Undercover (Wilbur Soot x Reader)

Rue

TW: mentions of sh, descriptions of death, sh, i dont wanna say gore but u can judge for yourselves bc its not blood its just ee.

You wake up, going to stretch but feeling a warm arm pull you in closer, long heavy exhales heaving from the chest behind you. A soft groan escapes from the boy's mouth, sending a shiver down your sides. You can almost hear Johnathon teasing the small tension between the two of you.

Johnathon.

And with that thought, you push the scrawny man off of you and walk to your shower, turning the hot water on. You lean against the counter. Doesn't matter how long it's been, it still hurts. It still breaks you to shambles. God, he'd find this so funny that you two got picked. He'd laugh so hard when- if you both got home and were acting this way. He'd laugh for hours, going quiet, thinking, then laughing again. He'd be making dinner and laugh and go "REALLY!" You can hear him now. William was with you. That's who he is. He's the man who held you while your best friend and roommate died in your arms. Stupid serial killers don't know when to stop shooting. Now it's just you and William again, in the field, working, running, shooting. It stings, it burns. It feels like iodine seeping into a fresh cut, burning at the surface but at the same time being so good for you. So much pent-up anger and frustration from feeling week all let go in a weekend.

You peel your clothes off, slipping into the shower, running your hands over your head, over the part in your hair. You miss him, of course. But you also know how happy he'd be that his two buddies are getting along. William lost somebody too that day. He just held you while you cried, you didn't even stop to turn around in his grip to give him comfort.

Guilt. Guilt is what pours out of the shower head, spraying on the shower walls and running down your body while you lather your head in liquids known to clean and detangle. Guilt goes between each strand of hair, every eyelash, every crack in your lip, every finger. It falls down your legs, hitting your feet and going right back up to your head. You never turned around. You begin scrubbing your skin with soap, not cleaning. Scrubbing. Scrubbing the guilt off, trying to make it end. Scratching at the surface to get to the problem that lies underneath.

The water shuts off with a quick turn of your hand and you throw some clothes over your red, raw skin. Three simple steps later you're back in your room, he still lays in that same bed. Still asleep. You crawl back into his arms, tears welling in your ducts. You face him now, the warm body stirring awake, his eyes slowly opening and meeting yours. His eyes are so tired, so brown. You could melt away in them like the chocolate that you are sure fuels the beautiful brown. You rest a hand on his cheek that leans against the pillow, shifting between the man and the fluffy object. He leans further into it, his eyes closing again.

"I'm sorry." Is all you can say. His eyes opening slowly along with his head raising, he notices the tears and quickly hums to ask what's bothering you. You sigh, "I never made sure you were okay that day. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for hating you for a stupid reason. I'm sorry." He leans back into your hand.

"It's okay. You're alright. I haven't felt hurt because of it, not ever. It made sense." The raspy, tired voice that belongs to the man lying in front of you in the palm of your hand rings in your ears.

"It's eight, mr. husband, time to get up. We have actual things to do today." He groans, the soft moment ending and the work beginning. Your wet hair begins making a larger mark in the pillow behind you and he notices.

"Shower?" You nod.

"I'm gonna blow my hair out, maybe curl it." You respond as if he cares what you do with your hair."

"I'm excited to see what you do." He responds, slowly sitting up, leaving your palm cold. He walks to the door grabbing it before he leaves, turning his head over his shoulder. "Tonight is dinner with a man named Nick. It's fancy, make sure to grab your ring." He smiles at you. With that, you're up and running.

-

Cooking lunch together, still in your pjs but with your hair done was interesting. Your skin had calmed down from the shower earlier. He practically tripped over himself running down the stairs to see what you did with the hair that falls from your head. You laugh, hearing the louder patter from him and shortly after the tiny steps from Lola come running with him. She doesn't know what's going on but she's happy to be included. While you cook, he runs his fingers through your hair, playing with the ends and braiding and unbraiding. He is enamored with your hair. By the time you're done cooking, eating, and talking it's around three thirty and you need to get changed, as does he. A long blue dress waits for you upstairs, a lower cut neckline but enough to be kept classy neighbored by a dainty silver necklace that falls around your neck, gliding across your veins to sit on your collarbones. You walk in the heels that you're wearing, knowing they won't be kept on during the car rides. Small knocks land on the door in front of you. A short yell from the other inhabitant of the large house and you sit on his bed, waiting for him to come out of his bathroom. He walks out, so focused on his tie that he doesn't notice the dark makeup or the dress yet.

"Can you help me! I know you came in here looking to chat before we leave but I need help with this dumbass t..." His words fall short when he looks up and sees the sight before him. You stand up, pulling your bottom lip in with your tongue just to bite it while you tie his tie for him. His hands meet your waist, bordering hips while he takes in the sight before him. The slit in the thigh catching his eye as his breath catches in his throat. "Fuck." Is all that the tall man can utter. You finish, looking up and meeting his eye. His rolled-up white sleeves wrinkling when your hands trail up them, hooking around his neck, whilst his slide down to your hips pulling them flush against his own. "You are... so fucking beautiful." He whispers, although Lola isn't in the room to hear. Your face falls red and your head nervously falls down.

"Thank you." You say barely enough to be heard. A hand makes contact with your chin, leaving your hip and pulls your face back up, his now being so close to your own that you are breathing the same air.

"I didn't quite hear that, repeat it for me." He says, not asking.

"Thank you, Will." You say, the nickname rolling off your tongue so naturally, your head leaning to the side ever so slightly to hopefully meet his lips at a mid-way point. He pulls away shortly, never getting the kiss you know you both crave.

"We're gonna be late, pretty lady, and I need a blazer."

Thus, you were off. You were off to what could possibly be one of the strangest yet best dinners of your life.