeper awake!”

― Doreene Valiente, Beltane Chant

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The village green was a hive of activity, preparations for the May Day celebration in full swing.

Booths, tents and stalls lined the streets, vendors setting up their wares and stocking up for the large crowds expected for the two-day celebration. An abundance of flowers, real and fake, decorated the whole of the village’s heart, garlands and wreaths attached to every available surface, every shop window sporting bright floral displays.

The maypole had been raised at the back of the green, its brightly colored ribbons fluttering in the warm breeze. The volunteers performing this year were gathered off to the side taking a break from their practice, you and Fiona among them.

The two of you had been roped into volunteering, so you both had to learn the performances from scratch. Fi especially was struggling with the interweaving moves, cursing under her breath every time she made a misstep.

“If I’d known it was goin’ t’be this big of a pain in me arse, I would’a hid in the loo when I saw Margie comin’,” she groused, wiping a forearm across her brow. She turned up her bottled water and took a large gulp as she glared at Margie Bartleby, proud owner of the Tea Room and the entertainment director of the festivities this year. “All tha’ woman needs is a bloody whip t’crack over our heads.”

You sniffed in amusement, not bothering to comment. You knew Fi was just venting her frustration and didn’t mean a word of what she said. You and she both adored the older woman, though you had to admit that Margie could be a right task master when she wanted to be.

You sipped at your water as you pulled your cell from your back pocket to check your notifications, drifting under the shade of a tent to see the screen better. You were hoping to see a message from Riley, but you were again disappointed.

He’d been gone since the last week of March, only a week and half after you had moved in with him. There had been no word from him save for a single text around mid-April to tell you if all went according to plan, he might be home by the end of the month. You had really been hoping he would make it back in time for the May Day celebration, but it didn't look like that was going to happen. He always seemed to be deployed during holidays.

“Still no word?” Fi asked, joining you.

You sighed and slipped the phone back in your pocket. “No.”

She nudged your shoulder. “Maybe ye’ll get a May Day miracle an’ he’ll show up dressed like Jack o' the Green.” Her grin turned lewd. “Can’t ya just picture it? Riley wearin’ nothin’ but a patch o’ moss over his dangly bits with oak leaves stuck all in his mask?”

“Fi-ona!” Heat crept up your neck to your cheeks, yet the image she created popped unbidden into your head.

Your face grew hotter as you imagined him dressed as Fi had described, the mental pictures in your head far from chaste. Riley was built like a Norse god, and even with the mask he earned his fair share of appreciative glances. You couldn't help but look, too; you were his friend, but that didn't make you immune to him.

When you heard Fi laughing at you, you blinked out of your daydream and narrowed your eyes. “Shut up,” you hissed at her, but couldn’t hide your wry smirk.

“Come along, lovies! Break's over!” Margie called to the group. “Let’s get back to it. We need to practice the bonfire procession and dance next!”

Fiona groaned, scowling. “God, I’ll be glad when we’re done with this. Never again,” she vowed as the two of you trudged back out to the green together.

-

Simon sat back in his seat, eyes focused out the window of the plane, half-listening to Soap and Gaz arguing about how they were going to spend their first night on leave. His cell phone was in his hand, your last text open. It was an image of the green decorated for May Day.

“Oi, Ghost! Ya should come with us t'night. We’re goin’ to that new pub in Hereford,” Gaz invited.

Simon slanted a glance his way, dark eyes glinting inside his skull mask. “Can’t. Got plans.”

“Ah, c’mon, mate. Readin' in your bunk isn’t plans,” Gaz replied, scoffing.

“Did ye ferget?” Soap spoke up, a mischievous smirk on his face as he bumped the other sergeant's arm. “Ghost has t’get’ home t’see his doll dance. Ain't tha' right, LT?”

Simon scowled at him. The nosy bastard had overheard him tell Price about you performing in the May Day festival, after the captain had asked him how "his doll" was doing. So, of course, Johnny hadn’t shut up about it since, pestering him for intel about his ‘wee doll’.

“Oh, that’s right,” Gaz drawled, his smile spreading wide. “Maybe we should go home with Ghost, then. You can introduce us to your doll.”

“Not happenin',” Simon gruffed. “Ya lot ain’t gettin’ anywhere near ‘er.”

Soap chuckled, puffing out his chest. “Worried I’ll nick yer lass, LT?” He smoothed his hand over his mohawk, flexing his bicep with a cheeky grin. “Canna blame ye. There’s a lot here t’tempt her away,” he teased, making his pecs jump beneath his tight tee. Gaz cackled.

Simon stuck his phone back in his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest, tipping his chin down at the sergeant. “Ain't worried. Dee knows a wanker when she sees one."

"Oh-ho!" Soap crowed. "So, it's Dee, is it? Slipped up an' said her name, LT." He winked at Gaz as Simon muttered a curse. "Dee an' Johnny. Got a nice ring to it, aye?"

“Enough, lads,” Price called from behind his laptop, not even bothering to look up. The two immediately shut their gobs.

As soon as the plane touched down, Simon was up and heading down the ramp as it lowered. Grinning like a devil, Soap was ready to head after him when Price grabbed him by the back of his tac vest and hauled him back. 

“Bloody hell, lad, give it a rest,” he uttered lowly.

Gaz came abreast of them and leaned into whisper, “We just wanna know about her, Cap. I mean— it's Ghost. Kinda hard to imagine him havin' a bird. Has he told ya anything about her? Have ya seen a picture of her?"

Price scrubbed at his beard. “Never met the lass. Ya lads know he likes to keep his personal life private. Now, both of ya, leave it alone.”

“Canna believe yer no' a wee bit curious, sir,” Soap persisted. “Would ye no' like t’meet the lass tha’ caught the Ghost?”

Price wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t curious, but more than anything, he was just glad to see his lieutenant at ease, for a change. He was still a right broody cunt, but his attitude had definitely improved. “Lads, as long as she makes him happy, that’s all I care 'bout. Now, mind yer bloody business an' leave him alone, yeah?”

“Think he’d show us a picture of her if we asked nice?” Soap wondered aloud, undeterred. "I bet she's a right bonnie lass, aye? Have t'be t'get the LT all hot an' bothered." He waggled his eyebrows.

Price dragged a hand over his face and groaned.

-

Simon ended up parking behind the Dog when he finally made into to the village. Coming through the alley, he could see the crowd milling about the green and vendor booths, the smell of fried food and sweets wafting down the ginnel on the breeze. His stomach growled and he cursed himself for not eating something before leaving the base, but he'd been in a hurry to get home.

He usually stayed on base if he wasn't deployed when events like this were going on in Banfield. He hated dealing with the extra traffic and large crowds that descended on the village, but he could suck it up and deal with it just this once, since it was for you.

Apparently, he'd made it back just in time. Most of the crowd had gathered near the back of the green around the maypole, Margie's familiar voice loud and clear over the PA system as she announced that the maypole dance was about to begin.

Simon pressed through the throng of people, ignoring the looks and startled gasps as they shuffled out of his way. His eyes scanned over the dancers, searching for you, his eyes going a little wide when he spotted you standing with your back to him.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but he felt like he'd been poleaxed, his dazed eyes roving over your figure. You were dressed like the other dancers, wearing a pastel satin undress covered in layers of wispy, see-through tulle, but the underdress clung to your breasts and hips, the swell of your bum accentuated by the slippery material. When you shifted your weight to pose in the starting position, a split in the underdress revealed the length of your thigh, the layered tulle separating to expose it.

Simon's mouth fell open under his surgical mask, eyes avid as the music began to play. He watched with rapt attention as you skipped and dipped and twirled, weaving in and out with the other dancers to braid the colored ribbons around the pole. Your hair had been left loose, a crown of flowers on your head, makeup done to give your features an ethereal cast. You looked like a fairy, flitting around, he mused. A really curvaceous, sultry, sexy fairy...

A familiar feeling tingled low in his abdomen and the front of jeans were suddenly too tight. He shook his head, grunting at his base reaction, but now that he'd seen you this way, he knew there was no denying it. You were stunning, the prettiest bird he'd ever seen. His pretty doll. Possessive pride welled up in his chest, straightening his spine and lifting his chin. That was his beautiful doll out there dancing; his.

When the dance ended, all the performers took a bow and then the crowd surrounded them. Simon hung back, waiting, wanting to see your expression when you finally spotted him.

So worth the wait.

It was Fiona that saw him first, nudging your shoulder and whispering at your ear as she pointed him out. The slight frown of confusion on your face transformed into a look of joyous surprise, your smile wide and beaming as you rushed to meet him, crying out, "Oh, my God! Ri!" as you leapt up to wrap your arms around his neck in a tight hug.

It stunned him at first, being greeted that way. Anyone else would have found themselves thrown to the ground with a knee in their back, but you? You he caught up in his arms and held on tight, breathing you in as his hands molded to your back and waist like he had done this a thousand times. It was instinctive and felt so right.

You pulled back to gaze into his eyes, your smile becoming something softer, more intimate. "I'm so glad you made it, Ri. Can't believe you're finally home. I've missed you."

His chest went tight, a pleased flush warming his face. He pressed his forehead to yours. "Missed ya, too, doll. 'S good t'be home."

He had a sudden, intense urge to pull down his mask and kiss you. His fingers twitched on your back, muscles spasming in his arms. He couldn't recall the last time he'd kissed a woman on the lips, but damn if he wasn't gaggin' to bloody do it now. From the soft, hazy look in your eyes, he didn't think you would mind it, either, which only made the temptation worse.

You both turned your heads, startled, when Fiona giggled. She was already lowering her cellphone to look at the pic she had just taken. Simon tensed, his first instinct being to bark at her to delete the photo, but then another idea popped into his head.

He lowered you to the ground, stepping behind you before planting his hands firmly on your hips and pulling you back against his chest. "Take another one, Fi. Want t'send one t'my team."

She dutifully took the picture, smiling as she stepped forward to show you both how well it had turned out. "That one's a keeper."

Simon stared down at the picture, liking the way the two of you looked together. A rush of heat coursed through his veins at the sight of his hands on your hips, your hands covering his. He glanced over at your face as you studied the photo, and he could only describe your expression as incandescent; you were bloody glowing.

His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you into his side as his eyes met yours. "Yeah," he murmured. "Definitely a keeper."

-

Simon ended up with dozens of photos saved on his phone by the time the festival was over. His favorite was the one Fiona had first taken, the one where he was holding you up in his arms, your heads together. He set that one as his screensaver.

However, the one he viewed the most was the one he took at the bonfire the last night of the festival.

He took it during the bonfire dance, you and the other dancers circling the high flames as you swayed and undulated in a jaw-dropping, frenzied dance that had wrecked his world. His heart had been beating as hard as the drums, his eyes fixated on you with a predatory intensity.

Then you had looked at him.

You had seen him in the crowd, a teasing, open-mouthed smile directed his way as your arms lifted over your head and you rolled your hips in a move that punched the air out of his lungs. He had lifted his phone and snapped the photo, capturing the moment.

He captured your sultry smile, that hooded gaze that was meant just for him. Your body's curves stood out in stark relief against the dark, your silken skin aglow from the flames. Every time he looked at it, he ended up in the loo with his cock in his hand, choking back his groans as he desperately fisted himself to completion.

It was bloody torture watching you disappear into your own bedroom later that night, every cell of his body on fire with the need to follow you. He didn't, but he wanted to. It was the fear of losing you that finally had him shuffling off to his own room, settling for your photo and his calloused hand.

It was on Sunday afternoon that he got a notification that the team was in their private group chat. You and Fi were gone to the shops, and he was sitting on the patio, drinking a Stella and enjoying the garden. Might as well join in, he thought; he had nothing better to do at the moment.

As soon as he entered the chat, Soap and Gaz started asking for details about the festival and, of course, you. Feeling a bit sadistic, the first photos he shared were of the green, the bonfire, the pub.

[SOAP]: Come on LT. U ken what we want! Show us a pic of ur doll. 😏 [GHOST]: No [GAZ]: Pleeeeaaaase!!! 🙏🏿🥺 [PRICE]: Bloody hell. Ignore them, lad. [GAZ]: We just want to see her Cap... [SOAP]: Is she ugly? I bet shes ugly. [PRICE]: SOAP! [GHOST]: Far from it johnny [SOAP]: Ur killn us LT! Just 1 pic pls pls pls!!! [PRICE]: Stand down, Sgts! Jesus Christ!

Simon couldn't help himself. He wanted to show you off. There was a smug smile on his face when he forwarded them the photos of you in a zip file.

There was a minute of inactivity, then the messages began to ping in rapid fire succession.

[GAZ]: That's ur doll?! She's bloody gorgeous, m8! 👍🏿 [SOAP]: sTEAMn fUKnJESUS!!!! [SOAP]: Insta-chub 👀🍆 [PRICE]: Well done, lad! She's a beauty. [SOAP]: Shes ded bonnie. U should introduce me 😈 [GAZ]: When can we meet her??? Is her friend single? 😏 [PRICE]: Behave, lads...

Simon huffed in amusement, feeling rather cocky as he began typing.

[GHOST]: Thx cap. [GHOST]: Her friend is single gaz. [GHOST]: U can suck it johnny. She's MY doll [GAZ]: Yeah. Suck it Soap! 😅 [SOAP]: Fair enough but... [SOAP]: Can I keep the pic of her @ the bonfire? [PRICE]: Christ. I need bloody a drink. Congrats, Simon. *(PRICE has left the chat.) [GHOST]: Hm. Just the one pic? [SOAP]: 🙏🥺 PLS??? [GHOST]: LOL [GHOST]: Hell NO [SOAP]: 😭 [GAZ]: 🤣🤣🤣

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@stillinracooncity @cumikering @cutiecusp @deadbranch @ghostlythots @thetiredtoad0-0 @glitterypirateduck @gothgirl6-6-6 @sofasoap @cathnoneofyourbusiness @shuttlelauncher81 @luminousbeings-crudematter @crunchlite @delilah-grimes @bobochacha @igotmajordaddyissues

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[random-thots-masterlist]

Random Thot’s Masterlist

Symbol Key:

🌶️- sexually explicit 

🥵- spicy; sexual language and/or situations

🍒- PG-13 rated spice

💔- angst; hurt/no comfort

💕- fluff 

Note: ALL sexually explicit fics will be marked. 

Call of Duty

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Ghost:

🌶️ A Dark & Stormy Night

🌶️ ’S’

🌶️ Dark Knight Ghost Drabble (Medieval AU)

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Love Thy Frenemy (Frenemies/Tenderness AU)

🌶️ Try a Little Tenderness (one-shot that inspired the series)

🎄Where the Love Light Gleams (Xmas One-Shot)

1. It’s a Start

2. The Myth of a Rainy Night

3. The Purgatory Between

4. Like Heartbreaking New Friends

Interlude: The Life of a Ghost

5. The Meat You Feed On

Interlude: Dinner & a Movie

6. A Terrible Thing to Bear

7. Can’t Let Go

8. Lost and Found

9.Grow Me Something Better

10. Let the Sleeper Awake 🥵

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Soap:

🌶️ A Blanket of Stars

🌶️Promises, Promises

💔The Covenant (50-Word Fic Challenge)

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Dirty Little Secret (Series)

🌶️Dirty Little Secret (part 1)

💔Dirty Little Secret (part 2)

💔Dirty Little Secret (part 3)

🍒 Dirty Little Secret (part 4)

💕Dirty Little Secret (part 5)

🥵Dirty Little Secret (part 6)

🌶️Dirty Little Secret (part 7)

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Gaz:

🌶️A Nice Guy

🌶️Better Not to Know

     Better Not to Know + Pt. 2

💔Better Not to Know + Pt. 3

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Captain Price:

🌶️Going Down?

🌶️Good King John Drabble (Medieval AU)

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Rudy Parra:

🌶️ A Patient Man

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50-Word Fic Challenge

🌶️The Acolyte (CoD Character x Fem Reader)

💔The Covenant (John Soap MacTavish x Fem Reader)

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Medieval AU

🌶️Dark Knight Ghost Drabble

🌶️Good King John Drabble

The Mandalorian:

🌶️ Don’t Leave Me Hangin’

🖤The more thots I have, the more dumpster fires fics you’ll see.

[random-thot-generator]

Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 8

Frenemies/Tenderness AU

EIGHT: Lost and Found

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: As Simon desperately searches for you, his darker nature emerges. Beside himself with the state he finds you in, his only thought is to get you to safety, but it's not long before his plans for vengeance take precedence. Meanwhile, you are struggling to cope with what's happened, too shaken by the night's traumatic events to comprehend what lengths Simon is willing to go to in order to keep you safe.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Allusions to Violence, Allusions to SA, Minor Character Death, Simon goes full-Ghost, No Detailed Descriptions of Violence, Mentions of Blood, Protective Simon, Traumatized Reader, No use of Y/N

(Notes: I didn't go crazy with the violent details, but you'll definitely get the gist of what went down. Reader is obviously traumatized by what's happened, so I tried to keep that in mind while writing for her. Our girl has had a rough night, y'all.)

[image via TENOR]

Word Count: 4464

Chapter 8

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“The shadow is dark and the woods are cold, but they are not endless. No matter how lost you are now, you are not lost forever. You are findable.

Love just keeps on looking.

Love forever tries.” ― Anna White, Mended: Thoughts on Life, Love, and Leaps of Faith

-

Simon was quietly losing his mind.

He began losing it the moment he answered your call, and the longer it took him to find you, the closer he danced to the edge. If he could just call you, hear your voice, it would ease the chokehold his anxiety had on him, but he couldn't risk it. Your phone's battery power was already low when you had called for help.

It had pained Simon to do it, but with no time to mince words, he had to tell you to hang up and sit tight, that he would be able to track you through your phone's GPS, but you had to conserve what power it had left. He didn't miss that little beat of silence after he told you that, but he'd ignored it. He could worry about explaining that later. Finding you was his only priority, now.

"Don't worry, doll. I'll find ya. Stay in place and stay hidden. I'll come to you."

That had been almost an hour ago. An hour for him to process everything you had told him, an hour to fully comprehend the danger you had been in the moment your walked out of the White Dog with Jerry Finch. The danger you were still in, because Finch was in the wind, and for all Simon knew, could be tracking you down himself right now, slipping up on you at this very moment.

Simon growled, the feral sound echoing in the high vault of the trees.

He glanced down at the receiver, watching the moving blue line that traced his path to you grow shorter. He was close, but he wasn't moving fast enough; the terrain wouldn't allow it. He couldn't curse it, though. The thick foliage that was holding up his own progress was the same foliage that had thwarted Jerry's attempt to catch you. The bastard probably never considered that he would have to chase someone through these woods when he chose this location.

That thought alone had Simon teetering on the very brink of a rage-fueled tantrum, even as it spurred him on. A shortcut to Banfield, is what Jerry had told you.

That had been a fiendish lie.

Simon had been so relieved when the tracker had first pinpointed your location, but it was the location itself that almost gave him an aneurism. The gravel lane Jerry had taken you down was no backroad into Banfield. It was a service road that cut through a protected woodland, which then terminated a few kilometers further along at a series of stream-fed ponds surrounded by marshland. It was a nature preserve for native waterfowl.

It was a bloody dead-end in the middle of nowhere with no one around.

As he followed your path through the woods, his mind conjured up all the horrifying images that could have been your fate tonight. The bright beam of his torch stuttered erratically over the foliage, his hands shaking with fury, as that one terrible question kept playing on a loop in his brain.

Just what the fuck had Finch been planning to do to you?

The answers Simon came up with only served to fuel that rage already burning like a furnace inside him. When he got his hands on Jerry fucking Finch, he would take immense pleasure in getting those answers out of him.

And Simon was a master at extracting answers from reluctant subjects. He would take his time with Finch. That sick bastard would curse the day he ever laid eyes on you before Simon was done with him.

When the tracker indicated that he had reached your location, Simon turned it off and shoved it inside the pocket of his coat, shining his light around the area. The tracks stopped here, but you were nowhere to be seen. "Doll!" he barked, eyes searching.

The sound of crackling leaves drew the beam of his torch to a large oak on his right. You crept around the tree, keeping a stabilizing hand on the trunk as you used the other to shield your eyes from the bright beam of light shining in your face. "I'm here," you replied in a wavering voice, and Simon almost completely lost it.

You looked like hell, your hair a wild tangle, clothes muddy and torn, face smudged with dirt and tracked with tears. You were covered in scratches, bruises and abrasions, your eyes huge in your face, glassy and fevered.

Without thinking, he rushed forward with a snarled, "Fuckin' hell!" and took you by the shoulders, eyes blazing with fury. He was so incensed by the state you were in that he failed to notice the utter panic that registered on your face at his aggressive approach. It was only when you let out a gasp and stumbled back that he realized how he must look and loosened his grip.

"It's alright," he muttered. "I'm jus' so..." Seeing you this way had him seeing red. "Nnngh!" he growled, his fingers tightening on your shoulders. You stiffened under his grip, wide, teary eyes directed up at him as your chin wobbled.

"Please don't be mad, Ri. 'M sorry. I just couldn't think of who else to call," you warbled out, the last word pitching up before hitching on a choked sob.

Your words caught him off guard. Bloody hell, you thought he was mad at you?

"No, doll. No. I'm not mad at ya, love. I... fuck..." He pulled you against his chest, his hand pressing your head against his pounding heart. The relief that washed over him was profound, making his hands tremble as they cupped your face. He took a step back to look you over, brushing the hair from your face as his dark eyes darted over your form. "Are ya hurt? Did he hurt ya?"

You shook your head, but you looked confused, dazed. "N-No, I don't think... I..." Your eyes drifted to the side as you struggled to find the words. "I just want to go home," you whispered as two fat tears slipped down your dirty cheeks.

Simon swiped them away with his thumbs. "It's alright, love. I got ya now. I got ya. C'mere."

He took you under the arms and picked you up as he would a child, his throat constricting when he felt you wrap your limbs around him, clinging to him like a lifeline. He said nothing, only clutched you tighter to his chest as you sobbed into his neck the entire walk back to the truck.

-

You were silent as Simon drove back to Banfield, staring out the window, hands laying limp in your lap. He kept glancing over at you, worried. You were obviously in a state of mild shock, should probably be checked over by a physician, but when he had mentioned taking you to the A and E, you'd shaken your head and muttered a low but fierce, "No!" clenching your hands into fists. "No hospital, no police."

He didn't know what to make of your vehement refusal, but didn't push, worried about upsetting you further. However, he gave you no such consideration when he bypassed the road leading to your flat. You frowned, confused. "I thought you were going to take me home."

Simon shook his head. "'S not safe, doll. That cunt could be waiting for ya, fer all I know. 'M not riskin' ya gettin' hurt again t'find out."

You hadn't even thought of Jerry lying in wait for you at your flat. The thought of it terrified you. You shrunk back into your seat, feeling helpless and unmoored. If you couldn't go home, then where the hell were you supposed to go? "But I don't have anywhere to go," you replied, your voice high and tinged with anxiety.

"Yer stayin' at my place until the threat is neutralized," was his quick response, his tone brooking no argument as he directed his truck towards his street.

You could only stare back at him, dumbfounded. Riley wasn't the type to have house guests over. He once told you he could count on one hand the number of people who had been inside his home and still have a couple of fingers left over. "Ri, you don't have to do—"

"Dee, do not fight me on this," he snapped, his gaze piercing when he shot you a warning glance. They softened as he gazed at you. "Not this," he muttered, the muscle in his jaw ticking beneath his mask. "Yer stayin' with me. End of discussion."

He looked you over, assessing you, then took out his phone. Making a call, he stuck the phone inside his hood and pressed it to his ear. You knew the moment the call connected, Ollie's distinctive voice growling an angry torrent of words you couldn't quite catch. He said something about a door and called Riley a greenie, something he did only when he was joking or angry. He didn't sound like he was in a joking mood at the moment.

"Captain," Simon barked into the phone, interrupting Ollie's tirade. "Listen t'me. We have a situation. I'll brief ya on the particulars later, but right now, I need ya to ask Fiona if she minds stayin' wif Dee at my place fer a few hours."

You shook your head, but he just shot you another warning look. "Ri, no..." you pleaded in a frantic whisper, but he ignored you.

There were a few seconds of silence and then Ollie said something in a lower register of voice that you couldn't hear. Simon's brows furrowed. "She's banged up, but she's sound," he said, casting a quick glimpse over you.

There was another pause, then another brief reply. "Yessir," he growled, then ended the call.

"What's going on? What are you doing, Ri?"

Simon put his phone in his pocket then replaced his hand on the wheel. "Don't worry 'bout it. I jus' need t'make sure yer taken care of, doll. Everythin'll be fine."

He pulled up to the curb in front of his row house and parked, telling you to wait until he came around and helped you out of the truck. Keeping a protective arm around your shoulders, his head panned back and forth as he hurried you along the walk to his front door. He shielded you from the street as he unlocked the door, keeping your back to his chest as he hustled you inside.

His entire demeanor was changed. He reminded you of a shark, his movements quick and aggressive, eyes dark, flat and predatory. He was in full soldier mode, his body tense, senses on high alert.

"Stay here while I do a quick check," he muttered lowly, creeping on silent feet through his own house. He checked the main level, then the downstairs, and then finally the upper floor. When he returned, he motioned for you to follow him into the kitchen. "Drink," he ordered, retrieving a sports drink from his fridge and setting it on the island between you.

His sharp tone grated against your already frayed nerves. "What the hell is wrong with you? You've been barking orders at me since you found me."

He whipped his head around, eyes dark and intense as he pinned you with a glare. "Until I know where the hell tha' bastard is, 'm not takin' any chances, understand? Who knows what he's capable of right now? He's got t'be off his fuckin' nut t'try what he did with ya, in the first place. He could be out there even now, tryin' to figure out a way to get inside so he can get at ya again, an' I'll be damned if I let tha' happen. You might not give a damn about yer own bloody safety, but I do! Tha's what the fuck is wrong with me!"

You flinched away from his harsh words, tears welling despite your best efforts to keep them at bay. This was all too much, too overwhelming. Throwing up your hands, you turned and hurried out of the kitchen, not knowing where you were going until you entered the guest loo under the stairs and locked yourself inside.

Turning on the tap, you glanced up at your reflection in the mirror, shocked at your own appearance. Twigs and dead leaves were caught in the tangles of your hair, your face dirty and scratched, eyes bloodshot and wild. "Bloody hell," you whispered to the mirror, raising a shaking hand to your face to examine the extent of the damage.

A knock at the door made you jump. You blew out a breath, in no mood to argue with him. "J-Just give me a minute, Ri. Please?"

You heard a thunk on the door and knew he'd dropped his forehead against it. "'M sorry, doll," he muttered lowly through the door.

Why could he only apologize through a bloody door? You took a deep breath, dropping your head, and exhaled slowly through your nose. "I know you mean well, Ri. I just..." You sniffled and huffed out a breath. "It's just a lot, ya know? And I'm— I'm struggling, okay?"

There was a pause, the shadow of his boots shifting before the crack under the door. "Ya know yer safe here, doll. I swear I won't let nothin' else happen to ya. I'll— leave ya be. Take yer time."

You sighed, unable to ignore the contrite tone in his voice. "Ri?"

"Yeah, doll?"

"Thank you. For— everything."

There was another pause. "I'll always have yer back, doll. No matter what. Understand?"

You squeezed your eyes shut. "Yeah, Ri. Me, too."

You heard his weight shift. "I jus' heard somebody pull up. Prob'ly Fi an' Ollie," he spoke through the door, then you heard his footsteps move away.

You opened your eyes and looked at yourself in the mirror again. You couldn't go out there looking like this. Grabbing the little wastebin by the sink, you began plucking the dead foliage out of your hair.

-

When you finally emerged from the loo, you could hear the low murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. Pushing through the swinging door, you stopped short as three sets of eyes turned toward you at once.

"Oh, my God," Fiona whimpered, hurrying to catch you up in a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry, Dee," she sniffled at your ear. "I never would'a thought he would do somethin' like this."

You saw Ollie grip Riley's shoulder as they exchanged a look, the tension in his body putting you on edge all over again. "What's going on?" you rasped out.

Fiona drew back and glanced over her shoulder, then back at you. "I'm goin' t'stay with ya while they try t'track down Jerry."

You shook your head, frantic. "No! Can't you just leave it alone? Don't you understand this will only turn out bad for me if you threaten him? He could go to the police, tell 'em we got in an argument, that I attacked him. It'll be my word against his, and who do you think they'll believe?" you demanded, looking between the three of them.

It was Ollie who stepped forward. "Love, I get it, I do, but somethin' has to be done. We can't just leave him be. He's too dangerous. Think about it, love. Do ya think yer the first bird he's done this to?" he asked. "We can't just let him get away with this, because he'll think he can jus' keep doin' it, and the next lass might not be so lucky."

You knew he was right, but it didn't change the fact that it was your neck on the chopping block. "If you threaten him, he'll come after me. He won't be stupid enough to try something physical again, but he'll fuck with me in other ways, get the police involved. I could be charged with assault."

Simon rounded the island and took you by the shoulders, peering down at you with an earnest expression. "Doll, listen t'me. Me an' Ol are just after intel on him right now, alright? Ol has some mates that can help us. That's all we're goin' t'be doin'. Finch won't know owt about it. If we get the right intel, we can use it against him, yeah? Stop him from doin' this again. It won't come back on ya, doll. I won't let it."

You reached up and grasped his wrists. "Promise me you won't don't anything crazy, Ri."

He sighed. "Everythin' will be fine, doll. I promise."

You stared up at him for a long moment, then cast your gaze at Ollie. "Don't let him do anything that will get him in trouble."

"No worries, love. I can keep him in line," Ollie replied, sounding confident.

You returned your gaze to the big lug in front of you and blew out a resigned breath. "Fine."

The two men exchanged another look, then Simon placed his arm around shoulders and led you back out of the kitchen, Fiona and Ollie trailing behind. "I want ya t'get some rest, alright? My room's upstairs, second door on the left. Take a shower an' have a lie down, yeah? We'll be back a'fore ya know it." He grasped the nape of your neck and bumped his forehead against yours. "We'll fix this, doll. Ya got my word." He looked over his shoulder. "Take care o' her for me, Fi."

Fiona bobbed her head, looking between the two of you. "I will, Riley."

Ollie stepped forward and patted your shoulder. "Don't fret, love. Everythin' will be fine. I'll keep an eye on him for ya," he promised, nodding at Simon.

You watched the two men ready themselves to leave, Fiona standing next to you, taking hold of your hand. Before they left, Simon came forward and took your hands.

"Don't worry, doll. I'll take care o' this. Get some rest. I'll see ya when I get back."

He then stepped back and nodded, before ushering Ollie out the door. As soon as it closed behind them, Fiona darted forward to relock it, then punched in the code for the security system.

"There," she muttered, turning to give you a forced smile. "Safe as houses," she intoned, then took your arm. "C'mon. Let's get ya in the shower."

You let her lead you up the stairs but glanced back at the front door. "You don't think Riley was lying, do you? He wouldn't just go after Jerry, would he?"

Fiona patted your arm, shaking her head. "'Course not," she lied.

-

Simon was driving, headed towards Blackheath, while Ollie was finishing up a brief conversation on his phone. "Right, then. Thanks, Seamus. I owe ya one, mate." He ended the call and nodded to Simon. "Got an address. Seamus is onboard and willing to help out, whatever we need. Think Finch is smart enough to go to ground?"

Simon grunted. "Maybe, but it's hard t'say. After what happened, he's got t'know I'm comin' for him. Or he bloody well should."

Ollie hummed as he peered out at the dark landscape. "I want t'get this bastard as bad as you do, son, but if Dee finds out..."

Simon gripped the wheel. "She won't." He glanced over at his old captain. "Ya saw what he did, Ol. Tha' cunt put his fuckin' hands on her. Hurt her. Would'a done much worse than tha' if she hadn't fought him off an' got away. If tha' were Hillary he'd done tha' to, what would ya do?"

Ollie didn't even hesitate. "I'd kill the bastard."

Simon grunted.

They rode the rest of the way to Blackheath in silence.

-

It was near dawn by the time Simon made it home. He found Fiona asleep on the couch, so left her to her sleep. His only thought at that moment was to find you, make sure you were alright. He climbed the stairs on silent feet and eased down the hallway, slipping into his bedroom.

He found you sleeping in his bed, wearing one of his old T-shirts, head buried in his pillow. It was about the best damn sight he'd ever seen. He shoulders went slack as he sighed and leaned back against the wall, taking you in for a moment.

This was how it was supposed to be. This is what you deserved. This, he realized, was what he could give you. Safety, security. A proper home. If only your pride would allow you to take it. He huffed a breath.

You and your bloody pride.

Simon could work around that, though. A plan began brewing in his head, a plan that would help to greatly relieve your financial burdens as well as ensure your safety, all at once. He just had to get you to agree to it. He considered the best approach to take with you as he gathered some clean clothes and stepped into the loo to shower.

He peeled off his dirty clothes, the coppery smell of blood wafting up from the dark clothing. He crammed them into the hamper, then tossed his ruined gloves along with his soiled balaclava into the waste bin and tied up the bag. He didn't want to risk you seeing them. You never needed to know what really happened to Finch. As far as you would know, Finch was going to be a fugitive on the lam, suspected of leaving the country.

Simon and Ollie had discovered what a truly depraved bastard Finch really was when they searched his flat. The incriminating images and videos they had found on his laptop, along with his activity on a particular dark web forum were enough to put the bastard away for years. All of that would come out, of course, once the police followed up on the information they had received from an anonymous source.

Simon paid no mind to the pink swirl of water at his feet, too busy scrubbing the rusty stains from his nail beds. He studied the bruised ridge of his knuckles, flexing the sore hand. He couldn't recall how many times he hit Finch after he confessed what his plans had been for you, but Simon did remember running a reverent touch over the bruise you had left on the bastard's cheek where you had kicked him. He had smiled at the sight and murmured, "Tha's my girl."

When he exited the bathroom a few minutes later, he saw you stir, your eyes fluttering open. You pushed yourself up on an elbow, squinting at him. "Ri? You just get home?"

He came to sit beside you on the bed. "Nah. Jus' got out o' the shower. Sorry if I woke ya. Go back t'sleep, doll."

You laid your head back on the pillow, peering up at him with a sleepy, hooded gaze. "Did you find what you were looking for? The intel?"

He nodded, taking your hand to rub his thumb over knuckles. "We did. Once we use what we've learned, he won't be a problem anymore. Ya got nothin' to worry 'bout, love."

You nodded, then sighed. "You look tired. You should lie down."

He shook his head. "'M fine. Was gettin' ready' t'do some work in my office. Jus' wanted t'check on ya first."

Your brows puckered as you regarded him. "Will you stay with me? Just til I go back to sleep?"

Simon blinked. You wanted him to stay with you? He swallowed and gave a slow nod. "Sure, doll."

You shuffled back in the bed and rested your head on the other pillow, looking up at him expectantly. Simon sighed, then turned and brought his legs up to stretch out on the bed beside you. He felt your hand creep into his, squeezing it as you sighed and closed your eyes. "G'night, Ri."

"Night, doll."

Simon laid beside you, listening to your breathing even out and deepen as your hand grew slack in his. He scooted down to rest his head on the pillow so he could see your face better in the dark room. The tension slowly seeped out of his body as he watched you sleep, his eyes tracing over the soft lines of your face. He would do anything to keep you this way, safe and at peace.

His eyes began to grow heavy. He should get up, leave you to sleep, yet when he went to pull away, your fingers curled around his hand and a frown puckered your brow again. He eased himself back into the mattress, not wanting to disturb you further. He could wait a few more minutes, then try again. He let his eyes drift shut while he waited, listening to the steady rhythm of your breathing.

A few hours later, Simon stirred awake to find you nestled into his side, his arm wrapped around your back, hand resting on your hip. You had flung your arm over his waist, your cheek smooshed against his chest, one leg thrown over his. He laid there, letting himself grow accustomed to the feeling. He hadn't slept like this with anyone in years, couldn't bear the thought of it, yet he found he liked how your soft, feminine form felt pressed against his. Your warmth permeated his body and lulled his mind like a soporific drug, tempting him to stay in bed and enjoy this brief moment of peace.

You should get up, he told himself, but then he felt your arm tighten around his waist. He couldn't help but wonder if this had been your plan when you'd asked him to lie down with you. You wanted him to get some sleep, and lo and behold, here he was. He sighed, peering down at you. You always knew how to get your way with him. Every fucking time.

He tilted his head until his masked face was pressed into the crown of your head and breathed you in. Pulling you closer, Simon closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

-

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Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 7

(Frenemies/Tenderness AU)

SEVEN: Can't Let Go

SIMON GHOST RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: A week has passed since the argument in the alley, and Reader's hurt has been replaced with a seething anger that leads her to make a spur-of-the-moment decision out of spite. However, her poor choices lead to a potentially dangerous situation.

(PLEASE MIND THE TAGS. This chapter could be triggering for some readers.)

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Bad Coping Mechanisms, Allusions to sex, Threat of dub/non-con sexual situation, Brief Violence - Reader's a scrapper, Threat of violence though not acted upon... yet, No use of Y/N

(Notes: Ngl, this was a bitch to write. I had no less than three other alternative versions of this chapter, before choosing this one, but thankfully had some help along the way. Massive props to @glitterypirateduck for the much-needed advice and input. I ended up leaving the badger out, babe, but I hope you like the chapter, regardless. 😉👍)

[Image via TENOR]

Word Count: 5020

Chapter 7

-

...I ain't tryna find fate, it's too late to save face I can't get away, maybe there's no mistakes

You break me, then I break my rules Last time was the last time too It's fucked up, I know, but I'm still

Outside of the party, smokin' in the car with you Seven Nation Army, fightin' at the bar with you Tell you that I'm sorry, tell me what I gotta do 'Cause I can't let go...

—Post Malone, 'Chemical'

-

The walk to work is nice.

Blue skies and tattered clouds arch overhead, the remnants of puddles from an early morning shower reflecting the first sun you've seen in days. The world smells fresh and green and new, the signs of spring brightening your mood. It makes you feel light, the first time in a week you've felt like lifting your head to look around.

The first time since your fight with Riley.

You push the thought away. You're not going there today. Not again. You worked through the worst of the hurt and disappointment, and now you've settled into a comfortable, quiet fury that you keep wrapped around you like a warm blanket when the chill of loneliness creeps into your bed at night. You don't miss him, you don't want him, and you sure as hell don't need him. He's just one more bitter lesson you've had to learn the hard way. You won't make the same mistake, again.

Well... not again, anyway.

A car beeps its horn behind you, and you glance back to see Jerry Finch, the lorry driver who delivers the kegs to the pub, waving at you from a black sports car. You give a half-hearted smile and wave back, your steps slowing when he steers his car to the curb.

His window rolls down, rap music thumping before he turns it down. Leaning on his arm in the open window, Jerry tips his chin down to look over his aviator sunglasses at you, a smooth half-smile on his lips. "How ya doin', Dee? Headin' to work?"

You nod, stepping closer to his car, trying to ignore the way he looks you up and down before meeting your gaze. He gives you an appreciative smile and ticks his eyebrows up, ever the flirt. You sniff in amusement and squint against the sun to see him better. "Morning, Jer." You nod at his car. "No lorry today. This your day off?"

He gives you a charming, almost boyish smile and nods. "Yeah. Had some business here in the village, though." He glances down towards the pub, then slants his gaze back to you, thumbing at his bottom lip. "I can give ya a lift, if ya like. Goin' that way, anyhow."

You hesitate but then nod in acceptance. It's just an acquaintance from work offering you a ride, nothing wrong with that. He smiles and motions for you to get in, once more letting his eyes wander over your figure while you settle yourself into the passenger seat and put on your seatbelt.

"Thank you," you murmur, glancing up at him, then away. Jerry's never been one to hide his interest, taking every opportunity to flirt with you when given half a chance. Of course, it makes you feel good to have a handsome man flirt with you, but it also makes you a little leery, too. You try to be nice, but you don't want to encourage him, something that Fiona fusses about every chance she gets.

"Bloody hell, Dee, give the bloke a chance. He's got a good job, he's good lookin', fit as fuck, an' he's gaggin' t'get with ya. What can it hurt?"

Rationally, you know Fi is right, but you can't help yourself. There's just something about him. You can't put your finger on it but being near him just feels... off. You clear your throat and look out the window, your eyes catching on a dark gray Gladiator parked in front of the Tea Room.

Riley.

You can see him standing inside through the tall Georgian windows, chatting with Margie, the owner. She's handing him a bag and a to-go cup that you know will be filled with English breakfast tea brewed strong, with a splash of milk and two sugars, the way he likes. Your heart squeezes in your chest as you watch him exit the building and get in his truck.

Riley's been avoiding the pub when you're on shift. Fiona says he's been showing up in the evening, sitting in his usual spot while nursing his Dewar's. She also doesn't fail to mention Tessa Harker has been chatting him up quite a bit lately, too. It hurts to hear it, but you only give a tight smile and mutter, "Good for him," much to your friend's irritation.

Fiona and Ollie have both noticed the way you and Riley have been avoiding each other, but apparently Riley has kept mum about the argument, as have you. You had wondered if he would spread word about your other job at the Grind out of spite, but no one has mentioned it so far, and for that you're relieved, but you're still wary of what he might do with the information.

"So, what time ya gettin' off work?"

The question draws your attention back to the big man sitting beside you. Did he notice you staring, you wonder. "Um, I get off work at five."

"Then what?" he persists, and you know where this is going.

You shrug, keeping your eyes focused straight ahead. "Then back home, I suppose."

"Come out with me, instead," he suggests, shooting another one of his charming smiles your way. "There's a nice Italian bistro in Blackheath. I deliver to 'em. Nice place, good food."

"Oh, um, well..."

He chuckles and reaches over to pat your knee. "No rush, sweetheart. Got all day t'think it over, yeah?"

Again, the feeling that something is off with him comes to the fore of your brain, but you smile, regardless. "Yeah, sure. I'll... think about it," you reply, knowing your mind is already made up. You just have to think of a nice way to let him down. Again.

Jerry gives your knee another pat, which turns into a sly caress that has you flinching away. He huffs a laugh at your reaction, giving you a playful 'just-kidding' grin, before he lifts his hand and places it back on the wheel. He has big, beefy hands, thick fingers with blunt tips, a working man's hands. You usually find that attractive, have often admired Riley's large hands and long, supple fingers, but for some reason, the sight of Jerry's ham fists curled around the steering wheel makes you feel uncomfortable.

The car comes to a stop in front of the pub, and you're quick to unbuckle your seatbelt and open the door. "Thanks for the ride, Jer," you say, one foot already resting on the pavement.

"Think nothin' of it, love. Glad t'give you a ride anytime," he murmurs, suggestion heavy in his tone. He flashes another smile at you, winking again. He does that a lot, and you find it annoying. "I'll stop by later, see if ya want to go out for dinner, yeah?"

"Y-Yeah, sure. Okay."

You get out of his car and sketch a little wave as he pulls away, then turn to head inside the pub, only to come up short. Riley's standing right in front of the entrance, arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes fixed on Jerry's car, which is now rounding the green.

"Friend o' yers?"

It's the first words he's said to you since last Sunday in the alley, and the way he says it instantly gets your hackles up. You square off with him, casting a disparaging look over him. The proper thing would have been to offer you an apology, but you know better than to expect anything like that from him. Instead, he leads with a question that sounds both accusatory and insulting, all at the same time.

Typical.

"Shouldn't you already know? That's what you're good at, isn't it? Keeping tabs on me?" you snap, glaring at him.

You make a point to bump his shoulder as you pass by him and enter the pub. He's on your heels in an instant, following you through the door, obviously irritated by your response. You ignore him as you round the bar, pulling the strap of your bag over your head before placing it on top of the bar to take out your phone and a paperback.

"Wot? Ya got nothin' else t'say, doll? Tha's not like ya."

Your eyes snap up to glare at him. "Thought we said all that needed to be said last Sunday," you hissed at him, trying to keep your voice down, knowing Ollie would be back in his office.

Simon plants both hands on the bar and leans in, his dark eyes scathing as they pin you to the spot. "I wasn't finished talkin'. It was you that fuckin' ran off," he growls in return, but manages to keep his voice to a low rumble.

Your brows shoot up in mock surprise. "Oh! How terribly rude of me. I suppose I should have stood there until you were finished insulting me." Your eyes narrowed as you sneered at him. "Fuck you for that, by the way."

He's wearing his black surgical mask today, so his angry scowl is more evident than usual. He shoves off the bar in a fit of temper, hand coming up to jab a finger at you. "Like I told ya last Sunday, me an' you need t'talk, an' this time yer goin' t'bloody listen to wha—"

Your snort cuts him off. "We have nothing left to discuss. You made your opinion of me quite clear. But hey! At least I know where I stand with you now. Don't worry, though. I'll keep my distance. Wouldn't want to embarrass you by being seen associating with a slag, right?"

"Dammit t'hell, Dee! I never fuckin' called ya that. I never thought that. Would ya just bloody lis—"

"Riley, lad!"

You both turn to see Ollie heading your way, a pleased smile on his face. Shooting Riley one last venomous glare, you turn your back on him and make for the swinging door leading into the kitchen, his frustrated growl giving you a sense of grim satisfaction as you slip through the door. Fuck him. You hope he stays pissed off for the rest of the day.

You can hear the two men talking as you go back to hang up your jacket, eyes wandering over the unused kitchen as you pass through. What you wouldn't give for a kitchen this size, and here this one sits, unused and abandoned. You had mentioned a time or two that adding a small menu would bring in more business, but since the last cook quit, Ollie hasn't been too keen to fire up the kitchen again. It's a pity, really.

"Dee, love."

You glance over your shoulder to see Ollie standing at the service window. "What'cha need, Ol?"

Mind makin' me an' Riley a cuppa an' bringin' 'em to the office?"

You frown, wondering what happened to the tea you had seen Riley with before. You shrug it off and nod. "Sure thing, Ol. Be right out with 'em."

"Thanks, love," he says, rapping his knuckles before disappearing from sight.

You rinse out the electric kettle and fill it with water, then plug it in and switch it on before grabbing three mugs and the tea tin. You consider making Riley's tea wrong, just for spite, but that would be petty, even for you, or as Riley would call it, bratty. You sniff. He's a fuckin' brat. A bratty arsehole.

You scoop instant coffee into your own mug then add the tea bags to the other two cups, before going to the fridge to take out the milk. It's become routine for you to make both men's tea, your hands going through the motions while your thoughts wander back to Jerry and his dinner invitation.

Your first instinct is to turn him down, as you have all his other invitations, but the memory of how pissed Riley looked as he watched the other man drive away gives you pause. He always did eye Jerry with open suspicion, his instant dislike of the other man never something he tried to hide. He's never said why he doesn't like Jerry, but it didn't change the fact that it would probably piss Riley off to learn you were going out to dinner with him.

Maybe you are petty after all, because now your mind has changed. You are going on a dinner date this evening after work.

Setting your mug of coffee in the window to retrieve later, you take the other two mugs with you out of the kitchen. Rounding the bar, you head towards the narrow hallway that leads to the bathrooms and Ollie's office, walking slower to not spill any of their tea. You can hear their voices through the door as you stop to announce your presence. It's Riley who opens the door for you, not bothering to move out of your way as you slide past him with an irritated expression.

"Move, ya big lump," you grumble lowly, which gets a soft sniff of amusement from him. Arsehole.

"Ah, thanks, love," Ollie says, reaching out to take his mug. You set Riley's on the edge of his desk near the old club chair where he always sits. "Mind closin' the door on yer way out?" Ollie asks.

You give a nod, turning around to see that Riley is still standing in your way. You go to step around him, and he steps in your way again. You blow out an aggravated breath and raise your eyes to his, the urge to shove him again making your hands twitch. When he quirks a brow up at you, you grit your teeth and glare at him. Then an idea sparks in your brain. You look back over your shoulder at your boss.

"Say, Ol. Ya mind if I cut out a little early this evening? I've got a dinner date with Jerry the lorry driver."

Ollie nearly chokes on his tea before he manages to get his cup set down on his desk. His sharp eyes dart between you and Riley, an odd expression on his face as he tries to make sense of what's going on. He finally clears his throat and gives a curt nod. "Yeah. Sure, love. No problem."

You give him a sweet smile that turns spiteful when you turn your head back to the man in front of you. "Thanks, Ol," you reply, meeting Riley's furious glare. "Excuse me. Need to get back to work."

You can see his hands balling into fists, and it sends a thrill of sadistic glee through you. You'd rather die than look away from him right now, a smirk appearing when he has to hold his tongue and step aside for you. By the time you reach the hallway and close the door behind you, you're damn near giddy. The smirk on your face grows to a full-on wicked grin by the time you reach the bar again.

Satisfied with the good, hard poke you've just given the proverbial bear, you begin your prep work, humming a catchy pop song under your breath.

-

You manage to avoid any more close interactions with Riley, though he hangs around the bar your entire shift, giving you a baleful glare every time you draw near. You make it a point to ignore him, chatting with the other customers, talking and laughing like you weren't bothered at all by his brooding presence. You see him visibly stiffen when Jerry comes swaggering in, his signature charming smile already in place.

Before he can speak, you step to the bar and offer him a sweet smile. "Hi, Jer. Ollie said I can leave early, so we can go whenever you like."

Jerry can't hide the surprise on his face, but he swiftly recovers as he leans an elbow on the bar to bring his eyes level with yours. "Good. Been thinkin' 'bout it all day," he murmurs, his eyes drifting down to your lips.

You stiffen, discomfited by the look in his eye, but try to hide it by ducking to grab your bag from beneath the bar. When you raise up again, a pleasant smile is plastered on your face. "I just need to grab my jacket and tell Ollie I'm leaving, then we can go."

"'Course, sweetheart," Jer replies, watching you as you round the bar and head for the hallway. He catches Riley staring at him and lifts his brows, giving him a smug little smirk, which you honestly think is stupid of him. Despite Jerry's size, you have no doubt Riley would mop the fucking floor with him. You roll your eyes. Men and their stupid bloody posturing.

The sooner you get this over with, the better. This game is quickly losing its appeal.

-

Jerry offers to take you home to change if you want, but you decline, honestly not comfortable with the idea of bringing him up to your flat. He seems a little perturbed when you turn down his offer but then shrugs and drives to Blackheath, instead.

As he said, the little bistro is nice, the food delicious. The conversation is lackluster, though, but you weren't really expecting much. Beyond talking about himself, Jerry doesn't seem to hold much interest in other topics. Big surprise.

Once you're back in the car, he drapes his arm over your seat and leans in, a sexy smirk on his face. "So, where to next, sweetheart? Your place or mine?"

Your brows shoot up in mild surprise. "I thought this was just dinner," you reply, crossing your arms over your chest. "Moving a little fast, don't you think?"

He tips his chin down, giving you a knowing look. "C'mon, Dee. We're both adults here. I've seen how you an' that other barmaid check me out. Not that I'm complainin'." He gives you one of his smarmy winks, and you fight the urge to wrinkle your nose in disdain.

You sniff and give your head a small shake. The audacity of this bloke. Did he honestly think you were just going to drop your knickers because he bought you dinner? "Yeah, I think I'd rather go home by myself. I have work in the morning."

Jerry draws back, blinking. "Are you serious?" When you roll your eyes, he scoffs and tilts his nose up, as if he can't believe you are turning him down. "Whatever. Your loss, sweetheart," he mutters with a slight sneer and starts the car.

The drive back to Banfield is tense and awkward, but you honestly prefer the silence. When Jer finally speaks up, you startle out of your thoughts. "Mind if I take a shortcut?" he asks, his tone off-hand.

You shrug. "Fine with me." If it gets you home quicker, you're all for it.

Yet when he veers off the main road onto a country lane, you frown. You aren't familiar with this particular backroad, but from the direction you're going it doesn't look like you're heading towards home.

"Are you sure this goes to Banfield?"

Jer slants a condescending look at you, a shitty little smirk pulling up a corner of his mouth. "I drive for a livin', sweetheart. Ya really think I'm goin' t'get lost on the way to bloody Banfield?"

Your eyes roll up, but you hold your tongue, yet after another five minutes with nothing even closely resembling civilization in sight, you can't keep quiet. "We should be in Banfield by now. It's just a ten-minute drive from Blackheath. Are you sure you took the right road?" You glance around at the dark, unfamiliar landscape. "I don't even know where the hell we are right now."

"I took the scenic route," Jer drawls, waving a hand. He then drops it on your knee and gives it a squeeze. "Chill out, sweetheart. We'll get there. Eventually."

Apprehension creeps up your spine like the drag of an icy finger. You don't like this. This man, who you really know nothing about, you now realize, is driving you out to the middle of nowhere. "Maybe you should turn around."

Jerry glances over at you again, and this time the look in his eye makes the small hairs on the nape of your neck stand on end. "Maybe you should try to relax." His hand slides up your leg to grip your thigh. "I'd be happy t'pull over an' help ya with that, sweetheart."

And there it is. The reason for getting you out here alone. You aren't even really surprised, always knowing in the back of your mind that there was something off with him, though you chose to ignore it this time, just to spite Riley.

Hindsight really is a bitch sometimes.

"Jer, I told you I wanted to go home," you murmur, trying to keep your voice low and even.

He huffs, a smug expression on his face. "C'mon, Dee. Stop playin' hard t'get. It's jus' me an' you now. Your boyfriend doesn't have t'know. I can keep my mouth shut. It'll be our little secret, yeah?"

"My boyfriend?" you blurt out, confused.

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, right. Sorry. Your friend," he sneers and then scoffs. "Don't act like ya don't know who I'm talkin' 'bout. That scarred up freak with the mask who's always up yer arse."

"What the fuck did you just say?" you choke out, fury strangling your voice. You're ready to claw out his eyes for what he said about Riley.

Jerry waves a dismissive hand at you. "Enough with the games, Dee. I know ya only went out with me t'make him jealous, an' I'm fine with that, really, but don't ya think I deserve some sort of... ya know, compensation for playin' along?"

Rage consumes you, hot and prickling beneath your skin. "Take me home. Now!"

The cold, flat look in his eye chills you to the bone. "Not 'til I get what ya owe me, sweetheart. Don't look so offended. I doubt this is the first time you've paid up for somethin' by lyin' on your back."

The hard slap you deliver to his smug face has him swerving across the narrow road before he slams on the brakes, sluing the car around in the loose gravel. You only manage to free your seatbelt before he grabs you.

"Are ya fuckin' crazy, ya bitch?" he yells in your face, shaking you hard as he shoves you back against your door. "Ya could'a killed us!"

You jab your thumb in his eye for his trouble. He bellows in pain, releasing you to clutch at his face, freeing you to reach behind your back to paw at the latch. The door flies open under your weight and dumps you out backwards onto the gravel. When his hand seizes your ankle in a crushing grip, you frantically kick out with your other foot. Though you're unable to see from your position on the ground, you revel in a brief moment of satisfaction when you feel it make solid contact with his head, and he yells in pain again. Yanking your legs free of the car, you scramble to your feet, snatching your bag from the ground as you sprint for the woods.

Too terrified to look back, you run headlong into the tree line. You stumble through the undergrowth, feeling the spindly branches and thorns tear at your clothes and snag in your hair as it rakes bloody scratches into your exposed skin. You trip over tree roots and stub your toes on stones hidden beneath the moldering ground cover of dead leaves. All the while, Jerry is bellowing like an enraged bull as he thrashes through the foliage somewhere behind you, shouting threats and curses at you the whole time.

When you inevitably fall flat on your face, you skid across the forest floor to hitch up at the base of a huge oak. You have just enough time to crawl behind its massive trunk before Jerry comes crashing through. When you hear him approach, you clap your hand over your nose and mouth to muffle the sound of your gasping breaths, terrified he will hear you. Your eyes go wide when you see him pass by your hiding spot close enough that you could reach out and touch him, if you wanted. Scared beyond reason, you press your back against the rough bark of the oak and pray he doesn't see you when he pans the flashlight on his cell phone around.

A strangled noise issues from his throat before he growls out a frustrated, "Fuuuck!" You can see him pacing back and forth as he rakes his hands through his hair. If you didn't know any better, you would think he was panicking. "Crazy fuckin' bitch," you hear him seethe under his heaving breath, growling again. "Fine, ya stupid cunt!" he shouts at the dark woods, throwing his arms up in the air. "Find yer own way home, then!" He then turns around and stomps back the way he came, still uttering curses.

You don't dare move, not even when the sound of his heavy footfalls fades away. You don't dare move, not even when the only thing you can hear is the wind rattling the tree branches overhead. You don't dare move, not until you at last hear the distant sound of a car motor rev to life, the sound gradually diminishing until you can't hear it any longer. It is only then that you are brave enough to slowly stand up on your shaking legs, only to lean once more on the trunk for support as a sob finally tears free from your chest.

You remain that way for several minutes, trying desperately to regain your composure, even as your brain keeps circling around the notion that Jerry's departure is some sort of ruse to lure you back out into the open. It's the idea of spending a cold night alone in the woods that finally has you lifting your head to take in your surroundings and evaluate your situation.

At first glance, it seems pretty dire. You have no idea where you are, you're too scared to venture back onto road for fear of Jerry lying in wait somewhere, and it's pitch dark out tonight, not even the wan light of the moon visible in the overcast sky to help guide you through the woods.

Your only real option is to call for help.

Reaching into your bag, you take out your phone, cursing under your breath when you drop it due to your trembling hands. The glow of the screen is a small comfort as you unlock your phone and open your contacts list. You stare at the emergency number, finger hovering.

If you call the police, there will have to be a report filed, and then there will be an inquiry to investigate your claims. You already know it will be your word against Jerry's. His solicitors will no doubt drag your name through the mud to discredit you, and he will probably still get off with nothing more than a light slap on the wrist, if he even gets that, because he actually didn't do anything to you, at least not physically. Hell, you had done more damage to him than he had to you. He could claim you attacked him, and he wouldn't even be lying.

You look back down at your phone, one name standing out like a beacon in the dark. When you see that name, you think of home, of safety, the two things you want most right now. You select it and hit the call button, holding the phone up to your ear and praying there will be an answer. Your breath catches in your throat when you hear the line connect.

"Whad'ya want, Dee?" a gravelly, annoyed voice growls into your ear, and a sob escapes your throat, you are so relieved to hear him.

"Ruh... Riley? P-Please, Ri... please. I n-need you..."

-

No one in the White Dog knew what to think when the usually quiet giant that sat at the end of the bar suddenly erupted out of his seat, the bar chair toppling over. "Doll! What's wrong? Where are ya?" he barks into his phone.

He apparently doesn't like what he hears.

"He fuckin' did what?! " he growls, a look of pure murderous rage igniting in his dark eyes. As he listens to you, however, his rage is tempered by his troubled concern. "Are ya hurt, love? I swear t'God if he―" His hand clenches into a trembling fist, even though his voice is now a low rumble. "Please don't cry, love. I know, I know, but I'll find ya. Ya know I will. I'm on my way right now. Just... keep yer phone on for me, yeah?"

He's already making for the entrance as he says this, the murderous look returning as he mutters, "I'll kill that bastard," before he barges through the door. He hits it with such force, it slams into the outside wall hard enough to shatter the frosted safety glass. He doesn't even acknowledge it as he runs to his truck and tears off down the street with a bark of tires the next instant, leaving a silent pub full of stunned onlookers in his wake.

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Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 9

Frenemies/Tenderness AU

NINE: Grow Me Something Better

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: While staying at Riley's house to heal and recuperate, he presents you with a surprising proposition.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mention of minor character's death, Unapologetic Fluff, No use of Y/N

(Notes: Been a minute. Hope it's worth the wait.)

Word Count: 3.2K

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Chapter Nine

'Looking around and all I see is people happy with what they're given Life is pretty sweet, I'm told I guess I'm just shit outta luck growing a lemon tree I'm gonna burn it down And grow me something better...'

— Post Malone, "Lemon Tree"

-

Simon wakes slowly, his conscious mind rising like an air bubble in deep water.

He floats up through the dark depths of sleep, passing through the amorphous shapes of dreams to pop awake in the warm reality of his own bed.

His eyes are open but remain hooded, a sigh escaping his lips as he rolls onto his back. It's been ages since he slept this hard. It feels strange, waking lax and loose-limbed, thoughts fuzzy. He blinks at the muted brightness of the room, brows furrowing as he glances down to see sunlight laddered across the foot of the bed. Grunting, his head turns to squint at the clock on the nightstand, shocked when he sees it's nearly fifteen after ten in the morning.

"…the bloody hell?" he mumbles, confused and feeling unaccountably late for some unknown reason.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, head swiveling to take in the empty but rumpled sheets beside him, brows furrowing deeper.

Where are you?

His hand slides over the sheets, cool to the touch, and a frisson of cold panic takes hold. "Dee!" he barks out, his voice pure gravel.

The house is silent.

Grumbling under his breath, he throws off the covers. Plucking at the front of his T-shirt, he notices the tell-tale stain on the left side of his chest where you had drooled on him in your sleep. His gaze softens at the sight even as his anxiety propels him from the bed.

"DEE!" he bellows, his deep voice booming through the house like a sudden clap of thunder.

Still no answer.

He's in the hall and jogging down the stairs in seconds, socked feet slipping as he rounds the banister in the foyer. His eyes dart into the sitting room, noting that the telly is on before his eyes zero in on the kitchen door. He barges into the room, sees an abandoned mug and a protein bar wrapper on the island, but you're nowhere to be seen, and neither is Fiona, for that matter.

Had you talked her into taking you home?

He sees the kettle is still switched on and circles round the island with a muttered curse to turn it off. He's already making plans to find you and bring you back when his eyes catch movement through the window above the sink. His heart thuds hard in relief when he sees you ambling around the back garden, looking over the fallow flower beds.

"Bloody hell," he mutters with a sigh, bracing his hands on the edge of the sink. His eyes track your meandering progress around the yard.

You're moving slow and stiff, but you're moving, bare feet shuffling through the wet grass. Shaking his head, he goes back upstairs to retrieve a towel, a pair of socks and his shower slides, before heading out to join you.

He sees your head turn as he steps outside, pausing to drop the bundle in his hands on the patio chair before walking out to meet you. The corner of your mouth ticks up as he comes to a stop beside you.

"Your garden looks like shite, Ri."

Simon grunts. "Never here long enough t'mess wif a garden. 'Sides, don't know owt 'bout gardenin'. Pay a lad t'mow an' trim. Tha's good 'nough."

You cluck your tongue in disapproval. "Shame to let it all go to waste. You could have a lovely garden with this much space."

"Tha's more yer thing than mine, doll. I'd muck it up, fer sure."

"You would not," you mutter, nudging him. "You'd be a good gardener. You've got the patience for it."

He hums, unconvinced but not in the mood to argue about it. "Never had a garden before. What about you?"

Your eyes took on a distant look, a wistful, sweet smile on your face. "My mum kept a garden. I can still remember it."

Simon slants a cautious look your way, taken by surprise. You rarely speak of your mum. You had mentioned a car accident when he had asked, but didn't say more, the subject closed. He understood enough to know to say no more about it.

Of course, he had looked up the news articles and police report. It had gutted him, reading it. Your mum had slid off the road during a rainstorm, the car flipping over into a flooded ditch. Too injured to free herself, she had ordered you to unbuckle yourself and climb out a broken window to safety. You had sat on the muddy bank and watched as the car slowly filled with water, unable to do anything as your poor mum drowned. You were only six.

"What was in her garden?" he asks, his voice a low, soothing rumble.

Your eyes widen slightly as your mind travels back in time. "Roses along the fence line, a lilac bush outside the kitchen window. She had vegetable and herb beds; I remember weeding them with her. She planted daylilies in the back left corner and..." You pause, then sniff out a little laugh. "Her 'apple-less' tree was planted on the right side."

"Apple-less tree?" he repeats, confused.

You nod, an amused light shining in your eyes. "Mum bought the sapling not long after she and da got married. No one told her that she would need at least two apple trees to get them to bear fruit. They produce by cross pollination, so with no other apple trees nearby, no fruit. It was pretty to look at when it bloomed, but it never produced a single apple. Da used to tease mum about it, called it her 'apple-less' tree. He loved winding her up, making her laugh..."

Your words trail off, a look of longing on your haunted face, and Simon feels his chest constrict, then has to look away. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and guides you back towards the patio.

"C'mon, doll. Need to get ya outta this wet grass. Too cold fer ya to go barefoot, yeah?"

He leads you to the chair, having you sit down before he kneels by your feet. Taking up the towel, he begins to gently chafe your feet with it to dry and warm them up at the same time.

He glances up at you, then looks back down. "Ya know, if ya wanted, ya could plant yerself a garden here. Be nice, comin' home an' sittin' in my back garden with summat to actually look at."

You sniff a laugh, shaking your head. "I'd have to be over here all the time to tend to it. I wouldn't torture you like that," you joke, prodding his chest with your toes.

He grunts a laugh then moves to the other foot, pausing when he sees the bruised shape of Finch's fingers wrapped around your ankle. His fingers graze it with the lightest touch before he curls his hand around it, hiding the mark. "Wouldn't mind it— havin' ya around." His hand slides down from your ankle to cradle your foot. "Least I'd know yer safe."

You can hear the concern in his words, marveling at his penchant for taking on your problems, like you're his responsibility to bear. You wiggle your foot in his grasp, drawing his attention back to your face. Smirking at him, you quip, "Should I move into the garden shed, so you can keep a closer eye on me?"

He goes very still as he peers up at you, caught up in your words. His fingers flex around your foot, deep umber eyes gleaming and earnest when he answers, "No. Ya should take the room across from mine."

You try to make light of it, sniff in amusement like he's still joking, but you can see that's he not, and your smile fades. "Ri..."

His eyes dart between yours, his body coiling, ready to pounce on any argument you might pose and rip it to shreds. "I mean it, doll. If ya want t'put my mind at ease, then move in wif me."

You heave a sigh. "Ri, I know this whole thing with Jerry has put you on edge, but—"

"No," he says emphatically. "Listen t'me. This ain't a spur o' the moment decision. 'M not over-reactin' 'cause o' wha' happened las' night. This has been on my mind fer awhile now."

His accent has grown so thick, you know he means every word he says. "Ri, you just avoided me for a whole week because of a bad row. How are you going to do that if we live together? I'd be in your personal space— all the time."

"Then be in it, I don't care," he growls, clasping your foot to his chest. His eyes have grown fierce with his determination. "Get in my face, give me fuckin' hell, run me outta my own bloody house. Doesn't matter. 'S what I want."

You shake your head, dubious. "Ri, I know it's in your nature to be protective, but you don't have to take care of me. I've been on my own for awhile; I know how to take care of myself." Then you consider what occurred the night before and amend your statement. "So long as I use my common sense, anyway."

His strategic mind tells him to fall back, go at it from a different angle instead of pushing the same point. He focuses on your foot, rubbing it gently between his big hands, bits of dead grass littering the paving stones between his knees.

"'S not jus' about protectin' ya," he murmurs lowly, keeping his voice even and soft. "Ya work yerself to the bone, doll, jus' t'keep yer head above water. If ya live here, ya won't have t'pay rent. Place is already paid fer. We can split the bills, if tha's what ya want, or don't. Doesn't matter t'me. It's worth it t'have ya here lookin' out fer the place while 'm gone. It would help us both out, don'cha see?"

He's wise to your hesitation, but he knows he's got those cogs turning in that sharp little mind of yours. He's revealed his strategy, appealing to your common sense, the one thing he knows you will always fall back on when making an important decision; your practical nature is your default setting. Now, he just has to wait for the other shoe to drop.

"And what about what happened in Shoreditch?" you push back, and there it is.

"I was... outta line," he admits, gaze dropping. "I took it too far. When ya wouldn't say where ya were goin' or what ya were doin', comin' home exhausted, I was convinced ya were seein' some bloke who was usin' ya fer what he could get. 'S why I decided to track ya. I wanted ya t'lead me to him. Was gonna have a word with the sorry bastard."

You scoff at the notion, but don't comment on it, more pressing questions needing to be addressed. "And how did you do it? Follow me, I mean."

He almost balks, but then grumbles it out. "I stole yer phone, had yer GPS signal boosted an' linked to a receiver. 'S how I found ya so quick las' night. I know it was a shite thing t'do, but 'm glad I did it, now."

While you aren't pleased to hear what he did— you're right pissed about it actually, yet you're somehow not surprised. On the one hand, he basically stalked you, but on the other, you couldn't deny his actions were done out of concern and ended up saving you from a terrible situation. Not knowing what to do or how to feel, you chose to set aside. For now.

"I want to talk about what you said to me in the alley. You accused me of giving lap dances to pervs to pay my rent. Why even ask me to move in with you if that's your opinion of me?"

This is the one question he has been dreading above all others. This could all blow up in face if he did a bad job of explaining himself. He didn't expect you to excuse what he said to you, but he wanted you to understand what led him to do it.

"Ya tol' me once that yer da taught ya self-defense, yeah? When yer bein' attacked, ya go on the defensive— ya fight. What did yer da tell ya do?"

Your brows knit together, wondering where he's going with this. "Go for the weakest points on the body. Hurt them before they hurt you, so you can get away."

He nods. "Tha's wha' I did in the alley that day. I wasn't expectin' ya t'catch me out there. Then when ya tore into me, and I... I went on the defensive; I went fer yer weak spot. I didn't say what I did 'cause that's what I thought of ya; I said it 'cause I knew it would hit ya the hardest."

He ducks his head to meet your gaze. "I ain't in no position to judge ya, doll. I kill fer a livin'. Wha' the hell could be worse than tha'? I won't pretend I like the thought o' ya strippin', but I won't judge ya fer it. Yer jus' tryin' t'get by the best ya can."

You scoff again, shaking your head at how dense he can be sometimes. "I'm not a stripper, ya fuckin' eejit. I clean the private rooms at The Grind. Did you not notice the club was closed that day?"

Simon had never been so glad to be proved a fuckin' eejit. Your words are like a soothing balm to his mind. For the past week, the thought of other men seeing you naked, putting their filthy hands on you, had eaten him alive. Yet as pleased as he is to finally know the truth, he's also confused by it.

"Then why go t'all tha' trouble t'hide yer job?"

"Would you want to admit you make your money scrubbing cum stains off the walls? It's basically a brothel, Ri, and I get paid to deep clean sex rooms and toss out used condoms. It's disgusting; it's bloody embarrassing."

Simon nods in understanding and returns to his task, working his too-large socks onto your cold feet, then slips the slides on them. It's almost comical how big they are on you. Gripping your knee, he looks up to meet your eyes again. "Ain't no shame in makin' an honest livin', doll. I would never think less of ya fer it."

He gets back to his feet, resolute to see this through to its end. "I know we fight, doll, an' I doubt that'll ever change. Thing is, no matter how hard we fight, no matter how pissed we are at each other, when we need each other, we show up. We take care o' each other. Tha's as close t'family as I'll ever get, doll. It ain't perfect, but it's real an' it's ours."

With that, he leaves you to make up your mind.

-

You're quiet the rest of the day, and Simon knows you're thinking, picking over everything that was said, analyzing it, deciding if his offer is the best thing for the both of you. He leaves you to it, gives you your space, knowing there's nothing else to be done for it; you either will or you won't; he'll accept your decision either way.

When you knock at the door to his office and poke your head in to say goodnight, he wishes you the same, then listens as you go about your routine before bed. He wonders if you'll get much sleep tonight, because he doubts that he will. Still, there's a calmness that settles over him as he gets into bed and turns out the light, the knowledge that you're just a room away and safe giving him the peace of mind to close his eyes and rest.

The next morning, he wakes, checks in on you, goes for a run, checks in on you again, then goes to the Dog to fix the door he broke, leaving a note on the island to let you know. He hopes you'll still be there when he returns.

As he replaces the door, Ollie tells him about the police investigation that's been opened on Finch for multiple sex offenses. His informant relayed the news that Finch is now considered a fugitive on the run, after his car was found abandoned in a car park near Heysham Port in Lancashire. Simon is pleased, glad that their plan worked, glad that he played a part in ensuring that Finch never hurts you or anyone else again.

When he returns home, the house is empty, but your old messenger bag is still hanging on the peg by the door, your trainers still set next to his old boots in the corner. He wanders to the patio doors and there you are, almost ankle-deep in the mud of one of the garden beds, a pile of dead plants uprooted and tossed to the side.

Simon crosses the yard, his heart beating fast in his chest. "What're ya doin', doll?"

You stop, stand up straight and arch your sore back, hands on your hips. "Decided I want the vegetable garden here. Need to go by the nursery later, and the hardware store, too. Need some proper gardening tools."

Simon nods calmly, though he's pumping his fist on the inside. "I'll take ya. Jus' say when, an' we'll go."

You nod, sniff, then slant a look at him. "When I move house, I'd rather keep my couch. Yours is shite. Like sitting on a slab of concrete."

He huffs but nods. "Tha's fine but keep your grubby mitts off my Barca. Tha' stays, no matter what."

You shrug, then start picking your way out of the garden bed, taking his hand when he holds it out to you. You both peer down at your mud-caked bare feet, and Simon shakes his head. "Get over t'the hose an' wash yer bloody feet. I'll go get ya a towel an' some clean socks."

Later, while you're wandering the nursery perusing the plants, Simon goes off on his own, returning a few minutes later with a receipt that he tucks in his pocket without saying a word. You end up bickering over who's going to pay for everything as the cashier looks on with bored disinterest, then split it down the middle.

The following morning, you get up and head downstairs to make yourself some coffee, when you happen to spy Riley in the garden, the water hose extended out to the far-right corner of the property. Curious, you go out to see what he's up to, but your steps slow to a halt when you see what he's done.

There are now two new sapling trees planted at the back of the garden, a muddy spade and empty soil bags tossed into a nearby wheelbarrow. You step up to stand beside Riley as he waters them, looking up to meet his gaze when he bumps you with his shoulder.

"Couldn't get ya one like yer mum's. Had t'get dwarf apple trees cause o' the housing code restrictions. Figured ya'd still want apples, though, so I got ya two."

Linking your arm through his, you turn your head to swipe at an errant tear, but your smile is radiant when you look up at him again.

"They're perfect, Ri. I love them."

He's smiling underneath his mask when he says, "Ya know I did this fer purely selfish reasons. I like those little apple hand pies ya make."

You laugh, poking him in the side. "You'll be waiting awhile, then. It takes a couple of years at least before they'll produce any apples."

He shrugs, not bothered at all. "Tha's alright. I don't mind waitin', if you don't."

You stare up into his warm umber eyes and shake your head, heart overflowing. "No. I don't mind waiting at all."

-

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Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 6

(Frenemies/ Tenderness AU)

SIX: A Terrible Thing to Bear

SIMON GHOST RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: Simon has compromised his own morals in his quest to discover who your secret lover is, but what he discovers is nothing compared to what he imagined. Tempers flare and harsh words are exchanged as the ugly truths you both have kept hidden come to light.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Angst, Hurt/No comfort - not yet anyway, Mentions of sex trade/prostitution, Obsessive/Possessive behavior, Jealousy, Simon is being stalker-ish, No use of Y/N

(Notes: This is a rough chapter, y’all. Simon does some questionable things, so fair warning. He’s allowed his obsession with this supposed lover of Reader’s to warp his perception of right and wrong, and his decisions reflect that. While I don’t condone this type of behavior, and I’m not trying to romanticize it at all, I still felt like it was in character with Simon and how he would cope with the situation, treating it like a mission to complete.)

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Word Count: 3350

Chapter 6

“Remorse is a terrible thing to bear, Pam, one of the worst of all punishments in this life. To wish undone something you have done, to wish you could look back on kindness to someone you love, instead of on unkindness - that is a very terrible thing.”

― Enid Blyton, House at the Corner

-

It felt like a betrayal of trust, what he was doing. 

If he had allowed himself to think about it, maybe he would have acknowledged that, yes, it absolutely was a betrayal. However, Simon was in no mood to be swayed from his mission, not even by his own conscience. Even so, his moral compass had taken a severe hit this past week.

He had stolen your phone.

He had every intention of giving it back, he just needed to ‘borrow’ it for a few hours. Still, he felt like a right sorry bastard, having to witness how upset you were over its loss. He consoled himself with the knowledge that your small grief was only temporary and was ultimately for a good cause. If that useless tosser you were seeing wasn’t going to take care of you properly, then Simon needed to intervene. He was doing this for you, he told himself.

Funny, that he had to keep reminding himself of that.

The first order of business was to be able to track you once you left Banfield, thus his reason for stealing your phone. He drove the two hours to base, your cell phone weighing like a stone in his pocket, then handed it over to one of the lab rats in the tech department.

“Need t’be able to trace this long range,” he’d told the tech, handing over your phone.

“Anything else?” the tech asked expectantly.

Putting a tracker on your phone was bad enough. Simon shook his head. “Nah. That’ll do. Need it ASAP.”

The tech looked the cell over and shrugged. “Won’t take long. Are you sure you don’t need access to anything else, though? I can get you detailed logs of calls, texts, search history, locations—”

“Locations?” Simon interrupted. Now, that he would allow. “Can you pinpoint where they were last Sunday?”

The tech nodded, a rather smug expression on his face as he tilted his nose up in the air. “Well, I can tell you where the phone was... approximately.” He took the phone back to his terminal and hooked it up to his computer, then began typing. He hacked into it within minutes, your personal data scrolling down the computer screen. “Alright then, let’s see where you’ve been..." he mumbled to himself. Scrolling down the screen, he paused to ask, "Last Sunday, did you say?”

“Yeah,” Simon muttered, his large frame leaning over the shoulder of the smaller man, eager to see what he’d find.

"Time stamp?"

Simon erred on the side of caution. "Hm, let's say... 0900. They would have been traveling that morning. I need to know where they went."

The tech gave a quick nod. He scrolled for a few more seconds, his brows furrowing. “Huh. Bit of a rough borough,” he muttered. He glanced over his shoulder at Simon, his neck craned. “Judging by the pings, it looks like your target took the overtrain to Hackney last Sunday.”

“Hackney?!” Simon barked, making the tech jump in surprise. ”Where in Hackney?” he demanded.

The tech pushed his glasses back up his nose, blinking up at Simon’s skull mask with an owlish expression. He quickly turned back to the keyboard.

“I can’t pinpoint a specific location, like an address," he warned, fingers dancing over the keys, "but I can narrow it down to a general area." He began to scroll down through more data displayed on the screen and then moved to the side, pointing at the log. 

“Your target reached their destination around eleven Sunday morning. They were stationary for about six hours at a location in Shoreditch. Looks like they were somewhere around the party block.” When Simon gave him a quizzical look, he explained. “Lot of clubs in that area. You know, dance clubs, strip clubs, bars and the like.” He peered up at Simon with a leering little smirk. “Your target isn’t a waitress or a stripper, is she? If she’s got some hot selfies. I could forward ‘em to ya,” he suggested, raising his eyebrows as he waggled your phone back and forth.

Anger, swift as a brush fire, swept through Simon in a flaming rush. The thought of this pervy little creeper going through your photos infuriated him. He yanked the phone away, laying it back on the desk before jabbing a finger into the tech’s boney shoulder. “Jus’ get the bloody tracker operational, then delete everything ya downloaded off that phone. All of it. Understood?”

The tech, realizing his mistake too late, gave a jerky nod as he scrambled to do as Simon commanded, shooting a nervous glance over his shoulder. Once the tracker was installed and activated on your phone, the tech disconnected it and deleted all your data from the system. Tapping the delete button on the last file, he proclaimed it, “Done and done,” with an air of smug bravado.

Simon eyed the younger man. There was just something about this weaselly little punter that didn’t sit right with him. He leaned down close to the tech’s face, skull mask close enough to brush his cheek. "Just a warnin', lad. If ya try t'pull a fast one, an' I find out ya kept, say, the file wif her pictures, I'll be back t'visit ya, an’ I won’t be as pleasant as I was this time.” He drew back to stare into his eyes. “We on the same page, mate?"

The terrified tech gulped, the knuckle of his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his scrawny neck. "Y-Yes, sir," he breathed out in a quavering voice.

Simon straightened and clapped a big hand on the tech’s shoulder. "Good lad," he growled, squeezing his hand tight enough to make the young man's eyes widen in pain and panic. "Now get the receiver for the tracker goin’. I got places t’be."

The tech set to work with trembling hands, back spacing several times while typing to correct mistakes made with his nervous fingers. Finally, he managed to program a receiver and synced it to your cell phone, double-checking it before he passed it to the glowering lieutenant.

“S-Sorry about earlier, sir. I meant no offense,” he apologized, holding your phone out in offering.

Simon sneered at the tech as he snatched your cell phone from his hand and stalked out of the room without another word, absolutely seething with rage. However, he wasn't as angry at the little knob he'd just threatened as he was at you. 

What the bloody hell were you doing in Shoreditch? It had one of the highest crime rates in London, and you were just traipsing around the bloody place? His worries increased tenfold at the thought of you walking the streets there after dark, sitting alone and exposed at some inner-city bus stop like a piece of ripe fruit for some low-life to pick at their leisure. Did that bastard you were seeing at least walk you to your stop, make sure you got on the bus safe?

Simon grunted. Probably not. The fact that it was you putting forth all the effort and taking the risks hadn’t escaped him. Fuckin’ minger didn’t give a shite about you. Simon would never let you go somewhere like Shoreditch alone, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let you walk the streets alone at night. Just the thought of it made him feel sick.

His stomach was tied in knots by the time he made it back to his truck and set out for Banfield once more.

It was a long drive home.

-

Sunday...

The train to Hackney came to a halt with a squeal of brakes and a loud hiss. When the automatic doors opened, you quickly stepped out and made your way through the terminal to the main street beyond. You kept your head down, not making eye contact with anyone. Huddling inside your da’s old army jacket, you took a seat on the bench at the bus stop and waited for the bus to Shoreditch.

You didn’t pay any mind to the dark sedan that pulled to the curb across and further up the street, didn’t notice the large silhouette of a man sitting behind the wheel. You kept your eyes straight ahead and pointed down at the grimy sidewalk.

Simon slouched in his seat, the receiver blinking rapidly beside him. He checked his rental car’s mirrors before focusing on you again, taking in your stony expression. At least you knew not to engage with people, stay to yourself. He made a mental note to ask if you carried anything for protection, pepper spray or a knife. Not that those would do much good against some chav with a gun. He gritted his teeth and gripped the wheel.

Your bus arrived and you climbed aboard, taking a seat near the back. Simon waited until it was further up the block but still easily within sight before pulling out to follow. He wasn’t worried about losing track of you now, but he still felt the need to stay close, just in case.

With each stop, Simon tensed, waiting for you to rise and disembark, thinking your secret lover must live in one of the residential buildings that crowded the streets, yet it wasn’t until the bus reached a narrow street lined with shuttered businesses― bars, clubs and cheap eateries mostly, that you stepped off the bus. He pulled to the curb again to watch but felt his heart rate tick up when you turned and began walking in his direction.

“Fuck,” he hissed, trying to slouch in the seat and make himself less visible.

Just before you reached his vehicle, you stopped before a shuttered store front, the facade painted an ugly, lurid rust red, its corrugated shutter a flat black and littered with graffiti. You raised your fist and banged on the shutter, keeping a wary eye out as you waited. A door to the side of the shutter swung open, an older, balding man poking his head out and motioning for you to come inside.

Simon watched you step through the door, disappearing from sight, his eyes travelling up to the name of the establishment printed on the sign above in bold, white letters. ‘The Grind’, it read and below that in a smaller font, ‘Gentleman’s Club’.

“What the bloody fuckin’ hell?” he snarled.

You had just entered a strip club.

You stood in the back near the dressing rooms, a mop bucket filling with water from a tap low on the wall. A cleaning trolley sat nearby, loaded down with everything you’d need. Your boss, Murray, was standing on the other side of the tap, his paunchy frame leaned against the bare brick wall as he tapped away at his phone. He glanced up at you as you shut off the tap and dunked the mop in the bucket.

“Be sure an’ give the private rooms a deep clean. Had a good night last night. The lads kept the girls busy,” he said with a leering smirk.

You tried to hide your disgust at the insinuation. Murray’s ‘girls’ were allowed to supplement their incomes by servicing the club’s clientele with sexual favors. He was little better than a street pimp, taking a cut of their profits for himself in exchange for a safe place to conduct their business. He had cameras hid in the private rooms to make sure none of the dancers shafted him, always keeping a sharp eye on his ‘investments’, as he called them.

If not for the fact he paid you so well, you wouldn’t be caught dead around a dive like this, wouldn’t ever bother to come to Shoreditch or Hackney at all. After moving away from this crime-infested area, you never wanted to return, but your financial situation demanded it. If it wasn’t for this job, you would have to work another part-time job when you weren’t on shift at the pub. Ollie paid you a fair wage, but it wasn’t enough to cover all your living expenses.

Picking up the jug of industrial cleaner from the cart, you poured a measure of it into the bucket of water, wrinkling your nose at its caustic smell. You had no doubt that this is what was damaging your hands. “Hey, Mur. Do ya think you could switch cleaners? This stuff is so strong it takes the skin off my hands.”

Murray shook his head. “That stuff kills everything. No matter what these filthy mingers bring in here, tha’ stuff will take care of it. Just― double up on the gloves ‘r somethin’,” he said over his shoulder as he headed back towards his office.

Arsehole, you thought, scowling after him. You’d have to try and hide your hands from Riley tonight. He’d be checking on them now and would fuss, you knew, no doubt asking more questions. You grimaced at the thought.

You didn’t like dodging his questions and skirting around the truth, but he just wouldn’t leave it alone, and it was getting kind of annoying. You appreciated that he was concerned about your welfare, but he was toeing the line of your personal boundaries, trying to make something his business that simply wasn’t.

You could admit that most of your hesitance to come clean with him was due to your own embarrassment. You were being paid to deep clean what was essentially a brothel. You were paid well for it, sure— well, you were paid hansdomely for your discretion also— but who would want to admit they earned their paycheck tossing out bin bags of used condoms and scrubbing sex rooms clean for a living? You could just picture the look of disgust on Riley’s face if he ever found out.

You blew out a frustrated breath. This whole situation was wearing thin on your patience. You needed to get started, otherwise you risked missing your bus back to the train station later, and you didn’t want to be in Shoreditch after dark, if you could help it. Deciding to start with the trash, first, you grabbed the roll of bin bags from the cart and set off for the private rooms.

Simon strolled past the Grind’s entrance for the third time, eyes darting around beneath the hood of his sweatshirt as he eyed the security camera over the door. He’d spotted others while casing the building, all of them unfortunately operational, save one. It was located at the side emergency exit above the door, lifeless, its red light dead. 

It was his best hope of entry, but it was far from optimal. The alleyway was wide to allow vehicle access, so it was kept clear with few places to hide, far more exposed than he would have liked. He had also checked the emergency door during his first recon of the building, only to find that it was alarmed and locked tight. It wasn’t impregnable, he could still get in, but he would need to bypass the alarm as well as pick the locks, which would take time, and he would need to do all this without being spotted.

It was a recipe for disaster, he knew, his chances of being caught by some random pedestrian high. He was dressed casually, and he’d chosen to wear his surgical mask to draw less attention, but his size was an issue; his large, towering frame drew the curious glances of those he passed. Add that to being dressed in dark clothes and masked, if he was spotted loitering about the exit for too long, someone was bound to report him.

He needed a better look at the alarm and the locks to give him an idea of what this risky endeavor would entail. Turning down the alleyway once more, he kept a leisurely pace, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, seemingly relaxed, just a guy taking a shortcut to get to the next street over. His eyes shifted as he came even with the door, his steps slowing just a fraction, all attention focused on the locks.

He wasn’t expecting the door to suddenly burst open, and he startled, his body turning to face the door head-on. His eyes went wide when you came pushing out the door, hands full of bin bags. Your head shot up at the scuffing sound of his boots on the pavement, startled yourself, your mouth falling open to gasp as your eyes went wide in surprise.

“Riley?!”

Simon felt like a deer in headlights. You’d caught him red handed, nosing around, and only then did he consider how bad this must look. He could already tell by the way you were looking at him that he was about to catch all sorts of hell, so he acted accordingly.

Squaring off as he scowled at you, he growled, “The fuck is this, Dee? You an’ me are goin’ t’have a talk!”

“Oh, you fuckin’ bet we are!” you snapped back, flinging the bin bags down as you marched towards. him. You jabbed your finger at him as you gave him a baleful look. “You followed me,” you accused, voice low and angry. “You just couldn’t stand not knowing, could ya? You just had to know, so you followed me here, doggin’ my steps like some bloody’ creeper.” You glared at him, mouth pinching up in anger. “I am so fucking pissed at you, right now.”

Feeling defensive and irrationally betrayed, he glared at you, speaking in a venomous tone. “Don’t give a fuck how pissed ya are,” he huffed, then scoffed at your shocked expression. “So, this is yer big secret? Ya give lap dances to dirty old pervs to pay yer rent?” 

You wouldn’t have been more shocked if he had slapped you across the face. He’d said plenty of mean things to you in the past when the two of you argued, but he had never been cruel to you like this. Never. Pain as sharp as a dagger pierced your heart, but quickly morphed into fury. A thunderous look darkened your expression. Before you knew what you were about, you planted your hands on his chest and shoved him, hard. It caught him off guard enough that he staggered a step back, eyes going wide in surprise.

“Don’t you ever speak to me like that again!” you snarled, stepping away. “Better yet, don’t fuckin’ speak to me at all.” You spun on your heel and went back to the door, only then noticing it had closed behind you. You were locked out. Growling in frustration and on the verge of tears, you curled your hands into fists and began marching stiffly towards the street exit. You’d have to get Murray to let you back in.

Simon came around you and blocked your way, his eyes full of rage until he saw the expression on your face. Tears were threatening to spill, hurt sharp and bright in your eyes. “Doll, listen. I―”

“I trusted you. You were supposed to be my friend.” Your breath hitched, and a tear rolled down your face. You gave a furious shake of your head when he opened his mouth and hurried to step around him. You couldn’t do this anymore.

“Doll, wait!” he called after you, but you shook your head and walked faster.

“Don’t, Riley. Just...leave me alone.” Your voice wavered on the last word, and you broke into a jog, hurrying around the corner and out of sight.

Simon stared after you, the reality of what he’d just done, what he’d just said to you, settling in his chest like cold lead, his heart crushed beneath the weight of his own remorse.

-

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Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 5

(Frenemies/Tenderness AU) FIVE: The Meat You Feed On

SIMON GHOST RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: Simon is having some issue with your secretive behavior, his suspicions and jealousy pushing him to show up unexpectedly at your flat one night. 

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, bit of angst, jealousy, possessive behavior, No use of Y/N, Simon is a simp, and so is reader, idiots in love, but too stubborn to admit it.

(Notes: I’ll always see Simon as a possessive personality. The poor man revels in Reader’s attention, so thinking it’s being focused on someone else... bothers him. Jealousy is not necessarily healthy for a relationship, but this is all new for the big guy, and feelings are hard, okay?)

 [gif via tenor] 

Word Count: 3121

Chapter 5

-

“O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on.”

― William Shakespeare, Othello

“You can only be jealous of someone who has something you think you ought to have yourself.”

― Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale

-.

Simon wanted to know where the hell you were going.

To make ends meet, you worked six days a week at the pub, taking one day off. On that one day, you disappeared. Where you went, he had no idea. He only knew that you left early in the morning and didn’t return until late in the evening, usually well after dark. You had done this for as long as he’d known you, but it was only of late it had begun to eat at him.

You never spoke of these little excursions you took outside of the village, never said where you went or what you did. He had tried to ferret the intel out of you, bringing it up every now and then during conversation, but you would simply not answer or change the subject. Even early on in your friendship, this stuck in his craw a little bit, but he always deferred to respecting your privacy. You stayed out of his business when he made it clear he didn’t want to talk about something, so he gave you the same respect, but now...

It was driving him bloody mad.

Perhaps it wouldn’t bother him so much if you didn’t always look so utterly spent when you returned home. It wasn’t just mental weariness; you were physically exhausted, and he couldn’t help but wonder if you were seeing someone. What if you had a partner, a lover who was— he gritted his teeth— doing this to you.

He didn’t like thinking about it, shouldn’t be thinking about it— it was none of his bloody business, but he couldn’t help it. The truth of it was he hated seeing you in such a state, knowing he had nothing to do with it.

You looked that way, right now, peeking around the open door of your flat. His hands clenched into fists and his jaw creaked as he ground his teeth. He stood there on your threshold, staring down at you as you peered up at him, a bone-tired expression on your face. “Riley. Did you just get back?”

It was times like this that he wished you hadn’t opened the door at the pub that night, because you’d opened something up inside him as well, and not everything that came crawling out of him was nice. Something dark and cold was curling in his chest, leaving a bitter taste at the back of his throat. It fed venom to that thought that had been swirling in his head all day long. Where the fuck had you been and who the hell were you with?

“Got back this mornin’. Came by earlier but you weren’t here,” he replied, tilting his head. “Ya goin’ t’invite me in ‘r not?”

You blinked, lids drooping in slow motion before fluttering up again. You were dead on your feet. “Oh. Yeah, of course. Sorry,” you mumbled, shuffling aside. “C’mon in.”

Simon stepped inside, glancing around. He’d never been inside your flat before. It was little more than a cracker box, and a shite one, at that, but it was clean and tidy, and very much you.

There were a lot of bookshelves and houseplants. His eyes went a little wide at the sight. Every bit of free space had a shelf of some sort crammed in it and then that was crammed full of books. There were large colorful art prints and old movie posters in cheap frames that caught his eye, odd little knickknacks, little framed photos of family and friends tucked onto shelves and set about the room. There was the lingering smell of food in the air that made his stomach growl. 

“Mind takin’ off your boots?” you asked.

Simon turned his head to stare after you as you stepped into your tiny kitchen, then glanced down at his booted feet. Sodden tracks littered the clean tiles. He bent and unlaced them, toeing them off before setting them beside your own shoes on the small mat you kept by the door. He noticed how small your shoes looked next to his and for some reason he felt his chest grow warm and tight.

“Go ahead and have a seat. I’ll make you a cuppa, yeah?”

“Yeah. Sure.” His eyes travelled over your form, noting the lounge pants with fat, white cartoon cats overlaying a textile pattern of hot pink and black plaid. Your shirt was a ratty looking band tee with AC/DC’s Highway to Hell album cover printed on it, faded and cracking from multiple washes. Black and pink fuzzy socks covered your feet. You must have taken a shower when you got home, because your hair hung loose and damp, face scrubbed free of makeup. You looked... good this way.

Padding through the small living area, he took a seat on your couch and groaned as he sank into the cushions. Pulling a throw pillow out from the corner to settle back into the seat better, he tucked it between his thigh and the arm of the couch. It smelled faintly of the perfume you wore.

He could picture you curled up here, head on the pillow, that fluffy blanket at the other end of the couch tucked around you while you read or watched the telly. He eyed your entertainment setup next, noticing how small your little flatscreen was. He had a monitor that was about the same size. Your DVD collection put his to shame, though. He leaned forward and tilted his head to study the titles.

“You can borrow any of those you like,” you said, rounding the couch with an arm outstretched, a steaming mug in your hand.

He nodded his thanks, watching as you settled back with your own mug at the other end of the couch. You sipped it with your eyes closed, humming before setting the mug down on the coffee table in front of you. Turning slightly, you gave him a once over, something he noticed you did now when he returned from deployment.

“You weren’t gone so long this time. That’s good, right?”

Simon grunted. He had been gone for ten days, a quick in-and-out to retrieve a hostage from a safehouse in Switzerland. Bad intel resulted in an ambush instead of an extraction. No one had made it out unscathed. The stitches in his shoulder began to itch. “Depends on how ya look at it.”

You gave him a querulous expression but knew better than to probe for more information. Riley never talked about his missions, his ‘ops’, as he and Ollie called them. “Have you eaten? I’ve got some left—”

“Where were you all day?”

Your mouth hung open, caught off guard by his sudden inquiry. “I had some errands outside of the village,” you replied, purposefully vague.

“Must’a been a hell of an errand. Yer bloody exhausted,” he persisted, eyeing you. “An’ it took ya all day, too.” Your confused little frown prompted him to add, “Came by earlier tonight. Ya still weren’t ‘ome yet.”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, drawing your knees up closer to your chest as you pushed yourself back into the corner of the couch. You averted your gaze and shrugged. “It’s no big deal. All the travelling, I suppose. The bus, the train ride. It tires me out.” You shook your head and picked up the remote, holding it out to him. “Here. Find something to watch. I’m going to go heat up the leftovers for you.”

He took it from your hand, trying not to glare at you in frustration. Not your bloody business, he reminded himself. “Ya don’t gotta do that, Dee. Just— rest,” he muttered, biting the inside of his cheek to stop the questions in his mouth from tumbling out.

“It’s no problem,” you said, moving to get up, but he stopped you with a growl.

“Jus’ bloody leave it,” he groused. “Ya ain’t m’damn mum.”

He could see hurt flash in your eyes before that little scowl appeared. Scoffing, you sneered at him. “Fine, ya grumpy arsehole.”

Simon seethed for a few minutes, then gave up. “Ya don’t gotta feed me every time ya see me, Dee.”

You slanted a mean, narrow look at him. “I’ve seen how you grocery shop, remember? Protein bars and a pack of Stella’s is not sustenance. Neither is eating takeaway every other meal.”

He threw his head back on the cushion, staring up at the cracked ceiling. Bloody hell this place was a dump. You deserved better than this. He blew out a tired sigh. “Fine. If it’ll stop yer naggin’, I’ll eat.”

Your smile was instant and smug. “Good,” you said, rising from the couch. “Now, find something to watch,” you said, pointing at the telly.

“Need to use the loo, first. Ya mind?”

“‘Course not,” you said over your shoulder, pointing at your bedroom door. “Through my room. Door’s open.”

Simon stood and circled the couch, casting a quick glance over you before entering your room. He slowed his steps on entry. He was walking through your inner sanctum, your most personal space. It was tiny with little room for more than the twin bed, nightstand and chest of drawers, another small flat screen sitting atop it. He paused when he glanced down at your nightstand, spotting a framed photo. Darting a quick glimpse over his shoulder, he picked it up to study it.

The picture had been taken at the pub. You were standing behind the bar, leaning on an elbow as you talked to... him. He was in the photo as well. There was a brief moment of panic, but considering the angle, it had to have been taken by someone else behind the bar, so it was taken either by Ollie or Fiona, probably Fiona. Ollie knew better.

He examined the photo closely. He was seated in his usual spot, arms resting on the bar, an empty tumbler and a book lying between you. You were looking at each other, an amused little smile on your face. What struck him was how he was looking at you. He had tilted his head, his eyes focused on you like you were the only person in the room, then realized that’s usually how it felt, too. You always had been a bloody distraction. He shook his head.

He startled when he heard you close the microwave and quickly set the picture back the way he found it, hurrying on silent feet into your bathroom.

It was about the size of a postage stamp, barely enough room for him to move. He shut the door behind him, then huddled over the toilet, arm pressed against the wall as he relieved himself. He noticed the toilet was leaking and frowned as he washed his hands. He’d ask you about it, offer to fix it. The faucet in the shower stall was dripping as well. He reached in to try to tighten the knob, but it was no use. He then took your shampoo off the little formed ledge and sniffed it. It smelled nice, sweet and floral, like you.

Not wanting to linger any longer, he made his way back to the main living area, but you motioned for him to sit at the counter instead. “Just in time,” you said, sliding a plate towards him. “I’ll go sit and watch some telly, so you can eat in peace.” 

You laid a fork and knife by the plate with a sheet of kitchen roll for a napkin. Simon looked down as you drew your hand away, his own darting out to catch your wrist and pull your hand closer to get a better look at it.

“Bloody hell, Dee,” he muttered, looking at the raw, red patches and peeling skin. “What the fuck did ya do to yer hands?”

You shrugged, trying to pull it back. “It’s nothing. They get like this, sometimes. Probably something in the cleaning products I use, most likely. I wear gloves, but I seem to always end up with my hands soaked at some point.”

He held on, skimming a thumb over the irritated skin. “You should tell Ol the stuff he uses at the pub is fuckin’ up yer skin.”

You gave him an odd look then offered a reluctant nod. “Yeah. Guess I should.” You dropped your gaze to the plate of food in front of him. “Go ahead and eat,” you reminded him softly, taking your hand back.

You came around the counter and walked behind him, your steps taking you back to the small sitting area. He heard the telly turn on and snippets of sound erupted as you began flipping through the channels. He chanced a peek over his shoulder, seeing only the crown of your head poking up above the back of the couch. You stopped flipping channels, settling on some old black and white movie. He turned back around and looked at his plate.

It was simple fare— bangers and mash, but it was one of his favorite dishes. The steam rising from the plate smelled heavenly and his stomach rumbled in protest. Tugging his balaclava up to his nose, he picked up the knife and fork and dug in. The first bite made his eyes slide shut as he savored the taste. It was so bloody good, reminding him of his childhood, of his mum. She used to make the same dish. Nostalgia, bittersweet, overtook his thoughts as memories of sitting at the dinner table with his mum and Tommy took up his headspace.

Eventually, his attention began to drift. He found himself listening to the voices on the telly, the volume kept low in consideration of your neighbors. His eyes wandered over the small kitchen before him.

The counter was scarred and chipped but scrubbed clean, like the rest of the kitchen. Old enamel and scratched chrome gleamed under the glow of the overhead light. You had a collection of herbs in the window, a collection of cookbooks on top of the fridge, and a collection of smaller appliances pushed back against the wall below the cupboards. He couldn’t even guess what the majority of them were for.

He looked down at his empty plate then back around the small kitchen. You should be cooking in a big, fully stocked kitchen worthy of your skills, he thought. He turned in his seat to look around the rest of the flat. As shabby as the place itself was, you still made it feel warm and inviting; you made it a home. He couldn’t help but wonder what you could do with a place like his row house, but then that thought segued into a darker thought.

Did you do this for whoever you went to see on your days off? Did you cook for him, too? Did you clean his flat for him while you were there? Was that why your hands were in such bad shape? He was certain whoever the sorry wanker was, he didn’t appreciate it enough. If he did, you wouldn’t be living here. He should be taking better care of you.

The need to discover where you went and who you were seeing was eating him alive, and now he was more determined than ever to find out. He wouldn’t be able to let it go until he did.

Taking his dirty dishes to the sink, he quickly washed them and left them to dry in the rack, then went back to join you on the couch. When he came around, he looked down at you and then paused. You’d fallen asleep, your head lying against your shoulder. A tube of topical cream was lying in your lap, something you had used to treat your hands, which laid atop the blanket, still red and raw looking. It pissed him off to see you this way, but he choked it down and swallowed it to sour in his gut with your food.

He needed to go. He didn’t want to lash out at you again because he was angry at the useless sod you were apparently seeing. Perhaps he needed to find this bastard and have a word with him. It would probably piss you off to no end, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t let this stand. He should be treating you far better, and Simon was more than happy to inform him of that fact. You were his friend, and he would do everything in his power to look after you.

That was the excuse he went with as he decided to follow you on your next outing. Mind made up, he slipped his boots back on and readied himself to leave.

“Doll,” he murmured, giving your shoulder a gentle shake.

Your eyes blinked open and you sat up. You looked about, confused for a moment before peering up at him with a sleepy expression that made his heart beat funny in his chest. “Sorry, Ri. Must’ve dozed off.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, love. You need to go to bed. I’m headin’ home.”

You nodded, standing to see him to the door. You paused, turning back to look behind you. “Oh, did you want to pick out some movies or a book or something?”

Simon smiled beneath his mask. “’S alright, doll. How ‘bout I bring you home tomorrow after work an’ pick out something then, yeah?”

Your eyes went a little wide, a little smile forming. “Yeah, that will be fine. I could make us dinner, too. Feed you an actual hot meal instead of reheated leftovers,” you offered.

“Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow. G’night.”

“Good night, Ri. Be careful driving home.”

He gave you a nod and turned to leave, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t forget to lock your door.”

“Will do!” you called after him, that little smile still lingering as you watched him disappear from sight.

Locking up, as promised, you went to bed thinking about what you were going to make him for dinner the next evening. You gazed at the photo by your bedside until you drifted back to sleep.

-

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Love Thy Frenemy + Interlude

Dinner & a Movie

ONE SHOT/INTERLUDE

SIMON RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: Simon helps you prepare dinner before settling in to watch an old movie that has a surprising impact on the stoic soldier.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, lots of fluff and warm fuzzy feelings, no use of Y/N

(Notes: I was going to gloss over this part in the next chapter, but a reader expressed their excitement over Simon and Doll/reader having a date night, and I would hate to disappoint, so... date night it is. The film mentioned in the story is real, one which I highly recommend. It's one of my favorite comfort films.)

Word Count: 2531

Interlude

-

“I knew already that the best meal in the world, the perfect meal, is very rarely the most sophisticated or expensive one.... Context and memory play powerful roles in all the truly great meals in one's life.” ― Anthony Bourdain, A Cook's Tour: Global Adventures in Extreme Cuisines

-

You don't know why you were so nervous, but Riley was, too apparently.

Neither of you spoke as you left the pub after your shift, the air between you awkward and tense. For some reason, this felt different than the other times he had taken you home. Was it because he was coming up to your flat with you? Was he nervous for a similar reason or was it because he had agreed to have dinner with you? He should know he didn't need to worry about that. You would make allowances for him, just like you did last night. Then another thought sprang up in your mind.

Maybe you were nervous because this felt suspiciously like a date.

Don't go there, Dee, you chided yourself. This was nothing more than two friends hanging out and sharing a meal together. Thinking thoughts like that didn't serve any purpose and only made you nervous when you had no reason to be. Strengthening your resolve, you climbed into the truck as he did the same.

"Do you mind stopping by the market?" you asked, trying to push your worries aside as you buckled your seatbelt. "I need to grab a few things for dinner."

Riley shot you a quick look and nodded, fastening his own seatbelt. "Sure, doll. Whatever ya need." He gave you another quick glance, then added, "What're ya goin' t'make, anyway?"

"Roast chicken and vegetables― unless you'd prefer something else?"

He gave a quick shake of the head. "No. Tha's fine." He seemed to be debating his next words, then forced them out. "Ya don't got t'cook if yer tired, ya know? Ain't no big deal. Ya worked all day, so you should relax. I can grab us some takeaway or― "

You laughed lowly. "Ohhh, no you don't. You're not talking me out of this. I'd be cooking whether you were with me or not, so it's not like I'm going out of my way or something. Besides, you eat too much takeaway and fast food, as it is." You giggled when he sniffed and attempted to look offended. Giving him a playful nudge, you tried to reassure him. "Seriously, Ri. It's no big deal. There's not much work involved in what I'm making. It's mostly prep work, then the oven does the rest."

He hummed but didn't say anything else. He drove you to Ploughman's Market, the local grocery, parking in the small car park nearby and shut off the motor. You expected him to stay in the truck while you shopped, knowing how much he despised shopping, so you were surprised when he got out with you and trailed behind you into the store.

Grabbing a shopping cart, you led the way down the first aisle, pausing to pull your grocery list from your back pocket. Riley was shifting back and forth from one foot to the other, looking impatient and nervous as he uncrossed then recrossed his arms over his chest. He was clearly uncomfortable, which in turn put you on edge. He needed something to distract his mind, but didn't know what to do with himself, so you made the decision for him. Lowering your list, you peered up at him. "Mind pushing the trolley for me?"

He gave a quick nod, seemingly relieved to have something to do. Taking hold of the cart, he dutifully followed along behind you, his dark eyes studying each item you placed in the cart. There were vegetables and butter and bread. A carton of milk and a can of broth. A whole chicken was added then a small container of spice― paprika, according to the label.

"Ya gonna use all this jus' t'make dinner?" he asked, curious.

"Mm-hm. Oh, almost forgot to ask. What would you like for dessert?"

The question caught him off guard. He wasn't expecting to have to offer his own input into the meal plan. He shrugged, not sure what to say. "Dunno. Whatever ya want is fine with me."

"Okaaay... How 'bout an apple crumble? With ice cream. Sound good?"

He frowned. "Ya don't need to go to s'much trouble, doll. Ya ain't got t'make dessert. The chicken will be plenty."

You rolled your eyes. "Ri, you love sweets, and I like making them, so just accept that this happening and move past it." When he began grumbling under his breath, you took his arm and walked beside him for a few steps, looking up at him with a little smirk. "It's not a big deal, okay? But if it'll make you feel better, I'll let you help out. You can chop the vegetables and peel the apples, hm?"

"Fine," he mumbled. He hated for you to put yourself out more than you already were. You should be at home with your feet up, not standing over a hot stove cooking him dinner. If he knew how to make more than tea, he would cook, but knew he'd just make a mess and probably set something on fire. His culinary skills ended at the box directions on his microwave dinners.

You led him back to the produce section to pick out the apples you would need, then went back to the spice aisle for cinnamon and nutmeg. The last thing you placed in the cart was a container of vanilla bean ice cream, the one that he had once mentioned was his favorite brand. You'd remembered, and it made him feel weird, pleased and a little self-conscious, knowing you paid attention to even the off-hand things he said.

The co-owner of the store, Mrs. Gilly was at the register when you went to check out. She smiled at you both as you began placing your items on the conveyor. "How ya doin' today, lovie?" she asked, then glanced up at Simon. "And I hope yer doin' well, too, Mr. Riley."

Simon jammed his hands in his pockets and gave a quick nod. "Doin' fine, mum," he said.

"Ri, will you hand me my bag, please?" you asked, then turned your attention to the older woman. "How've you and Mr. Gilly been? Got that new freezer in, I saw. Bet you're pleased 'bout that, yeah?"

Mrs. Gilly huffed a laugh as she began scanning your groceries. "Aye and thank the saints fer it, Told Graham if I had to mop up after that leaky old unit one more time, I was takin' the mop to his head next."

You laughed as you made your way down to the end, pulling a bundle of folded shopping totes from your messenger bag. The two of you chatted away while you bagged up your groceries, leaving Simon to look on with mild amusement. When the total was rung up and you reached for your wallet, however, he spoke up at last.

"I'll pay fer this," he said, handing over his card to Mrs. Gilly. When you opened your mouth to protest, he gave you a sharp look. "Shut it, Dee. If yer cookin', then I'm payin' fer the food."

You scoffed and crossed your arms over your chest. "But it was my idea. I offered to cook."

"An' I'm takin' ya up on the offer," he agreed, then added, "but I'm still payin' for it."

Mrs. Gilly chuckled, taking his card. "Ya heard the man, love. He's tryin' to play fair with ya. Ain't tha' right, Mr. Riley?"

Simon gave you a smug look. "Yes, mum. 'S a fair play. I buy the food an' Dee cooks it. Seems like a fair deal to me."

You smirked and shook your head. "Fine. You win." You reached for the totes, only to have them snatched away before you could get a grip on them. "Ugh! Ri, I can carry some of this."

"No." Simon gathered the bags in his big hands, refusing to let you carry anything.

"I'm not a weakling, ya know?"

"No, you're a bloody brat, is what ya are. Now, c'mon."

Mrs. Gilly chuckled, watching the two of you bicker as you followed Simon out of the store. She noticed the way he slowed his steps so you wouldn't have to walk fast, his head tilting down to look at you as you looked up at him, chattering away at the usually quiet man. From the looks of it, he was giving as good as he got.

Mrs. Giily gave you both a considering look. He was different around you, and you him. You both seemed to come alive in each other's presence. It warmed her heart to witness it. She couldn't help but think that the two of you made a lovely couple.

After the groceries were carried up to your flat, you set about preparing the meal. Simon sat at the counter and watched, listening to you chatter on about some new fantasy show you'd been watching, feeling all the tension he'd been carrying drain away.

As promised, you put him to work, giving him a cutting board and a couple of knives― one for paring, one for chopping. He was mildly impressed with how sharp you kept them, the blades slicing through the raw vegetables with ease. When he wasn't sure how to cut something, you took the knife and quickly sliced and cubed a potato into the size chunks you wanted, then handed him the knife back without even pausing in your story, not making a big deal of his inexperience.

As he peeled and sliced and chopped, he watched you prepare the chicken, blending the butter together with fresh herbs you collected from some of your little potted plants in the kitchen window. You smeared the concoction over the entire bird before adding a few more sprigs of herbs to the hollowed-out cavity inside it. You then placed the chicken inside a heavy Dutch oven pot and layered the vegetables he'd chopped around it, sprinkling a bit more salt, pepper and paprika over everything. Calling it good, you set the lid on it with a clang and slid the pot into the oven.

"Hand me the apples an' I'll peel 'em," Simon said, pointing at them with his paring knife.

You gave him a little smirk. "Have you ever used an apple peeler?"

"A wot?"

You pulled out a gadget that reminded Simon of the pencil sharpeners from primary school, but with the shavings barrel removed. You showed him how to use it, sticking one of the apples on the device then had him crank the little handle. The peel began to curl off the fruit, making him huff out a laugh. He had no idea such a thing even existed, but enjoyed himself more than he would like to admit.

As he peeled, you cut the apples and sliced them into thin pieces, layering them in the bottom of fancy deep-dish plate you called a tort dish. He was fascinated by the way your deft little hands worked over the food, turning a bunch of random items into an actual meal.

Just like when you tended bar, there was no hesitation in anything you did, the actions second nature for you to perform. The whole process seemed to relax you, all the tension of your day slipping away. You were in your element when in your little kitchen, confident and at ease. Seeing you this way relaxed him as well. He realized he liked doing this with you. A lot.

After the crumble was put together and set aside, you made tea and led him into your little sitting area, encouraging him to peruse the books and movies while you sat back on the couch and enjoyed your cuppa. One of the movies caught his eye, the word 'ghost' drawing his attention. It was an old black and white film called 'The Ghost and Mrs. Muir'.

He pulled the case from the shelf and flipped it over to read the back, brows scrunching together. "Tha' doesn't even make any sense," he muttered. "A ghost fallin' in love." He sniffed in derision and shook his head, ready to put it back on the shelf.

You hummed, tilting your head to look up at him as you sipped your tea. "It makes sense once you see the movie. It's a great film, one of my favorites."

He eyed you for a moment and then handed you the case. "Put it on, then. I can withhold judgement until I see it, I s'pose," he said, but his tone was dubious.

At first, Simon watched with an already biased opinion, but as the film went on, he was a little shocked at how invested he had become in the movie, barely even acknowledging the timer on the oven when it went off and you left to take out the chicken. His brows lifted in mild surprise when you returned a few minutes later, handing him a plate full of food and some cutlery.

"Thanks, doll."

You nodded, then tossed a thumb over your shoulder. "I'll sit at the counter, so you can eat and watch the movie," you offered, but he shook his head.

"'S fine. You don't gotta do that. Come back an' finish the movie wif me."

You hesitated for only a second and then nodded. "Okay. Just need to put the crumble in and I'll be right back."

Simon pulled his mask up to his nose without a second thought, balancing the plate on his knees as he took his first bite. His eyes slid shut. Bloody fuckin' hell! How did you make everything taste so good? He shook his head, thinking to himself he'd gladly pay you to cook like this for him every day.

The two of you sat at opposite ends of the couch and ate while finishing the film. You paused it once to get the crumble out of the oven, bringing him a bowl full of crumble and melting ice cream. Simon savored every bite, right up until the end of the movie, the last scene making it a little hard for him to swallow the food in his mouth. Watching the two characters wander into the misty hereafter arm and arm made his chest feel warm and tight. When he glanced over at you, there was a soft expression on your face, sweet and little wistful.

"See?" you murmured to him. "A ghost can fall in love. Does it make sense to you, now?"

Simon swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat, that warm feeling in his chest growing as he gazed at you. He felt so full, full to bursting, and what's more, he felt an overwhelming sense of contentment. He felt... happy. A smile curled up a corner of his mouth as he gave you a begrudging nod.

"Yeah, doll. I guess it does."

-

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Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 4

(Frenemies/Tenderness AU)

FOUR: Like Heartbreaking New Friends

SIMON ‘GHOST’RILEY X FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: You and ‘Riley’ are learning to navigate this tenuous new friendship, but he’s not going to make it easy for either of you.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Simon is struggling, So is Reader, No Y/N

(Notes: It’s three months after the last chapter, and Simon is sandbagging and self-sabotaging as only the big man can do, but we love him anyway. This is a shorter chapter, because I had to cut the original in half. Should have another chapter up as soon as give the next part a rewrite. Hope you enjoy.) ...  [Image via GIPHY]

Word Count: 1919

Chapter: 4

-

“We tiptoed around each other like heartbreaking new friends.”

― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

You're watching the clock. It's nearing the end of your shift and you're more than ready to go home. You'd had another row with Riley the day before and your sleep was miserable last night because of it. All you want to do right now is to lie down in a dark room and take a bloody nap.

The arguing is something that has become commonplace between the two of you. He's hot and cold, pulling you close only to push you away again, but he never takes it to the extent he did that first time. He's learned his limit with you, it seems.

Even when he's angry enough to leave, he never goes far and returns to you usually after a sleepless night for the both of you. He still tries to be angry and seethes, but he's not fooling anyone; he's a spent storm, his thunder and lightning reduced to a few low grumblings and flickering eyes. Once his storm has run its course, he resets to zero, and the process starts all over again.

When Riley ‘resets’, he usually shows up with your favorite scones or some trinket he's picked up while deployed. It's his way of apologizing now. He refuses to verbally apologize to you anymore. Apparently, you forfeited that right when you let him back into the pub that night. It seems as if he's never going to forgive you for opening that door for him. More than three months on, and he's still going out of his way to test your mettle as his friend.

He pretends to be an uncomplicated man; he is anything but. He is a high-walled fortress that's riddled with pitfalls and funhouse mirrors. You have to tread lightly with him. While you're certain he would never physically lash out at you for overstepping, he will slash you with his sharp tongue without a second thought. You've learned the hard way that his bite is worse than his bark. You've got the scars on your ego to prove it.

Still, you don't give up. You’re determined to prove him wrong. So, you’ve toughened up. You’ve grown a thicker skin, and now you watch him gnaw at you in frustration because he can’t stay away. You know this, because it’s the same for you; you can’t stay away, either. So, you just keep running at each other. It’s like a convoluted game of chicken.

You glanced back up at the clock and watched another minute tick by. You were so bloody tired...

Fiona showed up for the evening shift early, and you'd never been so happy to see someone in your life. That is, until she mentioned Riley.

"He was in a bloody mood last night," she commented darkly, tying on her apron. "Poutin' all evenin’, he was.”  She waited a beat before asking, "So, what’d ya do to set ‘im off this time?" she teased, raising her brows.

You snorted. "Oh, it was terrible, what I did! I wished him a happy anniversary."

"Wot?" she laughed, frowning in confusion. “Anniversary?”

"I meant it as a joke. It was a year ago that I loaned him that first book." You peered out the window, frowning, noting the lowering, dark clouds. "We've been friends for a year. He tried to argue that it hadn’t been that long. It was just... really stupid."

Fi snorted a derisive sound. "Are ya sure yer friends?" she quipped, nudging your arm. "The way the two of ya go at it sometimes, I worry he's goin' teh pinch yer fool head off."

You groaned when you saw a few raindrops splatter against the window. Great. You'd be walking home in the rain, from the looks of it. What a perfect way to end your shite day. You gave an absent shake of your head. "You won't ever have to worry about that," you murmured, distracted, grimacing when rain drops began to pelt the pavement outside. "Riley wouldn’t lay a finger on me. I don’t think he likes touching me. Avoids it like the plague."

You didn't notice Fiona's confused expression. She opened her mouth to say something, but you glanced up at the clock, then grabbed your bag from beneath the bar. “I’m gonna go ahead and leave before the rain gets too bad. Text me later, yeah?”

“Sure, love. Be careful,” she murmured, still a little mystified by your statement.

You left through the kitchen exit, borrowing one of the rain slickers and an umbrella from the collection kept by the door. Head down, umbrella lowered, you turned in the direction of home and set out.

Simon didn’t even recognize you when he passed by and pulled up at the curb in front of the pub. Jumping out of his truck, he hurried to the door and swept inside, startling Fiona and Ollie who were still setting up for the evening. He looked between the two of them and then glanced around. “Where is she?” he grumbled, not bothering to elaborate. They both knew who he was talking about.

“She just left. Didn’t ya see her?” Fi replied.

Simon’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “No.” He whirled around and swept back out without so much as a goodbye.

Ollie huffed a laugh and shook his head. Fiona stared after him, then turned her head to her boss. “D’ya know what Dee told meh a’fore she left? She said Riley doesn’t like touchin' her. Says he avoids it like the plague.” She quirked her brow up and grinned.

Ollie scoffed. “Fer such a bright lass, she’s dumb as a box o’ rocks sometimes,” he said, shaking his head. “The only thing that eejit’s avoidin’ is the inevitable.”

Simon found you trudging along about a block away from the Dog, umbrella held low enough to hide your face. Driving ahead of you, he pulled over to the curb and rolled down the window, waiting. When you came up beside him, he barked out, “Oi! What are ya doin’?”

You startled and stepped sideways, raising the umbrella to stare at him. “Bloody hell, Riley! You scared the daylights out of me!”

He grunted. “I have that effect on people. Ya didn’t answer my question. What are ya doin’?”

“Unnh... I’m going home. Why?”

Simon dithered between two choices: ask you to let him take you home or tell you he was taking you home. He knew how you would react to each. He made his choice without a second thought.

“Get in the truck.”

Your little scowl was instant. You hated being told what to do. “No.”

He huffed a low bark of laughter. “Turn down a free ride ‘cause yer still pissed at me? Didn’t take ya for the petty type, doll.”

Your scowl deepened. “Quit calling me doll. I’m not your stupid toy.”

His brows twitched together for just an instant, but then smoothed back out. “Quit bein’ such a bloody brat about it. Anyone with a lick o’ common sense would already be sittin’ in the damn truck.” He said it like a thinly-veiled dare.

Smug bastard.

A debate raged in your brain. You wanted to tell him to fuck off but knew how childish, how ‘bratty’ that would sound. He’d give you hell for it. Growling under your breath, you stomped around and got into the truck.

Simon rolled the window up and waited for you to get settled. He let you huff and puff yourself out, that mean little scowl still bunching your brows together as you fussed around with your bag and umbrella. When you drew your seatbelt across your lap and latched it, he put the truck back into gear and pulled back out onto the street.

He glanced over at you, noting the dark smudges under your eyes, the tired expression in them. He felt pretty much the same. He hadn’t slept for shite the night before, cursing himself and you for the stupid argument the two of you had. You just wouldn’t back down and he couldn’t. Not when you looked that good, with your ire and your color up, eyes bright and focused.

On him.

It seemed like he lived to rile you up these days. He was addicted to it, to that fire, that bloody sass, your sharp little tongue. You devolved into a snarky little brat when he pissed you off, and it drove him bloody mad.

“Need t’make a stop?”

You shook your head, letting it loll on the headrest. It was hard to stay mad at a man that owned a truck with seat warmers. “’M fine. Just along for the ride,” you murmured, closing your eyes. You snuggled deeper into the seat and sighed.

It was hard for him to stay focused on the road with you looking like that. You looked so damn pretty that way, completely trusting of him, eyes closed, your body relaxed. Even your scowl had evened out, your brow now smooth and uncreased, all the anger and stress dissipated. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach out and wrap around that spot just above your knee. He wanted to curl his fingers into the soft flesh there, tuck them into the bend of your knee, caress it with his thumb...

He blinked when headlights flashed, drawing him out of his thoughts. Scowling, he doubled his efforts to refocus on the road. He threw an angry glance your way. Every sodding time he got around you, he ended up like this. His eyes slid back to you of their volition before he forced them back on the road, gritting his teeth. He needed a bloody distraction.

“Yer a shite date, Dee. This why yer home every night watchin’ the telly?”

He was expecting your eyes to snap open with anger sparking in them. He was expecting that mean little scowl and a hissed insult. He didn’t get any of that. Instead, your brows furrowed up over your closed eyes, and you gave a gentle scoff, flopping your arms in your lap. “Ugh... please, Ri. I’m so tired.”

And just like that, the flame inside him was tamped down, his head cooling as his chest warmed. The way you said it, not angry, just so bloody tired.

Back in control and feeling contrite, he let the tension fall out of his shoulders and settled more comfortably into his seat with a sigh. “Yeah. Alright... Dee,” he rumbled out, soft and low. “Jus’ rest.”

You both rode in silence for a long minute, and then you reached over and took his hand. He flinched, but you didn’t pull away, hanging on with a gentle hold. “I don’t mind you calling me doll, Riley. I just don’t like everyone calling me that. It’s not for them, ya know?”

Simon swallowed past the lump in his throat. It wasn’t for them. It was for him. Just him.

He squeezed your hand. “Yeah. I get it, doll.”

You nodded and closed your eyes again, letting your hand slip back to your lap. It wasn’t long before your breaths evened out and deepened.

Simon drove around Banfield for another hour, just to let you sleep.

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Love Thy Frenemy + Interlude

(Frenemies/Tenderness AU)

Interlude | One-Shot: The Life of a Ghost

SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

(Notes: This is a brain purge. It’s a one-shot scene with Ghost and Captain Price. I was working on chapter 6, but had to purge this before I could continue, so here it is lol. You don’t have to read it, but after rediscovering that quote, I knew I had to write something for Ghost/Simon, and this is the result. It gives a little more insight into his state of mind about Reader/’Doll’, and how he’s coming to terms with certain feelings he’s been ignoring. I didn’t bother with a taglist this time since this is more self-indulgent than anything else, but if you do read, I hope you enjoy!)

Warnings/Tags: Mentions of canon-typical violence, Profanity, Simon’s poor coping mechanisms and nihilistic attitude, Price is a good dad/bruv, no Y/N

Word Count: 1467

Interlude

-

“I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost."

— Jack Kerouac, On the Road Jack

-

Simon sat atop the roof of the admin building overlooking the base. Bright halogen security lights buzzed an incessant hum, soldiers on guard duty patrolling the fenced perimeter. It was late, after two in the morning, but he was too restless to sleep yet, the adrenaline of the last op leaving him tense and keyed up despite his fatigue.

It had been a close one today. He touched the bandage at his cheek and winced. Just a centimeter or two to the left, a mere fraction of a head turn, and his brains would have been splattered against the mudbrick wall he’d been using for cover. He could still recall the sound of his mask cracking as the bullet grazed his face, the stinging sear of pain across his cheek, his rifle coming up to take out the enemy on instinct because his brain was otherwise occupied.

Death had just caressed his cheek, and all he could think about in that moment was you. It was your face that had loomed up in his mind’s eye, so clear he’d breathed out the one word he associated most with you.

“Doll.”

Nothing like that had happened to him in a very long time, not since he’d lost his family. There were times that he had felt fear when facing death, but it was a base, primal kind of fear, like that of a wild animal ready to fight for its life. He had also felt genuine fear for his team before when their lives had been in danger. This kind of fear he was used to, could control, but what had happened to him today...

The fear he had experienced today had stripped him of all his pretenses and bullshit. It had forced him to acknowledge feelings he harbored but pretended didn’t exist. It forced him to accept something that he didn’t fucking want: the responsibility of living for someone else.

This is what you did to him. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. He was pissed at you for it, pissed at you for making him feel this way, pissed at you for this whole bloody mess...

And it still didn’t change the fact that you would be the first person he went looking for as soon as he got home, because he needed to see you. He didn’t want to need anyone. He didn’t want any of this, yet he couldn’t bloody stay away. He’d tried. Fuck him, he’d bloody tried, and he couldn’t fuckin’ do it.

He was right fucked, wasn’t he?

Simon huffed out a chagrined breath and thumped his head back on the metal housing of the heating unit behind him. Scrubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw, he squeezed his eyes shut. His Ghost mask, in need of repair or replacement, was gone for now, traded in for a fresh balaclava, its stretchy material pulled up to the bridge of his nose. Slitting his eyes open, he squinted up at the cold stars above and inhaled another lungful of smoke. “I’m fucked,” he told them, as he parted his lips, letting the smoke curl out of his open mouth in lazy, white coils. He watched it drift up into the frigid night air to hang like a specter over his head before the wind banished it to the ether.

The squeak of hinges sounded off to his left as the access door to the roof was opened. He heard his captain approaching before he saw him, Price’s booted steps thumping along the roof in a steady cadence. He sat down with a grunt beside Simon and sighed, his breath fogging in front of his bearded face.

“Thought I’d join ya,” he said, pulling the stub of a cigar out of his shirt pocket. He patted over his body until he located his lighter, then blew on the end of the cigar and lit it. He puffed away until thick, sweet smoke curled up to join with Simon’s. “How’s the cheek?” he asked.

Simon shrugged. “’S alright, just a graze. Didn’t even need stitches. Bullet cauterized it.”

Price took in his words, their deadpan delivery. He nodded, though his mind had already drifted back to the mission, to their harried exfil, recalling the look he had seen in Ghost’s wide stare when he’d stumbled aboard the helo. The captain saw something in the other man’s eyes he had never seen during a mission before: fear.

He didn’t fault his lieutenant for it; he was honestly relieved to see it after such a close call. It was a normal reaction, under the circumstances. Still, it wasn’t Ghost’s normal reaction. How he was acting right now— cold, distant and mildly disdainful— that was his normal reaction. This time, however, it didn’t seem to ring as true as it did before.

Price had once asked Ghost how he could be so blasé about his own mortality. Ghost’s answer had chilled him to the bone and caused him no small amount of concern for his lieutenant.

“Yer only scared o’ death when ya got somethin’ to lose.” Simon had told him with cold, dead eyes. “Not an issue fer me. If I die, I die. Don’ really fuckin’ care.”

That look of fear Price had glimpsed in Ghost’s eyes had been telling. Something had changed, had been changing with his lieutenant over the course of several months. It had been subtle, gradual enough to escape immediate notice, but after this last mission, Price was now paying very close attention. Did Ghost now have something to lose?

Price left the cigar in his mouth as he pondered the question, letting his arm drop back to his side. His hand landed on something flat and rectangular— a book, he realized, glancing down. He picked it up and held it up to the light of the security lamps to read its cover. ‘On the Road’ by Jack Kerouac.

“Seems like I had to read this in secondary school,” he murmured, flipping the book open. It was a new copy but already bore numerous highlighted passages and scribbled notes in the margins.

Simon tensed beside him but said nothing as the captain’s blunt fingers skimmed over pages, eyes darting back and forth as he read a highlighted section.

“I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost."

Price felt his throat constrict. He knew how and why Ghost chose his callsign, but the passage could not have described his lieutenant’s situation any more succinctly. It was almost prescient in nature, reading it now. He cleared his throat and closed the book, placing it back where he found it.

“Favorite of yours?” he rasped out. “Didn’t know you read that sort of stuff. Usually see you readin’ those old pulp sci-fi books.”

Simon grunted out a short laugh. “I usually don’t, but Doll loan—” He caught himself, biting off the sentence. “A friend loaned it t’me once.” He gave a shrug. “Kinda grew on me. Bought my own copy.”

Price nodded, letting the smoke roll out of his mouth before speaking again. “Loanin’ ya books like that, she must be quite a smart lass,” he said without missing a beat.

Simon blinked. His shoulders lost some of their tension. “She is.” He huffed another laugh, this one softer, as he tilted his head down to look at his legs stretched out in front of him. “Too bloody smart fer me, tha’s fer sure.” He lifted his head and looked toward the direction of the gates. “When can we get out o’ here? Ready t’go home.”

Price tried to hide his surprise at the question by studying the end of his cigar. He usually had to coerce his lieutenant into taking his leave, but not of late, he now realized. He slanted a sly side-eye at him. “De-briefing’s at 0700, then you’ll be free to go. Unless you want to stay and volunteer to help train those new recruits comin’ in tomorrow? Advanced field tactics?”

Simon sniffed. “Fuck ‘em. ‘M goin’ home.”

A pleased little smile tilted up the captain’s mouth as he looked up at the stars. “That’s alright. I can assign it to one of the other lads.” He crossed his arms over his chest, smile widening. “If ya think of it, ask your doll if she has any Louis L’amour. Partial to the westerns, myself.”

Simon grunted, half-irritated, half-amused. “I’ll see what I can do, Cap.”

-

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[random-thot-generator]

Love Thy Frenemy (Frenemies/Tenderness AU)

ONE: It’s a Start

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Frenemy!Reader

Summary: There’s a new customer that’s been coming into the White Dog Pub, where you tend bar. He’s stoic, gruff and difficult to engage, but you’re a bartender. You know how to get the most deadpan of customers to talk, and this aloof mountain of a man is no exception. You’ll win him over, one way or another.

Tags/Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Eventual smut- but not in this chapter. That’s really the only warning I got. I don’t even think I used profanity. Weird, right???

(Notes: Sooo... I decided to attempt my first series. *(nervous twitching)* Not gonna lie, I’m freakin’ out a little bit, y’all. Is it gonna suck?! I don’t know! I hope it doesn’t, for everyone’s sake.

Anyway...

This is set in the Frenemies/Tenderness AU, same as ‘Try a Little Tenderness’, with Simon and his frienemy ‘Doll’ (or ‘Dee’ for short), which can be found here. 

We’re just establishing the relationship between Simon and Reader at this point, along with a little world building. Sorry, horn-dogs. No smut this round, but we’ll get there... eventually. Hope you enjoy.)

Word Count: 1576

‘Fate leads the willing; the unwilling it drags’   —— Seneca 

🖤💀🖤

He was a quiet one. A silent giant. 

He came into the pub every night, mumbled out his order in a low gravel and took the same seat at the end of the bar. He’d been doing this for more than a month, some nights staying until last orders, other nights only long enough for one drink. He never speaks, at least not to you.

He’s close with your boss, the owner of the White Dog, Ollie Turnbull. Ollie’s always pleased to see him, giving him a familiar pat on the back as he growls out, “How ya doin’, Riley?”

The two men will sit for hours, sometimes, leaning their heads together as they talk in low murmurs. You suspect Riley’s a soldier in the military, like Ollie once was. He just has that look about him. He holds himself the same way your father used to, like a coiled spring wound too tight, even when seemingly relaxed. You’re certain if anything ever went down inside the pub, he would be the first to react, Ollie a close second.

You’re curious about him. He’s an ‘odd duck’, as your nan was fond of saying. He has his little quirks, odd little idiosyncrasies that set him apart. For one thing, you’ve never seen the man without a hoodie. He wears different styles and colors, but they’re all dark in hue with a deep hood he keeps pulled up over his head at all times. He never pushes it back, always keeping his face half-hidden in shadow.

And then there’s the mask.

Sometimes it’s a fitted hood with only his eyes exposed, other times it’s a neck gaiter or a black surgical mask. When he takes a drink, he always lifts his mask from the bottom, never revealing his entire face. You’ve seen the hint of various scars around the edges of his masks, jagged lines turned silver with age, but they don’t seem severe enough to be horribly disfiguring. He’s hiding, you realize, but from what you’re not sure.

Riley’s sitting in his usual spot again tonight, every now and then his eyes shifting left or right, always on alert. He casts his gaze over you every now and then, too, lingering for a moment before looking away. You can’t help but wonder what he thinks of you.

It’s been a slow evening, just a handful of regulars showing up for a pint, but not staying long. There’s only one other customer at the bar, dear old Ned, and you’re pretty sure he fell asleep half an hour ago. You’ve already restocked and finished all your prep work for the night, so you’ve pulled out an old paperback of short stories to read, but you’d much rather be getting a head start on your cleaning. The sooner you’re done, the sooner you can leave.

Heaving a sigh, you walk down to the end of the bar, waiting for Riley to acknowledge you before you speak. When his dark eyes peer up at you, you give him a little smile. “Sorry to bother you, but do you mind if I start cleaning? I can top up your drink first.”

His gaze darts over your face before he glances down at his glass and shrugs. “’S fine wif me. ‘M good.” His voice is gruff, but not unkind.

You nod, offering him a grateful smile and lay your book face down on the bar. “Thanks,” you call over your shoulder, already heading for the supply closet.

You gather your cleaning supplies and get to work, wiping down tables and turning up chairs. Every now and then you glance up to check on your two customers. Ned, bless him, is still snoring. Riley, however, is leaning slightly forward, torso stretched so that he can look at the book you’ve left in front of him. You watch as he turns the book around to get a better look at it. It makes you smile.

Finished with the tables, you head back towards the bar, noticing how Riley stiffens and quickly turns the book back to its previous position. Pretending not to see, you grab your bottle of water, taking a sip as you lean your hips against the back counter, facing him. When he inevitably lifts his eyes, you meet them and motion to the book.

“You like to read?”

He shrugs. “Some.”

You nod and take another sip. “What genres?”

His brows knit together. “Depends.”

“On what?”

He heaves a sigh and leans back to cross his arms. “On what ’m in the mood t’read.”

“Oh. Yeah, I get that. I’m the same.” You take another sip then recap the bottle, pushing yourself off the counter. You fiddle with the ties of your serving apron as you scramble for something to say. “You, uh, need a top-up before I get back to work?”

He stares down at his glass and then slides it forward. “Yeah.” Again, he sounds gruff, but his tone has softened the tiniest bit.

He watches you pour the drink, eyeing you with an almost cautious expression. When you slide the glass back to him, his eyes flicker down to the book. “I’ve read tha’ one before. Which story’s yer fav’rite?”

You tilt your head and give him a considering look. “’Sticks’ by Robert Wagner.”

He nods, a gleam of approval in his sharp gaze. “Good choice.”

You give a slight nod at the compliment. “And yours?”

His eyes blink down at the book then back to you. “Same.”

“Good choice,” you say with a crooked smile, returning the compliment. You replace the bottle of Dewar’s on the shelf, then turn back and nod at the book. “You can borrow it, if you like. I just brought it in case I got bored. I’ve got plenty more at home.”

“’M good. No thanks.” he mutters. He leans forward again, shoulders hunched, and drops his gaze.

You deflate inside. Damn, I lost him. 

Not wanting the situation to get any more awkward, you try to soothe him with a casual, friendly tone and an easy smile. “That’s okay. Offer still stands. If you change your mind, feel free to take it with you.”

His eyes slant towards you and he gives a curt nod. Good enough.

You go back to work, sweeping around the tables in silence until you see him stand and lean over the bar to slip his glass into the dish water. He snags a towel and wipes down his area, before pushing his seat back into place. It’s a thoughtful gesture, something you wouldn’t have expected from him. Picking up his overcoat, he shrugs it on, then adjusts his mask as he walks towards the entrance. When he opens the door, he pauses, and his head turns in your direction. “Left some tenners on the bar for m’tab.” Another short pause. “’Night.”

You smile and give him a little wave. “Good night, Riley. Drive safe.”

His head snaps up and his posture goes rigid at the use of his name, caught off guard by the familiarity, but he quickly recovers. Relaxing his stance, he nods and takes a step out the door, uttering just loud enough for you to hear, “You, too, doll.”

He then slips out the door into the night, leaving just you and snoring Ned in the building. You stare at the entrance a moment longer, then go back to your sweeping. Your brain slowly sifts through the conversation as you work, picking over the words he spoke, digging for any hidden nuances you might have missed. He’s a hard one to read, but you think you did okay. At least he spoke to you without being prompted. It’s a start.

Right?

When you finish cleaning, you go wake Ned and call his wife to come pick up her husband. He smiles at you, bleary-eyed, and pats your hand. “I was awake, luv. Jus’ restin’ m’eyes.” You smile and nod, but don’t really believe him until he grins and adds, “Never heard tha’ big fella speak a’fore. He must’ve taken a fancy to ya.”

A slow smile spreads across your face. “Think so, Ned?”

“Oh, aye. Never seen ‘im go out o’ his way to talk to anyone else. Well, ‘cept for Ollie, o’ course. Don’t think the lad keeps many friends. Bit of a loner, tha’ one.”

A horn beeps twice outside, so you help Ned to his feet and walk him out to his wife’s car. Waving goodbye, you head back inside the pub to turn out the lights and lock up for the night. Grabbing your coat and bag, you make a beeline for the entrance, thrilled to be leaving early, but then realize you forgot your book on the bar. Huffing out a sigh, you turn around and go back to get it, only to discover that... 

It’s gone.

He took the book.

A pleased little smile lights up your face and you bite your lip.

He even told you good night... sort of.

You shrug. It’s a start.

That pleased little smile is still on your face when you lock the door and head for home.

-

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[random-thot-generator]

Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 3

(Frenemies/Tenderness AU)

Three: The Purgatory Between

[via GIPHY]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Frenemy Fem Reader

Summary: It’s been a month since Simon rejected you, and you’ve taken steps to distance yourself from him, but you’re still struggling to let him go. Then an unexpected turn of events brings him back into your orbit and you find yourself at a crossroads, forced to make a decision you’re not sure you’re ready to make.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Angst, No Y/N

(Notes: ngl, this one got to me a little bit while writing it...)

Word Count: 2608

CHAPTER 3

“Angst is not the human condition, it’s the purgatory between what we have and what we want but can’t get.” ― Miguel Syjuco, Ilustrado

November came to Banfield with a chill wind and a dusting of frost. Cold air seared your lungs as you walked towards the pub, steps brisk and breath fogging. Trailing your fingers over the pickets of a fence, you peered down at your phone to check the time, then replaced it back in your pocket with a sigh.

It was supposed to be your day off, but you were going in to cover for Fiona, the barmaid Ollie had hired over a month ago. Her mum had taken a spill down the slippery front steps of their flat that morning and was in hospital being treated for a mild concussion, so Fi had asked you to cover her shift that night. While you were more than happy to help out a friend, you were not looking forward to working the nightshift again.

He would be there, and you didn’t want to see him.

You scowled as the big Manc invaded your headspace once again. You were so tired of thinking about him, but that seemed to be all you could do these days. If you weren’t rehashing his rejection, you were trying to fathom what motivated him to behave the way he did, then and now.

You had been ghosted before, but never quite like this.

After Riley’s rejection, he had subsequently avoided you, which was not surprising at all. You had predicted that was what would occur, had expected it, having survived a sinking ‘ship before. When he didn’t show up the following evening, you took it in stride and stiffened your upper lip, bearing the inquisitive stares of your regulars in silence. As the week wore on and he still had not shown his masked face in the pub, those inquisitive looks turned sympathetic and then pitying. This too you bore with stoic resolve, even as the subtle humiliation of it burned like smoldering embers in your chest.

Then he just showed up one night, out of the blue. He glared around the pub after he entered, as if he expected someone to do or say something to challenge his presence there, but everyone kept their eyes trained on their own pints and waited until he had taken his usual seat at the bar before daring to cast surreptitious glances his way. You waited until he was settled in his seat before you forced yourself to walk down to his end of the bar, doing your best to keep your expression neutral as you asked, “Your usual?”

His eyes had lifted no further than your throat as he grunted an affirmative and then made a show of looking away, as if your mere presence was an annoyance to him. You made his drink and slid it over, not even getting a nod of acknowledgement from him for the service. He spent the rest of the night behaving this way, sitting at the end of the bar, glowering over his drink in silence while blatantly ignoring you. It had been humiliating to be so publicly snubbed, and in front of your regulars, no less. When he returned the following night and behaved the same way again, you rang Ollie the next morning and asked to be switched to days.

Since changing shifts, you only saw Riley from a distance now, and only occasionally. Sometimes you’d see him entering one of the shops or wandering the aisles in the market. In those situations, you gave him a wide berth, going in the opposite direction to avoid him. Other times, you would be walking to or from work and notice his dark gray Gladiator passing by or see it parked along the curb. You never slowed, never looked over, never acknowledged him at all, just kept your eyes facing forward as you continued on your way. It wasn’t easy ignoring him, and these brief sightings always took their toll, leaving you feeling tired and restless and impotent.

If you had to describe your current emotional state, you would liken it to being in a perpetual state of limbo. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the next thing to happen because it just didn’t feel finished yet. You still went about your day as you normally would, kept going through the motions, but try as you might, you simply couldn’t ignore the gaping hole he had left in your world. It irked you that he had made such an impact on your life, that he had left such an indelible mark on your existence, that it had altered your very state of being.

It just didn’t make any bloody sense. You had known him for less than a year, the relationship itself never venturing outside the friend zone. There was no reason for your heart to ache this much but ache it did, and it made you miserable. It was both frustrating and confusing to have to carry these feelings with you all the time, to go to bed with them and wake up with them every single day. You were tired of it hanging around your neck like some bloody albatross weighing you down. You wanted these useless feelings to shrivel up and die already, so you could get back to some semblance of a normal life.

As you came upon the White Dog, that old saying, ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ popped into your head. You were about to walk straight into the metaphorical lion’s den and face the cause of all your woes, so you tried to mentally gird your loins for the battle ahead. You’d be face-to-face with him again, but you were determined not to break this time. You would serve him drinks and chat with the regulars and clean up the bar like everything was perfectly fine. Even if it bloody killed you.

You stopped just outside the pub and took a fortifying breath. You can do this, you told yourself, then opened the door.

As soon as you entered the bar room, Ollie was there to greet you, his stern expression taking on a gruff sort of affection as he looked you over. “Sorry ya had t’come in on yer day off, love.”

You shrugged and offered him a little smile. “It’s alright, Ol. I don’t mind. Besides, it’s a Tuesday. I expect things will be pretty slow tonight.”

Ollie hummed in agreement, loading a few glasses into the dishwasher. “If it’s dead before closin’ time, go ahead an’ close up shop early, doll. No sense in you hangin’ about if there’s no customers.”

You tried not to wince at the nickname. After hearing Riley refer to you as ‘doll’ for months, both the regulars and the staff had picked up on the habit as well. Hearing others call you by the pet name only served to keep him at the forefront of your mind, another small but effective means of torture. You gave your boss a tight-lipped smile. “Sure thing, Ol.”

When the pub reopened for business, Ollie hung around long enough to make sure you would be alright on your own and then took his leave. Your old regulars began to wander in as the day grew later and the shadows began to lengthen across the floor. You smiled, served drinks and waited, your eyes darting to the entrance every time someone passed through the door.

Riley showed up just after sunset, coming in with a cold wind blowing at his back. Conversation became subdued as he paused to stare at you standing behind the bar, your steady gaze meeting his as your regulars held a collective breath. There was only the slightest of nods in acknowledgement from him, or perhaps it was simply him accepting the situation. Either way, he went to his seat at the end of the bar and sat down. When he was settled, you strolled down to him and tilted your head. “The usual?”

There was a moment’s hesitation, and you watched him blink his eyes shut before finally nodding. “Yeah,” was his croaked reply.

You gave him a curt nod and made his drink, sliding the two fingers of Dewar’s to him, ready to turn and walk away. His warm, dry fingers wrapped over yours before you could move your hand, and you glanced down at his hand then back up at him, a confused frown knitting your brows together. He didn’t meet your eyes at all, instead keeping them closed as he held you there for a moment longer, the pads of his calloused fingers grazing over your skin before he let you go with a slow exhalation. His expression bordered on pained before he dropped his head to hide his masked face within the shadows of his hood.

It felt as if his fingerprints had been seared into your flesh, and you found yourself rubbing the tingling space between your thumb and forefinger again and again. You could still feel where his calloused fingertips had caressed your skin. and you wondered what he had meant by doing it. What was trying to convey with that brief but intimate touch?

As the night wore on, the customers began to thin out, drifting back to their homes in twos and threes, the room growing ever quieter, until at last it was just you, Riley and dear old Ned. It felt like things had come full circle, in some weird sort of way. When Ned began to snore, you huffed a quiet laugh.

Riley slanted a glance your way. His tumbler had been sitting empty for the last hour, but he’d declined another drink. He just sat there, silent and brooding, shoulders hitched up around his ears, spinning the glass slowly back and forth between his big hands. You got the sense that he was waiting for something, but what you couldn’t guess.

Your phone dinged, buzzing like a bee against the wood of the bar as it vibrated. You turned off the alarm and sighed. “Last orders,” you murmured.

Riley stopped turning the glass and held it between his hands, fingers flexing around it before he slowly pushed it towards you. He stood then paused, head down, hands curling into tight fists at his sides. He was struggling with something, you knew. You had seen him act this way before, but whatever it was must have been too overwhelming for him. Grabbing his coat from the back of his seat, he spun on his heel and marched towards the door, steps hurried, body tense.

“Good night, Riley,” you said softly from behind him, and his steps faltered. He stopped, hand resting on the door latch, head bent forward. You heard him inhale a slow, deep breath, heard it hiss out with a relieved sigh. “‘Night, doll,” he finally rumbled out, his voice sounding so tired and defeated. Then he left.

You stared after him, a feeling like deja vu making the moment seem surreal. Shaking your head, not sure what to make of what had just occurred, you huffed, frustrated and went to wake up Ned.

After seeing off Ned and his wife, you went back inside, locking the door behind you. Going to the supply closet, you gathered your cleaning supplies, then set about wiping down the tables and flipping the chairs. When the knock sounded at the door, you jumped, then blew out a breath as you squeezed your eyes shut and listened.

Three knocks, a pause - a little longer than usual, and then the fourth and final knock.

Riley.

You sucked in a deep breath, eyes glued on the locked door, debating. Finally, you blew out the breath in a tired huff and called out, “Yeah?”

“Doll...”

You waited a beat, grimacing before you answered. “Yeah, Riley?”

You heard a light thud on the door and drifted closer. He was standing so close to the door, his body was blocking out most of the light from outside, his fingertips casting twin sets of shadowed ovals against the frosted glass. The thud you had heard must have been his head, because it was still pressed against the door as well.

“Riley, what—”

“‘M not good at talkin’,” he said to the door, through it, to you. “Not good at explainin’ things— m’feelin’s an’ the like.” He paused, but you didn’t say anything, giving him the time to process his thoughts into words. “I wish it could be different, doll. Wish I could fix it, change it somehow, but I can’t. There’s not much I can offer ya.”

You stepped closer, teeth worrying at your lip. With the barrier of the door between you, he was able to finally talk, but he was hesitating again, his silence stretching out. “I’m here, Riley,” you said to the door, your hand coming up to press your hand against his. You could feel his warmth through the glass, and your chest constricted.

There was another thud as he bumped his head against the door again. “I didn’t mean t’hurt ya. There was better ways o’ sayin’ what I did, but ‘m not used t’bein’ careful wif m’words. Didn’t bloody think at all before I opened my stupid gob,” he muttered, and you sniffed in amusement. He blew out a breath. “I can’t be what ya need, doll, what ya deserve, not with the life I lead. Ya’ve seen what soldierin’ does to a man. I’ve heard ya talk about yer da before, so ya know what it does to the people that love men like me an’ him. I-I can’t put ya through that, love. I— I just can’t.”

“Riley...”

I miss ya, doll. I’ve missed ya since I walked out tha’ night an’ I’ve not stopped missin’ ya. Yer... bloody hell... yer my friend, dammit, an’ ‘m sorry fer hurtin’ yer feelin’s an’ treatin’ ya bad. I don’t like ya bein’ mad at me, doll. I don’t want ya being mad at me anymore. I can’t... fuck... I can’t bloody stand it.”

Your heart was beating so fast, and your hands were shaking. You could feel the threat of tears at your eyes, felt them stinging in your sinuses. You sniffed, batting the tears away as you swiped at your nose. You promised yourself you wouldn’t break this time, but here you were again, a blubbering mess over this confounding man. You took a steadying breath and tried to calm yourself down.

If you opened that door, you knew you’d be opening yourself up to more heartache. If you opened that door, you’d be agreeing to take him as is, fucked up warts and all. You’d be walking back to him with your eyes wide open.

You took a step back, saw his shadow shift on the glass as he did the same.

Leave the door shut and he would go away, he would leave and not bother you again. He didn’t have to say it for you to know it was true. He was giving you the out, if that’s what you wanted. He was leaving it for you to decide.

You blinked, sniffed, then made up your mind.

Breathing out a shaky breath, you opened the door.

-

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[random-thot-generator]

Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 2

(Tenderness AU)

TWO: The Myth of a Rainy Night

Simon Ghost Riley x Frenemy Fem Reader

Summary: Simon returns home after another deployment and stops by the pub after hours to see you, but an off-hand comment has your reunion taking an unexpected turn.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Angst, Yearning, Simon is conflicted, So are you, no use of Y/N

(Notes: This one got away from me, so I had to split the chapter. I’ll post chapter 3 as soon as I give it a re-write. The village I mention, Banfield, is from my own addled brain. As far as I know, no such place actually exists. I just wanted Simon to finally find himself a place of peace and quiet, so reunited him with his old captain/father figure Ollie Turnbull (also made up) and lovingly planted them in a rural country village.

This chapter was heavily influenced by Jack Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’ and is used as a plot piece within the story.

There’s a bit of a time jump, but nothing major. Simon and Reader are still in the process of working out this tentative new relationship, neither sure of where this is going. Simon is feeling conflicted, so exhibits typical ‘Ghost’-like behavior to cope with it. There will be some angst, but no need for tissues. It’s not that bad.)

Word Count: 2395

CHAPTER: 2

🖤💀🖤

“It was a rainy night. It was the myth of a rainy night.” ― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

It was close to midnight by the time Simon made it back to Banfield.

The village was dead, not a soul in sight, only the streetlamps standing sentinel in the pouring rain. He drove through the heart of the village, past the closed shops and the empty expanse of the green, eyes trained on the pub across the way. There were no cars parked at the curb or people smoking beneath the front awning, the outdoor lights doused. The neon ‘Open’ sign in the window was off as well, which meant the pub was well and truly closed; there would be no one inside but you. He circled round the green and parked in front of the building, hand reaching out to snag the book lying on the passenger seat.

Tucking it inside his coat, he exited his truck, hitting the lock button with his key fob as he hurried beneath the awning in three big strides. He could feel the cold rain patter his balaclava, soaking into the material, creating chilly points of dampness against his face and ears. He gave a light shiver at the sensation before raising his hand to knock three times, waiting a beat, then knocked once more.

"Coming!" you called from the other side, voice muffled by the door and the pouring rain. A few moments later there was the rattle of locks turning and the door was pushed open, Simon stepping to the side to get out of the way. You peered up at him, a crooked smile on your lips. "Well, look what the rain washed up. Didn't expect to see you tonight."

"'Ello, doll. Ya miss me?"

You scoffed but grinned. "Like a thorn in my side,” you quipped, then motioned for him to come inside. You turned away from the door, calling over your shoulder, "Don't forget to lock it.”

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, stepping inside and closing the door, an amused little smirk forming beneath his mask.

After showing up late one night and being met at the door by you with one of Ollie’s old cricket bats, he had suggested using a special knock, so you would know that it was him. The memory of that night came back to him every time he used the knock now.

He locked the deadbolt as he glanced up to see what you were doing. "Slow night?" he queried as he shrugged out of his coat.

"You know it," you replied, wheeling the mop bucket down the narrow hall toward the loos. He heard the thump and bang of you propping open one of the doors with a waste bin. "Rain kept everyone home, I suppose. Ned didn't even stick around tonight. He was gone before last orders." He heard the squeak of a stall door, then a disgusted scoff. "I swear, you blokes can't hit the broad side of a bloody barn after you've had a few. Should bloody well sit if ya got no better aim than this."

Simon huffed a laugh at your fussing as he pulled out his usual seat at the bar and hung his coat over the back. He tossed your book on the bar, a copy of Jack Kerouac's 'On the Road'.  "Brought yer shite book back," he called out, making his way ‘round the bar to fix himself a drink. "Ramblin' bit o' nonsense, that was."

You cackled, the sound echoing in the tiled room. "Not your cup of tea?" He could hear the sarcasm oozing from your words.

"No bloody point to it," he answered, distracted. He couldn't find the bottle of Dewar's. "Where's my scotch?"

He heard the slop of a mop hitting the floor. "Check the other end. Trainin' a new girl to help on the weekends. She probably left it down there."

Simon grumbled as he went down to the other end of the bar, and sure enough, the Dewar's was wedged in between two bottles of gin. He plucked it out and took it back to his waiting tumbler. He tried to pour it like you did, but couldn't get it quite right, spilling a few drops when he attempted to do the little twist you gave the bottle at the end of the pour. He mopped up the small mess with a towel, shaking his head. He'd have to watch the way you did it again to see where he was going wrong.

Taking his seat, he took a sip of his drink before picking up the book to thumb through its pages. It was an old copy, well-loved and worn. He wondered how many times you had read it. There were certain pages that bore smudged thumbprints and underscored passages in light pencil. They were like clues he would find, a trail of meandering breadcrumbs scattered throughout the pages. He couldn't count the number of times he had re-read these special blocks of text you deemed worthy to note. He flipped to one of his favorites and read it again.

'Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgandy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.'

He hummed low as he read it, picturing the scene in his mind so easily. On those bleak, cold nights in the safe house when it seemed like dawn would never come, he would read this passage and close his eyes, imagining he could feel the warmth of a setting sun on his face, hear the swish of tall grass swaying in the breeze around him. It was his own secret respite, a private moment of reprieve.

There were other passages you favored that he had ruminated over, words that held some deep meaning for you that he tried to fathom, that he tried to read with your eyes, your thoughts. He wanted to perceive it the way you did, but often felt like he failed in that regard. Still, he tried, wanting that extra bit of insight into what made you tick.

You were like an enigma to him, deeper than you let on, deeper than an ocean and just as vast. It sometimes brought him up short, a feeling akin to intimidation welling up to fill his throat. Reading this book, pondering your favored quotes, made him feel small at times, like a lone soul adrift in a sea of words and profound thoughts, but you swam in these waters, so he wanted to as well, even if he floundered every now and then.

You finished cleaning the bathrooms and came back to the bar blowing out a tired breath. You cast a critical eye over him, looking him up and down in that way that made him feel naked and exposed. It always made him want to squirm in discomfort, but he liked it, too, that feeling of really being seen by another person. He was just a soldier named Riley to you, with no rank or reputation to taint that image.

"You look like you've lost a stone since I saw you last. Doesn't the army feed you? What do they do? Just dump you out to forage in the wild?"

Simon grunted in amusement and tossed the book back down on the bar. "Nah. It was yer shite book. It ruined my appetite."

You rolled your eyes and snorted a soft laugh, a little smirk tilting up a corner of your mouth. "Aw. Does a man expressing his thoughts and feelings make your tummy ache, Riley?" You laughed when he sneered at you and flipped you off.

It had been four months since you'd loaned him that first book, and although he'd been deployed for half that time, the two of you had managed to settle into a comfortable rapport. Social niceties and good manners fell by the wayside as the two of you discussed the books you loaned him. Your coaxing, gentle prodding and snarky banter drew him out of his hard shell despite his set-in-stone intentions to keep you at a distance. Now he willfully sought you out, eager to see how you'd challenge him next while relishing the warmth he found in your presence.

He watched you pull a bottle of white grape juice from the mini fridge beneath the bar and take a long drink, wiping at your top lip with the back of your hand before you replaced the lid. Setting it aside, you sauntered over to where he sat and leaned on your elbow to peer into his eyes. It always unnerved him when you did that, but he held your gaze with a hooded, stoic expression, giving nothing away.

"You look like a zombie, Riley. When's the last time you slept?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. Caught a few winks on the plane."

Your backhanded concern was something else that made him want to squirm in discomfort. He wasn’t used to it, someone seeing past his mask to the man behind it. You were a perceptive bird, though, quick to notice and point out subtle changes while calling him out on his bullshit with equal aplomb. A straight shooter, Ollie had called you, a keen observation from his old captain.

“Her kind o' honesty keeps a man humble," he'd said with a chagrined chuckle, and no truer words had ever been spoken. That’s exactly how he felt around you most of the time: humbled.

It irked the hell out of him.

He picked up his drink and drained it, clunking it back on the bar with a solid thunk. “How’s Ollie been?” he asked, changing the subject.

You sighed, allowing him to shift the conversation away from himself. “Same ol’ Ollie. Think he’s been feeling a bit down, though. He just found out his daughter Hillary’s pregnant. His first grandchild.” 

Simon huffed a dry chuckle. “Feelin’ his age, is he?” He leaned closer, tilting his head. “Tha’ bird Miriam still chattin’ him up?”

A mischievous grin split your face. “She was in here last weekend just mooning over him. He acts like he doesn’t like it, but he does. She seems nice enough. I think he should go for it.”

He scoffed. “Don’t tell me yer goin’ to start meddlin’ in his love life, like the rest o’ the ol’ birds in the village.”

“It’s not meddling. I’m just stating my opinion, which I’ve kept to myself, thank you very much.”

He gave a derisive grunt and shook his head. “Yeah. Right.”

You took his empty glass and placed it in the dishwasher, closing it back with a snap. “Keep it up and I’ll start meddling in yours,” you teased. a devilish glint in your eye.

“Huh. Good luck with that, doll. Can’t meddle in somethin’ tha’ don’t exist. I don’t bother with tha’ mess. Got no time ‘r patience for it. Never ends well, anyway.”

You blinked, a small frown furrowing your brows. You pressed your lips into a firm line, some inner debate playing out on your face. You were silent as you mulled over his words, long enough that he began to feel uncomfortable in the tense quiet. There was an odd expression on your face when you finally looked at him again. “At least you’re honest about it, I suppose. Most blokes aren’t.” 

With that, you stepped away to finish loading the dishwasher, running the water to fill the vacuum of awkward silence he had just created with his thoughtless comment.

Simon studied your subdued demeanor, not sure how to fix this or even if he should try. He knew he was beginning to get attached to you already, and he didn’t want to encourage that, didn’t want to encourage you. He knew he couldn’t give you what you deserved, but he had ignored that fact in favor of indulging in your attention. Now, he found himself in too deep, emotions long-buried disturbing the stony soil of his heart. He could no longer lie to himself that it was just physical attraction that had him sitting at your bar every night, because now... 

Now, he caught himself thinking about you on missions. As he searched through the pages of your books for signs of your presence, he wondered what you were reading. He wondered what book you would pick out for him next. He wondered who you talked to when he wasn’t there. He wondered if you missed his company when you cleaned up at night. He wondered if you thought of him when you were lying in the dark, alone in your bed. He wondered if you ever wondered if he thought about you, too.

Because he did. More than he should.

Bloody hell...

He shouldn’t be thinking about you at all. He should never have let it get to this point. You were just some chatty bird who tended bar at his local pub and owned a lot of books. You were never meant to be more than a pretty distraction, just someone to occupy his time while he had a few drinks. Perhaps it was best to cut ties now. Let you go and fade into the background. That’s where blokes like him belonged, in the rearview mirror. This could never have gone anywhere, anyway. It was doomed from the start.

Climbing to his feet, he tossed a few quid on the bar for his drink and slipped his coat back on, aware that you were watching him, but unable to look your way. He adjusted his mask, making sure it was firmly in place, falling back on Ghost to get him through this as his eyes went cold and flat. He didn’t bother saying goodbye, instead smacking his hand on the bar twice, before turning away. Still avoiding your gaze, he strode to the door and stepped out into the night without a backwards glance.

You stared after him, letting his rejection sink in, and listened to the rain.

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