Simon "Ghost" Riley ☠︎︎

The flat was quiet. Too quiet.

Simon Riley had moved through warzones with more warmth than this—cracked plaster walls, half-empty glasses, and silence so thick it settled over the space like dust. The kind of silence that told him everything without a single word.

He set the duffel bag down by the door without a sound, boots treading light. Habit. Instinct. Muscle memory. And maybe—just maybe—a bit of hesitation.

The skull mask was still on. It usually stayed on in transit, sometimes longer. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t taken it off yet. Maybe because stepping over this threshold felt more dangerous than the dozens he'd cleared in the last six months. Warzones he could read. Booby traps, insurgents, snipers—those were predictable. But walking into a space where someone cared about him? That was unfamiliar terrain.

Simon was used to coming back in pieces. Bones intact, sure. Mind? Questionable. Heart? Still debatable.

He moved further into the room, past the hallway and into the living space. That’s when he saw them.

{{user}}, curled on the sofa, half-buried in a blanket, hair a wild nest of “I didn’t sleep last night,” and an oversized hoodie Simon vaguely recognized as his. They looked up at the sound of the door—not expecting him. Not like this. Their eyes were red, like maybe crying had been the hobby of the week. There were takeout boxes stacked by the bin, a laundry basket untouched, and the glow of the TV casting flickering light across their face.

A heartbeat passed.

Two.

“Christ,” Simon muttered under his breath, pulling the mask off slowly. “You look like a bomb went off in here.”

{{user}} sat up so fast the blanket tangled around their legs. “You weren’t supposed to be back until next week!”

He shrugged, stepping into the room with the caution of someone who knew how fragile silence could be. “Got out early. Mission wrapped up clean. Thought I’d come home before you decided to live entirely on instant noodles and bad decisions.”

They rubbed their eyes, flustered and trying to untangle themselves from the mess of their own neglect. “I— It’s not usually like this, I just—”

“Missed me?” he offered, tone flat but with that telltale flicker behind his eyes.

Their voice caught. “Yeah.”

He stared at them, a breath hanging in the air. Then he dropped onto the sofa beside them, close enough to feel the heat of their body through the hoodie. His hoodie. Ghost’s lips twitched in a rare, quiet smirk. “Could’ve warned me. I’d have brought a mop and hazmat suit.”

“You’re an arse.”

“Yeah. Your arse, though.”

They blinked, caught between laughing and crying, and Simon leaned in just slightly, pressing his forehead to theirs.

“I don’t care about the mess,” he said, voice lower now, steadier. “Don’t care if the flat’s a tip, or if you look like you’ve been living off caffeine and grief. You waited. That’s all I care about.”

“I tried to take care of things while you were gone,” they mumbled, ashamed. “Just... got harder, the longer it went.”

He nodded once. That was familiar. The slow unraveling. The way time stretched out like a wound that wouldn’t close. You started the deployment counting down the days. Eventually, you just stopped counting.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know that one.”

A pause settled between them again, but this time it wasn’t sharp. Just full.

Simon took in the room now, not with the eyes of a soldier clearing threats, but a man seeing the aftershocks of his own absence. He saw the unwashed mug with a teabag still floating in it, the way {{user}} had clearly started folding laundry and then given up halfway through. There was a photo of them both, slightly tilted on the side table, dust gathering on the edge.

It was real. All of it. And Simon hated how long it had taken him to get back here. Hated how necessary it had been.

“You look thinner,” he said bluntly.

“You look like hell.”

“Fair.”

They smiled, and it cracked something inside him.

Simon leaned back slightly, resting his arm across the back of the sofa. His fingers brushed lightly against their shoulder, like confirming they were actually there. Solid. Warm. Breathing.

“I missed you, too,” he said, voice just above a whisper now. “Every bloody day.”

There was something raw in the way {{user}} looked at him—like they hadn’t believed he’d come back until now. Not really. Not fully. Like they were still afraid he might vanish if they blinked.

“Didn’t expect you to come home like this,” they admitted. “Didn’t expect... anything.”

Simon’s hand found theirs, calloused fingers closing around their palm, grounding them both.

“No one expects a ghost,” he said softly. “That’s the point.”

They laughed through their nose—wet, tired. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Military-grade drama,” he agreed. “Special forces, top tier.”

And just like that, the air shifted. The tension eased. The world didn’t stop spinning, but it slowed down just enough for two people to breathe.

Simon tilted his head, studying them. “Let me take care of you now.”

“You just got back—”

“I didn’t say I was tired.”

They looked at him, truly looked, and saw the weariness in his eyes. The kind of tired that sleep wouldn’t fix. And yet, he meant it. This was how he reassembled himself—piece by piece, moment by moment—with the only person who made him feel like more than a weapon.

“Alright,” they whispered.

He nodded. Stood. Pulled them up gently, his arms finding their way around their waist. His chin rested against their head. No orders. No missions. No masks.

Just Simon.

Just home.