#ghost angst

Tonight is one of those nights.

"Simon, you fucking crossed a line! That is unacceptable!" You had told him two days ago after finding out he's put a tracker on you and has been sharing your location with his work buddies. That was your first big fight since the wedding.

Which leads you to now, fluffy comforter and favorite pillow in hand while you glare at the couch.

You didn't want it to come to this. You had hoped refusing cuddles and referring to him solely as "simon." Instead of your usual pet names would get the point across how serious this is. But ghost refused to budge.

So, you're sleeping on the couch. Because as pissed off as you are at simon and as much as you want to tear his face off, some silly part of you aches at the thought of him hurting his back sleeping on the couch.

So, you go tuck in and try to ignore how weird it feels not to have a warm body next to you.

When you wake up, you nearly trip over your husband sleeping on the floor by the couch.

"What— simon! What the hell—" all anger you'd initially feel is destroyed when you look closer at the wet lines down the scars on his face, the red tint around his eyes.

Oh. You've....You've never actually seen ghost cry.... not since the wedding.

"Please don't leave me love–" are the first choked words out of his mouth, not even awake for a minute and already shifting closer to you "ahm' sorry. I'm sorry, I just— i can't lose you. If— if something happens to me I—"

"Woah. Woah, hey, slow down si" You attempt to soothe, because pulling him up onto the bed. "I'm pissed off. You know that. But I'm not leaving you. What's going on?"

Ghost breathes for a second, looks at the window instead of you. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and raw "if I get captured. If I'm— compromised. The team needs to be able to find you. Keep you safe. I can't always be here."

Oh....oh.

The conversation that followed was long, painstaking, but necessary. You and simon struck a tentatively compromise, both mentally exhausted from it all. You could tell he was struggling not to shut down.

"....come to bed with me? I missed your cuddles last night." You smile, only to gasp and laugh when simon bodily hauled you over his shoulder to drag you to bed.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

You hated when people looked at you after they looked at Simon.

Because it always happened in that order.

Their eyes would land on him first— broad shoulders stuffed into dark clothes, that permanently tired stare, the kind of presence that made rooms quiet without him even trying — and then they’d shift to you.

And every single time, you swore you saw the same flicker of confusion.

Them?

It made your sick.

So he stays in the chair.

Every night.

Fully dressed, mask still on, boots planted like he’s still on duty. Like rest is something other people get to have without consequences.

You notice it in pieces at first—the way you wake up slightly too warm, then slightly too watched. The way the room is never fully dark, not really, because there’s always that faint outline of him across from you, completely still, like a statue carved out of restraint and guilt.

He never speaks when you catch him. He never moves, just watches.

That slow, steady attention fixed on your chest rising and falling, like he’s counting every breath to make sure it still happens. Like if you stop, he’ll finally have something to panic about.

Sometimes you pretend to stay asleep longer just to feel it—his presence sharpening, like he leans forward just a fraction when he thinks you’re not aware. Like you’re the only thing in the room keeping him anchored to anything human.

He tells you once, in a voice so low it almost gets lost in the dark, that he can’t risk it.

Not you. Never you.

He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. The words sit heavy between you anyway, full of things he’s done, things he’s seen, things he still hears when everything else is quiet.

After that, you stop asking him to come to bed.

But you don’t stop waking up.

simon coming back from deployment in some country, back to his little apartment in manchester. back to home, that was once cold and miserable, now full of a child’s laughter and your cooking. something wonderful is cooking on the counter, it smells delightful, and his stomach growls. your daughter’s old enough to run now, and she was always going to be a daddy’s girl. she runs up to him as she hears his voice at the door, “dada!!!” she cries out, as she toddles up to the door, almost tripping over the rug.

simon unlocks the door, and sees his pint sized daughter by his knees, grabbing onto his legs to give him a hug before he drops his big bag in the doorway and picks her up. her blonde curls are a little darker than his, but she cuddles up to him, and he kisses the top of her head.

you look at him with a soft smile, apron on you, a dusting of flour on your cheek as you walk out the kitchen. simon’s always been averse to touch, it’s just how he’d grown up. touch didn’t mean love to him, not before the 141, or you. and now with your daughter, he clutches onto her so tightly, like he’s afraid that she’ll slip away. violet’s always been her father’s favourite person on earth, even more than you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“i got you something,” he says, kissing her curls again, “when daddy was away he found a necklace for you, want to see violet?”

“oooh!” she gurgles, squishing his cheeks with her small hands, “me? me? give! give!” she’s always been vocal about things she wants, something you and simon have taught her (something simon was desperate to teach her, to give her everything she’d ever want in her life.)

he pulls out a small necklace, with purple beads, wooden and of different shapes and shades, a small amber circle pendant in the center of it. “i saw it at a market,” he says, dangling it in front of her, “isn’t it lovely vi?”

she grabs it almost as quickly, staring at it with her big brown eyes – “me?” she asks again, looking up at her father.

“for you.” he says, kissing her forehead, “it’s violet, just like you.” 

his eyes spot you, standing by the kitchen, looking at the two of them with. with. with – he’s so in love with you.

“i got you something too.” he says, beckoning you to come closer, and you do. he holds out a necklace with blue glass beads, that shine prettily in the lights of your house, a silver heart pendant on yours. “it made me think of you.”

blue like the forget-me-nots you used to press and send him in the days before your marriage, when he was away on assignment. blue like the sapphire that sparkled on your ring finger, and blue like the pillows you’d insisted for your bed. blue like your favourite colour in the world. 

“i remembered you like silver.” he blushed as you took it, held it up to the light.

“and blue.” you smiled, putting it around your neck, “you remembered.”

royal portrait artist simon riley who is given a wife from the court to ensure his position in the kingdom. but he didn’t want a wife; he had no interest in entertaining some spoiled bird from the capital, so he just ignores you.

and you spends a few years married, no romance, no children, barely any words spoken between them, until you die young, a childhood illness that was never cured. and simon is left having to explain why your funeral portrait is one from before your union and not one he would have painted after. or a wedding portrait that he’d never even considered making until he realizes that he doesn’t have a single portrait, sketch, or watercolor of his betrothed.

even worse when he takes it upon himself to organized your belongings and he comes across your diary. a detailed recollection of your life and your decision to marry him because you know of his aversion of touching but you admire him and his work so much that it is worth the cold shoulder, and that it isn’t like you had much time left anyway, so you might as well spend your remaining years in his presence.

"Fuck, Simon." Your voice croaked, your head lifting enough to meet his eyes. He swallowed, blinking slowly at you. He didn't have the words for you, he never had the words. He didn't think you'd.. Be like this.

"I.. I just.. I thought I'd tell you. You, uh, you took it harder than I expected." He mumbled, eyes squinting softly. The words twisted your gut, as you pushed off him. You managed to shakily stand, sniffling as you wiped your nose with the back of your hand.

"Took it harder? What does that means? We've—I've been—Haven't we been-?" You gestured between the two of you, confusion slowly creeping on his face.

"... Been what?" He softly glanced at the furrow between your brows.

You felt your chest tighten, a soft burn behind your eyes, "Well, I-I just thought.. Together?"

He blinked back a little shock, and to you it felt like a blow to your heart, the beginning of a shatter. You two have hooked up but, it wasn't ever specified.

You should've asked.

"Love, I.. This isn't—wasn't anything," he paused, standing when you took a couple hesitant steps closer to the door. "You knew that, right?" His voice came out unsure, waiting for the confirmation he knew he wouldn't get. You felt the tears boil under your vision, and you hiccupped, clutching your chest. You swore those nights meant something. They had to have.

In the back of your mind, it made sense then. How it was so easy to leave, then, for him. He had no strings to you, yet you'd knotted all of yours to him. You stood taller, swallowing the spit in your mouth.

"You knew it meant something." It came out sharper than you had intended. He furrowed his brows.

"You knew it didn't," He took a step forward, his own expression.. Angry, directed at something in the confinement of his mind.

"Simon, we talked about it. About agreeing to eye contact, to being less sexual and more snuggly, I-I gave you everything Simon. It's not funny, this is a joke, you're a joke, you—"

"I didn't ask for it!" He spat out, the crack in his own composure showing. He bit his tounge, squaring off his shoulders. "I didn't ask for it. For you to be like this, I-I agreed to a stress relief."

You stared at him, a small piece of hair falling in front of your nose. He didn't ask for all of you. He wasn't.. Wasn't wrong.

There was no regret in his face as he turned back to his couch. He started to fix the blanket you had messed up, fixing the cushions as you stared a hole into his back. Who ever really wanted all of you? Not when.. Not when your body had become enough?

You did it to yourself, really.

"You're mean." You hiccupped, angrily wiping a stray tear off yout cheek.

"And your obsessive! God, really, I-I can't do anything without pissing you off. It's why I don't date, a-and why I would've never even dated you!" He left in a hurry, over explaining himself of why he just could never be more for you because he didn't want more of you.

It had been a while since someone did, anyways.

- part two

But after a mission, Ghost finds you collapsed on the floor in an empty building— Crying. He’d never seen you do that before, but he knew you were a softer more sensitive soul, you were just good at hiding it.

He was moving before he realised it, crouching down in front of you, eyes narrowed as he tried to find your gaze that was lost in a heap of warm tears. His hands got clammy and his throat dry because how could he make it stop? It was like the sight had reached in and seized a part of him long gone, maybe one he’d never found before now.

“Stop crying.” He said foolishly, but his tone had lost its usual edge, and the very rare lilt of pleading had laced into his voice. Why did he suddenly grab your shoulders and press your trembling body into his? He had no clue but he wanted to shield you from whatever had made you look so vulnerable before him.

A part of him didn’t like seeing this, didn’t recognise the garbled sound of soft sobs, the way your body’s strength seemed to evaporate into a fragile, soft one that he wanted to pick up and put back together. Another part of him was sucking in this moment, afraid it would get lost and maybe feeling a bit guilty about it. But this feeling of… was it protection? Protection, yes. He’d never had it like this before. Usually, protecting means killing and hurting. Right now it meant nurturing as your small hands reached around his neck and you curled into him. He reacted immediately, sitting down and scooping you into his lap.

He closed his eyes, his chin resting on your head with a sigh. He had no idea what came next. This had to change your dynamic in some way because he couldn’t ever look at you the same. He saw your softness and maybe he fell in love with it right there, and wanted to be the one you showed it to. Only him.

“Im sorry” You whispered into his chest. His hands flexed around you, fighting the urge to smother you even more against him.

“Dont say that. Just keep holding onto me.” His voice was more hoarse than usual as his fingers unconsciously combed through your hair.

Whatever had happened, he was sure you felt it too, or you would’ve never let him this close. And he wished for everything you would let him again one day.

simon doesn’t expect anyone to tap him out. a ritual where loved ones step forward to release a soldier from duty, creating a chance to reconnect.

based on this.

simon stands in formation, a soldier among countless others, each bound by discipline, each carrying their own story beneath a stoic exterior.

in the unyielding line, he’s silent, gaze fixed forward, while around him, families reunite: sons embraced by tearful mothers, women lifting their children into their arms, couples lost in long-awaited kisses. joy and relief fill the air, carried on quiet laughter and murmured words of love.

but simon is an orphan now.

there’s no one to step forward for him, no one to break his stance. he watches it all, standing alone, feeling like a stranger in this crowd of reunions, this world of connections he never belonged to.

over the years, the military has stripped him down, rebuilt him into something hardened and unbreakable. this new self is his armor, a wall between him and the life he left behind.

the tap-out tradition is a formality he’s only ever heard about, something he’s watched from a distance but never expected for himself.

he stands motionless as soldiers around him are tapped out by loved ones. he watches quietly, feeling a distant sense of satisfaction for them, grateful that they have that in their lives.

maybe soap would tap him out after he’d seen to his own family.

no matter how many times simon tried to keep him at arm’s length, he’d come to accept that soap wasn’t leaving him behind. coerced into the friendship or not, soap was a friend. until soap has been tapped out, there’s no one in simon’s life to come pick him out.

still, simon knew he was alone in ways he couldn’t change. or so he believes.

then he feels it—a subtle shift in the air, hesitant footsteps halting just in front of him, carrying a weight he doesn’t understand. his breath catches, but he doesn’t move. he’s trained to hold his position, but something in him almost falters as he senses a presence just inches away. slowly, he lets his gaze shift, barely, enough to catch a silhouette he thought he’d left behind a lifetime ago.

it’s you.

you. his childhood best friend. the love of his life.

you. the only person he thought of when he escaped his broken home. you. the guilt that wracked him when he ran, unable to say goodbye after the night he barely escaped after being beat nearly to death. you. the only reason he wanted to be alive, and the person he hadn’t been able to look back for.

—you. you. you.

and now here you are, standing before him, eyes wide with hope and uncertainty, tears gathering at the corners like unsaid words held back for too long.

he doesn’t understand, not fully. he thought he’d locked that door, left that part of him sealed away. and yet, here you are, holding everything he thought he’d left behind.

you hesitate, the weight of the years pressing down between you, unsure if you’re allowed to do this. if you can reach out to him after all this time, to be the one who taps him out.

he senses your uncertainty, feels it as if it’s his own, and in that moment, he lets a flicker of vulnerability break through—a slight furrow in his brow, a subtle nod. silent permission.

and you know, in that instant, it’s okay.

with a trembling hand, you reach forward, closing the distance. your hand hovers over his shoulder for a heartbeat, the air between you heavy with everything left unsaid.

then, gently, you tap him out. a simple touch, light and fleeting, yet it breaks something open in both of you.

in an instant, simon moves. his arms come around you, his grip unyielding as he pulls you close, lifting you off the ground. the soldier falls away, and he’s just simon again, holding you as if you’re the only real thing in a world that’s constantly shifting.

his head lowers, his face buried in your shoulder, and he breathes you in, lets the walls he’s held up for years fall away.

‘you’re here,’ he murmurs, voice rough, thick with emotion he can’t hide anymore.

his hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, each touch soft, a silent promise. the weight of years and regret presses against him, but he holds you tighter, as if to make up for every moment he was gone.

you feel the warmth of his tears against your shoulder, silent and raw. he pulls you closer still, as if afraid to let go, his voice barely a whisper as he breathes, ‘i’m sorry, lovie. i’m so damn sorry. i’ll never leave you behind again. i promise.’

and in that moment, surrounded by echoes of lives left behind, he’s just simon again, the boy who belonged with you.