Simon Ghost Riley x you
Drunk On Loneliness
Alcohol, cigarettes
The apartment always felt bigger when Simon was gone.
You'd never worked out how. The furniture didn't move, the walls stayed exactly where they were, and his boots were still by the door, one slightly ahead of the other because apparently lining up footwear was where his military discipline ended. His mug was in the cupboard. His side of the wardrobe was full.
Still, every room seemed to gain space the moment he left on a mission.
Usually, you dealt with it. You went to work, came home, ate something and smoked on the terrace. You put music on. You slept badly for the first night or two and then slightly less badly until the sound of his key in the door eventually put the world back where it belonged.
You knew this life. You'd known from the beginning.
Simon had never pretended to be anything else, and you had never asked him to.
Tonight just happened to be one of those nights where knowing all of that didn't make it any less shit.
You opened a beer.
Then another.
And you stopped pretending this was an ordinary evening drink and decided you didn't particularly care.
Papa Roach played from the speakers inside, loud enough to carry through the open terrace door. The night was cool, the kind you liked, and you had Simon's hoodie pulled over your hands while a cigarette burned between two fingers.
It could have been worse.
Then Come Around started.
You stopped with the beer halfway to your mouth."Okay."
Jacoby continued singing while you nodded slowly and pointed the bottle towards the open door.
"That's actually fair."
You settled further into the chair and tipped your head back to look at the sky, singing along without really thinking about it.
Then came the part about silence.
Your beer slowed on its way back to your mouth.
I know your silence is a deadly sound. It’s never easy when you're breaking down
You stared through the terrace door.
"Seriously?"
The song carried on.
"We're starting already?"
You took a drink and tried to ignore it.
That lasted all of twenty seconds.
By the time Jacoby reached the promise at the end, you were singing with him again.
But I'll be there when you come around
You looked up at the sky.
"Yeah."
Another sip.
"Better come around soon, Riley."
The stars, entirely unhelpfully, had nothing to add.
By the time the song ended, the beer was gone and another had already been opened.
You were lighting another cigarette when the familiar opening of Leave a Light On drifted outside.
Your hand stopped around the lighter.
"Oh, come on."
You stared through the open door.
"Seriously?"
The playlist continued without remorse.
"Traitor."
You lit the cigarette anyway and sank back into the chair.
This one was worse. You'd known what the song was about from the first time you'd heard it, and maybe that was why it had stayed with you. Tonight, though, it found every thought you'd spent the evening avoiding and dragged them out one by one.
The empty side of the bed. The phone you checked more often than you admitted. The fact that somewhere in the world Simon was doing something you would probably never know the full details of.
Then Jacoby sang about seeing someone fading in the dark.
You shut your eyes.
"Oh, fuck off."
The cigarette came away from your mouth and pointed accusingly towards the speaker.
"I know."
The chorus started.
Through the lone nights I will be right there for you if you drift to far
I'll leave a light on for you
You rubbed a hand over your face.
"Yeah, yeah. Heard you the first time."
The hoodie suddenly smelled too much like Simon.
You pulled the sleeve farther over your hand and took a long drag from your cigarette.
Then you sang the next chorus anyway.
Louder.
"Fucking song."
The next beer disappeared somewhere before the song ended.
You left the empty bottle on the terrace table and went inside, mostly because you wanted another drink and partly because sitting still had started to feel like a bad idea.
You had just opened the cupboard when Wake Up Calling started.
You stopped.
"No."
The gin bottle was already in your hand.
Jacoby, apparently having no respect for timing, carried on.
You take the burn, you take the blame.
Your eyes slowly closed. "Don't."
I'll be the reason we go up in flames.
You opened them again and stared at the speaker.
"Are you serious?"
Then came the part about needing someone tonight.
You looked down at the gin.
The apartment around you was still empty.
"Fuck off, Jacoby."
You're my wake up calling
For a few seconds, you just stood there with the bottle in your hand.
Then you reached for the mixer.
"This feels targeted."
You poured far too much gin into the glass, added far too little mixer and took a sip. Your face immediately twisted.
"Jesus Christ."
You regarded the glass suspiciously before drinking again.
Better.
Or you were getting drunk.
Could have been either.
You carried the glass back outside just as the song was ending.
The playlist gave you approximately three minutes of peace.
Then the first notes of Falling Apart filled the apartment.
You stared at the speaker.
"No... no."
The song continued.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Apparently not.
You looked down at the gin in your hand and then back towards the apartment.
"Oh, now you're just being rude."
A laugh escaped you before you could help it. You lifted the glass in a mocking toast.
"Who made this playlist?"
You waited a second before frowning.
"Right. Me."
That made you laugh harder.
"Past me is a menace."
You were still smiling when you started singing. The song was too good not to, too familiar. You knew where Jacoby's voice would rise before it happened and went with him, sitting alone on the terrace with a cigarette in one hand and gin in the other like you were playing to a sold-out stadium instead of a few neighbouring houses that probably hated you by now.
Somewhere along the way, though, you stopped laughing.
I refuse to believe , the apocalypse inside of me,
I can't even trust myself, I'm burning in my skin
Your voice faltered for half a second.
You took a drink.
Kept singing.
The song built, and you went with it until you reached the part about following someone out of the dark.
Your eyes closed.
You didn't make a joke this time.
Didn't insult the speaker.
You just sang.
Louder than before, the gin warm beneath your skin and every word suddenly carrying more weight than it had any right to.
You didn't hear the front door.
You didn't hear a bag being lowered to the floor in the hall or boots crossing the apartment. You certainly didn't hear them stop when their owner recognised the song.
Simon stood inside for a moment.
He knew this one.
He knew most of them by now, although he'd deny it if Soap ever found out.
Years of living with you had made Papa Roach less of a band and more of an unavoidable environmental condition.
He also knew you well enough to take in the terrace in one glance.
The bottle. The empty beers. The way you were singing with your eyes closed and holding a cigarette that had burned dangerously close to your fingers without you noticing.
Then he heard you follow Jacoby into the next line.
I tried it my way, but I keep falling apart
Simon watched you for another few seconds.
"Planning on finishing the whole bottle yourself?"
You nearly left the chair.
The glass jerked in your hand and gin sloshed over your fingers.
"Fuck!"
Simon didn't move.
You stared at him, and he stared back.
For one stupid second, your alcohol-soaked brain refused to catch up with your eyes. Then it did.
"...You're early."
"Apparently."
He was still dressed in dark tactical clothing, the worst of his gear already gone but the mask still covering his face. He looked tired. There was dirt at his collar and a stiffness in one shoulder you immediately noticed and filed away for later.
His eyes dropped to the glass, moved to the bottles and then the cigarette before returning to your face.
"Didn't answer your phone."
You blinked. "My phone?"
"Usually how it works."
You looked around the table as though the thing might have developed legs.
It wasn't there.
Your gaze wandered towards the apartment.
"Oh."
Simon followed it to the speakers. The music was still loud enough that you could feel the bass outside.
"Had the music too loud," you admitted.
"Mhm."
"I did."
"Didn't say you didn't."
"You did the 'mhm'."
"The what?"
You narrowed your eyes at him.
"That thing you do."
His eyebrow moved slightly above the mask.
You waved the cigarette vaguely in his direction. "Don't pretend you don't know."
His attention shifted to the music. "Falling Apart."
You groaned. "Oh, no."
"Interesting choice."
"It was the playlist."
"Course it was."
"Simon."
"Bit on the nose, love."
You stared at him and then pointed at his face.
"Says the man wearing a skull."
Silence.
His eyes narrowed.
You waited.
"Fair."
A laugh burst out of you so suddenly you nearly spilled the gin again.
Simon stepped forward and took the glass from your hand.
The laughter stopped. "Hey!"
He put it on the table.
"I was drinking that."
"Not anymore."
You reached for it. He moved it farther away without even looking.
"I'm not a child, Simon."
"No." His gaze travelled over the empty bottles again. "Children generally have better supervision."
Your mouth fell open. "You cheeky bastard."
He took the cigarette from your other hand.
"HEY!"
Simon crushed it into the ashtray.
Now you were offended.
Genuinely offended.
"You've been home thirty seconds and you've stolen everything I own."
"You've got another bottle inside."
You stared at him. He stared back.
"How do you know that?"
"Know you."
That should not have shut you up as effectively as it did.
You folded your arms instead.
Simon remained where he was, looking at you in that quiet way of his that became increasingly irritating the longer it continued.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"Am."
"Stop."
"No."
The alcohol was warm beneath your skin and your head felt pleasantly light, but his presence had disturbed the careful little bubble you'd built around yourself all evening.
He was here, and you were glad. So fucking glad.
Somehow, that made the ache of the last few days worse before it made it better.
"You were gone."
It came out sharper than you intended.
Simon went still. Not enough that anyone else would have noticed, perhaps, but you did.
"I was working."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
Your head snapped towards him. "Of course I fucking know that."
The words cracked across the terrace.
Simon said nothing.
You heard your own tone properly in the silence that followed and closed your eyes.
"Shit."
He still didn't speak.
"No." You rubbed your forehead with the heel of your hand. "No, that wasn't fair."
"Love..."
"I'm sorry."
Your eyes opened again. He was watching you.
"I mean it. I'm sorry."
"You've had a drink."
"Several, apparently."
"Noticed."
You almost smiled, but it didn't quite make it.
"I knew what this was, Simon."
Something in his expression shifted.
You looked past him into the apartment.
"I knew when I met you. Maybe not every detail, but I knew enough. I knew you'd leave, that there'd be missions and places I couldn't follow you and days where I wouldn't hear a fucking thing."
Your fingers found the sleeve of his hoodie and twisted the fabric.
"I knew I couldn't just call you because I was having a bad evening and expect you to answer from God knows where."
Simon looked down at your hands.
"I chose this."
His eyes came back to yours.
"I chose you."
Neither of you said anything for a moment.
You swallowed.
"So I'm not angry at you."
"Sounded a bit angry."
You gave him a tired look. "I'm drunk."
"Also noticed."
"And I miss you, you bastard."
There it was. The whole miserable truth, without any of the prettier words you might have found if you were sober.
Simon breathed out slowly through his nose.
You looked away.
"Sorry."
"Don't."
"I just snapped at you."
"Don't apologize for missing me."
Your throat tightened.
Of course.
Of course the bastard would choose five words and somehow make them hurt more than everything you'd been listening to all evening.
You looked down at the table.
"Still shouldn't have snapped."
"No."
Your head lifted.
Simon held your gaze.
"You're supposed to say it's fine."
"Wasn't."
You stared at him for two seconds before a laugh escaped you.
"God, I hate you sometimes."
"No, you don't."
"No." You sighed. "I really fucking don't."
The corner of his eye creased.
You glanced towards the phone you still couldn't see.
"Couldn't have called you anyway."
"Could've tried."
"You wouldn't have answered."
He was quiet because you were right, and neither of you was going to pretend otherwise. Simon had spent enough time unreachable that this wasn't a new conversation.
Then he gave a small shrug.
"Would've wanted you to."
You stared at him.
He looked back as though he hadn't just reached into your chest and squeezed.
"You can't say things like that when I'm drunk."
"Why?"
"Because I'm emotionally compromised."
"You're pissed."
"That's what I said."
A quiet huff left him.
When he stepped closer, you let him. His hand settled at your waist, warm and heavy and so familiar that you leaned into him before pride could object.
"You're a mess," he murmured.
You pressed your forehead against his chest.
"Your mess."
His arm tightened. "Yeah. Mine."
For a while, neither of you moved.
Then Simon looked over your head towards the apartment. The song had changed, and No Matter What drifted through the open door.
He made a quiet sound.
You lifted your head. "What?"
"This one."
"What about it?"
"You like this bit."
You frowned. "What bit?"
He nodded towards the apartment. You listened.
No matter what, I got your back
Your eyes moved to his.
Simon was still listening.
Then came the next line.
I'll take a bullet for you if it comes to that
Something in his face changed.
Barely.
You saw it anyway.
"How would you know I like this bit?"
"Calls."
You blinked.
Then remembered.
The few times he'd managed to reach you while he was away. Brief calls, usually at strange hours, catching you wandering around the apartment with music playing in the background because turning it down before answering had apparently never occurred to you.
"You recognised it?"
"Hard not to. Always this one."
"It is not always this one."
Simon gave you a look.
You lasted approximately three seconds.
"Fine. Maybe quite often."
"Knew it."
You looked towards the apartment again as the song continued.
I swear to God, that in the bitter end
We're gonna be the last ones standing
You smiled faintly.
Simon didn't.
"Don't like that line."
You looked at him. "Which one?"
His eyes shifted to yours.
You knew.
"Oh."
"Bit too literal."
A laugh escaped you despite yourself.
"For you? Yeah."
"Skip it."
"No."
"Stubborn."
"Your fault."
"How's that my fault?"
You considered this with all the seriousness several drinks allowed.
"Don't know. I'm drunk."
Simon stared at you.
Then shook his head.
You grinned.
He reached around you, picked up the gin bottle and started towards the apartment.
"Hey."
"Inside."
"Bossy."
"Drunk."
"I am aware."
"Good."
You followed him through the terrace door, still muttering about authoritarian military types stealing perfectly good gin.
Simon put the bottle on the kitchen counter.
Far back.
You noticed. "That's deliberate."
"Is."
"I can still reach it."
He looked at you.
You looked at the bottle.
Then at him.
"...Probably."
Simon opened a cupboard and took out a glass.
Water.
Of course.
He held it towards you.
You stared at it.
"No."
"Drink."
"I don't want water."
"Didn't ask."
"You're very unpleasant when you come home."
"And you're pissed."
"Emotionally compromised."
"Drink."
You took the glass.
Mostly because arguing with him required more concentration than you currently possessed.
Simon leaned against the counter while you drank, his eyes staying on you until you lowered the glass.
"Happy?"
"More."
"Simon."
"Love."
You narrowed your eyes and drank again.
The corner of his eye creased.
"Bastard."
"Been called worse."
"I know. I've called you worse."
"Also know."
Much later, you were curled into the corner of the sofa with your legs tucked beneath you. The gin remained on the kitchen counter, safely beyond what Simon apparently considered your operating radius, and your third glass of water sat on the table.
Simon had changed into a black shirt and joggers. The mask was gone, his hair was still slightly damp from a quick shower, and the music had been turned down to a level he considered acceptable for human hearing.
You hadn't agreed to that last part.
You'd simply been overruled.
Simon sat beside you with one arm along the back of the sofa, listening to whatever the playlist had moved on to.
After a while, he frowned. "Put that one on."
You turned your head. "What one?"
"That other one."
You waited.
Simon looked at you.
"Ah," you said. "Obviously. The other Papa Roach song."
His eyes narrowed. "You know it."
"I know many."
"The one about not regretting it."
You stared at him.
"That's all I've got."
"Simon, that could be several songs."
"Staying."
"Still several."
He frowned towards the speaker as though Jacoby Shaddix had deliberately created an entire discography just to make his evening difficult.
"Bit about being fucked up."
You snorted. "Congratulations. You've narrowed it down to half their catalogue."
"Love."
There was actual irritation in his voice now, and you started laughing.
Simon waited until you'd mostly finished.
"The one where someone's made a mess of things," he tried again.
You pressed your lips together. "And?"
"And they know it."
"Right."
"But they're not..." He paused, visibly searching for the word. "Begging."
You tilted your head.
Simon rubbed a hand over his jaw.
"Not ashamed of it."
Your smile slowly faded.
That did fit a few songs.
He looked at you for another second before adding, quieter, "You sing it when you think I'm asleep."
Then you knew. Immediately.
The title appeared in your head so quickly it was almost embarrassing.
"No Apologies?"
Simon pointed at you. "That one."
You laughed again. "That description was awful."
"Got there."
"Eventually."
"Put it on."
Something about the way he said it made you look at him.
Simon rarely asked for songs. He tolerated your music, had opinions he pretended not to have and knew more Papa Roach than any man who claimed to be indifferent reasonably should.
But he didn't ask.
Not usually.
"You actually want to hear it?"
"Wouldn't have spent five bloody minutes describing it otherwise."
"Three."
"Felt like five."
You reached for your phone and found the song.
A few seconds later, No Apologies started.
Simon settled back into the sofa.
You watched him.
He noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"Am."
His own words from earlier.
Simon gave you a look.
You smiled and leaned back, listening.
Then the part came.
The one about not having to say you're sorry.
Your head turned slowly towards him.
Simon was already looking at you.
"Don't."
You blinked. "I didn't say anything."
"You were going to."
"Maybe."
His eyes narrowed.
The song continued.
I hope you know, you don't have to say you're sorry
You don’t have to live with the heartache you keep
'Cause I don't need no apologies
Simon nodded once towards the speaker.
"Song's got a point."
You stared at him. "You knew that lines?"
"Know enough."
Your mouth slowly opened into a grin.
Simon saw it happen.
"No."
"Simon Riley knows Papa Roach lyrics."
"Careful."
"Oh my God."
"Love."
"Soap is going to love this."
"You tell Johnny and I'm putting the gin down the sink."
Your smile vanished. "You wouldn't."
Simon held your gaze.
You reached slowly for your phone and pulled it against your chest.
"Your secret is safe with me."
"Thought so."
You glared at him.
He looked back towards the speaker.
Smug bastard.
After a while, he spoke again.
"This one's you."
You turned your head. "Excuse me?"
"Stubborn."
"I'm not stubborn."
Simon actually looked at you then.
You lasted three seconds.
"Fine. A little."
"A lot."
"You stole my gin."
"You'd had enough."
"You stole my cigarette."
"Same answer."
"You called me a mess."
"You were."
"And now you're insulting my personality."
Simon looked back towards the speaker.
"Still here, though."
His voice was quiet enough that you almost missed it beneath the music.
You stopped smiling.
Simon didn't look at you.
Maybe that was why he wanted the song.
Not because he knew every word or had spent hours trying to work out what it meant. He'd heard you sing it in kitchens and bedrooms, in the car and late at night when you thought he was asleep.
Somewhere along the way, he'd found something of his own in it.
You didn't ask him what.
He probably wouldn't have told you anyway.
You shifted across the sofa and tucked yourself against his side. Simon lifted his arm without looking and let you settle beneath it.
"I really am sorry I snapped at you," you murmured.
"I know."
"I don't blame you for leaving."
"Know that too."
"I just miss you."
His arm tightened around you.
"I know, love."
You rested your head against his chest and listened to the music. After a moment, you felt his fingers move slowly against your arm.
"You know," you said, "for someone who claims he doesn't like Papa Roach, you know an alarming amount about my songs."
"Never said I don't like 'em."
Your head lifted so fast it made the room move slightly.
Simon caught your shoulder.
"Easy."
You ignored that. "You like Papa Roach?"
"Didn't say that either."
"Simon."
He reached for your water and pushed it back into your hands.
"Drink."
You stared at him.
He stared back.
"You're avoiding the question."
"Am."
You narrowed your eyes and took a drink.
The corner of Simon's mouth moved.
Barely.
You caught it anyway.
"Bastard."
His fingers closed around your wrist before you could put the water down, steadying the glass until you had it properly.
"Drink, love."
You did, still glaring at him over the rim.
Simon leaned back into the sofa as though he'd won something.
Maybe he had.
The music kept playing, his arm found its way around you again, and the apartment no longer felt too big.
You'd still hate the next mission. You'd still check your phone too often and sleep badly for the first few nights. Sometimes the quiet would get loud, and apparently your own playlist would take that as an invitation to kick you while you were down.
None of that had changed.
You'd known it wouldn't.
Simon pressed his lips briefly to the top of your head.
You closed your eyes.
You had known what a life with him would be from the moment you understood what he did. You had chosen him anyway.
And, stubborn bastard that he was, Simon kept coming home.
