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themotherofhorses · 18 days

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"Simon Riley is toxic," "Simon Riley is a cold and distant man that enjoys inflicting harm on others," and "Ghost is a red flag."

Yada yada yada. Anyways.

Simon Riley LOVES cats.

When she first read his personnel file, her eyes immediately took notice of one certain detail, jotted down on a little yellow sticky note, in red penmanship. Price’s handwriting, she believed. “Enjoys tattoo art & animals.” SilentDove smiled at that. Simon Riley, 6’4” and with a fearful reputation that always preceded him, possessed a soft spot for animals — cats, she soon learned. He never spoke about it aloud, but there were signs: the small glances toward a stray kitty sunbathing on the sidewalk; his blue eyes softening the moment they caught sight of the kittens at the local petshop, and all the cat videos he pretended were not clogging up his YouTube history. Yeah, there were countless signs.

“Saaayyyy….you ever wanna adopt a kitty-cat, Lieutenant?” “That’s above ya’s pay grade, Reyes.”

Three months later, Dove tried again. "A little brown kitten, Ghost, with pink beans on its toes! Imagine that!" She was holed up in the Lieutenant's office, pestering him with pictures of cats she found on Pinterest. "Brown kittens are super duper rare, y'know that, right?" she asked, showing him a cute brown cat with amber-like eyes. "Look, even the nose is brown!" But all she got in response was a stupid grunt; he didn't even look up from the paperwork he was filing out. Stubborn bastard, Dove thought to herself with a sigh. She fell silent for a moment until Simon suddenly spoke up. "I'd like a Norwegian forest cat," is what he muttered, peeking up to look at Dove. His bright, baby-blue eyes met her dark ones, and the Native American could see a certain softness pooling inside them. A smile twitched on her lips as she sat up straighter. "Yeah?" Simon hummed. "Damn things are beauties. Ever seen one?" He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Wanna get me one once I retire from all this shit. Name him Shiloh, get him a bell and collar." "Shiloh," Dove breathed out, nodding. She liked the name; it sounded nice on her tongue. Shiloh…c’mere, Shiloh! "Didya know that Viking brides were given Norwegian forest kittens as a wedding present?" as her chin came to rest atop her palm. His gaze dropped to follow the slight movement before flickering back to her face. "Is that so?" His voice dropped a little, suddenly taking on a huskier tone, instantly sending a small flutter of butterflies inside her tummy. Dove swallowed with another nod. "Mmmm, in honor of Freyja, the goddess of love. According to the mythology, her cart was pulled by cats; Vikings loved cats, and it was a sorta…good luck for brides to have a kitten in her new household." Dove paused before adding, "—when I get married, I'm gonna ask for a kitten as well. No fancy pots, pans, or cutlery. A cat, one that I'm gonna name Ésevone." "Ésevone?" Simon repeated, cocking his head to the side. "Buffalo in the Northern Cheyenne language." "Ah. Ésevone," he rasped again, this time with a nod of his own. "Ésevone and Shiloh. Not bad." A few seconds of (comfortable) silence fell over the two before— "—Y'know, Ghosty, you actually look like a TOTAL cat dad. Like you got the entire "cat dad" aesthetic down to a T." "Shut up, little bird."

note: just a small snippet as i try to dive back into writing :D

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themotherofhorses · 5 months

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paloma: first meeting

— simon "ghost" riley x oc!silentdove reyes.

summary: he's not annoyed, per se, but ghost is just not really in the mood to chit-chat with the american airman scurrying around the base. at best, he tolerates them.

(or the first exchange between ghost and his montanan woman.)

warnings: none, aside from explicit language.

note: okay, so despite this being an obvious OC-insert series, i invite anyone and everyone to read it :D this is actually my first time tackling an OC-insert fanfic (as well as writing ghost) so im still trying to get the rhythm of things.

dividers by: @saradika

paloma (masterlist) | main masterlist

[2021]

Simon Riley won’t ever admit it — never aloud, anyway — but every time he steps foot on American soil, he feels more akin to a wolf draped in sheep’s clothing.

In his mind, he sticks out like a sore thumb. He is not a hero, really; unlike the lot teetering around the military base he is currently stationed at for the next five or so weeks, he is less flesh and blood, and more a phantom. Or something along those lines. Actually, that could explain why there is such little traffic aimed his way. But he doesn’t particularly care. His schedule lacks the room to voice any complaints.

Right now, his main concern is doing his job, and doing it right.

Two weeks back, Price had him fishing out his passport tucked away inside his bedside table. “Fancy a two month getaway to the States?” Great Falls, Montana, to be exact. High west, nearing the border of Canada, and surrounded by land he’s only ever seen in those silly ass spaghetti western movies.

The view is nice, he’ll admit. Beautiful, even. Exhilarating. He now understands why they refer to Montana as “Big Sky Country.”

Malmstrom is much smaller than he imagined, and homier too. The Air Force base is nestled within the city’s east side, offering its own museum and park. He’s quite grateful for the latter; the trails allow for his nighttime walks when the nightmares prove too shitty to sleep.

Great Falls is pretty as well. Price would like it, maybe Garrick too. He knows the two are big on history, and almost every inch of the city is drenched with some memory belonging to the old frontier days.

Upon arriving, the yanks provided him with his own private office, housed in the back of the 341st logistics readiness squadron. It’s nothin’ fancy, really, just a wee room furnished with a dark mahogany desk, two windows, a steel cabinet, the Montana flag to his left, and the American to his right.

Again, he’s not one to complain. Something’s something.

Earlier, one of the higher-up airmen, a Staff Sergeant Benson (he believes is the name), had handed him a folder jam-packed with a shit ton of mission statements — logistics, strategic planning, reports of previous global concerns, and reviews of the base’s Minuteman III intercontinental ballistic missile. All the documents are dated in a time range varying between two months ago to 0800 this morning.

In the back of his mind, he can already hear Price chuckling.

“Have fun, Simon.”

Bloody bastard.

So now, Ghost sits hunched over the desk, feeling a little too damn big for it. All the paperwork is strewn about messily around him, with sticky notes, a pen, and some other random shit of his. No one has yet to visit him; until that happens, he feels little need to remain organized.

His boot taps against the floor. “—Initial efforts to clean polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) from launch facilities at Malmstrom AFB are ongoing but seeing success…” Ghost reads under his breath. PCBs? That’s nice to hear.

“...after PCBs were detected on surfaces in launch facilities at all three of the command’s missile wings.”

PCBs. Polychlorinated biphenyls — man-made and highly toxic, consisting of carbon, hydrogen, and chlorine atoms. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he flips onto the next page.

“We know they’re present on what appears to be otherwise pristine surfaces, due to the survey—”

—a sudden knock interrupts his reading.

With a curse on his tongue, Ghost sets down the report. He quicks a sneaking glance at his watch. 1342 hours. He’s due in a meeting at 1700.

“Come in.” His voice sounds low and raspy, the two words sounding more like a growl than a greeting. He’s not annoyed, per se, but Ghost is just not really in the mood to chit-chat with the American airmen scurrying around the base. At best, he tolerates them.

(In his mind, they’re all little Graves, ready to stir up a headache.)

The door slowly cracks open.

“Lieutenant Riley?” A female voice calls out — soft and cautious; Ghost’s chin drops against his knuckles. “Apologies for the disruption, sir, but I have some additional paperwork I need to drop off with you, at the request of my superior.” He grunts, and the airman then steps into his office, quickly shutting the door behind her before meeting his eyes.

It is entirely unlike him, Ghost knows, but his brain almost short-circuits right then and there. Two dark brown eyes, framed by thick lashes, peering up at him. Shit. He’d always thought brown was such a pretty eye color on a woman, but hers stretched further across common compliments.

Both of ‘em — they held no animosity, no uneasiness or fear, nothing.

That, itself, is quite fucking bizarre. He’s not used to that.

Ghost is .... well, Ghost. He knows the mask he is always donning on his face isn't exactly a sign of welcomeness. Just his mere presence is enough to startle the living shit out of rookies, baby recruits, wide-eyed sergeants, and the like. There is something inherently unnerving when you are unable to get a good reading of the person you're standing across from.

She’s brave, he thinks. Or merely oblivious to who he is.

“Here you go, sir,” the airman says while placing the packet of new documents down on his desk. Her lips are shaped prettily, plump and shining with a fresh layer of gloss, and across her nose is a splatter of faint freckles. Under a different circumstance, maybe he would’ve taken the time to try and count them all.

Ghost swallows hard, incapable (for what feels like the first time in his life) of mustering up an appropriate reply. “Ah, thank you, ma’am.”

The airman's brow lifts.

“Reyes,” she then corrects him with a kind smile, gesturing to the name badge sitting above her right chest pocket. Sure enough, in bold military lettering, reads Reyes. “My name is Senior Airman SilentDove Reyes. I am actually a cryptologic linguist analyst here on base; but sometimes I run errands for others, when not needed for a translation, of course.”

There is a slight chirp in her voice that Ghost picks up, along with the way she casually rocks back and forth on her feet. She seems awfully young, no older than 22, possibly 23, but even that's cutting it; a kid, compared to him. Maybe 5'7, with dark hair pulled back into two tight braids that fall at her belted waistline.

A stark contrast compared to him.

He's oddly curious now — about her age and first name and those long braids and why she stands before him, calm, collected, and sure — but he knows damn well this is not the time nor place for any questions. Both of them are on the clock, and it is likely she’ll need to report back to her supervisor soon.

He offers her a curt nod. “Well, thank you again, Reyes,” he states, keeping his voice flat.

“You are welcome, sir.” She turns to leave, but when her hand latches onto the doorknob, Reyes glances over her shoulder at him, “—oh, and Lieutenant? If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

–

The successful cleaning came after a bioenvironmental team at Malmstrom AFB …. Malmstrom AFB .. consulted with engineers and ….. and medical experts on the cleaning …. cleaning processes and–

–and agents most likely to effectively remove the chemicals….

He knows his mind is wandering off, in desperate search of that pretty senior airman from fifteen minutes ago. “Bloody fucking hell,” Ghost grumbles, leaning back in his chair. His head lolls back as he blinks upward, studying the ceiling overhead. The texture is popcorn, a creamy color, with a simple fan jutting down. One light bulb, probably a recent replacement.

Fuck. He doesn’t need this shit. Not one bit.

Five more weeks and he’ll be gone from here.

Ghost rechecks his watch, feeling a bit peeved at the time. 1411. He has several more hours until he can leave all this work shit behind for the evening, and maybe catch a short walk before hunkering down for the night. He doesn’t like sitting down for too long; it causes him to become restless. Agitated. Overthinking.

He doesn’t want distractions. He doesn’t need ‘em. Distractions ruin work ethic; clouding up the mind while fucking up all sense of responsibility. Price will have his ass if he – somehow – becomes compromised. And he'll never hear the end of it from Johnny.

Settling back into the paperwork, he decides that he won’t allow himself another second thinking about all that – the American airman and her pretty brown eyes and high cheekbones and first name.

Something tells him that’s easier said than done.

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