TO DULL THE SHOVELS & SMOKE
Pairing: Simon âGhostâ Riley x Female Reader
Prompt: In which Simon Riley doesnât hear the gunshots and yells when heâs around his next door neighbor.
Words: 4.2k
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of gore, mentions of torture based on the Ghost comics, drinking, major PTSD.
At first, it annoyed him.
The thin walls of his Manchester apartment blocked absolutely no sound. From one end, near his desolate kitchen, he heard the half-arsed sounds of a couple at all hours of the night. At the other end, nearly midnight on the dot, a bow would pull over strings.
He thought it to be a violin, but the sound was so horrendous and screeching that he couldnât quite figure it out. Never less, he couldnât find it in himself to move from the spot on his hard mattress.
It wasnât like he could sleep anyways.
Gunshots bled into his ears warm and sticky, curses and cries of civilians slammed against his chest and made his eyes feel like sinking weights. Bombs screeched and blinded him, even though he could see the shadows of his wardrobes and chipped wallpaper.
He was there. On the battlefield.
That was until a particularly awful note would catch his ears, digging through all the horrible sounds of war.
It would make the corners of his lips perk up, especially when he heard the gentle curse of the âmusician.â He figured horrible orchestral music would do rather than gunshots. He even managed to acquire at least an hour of sleep before he was stirred awake again by the sounds of death.
Heâd wake up as he always did. A horrific grunt and a call for his teammates. It was pathetic, but the usual. Simon couldnât recall the last time he woke up refreshed. He hadnât slept well in decades, even his childhood was thrashed with harassment from his father who kept him up. He maybe had a couple good nights of rest as a recruit, while his brother and mother were still alive and his father was long gone festering in the hospital with cancer.
Still he was used to the dark circles under his eyes and the constant urge to yawn.
Heâd gone about his civilian life as he usually did. Wake up in a sweat, take a cold shower, drink some breakfast tea, and watch the news. That was until three knocks sounded from his door chipping green paint. He had half the mind to ignore it, Simon didnât know anyone around the areaâ After all, he was a Ghost. He chewed on his lip, If it was a threat they wouldnât have knocked. He settled on placing his steaming mug on the wooden side table and huffing to stand. Curiosity won him over as his creaky joints shuffled its way over to the door.
He creaked it open only a couple inches, cautiously glancing around to see no one in the hallway. Scratching his five oâclock shadow, he blinked, feeling slightly paranoid that maybe he was imaging the knocking. That was until his dark eyes settled upon a half open box of what looked to be tea bags.
A note lay scotch taped to the front, written in the most interesting handwriting Simon had seen.
Heard the screams, I wonât pretend to know what itâs like. I figured you wouldnât want me to pester you, so Iâll save you from the awkward small talk and leave these here. Not sure if youâre a tea person, but they help me sleep.
-your next door neighbor
He couldnât find himself to move for a short while. His brain clashed in conflicts, as if he couldnât settle on a single emotion to feel. It swarmed him at onceâ annoyance, embarrassment, gratitude.
His neighbor had took time out of their day to drop tea off at his door. He tried to think back to when the last time someone had done something genuinely nice for him. Besides his makeshift family of broken soldiers, he couldnât think of a single occurrence. Zeroing in on the box, a twitch in his nose gave away his reluctance of the flavor. Lavender and Chamomile. So different than his simple breakfast tea.
But, it wouldnât hurt to try it. Maybe then heâd be able to silently thank the mysterious neighbor for a good night of sleep.
He figured out who you were when heâd exited the shaky and completely unsafe lift onto his floor. In the crook of his arm he carried a brown paper sack full of his weekly groceries. It wasnât the most fanciful of ingredients, the most extravagant being simple cuts of chicken breasts. Heâd shoved the bag further into his grasp, reaching into his dark colored jeans for his room key when he heard your muffled curse.
You were hunched over your doorknob, pulling helplessly on the metal to unlock it. Hurriedly he changed his footfalls, switching from silent to knowingly hitting the creaks in the aged carpet. Your head tilted at the unpleasant noise, eyes widening in embarrassing anticipation.
It took Simon a moment to truly access the situation. It was as if his brain had slammed into a wall, colliding and knocking all of his thoughts astray. When he finally did come to his senses, the only thought he could repeat wasâ pretty.
Simon would be the first to admit that he had not been around many women in his life. Therefore, he didnât have much to draw comparisons toâregardless you had to be the most beautifully unique person he had ever seen.
You wore a knitted sweater, likely homemade by the barely noticeable tears of threads and flaws. His eyes filtered down to your jeans, then his attention drew to the absolutely ridiculous socks clad to your feet and ankles. Bright purple, decorated with pink polka dots. Heâd glanced up, embarrassingly distracted enough to not be able to listen to your moving lips.
âHmm?â He grunted, thankful for his black surgical mask that covered half of his face. He felt secure being covered, as if all the bad things couldnât penetrate through the flimsy material.
âOh! Sorry for mumbling,â you apologized, which made Simonâs head tilt to the side. Why apologize for his lack of hearing?
You cleared your throat, releasing the doorknob from your hands and instead twisting them together in a nervous habit. It seemed you could hardly sit still, all in the span of thirty seconds Simon caught on to your spastic fingers and tapping foot.
âI donât suppose you know how to pick a lock?â You squeaked, instantly cringing at the horribly put together question.
âExcuse me?â Simon spoke, a hint of surprised amusement coating his tongue. Of course he knew how to break into buildings and pick locks, but you didnât need to know that.
âI uh, locked myself out of my apartment. I forgot my purse and I keep my keys in there. I was just in a rush for food before my favorite place closes, and wellâ Iâm rambling.â You sputtered, looking like it would be a better option to break through your door than stand under his burning stare.
He didnât expect himself to extend towards you, settling his bag of groceries on the floor near his door. You slid out the way as he approached, not before he caught a pleasant whiff of lavender and something floral.
Simon shuffled in the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a floss pick from the material. Call it his nagging habit, but he hated having shit in his teeth. He wasnât used to eating or drinking with his balaclava on at work, so on the rare occasions he ate, it absolutely irritated him. Now the floss pick came in handy as he bent the hard plastic to fit into the lock of your door.
He was aware of your stare as he lay crouched, catching the puzzled yet intrigued look from his peripherals.
âAre you some type of cop?â You blurted, making Simonâs lips peek up in a half arsed amusement. A cop? This girl was funny.
âNo,â
With a final click, your door creaked open with a whine of its hinges. He rose off the old carpet with a sigh, immediately going back to his groceries so he could be left in his solitude. Then before he could reach down and pick up the bag, your words cut him short.
âThank you. Um⌠did you like the tea?â It was a simple question, but not one he was expecting. âIt was alright.â He lied, the untouched box still rested on his cold countertops.
âYou didnât like it did you?â You chuckled, reading right through him. All he gave was a shrug of his shoulders, not confirming nor denying. âI knew it. You probably drink your tea black and food bland.â You teased lightheartedly, making an equally playful offended sound fall from Simonâs lips. It occurred to him that heâd smiled more in these last five minutes than he had in a whole year.
âItâs only for mature palates.â He heard himself joke, nearly shocked at his own behavior.
âSureâŚâ You introduced yourself at last, finally able to have a name to your face. âSimon,â he only thought it fair to state his own. Although it sounded weird coming off his lips instead of the usual introductory Ghost.
âWell Simon, if youâre ever on Bakers Street, thereâs a Korean Barbecue place that is delicious. Now thatâs real food. Iâll just have to wait until tomorrow since I pulled this stunt. And thanks again!â You smiled, an awkward wave marking your goodbye.
Simon nodded and entered his dark flat, once again drawn into his own mind and the sound of warfare.
He made sure, a few days later to pay you back for your kind words and the disgusting tea. He knocked on your door, hurriedly rushing back to his own and out of sight, hoping the white takeout box of barbecue would make your evening.
He had a particularly rough morning on an autumn rainy day. The chill of the air and racket of raindrops on the window was enough to startle him awake. He was reminded of the cold chill of Russia, as well as the raindrops hitting way too similar to the sound of bullets. It nerved him, nearly taking him several minutes to be able to breathe properly again.
Heâd done what his therapist had mentioned, pinpointing colors, sounds, and textures.
Yellowing wallpaper, humming ventilation, scratchy blanket.
Gray clouds, rattling ceiling fan, his own warm skin.
With a sigh, he curled his palm over his eyes, rubbing away the awful reoccurring night terrors, and settling for getting dressed. He wore the simple clothes he always did, black hoodie, jeans, and boots. Simple, yet effective.
He grew rather sick of the walls of his apartment. The plaster suffocated him, the air suddenly too stuffy. For a short moment he was stuck in that coffin again, maggots wriggling at his flesh and the scent of rotten meat flooding his nostrils.
He stood suddenly, attempting to calm himself. He was in Manchester, he was standing. Something he couldnât do in a coffin. It was a shitty autumn day with rain battering his window sill. He wasnât in the desert, he wasnât half dead. He was here.
He let his body lead him out the door with no destination. All his mind happened to scream was out, out, out.
Heâd barely been able to grab the door handle and twist, fingers shaking in such a pathetic way it had him wrinkling his nose. He was underwater, shoved into the bucket as they held him under, making him lose his breath and weakly fight.
No he was here. Manchester! In Manchester.
âSimon?â
He was suddenly lifted up, finally able to push the freezing water out of his lungs and suck down oxygen. His head swiveled weakly to you, eyes likely looking dead and cold.
You were dressed warm. A coffee-colored sweater swaddling your form and a burnt orange cardigan hanging from your shoulders as well. You wore typical jeans and slip-ons, but bright orange knitted socks peaked from your jeans. They were even littered with pumpkins and leaves designs. ďżź
He hummed in your acknowledgment, letting himself worry about his breathing once again. Colors, sounds, textures.
Orange Cardigan, your slow breathing, soft knitted socks.
âAre you okay?â Youâd squeaked, barely audible over his massive heaving breathes. He instinctively nodded his head, knowing that if he showed any sign of weakness heâd be terminated. Thatâs how itâs been since he was four years old, being terrified of his father but not being able to express such fear.
âYou know, itâs okay to not be okay.â You read right through him. Taking an inching step towards him. He said nothing, still shocked that you hadnât left in a disgusted manner. He was weak and terrifyingly broken, and yet your sweet gaze never broke into pity.
Orange cardigan, quiet steps, smooth skin against his wrist.
Heâd instantly felt relief from the lack of stinging pressure against his palm. Not realizing heâd been digging his nails into the calloused flesh, causing angry red crescents to print into his skin.
âWould you like a tea? I was about to go to the place across the street?â
His mind screeched no. He wanted so badly to be alone. To break something, to laugh as he bloodied his knuckles. He also wanted to shield his too pleasant neighbor from his violent tendencies. To keep her from him, to protect her. But his cold and dead heart managed to thaw and break all in one. The vile organ spoke for him as he found his head bobbing, lungs sucking in a big breath.
âMâkay.â He mumbled, following after your sweet lavender perfume down the lift like a sickly bloodhound.
Heâd followed like a shell, hardly memorizing the turns and passing civilians until he was blasted with warm air from a cozy little cafe. He was slammed with comfort instantly, thrown back into the present world instead of the bloodied one he was used to seeing in his mind.
String lights hung above your head, illuminating your warm skin and kind smile. Youâd ushered him to sit in the far corner, the leather booth squishy and comfortable. Simon had tuned into the fluttering orchestra of some jazz band, relaxing his bones and tired muscles only slightly.
Golden lights, swaying music, brewing coffee.
He startled when a thick paper cup slid in front of him, the fresh scent of breakfast tea relaxing him further, among with the smiling face blinking at him.
âGot your favorite, bland breakfast tea.â You quipped, taking a sip of your own lavender fruity tea. He let a soft grin cross his lips, pushing the invasive thoughts away while you were with him. âI told you it was an exquisite taste, you drink tea for a child.â
A bubbly laugh escaped you, making Simon freeze in pure awe. Heâd never heard something so beautiful, a real authentic laugh. One that he caused.
âYou should try it.â You eased, pushing your cup towards him with amusement. Simonâs eyes managed to squint in disgust, glancing down at the odd beverage.
His hand fit around the paper material, warmth meeting his fingers as he brought it carefully up to his scarred lips. The taste was sugary, but floral and rich at the same time. His tongue retreated away, and instantly he swallowed it like it was burning alcohol.
âI donât like it.â
This tea perfectly matched your personality. Bubbly, overly sweet, and calming like the essence of lavender under his tongue. Heâd rather have you than the tea.
âWell what do you like, oh mysterious neighbor?â You chuckled, taking back your tea with a happy grin. His dislike hadnât irked you at all, instead you seemed more intrigued than before. As if he was enough to quirk your interest.
âFootball.â
âMan United?â
He nodded.
âIâm a Liverpool fan.â You sighed, a guilty and mischievous grin passing over your lips.
âThatâs more disgusting than that tea!â He growled out, a chuckle breaking through his chest at your lit up face.
âYeah? Whatâs your favorite food or drink then? If youâre so quick to bash my tea!â You bickered back, happily noticing his shoulders relaxing and eyes softening.
âOne of my Sergeants lives in Glasgow, he frequents at this pub with the best fry up youâd ever eat.â
âBreakfast in a pub?â You questioned, taking a sip of your tea again.
âBest hangover medicine.â
Youâd scoffed, hiding your smile between your empty cup. Simon was surprised just how easy it was to talk to you. Here he was, just a man having a tea with a woman. Perhaps even a date? He didnât have to worry about following orders or barking protocol to privates. Here he could be Simon, the man under the mask and war paint. It was⌠nice.
âSo youâre in the military. That makes sense why I havenât seen you over the last couple months.â You observed, but didnât push. You were hanging the metaphorical bait, but he didnât have to bite it if he didnât want to.
He nodded, simple enough to confirm, but not enough to feel exposed.
âWell Simon, I have a train to catch. Iâm going into Liverpool to see my Mum.â You explained, offering a polite smile.
âSure.â He mumbled, watching you shuffle to leave the booth. âWe should do this again sometime, it was nice to talk to someone besides my cat.â You urged, a laugh encasing your words.
His heart threatened to bounce out of his chest, but he pulled himself together with a subtle pinch to his thigh.
âSounds nice.â
Dried blood coated his mask and stained his gloves to the point that he had to pull extremely hard to take them off. His shoulders slouched significantly and his eyes grew such large bags under them he could feel his skin sink into his skull. He was tired, exhausted, and needing a warm, long shower.
âGood teâ be back, yeah, L.t.?â Soap threw himself against a bench, groaning as he bent down to untie the laces of his boots. The Scot likely had the same idea as Simon, to shower all this blood off their bodies.
âSure. Back to morning drills and bland Mess Hall food.â He added in monotone, eyes twinkling in amusement as Soap let out another dramatic groan.
âOh donât be like that.â He teased again, constantly pushing Simon out of his dramatic and lone atmosphere. It was nice in ways, how Soap managed to brighten up his day and keep him on his toes.
Speaking of toes, a frown worked its way onto his face as he caught the state of his freshly knitted socks. Dark mud and seeping blood rubbed uncomfortably against his toes, soaking the material of all its purity.
Soap followed his eye line, latching onto the pattern of white ghosts against black knitted material. A chortle escaped him, âWhere the bloody hell did yeâ get those?â
âMy Neighbor.â He answered shortly, taking note of the crimson color bleeding into the white ghosts.
âDâaw, little granâ made yeâ some socks?â Soap teased, making the wrong assumption that you were some sweet elderly lady. Simon shook his head, peeling off the socks begrudgingly as he looked forward to his hot shower to warm his bones.
âSheâs my age.â
His mind travelled to you. How youâd begged and begged for him to tell you his callsign, bringing up Top Gun of all things.
âOh my gosh! You need to watch more movies. I canât believe you donât know who Tom Cruise is. Top Gun!â Your ecstatic voice carried as you sat in the now familiar booth the two of you shared.
Itâs become a common occurrence for him to go out with you on Saturday mornings, sometimes youâd bring your laptop and study for an upcoming test in uni, other times youâd ask him any question under the sun, just to get to know him better. He was comforted by your mindless chatter, even more so when youâd avoid certain topics that made him uncomfortable.
Youâd hardly pushed on his childhood or career, that was until youâd thought him traitorous that heâd never seen either of the Top Gun movies.
âMaverick and Goose? Never heard of them?â
âNo.â Simon shrugged, sipping on his tea as your eyes sparkled again. âDo you have a callsign?â
His teeth grit at the question as his airway slightly closed. It was dangerous to identify himself off the clock, even more so in a public area. He studied your antsy form, noticing your hips hanging off the booth in curiosity, as well as the soft flesh of your lips pulled between your teeth. How could he ever say no to a creature so effortlessly beautiful?
âGhost.â
A few days later, a knock on his door startled him from his routine of watching the local broadcasting. Heâd approached the door, only to find a black pair of socks with little white ghosts knitted against the seams.
âIs she fit?â Soap found himself asking, a happy grin shining through. Simon was glad for his mask, for when he pictured your smooth skin, beautiful eyes, and stunning frame he could picture no flaws. Fit? That didnât even begin to describe you.
âYou have no idea, mate.â
Heâd returned home Christmas Eve, tired and worn from all the flights and jet lagged beyond belief. His muscles were stiff and his heart was heavy. This was always his least favorite time of year.
Horror flashed before his very eyes, usually heâd get away with spending the holidays on base, catching up with his paperwork and training privates a little more to reduce his thoughts of his late family. Instead, Price all but forced him to go home, after a certain Scot let slip that his Lieutenant fancied his own neighbor.
He had nowhere to hide this time. He was home, and at the worst time of the year. Near instantly his nostrils filled with the smell of burnt Christmas ham, charred and ashes by the time heâd opened the front door. But that wasnât the worst smell, not even close. Coppery tinges of blood clouded his nostrils as his eyes glazed over.
Hidden and reflected off the ornaments on the tree was his family. His poor sweet mother, whoâd done so much and tried so hard to raise two boys with an abusive husbandâ she lay face first on the festive rugs. Heâd rushed to her, only to nearly trip over his brother. Tommyâs hand was outstretched, blood trailing as heâd likely tried to crawl to his dead wife.
He couldnât breathe, sheer panic and despair crawling on him like millions of slippery bugs. Heâd vomited all the contents of his stomach as he caught the crib in the corner. Not his little nephew, not little Joseph.
Loud honking from below drew him out of his mind. Heâd been standing idly in front of his door, duffel clutched so tightly in his hand he was sure heâd had punctured skin.
White snow, soft violin, warm coat.
Violin?
His feet had already carried him to your door, hand cautiously rapping against the thin wooden material. He knew it was lateâ hell, it was likely already midnight and Christmas Day. Yet he needed something, he needed to hear your voice and smell the lavender and floral ofyour perfume. He even wanted to see the orange fur of your pet tabby cat.
âWho is it?â Your soft voice carried through the door, successfully halting some of the tension in his shoulders.
âSimon.â
The door cracked open almost immediately, revealing you in red flannel pajamas and sleepy eyes. Heâd never felt such a relief as he had just now. Seeing you, your warm smile peeking through all the tiredness.
âYou just get back?â You asked, slippered feet already sliding to the kitchen to turn on the electric kettle.
âYes.â He replied, bending low to pat the orange ball of fur dubbed Garfield. The cat mewed happily, even going as far as letting his belly be scratched. Heâd missed your eyes curiously glancing at him from behind a cabinet, two mugs clinking as you pulled them out. Heâd had the same cloudy eyes and sagged shoulders he always did when he was plagued by bad memories and PTSD.
âI was just about to put on a movie, if you want to sit on the sofa.â Youâd suggested, seeping the leaves of his breakfast tea in a fluid motion. Your warm and inviting voice broke him away from thinking of his family, especially when the steaming scent of tea crept up his nose.
âWhat movie?â
âI was thinking Home Alone, or maybe even The Grinch. Tisâ the season and all that.â You bubbled, taking your own seat against him. Heâd stiffened slightly at the mention of the holidays, but his thoughts quickly vanished at the subtle brush of warm skin against his side.
He wasnât able to breathe properly as you laid your cheek upon his shoulder, right in the dip between his neck and clavicle. But no, it wasnât the suffocating and violent loss of breath like before, when he thought of war and bloodshed. No, this was a dull ache of his heart, as if telling him that yes, this is where I want to be.
Red Flannel, shifting bodies, soft lips.
âHow about we watch Top Gun?â He asked in a whisper, still feeling the absolute sweetness of your lips, the pleasure and love that was you.
Youâd single-handedly dulled his pain, silenced the noise, and picked him up on the darkest of his days.
He loved you.
Tag list: @mykneeshurt
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