Going Off My Headcanon That Ghost Doesn't Keep Up With Celebrities Or Musicians Because He Just Doesn't

When the Walls Fall (p.1)

Summary: Simon’s never been great at dealing with feelings, especially when they come out of nowhere. From the moment he laid eyes on you, something shifted, but he did his best to keep it under wraps. It’s only when Price steps in, playing a little bit of matchmaker, that Simon’s forced to face what he’s been ignoring. Between the awkward tension, the attraction, and a little help from the Captain, maybe they’ll both figure out what’s been right in front of them all along. From this idea. Word count: 3.2 k

The first time Simon saw you, it was like taking a hit he hadn’t prepared for.

You walked onto base with the kind of confidence that made people take notice of you. Not cocky, just like you belonged there. And maybe you did. Maybe you were the best damn soldier to come through in a while, and maybe that should’ve been the only thing on his mind. But it wasn’t.

His eyes tracked you instinctively, taking in every detail before he could stop himself. The way you carried yourself, the focus in your eyes. And then you smiled at someone, and something in his chest clenched so hard it almost hurt.

Fuck.

He tore his gaze away, trying to shake the feeling, but Soap had already caught him.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Johnny muttered with an infuriating grin on his face.

“Shut it,” Simon grumbled, adjusting his gloves like that would somehow ground him.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“Didn’t have to.”

Soap chuckled, nudging him with an elbow. “Just sayin’, she’s got somethin’, aye? And you—” He gestured vaguely. “You’re actin’ like a man who just got hit over the head with a brick.”

Simon rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the tension. “Fuck off, mate.”

“Sure,” Soap drawled. “But you still haven’t stopped starin’, mate.”

Simon forced himself to look away, hating the fact that Soap caught him. And, he had work to do. A mission to focus on. He didn’t have time for… whatever this was.

But deep down, he already knew.

It was already too late.

-

At first, you thought it was just you. Maybe you’d done something wrong, said something to set him off. Because from the moment you arrived, Simon had been… distant.

And not in the way he was with most people. With you, it felt different, like he was avoiding you. Short replies, barely a glance in your direction, and when he did look at you, it was intense. You’d catch him watching sometimes, but the second your eyes met, he’d look away like he hadn’t been staring at all.

If he was trying to make you feel unwelcome, it was working.

It was frustrating, because everyone else had settled into working with you just fine. Soap had been the first to extend a friendly hand, quickly making it clear that you were part of the team now. Gaz followed soon after, along with the rest of the squad. Even Price had given you one of his rare approving nods within the first week.

But Ghost?

Nothing but silence and cold shoulders.

You tried not to let it bother you, but it gnawed at the back of your mind. You’d worked with difficult teammates before, but this felt… personal.

“What’s his deal?” you asked Soap one evening after training, watching as Ghost disappeared into the barracks without a word.

Soap smirked, far too amused. “Who, Ghost?”

“Yes, Ghost. The one who acts like I’ve personally offended his ancestors.”

Soap let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Nah, lass, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?”

He hesitated, glancing toward where Ghost had gone. “Let’s just say he’s not great with… people.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

Before Soap could reply, Price strolled past, catching the tail end of your conversation. He gave you a knowing look, then turned to Soap. “Don’t worry about it,” Price said easily, clapping a hand on your shoulder before walking off.

You stared after him, baffled. Soap just chuckled and patted your arm. “You’ll figure it out.”

You had no idea what that meant. But as Ghost continued to avoid you like the plague, you were determined to get to the bottom of it.

-

A few days later, you found Ghost in the armory inspecting a rifle. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was trying to make himself invisible, shoulders hunched, attention fixed on anything that wasn’t you.

Too bad for him, you had a report to give, and he was the one who needed to hear it.

“Lieutenant,” you greeted, stepping up beside him. He stiffened, then turned his head slightly to acknowledge you, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours.

“Yeah?”

You shifted on your feet. “I’ve got intel from the last recon—needed to pass it along to you.”

Ghost nodded, setting down the rifle. “Go on.”

You started relaying the details, but something felt… off. He wasn’t cutting you off, wasn’t asking follow-up questions like he usually would. Instead, he was just standing there, unnervingly still, eyes fixed on you.

Really fixed on you.

His gaze was heavy, like he was committing every detail of your face to memory. And for someone usually so unreadable, he looked—hesitant.

“Lieutenant?” you prompted when he didn’t respond.

He blinked. Looked away. Cleared his throat. “Right. Uh. Continue.”

Your brow furrowed. He was acting weird, more than usual. Like he was barely processing the words coming out of your mouth.

You finished your report, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment. Instead, Simon just nodded slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides.

“…So?” you pressed. “What do you think?”

He inhaled sharply, as if just realizing he was supposed to respond. “Sounds… good.”

You squinted. “Sounds good?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

Another pause. Too long. He was still looking at you, and before you could call him out on it, another voice cut in.

“Perfect timing,” Price announced as he strode in, hands on his hips. “You two are headed out on assignment together.”

You blinked. “What?”

Price smirked. “Mission briefing in an hour. Gear up.” He clapped Ghost on the shoulder, giving him a look, then walked out, leaving you standing there, confused.

Ghost finally tore his gaze away from you, jaw tight. “Right. Mission.”

You exhaled, pinching the bridge of your nose. This was going to be interesting.

-

“Alright, listen up,” Price began, his voice steady as always. “This mission is straightforward. We’re monitoring a target—high-level intel. We need to keep eyes on them for the next few weeks. No interaction. Just observation and relay.”

He pointed to the satellite image of the target’s compound on the screen, then flipped to the next slide that showed the layout of the safe house. You and Simon exchanged a glance. The safe house was tiny, just a single building in the middle of nowhere.

“You two will be on the ground. The safe house is set up, but it’s basic. No room service here,” Price said with a small grin, clearly enjoying the discomfort he knew was coming. “Just enough supplies to get the job done. Only one bed, though. Hope you two can manage.”

You froze for a second, not sure if you’d heard him right. “Wait… what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Price didn’t even blink. “One bed,” he repeated casually. “This isn’t a luxury vacation. You’ll be monitoring the target from there. No time for complaints.”

You shot a quick look at Simon, whose face was as unreadable as ever. There was no way this was going to be easy. Price, clearly savoring the moment, clapped his hands together.

“Get your gear, and I’ll see you both at the rendezvous point. You know the drill—keep it quiet, keep it tight. Don’t screw this up.”

With a smirk and a nod, Price turned on his heel and left the room. You exhaled slowly, your heart already starting to race at the thought of the situation ahead.

Simon glanced at you, then back at the door where Price had just exited. “Great,” he muttered under his breath, clearly less than thrilled about the sleeping arrangements.

“Yeah… great,” you echoed, your mind already spinning with how awkward this was about to get.

-

When you stepped into the safe house, the first thing you noticed was how small it was.

One main living area. A tiny kitchen. A single bedroom.

And one bed.

Your stomach twisted. Price’s smug look from earlier suddenly made perfect sense.

Ghost stood stiffly near the door, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on the bed. His hands clenched briefly at his sides, but he said nothing.

You swallowed. “I’ll take the floor.”

His head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. “No.”

You frowned. “It’s fine, really.”

“Not happenin’.”

You hesitated, then sighed. This was going to be a long mission.

The first day at the safe house was unbearable.

You tried to keep yourself busy, checking supplies, setting up comms, anything to avoid sitting in that stifling silence. Simon was the same, moving around the space, tension radiating from him. He barely looked at you.

Because looking at you was dangerous.

Simon knew himself well enough to understand that much. The more he let himself watch you, the harder it would be to keep a leash on whatever this was. So he didn’t. He focused on the mission. On the layout of the safe house. On anything but the fact that he could hear the soft inhale and exhale of your breath in the quiet, or that you smelled like something clean and warm beneath your gear.

It wasn’t helping.

You weren’t faring much better.

From the moment you arrived, anxiety had settled deep in your stomach. It was one thing to deal with Simon back on base, where there were distractions, other people, space. But here? Here, in this tiny house with nowhere to hide? Every time you moved, you felt him like a weight against your skin.

And you were convinced, more than ever, that he couldn’t stand you.

The short responses. The stiff posture. The way his shoulders tensed whenever you got too close. It all screamed discomfort, and it made something twist in your chest. You were used to working with difficult people, but Simon’s avoidance felt personal in a way that you couldn’t explain.

By nightfall, the silence was unbearable.

“Alright,” you finally said, crossing your arms. “Are we gonna talk about it?”

Simon, who had been cleaning his knife, stilled. “Talk about what?”

You gestured vaguely around the room. “This. The fact that we’re stuck here together and you act like I’ve personally wronged you.”

His fingers flexed around the knife. “You didn’t.”

“Then what’s your problem with me?”

He looked at you then, and it made your breath catch.

“There’s no problem,” he said finally, voice low.

You huffed, shaking your head. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Simon watched as you turned away, frustration rolling off you. He should say something. He knew he should. But everything he wanted to say—all the thoughts tumbling in his head—were things he could never let slip.

Because the problem wasn’t you. It was him.

And God help him, two weeks of this might just break him.

-

The air in the safe house was cold when night fell. You stood at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, looking at Simon like you were preparing for a fight.

“I’ll take the floor,” you said firmly.

Simon, who was already sitting on the edge of the mattress, let out a slow sigh. “No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will.”

“No, you won’t.”

You glared at him. “You need rest. You’re bigger than me. You’ll be uncomfortable on the ground.”

He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was trying to find some patience. “You’re not sleepin’ on the damn floor.”

You set your jaw, determined. “Then I’ll take the chair.”

 “You’ll take the bed.”

It was a standoff. You, stubborn as ever, refusing to give in. Him, stone-faced, refusing to let you win.

Finally, after a long, tense silence, Simon shook his head. “We’ll both take the bed. It’s big enough.”

Your stomach twisted. “Are you sure?”

He just grunted in response and moved to the far side of the mattress, facing away from you, shoulders tight. You hesitated, feeling awkward, before finally sitting down on the other side.

Lying down next to him felt… strange. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with the fact that this was Simon. The man who barely spoke to you. The man who looked at you like you were a problem.

And now you were sharing a bed.

You forced yourself to stay still, willing sleep to come, but it was impossible. Every small shift of fabric, every breath he took, every inch of space between you felt amplified in the quiet.

Simon was even worse off.

He had spent years training himself to sleep under any conditions. But this? This was new.

Your warmth, just inches away, was something he couldn’t ignore. The rise and fall of your breaths, the scent of you so close, the soft rustling every time you shifted slightly. It was torture. He had to clench his fists to keep them still, to resist the urge to reach out, to let himself—

You exhaled softly, a little sigh escaping your lips. His chest tightened.

Then—nothing.

Stillness.

Simon turned his head just enough to glance at you. Your face was relaxed, lips slightly parted, lashes fanned against your cheeks. Asleep.

Something in him softened.

Carefully—so carefully—he let his fingers brush against the back of your hand, just for a second. Barely a touch, a whisper of contact.

His throat tightened as he pulled his hand away, his own pulse betraying him.

Yeah.

He was completely, utterly fucked.

-

He’d fallen asleep easily enough, or so he thought. At some point, in the dead of night, Simon had woken up.

His eyes flicked over to you, lying still beside him, your face relaxed in sleep. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on your features. The way your breath came evenly, how you curled slightly in your sleep—it was something so innocent, so calm. And yet, it stirred something in Simon he wasn’t ready to fully acknowledge.

He tried to force his thoughts away, willing himself to go back to sleep, but it was impossible. Everything about this felt wrong, and at the same time... it felt right.

Then, in one of those moments where the mind is too slow to catch up with the body, you shifted in your sleep, your head moving slowly as if drawn by some invisible force. Before Simon could react, your head was resting on his chest, your hair brushing his chin, your breath warm against his skin.

His heart skipped, and he went completely still, barely daring to breathe. Every muscle in his body tensed as he lay there, frozen, but inside, everything was a mess. His mind raced, scrambling for an explanation, anything to justify this moment. His chest tightened, his pulse hammering. You, of all people, had ended up like this, so close, and he didn’t know how to handle it.

He couldn’t move. He was terrified of disturbing you, of you waking up and realizing what had happened. But even more, he was terrified of what this meant for him. He shouldn’t want you so close, shouldn’t want this warmth, shouldn’t want the feeling of you there, pressing into him in a way that had him aching with longing.

But he did. He wanted it more than he cared to admit.

So he lay there, forcing himself to stay motionless, eyes staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the way his heart was thudding in his chest, trying to ignore how good it felt to have you so close.

But eventually, sleep came in waves, though it was a restless kind of sleep. Simon barely managed to close his eyes, his body fighting the pull of exhaustion, constantly aware of your warmth against him, of the feeling of you there on his chest.

When the first light of morning filtered into the room, Simon woke up again. He blinked, confused for a second, before his eyes landed on you. You were still there—your head on his chest, your body curled close to him, as if you belonged there. The soft sound of your breathing was the only thing he could focus on.

He couldn’t sleep, and now, he was lying there with you. He forced himself to breathe slowly, hoping that the pounding in his chest would slow down. He didn’t know what to do—didn’t know if he should wake you up or let you stay there.

But then, as if on cue, you shifted in your sleep again, your head moving off his chest. He held his breath, hoping you wouldn’t wake up and realize where you were. But of course, you did. Your eyes fluttered open, confusion quickly turning into panic as you realized your position. You immediately pushed yourself away from him, sitting up in a hurry.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you stammered, your face flushed with embarrassment. You could barely look at him, your eyes darting everywhere but his face. “I didn’t mean to...”

The last thing Simon wanted was for you to feel worse. The reality of the situation was a mess, but he didn’t want you to panic.

“It’s okay,” Simon muttered, his voice hoarse from sleep, trying to sound casual, but it came out wrong. His body was still tense from the moment before, from the warmth of you on his chest, and he had no idea how to act now. He wasn’t sure if he should feel embarrassed or just accept it as something that had happened.

But he wasn’t about to admit that he had been awake the whole time, pretending to be asleep while his heart was in his throat.

You turned to face him, still looking panicked. "I didn’t mean to—"

“No,” Simon said quickly, his eyes finally meeting yours. “Really. It’s fine.”

You hesitated, looking at him like you weren’t sure if you could believe him. You shifted nervously next the bed, unsure what to do next.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you muttered, still avoiding eye contact. "I don't know what happened, I—"

Simon tried to act calm, even though his heart was still racing. "It’s fine," he repeated, though his voice was softer now, quieter. He felt like he was saying it more for himself than for you. “You were asleep. It’s no big deal.”

You wanted to say something, but words seemed useless now, as if there was nothing that could make the situation better.

Simon’s mind was a whirlwind, but he kept his face neutral. He had no idea how you felt, but as he sat there in the stillness, the fact that you had been so close, even by accident, had done something to him that he wasn’t sure how to process. He hadn’t wanted to move, hadn’t wanted you to wake up and see it.

“Right,” you muttered, your heart still racing. You couldn’t look at him anymore. The awkwardness of the moment was too much. “I’ll just... get ready now.”

Simon nodded, his gaze following you as you moved to gather your things. He stayed still, his body still tight with the remnants of that moment, but internally, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to admit how much he had enjoyed it. But the truth was, having you that close had affected him in ways he wasn’t prepared for.

And the more he tried to ignore it, the more he realized there was no going back now.

PART 2

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@daydreamerwoah @nightunite @rigbyscar @kittygonap @buggg4life @tessakate @m-artemisa-c @first-time-fanfic-writer

Simon doesn't do girlfriends. He's not hanging out or going on dates or buying you flowers or food or hairpins.

It's just...well he might accidentally stop by to get chinese takeouts and might see to buy shiny pin and other things you have saved in, and well, he just might think of you in everything he sees.

And god forbid a woman staying in his house ?! Taking over his clothes and frowning at the lack of furniture and pictures on wall and dull curtains.

No, that's absurd. But...well he might take you to ikea and might indulge in your ifs and buts and might get you something which makes your eyes glimmer and might take you home —to spend all evening assembling it, taking his time telling you how to turn allen key, the click of dowel, the wood quality, the torque of screws.

He might let you stay after and give him shoulder massage, might let you hold his face from behind and turn his neck to kiss him square on mouth.

He might buy frames for all the polaroids of you in his sweats, or stirring the pot, or looking at your laptop, and the one where you're draped on his shoulder might be the one he caresses with his thumb every so often.

He might go to that pottery place you gushed about and might sit behind you with his hands pressed onto yours and might make a ( heart shaped ?! ) cup with his and yours initials carved and baked and painted into the beautiful clumsy thing.

He might drink his morning coffee to whiskey in that cup only.

He might get a second key.

He might put those shampoos you smell so much of, in his cabinets.

He might change the dull curtains to your favourite colour.

He might just upside down his whole world for you to take a look around and smile.

And well Simon doesn't really do girlfriends, but he might just die if it's not your yapping he falls asleep to, with your hair poking his chin and gibberish of all day long ending to a soft sweet sigh — goodnight baby.

Masterlist

Simon gets a message from reader while he’s on base. It’s a video. The thumbnail looks like a blurred image of a store isle

Once he has a moment to himself, he’s able to sit back and finally check out what you had sent.

The camera pans down to show yours and simon’s two year old daughter. She has half a mini chocolate muffin clutched in her little baby fist and chocolate smudges on her nose and bright pink cheeks. She’s standing, staring at something out of frame.

The camera is a bit shaky and Simon can hear you trying desperately to hide your laughter.

“Baby,” you say, “baby, look at me.” You bend down to bring the camera closer to your daughter, who only turns to look at you for a second before going back to staring at the same spot out of frame.

“Who is that?”

Your daughter raised one of her chocolate covered hands to point towards whatever it was that had been captivating her the entire video. “Daddy.”

Simon here’s more of your pained stifled laughter and the camera follows your daughter’s gaze, revealing a cheaply made Halloween grim reaper statue, with dusty purple robes, a plastic scythe, and a hilariously misshapen skull face.

He reads the accompanying texts that had followed the video.

[She just started saying “daddy daddy” over and over and it took me forever to figure out what she was talking about]

[for a second I thought, “oh is he here?”]

[Im so dense lol]

[she really misses you ]

[I miss you too]

The next text was a picture of your daughter fast asleep in her car seat. Now cleaned of chocolate, she had replaced her muffin with a giant plastic rat that she hugged to her chest like a teddy bear.

[she refused to leave without it]

Simon smiles. It had been a long time since he had a family. People who loved waiting for him to come home.

Your texts had been sent hours ago, and he felt bad about not responding all day.

[that’s unfair. My mask is made of much better materials]

[I miss you both too. If everything goes right I should be home by Monday]

[and don’t call yourself dense]

Simon thinks for a moment, something eating at him about that video

[I wish she didn’t know about the mask. I don’t want her to see me that way]

You respond quickly, making Simon feel worse about his delayed reply

[Dont worry about that honey. She’s only two, and I think she only saw you wear in mask once once or twice. She’ll forget in a month.]

[She doesn’t see you as anything other than her daddy]

[her daddy and her jungle gym]

[lol yes that too]

[Im sorry I don’t have a lot of time. I’ll try and call you tomorrow]

[ok Im heading to bed now anyway]

[goodnight I love you ❤️]

[goodnight I love you too ❤️]

Joe Bowler's 'painting study'

Good night Simon 💀💤🌛

Hi yall! I’m back🫶

Been resting 😴 and I feel much better now 🌸

Back in business mfckeerrrr👺👺👺👺👺👺👺

Love my scull pookie as always 💝

(He is drooling)

john price likes to be dependable for his partner that has trouble with social interactions and people mistake them for dummies.

it's like the whole relationship is a role play for others. he'll have you all pretty and dolled up, a real trophy wife in the eyes of others. glued to his side and silent during most social gatherings he has to attend, nodding politely in small greetings and never letting anyone linger around for too long.

people wonder if you have a brain of your own. sometimes it seems like john even tells you what to say and they question just how much you depend on him on your day to day.

what they don't know is that, every day after you've made breakfast, he sits down on a chair across from you at the kitchen table and ask a billion questions about what he should do about that paperwork and how can he fix that one thing or how he could possible be a better friend for that one person as you eat.

you're his little walking dictionary who talks his ear off whenever you have the chance, so he takes advantage of it by bringing all types of topics for you to discuss.

and the best part? only john knows that part of you, at least in a deeper and meaningful level.

*said with barely contained lust* god that guys a fucking freak

⌖ simon quits smoking for you / headcanon & drabble

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . dead-flight .ᐟ masterlist

it took one injury. one, minorly life threatening injury. a knife to the gut, twisted as it was ripped out. fuck, he could taste the smell of blood.

he only remembered the evac, and then the prattling of the cart wheels of his stretcher as they pulled him in for treatment. as simon comes to, the rhythmic beeping of the IV is accompanied by the quiet sobs beside him, the fabric of the hospital gown damp on his shoulder. looking over, his eyebrows furrowing.

he almost drops to his knees there, begs you to forgive him for being so careless when he sees the grief-stricken look on your face. like you'd almost seen your entire future wither away, because you had.

and the way you listened so attentively to the medic as they taught you how to change his bandages--he could've cried.

when he was finally allowed home, you were so careful around him. didn't hug him too hard, didn't let him carry heavy things--you were terrified he'd reopen his wound, that something else would happen to hurt him.

so when you watch him with that same look, that terrified, i-don't-want-to-lose you look, your eyes pleading with him as he steps outside for a smoke, he almost throws the entire pack on the floor.

simon smoked, yeah. he never cared that it'd shorten his lifespan, that he might cause his own death with it... he didn't think he'd even live long enough to see that happen. surely it was more likely he'd be killed in the line of duty than a nicotine stick.

but those eyes made him want to stop. made him careful, made him consider.

simon had never had a future before you, just battle after battle and hopes that one day he'd be killed honourably. but the day you gave him those eyes, he signed himself up for a help program.

because fuck him, if he doesn't do everything he can live for you.