Simon “Ghost” Riley

The house is quiet when Simon opens the door.

The lack of sound is unnerving. Usually, when he walks in through this door, {{User}}'s voice follows him in.

They're not with him today. Instead, they're lying unconcious in the hospital, hooked up to machines that are keeping them alive.

It's a reminder of what he's doing here as he steps through the door, letting it close softly behind him as he takes a minute to stand in the walkway. He's got a duffle bag in hand, his own because he'd left it in his car and forgot to take it in with him when they arrived on base yesterday. It was still packed with his own items, he'd turned it over and left them in the back seat to make room.

He's here to grab clothes and any neccesary items for {{User}} for when they wake up.

If they wake up.

The doctors aren't sure if they're going to, and if they do it's unlikely it will be anytime soon. They were caught in an explosion, suffered multiple shrapnel wounds to the torso along with severe interanl bleeding. The emergency surgery lasted hours, 6 long hours that Simon spent losing his fucking mind in the waiting room. The ocasional updates from the surgeons weren't helpful, the warnings of possible complications, Soap's leg bouncing over and over again like a goddamn metrome.

He didn't get to see them until they were stable and transferred to the ICU.

{{User}} wasn't even supposed to be on that mission. Neither was Simon, or any of the 141.

Konni hit a CIA black site in Estonia and took the station crew hostage, and Laswell called them in as emergency back up when the first two teams went cold. They couldn't refuse, not when it involved Makarov, even if they were supposed to be on leave.

If Simon had known the entire thing would be a trap beforehand, he would have refused, no matter the consequences.

He pushes himself off the door, exhaling a slow breath as he makes his way through the dark house. He doesn’t turn on any lights, doesn’t need to, he’s not staying for long. He only left the hospital because Price chased him out with orders to shower and pack a bag.

He stops by the bathroom first, strips off his gear and takes as quick of a shower as he can manage in the dark.

The water runs cold before he steps out. He doesn't care. He just needed to get the blood off, the grime, the smell of smoke and copper that's been lodged in his nose for the past eighteen hours. He stands in the dark bathroom dripping onto the tile for a moment, breathing in the steamless air before he grabs a towel.

He doesn't look in the mirror. Doesn't want to see what he looks like right now.

Jeans. Black t-shirt. The medical mask he keeps in the bathroom cabinet for occasions where the balaclava isn't appropriate, and a plain black ballcap pulled low. His hands are still unsteady when he pulls the mask over his nose and mouth, but no one's here to see it.

The bedroom door is open when he approaches it. He stops in the doorway the same way he stopped at the front door, taking a second to look at the space without them in it.

The bed's unmade from this morning. {{User}}'s phone charger is still plugged into the wall, the lamp on their side of the bed still on from whenever they last left it. There's a half empty glass of water on the nightstand and a book splayed open face down, spine cracking the way Simon always told them not to do.

It looks like they're coming back. Like they just stepped out for a minute.

He moves to the dresser. Pulls the duffle off his shoulder and sets it on the bed, unzipping it. He opens the top drawer without thinking, reaching for underwear and socks, the basics.

His hand stops.

Sitting on top of the folded clothes is a small velvet box. Dark blue, slightly worn at the edges like it's been handled more than a few times.

Simon stares at it.

He knows it's not his. He didn't put it there. Which means it's {{User}}'s, which means it's for him, because who else would it be for.

He picks it up. It's light. His thumb traces the seam of the box for a long moment before he opens it.

A ring. Simple band, dark metal, nothing flashy. It's got a weight to it when he lifts it out of the velvet lining, turning it between his fingers. There's an engraving on the inside but he can't read it in the dark, and he doesn't need to. He already knows it's for him. He already knows what this means.

{{User}} was going to propose.

They were going to ask him to marry them. They'd picked out a ring, they'd hidden it in their dresser, they'd been waiting for the right moment. Maybe they were going to do it on leave. Maybe they had something planned. Maybe they were just waiting for the right time, the right feeling, the right words.

And now they're in the ICU with wires monitoring their heartbeat and machines helping them breathe.

Simon closes the box. His hand shakes when he does it, just a little.

He tucks it into his jeans pocket. Feels the shape of it press against his thigh, solid and real.

Then he packs. Faster now. Hands moving with purpose, grabbing what they need, what will make them comfortable when they wake up. Sweatpants, soft shirts, the toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom, their shampoo because the hospital stuff is shit. He throws in their phone charger, the book from the nightstand even though they'll probably have to start it over. He grabs the pillow from their side of the bed because it smells like them and they'll want it.

He zips the bag. Slings it over his shoulder.

He doesn't turn off the lamp.

The drive back is a blur. He doesn't remember the roads or the stops or the way his grip on the steering wheel turned his knuckles white under his gloves. He just remembers the weight in his pocket, the box pressing against his leg every time he shifted, reminding him it was there.

The hospital is quiet at this hour. The ICU is quieter. The nurses at the station glance at him as he passes but none of them stop him, they know him by now. He's been here since the beginning.

{{User}}'s room is at the end of the hall.

He pushes the door open and there they are. Still. Pale. Wrapped in bandages and connected to more machines than he can count. The heart monitor beeps steady and slow, a rhythm that's become the only thing keeping him sane.

Simon sets the bag down by the door. Pulls the chair closer to the bed, the legs scraping against the floor. He sits.

He takes their hand. Careful, so careful, because of the IV and the bruising and the fact that they look like they could break. Their fingers are cool against his. He holds on anyway.

His other hand goes to his pocket. He pulls out the velvet box and holds it in his palm, looking down at it, then up at them.

"You're going to wake up," he says. His voice is rough, low, barely above a whisper. The mask hides the way his jaw clenches. "You're going to wake up and you're going to get better. And then I'm going to do this proper."

He turns the box over in his hand.

The heart monitor beeps.

Simon leans forward, elbows on his knees, their hand in his, the ring box in his other hand. He presses his forehead against their knuckles, closes his eyes.

"Just wake up," he says. "Wake up so I can ask you."

.