I Feel It In My Bones (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader)

The Ghost is Haunted

Ghost's POV

The ride back to base had Ghost focusing on his breathing, his gaze fixed on the passing landscape through the van's side window.

Seeing you in his hoodie and one of his old balaclavas, which he had cut in half, knowing you didn't like your whole face being covered, was satisfying. Too satisfying.

He clenched his jaw.

Ghost was aware of what was happening, and he didn't like it.

As he mentally replayed the events of the past month, he tried to pinpoint when it all began. When he started thinking about you, especially when he had far more important things to focus on. When he had cared enough to search for science jokes in his joke book to see you smile. When he started carrying around an extra balaclava in his pocket, just in case. Sometimes, he would even throw his cigarette down before he was finished, quickly scrunching it into the dirt if he saw you approaching. He had been hiding his smoking habit—you were a doctor, after all—and he didn't want to give you any reason to look at him with disappointment.

The arrival of a new member to the task force didn't exactly excite Ghost. It took him some time to adjust to the team dynamics: Soap's constant cheerfulness, Gaz's laid-back demeanour, and Price's paternal leadership. Before joining the task force, Ghost had preferred working alone. And sometimes, he still did, especially during solo missions.

When he had knocked on your door that first night, he had anticipated encountering a fresh-faced doctor, a contractor, or perhaps a seasoned veteran.

What he hadn't expected was you.

He could never have prepared for you.

You swung open the door, the dark circles under your eyes accentuating the resignation and anger in your gaze, barely visible above your balaclava. He noticed the catch in your breath as you took him in—the faint blush on your cheeks that extended just beyond your mask. He had watched as you steeled yourself, as your gaze emptied to nothing but cold depths, as you raised your eyes to meet his own.

It was like looking into a mirror.

Ghost had observed you from a distance during your first week on base, catching glimpses as you trained with Soap, trying to figure you out. You were burdened, carrying your anger with you. It was visible in the hard line of your shoulders—the way your empty gaze occasionally flickered with life, with fire. He recognised the same feelings within himself—the same compartmentalisation he used to keep his own horrors locked away.

When you appeared in the kitchen, he was halfway through a cup of tea, attempting to calm his restless mind. Sleep rarely came easy for him. Ghost detested the lack of control he had in the silence of night, the way his subconscious mind would dredge up the worst moments of his life and play them on repeat, torturing him again and again within his own mind.

His childhood.

His father's laugh.

Roba.

The tree.

The coffin.

The murder of his family.

The death of Simon Riley.

Seeing you humming to yourself as you made a cup of coffee, exhaustion evident as you breathed in the warm scent of your drink, sparked a flicker of curiosity within Ghost. You were young, accomplished, holding a doctorate, and held in high regard by both Laswell and Price. Yet, there was an air of distance and defensiveness about you, reminiscent of a feral cat once cherished but wounded too many times by life's disappointments.

When you settled beside him, Ghost finally had a close-up view of your features—the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, and the arch of your eyebrows. And he'd be damned if he didn't admit that his heart had skipped a beat when you laughed at the lousiest joke he could muster.