Simple Pleasures: Annie Leonhart x Reader

Chapter 8: Shining

Author's Note:

Hello everyone! It's been a long time! Far too long, really! First, before I say anything, I want to thank you for the support. I haven't checked notifications for these stories since the very last chapter was published, and the fact that people are reading and enjoying my work–and that people out there enjoy it so much that they want more–it just really touches my heart. Thank you so much. Secondly, I apologize greatly for disappearing without any update. Life came at me incredibly fast. In the past two years, I finished undergrad, received a Master's degree, moved to a new town, sadly sank to the lowest point in my life, and have thankfully climbed out of it. I'm happy to have found time to write this next chapter; as I do, it is completely dark outside and I am left totally, completely alone. And I love it. I do not know if anyone will read this chapter or any following chapters–I fear I may have dropped the ball and squandered my moments of extraordinarily mild popularity–but if you do, sincerely, thank you. Writing is everything to me, even if it is fanfiction. I will try to be better at updating chapters from now on, and if I cannot, I'll try my hardest to update you so you're not left in the dark. Everyone is doing life for the first time–it is for this reason that I am so appreciative of your praise, understanding, and encouragement, and for this reason that I hope you enjoy these next moments of life while you read my work. Thank you so much. -LBB (J)

Chapter 8: Shining

After filling your bellies with delicious steak–cooked to perfection as your father promised–you and Annie crawled into bed. You secretly hoped that the food would leave her feeling energized, social; sometimes, at night, despite loving her early morning runs, Annie would become talkative. Something about the dark air outside, about the coolness of a silent night, comforted her. It held her in a light embrace–the way a thin, well loved blanket might gently fall on someone's shoulders–and made her feel safe and small enough to open herself up. The first times she did, you just listened. It was a shock to hear Annie discuss the things that she did during these late nights: her childhood, how she feels about her job in the Military Police, how she wonders what the rest of her life will be spent doing. It all felt so heavy that you did not know what to do except hold the space open for her; even without responding, you could see something in her eyes that told you that she needed to purge herself of these thoughts and that she was grateful she could do it with you by her side. She found and finds great comfort in your company, even if that is all you do: hold the space.

Tonight, there was no such talk. There was a plop into bed, the crisp ruffling of fresh bedsheets as they were pulled up to her collarbones, and within minutes–seconds, even–her light snoring. Before meeting her, you hated snoring. It was an interruption to the silence you needed to sleep. But with Annie, her breaths signified something much greater. It signified a partnership, it signified her presence, and it signified the radical merging of your lives. You never tell Annie she snores, of course. The last time you hinted at anything that was not a robotic trance sleep, she shot you a glare that signaled she did not care to know that she was just as human as you.

Within seconds, you are fast asleep. You dream of cabins, and endless trees, and distant snow capped mountains, and Annie swimming, and leftover steak. You wake up to it all, and even better, to a glimpse of Annie's hay blonde hair as she quietly sneaks out of the door for her run. The way her head turned out of the door, you can tell that she snuck a quick glimpse of you before she left. Feeling that part of your cheek is slightly heavy with something–barely noticeable, fading quickly into the air–you realize that Annie left you a kiss on the cheek before she left. You stroke your cheek one last time, savoring the thought of Annie's lips, before fading back off into sleep.

Waking up to the smell of sizzling batter and the hushed cursing of your mother, you peek out and see a dark brown, nearing black circle on the stovetop pan.

"This damn gas powered stove always has more bang than my buck can handle," your mom complains, seemingly to the air.

"Don't worry about it," says a cool voice that you recognize from the first spoken syllable. It is enough to rouse you out of bed as you straighten your crooked t-shirt and pat your thighs, double checking that you are still wearing pants. You wander out of the room and see Annie and your mother looking over the stove. Annie's hair is tied up in her typical bun and she is wearing a thin white t-shirt. It clings to the muscles of her back, the cotton fabric grasping onto her skin briefly as a result of the sweat; she clearly just returned from her run. She has donned a pair of light gray sweats, matching with your mother, who pairs the sweats with a fuzzy, plaid patterned robe. It hits you how cold the cabin is in the early morning–the night's dropping temperature holding onto the old wood of the cabin the way Annie's torso clings to her shirt–but before you can retreat back to the room for a sweatshirt, the creak of the floors give you away, and Annie's head jerks to its side to find your eyes. Damn floor construction.

"Hey," she starts, not a hint of a smile on her face, "look who's finally up and at 'em."

"Oh Annie," your mother laughs, grabbing her shoulder, "you're terrible!" Your mother gets a kick out of everything, which apparently helps her catch onto Annie's dry sense of humor much easier than you can. Annie lets a smirk slip from the side of her mouth before letting out a breathy chuckle through her nostrils.

"We were just working on breakfast." Annie says, turning her face back to the pan. "Bacon, ham, or sausage?"

"Oh man, I don't even know if I can. I'm still stuffed from last night's steak," you confess.

"Y/N, it's important to start your day with protein," Annie says, tossing bacon, ham, and sausage onto the grill. "It builds muscle, keeps you strong."

"She's right you know!" says a deep voice from outside the window of the cabin's kitchen. You crane your neck to widen your view of the deck outside and see your father reading the local paper: the Mountaineer Messenger, a publication that is so "small town" that the Sheriff blotter only ever reports cases of ding-dong-ditches and missing pets, most of which are found within the day. "That's how you get these babies!" Your dad rolls up the sleeve of his gray shirt and brings the back of his wrist to his chin, flexing his bicep. "Boom! Show 'em, Annie!"

Annie shakes her head not out of refusal, but embarrassment, and the happy kind of embarrassment. You can tell she likes this kind of acknowledgement, but does not want to indulge your father. You remind yourself to thank her later on, maybe with words, maybe with a cheeky kiss.

"Fine," you say, moving the conversation on before your father can continue it. "I'll take some bacon, please."

"Nice choice," Annie says, flipping the meat to its other side. The fat of the meat splattered against the hot metal, refilling the cabin with its aroma. "And you like yours on the crispier side, don't you?"

You don't know what it is, but this miniscule act of being seen by Annie Leonhart gives you butterflies. She is acknowledging you, telling the world that she has opened herself enough to remember you. It is not a secret that you know all about her, and not even a secret that she knows your quirks and preferences, but this quick reminder that she knows you enough to know your breakfast preferences? It's enough to pull the sides of your face into a warm smile.

"Yes, please, that's right," you beam.

"Well, I would help, but Annie, it seems like you have it under control, and I don't want to get in your way," your mother says. "Are you sure I can't be of any help? I feel bad, since you're our guest."

"I don't mind at all, Mrs. L/N," Annie says. "I can always call my sous chef over, if I do need help." She flicks her bangs out of her face with the whip of her neck and shoots you a look. Still keeping eye contact, she continues, teasing "You may need to wake up quick, Y/N, if you want to earn your keep for the day."

"HA!" your father's voice booms from outside. "That's right, make us work for our breakfast! That's what my father used to say back when I was growing up," you father says into the kitchen window.

"Oh, no, not you two," Annie says as she turns away from the stove and dons an apron, tying it around her back. "Just Y/N," she finishes, smirking again at you with her blue eyes; now that you're really looking at them, they're nearly the same color as the lake's water.

You smile back at her with a closed mouth and a roll of the eyes. "Yes, chef," you say, making your way over to her.