👻 appreciation
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call of duty: simon "ghost" riley x female!reader
summary: what starts as a small kindness — leaving food and notes outside ghost’s door after missions — quietly grows into a ritual neither of you expected. a quiet way to say “welcome home” without words, even as he remains silent. until one night, you’re caught, and everything shifts just a little.
setting: late-night military base hallway, after a long mission; the quiet hum of the building and the soft flicker of hallway lights, with the cold air of night lingering in every breath.
warnings: mentions of injury and trauma (non-graphic), emotional vulnerability, soft slow-building connection, implied unspoken feelings, gentle mutual care
word count: 1.6k
note: for the ones who know sometimes love isn’t shouted from the rooftops or wrapped in grand gestures — it’s the quiet things, the small acts that fill the spaces between chaos and silence. for the ones who keep showing up even when no one’s watching, who care with every folded note and every meal left at the door. this is for anyone who’s learned that love can be gentle, patient, and fiercely persistent — even when it’s unspoken. (relate to this one a bit TOO much..)
also: yeah okay i’m feeding him like a stray cat what about it?? my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
people appreciated him — you knew that. anyone with sense would.
he was the one who walked through fire so others didn’t have to, who came back with bruises and blood that weren’t always his own. and when he did, there was always something waiting for him in the air: a nod from price, a half-smile from soap, a casual good work, mate tossed his way in passing.
but you’d never really noticed it being more than that. never the kind of appreciation that sank past the surface, that followed him into the quiet when the adrenaline faded and the noise died down. it was always for what he’d done, never just for him.
no one asked if he’d eaten. no one lingered to talk once the debrief ended. no one seemed to mark the difference between the man under the mask and the mask itself — or if they did, they didn’t say it out loud.
and maybe that was fine for him. maybe that was how he liked it. but standing there that night, you found yourself thinking it might be nice if, just once, someone noticed the man came home at all.
the first time, it was because you happened to be walking past the mess hall when the mission alert came through. the air was sharp with the smell of burnt coffee and reheated rations, boots scuffing against tile as the last few soldiers cleared out.
you saw ghost leaving with his gear — a silent shadow among the noise, moving with that steady, deliberate pace of someone who already knew exactly how the night was going to unfold. the rest of the team called out to each other, last-minute jokes and instructions echoing down the corridor, but he didn’t say a word.
and you remembered the look in his eyes the last time they’d come back — that distant, far-off focus that didn’t quite leave, even when he was standing on safe ground. the way he’d walked straight past the mess, past the showers, all the way to his quarters like stopping for even a second would let something catch up to him. like he was racing an invisible weight you couldn’t see but knew was there.
you’d been holding a wrapped sandwich — still warm through the paper, the kind of quick grab from the mess you hadn’t even planned on eating yourself. on a whim, you stopped outside his door, setting it down carefully so it wouldn’t tip.
your hand hovered for a second before you dug in your pocket, pulling out a crumpled scrap of paper and the stub of a pen. the words came without thinking, small and plain.
welcome back. don’t forget to eat.
you folded it once, slid it beneath the edge of the sandwich, and walked away.
he never mentioned it. never so much as a nod in your direction. but when you passed by hours later, the spot was empty — no plate, no paper.
that should’ve been it. a small kindness in a passing moment. a one-time thing.
but then the next mission came, and you caught yourself lingering in the mess, looking for something he might actually like. you found yourself folding another note, keeping the words simple, like you were afraid too much sentiment might scare him off.
good work today. rest easy. you matter more than the mission.
and that time, too, it disappeared.
weeks turned into months, and somewhere along the way it stopped feeling like an impulse and became a ritual. it didn’t matter what time they came back, or how short the op was — you made sure his quarters were never empty when he opened that door. always something to eat. always something in your handwriting.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
ghost never said a word. not in passing, not in the debriefs, not in the long stretches of silence between missions.
to be fair, he didn't exactly knew who it was, putting out the notes and food for him.
but you started to notice things. the way the plate or container was always cleaned off — not just emptied, but wiped down, set neatly back outside his door like he didn’t want to leave it looking careless. the way your folded notes were never crumpled or tossed; sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of one on his desk when the door was half-open, paper smoothed flat, edges worn soft like it had been handled more than once.
once, you even saw one pinned under the corner of a map, weighed down by a mug. another time, it was tucked between the pages of a well-worn field manual, the handwriting just barely peeking out.
you told yourself it didn’t mean much. he probably didn’t care that much. it was just food. just paper. just something to fill the space until the next mission.
but still, you kept doing it — because maybe it wasn’t about whether he cared. maybe it was about the fact that you did.
tonight is no different — except it’s late. past midnight, the kind of late where the base feels almost hollow, the hum of the overhead lights the only thing keeping the silence from swallowing the corridor whole. the op had wrapped hours later than planned, and the air still clung to the chill of the night outside, sharp enough that your breath fogged faintly in the glow of the hallway lamps.
you’re carrying a small tin this time, the lid warm beneath your palms, keeping the heat in. inside is stew from the mess — thick with potatoes, carrots, and slow-cooked meat, the kind of hearty weight that settles deep in the bones. something to fill the hollow space that missions always seem to carve out of people.
you kneel and set it down gently in front of his door, fingers tucking the folded note under the tin so it won’t blow away in the draft that snakes along the hallway floor.
welcome home, ghost. you did good out there.
you straighten, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
it’s quiet in the corridor.
until it isn’t.
boots. heavy, slow, approaching from the far end — not rushed, not dragging, but each step carrying weight you can hear in the rubber tread.
you freeze, hand still hovering near the tin, but you already know before you turn. broad shoulders cutting a shadow against the light. hood drawn up over the balaclava. the kind of presence that seems to take up all the space in the hall without trying.
ghost.
his pace slows when his gaze lands on you. the sound of his steps shifts, less of a march now, more deliberate. you straighten, pulse jumping against your ribs like you’ve been caught doing something forbidden — which is ridiculous, because there’s nothing wrong about this.
but he’s looking at you like he’s fitting puzzle pieces together.
he stops just in front of you, gaze flicking down to the tin and the note beneath it.
“so it’s you,” he says at last, voice low and rough, like the gravel road after a long night’s rain — hours of comms chatter and cold air wrapping around every syllable.
your mouth is suddenly dry. “i— guess it is.”
he doesn’t answer right away. just studies you for a long beat before crouching down, big hands dwarfing the tin as he lifts it. his eyes flick to the note, but he doesn’t open it here; instead, he slides it into one of the many pockets sewn into his gear.
“been you all along?”
you nod. “yeah.”
another pause. for a moment you’re sure he’s about to tell you to stop — that he doesn’t need anyone doing this for him. but instead, his head tilts slightly, and there’s the faintest huff of something close to a laugh, muffled behind the mask.
“could’ve just said something.”
“would you have let me?”
his eyes lift to yours at that. there’s a flicker there — something unreadable but undeniably human — before it smooths out again. whatever answer he might’ve given, he swallows it down.
instead, he shifts the tin to one hand and digs into his cargo pocket with the other, pulling out a folded scrap of paper.
he holds it out. “found some time during the flight back.”
you take it, a little confused, the paper warm from being tucked against him. unfolding it, you see the handwriting — blocky, uneven, like someone not used to writing outside mission reports and after-action notes.
keep doing this, and i might actually start thinking i deserve it.
your throat tightens. you look up. “you do deserve it.”
for a second, the only sound is the low electric hum above you. ghost tilts his head slightly, watching you like he’s trying to work out how you can say that with no hesitation, no qualifiers.
“get some sleep,” he says finally, softer than it should be coming from him. “i’ll… see you tomorrow.”
he turns and disappears into his quarters, the door shutting with a quiet finality.
you’re still holding his note when you make your way down the hall, the edges warm where your fingers have curled around it.
you don’t know it, but inside, ghost sets the tin down on his desk. he takes a seat, pulls the new note you left him free from its safe spot in his pocket, and smooths it flat. after a moment, he opens the top drawer, where the rest are stacked — every single one — and adds it carefully to the pile.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
