Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x Female Reader
Summary: Simon missed your two year anniversary, and you realize you don't matter nearly as much as you thought you did.
Notes: Sorry guys, I just love writing angsty shit.
It's been two weeks since your anniversary passed.
There’s three short knocks at the door. They're firm. Familiar.
She knows it’s him before she even looks through the peephole. She hesitates, a beat too long. Then, finally opens the door.
He’s standing there, hands in his pockets, hoodie pulled up. There are bags under his eyes, the kind that suggest his last mission took its toll on him.
She leans against the frame, one arm crossed over her stomach, but doesn’t smile.
The silence that follows feels heavier than his gear bag.
“M' back,” he says, voice low.
“Haven't heard much from you these past few days.”
“Didn't have much to say.”
“I do something?” he asks. His voice is tentative, almost cautious.
She exhales through her nose. Not angry. Just... tired. It took him two weeks to notice. And even then it doesn't appear as though he knows what it is he's done wrong.
“You missed our anniversary, Simon.”
He flinches like she hit him.
She doesn't like feeling like she's needy. He's been risking his life so people like her can sleep easy at night, and here she is throwing a tantrum over a missed date.
“I...fuck. I didn’t forget, lovie. I got deployed. Last minute. And I thought I’d be back in time, but shit went south.”
She nods slowly, eyes not quite meeting his.
“I couldn’t. The op was-”
Now she looks up at him. And it’s not cold. It’s worse. It’s tired.
“You should've told me you were being deployed, i wouldve understood. Would it have hurt? Of course, but a hell of a lot less than this.”
His jaw tightens. He steps forward instinctively, but she doesn’t move.
She just shakes her head. "It's fine."
“It's not,” he says. "I fucked up. I didn't want to have to wish you a happy anniversary with a silly text, i wanted to be here. Celebrate it in flesh. I should've communicated. Should've told you i might not be back on time. Should've made time for some kind of call. I'm sorry."
“I didn’t want a fancy dinner, Simon. Or an expensive gift, though that shit would've been nice. I just wanted something. Instead, I sat here, and i waited. I thought maybe you were running late. And when you didn’t show, I thought... maybe I don't matter as much as I thought I did.”
His mouth parts like he wants to say something, but nothing comes. Of course you do, lovie. He wants to say.
And then she starts to close the door, slowly, like she’s afraid if she slams it, her own heart will break from the noise.
“Wait,” he says. But it’s too late.
He stands there for a moment after the door closes.
The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. Even the usual hum of the city feels muffled.
His hand’s still half-lifted, like he's about to knock again. But he doesn't.
And when you didn’t show, I thought...maybe I don't matter as much as I thought I did.
These fucking words keep resonating in his ears.
It's easier when you're angry. He knows what to do to placate you. But this, this isn't anger, and he's not sure any pretty words or romantic gestures will be able to fix this.
He walks back to the truck. Keys jangling, hand clenched too tight around the ignition. He doesn’t start it.
Staring at the dashboard, like it might give him answers.
His throat feels dry. His chest, tight.
He thinks about the night of the anniversary.
How he’d told himself I’ll make it. I’ll be back in time. She won’t even know I was gone.
And when he wasn’t, when the op ran long, and comms were down, and he came back with bruised ribs and an ache behind his eyes, he just told himself:
That he'd explain later, that you'd understand.
He stares at her contact on his phone for too long.
I’m sorry I made you feel like you don't matter. You do. More than I know how to say.
Because it’s not enough. Words aren’t enough.
But he doesn’t know what else to give.
And for the first time in a long time, Simon Riley feels like a man who might lose something - not to war, or death, or duty.
But to his inability to communicate properly.
And the space growing between them that he put there.
Three days later. He's at his apartment. Hasn't left in three days. His duffel bag sits at the entrance, still packed and zipped closed.
The room is dark. The only light comes from the fridge he forgot to close. It's all but empty save for half a bottle of water and leftovers she made two weeks ago. He stares at it like it might say something.
She used to leave little notes on the containers.
He never thought there’d be a day when those little scribbles wouldn’t be there.
He closes the door. The silence hits harder than the slam.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her face.
Not the happy one. Not the one from weeks ago, where the two of you laid cuddled up in each other's arms.
The one from the other night.
You quieter than he's ever known you.
Like you were already over it all. Already over him.
He rubs his hands over his face. Tries to breathe through it. But the air feels thick, heavy with all the words he didn’t say.
He picks up the photo on the nightstand.
It’s the only one he ever let her take.
They’re in his truck. She’s in the passenger seat, smiling at him. He’s not even looking at the camera. Just at her.
He wonders if she ever knew that was the only time he let himself look that soft. That open.
Now he’s got nothing but the image.
It’s Soap. Group chat ping.
“Oi, drinks Friday? Get your brooding ass out for once.”
He stares at the message.
He hasn’t told the team. Not that he needs to. They probably know. Ghost doesn’t usually miss marks. He’s been off. Distracted.
He pulls up her contact again. The chat log is pathetic.
You stopped texting him randomly throughout the day. Ceased sending him those pictures you call "memes".
He thought you were tired. Busy. So he let it go. He should've realized then, and there you were starting to pull away.
The last thing he sent was over a week ago.
He thinks about driving to her place again. Just standing outside. Begging if he has to.
That he didn’t forget? That he wanted to be there?
That he doesn’t know how to put something above his work?
Would that even change anything at this point?
Simon puts the photo back down.
And for the first time in years.
He lets himself fall apart.
