But first! We must thoroughly understand this man's fractured and devastated sense of self. Only then can we truly appreciate how connected he feels to her while finger-banging the soul from her body.
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who from the moment he laid eyes on you, has only ever referred to you as his wife
You, this sweet little thing, running through the halls on base one day when you turn a corner and nearly run headfirst into the Lieutenant, who’s walking alongside Soap
“Oh! Sorry about that, sir.” You told him, never slowing down in your hurried pace as you snuck around his large frame and continued down towards whatever you were evidently late for
The only reason his gaze had followed your retreating form, was that unlike everyone else, you had met his eyes when you spoke, even smiled warmly up at him
That one smile and he was done for
“Who was tha’?” The sergeant had questioned, seeing Ghost’s attention still fixated on you.
“Think that was my wife.”
“Yer what?!”
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who makes it a point to let everyone know that you are in fact his wife
Well, everyone apart from you apparently
He would certainly never abuse his position as a Lieutenant, but some new recruit had the audacity to whistle at you as you walked by? Well 100 laps around the base don’t exactly run themselves
Another soldier saved you a seat next to him in a briefing? He can enjoy scrubbing toilet seats for the next week in that case
Someone actually had the bollocks to ask you for your phone number? Perfect, he needed a volunteer for demonstrating hand to hand combat to the recruits, medics on standby of course
By the time he properly introduces himself to you for the first time, it’s understood by everyone else around that you are, for all intents and purposes, Mrs Riley
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who listens to you tell him your name in a voice that resembles music to his ears, hardly bothering to remember your last name, seeing as it’ll be changing soon enough anyway
“You can call me anythin’ you want, love.” His deep, gravelly voice had sent shivers down your spine, cheeky smirk widening beneath his mask. “So long as you call me, that is.”
By the end of your first date, (you were sitting alone in the dining hall and he wordlessly joined you what do you mean this isn’t a date) he’s wondering if you’ll insist on a ceremony or if he can sweep you away to the nearest courthouse and make this official, slipping a ring onto you finger and himself into you
You had laughed when he put his number into your phone and named himself ‘Husband’, certain that the man was only messing with you, some kind of hazing that you apparently weren’t aware Lieutenants played on the new communications hire, but it was only fair seeing as he’d saved your contact under ‘Wife’
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who is over the moon every time you play along, even if he knows you believe you’re only playing
“Ach, thanks Lt. Just what I needed.” Soap said, seeing Ghost’s approaching form enter the common room, holding a steaming cup of tea in each hand
“S’for my wife. Get your own.” The older man gruffly replied, sliding the mug onto the side table next to where you’re curled up on the couch, reading a book
“Aw, thank you honey.” You giggled, smiling up as him with an expression he thinks would taste even sweeter than honey if he were to run his tongue across your upturned lips
“Happy wife, happy life, sergeant.” Ghost shrugged, ignoring the other man’s pout, landing next to you and reaching an arm behind you across the back of the couch
“God, maybe I really should keep you.” You’d laughed, reaching a leg out to dig your socked toes into his muscled thigh, teasing him
Grasping your foot into his large, strong hands, he began massaging it, uncaring that you were only two of the many people in the common room, not when you looked at him like that, smiling together as though you truly were nothing more than a married couple
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who surprised you one day, insisting he needed your help with something crucial off base, and drove you to a local shopping outlet to look at none other than dresses
“Is there some sort of party happening?” You’d questioned, confused out of your mind
“Suppose you could consider it a party.” He’d answered, leading you through the many racks of dresses, you noticed were all, very conveniently, white
“Now while you’re lookin’ through dress sizes,” he’d added, taking your left hand in both of his. “You know your ring size? Got my own shoppin’ to do ‘round here.”
I’ve just finished reading your ‘bird watching’ and can I just say you write so beautifully and perfected that story to a T you should be so proud of yourself genius!🥹🥹🥹
Thank you so so much 🥹🫶🏻 I really appreciate you saying that
Okay now that the last chapter has been posted is this a safe space for me to say that when I first had the inspo for that original one shot it was based off a dream I had about Joel Miller and that’s why Simon’s working in construction? 😅 forever grateful I posted it as a Simon fic and that it’s turned into what it is now
aka hot construction worker Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x single mom!reader
Devastating : causing severe shock, distress, or grief, or to cause great damage or harm.
Simon Riley has seen his fair share of devastation throughout the years; more often than not he has been the cause of such devastation, leaving behind sorrow in place of footprints and receiving new orders instead of thanks. A man whose age fails to reflect the years behind his eyes and the blood on his hands, should in theory have become closely enough acquainted with devastation to successfully camouflage the shiver of shock that runs down most other civilians spines when faced with such sentiments.
As it stands however? You’re more likely to find drywall plaster beneath his fingernails than blood.
He’s never seen anything like this. At least, not in person. Part of him believed that such sights could only come from a screen, from a perfectly arranged stage, a set with walls ready to tear down when the scene is over.
No, this is devastation of a different kind entirely, a cruelty he himself has never faced before.
“You knew this’d be the outcome, birdie.” Simon murmurs in your ear as his hands smooth along your arms and shoulders, the both of you taking in the scene before you.
“I know, I know. I just- ugh. I thought I would at least make it through setting everything up before I lost it.” You answer him, still fidgeting with the bunch of streamers in your hand.
“I wonder if it ever changes.”
“If what changes?”
“This feeling.” Simon replies, the heaviness behind his tired eyes only growing the longer he glances around the room.
You had to have known this set up would utterly ruin the both of you, hadn’t you?
Sat in the living room with streamers strewn about the walls, beloved and cherished stuffed animals of all sizes are adorned with colorful party hats strapped over their fluffy heads, each with an equally bright helium filled balloon tied to their paws or tails to keep them from floating away.
Rosie’s favourite pals are patiently waiting for her where you’ve carefully set them up in front of empty tea cups and wrapped gifts, the sweetest of little scenes for their playmate, whom, unbeknownst to them, will be waking up as a one year old in the morning.
And perhaps as the cherry on top of it all, dozens upon dozens of framed pictures sit on nearly any and every free surface, displaying glimpses, offering snapshots into the past 365 days that have been Rosie’s first year. Pictures of your very first sonogram turning into pictures of your growing baby bump. Images of a newborn Rosie transforming into a chubby baby with a gummy smile and rolls for days. Pictures of you alone holding Rosie in your arms, rocking her, kissing her, become photos of both you and Simon kissing her squishy cheeks, of Rosie sat atop her dads large shoulders, of a tattooed arm cradling her as she sleeps soundly without a care in the world.
It’s easily the sweetest of first birthday party set ups one could ever dream of. It’s cozy, nostalgic, special, beautiful… and most of all, it’s killing him.
“Oh Si.” You say, dropping the obnoxiously bright streamer in your grip in favour of turning to face him, the burning behind your own eyes worsening as you wrap your arms around his middle. With an ear pressed up against his firm chest you feel more than hear his immense sigh. “I know. I thought I was gonna be able to hold it together but the fucking stuffies are doing it for me. This might be too cute.”
“She jus’-” he goes to reply but has to clear his throat first, emotions rising to the surface as he continues to glance at the photographs of the last year, the best year of his life. “How can she be one? How’s it been a year already, birdie?”
“I don’t know, Simon. Feels like just yesterday I was pulling my hair out looking for a damned daycare when you appeared- and I blinked and here we are now.” You agree, leaning further into his embrace when he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“I’d argue I didn’t just ‘appear’, love. You were distractin’ my whole crew if I remember righ’, pretty bird like yourself. God, was she ever tiny when I saw her tha’ day.” He shakes his head, recalling the tiny coos that had first caught his attention, unaware that it was his own daughter, his flesh and blood on the other side of that fence that fateful day.
“Pfft.” You playfully scoff in hopes of keeping your tears at bay for a moment longer. “I would argue that she sure didn’t feel tiny when I was pushing her giant head out three weeks early to prevent tearing.” You swat at his chest, though Simon can’t seem to bring himself to chuckle back.
It’s always going to be a sensitive point, a thing of the past that cannot be changed, history that simply cannot be altered, as desperately as he may wish to turn back the clock. But the fact remains the same, Simon wasn’t there the day Rosie was born, unaware that he even had a daughter coming into the world at all. He wasn’t there for any of your pregnancy, apart from the most essential bit of getting you knocked up in the first place, a moment that forever breaks his heart and equally put it back together simultaneously.
“She sure ain’t tiny these days.” He adds, offering you a small smile. “I won’t be needing my weights much longer, if she keeps growing the way she does. Start bench pressin’ her instead.”
“You basically already do, the way you throw her around sometimes.” You laugh, thinking of the endless giggles that erupt from your daughter each and every time Simon pretends to wrestle with the wiggly girl, tossing her onto the bed over and over each time she crawls back to him with that smile of hers she knows he can’t say no to.
“But… yeah. As for this feeling?” You say to him, tightening your grip around him as he does the same, his forehead coming to lean down against yours at an angle that must be anything but comfortable for his neck, and yet he’d happily stay in this position until his last breath. “I don’t think it’s going away any time soon. ‘Fraid it might only get worse, actually.”
“Mm.” Simon acknowledges, pursing his scarred lips for a moment to press a soft kiss against the tip of your nose, contemplating your words and how they compare to the pleasant ache in his chest. “I’ve jus- I never thought-”
He still to this day struggles to put it into words. It’s a complicated task after all, to find the vocabulary fitting enough to describe the ways in which Simon Riley’s life has been turned upside down over and over again since meeting you. Especially considering the fact that there simply are no words appropriate enough in any language known to man that could accurately portray the way in which he will never be the same again.
No sentence he utters to you could ever be enough to communicate just how utterly grateful he is to exist in the same time and place in this universe as you, let alone the idea that he is the man you have chosen to love. He thinks it would be easier to cut himself open, to be displayed under harsh lights and a microscope for you to see how you’ve altered his being down to the very last atom, how the once empty and hollowed out caverns of his heart now beat with a renewed vigour for you and Rosie, how the faded and angry scars on his skin could be put together like a roadmap of his life leading him to you, and only ever you.
“Never knew life could feel like this.” He settles on saying, wishing that he were a smarter man who could tell you everything you deserve to hear. Thought the smile on your lips and the wet sheen of your eyes tells him that he can be content for the night, knowing that perhaps he’s said just what you needed to hear instead.
Tucking Rosie into her crib that night had been a bittersweet affair. On the one hand, Simon felt akin to that American bloke who’d first landed on the moon all those decades before, a feeling inside of his body too large to be a part of this world, to be witnessing something that should have been impossible yet now exists solely for him. He found himself getting dizzy at times, when he truly thought about the contrast of the many lives he’s lived up until this point.
How did a Lieutenant who spent hundreds of hours laid prone behind a sniper’s scope, find himself in the same position as he encouraged his daughter through tummy time? How did a soldier who’d grown to know the taste of MRE’s better than his mum’s cooking, find himself sympathizing with the fussy little girl who refused to open her mouth for the spoonful of baby purée he offered her. How did a life of barking orders at his men through their comms whilst reloading weapons turn into moments of reassuring Rosie that the barking doggies at the park are just happy to see her, all whilst juggling a wriggling baby who knows the safest place in the world is in her father’s arms. How did moments of tying tourniquets above bullet wounds out on the field turn into instances of tying the most minuscule of ponytails in his daughters hair to match with her mama? How did a traumatized boy so ready to give his life up for the call of duty, become a man who no longer feared death but instead walked alongside it with ease, only to become a man who was perhaps starting to live for the first time. Now that he had something worth living for.
Running a hand over her soft, wispy hair as her eyes fluttered shut for the night, Simon’s heart was near bursting at the thought of her eyes reopening in the morning as a one year old. No amount of healing, nor gratitude, nor goddamn therapy for that matter, would be able to replace the lingering ache however, of knowing that he was not there for you girls this time last year. The conversations you’d had following the earth-shattering revelations the two of you had brought to light all those months ago were still ongoing, a healing process that was anything but linear, anything but done, but it was nevertheless evident that a weight was taken off of both your shoulders.
The discovery you’d stumbled upon, the lies you had unearthed, the timeline that slowly began making sense, and finally the damned ghost mask that confirmed everything, had understandably been more than a bit to process. When you’d sat him down after the fact and told him to come clean about everything, he’d been prepared to offer you any receipt, any paystub, any crumb or shred of any evidence that you’d want, would have gone so far as to cut his skull open and allowed you to poke at his brain until you were satisfied. What was his, was yours. His mind, his heart, anything and everything that you wanted from him, you would have. Evidently, as he went through the timing of everything, admitting to his deceits and blatant lies to keep you close, you were pissed, but more than anything you had kept rolling your eyes at him.
“You seriously stole blueprints off your worksite so you’d have an excuse to hopefully keep talking to me?”
“O’ course I did.” He answered without a second’s hesitation.
“Jesus, Si.” You’d scoffed, though the twinkle in your eye told him you maybe weren’t as peeved as you were letting on. “I really had you whipped from the get go, didn’t I?”
You had no idea.
Lying to benefit their daughter and secure her spot in daycare, you’d easily forgiven, if not coming across slightly impressed at his efforts. Simon being absent during your pregnancy and Rosie’s birth, begrudgingly not as easy to move past, but ultimately forgiven, seeing as he was none the wiser about the fact that you were expecting, in spite of your efforts to find him. You knew it was something he would beat himself up over for the remainder of his days, the least you could do was not rub salt in the wound.
No, it was the money and the hiding that came afterwards that ticked you off the most, though with time you reluctantly conceded that you understood he only ever had Rosie’s and your best interests at heart, even if he’d gone about it the entirely wrong way. You knew he meant well, that this was him trying to be a good man, something he hadn’t had an example of growing up.
The biggest concensus that the two of you came to after many late night discussions on the topic was simple; Simon would never lie to you again.
A promise, if not an eternal vow he intended to keep ‘til death do you part, that the man occasionally took a tad too seriously. No, Simon Riley never lied to you ever again, if anything the already painfully blunt man became even more honest than he’d ever been.
He told you the truth when you asked if he was tired coming home after a long shift on the job site (“M’always tired, love.”), didn’t lie when you asked him for his opinion on a new outfit for Rosie (“My baby looks like Humpty Dumpty in tha’ jumper. So if tha’ was the goal, s’pose you did good.”), all too ready to comment on your shopping as well now apparently, (“Fuckin’ hate those trousers. Your arse looks too good, can’t focus on nothin’ else.”), and was honest with you even when it was technically incriminating.
There had been that one day earlier in the summer, when the weather had finally shifted into warmer rays of sun against your skin, when the breeze blowing in your hair came as more of a relief than a shiver down your spine, and you’d packed away the jumpers, boots, and beanies in favour of t-shirts, sneakers, and sunglasses. Rosie’s summer wardrobe, an amalgamation of colourful dresses and bright shirts and just about everything that likely made up an OshKosh B’gosh catalogue back in the day, was hung on hooks in her closet and folded into drawers in her dresser where they belonged, rather than stuffed into your own closet back in your old flat. Your change of wardrobe for the season however, seemed instead to only live rent free in Simon’s mind.
Those shirts of yours with plunging necklines he could stare down all the day from where he’s standing, or tank tops that hug your cleavage just enough to have his knees wobbling, or shorts that have him pulling double takes whenever you walk by.
And of course… your damn sundresses.
Like that yellow one you’d dawned that morning when you pulled up to his latest construction site, a fussy Rosie in tow, tucked into her pram and not the least bit shy to voice her complaints about it, until she realized they were nearing her dad. He’d been so entranced by the sight of you twirling around the kitchen in that fucking dress that morning, his chubby baby sat on your hip as she giggled and babbled to her hearts content, none of you noticing that he’d forgotten his packed lunch until it was nearly noon.
And so there you were on your day off, (a part of those long discussions you’d had with Simon resulting in the agreement that you would work four days a week at your job, not because you had to for money, but because you wanted to, leaving your Fridays free to give Rosie a day off of nursery to be closer to her mum) his two girls a vision to behold as he spots them nearing the site, a scene so similar to how this all came to be in the first place.
And if he had to adjust his tool belt to hide the growing bulge in his pants at the sight of you- well that was no one’s business but his.
“Didn’t have to come all this way, birdie.” He’d muttered, long legs stretching to meet you half way, quick to drop a kiss against your temple as he wiped his saw dust covered hands against his trousers before reaching into the pram to pick up the now squealing girl.
“Dadadadadadada. Dadadada!”
“As you can hear, I had nothing to do with this outing.” You’d chuckled, reaching up on tip toes to wipe the dirt off his brow, your arm coming to rest against his bulging bicep as he gently bounced Rosie. “Besides, we don’t want dada going hungry when there’s a perfectly good lunch waiting for him.”
“Completely forgo’ it. Thank you, love.”
A sweet and simple gesture, a short visit before you were off to some park or another, promising to have dinner ready by the time Simon would be home after work. It wasn’t the first time you’d swung by his work in recent months, and likely wouldn’t be the last, and so the men working on his crew had hardly blinked an eye at the mum and baby stealing attention away from their boss, well aware of who you were.
“Christ, did you see the arse on her? I’d never pack a crumb if she was the one comin’ to feed me.”
Or at least… the new hire wasn’t aware.
Simon’s head was whipping around faster than should have been possible, eyes narrowed on the bloke who was unaware that his comment had been heard, though his gaze lingering on your behind as you walked away was more than enough for the former Lieutenant.
“Oy!” Simon had shouted his way, corner of his mouth twitching when he watched the young man turn without a worry, unaware of the way looks his fellow crew members were sending his way, not a single soul envious of the position he’d just put himself in. “Come ‘round ‘ere wit’ me. You’re gon’ help me put up a wall.”
Now, Simon Riley might have been retired for some time, might spend more time nowadays changing nappies and washing formula out of bottles than he did reloading magazines and washing blood of his balaclava, but there would always be something slightly darker within him, instincts more nefarious than anything else.
He wouldn’t do anything that jeapordized his life with you and Rosie, no, nothing quite like that. No, he couldn’t shoot first and ask questions later anymore, had to live a civilians life and colour within the lines so to speak. But that didn’t mean that the former Lieutenant, the man who’d survived unimaginable tortures and inflicted just as much suffering, couldn’t get a little … creative at times?
“You jus’ make sure you’ve got a good grip on it, yeah?”
“Don’t we need another lad for this, sir?” The young bloke, Harrison or Harry or whatever his bloody name was, had skeptically asked his superior.
“Nonsense.” Simon immediately shut down, adjusting his hold on the frame as he got ready to lift it up. “You’re young, ain’t ya? Strong? Now take that side and hold it steady while I secure it.”
A better man might have felt bad about this, even in spite of the man’s crude comment earlier, seeing as the lad clearly had little to no idea what he was doing on a construction site, following his boss’ order without knowing any better. But what was the point in teaching Rosie to say please and thank you, if grown men didn’t seem to have any bloody manners themselves? Better to teach him a lesson that’ll stick.
“Righ’. Lemme make sure this last stud is secure- and that does it. Not half bad. Should hold steady.” Simon gruffs, bringing the nail gun down and testing the strength of the wood in front of him. The wall didn’t budge in the slightest, perfectly secure where the men had installed it. Though, it was a shame that the bloke hadn’t realized he probably should have been standing on the other side of the wall, before they secured it.
“Uh- boss?” His voice had cracked as his eyes suddenly scanned his surroundings, realizing a moment too late that he’d essentially trapped himself. Or rather, let himself be trapped. “How am uh- how am I gettin’ out?”
“Well that’s up to you Hank-”
“It’s Henry.”
“-but you’d better not mess up the job. Lumber ain’t so cheap these days.” Simon had shrugged all too casually, picking up his tools and beginning to walk away, a cheeky smirk plastered to his face the entire time. “Oh, and kid?”
He hadn’t bothered turning to look back at him, but could just picture the lad’s eyes widening in slight panic.
“Watch your fucking mouth when you’re talkin’ ‘bout my wife.”
And so of course, when he arrived home that night, greeted to the smell of a home cooked meal and the gummy smile of his daughter, he had no reason nor motivation to lie to you, when you asked him how the rest of his day had been.
“You can’t wear those dresses ‘round the site anymore, lovie. I almost recreated The Cask of Amontillado, today.”
“Not too late to cancel this bloody party, is it?”
“Oh, only just entirely.” You roll your eyes in a playful jest, swatting at his hands as you slip out of his grip and go to correct the party hat tipping on Winnie the Pooh’s head, knowing that Simon was far from being as reluctant over this get-together than he’s been letting on. “Besides, I know you’ve been looking forward to this in your own way, what would we cancel for?”
“Don’t need anyone seein’ me like this.” He gruffs, stepping forward to hang the last streamer along the wall where you’d instructed him to.
“What? To see you with feelings? Normal, human, dad feelings?”
“Precisely.”
“No chance, Riley. Our first baby only turns one once.” He ignores the stutter his heart makes at hearing you say your first baby, as though the certainty of there eventually being a second baby was inevitable, instead silently accepting the roll of painters tape you pass him. “And besides, we still haven’t hosted anyone here since we moved into this house.”
It was true, in the few months since the three of you had officially settled into your first family home, no one apart from the three of you had been inside, wrapped in the bubble of enjoying the first place you could all call yours.
The first thing he’d purchased for the new home was a can of yellow paint. Well, that and many, many packs of nicotine gum. Along with repainting walls (a yellow nursery for Rosie had been the first thing on his to do list), updating hardware, assembling and moving furniture, changing light fixtures, installing a tiny swing on the strongest branch of the tree in the backyard, and most importantly, getting the security measures around the house and property up to his standards, Simon had decided to officially quit smoking.
He’d started weaning himself off the day he met you, knowing that he shouldn’t be smoking around the baby for one, but also not liking the wrinkle you’d occasionally get between your eyebrows when he’d come back from a quick smoke, the shirt on his back that you’d usually like to steal from him for bed at night now reeking of cigs.
But aside from that, Simon Riley wasn’t going to let something as human as lung cancer potentially shorten his time with his girls, and so if satisfying his cravings with shitty nicotine gum and ignoring the occasional shake in his hands was the slight price to pay, he’d make do. The man had yet to run across something he would not do for his girls. For his family.
“Hey.” You say, pulling his attention back to you, the kind look in your eyes far more interesting than whether the streamer is level or not. He’ll fix it later if you don’t like it. “I know it’s going to be a lot. We can keep it as short and sweet as you’d like tomorrow. Could always claim Rosie has a blowout and see how fast our guests scatter after that.”
Simon can’t help the soft chuckle that slips out, his heart warming at the idea of you, his forever partner in crime, coming up with whatever scheme it takes to ensure he isn’t uncomfortable any longer than he has to be. God, how he’s glad you’ll never have to know any life other than that of a civilians, but what he wouldn’t give to see your mind in action when you don’t have time to hesitate. It’s always been a match of quick wits between the two of you, so lord knows what you’re both in for once Rosie starts properly talking.
“‘Fraid not even tha’ would scare my men away.” He replies steadily, though he cannot help the way his chest unconsciously puffs out with pride as he mentions the lads.
Nearly two years. Two bloody years since he’s seen hide nor hair from any of the lot. He doesn’t blame them in the slightest, understands better than anyone how distorted time becomes when you don’t have a home to go back to after the job is finished, only just resting long enough to say you have before picking up the next one.
He also knows that he was a broken shell of a man the last time he saw his fellow task force members, having to avoid his piercing gaze as he was handed forced retirement papers with his boots scarcely back on the tarmac. He’d become too unpredictable, too careless, too much of a risk. The higher-ups were cutting him loose and leaving his men to watch as the the tie was severed.
But that was two years ago now. A different time. A different man.
And as well as he once knew his former Captain, Simon cannot be sure what Price would have been expecting to hear from him after so much time apart. Though he can’t help but to wonder if the man who’d become the closest thing he has to a father figure, hasn’t been keeping his own eye on him from a distance, when he so readily and unflinchingly accepts the invitation to his daughters first birthday party.
“Oh really? Your explosives buddy isn’t gonna flinch when he finds out a blowout involves more wipes and diapers than it does TNT?” You giggle to yourself, taking a step back to admire your handiwork, the last hour or so of prep the two of you have put into decorating.
“If he does, would be the first time I’ve ever seen ‘im flinch.”
“I’m excited to meet them. Feels like I’m meeting your family, or something.” You say, continuing to step around the living room, straightening things that don’t need correcting, more so just keeping your hands busy now.
“They’re good as.” Simon mentions, stepping closer to slip his hand into yours before you can fidget with anything again. “Saved my life more times than I care to remember. They’re good men. But it’s them that are comin’ to meet my family, birdie. Not the other way ‘round.”
Your gaze softens as you squeeze his hand, knowing that behind your genuine excitement to meet some of the most significant people in Simon’s life, are the unavoidable nerves that come along with meeting such important figures to someone you love.
“M’sorry your folks aren’t comin’, birdie.” He adds, giving your palm a firm squeeze, the sincerity in his words as true as they come. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. How you had family still living, still breathing, who said they loved you and cared for Rosie, but yet had still to meet their granddaughter? Who hadn’t even come to see you once while you were pregnant, let alone when you gave birth by yourself?
“Oh, it is what it is.” You shrug nonchalantly, though the hurt is evident in the way you can’t quite meet his eyes. “They keep saying they’ll fly over eventually, that the timing is tricky on their end. But- I’m not worried about it, Si.”
“No?”
“No. Not when I’ve got everything I could ever need right here.” You affirm, locking eyes with him and offering a meek smile. “Speaking of which, I don’t think this party needs any more decorating, we’ve probably already overdone it.”
Simon smiles softly back at you, letting you evidently change the subject, though his nod of approval as he glances around the room suggests he’s also willing to put an end to the decorating.
“Think we should keep the picture frames up afterwards. I like seein’ em.” He mentions, stepping closer to the side table lined with a dozen photos. “Tell me ‘bout this one.” He says, gesturing towards a photo of you caressing your swollen stomach, bump fully on display with your shirt shoved up and out of the way.
“Oh gosh,” you say, coming to stand next to him, bringing the frame up closer to you both. “This was when I felt about as big as a house. None of my clothes were fitting anymore, my feet were beyond swollen. Lo and behold, she was born almost exactly a week later.”
God, what he wouldn’t do to turn back the clock. You could’ve started wearing anything you wanted from his closet when your clothes got too tight, he would have massaged your aching feet every chance he got, would have told you that ‘being as big as a house’ just meant that your body was your daughter’s first home. He would have squashed all your fears, soothed all your worries, loved on you that way you deserved.
Alas, the past was the past. And there was no time like the present to make things right.
“Beautiful.” He practically whispers, bringing a calloused finger up to carefully caress the image of your swollen belly, his little girl in there. “You were so beautiful, love. Are so beautiful. Wish I’d seen you like tha’.”
He can’t help but to come up behind you, to press his chest against your back, to drag his hands over to your abdomen, the same body that grew and birthed his daughter, the same one her worships every opportunity he gets.
“Can’t wait for you to look like tha’ again.” He teases, scarred lips brushing against your ear, lips twitching when he feels a shiver run through you.
“Oh my god, you cannot say things like that to me when I’m emotional like this.” You reply, though the way you fully lean back into him, pressing your hands over top of his, tells him there’s little to no bite behind those words.
“Mm, why’s that love?”
“You know why.”
“‘Fraid I don’t.” He answers, moving his lips from your ear down to your neck, planting teasing kisses along your exposed skin, goosebumps spreading across your flesh like a wildfire. “You see, when I look at tha’ picture, when I think ‘bout you all round with our baby, with my baby, makes me think o’ all the ways I would have made you feel good.”
“Yeah?” You ask, your breaths coming quicker, heart beating faster against his own, craning your head farther back to give him more access, an invitation that his lips greedily accept.
“Oh yeah. Thinkin’ ‘bout how I would’ve been living between those delicious thighs. Never not havin’ my mouth on you. Pulling those sweet little noises from you.”
“Simon.” You groaned, pushing your hips back against his, letting one of his hands slip upward to give your breast a gentle squeeze, while the other worked its way down, teasing the skin just above your underwear.
“What do you say, birdie?” He mumbled against your skin, mouth hot against your collarbone now as he pulls you closer against him, his arousal evident in the way he rubs against you. “What better gift for Rosie than a sibling, hmm?”
“Bedroom. Now.”
“Simon! Where are we going? I thought we were grabbing the cake.” You ask him, confused as to why he’s dragging your through the house in the middle of Rosie’s party. “Who even has our baby right now?”
“Your friend Sarah’s got her, she’s alrigh’ for a minute.” Simon reassures, still clutching your hand as he leads you towards the garage. “Jus’ wanted to show you something, alone.”
Thank goodness your best friend was here to hold her for a moment, you couldn’t picture passing Rosie off to any of those 141 men currently sat in your living room.
It was a small gathering, just you and Simon, your best friend and her boyfriend, and Simon’s task force mates, coming to visit for the first time ever. You’d been more than a tad nervous to meet them, knowing that these were the men that Simon not only considered as family, but who were likely the reason he was still alive and kicking today, having saved his life more than once before you met him. Meeting them however, was like putting the last piece of the puzzle together.
You watched a weight physically being taken off of Simon’s shoulders when their vehicles had pulled into the driveway, the bear hugs the men exchanged speaking volumes about the time they’d spent together, the memories they shared, along with those they’d prefer to forget.
They greeted you just as warmly, treating you like a friend they hadn’t seen in a while, rather than a stranger they were meeting for the first time. You didn’t know them very well, nor did they know you, but you were Simon’s, and that made you good as gold in their eyes.
Rosie, on the other hand.
“Ach, i’s as if LT’s shrunk down and turned bonnie.” Johnny’s accent had rang out, as he and Rosie stared one another down.
The lads were overjoyed, if not a touch apprehensive, at meeting the littlest Riley, though it would appear Rosie did not immediately share the sentiment.
“She’s got her dad’s stare, that’s for sure.” John had said before pulling a swig of beer, each man nodding as they recognized Simon’s piercing gaze in the form of a stubborn one year old, her unwillingness to smile at them almost endearing, if only solidying that she was in fact Simon’s daughter.
“I swear, she looked like she was going to bite Kyle when he suggested holding her.” You giggled, leaning a hip against the spare freeze in the garage when he came to a stop next to it.
“Ah, she’ll warm up to ‘em. She’s jus’ givin’ ‘em a hard time.”
“Well how about before she does start to defrost, you tell me what we’re doing in here?”
“Got somethin’ for you.” Simon replies, reaching to open the freezer before angling his face back to you. “Close your eyes for a second, birdie.”
“Hmm, okay.” You said, none too suspiciously as you shut your eyes, always trusting him, but unsure of just what the had in store. You heard the familiar sound of the freezer opening, Simon rustling around before the door was slamming shut again.
“Go ‘head and open ‘em.” He told you, voice softer now. Slowly, you did just that, opening your eyes to find something bright and red sat atop the freezer now. Your brows furrowed for a moment, recognizing that you were looking at a small, heart shaped cake, slathered in red icing, and not at all the same cake you’d baked for Rosie yesterday. You were about to question him- when you read what was written in icing across the top of the cake.
‘Happy one year breastfeeding’
“Simon-”
“I know it’s been a lot. Or rather- I can only imagine how much of a burden it’s been. To breastfeed for Rosie and continue pumping up until she turned one. That’s a whole year, love. Of putting your needs aside, putting your body through that. I’ve seen you uncomfortable, and aching, and- I jus’ wanted to give you this. Celebrate you a bit today, too.”
Every time you think you’ve learned everything there is to know about Simon Riley, just when you think he cannot surprise you any more, he goes and multiplies the love you thought you had for him by another infinity or so. It’s hard to believe that he once sincerely thought he would have to endure a life without love, when there is so much inside of him.
“Oh, Si.”
“Before you start cryin’, there is one more thing.” He says quickly, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Oh, really?”
“I migh’ have- stretched the truth, the other nigh’.”
“Stretched the truth?” You asked with an inquisitive raise of your brow, curious to know where this was going.
“‘Bout how many gifts she was gettin’.”
“Oh boy.” You said with a giggle. “Okay, so ‘stretching the truth’ was your way of not quite lying about it but-”
“You’re the one who said our first born only turns one once, love.”
And that was the story of how Simon recruited his mates, his fearsome, deadly, intimidating task force members, into sneaking a kitten into your home.
The runt of its litter, the frail little thing was meowing incessantly when Simon had rescued him from the shelter, the tiny creature passed up by every other family who was thrown off by its missing eye. Where others saw something different, something strange and perhaps unlovable, Simon saw himself. And if anyone knew how to love weird, unlovable creatures, it was you. Rosie’s scowls aimed at the 141 men instantly transformed into the most delighted of shrieks and giggles when they presented her with her newest companion, an itty bitty little thing that was decidedly named Kitty, when Rosie called out to him and he came trotting her way.
Rosie would have that cat with her for another fifteen trips around the sun. That damned cat, as Simon would come to call him each time he nearly tripped over it as it weaved through his legs, would be there to see Rosie’s first steps, would happily eat whatever food was thrown off of her high chair, would rub his head against her leg as she sniffled over a scraped knee learning to ride her bike, would leave its fur clinging to her first day of school uniform, and would even be waiting cautiously by her side as her mum and dad brought her baby brother home from the hospital. That cat would be sleeping with her on her bed up until she was a teenager, tail flicking in acknowledgment when Simon would poke his head into her room at night, because no matter how big she’d get, he’d always check in on her. Would always be there to comfort his children should a nightmare dare to creep into their heads at night, knowing just what a pair of comforting arms and a warm embrace can do for someone.
What your embrace did for him.
But no, Simon Riley hasn’t had a nightmare in a long, long time.
Not when every day still felt like a dream.
Epilogue coming Friday May 22nd…
If you’ve made it this far: thank you, thank you, thank you 🫶🏻
I just saw your post from the other day about Simon clipping Reader's toenails while they sleep and I have to laugh because... my dad literally did that to my uncle when they were kids.
They shared a room (I think my dad was about eleven, so my uncle was probably about nine), and my dad thought his brother just had the grossest toenails of all time. So one night, my dad put a blanket over the lamp so the light wouldn't wake up my uncle, and proceeded to clip my uncles toenails while he slept.
This probably would have been an odd incident that would have gone forgotten if my dad had been successful in his mission, but my uncle woke up half way through the second foot and screamed, while my dad made an effort to keep his foot still and complete his task.
Anyway, that is one of the stories that made my siblings and I crack up as kids.
Oh my goodness you’re the second person who’s told me they had a similar experience with the toe nail clippers 😆 I love that story thank you for sharing it 🫶🏻
aka hot construction worker Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x single mom!reader
Devastating : causing severe shock, distress, or grief, or to cause great damage or harm.
Simon Riley has seen his fair share of devastation throughout the years; more often than not he has been the cause of such devastation, leaving behind sorrow in place of footprints and receiving new orders instead of thanks. A man whose age fails to reflect the years behind his eyes and the blood on his hands, should in theory have become closely enough acquainted with devastation to successfully camouflage the shiver of shock that runs down most other civilians spines when faced with such sentiments.
As it stands however? You’re more likely to find drywall plaster beneath his fingernails than blood.
He’s never seen anything like this. At least, not in person. Part of him believed that such sights could only come from a screen, from a perfectly arranged stage, a set with walls ready to tear down when the scene is over.
No, this is devastation of a different kind entirely, a cruelty he himself has never faced before.
“You knew this’d be the outcome, birdie.” Simon murmurs in your ear as his hands smooth along your arms and shoulders, the both of you taking in the scene before you.
“I know, I know. I just- ugh. I thought I would at least make it through setting everything up before I lost it.” You answer him, still fidgeting with the bunch of streamers in your hand.
“I wonder if it ever changes.”
“If what changes?”
“This feeling.” Simon replies, the heaviness behind his tired eyes only growing the longer he glances around the room.
You had to have known this set up would utterly ruin the both of you, hadn’t you?
Sat in the living room with streamers strewn about the walls, beloved and cherished stuffed animals of all sizes are adorned with colorful party hats strapped over their fluffy heads, each with an equally bright helium filled balloon tied to their paws or tails to keep them from floating away.
Rosie’s favourite pals are patiently waiting for her where you’ve carefully set them up in front of empty tea cups and wrapped gifts, the sweetest of little scenes for their playmate, whom, unbeknownst to them, will be waking up as a one year old in the morning.
And perhaps as the cherry on top of it all, dozens upon dozens of framed pictures sit on nearly any and every free surface, displaying glimpses, offering snapshots into the past 365 days that have been Rosie’s first year. Pictures of your very first sonogram turning into pictures of your growing baby bump. Images of a newborn Rosie transforming into a chubby baby with a gummy smile and rolls for days. Pictures of you alone holding Rosie in your arms, rocking her, kissing her, become photos of both you and Simon kissing her squishy cheeks, of Rosie sat atop her dads large shoulders, of a tattooed arm cradling her as she sleeps soundly without a care in the world.
It’s easily the sweetest of first birthday party set ups one could ever dream of. It’s cozy, nostalgic, special, beautiful… and most of all, it’s killing him.
“Oh Si.” You say, dropping the obnoxiously bright streamer in your grip in favour of turning to face him, the burning behind your own eyes worsening as you wrap your arms around his middle. With an ear pressed up against his firm chest you feel more than hear his immense sigh. “I know. I thought I was gonna be able to hold it together but the fucking stuffies are doing it for me. This might be too cute.”
“She jus’-” he goes to reply but has to clear his throat first, emotions rising to the surface as he continues to glance at the photographs of the last year, the best year of his life. “How can she be one? How’s it been a year already, birdie?”
“I don’t know, Simon. Feels like just yesterday I was pulling my hair out looking for a damned daycare when you appeared- and I blinked and here we are now.” You agree, leaning further into his embrace when he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“I’d argue I didn’t just ‘appear’, love. You were distractin’ my whole crew if I remember righ’, pretty bird like yourself. God, was she ever tiny when I saw her tha’ day.” He shakes his head, recalling the tiny coos that had first caught his attention, unaware that it was his own daughter, his flesh and blood on the other side of that fence that fateful day.
“Pfft.” You playfully scoff in hopes of keeping your tears at bay for a moment longer. “I would argue that she sure didn’t feel tiny when I was pushing her giant head out three weeks early to prevent tearing.” You swat at his chest, though Simon can’t seem to bring himself to chuckle back.
It’s always going to be a sensitive point, a thing of the past that cannot be changed, history that simply cannot be altered, as desperately as he may wish to turn back the clock. But the fact remains the same, Simon wasn’t there the day Rosie was born, unaware that he even had a daughter coming into the world at all. He wasn’t there for any of your pregnancy, apart from the most essential bit of getting you knocked up in the first place, a moment that forever breaks his heart and equally put it back together simultaneously.
“She sure ain’t tiny these days.” He adds, offering you a small smile. “I won’t be needing my weights much longer, if she keeps growing the way she does. Start bench pressin’ her instead.”
“You basically already do, the way you throw her around sometimes.” You laugh, thinking of the endless giggles that erupt from your daughter each and every time Simon pretends to wrestle with the wiggly girl, tossing her onto the bed over and over each time she crawls back to him with that smile of hers she knows he can’t say no to.
“But… yeah. As for this feeling?” You say to him, tightening your grip around him as he does the same, his forehead coming to lean down against yours at an angle that must be anything but comfortable for his neck, and yet he’d happily stay in this position until his last breath. “I don’t think it’s going away any time soon. ‘Fraid it might only get worse, actually.”
“Mm.” Simon acknowledges, pursing his scarred lips for a moment to press a soft kiss against the tip of your nose, contemplating your words and how they compare to the pleasant ache in his chest. “I’ve jus- I never thought-”
He still to this day struggles to put it into words. It’s a complicated task after all, to find the vocabulary fitting enough to describe the ways in which Simon Riley’s life has been turned upside down over and over again since meeting you. Especially considering the fact that there simply are no words appropriate enough in any language known to man that could accurately portray the way in which he will never be the same again.
No sentence he utters to you could ever be enough to communicate just how utterly grateful he is to exist in the same time and place in this universe as you, let alone the idea that he is the man you have chosen to love. He thinks it would be easier to cut himself open, to be displayed under harsh lights and a microscope for you to see how you’ve altered his being down to the very last atom, how the once empty and hollowed out caverns of his heart now beat with a renewed vigour for you and Rosie, how the faded and angry scars on his skin could be put together like a roadmap of his life leading him to you, and only ever you.
“Never knew life could feel like this.” He settles on saying, wishing that he were a smarter man who could tell you everything you deserve to hear. Thought the smile on your lips and the wet sheen of your eyes tells him that he can be content for the night, knowing that perhaps he’s said just what you needed to hear instead.
Tucking Rosie into her crib that night had been a bittersweet affair. On the one hand, Simon felt akin to that American bloke who’d first landed on the moon all those decades before, a feeling inside of his body too large to be a part of this world, to be witnessing something that should have been impossible yet now exists solely for him. He found himself getting dizzy at times, when he truly thought about the contrast of the many lives he’s lived up until this point.
How did a Lieutenant who spent hundreds of hours laid prone behind a sniper’s scope, find himself in the same position as he encouraged his daughter through tummy time? How did a soldier who’d grown to know the taste of MRE’s better than his mum’s cooking, find himself sympathizing with the fussy little girl who refused to open her mouth for the spoonful of baby purée he offered her. How did a life of barking orders at his men through their comms whilst reloading weapons turn into moments of reassuring Rosie that the barking doggies at the park are just happy to see her, all whilst juggling a wriggling baby who knows the safest place in the world is in her father’s arms. How did moments of tying tourniquets above bullet wounds out on the field turn into instances of tying the most minuscule of ponytails in his daughters hair to match with her mama? How did a traumatized boy so ready to give his life up for the call of duty, become a man who no longer feared death but instead walked alongside it with ease, only to become a man who was perhaps starting to live for the first time. Now that he had something worth living for.
Running a hand over her soft, wispy hair as her eyes fluttered shut for the night, Simon’s heart was near bursting at the thought of her eyes reopening in the morning as a one year old. No amount of healing, nor gratitude, nor goddamn therapy for that matter, would be able to replace the lingering ache however, of knowing that he was not there for you girls this time last year. The conversations you’d had following the earth-shattering revelations the two of you had brought to light all those months ago were still ongoing, a healing process that was anything but linear, anything but done, but it was nevertheless evident that a weight was taken off of both your shoulders.
The discovery you’d stumbled upon, the lies you had unearthed, the timeline that slowly began making sense, and finally the damned ghost mask that confirmed everything, had understandably been more than a bit to process. When you’d sat him down after the fact and told him to come clean about everything, he’d been prepared to offer you any receipt, any paystub, any crumb or shred of any evidence that you’d want, would have gone so far as to cut his skull open and allowed you to poke at his brain until you were satisfied. What was his, was yours. His mind, his heart, anything and everything that you wanted from him, you would have. Evidently, as he went through the timing of everything, admitting to his deceits and blatant lies to keep you close, you were pissed, but more than anything you had kept rolling your eyes at him.
“You seriously stole blueprints off your worksite so you’d have an excuse to hopefully keep talking to me?”
“O’ course I did.” He answered without a second’s hesitation.
“Jesus, Si.” You’d scoffed, though the twinkle in your eye told him you maybe weren’t as peeved as you were letting on. “I really had you whipped from the get go, didn’t I?”
You had no idea.
Lying to benefit their daughter and secure her spot in daycare, you’d easily forgiven, if not coming across slightly impressed at his efforts. Simon being absent during your pregnancy and Rosie’s birth, begrudgingly not as easy to move past, but ultimately forgiven, seeing as he was none the wiser about the fact that you were expecting, in spite of your efforts to find him. You knew it was something he would beat himself up over for the remainder of his days, the least you could do was not rub salt in the wound.
No, it was the money and the hiding that came afterwards that ticked you off the most, though with time you reluctantly conceded that you understood he only ever had Rosie’s and your best interests at heart, even if he’d gone about it the entirely wrong way. You knew he meant well, that this was him trying to be a good man, something he hadn’t had an example of growing up.
The biggest concensus that the two of you came to after many late night discussions on the topic was simple; Simon would never lie to you again.
A promise, if not an eternal vow he intended to keep ‘til death do you part, that the man occasionally took a tad too seriously. No, Simon Riley never lied to you ever again, if anything the already painfully blunt man became even more honest than he’d ever been.
He told you the truth when you asked if he was tired coming home after a long shift on the job site (“M’always tired, love.”), didn’t lie when you asked him for his opinion on a new outfit for Rosie (“My baby looks like Humpty Dumpty in tha’ jumper. So if tha’ was the goal, s’pose you did good.”), all too ready to comment on your shopping as well now apparently, (“Fuckin’ hate those trousers. Your arse looks too good, can’t focus on nothin’ else.”), and was honest with you even when it was technically incriminating.
There had been that one day earlier in the summer, when the weather had finally shifted into warmer rays of sun against your skin, when the breeze blowing in your hair came as more of a relief than a shiver down your spine, and you’d packed away the jumpers, boots, and beanies in favour of t-shirts, sneakers, and sunglasses. Rosie’s summer wardrobe, an amalgamation of colourful dresses and bright shirts and just about everything that likely made up an OshKosh B’gosh catalogue back in the day, was hung on hooks in her closet and folded into drawers in her dresser where they belonged, rather than stuffed into your own closet back in your old flat. Your change of wardrobe for the season however, seemed instead to only live rent free in Simon’s mind.
Those shirts of yours with plunging necklines he could stare down all the day from where he’s standing, or tank tops that hug your cleavage just enough to have his knees wobbling, or shorts that have him pulling double takes whenever you walk by.
And of course… your damn sundresses.
Like that yellow one you’d dawned that morning when you pulled up to his latest construction site, a fussy Rosie in tow, tucked into her pram and not the least bit shy to voice her complaints about it, until she realized they were nearing her dad. He’d been so entranced by the sight of you twirling around the kitchen in that fucking dress that morning, his chubby baby sat on your hip as she giggled and babbled to her hearts content, none of you noticing that he’d forgotten his packed lunch until it was nearly noon.
And so there you were on your day off, (a part of those long discussions you’d had with Simon resulting in the agreement that you would work four days a week at your job, not because you had to for money, but because you wanted to, leaving your Fridays free to give Rosie a day off of nursery to be closer to her mum) his two girls a vision to behold as he spots them nearing the site, a scene so similar to how this all came to be in the first place.
And if he had to adjust his tool belt to hide the growing bulge in his pants at the sight of you- well that was no one’s business but his.
“Didn’t have to come all this way, birdie.” He’d muttered, long legs stretching to meet you half way, quick to drop a kiss against your temple as he wiped his saw dust covered hands against his trousers before reaching into the pram to pick up the now squealing girl.
“Dadadadadadada. Dadadada!”
“As you can hear, I had nothing to do with this outing.” You’d chuckled, reaching up on tip toes to wipe the dirt off his brow, your arm coming to rest against his bulging bicep as he gently bounced Rosie. “Besides, we don’t want dada going hungry when there’s a perfectly good lunch waiting for him.”
“Completely forgo’ it. Thank you, love.”
A sweet and simple gesture, a short visit before you were off to some park or another, promising to have dinner ready by the time Simon would be home after work. It wasn’t the first time you’d swung by his work in recent months, and likely wouldn’t be the last, and so the men working on his crew had hardly blinked an eye at the mum and baby stealing attention away from their boss, well aware of who you were.
“Christ, did you see the arse on her? I’d never pack a crumb if she was the one comin’ to feed me.”
Or at least… the new hire wasn’t aware.
Simon’s head was whipping around faster than should have been possible, eyes narrowed on the bloke who was unaware that his comment had been heard, though his gaze lingering on your behind as you walked away was more than enough for the former Lieutenant.
“Oy!” Simon had shouted his way, corner of his mouth twitching when he watched the young man turn without a worry, unaware of the way looks his fellow crew members were sending his way, not a single soul envious of the position he’d just put himself in. “Come ‘round ‘ere wit’ me. You’re gon’ help me put up a wall.”
Now, Simon Riley might have been retired for some time, might spend more time nowadays changing nappies and washing formula out of bottles than he did reloading magazines and washing blood of his balaclava, but there would always be something slightly darker within him, instincts more nefarious than anything else.
He wouldn’t do anything that jeapordized his life with you and Rosie, no, nothing quite like that. No, he couldn’t shoot first and ask questions later anymore, had to live a civilians life and colour within the lines so to speak. But that didn’t mean that the former Lieutenant, the man who’d survived unimaginable tortures and inflicted just as much suffering, couldn’t get a little … creative at times?
“You jus’ make sure you’ve got a good grip on it, yeah?”
“Don’t we need another lad for this, sir?” The young bloke, Harrison or Harry or whatever his bloody name was, had skeptically asked his superior.
“Nonsense.” Simon immediately shut down, adjusting his hold on the frame as he got ready to lift it up. “You’re young, ain’t ya? Strong? Now take that side and hold it steady while I secure it.”
A better man might have felt bad about this, even in spite of the man’s crude comment earlier, seeing as the lad clearly had little to no idea what he was doing on a construction site, following his boss’ order without knowing any better. But what was the point in teaching Rosie to say please and thank you, if grown men didn’t seem to have any bloody manners themselves? Better to teach him a lesson that’ll stick.
“Righ’. Lemme make sure this last stud is secure- and that does it. Not half bad. Should hold steady.” Simon gruffs, bringing the nail gun down and testing the strength of the wood in front of him. The wall didn’t budge in the slightest, perfectly secure where the men had installed it. Though, it was a shame that the bloke hadn’t realized he probably should have been standing on the other side of the wall, before they secured it.
“Uh- boss?” His voice had cracked as his eyes suddenly scanned his surroundings, realizing a moment too late that he’d essentially trapped himself. Or rather, let himself be trapped. “How am uh- how am I gettin’ out?”
“Well that’s up to you Hank-”
“It’s Henry.”
“-but you’d better not mess up the job. Lumber ain’t so cheap these days.” Simon had shrugged all too casually, picking up his tools and beginning to walk away, a cheeky smirk plastered to his face the entire time. “Oh, and kid?”
He hadn’t bothered turning to look back at him, but could just picture the lad’s eyes widening in slight panic.
“Watch your fucking mouth when you’re talkin’ ‘bout my wife.”
And so of course, when he arrived home that night, greeted to the smell of a home cooked meal and the gummy smile of his daughter, he had no reason nor motivation to lie to you, when you asked him how the rest of his day had been.
“You can’t wear those dresses ‘round the site anymore, lovie. I almost recreated The Cask of Amontillado, today.”
“Not too late to cancel this bloody party, is it?”
“Oh, only just entirely.” You roll your eyes in a playful jest, swatting at his hands as you slip out of his grip and go to correct the party hat tipping on Winnie the Pooh’s head, knowing that Simon was far from being as reluctant over this get-together than he’s been letting on. “Besides, I know you’ve been looking forward to this in your own way, what would we cancel for?”
“Don’t need anyone seein’ me like this.” He gruffs, stepping forward to hang the last streamer along the wall where you’d instructed him to.
“What? To see you with feelings? Normal, human, dad feelings?”
“Precisely.”
“No chance, Riley. Our first baby only turns one once.” He ignores the stutter his heart makes at hearing you say your first baby, as though the certainty of there eventually being a second baby was inevitable, instead silently accepting the roll of painters tape you pass him. “And besides, we still haven’t hosted anyone here since we moved into this house.”
It was true, in the few months since the three of you had officially settled into your first family home, no one apart from the three of you had been inside, wrapped in the bubble of enjoying the first place you could all call yours.
The first thing he’d purchased for the new home was a can of yellow paint. Well, that and many, many packs of nicotine gum. Along with repainting walls (a yellow nursery for Rosie had been the first thing on his to do list), updating hardware, assembling and moving furniture, changing light fixtures, installing a tiny swing on the strongest branch of the tree in the backyard, and most importantly, getting the security measures around the house and property up to his standards, Simon had decided to officially quit smoking.
He’d started weaning himself off the day he met you, knowing that he shouldn’t be smoking around the baby for one, but also not liking the wrinkle you’d occasionally get between your eyebrows when he’d come back from a quick smoke, the shirt on his back that you’d usually like to steal from him for bed at night now reeking of cigs.
But aside from that, Simon Riley wasn’t going to let something as human as lung cancer potentially shorten his time with his girls, and so if satisfying his cravings with shitty nicotine gum and ignoring the occasional shake in his hands was the slight price to pay, he’d make do. The man had yet to run across something he would not do for his girls. For his family.
“Hey.” You say, pulling his attention back to you, the kind look in your eyes far more interesting than whether the streamer is level or not. He’ll fix it later if you don’t like it. “I know it’s going to be a lot. We can keep it as short and sweet as you’d like tomorrow. Could always claim Rosie has a blowout and see how fast our guests scatter after that.”
Simon can’t help the soft chuckle that slips out, his heart warming at the idea of you, his forever partner in crime, coming up with whatever scheme it takes to ensure he isn’t uncomfortable any longer than he has to be. God, how he’s glad you’ll never have to know any life other than that of a civilians, but what he wouldn’t give to see your mind in action when you don’t have time to hesitate. It’s always been a match of quick wits between the two of you, so lord knows what you’re both in for once Rosie starts properly talking.
“‘Fraid not even tha’ would scare my men away.” He replies steadily, though he cannot help the way his chest unconsciously puffs out with pride as he mentions the lads.
Nearly two years. Two bloody years since he’s seen hide nor hair from any of the lot. He doesn’t blame them in the slightest, understands better than anyone how distorted time becomes when you don’t have a home to go back to after the job is finished, only just resting long enough to say you have before picking up the next one.
He also knows that he was a broken shell of a man the last time he saw his fellow task force members, having to avoid his piercing gaze as he was handed forced retirement papers with his boots scarcely back on the tarmac. He’d become too unpredictable, too careless, too much of a risk. The higher-ups were cutting him loose and leaving his men to watch as the the tie was severed.
But that was two years ago now. A different time. A different man.
And as well as he once knew his former Captain, Simon cannot be sure what Price would have been expecting to hear from him after so much time apart. Though he can’t help but to wonder if the man who’d become the closest thing he has to a father figure, hasn’t been keeping his own eye on him from a distance, when he so readily and unflinchingly accepts the invitation to his daughters first birthday party.
“Oh really? Your explosives buddy isn’t gonna flinch when he finds out a blowout involves more wipes and diapers than it does TNT?” You giggle to yourself, taking a step back to admire your handiwork, the last hour or so of prep the two of you have put into decorating.
“If he does, would be the first time I’ve ever seen ‘im flinch.”
“I’m excited to meet them. Feels like I’m meeting your family, or something.” You say, continuing to step around the living room, straightening things that don’t need correcting, more so just keeping your hands busy now.
“They’re good as.” Simon mentions, stepping closer to slip his hand into yours before you can fidget with anything again. “Saved my life more times than I care to remember. They’re good men. But it’s them that are comin’ to meet my family, birdie. Not the other way ‘round.”
Your gaze softens as you squeeze his hand, knowing that behind your genuine excitement to meet some of the most significant people in Simon’s life, are the unavoidable nerves that come along with meeting such important figures to someone you love.
“M’sorry your folks aren’t comin’, birdie.” He adds, giving your palm a firm squeeze, the sincerity in his words as true as they come. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. How you had family still living, still breathing, who said they loved you and cared for Rosie, but yet had still to meet their granddaughter? Who hadn’t even come to see you once while you were pregnant, let alone when you gave birth by yourself?
“Oh, it is what it is.” You shrug nonchalantly, though the hurt is evident in the way you can’t quite meet his eyes. “They keep saying they’ll fly over eventually, that the timing is tricky on their end. But- I’m not worried about it, Si.”
“No?”
“No. Not when I’ve got everything I could ever need right here.” You affirm, locking eyes with him and offering a meek smile. “Speaking of which, I don’t think this party needs any more decorating, we’ve probably already overdone it.”
Simon smiles softly back at you, letting you evidently change the subject, though his nod of approval as he glances around the room suggests he’s also willing to put an end to the decorating.
“Think we should keep the picture frames up afterwards. I like seein’ em.” He mentions, stepping closer to the side table lined with a dozen photos. “Tell me ‘bout this one.” He says, gesturing towards a photo of you caressing your swollen stomach, bump fully on display with your shirt shoved up and out of the way.
“Oh gosh,” you say, coming to stand next to him, bringing the frame up closer to you both. “This was when I felt about as big as a house. None of my clothes were fitting anymore, my feet were beyond swollen. Lo and behold, she was born almost exactly a week later.”
God, what he wouldn’t do to turn back the clock. You could’ve started wearing anything you wanted from his closet when your clothes got too tight, he would have massaged your aching feet every chance he got, would have told you that ‘being as big as a house’ just meant that your body was your daughter’s first home. He would have squashed all your fears, soothed all your worries, loved on you that way you deserved.
Alas, the past was the past. And there was no time like the present to make things right.
“Beautiful.” He practically whispers, bringing a calloused finger up to carefully caress the image of your swollen belly, his little girl in there. “You were so beautiful, love. Are so beautiful. Wish I’d seen you like tha’.”
He can’t help but to come up behind you, to press his chest against your back, to drag his hands over to your abdomen, the same body that grew and birthed his daughter, the same one her worships every opportunity he gets.
“Can’t wait for you to look like tha’ again.” He teases, scarred lips brushing against your ear, lips twitching when he feels a shiver run through you.
“Oh my god, you cannot say things like that to me when I’m emotional like this.” You reply, though the way you fully lean back into him, pressing your hands over top of his, tells him there’s little to no bite behind those words.
“Mm, why’s that love?”
“You know why.”
“‘Fraid I don’t.” He answers, moving his lips from your ear down to your neck, planting teasing kisses along your exposed skin, goosebumps spreading across your flesh like a wildfire. “You see, when I look at tha’ picture, when I think ‘bout you all round with our baby, with my baby, makes me think o’ all the ways I would have made you feel good.”
“Yeah?” You ask, your breaths coming quicker, heart beating faster against his own, craning your head farther back to give him more access, an invitation that his lips greedily accept.
“Oh yeah. Thinkin’ ‘bout how I would’ve been living between those delicious thighs. Never not havin’ my mouth on you. Pulling those sweet little noises from you.”
“Simon.” You groaned, pushing your hips back against his, letting one of his hands slip upward to give your breast a gentle squeeze, while the other worked its way down, teasing the skin just above your underwear.
“What do you say, birdie?” He mumbled against your skin, mouth hot against your collarbone now as he pulls you closer against him, his arousal evident in the way he rubs against you. “What better gift for Rosie than a sibling, hmm?”
“Bedroom. Now.”
“Simon! Where are we going? I thought we were grabbing the cake.” You ask him, confused as to why he’s dragging your through the house in the middle of Rosie’s party. “Who even has our baby right now?”
“Your friend Sarah’s got her, she’s alrigh’ for a minute.” Simon reassures, still clutching your hand as he leads you towards the garage. “Jus’ wanted to show you something, alone.”
Thank goodness your best friend was here to hold her for a moment, you couldn’t picture passing Rosie off to any of those 141 men currently sat in your living room.
It was a small gathering, just you and Simon, your best friend and her boyfriend, and Simon’s task force mates, coming to visit for the first time ever. You’d been more than a tad nervous to meet them, knowing that these were the men that Simon not only considered as family, but who were likely the reason he was still alive and kicking today, having saved his life more than once before you met him. Meeting them however, was like putting the last piece of the puzzle together.
You watched a weight physically being taken off of Simon’s shoulders when their vehicles had pulled into the driveway, the bear hugs the men exchanged speaking volumes about the time they’d spent together, the memories they shared, along with those they’d prefer to forget.
They greeted you just as warmly, treating you like a friend they hadn’t seen in a while, rather than a stranger they were meeting for the first time. You didn’t know them very well, nor did they know you, but you were Simon’s, and that made you good as gold in their eyes.
Rosie, on the other hand.
“Ach, i’s as if LT’s shrunk down and turned bonnie.” Johnny’s accent had rang out, as he and Rosie stared one another down.
The lads were overjoyed, if not a touch apprehensive, at meeting the littlest Riley, though it would appear Rosie did not immediately share the sentiment.
“She’s got her dad’s stare, that’s for sure.” John had said before pulling a swig of beer, each man nodding as they recognized Simon’s piercing gaze in the form of a stubborn one year old, her unwillingness to smile at them almost endearing, if only solidying that she was in fact Simon’s daughter.
“I swear, she looked like she was going to bite Kyle when he suggested holding her.” You giggled, leaning a hip against the spare freeze in the garage when he came to a stop next to it.
“Ah, she’ll warm up to ‘em. She’s jus’ givin’ ‘em a hard time.”
“Well how about before she does start to defrost, you tell me what we’re doing in here?”
“Got somethin’ for you.” Simon replies, reaching to open the freezer before angling his face back to you. “Close your eyes for a second, birdie.”
“Hmm, okay.” You said, none too suspiciously as you shut your eyes, always trusting him, but unsure of just what the had in store. You heard the familiar sound of the freezer opening, Simon rustling around before the door was slamming shut again.
“Go ‘head and open ‘em.” He told you, voice softer now. Slowly, you did just that, opening your eyes to find something bright and red sat atop the freezer now. Your brows furrowed for a moment, recognizing that you were looking at a small, heart shaped cake, slathered in red icing, and not at all the same cake you’d baked for Rosie yesterday. You were about to question him- when you read what was written in icing across the top of the cake.
‘Happy one year breastfeeding’
“Simon-”
“I know it’s been a lot. Or rather- I can only imagine how much of a burden it’s been. To breastfeed for Rosie and continue pumping up until she turned one. That’s a whole year, love. Of putting your needs aside, putting your body through that. I’ve seen you uncomfortable, and aching, and- I jus’ wanted to give you this. Celebrate you a bit today, too.”
Every time you think you’ve learned everything there is to know about Simon Riley, just when you think he cannot surprise you any more, he goes and multiplies the love you thought you had for him by another infinity or so. It’s hard to believe that he once sincerely thought he would have to endure a life without love, when there is so much inside of him.
“Oh, Si.”
“Before you start cryin’, there is one more thing.” He says quickly, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Oh, really?”
“I migh’ have- stretched the truth, the other nigh’.”
“Stretched the truth?” You asked with an inquisitive raise of your brow, curious to know where this was going.
“‘Bout how many gifts she was gettin’.”
“Oh boy.” You said with a giggle. “Okay, so ‘stretching the truth’ was your way of not quite lying about it but-”
“You’re the one who said our first born only turns one once, love.”
And that was the story of how Simon recruited his mates, his fearsome, deadly, intimidating task force members, into sneaking a kitten into your home.
The runt of its litter, the frail little thing was meowing incessantly when Simon had rescued him from the shelter, the tiny creature passed up by every other family who was thrown off by its missing eye. Where others saw something different, something strange and perhaps unlovable, Simon saw himself. And if anyone knew how to love weird, unlovable creatures, it was you. Rosie’s scowls aimed at the 141 men instantly transformed into the most delighted of shrieks and giggles when they presented her with her newest companion, an itty bitty little thing that was decidedly named Kitty, when Rosie called out to him and he came trotting her way.
Rosie would have that cat with her for another fifteen trips around the sun. That damned cat, as Simon would come to call him each time he nearly tripped over it as it weaved through his legs, would be there to see Rosie’s first steps, would happily eat whatever food was thrown off of her high chair, would rub his head against her leg as she sniffled over a scraped knee learning to ride her bike, would leave its fur clinging to her first day of school uniform, and would even be waiting cautiously by her side as her mum and dad brought her baby brother home from the hospital. That cat would be sleeping with her on her bed up until she was a teenager, tail flicking in acknowledgment when Simon would poke his head into her room at night, because no matter how big she’d get, he’d always check in on her. Would always be there to comfort his children should a nightmare dare to creep into their heads at night, knowing just what a pair of comforting arms and a warm embrace can do for someone.
What your embrace did for him.
But no, Simon Riley hasn’t had a nightmare in a long, long time.
Not when every day still felt like a dream.
Epilogue coming Friday May 22nd…
If you’ve made it this far: thank you, thank you, thank you 🫶🏻
aka hot construction worker Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x single mom!reader
Devastating : causing severe shock, distress, or grief, or to cause great damage or harm.
Simon Riley has seen his fair share of devastation throughout the years; more often than not he has been the cause of such devastation, leaving behind sorrow in place of footprints and receiving new orders instead of thanks. A man whose age fails to reflect the years behind his eyes and the blood on his hands, should in theory have become closely enough acquainted with devastation to successfully camouflage the shiver of shock that runs down most other civilians spines when faced with such sentiments.
As it stands however? You’re more likely to find drywall plaster beneath his fingernails than blood.
He’s never seen anything like this. At least, not in person. Part of him believed that such sights could only come from a screen, from a perfectly arranged stage, a set with walls ready to tear down when the scene is over.
No, this is devastation of a different kind entirely, a cruelty he himself has never faced before.
“You knew this’d be the outcome, birdie.” Simon murmurs in your ear as his hands smooth along your arms and shoulders, the both of you taking in the scene before you.
“I know, I know. I just- ugh. I thought I would at least make it through setting everything up before I lost it.” You answer him, still fidgeting with the bunch of streamers in your hand.
“I wonder if it ever changes.”
“If what changes?”
“This feeling.” Simon replies, the heaviness behind his tired eyes only growing the longer he glances around the room.
You had to have known this set up would utterly ruin the both of you, hadn’t you?
Sat in the living room with streamers strewn about the walls, beloved and cherished stuffed animals of all sizes are adorned with colorful party hats strapped over their fluffy heads, each with an equally bright helium filled balloon tied to their paws or tails to keep them from floating away.
Rosie’s favourite pals are patiently waiting for her where you’ve carefully set them up in front of empty tea cups and wrapped gifts, the sweetest of little scenes for their playmate, whom, unbeknownst to them, will be waking up as a one year old in the morning.
And perhaps as the cherry on top of it all, dozens upon dozens of framed pictures sit on nearly any and every free surface, displaying glimpses, offering snapshots into the past 365 days that have been Rosie’s first year. Pictures of your very first sonogram turning into pictures of your growing baby bump. Images of a newborn Rosie transforming into a chubby baby with a gummy smile and rolls for days. Pictures of you alone holding Rosie in your arms, rocking her, kissing her, become photos of both you and Simon kissing her squishy cheeks, of Rosie sat atop her dads large shoulders, of a tattooed arm cradling her as she sleeps soundly without a care in the world.
It’s easily the sweetest of first birthday party set ups one could ever dream of. It’s cozy, nostalgic, special, beautiful… and most of all, it’s killing him.
“Oh Si.” You say, dropping the obnoxiously bright streamer in your grip in favour of turning to face him, the burning behind your own eyes worsening as you wrap your arms around his middle. With an ear pressed up against his firm chest you feel more than hear his immense sigh. “I know. I thought I was gonna be able to hold it together but the fucking stuffies are doing it for me. This might be too cute.”
“She jus’-” he goes to reply but has to clear his throat first, emotions rising to the surface as he continues to glance at the photographs of the last year, the best year of his life. “How can she be one? How’s it been a year already, birdie?”
“I don’t know, Simon. Feels like just yesterday I was pulling my hair out looking for a damned daycare when you appeared- and I blinked and here we are now.” You agree, leaning further into his embrace when he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“I’d argue I didn’t just ‘appear’, love. You were distractin’ my whole crew if I remember righ’, pretty bird like yourself. God, was she ever tiny when I saw her tha’ day.” He shakes his head, recalling the tiny coos that had first caught his attention, unaware that it was his own daughter, his flesh and blood on the other side of that fence that fateful day.
“Pfft.” You playfully scoff in hopes of keeping your tears at bay for a moment longer. “I would argue that she sure didn’t feel tiny when I was pushing her giant head out three weeks early to prevent tearing.” You swat at his chest, though Simon can’t seem to bring himself to chuckle back.
It’s always going to be a sensitive point, a thing of the past that cannot be changed, history that simply cannot be altered, as desperately as he may wish to turn back the clock. But the fact remains the same, Simon wasn’t there the day Rosie was born, unaware that he even had a daughter coming into the world at all. He wasn’t there for any of your pregnancy, apart from the most essential bit of getting you knocked up in the first place, a moment that forever breaks his heart and equally put it back together simultaneously.
“She sure ain’t tiny these days.” He adds, offering you a small smile. “I won’t be needing my weights much longer, if she keeps growing the way she does. Start bench pressin’ her instead.”
“You basically already do, the way you throw her around sometimes.” You laugh, thinking of the endless giggles that erupt from your daughter each and every time Simon pretends to wrestle with the wiggly girl, tossing her onto the bed over and over each time she crawls back to him with that smile of hers she knows he can’t say no to.
“But… yeah. As for this feeling?” You say to him, tightening your grip around him as he does the same, his forehead coming to lean down against yours at an angle that must be anything but comfortable for his neck, and yet he’d happily stay in this position until his last breath. “I don’t think it’s going away any time soon. ‘Fraid it might only get worse, actually.”
“Mm.” Simon acknowledges, pursing his scarred lips for a moment to press a soft kiss against the tip of your nose, contemplating your words and how they compare to the pleasant ache in his chest. “I’ve jus- I never thought-”
He still to this day struggles to put it into words. It’s a complicated task after all, to find the vocabulary fitting enough to describe the ways in which Simon Riley’s life has been turned upside down over and over again since meeting you. Especially considering the fact that there simply are no words appropriate enough in any language known to man that could accurately portray the way in which he will never be the same again.
No sentence he utters to you could ever be enough to communicate just how utterly grateful he is to exist in the same time and place in this universe as you, let alone the idea that he is the man you have chosen to love. He thinks it would be easier to cut himself open, to be displayed under harsh lights and a microscope for you to see how you’ve altered his being down to the very last atom, how the once empty and hollowed out caverns of his heart now beat with a renewed vigour for you and Rosie, how the faded and angry scars on his skin could be put together like a roadmap of his life leading him to you, and only ever you.
“Never knew life could feel like this.” He settles on saying, wishing that he were a smarter man who could tell you everything you deserve to hear. Thought the smile on your lips and the wet sheen of your eyes tells him that he can be content for the night, knowing that perhaps he’s said just what you needed to hear instead.
Tucking Rosie into her crib that night had been a bittersweet affair. On the one hand, Simon felt akin to that American bloke who’d first landed on the moon all those decades before, a feeling inside of his body too large to be a part of this world, to be witnessing something that should have been impossible yet now exists solely for him. He found himself getting dizzy at times, when he truly thought about the contrast of the many lives he’s lived up until this point.
How did a Lieutenant who spent hundreds of hours laid prone behind a sniper’s scope, find himself in the same position as he encouraged his daughter through tummy time? How did a soldier who’d grown to know the taste of MRE’s better than his mum’s cooking, find himself sympathizing with the fussy little girl who refused to open her mouth for the spoonful of baby purée he offered her. How did a life of barking orders at his men through their comms whilst reloading weapons turn into moments of reassuring Rosie that the barking doggies at the park are just happy to see her, all whilst juggling a wriggling baby who knows the safest place in the world is in her father’s arms. How did moments of tying tourniquets above bullet wounds out on the field turn into instances of tying the most minuscule of ponytails in his daughters hair to match with her mama? How did a traumatized boy so ready to give his life up for the call of duty, become a man who no longer feared death but instead walked alongside it with ease, only to become a man who was perhaps starting to live for the first time. Now that he had something worth living for.
Running a hand over her soft, wispy hair as her eyes fluttered shut for the night, Simon’s heart was near bursting at the thought of her eyes reopening in the morning as a one year old. No amount of healing, nor gratitude, nor goddamn therapy for that matter, would be able to replace the lingering ache however, of knowing that he was not there for you girls this time last year. The conversations you’d had following the earth-shattering revelations the two of you had brought to light all those months ago were still ongoing, a healing process that was anything but linear, anything but done, but it was nevertheless evident that a weight was taken off of both your shoulders.
The discovery you’d stumbled upon, the lies you had unearthed, the timeline that slowly began making sense, and finally the damned ghost mask that confirmed everything, had understandably been more than a bit to process. When you’d sat him down after the fact and told him to come clean about everything, he’d been prepared to offer you any receipt, any paystub, any crumb or shred of any evidence that you’d want, would have gone so far as to cut his skull open and allowed you to poke at his brain until you were satisfied. What was his, was yours. His mind, his heart, anything and everything that you wanted from him, you would have. Evidently, as he went through the timing of everything, admitting to his deceits and blatant lies to keep you close, you were pissed, but more than anything you had kept rolling your eyes at him.
“You seriously stole blueprints off your worksite so you’d have an excuse to hopefully keep talking to me?”
“O’ course I did.” He answered without a second’s hesitation.
“Jesus, Si.” You’d scoffed, though the twinkle in your eye told him you maybe weren’t as peeved as you were letting on. “I really had you whipped from the get go, didn’t I?”
You had no idea.
Lying to benefit their daughter and secure her spot in daycare, you’d easily forgiven, if not coming across slightly impressed at his efforts. Simon being absent during your pregnancy and Rosie’s birth, begrudgingly not as easy to move past, but ultimately forgiven, seeing as he was none the wiser about the fact that you were expecting, in spite of your efforts to find him. You knew it was something he would beat himself up over for the remainder of his days, the least you could do was not rub salt in the wound.
No, it was the money and the hiding that came afterwards that ticked you off the most, though with time you reluctantly conceded that you understood he only ever had Rosie’s and your best interests at heart, even if he’d gone about it the entirely wrong way. You knew he meant well, that this was him trying to be a good man, something he hadn’t had an example of growing up.
The biggest concensus that the two of you came to after many late night discussions on the topic was simple; Simon would never lie to you again.
A promise, if not an eternal vow he intended to keep ‘til death do you part, that the man occasionally took a tad too seriously. No, Simon Riley never lied to you ever again, if anything the already painfully blunt man became even more honest than he’d ever been.
He told you the truth when you asked if he was tired coming home after a long shift on the job site (“M’always tired, love.”), didn’t lie when you asked him for his opinion on a new outfit for Rosie (“My baby looks like Humpty Dumpty in tha’ jumper. So if tha’ was the goal, s’pose you did good.”), all too ready to comment on your shopping as well now apparently, (“Fuckin’ hate those trousers. Your arse looks too good, can’t focus on nothin’ else.”), and was honest with you even when it was technically incriminating.
There had been that one day earlier in the summer, when the weather had finally shifted into warmer rays of sun against your skin, when the breeze blowing in your hair came as more of a relief than a shiver down your spine, and you’d packed away the jumpers, boots, and beanies in favour of t-shirts, sneakers, and sunglasses. Rosie’s summer wardrobe, an amalgamation of colourful dresses and bright shirts and just about everything that likely made up an OshKosh B’gosh catalogue back in the day, was hung on hooks in her closet and folded into drawers in her dresser where they belonged, rather than stuffed into your own closet back in your old flat. Your change of wardrobe for the season however, seemed instead to only live rent free in Simon’s mind.
Those shirts of yours with plunging necklines he could stare down all the day from where he’s standing, or tank tops that hug your cleavage just enough to have his knees wobbling, or shorts that have him pulling double takes whenever you walk by.
And of course… your damn sundresses.
Like that yellow one you’d dawned that morning when you pulled up to his latest construction site, a fussy Rosie in tow, tucked into her pram and not the least bit shy to voice her complaints about it, until she realized they were nearing her dad. He’d been so entranced by the sight of you twirling around the kitchen in that fucking dress that morning, his chubby baby sat on your hip as she giggled and babbled to her hearts content, none of you noticing that he’d forgotten his packed lunch until it was nearly noon.
And so there you were on your day off, (a part of those long discussions you’d had with Simon resulting in the agreement that you would work four days a week at your job, not because you had to for money, but because you wanted to, leaving your Fridays free to give Rosie a day off of nursery to be closer to her mum) his two girls a vision to behold as he spots them nearing the site, a scene so similar to how this all came to be in the first place.
And if he had to adjust his tool belt to hide the growing bulge in his pants at the sight of you- well that was no one’s business but his.
“Didn’t have to come all this way, birdie.” He’d muttered, long legs stretching to meet you half way, quick to drop a kiss against your temple as he wiped his saw dust covered hands against his trousers before reaching into the pram to pick up the now squealing girl.
“Dadadadadadada. Dadadada!”
“As you can hear, I had nothing to do with this outing.” You’d chuckled, reaching up on tip toes to wipe the dirt off his brow, your arm coming to rest against his bulging bicep as he gently bounced Rosie. “Besides, we don’t want dada going hungry when there’s a perfectly good lunch waiting for him.”
“Completely forgo’ it. Thank you, love.”
A sweet and simple gesture, a short visit before you were off to some park or another, promising to have dinner ready by the time Simon would be home after work. It wasn’t the first time you’d swung by his work in recent months, and likely wouldn’t be the last, and so the men working on his crew had hardly blinked an eye at the mum and baby stealing attention away from their boss, well aware of who you were.
“Christ, did you see the arse on her? I’d never pack a crumb if she was the one comin’ to feed me.”
Or at least… the new hire wasn’t aware.
Simon’s head was whipping around faster than should have been possible, eyes narrowed on the bloke who was unaware that his comment had been heard, though his gaze lingering on your behind as you walked away was more than enough for the former Lieutenant.
“Oy!” Simon had shouted his way, corner of his mouth twitching when he watched the young man turn without a worry, unaware of the way looks his fellow crew members were sending his way, not a single soul envious of the position he’d just put himself in. “Come ‘round ‘ere wit’ me. You’re gon’ help me put up a wall.”
Now, Simon Riley might have been retired for some time, might spend more time nowadays changing nappies and washing formula out of bottles than he did reloading magazines and washing blood of his balaclava, but there would always be something slightly darker within him, instincts more nefarious than anything else.
He wouldn’t do anything that jeapordized his life with you and Rosie, no, nothing quite like that. No, he couldn’t shoot first and ask questions later anymore, had to live a civilians life and colour within the lines so to speak. But that didn’t mean that the former Lieutenant, the man who’d survived unimaginable tortures and inflicted just as much suffering, couldn’t get a little … creative at times?
“You jus’ make sure you’ve got a good grip on it, yeah?”
“Don’t we need another lad for this, sir?” The young bloke, Harrison or Harry or whatever his bloody name was, had skeptically asked his superior.
“Nonsense.” Simon immediately shut down, adjusting his hold on the frame as he got ready to lift it up. “You’re young, ain’t ya? Strong? Now take that side and hold it steady while I secure it.”
A better man might have felt bad about this, even in spite of the man’s crude comment earlier, seeing as the lad clearly had little to no idea what he was doing on a construction site, following his boss’ order without knowing any better. But what was the point in teaching Rosie to say please and thank you, if grown men didn’t seem to have any bloody manners themselves? Better to teach him a lesson that’ll stick.
“Righ’. Lemme make sure this last stud is secure- and that does it. Not half bad. Should hold steady.” Simon gruffs, bringing the nail gun down and testing the strength of the wood in front of him. The wall didn’t budge in the slightest, perfectly secure where the men had installed it. Though, it was a shame that the bloke hadn’t realized he probably should have been standing on the other side of the wall, before they secured it.
“Uh- boss?” His voice had cracked as his eyes suddenly scanned his surroundings, realizing a moment too late that he’d essentially trapped himself. Or rather, let himself be trapped. “How am uh- how am I gettin’ out?”
“Well that’s up to you Hank-”
“It’s Henry.”
“-but you’d better not mess up the job. Lumber ain’t so cheap these days.” Simon had shrugged all too casually, picking up his tools and beginning to walk away, a cheeky smirk plastered to his face the entire time. “Oh, and kid?”
He hadn’t bothered turning to look back at him, but could just picture the lad’s eyes widening in slight panic.
“Watch your fucking mouth when you’re talkin’ ‘bout my wife.”
And so of course, when he arrived home that night, greeted to the smell of a home cooked meal and the gummy smile of his daughter, he had no reason nor motivation to lie to you, when you asked him how the rest of his day had been.
“You can’t wear those dresses ‘round the site anymore, lovie. I almost recreated The Cask of Amontillado, today.”
“Not too late to cancel this bloody party, is it?”
“Oh, only just entirely.” You roll your eyes in a playful jest, swatting at his hands as you slip out of his grip and go to correct the party hat tipping on Winnie the Pooh’s head, knowing that Simon was far from being as reluctant over this get-together than he’s been letting on. “Besides, I know you’ve been looking forward to this in your own way, what would we cancel for?”
“Don’t need anyone seein’ me like this.” He gruffs, stepping forward to hang the last streamer along the wall where you’d instructed him to.
“What? To see you with feelings? Normal, human, dad feelings?”
“Precisely.”
“No chance, Riley. Our first baby only turns one once.” He ignores the stutter his heart makes at hearing you say your first baby, as though the certainty of there eventually being a second baby was inevitable, instead silently accepting the roll of painters tape you pass him. “And besides, we still haven’t hosted anyone here since we moved into this house.”
It was true, in the few months since the three of you had officially settled into your first family home, no one apart from the three of you had been inside, wrapped in the bubble of enjoying the first place you could all call yours.
The first thing he’d purchased for the new home was a can of yellow paint. Well, that and many, many packs of nicotine gum. Along with repainting walls (a yellow nursery for Rosie had been the first thing on his to do list), updating hardware, assembling and moving furniture, changing light fixtures, installing a tiny swing on the strongest branch of the tree in the backyard, and most importantly, getting the security measures around the house and property up to his standards, Simon had decided to officially quit smoking.
He’d started weaning himself off the day he met you, knowing that he shouldn’t be smoking around the baby for one, but also not liking the wrinkle you’d occasionally get between your eyebrows when he’d come back from a quick smoke, the shirt on his back that you’d usually like to steal from him for bed at night now reeking of cigs.
But aside from that, Simon Riley wasn’t going to let something as human as lung cancer potentially shorten his time with his girls, and so if satisfying his cravings with shitty nicotine gum and ignoring the occasional shake in his hands was the slight price to pay, he’d make do. The man had yet to run across something he would not do for his girls. For his family.
“Hey.” You say, pulling his attention back to you, the kind look in your eyes far more interesting than whether the streamer is level or not. He’ll fix it later if you don’t like it. “I know it’s going to be a lot. We can keep it as short and sweet as you’d like tomorrow. Could always claim Rosie has a blowout and see how fast our guests scatter after that.”
Simon can’t help the soft chuckle that slips out, his heart warming at the idea of you, his forever partner in crime, coming up with whatever scheme it takes to ensure he isn’t uncomfortable any longer than he has to be. God, how he’s glad you’ll never have to know any life other than that of a civilians, but what he wouldn’t give to see your mind in action when you don’t have time to hesitate. It’s always been a match of quick wits between the two of you, so lord knows what you’re both in for once Rosie starts properly talking.
“‘Fraid not even tha’ would scare my men away.” He replies steadily, though he cannot help the way his chest unconsciously puffs out with pride as he mentions the lads.
Nearly two years. Two bloody years since he’s seen hide nor hair from any of the lot. He doesn’t blame them in the slightest, understands better than anyone how distorted time becomes when you don’t have a home to go back to after the job is finished, only just resting long enough to say you have before picking up the next one.
He also knows that he was a broken shell of a man the last time he saw his fellow task force members, having to avoid his piercing gaze as he was handed forced retirement papers with his boots scarcely back on the tarmac. He’d become too unpredictable, too careless, too much of a risk. The higher-ups were cutting him loose and leaving his men to watch as the the tie was severed.
But that was two years ago now. A different time. A different man.
And as well as he once knew his former Captain, Simon cannot be sure what Price would have been expecting to hear from him after so much time apart. Though he can’t help but to wonder if the man who’d become the closest thing he has to a father figure, hasn’t been keeping his own eye on him from a distance, when he so readily and unflinchingly accepts the invitation to his daughters first birthday party.
“Oh really? Your explosives buddy isn’t gonna flinch when he finds out a blowout involves more wipes and diapers than it does TNT?” You giggle to yourself, taking a step back to admire your handiwork, the last hour or so of prep the two of you have put into decorating.
“If he does, would be the first time I’ve ever seen ‘im flinch.”
“I’m excited to meet them. Feels like I’m meeting your family, or something.” You say, continuing to step around the living room, straightening things that don’t need correcting, more so just keeping your hands busy now.
“They’re good as.” Simon mentions, stepping closer to slip his hand into yours before you can fidget with anything again. “Saved my life more times than I care to remember. They’re good men. But it’s them that are comin’ to meet my family, birdie. Not the other way ‘round.”
Your gaze softens as you squeeze his hand, knowing that behind your genuine excitement to meet some of the most significant people in Simon’s life, are the unavoidable nerves that come along with meeting such important figures to someone you love.
“M’sorry your folks aren’t comin’, birdie.” He adds, giving your palm a firm squeeze, the sincerity in his words as true as they come. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. How you had family still living, still breathing, who said they loved you and cared for Rosie, but yet had still to meet their granddaughter? Who hadn’t even come to see you once while you were pregnant, let alone when you gave birth by yourself?
“Oh, it is what it is.” You shrug nonchalantly, though the hurt is evident in the way you can’t quite meet his eyes. “They keep saying they’ll fly over eventually, that the timing is tricky on their end. But- I’m not worried about it, Si.”
“No?”
“No. Not when I’ve got everything I could ever need right here.” You affirm, locking eyes with him and offering a meek smile. “Speaking of which, I don’t think this party needs any more decorating, we’ve probably already overdone it.”
Simon smiles softly back at you, letting you evidently change the subject, though his nod of approval as he glances around the room suggests he’s also willing to put an end to the decorating.
“Think we should keep the picture frames up afterwards. I like seein’ em.” He mentions, stepping closer to the side table lined with a dozen photos. “Tell me ‘bout this one.” He says, gesturing towards a photo of you caressing your swollen stomach, bump fully on display with your shirt shoved up and out of the way.
“Oh gosh,” you say, coming to stand next to him, bringing the frame up closer to you both. “This was when I felt about as big as a house. None of my clothes were fitting anymore, my feet were beyond swollen. Lo and behold, she was born almost exactly a week later.”
God, what he wouldn’t do to turn back the clock. You could’ve started wearing anything you wanted from his closet when your clothes got too tight, he would have massaged your aching feet every chance he got, would have told you that ‘being as big as a house’ just meant that your body was your daughter’s first home. He would have squashed all your fears, soothed all your worries, loved on you that way you deserved.
Alas, the past was the past. And there was no time like the present to make things right.
“Beautiful.” He practically whispers, bringing a calloused finger up to carefully caress the image of your swollen belly, his little girl in there. “You were so beautiful, love. Are so beautiful. Wish I’d seen you like tha’.”
He can’t help but to come up behind you, to press his chest against your back, to drag his hands over to your abdomen, the same body that grew and birthed his daughter, the same one her worships every opportunity he gets.
“Can’t wait for you to look like tha’ again.” He teases, scarred lips brushing against your ear, lips twitching when he feels a shiver run through you.
“Oh my god, you cannot say things like that to me when I’m emotional like this.” You reply, though the way you fully lean back into him, pressing your hands over top of his, tells him there’s little to no bite behind those words.
“Mm, why’s that love?”
“You know why.”
“‘Fraid I don’t.” He answers, moving his lips from your ear down to your neck, planting teasing kisses along your exposed skin, goosebumps spreading across your flesh like a wildfire. “You see, when I look at tha’ picture, when I think ‘bout you all round with our baby, with my baby, makes me think o’ all the ways I would have made you feel good.”
“Yeah?” You ask, your breaths coming quicker, heart beating faster against his own, craning your head farther back to give him more access, an invitation that his lips greedily accept.
“Oh yeah. Thinkin’ ‘bout how I would’ve been living between those delicious thighs. Never not havin’ my mouth on you. Pulling those sweet little noises from you.”
“Simon.” You groaned, pushing your hips back against his, letting one of his hands slip upward to give your breast a gentle squeeze, while the other worked its way down, teasing the skin just above your underwear.
“What do you say, birdie?” He mumbled against your skin, mouth hot against your collarbone now as he pulls you closer against him, his arousal evident in the way he rubs against you. “What better gift for Rosie than a sibling, hmm?”
“Bedroom. Now.”
“Simon! Where are we going? I thought we were grabbing the cake.” You ask him, confused as to why he’s dragging your through the house in the middle of Rosie’s party. “Who even has our baby right now?”
“Your friend Sarah’s got her, she’s alrigh’ for a minute.” Simon reassures, still clutching your hand as he leads you towards the garage. “Jus’ wanted to show you something, alone.”
Thank goodness your best friend was here to hold her for a moment, you couldn’t picture passing Rosie off to any of those 141 men currently sat in your living room.
It was a small gathering, just you and Simon, your best friend and her boyfriend, and Simon’s task force mates, coming to visit for the first time ever. You’d been more than a tad nervous to meet them, knowing that these were the men that Simon not only considered as family, but who were likely the reason he was still alive and kicking today, having saved his life more than once before you met him. Meeting them however, was like putting the last piece of the puzzle together.
You watched a weight physically being taken off of Simon’s shoulders when their vehicles had pulled into the driveway, the bear hugs the men exchanged speaking volumes about the time they’d spent together, the memories they shared, along with those they’d prefer to forget.
They greeted you just as warmly, treating you like a friend they hadn’t seen in a while, rather than a stranger they were meeting for the first time. You didn’t know them very well, nor did they know you, but you were Simon’s, and that made you good as gold in their eyes.
Rosie, on the other hand.
“Ach, i’s as if LT’s shrunk down and turned bonnie.” Johnny’s accent had rang out, as he and Rosie stared one another down.
The lads were overjoyed, if not a touch apprehensive, at meeting the littlest Riley, though it would appear Rosie did not immediately share the sentiment.
“She’s got her dad’s stare, that’s for sure.” John had said before pulling a swig of beer, each man nodding as they recognized Simon’s piercing gaze in the form of a stubborn one year old, her unwillingness to smile at them almost endearing, if only solidying that she was in fact Simon’s daughter.
“I swear, she looked like she was going to bite Kyle when he suggested holding her.” You giggled, leaning a hip against the spare freeze in the garage when he came to a stop next to it.
“Ah, she’ll warm up to ‘em. She’s jus’ givin’ ‘em a hard time.”
“Well how about before she does start to defrost, you tell me what we’re doing in here?”
“Got somethin’ for you.” Simon replies, reaching to open the freezer before angling his face back to you. “Close your eyes for a second, birdie.”
“Hmm, okay.” You said, none too suspiciously as you shut your eyes, always trusting him, but unsure of just what the had in store. You heard the familiar sound of the freezer opening, Simon rustling around before the door was slamming shut again.
“Go ‘head and open ‘em.” He told you, voice softer now. Slowly, you did just that, opening your eyes to find something bright and red sat atop the freezer now. Your brows furrowed for a moment, recognizing that you were looking at a small, heart shaped cake, slathered in red icing, and not at all the same cake you’d baked for Rosie yesterday. You were about to question him- when you read what was written in icing across the top of the cake.
‘Happy one year breastfeeding’
“Simon-”
“I know it’s been a lot. Or rather- I can only imagine how much of a burden it’s been. To breastfeed for Rosie and continue pumping up until she turned one. That’s a whole year, love. Of putting your needs aside, putting your body through that. I’ve seen you uncomfortable, and aching, and- I jus’ wanted to give you this. Celebrate you a bit today, too.”
Every time you think you’ve learned everything there is to know about Simon Riley, just when you think he cannot surprise you any more, he goes and multiplies the love you thought you had for him by another infinity or so. It’s hard to believe that he once sincerely thought he would have to endure a life without love, when there is so much inside of him.
“Oh, Si.”
“Before you start cryin’, there is one more thing.” He says quickly, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Oh, really?”
“I migh’ have- stretched the truth, the other nigh’.”
“Stretched the truth?” You asked with an inquisitive raise of your brow, curious to know where this was going.
“‘Bout how many gifts she was gettin’.”
“Oh boy.” You said with a giggle. “Okay, so ‘stretching the truth’ was your way of not quite lying about it but-”
“You’re the one who said our first born only turns one once, love.”
And that was the story of how Simon recruited his mates, his fearsome, deadly, intimidating task force members, into sneaking a kitten into your home.
The runt of its litter, the frail little thing was meowing incessantly when Simon had rescued him from the shelter, the tiny creature passed up by every other family who was thrown off by its missing eye. Where others saw something different, something strange and perhaps unlovable, Simon saw himself. And if anyone knew how to love weird, unlovable creatures, it was you. Rosie’s scowls aimed at the 141 men instantly transformed into the most delighted of shrieks and giggles when they presented her with her newest companion, an itty bitty little thing that was decidedly named Kitty, when Rosie called out to him and he came trotting her way.
Rosie would have that cat with her for another fifteen trips around the sun. That damned cat, as Simon would come to call him each time he nearly tripped over it as it weaved through his legs, would be there to see Rosie’s first steps, would happily eat whatever food was thrown off of her high chair, would rub his head against her leg as she sniffled over a scraped knee learning to ride her bike, would leave its fur clinging to her first day of school uniform, and would even be waiting cautiously by her side as her mum and dad brought her baby brother home from the hospital. That cat would be sleeping with her on her bed up until she was a teenager, tail flicking in acknowledgment when Simon would poke his head into her room at night, because no matter how big she’d get, he’d always check in on her. Would always be there to comfort his children should a nightmare dare to creep into their heads at night, knowing just what a pair of comforting arms and a warm embrace can do for someone.
What your embrace did for him.
But no, Simon Riley hasn’t had a nightmare in a long, long time.
Not when every day still felt like a dream.
Epilogue coming Friday May 22nd…
If you’ve made it this far: thank you, thank you, thank you 🫶🏻
I love your work!!! Binge reading it all the time. I’ve been doom scrolling card tricks on TikTok and I’m going to assume every ghost simp has a thing for hands (atleast a little bit) and idk if you take requests but I just thought if you’re at the bar with ghost and 141 and he starts doing these crazy card tricks and it’s HOT!
Your first indication that you’d had one too many drinks probably should have been when Kyle had to nudge you when your favourite song started playing over the speakers in the bar and you hadn’t noticed
Or perhaps it should have been when Price had to say your name nearly half a dozen times to get your attention, in spite of being sat directly next to you
Maybe it even should have been when Johnny threw his straw wrapper in your face to get you to realize that you kept absentmindedly trying to drink from your long ago empty glass
It was all background noise at the end of the day though, wasn’t it?
At least, it became so, when one of the sergeants, you can’t remember who it was anymore, pulled out a deck of cards and slid them across the booth table over to Ghost, saying something about how they’d forgotten to give it back to him after the last op
Now, you’d watched the Lieutenant load and reload magazines as easily as someone might tie their shoelaces, had seen him disassemble and reassemble weapons like they were a child’s 10 piece jigsaw puzzle, had noticed him fiddling with his knives on more than a few occasions
You’d seen his hands in action before
But something about the way his large, rough, calloused hands split the deck without even glancing down at the cards, shuffled them as smoothly as any trained card dealer might one day hope to as well, seemingly had a warmth pooling low in your stomach, a tickle at the back of your neck telling you that you might just have a thing for hands
Or at the very least, his hands
It’s not long before the men have started passing cards around the table, intent on playing some game or another as they sip their drinks and wind down from the last job, laughing and messing about
You on the other hand, can hardly focus on the numbers and shapes on the cards in front of you, too occupied with way Ghost continues to shuffle his hand, the cards appearing comically small in his grasp
You wonder what his hands would look like holding-
“Y’alrigh’ there?” His gravelly voice finally snaps you out of your daydream, your eyes dancing across the four other pairs looking back at you, each with their own levels of amusement in them
“Yeah, uh sorry, what?”
“Said it’s your turn.” Ghost replies with a short chuckle, nodding towards the cards still in your grip. “Unless… you don’t feel like playin’.”
“No, no. I- I wanna play.” you cut yourself off, unsure where you were going with this train of thought anyways, the drinks and something else having you far too out of it to focus. “Uh- what game were we playing?”
“S’alright bonnie. Ye can watch me hand this lot their arses on a silver platter and learn somethin’ for next round, aye?” Johnny encourages just as Ghost reaches across and effortlessly plucks the cards right out of your hands, adding them back into the pile
Truth be told, you wouldn’t have been able to tell them whether you were playing poker or go fish at the moment, and though you likely could have faked your way through a turn or two, you’re much more content to sit here and shamelessly ogle at the Lieutenant’s hands sans interruption now
The warmth in your cheeks and the sudden moth infestation in your stomach have you long past the point of caring about the inevitable teasing you’re likely to get from the men tomorrow, hoping they’ll at least wait until your hangover has passed before they start poking fun at you
Ghost apparently seems to have other plans, when he’s walking you back to your dorm later that night, and those same hands are slipping under your shirt to land on the small of your back with the heat of a small fire, the fabric of his mask brushing against your ear when he says lowly, “I thought you said I was the one wit’ the starin’ problem, love.”
With the baby finally laying across your chest after hours upon hours of labour, paired with the letdown from the biggest adrenaline rush of your life, giving birth to Simon’s giant 9lb son, you hardly pay much mind to the nurse asking Simon to sign the birth certificate
Simon had of course been awake as long as you had, never leaving your side for a single moment, but nearly half of his job entailed having to stay awake longer than most people did, so you didn’t blink twice at him holding the pen
Besides, you were a tad preoccupied holding the baby, it only made sense that Simon got to write down his firstborn son’s name on the birth certificate
You weren’t thinking about how blurry his eyes would’ve been with tears however, or how his own immense emotional rollercoaster would have been starting to letdown, not to mention how he could hardly take his eyes off the sight of the love of his life holding the brand new life the two of you had created, together
You definitely didn’t catch the odd look on the nurses face when she read over the paper, clarifying softly with Simon “H-his name is Riley, sir?” to which he’d proudly puffed his chest and confirmed that he was indeed a Riley, neither of you thinking much about the comment as you were so lost in the haze of soaking in your newborn
Needless to say, it’s a surprise to both you and Simon, when the birth certificate is mailed to you both a few weeks later, with the name “Riley Riley” clearly written in bold
“I- admit tha’ I didn’t read it over very well, but-”
“No, you named our child Riley Riley, Simon. You can explain to me how it happened after you go fix it.”
Simon Riley with his weird ass acts of love and bizarre concept of boundaries
You’ll be waking up confused in the middle of the night, feeling a strange pulling at your feet, only to glance down and see your boyfriend has thrown the covers off and is attempting to clip your toenails for you
“What in the actual f-”
“I’m tired o’ your talons diggin’ into my legs every nigh’. This is for both o’ us, love.” He’ll grumble in that tone of his that leaves no room for argument, only the sound of nail clippers echoing in the room as your roll your eyes before shutting them again
Every so often when you’re on your period, you’ll be stepping out of the shower, bewildered to find that the night time pad and underwear you’d set aside with your pyjamas on the bathroom counter top, have been put together for you?
“Simon- you saved me all of two steps at most? Opening the wrapper and sticking it on?”
“And you’re welcome.” He’ll mutter casually with a quick kiss to your forehead before he’s off to brush his teeth
“I’m so confused. I might be losing it, Si.” You’ll mention one time, coming home after work with bags of greasy takeout food in hand, his brow only raising in question. “This is maybe the third time now I’ve noticed that the petrol was nearing a quarter tank, so I’d plan to fill up the next day. But next time I get in the car- the tank is fucking full! The first time I thought I had dreamt it, second time I thought I was hallucinating a little bit, but now-”
“Love, I’ve been filling up your car.”
“…what?”
“That’s me. Every time I’ve heard you say you need petrol- I’ve filled up the car.” Simon shrugs as though he’s simply telling you what the weather is for today, not that he’s been sneaking out in the middle of the night with your car keys to run a quick errand for you as you sleep
“I don’t know if I want to ask how or why first.”
“Well petrol’s fuckin’ expensive now, that’s why. You don’t need to be payin’ tha’.”
“You could have just … asked me?”
“… righ’. Noted.” He’ll nod in quick agreement before moving on to take the bags from you, no intention whatsoever of changing his habits
