Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room was quiet now. The chaos of delivery had faded, leaving only the sound of Soap’s shallow breaths and the faint, intermittent cries of their newborn daughter. Simon stood a few paces away from the bed, his eyes fixed on the tiny bundle resting against Soap’s chest. His hands fidgeted at his sides, unsure, unsteady.

“Simon,” Johnny rasped, his voice still thick with exhaustion, but there was a smile on his face, glowing brighter than the sweat clinging to his brow. “C’mere, big man.”

Ghost swallowed, his throat tight. He took a small step closer but didn’t speak. His eyes, wide and dark, lingered on their daughter. She was so small. Too small for hands like his.

Johnny, cradling their little girl, frowned softly as he watched his mate hesitate. “Ye alright?”

Simon could barely nod. He’d seen things. Done things. Held weapons, pulled triggers, smashed doors, and snapped bones with hands just like these. His hands knew how to kill, how to end. And now, looking at his own daughter, fresh into the world, he didn’t know how to touch her. He didn’t trust himself.

"I—" he started, his voice hoarse. He looked away, his jaw tightening under the weight of emotions he couldn’t begin to understand. "Johnny... I can't... my hands..." He shook his head, biting back the overwhelming fear that made his chest burn. "All I know is hurt."

Johnny’s heart broke at those words, seeing the pain behind Ghost’s eyes. He shifted carefully, careful not to disturb the baby too much, and reached a hand out toward his mate.

“Si,” Soap’s accent softened as he spoke, his voice thick with the warmth of home. “Dinnae say that. Yer hands made this, aye? Yer hands made her.” He smiled through the exhaustion, his blue eyes shining with pride. "She’s half yers, love. Pure beauty, eh?"

Simon’s throat clenched, and he stayed rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on the small creature in Johnny’s arms. It wasn’t that simple. His past wasn’t something he could just forget or brush aside. He was Ghost. He was a weapon. He was violence. But now? Now he was a father, and he didn’t know how to reconcile that with everything he’d been.

“I’ve done things,” Simon whispered, more to himself than to Johnny. He looked down at his hands again, as if the memories of blood and death would suddenly manifest there. His hands were shaking, trembling with a weight they couldn’t hold. “How am I supposed to—?”

Before he could finish, Johnny shifted again, this time raising the baby in his arms toward Simon, offering her as if she were the answer to every question Ghost was too afraid to ask.

“She’s got yer eyes,” Soap whispered softly, grinning through the tears welling up in his own. “Tough as nails, jus’ like ye. Look at her, Simon. Look.”

Ghost’s breath hitched as he hesitated again, but the pull was too strong. He stepped closer, his legs weak beneath him, and knelt by the bedside. The baby, wrapped snugly in a soft white blanket, was so impossibly small. Her little chest rose and fell with each delicate breath, and when she squirmed, her tiny fingers curled toward him like she was reaching for him.

Johnny was right. She had his eyes—dark and deep, reflecting the uncertainty in Ghost’s heart. Slowly, Simon’s trembling hand hovered above her, unsure of where to land, too scared of what might happen if he held her wrong, or worse, hurt her.

Johnny’s hand, calloused from years of battle but gentle now, reached up to cover Simon’s. His touch was grounding, pulling Simon out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Simon,” he whispered. “Ye’re nae a monster. Nae to her. Nae to me.” His eyes softened with a familiar, fierce affection. “Yer hands made this life with me. That’s all they’ll ever do now. Ye hear me?”

Simon couldn’t speak. His heart ached, full of fear and love all tangled together. But Johnny’s words, thick with love and trust, broke through that fear. Slowly, almost reverently, Simon lowered his hand until his rough fingers brushed against the softness of the blanket. He held his breath.

The baby stirred but didn’t cry. She was warm under his touch, her chest rising and falling steadily.

And then, as if on instinct, her tiny fingers reached out and curled around Simon’s pinkie.

Simon let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His hands, the same hands that had seen war and death, could do this. They could hold her. They could protect her. They could love her.

“Ye see?” Soap whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “She knows her da. She’s been waitin’ tae meet ye.”

Simon’s eyes softened, and something inside him broke—some wall he hadn’t known he’d built. His other hand came up, stronger now, and he cupped the baby’s head with all the gentleness in the world, as if she were the most fragile thing he’d ever held.

For the first time in what felt like years, Simon Riley—Ghost—allowed himself to smile.

Johnny leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to Simon’s temple, then to the baby’s head. “She’s ours,” he whispered. “Nae monster could make somethin’ this perfect, Simon.”

Ghost closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the moment sink in. For a brief, shining moment, he wasn’t Ghost. He wasn’t the cold, calculating killer. He wasn’t the mask. He was just Simon. A father. A mate.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

“What should we name her?” Johnny asked, his voice light and filled with joy.

Simon looked down at their daughter, her tiny fingers still clutching his. “Maeve,” he said softly. "She who brings joy". A suggestion from Johnny's excited mother.

Johnny’s eyes twinkled, a grin splitting his face. “Aye, it’s perfect. Our wee Maeve.”

Simon nodded, finally at peace, holding Maeve in his arms.

Chapter Text

The house felt empty without Johnny’s usual chatter. Simon Riley, who had spent most of his life finding solace in silence, now found it strangely unsettling. He sat on the couch, his large form sinking into the cushions as the television flickered quietly in the background. The room was dim, the soft afternoon light barely filtering through the curtains.

Cradled in his arms was Maeve, their newborn daughter. She was so small—fragile, even—wrapped in a soft blanket, her tiny face barely visible beneath a cap that Johnny had insisted would keep her warm. Simon had been skeptical at first, but now, looking at her nestled in his arms, he understood. Johnny had a way of knowing what Maeve needed, even when Simon didn’t.

Maeve stirred, her little mouth parting with a soft sigh, and Simon instinctively pulled her closer, one hand supporting her head while the other cupped her back. His touch was careful, almost too light for someone who had spent most of his life wielding weapons and breaking bones. It still felt surreal, having her here—having a family.

"You're so tiny," Simon muttered, more to himself than to her. His deep voice rumbled in the quiet space, but Maeve didn’t flinch. Instead, she settled into his chest, her breaths slow and steady, completely at ease in his presence.

For a long time, Simon just stared at her, memorizing every detail—the soft curve of her nose, the light dusting of his lighter hair on her head, and the peaceful expression on her face. It still baffled him how something so small, so delicate, had come from him and Johnny. He was terrified of breaking her, of being too rough or too cold. But Johnny had been insistent.

"Yer nae goin' tae hurt her, Simon," Johnny had told him, brushing off his hesitation with that confident grin of his. "She loves ye already, can feel it."

Simon hadn’t been so sure. He still wasn’t, but right now, holding Maeve close, he let himself believe that Johnny might be right.

Maeve shifted again, a tiny hand escaping from the blanket and resting against Simon’s chest. He glanced down at the hand—so small compared to his. Her fingers curled instinctively, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, and something in Simon’s chest tightened.

How had he, Simon Riley—Ghost—ended up here, on a couch in a warm home, holding his daughter? It felt worlds apart from the violence, the missions, the bloodshed that had once defined his life. He had never thought he’d get a moment like this. He didn’t think he deserved it.

Maeve let out a soft coo, and Simon couldn’t help but smile, though it was brief and more of a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He adjusted her slightly, letting her head rest against his heart.

The door creaked open then, and Simon’s eyes flicked to the entrance. Johnny stepped in, his arms full of groceries and a mischievous grin on his face.

"Ye look like yer holdin’ a bomb, Simon," Johnny teased, his accent thick as ever, though his voice was soft so as not to wake Maeve. "She’s nae goin’ tae explode, y’know."

Simon shot him a look, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed any irritation. "I know that, Johnny."

Johnny set the groceries down on the kitchen counter and walked over, his hands resting on Simon’s shoulders as he looked down at Maeve. "She’s peaceful, eh?"

"She’s always peaceful when you’re gone," Simon replied dryly, though the weight of the moment still held in his voice. His arms tightened ever so slightly around Maeve.

Johnny chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of Simon’s head. "Yer doin' great, love."

Simon didn’t respond, but his expression softened, and he looked back down at Maeve. He could feel the warmth from Johnny’s body as the Scotsman sat next to him, pressing into his side. Together, they watched their daughter sleep, the quiet ticking of the clock the only sound in the room.

For the first time in a long while, Simon felt something unfamiliar—a calmness that settled over him like a warm blanket. Maeve’s soft breaths, Johnny’s quiet presence—it was enough. Maybe he didn’t have to be perfect, and maybe he didn’t have to understand everything right now. He could just be here, with them.

His family.

Chapter Text

The soft morning light filtered through the windows, casting warm golden hues across the living room floor. The once peaceful quiet of their home was long gone—replaced by the rapid pattering of tiny feet and the sound of Maeve’s high-pitched voice echoing through the space.

"Maeve, be careful!" Johnny’s voice followed her, more exasperated than stern, as their daughter sprinted across the room with a bundle of energy that neither he nor Simon could fully keep up with most days.

Maeve was two now, and if anything was clear, it was that their little girl had inherited Johnny’s boundless enthusiasm paired with a healthy dose of Simon’s stubbornness. Her golden curls bounced wildly as she ran from the living room to the kitchen and back again, her cheeks flushed with excitement. She was small but fearless, her fiery personality shining through with every stomp of her tiny feet.

Johnny sat on the couch, head resting in one hand, watching their whirlwind of a daughter with a mix of admiration and weariness. His soft laugh broke through every now and then as Maeve babbled excitedly to herself, some kind of nonsensical game only she could understand.

Simon, however, stood by the doorway, arms crossed, watching her like a hawk. His brow was slightly furrowed, his protective instincts on full alert, and every time Maeve made a sharp turn or wobbled near a piece of furniture, he stiffened. It was as if his entire body was primed to rush in and catch her, though Maeve had never needed saving from her own antics. Not yet, anyway.

"Daddy, look!" Maeve suddenly shrieked, her small hands grabbing a stuffed animal from the floor as she ran toward Simon, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

Simon tensed but quickly crouched to her level, his large frame dwarfing her. "What’ve you got there, little one?" His voice was calm, though his eyes tracked her every movement.

"It’s Teddy!" Maeve announced proudly, shoving the plush bear into his face. She beamed up at him, clearly expecting some kind of grand reaction.

Simon, ever serious, studied the bear for a moment before reaching out and patting its head. "Looks like Teddy’s had a rough day."

Maeve blinked at him, her expression scrunching into a pout. "No, Daddy! Teddy’s fightin' bad guys!" She waved the bear around, letting out an exaggerated roar. "Raaaaah! Just like you!"

At this, Simon’s stern demeanor cracked. He blinked, a slow smile pulling at his lips. "Oh, is that right? Teddy’s a fighter, huh?"

Maeve nodded vigorously, her curls bouncing. "Just like me!" she declared, puffing out her tiny chest with pride.

Johnny, watching from the couch, grinned at the scene. "She’s a right little soldier, Simon. Maybe she’ll be a Ghost one day too." There was a lightness to Johnny’s voice, but it held an underlying pride as he leaned back, admiring the way Simon and Maeve bonded.

Simon’s smile deepened, though he gave Johnny a mock glare. "She’s not fighting anyone. Not for a long time." His tone was firm, the alpha side of him immediately setting boundaries, even though Maeve was years away from anything remotely dangerous.

But Maeve was already onto her next task, completely ignoring Simon’s protective nature. She raced away from him and climbed onto the couch next to Johnny, all but throwing herself into his lap.

"Maeve! Careful, love!" Johnny laughed, catching her before she toppled headfirst into the cushions.

"I’m careful, Daddy," Maeve replied, wiggling her way onto Johnny’s chest, her little arms clinging around his neck. "I’m super strong!"

Johnny chuckled, his arms wrapping around her instinctively. "Aye, that ye are, lass." He kissed the top of her head, breathing in the soft scent of his daughter—something that always calmed him, despite her chaotic nature. She was their little firecracker, always on the move, always pushing the limits. But even in her wildness, Johnny could feel her love. Her scent was warm, familiar, a mix of him and Simon, and it grounded him in moments like these.

Simon moved toward them, watching as Maeve wriggled in Johnny’s arms, laughing all the while. His protective instincts flared again, though he knew she was perfectly safe. "Maeve, slow down," Simon said, his voice gentle but firm. "You’ll wear yourself out."

Maeve looked up at him with her bright, mischievous eyes. "I’m not tired, Daddy!" she insisted, though the slight yawn that followed betrayed her words.

Johnny shot Simon an amused glance. "Takes after ye, y’know. Never knows when tae quit."

Simon huffed, but his eyes softened. He moved to sit beside them, wrapping one arm around Johnny’s shoulders and placing a hand on Maeve’s back. The three of them sat there in the quiet, Maeve finally starting to calm down as Johnny hummed softly, rocking her slightly. The fire in her seemed to dim, just for a moment, as she nestled against him, her little fingers clinging to his shirt.

Simon leaned down and pressed a kiss to Johnny’s temple, then one to Maeve’s curls. "She’s a handful," he murmured, though his voice held nothing but love.

"Aye, but she’s ours," Johnny whispered, a smile tugging at his lips as Maeve finally drifted into a light sleep, her fiery energy momentarily snuffed out.

Simon watched them both, feeling a deep sense of peace settle over him. His family. His little firecracker of a daughter and his bright, steadfast partner. This—this was what he fought for. For moments like this.

And even though Maeve would likely be bouncing off the walls again in just a few hours, for now, Simon allowed himself to relax, content to hold them both close.