i hope i don’t fall in love with you | s. riley x reader
word count: 2.3k | warnings: none really, alcohol consumption, mentions of character death, age gap if you squint, angst, heavy ghoap presence in this one too | masterlist
summary: a few years after the passing of his sergeant, a retired simon finds himself finding hope in a military dive bar of all places
author’s note: hiiiii lol this is my first fic in a year or two??? i think??? it’s also my first cod fic ever. i was honestly scared to dip my toes in esp bc i’m still learning and figuring out all the lore but i thought this was so fun to do!!! it was inspired by the song linked below. i hope you enjoy and have fun with this!!!
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The bar near base was occupied by shadows. Half-lit faces crowded around billiard tables, occasionally making the drunken error of bumping against the low-hanging lamps, causing them to swing about and have men and soldiers alike erupt into friendly shoves and guffaws. Grainy melodies poured from the jukebox in the far corner, and patrons took their seats upon the worn barstools, each in search of their own weekly remedy. It wasn’t a place for newcomers. Every spot was filled by a familiar face, all known to each other since what seemed like the beginning of time. Life was like that on base. It consumed every bit of you, leaving no room for anything else.
Maybe that’s why Simon stuck out like a sore thumb. It wasn’t because of his massive stature nor his unnerving silence, not even the skull that covered his face. Maybe it wasn’t any of those reasons at all but just the inescapable fact that there was no room, no spot for him. Truthfully, though, the cause didn’t matter. The result felt all the same. Their eyes still burned hot against his back, making every moment sting like it would tear him to pieces. The whispers and murmurs rang in his ears like screams. It took over all his senses as if it would suffocate him. Admittedly, it wasn’t something he was entirely unfamiliar with, no, but it was a feeling that he had lost the habit of, something that only crept back in when the ashes dusted Scottish hills and cold dog tags found their way into his fist.
His fists clenched at his sides as he silently moved to the bar, doing his best to steel himself from the stares he felt clinging to him. The joints of the stool groaned under his hulking weight, and it took everything in Simon not to wince at the sound. The bartender was kind enough not to let his eyes linger when he barked out his order in clipped tones and slapped his money on the counter. He simply grabbed the bills laid out before him without a word and got to work, a cold glass placed in front of the former lieutenant moments later. Simon nodded in thanks, bringing the drink to his lips and cherishing the burn it left behind.
He stayed there for what seemed like hours, hulking shoulders slumped as he drank in silence. His dark eyes rarely left the stained bartop. They shifted only at the occasional stir of noise from the tables behind him or the creak of the heavy entrance door. As the night carried on, the crowds dwindled, trickling off one by one. Still, there were a few new arrivals, mostly younger recruits looking to finish off their night before turning in for the evening. You were one such late arrival, though not a soldier nor part of the late party crowd.
Your body ached with every step as you walked through the door. The day had been long, the night before it even longer, and it certainly showed in your appearance. Still, you greeted the bartender with the same gentle smile as always. You fell so naturally into your place at the bar, and Simon felt a pang of jealousy at how easily you fit in. It stewed quietly within him as you chatted with the man behind the counter, ordering your drink with the practiced air of someone who’d done it a hundred times over. He listened to your conversation and envied the casualness that fell so easily with you, though he couldn’t deny the way he began to feel almost normal as he let your words pass through his brain and fill his time. He listened to you talk with the bartender about your bookkeeping job that you had to help pay for school and your crummy apartment, about your cats at home, about the dinner you had. Really, there probably wasn’t a thing you hadn’t brought up. A real open book, you were. All of it felt mundane to Simon, nothing special, but he liked that. It was calming, disarming even, letting him lull himself into the illusion of safety his mind rarely allowed. It changed quickly, though, at the mention of your father, and something shifted in him, making it suddenly unbearable to stay quiet.
“Dad’s military?” he asked in his low, gruff voice. Straight to the point, no words minced. His eyes never even left the counter, working off instinct, not the want to converse. It stilled you for a moment, surprised to hear him speak. Truth be told, he had been so quiet you weren’t even sure he knew how to before this moment. After gathering your thoughts, you manage to articulate your response.
“Was, yeah.”
It was an answer Simon was familiar with; anyone would after spending as much time in the military as he had, yet it affected him all the same. He felt so cold, as if the emptiness that had followed him since that mission formed a vacuum, sucking away all the air around him. He didn’t know how to respond, cursing himself for even speaking up in the first place.
You could see him swimming in his thoughts and eyed his nearly-empty glass, watching as melting cubes drowned in whiskey. A small noise escaped you as you cleared your throat, turning to him again. “Buy you another drink?” you suggested quietly, hoping to pull him from his anguish. For a split second, he tensed, caught off guard by your offer. After a long pause, he gave a hesitant nod.
“D’be alright,” he muttered, not even attempting to meet your gaze as he desperately tried to appear collected.
It would do for now, you thought. You fished through your wallet and placed more money on the counter as you ordered another round for yourself and the ex-soldier, and metal screeched against the floor as you brought your stool closer to his own. He cast a wary glance in your direction, limbs kept close to his own body. It was funny to you, the way he seemed almost afraid of your openness. He was a behemoth of a man, all rough skin and bulging muscles. It baffled you that you could have any effect on him at all.
The bartender set down his drink, condensation rolling off the side of the glass and onto the wooden counter below. Simon took it gingerly into his own grasp, but made no effort to lift it to his lips, instead staying stagnant, seemingly waiting for permission. Mercifully, you gave him a nod, and he took a generous sip, brows pinching together as he swallowed. His hand came up to wipe the moisture from his lips. They were scarred and chapped, you noticed, and the sight made more questions spring to your mind about this masked figure that sat beside you. It seemed he wanted no questions on the matter, though, as he quickly grabbed the bunched-up fabric beneath his nose and tugged it back down, the skeletal grimace taking its place again. Once it became clear that your new companion had no intentions of breaking the ice, you decided to take the first step.
“You military?” you prodded, figuring it would be a safe bet. Nearly everyone in the bar was SAS.
“Was,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders before reluctantly offering one more piece of information, “used to be a lieutenant.”
“Impressive,” you answered with a soft hum, “That was Dad’s rank.”
You see it again, the tension that grips him, makes his breath catch in his throat. It made him seem so small, like he actually was human. Taking a risk, you push a little further.
“Why’d you leave?” you ventured, hoping to create some opening, something to let you get a glimpse at the man beneath the armor. You saw how he steeled himself, preparing to answer. Finally, he chokes it out.
“My own captain made me leave. Said I was letting grief take a hold in my work on the field. I lost my, uh… Johnny. He.. he was one of my sergeants.”
Simon supposed that was all he could call him, all he had the right to. It wasn’t like there was anything put down, anything in writing like Johnny had wanted there to be. Hell, he never even said it aloud. Not while it counted, anyways. Not when there was someone around to hear it. Every word, every touch, every hope, it all stayed private, even from Johnny. Now that’s all he was. There was no “us”, or “we”, or “mine.” Just Johnny. Sergeant MacTavish, really, was all he had a right to, and he had no one to blame for it but himself. He has half a mind to correct himself, erase “Johnny” from his sentence, when you interrupt him.
“I’m sorry ‘bout that,” you muttered solemnly, no attempt at dramatic consolation, just simple understanding. It was a fact of military life, after all. You lifted your glass lightly, tapping it against the rim of his own, the high-pitched sound echoing in Simon’s ears. “To Johnny,” fell from your lips as you tipped your head back and let the last of your drink slide down your throat. He mimicked your behavior, whiskey burning all the way to his stomach.
You opened your lips to speak again, but instead your head turned in the direction of the brightly-colored jukebox as a new tune began. It was soft and folksy, something American. It was odd for a bar like this, but welcome all the same. It reminded you of the kind of thing you would have listened to as a child. If you closed your eyes, you could have seen yourself, hair messy and unkempt as you lay across the backseat of your family’s old truck, eyes heavy with sleep after a long day out, the music lulling you into a comfortable slumber. Before you could even think, your hand found its way to Simon’s own, resting atop the large paw.
“Dance with me,” you breathed out more as a prayer than anything else, “Please.”
He stiffened, eyes meeting yours for the first time that evening. They were wide and unsure and unmistakably damp, though you know better than to mention the latter quality. Simon held your gaze, searching your face, trying to make sense of what you wanted, why you were asking him of all people. No answer to be found, he swallowed thickly and took your hand in his anyway. It was warm even through his gloves as you guided him out onto the floor.
Standing in the middle of the sparse barroom, you brought his hand to rest against the curve of your waist, your smaller one moving to settle against his shoulder, the other intertwining with the fingers of his free hand. The gesture made his eyes find your own again, but you shook your head softly, assuring him.
“It’s alright,” you promised, “I’ll show you.”
As you slowly coaxed him into a soft sway, he couldn’t help but take you in. Your flesh was soft and supple beneath his grip. It gave way so easily to his touch, so willing in its relent, a far cry from Johnny’s corded muscles. You were his opposite in nearly every way possible. The Scot was a loud, brash storm of a man that brought chaos wherever he went; you were a breeze that swept through a room and left everyone lighter in spirit. It was night and day. You could never be Johnny. But, oh, your eyes. Your eyes were so him.
Simon knew he was ugly, the kind of scarred thing that never deserved to even glance upon goodness. It was never meant for him, never allowed to him. He bore so much blood on his hands he may as well have been born with it. He felt guilty, knowing that even a small moment like this with you was sure to tarnish you forever. That’s how Johnny ended up, wasn’t it? Gone and ruined because a bastard like him was a part of his life.
Johnny never acted that way, though, knew better, he said. The way he looked at Simon, you could swear he was heaven-sent. When he thinks of those blue eyes shining into his own, he could almost imagine that he wasn’t some cruel, misshapen creature. He could almost believe that he was worth something after all.
Losing Johnny gave him a reality check, one that cemented itself the minute he was scattered across a landscape Simon had never seen before or since. There was no one left to make him feel like he wasn’t so wrong. Even his teammates, his brothers, let their expressions turn wary when they looked too long.
But being here with you felt different. You, who knew nothing about him, about his sins that followed him like a shadow. You, who looked at him like he was just a man, nothing more. Not a weapon, not a beast, not the abomination he thought he was. Just Simon.
As you lay your head on his broad chest, he was reminded of how good it felt to be close to someone again, to feel the warmth of a body against his own to keep him from letting the monster win, to stop him from being Ghost and remembering to be Simon. And as the song ended and you pulled back, staring up at him through fluttered lashes, he was done for. Sweet, gentle thing in his arms, he couldn’t resist you if his life depended on it, and it really did.
Simon can’t afford love. It’s not his lot in life. He stole it once, and Johnny paid the price. If you fell for him, he’d rot you from the inside, love you until you were empty or dead. He couldn’t bear to do it, but the greedy part of him nips at his heels, eager to fill the hole his sergeant left behind. So instead of stepping back and wishing you a nice night, Simon breathed the words that would probably be etched into your headstones.
“Got a name, love?”
*i don’t have a dedicated cod tag list (or masterlist) as of yet bc idk how often i’ll write, but if you’re interested in being tagged in any future cod writings i do you can always message me!!
