"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

There's just some dark, broken, leaking part of your heart that doesn't, no—

Who’s his beloved, silly noodle. She’s tiny— hognoses are usually less than a meter tall and even her human genes didn’t give her much of a boost. She cuddles into the knitted sweaters he makes her on his time off. She gets shy when meeting the other members and tries to hide by burrowing in his sweater or a pile of laundry. She also gets dramatic every once in a while. She hisses at him when he suggests getting her out of her two hour bath. If he absolutely insists, she will roll over a play dead, leaving an absolutely “done-with-this-shit” Price to carry her out and lay her sprawled out on the bed till she “resurrects.”

vs

Simon Riley with hognose wife. She’s so tiny he’s scared someone like him will break her. It doesn’t help that she has trauma of her own. Sometimes, as much as he tries to be aware of his own size and strength, he forgets. It’s easy to fall into the patterns of chaos and violence he’s grown up in. He’d sooner die than direct any of it at her. But it doesn’t matter.

One day, after a mission gone very wrong, Simon slammed the front door shut and punched his fist into the wall. He heard a hiss, and turned around. The there was his wife, so small in front of him; he could see her terror under her threat. She was scared of him!

Her hood was raised, and she snapped at him. Simon faltered, taking a step back. He felt sick to his stomach. “L-love, it’s just me. I’m sorry. Wasn’t gonna hurt you.” He took a step forward, arms outstretched to reassure her but having the opposite effect.

His wife collapsed to the floor and thrashed as if having a seizure. Simon panicked and tried to still her. He held her down. He begged, “Lovey, please! Be careful! You could get hurt!”

His restraint unintentionally pushed her too far. A few drops of blood emerged from her lips. Her eyes rolled back, and she went limp. Simon’s heart shattered. He shook her and pleaded for her to wake up. He tried to administer first aid and call 999, but they said they could do nothing for a faux death. He waited for hours near her seemingly lifeless corpse, tearing himself apart for becoming a man like his dad, a man robbing the life and joy away from everyone around him.

CW: mentions of death, abuse, torture, loss

Simin lost a lot. Simon lost his childhood at the hands of an abusive father, lost a life of safety when he joined the military, lost his family to a brutal attack, lost a part of himself to torture at the hands of Roba, and— in the end— lost the love of his life Johnny to a bullet.

He’d lost so much that he couldn’t bear to lose again. For the longest time he shut himself off to love. He wouldn’t even interact in the slightest with people. He’d order online to be able to talk to a computer rather than a person. He’d send orders to his men via signs and written communication. And when the job was done, he’d slip away like the ghost he was and lock himself in his house. It was as if he were punishing rather than protecting himself.

Then she came into his life. Twisted billionaires funded twisted scientists in conducting twisted experiments. The results? Animal-human hybrids. He infiltrated one of their labs, a hellhole of cruelty. The other hybrids had died. They’d been victims to their own broken, volatile bodies that couldn’t bear the strain of tampering and torture.

But she was alive. She was a little baby, curled up with her tail wrapped around her. Her body was cold, too cold for a reptilian like her. Simon froze. Then, as if compelled by some otherworldly possession, he snapped into action. He shot the doctor still trying to salvage the ‘property’ and then scooped the baby up. He wrapped her in the bloodied scraps of clothing he ripped off the corpses he created. Then he took her out, rescuing her like an angel pulling a soul from hell.

Simon should have let her go. All he had to do was make sure she reached a hospital and the care of social workers. Then he would be free. He’d be safe. There was no safety in caring for someone who could be ripped away any time. Especially someone who biologically and practically was not endowed to live long. If she did not succumb to illness and wounds caused by the experimentation, more enemy agents would be after her. They would seek to preserve the albeit flawed result of years of work and millions of dollars.

But every time the nurses asked for a guardian, he’d stand up. Each bill that needed to be paid, each errand to run, every single document— he was there. All the way to the last main paper, a form for adoption, he signed his name.

Things went well at first. Despite any common sense he had telling him to run, he stayed through the initial years of parenting. He left his old life, he left his trauma behind, annd he forged a whole new person of himself so he could give his daughter the happy safe life she deserved. And he loved it. He loved her. It felt like he was healing, like he could be a person again instead of layers of pain that shaped a tool for the military. He almost started to believe he would be able to not lose this person he loved.

And just when life seemed safe again, he lost. She was seven. He was playing with her— hide and seek, her favorite game. Suddenly, there was a loud crash. The lights went out. Bullets started raining into the house, and Simon dropped to the floor. She was under him, shielded by his body. He crawled to safety with her tucked in under him.

He hid her in a safe corner and went to fight off the attackers. But when he returned, she was gone. He searched the whole house. It was a mess of blood and bodies and debris. She didn’t know it was safe now. So she stayed hidden. She stayed lost. It was hours of agony before Simon found her, colors blending into her surrounding perfectly.

It was then the nightmares resumed. He’d have random panic attacks brought on by thoughts of being unable to find her. He was eaten up by fear that she’d be snatched away and abused, and he wouldn’t even know. She was no less traumatized. The slightest fright would cause her to hide within her camouflage. Simon would wake up to her screams at night, unable to tell whether it was his nightmare or real life. He’d frantically run to her room, only to not find her on her bed. She’d be hiding somewhere unknown, undetectable.

Months the torture went on. She was not safe. He was not safe. Nothing was safe anymore. Eventually, for her sake, she had to be taken away to a safe home. Simon let her go. He had been unable to do so seven year prior when they first met. Then, he chose to stay; now, he had to let her go for her own sake.

Simon's never thought of what is waiting for him when he dies.

Somehow, he's always known it's not gonna be a good place. Not that he believes in any of that, anyway. He's here now, and nothing is good. Why does he have to wait until he's dead to find something good in his life?

Surely Johnny, and Price, and Kyle, might not like what he knows thinks, but it's true. He's alone. Nothing is good.

If he dies by his hand, or with a bullet stuck in his brain (or maybe it will go through, if he's lucky), or maybe set on fire by a random soldier during a mission - he's alone. He's gonna be alone even then.

You've never been there.

He thought you were but you're so full of your own problems that nothing gets through you, and his feelings choke him up, like a rotten bird in his chest that he can't vomit. Simon's tried, whatever or whoever is watching him knows - he's fucking tried.

You're there, full of smiles in front of others, making them laugh. And then you aren't, your words cutting him down and making his heart tighten in his chest. You make him wish you were dead.

And because you aren't, he suffers.

Simon wants the pain to be over.

And so, he goes on another mission, a mask over his face, hoping a bullet will actually hit his forehead before dinner.

masterlist | buy me a coffee

simon didn’t ask for too much.

all he wanted was for johnny to stay. that wasn’t too much to ask. he knew it was a simple request and johnny always went above and beyond for him.

john mactavish was the perfect partner and as smug as simon riley sounded, he knew that the sergeant wouldn’t leave.

the 141 lose touch after johnny’s death. not because they wanted to or things got heated.. but there was something about losing johnny that couldn’t fix the individuals.

each one of them went down an interesting path once they spread soap’s ashes.

what about simon getting shot? instead of johnny lying dead on the ground, it's the blonde lieutenant.

defending his captain was always a given, it was his entire fucking job.. so when price is looking up and behind him, it may be a bit too late for simon's arm.

a bullet pierces through his shoulder, causing simon to fall on his side. a groan elicits from his mouth, his brown eyes flicking up to makarov who had also shot price.

a foot on price's wrist, a gun to his captain's face, simon had a choice.. not really, he knew damn well what he's pick in a heartbeat.

"take this to hell with you, captain." makarov stated, his finger moments from pulling the trigger. "never bury your enemies alive."

simon riley does not have a choice. he gets up, slipping the knife from his combat boot. he's fucking losing blood, his arm aches but fuck, if price dies and he gets to live?

simon would go after the ends of the earth to chase that fucking bitch.

as silent as his callsign, simon tried. a knife to makarov's shoulder, digging it hard and deep. a yell from the man in question, makarov dropping the gun and reaching to grab simon's arm.

a sickening crack from the already bleeding arm causes simon to loudly scream.

price attempts to get up, simon sees that. simon sees the foot to price's chest and as he turns his head, a gun pointed to the middle of his forehead.

the next thought doesn't come. not when the bullet pierces the skin too quickly, not when simon riley doesn't even get the chance to see if his captain is okay.

simon riley finally dies, thinking he's failed price after all this time.

there's static in price's ears. watching his lieutenant essentially downed, blood splattered all over the concrete.

"captain!" a familiar voice: gaz all panicked as he shot at makarov. the ringing gets louder, coupled with heavy gunshots echoing.

"price! ghost!" a distressed sergeant who watches as makarov back up.

price can't do anything but stare for a second. the smell of copper tingles his nose and he just wants to reach out. shake simon awake.

simon riley, killed in action. ghost killed in action. his boy killed in action.

price jumps to action, grabbing his gun to shoot but too late. the train passes and the bloody git is gone.

just like simon.