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

Can't Kill a Roach

LOS VAQUEROS BASE

LAS ALMAS, MEXICO

29 MARCH, 0700

Roach

Roach had always been a quiet man.

His school reports had all said the same things. He was clever beyond his years. A pleasure to have in class. A team player. But that he needed to be more outspoken, and contribute more to class discussions.

Roach hadn't paid much attention to the latter comment. He preferred to keep his thoughts to himself, to take time to consider things from alternative perspectives. Maybe it came from being a bookworm, or from being a middle child growing up in a broken home. Maybe it was just his introverted nature. Whatever it was, he had been this way for as long as he could remember.

Despite his quietness, Roach knew that he was well liked. He was considered approachable, easygoing. Loyal to a fault. A good man. A good soldier.

And that was why he was so caught off-guard when, with no warning, he was thrown up against a wall in the corridors of a Mexican special forces base.

The air gushed out of his lungs, a pressure appeared at his throat. His fingers itched for his gun, forgetting that he was unarmed.

The first thing he noticed was the smell of orange on your breath. It was mixed with mint, as though you had been chewing a fresh stick of gum.

The next thing he noticed was your eyes. You were glaring up at him as though you were trying to tear him apart, dissect him with your gaze. And their colour was familiar. Very familiar.

Bones?

'Who the fuck are you?' You barked.

Roach blinked.

Your forearm was braced against his windpipe, the tip of a blade pricked the tender skin over a pulse point in his neck. You were staring right at him, inches from his face.

He hadn't changed that much over the past few years. Not physically, anyway. He had the same short brown hair, same hazel eyes. The same sensitive skin that burned rather than tanned. He hadn't grown since he'd turned seventeen, and if he was honest, he hadn't gained much muscle since than, either. He was lean and very much average in many aspects.

So he couldn't understand why you didn't seem to recognise him the same way he'd recognised you. Or why you were being so hostile, for that matter.

You pressed harder against his throat, slowly closing off the flow of oxygen to his lungs, but the blade directed at his carotid artery threw out any of Roach's ideas about countering.

Your tone roughened. 'I said, who the fuck are you? Because you look like a man I used to know, you walk like a man I used to know, and you're even staring at me all bug-eyed like a man I used to know. But that sure as shit isn't possible because he fucking died three years ago.'

Interesting.

Roach had learned at an early age that if you were quiet, and you listened, really listened, you could pick up on a lot of things that others would miss.

For example, if Roach had spoken in that moment, interrupted your yelling, then he might have missed the tremble in your voice. The way certain words cracked, like even you were unsure of them. The torn look in your eyes, that told him that there were feelings deeper than anger there. Grief, pain. Disbelief. Betrayal.

You loosened your grip slightly, and for a moment, Roach thought you would release him. But then you slammed him up against the brick again, your grip even tighter than before, and growled, 'lost your fucking voice?'