Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar)
Chapters: 1/?
Notes: Why yes I am writing a final Ghost and Jag fic after three years, funnily I wrote my fiancé into existence via these fics, this is ever as much our happy ending as it is Ghost and Jag's, This will be Ghost and Jag's final fic so I hope you guys enjoy and thanks for being a part of this crazy fic writing adventure!
You were in a rough state, weaving through the swarms of people in the market. The summer heat was glaring down on you like it was personal, and your fever was making you see double. Of all the shit situations the 141 put you in, getting taken out by a fever seemed the most demeaning. Christ, you survived a near-direct rocket launcher blast in Mexico. And now here you were, in Old Delhi with too many people, sick out of your mind, and not enough fucks to give to continue your reconnaissance.
Somehow you made it back into the small safe-house where you had been staying the last five weeks while stalking your target. The objective was simple enough: trail your target through the never-ending crowds, down the exhaust filled streets. Observe him to see if he ever met with Viraj or other of his contacts. Price needed a way into Viraj’s illusive inner circle so he could send in the heavy hitters (a certain towering Specter and his favorite Scotsman) to take out the terrorist organization from its root. But five weeks lead to nothing—nothing except three days of a high fever and spilling your guts out in the dilapidated safe-house bathroom. At least there was a toilet.
Dragging yourself to the bathtub, you fell back into your makeshift den of blankets and a pillow. The ceramic tub was the only semi-cool thing in the place, and this way you were at least close to the toilet when you inevitably threw up again. Your backpack was next to the tub, with your personal kit of pain killers and electrolyte packets. A benign part of you thought to go to the local hospital, but you had seen the line out the building, and had witnessed the chaos and clamoring to get seen and treated, and you decided sweating it out in a bathtub sounded like a better idea than that hell. Beside, you’d have blown your cover anyway. So you laid back in the tub, both shivering and sweating profusely at the same time, stared at the ceiling above, and wrapped a blanket around you.
In the quiet of the room you could hear the clamor outside—motorbikes honking and trucks zooming by; people shouting and yelling over all of the noise. There was an electrical hum somewhere near the room that had insidiously drilled its way into your skull, and vibrated your cranial stem. Suddenly a wave of nausea surged through your body and you violently dry heaved into the toilet. There wasn’t much in you that came up since you could barely stomach anything. You forced yourself to take some more pain killers and some water, and then curled back up in the tub.
What the fuck, you thought before the fever took over and you succumbed to your exhaustion.
When you woke later, the sun had already set, and the humidity had stagnated in the room. There was still a buzzing from the streets outside, but you were freezing and shivering in the tub now. You stared at the mildew in the caulking next to you.
Images played in your mind, as your eyes unfocused. You thought about how you ended up in this situation. Thought about Russia, and your time there—the coldness of it all; Vladislava and her teachings that inevitably led you to here. You thought about your apartment in San Francisco, and how you sold it after joining the 141 since you were never home. Thought about Simon’s in Leeds too. And how the light in the bathroom also hummed when you turned it on.
Simon. That was the reason you were here, six years later. Price’s most loyal dog.
It wasn’t his fault, you knew. After all he had been through, after all he had done… killing, doing these missions: it made him feel useful; gave him a purpose. And a part of you hated Price a little bit because you thought he exploited that. And you had been swept up in it—becoming an honorary part of the 141 because your need to be enveloped and filled by Simon every single day outweighed brushing hands with death on every single mission. But here, in this shitty safe house all alone in Old Delhi, dying of a fever miles away from your man, had you rethinking it all. You wanted out.
But all you could do was curl further into yourself and wait. Perhaps Fate would be good to you.
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