Simon Ghost Riley × Gender Neutral Reader
A/N: Sorry for disappearing for so long. Life fucked me over.
This is a tribute to this and this part from @a-for-ameee Please check out the original (it is amazing!) and leave a lot of love!
@a-for-ameee : just contact me if you want me to take it down.
TW: mention of intentional death, no happy end, pure angst/grief - please read with caution and take care of yourself.
The briefing room is already full when they arrive.
But something is missing.
No one says it out loud at first.
Price stands at the head of the table. He doesn’t start the briefing. That alone is wrong.
His hands are closed tightly around something small. Metal catches the light when he shifts his grip.
An Elizabeth Cross.
Soap breaks the silence first. “Where is Y/N?”
It sounds like an accusation. A pure reaction to the small object in Price's hand. An unfiltered emotion, accompanied by disbelief.
No one answers immediately.
Price looks down. Once.
Then he places the Cross on the table. Carefully. Like it weighs more than it should.
“There are no next of kin.”
The words don’t land all at once. They spread. Slow. Unavoidable.
Ghost doesn’t move. Movement would require processing something that hasn’t fully formed yet.
Price continues, voice tight. “Y/N was assigned to Shadow Company for a suicide mission.”
Soap shakes his head slightly. “No. No—Y/N just got transferred, right? That was recent.”
Gaz mutters something under his breath. Paperwork. Timing. Logistics. The kind of words that usually make death feel accidental.
Price doesn’t respond to that. Which is worse than correction.
Ghost hears his own thoughts before anyone else speaks them.
Too fast. It went too fast.
Transfer. No contact. Mission. No return.
Soap looks at Ghost now. Waiting for something. An answer. A reaction. A denial.
Ghost has none of those available.
Something cold is forming in the space between the facts.
He remembers things he didn’t prioritize.
Messages left unread. Moments dismissed. Unrequited touches.
The decision not to acknowledge what was already there.
Avoidance.
Rejection.
Price reaches into his jacket. Pulls out an envelope. Places it in front of Ghost.
Ghost looks at it. Then at Price. Then back down.
The room is silent again, but differently now. Like everything has already been said.
Ghost opens the letter.
The first line is enough to break something he didn’t realize he had been holding together.
The break is not clean, not deliberate. It is a fissure that forms under a weight that has lingered for far too long.
Beloved Simon,
Reading his own name almost brings him to a halt.
He has never heard it from you; to you, he remained nothing but Ghost.
He keeps reading anyway.
And the room disappears in layers.
First Price. Then Soap. Then the table. Then the air itself.
There is only the letter now.
I never believed soldiers like you and I would live long enough to die of old age.
He remembers the times you told him this. You used to joke about it. Lighthearted and soft.
It settles in like a sinking stone in wild water. Heavy and final.
But I used to believe I might die loved.
And for a time, I thought I already had that.
He can taste your honesty on his tongue. Sees your broken heart in the messier handwriting.
If you are reading this, I am already dead.
The words repeat in his mind. Not dramatically. Just too real to push it away this time.
He forces himself to keep reading.
Because stopping would mean reacting. And reacting would mean there is something left to control.
There isn’t.
They needed someone for a suicide mission. No one volunteered.
I did.
His jaw tightens. A reflex.
Of course you didn't ask. Asking required a response.
And he never gave you one that mattered.
I am writing this while Graves signs the transfer papers.
So I will die as a Shadow—not as 141.
That’s alright.
His fingers flex once against the paper. Not enough to crumple it. Not enough to release it.
Somewhere behind his ribs, something pulls sharply inward.
It's not pain. It's something worse.
Delay.
The kind of realization that arrives too late to prevent itself.
When something hurts for that long, the ending should feel like relief, right?
That line lands hard.
He doesn’t agree with it. He understands it.
I think I stopped being afraid a while ago. I just didn’t notice when it happened.
There is the reason for your finality — for your choice to volunteer for your own jokingly predicted future.
You can live without me. You always could.
That is where his control slips.
A short delay in the time he needs to read the next line.
That sentence is incorrect.
Not in fact. In consequence. He simply never tested it.
I just could not learn how to do the same.
His throat tightens once.
A physical reaction with nowhere to go.
It’s not your fault, Simon.
He almost stops reading there. Almost.
But the habit of finishing things overrides instinct.
He doesn’t notice when his hand lowers slightly. When the letter dips closer to the table. When breathing becomes something he is doing manually.
I know that now.
I think I always knew it.
I just wished knowing it would have changed something.
It didn’t.
There it is. The final operational failure.
Not yours. His.
He exhales once. Slow. Controlled. Useless.
I hope you find love that does not end like ours did—quietly, without explanation.
You deserve that.
Ghost tears his eyes away from the paper. Not for long. Just enough to interrupt the sentence in his head.
Because that line implies something he never allowed to exist as real.
Maybe there is another life.
One where we meet at the right time.
His eyes stop for a fraction longer here. Not to read. But for his mind to wander.
To a version of you and him together.
A possibility he filed away long before it had a name.
A decision made without awareness that it was still a decision.
If there is— don’t look for me.
That is where something in his chest goes sharply still.
A correction that arrives too late to be useful.
Don’t look for me.
As if there will ever be a version of him that could.
I don’t think I’ll have the courage to do this twice.
His breath catches once — small, involuntary.
Not from grief. From comprehension.
In loving memory.
The words sit there longer than they should.
Too personal, too soft a goodbye for what he deserves.
The room comes back in fragments.
Soap’s voice first. Price’s presence second.
The weight of everything he ignored last.
And then the letter again. Still in his hand. Still real. Still too late.
He places it down. Carefully. Like if he is precise enough, it might rearrange itself into something survivable.
It doesn’t.
No one speaks immediately.
There is nothing relevant to say now.
Soap looks at him once. Then away again. Like looking longer would require permission Ghost cannot give.
Price doesn’t move. He has already done what needed to be done.
The Cross remains on the table. Small. Final.
Ghost doesn’t touch it. He should. He can't.
Instead, he stays still long enough that it becomes noticeable. As an absence of function.
Then he speaks. Quiet. Flat. Not broken.
Not yet.
“Dismissed?”
It isn’t a question. Not really.
Price nods once.
Ghost leaves the room without waiting for anything else.
The door closes behind him. And for the first time, there is no mission to return to. No objective. No correction.
He is left behind—this time not by him, not even by chance, but by you.
Your presence... gone.
Not merely distant, as it had been before.
Erased.
Thanks you for writing the part 2 I literally got too busy with life recently and forgot to continue this🥲again, thank you for this masterpiece🥲🤍🫰
