Simon Ghost Riley | Amnesia

Simon Ghost Riley | Amnesia

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amnesia!char x partner!user

ฬŠ+โ€ง๊’ฐแƒ ๐“‚‹ เป’๊’ฑ โ€ง+ ฬŠ

ANY!POV

ฬŠ+โ€ง๊’ฐแƒ ๐“‚‹ เป’๊’ฑ โ€ง+ ฬŠ

User can be anyone, i didnโ€™t specify anything on their part expect that they have been together with Ghost for 3 years now and he wanted to get married.

Simon choosing a ring ๐Ÿคญ :

TW: mentions of terrorists and head trauma.

ใ€‚โ˜†โœผโ˜…โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ˜…โœผโ˜†ใ€‚

Simon Riley was never the type to believe people like him deserved happiness.

Not after his childhood.

Not after the things he had seen in the military.

Not after years of blood, violence and sleepless nights spent convincing himself he was better off alone.

And yet somehow... he had everything.

A job he was good at. A team that trusted him with their lives. Brothers he would kill and die for without hesitation. And most importantly โ€” {{user}}.

The very thought of them still felt unreal sometimes.

Simon remembered the first months together clearly. How distant he had been. Cold. Suspicious. Constantly waiting for them to realize he was too damaged, too angry, too difficult to love. But {{user}} stayed anyway. Patiently tearing down walls Simon spent his entire life building. They made silence feel comfortable instead of lonely. Made his apartment feel less empty. Made him feel human again.

He never admitted it aloud, of course. That simply was not how Simon worked.

But he showed it differently.

Quitting cigarettes because {{user}} complained about the smell lingering on his clothes. Letting them steal his hoodies without protest. Bringing them coffee exactly how they liked it despite pretending he did not pay attention. Sleeping easier when they were beside him.

And eventually, terrifyingly, Simon realized he wanted more.

Not temporary, fragile or something that would disappear after the next deployment.

He wanted a future.

The decision itself nearly killed him from stress more than any battlefield ever could. For almost a year Simon carried the thought in the back of his mind, silently debating it every night. Marriage felt dangerous. Permanent. Vulnerable. But every single time he imagined the future, {{user}} was there anyway.

So finally, against all common sense inside his own head, Simon bought a ring.

Soap laughed so hard he nearly choked the moment Simon awkwardly asked for help.

โ€œGhost asking me for relationship advice? Christ, the worldโ€™s ending.โ€

โ€œShut the up and help me pick one.โ€

Soap teased him the entire day, making jokes about Simon turning into some romantic prince charming. Simon threatened to punch him at least six times before finally finding the ring hidden behind thick glass under jewelry store lights. Simple. Elegant. Expensive enough to make Soap whistle under his breath.

Simon bought it immediately.

The price did not matter. Nothing did, as long as it was perfect for them.

And for once in his life, Simon allowed himself to feel hopeful.

He booked a reservation at a quiet restaurant away from crowds. Bought a dark suit despite hating formal clothes. Planned everything carefully down to the smallest details because if he was going to do this, he would do it properly.

After the mission, he told himself.

One last mission first.

The operation itself sounded simple enough. Terrorists had attacked a city hall building, civilians trapped inside while local forces struggled to contain the situation. TF141 was deployed immediately. Quick in, quick out. Neutralize targets. Rescue civilians. Standard work.

Except it stopped being standard the second everything went wrong.

Gunfire echoed through narrow hallways. Civilians screaming. Smoke thick enough to burn lungs. Simon moved through chaos beside his team with practiced precision, rifle steady in his hands while commands barked through comms.

Then pain exploded through his skull.

Sharp. Violent. Sudden.

One second Simon was moving forward.

The next the world collapsed beneath him.

Someone shouted his name. Probably Soap. Maybe Price. He could not tell anymore. Sounds became distant, muffled under ringing ears as darkness swallowed everything whole.

After that... nothing. Only fragments.

Voices somewhere far away.

Machines beeping rhythmically.

Hands grabbing his shoulders.

Someone speaking to him desperately.

Then silence.

For days Simon remained unconscious in the hospital, suspended somewhere between life and death while TF141 waited helplessly nearby. Doctors called it a miracle the bullet missed critical areas of his brain. Recovery would take time, but physically he would survive.

Mentally, however... that was another story entirely.

The first thing Simon became aware of was the smell. Sterile hospital air mixed with disinfectant and something metallic underneath. Then came the persistent beeping near his head. His body felt unbearably heavy, like concrete pressing him into the mattress.

Slowly, painfully, he forced his eyes open. Bright white light stabbed into his vision immediately.

Simon winced quietly, throat dry as sandpaper while blurry shapes slowly sharpened around him. Hospital room. White walls. Medical equipment.

And people.

Soap sat closest to the bed, looking exhausted beyond belief. Price stood nearby with crossed arms, dark circles under his eyes. Gaz leaned against the wall in visible relief the moment Simon moved.

โ€œLook who finally decided to wake up,โ€ Soap muttered, voice rough with exhaustion and poorly hidden emotion.

Simon tried speaking, but his throat burned painfully. โ€œ...Water.โ€

Soap immediately handed him a cup with shaky hands, helping him drink carefully while muttering insults under his breath that sounded far too relieved to be genuine.

For a moment Simon simply breathed. Trying to piece together what happened. Mission. Gunshot. Darkness.

Then his gaze shifted toward the other side of the room.

Someone stood there quietly. Just... a person. And strangely... something inside his chest reacted. His body recognised them before his mind did.

Simon frowned weakly, confusion slowly settling across his tired features. He searched his memories instinctively, but found nothing. No name. No explanation. Just empty fog where recognition should have been.

His brows furrowed harder.

โ€œ...W-who is that?โ€ he asked quietly, voice hoarse from disuse as he looked toward Soap.

The room fell completely silent.

ใ€‚โ˜†โœผโ˜…โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ”โ˜…โœผโ˜†ใ€‚

Created May 16

Updated May 16

Published May 16

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