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toshidou · 2 years

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Let Me Be Your Lifeline

Pairing // Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!Reader

Word Count // 2.2k

Tags // gender neutral reader, descriptions of injury, blood, Simon has a panic attack/ptsd attack, hurt/comfort, soap gets mad but lowkey understandably pls don't hate him, reader's alias is Siren, swearing, you help Simon when he needs you most (because you're amazing like that), established relationship

AN // you ever just have the thought of simon just Losing it because you get hurt, and the idea of him just. shutting down spurs you to write just over 2 thousand words about it? no? just me? cool. also this has barely been re-read, so if you see any spelling mistakes, no you didn't <3

Wrong

It’s all gone so hideously wrong.

It was never a simple mission to begin with, retrieving stolen information from people who would die to keep it in their possession. But it was something you had all done before, something you should have been more than capable of pulling off without so much as minor injuries.

The horrifying reality is setting in quickly though, your hand clutched to the left side of your collarbone, shuddering breaths pushed through gritted teeth as Soap attempts to shout something over deafening gunfire for merely two buildings over.

“We’ve got two down, Gaz is working his way to us, Ghost isn’t answering comms. Price is fine, the bullet passed through his leg, but Siren got hit below the left shoulder, they’re losing blood fast, the bullet made a clean entry through the back.” You’re barely listening to the reply from the evac squad, all you catch is an approximate time to pick up, 5 minutes. Apparently, there’s a medic on board. Every cloud and all that, you think, your head lolling down to assess the damage for the 4th time in 10 minutes.

Blood runs in nauseating streams between shaking fingers, soaking your uniform through to the skin underneath, the rough material sticking painfully to your wound, coaxing a hiss from bitten raw lips. Johnny’s eyes don’t leave you, worry etching itself into every fibre of his being, from his tense posture to anxiety ridden eyes, darting over various parts of your body as if examining for more wounds.

“Fuckin’ Christ L.T., how fucking copy,” He grits out, fingers holding his transmitter-receiver so hard that even in your shock ridden state, you worry it might just crumble in his hands. After another few seconds of tense silence, he speaks again, “Captain and Siren are down, evac is in T-4 minutes, and you need to get your ass down here right now, I don’t know where the fuck you are or what you’re doing, but if you miss the deadline, we’re leaving without you.”

For the first time since being shot, tears well against your lashline, unable to tell if your head is shaking as ferociously as you want it to in your weakened state. They can’t leave him behind, they can’t do that. He’s their squad member, their Lieutenant, your partner, the love of your life. You refuse to ever leave him behind, would rather they let you bleed out on this manky floor before you ever let that happen.

And then, a crackle.

“This is Ghost, package received.”

It’s relief that floods your system initially, pure unadulterated elation that he’s alive, he’s alive and he’ll be back, he won’t leave you.

But then his words sink through the cottonwool that seemingly clogs your mind, the gears turning enough to figure out that despite being compromised only a few minutes into the start of the mission, he still went for the stolen information.

In retrospect, that shouldn’t have been so shocking, but after months of domestic bliss with Simon Riley, you had almost forgotten about the Ghost. Neglected the memories of a man who was driven by a near suicidal need to complete missions handed to him. And it fucking hurts, more than the bullet hole through your shoulder ever could.

“What the fuck do you mean package fuckin’ received, we called for a retreat 20 minutes ago Ghost, you were meant to be here, not fucking around trying to find something we could have–,”

“That’s enough, Soap.” The interruption comes from Price, somehow looking as composed as ever despite his injury, the only sign he had been hurt at all were the slight tremors to his hands as he reaches up to his own transceiver.

“Just get yourself back here son, in one piece, preferably.”

“Affirmative, Captain.”

You close your eyes, willing away the tears that threaten to roll down dirtied cheeks, because if you cry, it makes this real, and not some twisted nightmare you’ll surely awaken from, safe in the strong arms of your love.

“Siren, come on, I need you to keep your eyes open, stay in the room with us, okay?”

Gaz? That’s new. Gathering enough strength, you lift your chin, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks as you try to focus your gaze on him.

“There we go, we’re not done with you yet, Sergeant.” Gaz pins you with a reassuring smile, his hand coming to pat your knee as he crouches next to you.

“Ah, I knew you were all just using me for my impeccable combat skills and wicked charm,” you drawl, your lips turning up into a hint of a smile.

“Impeccable combat skills that got you shot in the shoulder, no less.” Despite feeling weak, and slightly woozy from bloodloss, you still don’t miss the opportunity to lightly shove at Gaz’s torso.

“Soap, we’re half a klick out from your location, be ready to extract in 30 seconds."

The momentary light-hearted banter is immediately quashed by a terse silence, the dawning realisation that Simon still isn’t here.

He still isn’t there when you hear the sound of a Humvee tearing down the road to the derelict building you’re all hiding in.

He still isn’t there when Soap creaks the door open, only to be met with a medic and two soldiers carrying stretchers.

He still isn’t there when both you and Price, much to the Captain’s chagrin, are assisted onto thick green gurneys, and carried into the back of the vehicle.

It’s only when your nerves have been frayed to their very core, until you’re mere seconds away from diving out through the small car window when you finally catch a glimpse of someone tall, someone familiar, your Simon. Euphoria surges through your bloodstream, all feelings of pain as the medic begins to assist with your wound numbed by the knowledge that he’s okay, he’s safe, he came back to you.

You seem to be the only one even remotely excited to see him, however. From the moment he near dives into the side door, barely able to sit before the truck wheels spin against gravel and take off down an endless dirt path to supposed safety, a suffocating hush envelops the entirety of the squad. The atmosphere so thick, it suspends you in it, makes your limbs feel like lead where they fall limp at your sides.

Though no one dares speak, unwilling to risk the release of pent-up anger, frustration and fear that crackles through the air akin to static energy, wild and unpredictable, Simon’s eyes hold nothing but utter worry. Dark, frenzied irises flickering from your shoulder where the medic continues to care for your injuries, to your face, though never meeting your gaze head on.

You can already sense the guilt setting in, more than used to how his mind works, lost in a constant battle of morals he can never seem to win. It’s frustrating to watch the way he reprimands himself, shoulders hunched to his ears, hands curled into tight fists against his thighs. The once towering, formidable force reduced to someone human. Someone struggling.

But still, you daren’t say a word, now is neither the time nor the place.

30 agonising minutes later, and the truck finally pulls up outside a safehouse. An old, abandoned factory building, if you had to make a guess. The roof looks like it’s one strong breeze from falling off, but what else is new?

Simon doesn’t take his eyes off you as you’re assisted out of the truck. Doesn’t dare blink when you shoo the medic away and towards a grumbling Price. You try to shoot him your best reassuring smile, the gesture rendered meaningless when you nearly trip over a rock after your first step, only saved by Soap darting forward and steadying you with an arm hooked around your waist.

Simon doesn’t move a muscle. His feet remain planted to the floor below him, and you can’t help but get the sickening feeling that something is very fucking wrong. In all the years you’ve known Simon, you’ve never seen him like this, near paralysed, painted black eyes ridiculously wide, so childlike in their fear. He looks nothing like the man you’ve grown to love, strong and steady in his emotions. And it chills you to the bone.

It's only once the door creaks shut that the silence is broken.

“What the fuck was that, Ghost.” Harsh syllables highlighted by a Glaswegian accent sound from next to your ear, your head twisting to the side only to be met with gritted teeth and furrowed brows.

You barely have the time to process the way that electricity sparks dangerously in the dusty atmosphere before all hell seemingly breaks loose.

“That was me doing my fucking job, Sergeant.”

“Your job is to put every member of the taskforce at risk? When the fuck did you receive that order, Riley? Because I sure as shit don’t remember it.”

Ugly, torrid rage lashes out across the room like strikes of a whip, so powerful it sends you stumbling away from Johnny’s grip and towards more neutral ground, your eyes briefly locking with Gaz’s equally perturbed stare.

“I wasn’t endangering any of your lives by doing what I was trained to do MacTavish, you were all gonna make it out fine whether I completed the mission or not.” There’s something about him that feels entirely too off, though the mask is extending much further than the one that resides on his face. Except this one is splintered, it’s flawed, split edges giving away to insurmountable pressure until it has no other option than to disintegrate, raw, unfiltered emotions left exposed, completely vulnerable.

And all it takes to break down the wall that is Simon Riley comes from the other man opposite you.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Simon? What sort of fucked up person lets his team, his fucking partner, nearly bleed out on the floor? Look at them,” A lone, shaking finger points towards you, “They could have died and where the fuck were you?”

“That’s enough, Soap.” The syllables scratch your throat with the force you spew them, but the damage has already been done.

You know that the second you glance at Simon and see nothing but the broken shell of a man, that you were too late. His body is vibrating with the force of his shakes, tremors wracking his body from head to toe, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, like a fish starved of oxygen. He’s having a panic attack. Or a flashback. Or something worse.

“Simon,” You call, keeping your voice calm as you swiftly approach him, ignoring the harsh twinge of pain as you lift both your arms up to curl your fingers around either side of his face, guiding his empty eyes down to you, “I’m right here, you’re safe, you’re okay.”

He gives you no sign that he’s even processing your touch, let alone your words, but you expect about as much. You may never have dealt with Simon’s trauma, but that doesn’t mean it’s new to you.

You keep talking to him, hushed, soothing reassurance along with sweeping fingers against masked cheekbones, physical and verbal reminders that no matter the size of the internal battle he faces, you’re right there with him, guiding him through. It’s only when large hands encircle your wrists do you feel any form of relief, brought nearly to tears as hollow brown eyes slowly ebb to life, pupils shining in the low light of the safehouse.

“You’re here.” His voice sounds scratchy, as though his inner cries were so visceral, they tore at his vocal cords, begging to be released. You’re not sure if you could ever handle hearing such noises from him, not without them plaguing your dreams for years to come

“Always.”

Your response has him crumbling, knees sinking to the cracked concrete floor with a resounding thump; strong arms come to wrap around your waist, near crushing you in his desperate grasp. You say nothing, simply cradling his head to your sternum, fingers soothing over the top of his mask as through they were threading through familiar strands of soft hazel.

You don’t have to look around to know that you and Simon are alone. That it’s safe for him to fall apart here, so you can tenderly piece him back together without prying eyes. You don’t care how long it takes, all you know is that you’ll be there to search through the rubble of his mind and find a new foundation, together.

It’s only after you’ve guided him to sit, swiftly placing yourself in his lap and pushing your bodies together until not a single space exists between you both, do you finally feel him settle against you. Your fingers hooking under his mask, lifting up, up, up, until you’re met with the face of your love, your Simon; the Ghost long forgotten as you place the mask on the ground beside your intertwined bodies.

Surprisingly, it’s him that brings your lips together, eyelids fluttering shut as you sigh against his mouth, following his hesitant lead, a kiss with the only intention of reassuring him that you’re still here, you’re still his.

And hours later, when you both lay on uncomfortable stone floor, arms and legs indistinguishable where they tangle together, you know it to be an irrefutable fact that despite his own beliefs, Simon Riley is by far the strongest man you’ve ever met.

But for those moments when he can’t be strong for himself, you will always be there to catch him, to piece him back together and remind him that he’s still whole, still human, and still yours.

Always yours.

#did i cry writing this #no one needs to know #but anyway i love him #he is tender and fragile pls treat him with care #also #soap and ghost immediately made up after this #have no fear #they are still best friends (/gay lovers but u didn't hear that from me)#simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley x reader #cod mw22 #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost x reader #soft simon riley #cod x reader #☁︎⋅writing

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