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porkcutletbowl44 · 7 months ago

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🌕Sun & Moon 🌑

*ೃ༄ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*.ೃ࿐

Simon Riley x Reader

Tags: Fluff, comfort, slight angst, Afab!reader

✩ ♬ ₊.🌌⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

He wants to talk to you, he sees you around all the time. The pub is busy with happy soldiers, laughing and drinking together after a successful mission. He tries to talk to you whenever he sees you, but something always pulls you away from his proximity. You both work together in the same building, same line, yet at different stations.

But tonight, he sees the opportunity. He follows you outside, where it is vacant of customers. The cold night keeps everyone indoors, the outside sitting area is avoided.

"Mind if I borrow a light?” he approaches beside you, bringing out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

"Sure," You reply in a soft kind voice, getting a lighter from your pocket and handing it over.

Simon accepts the lighter from you with a quick, silent nod. His thick, calloused fingers gently brush against yours as he takes it, the brief touch sending an electric current that he tries to ignore.

He flicks the lighter expertly, igniting the spark that illuminates his sharp features under the soft glow. The flame licks the end of his cigarette, and he takes a long slow drag, the smoke filling his lungs for a moment before he puffs it out.

He hands the lighter back to you. Fingers brushing again.

"Thanks," he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

"No worries," You answer quietly.

For a moment, Simon's gaze lingers on your face, studying the shadows cast by the flickering light. He’s observant and curious, but he doesn’t pry. Not yet, at least.

He takes another drag of his cigarette, his eyes shifting to the night sky for a second, watching the stars.

"You're not much for crowds, are you?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You shake your head, "I like the space, the silence." You smile.

Simon nods in understanding, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t seem surprised by your answer, but he finds something pleasing in the way you’ve confirmed his observation. You've always been on the more quiet side, only speaking when needed.

He takes another drag of his cigarette before replying.

“I get that.” he says, his voice softer than before. “Peace and quiet are a luxury in this line of work.”

He studies your face for a moment, trying to get a read on you, but your expression is too well guarded, shy.

"Unfortunately true," You agree, shifting your stance.

There’s something about the small gesture that makes him want to know more about you, how you seem comfortable around someone you've barely conversed with. The itch to learn more about you grows stronger, despite his years of training that made him control his curiosity. Perhaps it’s that very control that makes the need to know more about you this intense.

He blows out a puff of smoke, the gesture more contemplative than casual.

“I can’t remember the last time I had actual quiet,” he admits, his voice low.

"This line of work makes you forget things too," You murmur.

Simon takes another long drag of his cigarette, his silence confirming your words. He knows better than most what this job takes from you. The things it makes you do, the things it makes you see. He’s seen and done far too much to pretend it isn’t true.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice laced with a note of bitterness. “It does.”

For a moment, his eyes return to the sky, lost in his own thoughts. The weight of their shared experiences hangs heavy in the air.

He finishes his cigarette and drops it to the ground, crushing it under his boot. The silence between you lingers a little longer.

A part of him wants to fill it with meaningless small talk. Another part wants to dig deeper and ask questions he suspects you won’t answer. He’s too stubborn to choose either option.

“You always this quiet?” he asks instead, his tone teasing.

"I learned the hard way," You replied simply, giving him a polite smile.

Learned the hard way.

Simon ponders on your choice of words. For some reason, his mind immediately jumps to the worst possible scenarios. He’s always been too curious for his own good. Something about you makes him want to find out more. He can’t help but wonder what exactly you mean. What exactly did someone like you go through?

He suppresses the thought, his jaw tightening slightly.

He looks at you, trying to read the hidden meanings behind your polite smile. It’s difficult to tell what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. He respects your silence, but that doesn’t make him any less curious.

“That so?” he grunts, trying to sound casual, though the weight in his tone betrays his interest. “You ever gonna share?”

"It's nothing worth sharing." You shrugged.

Simon's eyes narrow a little. Nothing worth sharing. As if whatever you went through isn’t important. As if the things that have shaped you, that have made you the person you are, ‘aren’t worth sharing.’ It's a sentiment he’s used to hearing, and one he’s grown weary of hearing.

His gaze lingers on your face, his eyes searching for something, even though he knows you're too guarded to reveal anything. As if you are afraid.

“I don’t believe that.”

"How come?" You asked gently.

His eyes lock with yours, and in that moment he’s taken back by the softness in your voice. It catches him off guard. He's not sure when someone last spoke to him with such gentleness. The sound makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t expect. He doesn’t know how to react to it or why it affects him this way.

He recovers quickly though, shoving down the strange feeling. He tries to remain impassive, but his voice betrays him.

“Everyone's story is worth telling.”

"Then what's yours?" You smile softly.

Simon’s breath hitches at your question. He hadn’t expected you to turn the conversation around on him.

For a moment, he’s tempted to shut you down, to dismiss the question with a sarcastic comment. He opens his mouth to do just that, but he surprises even himself by answering instead.

“Too long.” he replies, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a small, almost involuntary smile. It's a rare sight, but you seem to bring out a softer side of him.

"We have our reasons." You conclude.

We have our reasons.

Your words hit a little too close to home. You’re right, of course. There are things you don’t talk about, things you can’t talk about. But hearing you say it, acknowledging the truth behind those words makes him wonder. What has your life been like? What have you been through?

He looks at you, studying your expression in the faint light, trying to decipher the meaning behind your simplicity. His heart seems to skip a beat. He wants to ask. He wants to know your story, to understand what you've been through.

He wants to share his too.

For the first time in a long time, he feels the urge to open up– He shakes his head, breaking himself out of his head.

“You’re dangerous,” he said softly under his breath, more to himself than to you.

"Hm?" You looked over with kind eyes.

For a moment, he freezes, slightly embarrassed that you heard his mumbled confession. He can’t remember the last time his thoughts have been this loud. When his eyes meet yours, however, he finds himself mesmerized by the kind look in your eyes. It steals his breath and weakens his self-control.

He doesn’t want to think about why.

He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind again. "Nothing," he mumbles, his voice slightly strained. "You're just observant."

"Loneliness does things to you." You murmur, looking up at the moon.

Loneliness.

The word cuts through him like a cold knife. It’s almost ironic, the way you’ve managed to hit the bullseye with just one word. Simon has never admitted it to himself, but it’s loneliness that drove him into this job in the first place. Trying to fill the void left by his family with honor, with glory, with loyalty.

He knows the weight of loneliness all too well

He follows your gaze to the moon, its soft, pale light illuminating your face, giving you an almost ethereal glow. It's a raw moment, one that makes him feel a little too exposed by your quiet revelations. His heart clenches at the thought of you being lonely. At the thought that someone as kind and caring as you is living a life of solitude.

"It does." he agrees quietly.

He takes a step closer to you without realizing it. It’s like something is drawing him towards you, something he can’t resist. For a moment you just stand there in comfortable silence, sharing this oddly intimate, oddly vulnerable moment.

He wonders if you feel it too.

"Do you ever..." He wants to curse himself for his hesitation, for the uncertainty in his voice. It’s unfamiliar, this feeling of being awkward. He’s never been good with emotions, but something about you makes him want to try.

“Do you ever get tired of being alone?” He cringes inwardly as soon as the words escape his lips. It sounds too sentimental, too desperate, too hopeful.

"Not anymore." You smiled, looking back at him.

Simon’s stares. It’s the softest smile he’s ever seen on you, and it makes his heart speed up. He’s not sure what to do with this newfound, strange feeling in his chest. So, he just stands there, studying your face, taking in every little detail.

He has so many questions, so many things he wants to ask, but all he manages to say is a soft “Yeah?”

It’s not the most eloquent response, but it’s all his mind allows him to produce in that moment.

"It's nights like this." You nodded to the moon.

Nights like this.

He looks at the moon too, the soft light bathing both of you in a gentle glow. He understands what you mean. He feels it too. There’s something about the night sky, about the calmness of the night, that makes even the biggest loner wish he wasn’t so lonely.

He looks back at you, but you look at the moon. In that moment, he feels a connection, a sense of understanding that goes beyond words.

"Do you know why wherever you go the moon seems to follow you?" You asked, laughing a little.

Simon is taken aback by your question, caught off guard by the sudden change of topic. But he finds himself strangely intrigued by it. He likes the way you laugh, the way your eyes seem to sparkle.

He’s not sure what you mean, but he plays along. He’s always been curious, and he likes the sound of your voice.

“No, why?” he asks, his voice almost gentle.

"Because she's afraid of the dark." You whisper softly.

Because she's afraid of the dark.

Simon feels a strange prickle in his chest at your words. It's such a simple, but incredibly profound answer. A small moment of vulnerability hidden beneath an innocent statement. He doesn't respond immediately, he just stands there, taking in the weight of your words. He's not sure why he feels so affected by it, but your voice, so soft and gentle, makes his knees feel weak.

"And the sun?" he can't stop himself from asking.

"Dies a little more everyday because he can't find his love." You murmured.

Dies a little more everyday because he can’t find his love.

Those words hit him harder than he expected. He's not sure what it is about your simple, straightforward way of seeing the world, but it makes his heart ache in a way he’s not used to. He’s so used to seeing the world in black and white, in mission and mission parameters, in enemy and friend, in enemy and prey.

He looks up at the moon then.

"It makes me feel less alone I guess, seeing how there's plenty of things that are alone, one singular thing..." You muttered distantly.

One singular thing.

Something about that statement resonates with him on a deep level. He’s never thought about it this way, but now that you said it, he sees it all around. The moon, the sun- two singular things, so different, yet so similar. Both alone, longing for something they can’t have.

"You're quite the philosopher, you know that?" he says, trying to hide the softness in his voice.

Simon tries to ignore the way his heart flutters at the sound of your laugh. He’s never been this affected by a sound before, but the way it makes him feel is both exhilarating and disorienting.

He looks at you, the little smile on your lips, the gentle light in your eyes and he suddenly doesn’t want this moment to end. He wants to know more about you, to hear more of your gentle laugh, to see that smile more often. It’s a dangerous wish.

He clears his throat awkwardly, trying to hide the strangely intense emotions that are coursing through him. This is getting very out of hand.

"Why the moon?" he asks suddenly, needing to divert the attention back to you. He hopes you won’t notice the way his voice shakes.

"Sorry?" You asked softly.

God, even your voice is soft.

He shakes his head. The thoughts in his head are loud and insistent, and they’re making him feel things and think things that he usually suppresses. It makes him uncomfortable. He’s not sure what to do with these new, unfamiliar feelings, so he pushes them away.

“The moon... why the moon?” he clarifies, “Why not the stars?”

"Do you have anything poetic to say about the stars?" You asked kindly, listening to him for anything he has to say.

Poetic...

Simon feels strangely flustered by your question. He’s not the kind of man who does poetry. He’s a soldier, a coldblooded killer, trained to be detached, logical, analytical. Feelings are a weakness, poetry is an unnecessary sentimentality. He has no time for that.

But you make him want to try.

“No.” he answers honestly.

"In the end, the stars chose destruction over life." You murmur into the night air.

The gravity behind those words hit him harder than he expects. The idea that the stars, these bright, beautiful things in the sky, chose destruction over life... it resonates with him on a deep level. Reminds him of his own past.

Of the choices he himself has made.

He can sense a meaning behind your words, hidden in between the lines. He wants to ask you more about it, but he's not sure if it's his place to.

"And the most worthy ones are reborn," You added.

Again, a strange sense of familiarity with those words. Like you’re speaking from experience. Like you know the pain and the suffering, the loneliness and the guilt, and you understand what it’s like to be reborn. He suddenly feels an urge to reach out to you, to offer some kind of comfort, but he has no idea how. He’s not the comforting kind.

He just stands there, trying to think of something to say. He’s not good with words, especially not with comforting words. All the usual reassurances seem empty and shallow in his mind. He wants to help you, to make you feel less alone, but he’s not sure how.

He looks at the moon, the bright circle in the sky. For the first time, he notices how lonely it looks. Alone.

Just like you.

You’re feeling just as lonely as the moon. That’s why you’re standing here, watching the moon. To feel less alone. To find some solace in the loneliness. He understands that feeling. All too well.

Without thinking, without realizing what he’s doing, Simon takes a step closer to you. Close enough that he can feel the warmth of your body.

Close enough to offer comfort without actually touching you.

"I guess... we all need a bit of company sometimes." he says quietly, his eyes still on the moon, his heart aching for yours. It’s the closest thing to a comfort he can offer and he hates how inadequate it feels. How useless it sounds. He wants to do more, but he doesn’t know how. His words are not very comforting.

"Humans need socialization. We thrive in groups." You agree.

They need a pack, a clan, a community. He knows that, he's lived it. But you're different. You don't seem to be looking for a community. You seem to be searching for something else.

Someone else.

"What about you?" he asks quietly.

"There's always a black sheep," You smiled.

The term immediately brings up images of himself, of all the times he didn’t fit in, the times he was labeled as the black sheep, the problem child, the dangerous kid, the killer. It’s an isolating feeling, being the black sheep.

He looks at you, your smile, the sadness hidden in it. He wonders if you’ve had a similar experience, if you’ve been the black sheep, if you’ve ever felt like no one understands you, like no one sees you.

"Being a black sheep sucks." he says bluntly.

She giggled.

His heart does a weird little flip in his chest. Just for a second, he forgets that he’s a coldhearted killer. In that moment all he can think about is how lovely your laugh sounds. How he wants to hear it again and again.

He hates this. This tenderness, this softness. It’s not him.

"Sometimes it's not so bad." You offer.

He looks at you, the way you’re trying to stay positive, to find the silver lining in your own isolation. He admires you for that. He wonders how you do it, how you find the strength to be okay on your own.

"How do you do it?" he asks.

"When you look at it one way, nobody tells you what to do, what to say, how to act...you can just be you freely."

He lets those words sink in, lets them touch that deep, lonely part of him that craves freedom. That yearns for a chance to shed the heavy weight of expectations, of guilt, of duty, of orders. To be his true self.

It’s a dream he’s never dared to wish for.

“Sounds liberating.” he murmurs.

"It's pretty great," You remark.

The simplicity of your contentment makes him envious. How can someone like you seem to be so satisfied with the life that would drive everyone else crazy? The isolation, the freedom, the loneliness.

How can you stand it?

And yet, in that moment, he yearns for it.

The way you say it, with that small smile on your lips, almost like you’re holding back something. Like you’re not telling the entire truth. It makes him wonder. What else are you not saying? What else are you holding back? What about the other times it’s not pretty great? When loneliness hits too hard, when it feels like too much?

He wants to ask you about it, but he doesn’t want to pry. He has no right to. He has no right to push, to get to know you, to invade your privacy. And yet he can’t stop himself from wanting to know more about you. To find out everything there is to know.

To understand your loneliness. Is it like his? Could you both grow together and understand each other on a soul deep level?

The gentle sound of night bugs, the soft scent of rain... it all adds to the beauty of the night, to the strange intimacy of this moment.

This is not what he expected when he stepped out for a smoke, he’s not exactly sure how he ended up here, having a deep conversation with a beautiful girl he barely knows.

"...You just gonna stand out here for no reason?" You smiled at him.

His cigarette. It’s finished. He stares at it for a moment, almost surprised to realize he’s smoked it gone. He doesn't even remember getting rid of it.

He’s never been this distracted before.

He looks down at you, and his heart lurches at the sight of your smile. God, you're beautiful.

“Yeah,” he says lamely.

Way to sound like an idiot.

He mentally curses himself for being so awkward. For losing his cool. He’s supposed to be a soldier, a strong, confident man, not a mess of nerves.

“I mean—” he starts to say, but he doesn’t really know how to finish that sentence.

He can feel his ears getting red, the embarrassment creeping in. He’s never been this awkward with girls. He should be smoother than this, but the nerves are making his brain too slow. He looks down at you, trying to think of something clever to say, something suave, anything, but he feels like a damn teenager again.

He clears his throat, hoping to sound more like his usual, composed self.

“I have no reason to go back inside.”

"Fair enough," You conceded.

He’s standing here with you, having this easy conversation, and it feels so normal, so natural, like this is something regular friends do.

Like the two of you are friends. You aren’t, he reminds himself. This is a one time thing. A one time conversation. Nothing more.

But he doesn’t want it to be nothing more.

He wants more.

The thought jolts through him, making his heart stumble.

He wants more.

He wants to talk to you again. He wants to know your secrets, your stories, your dreams and fears.

He wants to know you.

"What’s your name?" he asks suddenly. Your real name. Not a callsign, or what others call you.

You give your name, speaking softly, sweetly. Like a soothing caress. Like a warm hug for his cold soul.

The sound of your voice is beautiful, just like you.

He wants to hear more of it.

“I’m Simon,” he introduces himself, even though you probably already call him by Ghost.

But he wants you to know his name.

"It's nice to properly meet you," You smiled.

He has to stop himself from melting. The sight of you smiling, the sound of his name coming from your lips… it all creates a dangerous mix in his heart.

Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.

“Likewise,” he responds softly and then, because he’s feeling brave, because he wants to know a little more about you, he asks, “What made you choose the moon?”

"It's not that I chose it." You replied easily.

"I feel like it chose me."

He looks at you, that soft smile on your lips, and he can see it. The connection you have with the moon, the understanding between you and this lonely celestial sphere.

He doesn’t understand it, but he feels he’s beginning to. Because the same thing happened to him. He didn’t choose it, but it doesn’t give him up. It follows him, haunting him, reminding him of his deeds.

Perhaps they’re not that different.

Those words send a shiver down his spine. There’s something about how you say it, some melancholy hidden in your voice. Something that tells him that you and the moon have more in common than you’d like to admit.

“How so?” he asks softly.

You bite your lip with a shrug, "I'm not sure myself, it's just a feeling I guess."

He looks at you, really looks at you, and he can see it. That loneliness, that sadness, the pain hidden in your eyes. He knows those feelings because he’s felt them too.

“It chose well,” he murmurs.

You give him a small grateful smile.

That beautiful smile.

His heart stutters in his chest. He’s never wanted to protect someone the way he wants to protect your smile. It’s like a little piece of sunshine in a dark world. He wants to see it again. And again. And again.

“You deserve it,” he says simply.

"Think so?" You ask, preening.

He’s almost stunned by how shy you sound. Shy, like you don’t really believe you deserve it. How can you not realize how special you are?

How gorgeous you are, inside and out.

How many people should want you.

You don’t know how lucky he feels, just to be having this conversation with you, to have this moment with you.

You’re blushing.

The sight of your shy, bashful, beautiful face has him lost for words for a moment. He’s seen you in battle, all fierce and focused and badass, it’s a huge difference from this shy side of you. Both versions of you are beautiful. Both versions of you make his heart race.

“I know so.” he affirms.

He wants to reach out, touch your cheek, feel how soft your skin is. To trace the curve of your cheekbone with his thumb. To make your blush deepen with a touch. But he doesn’t dare. He knows it’s not allowed. It’s not what people in their positions do.

You’re his subordinate. You’re his teammate. He doesn’t have the right to touch you. He reminds himself.

But he wishes he did.

He clears his throat, trying to distract himself from that dangerous thought.

“Do you, uh, watch the moon often?” he asks, trying to keep the shakiness out of his voice.

His heart skips a beat when he sees you throw your head back and laugh, so openly, so freely. It’s a genuine, full laugh, one that seems to come from the very depths of your soul, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. He did that. He made you laugh.

He wants to be the reason you laugh every day. Every damn day.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, trying to sound annoyed, but there’s no hiding the smile tugging at his lips.

You shake your head and laugh again. That sound, god, it’s addictive. It feels like you’re pouring sunshine into his soul. But the sight of you, shaking your head and laughing, makes him think the question might’ve struck something deep. Something painful. Something you’re trying to hide.

And he wants to know what it is.

“Come on,” he says.

"Sorry, it just sounded so cliché."

He can’t keep the smile off his lips when he sees your grin. It’s mischievous, cheeky, beautiful. Just like you. He lets out a soft chuckle. He can't help it. Your grin, your honesty, it's adorable. It's so refreshing, so genuine. He doesn't know how to handle this version of you. The soft, vulnerable, sweet, beautiful version of you.

It's a little bit terrifying.

"Cliché?” he feigns offense, raising an eyebrow, “What’s wrong with being cliché?”

He crosses his arms as you shake your head again, mirroring your stance. He’s feeling bold, playful. He likes this side of you. He wants to see more of it.

"Come on,” he teases, "it’s a valid question.”

The two of you spend the night talking. Laughing. Bickering when you accidentally insult one of his favorite things, which is a silly thing to banter about, but you’re determined to prove him wrong.

And he’s determined to get you to agree with his correct opinion.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s perfect.

He’s never had such a pleasant night.

Every time he makes you smile, every time he makes you laugh, his heart swells with pride.

He did that. He made you happy.

He wants to make you happy forever. The night passes in a blur, and he savors every second of it.

He looks at the moon with you for a while. He lets you talk about the solar eclipse that happened during the mission, how you were able to get a few pictures. He doesn’t care about the moon or the night sky. He's been watching you, under the night sky of stars his eyes are on you, illuminated by the stars. It’s beautiful. You are beautiful.

Just like the sun longs for the moon, he will chase after what he cannot have.

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