𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 ‘𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭’ 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 & 𝐖𝐢𝐟𝐞! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ೃ 𐙚⋆. ˚࿔ masterlist
If it wasn’t for the chatter of his fellow task force members, Simon might’ve been able to get some much needed shut eye. The low, rhythmic thrum of the C-130’s engines vibrated through the metal hull, a familiar white noise that usually lulled soldiers to sleep.
To his left, Gaz and Soap were hunched over an upturned equipment crate, aggressively playing a hand of cards by the dim, red glow of the tactical lights. Across from them, Captain Price had his boonie hat pulled down over his eyes, seemingly dead to the world, though everyone knew he could wake up and pull a trigger in a fraction of a second.
Simon sat slightly apart from the rest, his massive frame swallowed by his tactical gear, the skull-patterned balaclava firmly in place. To anyone else, the Lieutenant looked like a statue. But if someone looked closely, closer than most dared to, they would notice he wasn’t staring at his artillery.
Between his heavily gloved thumbs, Simon was holding a small, slightly crumpled photograph.
It was a picture of you. You were laughing, your hair a bit messy, looking up at the camera with a warmth that could melt even the harshest of winters. It was taken just days before he deployed, right after you both had said "I do" in a tiny, rushed courthouse ceremony. There had been no time for a reception, let alone a honeymoon. The ink on the marriage license was barely dry before Task Force 141 was called back out. But there was a promise waiting on the other side of this AO: a two-week leave, a cabin in the mountains, and uninterrupted time with his wife.
Simon traced the edge of the photo with a gloved thumb, his posture softening in a way he only ever allowed when he thought no one was watching.
"Aw, look at that. The big bad Ghost has a soft spot," a Scottish voice needled.
Simon didn't even look up, his eyes remaining locked on your face. "Shut it, Johnny."
Soap leaned over the crate, a massive grin plastering his face. "I'm serious, LT! You're staring at that photo like it’s a map to El Dorado. Let me see her again, eh? Remind me what kind of saint takes a monster like you off the market."
Before Simon could bark out another threat, Price spoke up, not even bothering to lift his hat from his eyes. "Leave him be, MacTavish. Though, I still don't know how a bloke like Simon managed to pull her. She’s the sweetest girl I’ve ever met. Truly, a saint, you’re right about that."
"Bloody opposites, those two," Gaz chimed in, tossing a card down. "She bakes biscuits for the base sometimes. Ghost is out here breaking collarbones."
"I’m right here," Simon said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in his chest.
"We know, LT. We just like seeing you turn pink under that mask," Soap chuckled, finally backing off when Simon’s dark eyes snapped up, flashing a warning that promised physical violence if another word was spoken.
"The only price to pay for marriage is freedom, good man, tis only our pride as men that gives us wings." Gaz said, dramatically.
"What?" Soap replied, tilting his head up from his cards.
"Nevermind, it’s your move by the way."
With a quiet, annoyed huff, Simon turned his attention back to the photograph. The teasing from the lads didn't actually bother him, if anything, hearing them acknowledge you, acknowledging that you were his, brought pride to his chest.
You were his opposite. You were his light, his warmth, and everything good left in a world that he had spent years seeing only in shades of blood and ash.
Slowly, carefully, Simon slid the photograph into the secure, waterproof inner pocket of his tactical vest. He patted it twice, ensuring it was sitting directly over his heart.
It has become a ritual to him now. Every deployment. A silent, desperate prayer to whatever higher power was listening, and to you, promising that he would survive. He would let the Ghost handle the bloodshed, but Simon Riley was going to make it back to that cabin. He was going to take his wife on her honeymoon if it was the last thing he’d ever do.
The red jump light suddenly flashed to life, bathing the cabin in a harsh crimson. Price stood up, pulling his hat tight. "Alright, safe zone's behind us. Check your gear, five minutes to drop!"
The atmosphere shifted instantly. The easy camaraderie vanished, replaced by the focus of the military's finest. Soap and Gaz threw their cards aside, checking their magazines, while Price checked his comms.
Simon stood up, checking his rifle. He adjusted his mask. He was ready to do what he did best. Because the sooner he finished the monster's work, the sooner he could come home to you.
