Tags: Alternative Universe - Canon Divergence, Past Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" Mactavish, Dead John 'Soap' Mactavish, PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Simon Riley has PTSD, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Depression, Anxiety, Phobias, Past Child Abuse, Past Violence, Past Self-Harm, Graphic Descriptions, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Runaway Reader, Reader is 13, Simon is 45, Adoption Inaccuracies, Soft Simon "Ghost" Riley, Protective Simon "Ghost" Riley, Dad Simon "Ghost" Riley, No Usage of Y/N for Reader-Insert, Author Has Only Watched Other People Play Call of Duty, Author Is From Texas
Summary: Having faced years of abuse at the hands of your parents, you decided to run away. Better off homeless than in that house you were sure to die in. You just hoped you would find a better life - and you did.
Word Count: 2,756
Disclaimer: There are sensitive topics in this chapter that I didn't tag to prevent spoilers. Please proceed with caution.
The next day was tense as a heavy air filled the entire house. Heavy dark skies added to the already present ominous feeling as rhythmatic sounds of downpour hit the windows in a quiet manner.
Riley laid on his bed in the corner of the living room as he was still a bit loopy from all the anesthesia and pain medication he was on.
Simon was outside butchering chickens in the farmhouse as you stayed indoors, as you were told to. You laid on the couch as you watched some cartoons on the television.
You had slept with Simon last night at his demand. He felt it wouldn't have been right for you to sleep all by your lonesome, especially after that whole ordeal.
But something occurred last night that made you worry about Simon.
It had been four in the morning when you had been startled awake by the sound of glass shattering. It had you thinking you were back there again.
Your heart palpitated ugly in your chest, making you cough out of reflex, sitting up straight to only realize the empty spot next to you.
Panic quickly set in as your eyes darted around the room when a faint like coming from under the bathroom door caught your attention.
You pinched your eyebrows as the door was closed.
Simon never closed the bathroom door.
He always left it a crack open to be able to check up on you in case you were having a nightmare.
Worry tugged at your heartstrings as you quickly clambered off the bed and banged your fists against the wooden door.
"Simon!" You gasped out as anxiety still clinged to your form. Your whole body shaking since you were still on edge about accidently stabbing Simon just a few hours ago.
You heard clattering inside as the drawers were pushed close so hard that the frame of the house shook with it.
"Simon! I'm scared!" You choked out as hot tears ran down your face. You heard Simon give out a rushed response that was completely unintelligible.
Each beat of your heart was like a gong ringing through your ears as the door keeping you from Simon might as well have been a wall.
The door clicked softly as it swung open to reveal Simon, who had part of his left forearm bandaged, which immediately raised concern.
Simon was impassive as he quickly whisked you up into his arms and closed the bathroom door behind him.
He muttered his familiar mantra that he did in times like this, but it sounded automated, like he wasn't here with you at all.
When morning came, you had woken up to find the bed empty again, which wasn't unusual.
In fact, you were pleased. It gave you the opportunity to investigate the bathroom to see what exactly occurred there.
You immediately beeline to the bathroom as you were afraid that Simon would be back at any moment.
You glanced at the clock and mentally cursed at how close it was for Simon to come and wake you up for breakfast.
You turned the doorknob, but it didn't budge.
Simon had locked it.
A frustrated whine left your mouth as you figured that Simon was quite literally and figuratively locking you out.
You looked down at your feet in deep thought as to what exactly was going on when it hit you. You rushed to lay on your side on the floor with one eye peeking under the door.
The bathroom mirror was missing lard shards of glass, and it was broken in a very obvious way that something had been bashed against it, and on the floor was a small puddle of dried blood - Simon's blood.
You let out a frustrated sigh as you felt a headache coming on, turning off the television and shutting your eyes.
You needed to get through to Simon. What he was doing wasn't healthy at all. But most of all, why was he pushing you away?
Whatever.
You'll think about this later.
This headache is killing you.
It felt like someone was trying to squeeze your head until it popped.
-
Simon knew you were onto him.
He felt like the biggest asshole in the world purposefully keeping you out, but he knew he had to.
He would be horrified if he ended up hurting you in one of his PTSD episodes. He didn't know if he could ever forgive himself if he brought you any pain.
Simon was outside mucking the chicken coop as the chickens pranced around outside.
His ears rang from tinnitus as the birds chirped from the trees, the leaves rustling as the wind blew, the smell of the earth and manure filling his lungs.
"█████ ██████ ██ ████ █████ ██ ███." Simon ignored the voice in his head as he tossed out some soiled hay into the wheelbarrow.
It was all because of that goddamn dream he had during witching hours.
"████ ████ ███████ ██ ███. ███ ███ █████ ██ █████." Simon felt sweat beading at his forehead as his hands began to tremble from the anxiety, digging a burrow in his chest.
He grumbled as he decided to take a small break as he stood out in the grass. He gazed out at the thicket of trees that surrounded his land when a coyote popped out into view.
It moved its head left and right, scanning the area before locking eyes with Simon. It stared right at him for a few seconds before running back into the woods.
They didn't normally show up at this time of day, nor did they show up without another coyote accompanying them.
He then remembered what you had said to him on your first day in his care.
"The trees. The trees scare me - what they're hiding."
Hm.
-
It was past midnight as the house was dead quiet. It was a quiet night as there was no wind and no animal in the distance making themselves heard.
Simon was fast asleep in his bed as you had returned back to your room, stating you felt fine enough to be alone.
He originally wanted to protest, but he decided to respect your choice. It wasn't like he could be there for you every step of your life. He wanted to, but he knew it wasn't realistic.
Simon's eyes flew open as he stared right back at a mattress supported by wooden beams. A movement in the corner of his eyes caught his attention.
"Goin' out with Daddy." Tommy said in a mocking tone as he dangled over the top bunk bed, "Lucky Simon." He donned a skull mask as he waved a pocket knife.
Simon froze at the sight of his little brother as he looked down to see his body much smaller. He was a child again.
He looked back at Tommy, who kept mocking him as he continued to wave the knife around until the bedroom door opened to reveal his father, who was carrying a ball python.
Simon froze as his father sat on his bed with the huge snake slithering all over him. Tommy suddenly manifests on his lap as his hands graze the scales on the snake's tail.
The snake stared right back at him as they were locked in an eye staring contest. His body twitched in response to its staring straight at him.
"Saw ya twitch, Simon. Twitchin'll be the end of you." His father spat out with malice in his tone, a snarl looking smile on his wrinkled face.
Simon just sat there as he could hear his mother scolding his father for scaring him, but it was muffled.
He was too busy figuring out how he became a child again and how his family was still alive. He stayed frozen in his bed as his father got up with Tommy tagging alone.
His mother reached out to him as her soft hands caressed his cheeks. She spoke but he couldn't hear a word she said.
"Where is she?" Simon spoke out as his high-pitched voice slightly startled him. His mother seemed confused as to what he meant.
"My child? Where is she?" Simon asked once more as his mother began laughing at him, brushing his question as a joke.
His mother got up as he was suddenly transported somewhere else. A place he could never forget, no matter how hard he tried.
His brown eyes locked in with another pair of brown eyes - Manuel Roba.
-
You had been woken up in the middle of the night by your bladder pinging for release when you had gotten sidetracked by groaning coming out of Simon's room.
At first, you thought he was doing adult things and were gonna scurry away and pour bleach down your ear canal, but then he began to wail like he was scared.
You immediately barged into his room, completely forgetting about his rule to knock in your worry. Simon was lying on his back with his face all scrunched up and a thick layer of sweat on him.
You had a haunch he had PTSD and was most likely in the midst of an episode right now.
You had read stories online back when you were allowed to visit the public library. You recalled a story of husbands breaking his wives hand, thinking they were an enemy.
She had been woken up by his thrashing as he was deep into a nightmare and had tried to shake him awake only to be pinned down and her arm expertly broken.
The husband hadn't forgiven himself and divorced her despite her pleas.
You stood at the edge of his bed wondering how you could awaken him without getting yourself harmed and wondered how you could express you didn't feel any sort of danger if he did.
This was like a minefield, except there were no safe areas, just pure bombs ready to be set off.
You let out a sigh as you prepped yourself.
You called out to Simon with a loud voice. You screamed his name repeatedly, hoping it would be a tug line out of whatever he was.
Simon seemed to recognize your voice, but he just got more distress. You were probably now in his nightmare getting hurt or something like that.
You cursed out as you paced back and forth with your hands in your hair.
You really regret not researching how to properly wake someone out of a PTSD nightmare back then, but you didn't think there would be a light at the end of the tunnel.
You stared at Simon, who kept thrashing about as he mumbled out some names you didn't recognize.
Staring at his thrashing body, an idea came to mind that could work. You knew this could end badly, but you just wanted him awake and out of there.
Shakingly reaching out a hand, your finger lightly grazed his shoulder as the muscle twitched in reflex.
Simon didn't lash out at you as you then spoke up, "Simon, it's me. I'm okay!" You spat out as your heart pounded in your chest.
You pleaded as Simon just stayed asleep, still in the grasp of his nightmare. You let out a frustrated whine as you stomped your foot against the wooden floor.
"Daddy! Please wake up!" You sobbed out in frustration as you threw your body over him to only be pinned down with his hands wrapped tightly around your neck.
It hurt immensely.
Your head throbbed, your lungs burning for air as it felt like your neck was gonna snap into two.
Adrenaline went through your veins as you quickly flicked Simon in the eye, causing him to let go immediately.
You immediately began to hack out some saliva and cough simultaneously, cradling a hand on your throat.
You felt the bed shake, and then the bathroom door harshly slammed that it shook the whole house. Simon heaving was muffled through the wood as you recuperate on the bed.
-
It had taken a while for Simon to come out of the bathroom as you told him with embarrassment that you had pissed on his bed.
You hadn't gone to the bathroom and instead came im here when you heard his crisis, causing you to soil yourself.
Simon reassured you that everything was fine and for you to wash yourself while he cleaned his bed.
You did as told as the air in the was even heavier than this morning.
You stepped out of the bathroom as you found Simon staring at the picture frame that he kept on his bedside table. You had taken a peak at it some time back to see it was a picture of a man.
He had the brightest blue eyes you have ever seen and donned a mohawk. He was in military clothes, signifying he was an old comrade of his, a fallen one at that.
Simon never spoke about him, but you could put two and two together. If he were alive, you bet he would visit the two of you or even live here.
You knocked on the door as Simon didn't even put the picture frame down like he usually did. You took a seat next to him as he moved to get up, but you perched yourself right on his lap.
"I'm not mad or scared of you," you blurted out. "I knew the risks of me doing that, but... I just wanted you to wake up."
You whispered out as your voice cracked a bit, but you willed yourself not to cry. Crying right now would probably prevent Simon from opening up.
You guessed he didn't open up to you cause he didn't want to burden you or see you upset. He had always been sensitive whenever you cried.
"It's just - . I wonder if I made you go into an episode." You spoke up in a shaky voice, "Did me stabbing you... make you like this?"
Simon immediately shook his head as his hands that had remained rooted at his side finally cradled you into his chest.
"Fuckin' hell. No, you didn't do anythin' to make my PTSD flare up, sweet'eart." Simon reassured you, "Jus' had a dream, that's all."
You nodded your head as you stayed quiet for a bit, "About?" You followed up in a soft tone.
Simon let out a sigh as he stayed quiet for a while, "About Johnny... and you." He answered in a low, tender voice.
Simon spoke to you about this recurring dream he had for years now. He first experienced it shortly after moving into this house.
The walls of his house that are plain white are now decorated with numerous picture frames of him and Johnny. Picture frames depicting them during holidays, vacations, and even their wedding that never got to happen.
It would always end with Johnny dying in a house fire with Simon outside, unable to go inside to save him.
Then, he would be at his funeral with all his family members yelling at how he should have died instead and how he brought death to everyone around him.
But, the dream changed for the first time in years. You were now in it, and you died the same way Johnny did.
In a house fire and Simon being unable to get inside to save the both of you. Johnny's family is still yelling the same comments as before.
Simon recounted his recurring nightmare as silence filled the air.
You felt so sad for Simon for what he's been going through all these years. You shifted to embrace him tightly as he hugged you back.
"You're still healing, and that's okay. I'm still healing, too. We can heal together, Daddy." You said as you pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Simon immediately melted at you calling him 'Daddy' and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He didn't think fatherhood was for him, but he now knew it was meant to be.
It's a shame Johnny wasn't here, but he knew he was smiling down at him, probably cranking some jokes while at it.
"Yeah, we'll get better. I know we will." Simon whispered out as he pressed a kiss to your cheek.
⌜A/N: This took so long to write from how many times I've rewritten it. There are definitely grammatical/spelling errors, but at this point, I don't care. The chapter is short, but I felt there was nothing more to add. The vagueness and lack of specific details are done on purpose since Simon isn't letting you in that quick. Hope you like it! We have, like, maybe 2-3 chapters left. Emphasis on maybe.⌟
⌜⚠️: I do NOT consent to my work being trained by AI or an AI bot based on my work. I do NOT consent to my work being uploaded to other sites! If you wish to write a spinoff based on my work, you may do so as long as you credit me! Artwork is also welcomed with credit!⌟
⌜❓️: Want to be added to my tag list? I only do tag lists for certain series since I do not know your boundaries. Just comment down below to be added, limited to 15 slots! First-come, first-served basis.⌟
my entry to @glitterypirateduck's ghost challenge. ~8k.
prompts used: #83 caught in the rain/#54 omegaverse/#100 you are soap's sister
tags: two POVs, societal bullshit (omegaverse), brief mentions of religion, angst, vomit, hurt/comfort, negative self-talk re: asexuality and medical condition, medical inaccuracies, crass/mean Simon then protective Simon, Simon in glasses, kind of being someone's beard, brief mention of suicidal ideation, sibling loss, grief
one line summary: When your brother Johnny dies, a man named Simon buys your life out from underneath you.
a/n: this jumps around throughout time. i gloss over some omegaverse elements. banner from @/cafekitsune. ✨
A nudge to the toe of his boot, and Simon flexes his fingers over his sidearm. The vest’s buckle dangles, unfastened and limp. There is no grip to pull, no trigger to squeeze, just the painfully blue eyes of his superior, dim and unflinching.
“Ghost,” Price glances at the empty holster. “We’re back. You have ten minutes.”
It takes a second. Simon shoots a look at Soap to silently convey incredulity, but he might as well take a blade to the neck. The seat across from him is empty. Before memory strikes, he’s on his feet, bursting through the van’s doors and parting the reception committee. He doesn’t register faces or sounds, shutting out all distractions to carve an efficient path to his target.
God help anyone bold enough to try and stop him. Ten minutes is a courtesy, not for him, but for whatever unlucky officers tasked with the cleanup.
The walk eats three minutes.
Beneath a percentile of pressure, the rake pushes in place and the lock yields. He catches the door before it slams, and the moment it clicks shut, his nose twitches. The room reeks of damp earth and pine, a hearth in a lonely, snowed-in cabin. It gathers the force of an avalanche, pummeling into him and stealing his breath. It settles an invisible weight on his chest and limbs. Buried to his neck in memory, he forces himself to move. He’s dug himself out of the ground before. He’ll do it again.
There is no time for reverence. The proper personnel will arrive shortly. Price can only distract them for so long. Simon empties the contents of the bedside cabinet onto the neatly made bed and takes what he’s looking for—the spare dog tags, a sketchbook, and any traces of them. A photograph flutters out, dated two years earlier. Johnny and a slightly younger woman with the same grin in front of a Christmas tree. He hears his sergeant’s lilt as he pockets the picture and other goods.
“Come to mine for the holidays. I don’t want you to be alone.”
Simon doesn’t think of himself when he slips into his quarters. He thinks about the sister, and his own family.
The days pass, surreal yet sharp and excruciating, as if he’s a surgical patient and the anesthesia didn’t take. Attends the debrief. Doesn’t hear it. Shrugs off the offers and orders for assistance and counseling. They’re given a week to sleep and heal, time Simon spends studying Soap’s sketchbooks and scouring public and private records to learn more about the younger MacTavish. It strikes him on the drive to the cliffs, Johnny’s ashes in his bag, that he’ll never see him again. That the sister will never see him again.
He goes for a drink alone, walking across town to avoid Price and Gaz, and plants himself at the end of the bar. A few beers in, and a vaguely woodsy smell turns his head. The ghost of Johnny at the edge of his vision dissipates, leaving some scruffy man in his sights. He finishes his drink, eyes locked with the stranger. His designation doesn’t matter. He’ll do.
Until he doesn’t.
Simon barely touches the man on the walk to the park. Doesn’t bother committing his name to memory or looking at his face. One thing leads to another, and eventually, the man’s on his back in the grass. He paws at Simon’s chest and whines, baring his neck pathetically. It turns Simon’s stomach, and before anything really happens, he retches into the bushes. The stranger sputters and stumbles into the dark.
He sits beside his mess until dew forms.
The following day, he beats Price to his office. The old man doesn’t insult him by walking on eggshells, he listens. Asks if Simon is sure.
“That isn’t what we heard in his will.”
“No, but it’s what he would’ve wanted.”
Price stares long and hard, then acquiesces. “I suppose you’d know.” He raps his knuckles on the desk with a heavy sigh. “I’ll start the paperwork.”
In hindsight, it is a mistake to believe your teacher when he says the forms are anonymous. How feeling nervous or scared is okay and that the answers will guide discussion in the coming weeks. You faithfully believe him and answer honestly. When he turns up for a home visit, you’re shocked, and your parents are mortified.
The three of them quickly align. They emphasize how normal this is, that they all took the test when they turned sixteen, and that you still have a few years to learn more about it and to come to terms. Pamphlets are shoved into your hands before you’re excused to your room so the adults can speak privately.
Whatever he tells your parents lands you in a stale, uncomfortable counselor’s office. This time, you know better when she tells you the sessions are confidential. It takes three months of careful lying to mollify your parents adequately.
At a family gathering, your aunt proudly announces that an older cousin finally completed presentation, a whole three years after her test. A year later, that same cousin shyly admits she dropped out of university, a hand on her round belly and a baby on her hip. It’s only then you start truly seeing your omega relatives. How they stick to the sidelines, huddle in the kitchen, and fuss over everyone else’s comfort. Docile and pliant.
For years, you pray to God to turn out differently. To be nothing. And if not nothing, please, make you a beta like your father or an alpha like your mother or brother. Amen.
You cry for hours after your results. Your parents do their best to convince you it’s a blessing, but you see the results for what they are—a countdown.
School automatically splits your class into new health electives, fracturing years of relationships in one fell swoop. New social hierarchies form over the course of an afternoon, and you find yourself on the outside of old circles. It gnaws and bites like flies to see former friends turn their noses up at you. Cracks and shifts your insides, uncovering anger as old and boiling as a deep-sea vent. You let your grades slip to the bare minimum because what’s the point? Won’t some alpha take care of you anyway? Barf.
Your parents weather the fallout. They invite that cousin for tea with all four whelps in tow. It’s hard to hear her proclaim the wonders of life as an omega through shrill cries and fussing. That night, your mother’s patience snaps after you declare your life over. The fight goes nuclear, ending with your banishment to your room when she asks if your cousin’s life is over, and you say ‘yes’. While you may be sorry, you don’t regret it.
The next morning, you find Johnny at breakfast. Just like the test, you see his sudden, surprise visit for what it is—an olive branch. You wonder when your parents called and begged him to request a short leave. Parents know their children’s weaknesses. You’re thick as thieves. Before your results, the last time you cried was when he left for basic.
Johnny drags you around town to tackle a list of your favorites, dismantling the defensive wall you're hellbent on building. Anger festers under your skin, begging him to say the wrong thing.
Yet, if anything, your hissing and snapping amuse him. He ruffles your hair and dodges your fists, and you find chances to throw an elbow into his ribs. However, you're both far from the even playing fields of childhood, and punching him is punching stone.
"What's eatin' you? Somethin' happen?" He jeers, goading you on the walk home.
"You know what happened."
"Yeah," he admits with the sharp edge of a laugh. "You turned into a thin-skinned cretin just 'cause of a test."
You see red, and Johnny humors you. Takes a few desperate kicks and slaps before grabbing you by the forehead and stiff-arming. Stocky, but a reach longer than yours. You’re hissing and spitting when tears spring to your eyes, and a frustrated sound heralds a break in your voice.
It all comes out. How it’s like your future is a foregone conclusion. That you don’t want to undergo presentation, bonding, or, most of all, have an alpha dictate the rest of your life.
For perhaps the first time, your loudmouth brother shuts his trap. Doesn’t say a word. No snarky comments or unserious answers. He just lets you wail. In retrospect, it’s clear that he swapped a cudgel for a knife. Dissected your rage with a mind trained to defuse explosives.
That Sunday after mass, he hugs you and makes a promise before he leaves. Years later, half-listening to an officer who asks if there’s anyone they can call for you, you wish you remembered what it was.
In the hours following the officer’s departure, you go through the motions—numb and shell-shocked. The tide’s out, and you stand on shore, waiting for the crushing grief.
Aunt Marion sits on the sofa, going through the address book to inform people, one by one, of Johnny’s passing.
You’re in the kitchen fixing her supper and creating a mental to-do list when you overhear her tell someone, “I’m filing for change in guardianship in the morning. John never did have the time to find that girl a proper mate. You still have that matchmaker’s number, right?”
There’s no time to process the first loss with a second snapping at its heels.
Your brother’s headstone is not standing for more than an afternoon when a suitor shows interest. He circles like a vulture, the disgusting creature. You wish you could say you weren’t expecting it.
The portrait of your best friend bears witness from atop the mantle. In uniform with a buzzed head and a serious expression, it’s him, yet nothing like him. The Johnny you know—knew—would be grinning ear-to-ear, greeting folks, lightening the mood, and scolding your relatives for not footing the bill for a proper venue. He’d be angry they’d put it on your shoulders or invite this many people.
You hadn’t wanted any of this, either. You knew him best, but nobody listens to you. As Johnny followed your parents into death, you’re left alone, subject to the whims and mercies of an aunt who sees only your designation.
The court swiftly transfers power to your aunt. Omegas cannot roam about without anyone to account for them, after all. Johnny was declared your ‘guardian’ following the crash that took your parents. Didn’t matter if you were an adult, a whole twenty years old. The title always amused you with its inherent pompousness.
Guardian. You don’t find the archaic term funny anymore, not when a neighbor cuts through the room, intentions clear. Your nostrils flare at his vinegariness, the feeler he sends to test the waters. It sets your teeth on edge, encouraging the oncoming migraine. Why the foulest-smelling alphas think they can go without scent blockers, you don’t know.
God grant you the audacity.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Johnny was a good man.”
“John,” You swiftly correct. ‘Johnny’ is reserved for family. “John was a good man. Who are you?”
The man smiles, and his pupils unnervingly dilate. “Alan. I live three down.” His gaze briefly flits to your neck.
You bristle. This is why you opted for a turtleneck that morning. The awful gut feeling some boorish idiot would seek you out now that you changed hands. To act so bold at a funeral reception. “Well, Alan, from three down, you can–”
“You can find refreshments through there.” Aunt Marion interjects, the older woman floating into view, reeking of powdery florals. She does not need to posture. A slight tilt of her head and intrusion into your personal bubble banishes the man into the next room, with her eyes fixed on him until he disappears.
"Good riddance," she mutters. “Alan Findlay. The gall. Like I’d let that cur have you or this house.” She sniffs, grimacing. “Go take another blocker. Now. You’re distracting the guests.”
You knew your aunt’s intervention was not for your well-being, but you still wilt. This is how things are and always have been. Johnny simply shielded you from it. Unbonded omegas are bargaining chips. Hares set loose in front of sighthounds. How foolish, thinking you could outrun centuries of tradition and deny nature. Aunt Marion is entitled to the house, your future, and the money that comes with both.
You trudge upstairs, and on the landing, you swallow a hard lump in your throat. Steady now. You start toward the bathroom but freeze at the sight of Johnny's door. There's a sliver of light beneath it.
No one should be in there. No one has been in there since he last deployed. Your heart lurches against your ribcage, anger curling your fingers into fists as you reroute automatically, marching to catch the trespasser. Another greedy relative with sticky fingers, no doubt. You turn the knob and push, and the curse on the tip of your tongue promptly fizzles.
A colossus stands in front of Johnny’s wardrobe, clutching one of his shirts. You do not so much as enter your brother’s room as you run face-first into the wall of the man’s scent. It bludgeons the olfactory with leather polish and tobacco, cedar and amber. Familiar, somehow, and powerful.
“You’re the sister.” His free hand hovers beside a cloth mask tucked beneath his chin. He’s clad in black like a mourner, though you don’t recall him. The deep voice prickles, snagging on something sharp in your chest. Pink and pale scars etch over his chin and mouth. You briefly study them before your eyes dart to the shirt and then his face.
“Yeah,” The hairs on your neck rise at how his scent and facial muscles relax in tandem.
“Were you smelling John’s shirt?”
“Yes.” He says without hesitation or a shred of shame.
And it’s the lack of shame, the nerve to enter a dead man’s room, that does you in. The last straw. You flatten against the open door and gesture into the hallway. “Right, okay. Get the fuck out. Now.”
To his credit, he complies. The shirt remains clenched in a fist.
“Leave it,” You snap, but he closes in. Citrus wrinkles your nose, beckoning you to relax. What have you accomplished by antagonizing a man this size? An alpha? This is not your brother, not someone likely to entertain your irritation. Your neck cranes, head hitting the door with a quiet thunk, and you stare into eyes the color of pitch, ringed by dark circles. Instincts like cicadas, buried to avoid that which would exploit them, dig their way out of the ground. “Stop–”
“Your aunt. She’s in charge of the house and you, yeah?”
Your mouth dries. You don’t answer.
His nostrils flare, and a chill runs down your spine. Apparently, he finds whatever trace of your pheromones agreeable enough to hum. Then he hooks a finger in the mask and drags it into place over his nose and mouth.
“You don’t smell like him at all. Blockers or no.” He tosses the shirt onto Johnny’s desk as he lumbers past.
You’re left adrift, clutching the door for dear life. The earthy smell lingers. How long had the stranger been in here that he’d gone and stunk up the room? Your hands shake hanging up the shirt, and you avoid looking at anything else as you slink out, proverbial tail tucked.
In the bathroom, you knock back a second blocker and a pain reliever, drinking sink water cupped in your hands. You glance at the prescriptions on the shelf. Blockers and suppressants. They look different, equally distressing, and comforting now that you’re alone. You close the medicine cabinet, and something slips into the sink. A frown forms instantly at the sight of the stupid, ugly Kevlar bite guard. Johnny brought it home one leave, swearing up and down it was safer than commercial. An extra layer of protection to be worn during the weeks bookending your seasonal heats. Humiliation accessorized. Downstairs you go.
Aunt Marion waits in the living room, flitting about, excitedly chittering to her husband. The moment she sees you, she brightens further, aglow with a sense of accomplishment. Dread calcifies your stomach.
“What have you done?”
Undeterred, your aunt smiles and pats your hand. “Only what John would’ve wanted.”
Cedar and myrrh, stone and soil—a burst potent enough to cow the eldest member of your family, forcing her to retreat a step. You feel a presence at your back and slowly turn to face a wall of muscle wrapped in black. This close, your nose finds the word it was looking for. Sepulchral.
“This is Mr. Simon Riley. He served with John,” Aunt Marion nervously chirps. “He’s made a generous offer for both the house and your bonding price, pending the validation of his bloodline and such.”
It’s a knife to the gut.
As far as you know, the various blood work and lineage reports come back satisfactory. However, their contents are a mystery, as you’re not allowed to request copies without his permission, and you’re not about to ask. You don’t even know how to reach him. He said a dozen words to you at the house, then vanished after speaking to your aunt.
The following week, you nearly wear a track on the floor with your pacing. No announcement regarding an impending bonding appears in the paper. It isn’t required, but it isn’t out of fashion. You suppose more modern rituals are exclusive to immediate family nowadays, without the need for public acknowledgment. You shudder at the thought. If you’re to be humiliated, you’d rather have as few witnesses as possible.
Another week passes. You receive letters and packages in his name, ‘S. Riley’. Hard proof that despite his absence, this is his home, not yours. Then, a deposit appears in the house account Johnny opened. You don’t touch it. You won’t legitimize a thing if you can help it.
You return to work. Everyone expresses their sympathies, and you call the omega representative in human resources to apprise them of your status. Their smile is tight on the screen when you dodge their questions and ask to simply update the paperwork from ‘J. MacTavish’ to ‘S. Riley’. Every day, you listen for his return and wonder if you’ll find him sitting in Johnny’s chair. It sets your teeth on edge.
A month turns over in limbo. You briefly wonder if you’re the sibling who died, now cursed to languish where you only glimpse your brother in the periphery, with a monster stalking the fenceline.
Christmas is a date that happens. You refuse an obligatory invitation to your aunt’s home and donate the gifts you already purchased. New Year passes the same way; miserable and isolated like any other. And then, thirty-three days after he buys your life from underneath you, Simon reappears on the second day of the year.
“Gonna let me in?” Simon grunts, toting two bags and car keys.
“Not gonna command it?” You sneer, confused over the delay, certain of his tricks. He’s going to try and bond you, sooner or later.
Simon stares. There’s no malice, only exhaustion. Sweat and musk batter your nose, acrid and disgusting, masking his usual spoor. It’s strange. Perhaps you’re noseblind to him already. You step aside.
Simon removes his shoes and jacket, rolling his shoulders with audible albeit muffled pops. He grunts at the packages, turning one over in a single broad hand before evidently deciding to deal with them later. He starts upstairs.
“First on the right”
He pauses halfway.
“My old room. It’s for guests now, but you can have it. Just. Don’t go into John’s room.”
He grunts again, but he listens.
Simon cloisters for two days. His scent returns to normal, slowly rolling over the house like a thick fog. It doesn’t seem to be an early rut, as he’s made no noise or sudden moves. Nothing to suggest a return to a bestial nature. You force yourself to continue your routine.
One morning, you find dishes in the drying rack and the paper on the table. Outside the back door, a half-smoked cigarette. It’s him, obviously, apparently skulking about in the small hours. As if the house needs another ghost.
His presence, no matter how spectral, frays your poor nerves. You forget a quarter of the shopping list one day, cursing through the door with arms full of bags.
“You didn’t use the money.”
You whip around to find Simon with a book tucked under an arm. He moves practically undetected between his light feet and pervasive scent.
The deposit. Right. Simon is joint owner of your accounts now.
You return to the groceries, jaw working at the irritating flatness of his tone. “I don’t need it. I earn my own wages, and I intend to continue working.”
“Didn’t tell you to quit. I said you didn’t use the money.”
“I don’t want it.”
The floor creaks under his foot, but he stops the second you tense. “It’s for you. For bills and expenses.”
“I don’t. Want it.”
“Johnny said you’d be difficult.”
“And he never fuckin’ mentioned you.” Regret immediately rises in your throat, demanding that you apologize, but you choke it down. You do not know this man. Law or not, he is a trespasser.
You do not hear him leave, but he gives you a wide berth. The next day, he’s gone again, but he leaves a note with his number.
Back to work. Use the money. - S
A couple of weeks later, after running out to collect your holds at the library, you return to Simon’s car in the parking space, a pair of mud-caked boots inside the door and a hastily half-unpacked bag on the table. The previously weak musk of Simon’s is refreshed and intense, drifting through the house. Begrudgingly, you put your stack aside and tidy a little. You pluck a knit hat beside the bag and squeak at the smell of rust and iron. The garment plops into the bag, unfolding into a skull-print balaclava, the bulk of which carries a red stain. Dry, thank the Lord.
You heave his bag to the floor with a huff and find another note.
Went out. Back late. - S
‘Late’ is generous. Hours pass. You fix dinner, stow the leftovers, finish your laundry (in case he needs the machines), reorder suppressants, and cozy up to crack the spine of the latest installment of a horror series. The patter of rain against the windows and the mountain of blankets ensconces you into a state of languor.
The key turning the lock startles you from sleep. Bleary-eyed, the back of your hand wipes drool from your lip, and the other leverages you off the sofa. Your vision gradually clears to reveal Simon’s hulking shape, filling the front door. Dripping and soaking wet, a puddle of rainwater pools at his feet. Without a word or acknowledgment of your presence, he peels off the paper mask adhered to his nose and chin and drops it alongside his flooded shoes. His socks and anorak go next, and before he discards any more articles of clothing, you make yourself useful.
You march past, movements automatic, into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
A minute later, he shuffles in, dressed in sweats and a dry shirt. You deduce he swapped clothes with whatever’s in his bag. An aborted ‘welcome home’ sits on your tongue, but your nose catches something metallic. Blood.
Simon leans over the sink and promptly shoves a hand under the running water. From what you can see, his knuckles look bad, but he doesn’t appear injured elsewhere. You grab a bag of frozen peas.
“Pat it dry and give it here,” you grumble, dropping a towel by his arm and wrapping the peas in another.
His hand is a mess—knuckles raw and bloody, skin torn in places where he clearly punched something or someone. It’s ice-cold but not actively bleeding. You hold the makeshift cold compress in place and apply pressure. Another stilted silence passes, and you catch a whiff of citrus.
“Were you drinking? Are you drunk?” It sounds more accusatory than you intend.
“Yeah.”
“So this isn’t from work?”
“No.”
“Is it from–”
“Scrap.”
“Oh.” You squint. “So you got in from a work trip. Went for a pint. Made a new friend.“
Simon’s eyes snap to you. “She’s cracked the case,” his hand creeps toward yours, giving you time to let go before he steals the compress and pulls away. “Needed to blow off steam.”
“That’s idiotic,” You snap, traipsing behind him to the living room.
In response, he chuffs once like a warning shot. You keep your distance as he sinks into Johnny’s chair, groaning, and throws a heel onto the ottoman to drag it closer. Head rolling against the high back, his eyes flutter close as he relaxes into the cushion. He grinds his molars as he appears to forcibly unclench his muscles. You fetch the first aid kit.
The slight curl of his lip makes you almost regret being nice. You set the tea and the kit on the side table, perking at the sound of him mumbling something suspiciously close to ‘thanks’.
Part of you considers retreating to give him space and go to bed. Johnny always spent the first several hours of leave decompressing alone. Yet you return to the blankets and book. This is still your house, even if your name will never appear on the deed.
Simon breaks the not-quite-companionable silence by dropping the wrapped peas on the table and exchanging them for the kit. Over your book, you grimace at how he uses his teeth to tear open an antiseptic wipe, then silently gag at the sharp bite of isopropyl in the air.
“You didn’t use the money. Again.” Simon finally says, smearing antibiotics into his split skin.
“I told you–”
“It’s not my charity, if that’s what’s keepin’ you. It’s the survivor’s grant.”
The tension in your jaw could crack a tooth. Labdanum and firewood billow from the armchair. Scowling, you slap the book shut. “Stop.”
His face is expressionless, voice goading. “What? Not doin’ it for you? That not a nest for me?”
You straighten, shoulders rising to your ears and lip pulling into a sneer. He’s saying it to get under your skin, and it fucking works.
“No, it’s not a fucking nest and no, I don’t find your stench comforting, thanks.”
Simon tosses the ointment and leans forward to drape his thick forearms over his thighs. The purpling bruises on his knuckles glisten in the lamplight. His studying agitates, his pupils like needles on your face. Then he asks the question that makes you hit the ceiling.
“You broken?”
At nineteen, you go to bed on Beltane and wake to a bombardment: sharp, needling botanicals of lemongrass and mint tempered by frankincense and lavender. Eye-watering and suffocating. You slip out to the nearest clinic, and the sickly-sweet smelling nurse beckons you to sit so she may deliver a killing blow.
“Hyperosmia is uncommon during early presentation, but it should mellow.”
Her words run together, drowned out by an internal doomsday clock striking midnight. Milennia’s worth of inherited horror and fear knitted into marrow catch up all at once. She holds your hair while you vomit and updates your chart as you wash up. She tells you to return if it doesn’t resolve in a month or two.
It doesn’t. It never does.
Hours of appointments, dozens of scans and tests, and enough paperwork to rival the holy book. You know the ENT by name, but she never provides a conclusive answer beyond ‘genetic lottery’. Certainly doesn’t feel like a win.
It’s a cruel twist to be repulsed twice over.
“What’s wrong? Are you broken or somethin’?” A greasy-haired man sneers, chest puffed out with a hand planted above your head. Of course, a nitwit corners you the one time you leave the house. All the scent blockers in the world cannot deter the repugnant or unscrupulous. His proximity pushes a pungent, sulfuric acid reminiscent of a leaking battery on you, flaring in offense when you visibly recoil. He repeats himself, teeth bared and foul.
The bastard assumes you’ll fawn. Assumes you’re alone.
It’s difficult to keep a straight face as Johnny scruffs the stranger, bringing him to heel. Your brother compels the miscreant to apologize and then sets him loose, satisfied he’s neutered the man. He scolds you all the way home and curses himself for letting his sister out of sight.
On his next leave, he brings a bite guard. You cringe at the ugly device, but Johnny insists. Spouts some nonsense about not always being around to save your hide, reminding you that you can’t arm yourself. His near-mythic anger leaks into every word. He forgets you’re a mirror.
“I’m not wearing this. This is fucking medieval.”
“Just when, y’know, ‘round those times. ‘Til you find someone–”
“I won’t find someone. I don’t want to find someone. I don’t want anyone.” The admission slips out so quietly you don’t think he hears it.
“–I can try to smuggle some of the blockers they give us, but ‘til then, when it’s, y’know–”
“Christ, Johnny, save it, I’m not gonna listen to my brother–”
“Then fuckin’ listen to your guardian, because I’m only gonna say this once.”
It stops you like a slap to the face. He’s never lorded his appointment over you. Never.
“So you don’t want a mate. That’s fine. I’ll support you, like I always fuckin’ have. I’ll sing it out in the streets if you’d like. Hang a sign on the gate. But has it ever occurred to you that I might want someone? That maybe this isn’t just about your life? That being saddled with you isn’t easy?”
The two of you putter on the corner in silence. He rakes his nails over the stubble on his cheek. He murmurs a c’mon and herds you home, cutting his leave short by absconding the next morning.
“You broken?”
Two words to dredge up the ugliest parts of your life, your twin irregularities. You suppose you could distill it simply as you’ve had to counselors and doctors throughout the years. Yes, actually. My nose makes it difficult to leave the house without a migraine, and nobody’s ever stirred my loins. Aren’t you lucky? A terrible two-for-one special you handsomely overpaid for.
“Coulda just said that.”
Embarrassment shrivels your tongue. Of course, you spoke aloud. The impulse to apologize and flee attempts to puppet you, limbs twitching involuntarily at the idea of running for hills and leaving civilization altogether.
Simon rises before you formulate a response and takes the makeshift compress to the kitchen. On his way back, he fishes something out of his bag. The floor creaks when he stops to loom over you, offering a closed fist.
Your palm opens, and he rewards your compliance with a flash of steel. A single dog tag threaded with a thin ball chain. Your brother’s name reflects the light, and you grind the heel of your hand into an eye socket.
“They told me there was nothing left.”
“There isn’t. Found that lyin’ around.”
Your throat constricts, and a weak ‘thank you’ sputters out. The shadow of a massive hand lifts your head, and you press into the cushions, away from Simon’s reach.
“I just told you I’m not into that.” You hiss, brow furrowing.
He pauses. The smirk on his face doesn’t match the doleful look in his eyes. “You’re not my type.”
“Been thinkin’, Lt, what if after this, we take leave together?”
Simon rolls off the mattress and grabs his shirt off the floor. Should’ve known it’d come up again. Soap’s a glutton for punishment. The drama. The angry, desperate make-up sex. No other reason he’d keep stirring the pot. The man’s piss-poor pillow-talk and refusal to keep things simple detract some, but not enough to make Simon move on. Knows the other alpha too well for that, got him living in his head and bedroom most nights.
“Could go to mine, meet my sister. Told you she’s a bit like you, remember? Surly, introverted, a menace.” Soap sprawls into the forfeited space. “She’s an omega, but—”
Simon pokes through the shirt, face blank and mouth shut. The way ‘omega’ comes out of Soap’s mouth, a letter at a time—the reluctance, the glint in his blue eyes—he’s sharing something special. He’s talked about this sister before, but this is different. Despite all the times he’s had Soap on his back, it’s rare for the mutt to willingly show his underbelly. It’s too intimate, incongruent with his nature. Simon course corrects.
“Yeah? Tryin’ to set me up with your sister? Dirty dog.”
The effect is instant. Soap pushes upright to sit at the edge of his bed, posture shifting to broaden his shoulders, chin tucking a fraction. His lips pull back as he barks something like ‘not a fuckin’ joke’ and that Simon is a ‘disgusting bastard’. Touchy subject, this sister.
He goes to leave, swiping his balaclava from the desk.
Soap staggers after him with one leg in a pair of shorts and grabs him. He’s got tenacity, but Simon’s all mass. In seconds, he removes his sergeant.
Simon listens to Soap’s ragged breathing, studying the flicker of genuine anger in his eyes. Storm clouds over the ocean, barely restrained. He shouldn’t rile Soap like this, not with everything else going on.
He doesn’t apologize.
“Gonna tell me she’s special?”
“No, she’s not—she’s normal. Different, but normal. Sensitive, is all.”
Simon releases him, unimpressed. “If she’s half as sensitive as you, she must be a crybaby.“
“Not like that.” Soap taps his nose. “Chronic pheromonal olfactory acuity. Rare genetic thing. Could pick you out of a crowd.”
“Shame. Laswell could’ve recruited her.” Conditions like that have their uses, but with her designation, it must be hell on earth. He says as much.
“Aye. It is. I’m careful about who I introduce.”
There it is, Soap skirting the issue again. Thinking if he meets the rest of the MacTavishes, it’ll legitimize their screwing. Convince him to throw their careers into the shredder. The brass looks the other way when alphas relieve stress; it prevents incidents, but they care if it becomes something else.
“Think about it?”
He does.
Soap’s chewing on something. Rather, something’s chewing Soap. Could be anything. Mexico. Graves. Hassan. Well and out of danger, his good knee bounces incessantly, the tap of his boot louder than the radio.
“Soap.”
“Lt?”
“Out with it.”
Soap opens. It doesn’t take much these days. The stress of the last couple weeks is still burning off, especially with Shepherd in the wind. Their world’s constricted, pressurized, a few bad days from implosion. People like his sergeant need talking space to alleviate it, among other things.
“I put in for leave,” He starts. “Goin’ home in a week.”
Simon glances at the men playing cards on the other side of the room, then jerks his head to the door. Soap falls into step, tea abandoned, and waits until they’re outside Simon’s quarters to continue.
“Said you’d think about it.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Inside.”
He’s got him trained. In Soap goes, shirt halfway off before the door’s locked.
“Ghost–”
“Not Ghost right now,” Simon tosses the balaclava across the room and reaches for Johnny. He cuffs him by the nape of his neck and reels him in. Soap shudders into the kiss, holding Simon’s hand in place with his own, almost giving in, but—
“Simon,” He pulls away. “Don’t do that.”
“Not doin’ it for you?”
“No, you’re shutting me out. Goin’ away.”
“‘I’m right here.”
Soap frowns tiredly. “Why don’t you want to come? Meet my sister?”
“Couldn't possibly intrude.”
He slowly shakes his head. “I’m askin’. I want you to meet her. She’s all I got left. Besides you.”
Simon’s nose twitches. Could make this easier on himself and enforce the pecking order like old times. But he doesn’t. What he does is worse. Meaner.
“And what am I?” Simon closes in, crowding him to the wall. He roughly reclaims Soap’s throat, chest rumbling at how perfectly it slots into his grip. He knew Johnny was his the first time he took him apart. Saw how the other alpha leaned into it. Offered his neck. Renounced nature itself in the heat of the most natural act.
“You know what you are.”
Simon tuts. “I know what you want me to be, and I told you my answer before, didn't I?” He adjusts to cup Soap’s face and drags his nose over the other cheek. “Say it. Tell me what I told you.”
“We aren’t–”
“Go on.”
Soap slackens in his hold. “We aren’t mates. Can’t be.”
“Can’t be,” Simon repeats, grazing his teeth over the thrum of his sergeant’s carotid. A pulse like gunfire. “That’s right.”
“I want to be.” It’s not a whine; it’s hardly a complaint. It’s a statement of fact delivered with resignation.
So do I, he admits privately, before pressing his lips to Soap’s neck, then sinking to his knees.
Soap tries again after the dam, persistent as a dog after a bone. Simon lets him crawl into bed, thinking they’ll celebrate Graves and Shepherd eating each other alive, getting one in while they can. Instead, he receives a tired earful.
“It’s fucked, sir.”
He toys with the brown hair flopped over his shoulder and breathes deeply and slowly. Relishing the subtle undertones of the man on his chest, he grunts. “Gonna need to be more specific.”
“Could’ve wasted the bastard years ago. Now we’re stuck chasing him.”
“It’s the job.”
Soap’s stubbly cheek presses to Simon’s pec, eyes closed. “Haven’t been home in months.”
“This about the runt MacTavish?”
“Don’t call ‘er that.” He slaps Simon’s stomach. “She’d bite your head off.”
He snorts. “Sounds like a ray of sunshine.” His gaze slips to the door. They’ll need to dress soon. Laswell works fast. “Miss her?”
“Missed her birthday. Way things are going, I’ll miss Christmas, too.”
Simon shifts beneath Soap’s weight. Here it is, the shit pillow-talk. Another blatant attempt to manipulate the impossible. He huffs dismissively. “Put in for leave anyway. Makarov’ll be down for a dirt nap within the week.”
“You’re confident, Lt.”
“Gloves off, Johnny. Old man won’t stop you this time.”
That seems to do the trick. For a few easy minutes, his sergeant remains silent. Simon admires the droop of Soap’s dark eyelashes on his skin and even breathing. Closest thing to heaven he’ll ever see, he thinks.
Soap’s arm tightens its hold as he slightly flares his scent, a plume of woodfire as inviting as his words. “Come to mine for the holidays. I don’t want you to be alone.” His eyes open as he drags his chin to rest it on Simon’s pec. Soap can’t pin him on the sparring mat, but he can with a look. “Doesn’t have to mean anything.”
To you. Doesn’t have to mean anything to you.
“Think about it?”
A faint waft of tobacco and musk leaks into the room, and Simon nudges Soap off as Price pounds on the door.
“Kate’s got something. Briefing room, three minutes.”
By the time Soap pries himself off the bed, Simon’s half-dressed. He avoids the mirror. Knows what he’ll see. Disappointment.
“You’re not my type.”
It’s maddening, the Escher staircases his admission builds in your head, each step a question that may go nowhere. He’s been anything but forthcoming. Didn’t introduce himself at Johnny’s funeral, didn’t explain a thing.
Before you can interrogate him, he disappears. It’s past midnight when you lumber to your bedroom, and out of habit, you glance at Simon’s door. It’s shut, not a flicker of light beyond, but Johnny’s is open a crack. You hesitate. It’s different this time. Simon is no longer a trespasser. He’s not doing anything illegal. Just wrong.
You tiptoe and peer inside. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but you smell him. Leather and tobacco. Cedar and amber. Myrrh, tilled soil, and poppies. How on the nose for a soldier to smell like death itself. But poking through the thick, funereal brume is juniper and pine. The hours preceding heavy snowfall. It’s an odd combination, grounding and sharp, petrous and serene. A graveyard in the dead of winter.
His breathing is too controlled for him to be asleep. It’s a standoff, and you’re not keen to see it through, so you turn around and go to bed. Between four and five in the morning, realization strikes. You knew Simon long before you met him.
“Has it ever occurred to you that I might want someone?”
The wool is hooked from your eyes. For years, your brother marched home reeking of blood, iron, and something else. Someone else. From what little he shared, you knew his task force was small and covert, close quarters a given. You assumed the military dispensed provisions for their alpha-dominant population. It didn’t occur to you that their solution was in-house.
You grimace in revulsion, but the feeling drops away into guilt.
“Maybe this isn’t just about your life? That being saddled with you isn’t easy?”
A near decade under your brother’s custodianship, and you thought you made it easy by becoming a near-recluse. You weren’t so naive to think it’d last forever. You were adults, for Christ’s sake. Eventually, Johnny would’ve co-signed a lease, and you’d start the quasi-independent life you dreamed of. He’d have the space to start his own family. All planned out. You didn’t want to be a lifelong burden, but with his early death, that’s all you ended up being.
Now you’re somebody else's problem, assumed out of pity.
Your gaze wanders to Simon in the living room. There is no delicate way to ask. He probably wouldn’t appreciate beating about the bush.
“So you and Johnny, you were, uh, an item?”
Simon’s focus breaks from the book in his lap, peering over a pair of wireframe glasses. His cheek bulges, seemingly chewing his response before spitting it out. “Yes and no.”
Insufferable man. Patience isn’t something you’ve historically possessed in spades, and with him, less so. “I’m assuming ‘no’, considering your neck.”
He snorts and slaps the book shut. “Like I’d let that mutt bite me.”
“Jesus wept,” you drop the baking tin onto the counter, head shaking. “You’re incapable of holding a serious conversation.”
You fiddle with the baking paper, face heating in frustration. All you want is honesty. To get to the bottom of your situation, to his situation with Johnny. You stew in exasperation and pour the lemon filling. You don’t notice Simon until he’s at the edge of the kitchen.
“Johnny said you were all he had left.”
The bowl nearly slips from your hands.
“And Johnny was all I had left.”
“So you—”
“So I did what needed doing. You need looking after,” he says, working his scarred lip and continuing, his voice a hair thicker. “And Johnny’s gone. It’s that simple. Nothing more.”
You need looking after. You noisily set the emptied bowl on the counter and disregard the instinct to make nice. Comfort him. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Simon coughs. “Law says you do. I reckon I’m the best suited for the job.”
The confidence startles an incredulous laugh out of you. “I must’ve missed that in his will, the one where it states my aunt ought to be the one ‘looking after me’.”
His eyes narrow. “Want me to return you? You’d prefer her to match you with the nearest alpha with half a brain? Bonded, wed, and bred by Spring?”
You angrily sweep the dirty dishes into the sink, a blistering anger coursing through your veins. “You’re disgusting.”
The mirth bleeds from his eyes. “No, I’m realistic. Something funny in the MacTavish line. Fucking dreamers, the two of you. Wanting things you can’t have.”
The remark causes your invisible, primordial hackles to rise. “What is that supposed to mean–”
Simon cuts you off with a single step into the kitchen. “Fuckin’ hell, do I need to spell it out?” He closes in, pointing a finger. “You aren’t interested in nobody, and I’m not interested in nobody but Johnny.”
He towers, chest expanding, using every bit of his mass to intimidate and keep you listening. To pacify you. “You can’t do a whit without a guardian’s or alpha’s say so, and I happen to be in the business of not giving a shit.”
You lock into a brief staring contest, and the beep of the oven breaks it. He wordlessly moves so you can slide the lemon bars into the heat. You inhale deeply, drinking in the tart citrus as a palate cleanser, and shut the door.
“So, what, I’m your cover story?” You ask carefully.
“Whatever gets it through that thick skull of yours.”
It’s not enough to stop the alarm bells ringing in your ears, but it quiets them. “And you’re not going to—You don’t want—”
“Already had a mate, not interested in another.”
There it is. “So you and Johnny were mates.”
Simon swallows, his thick neck contracting. He rubs his neck, hand skimming the slight protuberance on his neck. “Need a smoke. C’mon.” He turns, apparently certain you’ll follow.
You do.
A tiny ember lights his crooked features, and bluish-gray smoke curls into the air. He settles against a bare patch of stone some paces away downwind. It tests your self-control to not spout a line of questions. His silence obliges you to settle beside the frame, arms crossed in thinly-veiled agitation.
The paper’s half-charred, a neat cluster of ash in the tray when he finally speaks. He clears his throat, dipping his chin to gaze into the garden. Each word pushed out grudgingly as if evicted from some deep part of himself. “Johnny and me…We didn’t bite or bond. Surefire way to get discharged.”
You do him a mercy and stare into the cloud-heavy sky. “So when you said me and him wanted things we can’t have, that mean he wanted it? To be official?”
“She’s cracked the case.”
It’s stupid, his selective sentimentality. Still. It crowbars a smile out of you. Reminds you of Johnny. “He was always strong-willed.”
“That’s a generous way to put it.”
“How long were you together?”
“Off and on, four years.”
Thick as thieves, your foot. It eats you, your brother’s lack of faith. Your emotions must plume because Simon’s head swivels in your periphery. You need to increase your dosage, regardless of his claims.
“Can’t blame him for not tellin’ you. Probably thought it was for the best. You, however,” Simon stubs the cigarette with a dry cough. “Couldn’t shut up about you. Called you the ‘runt MacTavish’.”
“No he fuckin’ didn’t.” You wheel instantly, and his shoulders shake in a laugh. It looks almost wrong coming from him, yet you snicker. Your nose lifts in the air mid-giggle, and the breeze carries a clean scent. You relish it while you can.
It doesn’t escape Simon’s notice.
“He told me about your condition.”
You frown. “You knew and made me say it anyway? Prick. What else did he tell you? I’d like to set the record straight.”
“Once told me when you were twelve, you stuffed the neighbor’s postbox with garlic because you thought he was a vampire.”
Through time and space, your mother’s bony hand pinches your ear. She had dragged you, sputtering and whimpering, over to Mr. Stewart’s doorstep to apologize all those years ago.
You defend yourself, a smile tugging at your lips. “Because Johnny said he’d shave my head in the middle of the night if I didn’t!”
Simon chuckles. “I’m sure she had it coming. Don’t need to justify it to me.”
But you do. You explain how, to your childish mind, someone who only ventured out of their house at night and a severe widow’s peak was a bloodsucker. Johnny took the idea and ran with it, convinced you the garlic was a foolproof test. ‘Course he’d tricked you,
The cold evening air moves you indoors. The pair of you settle into your respective places, Simon in the armchair with a glass of bourbon and you nose-deep into a cup of chamomile. The night passes through swapped stories, mainly about Johnny but some about the rest of the MacTavishes and, reluctantly, yourself. With no alcohol in your cup, you can’t blame your unburdening on a drink.
It’s not lost on you how Simon pointedly avoids the openings you leave for him to talk about his family. It leaves your brain to hatch all sorts of theories, yet for the first time since he arrived, you don’t feel inclined to grill him.
On the landing, when you both wander to bed, you stop him. “You can move into Johnny’s, if you’d like. I imagine it’s, ah, comforting.”
He exhales. “You sure?”
“I was gonna sort out his things eventually, but that’s probably best left to his mate.” The words rush out in an embarrassed rush. Humiliatingly mushy. You don’t make it a footstep before a giant mitt ruffles your hair. The animal in you freezes, then jerkily flees. “Yeah, yeah, big oaf.” You mutter as you duck into your room, listening to him chuckle, then do the same.
“She gonna show or what?” Garrick asks, craning in his seat, subtly sniffing. “Came all the way here to pay our respects.”
“She’s just late.”
“Like Soap, then.” Price‘s posture is confident and easy. He’s handling this better than the sergeant.
“Better.”
“And you’re sure she’s alright with us paying a visit?”
“She trusts I’m careful about who I introduce.”
Price hums. “Trust’s good. Been nearly a year. It get easier?”
Easier’s a choice word. Things are smoother, Simon guesses. He and Runt got a good routine going, a decent dynamic. She’s no longer petrified whenever he’s within arms reach, doesn’t stare at him like she’s expecting the worst. She uses the money, cooks for two, and puts him to work on leave, keeping up the house.
The night in the park, he thought about eating lead for breakfast. He trudged back to base with the intention to do it but clapped eyes on that stupid photograph. Heard Johnny’s voice again. I don’t want you to be alone.
Even in death, his sergeant’s a solid bridge. The foundation of a fucked up home.
A familiar blend of heather and rain draws his attention to the entrance. In his chest, something settles.
synopsis you've been on a mission for a while, and instead of going back to your quarters after coming back, you head to ghost's.
relationships platonic!ghost & gn!reader.
characters simon "ghost" riley.
word count 2.2k
warnings ghost's pov, 2nd person pov [you/your/yourself], sleep deprivation, bad cliches, bad writing, might be ooc
note hey gang!!! i think i got all the warnings since this is pretty lighthearted considering what i usually post, so enjoy :) lmk your thoughts!
Ghost was sitting at his desk―in his own sleeping quarters, since it’s technically past curfew and he doesn’t need any trouble from recruits about him being in his office after hours, the annoying little shits―typing away at his computer, trying to get a report on his latest assignment done before going to bed.
He’s had a little bit of trouble sleeping lately. Not to say that it’s your fault, but it’s definitely your fault. He doesn’t necessarily need you around to go to sleep, but since you volunteered for a mission a week ago, he’s been a little on edge. Originally, it would’ve been Soap and a few other sergeants heading out to a small town in some country down in Central America, but you took the place of Soap after Price had explained the mission.
It could technically be done by one person, he’d said in short, but it’s quicker to send out a squadron than a single soldier.
You weren’t the best sniper they had, but you had enough experience with it for Price to approve of you going with one other person to keep watch of you. The long duration of the mission was really to be blamed on how often your target had been moving, leaving you with little room to take any shots. It wasn’t too important of a mission, however―as long as you didn’t miss your target in the end―so Ghost is sure Price is glad that he only had to send out one soldier instead of around six or seven.
Still, despite how there was little to no chance of you coming out of this mission in multiple pieces, Ghost found himself worried; something he, admittedly, feels for a lot of the soldiers here. His worry for you is different, though. Maybe it’s an age thing. Maybe it has something to do with how he’s seen you grow over the years that you’ve been here, and how close you’ve gotten to going from a Private to a Lance Corporal. It’s a relatively low rank for someone in the 141, which only makes him―dare he admit it―prouder. A weird feeling lingers in his mind when the word proud comes to mind as he thinks of you, but he ignores that feeling, instead opting to focus on the report he so desperately wanted to finish.
Despite his usual sleep aversion, he finds himself wanting to sleep for once.
Just as he gets to the middle of his report, he hears a knock at the door. Before Ghost can even say anything, he hears the door open, and his head whips around to see who would decide that it’s a good idea to enter his room without his permission. Though, all of his confusion and building anger dissipates the moment he sees that it’s you. Fresh from medical, he can safely assume, seeing the various bandages and bruises on you, and that odd too-clean smell that’s sticking to you. You look so exhausted, it’s almost funny. Almost.
You close the door behind you and Ghost turns his head back to his laptop. It’s not that he doesn’t want to look at you, but it’s a little harder to when you look so disheveled. He hears a few footsteps, then the squeaking of bed springs, and a sigh before the rustling of bed sheets. In the faint reflection of his computer screen, Ghost can just barely see you getting comfortable under the covers of his bed, seeming to fully disregard his presence. He doesn’t mind, though. He gets it; that feeling after being on guard for so long, not sure how much of it you can let down even though you’re back on base, and that strange structureless feeling where you wish you had bones but only feel like flesh.
It’s odd, put simply. When Ghost thinks of the feeling, he thinks of the age-old question, if a tree falls in a forest and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound? The feeling is like a constant questioning of what you’re experiencing, the wonderance of whether or not you can feel safe if the safest you’ve ever felt is a feeling lost somewhere beyond you. If you lose a feeling, was it ever felt? If you lost safety, were you ever safe, or, as Maslow would put it, were you always missing that basic need? Ghost knows plenty about missing safety. He knows that his mind blanks when he tries to think about the last time he felt safe before the 141.
He knows that you know plenty about missing safety, too. Not a lot, because you never say enough to clue him in on just how much you’re missing, but he has his suspicions. Some are confirmed, others mere theories, but still―he knows you well enough. That’s why you’re in his room, not saying a word, just breathing heavily into his pillow and trying to garner warmth from his blanket. He can see you staring at him from the bed. He’s sure you want him to say something, and because it’s you that’s looking at him, he does.
“Back already?” Ghost asks dryly, drawing a small huff out of you.
“Soap said y’missed me,” you reply, making Ghost scoff, “when he visited me in the infirmary.”
“Too big of a mouth on ‘im,” Ghost saves the draft of his report, deciding to just save writing it for another time, instead closing out of the program and hovering his finger over the power button on his keyboard, “don’t know how y’managed to understand him.”
You hum and sit up in Ghost’s bed, the blankets rustling again, and as Ghost’s screen goes black, he turns around to see you sitting up with the blankets wrapped around you like a jacket. He blinks at you, before raising an eyebrow at your position.
“Ruinin’ my blankets?” he asks, though sounding barely offended, “After walking in unannounced besides that little knock?”
“Ruin’s a pretty strong word,” you argue, “and it wasn’t a little knock. It was loud. Practically echoed off the walls.”
Ghost can sense your sarcasm from a mile away, but continues to play along, leaning back in his chair. You look a little more tired covered in blankets, he thinks, those dark circles under your eyes are a little more pronounced. He sees them a lot. Those darkened semi-circles that he used to think were just a part of you, some kind of skin condition, but later realized they were a product of your sleep deprivation. It would’ve been his first thought had he not always seen you with the bags under your eyes, but after going on leave with you―a few months ago, back to his small house, after you had admitted that you preferred staying with him to going back to your dingy apartment―and witnessing you getting proper rest, seeing those circles get a little lighter, he knew that it was more of a sleep issue.
He’s gone through his fair share of sleeping problems. He still goes through them; everyone in the military does, he’s sure. Ghost used to think that he took the brunt of it, compared to the rest of the task force, not because of the missions but because of what came before the missions. He’s changed his way of thinking since then, has opened up his mind a little more beyond the idea of suffering more than someone else in a specific sense, but he still had that feeling that he took on the majority of nightmares. The word “nightmare” feels a little juvenile for him, but until someone creates a better word for the repulsive things he sees after closing his eyes and just barely drifting asleep, that’s what he’s stuck with.
“You better hope y’didn’t wake anyone up with it, then,” Ghost hums, “I doubt anyone wants to be awake right now.”
He sees a small smile grow on your face and small spots of blood arise from beneath the cracked skin of your lips.
“Everyone here sleeps like a rock as far as I know,” you reply, before pausing, considering, “maybe except for the guys who came in a few weeks ago.”
“I’m sure they’ll be gone by next month,” Ghost tells you, his tone almost reassuring, “I don’t think they can handle any of… this.”
“You don’t think they can handle your bullying?” you scoff, making Ghost huff out a small laugh, “Weak.”
“Not everyone’s as strong as you, unfortunately,” Ghost hums sarcastically, getting up from his chair and walking the short distance over to his bed where you’re sitting. Automatically, you move so that Ghost can sit down next to you.
You’re both silent for a little bit. Ghost can see the few healing bruises on your face a little clearer here. Small dark yellows and reds on the sharper points of your face, the parts where the bone is a little closer to the skin, particularly your cheeks and a few over your jawline and near your chin. They’re a bad look on you, not because Ghost doesn’t think you can handle yourself, but because he knows that you can handle yourself, so the only way you could’ve gotten those bruises is if you were forced into a corner. He would consider that they were an accident, somehow self-inflicted, but he knows better than that.
“Are you tired?” Ghost asks, even though he knows the answer.
“I haven’t slept in a few days.” There it is.
“And for the few days that you did sleep?” He thinks he knows the answer to this too.
“I don’t know if you can really call it that.” Bingo.
It’s not surprising to him. Not only has he been on enough missions with you to know how hard it is for you to sleep outside of the base, but he’s managed to get you to actually tell him about your sleeping struggles. He knows. He watches you subtly kick off your boots, letting them fall over onto their sides, as if you could read his mind and know what he’s going to request next.
“Lay down,” Ghost puts a bare hand on your clothed shoulder and lightly pushes at it, prompting you to lean back onto your side, settling into the bed with the blankets still wrapped around you.
Ghost doesn’t mind the lack of blankets he’s getting. As long as you’re the one hogging them, he finds it easier to go without them, strangely enough. He lays down onto the bed next to you, his head naturally above yours, and neither of you bother to change positions. He doesn’t attempt to pull the blankets from you, and you don’t try to move away from him, the both of you simply existing together in one small space with nothing interrupting you two. A thin layer of air, similar to the blanket covering you, seems to cover the both of you, not trapping you together but instead comforting the both of you. The air feels woven from Ghost’s thoughts, yarn strewn from his cerebral cortex, emotions run through an invisible loom to create the beautiful quilt that covers the both of you.
Ghost’s hand comes up to thumb at the edge of his balaclava, and he pulls it up the tiniest bit, but then pauses to think.
He knows that if you just turn your head up the tiniest bit, you’ll see his face. The blonde stubble peeking out from under his skin, the small dent forming in the middle of his nose from the constant wearing of his balaclava, and possibly the most embarrassing of all, that small smile he wears that pulls at his already cracking lips that draws blood on occasion. Despite all of this, he pulls his face covering all the way off, and tosses it onto his desk. Your face doesn’t move an inch despite how obvious it is that some kind of fabric has hit the desk.
He considers saying thank you, but Ghost doesn’t deem it necessary. You’re so close to sleeping that he doesn’t want to risk ruining your chances by talking to you. So, instead, he just brings his arm over your side and lets his hand reach up into the nape of your neck to toy with the small hairs tapering off there. They’re short enough that he’s essentially just brushing his fingers against the skin of your neck, but he assumes you don’t mind, considering how you continue to not move. You stay still peacefully, soft breaths leaving you as your body starts to actually relax.
So you weren’t lying about your lack of sleep, he thinks, his own eyes slowly closing, not that I thought you were, anyway.
Your breathing creates the perfect white noise to him. The vibrations emitting from your larynx that escape your mouth reach his ear canals, where they bounce off of his eardrums, and move down from his middle ears to his inner ears where the nerve endings that live there turn the vibrations into electrical impulses and are translated by his brain into actual sound. The translation sounds like more than just a simple sound, though; it’s like your breathing is translated into actual words rather than breathing, words like safe and guarded. Those small vibrations bounce around in his ears and turn into syllables, then eventually whispers, then firm speech.
Those words are like music to his ears, as cliché as it is, and he cherishes every word he hears―more than he’ll ever let you know.
Me thinking about BF!Soap x Reader & BFF!Ghost dynamic:
it can be like this: Reader and Ghost acting like a divorced couple who has shared custody of Soap
But it can also be like this: Soap and Reader being both troublemakers (I GET US INTO TROUBLE tshirts) and blasé Ghost (I GET US OUT OF TROUBLE tshirt) carrying one under each arm post-shenanigans for RTB
Ghost's height difference with the other two makes me also picture Ghost holding em by the scruff like a pair of unruly kittens 💀🐱 (for full animal metaphore Im imagining Ghost as a Wolf. All black except the skull on his face/furr?)
Tags: Alternative Universe - Canon Divergence, Past Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" Mactavish, Dead John 'Soap' Mactavish, PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Simon Riley has PTSD, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Depression, Anxiety, Phobias, Past Child Abuse, Past Violence, Past Self-Harm, Graphic Descriptions, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Runaway Reader, Reader is 13, Simon is 45, Adoption Inaccuracies, Soft Simon "Ghost" Riley, Protective Simon "Ghost" Riley, Dad Simon "Ghost" Riley, No Usage of Y/N for Reader-Insert, Author Has Only Watched Other People Play Call of Duty, Author Is From Texas
Summary: Having faced years of abuse at the hands of your parents, you decided to run away. Better off homeless than in that house you were sure to die in. You just hoped you would find a better life - and you did.
Word Count: 3,910
Disclaimer: There are sensitive topics in this chapter that I didn't tag to prevent spoilers. Please proceed with caution.
--------
It was 2:37 a.m. in the morning as rain pelted against the window as thunder faintly rumbled in the background.
You awoken with a guttural gasp as you sat up too fast that your vision spotted as well as dizziness setting in.
You slowly laid back onto your bed as you realized you had woken up on your back.
You never fell asleep on your back.
Always found it too uncomfortable. You never really found it a relaxing position for yourself. Plus, it was a belief that falling asleep on your back caused nightmares and sleep paralysis.
You wiped uncomfortably at the thick layer of sweat that covered your body as your heart pounded in your chest in a very unsettling way.
It felt nasty as you swallowed down what felt like bile rising up in your throat, immediately turning to lay on your side.
Riley wasn't here with you tonight as he was at the local vet for an overnight stay after having surgery to remove some of his teeth.
You missed him.
You pushed those thoughts away as Riley was set to be home later today, getting up from your bed to change your pajamas and wipe yourself down.
Once freshened up, you stepped out of the restroom and carefully tip toed to the laundry room to dump your sweat soaked clothes into the hamper.
A loud crack of thunder followed by a flash of lightning shook the house as it made a choked sob come out of your throat.
You really didn't want to deal with a thunderstorm after having such a nightmare about your abusive childhood.
It had been a while since you had one, and you were quite surprised that you didn't have one until now. You couldn't pinpoint the exact reason why your brain decided to make you relive your past, but it is what it is.
You felt a panic attack coming on as you stood all alone in the hallway, when you remembered Simon said you were welcomed in his bedroom for times like this.
You shakingly walk to your room to grab your nightlight, then make the short distance to stand in front of Simon's bedroom door.
Your knuckles rapped against the wooden door shakingly as it sounded quite loud, wincing in regret.
You slowly opened the door as his room was pitched black, making you falter in your steps. A low whimper left your throat as a bedside lamp was quickly flicked on.
"What's wrong, sweet'art?" Simon asked as his voice was raspy with sleep, slowly sitting up as his scarred chest was revealed.
Your bottom lip trembled as you stayed rooted in your spot, your voice stuck in your throat.
"C'mere, it's olright." Simon cooed out with outstretched arms, fingers beckoning you to come over. "No need to talk, jus' come on over. Nothing here is gonna hurt ya, sweet girl."
You were finally able to move as you softly closed the bedroom door behind you, practically running towards Simon, who enveloped you in his arms.
Your face was tucked against where his shoulder met his neck with your arms around his neck. He was extremely warm, usually he always was, but now he was a furnace from being asleep.
His right arm was wrapped around you as his left was tangled in your hair, "It's olright. Yer safe, okay?"
Simon whispered out as he pulled you to straddle him, "No one's gonna hurt ya anymore. Not with me here."
You closed your eyes as your body slowly ceased its shaking, little vibrations here and there. Your heart rate slowly goes back down as the tightness in your chest ceases.
"I'm gonna let go for a second now, okay? Gonna plug yer nightlight in." Simon informed you as he knew if he suddenly let you go, it would only scare you even more.
You nodded your head as you slid off of him and onto his bed, creaking with the movement.
Simon got up as he was wearing some old sweatpants as he leaned down with a groan, plugging in your trusty nightlight as it flickered on.
You laid on your side in a ball as you waited impatiently for him to return to bed with you. The bed creaked as he sat at the edge of it as the bedside lamp was flicked off.
The bed shakes as he lays on his right side towards you as you immediately beeline into his arms, causing him to chuckle softly.
"Let me get settled, sweetie. I know yer scared, but I don't wanna elbow you in the face, now." Simon softly said as you scooted back a bit until his arms gently pulled you into a protective embrace.
You closed your eyes as he held you against his chest, feeling his bare skin against your face grounding you.
It's been eternity since you felt a warming embrace like this. You haven't felt this since your dad passed away when you were little.
Once, his arms were wrapped around you even before you were here, when you were still in your mother's belly. They were there whenever you needed them until they were ripped away from you by a careless driver.
Although your dad had always taken caution when driving, it just took one careless driver to forcefully take him away from you far too early.
Your mother, who had once been loving and nurturing, was now a corrupted shell of herself. It was like some entity had crawled its way into her skin, a puppet to their agenda.
It was all taken from you. It wasn't home anymore.That wasn't your mom. Where had she gone? Where had your dad gone? Why is he in that box? Why is he in a suit when Daddy never wore a suit? Why wouldn't he respond when you shook him?
It wasn't a nightmare.
It wasn't a nightmare.
You shoved those memories away as you let out a sigh, shifting to snuggle more into Simon. You reminded yourself that you weren't back there anymore. You were safe.
Your body soon grown limp as a dreamless sleep overcame you.
-
It was close to six in the morning as Simon gazed down at your sleeping form. Your cheek smushed against his bicep as a bit of drool leaked out of your slightly open mouth.
Simon never would've guessed he would be a pseudo father to anyone in his life. He didn't think he was made of the right material for it. He didn't think he was enough for it.
He did have a family once.
A mother, a brother, his sister-in-law, and his nephew.
They were everything to him, something he could live for. Until they were ripped away from him on Christmas Day.
He closed himself off after that. He threw himself into his military career and took up solo missions. He was alone most of the time, even on days off, preferred it that way.
Until a certain someone weaseled their way in.
John "Soap" Mactavish.
A young sergeant who he viewed as an annoyance at first, but after doing a couple missions together and a near death experience in Las Almas, Mexico, he grew fond of the younger man.
Ghost learned to trust again, and so did Simon.
Simon loved Soap, felt like he was the one for him, his soul mate, though he wasn't particularly fond of cheesy terms like that.
Soap was his better half, his anchor, his calm before the storm. He could see himself settling down in the countryside with him, get a few dogs, some livestock, and perhaps a baby of their own.
Soap loved children and had a bunch of nephews and neices back in Scotland. He knew he would make a great father.
Simon didn't think he would make a good one, but with Soap at his side, he felt like he could do anything.
Until Soap was killed by Makarov down at the tunnel.
Simon could still picture his dead body laying on the train platforms. He could see the puddle of blood surrounding him and the hole in his head.
He even felt for a pulse even though he knew there wouldn't be one. Price and Garrick had been fretting over the ticking time bomb just a few feet away, ready to detonate at any second, but he didn't care.
Simon stayed rooted by Soap's body, caressing it as if he could soothe him. He didn't care if that bomb had gone off. At least he would be with Soap in the afterlife.
Simon lost part of himself that day.
He felt lost. He hasn't felt that way since the day his family was murdered.
He grew violent.
He grew angry.
Which were partially the reason as to why he was medically discharged from the SAS. A death sentence for someone who only lived and breathed the military.
It took him a while to find his feet, but thanks to his other comrades in Task Force 141 - he did.
He was better than ever, most of the time he was. His PTSD still got the better of him sometimes, but he learned to ask for help.
Soap would've wanted that.
-
It was six in the morning as Simon was getting ready in the bathroom to head out to the farm.
He had the door ajar to peek at your sleeping form every now and then. You were sleeping on your left side, facing the door with your cheek smushed against his pillow.
You had migrated onto his side while he was up, probably trying to find him. The whole night you had slept in close proximity to him, even spooned him at one point.
Simon smiled at the sight of your peaceful form as he flicked off the bathroom light. He was dressed in proper clothing as he quietly left the room, softly closing the bedroom door behind him.
Outside, the sun was peaking out of the horizon as the air was cool against his skin. The days have only grown hotter as the weeks gone by.
He began his farm work as his mind was kept on you.
He could still remember the way you looked back at that gas station two months back. How famished you looked, how dirty your ill fitting clothes were, and how sad your face looked.
He had visited the gas station on a whim that midnight. He was originally gonna visit it until six o'clock that morning, but decided in the end to just make the visit already.
He was glad he did.
Who knew where you would be right now if not for him? He didn't even want to think about it. Time in the military does that to you, exposes you to the dark aspects of humanity. How evil a person could truly be to an innocent child who knows no harm.
He took one look at you and already had everything figured out.
He knew exactly what you've gone through to be at that point in your life. He had been there plenty of time, but he never had the guts to run away from home for good.
He would find an escape at his job as an apprentice butcher at his local supermarket, then later on in the military, he never once thought of running away for good.
He didn't want to leave his mum behind, along with his brother. He couldn't bear the thought, never seeing them again, which now sounds ironic.
Simon saw a younger version of himself in you. The same look he once held that was apparent in his childhood photos that no longer exist was the same look etched onto your face.
It wouldn't be a lie to say he was living through you, which wasn't fair to you. He kept those thoughts away as he simply treated you the way he wished he had been treated as a child.
He loved how quickly you blossomed, how he saw the real you come out, and how you were finally able to be a kid.
Parenting meant sacrifice, and Simon would sacrifice anything to make you feel safe and smile. He had grown fond you quickly, saw you as his own just as you saw him as your own.
"Thank you, Daddy." Those three simple words echoed in Simon’s head ever since the day they left your mouth just over a week ago.
Simon felt proud when you had said it, despite it being an accident, but he knew you meant them. He just didn't know how to ask you to call him 'Daddy' from now own.
He wondered if you would be embarrassed by it.
But, he knew one day it'll happen.
He'll just have to be patient.
-
The day was spent joyously as you helped Simon out on the farm. You helped muck the stalls and feed the animals, except for the chickens. You were terrified of them.
"Why do the chickens scare you, darlin?" Simon inquired with just a hint of amusement in his tone. He was in their pen shaking out food for them as they pecked at the ground.
You stood a good five feet away from the pen, never getting too close to them. "I'm scared they might peck my eye out or something."
You blurted out in a scared tone as one hen was making eye contact with you through the fence. A full body shiver went down your spine as you looked away from it, hoping it would get the message.
Simon raised a brow at your answer, "They won't peck your eyes out, sweetie. They're docile, for the most part." Simon said the last remark with a snicker, causing you to wrinkle your nose.
"That isn't funny!" You whined out, stomping your right foot into the ground. A huff left your lips as your nose wrinkled in annoyance, a habit Simon found cute.
"Sorry, m'bad." Simon said with smirk. He didn't feel too sorry about it. You rolled your eyes as you stepped away to sit at a bench located under a tree.
"Why do you have a farm?" You asked in a curious tone, "Did you have one back home, or was this a dream of yours?"
Simon turned over his shoulder to look at you for a moment before looking back at his task, his shoulders stiffening up a bit.
"A dream," he responded in a neutral tone. "Thought it would be nice for when I retired." He explained as he shook out the last of the chickens' food, tucking the bucket under his right arm.
He stayed quiet for a bit as he was contemplating on telling the complete truth, his sudden silence alarming you.
You opened your mouth to speak but was interrupted by Simon, who decided to let you in.
"Was gonna run this farm with a comrade of mine," Simon started off as his voice sounded hallow, like he was somewhere else. "John MacTavish was his name."
You piqued at the use of past tense, "He's not here?" You asked in a low voice, afraid you were overstepping boundaries.
Your foot kicked at the dirt, trying to dislodge a rock deeply embedded into the earth with your shoe.
Simon immediately took notice of your body language as he took a seat next to you, pulling you into a side hug.
"Unfortunately, yes." He responded in a soft tone, "Got killed in a mission. I... I saw his body - we were too late." He choked out as he cleared his throat.
Simon felt that if you saw him cry or worse, in a PTSD episode, it would scare you away. He didn't need you to play adult with him. You needed to be a kid.
You sensed his sadness as you gingerly leaned your head against his chest, letting him know silently that you were there for him.
Simon got your message, and it was very meaningful, but he didn't think he could go through it.
-
It was late at night as the digital clock read 12:47 a.m. as you were fast asleep in your room.
A nightmare had you in its grasps as your brain forced you to relive your traumatic childhood.
It was all too real.
It was all too current.
A loud creak woke you up as all you saw was darkness, hot and humid darkness.
Footsteps rang loud in your ears as it nearly overpowered the ringing that made your head hurt.
It was too loud.
Your heart pounded for escape against your ribcage as the door was opened. Your back was to it, but you didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
You kept still as you knew from previous experience that lunging wouldn't do you any good.
You always slept with the covers to your chin to mask your hand, sliding under your pillow to take hold of a firm object.
You waited.
Closer.
Get closer.
A hand was felt on your shoulder as that was all you needed.
You threw the blanket to obstruct their field of vision, and then you lunged.
A loud groan was heard as you smiled triumphantly. You immediately scrambled off the bed to run out when a light caught your attention.
You frowned.
What was that light doing there?
Oh.
Oh, no.
Your heart fell out of your body. Perhaps all your organs did from how hollow you felt. Your eyes glance down at the growing puddle of blood on your floor.
You looked up as your blanket hit the floor.
It was Simon.
"Fuckin' hell!" He gritted out in between clenched teeth as sweat beaded at his forehead. He looked down at the small knife protruding out of his outer thigh.
Everything began to spin until it went dark.
-
When you awoken, the room was dimly lighted, and you found yourself laying on a soft bed. It was quiet as you heard faint rustling coming from somewhere to the left of you.
You swallowed as your throat felt dry, your saliva feeling like a shard of glass going down your esophagus. You also felt very nauseated as you placed a hand over your mouth.
"Sweetie, you awake?" A voice called out as you jolted as everything all came back. You felt as if pit was built permanently in your chest as you were scared as to what would happen from this point onwards.
Would Simon call the cops and toss you out? Or would he simply just toss you out without a second thought?
You began shaking as a small sob left your throat, "I'm s-so sorry! I'm sorry! Please - !"
You bawled out in a shaky, anxiety ridden tone as you sat up to look at Simon. "I-I didn't mean - ! I thought - !"
A shaky breath interrupted your apologies as hot tears spilled endlessly down your face. You hiccuped as you sniffled, some snot dribbling out of your nose.
Simon took a few steps as he took a seat on the edge of the bed, keeping some distance between the two of you.
"Not mad at you, darlin." Simon blurted out in a low, soft tone as his eyes held nothing but love for you. "Never was. Don't think I could even be mad at ya."
You sniffled as his words threw you off. How could he not be mad at you? You stabbed him.
Your eyes grew wide as you looked down to where you had embedded the knife to find him wearing sweatpants.
You let out a whine as Simon could sense what you were worried about.
"I'm fine, sweetie. Been through worse out in the field. You didn't hurt me seriously enough f'r me to get medical help. I patch myself up." Simon responded in a reassuring tone as he reached out to hold your hand.
You let out a sob as you shook your head, "I did something bad! I should - ! I should be punished." Your voice wavered at the end, your body shaking even more with your cries.
Simon shook his head, "None of that, sweetie." Simom whispered out as he reached out to wipe your tears, but you let out a whine and avoided his touch.
"No!" You yelled out the loudest your voice had ever been. "You should call the cops! I should be at that orphanage you said I was gonna be sent to!"
You babbled out as you were lost. You didn't know what you were supposed to do now. You never had been in a situation like this before.
If you were back home, you would've gotten a beating that should've landed you in the hospital, but you were never given your right to treatment.
But, now, you were facing being sent to jail, into an orphanage, or back home.
Simon shook his head, "No, never. I would never send you to an orphanage, " He blurted out perhaps too harshly as he winced at how you flinched.
"I'm sorry," he whispered out. "Look at me, darlin." Simon softly commanded you as you reluctantly did as told. "I'm not gonna call the on ya f'r this."
"And don't you ever think of runnin' away now, ya hear me?" Simon said in a stern tone as he held a strict expression. "You run away, and I will be callin' the police."
You frowned at his latter statement, "... But you said you wouldn't send me to an orphanage." You bawled out in a confused tone as anxiety formed deep in your chest.
Simon wordlessly got up from the bed as he entered his closet, where he kept the safe. He made sure he was blocking the combination code as he pulled out a folder.
He placed it gently onto your lap as he made a hand motion for you to look in it.
Your hands shook as you hesitantly opened the manila folder to see a birth certificate, a social security card, and a passport that you never once had.
Your eyebrows pinched together as you shifted through them as you found your old birth certificate and social security card.
You were puzzled as to why you had two of each if you didn't need them to be renewed. You thoroughly compared the four documents when you froze at your discovery.
Your new documents had Simon listed as your father, and your surname changed to Riley.
"The cops ain't gonna send you to an orphanage, kiddo. They're gonna bring you back here - home." Simon said as he saw the documents shaking in your hands, your tears turning into happy tears.
He gently took the documents away from your grasp as he put them off to the side. He gently pulled you into his embrace as he perched you onto his lap.
You were his now. He was your father and you had a home.
But, there was a question ringing in your mind.
"H-How?" You croaked out as your voice was high-pitched. Simon chuckled at your bewilderment, "Got friends in high places, sweetie."
You blinked in surprise as you quickly figured out he must've made that connection in his time in the military.
You didn't say anything as you rested your head on his chest. You closed your eyes as you snuggled closer to Simon.
Everything does indeed get better. You just gotta be patient.
⌜A/N: We're not out of the woods yet. We just took a couple of steps. Reader had their relapse, which means it's Simon's turn! His will be much darker, so brace yourself. As for the ending, I think we're getting closer to it. I hope you enjoy this chapter and this story! As usual, I apologize for any grammar/spelling errors.⌟
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