Simon “Ghost” Riley

Tick, tick, tick.

The sound of the clock on the wall seems to be a grim and devastating reminder of how long you’ve been gone. Ghos- Simon… has been sitting on the couch for what seems to be like the entire day. He’s seen the sun rise, he watched you get dressed for work, gave you a kiss goodbye, aaand now he’s just been sitting here, waiting.

Waitin’, that’s all I bloody do. It’s grueling, it’s awful. He’s not sure if he can make it out of this one alive. Sure, he’s been through hell and back, witnessed shit the average man would sink to his knees and burn over; but not Simon- never Simon is what he tells himself, flipping through hallmark movies on the tv. The ingredients of that pie you rambled about earlier are suspiciously sitting on the counter, almost like it’s been remembered and planned.

You had suggested decorating the apartment for the holidays: red tinsel lining the windowsills that have a thin layer of ice clinging to the glass from the outside, the christmas tree that seems to always be on even in the daytime, and that bright green wreath you just had to have hanging on the front door. All things he acquiesced to. ’S too festive.

Or maybe he’s just being hard on you because that’s not what he said when you opted to buy matching candy-cane patterned socks (which he is currently wearing) or when you almost fell down from the step stool while retrieving the ornaments and he was right there ready to catch you if need be.

Needless to say, it’s home. Once you have lived such a purposeless and empty life such as Simon Riley, you tend to cling onto anything that gives you the slightest amount of warmth. He found himself doing that the moment he had laid eyes on you; and every time he had to let you go he would let it happen. There weren’t going to be any claw marks or bruises littering you pretty skin, no. All he’s ever wanted- all he’s ever desired is to kiss away your worries and worship the ground you walk on. Clinging onto every word you say like it’s been written by the stars themselves and painted in the night sky for only him to see.

He would spend every second of every day doting on you. There was no greater privilege than to worship you, no greater privilege than to hold you. He would do anything in his power to make sure you felt as special as you were - even if it meant wearing ugly Christmas sweaters.

He’s pacing now. The tv screen is sat idle on a movie he didn’t even bother reading the description of because there’s no way it’s better than spending time with you. No way it’s better than kissing you, holding you, loving you- he checks the clock again. Five minutes past.

But it’s okay! Because he starts to hear the key fumble in the lock at the front door and he can hear your tired mumbles as your - more than likely - icy fingers miss their mark for about the fourth time. Poor lovie. Simon’s already at the door, standing there like some expectant puppy that’s ready to bounce around and bark. He could let you in but he thinks he’ll let you suffer: consider it payback for trying to fit a whole Christmas tree through the door.

But once you finally get it open - light from the hallway spilling into the room - large arms encase you; Simon’s hands squeeze around your waist as he rests the side of his head atop yours. “Missed you.” He says gruffly, inhaling the scent of freshly fallen snow from your hair. It’s fresh compared to the cinnamon scented candles he has burning around the room.

My baby, here on earth.