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𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥

Dark! Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem. reader

Part: 5/?

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Synopsis: Your neighbor, Mr. Riley, is cold, quiet and impossible to read. He helps out a few times—carrying heavy boxes, fixing things—but never sticks around long enough for a 'thank you' that he doesn't even seem to want. Every conversation ends in silence, every interaction feels wrong.

Then his face appears on the news. He's not just unfriendly —he's a wanted fugitive, linked to multiple murders and armed robberies for which he wore a skull mask to hide his identity.

Shaken but relieved he's gone, you try to move on...until the news break that he has escaped.

!MDNI!

cw: SLOW BURN, reader lives alone and is kinda lonely, reader lives in a shitty neighborhood with a high crime rate, Simon seems like a dick (he kinda is, but also not really), mention and slight description of strangulation, criminal! TF141, kidnapping, captivity, restraining, mention of self-harm/suicide (not descriptive), description of a panic attack, criminal! Simons backstory (altered to fit the story), AU, heavy focus on reader interacting with Simon, reader has a panic attack alone,

Tags will be added as the story continues.

wc: 9,4k

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ see the end for author's notes ˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

You only glance at him for a short moment but other than that you let your eyes stay low and unfocused as if it doesn't really matter who's walked in because it's always him.

Let him think you're getting used to that, let him think you're settling in just like he wants.

His boots scuff against the wood as he crosses the threshold.

Something heavy shifts against his side, the faint rustle of a bag and the thump of it hitting his thigh as he walks.

You don't react immediately.

Just another petal, just one more line in the drawing—keeping your eyes low like the sound barely registers.

Only when he walks into the living room fully and the door is closed and locked do you glance up—slow, casual, almost groggy like you'd been fading in and out of focus, not waiting like your heart's been pounding this whole time.

He's carrying a grocery bag in one gloved hand, the other is stuffing the necklace with keys back down his hoodie—out of sight, out of reach.

Ghost pauses near the table, glancing once toward you before setting the bag on the kitchen counter.

He doesn't say anything yet, just moves in that slow and deliberate way of his.

Then he walks toward you, stops a few steps short and places something on the table.

A book.

The cover's worn but intact, the title barely faded.

You blink, having already forgotten that he said he'd bring you one.

It's not new or recently bought—probably second-hand or picked up from somewhere no one would miss it.

But it's real, and it's for you.

"Didn't know what ye liked, so just grabbed one." he says, voice low and even.

You look at it—fiction.

Something he must've thought is enough to keep you calm, slow and engaged.

He studies you while you study the cover.

No threats in his posture, just observation though there seems to be some sort of tension between his shoulders.

"Next time tell me what ye like, 'll look for it." he adds more quietly after a few beats.

You lean forward, letting your fingers brush the edge of the cover like you're unsure whether to take it—like this small offering might burn you.

But you nod softly once, not too eager but trying to match his measured movements.

"Something with...character." you murmur, trying to keep the tone neutral but grateful.

He watches you for a moment longer, nods once in acknowledgment before he turns back to the kitchen and you make it a point to not follow him with your eyes no matter how much you want to.

You hear the fridge open and the sound of paper rustling.

You wait, eyes lowered onto the book, and trace the edges with your thumb.

He brought you something, something just for you.

You don't know if it's because he thinks you deserve it, or because he wants you to believe you do.

But it doesn't matter, you'll use it either way because you know it's true—that if you don't have something to do, you'll go mad.

Every act of care he offers will become another stone in the foundation of your plan, another reason for him to believe you're becoming what he wants.

In the kitchen he opens cabinets, shifts things on shelves.

You don't turn your head.

You just open the book slowly, pretending to skim a page and pretending you haven't snooped through all the cabinets and drawers and know exactly what's in them.

Eventually he comes back into view, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"Food'll last a while longer now." he says like it's meant to reassure you.

You nod, subdued, and look at him with just enough of a tilt of your eyebrows that it could suggest gratitude.

He tilts his head slightly, like he's still trying to read something under your expression.

But there's nothing there, at least nothing you let him see.

Just stillness, obedience—just the perfect amount of gratitude from someone who's too tired to plan and too resigned to try.

And it seems to work because Ghost just nods again before taking his usual seat on the couch—near, but not hovering.

Watching, settled, satisfied even.

The only sound left is the soft rustle of the book's pages as you turn one, eyes skimming a story you're not really reading.

You're not in it for the fiction, you're in it for the chance to keep pretending and the closer he moves toward trust the closer you get to the door—to freedom.

You turn another page, slow enough that it seems like you're following the plot.

From the couch Ghost leans back, arms stretching across the top edge like he owns every inch of space you're not occupying.

He's not staring hard, at least not enough for it to look like a threat, but you feel it.

The weight of it, of his eyes on you.

You let him think it doesn't bother you.

"Didn't take long." you say lightly, your eyes still on the book.

It's not a question, not exactly, but it's enough to let him answer if he wants to.

His reply is slow and almost careful.

"Didn't need to. Just grabbed what was needed."

Something in his tone makes you think that only he decides what counts as 'needed', that you wouldn't get a say in it even if you wanted.

You hum, turn another page like it matters.

"Guess you don't like being away from here long." a statement, a quiet testing of the water.

Ghosts head tilts slightly but from the corner of your eye, just below the shadow the cap throws over his face, you can see his eyes narrow slightly.

"Guess not."

Nothing else, no explanation.

You pretend to read, letting a beat of silence pass before you speak again—casual, as if you're talking about the weather.

"I don't think I've ever met someone who spends so much time indoors."

There's a pause, a faint scrape of fabric as he shifts forward and rests his elbows on his knees.

"Home's where ye keep what matters."

You glance up—just a flick, just enough for your eyes to meet his before dropping back to the page.

"Guess that makes sense..."

It's an easy agreement, one that doesn't give anything away, but inside you're filing it away.

Home. What matters.

The fridge hums, rain starts to tap against the boards covering the windows.

Ghost leans back again, seemingly satisfied with your answer.

You let your fingers idly smooth the corner of the page, keep the act going.

A small, tired twitch of the corners of your lips as if the book's distracted you from the walls pressing in.

A glance his way, just long enough to look like you're getting used to him being there.

The slower you move, the more you seem to accept this, the more he'll start to talk and when he does you'll learn what really makes him tick.

You continue dragging your eyes over the page, though none of the words stick.

The quiet scratches at your nerves—too thick, too close.

The cold creeps in around the edges, through the boards, through the thin cotton of the t-shirt he gave you now that you're not walking around anymore and looking for chances to get out of your cage.

You rub at your arm absently, letting the motion seem casual but a small shiver slips through before you can smother it.

Ghost notices—of course he does.

He's eying you like a hawk and even though he seems to try to be subtle about it, his gaze pricks your skin uncomfortably.

His head tilts slightly, a pause, then the scrape of the couch as he leans back fully.

"Cold?" he asks.

You hesitate, weighing it.

Admitting weakness feels dangerous, but refusing when it's obvious might look worse.

"...A little." you respond, the words are soft and reluctant like you only said them because he asked—which you did, technically.

He rises slowly, every movement underlined with weight.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he crouches by the fireplace, makes use of the untouched fire starter kit.

He doesn't look at you while he feeds the fire, just stacks the kindling with practiced motions.

It grows quickly, snapping and spitting until the room starts warming by degrees.

"Better?" he asks without turning, voice low over the crackle.

"...Yeah. Thanks." you nod careful and small.

He glances over his shoulder, the shadows shifting over his eyes and they linger on you for a beat longer than necessary before he stands and brushes his gloves against his thighs.

"Ye should've said sooner." it's not a scolding, it's more like an expectation—a reminder that he notices everything.

You lower your eyes to the book again.

"Didn't want to bother you."

That earns you silence—heavy, thoughtful silence.

You risk a glance up and catch him still watching you, something unreadable in the set of his shoulders.

Then he moves back to the couch, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly as he leans against his knees.

The firelight catches the side of his mask, sharp angles made sharper by the flicker of orange.

You smooth your thumb along the edge of a page casually before you close the book.

If you want to make your plan work, you have to engage with him no matter how much you don't want to—no matter how nauseous it makes you feel, no matter how much it makes your skin crawl.

"You've done this before." you say, eyes carefully searching his.

His head tilts, just slightly.

"Done what?"

"Kept a place like this stocked. Organized."

You let the words sound half-curious, half idle—like you're just making conversation, not trying to pry.

His eyes don't leave you.

"...Suppose I have." he responds after a moment, after a beat too long as if he considered answering at all.

You hum softly, as if satisfied but continue to press carefully.

"So...what, like military? Or just the kind of person who likes things neat?" you ask.

You can't shake the feeling that his precise movements and his overall control is a simple thing he just has, it seems trained—plus the chain around his neck he keeps hidden under his clothes holds at least one dog tag, if you saw right.

There's a pause, just long enough for you to wonder if you've nudged too far, then he shifts back against the couch.

"Little of both."

You nod, letting a small smile flicker like you're indulging him.

"Makes sense."

"Bet your friends don't keep things as tidy." you add after another beat, deliberately lighter.

That earns a short sound—low, almost amused under the mask.

"Not even close."

You chuckle short and soft, enough to make it seem like you're sharing a moment and not probing for cracks.

But inside, you're picking it apart and trying to memorize every tiny crumb he feeds you.

Friends, messy, different from him.

Maybe even a point of tension, but trust and favors since he told them to watch you and make sure you're still there.

Loyal because they do their criminal work together without stabbing each other's backs.

The fire pops sharply, sending sparks up the chimney.

You shift in your chair, curling slightly closer to the warmth as your eyes swim to the fire as well.

On the surface, it's casual and harmless—but every word you draw from him is another thread to hold onto, another shape forming in the shadow of the man who cages you here.

And you know you'll need every piece of it, every piece of that monster who had no issue with almost killing you just to say he wants you safe.

The fire builds, licking at the logs until the shadows dance higher along the walls.

The warmth creeps toward you steadily, loosening the tight ache in your shoulders.

You keep quiet and let the silence stretch like you're comfortable in it.

Ghost doesn't let it sit long.

"Ye read much before?" he asks, voice quiet, like it doesn't matter to him whether you answer or not.

You blink once, feigning a slow pull back to awareness even though his voice almost made you flinch.

"Sometimes." you shrug careful and light, glancing down at the book in your lap.

"Not as much as I could've and should've, probably." you admit a moment later.

He hums—deep, neutral.

You can't tell if he's filing that away like you have been every of his words or if he's actually just trying to hold a conversation.

"What'd ye do, then?" he asks after a beat.

"For all that time ye weren't reading."

The question hangs there, deceptively simple—casual on the surface but you know that if you're not careful with your answer, your words might just get used against you in one way or another.

You keep your tone level when you respond.

"Work, friends, just...normal things. Nothing interesting." you settle as your answer, shrugging slightly as if your life before you knew he existed is a distant memory you don't care about.

His gaze lingers like he's weighing the truth in your words, like he's measuring you against some unspoken picture he already has in his head—exactly what you expected him to do.

"Normal's not bad." he states after a moment.

Your lips twitch into something that could pass for agreement.

"Guess not."

The silence returns but it feels different this time like you've both given each other something small and unimportant but still a piece of yourselves.

You open the book again, pretend to read.

Then, gently, you nudge back.

"Guess you don't get much of that. Normal, I mean."

He knows what you're referring to, you're sure of it.

Living as a criminal and hiding in plain sight while one's hands are slick with blood isn't really the definition for normalcy.

Ghost's head turns toward the fire.

The mask shifts slightly as he exhales, not exactly deeply but still a bit heavier.

"...Not really."

You let your gaze linger on him for half a heartbeat before dropping it again as if you're only curious, not digging.

"Must feel strange..." you murmur, softer now "...staying still for once."

He doesn't answer right away, just leans back with his arms spread across the top of the couch again and claiming the space.

"Doesn't feel wrong." he finally says.

Your fingers press against the spine of the book to keep steady.

There it is—a small piece you can use to your advantage because he wants a quiets life, normalcy, but didn't have it before.

You nod, slow to feign satisfaction in the answer but internally don't let yourself relax in the slightest because you know better.

He's asking questions too, he's searching for pieces the same way you are.

And the more you both play this game of small exchanges, the clearer it becomes—whoever slips first loses.

The fire keeps cracking in the hearth, the smell of smoke and burning cherry oak curling faintly into the room.

You let the warmth settle into your skin, enjoy it while it lasts because fires don't seem to be lit here often.

Ghost shifts, his gloved hands pressing against his knees as he pushes himself up.

You keep your eyes on the dancing flames, tracking his motion from the corner of your vision as he walks to the front door.

The locks scrape and click, heavy and metallic, each one undone with deliberate care.

The sound makes the hair on your arms and neck stand up.

You tighten your grip on the book, force your gaze to the page now like it doesn't matter that he's working on the door—like it isn't dangerous that he's opening the one exit that stands between you and freedom.

The door creaks.

Cold air brushes through the room, stirring the firelight.

The smell of rain and wet earth follows not soon after and it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

You're so close yet so far of getting out, of getting away but Ghost is a brick wall you can't break through and you know that.

He'd slam you back into the furthest wall of the cabin the second a single strand of your hair gets a fleeting taste of freedom.

You hear the rasp of a lighter, the faint inhale, then the soft exhale of smoke.

He doesn't step outside onto the small porch you can barely make out behind the door, doesn't even give you the illusion of a chance—a small mercy at least.

He's leaning with his back against the doorframe, his body a solid shadow against the grey spill of daylight beyond the cabin door with his mask rolled up just enough to expose his lips so he can smoke.

'He's not a frequent smoker' you think.

This is the first time you've seen him smoke, the smell of cigarettes isn't in the cabin either and the smell of smoke on his jacket doesn't come from cigarettes—you're sure of that.

The silence stretches again, but not comfortably—it's tense on your end.

It's a test, a trap with razor sharp teeth.

"Place ye worked..." Ghost says finally after a few drags, his voice carried by the fresh air coming from outside "...ye like it?"

Your heart jolts at the casualness.

You wet your lips, tilt your head slightly like you're weighing the memory.

"It was fine." you answer.

You could tell him how much you hated going to work in that company every day, but you decide against it.

Not only because you don't want him to think that you hated anything in your life before it became this, but also because right now you kind of miss it.

You miss interacting with other people, even if they were nosy and annoying.

"Nothing special. Paid the bills." you add.

He exhales smoke after having taken another drag as you talked, a faint plume catching the gust of wind before vanishing.

"People treat ye alright?"

It sounds simple on the surface but you know it isn't.

He's watching how you answer, how you react to all of it.

You nod once, this time deciding for a half truth you can believe yourself.

"Mostly. Everyone's got someone they don't get along with though. It's just how people are." you shrug soft and harmless.

There's a beat of silence, then the faint grind of the cigarette as he flicks ash out into the cold.

"Suppose so."

You risk your own nudge, keeping it light.

"And you? Ever do that kind of thing?"

The shadow of his shoulders stiffens just slightly but his voice stays even.

"No. Not my sort of work."

You hum like that's all you wanted to know but you're turning it over and pressing on the edges of it to see what kind of use you can get out of that information.

The silence lingers, heavy with things he doesn't ask and answers you therefore don't give.

The locks clank one after the other, slow and firm, as he shuts the door and seals it again after crushing the cigarette under his boot.

He turns and pulls his hood down a fraction, just enough for the firelight to catch the dark hollows of his eyes.

Ghosts watch flashes briefly at his wrist when he adjusts his sleeve, then disappears again under the fabric.

"Hungry?" he asks, tone flat but not unkind.

" 's kinda late already."

Your stomach twists—not just at the thought of food, but at the reminder that time is slipping in ways you can't mark.

You crush the thought of asking what time it is exactly because you're certain he won't give you an answer or that, if he gives you one, it will throw you off enough to loose your act since you don't even know what day it is anymore.

You glance at the fire, then down at the book again before answering.

"...Yeah. I could eat."

Ghost nods satisfied like that's what he wanted to hear, then he pauses mid-step towards the kitchen.

He watches you for a few very long moments, not moving a single muscle before he suddenly begins to move.

He's coming towards you with certain steps, not rushed but determined.

This in itself already makes you panic but when you look up to see how close he already is and notice that his eyes are narrowed, you almost break into a cold and panicked sweat.

He stops in front of you, stares for another second before his gloved hand suddenly grabs your chin and almost your entire jaw.

Your breath hitches in fear involuntarily, the familiar fabric of his gloved hands near your throat enough to almost make you scream—to take the chance you didn't get last time.

But you smother that thought, that instinct, before it can take root.

You don't know what his intention is yet, acting too fast might make things more difficult for you.

Ghost's voice cuts through the tension, his narrowed eyes fixed on your neck.

"What's that?" he asks and his tone is different from before—it's lower, more commanding and therefore turning his question into a statement.

He's not asking you to tell him, he's telling you to do so.

"What..?" you question in return, oblivious to what he's referring to.

"The scratch marks on yer fucking neck." he responds angrily, almost in a growl, his eyes snapping up to meet yours.

"Scratch..marks..?" you question once more, trying to force your voice to be steady.

Scratch marks? Why would there be scratch marks on your neck?

Your fingers twitch against the book in your lap, nails digging lightly into the worn paper to ground yourself and deny yourself moving away from his hand still holding your jaw.

His grip on your chin doesn't hurt, not yet, but it's solid and unshakable—he could tilt your head any way he wanted and you'd have no say in it.

The heat of the fire and the smell of the smoke suddenly feel suffocating.

Your mind reels back, trying to find the reason for the scratch marks.

You go back to the time period he was gone, knowing the answer has to lay there.

In a rapid blur you fly through your memories until you find the answer.

The pressure of his hands around your throat, the desperate, clawing panic until your body sunk in under the lack of oxygen it kept from itself after you touched his jacket and all the memories came flooding back from how he even got you into this cabin in the first place.

Now you remember—the panic attack you had in his room.

You forced yourself to keep moving to find weak spots in your prison afterwards, causing you to push that incident into the back of your mind until you forgot about it—until now.

You blink fast, force your voice into something small but certain.

"I...I must've scratched myself."

His eyes narrow even more, the rest of his face still hidden underneath the mask and the hood of his hoodie—giving you only his eyes as an indication of what he might think or feel.

He clearly doesn't buy it, not yet.

"When?" he asks sharply.

Your throat tightens under his hand and you swallow while trying not to make it obvious.

"...Earlier. I was drawing and I guess I...wasn't paying attention. Must've done it without noticing."

It sounds weak even to you, but it's all you have.

His thumb brushes against your jaw, slow and deliberate—a ghost of pressure that leaves a burning feeling in the trail his thumb leaves behind.

You freeze, everything in you screaming not to flinch or pull away.

"Absentminded." he mutters, the word grates.

You nod, quick, as though agreeing will make him let go.

"Yeah. Didn't even realize until you pointed it out."

Another long pause as hiss hand lingers.

His eyes bore into yours like he's stripping away the lie piece by piece.

A log in the fire pops, crumbling in the flame—the sound makes you want to jump, dangerously close to tripping over the tension.

But finally, his hand drops.

He straightens, shadow stretching taller across the room.

"Need to be more careful." his voice is flat again, almost calm, but the edge in it remains.

You rub your palm quickly across your throat and jaw, brushing away the phantom ache of his grip.

"...I will." you agree quietly, hoarseness in your voice even though you tried to sound sure.

He studies you a second longer before turning steadily back toward the kitchen.

You don't breathe until his back is to you, until he opens a cupboard.

The warmth from the fire doesn't reach your skin anymore.

It doesn't matter how carefully you lie, how steady you keep your mask—Ghost sees too much.

And if he looks long enough, you're terrified he'll see everything.

The cupboard he opened closes again, a aluminum can gets set down on the counter.

You force yourself to shift slightly in your chair, casual, a quiet hum in your throat like you're trying to settle back into comfort.

He glances at you once, quick but sharp, then returns his attention to what he's doing in the kitchen.

The silence weighs heavy, almost unbearable, until he breaks it.

"Ye like soup?"

Your head snaps up before you can stop yourself.

The question is so startlingly mundane that it disarms you for a beat and you just respond without thinking.

"Um...yeah. I do."

He nods once, as though cataloguing it, then sets two cans aside.

Even if you didn't like soup, would it matter?

He gave you soup to eat already, so why would he ask now?

You grip the edge of the book tighter.

Even this, the simple act of asking what you like, feels like another test—another layer of control dressed as care.

He pulls a pot from under the counter, sets it on the stove.

The soft hiss of the burner clicking fills the air, followed by the slow glug of liquid pouring.

For a while it's just the sounds of him moving in the kitchen and he doesn't speak again until the soup is heating.

"Ye ever cook?"

Your mouth goes dry for a moment, still fighting the phantom ache.

"Sometimes."

He glances at you over his shoulder, unreadable under the mask.

"Good."

That single word hangs in the room like an anchor and you can't tell if it's approval, a reminder or a warning.

You shift your eyes back to the fire, hiding the way your shoulders tense.

The smell of simmering broth curls into the air, filling the cabin.

You close the book, lay it carefully on the table beside you and draw your knees closer to yourself.

For a moment, you let yourself pretend it's just dinner—just two people at the end of the day, one cooking, one reading by the fire.

But the phantom ache at your throat drags you back fast and you know that you can't afford to forget, not even for a second, what he did to you or what he's capable of—who he is.

The fire snaps beside you, the smell of simmering broth blending with smoke and burning wood.

Ghost stirs the pot with unhurried motions, his back broad and solid in the low light.

Every scrape of the utensil feels deliberate, like he knows the silence is pressing you down.

You try not to fidget.

You fold your arms loosely across your stomach, shift your legs under the chair, then force yourself still again.

Any more movement and it'll look nervous, restless—the kind of thing he'd notice, the kind of thing he'd pry into.

But your skin still tingles where his hand had held your jaw, your throat burns from the passed weight of his fingers closing around it.

You wonder how much of that you can take before something in you buckles, before the act slips and before you break.

He doesn't have to strangle you again for that to happen.

His touch, even when it's just a brush of his thumb and even when it's disguised as care, presses down on something inside you until you feel yourself fraying.

How many more times can you sit through it?

How many more times can you let him test the edges of your faked obedience before the panic pushes through and ruins everything?

The scrape of the plastic utensil in the pot stops.

He sets it aside, turns, and leans back against the counter.

His arms fold across his chest, casual but watchful.

You look down quickly to pretend interest in the fire again, though you can feel the heat of his stare even through the shadow the hood throws over his eyes.

The silence stretches until your chest aches with it and somewhere, deep down, you know he doesn't believe your lie—he just doesn't press because he wants you to torture yourself in it.

The smell of food thickens in the air, mixing with the smoke from the fire more noticeably.

It should be comforting but instead it presses heavy against your chest.

Ghost stays leaned against the counter, arms folded, head tipped slightly up so he can watch you from between the edge of his mask and the hood—not taking off either or exchanging the black surgical mask for the balaclava with the print.

The light makes the dark hollows of his eyes sharper, more cavernous.

His voice cuts through the low crackle of the flames.

"Travel much?"

You shift slightly, rubbing your thumb along a spot of the armchair.

"Not really." your tone is quiet, subdued.

Ghost hums low, not breaking his stare.

"Never wanted to?"

You force your shoulders to lift in a faint shrug, as though the thought never mattered much.

"Sure. But wanting something and getting it aren't the same thing."

That earns you a pause, a heavy one.

He doesn't move or look away—he studies you like he's measuring the truth behind every word and any implication that might be hiding behind it.

You risk a gentle push, careful and feather-light.

"...You have, though?"

It's not a question, not really, and now you're the one watching closely and waiting.

There's the faintest shift in his posture, a tightening across his shoulders before he lets out a low sound—neither confirmation nor denial, just a breath.

"Had to." he finally says.

Had to.

Not wanted to, probably didn't choose to.

You note the wording and lock it away.

"Sounds like you didn't like it much." you murmur, your voice soft and non-confrontational.

Ghosts head tilts a fraction, the black mask getting a golden glow in the firelight.

"Doesn't matter if ye like it. Ye just do it."

You let the words hang there, let him think you're too tired to press or understand what he means.

Inside your pulse keeps drumming a little faster because every small crack, every piece of his past he doesn't mean to give you, is another thread you can pull.

And you wonder how many of those threads you can collect before the whole thing unravels, before his touch and his voice and his scrutiny finally make you slip—hopefully you'll have enough threads by then to pin him down.

The fire pops, a sharp snap that makes you flinch before you can mask it.

Ghost doesn't miss it, he never does.

He leans back in the counter again, one arm resting casual but deliberate on it.

"Ye've been sittin' in that chair since Ah left." he says evenly, not quiet gruff but not quiet casual either.

Your stomach knots.

It's not what he's saying, not directly at least, it's the weight underneath it—the subtle push as if he wants you to break and say you've snooped around like he already knows you did, at least that's what it feels like.

You lower your eyes back to the book on the table, force your voice steady.

"I was tired, it was easier to stay put."

A hum rumbles low from Ghost, unreadable and he drums two fingers against his thigh slowly like a ticking clock.

"Mm." he hums "Just doesn't look like ye, is all."

Your throat goes tight.

He's not accusing, not yet, but brushing right against the line of it.

You draw in a small breath, keep your reply soft and almost dismissive—too scared to even question how he thinks he knows what you're usually like.

"Guess I'm not myself lately."

That earns you another silence, long enough that you almost look up to check his expression.

But then he hums in acknowledgment before you raise your gaze.

"Suppose that's true." Ghost murmurs finally, leaning his hips further against the counter.

The way he says it makes your skin prickle.

As if he knows there's more to it, like he's waiting for the moment you slip and knows exactly how to get you to that point.

The silence feels thick, like tar you're trying to breath through.

You start tracing the armrest of the chair again, grounding yourself and focusing.

Ghost doesn't let it go.

His voice cuts through the crackle of the fire again, steady and close to conversational.

"Funny, though. Ye're usually fidgetin' more."

Your thumb on the armrest presses into the cold wood as you force yourself to stay composed, to stay soft and not snap.

"Guess I'm tired of pacing." you say with a ghost of a shrug "Doesn't get me anywhere."

He tilts his head again, the shadows shifting across his masked face again.

"So ye've given up?"

The words sting and you can't tell if it's because of how sharp they are or because of the trap underneath them.

You force yourself to exhale slowly through your nose, desperately trying to find a response that won't give away your act while still being convincing and egging him on to lower his guard.

If you were to tell him that yes, you have given up, he'd be suspicious and if you tell him you haven't given up he'll keep the walls high and unyielding.

"Just...trying to save my energy." you settle to say carefully, skin prickling with possible consequences to your words.

Another pause, another hum—he's weighing it.

Then he leans his upper body forward slightly, crossing his arms over his chest while his hip stays pressed against the counter.

"Guess 's just strange, that."

You almost break.

You almost ask what's strange, almost yell at him and admit that you've searched around the cabin for an escape in hopes of damage control if you admit—but you bite it back.

If he wants to press, let him.

Don't give him the satisfaction of chasing it.

He waits like he expects you to fill the silence but when you don't, he speaks again.

"Strange seein' ye quiet when ye used to talk to yerself."

Your chest tightens.

He's right.

You used to fill the silence with mutters, half-thoughts, scraps of noise—not anymore.

Now every word you spend is measured, rationed and too draining to just throw out.

You press your lips together then let out a small, practiced chuckle.

"Perhaps I'm running out of things to say."

Ghost doesn't laugh with you.

He just watches, still and heavy, as though he's trying to peel your skin back to see what's underneath.

"Hmm." he hums, tone unreadable "Don't reckon that's it."

The fire cracks louder, the heat pressing against your skin.

You feel like you're suffocating in it—in him, his questions, the silence between .

He leans back again finally slow and deliberate which makes your heart stutters because you don't know if that means you've passed his test or if he's simply letting you sweat a little longer before the next one.

Ghost doesn't move, doesn't speak.

He just stands there, head tilted the slightest degree and eyes pinned to you through the shadows of his mask.

The air feels tight in your lungs.

How much longer can you hold this?

How much longer before he sees the cracks, the act slipping?

You're getting anxious and paranoid in the silence he leaves, in his gaze constantly trying to pick you apart.

Your fingers itch to rub at your neck again but you don't dare, not while he's watching you this way.

The silence stretches like he's daring you to say something first.

Your pulse thunders in your throat.

You wonder how much of his silence you can continue to take before you break, before the words would spill raw and unguarded from your mouth in an attempt to earn at least some mercy—your mind keeps spinning back to it, again and again without you being able to help it.

But just as you wonder that again, he exhales.

Low and steady, the edge snapping clean at the breath.

Ghost leans further against the counter, stretching an arm along the top like he's claimed the whole space again while the predator's focus softens if only just.

"Food." he says simply, voice back to that flat and practical tone "Need t' eat somethin' before it gets darker."

You almost sag with relief, but you catch yourself before it shows.

"Okay." you nod, careful.

He turns back to the pot he sat aside, the weight of his presence easing as he turns away from you.

The firelight flickers over the back of his shoulders, the black fabric of his hoodie shifting as he moves.

Already, he's slid back into that strange rhythm of caretaker and captor all at once—tightening the leash then loosening it, just enough to keep you walking in step.

And you know it's not because he cares, it's control and tactics.

The kitchen seems so small when he moves inside it—too quiet, too deliberate.

You swallow once, twice.

Your throat feels tight like his hand is still there, like he saw everything.

He didn't, he couldn't have—you were careful, you were.

You even wiped down the handles of the drawers with your sleeve, erasing any trace you might could've left behind.

But the way he stared just now...you can't shake it, can't stop replaying it.

You can't stop imagining him standing in his room earlier, looking at the jacket you touched, the things you moved, the air you disturbed-

Stop.

You force your expression softer and force it to turn into something tired, something calm and settled—exactly the way you've trained yourself to look, exactly what you expect him to want you to look like.

Behind you, he stirs the soup.

The soft scrape of the metal spoon against the pot's sides fills the room.

It shouldn't feel threatening, but it does and you can't shake the thought that he's testing you—still testing you.

He's waiting for you to make a mistake, to flinch at the wrong time, to answer too fast or too slow or too honest or not honest enough.

Your heart pounds but you tip your head slightly toward the kitchen and pretend to listen with mild interest, not fear.

The burner clicks off and footsteps follow.

Ghost steps into your periphery holding two bowls—steam curling from both, carrying the faint smell of processed vegetables and salt.

He sets one in front of you, his gloved hand lingers a second too long near yours.

Your pulse stumbles.

"Eat." he says quietly, gruff and rough like usual.

A command, a 'caring' one—dangerous one.

You wrap both hands around the bowl, letting the warmth soak into the cold of your fingers.

You take a slow sip using the spoon, the hot broth burns your tongue but you don't let it show.

Ghost sits across from you on the couch, not too close but close enough that you can feel him watching you even when he lowers his head toward his own bowl—his body and face angled away from you as he seems to just stir the soup around.

You lift your spoon again, intentionally steady.

You can't let him see how your mind is sprinting, still worrying and panicking.

Does he know? Did he notice something out of place?

Did you put everything back exactly right?

The jacket, the drawer, the duffle bag in his closet, the angle of the door handle leading to his room?

"Yer jumpy tonight."

Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth for a moment, then you force the soup into your mouth and swallow as you make it look like you're thinking and not startled.

"Just tired." you say softly.

You angle your gaze downward, let your lashes lower—a quiet confession that gives him nothing.

He hums.

A low, thoughtful sound that curls down your spine in the worst way.

The fire cracks again, the rain keeps tapping the boards and the soup steams between you.

"Mm." Ghost hums once more after a beat, still not making a move to actually eat.

"Yer thinkin' hard."

Your stomach knots so sharply you almost choke on your next sip but still you force a faint smile, making it look small and embarrassed—like you've been caught daydreaming about something harmless, not spiraling into paranoia.

"Just...the book." you lie, nodding toward the worn cover on the table.

His eyes lift slightly and you feel the weight of them even more behind the mask.

"Right."

He doesn't sound convinced but he doesn't sound unconvinced either.

He sounds like he's marking your answer, like he's sliding it into some internal ledger you'll never see.

You take another slow spoonful pretending the warmth calms you, pretending the tension isn't suffocating you from the inside.

It doesn't seem like Ghost is eating, more like he's toying with the food.

But every few seconds, you feel his eyes rise to you again.

Measuring and circling you, trying to see what your silence hides.

Maybe trying to see how much pressure it takes before you crack but you concentrate to breathe evenly, to not keep spiraling—to not show the terror clawing at your ribs, to not let him see how desperately you want to run.

Because right now, just like every moment he forces himself into your space and conscious, Ghost is watching for the smallest slip—the slightest tremor, the tiniest truth you might be hiding under lies.

And you refuse to give him any of it, even as your hands shake around the warm metal bowl.

Even as he studies you like he already knows you lied and is only waiting for the moment you prove him right.

You don't look at him as you eat, focus on your own bowl of soup instead—an attempt to keep the paranoia rising at bay.

From your peripheral vision, you can see that the the black surgical mask he put on is lowered below his chin.

You're still wondering what he looks like, what you'd see if you looked at him now with a face bare and only the cap throwing a shadow over his eyes.

You've wondered about a beard already, a nose broken too many times or scars or any form of disfigurement on his face.

Maybe his face is looking as cruel as he is?

Perhaps his face is as violent as he is? As ugly as the things he's done?

A part of you wants to know, yearns to take a peek, but you don't let yourself.

You keep staring into the broth of your soup, chewing bits you don't even care to taste.

He doesn't ask more questions, doesn't talk or pry anymore for the rest of dinner or lunch or whatever this is.

You wonder what it means that he's willing to let you see him bare faced, to give you the chance of looking at him without a mask and cover.

If you'd look, what would happen?

Would he use it as an excuse to do something? To scold or punish you? Yell or harm?

Or would he maybe even like it? Find some kind of twisted satisfaction in it?

You don't know and you don't want to find out, not now and hopefully not forced to ever.

Ghost is done eating before you are.

He doesn't set his bowl down on the table, doesn't stay seated until you're done—he just adjusts the mask back over the lower part of his face and stands up with the bowl in hand that you can't help but notice looks almost comedically small in his hand.

You watch him discreetly as he turns his back on you and walks into the kitchen, his upper body clearly visible over the U-shaped counters.

The metal bowl and spoon clink against the sink when he puts them in before he turns the tab on.

You eat a bit slower as you watch him move, watch him pull open the locked drawer with the chain of keys around his neck.

He doesn't put the chain back on immediately, stuffs it into the front pocket of his black cargo pants instead.

Your burnt tongue still feels tender and rough when it brushes over the thin skin at the roof of your mouth as you swallow another bite.

You watch him put some dish soap into the filling sink, then put the bottle down next to it.

He's not just hiding cutlery and knives from you, even something simple as dish soap gets hidden from you but he gave you a notebook and pen and even the ceramic mug from the tea he gave you before he left is still sitting on the table.

You're not sure if it's deliberate, not thought over or carless though the latter feels unlikely.

You finish your soup, put the spoon in it and it clinks against the bowl as you move to set it down on the table.

Before you can though, Ghost extends his hand behind him and curls his fingers to beckon you to give you the bowl without turning or even looking at you.

For a moment, this reminds you of how he was back in the apartment complex before you knew who he truly was—before he was arrested, before he told his friends to watch you, check if you left, change your heater and before he ultimately escaped confinement.

You remember that raining morning, the day after he helped you with your coffee maker and carried it the rest upstairs to your apartment door, when he ignored your 'good morning' and walked past you as if you weren't even worth acknowledging.

For a moment you hesitated, caught up in the memories of your life across from him before he took it in his own hands, then you get up.

Automatically you grab the mug as well before getting up from the safe feeling comfort of the armchair and step closer to the kitchen, closer towards him.

You walk steady and fast, not too fast though—simply enough to make it look like you're not expecting him to do something other than take the bowl and mug from you, though deep down your stomach tingles with worry and unease.

A few feet behind him you come to a halt, just close enough to his still extended hand to reach the content of your hands out to him when you extent your arms.

He still doesn't look at you, the gloves he always seems to wear already pulled off the hand not extended and revealing thick, calloused fingers—small faded scars spanning across the back of his hands and fingers.

Some look thinner but longer, others short and thicker while one seems so deep that it's visibly raised from his skin just below the knuckle of his index and middle finger.

You blink to stop yourself from staring, only noticing you have been staring when the ungloved tips of his fingers dip into the soapy water to test the warmth.

To conceal the fact you were staring and don't make it seem like you were hesitating, you put the mug in the bowl as well and hold the edge of the metal as you raise the arm holding it and extend it towards his hand for his taking.

Instead of taking it the same way you're holding it though, Ghost takes the bowl by the bottom with his palm and closes his fingers around the middle of it until they graze the edge and trap your fingers between his gloved ones and the warmed metal.

You watch the movement of his fingers, watch it happen and yet don't pull away to stop the contact from happening—force yourself not to even though your heart races and your throat closes.

What were you supposed to do? Drop the bowl? Let the mug shatter on the floor?

Once you feel like the bowl balances steady in his palm and that all responsibility should it fall is off you, you pull away.

It's hastier than you would've liked, hastier than a perfect hostage would pull away—he doesn't comment on it.

He just takes the bowl, lowers it into the sink with a small splash before removing his other glove.

He doesn't react to the touch,as if he didn't even notice it—doesn't even look at you before his hands dip into the sink and grab a sponge.

You turn before you walk back to the living area where you grab the notebook, pen and book.

You need to take a breath, get some distance from him—as much as you can have, anyways.

The fire in the hearth is already starting to burn out since he only put a few logs in, so this room doesn't provide even an inch of comfort anymore.

Ghost doesn't turn around to you until you start making your way to the hallway, then he turns to look at you sharply.

His shoulder twist and his entire head whips around to you, the quick and almost violent looking motion making you pause with a slight flinch automatically.

"What're ye doin'?" he asks, his voice practically booming through the space separating you from him.

"I'm tired." you say after a moment, after you manage to shove the initial shock down.

Ghost's eyes narrow and you think he's about to tell you to sit back down since his shoulders are also still tense, but then he nods—just once and slow in obvious reluctant permission, that's all you need.

You force your head and gaze forward, make your feet carry you into the hallway that's only illuminated by the light coming from the overhead lamp of the living room.

Your heart's still beating faster than usual, not exactly racing but close to it, as you walk the few steps down the hallway to the second door on the left—your room.

The door is still slightly ajar and you push it open fully before slipping inside and closing it behind you.

You inhale shakily but quiet.

You feel drained, exhausted—a feeling that's so familiar and so unfamiliar at the same time that it makes your stomach clench because you only knew it from work.

Never had you thought you'd miss it—the meetings, the paperwork, fluorescent tube lighting, the humming of the printer, the useless conversation with co-workers who only bothered learning your name but nothing more, the war's over the coffee machine, the mindless greetings and niceties of goodbye or taking more work than you were supposed to because your boss couldn't get his own work done—but now you do, terribly so.

You miss work.

You miss the luxury of boredom, miss the half-hearted smiles of co-workers, miss talking to them, you miss having something to do and you miss the control over your own life.

You miss your parents, you miss your friends you left behind in your hometown, miss the few people you got to know after moving to Manchester.

You miss your neighbors, not all of them but some like Mrs. Alleen even though you never had the interest in gossip and rumors she had.

You even miss that guy from 4B, the apartment above you, who'd sometimes blast his music until three or four in the morning.

You miss your apartment, the crack in one of the tiles in the bathroom, the water that never stayed warm for more than a few minutes before Ghost's companions switched your old heater for a new one, you miss the groaning of the old apartment complex when it seemed to settle for the night.

You miss walking up the stairs to the third floor because the elevator was never fixed, miss walking to the subway for work.

Tears rise into your eyes, burn hot and wet on the surface of your cornea as your throat closes up with the realization that you took everything you had for granted—that everything you had has been taken from you for being nice, for being polite.

Ghost's word echo in your head as you blink the tears away and put the book, notebook and pen down on the desk.

'You were the only one who treated me with politeness in that place.'

If he meant what he said, if it's true and kindness does have teeth, when does his 'kindness' of strangling, kidnapping and holding you captive bite him?

You just hope it bites him quick, sharp and tearing him apart as fast as possible.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

When you wake the next morning, eyes feeling puffy from tears you weren't entirely successful of keeping down the night before while falling asleep, the cabin is quiet.

No creaking of furniture or floorboards, no footsteps.

You take your time to sit up and get out of bed, your bladder forcing you out of what little comfort your room gives so you can use the bathroom.

Slowly you open your door, then take a careful step outside—the cabin stays oddly silent when you do.

You step out of your room fully, peek into the living room and at the couch where Ghost usually sits but he's not there.

Is he gone?

You decide to ignore your almost aching bladder and walk down the hallway, keeping your footsteps light as you step into the main room of the cabin.

He isn't in the kitchen either, though there is a metal plate on the kitchen counter with breakfast that seems to have gone cold.

You glance at the door—the locks are gone which makes your brows furrow.

You look behind you, back into the dark hallway, but there's no sign of Ghost.

Rather confused and perplexed you turn your body back to the hallway and walk it down, stopping at the door right opposite of yours which leads to his room—listening for sounds, a sign that he might be only testing you and waiting for you to try and open the front door now that the locks are gone.

You listen closely for what feels like forever but you can't hear anything—no pacing nor breathing that isn't yours.

You pace back into the main room, stare at the door and vacancy of locks as you consider calling out for him—you don't want to.

You'd rather drink a truck full of oil than call out for him, make yourself look dependent on him, but you feel like you have no choice.

You need to know if he's truly not around before you do anything that might get you in trouble.

So, after a few moments of warring with yourself, you part your lips.

"Ghost..?" you call out rather quiet but loud enough so it carries through the cabin, trying not to make yourself sound as hesitant as you are just in case he is around and might question it later.

There's no answer so you try again as you walk towards the hallway once more, still nothing.

The bathroom door is wide open so he's definitely not in there which only leaves his room—you stop in front of the door.

"Ghost?" you call out, reluctantly and almost softly knocking on the door when there's no answer after a few moments.

The cabin stays silent, almost eerily so.

You knock again, a bit firmer this time, but there's still no sound from behind the door.

Your heart pounds when you reach for the handle and press it down, the door opening a few inches by itself—barely enough so you can peek inside which you do after counting to five in your head.

His room looks just like it did yesterday, as if he hadn't been in here at all—only his jacket on the bed has been moved to the edge of the mattress.

You don't step inside, don't dare to.

You don't know for how long he's already gone for, when he'll come back and you don't want to risk this bit of leash he's seemingly giving you.

After closing his door again, you step back into the living area and the front door.

With suspicion you eye the naked looking door, eye the placed the locks usually hang at—you don't let yourself hope.

You take a deep, steadily breath, then slowly and carefully push the handle of the front door down while softly pushing the wooden door forward with your other hand.

The door doesn't budge and through the wood you can faintly hear metal clink from right outside the door as it's forced to move by your push.

Despite having told yourself not to hope, the wave of disappointment washing over you is undeniable.

a/n: so sorry this took a while. I wrote a lot of drabbles/short one-shots since the last part of KHT. You can check them out either on my profile or find them in my masterlist if you're interested, they're mostly CoD :) Also, I listened to the dub of reboot MW2 in my native language for the first time and I cringed so hard TT

Someone on ao3 said Ghost sounds scottish, seems like reddit was not a reliable source for how to write out a manchester accent (My fault though, I should've known better because when is reddit ever a reliable source for anything) So, if anyone could help me correct I'd be very glad <3

Thanks again to my beta/proofreader @donttm1ndm3 for helping me out<3

Taglist: @lunadi1una, @abby---wright, @badbyeyoongii, @mxrgodsstuff, @ohellomry, @mazzyowl, @little-mini-me-world, @joyfulllittlething, @efosss, @heystarrygirl, @maplebug25, @doverr, @jadedjoker777

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