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Running Partners [Oneshot]

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: You liked jogging, you didn’t enjoy a lot of working out, but jogging felt good. It got your blood pumping, and you always felt more ready and energised for your day. Such a nurse thing to say, you know, but it was true, and besides that… You got to see him everyday.

Words: 10k

Warnings: stalking (not by ghost), mentions of injury, implied uuhhhh murder?

You pass him every day.

Your job started early, the new shifts you’d signed on for at the hospital were regular (thank god), with the only catch being you started at six every morning. It wasn’t so bad. When your lease was up, you’d been able to find a flat barely fifteen minutes from the hospital, which left you with more than enough time to get up early, around four-thirty, and go for a run.

You liked jogging, you didn’t enjoy a lot of working out, but jogging felt good. It got your blood pumping, and you always felt more ready and energised for your day. Such a nurse thing to say, you know, but it was true, and besides that…

You got to see him everyday. Broad, tall as hell, and built like a brick shithouse. You’d never seen his face, he always wore a plain black face mask, a choice you still found slightly questionable, but then again, you were a nurse. You vaguely understood. Still, wearing one while running seemed hardcore, even for one in your profession. It didn’t bother you much. He had beautiful eyes, big and brown and strangely emotive, even though he never seemed to really actually emote that much. The most you ever really got from him was recognition.

It started on your first morning after moving in. You passed him on Gilberton Road, the size of him almost taking up the entire footpath, but he’d moved aside for you as you approached. That early in the morning there hadn’t been anybody else about, and you’d eventually come to know there hardly ever was, but you were English dammit, and the only polite thing to do was to say hello.

The first day you thought he might’ve had headphones in. He always wore a dark hoodie, pulled up, and he eyed you as you passed, your soft ‘Morning’ possibly lost on his plugged ears, but the second morning, and the second greeting, his eyes had shifted to you and he’d simply nodded.

It became routine.

Without even speaking, you came to understand he must have been some type of military. Most days his sweats were plain, dark, but some days his sweatshirts bore an insignia, a few of them unknown to you, but the plainer symbol, the one you recognised as the mark of the British Army, sold the idea to you. Besides, a man built like that, out for a run every morning, his routine mixing with yours like clockwork? He was definitely military. Had to be.

So that’s why when you noticed a car following you early on in your jog this morning, you’d done a few laps of the blocks around your street, and then you’d made straight for him.

You glance back subtly once again, your heart thundering louder and louder in your ears. The dark blue car was still following you. You don’t exactly know when you’d picked up the shadow, but you’d taken a different route upon noticing its presence, a pit opening up in your belly, and a sickly feeling filling your chest. It was definitely following you.

Usually you’d only lightly jog, going at your own pace, but this morning you all out ran. Partly because of the car following you, and partly because you’d already taken a slightly different route, and as you check your watch for the hundredth time since your idea unfolded, you hope to god you haven’t missed him already.

You’re in luck. Though, in the moment you don’t stop to think about how odd it is that your masked stranger has stopped halfway up Gilberton, seemingly standing stock still and waiting for something. You don’t stop to think about how he seems to straighten when he sees you coming, or how his eyes flicker over your much faster pace with a frown.

Your heart continues to hammer, and you tell yourself this is it, this is fine, this is when the car goes away. You slow down as you approach him, and eventually come to a stop.

“Please act like you’re meeting me,” you say breathing hard, your hands shaking as you uncap your water. If your eyes are watering slightly, you don’t notice, but he does. His frown deepens. “Is there a blue car behind me?” you ask, stepping slightly closer, even as you chuck another paranoid look over your shoulder. The stranger's eyes move past you almost immediately, locking onto something else, tracking the movement with his gaze.

“They been following you?” he asks back, his voice deep, almost gravelly, and it suits him. When you don’t respond, his eyes flicker back to you.

“Yes,” you reply hurriedly. “I don’t know anybody with a car like that it’s really–”

“–S’alright, love, follow me,” he says, eyes having trailed back to the car, but he jerks his head along the path you usually take, and waits for you to start moving before he joins you. Your heart still hammers in your chest, your ears, but you practically feel it begin to even out again as you chance a look over at your new companion, and find him focused on the parked cars linging the street, keeping his eyes on their mirrors for the reflections behind you.

“Take a left,” he instructs, eyes remaining vigilant, but nodding in the direction of the forked pathway that leads off into the small park Gilberton Road lines. You follow his directions, relieved when you make it far enough into the grassy plane that the trees block the road, and you can no longer see the blue car, and by extension, it can no longer see you.

You come to a stop, leaning down with your hands on your knees and breathing heavily, shakily, trying to get a hold of yourself.

When you finally look up at your stranger, he’s watching what can be seen of the road, dark eyes scanning the sliver of street, until he appears to be satisfied with what he finds and he turns his head to look down at you.

“S’at why you’re late?” he asks, making you blink up at him in sheer confusion.

“What?”

He turns his whole body to face you now, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“The fucker following you, is that why you were late?” he asks again, forcing you to stand up straight once more, your chest heaving in exhuastion as you feel the adrenaline rush begin to come down some.

“Yes– I– were you waiting for me?” you stutter out, your hands now shaking even harder as you attempt to take another drink from your bottle.

His eyes follow your movements, his brow creasing into an even deeper frown.

“Yes,” he says with no further explanation.

“Oh– I’m– I’m sorry,” you say, trying your best to avert your gaze away from him and place the twist cap back on your water. You drop it, feeling like an idiot, but before you can bend down to grab it, a larger hand enters your vision, snatching up the lid, another hand moving to the bottle in your hand, which he tugs gently out of your hold, and replaces the covering easily, calm as clover.

You look up at him, blinking back the wetness in your eyes, but when that fails, wiping madly at your cheeks with the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, doing your best to choke back the sniffles you can hear in your voice. Your stranger stares at you, an awkward sort of concern in his eyes.

“Nothing to apologise for,” he tells you. You get the feeling offering comfort isn’t usually in his wheelhouse, because he shuffles slightly closer to you, but makes no further movement. He stays holding your bottle as you subconsciously wrap your arms around yourself, doing your best to take deep breaths, still shaky, still sobbed.

“I don’t know if they were following me from– from home or–” your voice cuts out and this time when he steps closer, it's more definitive, more determined, even as his hand comes up and gingerly grips your shoulder, a firm, tight hold that grounds you.

“I’ll go back with you,” he says affirmatively, and all you can do is nod, even when he starts to move, his hand shifting to between your shoulder blades, gently directing you out of the park and back to the main road.

You look up hesitantly, but the snap of your neck left and right makes him answer your question before you can even think to ask it.

“They’re gone,” he tells you firmly, and vaguely you think you feel his thumb sweep in broad strokes across your back. “Which way?”

You direct him quietly as you walk, eventually getting enough of a hold of yourself that he drops his hand from you, though you note he still holds your water.

“I can… I can take that,” you offer, holding a hand out and getsuring to your water. He makes no move to return it, his eyes swivelling down to you almost in a sideeye.

“Hands are still shaking,” he tells you, making you close your fist and return it to your side. “S’normal,” he goes on, like he’s attempting to backtrack. “Adrenaline will probably stay with you for a couple hours–”

“–I know,” you don’t mean to cut him off. “I’m a triage nurse,” you tell him quickly, apologetically. He cocks his head slightly, but nods, turning his gaze forwards again.

“You walk to work?” he asks after a moment.

Your hospital was one of the only big landmarks in the area, you figure he assumes you work there.

“Yeah, managed to get myself stable shifts, couldn’t cut the arse-end hours of the morning anymore,” you’re rambling a little, unsure why you bother telling him all that, but you don’t stop yourself, and he seems content to listen.

“Must be nice,” he says. You have to admit, small talk sounds odd in his voice. He sounds more used to barking orders than chatter, but you appreciate his effort anyway.

“You do shift work?” you venture, nodding to the unfamiliar emblem on his zip-up, which he looks down at almost like he’d forgotten it was there. His eyes shift to you again, and you get the feeling beneath his mask, he might just be smiling wryly.

“Sometimes,” is all he says, not darkly, or finitely, like he doesn’t want to talk about it, so you further distract yourself, pushing deeper.

“What is that? I’ve seen you wearing Army stuff, but I don’t recognise that,” you ask lightly, waiting as he seems to decide whether or not to explain it to you.

“Not supposed to,” he tells you at last, stretching his neck slightly before going on. “S’SAS.”

“SAS?” your voice is coloured with a surprise you couldn’t cover even if you tried. You don’t bother to hide the appraisal you give him either, something he appears all too aware of, averting his eyes from yours, but you see the twitch in the corners, like he’s trying his best not to look back at you.

“Guess it’s my lucky day,” you say at last with a huff of laughter. His eyes do return to you then, a full turn of his head this time, his eyebrow raised.

“S’not usually what people say when they see me,” his voice is amused. You laugh again and shrug your shoulders.

“Maybe, couldn’t think of anyone better to have as a running partner when someone’s following me, though,” you say, trailing off slightly as you remember how all this started. You’re brought out of your spiralling thoughts by the ice cold of your bottle poking you in your side, making you jump and yip slightly. Now he’s definitely smiling under his mask, his cheeks scrunching up his eyes slightly as you blink up at him in faux outrage.

“D’worry about it. Got your back, partner,” he says. You feel yourself grow flustered at the way he says the word ‘partner’, but snatch your bottle back now that he’s holding it out where you can grab it. His eyes follow your movement seemingly faster than you can actually make them, but he doesn’t pull the bottle back, lets you grab it, though doesn’t let go right away, holding on to it for a few seconds longer before finally releasing it.

You ‘humfph’.

“This one’s me,” you gesture as you come to a stop outside your flat–a small-ish, but big enough for you– two story terrace home, one of eight or nine lining your street. Your stranger looks up at it, his eyes roaming over the facade before he nods resolutely.

“Want me to wait with you, walk you to work?” he asks after a moment, like he had to think it over before offering.

“I don’t wanna make you late,” you wave a hand, annoyed to find it still shaky. You drop it quickly, but he’s already seen it.

“Won’t make me late,” he says simply.

You hesitate, before digging into your pocket and grabbing your keys, pursing your lips as you struggle to rifle through them, the jingling from your shaking hands making your difficulty that much more emphasised. Your stranger holds out his hand then, and sighing, you hand them to him.

You watch him climb the four steps up to your door, carefully slotting the key in the lock and twisting, before stepping back and holding your keys out to you, though he does hold them up in such a way it’s clear to you he’s inspecting your keyrings. You shuffle forward, waiting for him to look back at you before taking them from him, opening your door and turning back to him.

“Uhm… do you want to come in? I have tea?” you ask a little nervously. You watch your stranger appear to think.

“Flavoured stuff?” he replies with a sniff that gives you the distinct impression that he does not like ‘the flavoured stuff’. You chortle.

“I have Yorkshire,” you offer, fairly certain you had a box of the stuff somewhere. You drank coffee, but your ex had drank tea, and you’re pretty sure you hadn’t gotten rid of it.

“Alright then,” he says, waiting for you to enter before he follows. “M’Simon.”

–

It becomes the new routine.

At four-thirty on the dot, Simon knocks on your door. You run together. You get the impression he gets his real running done before he picks you up, but you appreciate him keeping pace with you on your jog anyway.

You like Simon. He’s quiet, but doesn’t seem to mind if you make small talk, usually only replying with a few words, or a hum, but you get the feeling he listens to you very intently, cataloguing the things you say or your opinions. He remembers when you talk about work, asking you questions occasionally when you fall quiet. It’s… nice, you think. He’s reliable, oddly communicative for a man of so few words, and you appreciate his sudden but welcomed presence into your life. It’s not hard to have a crush on the man, even disregarding physical attraction, he was smart, sensible, and he often made you laugh, really laugh, usually when he wasn’t even trying to.

But this morning he leads you down a slightly different route. Simon usually led the way in your jogs, you don't mind so much, you’d been jogging the same route since you moved in, so the change of scenery was nice, but today you stray further from the usual haunts. You don’t even think to ask, but as he slows, he comes to a stop outside a small cafe, the inside of which seems bustling with military folks in their fatigues, and you look up at him questioningly.

“Only place ‘round here open this early,” he tells you, as if that explains what you’re doing here, but your stomach grumbles a little bit, and you follow him inside. It’s just a cafe, but you feel oddly out of place among the sea of uniforms, and you feel Simon’s hand lightly ghost over your back as he ushers you forward toward the counter. You can’t help but notice a few of the soldiers stand up a little straighter in what you’re assuming is his presence, not yours, and several men even throw up salutes, but they’re waved away with an almost annoyed sounding ‘at ease’ from the man behind you.

You shuffle toward the counter and wait patiently as the barista, a rough looking older gentleman comes around to you, his features grim, but friendly, and he nods at Simon as he moves to stand beside you.

“Lieutenant Riley,” he greets with a nod, his eyes dancing down to you, and you swear you see the flicker of an eyebrow raise, but you couldn’t be sure. “Usual?” he asks. Simon shakes his head once.

“Not this mornin’. Just her,” he gestures at you, which makes you blink dumbly up at him for a moment.

“I see. What’ll it be, luv?”

You rattle your order off, a simple latte, and Simon swats your card away and hands the older man a couple of notes, instructing him to keep the change. You move off to the side, to wait in the queue, and you take the moment, while standing fairly on your own to look up at him curiously. He doesn’t return your gaze, too busy looking around the coffee shop, but he does lower his chin slightly.

“What?” he asks, gruffly.

“Why didn’t you get anything?” you poke his arm, finally prompting him to glance down at you.

“Didn’t want anythin’,” he says. You frown up at him.

“Liar,” you roll your eyes, watching as he lowers his face even further and fixes you with a stare.

“Fine. I don’t wan’ any of these knobs seeing my face,” he tells you.

You study him for a moment, his excuse momentarily sounding ridiculous, but somehow, you believe him. You hadn’t ever really thought about how he rarely, if ever, removed his face mask. He always wore it in public, he even wore it in your home, and you’d only really caught a glimpse of the lower half of his face on the occasions you invited him in for tea before he walked you to work. Even then, you mostly left him downstairs while you showered and readied for the day. You’re not sure you could really describe him if you were ever asked, and you’d be better off recognising him by his build and height than any facial features, aside from his eyes.

You think you would recognise his eyes anywhere.

Your frown deepens in curiosity, and you study the parts of his face you can see while he watches you.

“Is that… a thing for you? With your job?” you half-whisper. He’d already told you he was SAS, and from the light reading you’d done, their whole deal was pretty secretive, you could only really find details about historical stuff. Simon seems to hesitate before he nods. You blink up at him and purse your lips before making a soft ‘hmm’ sound and turning back to the counter.

Behind you, you hear a low chuckle, a rough sound you’d receive on the few occasions he deigned to laugh.

“Usually get more pushback than tha’,” he mutters softly, and still facing away, you shrug.

“You could wear a tutu for your job for all I care,” you tell him. It was a little strange, but from all you know about him, all you’d learnt in the past couple of weeks, you suspect the man had been through a lot, probably still went through a lot, so you’d respect his wishes for extreme privacy if he wanted it.

Your order gets called, and the barista, who Simon thanks using the name Ed, gives you a wink on the way out.

“What was that about?” you ask with a smile, turning back to wait for him as follows you out of the cafe.

“Thinks you’re my girlfriend,” he replies almost immediately. You pause coffee halfway to your lips.

“Wait? I’m not?” you ask, looking up at him with so much faux-confusion you almost believe yourself for a second. Simon nearly stumbles, but he covers it by spinning on his heel and staring down at you, his eyes wide with something akin to panic at first, before they lower into glare. It’s almost intimidating for a second, but the look of disgruntled agitation on what you can see of his face makes you break out into laughter.

“I’m fucking with you,” you manage to get out between giggles. If possible, his glare gets darker. You start walking again, elbowing him in the side as you pass him. “You’d have to show me your face if you want me to be your girlfriend.”

From behind you, you hear a huff, and footsteps following after you.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” Simon grumbles as he falls into step again. “The cheek on you.”

You peek up at him at that, mostly to see if he’s still glaring, only to find that he now eyes you with what you can only describe as fondness.

You soften some.

“I really was only joking, Simon,” you say quietly after taking a few sips of your coffee. You round a corner, and he looks down at you. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“The mask?” he asks. You glance up at him too, and nod.

“Yeah, I get it– I mean, I don’t, not really, but… I guess I don’t know exactly what you do, but it’s probably dangerous, right?”

“Probably,” he agrees.

“And– and you probably don’t want any of that following you home,” you continue on, frowning to yourself even as you look away.

Simon stays quiet for a few moments.

“My other mask might bother you,” he says then, instead of really responding to what you’ve said. You wonder about it for a second, wonder if that really was the reason he covers his face, wonder if maybe, it had happened before, if that was why he was so careful. But then you register what he’s said and you crane your head to squint up at him.

“Your other mask?” you ask, confusion and curiosity mixing in your voice. Simon chortles.

“It’s a skull,” he tells you, bringing his hand up to his face. You think he’s smiling behind his mask again. “Covers everything, protects it too.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to imagine what that would look like, if you’d even want to see it. You suppose if he was wearing it, that meant he was working, and you’re pretty sure if he’s working, that meant bad news. You don’t say any of that, however, undertsanding somewhere in the back of your mind that he didn’t often talk about any aspect of his job, and even this little detail was probably not something he shared with you lightly.

“I–” the moment you start speaking, you’re cut off, a dark black SUV tearing around the street corner up ahead, and screeching to a halt on the road beside you. Simon’s body language immediately changes into something you’ve never seen before, his arm swinging out and shoving you behind him as he watches the driver’s door swing open.

Almost instantly some of the rigidity in his muscles seem to relax as a young, handsome man with dark, tawny skin steps out, beelining around the side of the vehicle toward the two of you.

“Ghost, you’re needed back on base, we’re headed out,” the man tells him, his accent more Londoner than Simon’s, and you can’t help yourself, you peek around him to get a better look. The newcomer is dressed in what you might describe as ‘tactical casual’, with dark wash jeans, some kind of jacket, and a weapons vest over top. Before Simon has a chance to say anything, the man’s eyes drift toward you, and he blinks, all urgency seemingly forgotten as he takes you in.

“Who’s this?” he asks, voice lighter now, a little cheekier, and you watch as his gaze swivels back to Simon, who stands down completely, though you note, doesn’t step aside to reveal you to the man. He all but ignores him in fact, wheeling around on you, blocking out the other man’s view, though with the tiniest flicker of amusement, you see him shuffle slightly to the side so he can still get a look at you.

“I’ve got to go,” Simon tells you roughly, his voice somehow deeper than usual, gruffer even.

“O–okay,” you respond, not knowing how else you should. He must see your eyes dance worried and intrigued between him and the sight behind him, because he ducks into your vision slightly.

“Might be gone for a while,” he goes on after a moment. “M’gonna text you a number, anything happens, that blue car shows back up again, you call that number immediately, understood?”

You nod, realising you’re no longer speaking with your friend Simon, who even in his rough-around-the-edges manner, was softer than this. No, you realise you’re speaking to Lieutenant Riley, who was giving you an order.

“I’ll call, I promise,” you reassure him. He nods once, then turns, stepping past the other man, and all but wrenching the car door open. You blink in an almost stunned silence as he disappears into the SUV, leaving you for a moment with his friend– colleague?

“Uh, Hi,” he says.

“Hi…?” you return the greeting. The passenger's side window scrolls down, and Simon is glaring out of it.

“Garrick!”

The man, this Garrick, turns quickly around, like he’s been caught, and then looks back at you, swallowing quickly.

“Ma’am,” he says, nodding once. Must be a military thing, you think. Simon nodded a lot too. You watch him as he then spins on his heel, returning to the driver’s side.

And then they’re gone.

You stand in shock for a moment on the sidewalk, blinking after the black car, only pulled from your reverie by a single message from Simon, with no further words, just a number.

You save it, and walk home.

–

“Ghost,” Laswell comes marching through the hangar on a mission, using that tone that makes him stop in his tracks. They’d just finished their latest op, Ghost had been back on base for no longer than fifteen minutes, but he squares his shoulders and turns back to her, ready for whatever she was about to throw at him now. It had been a full month of this, not that he minded so much, always did feel more at home in the field than back London, but he might’ve been hoping for a little bit more down time as they planned their next move, especially with Gaz out of commission and on his way back for surgery on that broken arm.

“Laswell,” he greets her in kind, but she doesn’t stop, keeps moving right for him, only coming to a stand still when she’s sparsely two feet away. “What’ve you got for me?” He asks.

“I got a call while you were on your way back,” she tells him, and immediately his blood runs a little colder. “It was a woman, said her name was–”

“–What happened?” He cuts her off. He knows what your name is, that's not the part he needs to know right now. Laswell eyes him.

“She said the blue car was parked on her street,” Kate tells him and he has to assume you’d explained the car’s driver following you previously, because she says it with a sort of gravity that never meant good things. “I had her call the police, but apparently it took off before they could get the plates… I had somebody sent out to keep an eye on the place…”

Ghost lets out a string of expletives, looking away from her for a moment as he gathers his thoughts.

“CCTV?” he asks, almost snaps back, but Laswell takes it in stride.

“I looked it up, but the thing must be stolen. Plates belong to a gentleman who died three years ago, registration hasn’t been renewed, and the car wasn’t sold, at least not that I could find a record of,” she pauses a moment, eyeing him intently again. “Simon,” she says then, drawing his attention back down to her. “I advised her not to go to work, or leave the house, but I don’t think she was planning to anyway. She’s scared.”

Ghost almost growls at her.

“Of course she’s fuckin’ scared,” he bites back, but quickly regrets it. He shifts on his feet, antsy and annoyed. Kate’s face softens and she steps in just a little closer.

“Call her,” she says, making him freeze for a moment, hands flexing at his sides. “I know it's a blackout, but we’re grounded until we know our next moves. I can give you a few minutes, but only that,” she cuts him off before he can even argue.

He follows her to her office silently, his emotions a mixture of seething and anxious, but all of that fades away when the line picks up.

“H-hello?” your voice sounds small and he has to forcibly stop himself from grinding his teeth.

“Hello luv,” he hears himself say. He’s not bothered about Laswell sitting on the other side of the desk, listening in, he knows that’s her job. He knows she’s heard much worse than this.

“Simon?”

He shifts in his seat upon hearing the crack in your voice, angry that this has happened to you. Again.

“Thank you for giving me Kate’s number…” you say, sounding like you’re breathing back fresh tears. “She… she really helped me.”

Simon tuts.

“I’ve only got a short time, are you alright?” he asks, trying his best to soften his tone, not let his blooming anxiety feed into yours.

“Yeah, I–I’m fine, just shaken up… I saw them before I left, so I don’t think they know which house is mine…” you tell him, sounding slightly more confident at that assertion. Simon nods to himself.

“Can you do me a favour, sweetheart?” if the pet names register or deter you, you certainly don’t show it as you hum your affirmative down the phone. “Need you to stay at home for a while– Not too long, but just until I know you’re safe, alright?”

Laswell looks over at him then, but he ignores her, continuing on.

“Got a mate that’s gonna be on some leave for a while, gonna send him over to you, can you wait until he’s back f’me?” he asks.

“S-sure. I– I think that would be good.”

He’s glad you don’t argue, though worries about what state you must be in to want that kind of help. Laswell motions to him from the corner of his eye, and he knows what she’s telling him before he even has a chance to look up.

“I’ve got to go, you call again if something happens between now and my mate being able to get to you, alright?”

You confirm with him again, and without so much as a goodbye, Laswell cuts off the connection.

“Any longer than that, I’d have to log it,” she tells him apologetically. Ghost waves his hand, placing the phone back into her possession. He doesn’t stand right away, just sits and thinks for a moment, before he looks up at her properly, meeting her gaze.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. Laswell smiles, small, but genuine.

“Of course,” she says, before spinning back around in her seat and bringing up something on her computer. “I’ll alert Gaz as soon as he’s awake and able… this isn’t… this isn’t related to work, is it?”

Ghost stares at her for a moment.

“No, happened to meet when she was bein’ followed the first time,” he explains, but doesn’t feel the need to give her the full story. It wasn’t important, all she needed to know was this was some regular ol’ stalker, nothing related to their various ops.

Laswell nods, and turns back to her screen.

“I’ll keep in email contact with her and Gaz.”

Ghost feels selfish for the relief he feels at those words. Feels selfish that he's passing off his worry to her, so he can focus. But he needed to, in order to remain at his best in the field. He couldn’t be worried about what was happening at home, and there was a reason he’d given you Laswell’s contact in the first place. Wordlessly, he stands, and leaves her office.

–

You’re wiping down your kitchen counter for the fifth, maybe sixth time today. You could only fill your day with so many chores, so much telly, and so much laundry before you started repeating yourself. So when your doorbell chimes, you almost jump at the chance for something new, even if you know you should be more cautious about opening your door right now.

You’d promised Simon.

Still, you make sure you look through your blinds and your peephole before you answer, but both pre-checks give you the same answer, and honestly, it’s not the one you had been expecting.

“Hello?” you ask, opening the door a crack, glancing out at the familiar man, the same one who had come for Simon all those weeks ago. He smiles at you, and immediately shows you both his hands.

“Hello again,” he says, his voice warm and filled with what you think is genuine friendliness.

“Are you– you’re Simon’s friend?” you ask, opening the door a little further, but not yet all the way. The man nods, and drops his hands.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m Gaz, Ghost sent me, said you might be wanting for a lil’ company.”

You blink at him, your frown dipping further, your eyes scanning his face uncertaintly.

“Who’s ‘Ghost’?” you ask, and for a split second, his smile drops some.

“Sorry,” he says, nodding to himself, as though realising something. “Lieutenant Riley is. Simon,” he tells you, before shrugging. “Goes by Ghost in the field.”

“Oh,” you say, slightly dumbfounded by the information. You stand there for a second longer, processing before you realise this man has come to help you, and you’ve left him on your doorstep.

“I’m so sorry, I’m just a little shaky, come on in.”

You and Gaz get on like a house on fire. He’s overly polite at first, a little formal, but soon enough he eases out, and you find you quite like having him around.

“So, what’d you do to your arm?” you ask a few days later, after insisting he let you look at his injury.

“Not sure I can tell you that, luv,” Gaz responds without missing a beat. Apparently the break wasn’t so bad, a fracture that required a cast, but he seemed to be healing alright.

“I know what you do, Kyle,” you say in a faux-annoyed voice. “I mean, not like, exactly what you do, but you can tell me if you fell out of a window or something,” you continue with a roll of your eyes. Gaz chuckles, and looks up at you as you round the couch and place a cup of tea down in front of him.

His gaze is momentarily sympathetic, before he gets a wicked look in his eye.

“I’ll tell you,” he begins, shifting better to face you where you sit on the other end of the sofa. “If you tell me what’s going on with you and Ghost– Simon.”

You refrain from frowning. It had become rather obvious to you, more obvious than just the impressions you’d gotten in your own experience, that your friendship with Simon wasn't exactly anywhere near the norm for him, which in turn made it all the more interesting to his teammate.

“Sure,” you say, trying not to feel like you’re tricking him.

“Took a crowbar to the arm,” he says with a sigh. “Knocked my gun out of my hands, blindsided me… probably would have been fine if I hadn’t finished out the mission, but…”

You nod in understanding.

“The extra stress on it,” you say, and receive a nod. He looks at you expectantly, and you let out a breath.

“We’re friends,” you tell him, immediately earning a playful scoff.

“LT doesn’t have friends,” he shoots back quickly, though not meanly, you don’t get the sense he’s trying to insult him.

“Look, I– I know what you’re saying, it's not like… it isn’t as if there’s nothing there, I’m not stupid. I don’t think he’d go out of his way for me like this otherwise… but we are just friends.”

Gaz looks at you thoughtfully, pursing his lips as he thinks.

“I believe you,” he says then, as if he’s decided something. “Mostly because that man has never taken a personal phone call in his life, let alone when we’re in a comms. Blackout…”

“Wait, but I thought soldiers could contact their families… and friends?” you tack on the last part quickly. Gaz shakes his head.

“The type of shit we do… it’s better if we don’t,” he tells you solemnly.

“Is… is that why he hides his face?” you ask. Gaz’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You’ve never seen his face?”

You pause, wondering if this is information you should share. You’d gotten to know Gaz fairly well the past few days, but you still weren’t certain of the dynamic between him and Simon, let alone where you stood within that.

“Sort of… It’s not like he was looking me straight on,” you trail off. “Sometimes after our runs, he has tea while I clean up for work, he takes the mask off then, but it’s always back on by the time I’ve come back downstairs,” you almost feel guilty admitting it, given what you’d learnt since then about how Simon preferred to keep his face hidden. “I don’t know if he meant for me to see.”

Gaz snorts and shakes his head.

“Trust me, if he took that mask off anywhere near you, he meant for you to see… I’ve only seen his face properly once,” he tells you. You blink.

“But you work with him!” you argue. Gaz chuckles and takes a sip of his tea.

“So the fact he regularly takes it off around you at all…” he doesn’t finish, just flashes you a grin and bounces his eyebrows.

You huff out a chortle and shake your head at him.

“You boys don’t get a lot of gossip, do you?” you ask, earning a boisterous, hearty laugh.

“Nah, not really. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened in years on that front,” he tells you truthfully. You shake your head again.

“When I go back to work tomorrow, I’ll fill you in on all the workplace dramas,” you tell him, reaching out and patting his uninjured arm. Once again, he flashes that bright, boyish grin at you.

“You know what? That’s a deal, luv.”

–

You’ve been back at work two weeks now. You loved your job but you couldn’t say you didn’t enjoy the time off with Gaz. Still you got to see him everyday, he’d walk/jog with you in the mornings and then walk you to work, and in the evenings he’d drop by and walk you back. You usually made him dinner, or you’d just talk. You’d gotten him onto ‘Come Dine With Me’, and you’d had a blast replaying the older episodes.

It had been a break at least from the regular ‘missing Simon’ or ‘worrying about Simon’ hours you’d been having. You know you shouldn’t. From everything Gaz had told you or let slip, Simon–or Ghost as he called him most often– was not somebody you should worry about. He was the somebody others should be worrying about.

It goes a long way to comfort you.

It’s not as though you can really imagine Simon at work, with guns and explosives and knives or whatever else, but it isn’t as though you can look at that beefcake of a man and not picture him doing some real damage, it's the whole reason you’d ran straight for him that first day.

He had a dangerous air to him, even the way Gaz speaks about him at times. It was like he was built specifically for something, but you suppose that was what years of training and hard work and a certain mindset would do to you.

You clock out in the main office, and hike your bag further up your shoulder. You’re tired, it had been a long day, but luckily not a very intense one. Sometimes that was worse, though. At least if you were called in constantly for triage, you had something else to focus on, but today your thoughts had constantly drifted back to him.

You chuck a text out to Gaz, who replies immediately, insisting he had a surprise for you. You sigh a little. You know he must sense your growing worry, he’d been suggesting doing more and more things recently in the hopes of getting your mind sof things, you think. You’d gone mini golfing last friday, which had been fun. Gaz was a good mate, and you think you’d really like to hang out with him again, even after all this was over.

You step out the front doors of the hospital, fiddling with your phone in your hand, but looking up sharply when you spot some movement to your left. You see Gaz first, standing against a guard railing, chatting away, and as your eyes drift to the person next to him, you feel your heart speed up and your face break out into a wide, unabashed smile.

“Simon!” you all but shout, moving your way quickly toward them. You want to throw yourself at him, want to toss your arms around him and squeeze tightly, but to be honest you don’t really know what state he’s in. Simon and Gaz stand up a little straighter, a massive grin on the latter’s face. A surprise indeed.

Simon looks weary, looks tired, and you spot what looks like a stitch in his upper brow. It doesn’t deter you though, you meet him halfway and shuffle your bag awkwardly taking him in.

“Y’look good,” he says simply, and you realise how much you’d missed his voice. You can’t help yourself, you move closer, and pull him in, or, really, pull yourself in, wrapping your arms around what you can of his bulk, and smushing your cheek into his chest.

You’re a little surprised by how quickly he hugs you back, it’s not like this was normal for the two of you, but faster than you thought he might, or at all really, his arms are around you too, tight and firm and you can’t help it when your eyes grow a little wetter.

“I missed you,” you say softly, only loud enough that he would pick it up, and he hums against you.

“You been alright, sweetheart?” he asks. You don’t know when he started with the petnames, you don’t think he used them before he went away, but maybe you just hadn’t noticed before. You pull back.

“I’m good,” you say, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. Simon’s brow furrows, and he twitches a little before he lifts his own hands, gloved in the cold weather, and uses his thumbs to dry your cheeks.

“No cryin’ love, come on now,” he faux-scolds, ducking down a little even as you nod. “Makin’ me feel bad.”

You smile up at him and he seems to pause for a moment, before his own eyes seem to crinkle slightly.

“You want dinner?” you ask quickly then, not content to have him walk you home and disappear again. “I got out a pork roast this morning,” you go on, looking past him to Gaz, who had conveniently been checking his phone until he hears that.

“Aw, come on LT, first night back and you’re getting a home cooked meal? Can’t say no to that,” Gaz teases. If Simon is bothered by it, he doesn’t say, simply reaches out and takes your backpack from you, and jerks his head in the direction of home.

You’re finishing up with the vegetables, the roast just out of the oven and waiting when he enters. You’d left the boys in the other room, to talk about anything they needed to talk about, and also give Simon a bit of a break, considering from what you’d picked up on, he’d literally come as soon as he’d gotten back earlier this evening.

You shoot a glance over your shoulder as Simon moves about your small kitchen, tossing the two beer bottles in the trash, but he’s looking over at you. He has his mask off, tucked under his chin, but you were still trying not to stare too much. Gaz had wiggled his eyebrows at you already, as if to prove a point you’re pretty sure you already know, but if you had any doubts, they’re sated the moment Simon seems to cautiously step up to you from behind.

Slowly you feel his arms move around your middle, and you do your best not stop what you’re doing in awe. You feel his forehead connect with your shoulder and when nothing seems to immediately push him away, he lets out a long, deep breath.

“M’sorry I wasn’t here,” he says almost too quietly. You smile a little, still taken aback by this second showing of affection in one evening, and stop your food preparation briefly to pat this arm circling your stomach.

“You couldn’t help it,” you tell him. “And Laswell checked back in on me, too.”

He raises his head a little at that.

“She did?” he asks, sounding a little surprised. You nod.

“Mhmn.”

He doesn’t respond to that, simply rests his head back on your shoulder and takes another deep breath.

“Missed you too,” he says then, like an admittance, but you only chortle, placing down your tools now, and gingerly reaching back to cup his cheek. He seems to jump a little at the touch, before he leans into it, and you think if a man could purr, he might just start.

“I know,” you say softly.

“You know?” he asks back, his voice laced with amusement.

“You don’t send an SAS mate round to look after your friend you don’t miss,” you poke at his arm with your other hand, and feel the huff of laughter he lets out against your neck.

“Friend,” he says, and there's something else in his tone, but you can’t pick out what it is.

“We’re not friends?” you ask then, forcing yourself not to twist around in his arms, but you do turn your head, a little breathless when you find him, his full bare face, looking back at you, thoughtful.

“No,” he says slowly, but you don’t panic too much, don’t feel your stomach drop. He still has his arms around you. “I showed you my face, that’s what you said, innit?” he asks back, almost huffily. You pause for a moment, brows furrowing slightly as you try to recall what he’s speaking about. “Said I’d have to show you my face if I wanted…” he trails off.

Your face breaks out into a grin as you remember, and you can't help but laugh, your hand shaking where it cups his cheek and you giggle to yourself.

“Well, new clause to that,” you say between pearls of laughter, brought on even more so when his face falls into a little frown that you raise your hand to smooth out from between his brows, his eyes watching you closely. “You also have to tell me if that’s what you want!”

“That’s what I want,” he says quickly, like he might miss his opportunity if he doesn’t get in fast. You chortle again, and can’t resist the urge to tease him, the full effect of his facial expressions now almost a game to you, to see how he looks when it’s not just his eyes you can see.

“You know we could still just be friends,” you say slyly, tracking as his lips turn downward and his glare returns, muscles in his face fighting against the thumb you’d used to relax them previously.

“No,” he says again, firmly, a growl this time, and you laugh. “The gall of you woman, making me worried to fuck, then tryna just be friends,” he huffs out, standing tall, making your hand drop from his face entirely. His hands move to your hips then, shuffling you around to face him and he stares down at you for a beat.

You’re surprised when he drops his face to yours, his lips pressing quickly against your own, pulling back only briefly before he seems to decide that’s not quite enough and he does it again.

“I don’t want to be your friend,” he tells you roughly, lips brushing your own when he speaks.

“My running partner?” you ask breathlessly. He glares darkly at you, and this time he kisses you firmly, slowly, like he’s getting a taste for you. You can’t help but lean up into it, pressing up on your toes.

He makes a small sound in the back of his throat, and then one of his hands is leaving your hip, wrapping around the back of your neck where he angles your head slightly to the side. His mouth parts, and you take the opportunity to deepen your kiss, seemingly surprising him somewhat, though you feel his lips curl up into a smile, even as his hand tightens on the back of your neck.

He kisses you like it might make you shut up about this whole ‘platonic’ thing, and when he pulls back at last, hand still holding your head in place, he looks down at you for a moment like he’s searching for something.

“Okay,” you say shakily.

“Okay,” he replies, voice much deeper than it was before. You feel his fingers flex against your neck.

“Okay,” Gaz says, suddenly standing in the doorway to the kitchen, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

“Garrick I will break your other arm,” Simon growls, releasing his hold on you and whipping around. You let out a bark of laughter, your hands coming up to rest on Simon’s shoulders, pushing up on your tiptoes to try and whisper in his ear, but you can’t quite reach.

“If you do that, he’ll have to stay home and hang out with me for longer,” you tell him. Simon turns his head to look back at you, practically pouting. “Set the table please, dinner’s almost ready.”

Gaz stands up straighter, and salutes you with his good arm.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

–

“I’ll drive,” Simon tells the rest of 141, already at the car door, leaving the others to simply complain about it. They’re going for drinks, a ritual that took place one week post mission, every mission, and one Simon did not usually lead the charge on.

Price silently takes the passenger’s seat, ignoring Johnny and Gaz as they fight over who called shotgun first, both of them climbing in the backseat huffily when they notice. Simon almost smiles under his mask, shooting Price an eyeroll the older man waves off with a short chuckle.

“Everyone got your seatbelts on?” Price asks buckling himself in.

“Had it on b’fore I got in the car, wha’with Lt. drivin’ an’ all,” Soap says with a snicker that comes to a short sharp stop when Simon briefly presses down the accelerator, then the brakes, jolting his (un)willing passengers testily.

“Simon,” Price faux-scolds, but when he looks over at the Captain, he’s grinning.

“Alright you trollops, ready?”

The drive out is surprisingly peaceful, despite Simon’s rising anxiety. If anybody notices his nervous tapping finger on the steering wheel at every red light, they don’t say anything. It’s not until he thinks they’ve picked up on the fact he’s driven past the turn off for the pub that the chatter in the backseat calms somewhat, a few more lingering silences between the banter until he comes to a stop outside your place. Simon puts the car in park, and he’s never felt a quiet so pervasive before.

It stays quiet until after he’s left the car, taking the umbrella from the foot well with him. The door slams, and he’s never been glader not to hear the conversation that immediately ensues.

“Where the hells’ he goin’?” Soap snaps like a rubber band, never taking his eyes off of Ghost as he stalks around the car and up onto the sidewalk. “Who’s flat is this?!”

Price watches for a moment before crossing his arms over his chest.

“A woman’s,” he says, doing his best impression of being indifferent, but he can’t quite hide the curiosity and surprise in his voice.

“A bird? Simon doesn’t know any birds!” Soap says, before pausing. “Except the ones we work with,” he adds. The Scot looks between Price and Gaz, before he double takes back at Kyle, and narrows his eyes. “Yer aw’ful shifty,” he says, immediately clocking when Gaz puts up his ‘playing it cool’ front.

“Nah mate, I’m as surprised as you are,” Gaz tells him, almost sounding convincing.

“Wha’ makes you think it’s a woman’s house, Cap?” Johnny asks instead of pressing the Sergeant, though he keeps a side eye on him even as he looks back out at where Ghost has knocked on the door and stands waiting.

“Took the brolly,” Price says with a sigh. “He’s not using it, though. Yet,” he nods toward the scene playing out before them, and Soap’s questions come to an end when the front door opens and you appear, smiling up at Ghost.

His jaw all but drops to the car floor when Ghost appears to actually lean down toward you, you raise a hand, hooking a finger over the top of his black cloth mask and pulling it down. And then you kiss him!

“Fuck off!” Soap exclaims. He looks frantically between Price and Gaz. “Get off!”

No one responds as Ghost puts up the umbrella and holds it over your head as you step out, locking your door, before allowing him to escort you back to the car. Soap almost jumps when the car door opens, and Simon ducks his head into the car.

“Move,” he says shortly. Soap just stares, eyes flickering between you and his Lt. in nothing but agape shock.

You elbow Simon, he catches it without looking.

“Hi, s’nice to meet you,” you say. Soap watches Simon roll his eyes. His mask has been replaced, but Johnny doesn’t need to see his face uncovered to know he’s scowling at him. You peek further into the car, and your already smiling face lights up even more.

“Gaz!” You say happily. Soap whips his head back around to Kyle, expression somewhere between betrayal and shock.

“You knew about this?!”

“Move, Johnny,” Simon growls again, though there's a note of exasperation in his voice more so than anger.

Soap quickly slides over to the middle seat, fumbling for the seatbelt, watching as you look up at Simon with a little frown.

“I should sit in the middle, I’m smaller,” you tell him. Simon’s eyes meet yours and he shakes his head.

“Safer on the sides,” he almost grunts.

“Gee, thanks, Lt.,” Johnny grumbles as you take Simon’s offered hand and climb into the back. He waits for you to buckle yourself in before he closes the door.

“Hi,” you say again in the brief moment you’re alone with 141. Price turns around in his seat, and holds a hand out to you that you shake.

“John Price,” he tells you. “Sorry ‘bout this one,” he nods to Soap, who is still somewhere between bewildered and calming down.

“Sorry,” Johnny tells you quickly, shaking your offered hand, looking at you kindly. “Jus’... didn’t realise Lt. had… you,” he seems to cringe at that. “I’m Soap, or Johnny.”

You smile brightly and shake your head.

“Don’t worry,” you tell him, taking back your hand. “He warned me you’d be like this.”

Soap blinks.

“He talks about me?”

You ignore him with a smile, leaning around to wave at Gaz.

“How’s your arm doin’, Kyle?” you ask warmly. Gaz scrunches his nose and pouts.

“Be better if I had a nurse like you takin’ care of me,” he tells you cheekily, just as the driver’s door opens again and Simon climbs back in.

“Careful, Garrick,” he says warningly, but there’s no real bite behind his words, amusement more than anything else.

The car starts to move once more, and it isn’t lost on anyone but you that the ride is suddenly much more smooth.

“So, you two know each other?” Soap asks the least obvious question first, nodding between you and Gaz. You smile.

“Gaz kept me company while he was on medical leave,” you tell him.

“Oh,” is all he responds at first, clearly wondering ‘why’.

“Some fucker keeps stalkin’ ‘er in his car,” Simon fills in, surprising you slightly. You’d have figured he’d not tell them anything more than absolutely necessary about your relationship, or you by extension.

It hits you then, that despite his seeming annoyance and gruffness with them, these were probably the people he trusted most in the world. It warms you a little.

“Wha’? And you haven’t killed the bastard yet?” Soap asks, immedieatly chilling the atmosphere in the car by a few degrees. Simon eyes him sharply in the rearview, and you feel the held breath by the others like a taute bungee cord.

You knew in the back of your mind Simon was a dangerous man, that when he went away for work, it wasn’t to sit around on a base simply performing requisite duties. But hearing the confirmation of that fact still somehow gives you pause. But only for a minute.

“Sorry– I didn’t mean–”

“–I wish he would,” you cut Soap’s apology, with a short, nervous little laugh. The mood shifts back then, and from the front seat you hear Price chuckle heartily.

Simon’s eyes swivel to you in the mirror, dancing away back to the road a moment later, and he seems to shift in his seat some.

“Is tha’ permission, then?” he asks with a faux-lightness that informs you you should pick your next words very carefully. You shrug.

“Can you get away with it?” you ask, still keeping your voice jovial. Plausible deniability, you suppose. Next to you, Soap lets out a bark of laughter.

“Aye, you bet yer arse he can,” he tells you, gently nudging you with his elbow. “An’ if he doesn’t get the cunt, I will.”

“Watch your fuckin’ language!” Simon barks, glaring at him in the mirrors. Your laugh is somewhere between a scoff and a gasp. You lean forward to the front seats and smack Simon’s arm.

“You called the guy the exact same thing last night!” You say. “And Johnny was being nice!”

Simon’s head briefly snaps back to you, seemingly betrayed that you outed him, before turning back around and grunting. Soap flashes you a megawatt grin.

–

It’s the Saturday after your drinks with Simon’s team, and you’re cleaning up after lunch when you hear your front door open, then close heavily. Despite all circumstances, you aren’t overly worried, you recognise the sound of his heavy footfalls, and the clank of his keys as he drops them in the bowl by the front door.

“Simon?” you ask anyway, moving around the doorway of the kitchen, surprised to find him right there, and even more surprised when he cups your face in both his hands and kisses full and deep half a second later.

When he lets you up for air, you almost gasp with how fervently he coups you up against the kitchen counter, backing you into it quickly.

“S’dealt with,” he says simply, kissing you again. You frown some, confused, and you pull back ever so slightly.

“W–What?” you ask, still a little breathless. Simon looks down at you. His mask is crumpled up, hanging from one ear, and you recognise the slightly wild look in his eye. It was the same as when he’d come back from his last mission. You hadn’t noticed it then, not used to seeing him a little riled up, a little adrenalised, but you reconise it now.

“Stalker. S’dealt with,” he says, his hands on your face holding you just a little tighter, like through touch alone he can convey what he means. For a moment a slightly sick feeling fills your stomach, and you pull away.

“Simon, stop,” you say quickly, placing a hand onh his chest when he all but reels back from you. Your gesture calms his almost panic now, and you curl your fingers into the front of his shirt so he knows not to go far. You scrunch your eyes closed, and take a few deep breaths.

“I–” your voice fails you at first, and you feel his hands move to rest on your shoulder and your waist supportively. You swallow. “I don’t want to know,” you tell him at last, eyes still shut and shaking your head.

When you open them at last, he’s looking down at you guiltily, though you sense no remorse for what he may or may not have done. You shake your head and use the hand in his shirt to pull him nearer once more, tucking yourself against his chest, and wrapping your arms around his back. You close your eyes again and take in another deep, shuddering breath.

“I don’t want to know,” you say again, feeling his arms wrap almost hesitantly around you. One of his hands cups the back of your head, safely, securely, and he strokes it once, twice, before he simply holds it. You feel him swallow.

“M’sorry–”

“–Don’t be,” you cut him off quickly, tightening your arms around him, latching onto his shirt at the back, over where the muscles in his shoulders jut out. “Don’t be sorry, thank you.”

Your voice gains a slightly weepy edge, and he adjusts you, moves so it’s him with his back to the counter, and you all but fall against him, his fingers on the back of your head gripping ever so slightly tighter, but it's comforting. And then you start crying, full, heavy with relief, and you keep crying until all the stress has worked itself out of you.

–

It takes you a while, but you start jogging again. Simon joins you of course, and you find yourself inordinately pleased on the mornings he brings Gaz or Soap (or both) along with him.you start frequenting Ed’s coffee shop until he knows you by name, make it a well trodden spot during the weeks or months when Simon is away.

Life returns to normal.

In some ways at least.

Simon moves in with you when his lease is up, half his time spent with you at your home anyway, it feels natural for him to be there the other half now too. Gaz’s own end of lease, and some jerking around on the part of his new place’s owner see him staying in your spare bedroom for a few weeks before he finally sorts out his own flat, not that it would end up mattering, with both men getting called away two weeks later. They’re gone for three months, in which time you help Collect the keys of his new apartment, and help him move some of his stuff in, a favour he’s all too thankful for when he returns.

You meet Kate, you go for drinks with the boys, and a few years later, you find yourself with a ring on your finger and a tiny little baby girl that loves her daddy and her uncles so much she ceases crying the moment one of them picks her up.

You don't, however, ever see the blue car again.

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