hisaacswrites

[hisaacswrites]

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Chapter 5

Summary:

When Simon first interviewed for The Great British Baking Show, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. He certainly didn’t expect to win. Despite the chaos it brought to his life, he couldn’t really complain. It landed him the best job he could ask for and a close circle of friends who actually seemed to enjoy his company. It also led him to his biggest fan, one John MacTavish, who’s determined to win him over one baked good at a time. — Or, The baking AU that no one asked for

← Chapter 4 】 ⦿ Chapter 5 ⦿ 【 Chapter 6 →

☆ Read on AO3

【 Chapter Specific Warnings: The R slur is used in a purposefully offensive way to describe Simon. There is also vague description of disassociation and a panic attack, though not in any heavy detail. 【 Notes: Split this one in two, please don't kill me. :' ) Thank you all for your kudos and comments; I didn't expect my return to writing to be this well received and it really means a lot to me.

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Masterlist ⦿ CoD Library ⦿ Hayden Isaacs Library

🍰 Chapter 5

Cafe 141 was in pure chaos, and considering that most of the staff had survived active war zones, that was saying quite a lot.

While Rudy and Alejandro had enjoyed the long weekend Simon had given them, both had gotten a nasty case of food poisoning that had them incapacitated. It was a shame because they had been celebrating their anniversary, but the remaining staff of the cafe found it hard to sympathize as they struggled to handle the current rush. With Rudy and Alejandro taking the day off to recover on such short notice, only Gaz, Price, and Simon had been available to keep the Cafe up and running.

It was hectic, but the trio had dealt with worse situations. While they had never all served together in the same unit at one time, they had grown familiar enough with one another outside of their military careers to work like a well-oiled machine.

Gaz, charismatic but efficient, manned the register. His cap secured to his head in "focus" mode, he smoothly went from taking orders, to bagging up pastries, to making strategic recommendations (he did not, in fact, order enough coffee the week before. It's not his fault he got distracted by watching Soap and Ghost's flirting through the kitchen window), all with a friendly smile.

Price, the resident beverage expert, made the orders. It was a miracle that his bucket hat didn't fly off of his head with the way he rushed between the machines and juggled multiple mugs, glasses, and containers. And if he turned on his old-fashioned charm to soothe any ruffled feathers when calling out the completed orders and handing them off to customers? Well, that was just good customer service.

That left Simon to bounce between the two, filling the gaps and rushing back to the kitchen when he could. While he refused to man the second register, he helped Gaz retrieve and deliver pastries and worked on the tea orders when Price was catching up on the coffee ones. In the moments he managed to sneak away during the not-so-frequent lulls, he made whatever quick and easy things he could in the kitchen to replenish their display cases as the baked goods continued to fly off of the shelves.

The slammed staff of Cafe 141 hadn't had a free moment to breathe, let alone check the clock, and Simon knew that he wasn't the only one who had to be feeling the exhaustion pile up.

All of that slipped out of his mind when Johnny pushed through the door. The Scot looked surprised by just how busy the cafe was, but he still shouted a cheerful greeting to Gaz, Price, and Simon himself before squeezing his way to the back of the line. Hidden behind the safety of his medical mask, Simon smiled, pleased to see him.

His eyes drifted over to their display case as he hurried to fill the next order.

Simon wasn't sure if it was just luck or if Gaz had given his Scottish best friend a head's up, but he actually had made the mille feuille Johnny had requested. It was definitely lucky that he had gotten up early to make them — there was no way he would have been able to during the day with the constant stream of customers. Easily the most complicated pastry in the case, the delicate layers of flaky puff pastry separated soft pillows of whipped ricotta and rich lemon cream. An elegant drizzle of blueberry sauce curled across the top and if it resembled a cursive "J" at first glance? Well, that was just coincidence.

Johnny's name on them, indeed.

The mille feuille were quite popular, but Simon had made an extra small batch hidden in the kitchen just in case. He handed off the current customer's cup of tea before immediately starting on the next while trying not to worry about whether Johnny would like them.

With he, Gaz, and Price moving at full throttle, the line was steadily moving and Johnny became close enough to take a look into the case. His blue eyes moved quickly over the different options before he did a double take, eyes widening and a huge grin lifting his cheeks when he spotted the mille feuille. Simon almost let out a breath of relief, smiling behind his own mask at Johnny's apparent happiness.

Still smiling to himself, he crouched down and grabbed a small wax sheet to reach into the case with for the current order. Simon was, admittedly, zoning out a bit, so when a harsh slapping sound rattled the glass of the display, he jerked to attention. The sudden movement had him bashing his elbow into the case's door, but before he could even register the pain radiating up his bad arm, he was being scolded by a fuming woman.

Leaning up against the glass, the short woman held a mug of coffee in one hand and was clearly seething. "Finally," She snarled as Simon rose from his bent position, "I've been trying to get your fucking attention for ten minutes now! What, you folks too good to actually talk to the rest of us?"

Simon was completely at a loss, having no idea what the woman's problem was. The sudden whiplash from being hopeful about Johnny's opinion to being screamed at had him off kilter and he struggled to figure out how to respond. This wasn't the kind of yelling one heard in the midst of battle or during training, this was different, was viciously personal in a way that reminded Simon of his childhood. His shoulders curled inward involuntarily as he fell back into years-old placating habits.

"I-" Simon had to clear his throat, his mouth suddenly dry and pulse thumping in his ears, "I a-apologize, ma'am, I was — I was just getting another customer's order and didn't hear-"

The woman's pink painted lips curled into a sneer, her nose wrinkling in disgust as she glared at Simon. The other customers around her shifted uncomfortably, moving away from her as she gestured wildly with her free hand. "No wonder my order is wrong if they have some stuttering idiot working behind the counter," She spat, "I said I wanted toffee nut syrup in my drink, not whatever bullshit this is! What are you? Some kind of fucking retard that doesn't understand simple instructions?"

Simon froze, his entire body stiffening up as if someone had doused him in ice water. The woman continued to yell obscenities, but he couldn't hear them over the high pitched ringing sound in his ears. He could vaguely see both Price and Gaz moving his way from the dark edges of his vision, but he struggled to fully register what was going on and tried his best to diffuse the situation.

"I'm sorry," he said, moving closer to the counter to reach for the woman's mug, "I didn't make your order, but if you tell me what it was, I can have it remade for you."

"Haven't you been fucking listening?" The woman screamed, her cheeks a vivid red as a vein pulsed on her forehead. "If this is how you do things over here, I don't want your disgusting coffee! Take this shit back and give me a goddamn refund!"

Simon barely registered what happened next, only feeling a burning pain splash across his chest and extended arm. And in that moment, he completely shut down.

Price reached Simon a moment too late and frantically wiped at the burning hot coffee that the woman had thrown at him with his own apron. The older man reached for Simon's shoulders, urging the unresponsive man to look at him, but his eyes were dazed and unseeing, trapped in his own mind.

Gaz was talking sternly to the woman, his rich voice dripping with venom, and the rest of the cafe was in chaos as other customers tore into her for her behavior. They were nothing compared to Soap, who shouldered past an older teenager who had pulled his phone out at the first sign of conflict and was silently filming the whole thing. The Scottish man was quaking in rage and stormed right up into the woman's face. His accent made his words nearly indecipherable, but the meaning behind them was quite clear.

"Whit th' actual feckin' hell is yer kinch? Ye think ye kin juist come ower 'ere 'n' treat fowk lik' garbage? This isnae th' states, ye godless cunt!"

Unwilling to back down, even cornered as she was, the woman screeched right back at Soap, jabbing a pointed nail into his chest with every word. To emphasize her point, she threw her empty mug with a huff, stomping her foot in a full-blown tantrum. The mug clipped Price on the shoulder while he was still turned around to try and help Simon, causing the glass to bounce up and smash into Simon's face with a solid thunk. The large man flinched, snapping out of whatever flashback had been holding him hostage, cringing even further when the mug hit the ground with a resounding shatter.

Cafe 141 was suddenly quiet.

Price turned to Gaz, his expression cold but furious. "Call the police."

The barista immediately pulled out his cell phone, quickly and succinctly relaying information to the dispatcher. Behind him, the enraged woman was shoving at the other patrons, storming towards the door. It seemed that with the threat of the authorities looming over her, the woman had decided to finally leave. Unfortunately for her, the faithful customers of the cafe were less than accommodating, outright blocking her path and helping corral her to the far corner of the room.

Things were fuzzy for Simon after that. He registered that things were happening around him, but they were muted and distant as if he was watching them through someone else's eyes.

Gaz had greeted the police at the door, relaying all of the information he had given the dispatcher and directing them towards the still shouting woman in the corner. Her attention was focused on Soap, who was going toe to toe with her, but her eyes quickly widened when she spotted the two policemen stalking her way.

Price stuck by Simon, doing his best to keep the larger man present while doing what he could to tend to his injuries. Gaz was soon by their side, fawning like a mother hen over Simon's busted cheekbone and cut nose as he stared blankly on.

Simon was familiar enough with the feeling of disassociating, but he couldn't seem to break himself out of it. Soon there were more police in the cafe, a pair dragging the still protesting woman out in handcuffs while another took his statement. When the policeman turned his attention to Price to question him as the owner of the cafe, Simon's attention drifted.

Cafe 141 was in chaos. While a bunch of customers had left, the ones that stayed were enthralled with the spectacle, either talking amongst each other or filming what was going on. They were loud, but not loud enough to drown out the abuse that the vile woman was still screaming about him even as she was forced into the back of a cop's car. Price was visibly frustratd, his bucket hat askew and mustache turned down severly as he spoke to the officer in a low, stern voice. Gaz was running around, doing his best to gain some sort of order in the cafe, while sending worried glances Simon's way.  He couldn't see Johnny, didn't know if he had left already or if he was outside talking to another officer or if he was just lost in the crowd. Porcelain shards were strewn across the floor. Sticky coffee dripped sluggishly from the counter. Simon watched as a drop broke from the rest, falling in slow motion to splash into the puddle on the floor.

Everything seemed to snap back into focus at once and he suddenly felt clammy and cold, his breath getting caught in his throat. He needed to get out. It was too much.

Simon bolted, disappearing through the hallway door and rushing into the bathroom. He threw himself at the toilet, the stall door slamming shut behind him and locking automatically as the sounds of his dry heaving echoed around the empty room.

He fell back against the wall with a wheezing gasp, shakily ripping off his mask and throwing it somewhere. He couldn't breathe. He pulled at his hair, mind racing as he struggled to remember his calming exercises.

A bitter, self-deprecating laugh twisted itself from his throat. The fearsome Simon "Ghost" Riley. Curled up like a greenie after being yelled at by a Karen. Fighting off a panic attack on the bathroom floor thanks to repressed trauma and PTSD.

His next laugh was more akin to a sob.

So caught up in his spiraling thoughts, Simon almost missed the creak of the bathroom door opening. He immediately froze and went silent, tracking the shadow of a person as they approached the stall door. He stared at the well worn boots he could see from under the door, holding his breath as he waited for the other person to do... something.

There was a hesitant knock to the door, the faint rustling of cloth as the person shifted behind it.

"Hey Simon, it's Soap."

Oh.

Oh, God.

Johnny had been there. Of course, Simon had seen him, had known he was in the cafe, but he hadn't fully realized what that meant. Johnny had seen him get screamed at by a customer. Johnny had seen him shut down. Had seen him panic, run away, sequester himself in the bathroom like some child.

Johnny had seen.

Simon couldn't fight the wave of embarrassment and shame that washed over him or the burn of self-loathing in his gut that put his coffee-scalded hands to shame.

"I saw ye come back here 'nd just wanted tae make sure ye were okay. Well, I ken you're not okay, not after tha', but if there was anything I could do tae help. Maybe help ye clean up? Patch up your injuries?" Johnny's voice was low and calm, his accent lighter than it was previously, but still present enough to give his words a soothing lilt.

Simon's immediate response was to turn him away. He had tended to worst wounds than this while out on missions and the last thing he wanted was for Johnny to see just how... pitiful he was right now. He wanted to lick his wounds in peace, find his footing, and not feel raw and exposed.

On the other hand, he was just so tired. It had been a long and hectic day without Rudy and Alejandro. His bad arm ached. His chest and arm were on fire. His cheek was sore and the cut on his nose stung as sweat teased its raw edges. He was exhausted and overstimulated and just done.

The Scot was quiet outside of the stall as Simon thought it over, not pressuring him, just silently offering his support.

Johnny had already seen him at his lowest point in a while. What was a bit more vulnerability in the grand scheme of things?

Simon grabbed his dirty, crumpled mask, looping the bands around his ears before reaching up with a shaky hand to unlock the door.

[hisaacswrites]

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Chapter 2

【 Fandom: Call of Duty 【 Main Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish 【 Rating: M for Mature 【 Trigger Warnings: -

Summary:

When Simon first interviewed for The Great British Baking Show, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. He certainly didn't expect to win. Despite the chaos it brought to his life, he couldn't really complain. It landed him the best job he could ask for and a close circle of friends who actually seemed to enjoy his company. It also led him to his biggest fan, one John MacTavish, who's determined to win him over one baked good at a time.---Or, The baking AU that no one asked for.

← Chapter 1 】 ⦿ Chapter 2 ⦿ 【 Chapter 3 →

☆ Read on AO3

【 Chapter Specific Warnings: - 【 Notes: Un-beta'd, as always. Still not entirely sure where I want to take this but I hope you all have fun on the ride!

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Masterlist ⦿ CoD Library ⦿ Hayden Isaacs Library

🍰 Chapter 2

Simon was carefully folding his macaron mixture when he heard the commotion out front. Cafe 141 was made up of a lively crew, almost all of them veterans that could more than handle a disgruntled civilian, so he paid the ruckus little mind. It wasn't until he heard Rudy's voice joining the shouting that he looked up from his batter. Rudy and Alejandro were his two baking assistants, with Rudy being the more level-headed of the two, so if he was fired up about something...

Simon sighed and eyed his macaron mixture carefully, taking in the consistency of the pale blue batter (Price said black macarons would scare off their customers, so the SAS' pompadour blue seemed like a fitting choice). It was at the perfect consistency, ready for piping, and he didn't want to risk ruining a perfectly good batch of macarons just because some civvie thought they could get smart with the staff. Confident that his coworkers could handle themselves for a few moments longer, Simon gingerly scooped his mixture into his prepared piping bags, quickly tying them off so that the batter wouldn't dry out while he tended to... whatever was going on. Straightening to his full height, Simon rolled his shoulders back, made sure his surgical mask was in place and secured, and made his way across the kitchen and out the doors.

He had expected to see a Karen or Ken up in arms about some minor inconvenience, shouting obscenities, poking fingers, making threats, or perhaps attempting to destroy their merchandise (again). What he did not expect was for Gaz to have a random man pinned to the ground with Rudy's assistance , his knuckles vigorously giving their victim's head a noogie while Rudolpho cackled and shouted good-natured abuse. The pinned man was struggling valiantly, but he couldn't shake two of Cafe 141's finest staff. Instead, he resorted to shouting angrily, though Simon couldn't understand a lick of it. He stared, unimpressed by the childish antics, but silently relieved that it wasn't anything major, as the man thrashed and cursed at the pair in a way that only a tried-and-true friend could. It was fortunate that it was a slow day, the cafe entirely empty, lest he have to field questions from concerned customers. (Again.)

Through the chaos, Simon was finally able to make out a disgruntled "Gerroff me, you bawbags!" and some of the pieces started clicking into place. Gaz and Rudy's victim was Scottish, violently so if the strength of his accent was anything to go by. Leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms, Simon just couldn't resist adding fuel to the fire with some of his own heckling.

"Let's try that again in proper English."

Both Gaz and Rudy's heads whipped around at his dry baritone, Rudy's face flushing in embarrassment as he scrambled off of the Scottish man, while Gaz merely smirked as he pressed the man's head into the tiled flooring, muffling the renewed shouting. "Hey, Ghost!" He greeted, apparently unfazed that he was smooshing a potential customer's face into the less-than-sanitary ground of the cafe.

"Garrick," Simon returned, raising a brow in an unspoken question as to what was actually going on, ignoring the wheezing sounds as the Scot fought to catch his breath with Rudy now off of him.

"An old friend of mine finally deigned to grace us with his presence," Gaz explained, pinching at the other man's cheeks one last time before finally letting up on his head and leaning on his lower back instead. "This is Soap, my absentee best friend with an arson problem."

The Scottish man, "Soap", apparently, immediately seemed to take offense to Gaz's ribbing. "It was just the one time an' there wasnae any property damage," he scowled, prompting an amused snort from Simon.

Largely free from Gaz's grasp, Soap turned his head towards the noise, his eyes sweeping up Simon's torso from where it showed from behind the counter, all the way up to his face. Bright blue eyes met Simon's own dark brown ones, Soap's mouth sliding open as his gaze darted all over Simon's face. Simon met the stare head-on, his walls sliding up at the open gawking. A military career like his garnered more than his fair share of scars, so he was used to the staring, but people tended to at least try to be a bit more discrete. His face mask hid the worst of them, but he knew that there were countless others still exposed. Simon stiffened as the silence stretched for one moment, then two, his anxiety building with each passing minute. This was one of the reasons why he hated being out in the front of the shop. People were always staring for one reason or another and Simon just wanted to just bake and exist in peace. He was just about ready to make a tactical retreat back to the kitchen, ego be damned, and leave Gaz and Rudy to their friend.

It was only when Rudy cleared his throat awkwardly that Soap shut his mouth, teeth connecting with a firm click as a ruddy flush exploded across his tanned cheeks. His eyes met Simon's again, though they still seemed to have a weird haze to them that had Simon a bit suspicious , maybe even slightly concerned. When Soap opened his mouth, Simon expected a question, maybe an apology, or at least some sort of belated introduction.

That is not what he received.

"Do you knead a bakin' partner? Because I promise I could fire up your oven like no other."

Simon stared.

Rudy stared.

Gaz stared.

Soap froze.

Simon spun on his heel, making a hasty retreat (he didn't run away , fuck you very much) and pointedly ignored Gaz's sputtering laughter, Rudy's long-suffering groan, and the thunk of Soap's head as he repeatedly hit it against the sticky floor.

[hisaacswrites]

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Chapter 1

【 Fandom: Call of Duty 【 Main Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish 【 Rating: M for Mature 【 Trigger Warnings: -

Summary:

When Simon first interviewed for The Great British Baking Show, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. He certainly didn't expect to win. Despite the chaos it brought to his life, he couldn't really complain. It landed him the best job he could ask for and a close circle of friends who actually seemed to enjoy his company. It also led him to his biggest fan, one John MacTavish, who's determined to win him over one baked good at a time.---Or, The baking AU that no one asked for.

Chapter 1 ⦿ 【 Chapter 2 →

☆ Read on AO3

【 Chapter Specific Warnings: - 【 Notes: It's been literal years since I've written anything but this fandom has me by the throat. Do I have a 21 chapter Ghoap fic outlined? Yes. Did I choose to start something completely different instead of working on that? Also yes. Flying by the seat of my pants on this one; don't have anything outlined or otherwise planned as of now! Don't think this will be too terribly long though. Maybe 10 chapters max? We'll see. Tags will probably be added to as things progress!

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Masterlist ⦿ CoD Library ⦿ Hayden Isaacs Library

🍰 Chapter 1

When Simon first interviewed for The Great British Baking Show, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it.

He had started baking after getting medically discharged from the military, a catastrophic mission causing irreparable nerve damage in his arm. His first few months of living as a civilian were difficult and Simon had struggled to acclimate. The army had been his sole purpose since he enlisted at 18 and after nearly two decades of service, he was left adrift. It was his therapist that recommended baking. He had fond memories of his mother’s baking, one of the few highlights of his childhood, so it would be a great way to "reconnect with himself, " or whatever that meant. It was also something to keep his mind and hands busy; baking required its own sort of discipline that soothed the soldier in him. His physical therapist also approved, saying that the physical labor of it all would be great for his recovery.

Regardless of the reasoning, Simon quickly found that he actually enjoyed baking. He had started with simple things from some of his mother’s old recipe books he had saved after she passed, gaining confidence until he began trying to recreate her homemade recipes from his childhood. He found himself with a surplus of baked goods and there was no way he’d be able to eat it all, so Simon just… gave them away. To his neighbors, to the postman , to his local soup kitchen, and even to his old captain, John Price, who had retired a few years before him and insisted on visiting monthly.

When Price had almost waxed poetic about his fruit tarts (Price loved strawberries and Simon thought that the lemon curd would be suitably refreshing for the hot summer day, he wasn't trying to show off , okay — ) Simon had felt his face flush in embarrassment and he had shoved a freshly baked custard cream biscuit into Price's mouth to shut him up. He wasn't surprised when Price demanded he bake something for not just their visits, but also for him to take back home and "tide him over" until his next visit. Never mind the fact that Price owned his own cafe and had access to his own baked goods ("Stop being modest, Simon! Your biscuits blast Shepherd's out of the water, I can't believe I had to keep him on when I bought the place, he's so stuck in his ways, you know, and he's costing me customers! I can't wait until his contract is up and I can actually hire a real baker and not some crusty-").

Price had always been kind to him, though, ever since they met when Simon was 20 and freshly traumatized from a failed op in Mexico, so he paid little mind to the extravagant compliments. He laughed when Price kept offering him Shepherd's head baker position at Cafe 141, knowing that Price was just teasing him. And he snorted when Price had suggested he apply to The Great British Baking Show, appreciating that Price was just trying to increase his confidence in his baking.

Apparently, Price had been serious and wasn't just trying to make him feel better.

When Simon had gotten an email about scheduling a phone interview, Price had confessed to filling out the online questionnaire application in Simon's name. Simon had gone through with the phone interview, assuming that his blunt and gruff responses would eliminate him from the pool of possible contestants. When he was contacted again to schedule an off-camera series of bakes to judge his knowledge, he assumed that it would become clear he was an absolute novice and therefore not a good contender. When he made it to the next round and was asked to do a screen test, he figured that his awkwardness would only be amplified on camera and that would be the end of that. He did not expect to hear that his awkwardness came off as endearing, of all things, and that he just had to pass a psychological screening. Simon knew that would be the end of it all — he was many things, but psychologically sound was not one of them. It seemed like his military service had prepared him a bit too well, though, as he was deemed more than capable to handle the stress of the show.

Simon had been with Price when he received confirmation that he'd b the end of th that would bee on the show. He had frozen in shock while Price had whooped and hollered, clapping him strongly on the back and declaring to the patrons of it all — he was many things, but psychologically sound was not othe next winner of sThe Great British Baking Show.

Simon expected to be kicked off the first week of the show. He didn't expect to stay, week after week. He didn't expect to win Star Baker three times. He didn't expect to become one of the fan favorites. He didn't expect to make it to the final, facing off against a pretentious expat Texan named Graves and a selectively mute but insanely skilled man named Gary. He certainly didn't expect to win .

Over the course of a year, he went from a ghost of a man whose contributions to society were lost to a blacked-out file, a no-one in a black medical mask, to a much-beloved television personality whose face almost everyone knew. The change was overwhelming.

He couldn't even pick up his groceries in peace. Simon was one more "Can we please get a photograph with you?" away from packing up his flat and hiding away in the countryside for the rest of his days as a baking hermit when Price had approached him once more. Simon nearly slammed the door in his face when he arrived at his home, blaming Price for his entire predicament and unwilling to be dragged into any more shenanigans. Instead, he was offered a job. Again.

Price had finally been able to get rid of Shepherd and was looking to hire a new baker for Cafe 141. Who better than one of his favorite soldiers, a great friend, and the year's winner of The Great British Baking Show? Simon was dubious about the offer but Price ran a hard bargain; Simon would be the head baker and therefore could boss around the two underlings to his heart's content , he could bake whatever he wanted as long as the cases were stocked, and he didn't have to interact with any customers. He could stay in the back and bake in blissful (somewhat) solitude while still being able to work on new recipes and bring home a decent paycheck.

So that's how Simon "Ghost" Riley found himself joining Price's motley crew of veterans at Cafe 141. And that's where he met his biggest fan, one John MacTavish.

[hisaacswrites]

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Masterlist

【 Fandom: Call of Duty 【 Main Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish 【 Rating: M for Mature 【 Trigger Warnings: -

Summary:

When Simon first interviewed for The Great British Baking Show, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. He certainly didn't expect to win.Despite the chaos it brought to his life, he couldn't really complain. It landed him the best job he could ask for and a close circle of friends who actually seemed to enjoy his company. It also led him to his biggest fan, one John MacTavish, who's determined to win him over one baked good at a time.---Or, The baking AU that no one asked for.

Moodboard ☆ Masterlist ☆ Read on AO3

🍰 】 Chapter 1 🍰 】 Chapter 2 🍰 】 Chapter 3 🍰 】 Chapter 4 🍰 】 Chapter 5

[hisaacswrites]

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Visuals

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☆ Tumblr Masterlist ☆ Read on Ao3

[hisaacswrites]

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Chapter 4

Summary:

When Simon first interviewed for The Great British Baking Show, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. He certainly didn’t expect to win. Despite the chaos it brought to his life, he couldn’t really complain. It landed him the best job he could ask for and a close circle of friends who actually seemed to enjoy his company. It also led him to his biggest fan, one John MacTavish, who’s determined to win him over one baked good at a time. — Or, The baking AU that no one asked for

← Chapter 3 】 ⦿ Chapter 4 ⦿ 【 Chapter 5 →

☆ Read on AO3

【 Chapter Specific Warnings: - 【 Notes: Apologies for the delay, but Bake Room in Your Heart for Me is now entirely outlined! You'll see that the chapter count has been upped to 13 for that perfect baker's dozen. Unbeta'd, as always, so forgive anything that slipped through the cracks! Now that I have this entire work outlined, I'm hoping updates should be a bit more frequent. We'll see if time cooperates.

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Masterlist ⦿ CoD Library ⦿ Hayden Isaacs Library

🍰 Chapter 4

The kitchen was quiet as Simon finishes with the last of the pans, only the metallic clink of them hitting the sides of the sink and the white noise of running water filling the space. It was miserably rainy and windy outside, so much so that not even the promised warmth of good drinks and pastries could tempt customers into the cafe. That meant it had been quiet and slow all day, though Simon had refused to vocalize that out loud lest he jinx it, so he had let Alejandro and Rudy leave a bit early to get a head start on their weekend. 

The extra work was minimal, and, honestly, Simon didn't really mind. Sometimes it was nice to be alone in his element. No need to carry on idle conversation, direct anyone, or even think, just falling back into a blissfully empty mind and muscle memory led by the rhythm of softly rumbling thunder.

Setting the final pan into the drying rack, Simon assessed the kitchen, satisfied to see it sparkling clean and ready for a fresh start the next morning. Wiping his hands on the towel tucked in his apron, he mentally consulted his to-do list. Cafe 141 was meant to be open for a few more hours, but all that was left for him to do was tidy up the front display cases and restock the shelves with the last of their goods for the day. Once that was done, Simon figured he could relax for the rest of his shift, start planning for next week's baked goods, and maybe even start thinking about some new seasonal recipes to experiment with.

First thing first though: cleaning and restocking. Approaching the kitchen's door to the cafe, Simon looked through the window to gauge what state of disarray the shelves were in and how much product he would need to restock them. The cafe looked like a ghost town, the warm lighting appearing especially moody against the dark skies outside. The display case didn't look too chaotic, thankfully, and the shelves were still relatively full. It looked like they would have extra pastries left over at the end of the day... Simon mentally added stopping by the shelter to donate the excess to his to-do list.

As his eyes swept over the end of the counter, Simon realized the cafe wasn't entirely empty. Gaz was leaning against the countertop, wiping it down with a rag as he spoke to a familiar mohawked man.

Soap.

Without thinking about it, Simon ducked his head down from the small window, hoping that he hadn't been seen. His heart started racing and he stood there, tall frame awkwardly crouched behind the door, for a few moments to settle his sudden nerves. Rising slowly, Simon peeked back through the window.

Gaz and Soap were still chatting as Gaz cleaned up, the Scottish man gesticulating wildly all the while. Gaz was reluctantly smiling at something his friend said and Soap grinned in victory, radiating smugness even in a separate room. Simon felt the tips of his ears warm as Soap's teeth gleamed in the low light, contrasting against his tan skin impishly. It was cute, Simon noted, the playful mischievousness in his grin, the pleased crescents his eyes formed, the way well-worn laugh lines creased the corners of his mouth—

Simon moved away from the door, willing the flush away from his cheeks. He didn't know how to act around Soap, feeling completely adrift in an unknown sea. The other man was kind, if a bit awkward (though who was Simon to judge others on their level of awkwardness? He was awkward personified). He was also sweet and attractive in a way that Simon couldn't describe. Just the thought of being around Soap again made him nervous, which was ridiculous considering the situations he had faced down in his military service.

Fighting the urge to peek through the window one more time, Simon turned to gather up his supplies. It would be no big deal, he tried to convince himself. Gaz would be talking to Soap, keeping him distracted while Simon quietly cleaned the cases and refilled them. They wouldn't even notice he was there and he'd be back in the kitchen before they knew it.

Cleaning rags tucked into his apron pocket and carefully holding a small tray of pastries in his hands, Simon took a deep breath before gently shouldering the kitchen door open.

Gaz heard the door open from behind him but paid little mind to it, continuing to tell Soap about a particularly obnoxious Ken of a customer that had stopped by a few days ago. He was scrubbing at a stubborn coffee stain on the counter as he spoke, only pausing to look up when Soap didn't respond for an oddly lengthy amount of time. He was looking over Gaz's shoulder, but his blue eyes didn't have the telltale glaze to them that signaled when the Scot had zoned out.

Gaz didn't even try to recapture his attention, instead looking over his shoulder at the object of his single-minded focus. He couldn't help snorting or the amused quirk of his lips. It was Ghost. Of course it was. Cafe 141's hulking head baker was wiping at the interior of one of the display cases with a damp rag, seemingly oblivious to his spectators. From the subtle tensing of Ghost's grip and the way that he angled his body, however, Gaz knew that Ghost was aware he was being watched. And was that a blush peeking over the top edge of his medical mask? Oh, how perfect...

Smile widening into a teasing smirk, Gaz turned back to Soap. His best friend was obvious in his little crush on Ghost and it looked like the attraction was reciprocated. Never let it be said that Gaz wasn't the best wingman.

Gaz snapped his fingers in front of Soap's face, reveling in the embarrassed way his focus jolted back over. He didn't even wait for Soap to try and defend himself, grinning at Soap with way too many teeth as he said, "Seems like you've found something a bit more interesting, mate."

Red burst across Soap's cheeks and he spluttered out an excuse, but Gaz just shook his head and laughed. "I'll head to the back and give you some alone time, 'lright? Make sure you turn on the rizz before you talk to him."

"Gaz." Soap whisper-hissed in panic, lunging for the barista's wrist before he could walk away, "No, dinnae! What dae I even say to him? He must think I'm a feckin' moron."

Gaz was ready for another round of teasing, but a look at Soap's face had him sobering up. Usually charismatic and suave, Soap looked worried and at a complete loss. "Hey," Gaz said softly, catching the Scot's wide-eyed gaze. "It's just Ghost, alright? Take a deep breath and be yourself. Just talk to him. You got this."

Soap could only nod, his grip on Gaz's wrist loosening until the other man turned to walk away. "I'm heading to the back to make sure we've got the coffee and tea for next week," He called over his shoulder to Soap, loud enough for Ghost to hear while not being obvious about it. "Keep yourself occupied and don't burn the place down." 

And with that, Gaz headed to the stock room disappearing through the hallway door, leaving Soap alone.

With Simon.

Soap sucked in a breath, trying to be quiet as he attempted to calm his racing pulse. Sat at a barstool at the counter as he was, he could see Simon methodically cleaning the display shelves out of his peripherals. As the other man swept up spilled frosting and jam from the glass, Soap couldn't help but admire his form.

Simon was tall and broad, imposingly so, but not in an intimidating way. No, in the privacy of his own mind, Soap could admit that Simon's size gave him a feeling of... safety. Of someone solid to lean on, of an all-consuming embrace, of comforting strength to weather any storm. It was honestly one of the first things he had noticed about the man over a year ago when he first saw him on the Great British Baking Show. A massive mountain of a man that had the most gentle, reverent touch for baked goods. Soap had become obsessed, watching and rewatching Simon's season just to see the man in his element. And now, seeing him in person? Well, the telly screen didn't hold a candle to him.

Chestnut brown hair with an endearing wave to it that never seemed to lie flat. Rich, dark brown eyes that looked almost black at first glance, but gleamed like gold in the light. Thick forearms with a fine coating of hair on them, strong and able. Wide, long-fingered hands that moved with a precise deftness that had Soap's mouth dry. And his lips— Simon's mouth was covered by a mask more often than not, but the glimpses that Soap had sneaked? Slightly chapped lips, the skin constantly worried by anxious teeth, that were surprisingly plush looking and far too tempting.

In Soap's professional artistic (and not at all biased) opinion, Simon was gorgeous. But Soap knew that he was more than just a pretty face. While speaking on the show, Simon had come off as quite reserved, but Soap had seen glimpses of a thoughtful and caring man underneath the prickly shell. And now, getting to see him in a more natural setting, Soap coveted all the moments he found Simon in with his walls lowered. How he wanted to see more, learn more. To be invited to look behind the broody wall and know the carefully guarded man within.

But in order to do that, Soap would actually have to talk to him.

Just the thought had him veering towards an internal crisis. It seemed like every time Simon was in his vicinity, Soap lost the ability to act like a functioning person, much to his embarrassment. Despite Gaz's words, Soap couldn't help but start mentally planning their conversation. He couldn't afford to put his foot in his mouth again — his self esteem would never survive it. After a few moments of mustering his courage, disguised as strategizing, Soap slid from his barstool and walked over to Simon.

Simon continued to clean the display case, oblivious to Soap's inner turmoil. He had felt the Scot's eyes on him, increasingly so when Gaz had gone to the back, but he had a job to do (and he was never the best at small talk), so he continued to wipe the last of the crumbs with a damp cloth. While it may have looked like he was entirely focused on his task, his military training had him tracking Soap's movements as he walked over, so it didn't startle him when Soap suddenly spoke up.

"Good tae see you again, Simon," He drawled with a grin, leaning against the display in a charming manner.

"Afternoon," Simon greeted quietly, straightening up from where he had crouched to reach inside the case. Despite Soap's loose postured, he carried an air of nervousness about him. Surely Simon wasn't actually that intimidating?

"I wanted tae apologize for being awkward as all hell. I dinnae ken what's been wrong with me but I swear tha' I am a functioning person and not some—", Soap gesticulated widely as he fumbled for the words, "Some primitive pod person who dinnae ken how to behave themselves. I ahm civilized."

His eyes had been jumping around, nervously avoiding Simon while he spoke, and it was only once his apology trailed off that he had the courage to look back at the quiet man. Simon wasn't even looking at him, instead, his gaze was focused downwards. Soap internally preened for a moment, thinking that he was checking him out, only to realize that Simon was looking at his hands.

Which, odd, but everyone had their favorite features he supposed, except—

Except Simon was looking at his hands where he was leaning against the display case.

The glass display case.

The glass display case that Simon had just cleaned.

Soap jumped back as if burnt, hurrying to apologize once more. "Feckin' hell, I'm so sorry! I ken ye just cleaned tha', 'n Ah wasnae even thinking, lemme just-" He pulled at the sleeve of his jumper, wiping frantically at the handprints he had left on the glass, ever mindful of Simon's stare as he only made the oily smears worse.

"Shite, I can clean tha' if ye have a spare rag? Or I can just..." Simon was still quiet, his dark eyes flitting back between the handprints and Soap's face. Soap deflated, considering that perhaps it would be best for him to retreat, even if it was with his hypothetical tail between his legs. "I'll just... head back over there 'n wait fer Gaz. Get outta yer hair 'n stop making more work for ye."

Heart in his stomach, Soap turned to leave.

"Two-" There was a clearing of a throat, "Two cakes are on a shelf,"

Soap's brow furrowed, and he turned back to Simon, barely noticing that the man waas nervously fiddling with a corner of his apron with thick fingers. "Go on,"

"One cake leaves, and the other says to himself, 'Just a bunch of desserters these days.'"

An awkward silence dropped between the two, Soap staring incredulously at Simon while Simon looked anywhere but at Soap. When the silence stretched almost too long, Simon looked at Soap out of the corner of his eye.

"'S a little bit of baking humour," Simon rasped quietly, the barest hint of pink peeking above his medical mask.

Soap finally barked out a laugh, breaking the tension with his customary grin. "Aye," He agreed as he stepped back towards Simon and the display case, seizing the offered olive branch with both hands. "Very little,"

With the ice broken, the conversation seemed to unfold easily, naturally, akin to dough finally given the breathing room to rise. It was nothing deep, nothing substantial, but it was perfect in allowing the two men to get comfortable with each other.

Soap was a chatterbox, always had been, and Simon seemed quiet and reserved. Soap was worried that he was potentially overwhelming him, or that his tangential rambles were a bit too much, but Simon actually seemed to be listening to him, offering grunts and short responses occasionally. It may have been nothing to some people, but to Soap it meant quite a lot. He had a history of being "too much" for people, of being too loud, too "hyper", too eclectic in his conversation topics. So for Simon to be actively listening and engaging him? It made Soap's chest warm.

So, it was really no surprise for him to sheepishly divulge a secret he'd been keeping close to his chest around Simon. "I, uh... Actually watched ye on The Great British Baking Show." He ran a nervous hand through his mohawk, tugging at the long strands. "Yer season is my favorite; watched it so many times that I think I can tell all yer jokes by heart,"

Simon nearly dropped the tart he had been restocking the display case with. Multiple people had told him they found him endearing in the show, but he still struggled with seeing himself as anything other than awkward and standoffish. Habit makes him want to read into Soap's admission, but the other man came off disarmingly sincere. Still, Simon couldn't help but downplay and deflect.

"Well, I had plenty of material to work with with some of those bakes. 'Nd they had to keep someone around for comedic relief."

Soap snorted, seeing right through the deflection. "Aye, right, ye won the season based on your dad jokes alone." He quipped, revelling in the blush that peeked over Simon's mask and his scowling eyebrows. "Cannae say yer jokes weren't some of my favorite parts, but yer bakes... Ye made some amazing stuff and it's no wonder ye won. I dinnae ken if there was one thing ye made that didn't look absolutely delicious."

Soap was delighted to see the flush erupt higher onto Simon's cheeks and onto his ears. The quiet man was determinately avoiding Soap's gaze, grumbling something under his breath as he finished restocking the display case. 

"Thanks," He grunted, setting down his empty tray before glancing up at Soap through golden brown lashes. Usually he'd leave it at that, but something about the lively Scot just made him want to... try. 

"You're probably the expert by now," Simon continued, focusing on cleaning the crumbs and frosting from his hands with his rag, "With how often you've been stopping by the cafe and such."

"Not exactly," Soap countered quickly, "Dinnae get me wrong, I've tried everything ye've had on the menu at least once, but there was one thing that ye made on the show that I haven't been in for that I've been dyin' tae try."

Soap's eyes took on a bright gleam as if imagining this mysterious pastry, and Simon couldn't help but snort under his breath. He was absolutely ridiculous. Simon tried not to find it endearing.

"Well, what was it?"

"Er, good question. Uh, it was lemony and had a weird name, mile faux or somethin'-"

"Mille feuille," Simon corrected seamlessly, remembering the stacked puff pastry dessert. Of all his bakes during the show, he had actually been quite pleased with that one and the handshake it had earned him.

"That's the one!" Soap's voice rose with excitement. "It looked pure magic, I'm telling ye. I love lemons 'n' with that blueberry sauce ye made? Jesus wept, I've been aching for a taste since I saw it."

Simon's mind raced, thinking over the recipe and its difficulty. "I actually haven't made it for the cafe yet," he said slowly, "But maybe it'll show up on the menu soon."

He hadn't actually meant to say that last bit, the words escaping his lips before he could even think about them, but Simon couldn't regret them when he saw Soap perk up as if his birthday had come early.

"Really? If ye make them, Simon, I swear tae ye that I'll buy out the entire tray just for myself. I'll come in first thing and buy every batch throughout the day, amnae even joking."

Simon laughed, his first unhindered one in a long while, fully believing Soap's words. He had already made it this far without things catching fire in his face and Soap seemed receptive to his... "charms", so what harm would a little more harmless flirting be near the end of his shift?

"I make no promises, Soap. You'll just have to come back to see me to find out if I do."

Soap grinned at him, smaller and softer than his previous ones. "Aye," He agreed. There was a lull then, a peaceful sort of quiet between the two as Soap watched Simon gather up his things to bring back to the kitchen.

"John."

Simon blinked at the non sequitur, brows furrowing in confusion.

"My name," Soap rushed to say, "Soap is my nickname, had it forever an' everyone calls me that, but John- My name is John."

Simon smiled, knowing that Soa- John wouldn't be able to see it behind his mask but unable to help himself.

"If those mille feuille do make an appearance sometime next week, I suppose they'll have your name all over them, Johnny."

[hisaacswrites]

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? UPDATE & What’s Next?

I know it’s been a Hot Minute TM since the last Bake Room in Your Heart for Me chapter, but I swear one is coming up! I’ve actually gone ahead and outlined the entire fic, which is what caused the delay. Chapter count is increasing to a nice baker’s dozen (13) and somehow the word count is exploding.

Me: This’ll be a short and sweet crack fic with low expectations, perfect to dip my toes back into writing

Also Me: Okay but like angst and fluff and oh hey, we’re somehow 20k words in

sO wrapping up chapter 4 and hoping to have that out by the end of the week. Gonna try and write some other chapters in advance as well, that way this fic can have a somewhat normal posting schedule??

But also holy hell, thank you everyone for the follows, likes, reblogs, and comments. I’m an awkward and shy bean so it really means a lot to me to see so many people actually enjoying my ramblings.

ALSO with BRiYHfM well underway, I’m starting to think about my next fic! If ya’ll have any requests or preferences, please don’t hesitate to lmk. I’m considering:

The Angel Shot brainworm - Would be hurt/comfort and fluff centric, but also delve into aspects of abuse? Would probably be a mid to long fic.

The Soap Selkie au - Would be high key crack and focus on the shenanigans between Soap and Ghost as they battle for Beach Rights Supremacy. Would probably be set up as a series of interconnected one shots?

The Body Image brainworm - Angst, hurt/comfort. Would be four or so chapters.

The Supernatural 141 au - oKAY I KNOW EVERYONE HAS THEIR OWN SUPERNATURAL 141 THOUGHTS BUT I CAN’T HELP MYSELF. Featuring hellhound Soap, grim Ghost, and all the motley crew. No firm idea on plot- may just be a series of one shots?

Let me know what ya’ll would prefer, or, feel free to suggest a fic prompt through my ask box!

[hisaacswrites]

Brainworm #3 - Body Image

Ghost is built.

That’s not a question or up for any debate- Ghost is 193 cm of solid mass and brute strength. He’s a bulky boy with the skill to use it to his advantage. He’s built thick and sturdy, his muscles deceptively hidden by a layer of protective fat that have people underestimating his speed, agility, and strength. He’s a sniper, yes, but he needs to be able to transport his gear, to move equipment and information and targets, to carry his team on his back (literally) out of a war zone if necessary.

So yeah, Ghost is built.

But he’s not built like Johnny.

Johnny who has no shame in his body, taking off his shirt at the slightest inconvenience (Ghost isn’t sure if he believes the “overheating” excuse anymore). Johnny who is built but also cut, every muscle defined and on tantalizing display. Johnny is shorter that Ghost is, sure, but he’s no less strong, no less able. His pecs are sculpted, not presenting as some sort of… uni-boob in shirts like Ghost’s do. His waist is trim, the shape drawing the eye in and down, not like the thick column of Ghost’s own that spills over his waistband when he sits. And his thighs- Ghost could die happily between those thighs- the carved lines of muscle looking like they were painstakingly crafted by Michelangelo himself, unlike the stocky build of his own that press embarrassingly tight into the seams of every pair of trousers that he owns.

Ghost knows he’s not built like Johnny, and it was fine, it would have been fine, but now that they’re together and not just Lieutenant and Sargeant, Ghost and Soap, but Simon and Johnny, now that Ghost gets to see every inch of that beautiful tanned skin almost every single day-

Now Ghost knows just how he stacks up against Johnny. He knew that he didn’t bring much to the table, mental, physical, and emotional traumatic baggage notwithstanding, but he had hoped he could at least offer this…

So, yeah.

Ghost is not built like Johnny.

And it torments him to see exactly how much he’s lacking.

—————

Soap is built.

He knows it, his team knows it, everyone on base knows it. Soap did not work, does not work, this hard for his physique not to flaunt it. He has a carefully maintained workout routine and monitored macros to ensure he’s in optimal shape- his body is a palace, and he treats it as such (job allowing). Every muscle group is carefully cultivated, grown and shaped so that none overshadows the other. He may be shorter than most of the hulking giants on base, he may be considered stocky, but one look at Soap’s physique proves that he’s no less capable than them. He’s proved it on the mats while sparring, he’s proved it in the training fields going toe to toe with the younger recruits, and he’s proved it out in the field in hand to hand combat, time and time and time again.

So yeah, Soap is built.

But he’s not built like Simon.

Simon who is tall and imposing and authoritative, commanding a room with just his presence alone. Simon who is built solid, built for strength, not just pretty like Soap and every other gym bro on base. No one questions Simon’s strength or ability- his body alone makes it clear, unlike Soap who has to defend himself in words and actions again and again and again. His arms are like solid bands, near impossible to escape from, unlike Soap’s who has to leverage his smaller size to outmaneuver his opponent. His chest and stomach are thick, supporting a strong core that can body slam an attacker with ease, while Soap’s own abs can get him through PT tests fine, but need constant additional training for practical field work. And his ass. God, Simon’s ass. Full and plush, filling out every pair of trousers that he owns in the most sinfully distracting way, the exact opposite of Soap’s defined(!!!), but largely flat, behind.

Soap knows he’s not built like Simon, okay? And despite his best efforts, he hasn’t been able to achieve the mass and heft and sturdiness that Simon has. Because now they’re Simon and Johnny, and he’s blessed to see Simon unmasked (and unclothed) almost every day, and he gets to press into the plush softness of Simon’s flesh unrestricted, gets to surround himself in the unquestioning strength and safety Simon’s body exudes-

Because that’s how Simon makes him feel. Safe. Safe to survive, safe to try, safe to be.

And Soap faces his downfalls every day. Because he’s not built like Simon and Simon gives him everything, is everything, and he just wants to be able to give a fraction back to the man who deserves so so much, even if it’s just his body-

Because, God, he just wants to be worth Simon.

—-

Another brainworm I’m so sorry. I’m just going through all my notes at this rate, clearing out the trash and drabbling on about the ones I like.

Another near and dear one because men face self-image insecurities as well, especially in traditionally hyper masculine settings like the military. I’ve known people on both sides, guys who are thick and guys who are absolutely shredded, and they all have body insecurities for different reasons.

So, another drabble.

This came off a bit more angsty than I anticipated. I have a short multi-chaptered fic vaguely planned with a deeper dive into both Soap and Ghost’s body image insecurities and some good good communication and reaffirming, comforting, body loving intimacy, but until I have the time I figured I’d offer up this brainworm drabble instead.

When I get closer to finishing Bake Room in your Heart for Me, I’ll maybe put out a poll so people can vote on which brainworm I work on next.

[hisaacswrites]

See, Soap is a bartender. Well, he’s actually whatever his boss says he is while he gets used to civvie life again, but right now he’s a bartender. And before that, he was SAS. In both professions, being able to read people is invaluable. And even before that, Soap had always been good at getting a feel for people, at reading a room and seeing what’s underneath it all.

Which is why he’s been keeping an eye on the bar’s back booth. There’s a couple there. A bombshell of a woman and a hulking mountain of a man. For all intents and purposes, they look like the stereotypical lovesick couple who’ve had a bit too much to drink to understand the boundaries of acceptable PDA- The woman is draped across the man’s lap, her hands are wandering across and under, her lips working furiously over his skin every chance she gets in between sips of her drink and eyeing the crowd.

But something sets Soap’s senses on edge. Something is wrong.

Maybe it’s how stiff and awkward and downright uncomfortable the man looks.

Maybe it’s how the woman keeps shoving drinks into his hands despite his clear reluctance, watching him like a hawk until he finishes the glass.

Maybe it’s how the man subtly flinches every time the woman touches his bare skin with her oxblood nails. Or how he tries to hunch in on himself when she’s not focused on him, how he seems to be pressing back into the seat as if he could disappear into the upholstery.

Maybe it’s the panic in his eyes, the resignation on his face, the ignored “no’s” that Soap can read on his lips even across the dark room.

Something is wrong.

So even though the man is built like a brick shithouse and looks like he could bench Soap without breaking a sweat, and even though he has scars across his face and knuckles that prove he can take care of himself, and even though Soap can feel the aura of “leave-me-the-fuck-alone” radiating from him-

Soap still approaches the man when the woman stumbles her way to the bathroom. Because something is wrong and he’ll be damned if he ignores his intuition.

So Soap goes over under the guise of picking up the empty glasses, undeterred by the man who’s unfocused gaze is boring holes into the sticky table. He picks up the glasses and plays it cool, rapping his knuckles to get the man’s attention, as if taking his order for a refill.

Asks the stranger if he needs an angel shot.

It takes a moment for the man to respond, for him to understand what Soap is asking. But when the man’s shoulders slump in relief and gratitude shines in his dark eyes as he nods up at Soap, looking like a lost child staring up at their salvation, Soap knows he made the right decision.

The woman returns, sliding into the booth and spreading possessively over the man’s lap when Soap asks him how he wants his drink.

The “On ice, please,” spoken in a rough and tired baritone has Soap nodding and heading back to the bar with a grim but determined expression.

In a few minutes, he’ll head back to the table and tell the man that something is wrong with his credit card and he should come with him to settle the tab. He’ll take the man to the back office, safe and secure, and get the woman an Uber of her own. He’ll learn that the man’s name is Simon and that he’s been in an abusive relationship with the woman for two and a half years. Soap’ll learn that she physically, mentally, emotionally, financially abused Simon, that she controls his every move, that she cost him his job, she wrecked his car, she killed his cat-

But right now he’s grabbing a refrigerated bottle of water and a bag of crisps, dropping them off in the back before putting his best apologetic-server face on and heading back towards the booth with the “bad news” about the man’s card.

First, he has an angel shot to deliver.

A brainworm drabble that’s near and dear to my heart. Abuse comes in all shapes and sizes and doesn’t discriminate against gender. Please keep your eyes peeled, your ears sharp, and your hearts open to those who may need help, including yourselves. A part of me wants to make this a full fic, but I’m not sure. For now it’ll live with the other brain worms.

[hisaacswrites]

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Chapter 3

【 Fandom: Call of Duty 【 Main Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish 【 Rating: M for Mature 【 Trigger Warnings: -

Summary:

When Simon first interviewed for The Great British Baking Show, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. He certainly didn’t expect to win. Despite the chaos it brought to his life, he couldn’t really complain. It landed him the best job he could ask for and a close circle of friends who actually seemed to enjoy his company. It also led him to his biggest fan, one John MacTavish, who’s determined to win him over one baked good at a time. — Or, The baking AU that no one asked for

← Chapter 2 】 ⦿ Chapter 3 ⦿ 【 Chapter 4 →

☆ Read on AO3

【 Chapter Specific Warnings: - 【 Notes: Un-beta'd, as always! Did brainstorm this fic and it's now fully outlined. Have a total of 12 chapters planned, though I may go for 13 for that sweet baker's dozen. No set update schedule in mind yet; will hopefully nail down something consistent once I get into the swing of things.

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Masterlist ⦿ CoD Library ⦿ Hayden Isaacs Library

🍰 Chapter 3

"And then he says, 'Do you knead a baking partner? Because I promise I could fire up your oven like no other!'"

Alejandro choked on a breath at Rudy's delivery, his shoulders shaking as he quaked with laughter.

"I swear, Ale, I've never seen Soap so red or Ghost run away so quickly!"

His back to his two gossiping assistants, Simon scowled to himself and forcefully ignored them as he finished the base layer of frosting for the cake he was working on. Relegating Rudy and Alejandro's conversation to background noise, he gave the cake one last spin on the turntable to make sure the sides were perfectly smooth. As he reached for one of his prepared piping bags, a bolt of pain rocketed through his arm, branching from his inner elbow up to his shoulder and down to his fingertips. The sudden pain had his fingers seizing up, and the bag slipped from his hold to land back onto the countertop with a muted flop.

Gritting his teeth against the pain and frustration, Simon pretended that he couldn't hear the pause in his coworkers’ conversation or feel their eyes on his back. It had been nearly three years since the injury that had resulted in his medical discharge from the service, but the damage was done - and permanent. Some days were better than others: he could go a month without any flair-ups from the nerve damage, only then to be in debilitating pain and have a persistent tremor for an entire week.

As he picked up the piping bag again and ignored the faint tingling in his fingertips, Simon tried to put the anger and resentment out of his mind. He had dedicated his life to the SAS. For the longest time, his military career kept him going and to have it cut brutally short by some stupid FUBAR’d mission had been (and still was) a hard pill to swallow. Baking had become his saving grace. His injury had fucked up his already questionable life; having it affect the one thing that he had found to keep him sane was devastating.

Rudy and Alejandro were still laughing about Soap and his "Lack of rizz", whatever that meant, when Simon raised the piping bag to his cake. His hands trembled as he spun the stand and piped his swags but his eyes resumed laser-focused until he completed a full circuit. Putting the bag down and pretending he couldn’t feel his hands shake, Simon took a mental step back to look over his handiwork.

His pulse thrummed in his ears as he stared at the crooked and broken swags of frosting he had just piped and he struggled to not completely shut down. He felt like a precariously stacked Jenga tower, one already filled with gaping holes and leaning bricks. He was teetering on the edge, struggling to remain balanced but helpless in the face of one more piece getting removed. He had no idea if he would be able to stay standing or if he, and everything he had struggled to build and rebuild and fight for, would come crashing down on top of him.

Simon clenched his jaw as he reached for his straight-edged scraper and angrily dragged it across the sides of the cake. The tremble in his hand persisted, causing the edge of the scraper to gauge erratic trenches into the cake, some so deep that they reached through the layer of dirty icing to the cake layers themselves. Setting the scraper down next to the cake with a clatter, Simon gripped the edge of the counter with white knuckles. Shoulders hunched to his ears, he could see his entire arm shaking even as he forcefully tried to keep it steady. His nerves were on fire, and he knew that trying to force his muscles to work the way he wanted to like this was doing more harm than good, but he just wanted to bake, dammit, and-

Tanned knuckles rapped on the counter next to him and Simon blinked, jolted out of his thoughts mid-spiral. Unclenching his stiff fingers from around the counter, he straightened up and glanced over to see Rudy looking at him with a concerned expression.

"All good, hermano?"

Simon could hear Alejandro mixing something behind him, but he could also feel the furtive glances he was no doubt sending their way.

"Fine," Simon grunted in response, reaching for his frosting spatula and ignoring the way Rudy’s eyes darted to the butchered cake.

Rudy watched Simon load up the spatula with frosting, rhythmically tapping his fingers on the counter while his superior started slathering on frosting to fix the gauged cake. The process required little finesse, but Rudy’s sharp eyes could still spot the way Ghost’s hand was shaking and causing the spatula to dig into the sides of the cake.

"You’ve been at these display cakes for hours, Ghost." Rudy said suddenly, "Why don’t you let me finish this one up so you can take a break?"

Simon stiffened, ready to refute the need for a break, when Alejandro chimed in as if they had planned the conversation. "Rudy’s right, Ghost! You’ve been working all morning; let Rudy and I take over for a bit. We’re your assistants. We have to earn our keep, no?"

Simon's brow furrowed as he looked from Rudy to Alejandro, and then back down to his last cake. He wanted to argue, to insist that he was fine and that he would finish out his shift according to schedule, but his eyes couldn't help but catch on the jagged marks and remnants of crooked frosting on the cake. His arm ached, and he knew that even if he took his time, his work would be unacceptably sloppy compared to Rudy's in his current state. He could feel something in his chest crack at the realization, but he refused to let it show, especially with both Rudy and Alejandro still staring at him.

"Alright," Simon agreed roughly, his gruff tone clearly reluctant. "But remember—"

"To pipe the mini carrots on the border, I've got it!" Rudy interrupted, lightly hip-checking Simon out of the way and taking the frosting spatula from him. Simon huffed. Usually, he'd have a witty retort ready to fire off, but he just didn't have the energy today. The pain, both physical and mental, had taken it from him.

Alejandro had clearly noticed, as he was quick to add, "Why don't you just call it a day, amigo? There's not much else to do and we're ahead of schedule for the rest of the week."

Simon thought about arguing, about insisting on finishing out his shift, but... Alejandro was technically right. It was later in the afternoon, and if he just took a break, there wouldn't be much left of his shift to finish out anyways. The cafe had had a huge influx of custom orders this week, so he, Rudy, and Alejandro had been pushing to finish everything ahead of time just in case something else came up. And, honestly, licking his wounds in private over a cup of hot tea sounded perfect. (It wasn't brooding, okay? It was self-reflection.)

Simon sighed, knowing that Rudy and Alejandro had won and hating having to admit defeat. Sensing their manager's resignation, the two assistant bakers shared a grin but chose not to rub any further salt into the wound. Instead, they waved Simon out of the kitchen, barely hearing his grumbled goodbyes as they chatted lightheartedly in Spanish.

Simon let the door swing quietly behind him as he entered the dark hallway that connected the kitchen to the other back rooms, only allowing his shoulders to slump when he was sure he was alone. His whole body had started to ache, his arm most of all, and he could feel the exhaustion settling in over his mind. It was a struggle untying his apron and hanging it from its hook, and, not for the first time, he lamented over his uselessness. He had been one of the best operatives the SAS had ever seen, one of the most renowned snipers in the world, and now he couldn't even pipe a cake properly. His self-deprecating chuckle was dry and bitter as he pulled on his hoodie and settled his backpack on his shoulders, soldiering through the resulting ache that shot through his bad arm. The raised hood and facemask made him feel a bit more secure, a bit more normal, but Simon knew he wouldn't truly be comfortable until he was locked safely in his flat.

Resting his arm in the front pocket of his hoodie as a sort of makeshift sling, Simon walked through the back hallway of the cafe. Price was in today, so Simon figured he'd tell him he'd be leaving early on his way out. Price's office was empty, though, as was the break room, and the bathroom was dark. As he approached the door connecting the back of the cafe to the public area, Simon could hear Price's distinctive rough baritone amongst the rest of the cafe chatter.

Nudging the door open with his boot, Simon entered Cafe 141 proper. It was busy but not packed, the mellow music and muted conversation creating an ambiance that would have been soothing on any other day. Gaz manned the counter with his customary cheeky grin and Simon could see Price seated at the windows at the front of the cafe. It looked like he was having a drink with someone, but it wasn't until Simon was halfway across the cafe that he realized it was Soap.

He paused.

Simon had seen Soap a few times since their first interaction but hadn't actually spoken to him since then. He wasn't sure how to act around the Scot, in all honesty, so it was perfect that so far he was able to stay back in the kitchen and bake while Gaz amused his long-time friend when he showed up in the cafe's front. Simon's luck seemed to have run out, though, as Price was chatting with Soap and looked to be quite enthralled in the conversation.

He weighed his options. Simon really didn't want to interrupt Price while he was in the middle of something, and he especially didn't want to navigate the awkwardness that would be speaking to Soap. Neither Simon nor Price were especially fond of phones, preferring to discuss things face to face, but beggars couldn't be choosers; he'd just head out and text Price that he was leaving a bit early while on his way home.

Mind made up, he wove his way through the tables and patrons towards the front door. He was in the home stretch when a young man, too enthralled with his phone to pay attention to where he was going, shoulder-checked Simon with a muted curse. Simon was able to dodge the sloshing of the coffee mug in the other man's hand, but the owner of the cup wasn't so lucky and he spun to berate the person he had run into. Once he looked up and saw just who (and how tall, broad, and gloomy Simon appeared) it was, the patron seemed much more apologetic and hurried off without another word.

Unfortunately, the damage had already been done.

"Simon!" Price called out, having paused his conversation with Soap at the commotion. "C'mere and meet someone!"

Simon glanced at the door, debating whether he could pretend he hadn't heard Price and make it out of the cafe in one piece. When Price met his eyes and waved, however, he resigned himself to his fate and detoured towards the window table. Looming over Price like a dark shadow, Simon refused to look over at Soap, unsure of what he'd find — or if he even wanted to know.

If  Price could sense the tension between the two men, he skillfully ignored it. "Soap, this dreary bastard is Simon, the head baker of Cafe 141 'nd our baking genius. Simon, this is Soap, a long-term pain in my arse but my favorite brilliant pyromaniac."

Simon cringed at his introduction and could see Soap's cheeks flushing a bright red out of the corner of his eye at his own. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"We've, uh... Met before. Gaz introduced us the other day." Simon nodded in Soap's direction, finally meeting his gaze. The other man was staring at him again, but Simon couldn't decipher his expression. Price spoke up before he could try to read his face, regaining his attention.

"Did ya, now? Tha' would explain some of Gaz's cackling, I'd imagine. Thought his cap might've been on too tight with the way he was carrying on." Price looked over to Soap, taking in how the Scot's blush was intensifying and spreading. The poor man looked to be at a loss for words and Simon decided to cut him some slack, if only to save himself from the conversation as well.

"I'm actually about to head out now, Price," he murmured. "Rudy and Alejandro are wrappin' up for the rest of the day and we're ahead of schedule for this week's orders."

Price's heavy brows lowered, the thin line of his mouth disappearing behind his beard as he considered Simon. It was clear that he knew that there was something else going on–Simon rarely left before the official end of his shift without being dragged out–but he kept his questions to himself with Soap present.

"Alrigh'," He said, tipping his bucket hat at Simon. "Won't be in tomorrow, so have a good night, 'nd see you next week."

Another sharp jolt of pain sparked up his elbow, reminding him to hurry things along, but Simon grit his teeth and managed a gruff "Aye, you as well," in response. He turned to Soap to offer a perfunctory goodbye but was beaten to the punch.

"'Twas good seeing ye again, Simon." Soap said. Quick, easy, and polite. The perfect send-off. Or, it would have been if he had stopped there.

"Yer cake looked delicious today, am glad I got a taste."

There was a pause, Soap looking increasingly mortified and Simon unsure if Soap had meant the double entendre.

"Thanks? I'm, uh, glad you liked them?"

The lackluster response from Simon seemed to make Soap realize exactly what he had said, and he rushed to correct himself. "Ah meant yer cake! Nae like yer cake, cake, but the cake that ye bake! In the oven! Nae tae say that yer personal cake isnae stoatin, tis top tier, pure, 'n ye must work out fer a bum like that, but–" Soap forcibly shut his mouth with a choked noise, the beet red color of his face clashing with the spattering of freckles across his nose. His accent seemed to only get stronger as he wound himself up. Simon thought, in bemusement, that it would have been cute if wasn't taken aback by the word vomit and could actually understand what the Scot was trying to say.

"I just meant," Soap rushed on to say, "That yer special cake, wait, nae, yer cake special fer t'day, the lemon blueberry, was delicious, those layers were sae light 'n fluffy, 'n that ye must be an expert at beating it."

Simon stared at Soap. He could see Price struggling to contain himself in his peripheral vision, but Soap looked so earnest, if a bit embarrassed. Still, he had no idea how to respond to all... that without just piling on the awkwardness.

"Thanks," Simon grunted, backing up slowly before jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm just going to. Head out. Uh, now. Bye." He spun on his heel and made it out of the door in a few long strides, quickly disappearing down the sidewalk. (He wasn't running away, dammit! He had places to be.)

Silence stretched between Price and Soap at their table, the men silent as the cafe chatter continued around them. It was only when Simon was out of eyesight that Price spoke up, leveling Soap with a judgmental stare.

"I've been shot before, lad, and that was the most painful thing I've ever had to endure."

"Absolutely rizz-less," Gaz agreed, appearing from nowhere to nod sagely.

"I dinnae ken what's wrong with me," Soap groaned, tugging at his mohawk with both hands as he slumped in his seat.

[hisaacswrites]

joining the flock because yolo

I've never been able to keep up with twitter, but I realized it's actually probably perfect for my train of thought rambling brainworms LOL

Also probably misc fandom posts negl.

Find me there!

[hisaacswrites]

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Chapter 2

Summary:

When Simon first interviewed for The Great British Baking Show, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. He certainly didn’t expect to win. Despite the chaos it brought to his life, he couldn’t really complain. It landed him the best job he could ask for and a close circle of friends who actually seemed to enjoy his company. It also led him to his biggest fan, one John MacTavish, who’s determined to win him over one baked good at a time. — Or, The baking AU that no one asked for

Notes:

Un-beta'd, as always. Still not entirely sure where I want to take this but I hope you all have fun on the ride!

Read on AO3

<< Chapter 1 || coming soon >>

Chapter 2

Simon was carefully folding his macaron mixture when he heard the commotion out front. Cafe 141 was made up of a lively crew, almost all of them veterans that could more than handle a disgruntled civilian, so he paid the ruckus little mind. It wasn't until he heard Rudy's voice joining the shouting that he looked up from his batter. Rudy and Alejandro were his two baking assistants, with Rudy being the more level-headed of the two, so if he was fired up about something...

Simon sighed and eyed his macaron mixture carefully, taking in the consistency of the pale blue batter (Price said black macarons would scare off their customers, so the SAS' pompadour blue seemed like a fitting choice). It was at the perfect consistency, ready for piping, and he didn't want to risk ruining a perfectly good batch of macarons just because some civvie thought they could get smart with the staff. Confident that his coworkers could handle themselves for a few moments longer, Simon gingerly scooped his mixture into his prepared piping bags, quickly tying them off so that the batter wouldn't dry out while he tended to... whatever was going on. Straightening to his full height, Simon rolled his shoulders back, made sure his surgical mask was in place and secured, and made his way across the kitchen and out the doors.

He had expected to see a Karen or Ken up in arms about some minor inconvenience, shouting obscenities, poking fingers, making threats, or perhaps attempting to destroy their merchandise (again). What he did not expect was for Gaz to have a random man pinned to the ground with Rudy's assistance , his knuckles vigorously giving their victim's head a noogie while Rudolpho cackled and shouted good-natured abuse. The pinned man was struggling valiantly, but he couldn't shake two of Cafe 141's finest staff. Instead, he resorted to shouting angrily, though Simon couldn't understand a lick of it. He stared, unimpressed by the childish antics, but silently relieved that it wasn't anything major, as the man thrashed and cursed at the pair in a way that only a tried-and-true friend could. It was fortunate that it was a slow day, the cafe entirely empty, lest he have to field questions from concerned customers. (Again.)

Through the chaos, Simon was finally able to make out a disgruntled "Gerroff me, you bawbags!" and some of the pieces started clicking into place. Gaz and Rudy's victim was Scottish, violently so if the strength of his accent was anything to go by. Leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms, Simon just couldn't resist adding fuel to the fire with some of his own heckling.

"Let's try that again in proper English."

Both Gaz and Rudy's heads whipped around at his dry baritone, Rudy's face flushing in embarrassment as he scrambled off of the Scottish man, while Gaz merely smirked as he pressed the man's head into the tiled flooring, muffling the renewed shouting. "Hey, Ghost!" He greeted, apparently unfazed that he was smooshing a potential customer's face into the less-than-sanitary ground of the cafe.

"Garrick," Simon returned, raising a brow in an unspoken question as to what was actually going on, ignoring the wheezing sounds as the Scot fought to catch his breath with Rudy now off of him.

"An old friend of mine finally deigned to grace us with his presence," Gaz explained, pinching at the other man's cheeks one last time before finally letting up on his head and leaning on his lower back instead. "This is Soap, my absentee best friend with an arson problem."

The Scottish man, "Soap", apparently, immediately seemed to take offense to Gaz's ribbing. "It was just the one time an' there wasnae any property damage," he scowled, prompting an amused snort from Simon.

Largely free from Gaz's grasp, Soap turned his head towards the noise, his eyes sweeping up Simon's torso from where it showed from behind the counter, all the way up to his face. Bright blue eyes met Simon's own dark brown ones, Soap's mouth sliding open as his gaze darted all over Simon's face. Simon met the stare head-on, his walls sliding up at the open gawking. A military career like his garnered more than his fair share of scars, so he was used to the staring, but people tended to at least try to be a bit more discrete. His face mask hid the worst of them, but he knew that there were countless others still exposed. Simon stiffened as the silence stretched for one moment, then two, his anxiety building with each passing minute. This was one of the reasons why he hated being out in the front of the shop. People were always staring for one reason or another and Simon just wanted to just bake and exist in peace. He was just about ready to make a tactical retreat back to the kitchen, ego be damned, and leave Gaz and Rudy to their friend.

It was only when Rudy cleared his throat awkwardly that Soap shut his mouth, teeth connecting with a firm click as a ruddy flush exploded across his tanned cheeks. His eyes met Simon's again, though they still seemed to have a weird haze to them that had Simon a bit suspicious , maybe even slightly concerned. When Soap opened his mouth, Simon expected a question, maybe an apology, or at least some sort of belated introduction.

That is not what he received.

"Do you knead a bakin' partner? Because I promise I could fire up your oven like no other."

Simon stared.

Rudy stared.

Gaz stared.

Soap froze.

Simon spun on his heel, making a hasty retreat (he didn't run away , fuck you very much) and pointedly ignored Gaz's sputtering laughter, Rudy's long-suffering groan, and the thunk of Soap's head as he repeatedly hit it against the sticky floor.

[hisaacswrites]

brainworm #1 that I don’t want to forget but don’t have the time to write

Maybe once that baking!AU fix is done? Thoughts?

But! retired!Ghost buying a run down cottage by the sea to keep himself busy in solitude being harassed by selkie!Soap who has claimed that beach as his own and refuses to let some two-legger kick him out.

It has the best basking spots okay

A seal has needs.

And that grumpy overgrown guppy doesn’t even go in the water or admire the shells or anything, he doesn’t deserve that beach, alright? He can keep that rickety shack, but the beach? The beach is Soap’s, dammit, and it’ll be a dry day in the sea when he lets some walking walrus like that it from him.

He moved out here to be alone? Well Soap will be the most hellish best neighbor that pasty bottom feeder has ever met.