Metallica one shots and headcannons

Whispers of the bookshop, pt 2📚🍂(Cliff Burton one shot)

The bell above the bookshop door jingled, and I stepped inside, the familiar warmth hitting me like a wave. My fingers tightened around the bass case strap slung over my shoulder, the weight of it grounding me as my thoughts buzzed. The air smelled of old books, faintly spiced with the cedarwood shelves that lined the walls.

She wasn't here yet.

The spot by the window where she always sat—where I'd first seen her—was empty. But I didn't mind. The promise of her was enough. I found myself wandering aimlessly, thumbing through spines and pretending I wasn't just counting the minutes until she walked through the door.

It wasn't long before it jingled again, and I turned instinctively. There she was.

Her scarf was pulled snug against her neck, her cheeks pink from the cold, and a small smile lit her face when her eyes landed on me. For a moment, everything else in the bookstore blurred, like she was the only thing in focus. She hesitated, then started toward me, her movements as unhurried as her smile.

"You beat me here," she teased gently, setting her bag down on the table.

"Guess I'm getting predictable," I said, a grin tugging at my lips. "But I think I had a good reason."

Her eyebrow quirked, curiosity sparking in her eyes. I couldn't help but smile as I reached into my bag. "I, uh... brought you something," I said, pulling out my battered copy of The Call of Cthulhu and sliding it across the table. "Figured since we were talking about haunting stories yesterday, you might want to give this one a shot."

She blinked, surprised, and then laughed softly—a sound that sent warmth coursing through me. "No way," she said, opening her own bag and pulling out a pristine copy of Wuthering Heights. "I was thinking the same thing. You said you hadn't read it, so... I bought it for you."

For a moment, we just stared at the books lying between us, the coincidence—or whatever it was—settling in. And then we both started laughing, the sound filling the quiet shop.

"Guess we're on the same wavelength," I said, shaking my head. "That or we've been spending too much time thinking about this."

Her smile lingered, soft and warm. "Maybe both," she said, tilting her head slightly. "But I think that's a good thing."

We spent the next hour talking about books again. She told me about the parts of Wuthering Heights that had wrecked her, the raw emotion that stuck with her long after she closed the cover. And I explained why Lovecraft's worlds of unknown terrors and impossible vastness resonated so deeply with me. There was a rhythm to the conversation that felt effortless, like two instruments in perfect harmony.

But soon, the bookstore started to feel too small for everything we were sharing.

"Want to take a walk?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

Her lips parted in surprise, but she nodded. "I'd like that."

We stepped out into the cold November air, the wind tugging at her scarf as we made our way toward the park. The path was lined with bare trees, their branches arching like skeletons over the golden leaves carpeting the ground. It was quiet, save for the crunch of our boots and the low hum of distant city noise.

We found a wooden bench by the pond, the water rippling gently in the breeze. I set my bass case down beside me, and her eyes flicked to it, curiosity dancing in their depths.

"You really brought your bass," she said, her voice tinged with both amusement and awe.

"I told you I would," I said, my grin softening as I opened the case. "Thought I'd show you what haunting sounds like in my world."

I settled the bass on my lap, letting my fingers find their place on the strings. The opening notes of Fade to Black hummed into the stillness, each one resonating deep and low. I glanced at her as I played, watching her expression shift. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she leaned slightly forward, as though letting the music pull her closer.

By the time the last note faded, she opened her eyes slowly, and I saw the shimmer of tears she hadn't wiped away.

"That was..." Her voice was soft, her words catching on emotion. "I don't even know how to describe it. It felt like it reached something I didn't even know was there."

Music had always been my way of saying what I couldn't with words, but hearing her reaction made my chest tighten in a way I hadn't expected. I set the bass aside, turning slightly toward her. "That's what it's supposed to do," I said quietly. "At least, the good stuff."

She nodded, her gaze finding mine. For a moment, neither of us moved. Our hands rested on the bench between us, and I watched as her fingers inched closer, hesitant but deliberate. When they brushed mine, it was like a spark shot through me.

I froze, glancing at her, and found her staring back with wide eyes. Her cheeks flushed deeper, but she didn't pull away. Slowly, carefully, I curled my fingers around hers, holding her hand in mine.

Her smile was small but radiant, and she squeezed my hand gently, as though to reassure me. "You know," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, "I used to see you in the bookstore and wonder who you were. You seemed so... out of place. But in a good way."

I chuckled, the sound rough but genuine. "Funny. I've been curious about you too. The bookworm in the window who seemed like she belonged to another world."

Her laugh was quiet, but it carried between us. "Guess we've been haunting each other, huh?"

I smiled, my thumb brushing lightly against her hand. "Yeah. But I think I'm okay with that."

We sat like that for a while, the world around us fading into the background. And as the November wind rustled the leaves at our feet, I realized I didn't want this moment to end. I didn't want us to end.