A Collection of Short Stories | Simon Riley "Ghost" x Reader

a ghost's promise: chapter 1

⚠️⚠️ MW3 SPOILERS ⚠️⚠️ PROCEED WITH CAUTION! ⚠️⚠️

Your world crumbled on that grievous day when the unbearable news of John "Soap" MacTavish's death reached your ears.

Not just any death, but one met at the hands of Makarov—an end unfit for a warrior like him.

Your legs gave way beneath you, a shuddering breath escaped your lips as the reality set in, delivered by none other than Captain Price.

His grave voice, laced with a heavy dose of solemnity, opened the floodgates of your sorrow, and you found yourself weeping unrestrainedly.

Price, Gaz, and Ghost bore witness to your agony—a tableau of grief and shared loss.

Ghost, whose real name echoed in his head as a constant reminder of his own vulnerability—stood amongst them, wrapped in his own cloak of guilt and remorse.

He was not just an acquaintance; he had been a fixture in your life, Johnny's confidant, frequent visitor to your shared home, and was to stand as the best man at what would have been your wedding.

Now, the echoes of laughter and plans for the future were replaced by a somber silence.

As you continued to unravel, Simon was battling his own demons.

If only he had been faster, more vigilant, if only he had stayed by Price's side—perhaps he could have prevented Johnny's reckless sacrifice.

The weight of these 'maybes' hung heavily on Simon's mind, an endless loop of silent questions with no hope for answers.

In the shadowed corners of his mind, Simon entertained thoughts that he had long kept at bay, feelings that went beyond camaraderie for Johnny and for you.

With the fall of his comrade, Simon was haunted by the specter of unspoken truths, the realization that his commitment to duty had perhaps cost him the chance at a happiness he had never dared to claim.

Amidst the melancholy symphony of crashing waves, Simon stood with Price and Gaz, a solemn trio against the expanse of the sea.

Yet, the very heart of the circle was absent—there was an emptiness beside them where you should have been, mirroring the hollow void in your own chest.

You couldn't muster the strength to witness the ashes of your beloved Johnny being claimed by the ocean's embrace.

The sea was a siren, singing a mournful dirge that you couldn't bear to face, leaving you to cling desperately to the relics of the man you adored—whose laughter was now just an echo in the digital frames of the past.

When Simon returned from the ceremony, the urn in his hands was as empty as the gaze you offered to the world.

The urn —a cruel and silent testament to the finality of loss—was devoid of its sacred charge, much like the hollow aftermath in your heart.

You tried to shutter yourself away, the door nearly closing on the chapter of your life that Simon represented.

But he resisted, not with the force of a soldier, but with the gentle insistence of a guardian refusing to let you succumb to despair.

Under the shadow of a past that clung to the walls of your home, Simon's resolve was a quiet force, his presence a silent testament to the bonds formed in the heat of battle.

The air was heavy with words unspoken, the promise to Johnny an unsaid vow that hung between you.

"Can we talk, (Y/N)?" Simon's voice, even through the muffling fabric of his mask, managed to sound both urgent and oddly gentle.