i'll be gone | rangerxreader

Day 01 : Check-In

You drag your bulky suitcase behind you as you follow two figures you know all too well up the path towards your hotel. Deciding to take a break, your arms exhausted after lugging the weight for a time nearing an hour, you take in the huge building that stands before you. At first glance, you notice it boasts pillars, balconies, a stained-glass centerpiece, and, to your dismay, at least twenty steps between you and the grand main entrance. Your tired hands reach to your side for your camera to take some photos and realise it must be in your suitcase. In a hurry, you begin to unzip the large bag.

‘‘Y/N!’’ Interrupted, you snap your gaze up to where your father calls you, impatient as always. ‘‘Come on, we don't have all day!’’ You groan and grip the handle again, beginning to walk. As you near him, he says, ‘‘We're here for seven days, you can take photos later. We've got to check in.’’

You follow him up the stairs with a reluctant sigh and a great deal of pained grunts. The red-suited man standing beside the entrance swings open the gaping mahogany door to reveal a massive lobby full of people with a decorative reception desk stretching across one wall. Your parents head towards it and you trail behind in silence.

You hook your phone out of your pocket as your mother sorts out your check in and your father jogs away to retrieve a final suitcase and open a puzzle game. Solving its levels is an easy process, but a mindless one, which you accept eagerly - anything to get away from the sound of the hundred voices that surround you in the bustling reception room. It takes twenty-eight levels, the equivalent of half an hour, for your mother to finish; shorter than you had expected. Your father arrives just one level later and you are quickly led to your suite.

‘‘Right then, Y/N. This is your room,’’ your father takes you into a fairly small room with a bed against the wall and a chest of drawers to the side. You place your suitcase beside the bed. ‘‘You've got your phone and your suitcase, and we haven't got any plans for a bit, so unpack and do whetever for...’’ the tall man checks his watch, ‘‘An hour and forty minutes.’’ He hurries out, leaving you alone.

You drag the zipper on your suitcase and reveal your camera in its special case first, which you position delicately on the bedside table. Your alarm clock, set to 5:15am, comes next, followed by -

Tap-tap, tap-tap. Tap-tap, tap-tap.

You twist around to discover the source of the incessant racket is the wall by your bed. You curse silently as you wonder whether it will continue throughout the day and night and disrupt your meticulously crafted sleep schedule.

‘‘Anyone there?’’ asks a gentle voice from the same place as the tapping. It makes you jump, but its silvery tone intrigued you. A pleasant sound such as this, you noted, had not graced your sensitive ears for a long time.

This type of voice is so calm, so comforting, so rare that you feel you have to answer its question. You take a few deep breaths, steeling yourself so your reply can fall strongly from your lips. ‘‘Yes,’’ you whisper, pressing your face against the whitewashed wall. Your own rarely-used voice is gravelly and pained in comparison to the stranger's.

You find yourself blushing suddenly, embarassed to have broken the silence you had held for so long so easily. ‘‘Oh! That's unusual. Tell me, who are you?’’ the voice responds quickly, cheerful and almost childish.

‘‘Y/N,’’ you answer cautiously. Your confidence seems to rise with every word that the stranger says.

‘‘I'm Ranger. Rio Ranger,’’ the voice trills. Somehow, knowing the name of the stranger on the other side of the wall makes you feel as though you had been friends for years. ‘‘So then, Y/N. How're you feeling? Oh, sorry if I'm a little excited - I haven't talked to someone in a while. But it doesn't seem like you've talked at all. Ever! Trust me, I know how a voice sounds if it's not used.’’

A little surprised at Ranger's accuracy, and sudden quantity of words, you remain silent for a moment. ‘‘I don't talk much,’’ you croak out quietly. Ranger's response is a tuneful hum, as soft and gentle as his voice had been. You take comfort in the quiet sound and relax into your bed, feeling your eyes close and the weariness of travel washing over your features. Ranger seems to realise you are falling asleep and taps at the wall again, creating the slightest vibration in the plaster, enough to wake you from your trance without startling you.

‘‘Hey, I wouldn't recommend falling asleep. Your father might come in, you haven't finished unpacking,’’ Ranger points out carefully. You drag your gaze across the floor of your accommodation, noting the suitcase lying open in its centre. You thank Ranger for the reminder and return to your unpacking. It isn't long before he speaks again. ‘‘So, tell me about yourself. I'm interested.’’

You frown, and consider what to say carefully. As a thick book finds its way to the top of the chest of drawers, you begin. ‘‘Well, I'm Y/N. I'm sixteen years old, a photography student. I live in south England and I'm on holiday here for a week with my parents. I don't have a great relationship with my parents - or anyone really - but I get by. I like puzzle games and I usually measure time by how many levels I can complete before something happens. The ferry trip here was eighty-four levels, checking in was twenty-eight. I also like reading, but I only do that when my father won't let me play my games. Music also keeps me from going crazy, which is nice. I like punk rock especially, and I like some goth stuff too.’’

Suddenly awkward and self-conscious, you pause. You had probably revealed far too much to this complete stranger, but he seemed like a good person. It is, you realise disappointedly, far easier to talk to Ranger than anyone you had ever met. And it is Ranger who breaks you from your thoughts with his comfortable voice. ‘‘You sound pretty interesting, I must say. I guess I gotta tell you about me now, if you want to know.’’

You do want to know. A rush of friendship floods your brain; you want to know everything about the man behind the wall. ‘‘Y-yeah,’’ you stutter.

‘‘Great, well...’’ Ranger begins, ‘‘I'm seventeen, and I live in the USA - California, actually. It's an alright place, but I wanted to get away for a bit. That's why I'm here. I'm staying twenty-four days, and I'm on day nine. I'm an artist, and my kind of music is sounds like pretty much the same as yours.’’

A soft sound follows, as if Ranger had slumped against the wall in a strangely soft way. It seemed everything he does is carefully calculated to make only the slightest sound. ‘‘You sound interesting too,’’ I reply sincerely, ‘‘Maybe we should talk again some time.’’

‘‘Oh, yes! That sounds good,’’ he agrees, ‘‘Hey, Y/N. I hear something in the room next to yours- you should probably get back to unpacking. It's been an hour and a half; your father will want you soon.’’

You lift your head suddenly and pick up a few black tops. ‘‘Thank you, Ranger! I'll talk later.’’

Ranger was correct; a swift tapping sounded on the entrance door to your room barely moments after you had said goodbye. ‘‘Y/N, let's- oh, for goodness sake, Y/N. You had nearly two hours to unpack and you've done nothing. We're going out now, do it later.’’

You trudge after him, your head low. Your begrudging holdiday had begun.