When Ghost enters through the door you are the first thing he notices. The bar is dimly lit and crowded. The buzz of many loud conversations filling the air. The heat having smacked in to him the second he entered. His eyes fell on you through a gap between heads. You, at the bar. A shaker in hand, messy hair tucked behind your ears. A smile on your face as you chat with a customer. You're in a well worn tee, the way it fits you makes it clear why.
Johnny leads the way to the bar and he is the first one of them you see. His mohawk sticking out from the rest of the crowd. The smile on his face could be seen from a mile away.
"I'll be with you in a sec", you say to him before serving the previous customer. Pouring their drink before sliding the card reader their way.
"Now, what can I get you fellas?" You turn to them. Eyes scanning over their faces. Lingering on Ghost's masked one for just a second longer. That extra second is what did it in for him. What captured him if he hadn't been before. His eyes didn't leave you for a second. Even as you talked to the others. As you poured the four pints they'd ordered. Nor after they had sat down at a table. You were oblivious to it and that might have been for the best. Having a tall, masked man staring at you might have been reason enough to call security.
The rest of his task force, on the other hand, were not as oblivious. Price noticed first. Though he didn't mention it. It was rare for his lieutenant to be so entranced by someone. It was an amusing sight he would undoubtedly talk to him about at a later time. Gaz noticed second, but he was still too sober to say it out loud. Soap did not need any alcohol in his system to tease him. Ghost, the stoic lieutenant who had turned down women time after time, suddenly infatuated with a bartender of all people.
Ghost managed to dodge Soaps teasing by ordering the next round. Not without a few smiles and quiet comments for his teammates. But they fell on deaf ears. Simon was to busy thinking. What should he say to you? How should he say it? Should he lean on the bar? Nah, that just screams dickhead.
You see him approach. You recognise the mask from earlier. You smile at him, he just stares.
"Another", you ask him. He nods. You made it easy for him. His eyes trace your every move. From you hand on the glass to the one of the lever. Your focused eyes as you pour it.
"Add it to the tab", you ask as you slide the four glasses over too him. He nods as he picks them up. Your "enjoy" follows him as he walks back to the table. You combined with beer on tap, he might need to become one of your new regulars.
Authors note:
Just trying something new. I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know your thoughts! /Polt🌻
The first time Ghost ever held you at gunpoint, you did the last thing he expected.
You grabbed the barrel and shoved it forward, pressing it into your forehead. The cool metal kissed your skin as you looked up at him with bright eyes. Sweet and sultry.
He made a choked sound behind the mask when you cocked your head just slightly, fluttering your lashes, daring him to do it. Pull the trigger.
He couldn't.
He barely caught the edge of your smirk under the moonlight before the gun slipped from his gloved hands and a shot rang out into the night.
The next thing he knew he was on the ground. You shot him in the leg. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to keep him down while you escaped with the intel.
He lay there, splayed out, contemplating his life choices when Soap rounded the corner, eyes wide, gun at the ready.
But he took one look at his masked comrade on the ground and holstered his rifle with a sigh. He grumbled as he hauled Ghost up, slinging one of his massive arms over his shoulders.
“Christ, L.T...again? What are we always tellin' ya about lookin' girls in the bloody eye?"
The door shuts behind you with a quiet click. Your footsteps are quiet against the stone floor. A man stands beside your door. But it's not the balaclava clad man you expected. Instead it is a pale man with a dark stubble coating his jaw and a mohawk on top of his head. He is wearing a black t-shirt and black jeans. His arms are covered in tattoos. Amongst the vines and plants that wreathe over his muscles are a unicorn. Its mane draped across its glimmering body. Its eyes looking at you innocently. Like it has never seen the evil that this world has to offer. That is a good tattoo if I have ever seen one.
"Good morning, your highness." your eyes dart back up to his face, meeting his light blue eyes.
"Good morning. I don't believe that we have met," you reply. To be polite. You know who he is. John Mactavish. His callsign is Soap and he is friends with Ghost. But by judging by his use of "your highness", said man hasn't gotten to him yet. Or he doesn't want to admit to spending more than half his night in your room.
"John Mactavish. At your service, your highness," he replies. A polite smile lighting up his face. you smile back at him, offering a half nod, and turn back towards the corridor. You resume walking. Soap's boots thudding behind you, a stark difference to the soft soles of your flats. You walk in silence. Your feet bringing you towards the small dining hall, hoping that this morning's breakfast hasn't been cleared from the table yet. Judging by the smell of bacon as you open the door it has not been cleared away yet. The table is draped with a white tablecloth with plates of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, beans, toast and sausages. You sit down in your usual seat. Two chairs from the head off the table with your back to the door. Soap stands by the door. You put two fried eggs on your plate with a piece of buttered toast. Some may say that it's plain. But what can you say, you're British. Just as you cut in to the yolk of your second egg, the door opens. You don't turn around. Judging by the heavy footsteps it is another guard. But he is not here for you. The two guards behind you speak with hushed voices. Clearly they do not want to include you in their conversation. So you stay out of it. The conversation comes to a halt and one of them leaves, shutting the door behind himself.
"Glad to see that your diet doesn't only consist of late night sandwiches." A familiar voice with a British accent says behind you. Ghost. You snort. Your lips curling into a smile.
"It usually doesn't," you reply and take a bite of toast.
"I'm not convinced." Your smile widens and you shake your head. You'd be willing to bet your whole family's fortune that there's a smirk beneath that balaclava of his. But you don't turn around to confirm it. Especially not since the door opens a second later.
Heels click against the stone floor of the dining hall. It's an unexpected sound, a stark difference to the quietness of the palace. When there's no events and no press to be seen, heels are a rarity. Those of us who spend a big part of our life here knows that. Those who sleep here every night, eat all their meals here, knows that. Which means that the only person it could be is...
"Duchess Grace." Ghost greets from behind you. The half eaten breakfast in front of you no longer seems appetising. The last thing that you want to do is sit here with her. The girl who has made your life a living hell. Who continues to be immature despite her status as the first grandchild. The oldest out of all of you. The person who is supposed to be a role model to girls in Britain. Not be on the cover of every gossip magazine in the country.
She walks in to your field of view. Once again wearing a flowy pink dress, trying to conceal her growing baby bump. Her blonde hair is tied up in to a bun at the back of her neck. Not a stand of hair out of place. That is Grace alright. Always trying to look perfect. If only her actions were the same as her looks. She sits down in front of you. Avoiding your eyes. She scans the table. You look back at your plate, but all of your appetite was lost when she walked in to the room. You put your fork and knife down on your plate and stand up.
"Wait," Grace calls out to you. You lift your eyes to hers. Her eyes are wide. You don't know if it is in panic or fear. She chews on her bottom lip.
"Could you sit down, please? I'd like to talk to you." Grace continues. You sit back down in your chair. As much as you have hated her, as much as you do. She will always be your older cousin. Some part of you still loves her after everything that she has done. You keep looking at her. She adverts her eyes from you and judging by the way that her arms move, she is twisting her hands in her lap. She lets out a breath.
"The rumors aren't true. Johnny had nothing to do with it." Grace starts. Her voice weak and shaky.
"I was seeing someone. A guy from the town we live in. He was nice and treated me alright, but we were reckless. When I told him," She pauses, swallowing."When I told him he freaked out. He got angry and violent and Johnny heard it from outside my room. He kicked him out and comforted me. I'm thankful that he did. The guy I saw left that night. He didn't want any responsibility. Johnny helped me talk to my parents. I'll owe him forever for that. It wasn't exactly pretty. Both mum and dad were pretty mad. My siblings aren't exactly saints and this was the last straw. I understand that it hasn't been easy for them. They took it out on me and kicked me out. Johnny let me stay with him for the night and paparazzi caught us," Grace finishes. Glancing up at you. All the anger that you have felt towards her runs off you like water. You shouldn't forgive her this easily, but deep down you already have. She keeps looking at you, expecting a reply. But how do you respond to this. I'm sorry that you became pregnant and caught up in a whirlwind of gossip? It's karma for what you did to me? Well, obviously not the latter. You can feel Ghost's eyes burning in to the back of your head. You let out a sigh.
"I'm sorry," you say. Thinking about how to continue. But Grace interrupts you.
"No, I'm sorry. I should never have done what I did those years ago. It was childish and a decision based on jealousy. I didn't know how bad the consequences would be. I realised the mistake I made as soon as the news started writing about it. But I was too proud to apologise. It was a mistake and I regret it," she finishes. You are, for the second time today, at a loss for words. The royal family isn't exactly known for admitting their mistakes. Nor genuinely apologising for their actions. And yet, here you are. Grace is still looking at you, holding her breath.
"I forgive you."
The words come out of your mouth and it feels like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. One less problem. One less distraction. One less person occupying your mind with their foul actions and words. One more person in this palace that is on your side. Grace lets out a breath. A sigh of relief, perhaps. I guess I'm on her side too.
Silence falls over the room. Grace reaches out toward a dish of baked beans, taking a spoonful and putting it on her plate. Paring it with a piece of toast. You look back down at your own plate. The half eaten egg staring back at you. You don't feel like finishing it. You give the table another once-over. Nothing peaks your interest. You stand up, giving Grace a smile as you do.
"If you'll excuse me," you say and turn towards the door. Ghost opens the door for you and follows you out. Closing the door behind you with a quiet thud. You come to a halt after a few paces. You sigh, running a hand over your face. There has been one too many energy draining conversations these last few days. You're exhausted and you have only been awake for an hour.
You feel him before you hear him. The heat radiating from his body onto the side of yours. You have an urge to lean in to it. To let it envelop you completely, shielding you from the coldness of the world. From the coldness that these stone walls have to offer. But you don't. Of course you don't. You can't seek comfort from a stranger. Ghost is, after all, practically a stranger to you. You know nothing about him except his name and his job. You don't know what his face looks like beneath his balaclava. You know nothing of his face but his eyes and his lips and the scars that litter every visible part if his body, and yet you are drawn to him. You don't know if it is because he is a mystery that you are aching to solve, or if it is because he has expressed the comfort that you have been longing for all these years. Perhaps a bit of both.
"Are you alright," he asks you.
"Yes," you answer automatically. Even though it might not be entirely truthful. You shouldn't be anyway so you're sure that he sees right through you. If he does, he doesn't comment on it. You keep standing in the hallway. The castle in the city, where you are now, is not where you live. Half of the time you live in your actual home out on the countryside. But lately you have been spending more and more time here. Since you do not live here, most of your things are back home. Which means that the activities one can do here is quite limited. So if you're being honest, you have no idea what to do. If you were at home you'd read or workout, or perhaps waste away hours scrolling on Tiktok. But right now you do not even want to look at your phone other than your texts. You don't want to see the headlines that yesterdays events must have caused. You don't want to see all of the rumors and gossip about Grace and John being here, or about Ghost catching you. Journalists and paparazzi have some strange ability to find out everything that goes on in the palace. You bet that someone is feeding them that information, basking in the drama that arises. You would put your money on it being your cousins or Marshall. You pray that it isn't one of our bodyguards.
"Can I suggest a walk in the garden?" Ghost's voice pulls you out of your thoughts. I swear that man can read minds.
"What is the weather like," you ask him in return.
"Sunny, but it rained in the early morning," he replies from behind you. You turn around to face him. He is closer to you than you expected. Your shoulder nearly brushing against his chest as you turn. His eyes are on yours instantly. Revealing nothing as usual. You hold his gaze for one heartbeat, for two heartbeats, for three...
"Perhaps I should change my shoes then," you question, tilting your head to the side. His eyes leaves yours, travelling downwards to your feet and up to meet yours again.
"Perhaps you should, we wouldn't want you to slip," he replies in a flat voice, but his eyes betray him. Unable to hide his amusement.
"That's not funny," you exclaim and shove at his chest. But your face too betrays you, your lips cracking open into a smile. He laughs, his shoulders shaking. You can't help but to laugh with him. Shaking your head as you do. Before turning and walking towards your room. A smile still on your lips.
You leave the door to your room open as you enter. Kicking your flats off and placing them in the shoe rack by the door. A dark shadow moves ghostly in the corner of your eye, and that is precisely who it is. Who else would it be? You pick up a pair of black boots. They are more suited for wet terrain than flats. You sit down on your bed. The mattress sinking underneath your weight. You undo the lace on the boots then putting them on before lacing them up again. Neither you nor Ghost has uttered a word since you stepped in here. It's like breaking the silence would mean that he is standing in your room again. This time without the excuse of your protection. You can feel him watching you. You can feel his eyes tracing the movement of your fingers as you drag the shoelace between the hooks. Studying every twist and turn, every tug, every small movement that you make. You fumble with the laces, dropping one end. You pick it up again. You try to make it look like it was just an accident. You don't want him to know how nervous he makes you. But anyone would be, right? Anyone would fumble if they had a tall, silent man studying their every move, right?
You finish with your shoes and just as you do a chime breaks the silence. You hand moves instinctually to your pocket. The screen of your phone is lit up. The pink flower on your wallpaper staring back at you. A notification from Eddie resting above the flower. The message reads; "OMG! I jinxed you sooo bad! At least that bodyguard of yours saved the day." You groan. Like you predicted the press must have had a field-day. Another message from her pops up. An image, a headline no doubt. You unlock your phone and your gut was right. Well, almost right. Since after the screenshot of the first headline, three more follows. "Knight in shining armor, bodyguard saves princess.", "Englands Cinderella, princess in glass slippers." accompanied by "Jelly legs, princess takes a tumble." and the worst one of them all, "Head over heels, princess falling for her bodyguard". Great, just great.
Something dark moves in the corner of your eye and you jump. Your eyes darting to the movement. It is a pair of legs clad in black jeans. The belt plain black with a silver buckle with a holster and a gun on the right side. It is level with your head. Your eyes travel upwards. Over the t-shirt tightly fitted over shoulders and chest. Up over the balaclava clad face. His brown eyes fixed on your phone. They seem to skim over the images, ignoring your prior movement. They stop at the bottom of the screen. On the last image, no doubt. You keep looking at him and you swear something changes. Is he embarrassed? You wouldn't blame him. You have had gossip headlines written about every encounter you've had with a boy your age since you were twelve. You are used to it. At least I pretend that I am.
"Edith," his voice breaks the silence.
"What," you ask.
"It is Edith Reed you're texting, right," he clarifies and look away from the screen and in to your eyes.
"Yeah," you answer. He stays silent. You do to. Your heart beats one, two, three times. He blinks, pale eyelids and blonde lashes covering his dark brown irises for a moment. The bourbon center of his eyes clearer than ever in the light from the window. It is if that one blink, that one disturbance of the eye contact, breaks it. It broke the walls of whatever state you were in and reality crashes over you like a wave in a stormy sea. The clarity washes over you in the same way that cold water does. Waking you up with a start. You don't speak. Even if you opened your mouth you don't think that any words would escape your throat. You pocket your phone and stand up. The distance between your faces closing. A miscalculation on your part. Ghost doesn't move an inch. You swallow, your throat dry. You let yourself stand there, just for a moment. For two heartbeats. Then you turn away.
• • •
The wet gravel path sloshes and crunches underneath your boots. The puddles that formed from the rain this morning glittering in the sunlight. That same light stinging your eyes. I should have brought sunglasses. There are rosebushes on either side of the path. The dark red petals adorned with droplets. You stop and smell one. The smell of roses always remind you of your grandmother and of the time before your mother became queen. It reminds you of your visits to the palace, before they turned in to torture by the paparazzi. When the paparazzi were faceless cameras and flashes. A fun part of an otherwise boring visit, at least when you're six.
A snap breaks your thoughts. Your eyes dart to the sound. To the pale hand holding the green stem of a red rose. The rose separated from its companions on the bush. Ghost's other hand, his left, picks of the thorns one by one. His hand moves clumsily. Well clumsily for being Ghost. You soon find the cause as his eyes are locked on you. Not on your face or your eyes but on your hand. Your hand that is clasped around the rose. The finger on your hand that is bleeding. You hadn't noticed the pain before. You were probably too swept up in your thoughts to notice. You let go of the rose and suck on the wound, the iron taste enveloping your tongue. You meet his gaze again, well you expected to meet his gaze. But once again his eyes are locked elsewhere. This time on your lips. It only takes a second for his gaze to meet yours again. His eyes unreadable as always. He stretches out his hand, and with it the rose, towards you. The color of the petals perfectly matching the dark red scabs scattered across his knuckles. You take it, your fingers brushing his. Your cold fingertips welcoming the brief warmth.
"I thought your room could use some red." You glance up at Ghost's eyes again. This time the corners are crinkled in a smile.
"Working as an interior designer now are we," you question, a smile creeping across your lips.
"Maybe." He leans in closer."Or maybe I want the paparazzi to spot them from your window."
"Haha, very funny." You roll your eyes and turn around back to the gravel path. Ghost's laughter following you. The gravel crunches beneath our boots once again. The water in the fountain which marks the middle of the garden sparkles in the light. Pigeons are sat on its edge. There are never pigeons in the garden.
"I believe Gaz has been feeding them on his lunch break," Ghost says from behind you. Perhaps you said that last part out loud.
"He's eating out here," you question. Englands weather does not have a sunny reputation.
"I think that he is enjoying some peace and quiet while he can," he replies.
"Is it stressful," you ask. "Being a bodyguard I mean."
The forest floor of moss, grass and twigs are damp under your feet. So are the tree trunks beneath your fingers. The bark rough against your fingertips as you drag them across the wood as you're running. The wind cold against your body. White fabric is draped across your body. Flowing behind you as you propel forwards. The forest an endless wall of greens and browns and dewdrops falling against your skin from the leaves above. The leaves soaring from above, falling in an uneven descent towards the ground. Towards decomposition. Towards death. The wind turns colder. Stinging your skin as you pass through its endless journey forward. Like yours, endless and untiring. Except your journey is slowing down. Time itself seems to be slowing down. You can follow every sway of the leaves in the wind. Follow how the strands of moss and grass bend beneath your feet. How the twigs break, splinter and crack under your weight. How the fabric moves in the wind. How your hair follows suit. Hitting the back of your shoulders as your feet hit the ground just to take of again. Time seems to slow further. You can follow the dewdrops pattern in the air. See how they collide with the ground and shatter just to combine once more. Breathing seems impossibly slow. Your chest barley rises.
Soft fabric envelops your limbs. Moving with you as you sit up. Sliding of your torso to pool at your hips. You open your eyes. Your room is dark with the exception of a standing light by your sofa where Ghost sits. The book without a cover in his hands. Its pages yellowed and the text faded. His eyes open and resting on the pages between his fingers.
"What time is it," you ask him tucking stray hairs behind your ears. Voice horse from sleep. He glances at the clock on the wall.
"One in the morning."
"Shouldn't you be somewhere else," you ask him. Surely he should be home and sleeping. Not keeping a princess company.
"Can't walk out on my job, can I?" Ghost looks up at you. The corners of his eyes crinkling.
"It is one in the morning." you repeat.
"Your cousins are still running amok." As if on cue there's a crash in the hallway outside, followed by a curse and a groan. You let out an amused huff.
"Like I said," a smile audible in his voice, "running amok."
"Oh lord." You laugh and shake your head. You shuffle to the side of the bed, get up and walk over towards the sofa to join him. Another faint crash ricochets through the walls from the corridor. Which is a worthy achievement since the walls are made of solid stone. You stifle a laugh and sit down opposite Ghost, tucking your legs underneath you and turning to face him. Your t-shirt and shorts are wrinkled and sit crocked across your body beneath them. The pink bows on your shorts severely off center.
"Old and loved or for mysteries sake," you ask him. Nodding towards the book in his hands.
"Both," he replies. His eyes crinkle again. I bet that there's a smug grin underneath that balaclava. Bastard.
"Is it any good?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
You scoff. He chuckles. You sit in silence again. His eyes never leave you. You can feel them burning you. Tearing in to your skin. No doubt trying to dig in to your brain. To crack you open and take a look inside your thoughts. To look at your secrets and fears.
"What's your name?" The question slips out through your lips before you can stop them. Ghost eyes widen ever so slightly. Did I catch him off guard?
"Wouldn't you like to know", he repeats.
"Repetitive, are we? Cat got your tongue?" You tease. A grin spreading over your lips. He keeps his mouth shut. Just looking at you. Eyes slightly narrowed. Undoubtedly trying to get you to look away. You won't let him succeed. You keep staring into those brown eyes of his. The color of earth, chocolate and coffee with a dash of bourbon near his pupil. Surrounded by strokes of cream, snow and bone. Those eyes could consume you and all you'd smell and taste would be smokey sweetness. I bet he smells like smoke.
"Simon." He breaks the silence. You jump.
"What?" You ask.
"My name is Simon," he clarifies. The corners of his eyes crinkling once again.
"Simon." The name rolls smoothly over your tongue. He chuckles.
"Why Ghost," you ask him.
"It wasn't my choice. It was given to me by Soap after I scared him shitless."
"Do tell!"
"It was about a week after we met. The task force we were in just got put together. It was me, Soap, Gaz and Price. I walked in to the kitchen late one night to get a glass of water and Soap was already there. I asked him if he had trouble sleeping and he jumped out of his skin. Shattering his glass of water. He said many, not so appropriate, words and then called me, and I quote, "A Fucking Ghost". I suppose he wanted to insult me. Didn't succeed." He laughs. His eyes are in a faraway place. No doubt reliving the memories.
They seem to be good friends. Ghost and Soap. Simon and John. They seem like polar opposites. One quiet and proper. The other loud and rough. Well, what do you know. Perhaps Ghost has a mohawk under that balaclava of his. I highly doubt that. You may not know who he is outside of work. But his personality shines through non the less. He is too quiet for a mohawk. You wouldn't put one or two piercings past him though. Everyone has made stupid decisions in their teens right? A drunk tattoo. A bad haircut. An impulsive piercing. Not that you'd know. Your teenage years were guarded by palace walls and watched like hawks by paparazzi. Technically you are still a teenager. But being 18, being an adult, comes with responsibilities, expectations and graver consequences. Something that your cousins do their best to ignore. But they never had as many eyes on them as you have. As you have every hour of every day. You guess that is how they get away with everything. The drugs. The drinking. The sex. It's sickening. The things that they have done make you nauseous. Grace was never as bad as the rest of them. Irresponsible, yes. But cruel like her siblings? Never. There was a reason behind why you always hung out with her at family gatherings. Behind why you could talk to her. She was a year older than you, and kind. Grace was the closest thing you had to a sister. Until she sold your secrets to the press for five minutes of fame. Now it's her turn to be shamed by the press. Her turn to not be able to step outside her house without a new article about her being written. It serves her right. As much as you are ashamed to think it.
"Do you know if they, Grace and him. Is John the," you begin. Running a hand down your face. I can't believe that I am asking him this.
"No," Ghost replies sternly. "Soap may be reckless. He is not exactly known for turning women down. But he would never mix work and pleasure, especially not these days. He knows what's at stake. He may be an irresponsible dick, but not that much of a dick," he continues. You let out a breath of relief. Then she just screwed up. Having sex with her own bodyguard is worse than screwing any other man. It still make's you look bad. But at least she didn't have sex with her own employee.
"Is he getting transferred here," you ask. Usually your cousins do not bring their own bodyguard. Our security is good enough. You think that tonight was a test, or a first day at work. It has happened before. But him having worked with the rest of our crew. You highly doubt that he'd screw it up.
"Yes, he is."
"Why wasn't he assigned here in the first place? It's not like we couldn't use him. We still have many bodyguards that lack the expertise that you all seem to have."
"I have no idea, your highness." you glare at him. He laughs. His shoulders shaking and his eyes closing, head slumping slightly forward. The top buttons at the collar of his black dress shirt having been unbuttoned while you were asleep. Ghost looks less put together, more normal. Except the balaclava of course. No normal person wears fabric tightly over their face all day every day. I don't understand how he does it. I think that I would go crazy after ten minuets. The heat and moisture from your breath getting trapped by the fabric. Suffocating you more and more with every inhale and exhale . A slow form of torture. Only a sadist would stand that. Perhaps he is a sadist.
"What are you thinking about?"
You look up. Ghost is looking at you intently.
"I was asking myself if you are a sadist," you answer truthfully. You are sure that he would know if you were lying. He cackles.
"So that is what's going on in that head of yours," he says. The corners of his eyes crinkled in what you believe is a smile.
"Partly." You shrug and your lips crack open in to a smile. Ghost just laughs and shakes his head.
"You are a strange woman, princess."
"You've got some balls, Ghost."
"Wouldn't be here if I hadn't got any."
"I guess you're right."
The clock on your wall chimes twice. Two in the morning.
"That's the end of my shift. Your usual night guard will be taking over." Ghost stands up from the couch. You nod.
"Unless you want me to stay, of course." He adds, looking at you with that look in his eyes that you are sure means that he is trying to pick you apart.
"It's okay. Go get some sleep," you reply and smile at him.
"You too, princess."
• • •
You open your eyes to sunlight. The sun streaming in through the window whose pink curtains you forgot to close in the turmoil that was last night. You roll over in bed. The sheets tangling with your legs. Capturing them with their softness. You sigh and pull your legs out of the comfort. Reluctantly placing them down against the cold stone floor. You stretch your arms out above your head, groaning at the tension in your muscles. You run your hands through your hair as you bring your arms back down again. The bun you had put your hair in last night having been dissolved by the roughness of an uneasy sleep. You stand up and walk towards your wardrobe. Trying to remember if the festivities of yesterday will continue on today, as well. Which you, of course, do not remember. You open the doors to your wardrobe. You would very much prefer to wear trousers today. But if you have to show your face out to the public, a skirt or a dress is a must. These ridiculous rules will be the death of me. You put on a white pleated skirt with black stockings underneath. You pair it with a lose fitted knitted sweater, beige. Next is hair. It's slight greasy. Too greasy to be worn down. You put it up into a ponytail and spray some dry shampoo at the front of your hair. Good enough. You roll up your sleeves and clip some of your hair out of the way. As you step in to the bathroom and look in the mirror last night is reflected on your face. The smudged makeup and the bags under your eyes evidence of the hell you went through. You wash it off. Trying to forget the cold hands on your waist and back. A chill running through your body despite the warmth of your sweatshirt.
There's a knock on your door. You flinch right as you put the wand of your mascara up to your eyelashes. Resulting in a black smudge across your eyelid. You sigh and pick up a q-tip.
"Come in," you yell towards the door before licking the q-tip and raising it up to your eye, looking at your door through your mirror. It opens and in steps a tall figure clad in black trousers and t-shirt. A balaclava over his head. It is none other than Ghost, of course.
"Good morning, your highness," Ghost says.
"I thought I asked you to." Ghost interrupts you by giving you a look and taking a step backwards. In walks your father. Looking uncomfortable. An unusual look for him. He is undoubtedly here to talk to you about last night. You stomach twists at the thought.
"Good morning," he says with an awkward smile that does not reach his eyes. You turn around to look at him. Not saying a word. Waiting for the lecture of how it's your fault, what you should have done better, what you shouldn't have done at all. How you're childish and irresponsible. Of how you're the next in line to the throne and you should know better than to behave like this. You brace yourself as he opens his mouth. Diverting your eyes to the floor.
"I'm sorry." Your eyes dart back up to him. Did he just apologise?
"What," you reply. Your voice weaker than you would have wished it to be.
"I'm sorry for blaming the Baker's son's actions on you. It was wrong of me." He takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest. "I should have made the decision to exclude them from future event's back then. For all of our safety. So I'm sorry for putting you in danger," your father finishes. You sit in stunned silence. This is not what you were expecting. Him admitting that he was wrong is something you never thought that you would ever experience and yet here he is, in your room, admitting that he made a choice that put your in danger. Who wen't off on him? You glance at Ghost over your father's shoulder. He is already looking at you. Brown eyes piercing yours betraying nothing, as usual.
"Thank you." You finally will the words out of your mouth and look back at your father. He nods and glances towards the door. You nod and he exits. Ghost moves towards the door to follow him.
"Wait," you call after him. He stops in his tracks. He glances at the door and raises his eyebrows. A silent question if he should close the door. You nod. The door shuts with a quiet click beneath his hands. The silence stretches on. Ghost's eyes on you and your eyes on him.
"Did you have something to do with that?" You break the silence and cross your arms over your chest.
"Did I have something to do with what," he asks and crosses his arms over his chest. Mimicking you.
"With what my father said," you clarify.
"What about it?" He looks clueless. But something tells you that he's not. You glare at him. He sighs.
"I briefed Price on what happened. But that is as far as my influence goes," he replies and raises his hands up into the air. Palms facing you. Surrender.
"Well someone gave him an earful." you shrug and turn back towards the mirror. Rubbing the q-tip over your eyelid. Removing the black smudges. Ghost watches me through the mirror. His gaze trying to burn a hole through your head.
"Is today anything special," you ask him, breaking the silence.
"Aren't you supposed to know that," he counters.
"I'm afraid that I lost track of that last night," you reply. Looking him in the eyes through the mirror.
"Not that I know of, no. Your cousins are still here," he says. You groan. "But other than that, nothing." He finishes. Thank god. You don't think that you would have managed another day with the paparazzi and The president.
"And the other families," you ask, the muscles in my back tensing.
"The Baker family left last night and the Callahans and the Riveras left early this morning."
You let out a sigh of relief. No Marshall. Hopefully no press. A break. A well deserved one, you might add.
"Then, if you don't mind, I'll switch my skirt out for trousers," you say and stand up. Ghost nods and walks out the door, closing it behind him. You walk towards your wardrobe for the second time in the span of fifteen minutes. This is getting repetitive. You pick out a pair of black dress trousers. You take off your skirt and stockings, rolling them in to a mess in the process. You sigh and put on the trousers. You grab a pair of socks without looking and sit down on your bed. You are in the middle of sliding the second sock over your foot when a buzz breaks the silence. Your head snaps toward your bedside table. On it your phone lays discarded. The screen lit up from the notification. You pick it up and turn it on. Three new texts greets you. All from the same person. The one and only Edith Reed or as you call her, Eddie, your best friend. The texts read:
"Good luck today! Don't trip! :)"
"How did it go? Was the president as disgusting as he seems?"
"Hello? You alright?"
You sigh and shake your head, the corners of your mouth twitching upwards. You unlock your phone and reply.
"Hey Eddie! Yesterday was a nightmare. Can't talk rn. I have to damage check. <3"
You press send and slide your phone into your pocket. You slide a pair of black flats onto your feet and open your door carefully, stepping out into the corridor.
Sooo he knows. He finds it funny. Told him about my fanfic. He guessed who it was about on the first try. Somehow this man is not weirded out what so ever! But hey, I'm not complaining!
Your back hits the cold stone wall in the corridor. A body is pressed against yours. All too familiar. Hands slide over your hips to your lower back and you try to squirm away from them.
"Come on. Don't be like that, baby," Marshalls voice commands from above you.
"Marshall, no. I don't want you to touch me," you reply shoving at his chest. He doesn't move an inch.
"You're mine anyway, so what does it matter," he says, his hands moving up you back. Following the zipper of your dress. You can't breathe. It is like all the oxygen in the corridor has been consumed and you can't take a breath, your lungs won't expand. Fucking breathe.
It feels like someone tipped a bucket of ice over your head as his hands find it's target and begins pulling your zipper down. You try to wrestle out of his grips but it's no use. Marshall just laughs, hands sliding over the exposed skin of your back. His head closing in towards yours. He smells like he has bathed in aftershave and expensive cologne and it makes bile rise in your throat. This is it, you think. This is when he does the unthinkable. What you have been fearing ever since that first kiss.
Just as fast as he was on you he is gone. You clamp a hand over the front of your dress to stop it sliding down and you can breathe. The thump of mass against stone makes you look up. Marshall is laying on the floor, nose bleeding, eyes wide and fear struck. A large figure towers over him. Hands balled up in to fists.
"If you ever as much as touch a hair on her head." The figure picks Marshall up by the front of his button up shirt. "I'll personally make sure that it's the last thing you do." Marshall lands back on the floor with a groan. The figure takes a gentle hold of your arm and pulls you out of the corridor in to the light. His face comes in to the light. Balaclava clad with concerned brown eyes.
"Are you alright," Ghost asks moving his hands up to your shoulders, warm callused fingers rough against your skin. His eyes falling on the straps of your dress, having slid off your shoulders.
"I think so," you reply, tasting salt on your tongue as you open your mouth to speak. Tears having spilled from your eyes without you noticing. Ghost nods and moves his hands towards your back. You flinch at the movement. Shit.
"Just zippi'n you up," he says softly. Fingers fumbling with the zipper on your back. As it closes his hands fall back to his sides and you readjust your dress and take a shuddering breath. You begin to walk back towards the dining hall unsteady on your heels, dreading everything. How can I explain this to my parents? I should have been more careful, more observant, fought back more. Ghosts sudden hand on your shoulder stops you in your path. You turn around to look at him.
"We're not going back, Darling." he says and guides you in the opposite direction with a gentle hand between your shoulder blades. He steers you in the direction of the living quarters, of your room. You do not have any energy left to argue. With each step you loose more and more sense of what is happening. Replaying the event in your head. Ghost says something. Not to you, you don't think. You keep moving.
"Hey." Ghosts voice breaks you out of your thoughts. You are outside of your bedroom door. "Go and change into something more comfortable. I need to go, but I won't be long. Alright," he asks standing with his arms crossed over his chest. looking at you. You nod feeing his eyes burn in to the back of your head as you walk through your bedroom door.
You head straight for the wardrobe. You avoid your mirror like the plague. You know how disheveled you must look. You don't want to face it yet. You grab a pair of shorts and a plain, white, t-shirt. The shorts are pink and have bows at the bottom of the legs. You try not to look at your body as you change. Some of your hair having fallen out of your bun in to your face. I am so disgusted. You are disgusted as much by Marshalls actions as by your own. Why didn't you scream, or fight, or anything? Ghost comes to your mind. He was furious. He must be angry with you. Just like dad was last time. Oh god no, dad. He will be so angry with you. Tears run down your face before you can stop them. You sink down to the floor against your wardrobe door. I am so exhausted. You barley ate any dinner. And no breakfast nor lunch. It's stupid of you and you know it. But it's hard to eat when it feels like it might come back up again any second.
"Your Highness," Ghosts voice questions from above you. You look up and meet his eyes. His eyes, usually so empty, are filled with concern. His blond lashes and eyebrows blend in with his skin. He is clad in a black button up shirt, fitting him tightly. It must have been tailored. It wouldn't fit him like that if it wasn't. You swallow. How hard did I hit my head? He holds a tray in his hands, filled with.
"Sandwiches." The word coming out of your mouth before you could think. He chuckles.
"Figured you might be hungry," he replies, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"You're correct." you stand up and walk over towards the sofas in the middle of your room. No one needs a room this big. Your bedroom is oversized to say the least. You have room for a king sized bed, white sofas, a large wardrobe, a small kitchen with a mini fridge and a kettle, as well as a vanity and a connecting bathroom. It's ridiculous. You know that you should appreciate it all, not complain. You do appreciate it. But it is unnecessary. The royal life is extravagant. There's no doubt about it. Believe it or not, you are aware of the struggles in the world. You are somewhat educated after all. The fortune that has been passed down your family for generations does no good sitting about, or being spent on dresses and jewelry. It could make some real change in the world. Well, at least contribute to it. You may not be allowed to speak your mind on politics, but that does not mean that you do not have opinions on the subject.
You sit down on the sofa. On opposite sides, of course. Apparently it's not appropriate for a woman and a man to sit close together on a sofa before marriage. He puts the plate on the spare cushion between you. Ignoring the table in front of you. Choosing to, you're guessing. It's not much that slips past that man. There are six sandwiches on the plate. Well, technically three since they are split in half to form two triangles.
"Took some for yourself did you." Your lips twitch as you look up at Ghost. Meeting his amused gaze. "Can't say I blame you. Don't think I've ever seen you eat." You continue. He chuckles.
"I could say the same for you, your Highness," he replies.
"I hate when people call me that," you groan and lay your head backwards on to the cushion.
"Why," he asks. A reasonable question you guess. You bet that almost everyone has at one point in their life dreamed of being royalty. You don't blame them. You believe that you would want to, if the roles were reversed.
"It's so formal and insanely overused. I get called it thirty times a day. If not more. I wouldn't mind as much if it was only used at formal occasions. It makes me feel like it is all I am." You raise your head and look at him. Ghost is looking back at you. One elbow propped up on the sofa cushion next to him. The white of the cushion a stark contrast against his black clothes. He has one foot on the floor, his other ankle resting on his knee.
"What would you want people to call you," he asks you. The fabric of his balaclava moving as he speaks.
"I don't know." you lay your head backwards against the cushions again. "My name, maybe."
"Don't think that's possible."
"Why not?"
"Your dad would kill me if he heard me call you that." You snort.
"No he wouldn't."
"Then Price would."
"Can't argue with that." you sit up straight and grab a sandwich from the tray and bite in to it. Ham and cheese. An oldie but a goodie. Ghost grabs one as well, pulling the neck of his balaclava up over his mouth. He's got a scar beginning from somewhere you can't see and ending right above his upper lip and another one across his chin. They have a pink hue and are slightly darker than the rest of his pale skin. His lips are almost the same color. Slightly redder. They are dry and slightly chapped. I guess you don't care for lip balm when your lips are constantly covered with fabric.
You constantly wonder how this man has time to live. To eat, to sleep, to talk to his friends and family, to cook, to workout, to shower. Get your mind out of the gutter. He always seems to be at the palace, except from when another guard takes over at the night shift. So you guess that he's got sleep sorted out. However, he is always there when you wake up, no matter how early. It's absurd. It's not that you don't enjoy his company. You do, most of the time. It's just strange to you. He should practically have a room at the palace at this point. Does he have a room at the palace? You should ask him sometime. The truth is that you have no idea how our guards live. Or our maids, or cooks. Jeez, I am spoiled. You guess that comes with growing up in a castle. You are a bit sheltered and ignorant. Not going to a public school. Having almost no friends. You don't even know what it's like to live like a normal person. What do regular people struggle with? Well money, obviously, you're not that ignorant. But what else? Love? Or is that just in the movies?
Ghost takes a bite of his sandwich. You look away. You should find this strange. Him, in your room, on your sofa, eating a sandwich. You haven't known each other that long. You don't know if it is because he is your bodyguard. Or that he just saved you from Marshall, and didn't question you. I'd be so easy to kidnap. Just do the bare minimum of listening to me, and boom, I trust you. I am utterly pathetic. Hey, at least I'm self-aware.
You finish your sandwich and lean back against the armrest of the sofa. Ghost twists to face you. But not completely, half of him still facing the door. A habit, no doubt about it. He must have served. Right? The scars, the posture, the habits, the muscles, his sneaking, his violent behavior, his calmness. He is too precise to just have gone in to the bodyguard business. They all are. Ghost, Price and Gaz. You understand why they are here. If you have a rowdy teenager you need the best of the best. Oh how you wish that you could convince yourself that you are the reason.
"Did you serve," you ask before you can stop yourself. "In the military." He chuckles, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. It doesn't reach his eyes.
"Yes, your Highness," he replies. You glare at him. He grins. The smile lopsided because of the scar. It reaches his eyes this time.
"I thought I told you to stop calling me that."
"I apologize, it's a habit," the grin on his face widening. You roll your eyes and sink lower in to the sofa. You feet sliding to the middle cushion and the back of your head resting against the armrest.
• • •
Cold hands are grasping your waist. Hard enough for the fingers to make indents in your bare skin. You feel the sting of the nails digging in to your skin. The thumbs grazing the bottom of your rib cage. You feel the hands against your bones. It feels like they want to break them. The hands are on the arms, that are on the shoulders of a faceless man. His face is a blur. But yet he must have lips because a cold voice streams from his face. There are no words just a bussing of a voice in a language that you can't understand and his hands gliding lower and lower, freezing your skin so that it burns in their wake. His hands travel lower and grasp your inner thighs and you try to scream but no sound escapes you.
You jolt awake. Warm rough hands gripping your arms and holding you upright. But these warm hands do not burn you. They belong to muscular arms and shoulders covered with a black button up shirt and on his shoulders sit a masked head. With brown eyes and blonde eyelashes.
"Good morning, Princess," Ghost says and lays you back against the armrest of your white sofa, in your room, at the palace. You exhale. Your throat burns.
"You were screaming." Ghost sits back against the cushions, propping one of his legs up on the other like before. Huh, I guess I could scream after all. Wait.
"Princess," you ask him and sit up straight.
"Since you despise "Your highness" so much, and "Princess" is your title. I deemed it fitting." He shrugs. You groan.
"At least Price won't kill you," you mutter. If Ghost heard you he doesn't give it away. He just looks at you, unmoving. He is a bit unsettling isn't he? Well he's supposed to be, right? Being a bodyguard and all? But still. They way he analyses you. Like he is predicting your thoughts and movements. Maybe he is. You wouldn't put it past him. In another universe he's definitely a stalker. Is it disturbing that I find that kind of attractive? Probably. A blurred face flashes through your mind.
"How long was I out?"
"About twenty minutes."
You nod and pull your knees up towards your chest. It had felt like hours. You can still feel the cold hands grasping your skin. Bruising, polluting, staining your body, your soul, your very being. His touch burning you, branding you like cattle. It is like the whole world can see the frostbitten pattern his hands left on your skin. A marking of filth and disgrace. You can no longer distinguish the man in your dream from Marshall. Perhaps they never were two separate people. Your arms wrap tighter around your body, squeezing your ribs.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Ghosts voice shatters your thoughts.
"What," you ask, glancing up at him.
"Do you want to talk about what happened tonight," he clarifies. You look in to his eyes. Those brown eyes who always seem so calm and collected. Would he understand this? This feeling of filth, of being dirty. Of being tarnished like a silver ring touched by sulfur. Like rusted iron, becoming discoloured and fragile. Would he understand how much you blame yourself? Or how much you blame your father?
"I don't know," you reply, your voice weak.
"I'm here if you decide that you do." He picks up a book without a cover from the cushion behind him and opens it. His eyes still on yours. You nod and sit in silence. Looking at the coverless book in Ghosts hands. His hands are scarred across the knuckles. Small, white, jagged circles scattered upon his fingers. Evidently he has been in more than a few fistfights. On his left hand there is a long, thin and straight scar. Reaching from the knuckle on his pinky to just below his thumb. Something sharp having dented him forever. His knuckles on his left hand, although littered by scars, are flushed pink. The knuckles on his right hand however, are bright red. The skin on the ones in the middle scraped with specks of dark red blood.
"Don't you have better things to do," you ask him. Breaking the silence.
"There's a dinner party downstairs with a man who bruised your hand, a boy who assaulted you and several young adults that are high as kites. And you are trying to tell me that I have better things to do than to make sure that none of them gets in here and harms you more than you already have been tonight," he replies, tearing his eyes from the book and raising an eyebrow at you.
"And you are trying to tell me that guarding a princess is more important than making sure that the queen is safe and well, downstairs," you retaliate. Raising an eyebrow to mimic him.
"Price, Gaz and Soap are more than capable. They can handle it," he replies. The fabric around his mouth twitching. Betraying a smile.
"Soap's the mohawk then," you question him. Tilting your head to the side.
"John Mactavish is his actual name," Ghost explains.
"Scottish?"
"Unfortunately."
You snort. He chuckles. You lean against the sofa. Your side digging in to the soft cushions, arms resting on your lap. Your eyelids are heavy. Falling shut and you don't have the energy to reopen them.
"I'll be here when you wake up." Ghosts voice seeping through the darkness that eventually consumes you.
Your heels click against the polished stone floor with every step that you take. Heavy thuds from boots coming closer behind you.
"I was just wondering when you'd join me", you say to the man behind you.
"Had to have a laugh at your poor time management skills", Ghost replies, falling in to step with you.
"Hilarious." you roll your eyes.
"Always am, your highness."
Ghost opens the door to the grand dining hall with his head bowed to you. You walk in, a polite smile with teeth. To make it seen genuine. Or something. The wall opposite you has portraits of previous rulers. Ranging from the one before your mother to one from as early as the 18 hundreds. All in neat but extravagant golden frames. In front of the wall there is a long wooden table. Decorated cleanly with a white table cloth, flowers in pink and lilac and lit candles. Your mother sits at the table. A crown decorates her head. You bow your head to her and make your way towards the table around the edge of the room. If you'd look out the windows you'd see the flowerbeds in the garden. Full of red, white and pink roses. The afternoon sunlight casting the room in a warm yellow glow.
On your mum's left side sits The president, and on her right your father. There is an empty seat next to him. Your seat. You hurry towards the chair. Shooting your mother a quick apology as you pass behind her. You sit down and smooth out your dress. Your father gives you a stern look. Honestly, I deserved that.
"Sorry", you mouth to him. He nods back. Apology accepted. You exhale. You look around at the other two tables. One to your left and the other to your right. The table to your right is designated to the families that are close to the crown. There's the Callahans, the Riveras and Marshall and his parents, the Bakers, ew. At the table to your right is, oh god no. Your cousins are sat smirking in your direction. Well, four out of five. Your eldest cousin, Grace, keeps her head down. Eyes on the plate in front of her. She's in a light pink dress that she thinks hides her already growing baby bump, it does nothing of the sort. A shadow passes behind her. No, not a shadow. A balaclava clad man who somehow blends in like a chameleon against the dim light of the dining hall. He's a Ghost alright.
"How kind of you to join us, your highness", The president addresses you. Earning him amused chuckles from various people in the room. Your eyes dart to him.
"I do sincerely apologize. I'm afraid that my poor time management skills have struck again", you answer in an overly dramatic manor. Causing many people in the room to laugh. Including a snicker from behind you. The corners of your mouth twitch upward. The president chuckles. The tension in the room eases. The conversations start flowing and you let out a breath. Your mother and father are swept in to a conversation with the president. Theres a joke about tea. Something about a wall. You don't pay attention.
Your eyes wander around the room again. They sweep past your cousins towards the door. Next to the door stands Gaz, or Kyle, which is his real name. His dark skin and neatly trimmed hair fits in like a piece of a puzzle with the rest of the room. Elegant but with the touch of "don't mess with me I'm a bodyguard". Next to him, on the other hand, is a man who does the exact opposite. The mohawk on his head, an eyesore. His slightly rugged look may be appealing to some women. But in this context it stands out like a drop of blood on cotton. Even though that's the case he is far from ugly. Wait a minute. Isn't that? Yes it is. It's the bodyguard that Grace is rumored to have a relationship with. Why on earth is he here? We don't need the scandal to take fire once again. It has barley burned out.
You pry your eyes away from the man. Looking towards the table on your right instead. The Callahans are talking with the Riveras about something you can't hear. Marshalls parents are listening in to the conversation. But Marshall himself is staring at you. Shooting you a cocky grin as your eyes meet his. You look away in disgust. Suppressing a shiver.
The first course is served. It is some kind of soup with tiny vegetable squares floating around below the drizzle of oil. It tastes alright. It's nothing special. Apparently it's supposed to warm up the stomach before the main course. What nonsense. There are so many better options to serve as an appetizer. Especially when The President is visiting.
The main course plays out the same way. Some kind of meat, grayish and dry. The royal family can't eat red meat in case of food poisoning. You do it anyway. The chef's rules are much looser when the palace is empty of guests. The president keeps talking with your family. He goes on and on about something that you can't be bothered to listen to. Until your name is mentioned that is.
"What", you ask. Suddenly interested in the conversation.
"Would you consider yourself a republican or a liberal", the president asks you. The strained smile on his face tells you that it was the second time he asked.
"I'm not allowed to vote, nor am I allowed to take a stand in politics", you answer. The answer had been drilled in to your very bones. You can't express myself politically. Especially not right now.
"Come on. This is just a friendly conversation between two acquaintances. Theres no need to follow such formalities." He pushes. You clench my fists under the table. Why can't he just drop it. Your father tenses beside you as you open your mouth to speak.
"Like I said, I will not speak on the matter", you reply. A polite but stern answer. Your father relaxes again. The president laughs and says something about rule following and you stop listening again.
Desert is served and you would like to be anywhere in the palace but the dining hall. Your cousins have had too much to drink. Probably something stronger than alcohol as well by the way they constantly disappear in to the bathroom and talk so loudly that you can hear almost every word that they are saying from across the room. When you have finished your dessert you politely excuse yourself to get some fresh air and hurry out of the dining hall.
When you get into the corridor outside of the big door you take a deep breath. It finally feels like you can get enough oxygen. You walk towards the garden. Fresh evening air can't hurt. The roses should be blooming. A hand grips your wrist and tugs.
Previous chapter - Next chapter
Authors note:
These first few chapters are re-uplodes with minor changes. So these fast paced uploads will be temporary. Just thought I'd let you know! //Polt 🌻
Lenses begin shuttering the moment that you step out into the light. Your parents wave to the crowd that has formed outside the gates. You just smile, and breathe. Remember that part you think to yourself. Crowds have never been your cup of tea. But with your oldest cousin's recent scandal it has been worse than ever. One wrong move and the reporters will write about if for weeks.
You continue walking along the gravel path towards the podium where an older man stands with his hands behind his back. He has two bodyguards on either side of him. Your mum walks up the stairs, greeting the recently elected president with a handshake. He smiles at her with far too white teeth and bows down to kiss her hand. Next is your father and last, you. You walk towards him with a smile plastered on your face.
"Mr President", you greet him and extend your hand towards him. He takes your hand in a firm grip, a too firm grip. It makes your hand ache but you don't move a muscle. You feel Ghosts eyes burning into your back as if he could sense your discomfort. The president lets go of your hand without saying a word and you move to the far side of the podium. Ghost follows suit and stands behind you. His frame is towering over yours and you feel the heat radiating from his body on to your back. It's strangely comforting.
Your mother and The president hold their speeches. They talk about how "We need to work together more than ever in these uncertain times" and "With this cooperation we will ensure that both England and The United States of America thrive towards a better, safer, future". You hardly listen. You may look in their direction, smile and nod along. But most of their speeches fall on deaf ears. You are much too occupied with your aching right hand to pay much of it any mind. You massage the area between your thumb and index finger absentmindedly behind your back. That's when you feel a large, warm, hand wrap around your wrist. You jump at the unexpected feeling before relaxing in to his grip. Ghost twists your hand slowly, checking for any serious damage, You suppose, and rubs the sides of your fingers gently before letting your hand go.
When they finish speaking and give the photographers plenty of time to take pictures of them shaking hands and holding their joint hands up into the air, they leave the podium. Walking past you on the way to the garden. Your mother walking first and The president as well as your father walking after her. All of their respective guards following close behind. You, on the other hand, walk back towards the palace. It's not mandatory for you to walk with the president through the back garden. Even if it would provide a good image to see you speaking with the president, it's best that you don't. I don't need to make a fool out of myself.
You walk down the stairs to the podium but as you reach the fourth step your flat slips off the edge. You feel yourself fall forward, your stomach lurching. Two hands catch you by the waist and hip setting you upright on the next step. Your eyes widen and you pause before taking the next step down. The smile gone from your lips. You gather yourself again and smile towards the crowd outside the gate. You continue walking towards the palace. Back stiff and smile faltering.
"You okay", Ghost whispers. His warm breath hitting your ear through the fabric of his balaclava.
"Yeah", you breathe and wave to the crowd outside the gate.
This is going to be gold for the news articles tomorrow morning. You can already imagine the headlines. "The princess of England, falling head over heals" and "Knight in shining armor, the princess saved by her bodyguard".
The doors closes behind you and you run a hand through your hair. Well more like half your hair since you use your right hand out of habit and the pain makes you tense up. You turn around to face Ghost but he is nowhere to be seen. I swear to god, that man can disappear into thin air. Just as you finish that thought you hear someone clear their throat behind you. There he stands, with an icepack in his hand.
"Oh, thank you", you mumble, reaching out for the icepack.
"I'll do it", Ghost replies, placing the icepack on your hand gently and wrapping it in place with a piece of cloth.
"We don't need you to be all black and blue in time for dinner, your highness", he continues. He clearly does not trust your medical skills. You suppose that he is right not to, since your first aid skills consist of bandaids.
"Right, dinner", you mutter. As if a stroll in the park wasn't enough, you had to have dinner with The president too. Great. More opportunities to make a fool out of myself. Exactly what you need right now.
"Don't worry, by next week they will have forgotten all about your little tumble", Ghost interrupts your thoughts. Do I have to add mind reading to the list of things that this man seems to be capable of?
"Maybe a few months ago. But after the scandal theres no chance in hell that they'll let this opportunity for more gossip pass them by", you sigh and look down at the floor.
Of all the things that your cousins have done. This takes the cake. Your eldest cousin fell pregnant. Under normal circumstances this would have been wonderful, but she isn't married. After a text between her best friend and her got leaked to the press, with a picture of a positive pregnancy test, the whole world has been asking who the father is. The most popular rumor, her own bodyguard. Which obviously isn't helping your current situation.
"Letting you fall wouldn't have been a good look either", He says, bringing you back to reality.
"No it wouldn't, I suppose. I'm sorry. I'm just under a lot of stress right now. Not that it justifies it", you apologize and take a deep breath. You glance up at him. His brown eyes looking back at you. His usually cold eyes soften ever so slightly.
"It's alright, your highness."
You sit in front of your mirror putting mascara on your eyelashes. Your right hand feeling considerably better. Still sore but, considerably better. In thirty minutes you need to have dinner with the man who caused the damage, just great. You put the mascara wand back in its tube and stand up from your vanity. The lilac dress you're wearing slides back down your figure, the shimmery fabric contouring your body in the light. Your hair is curled and put up into a bun. Everything is flawless, just as it is supposed to be. You sigh and walk to the wall mounted mirror. The gilded frame reflects the dim light. You give yourself a once over in the mirror, straighten out your dress around your bust and wipe some gloss out of the corner of your lips. You take a deep breath and turn around, straight into something solid.
"What the-", you look up and meet a pair of dark brown eyes. The eyes are outlined by blond lashes. How have I never noticed that before?
"Better not finish that sentence. Would be inappropriate, don't you think", Ghost suggests, the corners of his eyes crinkling briefly.
"And sneaking up on me isn't", you ask tilting your head to the side and crossing your arms over your chest.
"I would hardly call that sneaking", he replies, crossing his arms and leaning forward.
"Oh yeah? What would you call it then",
"Checking up on you", he replies, grabbing your right arm gently. "How's your hand doing", he continues. You clear your throat.
"Fine, a bit sore still", you answer. His fingers trace over the bones in your hand. You swallow and advert your eyes. They drift towards the opposite wall. Towards the clock. Shit.
"We need to go", you exclaim and wrench your hand out of his grip. You rush towards the door. Purple silk whirling around your ankles as you hurry out the door.
"Do you have to keep bending the rules", he asks from the doorway to your room. You scoff at the question.
"This is hardly bending the rules. The skirt is just above knee length", you answer, glaring at the balaclava clad man stood before you.
"Not sure I agree with that, your highness", his cold eyes scanning your figure. You groan and shove him out the door. What's the matter with him anyway, you think to yourself.
You walk over to your wardrobe and stare at the skirts. Apparently the light blue one you had on was "inappropriate". You pick out a white, patterned one instead and hope that it is acceptable. You roll your eyes. The bodyguard you had before him, before Ghost, wouldn't have batted an eye at that skirt. But at the same time he was off fucking a maid in some linen closet, while Marshall ambushed you in that corridor that night and kissed you. The memory makes goosebumps spread over your body, and not the good kind.
Marshall seems to think that he is entitled to you. Just because your parents didn't say an outright no when his parents talked to them about marriage. He is disgusting, at least in your opinion.
You tried to tell your father that you didn't want the kiss and that Marshall kissed you without your consent but he wouldn't have it. "Think about how this could reflect on your mothers reputation. Sneaking off, kissing boys." That's what he had to say about the matter. Speaking about you as if you were a young, rebellious teenager. You are, in fact, an adult. You have been for a good while now, half a year at least. You went through your teen years without any major scandals. The same can't be said for your cousins.
You open the door and are faced with arms crossed over a broad chest clad by a black t-shirt, tight enough to reveal strong shoulders and muscular arms, and cold eyes staring down at you from the gap in his balaclava.
"Better", you ask, glaring up at Ghost.
"Much", he replies and steps aside.
Ghost opens the door to the dining hall for you and you nod a thank you to him. Your father is sat near the end of the table, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. He looks up at you as you enter.
"Good morning, Dad. Good morning, Gaz", you say to the dark-skinned man stood behind him.
"Important day today", your father replies, not bothering with pleasantries.
"I'm aware", you sit down at the chair opposite his and scoop a spoonful of scrambled eggs and another of bacon down on to your plate.
"Make sure to behave. We don't need the President or the American press to get the wrong impression", he reminds you for what feels like the hundredth time this week.
"I know", you acknowledge, eyes fixed on your plate. Fork moving the eggs around aimlessly.
"Good. We can't afford a scandal", your father adds and rises from his chair. Hand nudging your shoulder as he walks past you and out of the door. Gaz a few steps behind him. The door shuts with a dull thud. You drop your fork on to your plate with a clink and put your head in your hands. Why does he always always talk about me like I'm an accident waiting to happen? You feel Ghosts eyes burning in to your back.
"You don't have to just stand there, you know. You can sit down", you turn your head to look at him. His brown eyes meeting yours before walking over slowly towards the chair next to yours. Pulling it out and turning it so that he faces you. He sits down. Arms crossed over his chest and one of his legs resting on his knee. You pour some water in to your glass and do the same to his. Ghosts eyes still boring in to yours. You sigh.
"Whats the matter", you ask him. Something clearly occupying his mind.
"Do you have a drinking problem or something, your highness", he questions you.
"What? No", you shriek. How could he think such a thing? Well, your cousins are not exactly angels.
"A guy just kissed me at the last event and my dad thinks that I'm going to go into a late teenage rebellion. Besides, you would have noticed if I had a drinking problem by now", you continue rambling, shaking your head.
"Guess you're right", he replies. His voice having an unreadable tone. Your eyes move towards the grandfather clock at the other end of the room. It reads half past ten. Shit. You stand up and the chair almost tips behind you. Ghost rises, eyes darting around the room to find the source of your sudden movement.
"I'm gonna be late", you clarify and hurry out the door. Ghost a few steps behind you.
You make it to the front door with less than a minute to spare. Your parents are stood talking and turn around when you approach with quick steps. You come to a halt behind them. Smiling at your mother. She smiles back and turns towards the men beside the door. Gaz and Price are on either side of the door. Ready to follow their queens order. Your mother nods to them and the doors open. You face the light erupting from the gap and put on a smile that you hope looks natural. The forgotten breakfast on your plate makes itself reminded as your stomach churns. You feel Ghosts eyes burn into the back of your head and you step outside into the light
Next chapter
Authors note:
Hey, I'm back! It's been a while since I posted fanfiction here. But after have read a bunch my inspiration has come back. I am thinking of posting more than just this, like one-shots e.c.t. If there is interest in this I'd love to hear it! I am more than up for taking requests! There may be errors in this and you are more than welcome to correct me. Hope you have enjoyed this! //Polt 🌻
I have had some interaction recently on my old posts of my book when it was still a fanfic. Would you guys be interested in me rewriting the most recent chapters of my book back in to a COD fanfiction?
So yes it is! I will probably edit the first few chapters and re-upload them because I believe I have made some changes to them. It will still be an x reader fic but the reader will have similar characteristics to my own character due to it making it easier for me to write. But feel free to ignore bits and pieces you feel are unfitting haha!🌻
Ghost had played the scene over a million times in his head.
The first time was when he had admitted it to himself, immediately wondering what it’d be like to walk up to you, shake your shoulders and ask why you wouldn’t get out of his head— all while ‘I like you’ played on the tip of his tongue. The second time was when he reached the safehouse, the entire mission having gone haywire, and he finally heard your voice crackle through the comms after half an hour of utter silence all around. His thumb rested over the walkie talkie, but when Price followed in after, he had to drop it immediately, trying to snap some sense into himself. However, it was like a parasite the way it always appeared at all the wrong times. Sometimes when everything was all over and everyone was quiet, his mind would drift off. He’d think of quiet evenings, both of you sitting side by side, no talk, just peace. Then he’d turn his head, maybe just poke you, nothing too flashy.
”I like you.”
The words seemed too cringy, too soft and delicate on his broken and bumpy flesh.
“Don’t leave me.”
Desperation, a beg for you to stay but that was everything he shunned himself for— the very opposite was what he prided himself on.
So he said nothing, buried himself in work and chalked it up to another stupid thing his mind made up to cope with situations that even had his head whirling. That’s why the rookies get through it all, why they join in the first place. For their family, for their education, for their partners, for their loved ones and the ones that came before them. Simon only once had that drive, and he had thought he lost it all when he became Ghost. The team was his though; it’s not something he found himself fighting back against because it just felt right.
He didn't like how different it felt with you though, if they were just right, you were what his heart considered perfection. Just like a clean kill, if he ever wanted to tell you that, it couldnt have a single fault within it.
The mission had been a success and yet still all that hung in the air was a heavy weight, wearing down on your bones from weeks of non-stop high stakes work. Not only that, but the truck seemed to shake with every grain of dirt it went over, ratting the equipment inside, and all the soldiers Ghost held authority over—including you. Soap being here too was the only thing keeping him from daydreaming again, just the sight of you opposite them was bringing all sorts of scenes to his mind. He couldn’t tear his eyes off your tired demeanour though, having never seen you cracked from your steadfast focus, even if you did crack jokes here and there with Gaz. For a while he was convinced you were in love with him, but after much observation (and accidental eavesdropping) you only saw him as a brother, and he was the same to you.
The truck stopped finally as the bright lights of the base’s guard lights lit up around, Ghost getting up first to open up the truck door. Each soldier grabbed their respective bags, getting a gruff ‘Good work’ from their lieutenant before they rushed into the building, followed by Johnny making a quick escape from cleanup duty. Ghost internally curses at the bastard for running off, but he quickly snaps out of it when an amused sound escapes you.
“Sleepin’ ten minutes earlier won't save him from the aches his back will have tomorrow.” You hum, reaching into the boot of the car that had just brang over the other supplies, Ghost coming around your side to help you.
“He might be out of the rain but he’s still just as soaked.” The rain was hitting even harder around both of you, soaking your uniform to the core, not like you weren’t already damp on the way back though.
“Give me that.” He takes Soap’s bag out of your hands, tossing it over his shoulder, and not expecting the smile you give as you look over, genuinely grateful. The boot shields you from the rain pattering down, but it’s still freezing cold in a way that’s down to your bones. Yet still, that smile is enough to have his chest burning with a need he has to quench.
”Thanks, Ghost.” You murmur back, sorting through the rest of the things left behind for your own personal bag—lord knows where it is in this mess. “Think we made a pretty good team today.”
You did? Well, he wasn’t going to deny it, the pair of you have always been pretty good but today was like a dance in the way you moved, adapting to the situation and yet perfectly in sync. He nods in turn, and he’s supposed to be looking for his own bag but he’s too focused on you— On the way your chest rises and falls in frustration, the little huff you breathe out and the way your eyes narrow.
“Made quick work of the hostiles, didn’ we?” He hums, pulling back a bundle of tarp to look beneath. “Could make quick work of that buffet in town too.”
You blink, turning your head to look at him in confusion. What did he mean by that? “Oh yeah, heard there’s some nice food there..”
”So you wanna go?” He finally turns his head to you, looking at you like it’s the most normal thing on Earth to ask your coworker who you’ve been crushing on to casually go to a buffet even though you only talk once a week. “I want to take you out for dinner.” He’s doing his very best to stay calm, but it’s increasingly difficult when you’re staring at him like he just got down on a knee and proposed. Damnit, he though you’d be better at this than him.
”Like..?”
”A date, yes. If you want to.”
You fidget with the ends of your shirt, teeth grazing your lips as the rain patters down all around, almost convincing you that his words had been mixed up somehow. There’s no way; he had to mean something else. Maybe this was another mission, or he was testing you.
“A date.. so.. you..”
“I like you, yes.”
Sheepishly you nod in acknowledgement, hiding your face as best as you can as you start rummaging for his own bag, trying to keep yourself occupied. “We’re soaked though.”
Oh. He forgot about that. Suddenly looking down at himself and at you, before freezing up entirely. Not only did he make a fool of himself, but there was absolutely no saving this. “Takeaway? You must be tired though—“
Your head snaps to look up at him again, eyes wide and desperate as you quickly shake your head. “No- no” Only then does he see the way your vision has grown all watery, and if it wasn't for the lack of light, he’d be able to see how hot your cheeks were right now too.
“Okay.. we’ll get cleaned up first and then..?”
You nod quickly, moving your face away from him again. Your chest blooms with joy as the tears start to mix with the rain water that already has your face glistening, but he’s worried. What kind of reaction was that? You denied his first offer, although a reasonable point, refused to face him and now you were practically tearing up. What had he done?
“Sorry- I didn't mean to.. I mean, it’s just an offer. You dont have to agree— He’s panicking because one thing he’s planned over and over is failing miserably. All he can do now is step back and away from you to try and give you some space. But that just makes you move closer again, hands coming up to desperately wipe the hot tears away.
“No- i.. i’m just happy.. I didn't think you would like me back and i- i’m just surprised and happy— very happy.” The words spill out, just as panicked as his was. Suddenly you’re not the sergeant whose work is so admirable the soldiers look at you with heart eyes. No, you’re like a damn teenager with your chest rising quickly as you pour every sincere word out.
Finally his chest relaxes for the first time in months, a content feeling replacing the knot of anxiety that tortured him. You were absolutely adorable too. He moves towards you again, gently placing a hand on your arm, rubbing your elbow gently. Though before he can even consider taking it slow, you’ve got your arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing him tight while you sniffle out apologies for being ‘dramatic’ and ‘overreacting.’
He just lets out a long breath, holding you back just as tight as one hand gently holds the back of your head. “You’re too damn cute.” He huffs, squeezing you gently with his hands splayed across you greedily. “Kind of like a soaked wet rat.”
You laugh through your sniffles, hands gripping his shirt as you continue to cry your eyes out. He likes you, the man you’ve pined over for months, dreamed of soft evenings and quiet mornings. The one you thought would never glance your way for more than a second. He liked you.
I have had some interaction recently on my old posts of my book when it was still a fanfic. Would you guys be interested in me rewriting the most recent chapters of my book back in to a COD fanfiction?
From what I know he was supposed to come home today. He left base the night between Monday and Tuesday and has been no contact ever since. Pair that with getting my period means I am hit with a severe case of the blues. Like just let me have him back, please and thank you! 😢
From what I know he was supposed to come home today. He left base the night between Monday and Tuesday and has been no contact ever since. Pair that with getting my period means I am hit with a severe case of the blues. Like just let me have him back, please and thank you! 😢
Simon Riley, who despite looking so big and mean out in public, is oh so gentle with his precious bird.
Simon Riley who practically worships the ground you walk on, treating you better than any man ever had before. Every time you thank him for doing something as simple as opening your car door, he only gives a scoff: “nothin’ to thank me for, jus’ givin’ ya what you deserve,”
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