Work Text:
Rain was usually a blessing for blossoming gardens below, but the usual London downpour was literally dampening Simon’s spirits.
Especially as he was torn between shoving the bouquet of flowers he was holding into the pouch of his worn black hoodie–risking the crumple of a petal or a bend of a stem–or allow it to droop beneath the weeping fall of rain from above.
Rather than dawdle further and waste another moment out in the streets of Nine Elms, he simply brought his hand up to adjust his face mask to better cover his nose and mouth before holding it right above the top of the bouquet and pushed onward, caring little for how quickly raindrops began to seep into the black wool of his fingerless gloves.
He was on a mission today.
Not one assigned to all of Task Force 141 by Laswell.
Not something forwarded to him by some higher-up in SAS.
This was a duty he imposed onto himself:
To apologize to you.
As his steps carried him forward across wet concrete, his dark brown eyes flickered up to a wall of silver-hued sails that served as the striking outer facade to the embassy building of the United States.
While his thoughts recounted over the details of his self-assembled mission briefing, the back of his mind drifted towards how and why he was even here in the first place.
By this point, you and Simon were well acquainted and familiar with one another. While you mainly worked at the embassy as a diplomat, you also assisted Laswell with any red tape that needed a few cuts, especially for the needs of 141.
Kind, capable, genuine, and pretty–it didn’t take much for you to catch his eye upon his first in-person meeting with you.
Up to that point, you both mainly communicated with each via Laswell dispensing updates on what either of you were up to pertaining to whatever mission was at hand.
But a briefing from however long ago at Laswell’s office in D.C. changed that.
He would always remember the way your eyes lit up the moment he and the rest of Task Force 141 entered the room, the precious way your voice trailed off as you wondered whether to refer to him by Ghost or–formally–Mr. Riley, and your laughter while hearing Johnny’s yelp as he received a daggered glare upon his teasing quip of “He’d really like it if ye emphasized the “Mr”, lass–”
Like hell he would ever tell anyone else, but he likened that day to you deciding to bend down and tend to the scorched and salted grounds that was his heart, flower seeds in hand and sunshine in your soul.
But whenever Cupid raised his bow to take a shot, he–with all of his years of experience out in the battlefield–was quick to dodge.
Though, with every interaction with you from then on, the aim of that blasted brat was becoming far more deadly in accuracy.
Why else would he be trudging into the lobby of the U.S. embassy like a wet dog with flowers in hand?
A pass by the reception front desk and a glance and a nod at the secretary granted him access with little issue and a few words.
After all, the secretary–familiar with that looming shadowy silhouette of his from past visits to your office–only beamed upon seeing the flowers in his hand, quickly whipping out an access keycard to slip over as she whispered,
“She’s still at her meeting!’
The bit of tension in his shoulders eased.
Jackpot.
Still, caution and secrecy was necessary so he wasn’t going to relax just yet as he strode on forward.
Even while it was covered by a mask as usual, he couldn’t allow you to see his face.
Not after what happened the last time he saw you.
A high-profile conference featuring politicians from across the world was held at Collège de France in Paris some weeks ago, one that got twisted into a horrifying hostage situation by a group of violent extremists.
Thankfully, Laswell and Price were a step ahead having been tracking this cell, with Task Force 141 and other allies already stationed within and across the campus.
While Simon was adamant in making sure that the extremists were properly handled, he was especially ruthless in his protectiveness knowing that you were among the conference participants.
Though, with communication shaky amidst the chaos, he was charging through the hallways like a feral beast, his eyes steely and focused as he sought to ensure your safety.
Relief was an understatement when he finally found you, having hidden away along with a group of other diplomats and staff members in one of the university’s research labs. Though you looked composed–especially to quell the fears of everyone else in your party–he could tell that beneath it all you were absolutely shaken by the ordeal.
Understandably so. He wanted to take you into his arms that very moment.
But the safety of you and everyone else took absolute priority, so he helped guide you all over to Kyle, who was overseeing the safe evacuation of everyone with the local police.
That look of fear that you were doing your best to suppress was etched into Simon’s mind as he prepared to meet up with Johnny and Price to make quick work of the rest of the men who dared to attempt putting you in harm’s way.
And while by this point it usually was difficult to take someone as experienced and seasoned as Simon unawares, in the end, he was still human.
The explosive burst of heat from a barely dodged grenade was what he felt first with the cold hard concrete he found himself colliding upon second.
When he next felt warmth, it was gentler, softer.
When he next felt cool, it was daintier, lighter.
“Simon, are you okay?! Simon, say something, please–!”
No codename, no formality.
His actual name–uttered so frantically with panic and worry.
The gardener had come to tend to her flowers.
While his head was rattling, at least there was still rhythm to his heart.
But he was alive regardless.
However, it soon dawned on him that the reason why he felt such significant warmth, such significant chill, it was because of one action:
The lifting of his facemask by your hands.
With how many years dedicated to anonymity, there was a primal instinct that possessed him at that very moment.
Three words shot out of his mouth before he could even think.
“I’ll kill you.”
He could sense you jumping in place as you squeaked, your hands immediately letting go of his mask.
As shocked as you were, he could hear the joy in your voice as you exclaimed, “Oh Ghost! You’re alive!”
It should have been a mission accomplished right then and there.
Yet here Simon was, on this new operation he set for himself, staring at the bouquet currently laid across your desk in your office. He had spent the past 10 minutes or so shifting and repositioning the flowers for better presentation, even doing his best to wipe away any raindrops that had managed to splash onto its colored plastic wrapping.
In his mind, all he could see was a shoddy offering from a man who didn’t have the right to be here in the first place.
However, knowing he had to leave this building empty-handed, he sighed in resigned acceptance as he reached into the front pocket of his hoodie, drawing out a small envelope before tucking it amidst the colorful blossoms.
The true apology was scribbled away in the letter within, the result of hours to days spent agonizing over every letter jotted down.
It was carbon to diamonds.
Knowing that there was not much else he could do, he proceeded to turn and make his exit.
You could be returning from your meeting at any given moment, after all.
And whether you accepted his apology or not, at least now, he could have some peace.
Especially since the three men who were his closest mates have been very adamant on making sure that he knew no peace.
“Ghost, I’m gonna say this in the nicest way possible so if ye break my neck, yer the bad guy here: are ye fucking DAFT, mate?!”
By the way that Johnny was pulling at his mohawk in sheer exasperated revulsion, Simon was sure that the Scot was going to be bald within minutes.
Unfazed, he merely took another swig of his beer, even as his friends continued to look at him aghast from their respective booth seats at the Mayfair pub they all went to after debriefing the recent Paris mission with Laswell.
“Why would you EVER say that to her?!” Kyle’s voice was muffled due to his face being planted right in his hands as he groaned, “To the woman you fancy no less?!”
Outwardly, Simon snorted, “A woman who’s better off marrying a bloody tabloid with Prince fuckin’ William’s useless noggin on the cover.”
Inwardly, he wanted to fling himself off the cliffs of Dover. Those were absolutely not the three little words he wanted to say to you.
Ever.
An air of cigar smoke floating around him like a phantom, Price cleared his throat before he spoke, “Gaz, what’s that term that’s used with those Japanese cartoons you watch? Where the bird’s all hot and cold towards the man she likes?”
Kyle lifted his face from his hands.
“Tsundere, sir.”
Price pointed the smoking tip of his cigar towards Simon admonishingly, his voice stern.
“Simon, you’re putting the capital ‘S’ in soondehreh.”
In return, Simon rolled his eyes. “Nice pronunciation, old man. Very fluent.”
Price didn’t say anything.
Kyle didn’t say anything.
Johnny didn’t say anything.
Instead, all three just glared at him with one singular demand.
“Apologize.”
Not like Simon actually needed an order from anyone to be moved to action, especially in this context.
Though, he had to admit, he got to work on the foundations to what would serve as his apology operation much faster after that night at the pub.
Already a good block or two away from the embassy, the rain had stopped by this point, the London air dewy and chill.
While it would be nice to lift down his mask and bask in the scent, privacy was much more important than such a simple indulgence and so he strode on forward, thinking about it perhaps being better for him to repent for his sin against his goddess through self-flagellation–
“Mr. Riley!”
Once again, it really was hard to get the jump on Simon, yet even he was astonished to hear the familiar chime of your voice.
His steps came to a stop.
His body turned around.
Sure enough, you were there, looking as pristine as ever in your work attire, even with the streak of hot red across your features as you caught your breath.
He froze.
Did you just run after him ?
Yet he was mystified further as he realized that in your hands was none other than the envelope he left on your desk.
With your eyes locked with his, Simon watched as you held up his letter, pinching at the top with both hands before tearing his heartfelt note cleanly in half.
Before he could react and wonder whether this was an act orchestrated by the devil or Cupid, your cheeks immediately puffed out, your lips turning pouty as you exclaimed, “Next time, hand it to me in person!”
That blasted brat.
Beneath his mask, Simon smiled.
Laughed even.
Relief was an understatement.
Upon hearing your words, he proceeded to close the gap between the both of you–only a few steps needed with his towering physique.
His eyes never straying from yours, softening as he stood right before you, he affirmed,
“It’ll be face to face–I promise.”