i have too many opinions on simon ghost riley

again.

redrew a piece from 2021

In a job that leads him across the globe, responsible for the survival of many and the deaths of others, he allows himself the juvenile comfort of another man close to his heart.

Like Saint Christopher, he carries the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Though Johnny does it with less grace, and his method of assistance follows a violent path that does not abide by the words of the divine.

He does so with wrath, envy, gluttony and pride. Saint Christopher does not help him disregard temptation; he brings him home, and Johnny figures a job half done is still work completed.

In his tamest of days, Johnny seeks the man's guidance in getting him through a toothache in one of his back molars.

On the worst, he drags a man out of the line of fire, hauled over his back and ignores the notion that those few seconds are wasted protecting a human life rather than abandoning it for a moment more to complete his task.

Only when throwing himself at a terrorist does he think of the man as a martyr, killed for following his beliefs and refusing to abandon them in the face of scrutiny and agony.

(tw for blood, aftermath of violence, and unhealthy coping mechanisms)

“fuckin’ prick.”

a wad of spit splatters against the ground. little wet specks sticking to his exposed temple. he watches with blurry eyes as it mixes with a thing of blood pooled on the corner of the mat, spilling out from a new cut he can’t separate from the old. the jagged remains of his tooth scrape against the ballooned meat of his cheek. his mouth twitching with each pinprick to the tender flesh.

simon doesn’t know why he even entertained this bullshit fight. maybe he really is no better than a brainless mutt. just needs something to sink his teeth into to stay busy.

pairs of overlapping footsteps echo through the concrete room, cruel chuckles under hushed breath as the group make their escape. the gymnasium reverberates a loud metallic click, followed by the damning swoosh of a door settled back into place.

sergeant simon riley was nothing special.

sticky notes tucked into private files left largely empty. no more than 5 words describing what was largely an unremarkable soldier. he did what he was told and did it *well*, the textbook representation of a man in uniform.

that was, until now.

lieutenant simon riley was a man carrying a burden so much larger than himself that he could barely stay upright on his own two feet. a man who’s life was now forever documented under neat black lines for any deemed worthy to gawk at if they so pleased. a man who could drown under the relentless pressure at any moment.

simon was the topic of every high ranking conversation as of late, ceremonies singing the scripted praises of his dedication to not only surviving the “great ordeal”, but to his position as “one of the best lieutenants the military had to offer”.

3 months of paid medical leave. dozens of mandatory therapy sessions sat in silence.

simon just wanted to hear something other than “i know it hurts,” for a while.

and if getting into a 3-1 fist fight with his superior officers was the only way to get that, then he would gladly have his knuckles cut open down to the bone.

simon barely knows them. transferred from neighboring bases to fill the positions of men he once worked with hand in hand. apparently simon “didn’t match the stories” of an untouchable and ruthless killer. didn’t snip back at their witty remarks enough. sneered at his broken body and laughed in the face of his barely restrained anger.

simon forces his aching body to lay lateral against the mat, grunting in pain with each minor shift in his chest. his body trembles with overextension. definitely broke a rib or two from the kicking. he wipes a thick glob of blood off the broken skin of his lip and soaks it into the bunched fabric of his tank top.

price is gonna be pissed seeing him in bandages again. he idly wonders if he could get john to swing at him, too.

…

a good hour goes by with simon resigning himself to the gym floor. the cold mat doing something to quell the pain, much to his displeasure. a balm against his burning, pulsing skin. there’s a deep pressure sitting in his skull, thrumming just behind his eyes. he feels hollowed out, his mind empty for the first time in days.

he can’t even bring himself to tense up at the sound of the heavy clack of the metal doors being pushed open. or at the even set of footsteps that take a detour before approaching his crinkled up body. spitting image of a crushed, still-half-full soda can.

a callous hand strokes against the dip of his spine and he whines a pathetic noise before steeling himself, wriggling to escape the touch.

soft shushing paired with the sound of a plastic click.

“easy, lieutenant. i don’t kick when it’s down.”

a low, warm drawl that simon has gotten familiar with as of late. nikolai, for reasons simon isn’t sure, acts as a sort of errand boy for captain price. no questions asked when the man needs something. apparently the two go way back, to before price was even a lieutenant.

simon wasn’t sure how to feel about the man just yet. had been nothing but kind to simon, he will admit, but kindness doesn’t mean as much to him as it used to.

crinkles of flimsy plastic met with an overwhelming waft of alcohol. simon feels nauseous when it hits his nose. the man hushes him again when simon flinches at the saline poured onto his fresh cuts. he wants to curl in on himself, hide away from the touch, the burn creeping up his spine injecting into swollen muscles, but a hand wrapped around his shoulder keeps him steady.

nik thankfully doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence. too focused on applying dollops of antibiotic ointment and making sure the bandages cover each corner of the sterile wounds. it soothed simon’s nerves in a way, not having to explain how he’s feeling or if he thought what he was doing was “ok”.

a thick arm slinks around to simon’s front, pressure against his side urging him to get up. simon mindlessly allows the man to help him upright, nikolai’s thumb rubbing up and down against the exposed flesh there. a mindless, soothing act that does what it’s supposed to.

nikolai scans his body for any more injuries and seems somewhat satisfied when the only remnants are black and blue fist imprints along his chest and forearms.

“anything else?”

“no.” can feel the tender pressure against his lungs with each breath in.

nikolai holds his gaze, seemingly looking right through simon’s sorry attempts to lick at the rest of his wounded pride.

“we will get you an ice pack.” nik relents.

he doesn’t argue.

the pilot smiles at him for a moment before abruptly standing, reaching a hand down to simon. with a little assistance, simon makes it to his feet on wobbly legs. can’t help leaning into the solid warmth that is nikolai’s side, an arm wrapped around his shoulders keeping his head upright. nik doesn’t seem to mind, encouraging it, even.

he turns to encompass simon fully, one hand a gentle pressure resting in the space between his hips and shoulder blades, and the other gently holding his head against the carved out space of his neck. perfect fit for simon’s sweaty forehead.

he wants to be mad at the hug nikolai’s got him in, to kick and push and seethe that he doesn’t need this. doesn’t need someone doting over him and his own reckless decisions. he can take care of himself just fine. he did it in mexico with nothing but the crumpled up remains of his tshirt. but he isn’t. he isn’t and it scares him a little bit, has his face warming up and him pushing against nik’s collarbone to get away because he should be.

nikolai gently rocks them back and forth on his heels, a soft hand resting against the exposed skin of simon’s neck.

“i’m here, lieutenant.”

the gentle pressure against his stomach calms him with each breath cycled through nik’s lungs. no words of pity, no forcing himself to criticize his own immature behavior, just silent understanding for a man who doesn’t know what to do with the shattered pieces that no longer fit together.

simon hides his face deep into tanned skin. hands shaking with how hard nails dig into his palm. a tear swelling up from the corner of his eyelids before its soaked up by the cotton of nikolai’s shirt. he should be scared. he should run away, call nik a fucking asshole and scurry on off to his bunk or go have a smoke in the neighboring woods. get away from nikolai and price and his therapist and those prick COs and just about everything else grating against his nerves so he doesn’t have to deal with this.