. Don’t Tell Me You’ve Gone Astray .
ׂ╰➤ Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader summary: No news is good news, or at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. After months of complete silence on your boyfriends end, the hope that he’ll come back slowly fades. When he finally returns, it’s not the reunion you hoped for. He’s different: distant, cold, and more shattered than when he left. Now, you’re left questioning if the man you waited for is still the one you loved. ׂWarnings: implied ptsd + hurt no comfort Word Count: 3.4k
song: Pillars - Sunny Day Real Estate super stoked to finally put out my first cod fic! it's not proofread so please just ignore any mistakes + i am entertaining the idea of turning this into a two parter because i always will be the biggest sucker for a happy ending
When you first lost contact with Simon, you attempted to keep your worries minimal. Checking your phone maybe two or three times a day because your partner has gone silent many times before. Sometimes for days, occasionally weeks, depending on the mission.
But then a month had gone by.
Then a second.
Then a third.
Then a fourth.
By the sixth month, you began losing hope.
Regardless, your ringer remained on no matter the occasion, checking your phone at even the most inconvenient times. Whether it be in the middle of a steaming shower, reaching out a sudsy hand, hearing phantom rings from a phone that you had sworn was going off a second ago. At traffic stops, occasionally missing when the red light turned to green. During staff meetings, outings with friends, or dinners with relatives, all things you were physically in the moment for but all too preoccupied to truly be there. Without understanding, you were straining each and every one of these relationships, pushing those actually around you further and further away. Your thumb found its home hovering over the screen, expectedly at every buzz, only to be met with a spam call, maybe even an email, and the sad, pale blue default lockscreen you set your phone to on the third month of no contact. In no way could you bear seeing the way his bright face illuminated the screen, encapsulating soft emotions that were reserved for only you - emotions that you weren't even sure you were going to see again.
Eventually, you had fallen into the habit of sleeping with the device clasped tightly in your hand directly on your pillow. Its weight serves as an immense comfort, bringing you closer to an out-of-reach lover.
Each notification was always just loud enough to rip you from your not-so-peaceful slumber, with your heart slamming violently against your ribcage and your breath caught in your throat. You would routinely revise any new messages. Of course, it was never his name that popped up; you knew it wouldn’t have been, but in the brief second it takes to adjust your eyes to the harsh blue lighting, there are fragments of hope that you cling to.
Naturally, your eyes would then fall upon the empty spot beside you, the mattress dipped slightly in the shape of him. The cheap old thing never truly was able to take all of his weight, and now that it held none at all, you couldn’t help but feel your heart sink deeper and deeper into the acids of your stomach.
That spot alone held the memories of countless tender mornings, the one where you’d be cradled against his broad chest, his arms pure dead weight wrapped securely around your midsection. Soft morning light spilling through the room, illuminating his now relaxed features as you brushed short blond strands from his forehead. You’d lean in slowly, careful not to startle him, waking him with lingering kisses; starting at his brow, trailing down his cheekbones, and ending at his pink, slightly parted lips.
Like clockwork, his eyes would flutter open, a small, exhausted smile grazing his mouth.
With a voice still laced with sleep, he’d murmur a deep, “Mornin’, dove,” before meeting your lips in an unhurried kiss. With every good morning, however, came the memories of the rougher nights that preceded them. Nights when the weight of sin pressed tightly against Simon’s ribs, when sleep came in broken bits and pieces. His body remained completely rigid, despite the fact that he was in your arms. Nights where he would wake with a gasp, nails digging into the soft flesh of your arm, nearly drawing blood. He was never truly able to ground himself in these moments, unable to anchor himself to the present.
The worst nights were the ones where he wouldn’t sleep at all, lying rigid beside you with a white-knuckled grip on the sheets.
When you reached out a tentative hand and asked what was wrong, he would shut you out with a gruff, “Nothin’. Go back to sleep.” And you would do just that, making the deliberate choice not to overstep any boundaries, only to awaken your back against his chest and his arms around you with a vice-like grip that was too tight to be asleep and too stiff to be habit. His breath was harsh and irregular against your nape, something that made you aware of the fact that he did not find sleep at all that night.
On those specific mornings after, you would never kiss him awake. Only holding him tighter against your breast, raking your fingers slowly up and down his back.
All these memories would come back to you in waves, not only emerging in the dead of night. The good, the bad, the dirty - each and every recollection of him emerged in the countless traces of him around your home, leaving you feeling hollowed out and emptier than the last. Missing your boyfriend was never a single emotion. It was deep and layered, something only you could truly understand. Some days you grieved him, most days you missed him, others you were angry at him for putting you in such a vulnerable position. You would reread old messages between the two of you until you hated yourself for it. A sick sense of mourning completely consumes your being, each word reminding you of what had once been. You would leave him voicemails until his mailbox eventually filled, not that it mattered. It wasn’t like he would hear them anyway.
"I miss you."
"Get back to me when you can."
"Just checking in-"
These short check-ins would be followed by brief summaries of your day, a grasp at normalcy on your end. A weak attempt at building comfort where it would not be found. By the seventh month, you drew back. You made the decision to stop calling altogether. You stopped speaking of him to those in your life, and god knows they learned to not even mention the man. You even almost stopped believing he was going to return to you at all: turning your ringer off, leaving the porch light dimmed, placing your phone down on the nightstand to sleep, and even going as far as placing his minimal belongings into the neglected attic, their presence being nothing more than another crude reminder of his absence.
Then the realization hit you that you had built your life around waiting on Simon, something that came easily at first. A worthy trial for the sake of an unconditional love that was unmatched by anything you have ever felt. But now you are beginning to second-guess the decision altogether.
Not because you loved him any less.
But because loving him had left you vulnerable, emotionally stilled, and immobilized for far too long, and put you in this position of immeasurable pain. The ghost of his absence had completely guided every routine, small decision, and life choice. Everything you ever amounted to and everything you were has come to a pause.
Soon enough, the waiting stopped hurting you as much as it used to. You stopped checking your phone, not because you were keeping busy, but because you had forgotten to implement it into your new routine. This scared you to your core, the small mistake feeling like a deep betrayal to your lover. Like your oblivion to your phone was a silent telling that he just wasn't worth waiting for, or sometimes you felt as though mourning the man before you were even allowed to.
You would tell yourself on countless occasions that this was necessary, that you couldn't live your life like he was all that mattered. The waiting had turned into something much more than an act of undying loyalty, but more of a means to self-depreciate and destroy. So while the choice was absolutely necessary, you couldn’t help but feel responsible for being there to answer at the first ring or text, if you were to ever receive one.
So you did all you could possibly do, continuing to live your life without him in silence, unsure of whether or not this was an act of strength or betraying the man you loved with your entire being.
— — — — The day he returned was just like any other, completely unremarkable and mundane. You roll out of bed sluggishly, sock-clad feet meeting the carpeted floor. You went through the robotic routine of brushing your teeth, dressing yourself in nothing special, and applying a thin layer of makeup. Your phone blasted music that would go into one ear and out the other, occasionally registering songs you used to consider favorites but couldn’t bring yourself to sing along to. The weather had been disgustingly bleak, the dull gray sky giving the impression of a rain shower, you left your umbrella by the door anyway.
Your day passed you by at the speed of molasses, deciding to run a few errands: Picking up groceries - an easier task now that you were only shopping for one. Your pace was slow and languid as you stretched out your time in each aisle, not necessarily looking for anything specific. You then made a few returns you have been putting off for the longest, one item being a deep red dress that was going to be reserved for a night out that obviously lost any and all purpose. You then picked up another cup of coffee out of habit, not necessarily because you had any desire for the drink. By the time you made it to your front door, the winter sun had made its early decline, leaving a gloomy plum color in the sky. By reasonable standards, today was a good day. Nothing felt particularly burdensome, yet it was not optimistic either. The day was one that you would forget as soon as your head hit your feathery pillow, or so that's what you thought.
With shopping bags hanging off both arms, you fumble with the keys in your hand, plastic handles biting into your wrists as your fingers seem to completely refuse cooperation. The keys slipped from your faulty grasp once, twice, then a third time before you successfully got the keys into the lock, muttering curses under your breath. When you finally manage to wedge yourself through the door, the first thing you notice is the eerie silence that always greeted you when you entered your apartment. This time, however, it felt much more dense, like someone other than you resided inside of it.
You are completely dumbfounded in the process of kicking your sneakers off at the entrance - nearly tumbling over yourself at an unexpected sight.
Worn and heavy boots coated in mud and scuffed at the toe, creased, and nearly disintegrating with extensive wear. Boots that were obviously not yours. Boots that looked like they belonged there and have always been there.
A sharp breath catches in your throat, setting your lungs ablaze, grocery bags slipping from your arms, resulting in their contents cracking and spilling. That is the least of your worries, though.
Simon Riley is sitting on your couch.
He doesn't move.
You can’t bring yourself to either, feeling as though any movement will shatter the image before you. Your mind considered the now unaccustomed presence as a trick of the eye, a figment of your imagination, or maybe even a crazed hallucination. But no, your lover stood before you, after seven months of absolutely nothing - no calls, no texts, no letters, no news, and no warning.
Despite the fact that he was a mere few steps away from you, you couldn't will your hesitant legs towards him.
At a quick glance, he looked the same, still tall and broad, taking up nearly all the space on the small tacky red loveseat, like he usually did. But the longer you stared at the man, slack-jawed and tense, the more you began to notice the little differences. He's hollowed out in more ways than one, leaving room for a familiar ache making a home in your chest once more. His frame is leaner and sharper, any prior traces of softness gone with the wind. His eyes sit deeper in his skull, a dull purplish hue residing under them. Here before you, he stood as a ghost of his former self, a sliver of the man you had grown to love. Then you notice his mask, the black skull-patterned balaclava shielding nearly all of his features. A wall he has just reinforced between the two of you, set firmly in place before a single word can be uttered, before a kiss hello could be granted to you after months away.
The cloth was always something he would leave by the front door, never daring to pass that threshold into your shared home. A mere tool that was disregarded the moment he came home from a mission. The mask was used for battle zones and combat, a means to stay anonymous and instill fear in the enemy. Ultimately, having no room in your nicely furnished and not-so-tidy living room. His true, authentic face was something that you earned, loved, and yearned for. After what felt like a millennium of building an unbreakable trust and bond with the man you were granted the luxury, something that was reserved strictly and only for those closest to him. While "Ghost" belonged to Task Force 141, Simon Riley belonged to you, and the mask was never meant to exist in the space you shared.
An abundance of emotions manifested themselves deep in your chest: relief, anger, sadness. Each feeling colliding with or overpowering the next. You can hardly breathe beneath the weight of everything unfolding before you, lungs wound unreasonably tight.
Despite yourself, relief comes first. Here he stands before you alive and breathing, and you were finally granted the sole thing you yearned for these past few months.
However, the feelings of anger emerge soon after, it comes in sharp and hot, twisting away at your insides. He couldn't have left a message, told you he was okay, called for a single minute out of the 306,600 he has been gone. Couldn't have even graced you with a quick "OMW" before he set foot in your home. Anything after seven months of absence could have sufficed, but you ultimately got nothing at all.
Beneath it all, however, you feared the man you loved may not have come back the same.
After another pregnant silence, you decide to call out his name, a quiet breathy “Simon,” but it barely makes it past your lips.
He finally looks up, but not entirely at you, more like through you.
He doesn’t respond.
You begin to take clumsy steps towards the man, your body moving before your mind could even process the situation, limbs trembling with pure adrenaline. As of now, it felt like closing the space between the two of you was all that mattered.
“Simon baby,” you try tentatively.
He didn’t rise to greet you, or to take you in with open arms, pulling you into his chest like he usually would after a particularly long mission. Instead, he remained seated on the couch, shoulders square and eyes trained on the spot you had been standing in previously.
You close the distance, quick, no longer hesitating as you reach out a gentle hand, hardly grazing the skin of his forearm. You hardly register the warmth of him before he shoots to his feet, jerking away from your touch as if he had just been shot in the chest point-blank.
“Fuckin’ hell-” he grits out through clenched teeth, large calloused hand taking a hold of your wrist. It hurts, sure to leave your skin tender and bruised in the days to come, but you don’t assess that pain. Not yet, at least, for the suffocating sting that bloomed in your chest at his rejection felt much worse.
Against his fingertips, he feels the wild pulse of your heart, matching his own. Finally, for the first time since you came through that door, he dares to look you in the eyes.
“Don’t,” The word is sharp, a blade piercing you through the heart. Your knees buckle beneath you as you pull your wrist back. You try to keep your cool, have some composure even, but this was all too much.
Seven months of patience, of waiting, and of mourning.
And this is what you get in return, selfish as it may be, you couldn't believe it. Before you can stop them, tears begin to boil in your eyes, burning, hot, and threatening to fall.
“I…I waited for you-” you choke out, chest winding tighter and tighter, your emotions a ticking time bomb waiting for the clock to strike zero before bursting, a bomb Simon wasn’t prepared to diffuse. He maneuvers around the couch, building distance between the two of you, watching tentatively and doing absolutely nothing as you unravel before him.
“Simon, please, baby, don’t-” Your voice cracks, coming out broken as raw as the tears finally begin to make their way down your face. You try reaching for him once more, but you won’t touch him; you know you can't.
He swallows hard, adams apple bobbing in place as he looks at your outstretched fingers. The scene before him is desperate, gut-wrenching almost, and for the briefest second something flashes across his eyes, the brown hues go soft, tender almost. It could be remorse, pity, or maybe even guilt. But it's gone as soon as it emerges, replaced by a stern look, mastered and hardened by years of self control.
“Don’t” he mutters once more, voice deep and strangled, finalizing and emphasizing the importance of the words.
“I waited for you,” you repeat, your voice still trembling, though you try to match his sternness. “Do you know how many sleepless nights I’ve had? I waited for any little trace of you, and for seven whole months I got nothing. I almost gave up, y’know? Told myself you weren’t gonna come back-but I never believed it, and you know why, Simon?” You pause for a second, catching your breath amidst the word vomit and sobs. “Because I just couldn’t. Because I love you… and because I don’t know what I would do without you. And now that you’re here, I just can’t let you push me away. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”
You don’t know if he's registering your words, his chilling dead stare should be confirmation enough that whatever you just said to him went into one ear and emerged out the other. So once again you are left waiting, waiting for the man before you to give in, to respond, to embrace you. But you can feel it, a shift in his very being, the coldness he radiated.
The walls you have spent years tearing down have risen once more, this time stronger than ever.
It takes another beat of silence for him to gather himself. “I'm back, yeah” he says slowly, his voice low and thick with tension, almost sharp enough to cut with a blunt knife. “But I’m not the same man I was. And you… you need t’ understand that.”
You muster enough strength to nod your head, the motion heavy, syrupy, as if your body has forgotten how to move. And for a split second you understand where he's coming from - or at least, you’re willing to try. Maybe, if you can grasp onto even a fraction of the depth of his pain, of the internal wounds he carries, you can learn to be there for him during this drawback. And maybe, just maybe, things will go back to the way they were.
But right now with just a foot of space between the two of you, you have never felt further away from him. Because despite the fact that he is back, he no longer belongs to you.
Simon Riley has succumbed to the hurt he carries.
And for maybe the last time, you will wait for him to come back around.