Metallica one shots and headcannons

Behind closed doors- (James Hetfield one shot)

The smell of rosemary and roasted chicken fills the car as I pull into the studio parking lot. My hands tremble slightly on the steering wheel, a mix of nerves and excitement twisting in my stomach. James has been working so hard—late nights, long hours, always coming home smelling like beer and exhaustion.

"It's boring, babe," he always says when I ask about coming to visit. "Just us sitting around, arguing about riffs and drinking too much coffee."

But I know it's more than that. He's protecting me from something, though I've never been sure what. Maybe it's the stress, or the chaos, or just the raw intensity of his world.

Tonight, though, I wanted to surprise him. Bring dinner for him and the guys. Show him that I'm here, supporting him, even if I'm not part of that side of his life.

The studio hallway is dim and quiet, except for the faint thrum of bass vibrating through the walls. I balance the takeout bags in one hand and push open the heavy front door with the other, stepping inside. My sneakers squeak against the polished floors as I follow the music toward the main recording room.

When I reach the door, it's slightly ajar, just enough for me to peek inside.

The first thing I notice is the walls. They're covered in glossy pages from magazines—pages of women. Beautiful, confident, nude women. My breath catches, and I instinctively step back, the bag handles digging into my palm.

Okay. It's just... decoration. Maybe it's been like that for a while, and I never knew. It doesn't mean anything, right?

But then I hear the laughter—Lars's sharp, boisterous cackle, Jason's low chuckle, Kirk's unmistakable snort. And then, over the music, I see her.

A stripper.

She's dancing in the center of the room, moving in time with the heavy beat of a song I don't recognize. Her body sways effortlessly, her confidence filling the space. The guys are cheering her on, their voices blending into a chaotic roar of approval.

And then I see James.

He's leaning back in his chair, a beer in hand, his lips curved into a wide grin. He looks relaxed, entertained... happy. My James. The man who tells me I'm the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. The man who promised me I was all he'd ever need.

I feel like the ground has crumbled beneath me. My heart pounds painfully in my chest, and I take a shaky step back, my vision blurring. My head is screaming at me to walk in there, to confront him, to demand an explanation. But my feet won't move forward.

Instead, I turn and walk away.

The bag of food feels heavy in my hand as I make my way back to the car. I toss it onto the passenger seat, climb in, and slam the door. My chest aches, but I don't cry. Not yet.

The next few days pass in a haze. I don't tell James what I saw. Every time I look at him, I see the walls, the stripper, the way he smiled at her. And every time, the thought eats away at me a little more.

I try to push it down, to pretend it doesn't matter, but the questions won't stop. Am I not enough for him? Does he need that kind of excitement to be happy? Why didn't he want me there?

By the fourth day, I'm barely holding it together.

"What's wrong?" James asks, his brow furrowing as he watches me pick at my dinner.

"Nothing," I lie, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face.

He doesn't buy it. "You've been acting weird all week. Did I do something?"

And just like that, the dam bursts.

"Did you do something?" I slam my fork onto the table, the clang echoing in the silence. "Oh, I don't know, James. Maybe you should ask the stripper in your studio if you did something!"

His eyes widen in shock. "What are you talking about?"

I push my chair back and stand, my chest heaving. "I came to surprise you with dinner. I saw everything, James. The walls, the magazines, her. You told me it was boring, that I wouldn't want to be there. But it didn't look boring to me. You looked like you were having a great time."

"Y/N—"

"No!" I cut him off, tears streaming down my face. "Do you even want me anymore? Or am I just the boring one you come home to after you're done living your real life at the studio?"

"Stop it," he says, his voice breaking.

"Why?" I throw my hands up. "It's true, isn't it? If I was enough for you, you wouldn't need those walls. You wouldn't need her."

For a moment, he just stares at me, his face pale and stricken. Then, slowly, he moves toward me, his hands reaching out as if he's afraid I'll bolt.

"Y/N," he says softly, his voice trembling. "I'm so sorry."

I shake my head, pulling away from his touch. "Sorry doesn't fix this, James."

"I know," he says, his hands dropping to his sides. "But you have to believe me. None of that—none of it—means anything to me. It's stupid. It's just... studio crap. I didn't think. I didn't realize how much it would hurt you. But you... you're everything to me."

I look at him, searching his face for any hint of a lie. All I see is regret. And love.

"Why didn't you want me there?" I whisper.

"Because I didn't want you to see that," he admits, his voice raw. "Not because I'm ashamed of you, but because I'm ashamed of myself. You're so much better than all of that. Better than me."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut.

"I don't need better," I say quietly. "I just need you."

He steps closer, his hands trembling as he cups my face. "Then I promise you, Y/N. No more walls. No more excuses. I'll fix this. I'll fix us."

For a long moment, I just stand there, letting his words wash over me. Finally, I nod, leaning into his touch.

"We'll fix this," I whisper.

And for the first time in days, I feel like maybe, just maybe, we can.