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nyxwoodstone · 1 month

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Televangelism | Part 2

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Summary: Johnny wakes up in his Lt's house and finds himself wildly unprepared to address the elephant that is Simon Riley and domesticity.

TLDR: Soap meets the Lt's wife :)

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, female reader, pregnant!reader, domestic fluff, Simon and reader already have a toddler..., maybe a little OOC Ghost but allow it, no smut all plot, still MDNI I swear to God, idk like minor swearing but if you're from the COD fandom I feel like you should know that, let me know if I missed anything.

Dictionary: SO - superior officer Civvies - civilian clothing NOD's - them night vision goggle thingo's Padre - colloquial name for Bristish Army Chaplains

---------------------------------------------

Simon didn't wait for Johnny's reaction. He didn't want questions. Didn't want considerations. He wanted to see his wife, and he wanted to sleep. He'd showered on base, he always did, he hated waking her in the middle of the night.

Up the stairs, he saw the bedroom door slightly ajar, the cold bathroom light seeping through the gaps under the door and sending a beam of grey across the hall. He knocked once.

"Love?"

The quiet hum of her response came through the wood and he gently pushed the door open, breathing the room in.

Coming home like this always felt odd. He forgot how his room smelled, how it smelled so distinctly of her perfume, the washing detergent, and the slight tang of some cleaning product. The scent was heady, it weighed his shoulders down, made him want to sink straight into the mattress and close his eyes.

She was in the bathroom, sporting one of his shirts, and tying her hair up. She rubbed one of her eyes, blearily running a hand over her stomach - his child.

A heavy weight gripped at his chest. But this grip was not cold, it did not suffocate him; this grip warmed his bones and breathed air into his lungs. His lips twitched. He would stare at her often. She told him he did. But was what he supposed to say? His words couldn't possibly amount to say what he meant.

Beautiful was never enough of a word. It wasn't…it didn't even mean anything next to her. She was something that beauty was afraid of, something that beauty could never match.

"Evening, sweetheart." The tiredness in his bones made him drawl the word. Made it sound like he was from somewhere else.

"Welcome home." She murmured quietly as he trudged to where she stood. She wrapped her arms around his middle and he damn-near sank to his knees, pulling her into his chest, as far in as her current condition would allow, pressing a firm kiss to her head. They were silent and he breathed her in. She curled her fingers up into his hair and said something about missing him, but he hardly heard it, just focusing on keeping his breathing even.

"Simon?" She placed a hand on each side of his ribcage to gently pry him off her. One of her hands came up to cradle his jaw. "You're home."

So used to years of having to ground him back in reality after he came home, her words were well-practiced, repeated time after time.

"He's gotten bigger." He pressed his forehead against hers to look down at her stomach, an all-too-clear reminder of how long he had been away. In her first pregnancy, he'd been hesitant to touch her, to put his hands on her middle. Part of him felt undeserving, like he shouldn't be putting his hands on someone so fragile, he didn't want to dirty her, or their child, didn't want to use the same fingers that had pulled countless triggers to trace the lines that stretched over her hips; didn't want to put the same palms that had choked men to death to feel their child's kicks. This woman had, in all her stubborn glory, grabbed his hands and put them on either side of her bump when it was just beginning to show. She had glared up at him, narrowed eyes piercing him through her lashes.

"We won't break."

She had been right. Pushing him had been the right move, she had always known exactly which buttons to press, and how much pressure she needed to apply.

"Pressure makes diamonds, Simon."

He had rolled his eyes when she said that to him, she'd laughed.

"Cliché."

"But true."

He'd huffed an agreement.

Words. She was good at words. Good at knowing what to say, knowing which jokes would make him laugh, knowing which subjects to avoid all together. It had never escaped him that she never asked him how many people he had killed, or what he had done. Never. If he asked her why she'd probably tell him that she knew he was protecting the world (she always made his job sound so dramatic), and that was all she needed to know. Not that he could tell her much more.

Not that he wanted to.

"I love you." She whispered to him in the dark. The bathroom light had timed out and clicked off, leaving them in darkness. He carefully slotted his nose against her own and brought her lips to his, kissing her firmly. With acknowledgement, with the deepest emotions he was capable of baring so plainly. She let out a soft noise in the back of her throat and tilted her head back, an invitation. One he was, as much as he wanted to, far too tired to accept. He pulled back to kiss her cheek. She huffed when he broke contact. Simon had long since stopped seeing this specific huff as annoyance, attributing it to desperate want instead.

"I love you too."

The steady hum of the fan next to their bed threaded through the air and his shoulders sagged. He was exhausted, and the adrenaline had long-since worn off.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

"You need help?" Her quiet voice rose above the fan.

"You're alright, get some rest."

A musical laugh escaped her, before she quickly covered her mouth, eyes darting over to the crib in the corner of their room where their daughter slept soundly.

"You need rest, my love."

He could only hum a response, turning to go see his daughter. She always got bigger when he returned home. It made his chest ache, pained him. Simon had thanked every god and being in existence when he was off-duty for her third birthday, he'd been in Russia for her first birthday, and Iran for her second. The stench of guilt still hung around his shoulders. She had one tiny arm tucked under her pillow, and had her teddy hugged tight to her chest. The bear was relatively new, a gift promised by his wife when he had needed to leave after only five days back with his family. When he had gotten back, they had both taken her to the bear store, where she could choose her own bear and it's costume. It seemed a bit too extravagant at first, but when his daughter's little eyes lit up as soon as she stepped inside, he understood the necessity. She had tugged at his hand and pulled him through the store, picking up a teddy and asking Mum to hold it for her.

"Why don't you let Daddy hold her?"

"It's a 'him', Mum."

"Oh, of course, love."

The bub had turned to crane her neck up at her father and jut the teddy out for him to hold.

"Can you hold him, Daddy?"

"Course I can, baby."

Satisfied with her free hands, she had walked further into the store, searching for the appropriate clothing for the bear. Simon had shot his wife a grateful look. Oftentimes, when he came back from deployment, their daughter was distant for a few days, and sometimes seemed to forget that he was there, so when given the opportunity, he adored doing anything for her. Whether that be reaching a book on the shelf that she couldn't, or holding her teddy bear whilst she did some shopping. He chuckled to himself at that. Little miss really was three going on fifteen, she had begun to demand that she not be called 'little' anymore, and would often refer to herself as a 'big girl.' She really was an extension of her mother, so stubborn, so steadfast, and with those big, bright eyes as well.

The toddler had let out an excited squeal from where she stood in front of the shelves.

"Daddy, look!"

She had been stomping her feet with glee, pointing straight ahead to the tiny bear's clothes that were almost comically hung from equally tiny hangers.

"It's like you! Look!"

"What is it, bub?"

She was pointing at the set in front of her. Small bear's clothes printed in green camouflage. A plastic dog tag hung from the shirt. His breath hitched slightly. Alongside this costume were others that mimicked the navy, air force, police uniforms, firefighters, the lot.

Simon rarely wore his uniform nowadays, just for formalities or meetings with important superiors. But there were photos around the house with him in uniform, from his younger days in the service.

His daughter's excited antics had garnered the attention of a few other parent shopping with their children, each who gave him a small smile, clearly understanding the situation. The toddler was just ecstatic that she had found Daddy's clothes in the bear store.

"It is like Daddy, clever girl."

He patted her head and she grinned, reaching to pull it down off the wall, and handing it to Simon as well. That sent an odd feeling through him. Part of his heart warmed that she wanted to dress up her bear like him. His wife often told him that he was their daughter's hero, but he couldn't allow himself to fully believe that, she would never truly understood what her 'hero' was off doing when he was away. And what kind of hero disappeared for weeks at a time with no explanation apart from 'work?' The other part of his ached to think that she wanted to carry a bear in camo around with her when he wasn't there. An ever-present reminder of what was missing from her life. An ever present reminder that he was missing.

They had bought the bear, and even the cashier tilted her head with endearment when the toddler had excitedly informed her that the teddy was like her dad.

The bub had been attached to the bear ever since. She'd cleverly named him Bear, and she refused to sleep without him. But as soon as Simon was home, Bear stayed in her crib.

"She's been sleeping better for a few days, but she was a bit ill yesterday."

He reached down to put a hand against her head, she was a tad warm, but that was likely due to sleep. Placing a soft kiss on her head, he turned back to the bed and began the quick process of removing his clothes, moving to lie next to the woman he loved so desperately.

"I'm glad you're home." She kissed his face once more.

"Me too, sweetheart."

And he pulled her back into his chest, placing his chin atop her head, and slowly disappeared from the world.

Outside, far away, there were men and women plotting the downfall of the global system; but in here, his love lay sleeping in his arms, and his world was tucked into the corner of the room, both breathing quietly as they slept.

***********************************************************************************************************

You woke early. You always did now. Although, mercifully, the worst weeks of morning sickness had subsided, and you were often woken by the tiny life inside you kicking at your stomach. It hurt, but it wasn't particularly unwelcome, your radiologist had told you that if baby was moving, baby was alright.

In between those words was a mother's worst fear, peppered in the silences.

If baby stops moving, there's a problem. A serious problem.

So, you tried to have some grace towards the little devil that got you up so early.

The early-morning light came through the gaps in the curtains, grey hue telling you that you were in for another day of bleak weather. To be expected round these parts.

Simon had migrated slightly in the night, now giving you enough room to turn over - with an almost embarrassing amount of struggle - to look at him.

He got to stare at you as much as he wanted - and stare he did - so you would take any chance you could to watch him. He hated being scrutinized when he could see it, no matter how gentle your gaze was, something deep within him crawled around and fought against your eyes. Simon Riley was another man he was asleep. He was younger, his brow wasn't drawn down, his arms weren't folded against his chest; he was at rest, at ease, you might have joked to him. Light eyelashes framed his closed eyes, and there was a layer of darker stubble over his jaw and cheeks. And then there were the scars.

Some had already marked his face when he first met you, some were newer. None were particularly that deep, but if you looked close enough, they were there. One curved over his nose bridge, (you didn't dare reach across to trace the line of it, for fear of waking him) that one was older, it had almost faded now, but there was still a slight dent in the meat of his nose years later. The rest were littered over his jaw, short in length, clearly the result of some kind of blade.

You weren't stupid, you knew these were all close calls, if someone had gotten close enough to him to cut him up, he had been dangerously close to losing his life. But you tried not to think about it, and you never questioned him about it. If he came home with stitches, you knew enough first aid to help him keep the wound clean until the stitches dissolved or could be taken out, but you never asked him about them. You weren't sure if your lips would even be able to form the words necessary to ask, you might just burst into tears on the spot. And he probably couldn't tell you the truth about them, even if he wanted to.

That was one of the most difficult things about being married to Simon Riley: his work. Or, more accurately, the fact that he could tell you almost nothing about it. Dates, locations, names, events - it was almost always classified. You knew he was saving the world - he wasn't fond of you saying that - but that was all. You knew he killed people. Of course you did. He killed bad people. Evil people. That was the important part.

As long as he came back to you alive, that was what mattered. And even if he couldn't talk to you about his work, he would gladly let you chat his ear off about your daily comings and goings.

He shifts slightly, arm moving to further cradle his head, and that's your cue to leave. He wakes obscenely early, so who's to say his work friend isn't already awake? They would definitely need breakfast after all that they'd done.

Having someone else in your house meant that you actually needed to wear something a little more appropriate than Simon's shirt alone, so you reluctantly changed, with many grunts and groans, and with more difficult than you were used to. You checked on your sleeping girl in the corner before quietly closing the bedroom door and making your way downstairs.

The kitchen tiles were cool under your feet, and you fought back the involuntary squawk at the frigid feeling, quickly turning up the heating. And you started on breakfast.

Surprisingly, it was usually Simon that made you breakfast in the mornings when he was home, on account of the fact that he was usually awake before you. Military wake-up times and such. But you were glad to be able to do it for him for the first few days after he came home. It was a comfort. Returning to the normal after he had been away.

It didn't take long for said man to make his own way down the stairs. Mercifully doing so before your guest had woken up. Despite the fact that you were sure Simon's guest would be palatable, you weren't particularly keen on being alone with him before your husband was awake.

"Morning, handsome." You coo and he huffs a low laugh as he reaches the last step, having dressed in a similarly presentable fashion as yourself, acutely aware that you are not alone.

"Mornin.'" He runs a hand over your hip and turns your cheek to kiss your firmly, in it you sense an apology.

"You're alright?"

He huffs again, turning to open the blinds across the room.

"I didn't want to bring him here."

"You did the right thing."

Simon only hums.

"I'm glad you did, I would want him to do the same for you, I'm sure he has family who will be happy to know he was comfortable."

"His name's John."

"He's a good man?"

Simon gives you a somewhat amused glance. Clearly, he can sense your attempt at getting him to make friends.

"Gets the job done."

You take the loss and nod slightly, turning back to the stove.

A pair of heavy hands come down on each of your hips.

"I didn't want to bring him here." The low rumble of his voice sends a hot spark straight to your core, his words suddenly taking on a new meaning.

"Oh?" You feign innocence and you swear you can hear his eyes roll. You'd be an absolute liar if you said that you weren't at least a little disappointed that you didn't have the house to yourself - that you didn't have Simon to yourself right now. Every time he came back, he was all you wanted. For days. And now not being able to have him? At least not for the next few hours, it stung a little. You lean back into him, his broad chest surrounding you. Craning your neck up, you can see the dark haze over his eyes and you grind your ass back on him in a cruel, calculated move, just to get a reaction. He grunts softly and grips your hips tighter.

“Behave, sweetheart.” The deep rumble of his tone reverberates against your spine.

And you’ve never wanted to act up so badly.

“You’re right, wouldn’t want John coming out to see his SO getting handsy with his wife in the kitchen.” Teasing usually gets you exactly what you want, but it is too risky right now. A damned shame.

Simon groans into your neck and moves away.

“Don’t remind me.”

**************************************************************************************************************

Soap woke early. Not unusually. The wooden clock on the wall read 0615. A little later than he would have liked, but enough time to shower and change.

Pulling on his shirt, he carefully remade the bed and grabbed his duffel, opening the door and dumping it outside.

Soap didn’t want to process the new information he'd learned last night. He'd just quickly showered and hit the hay.

Now, forced to come face-to-face with the prospect of being in the home of Simon…and his wife, now he had to process. There shouldn't really have been anything to think about. So what, the Lt. was married? Or, at the very least in a relationship, so what? What did it matter?

Soap had no idea who this man was. He didn't know whose house he was staying in.

Ghost, he knew. Ghost he knew very well. He had stitched Ghost up before, slung an arm under his armpits to heave him out of gunfire, taken a bullet for him. That was just the way it was in their job. Yes, Ghost, he knew. He knew the thinly-veiled and well-bridled rage that the lieutenant was capable of. He'd seen him shove a knife through a man's throat before, seen him sling about threats as if they were weightless, seen him put bullets in enemy after enemy.

Soap knew Ghost.

Soap had just learned that he absolutely, categorically did not know Simon Riley.

He felt almost embarrassed about that fact. Not that it was truly Johnny's fault; Ghost never told him anything, he'd clam up the second he was asked anything personal, he'd just shoot the questioning party a glare to tell them to back the fuck off.

Everyone was capable of having a life outside of work. Of course. Johnny had just never really considered it. He didn't…think about soldiers personal lives when he wasn't on the field with them. He never bothered to ask.

All those times that Ghost had damn-near almost died on operation - there was someone waiting for him.

It shot a jolt of terror through John. He couldn't dare even imagine having to knock on this door and tell some poor woman that her husband was dead. He'd heard enough grief-stricken cries in his lifetime, he could survive without hearing any more.

His eyes snapped to the clock again. 0623. He'd been thinking too long. He just needed to get this over with. Stupidly, Johnny realized that he was nervous. But he closed the door behind him and stepped fully into the hallway, ready for whatever this house was about to throw at him.

There was a kettle whistling and judging by the smell, breakfast cooking in a kitchen that he was yet to see. Something about a homemade meal made his mouth, quite embarrassingly, actually water. He wasn’t much of a cook himself, so even when he was home, his meals left much to be desired, but this scent? It smelled like mornings when he lived with his mother all those years ago. It smelled like a home.

Quiet in his footfalls, he followed the sound further into the house, the hallway ended short ahead of him and gave way to what must have been the kitchen and some living space. Moving closer, he could listen in to the conversation being had on the other side of the wall.

“-he likes tea or coffee?” A distinctly feminine voice asked.

“He’ll drink whatever you give him, love.” That had to be Ghost. But it was not the Ghost that Soap was used to. The jagged edge of his voice had melted into a lower, quieter tone, one that lacked authority; one that lacked demand. He sounded…at rest? Comfortable? He sounded like Soap wasn’t meant to hear him.

“Simon.” A soft warning came from the woman.

Soap could handle gunshot wounds. He could stay cool in the face of enemy fire. He was, however, wildly unprepared to announce himself in someone else’s home. He shouldn’t eavesdrop, and he wasn’t…not really, it was just uncomfortable, hearing such an intimate, quiet moment meant for just two people, and not knowing when to interrupt. He began to step forward, with purpose, when a child's cry erupted from somewhere further in the house.

"Bubba's awake.” The woman said and it sounded like she’d put a tea towel down.

“I’ll get 'er." A chair scraped back

“No, no, sit, you’ve been-”

“You don’t need to be up and down those stairs all day, not in your condition.” It wasn’t a cold response, rather quite a warm one, with care painted through the words. It was strange. Almost surreal to Soap. Simon’s footsteps grew quieter and the woman sighed a little.

“I’m not terminal, you know!” She called after him, earning a distant laugh. Terminal? John hoped that wasn’t serious.

He decided that now was the best time to interrupt and the floorboards creaked under his feet as he turned to the corner. The woman, clearly missing the noise, had her back turned and was hovering over a kettle, waiting for it to cool down.

“Mrs Riley?”

“Jesus, fuck!” She put a hand against her chest and whipped around, alerting Soap to her previously mentioned ‘condition.’ Her shirt hardly hid the pronounced bump she was sporting.

Soap was well out of his depth.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“ he began to make apologies but she waved an arm.

“No, no, don’t apologize, you’re fine, John.”

John.

It sounded strange when she said it. It sounded distant. And, was that an accent he detected?

“Can I help at all, Mrs Riley?”

“Oh please, don’t call me that, makes me sound so old,” she offered him her name and he nodded slightly. She gestured to one of the top cupboards, well above her height.

“If you could grab the tea down, that would save me searching for the stepladder.”

“‘Course.”

Heavy footfalls came back down the stairs and Soap turned, only to see Ghost without the mask, but here, he was without any kind of mask. The cloth skull mask was obviously absent, and so was the emotional mask, his eyes were relaxed, his mouth wasn't pressed into a line.

He’d seen his face before, of course, but this was different. Here, this was Simon Riley, this was not Ghost.

And in his arms was a toddler, leaning her head over his shoulder.

“She’s got a bit of a fever,” Simon seemingly entirely ignored Soap and turned to his wife, bringing the child to her. The girl rubbed her eyes and looked up at her father, gripping at his shirt.

Mrs Riley-don’t call her that- hummed and nodded.

“We were a little bit ill yesterday, weren’t we bub?” She moved to put a hand against the girl’s forehead. “Let’s get some breakfast into you and then see how we go.”

The girl nodded sleepily, resting her tiny head against Simon’s chest, blinking blearily before her eyes moved to Soap. She hardly noticed him. Such was the way with kids so little, if Mum and Dad weren’t worried, she wouldn’t be either.

Johnny didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to act, he didn't know how to hold himself.

Simon's eyes met his in the tangible silence, and they lacked all of the ice that they usually harboured.

"Have a seat, John, I'd love to hear all the embarrassing stories you've got to tell me." The woman's lips quirked upwards and he gave her a wicked grin.

"Well, I have got many of those to tell."

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I;m not sure if they'll be a part 3 yet oop

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#ghost x reader #call of duty #cod x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish #simon riley x reader #simon riley x f!reader #i hate doing tags :(

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nyxwoodstone · 1 month

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Televangelism | Part 1

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Summary: Simon offers Johnny a place to stay the night after a deployment, and Johnny gladly obliges. Much to his surprise, there's more to Simon Riley's home life than he previously thought.

TLDR: Soap doesn't know that Simon has a wife...he finds out when he goes to his Lt's house. :)

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, female reader, pregnant!reader, Simon and reader already have a toddler..., maybe a little OOC Ghost but allow it, no smut all plot, still MDNI I swear to God, idk like minor swearing but if you're from the COD fandom I feel like you should know that, let me know if I missed anything.

A/N: if you saw this previously posted to another account, no you didn't :) I don't really know what to call this type of fic, it is a Ghost x Reader, but it's got quite a bit of self-reflection and characterization from Soap. very little beta, but msg me if there's any horrendous spelling or grammar issues. i'm not American, hence the spelling differences. let's just ignore the fact that Ghost inviting Johnny to sleep at his house is more than a little too friendly for special forces guys, let's just ignore that plz!!!!!

Dictionary: SO - superior officer Civvies - civilian clothing NOD's - them night vision goggle thingo's Padre - colloquial name for Bristish Army Chaplains

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It was done.

Another successful operation. A difficult operation.

The entire squad had returned with just minor scrapes and cuts, and more shit to compartmentalise. Not that there was much compartmentalisation these days, the missions just rolled into each other. Sometimes there was a week break in between, sometimes a few months. Never enough time for Soap regain his footing in civilian life. Never enough time to get past the 'disruption' phase of reintegration that the chaplains were always talking about.

Every time he flew back to base, he'd get the same bleeding rundown from a different Padre. Every. Time.

"Now, there are five stages of reintegration after deployment, Sergeant."

"I know that."

"Humour me."

He'd fight back the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes, he'd just do it. The chaplain would continue.

"Pre-entry, you've done that already, psych evals and such. You know the drill. Then, reunion, you'll see your family again-"

Shit. He needed to call his sister.

"-and take some time for yourself. Next is disruption, you'll realise not everything is the same as when you left it, people will have new routines, new hobbies, it's normal to feel resentful during this stage-"

And they'd go on. Tell him about communication, then normalcy. But he never got that far. He'd go home to his apartment, visit his mother, go to coffee with his sister (she worried about him, always did), and then he would be off on his next operation. He'd get a visit, or a call, and he'd be off, with little word to family. There was never enough time. Soap wondered why the task force needed the same spiel every time they returned, it wasn’t as if this was new. It was old. This runaround was old now: United Kingdom, to some forsaken country, to back home, with more memories and less connections. It was what he loved. But it was also what he despised.

"Johnny."

Most of the squad had dispersed, each finishing psych evals and heading off to the on-base housing, their cars, or the mess hall. He didn't actually know if the mess was open at this time of night, he supposed it was only the wee hours of the morning, but God-knew. Johnny had just finished his packing, and was heading towards the unremarkable block of small apartments on the far side of the base. It was a fair hike, but he'd do it. There wasn't another choice, but his flight wasn't until tomorrow, and he staunchly refused to stay awake all night. He'd sleep tonight, then go to debrief, then go the fuck home.

"Johnny."

It was Ghost, in civvies, hands in his jacket pockets. Mask gone. Johnny supposed that was just the way it ought to be, he couldn't wear it everywhere, and wearing it in civvies would certainly give any onlookers, soldiers or not, reason to be curious. Attention was not what men in their position needed. Still, seeing his face was…almost unsettling.

"Lt.?"

*************************************

Simon hung up the phone and tucked it in his back pocket. He felt God-awful calling at this time of night, but he had to do it. He'd sworn to, every time he got back to base, he had to call. Johnny was staring out at the quiet base, the parade grounds just a few hundred metres away, still lit up in the night.

"Johnny."

He'd never really thought about where Johnny must go after operations, he didn't even assume anything, once they were back on the ground, once they were out of the shit, it wasn't any of business, or any of his concern.

"You're allowed to like the men you work with, love." His wife's voice rang in the back of his mind.

He did…like them. They were good lads. Got the job done. Stitched each other up. Didn't leave each other behind. But liking them outside of work? Their job was far too dangerous to make close attachments like that. In his younger days, when he wasn't in the special forces, he'd made…’friends’ wasn't the right word for it. He'd made…acquaintances with some of the soldiers on his unit, they'd go out for drinks, egg each other on in the pub, take each other home after a long night out. But special forces were another world. Here, everything mattered. Every little thing mattered. And perhaps he was just older now, he'd matured more. Back then, he hadn't had anything to lose. Now, though-now he had everything to lose. A family, a home - a life.

But despite all of that, he had grown to appreciate Johnny. He was a good man, in the shit, and out of it.

They'd talked a few times about their lives outside of the army. Nothing important, nothing below surface level. Soap had a mother who had health problems, and a sister who worked in a hospital (he hadn't told Simon what she did, or even told him her name), and who worried about him constantly. Johnny joked that she would end up a patient one day if she kept stressing so much. Simon had told him that he lived far enough from the base that he wasn't constantly thinking about work, he'd told him that he played football as a kid; that was it. Not a lick more.

Johnny gave up far more information willingly than Simon ever could. But they got along. That was enough.

The Scot stood across from him, still staring out at nothing.

"Johnny."

Soap turned his head.

"Lt.?"

"Going home?"

“Sleeping on base tonight, sir, then got a flight tomorrow night.”

On base? After that operation? Simon sighed inwardly and observed the bent hunch of his subordinate's shoulders. He knew that feeling. Finishing a mission alive, but with more red in his ledger. That was all good and well, but the final fucking straw was those damned prison cages that the military called bedrooms. It took a moment to debate, no longer.

"Mine’s 15 minutes from the airport.”

Soap’s eyebrows raised at the Lieutenant’s offer.

“It’s alright, sir, I’ll survive here.”

“After that shit? You need a real bed, Johnny.”

The sergeant ran a hand over his face and dropped his shoulders.

“Y-yeah, alright, Lt. If that’s alright with you.”

“Let’s go,” Ghost turned on his heel and began towards the car park, taking out his phone to shoot off a quick text.

'One of the boys needs somewhere to stay. He's a good man.'

****************************************************************************************

'One of the boys needs somewhere to stay. He's a good man.'

You groggily shot back a text.

'Get home safe, love you."

Simon had been due back for a few days now, but you'd been trying to get used to the unpredictability of his work schedule.

This was nothing new, though. You knew exactly what you were signing up for when you got married to him. He had sat you down when you had first gotten serious, and showed you his will.

That had been an aggressive wake-up call. You knew how dangerous his job was. No one on the planet Earth was foolish enough to think that special forces meant 'safety.' You knew he could die any time he went away. But the long-term reality of that fact didn't set in until you sat beside him and scanned your eyes over that document. You didn't feel connected to your body. It was as if you were peering in on some other person's life, quietly staring through the looking glass to see some insane woman who was desperately in love with a man whose life meant very little up against the interests of international security. To your credit, you hadn't cried when he showed you. How badly you had wanted to. But you didn't. You grit your teeth and clenched your fists. He could die at any moment. So you had better make the most of every second you had with him.

You'd told him as much and he had accused you of not taking his job seriously. A method of self-preservation you recognized from your years of being with him. You had told him he wasn't going to push you away so easily. He had left in a huff and came back the next day with an apology on his lips, and a ring in his hand.

There was no pomp about it, just simple, and practical. So very Simon Riley.

Simon had never been a particularly romantic man, and God, was he difficult to read. But he loved you. He did. And you adored him. And you'd made it this far, a few years of marriage, one kid in, and one on the way; you'd done it. You would keep doing it until the day you dropped cold. So would he, he'd told you so hundreds of times.

No, he was not romantic, but he showed you in other ways. He would rub your back when you were tired, he would open doors for you, or kiss you gently when you needed it. Simon Riley was a man of few words, but frequent action. You loved him for it.

The first time you'd met him, you'd nearly gone weak in the knees. Cliché. He teased you for it endlessly, you never should have admitted that to him. But how were you to help yourself, he was a handsome, well-muscled man with a scowl that you found endearing. You still found that deep scowl endearing today, and on more than one occasion, you had gently pinched his cheek when he pulled that face. He would always chuckle and bat your hand away, biting the inside of his mouth so there was no looser skin for you to pinch again.

Simon Riley was, in your (biassed) opinion, the most handsome, most incredible, most loving man to ever live. And he was yours. Whenever he came shopping with you, or took you out somewhere, it was impossible to escape the stares that other women gave him. Part of you despised it, part of you basked in it. You'd lean in to whisper something in his ear, or pat him gently on the chest, anything to mark him as yours. See this man, he's mine. He'd swear other men did the same to you, but you didn't believe him. He certainly believed himself though, placing a hand on the small of your back or tucking a piece of hair behind your ear whenever he thought he saw eyes on you. It was sweet.

You two had this little…thing. This cocoon for just you two. The comfort and safety that flowed between the both of you had been years in the making, and had taken many, many arguments and discussions to solidify. And you had argued, sometimes into the night hours, going back and forth about trust, and patience, and understanding. You had often had to fight for his agreement, or for his trust, but you had never had to fight for his love. That had come without question, but you'd had to fight for him to show it to you, for him to allow himself one good thing in life. He was different now, all those years of being with you, and working on himself, and all the absolute hell that he had been through. He was different, and you loved the man he was, and the man he had become. No one at his job knew how gentle he could be, the softness he was capable of. No one.

Although, you supposed that was about to change. He was bringing 'one of the guys' to your house, to stay. You had told him before that you had absolutely no problem with him bringing his friends - he wasn't a fan of you calling them that - over. If they needed somewhere to stay, you were more than willing to house them, they were strong men facing down the worst of the world's threats, they deserved somewhere to feel safe, if only for one night. He'd told you he might - although you'd always suspected that he wouldn’t - allow one of his squad mates into his home, and you'd encouraged him to do so if it was necessary. Tonight was the night.

Simon had called you as soon as he could, like he always did.

"I've landed, love, I'll be heading home soon."

"Good. How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"Hungry?"

"Just ate here."

"Alright, I'll be in bed, please wake me up."

"Will do. I love you."

"I love you too. Drive safe."

He sounded exhausted on the phone, nothing out of the ordinary though, he was always tired when he came home. You were remiss to admit to yourself that you were tired too. You ran a hand over your stomach. It had swelled up in the time that Simon had been gone. What a difference just a few weeks made. You'd had to attend your scheduled scan alone, and had the photos in the drawer next to your bed, ready to show Simon when he got home.

This baby had been something of a surprise. Not an enormous one, though. Simon and yourself had been significantly less careful in the months leading up to when you found out, and you'd talked about it: another kid, the whole thing. He had been apprehensive to say the least, so you had waited without resentment. He needed time, and God knew, you needed time, so you had both taken time. It had taken a year or so of discussions, he was terrified to become his father. He would never be his father, never. He was nothing like him, nothing. And he had come to his own decision. Being a father would be new, terrifying, different, but he put an ounce of faith in himself, and-

- And then you were late.

You wished you could be like those women in movies who have no idea, and have a whole revelation about being pregnant. But you were not stupid, you were practical, it was one of the things Simon often told you that he loved about you. So practicality it was. You were sure you were pregnant. Three positive pregnancy tests later, and that sealed the deal.

Then you'd burst into tears in your bathroom.

God, who were you to think you could do this? He was due to leave for a three-week operation in two days. You'd be alone in your first few weeks, with a young toddler as well, who's needs were more important than your own.

You didn't hear Simon come home from his run, you'd hardly heard the jagged tone to his voice when he pushed the door open. What a sight it must have been for him. You, curled into the bathroom wall, crying hysterically and hugging yourself. He did well to hide his panic, the soldier in him must have taken over for a few seconds. He scanned the bathroom floor, then checked you over for injuries, asking what was wrong the whole time. Then he'd scanned the bathroom counter and found the three tests lined up. He knew what they were, but bless him, he didn't know if they were negative or positive, the lines meant nothing to him.

"You're pregnant?"

You'd barely managed a nod and to his absolute credit, he did not clam up. He did not shut his mouth, or grit his teeth, or sink back onto his heels. He had reassured you, pulled you into his lap on the floor and talked you out of your hysterics. He'd waited patiently until you could talk. And you had been fine. You loved him, he loved you, and you both loved this baby. You would be fine. It had never been so hard to say goodbye to him as he left for his next mission. You'd never been so panicked whilst he had been away. You had to call your friend to come and stay with you for the time he was away, so she could help you stay out of your thoughts and help with the little toddler who was always asking where her Daddy was.

But all of that panic always subsided when he came home, when he lay beside you and breathed quietly as he slept. Everything was better when he was there. And he would be in an hour or two, so you allowed yourself to get some rest until you heard his tires in the drive.

**************************************************************************************************************

Every few seconds, the car was forced into the dull yellow shine of the street lights. Soap wanted to ask how much longer they would be travelling, but for lack of better words than ‘are we there yet,’ he remained silent, watching identical rows of darkened townhouses amble by. It had been a long drive though, long enough that Johnny had glanced at the clock on the car's electronic display once or twice, just to make sure he wasn't losing his mind.

Suburbia was not quite what Soap had imagined when he thought of his lieutenant's home, although he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where he thought Ghost might live. Far from base was all the information he had to guess from. Everyone has to stay somewhere, right? Guiltily, John realised he hadn’t much considered that Simon did in fact, live a civilian life. For weeks or months at a time. The task force wasn’t on duty 24/7, but Ghost, as a normal person? Someone you might see crossing the street? Carrying groceries? It hasn’t crossed his mind.

Strange.

Strange to think of such a deadly man in such a domestic sphere.

They were the same though, he supposed. Just as deadly as each other. Just as domestic, too.

The low rumble of a flight path ahead served to calm Soap, so used to noise as he winded down. Silence was deafening, silence was dangerous. Deep down, although he struggled to admit it, the long string of silence that met him in his own home terrified him. The emptiness, the void that greeted him when he first entered his flat, before the click of his fingers on the light switch, before he turned on the industrial fan beside his couch and before the kettle started to whistle. The silence would grip him around the neck, trying to pull him into his thoughts.

Close-knit housing soon dropped off into plots of land, with sparser houses and longer driveways. The expected pricing of these blocks didn’t escape the sergeant.

Another hour or so later, when the modern street lights had long since faded out into antiquated street lamps every hundred metres, the car began to slow.

“We’re here.” Ghost ripped the quiet in two with the gruff edge of his voice, turning off onto a lined driveway. In the dim light, the house stood modestly. Perfectly normal. Far enough away from other houses to be private, but close enough to be watchful of the neighbours. How fitting.

The ignition rumbled to a stop as Ghost turned the key and exited the car.

Boots hitting the stone, Soap immediately felt at odds with this house. It wasn’t his. It was Ghost’s, a man he knew very little about. It wasn't enemy territory, perhaps this was worse: friendly territory. Too friendly territory. A peaceful space, one that he shouldn't be encroaching on.

He followed said man to the door, crunching quietly up the drive and swinging his bag over his shoulder, a more comfortable hold for his exhausted muscles.

Ghost grunted quietly as he unlocked and pushed the door open, swearing and muttering something about getting it fixed.

“Boots off.” He spoke rather quietly and Soap responded immediately, shrugging out of his boots and sitting them next to a few others at the door. His first sign that something was…amiss, was that there were a few pairs of shoes far too small for Simon, stacked neatly on a wooden shelf next to the door.

He was greeted with a long hallway as he followed Simon through the quiet house. His second sign that something was amiss, was that this house smelled, to put it kindly, feminine. It did not smell like an empty house, nor one that was inhabited by a lone man. Unless of course, Simon Riley had a penchant for vanilla-scented candles. Soap suspected he did not.

A few photographs and decorations adorned the walls but they were impossible to make out in the dark. Soap’s fingers twitched towards his head a split second before he was pulled back to reality and realised that there were no NOD's to help him out here. A stupid instinctual move that he found himself doing more and more these days.

Compartmentalisation, his ass.

Ghost pushed a door to his right open, it creaked quietly in the silent house.

“Spare room’s in here, bathrooms to the left-“

“Thanks, Lt.”

“Take a shower, but keep it down, the missus’ll be asleep.”

And as if he hadn’t just flash-banged Soap, Ghost left, turning on his heel and heading further into the house.

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#ghost x reader #call of duty #cod x reader #Simon Riley #Simon Ghost Riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x f!reader #idk how tags work

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