Your pick of the litter
Pairing: Simon Riley x fem!reader
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a/n: Quick announcement for those who enjoyed Fallout, this series has been discontinued due to low engagement compared to the work it requires. Thank you so much to everyone who followed along, your support meant a lot! I'll of course keep writing for Ghost, just shorter pieces! Might also post some random snippets from Fallout as one shots.
Summary: You were married to Barrage, a union that never quite worked and now fate has thrown you, Simon and him into the same blacksite, forced to work together while tensions simmer and old wounds resurface. Professionalism is a fragile thing when past and present collide.
Classification: Fluff, a bit suggestive at the end
Word count: 1,4k
Divider by me ;)
You had sworn, truly sworn, with the kind of conviction that only heartbreak and exhaustion can carve into a person, that you would never, ever involve yourself with a military man again…yet life, as it often did, had twisted your firmest promises into fragile suggestions, because when your life was your job and your job was your life, your carefully built plans tended to crumble beneath reality’s heavy boots.
You had been married to Barrage for two years, two years of being young and hopeful and far too eager to be needed by someone who only ever wanted the shiny outline of a wife without the work required to be a husband. You had loved him, foolishly maybe or earnestly, which was somehow worse, and he had loved the idea of you in the same shallow, impulsive way children want puppies, without understanding the responsibility that came after the initial excitement wore off.
Legally, you were still married, though in practice the relationship had died long before you’d found the strength to walk away and the only thing keeping your name tethered to his was his stubborn refusal to sign the divorce papers. First he claimed they were lost in the mail, then he was on a near-fatal mission and “needed time,” then he denied ever receiving them, insisting that your lawyers were incompetent and that you were overreacting, until eventually you’d grown so tired of his excuses that you had shown up on his doorstep, handed him the damn papers yourself and walked away without looking back.
That had been almost a year ago and the signature line still sat empty.
You truly believed you’d never see him again until you were forced to stand before a judge and untangle the remaining legal knots of your shared life, but when both of your units were called to collaborate on an operation, fate…annoying, relentless and inconvenient fate had dragged him right back into your orbit at the exact time your life had finally moved forward.
Because you had moved on, physically, professionally, emotionally and romantically. Simon was the reason the last one didn’t burn, the years of friendship with him had built a foundation so steady, so quietly essential, that when things shifted between you, it felt less like falling in love and more like stepping into a room that had always been yours, waiting patiently for you to arrive. He’d given you space after your breakup, stepped back when you needed to find yourself again and when you finally turned your face toward him, he had simply been there and you had never been happier.
But now, inside this blacksite, cold, metallic, echoing and crawling with tension from the moment your helicopter touched the ground, you found yourself surrounded by the 141, Lasswell and Barrage’s team, and every single person in the building knew there was a storm brewing long before the first words were exchanged.
Your office door was closed but the raised voices outside carried effortlessly through the walls, dragging a long-suffering sigh out of your chest as Lasswell turned her head slowly toward you, giving you that sympathetic look she reserved for situations she was secretly glad weren’t hers.
Price’s voice came first, calm but edged with irritation. “We’re losing time. Arguments won’t clear this room faster.”
Gaz chimed in, sounding like someone watching a train wreck he wasn’t allowed to stop. “Mate, they’ve been at it for hours. We could’ve cleared three buildings by now.”
“141 will take point. You lot can wait around the corner,” Ghost rasped, defending Price’s plan with a tone that made it clear he’d repeated himself far too many times.
Then, as if summoned by your annoyance, Barrage’s voice barrelled into the air, louder and smugger than it had any right to be.
“My guys are better for leading this,” Barrage countered, that old obnoxious swagger dripping from every syllable, “less…bulky, quieter too. We’ll go in and out. Spooky, you can be lookout.”
You groaned at the oh-so-familiar mockery, pressing two fingers to your temples while Lasswell covered her mouth to hide a snort.
Ghost, predictably, did not find it funny. “Someone deal with it before I cut his bloody hand off and sign the papers myself,” he growled, shooting a murderous look at Soap, who already looked halfway convinced he’d have to restrain him.
“We’re not done,” Barrage snapped, whether he was talking about your marriage or this conversation, it was clear he meant every word.
“You’ll be soon if ye don’t watch it,” Soap fired back, jaw tight, accent thickening with annoyance. That was also when Simon reached his breaking point.
“I’m out of ‘ere,” he muttered, slamming a magazine into place on his vest with sharp, irritated movements. “Maybe while I’m gone, you can find some new ways to antagonize me with your bullshit.”
He turned, heading toward the corridor that led straight to your office, shoulders tight, patience spent.
Barrage called after him, voice dripping challenge. “Where are you going!?”
Simon didn’t even hesitate, didn’t turn or slow, just flung the response over his shoulder with enough force to punch the air out of the room. “To kiss your wife.”
‘Something you can’t do,’ he wanted to add.
The silence that followed was sharp and lethal, because that was the exact sentence guaranteed to make Barrage explode and unfortunately for everyone in the building, he did.
There was a knock on your office door just as a loud clatter and a string of curses echoed down the hall, the kind of noise that immediately marked someone as having thrown a fit and decided that whatever inanimate object was nearby deserved the punishment. Laswell’s eyes flicked toward you, pausing for a moment to see if you would react but when you didn’t, she rose and moved to the door with her usual quiet efficiency, opened it without a word, and stepped outside, silently letting Ghost slip inside and giving the both of you privacy.
The door clicked shut behind him, muffling the chaos outside and he released that slow breath you had come to recognize, the one that always seemed to mark the line between calculated calm and simmering anger.
You leaned back in your chair, folded your arms and offered the closest thing you could manage to a reassuring smile, except your lips didn’t bother lifting, giving the expression an almost grim, tired edge that made Ghost’s gaze soften beneath the mask.
“Gonna have them signed by the end of this,” he said, voice low and deadly even for him, the kind of tone a man used when he was negotiating with himself, deciding how much restraint he could realistically maintain before homicide became an attractive administrative solution. “That, or his name on a fridge at the morgue. Either one will do.”
You snorted, shaking your head as you pinched the bridge of your nose again. “Do I have to put Soap on murder-prevention duty? ‘Cause I really don’t want to deal with the paperwork that’d involve.”
He let out a short, breathy chuckle that always felt like a small victory to you. From the hallway, Soap must’ve caught the tail end of that exchange, because you heard him mutter something like “I better get hazard pay for this” before fading out of earshot.
“Negative,” Ghost said. “Gonna take a walk, clear my head, find something else to shoot.”
You hummed, tapping a pen against your thigh, gaze drifting toward the floor.
“Other suggestions?” he asked, that knowing tilt to his voice making it very, very clear he already suspected the direction your mind had gone.
“Had one that involved me,“ you answered with a sly half-smirk. “But considering how much your voices carried, maybe not wise to risk traumatizing half the base.”
“Would be too shocking for ’im,” he drawled, stepping closer. “Might start trembling and I need his signature clear for the judge, can’t have him scribblin’ like a panicked toddler.” He bent down and pressed a slow, gentle kiss to the top of your head, his gloved hand brushing the nape of your neck in a way that sent a warm, treacherous thrill down your spine. “But trust me,” he murmured, “I’ve thought about it.”
He straightened and took barely two steps toward the door when your voice followed him, quiet but charged. “How soundproof is that helicopter?”
His hand froze on the handle. He turned fully, and though his face was hidden behind the mask, the smirk was unmistakable in his voice. “Depends,” he rumbled. “How quiet can you be?”
The smile that tugged at your lips was answer enough.
