Metallica one shots and headcannons

Not what you think- (James Hetfield one shot)

 The static hum of the TV filled the room as I sat curled up on the couch, flipping absently through channels. James was in the studio today, working on another project. The house felt too quiet without him, and my thoughts had been anything but. I stopped on a talk show, a familiar host grinning as he introduced his guest. The screen lit up with James' face, that easy smile of his pulling a laugh from the audience. I couldn't help but smile a little too.

Then it happened.

The host asked about high school crushes, and James, always quick with a candid answer, laughed as he said, "Oh, I had the biggest crush on my history teacher. She was blonde, of course. I always had a thing for blondes."

The audience laughed along, but the words hit me like a gut punch.

Blondes. Of course.

I turned off the TV, throwing the remote onto the couch with more force than necessary. My heart sank as I sat there, staring blankly at the dark screen. I felt a hot lump rise in my throat, and my chest tightened with that familiar ache I hated so much. It was stupid, wasn't it? Just an offhand comment, a joke. It didn't mean anything. But no matter how much I tried to rationalize it, I couldn't stop the spiral.

I glanced at my reflection in the glass of the fireplace. Dark hair, average height, not much of anything special. Certainly not the statuesque, sun-kissed women James seemed to joke about—women I'd seen backstage at shows, in the magazines, or walking down the street with their effortless beauty. The kind of women who looked like they belonged next to someone like him.

I'd never been that. Never would be.

James didn't marry me for that, I reminded myself, and for a moment, the thought brought me some comfort. But then another thought crept in, colder and harsher: Did he marry me because he felt like he owed me? I had been there for him, during one of the darkest periods of his life. I'd helped him through rehab, held him together when he was falling apart. Maybe...maybe he stayed with me out of gratitude, not love.

The ache in my chest deepened. What if I was just...safe? Reliable? The sensible choice?

I didn't go to the studio that night like I usually would. I didn't call him either. Instead, I busied myself with mindless tasks around the house, hoping that by the time James came home, I'd be able to act like everything was fine.

Weeks passed, but the weight of that comment lingered. It wasn't just the comment itself—it was everything it brought to the surface. I started avoiding events, skipping out on dinners and parties where I knew I'd feel like an outsider among the blonde, model-perfect wives and girlfriends. I stopped initiating intimacy, pulling away whenever James tried to get close.

"You okay?" he asked one night, his voice soft with concern as he reached for my hand. I pulled it away before I could think better of it.

"Just tired," I lied, forcing a weak smile. "Long day."

He frowned but didn't push. That was James: patient, understanding. It made me feel worse.

The breaking point came during another interview. I'd been flipping through channels again, my curiosity getting the better of me. There he was, laughing and charming the audience. It was almost the exact same question as before, and as if on cue, he said it again.