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ghostlywhiskey · 8 months

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Simon “Ghost” Riley - Angel

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,301

Warnings: PLEASE BE AWARE - This one-shot mentions blood & implies suicide. I know this is a touchy subject, so please do not read if this will not sit well with you. Your mental health matters. 🤍

Summary: You, Simon and Soap were injured in a crash. A few months have gone by and Simon is having a hard time with the aftermath of his injuries.

Notes: I’m so sorry in advance. I actually sobbed writing this. Any errors or mistakes, please forgive me. I couldn’t reread through the tears.

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The sound of ringing bounces around your head, the dirt on the ground pressing against your cheek. Pushing yourself up, smoke surrounds you as you cough. Soap is groaning next to you, propping himself up on his elbows. “Oi, fuckin’ ‘ell.” He hisses, glancing down at his leg that has a large gash cutting through his pants. You glance over at Soap, quickly crawling over to him. “Soap.” The name coming out of your mouth more as a way for your brain to register he’s alive. The radio on your vest makes an effort to check your status, but your brain is still only just processing Soap is alive.

Soap uses one hand to press his radio, “Copy. Price, this is Soap. We’re down.”

“Copy. This is Angel. With Soap.” You respond to your radio.

You. Soap. Simon? Where is Simon?

“Ghost!” The shout echoes out into the abyss of the forest. Any ounce of strength in you felt knocked out from the impact of the crash. Fuck. Where was he? Soap needed help first. Crawling over to Soap, you sit on your knees and examine his leg. Blood, so much blood. Not my blood. Not your own. The reminder echoes through your head, if it wasn’t yours, you could handle it. Grabbing the tourniquet attached to your uniform, you yank it off and quickly tend to Soap's leg. Soap hisses as you tighten it on his leg, “Son of-”. “I know, I know.” You say, coughing again from the smoke. “You’ll thank me when this heals.” You say.

Simon? Where is Simon?

Once Soap’s leg is attended to, you slowly push yourself off the ground and stand up. As you go to walk, you wince as your left foot goes to walk forward. Just a sprain. You’re fine. Letting out a shaky breath, you limp as you move through the crash site. “Ghost!” You call again, no response.

“This is Angel. We don’t have eyes on Ghost. Over.” You click the radio, glancing around. Where are you? Come on, Simon.

“Hard copy. Locate him if you can. Working on a rescue team now.” Price’s voice slips through in one ear and out the other.

The corner of your eye catches a glimpse of a leg under a piece of helicopter debris. No. No. No. Rushing over, adrenaline spiking in your body as you go to try and flip the piece of the helicopter. “Simon!” You shout, not even realizing his actual name left your lips, pulling the debris back. Ghost laid there, motionless. Blood, too much blood. Not my blood. Your fiancé’s. “Simon. No. Simon.” You dropped to your knees beside him, obvious wounds to his arm and leg. But, as you got closer you could see his chest rising and falling faintly.

“Price this is Angel. Ghost is critical. We need a medic. Over.” You pull your composure together over the radio, but the strain is noticeable.

“Roger. Keep calm, Angel. Do what you can until rescue arrives. Over.” Price states.

“Copy.” You speak, completely zoned out as you try to tend to Ghost.

The apartment you shared with Simon was quiet. Standing in the kitchen, you worked on dinner as he was at his physical therapy appointment. The only sound came from the TV that was unwatched, the light from it illuminating the living room.

The past four months were far from easy. Ever since the crash, Simon had been to multiple doctors and regular physical and occupational therapy appointments. Out of you, Soap, and him, Simon suffered the worst injuries that day. Specifically, his left leg has been doing the worst in terms of healing. The one appointment he did let you come to, the occupational therapist mentioned their concern of Simon not hitting certain marks, but tried to keep their tone hopeful. But, Simon wasn’t thinking in terms of hopeful or possibilities, he was banking on perfection. Complete recovery.

But, how do you tell a man in the process of trying to heal that complete recovery was unlikely? How do you tell him that without it destroying him and possibly leading him to giving up trying all together? I have no idea.

Your thoughts were clouded as your body made dinner, as if on autopilot considering you weren’t even thinking about what to do next, you were just doing it. The front door opening turned your brain off autopilot and back to manual. Footsteps, in unison with a crutch tapping the floor, made their way to the kitchen.

The presence behind you radiating warmth as lips kiss the top of your head. “Hey.” Simon’s voice filled your ears as you felt his hand not grabbing his crutch rest on your waist, face leaning down to nuzzle your neck. “Hey, baby.” You say softly, stopping what you are doing to turn and face him. “How was the doctor?” The genuine and simple question that could set the mood for the entire night. “Same as always.” He responded, his hand moving to brush a piece of hair behind your ear before he leaned down to kiss you softly.

Weird. That is the most calm response he has ever given after an appointment. Maybe you are being paranoid?

Kissing him back, you reach a hand up to place on his neck and pull back gently. “How about you go shower? I’ll be done with dinner by the time you get out.” You smile up at him, the hand on his neck sliding down to his chest to pat him gently. He doesn’t protest, nodding to your suggestion as he heads to the bedroom.

As he walks away, you resume cooking dinner. You hum softly as you move around the kitchen, trying to avoid letting your worries plague your mind.

After a few minutes, you hear the sound of something falling on the floor followed by a thud. Your head shoots up as you look towards the bedroom door, the knife in your hand dropping on the counter as you rush towards the room.

“Simon?” You call out, pushing the bedroom door open. At first nothing looks out of the ordinary until you turn to look at the bathroom door. The crutch lies on the ground, half in the bedroom and half in the bathroom. Simon sits on the bathroom floor, his back against the wall and head tilted back as he winces in pain. “Simon.” Your voice strained, the concern laced with it as you walked over to him and kneel down next to him.

“Fuckin’ hell!” He snaps, his good leg using the sole of his foot to hit the cabinet in frustration. The action makes you flinch as you reach to turn his face towards you. “Si, are you okay?” The question was laced with hesitancy. “No. I ain’t fuckin’ okay. My fuckin’ leg is shit!” Simon growls his hand reaching for the crutch and throwing it with one arm into the bedroom. The sound of the crutch hitting the floor leaves you unphased as you expect it coming.

“Simon, you need to give it time.” You say, your hand resting on his thigh and moving it soothingly back and forth against the fabric of his sweatpants. “The fact you’ve made progress is a win in itself. But, you need to give it time. That’s why the therapy appointments are important and listening to what they tell you. Like using the crutch.” The tone of your voice is soft, but serious. And you knew him, the crutch was used around you. It didn’t mean he used it when you weren’t around. You knew better than to take his word for it that he used it, he was too stubborn and thought a good day meant he didn’t need it anymore.

“Yeah, I’ve made progress, but it means shit.” Simon muttered, his eyes looking down at your hand on his thigh. “I’ve made progress that would be exciting in two months, not four.” He states, his voice cold and distant. “The constant fuckin’ pain and feeling like it’s gonna buckle as any moment is always there.” He huffs, resting his head against the wall. “I’m so fuckin’ tired, angel.” His eyes looked up at the ceiling, before his head tilted towards your direction.

Simon was tired. He was the kind of tired that doesn’t go away no matter how much you sleep. The stress of his leg, the anxiety that tormented his mind from the crash and aftermath, now finally catching up to him. Everything he bottled up, exploding out as the bottle finally broke. At this moment, on the floor of the bathroom, he was broken. His eyes, the one way anyone could ever tell his emotions behind the mask or not, had the look of complete exhaustion.

You go to speak, but no words come out.

What do you say to someone when they feel like this? When all roads have been taken towards getting better and nothing helps? I have no idea.

So, you do what you know how to do best. Just be there. You move his legs gently apart, moving to kneel between them and in front of him. Your arms reach out to pull his body forward by his shoulders, instantly putting your arms around his neck and resting your head on your arm by his head. “Baby,” You whisper, one hand placed on the back of his head to scratch it since you know how much he loves how your nails feel. “You’ll get through this. I’m here for you. We’ll figure it out together.”

Simon’s arms snaked around your body, pulling you close and holding you tight. His own head resting on your shoulder as you felt tears dampen a spot on your shirt. He pressed himself against you, letting the warmth of your body soothe him. It was something he had always craved, your heat.

"Everything hurts." Simon mumbled, the tears making the spot on your shirt larger. "Everything hurts." He repeated. The contact of your body easing him slightly, the exhaustion settling in as his body relaxed, his muscles relaxing for the first time in who knows how long. A sob bubbled out of him as the words slipped out.

"I want it all to stop. Help me."

Sitting cross legged, you sat on the picnic blanket next to Simon. The fall air was cool against your skin, your leggings and one of Simon’s older hoodies you borrowed once and claimed as your own from that point forward keeping you warm. You always loved his clothes - how oversized they fit on you, the scent of his cologne, pine and even the faint smell of cigarettes that lingered. Most people would hate the lingering smell of cigarettes, but it comforted you. Especially the combination it was a part of.

“Remember when we both said we would leave the force at some point? I’ve been thinking about it recently.” Your voice is soft, almost hesitant to share the information because saying it out loud makes it real. “I’m thinking about getting a teaching degree instead. My mom is a teacher and I’ve visited her a few times to help out and the little kids are so full of life and bright. Pure and oblivious to the world around them.” You speak, playing with the string of the hoodie.

“I wonder what our kids would have been like. Do you think we would have one? Or maybe three? If I could pick, I would want two boys and a girl, I think.” The question you ask comes out strained as you stare at Simon, waiting for his response. But, there hasn’t been a response in a year. The headstone of his grave looking back at you.

It was exactly one year. One year since you got the call while you were out grocery shopping. You don’t remember much from that day, you just remember falling to the ground of the store and everything went black. Part of you thanks your brain from blocking out the day, shoving it to the depths of your subconscious in a box to never be touched and opened.

“I miss you.” Your voice has dropped to just below a whisper. “Why’d you have to leave me? Why was I so oblivious that you weren’t doing better? Why did you tell me you were fine?” You choke out, tears spilling down your cheeks. Delicate fingers are going to reach for the dog chain around your neck. His dog chain with his wedding ring dangling next to it. Your own wedding ring on your finger paired with your engagement ring.

The wedding rings you bought on a whim one day and promised yourselves to each other for the rest of your lives.

“Angel, let’s go get married.” Simon said, the two of you laying in bed. It was a rainy day and you had spent the morning so far in bed. “Today?” You said, confused by the sudden suggestion. Plans for your wedding had been on hold since the crash, not wanting to add any stress to the current situation. “Today.” He confirmed, slipping out of the bed to get ready. “Come on.”

That was at 10:00 AM. Then by the time it was 3:00 PM, you had the last name Riley.

And two months later, you were a widow.

“I love you, Simon Riley. I’m sorry if I never said it enough. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.” The tears hitting the hoodie as they drip from your jaw. A sniffle leaves your nose as you stand up, grabbing the picnic blanket to toss over your arm. You kneel right in front of the headstone, placing a kiss on it.

“Thanks for being my angel now.” You whisper, standing up to walk back to your car.

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