Barry Studies

Joe Bowler's 'painting study'

are you man enough?

baby blues

John Price + the panic of fatherhood x reader

pregnancy. babies. soft. sappy. angsty. slight allusions to rough sex. John being possessive and smitten. allusions to childhood trauma. the fear of children is somehow more potent than the fear of god. girl dad John. mentions of Price's divorce lmao

Most assume he'd take to fatherhood like he'd been born for the role; handcrafted to cradle a swaddled babe in his arms. The perfect father figure. But as he hovers over your sleeping form, the little bundle nestled in the sleepy bracket of your arms, he's overcome with a sense of dread that punches hard enough to shatter bone.

The reality is this: Price doesn't understand kids. He wants them. Covets them with a viciousness that almost immediately sets alarm bells off in the heads of those who were opposed to the idea of children, parenthood. Giving birth. But when it comes to being a dad, a role model, an effigy to siphon wisdom and knowledge off of, he flounders. Hesitates.

All he has as an idea of fatherhood is bruises laughed off by the neighbours as him being a clumsy boy. A man who drank in the living room, silent in his fury, his belligerence, until something—anything, really—set him off. He always seemed like he was itching for a reason to punish.

And god, was he ever fucking good at it.

If anger issues are hereditary, then Price picked up the generational slack of his seething ancestors. 

It's this, and the plethora of scars and burns that decorate his skin (well hidden, tucked away like a dirty secret because if Old Man Price was anything, it certainly wasn't stupid; he knows how to hide the ugliness of himself away, and how to turn a boy into a punching bag without causing too much damage, too much alarm) that make him ache something fierce when he sees his chubby little child for the first time. 

Price doesn't know how to be gentle. All he has are worn, rough hands and a constant stench of smoke. A voice that makes grown men tremble. An ire unmatched thus far in his life. 

Until you. Little spitfire. His hellion. You stood on the tips of your toes just to tell him off for being a stubborn pig! and then taught him how to hold you. How to be tender. But even now, he can see the wear on your skin from his bites. His propensity for violence that he morphs into desire. Into lust. 

How is he supposed to be a dad when he's this caustic? This mean? 

The answer doesn't come. All he gets is the rhythmic sigh of your breath as you sleep, well and truly exhausted after giving birth to their child. All alone. A constant in your lives, it seems. Aloneness. His work takes him away, throws him into dangerous situations. And you carry the brunt of it. 

It caused the rupture of his first marriage and is a needling fear he carried with him when you started pursuing him some odd years ago. To think that he'd be standing here now, gazing down at you with your heavy eyes and your soft cheeks, rounded with the additional weight you gained during your early trimesters. A plushness he's trying to keep on you for good—all softened edges, flesh that gives when he touches you, marshmallows out between his fingers when he squeezes.

You look good like this. Motherhood, despite your misgivings (it took three years of him hinting and hounding you before you'd relented with a sure, what's the worst that could happen? We're terrible parents and raise a terrible kid? Or we end up the catalyst for a list of psychological issues and get reamed out during their therapy sessions later on in life?), suits you. Fits you like a glove.

A fact you'd been quietly overwhelmed by in the first few months, grieving the loss of something he couldn't ever understand, or experience. A piece of yourself morphing into the mother that raised you. A kaleidoscope of feelings that you choke on when he asks, unable to render them into coherent words. 

But you're good at that, aren't you? Good at culling expectations, at superseding the limits others place on you. Even him. 

Especially him. 

When he'd said, don't know what you're gettin’ yourself into, love, you took it to the chin like he challenged you to a brawl, and set out to show him why you knew what this was, what he was, and why it didn't matter much. 

Even now—

Giving birth all alone. Overcoming the isolation of being shackled to a man who married his post first. Sisterwife to his career. Second in all things. 

Even this. 

He was in Iceland when he got the call. Laswell, of all people, was on the other line telling him his own wife was in the delivery room. Water broke. Baby is on the way. 

And you—

Don't worry, old man. Just do what needs to be done and we'll be waiting. Always. 

—well. You certainly are. Alone in a hospital room with the curtains drawn to blot out the sun as you sleep, cradling this thing he made with his fingers shoved deep into your mouth, uttering foul under his breath as he crushed you to the bed, rutting you like an animal—the most tender he could ever be—and he's suddenly all too aware of his own inadequacies. His shortcomings. Failures. 

He's not a dad. He's not the sort of man people think about when they think healthy father figure. He likes cigars and whiskey, and sometimes aches for a mission that will let him cut his knuckles on teeth—bloodletting; exorcising his demons out on the people he's sanctioned to kill. How is he supposed to guide a child when he threw a man over a railing without a second thought—

The bundle stirs. Wrinkled, red face scrunching up tight. Little thing is just like you, huh? All softness and give. All—

They cry, and it's shrill. Loud. It jars him.

Not the sound, but the anguish he feels piercing through his chest as they bellow out their confusion to the world, this lost little thing. Strapped with a father who was beaten black and blue and told to be a man when he cried. 

But right now—anger is the furthest thing on his mind. He can't fathom that emotion when his child is whimpering in your arms, chubby little fingers grasping at the air. Seeking comfort. 

Waking you feels cruel when you've spent the better part of two days awake. Four, really. You couldn't sleep when the contractions hit, wide-eyed and worried about everything. What if something went wrong? If they hated you? What if you hurt them—

Worries he tried to assuage, but couldn't deny he felt them, too. 

All he knows how to do is hurt. But as he reaches down for this little thing squirming in your arms, he tells himself to be tender. To be the man his dad never was. 

And they're soft. So fuckin’ soft. Tiny, too. His hands dwarf them, engulfing them completely. He tries to blame the way he trembles on the denial of nicotine for so long, but the mist in his eyes, and the burn in his throat, call him a liar. He doesn't know what to do. Even with all the hours spent thumbing through manuals and books and scoffing under his breath at the parenting courses you dragged him to (but paid rigid attention to every word the heavily bangled woman said to him), he feels lost. Unsure. The ground is shaky. Control slips. And that's maybe the crux of it all—

Babies can't be controlled. And it's the loss of this, what makes him whole, keeps him steady, that has him feeling rubber-limbed and fawn-like. 

“Quiet, now,” he murmurs, and then winces at the rough drag of his voice in the silence of the room. Too firm, too forceful. All the gentleness he has in his bones was devoured by your greedy mouth when you cracked him open like the legs of a snow crab, marrow slurped up until he was hollow. Empty. His tenderness rests inside your belly. What else does he have to give—

But the warm bundle in his awkward, clumsy hold stops their shrill cries. A girl, he remembers you saying. Crying. Sobbing into the phone when he called, all ugly and gross. He heard you sniffle, snot undoubtedly dribbling from your nose as you wept to him about how fucking cute their baby was. Their little girl. 

She's soft. Smells of a newborn, too—something powdery. Sweet. Warmed milk, fresh bread. The clinical books that made you squeamish, the ones that outlined every anatomical and chemical change to your body, mentioned that newborns smelled distinct to each parent. A phenomenon meant to encourage protection and bonding. 

It made you shiver, muttering my little parasite under your breath, even as your hand curved possessively over your bulging belly. 

He knows that's what this is. Chemical. His mind is evolving, shifting. Changing. And it's then that he feels something hot thicken in his throat. Something ugly, and bitter. The scars on his knuckles, the cigarette burns on his fingers are a sharp reminder of what his father felt and ignored. 

He scoffs, then, irritated at himself. He's a grown man and still—

Still thinks of him. 

“Won't be like that,” he says, still rough. Still firm. She blinks up at him, eyes rheumy and wide. “Not with you.” 

Never. Never. He pins the word to his pericardium, letting it rot his tissue. He'd rather die, he thinks, than ever hurt this little girl. But despite that, he knows he will. Inevitably. Just like he does everything good—or bad—in his life. Leaching from the goodness of others, sucking them dry and letting them moulder. A disappointment everywhere except the battlefield where he screams himself hollow and rents the air with his ire. Incorrigible. Immovable. An object of cruelty. Unforgiving in all aspects. A curse that follows him home, into his marital bed when he pins you down, and makes you profess your love for the beast inside of him. Never satiated, never quelled, until you're shackled at his side. Tucked away from the world he knows is too cruel to people like you who end up a corpse he has to step over on his way for empty retribution. 

He thinks, too, about all the ways he's going to ruin this chubby little thing in his arms, and wishes, suddenly, he was a better man. 

“Gonna hate my fuckin' guts when you're sixteen, aren't you?” In response, this little thing just opens its red maw and blows bubbles. He huffs. “You're gonna be nothin’ but trouble, mm? Steal my car. Crash it because your mum's gonna teach you how to drive and she backed into the garage six times already. Gonna gang up on me. Both of you. Little nightmares.” 

He's not sure what else to say, and thinks, already, that he said too much. Bared his belly to her too soon. She'll have this memory, buried down in the deep recesses of her psyche of her father falling to pieces while he held her. An impossibility, he knows, but can't shake the feeling that this, in itself, is an epoch. A marker for what's to come. All the ugly, the hate. The screaming matches that make him curl his hand into fists as she levels his failures at him. Not to hit. Never to hit. But to stop the tremble that won't stop. That has already started. The shake in his joints that tell him to run before he hurts. Before he ruins this precious mass of his blood and your tissue in his arms. 

“Gonna—” he isn't crying. Isn't. But there's a thickness in his throat as he thinks about how quickly she'll grow up. Age marked in the crows feet that gather around your eyes. The laugh lines. “Gonna be a fuckin' menace, and I'll—” he chokes, then, when she reaches up with a pudgy, red fist and snags the strap of his vest he didn't even bother taking off before he fled here. Fat, tiny fingers curling into the spot he grabs to ground himself from lashing out. “Fuck.”

He'd burn the world for her, he knows. Sacrifice everyone and everything just to keep her warm. Both of you. It begins and ends with this little thing that has your eyes and his nose. 

But he doesn't know how to translate that into love. Into affection. 

It comes out caustic. Abrasive. Possessive. 

And he is. 

Now that he has her in his hands he knows that nothing else will ever compare. That they'll never be empty because she'll always fit in his palms no matter how big she gets. There's only ever been enough space in his heart for you. Chiselled into with a fuckin’ pickaxe because you wouldn't wait for it to grow on its own. 

But there's give, he realises. This domicile you carved yourself has a room attached. A place for her. And she fits like a glove. Sliding inside. Cocooned against his pulse. 

He loves her. Endlessly. Forever. She deserves better. More. 

But when he tells her this, she makes a noise and it sounds like a giggle. 

“Laughin’ at me already, mm?”

She giggles again, and he likes that her laugh is a little ugly. A little mean. 

“Scarin’ the wits outta me,” he confesses, shifting her weight as she occupies herself with the clasp of his vest, disinterested in the man that breaks into pieces around her now. “I don't know—fuck, I don't—”

You come to in a panic. It starts as a slow roll to the side before your eyes flash open, wide and furious even as sleep congeals in the corners, pawing at the empty spot where the lingering warmth of your child presses into your chest. Anger, fury, darkens over your brow, and the apoplectic rage that simmers in the gaps of your dread, your fostering panic, softens him. Makes him melt. The burn of your ire, your fear, liquifying his bones. 

He falls in love with you a little bit more at that moment. When the snarl rucks your upper lip up, up, teeth bared to the world as you whip your head around in frantic, desperate dismay, searching for the little girl he knows you, too, will burn the world for. 

“I've got her,” he says, whisper-soft and low. Cadence even, clear. Tries to quell the howl he can see hammering its fists against your throat before it rips from your lips and scorches the world around you in a hail of horrifying anguish. “She's safe.”

It says something when you immediately go still at the sound of his voice, muscles going lax, slack, as you slowly turn your head toward him, blinking against the fog clotting your vision. Something that cuts him to the core. Rents his chest in halves. One side for you, and the other for her. Nothing left to spare. 

This feeling brimming in his chest sweetens when you startle at the sight of him, them, lashes shuttering like an old camera as if you were trying to sear the image in your head forever. Branded on the back of your eyelids. (A sentiment he knows all too well considering the stream of photos added to his camera roll of you and her nuzzled together.)

“You—” your voice catches, breaks from sleep. Fatigue. You swallow, slowly licking your lips. “When did you get in?”

Your eyes are glued to them. Unblinking. Widened with pure affection, the intensity of which makes him want to touch you, hold you.

“A few hours ago,” he murmurs, glancing down at his—

It cuts a jagged line through his chest. Knicks his bone with how deep it goes. False starts pressed tight to his heart. 

—his daughter. Fuck’s sake. 

He's choked. Strangled. Rendered mute, immobilised. It guts him, this. Daughter. The ring of it echoes in his head, filling the recesses of his mind. Embedding itself within his head. Congealed over. Fixed in place. 

“I have a fuckin’ daughter,” he breathes at length, the air knocked from his lungs. He's not sure why this is what breaks him, but it does. And it's you, then, holding the fracturing pieces together, hands reaching out—in a startling mimicry of his daughter, and fuck, doesn't that just eviscerate him—and curling against the heaving brackets of his ribs, boxing him in. 

“John,” you say, but your voice wobbles. Wavers. When he peels his eyes away from the sleepy yawn she lets out long enough to look at you, there's tears flooding your lashline. Threatening to break. “Fuck,” you say, crass and beautiful, and he's overcome with the urge to tuck you into his other arm, keep you both cradled in his hands. “Don't make me cry or my stitches will tug.” 

“We've got a daughter,” he says again, just to hear it uttered aloud. We. Yours. His. It messes with him. Bludgeons into his core. “We've—”

“She's beautiful, isn't she?” 

Your words shatter him, but the pinch of your hands on his waist keeps him from buckling. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice thick. Ugly. It's mangled in his throat. All fractured and raw. “Just like her mother.”

He shows his affection in the burn of his embrace. In the way he holds you tight, refusing to let go. Keeps his words callous and firm. Soft utterances, declarations of love, tucked away in the sure, greedy way he clings to you in his sleep. Yields to you like no one else. Lets you in. 

And he supposes he ought to say it more often if the way your face crinkles up just like his daughter when she cried, tears spilling over your rounded cheeks. 

“Don't,” you heave, ugly and brittle, and he thinks you're the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life. “Don't or I'll rip my stitches—”

He huffs. Nods only once, and then steps toward you. “Do you want—?”

“Keep her for a little while,” you mutter, leaning back into the bed, eyes lidded by fond. So in love with him, the picture they paint, it's almost sickening. “She likes you.”

He snorts. “She's only three hours old. Give her time.” 

You're quiet for a beat. Pensive. Mulling something over. It's never a good thing when you're silent, and the unease that grows in his belly is justified when you heave out a long, tired exhale through your nose. 

The way you look at him is raw. “You're not your father, John.” 

And isn't that just the worst lie he'd ever heard.

He scoffs, then. Shifts his weight, still cradling his daughter tight to his chest. “Mm, 'dunno about that.”

“I do.”

“Jus’—” leave it. Keep going. Keep feeding him lies as he stands here and pretends that he wasn't a horrible bastard for wanting this from you. From taking it. Strapping you with a man who's always, always, one foot out the door—

“No.” You say, soft and sure. “You're not him. I know you're not because you're still here.”

“So was he.” 

You don't acknowledge the interruption. Content, it seems, to rattle off lies and half-truths into the stifling air. Your eyes close, the curve of your lashes leonine. Breathtaking.

“Do you want me to take her?” You ask instead of the multitude of things he can see piling behind your eyes. Some of the ugly. Jagged glass. Others powder soft. 

He shakes his head. “You need your rest,” it's a half-truth. Fatigue clings to you still, swathed in the purpling of your skin. The slow, heavy blinks you take to try and fight the tug of an artificial sleep. 

But the real reason is this:

He's just not ready to let her go. 

Thinks, viciously, suddenly, that if he does, this moment built between them in budding, liquid blue will cease forever. Severed too soon. She'll carry the same resentment in her heart he feels for his own father, and he'll die in a shallow pit thinking about how badly he wanted just a second longer. 

Generational, right? Trickle down hatred. Ancestral rage. It's what your grandma talks about sometimes over tea and fried bread, half disbelieving you brought a white man into her home, and making a show, a facade, of wisdom even though he spotted the how to raise a child notebook she hastily shoved into the kitchen drawer when you arrived. Taking over in place of your own mother, stepping up. And yet—

She just doesn't get it, you said, rubbing your hands over your belly when she steps away after another long-winded conversation about traditions, spirits, and dead languages. Raising a child like yours in a world like this. She's just. I don't know. Ignore her. 

(He doesn't. But you don't have to know that.)

So. He clings to her a little tighter. Holds her a little firmer. Brings her close to his chest and hopes she can hear the echo of his heartbeat and know that this tired, old song is just for her. 

(The heart itself for you—)

And maybe—

Maybe he's not quite ready to see you be a mother. Some perverse part of him is already trembling at the promise of watching you nurture and feed her, the tantalising whisper is enough to make the air in his lungs turn humid, sticky. Tar, you remind him sometimes, having seen the ugly spatter of black in the grainy photos the doctor in Hereford likes to shove at him. Never too late to reverse the damage, John. 

Or maybe he wants you for himself just a moment longer. An hour. A day. When you're still you, shackled and bound to a man who reeks of stale tobacco, and started sneaking cigarettes in the dead of night like some pimply, awkward teenager when you first came to him, cheeks wet and eyes wild, and said:

“John, I'm—”

Pregnant. 

He did it, of course. Put that baby in you. Made it with his teeth buried into your throat and your hips canting up to meet him, taking everything he had to offer. Animal aggression. Nothing tender in the way he chewed you up, made you beg him for it. But still—

Wanting and having are worlds apart, aren't they? 

Faced with it, the consequences of his actions, he's at a standstill. 

You hum, and when your eyes slide open, he feels the mallet against his head. Cracked open. You fossick about until you find what you're looking for. Cheeky fuckin’ thing—

“Fine. Just pull up a chair before you keel over, old man.” 

“M’fine,” he grouses in that voice that serves as a dice roll between making you feel hot or homicidal depending on the mood he catches you in. Muttering something under your breath that sounds like a whispered plea for guidance (“tss, gimme strength.”)

But even with the waspish denial, he's inching closer to the spare chair left in the corner, looping his ankle around the leg to slide it closer. The squeal of rubber on aluminium makes him grimace, eyes darting down to his sleeping girl, nestled in his arms. Her brow pinches in the same way your grandma’s do when she's annoyed by the news. Her bingomates. The way he refuses her offering of burning tobacco and lemongrass whenever he goes away for a while, unable to really commit to this little, broken family that feels more like home than his own ever did. 

(“aint my place,” he says, and she scoffs. 

“fuck, s'matter wit’cha?” is her counter, the harsh line between her brows now perfectly superimposed on his daughter’s face. “tss. ain't yer place, eh. are you tryna piss me off? fuck, you make me mad—”)

He sees that spitting anger in you. Generational, he knows. The same inherited attitude his daughter will inevitably have. The one that singles him out as an outlier. Outnumbered. Three, now, to one—

There's got to be a reason why his chest bubbles, innervated by the thought of a Sunday dinner when she's old enough to watch her grandma make intricate bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and pins with thread and glass beads as you, her mother, cuss at the stove that doesn't burn as hot as it used to, flipping over golden dough in a sizzling pan. 

Orange juice in old cups your grandma kept since the nineties. Something soft playing on the radio. The peeling, waterlogged wallpaper flakes off the wall when you slam the pan down too hard. The way the spill of the sun through the rusting window rents the room in half. Pale yellow and oak. Little orange blossoms in soft pink above the speckled granite countertops. Everything awash in a gossamer of sleepy-eyed affection. 

Just like it is now. But—

He looks down at her, head full of lead. Cotton. 

Complete, maybe. 

“Don't know how to be a dad,” he confesses to you, and thinks of how much easier it is to slam a sledgehammer into a metal door than it is to peel back the veneer sometimes. “Don't want to mess up.” 

“You'll be fine.” 

The crinkle of the plastic mattress, the scratch of the sheets sliding across the bed is louder now than it was before. He cuts the gentle sounds with an abrading hum that clicks off his teeth. 

“Get some sleep,” he says again instead of the awful truth that buoys in his throat. Things like you don't know and I tricked you this whole time into thinking I'm a good man and look what you’ve let me do to you. “You need it.” 

Another noise. In his periphery, he watches you lean back against the upright pillows, lips parted on a soft sigh. He feels—

Small, then. An oxymoron considering he has to duck his head to get in and out of the room, towering over most he meets daily. But the inadequacies gut him. Vivisect him. He should be more comforting to you, he knows. This whole thing has been difficult. Tiresome. Cut into and having the life you grew inside of you cut out—

“Did good,” he rasps, still staring down at her even as he pulls the chair as close to your bed as he can get. “With her.” 

You snort. It's inelegant. Ugly. Brittle, like you're holding back tears. 

When he glances up, he finds that you are. “You're strong,” he adds, and knows he should have started with this first. “Doin’ this all on your own.” 

“I had help.”

It's awkward trying to adjust himself in the seat with his daughter perched in his arms, but he finds a way. Settled, then, with her still sleeping away, he lifts his hand from her back, keeping her cradled in his arm with the other, and reaches for you. 

The starchy sheets catch on the bramble of hair on his knuckles, the back of his hand, and the static jolts tickle against the rough scar tissue thickened over his knuckles, some still fresh, scabbed from the latest mission he'd been deployed to. You watch him, misty-eyed and tremulous, as he draws nearer, eyes flickering like a pendulum between the bundle nestled on the thick of his arm, to him, watching you back. Greedily taking in every spasm, every blink. 

Something inside of him cracks. Softens. He thinks, breathless, that you've never been as beautiful to him as you are right now. Bubbles of snot in your nose. Eyes reddened, dropping from exhaustion. A dizzying mess. The sort that speaks of tireless work, of physicality. Muted pain brimming in the backs of your eyes when you pull on your stitches. 

“Got a pretty wife,” he says, and it's not enough. He knows it isn't. Looks away before the fracture lilt to his tone breaks him in two. “And—” it's hard to say. He forces himself to. “And a beautiful daughter.” 

The tears stream down your face at this quiet, clumsy admission. 

“Don't—” you sniffle, hoarse. “Or I'll tear my stitches.”

“M’not doin' anythin’, love.” 

“Fuck you, John—”

He leans back in his chair with a hum, eyes slipping shut. A brief respite amid the panic still clinging tight to his ribcage. “Love you too.” 

It's quiet. Nothing but the soft drag of each breath his daughter takes, the tremulous sniffle you give as you try to dam the tears sliding down your cheeks. His heart hammering in his ears. He commits it all to memory. Glueing it to the fibrils of mind where it'll stay, embedded in tissue, for as long as he is of sound mind. 

Much like the grainy, black-and-white ultrasounds stuffed in his breast pocket. Tucked inside the drawer of his desk where he keeps the pictures of you. Keepsakes he's unnecessarily possessive over, elbowing the rowdier men who try to needle him for sparse information on the little wife he hides at home and the baby they'll never meet. Something just for him. Unshareable to the rest of the world because they don't deserve you. 

The feathered snores tell him you're finally asleep, and he thinks about resting for a moment as well—the bone-deep exhaustion he feels jetting from Iceland to home, to the hospital catches up to him with a vicious kick to temples—but the weight in his arm keeps him awake. Hyperviligent. 

There's this urge clawing at him, making ruins of his chest, and he answers its worried insistence by opening his eyes just a sliver to stare down at the little bundle in his arms only to find she's staring back at him. Eyes wide. Comically too big for her chubby face. 

She has your complexion, but his dark curls. Her eyes, though, are the perfect equilibrium between pools of sapphire, burnt blue, marbled with the dark gleam, that vibrant shade of yours that he's so fond of, the one that's often accompanied by a smart-ass remark. Seeing it gaze up at him with such incipient adoration knocks the air from his lungs. Has his heart shuddering in the brackets of his chest. 

It's love, he thinks first. Instantaneous. Apodictic. And then, cold, callous—

Chemical. 

Just to hurt himself, maybe. Just to let it cut deep. Scar. Because as he stares down at her, he knows it doesn't matter. No amount of hatred, of anger, will ever rip her away from him. His daughter. His family. His.

Like her mother. The root of it all. The catalyst. The start. 

Shackled to this gaping chasm that devours endlessly, never satiated. Always starving. 

Needy. Full of greed. 

Because even now he covets. Craves. Muses to himself about how he can convince you to have another the moment the opportunity arises and you're healed. Whole. Aching for it. 

He wasn't joking when he said he wanted a football team. 

But for now—

The soft sighs you make in your sleep, ones that almost sound like his name, and the comforting weight of his daughter in his arms are enough to make the beast inside purr. Preening under its own conquest, its own victory of successfully turning your body into a home he can rest his weary head on. Sacrosanct. 

He looks at her, then, and feels the dread ease into pride. Into elation. An emotion he knows should have come first, but it's here now, and that's all that really matters.

“Gonna be trouble,” he grouses, watching her pink mouth gape wide, blood-red maw grinning up at him in delirious glee only babies can imbue. Unhindered by the ruination of the world around them. Unfettered. 

Something he couldn't protect you from, but knows you're both on the same wavelength when it comes to her. At all costs, you'd said, hand against the burgeoning swell. And he kissed you until he couldn't feel his lips anymore. Until all he tasted, all he knew, was the taste of you.

“Of the best kind, though, mm?” 

In response, she coos. And he hews the sound into his chest where it sits beside the brand of when you first said, i love you, too, John. 

So, he relaxes. Whispers soft, conspiratorily. "Think you might need'a brother, mm? What'd you say about that?"

And she giggles.

Physically I’m here mentally I’m married to John Price and we have a forever home together

Simon Riley is the most self-sacrificing, loyal, and devoted person there is.

He shouldn’t be. The world didn’t owe him shit.

But it was in his nature.

Ever since he was old enough to talk, he’d protect his own. He’d hold Tommy back from arguing with his dad, knowing it would only result in black eyes and tears. He’d watch mournfully from the staircase as his mother took the fall.

He’d be there after, not long after drunken snores sounded from the couch. Simon would have tissues held in his hand, offering it to his crying mother along with a kiss and hug.

“I’m sorry.” He’d apologize, knowing it wasn’t his fault his mother had slap marks on her face, or blood on her lip. He was only sorry he wasn’t strong enough to fight him.

After a couple years, Tommy fell into similar habits, picking up the liquor and any drug he could lay his hands on.

Simon once again took the blunt of the fall. His caring heart breaking at his brother’s anger and decreasing health. He’d throw away the bottles he could find, flushing any pills down the toilet.

He was caught once, arms at his side as his brother screamed at him, shoving him down to the ground. Simon only took the fall, knowing he wouldn’t hurt his brother, not when he knew this wasn’t truly him.

He’d even stick up for Tommy in school, taking on the fights his brother picked up over drug prices. He’d take every punch to the gut, every kick, every blow to the face— one hit so hard he lost his front tooth in a spat of blood.

His mother didn’t have the money to fix it. He told her not to worry, he’d get his own job.

Simon, at the fresh age of 16, received his first job working as a butcher apprentice. He’d stay up late hours working overtime, sometimes even sleeping in the back against the cold meat freezer.

He found it to be a relief to butcher something, imaging it often to be his father’s face, despite his sharp blade only sinking into bloody chunks of meat. Often times he’d take the leftover scraps home to his mother, just so she could have something to eat that night.

He’d never spent any money on himself, until it came to the time to get that tooth fixed, despite the earful his father gave him for not scraping enough change for “rent.” 

He worked hard for two years, hardly sleeping, taking care of others. His hands were now covered in shallow scars, his muscles evening out as he grew to his full height. He was strong, he was tall, but his maturity stayed the same. Simon was an adult for his whole life.

He was at the shop when the news broadcasted, displaying the two burning towers in New York City. He watched the gruesome videos, seeing the terror and fear.

He was filling out his paperwork the next day, going to basic training the next week.

He would never forgive himself afterwards, for leaving behind a grieving mother and angry brother.

When he returned, now a man of potential, all in his freshly pressed uniform, his mother had wept. Proud tears in her eyes as she held onto her pride and joy. Simon had willingly embraced her, nearly squeezing her to death.

“Missed ya, Mum.” He’d sigh, eyes squeezing shut.

He’d ask about his brother, half-knowing it would still be the same since he left. But now, Simon was bigger, he knew how to fight, how to expect the worst. Hell, his sergeants screamed more than his father or brother ever did.

So Simon once again left for his brother, this time throwing away all the drugs and alcohol and watching him like a hawk.

Tommy had never been so angry, falling backwards and into the withdrawling stage. That was the worst of it.

Simon was once again selfless after a trip to the grocery store, buying his mom groceries for the week. A pretty cashier had left her number on the receipt, but instead Simon had introduced her to his brother instead.

They had hit it off, now going on their third date. Simon had never been more grateful for Beth, despite the nagging in the back of his mind that thought, “what if I wanted to date? What if I wanted to be happy?”

But, he’d always put his brother first.

It’s why he found himself smiling beside an alter, putting his whole life on pause to watch his brother dressed in black shed tears as his very pregnant fiancé walked down the aisle.

She gave a cute little wave to Simon, before happily taking Tommy’s hand to exchange vows.

Simon fought hard on his way to the SAS, watching brothers die and serving many tours. He always worried in the back of his mind that he’d become too much like his father. A cold hearted killer, someone who took love and crumbled it in a fist.

He thought he deserved to be punished, the cold meat hook impaled in between his ribs. The bruises, the cuts, the sexual assaults he was too weak to fight off. He deserved it all.

He was a shell, but at least his family was safe. At least he could justify his need to protect his family. He’d take a million torturous acts to protect his sweet mum, or his brother, his sister in law. Their sweet bundle of joy Joseph.

Roba had cackled about killing his family, how he’d destroy them. It’s why the jawbone was clenched between Simon’s fist, dirt filling his lungs as he dug out of the casket. He had to get home. His purpose of being alive, was in danger.

He was a selfless bastard, but he’d never wanted to be so selfish after seeing the blood on the floor. To not feel the horrid pain or hear the hollowed screams his body released involuntarily.

Roba had ripped out Simon’s heart and crushed it to powder. Took his mum, his family, his home.

Simon Riley was a Ghost.

He’d visit their graves every year, speaking of his life and how he missed them.

He’d tell them of his task force, how Man United had won another game. He’d sink to his feet in front of little Joseph’s gravestone, setting a toy plane against the moss.

He found tears were easy to fall.

“You’ll catch a cold out here, Simon.”

An angelic voice had called out to him, a warm hand anchoring him to the gravitational pull that was you.

You knew little of his life, of his service. But you knew him, and the brute cursed himself every day for letting such an innocent and beautiful creature get close to his tainted flesh.

You somehow wormed your way into his heart, healing and patching the tears and allowing himself to be selfish just this once.

He loved you.

And maybe, just maybe he could find himself being a person once again. Tying his soul to you and holding you against his chest like the precious gem you were.

“I’m coming, love. Just had to say goodbye.”

He could be selfish. Just this once, right?

He took your hand.

When the Walls Fall (p.1)

Summary: Simon’s never been great at dealing with feelings, especially when they come out of nowhere. From the moment he laid eyes on you, something shifted, but he did his best to keep it under wraps. It’s only when Price steps in, playing a little bit of matchmaker, that Simon’s forced to face what he’s been ignoring. Between the awkward tension, the attraction, and a little help from the Captain, maybe they’ll both figure out what’s been right in front of them all along. From this idea. Word count: 3.2 k

The first time Simon saw you, it was like taking a hit he hadn’t prepared for.

You walked onto base with the kind of confidence that made people take notice of you. Not cocky, just like you belonged there. And maybe you did. Maybe you were the best damn soldier to come through in a while, and maybe that should’ve been the only thing on his mind. But it wasn’t.

His eyes tracked you instinctively, taking in every detail before he could stop himself. The way you carried yourself, the focus in your eyes. And then you smiled at someone, and something in his chest clenched so hard it almost hurt.

Fuck.

He tore his gaze away, trying to shake the feeling, but Soap had already caught him.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Johnny muttered with an infuriating grin on his face.

“Shut it,” Simon grumbled, adjusting his gloves like that would somehow ground him.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“Didn’t have to.”

Soap chuckled, nudging him with an elbow. “Just sayin’, she’s got somethin’, aye? And you—” He gestured vaguely. “You’re actin’ like a man who just got hit over the head with a brick.”

Simon rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the tension. “Fuck off, mate.”

“Sure,” Soap drawled. “But you still haven’t stopped starin’, mate.”

Simon forced himself to look away, hating the fact that Soap caught him. And, he had work to do. A mission to focus on. He didn’t have time for… whatever this was.

But deep down, he already knew.

It was already too late.

-

At first, you thought it was just you. Maybe you’d done something wrong, said something to set him off. Because from the moment you arrived, Simon had been… distant.

And not in the way he was with most people. With you, it felt different, like he was avoiding you. Short replies, barely a glance in your direction, and when he did look at you, it was intense. You’d catch him watching sometimes, but the second your eyes met, he’d look away like he hadn’t been staring at all.

If he was trying to make you feel unwelcome, it was working.

It was frustrating, because everyone else had settled into working with you just fine. Soap had been the first to extend a friendly hand, quickly making it clear that you were part of the team now. Gaz followed soon after, along with the rest of the squad. Even Price had given you one of his rare approving nods within the first week.

But Ghost?

Nothing but silence and cold shoulders.

You tried not to let it bother you, but it gnawed at the back of your mind. You’d worked with difficult teammates before, but this felt… personal.

“What’s his deal?” you asked Soap one evening after training, watching as Ghost disappeared into the barracks without a word.

Soap smirked, far too amused. “Who, Ghost?”

“Yes, Ghost. The one who acts like I’ve personally offended his ancestors.”

Soap let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Nah, lass, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?”

He hesitated, glancing toward where Ghost had gone. “Let’s just say he’s not great with… people.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

Before Soap could reply, Price strolled past, catching the tail end of your conversation. He gave you a knowing look, then turned to Soap. “Don’t worry about it,” Price said easily, clapping a hand on your shoulder before walking off.

You stared after him, baffled. Soap just chuckled and patted your arm. “You’ll figure it out.”

You had no idea what that meant. But as Ghost continued to avoid you like the plague, you were determined to get to the bottom of it.

-

A few days later, you found Ghost in the armory inspecting a rifle. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was trying to make himself invisible, shoulders hunched, attention fixed on anything that wasn’t you.

Too bad for him, you had a report to give, and he was the one who needed to hear it.

“Lieutenant,” you greeted, stepping up beside him. He stiffened, then turned his head slightly to acknowledge you, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours.

“Yeah?”

You shifted on your feet. “I’ve got intel from the last recon—needed to pass it along to you.”

Ghost nodded, setting down the rifle. “Go on.”

You started relaying the details, but something felt… off. He wasn’t cutting you off, wasn’t asking follow-up questions like he usually would. Instead, he was just standing there, unnervingly still, eyes fixed on you.

Really fixed on you.

His gaze was heavy, like he was committing every detail of your face to memory. And for someone usually so unreadable, he looked—hesitant.

“Lieutenant?” you prompted when he didn’t respond.

He blinked. Looked away. Cleared his throat. “Right. Uh. Continue.”

Your brow furrowed. He was acting weird, more than usual. Like he was barely processing the words coming out of your mouth.

You finished your report, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment. Instead, Simon just nodded slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides.

“…So?” you pressed. “What do you think?”

He inhaled sharply, as if just realizing he was supposed to respond. “Sounds… good.”

You squinted. “Sounds good?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

Another pause. Too long. He was still looking at you, and before you could call him out on it, another voice cut in.

“Perfect timing,” Price announced as he strode in, hands on his hips. “You two are headed out on assignment together.”

You blinked. “What?”

Price smirked. “Mission briefing in an hour. Gear up.” He clapped Ghost on the shoulder, giving him a look, then walked out, leaving you standing there, confused.

Ghost finally tore his gaze away from you, jaw tight. “Right. Mission.”

You exhaled, pinching the bridge of your nose. This was going to be interesting.

-

“Alright, listen up,” Price began, his voice steady as always. “This mission is straightforward. We’re monitoring a target—high-level intel. We need to keep eyes on them for the next few weeks. No interaction. Just observation and relay.”

He pointed to the satellite image of the target’s compound on the screen, then flipped to the next slide that showed the layout of the safe house. You and Simon exchanged a glance. The safe house was tiny, just a single building in the middle of nowhere.

“You two will be on the ground. The safe house is set up, but it’s basic. No room service here,” Price said with a small grin, clearly enjoying the discomfort he knew was coming. “Just enough supplies to get the job done. Only one bed, though. Hope you two can manage.”

You froze for a second, not sure if you’d heard him right. “Wait… what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Price didn’t even blink. “One bed,” he repeated casually. “This isn’t a luxury vacation. You’ll be monitoring the target from there. No time for complaints.”

You shot a quick look at Simon, whose face was as unreadable as ever. There was no way this was going to be easy. Price, clearly savoring the moment, clapped his hands together.

“Get your gear, and I’ll see you both at the rendezvous point. You know the drill—keep it quiet, keep it tight. Don’t screw this up.”

With a smirk and a nod, Price turned on his heel and left the room. You exhaled slowly, your heart already starting to race at the thought of the situation ahead.

Simon glanced at you, then back at the door where Price had just exited. “Great,” he muttered under his breath, clearly less than thrilled about the sleeping arrangements.

“Yeah… great,” you echoed, your mind already spinning with how awkward this was about to get.

-

When you stepped into the safe house, the first thing you noticed was how small it was.

One main living area. A tiny kitchen. A single bedroom.

And one bed.

Your stomach twisted. Price’s smug look from earlier suddenly made perfect sense.

Ghost stood stiffly near the door, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on the bed. His hands clenched briefly at his sides, but he said nothing.

You swallowed. “I’ll take the floor.”

His head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. “No.”

You frowned. “It’s fine, really.”

“Not happenin’.”

You hesitated, then sighed. This was going to be a long mission.

The first day at the safe house was unbearable.

You tried to keep yourself busy, checking supplies, setting up comms, anything to avoid sitting in that stifling silence. Simon was the same, moving around the space, tension radiating from him. He barely looked at you.

Because looking at you was dangerous.

Simon knew himself well enough to understand that much. The more he let himself watch you, the harder it would be to keep a leash on whatever this was. So he didn’t. He focused on the mission. On the layout of the safe house. On anything but the fact that he could hear the soft inhale and exhale of your breath in the quiet, or that you smelled like something clean and warm beneath your gear.

It wasn’t helping.

You weren’t faring much better.

From the moment you arrived, anxiety had settled deep in your stomach. It was one thing to deal with Simon back on base, where there were distractions, other people, space. But here? Here, in this tiny house with nowhere to hide? Every time you moved, you felt him like a weight against your skin.

And you were convinced, more than ever, that he couldn’t stand you.

The short responses. The stiff posture. The way his shoulders tensed whenever you got too close. It all screamed discomfort, and it made something twist in your chest. You were used to working with difficult people, but Simon’s avoidance felt personal in a way that you couldn’t explain.

By nightfall, the silence was unbearable.

“Alright,” you finally said, crossing your arms. “Are we gonna talk about it?”

Simon, who had been cleaning his knife, stilled. “Talk about what?”

You gestured vaguely around the room. “This. The fact that we’re stuck here together and you act like I’ve personally wronged you.”

His fingers flexed around the knife. “You didn’t.”

“Then what’s your problem with me?”

He looked at you then, and it made your breath catch.

“There’s no problem,” he said finally, voice low.

You huffed, shaking your head. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Simon watched as you turned away, frustration rolling off you. He should say something. He knew he should. But everything he wanted to say—all the thoughts tumbling in his head—were things he could never let slip.

Because the problem wasn’t you. It was him.

And God help him, two weeks of this might just break him.

-

The air in the safe house was cold when night fell. You stood at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, looking at Simon like you were preparing for a fight.

“I’ll take the floor,” you said firmly.

Simon, who was already sitting on the edge of the mattress, let out a slow sigh. “No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will.”

“No, you won’t.”

You glared at him. “You need rest. You’re bigger than me. You’ll be uncomfortable on the ground.”

He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was trying to find some patience. “You’re not sleepin’ on the damn floor.”

You set your jaw, determined. “Then I’ll take the chair.”

 “You’ll take the bed.”

It was a standoff. You, stubborn as ever, refusing to give in. Him, stone-faced, refusing to let you win.

Finally, after a long, tense silence, Simon shook his head. “We’ll both take the bed. It’s big enough.”

Your stomach twisted. “Are you sure?”

He just grunted in response and moved to the far side of the mattress, facing away from you, shoulders tight. You hesitated, feeling awkward, before finally sitting down on the other side.

Lying down next to him felt… strange. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with the fact that this was Simon. The man who barely spoke to you. The man who looked at you like you were a problem.

And now you were sharing a bed.

You forced yourself to stay still, willing sleep to come, but it was impossible. Every small shift of fabric, every breath he took, every inch of space between you felt amplified in the quiet.

Simon was even worse off.

He had spent years training himself to sleep under any conditions. But this? This was new.

Your warmth, just inches away, was something he couldn’t ignore. The rise and fall of your breaths, the scent of you so close, the soft rustling every time you shifted slightly. It was torture. He had to clench his fists to keep them still, to resist the urge to reach out, to let himself—

You exhaled softly, a little sigh escaping your lips. His chest tightened.

Then—nothing.

Stillness.

Simon turned his head just enough to glance at you. Your face was relaxed, lips slightly parted, lashes fanned against your cheeks. Asleep.

Something in him softened.

Carefully—so carefully—he let his fingers brush against the back of your hand, just for a second. Barely a touch, a whisper of contact.

His throat tightened as he pulled his hand away, his own pulse betraying him.

Yeah.

He was completely, utterly fucked.

-

He’d fallen asleep easily enough, or so he thought. At some point, in the dead of night, Simon had woken up.

His eyes flicked over to you, lying still beside him, your face relaxed in sleep. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on your features. The way your breath came evenly, how you curled slightly in your sleep—it was something so innocent, so calm. And yet, it stirred something in Simon he wasn’t ready to fully acknowledge.

He tried to force his thoughts away, willing himself to go back to sleep, but it was impossible. Everything about this felt wrong, and at the same time... it felt right.

Then, in one of those moments where the mind is too slow to catch up with the body, you shifted in your sleep, your head moving slowly as if drawn by some invisible force. Before Simon could react, your head was resting on his chest, your hair brushing his chin, your breath warm against his skin.

His heart skipped, and he went completely still, barely daring to breathe. Every muscle in his body tensed as he lay there, frozen, but inside, everything was a mess. His mind raced, scrambling for an explanation, anything to justify this moment. His chest tightened, his pulse hammering. You, of all people, had ended up like this, so close, and he didn’t know how to handle it.

He couldn’t move. He was terrified of disturbing you, of you waking up and realizing what had happened. But even more, he was terrified of what this meant for him. He shouldn’t want you so close, shouldn’t want this warmth, shouldn’t want the feeling of you there, pressing into him in a way that had him aching with longing.

But he did. He wanted it more than he cared to admit.

So he lay there, forcing himself to stay motionless, eyes staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the way his heart was thudding in his chest, trying to ignore how good it felt to have you so close.

But eventually, sleep came in waves, though it was a restless kind of sleep. Simon barely managed to close his eyes, his body fighting the pull of exhaustion, constantly aware of your warmth against him, of the feeling of you there on his chest.

When the first light of morning filtered into the room, Simon woke up again. He blinked, confused for a second, before his eyes landed on you. You were still there—your head on his chest, your body curled close to him, as if you belonged there. The soft sound of your breathing was the only thing he could focus on.

He couldn’t sleep, and now, he was lying there with you. He forced himself to breathe slowly, hoping that the pounding in his chest would slow down. He didn’t know what to do—didn’t know if he should wake you up or let you stay there.

But then, as if on cue, you shifted in your sleep again, your head moving off his chest. He held his breath, hoping you wouldn’t wake up and realize where you were. But of course, you did. Your eyes fluttered open, confusion quickly turning into panic as you realized your position. You immediately pushed yourself away from him, sitting up in a hurry.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you stammered, your face flushed with embarrassment. You could barely look at him, your eyes darting everywhere but his face. “I didn’t mean to...”

The last thing Simon wanted was for you to feel worse. The reality of the situation was a mess, but he didn’t want you to panic.

“It’s okay,” Simon muttered, his voice hoarse from sleep, trying to sound casual, but it came out wrong. His body was still tense from the moment before, from the warmth of you on his chest, and he had no idea how to act now. He wasn’t sure if he should feel embarrassed or just accept it as something that had happened.

But he wasn’t about to admit that he had been awake the whole time, pretending to be asleep while his heart was in his throat.

You turned to face him, still looking panicked. "I didn’t mean to—"

“No,” Simon said quickly, his eyes finally meeting yours. “Really. It’s fine.”

You hesitated, looking at him like you weren’t sure if you could believe him. You shifted nervously next the bed, unsure what to do next.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you muttered, still avoiding eye contact. "I don't know what happened, I—"

Simon tried to act calm, even though his heart was still racing. "It’s fine," he repeated, though his voice was softer now, quieter. He felt like he was saying it more for himself than for you. “You were asleep. It’s no big deal.”

You wanted to say something, but words seemed useless now, as if there was nothing that could make the situation better.

Simon’s mind was a whirlwind, but he kept his face neutral. He had no idea how you felt, but as he sat there in the stillness, the fact that you had been so close, even by accident, had done something to him that he wasn’t sure how to process. He hadn’t wanted to move, hadn’t wanted you to wake up and see it.

“Right,” you muttered, your heart still racing. You couldn’t look at him anymore. The awkwardness of the moment was too much. “I’ll just... get ready now.”

Simon nodded, his gaze following you as you moved to gather your things. He stayed still, his body still tight with the remnants of that moment, but internally, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to admit how much he had enjoyed it. But the truth was, having you that close had affected him in ways he wasn’t prepared for.

And the more he tried to ignore it, the more he realized there was no going back now.

PART 2

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some1 tag me in all of those price x reader fluff fics 😞😞😞

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