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

Déjà Vu: Part Two

The decontamination process was a blur, the wind tunnel effect feeling like a cruel mockery of the storm raging within you. Only two words rung through your mind.

Not again.

Not again.

Not again.

Your team's radio chatter buzzed in your ear, but the words were distant. You shed your hazmat suit, throwing it behind the door to the laboratory as you left. You moved almost mechanically, retracing your steps up the narrow stairwell. When you resurfaced, Graves and the remaining Shadows awaited you, their expressions grim. Without a word, you handed over the secured samples to Graves, the bag feeling strangely heavy. Your voice was rough, even to your ears. 'Where's Ivanov?'

Those grey eyes were on you like a hawk. 'Secured in an outbuilding. Ghost is leading the interrogation.'

You didn't wait for permission.

No sooner than the last syllable had left Graves' mouth, and you were already moving. You stormed out of the old factory, the bitter wind biting at your face above your balaclava.

The outbuilding was a small and weathered structure adjacent to the old factory. Its exterior, draped in a muted shade of grey concrete, pointed to years of exposure to the unforgiving weather.

The door creaked as you entered, the interior dimly lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. A broken desk stood limp and unbalanced. Cobwebs hung like delicate draperies in the corners, weaving tales of stillness and neglect. The ceiling overhead betrayed traces of dampness and mold. Three Shadows stood near the wall, faces disguised by grey balaclavas.

A lone chair, weary and worn, occupied a corner of the room, and in it, tied by coarse rope, sat Ivanov. Sparse, wiry curls of grey hair clung stubbornly to his head, forming an unruly crown. His unshaped beard, a wild thicket of grey, framed a weathered face. Beady eyes, set deep within their sockets, held a mix of defiance and smugness. A trickle of blood ran from his nose, a contrast to his sallow skin.

Ghost stood in front of him, his large frame towering over the aged man. You kept your gaze on Ivanov as your walked forwards, eyes as cold as the winter outside, though your question was directed to your Lieutenant. 'Has he said anything?'

Ghost's eyes flicked to you. 'Not much,' he grunted, flexing his gloved hands.

Your gaze was cold, empty, numb. 'I think it's my turn to try.'

You didn't miss the wariness in Ghost's eyes. 'You're not an interrogation expert, Bones–'

'No,' you cut him off, unsheathing a knife from your holster. 'But I think he'll want to speak with me. From one Doctor to another.' You lowered yourself, and in a swift move, you had the sharp tip of the blade against Ivanov's neck. 'Starik. Would you prefer to talk in English or Russian?' / 'Old man. Would you prefer to talk in English or Russian?'

As predicted, you had captured his interest. He leaned back in his seat - as much as he could with the ropes attaching him to the arms of the chair. His dark eyes appraised you, his gaze sharp and calculating. 'Moy rodnoy yazyk podoydet, devka.' / 'My mother tongue will do fine, whore.'

You bit your cheek, but instead of retaliating, you took a breath. 'Na chem vy rabotali tam? V podvale?' / 'What were you working on down there? In the basement?'

'Itak, ty nashel eto. Vpechatlyayet,' he said with a twisted grin. / 'So, you found it. I'm impressed.'

'Ne sniskhodi ko mne. Chto chertova ty sozdaval? Chego khochet Makarov?' you pressed, pushing the blade further into the thin skin of his neck. A small, watery, bead of blood formed against the cool metal. Behind you, Ghost shifted on his feet. / 'Don't patronise me. What the fuck were you creating? What does Makarov want?'