It was a simple question, something you asked in the dark of the safe house, voice almost inaudible.
Ghost had been sitting by the lit fireplace, staring into the flames as they died. It was mostly dark now. He didn't fear much, but your question was like ice water being dumped over his body.
You were new, fairly young. He'd trained with you, sure, but this was the first mission he had with you alone. That's why he held back the ugly response waiting on his tongue. You didn't need to know how he really felt. You didn't deserve to be burdened with his problems. Didn't even deserve to be yelled at.
Ghost's eyes glared down the dying flames like they owed him money while small tears gathered on his bottom lashes. Finally, after clearing his throat and blinking away the tears, he turned around and looked at you.
You were laying on your back tucked into your sleeping bag staring at the ceiling.
"Why? Don't tell me y' miss your mum, kid," Ghost grumbles, leaning back against the wall by the fireplace.
"...A little, not much though."
He could hear the the defensiveness in your tone, it made a small smile appear on his scarred lips. Under the mask, of course. The more he thought about his mom, or who once was, the mask seemed to feel more restricting. With a grounding sigh he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head back against the cold plaster.
"But t' answer your question, yeah, I miss her sometimes."
A shiver ran through Ghost's body as the admission left him. She was waiting for him on the other side, he had dreams about her often.
More like nightmares.
When he inevitably passes over, would he even want to see her?
I saw one singular post from you about platonic 141 and immediately followed. You do not understand how much comfort you have bestowed on me. So I'm here to make a request 🤑🤑🤑🔥🔥🔥🔥‼️‼️‼️‼️ What do you think about maybe a younger reader and they wear a mask so no one can see how young they are for security reasons. But on one mission there mask got ripped and the whole team saw they're face. Ever since that mission the team has somewhat soft on the reader. Like in sparring or smth they be a little careful or like whenever reader is off duty, they need to follow reader's every move. NEED TO. Yup that's all, I love yapping as you can see and if your not comfortable with this request pls ignore it. Byee and take care of yourself<33333🥰🥰🥰
a/n: sure! I ❤️ when people yap to me dw, I made it a bit vague so people reading can decide if reader is a minor or just a very young adult, and fully platonic ofc
Ghost:
-on the mission where your mask got torn, he was doing sniper work, he had only seen your face briefly through his scope, but he could pick up how young you looked even from that little detail
-nothing much that was noticeable to the blind eye changed about his treatment in particular, but he slipped you one of his spare masks and when you made little mistakes on your reports and training, he let it slide quite a bit more then usual
price:
-being the fatherly man he was, as soon as he noticed how young you were, he absolutely doted on you. Always made up excuses on why he was giving you extra portions of food or newer gear or whatever he wanted to give you, but everyone knew why in the end
-wanted to keep you safe deep down, but didn’t ever bring it up. Didn’t want you to know he saw, but wanted to know he was there for you.
Gaz:
-certainly was less caring then the others, but just more caring when it came to you, more so then he was for everyone which was saying something. Hid it better then price though
-did some more data hunting through your files and made sure everything was in order for you to not be in trouble if you were caught, with the help of laswell of course. You were his teammate in the end, and he didn’t want you to get into trouble over something as simple as age even though you we’re definitely young to be in the taskforce
soap:
-became a lot more brotherly around you, more teasing and headlocks in the softest most friendly way. It’s just how he always has been, but to the max
-had played a little less jokes on you, and more with you helping him instead since it felt more fair and less like targeting, since he knew it was no longer a perfectly even game of teasing
warnings obsessive behavior, mentions of previous stalking, bad mental health that isn't explored + ghost is essentially an enabler, alternating povs.
note lets ignore that i went radio silent for 4 months... also i uploaded this to ao3 as a chapter 2 to "after hours" for anyone curious! enjoy :3
part 1 | part 2
Your photography room has never looked worse.
There’s several polaroids scattered across the floor. A few tubs of water have been thrown across the room, the spillage reaching the photos and damaging them beyond repair. The red light flickers. It casts dramatic shadows across your face and highlights the wrinkles in your clothes though it hides the dark spots beneath your eyes, and it especially illuminates the immediate condensation that takes place every time you exhale. The room is usually kept at medium temperatures, since you’re too scared of damaging the pictures, but during your tantrum, one of the water tubs you threw must’ve hit a button on the thermostat that lowered the temperature.
The cold is supposed to make the ink in the pictures expand and eventually leak from the plastic confines of the film itself. It’s only a matter of time until your photos are ruined. The photos that date back all the way to last summer, all of Simon, who, shockingly, triggered your tantrum. Just thinking of him makes your eye twitch. You find it hard not to get mad at him, especially after how frustrating he’s made your observing, as if it’s just some kind of game to him. Your harsh breaths create a harsh contrast to the quiet thumping of your heart that’s loud enough to reach your ears, and the gentle trembling of your limbs forces you to lean against the wall. You’d rather he just be mad and not want anything to do with you at this point. It’d be so much easier for you if that was the case.
Ever since Simon confronted you about your “stalking”, he’s been coming more frequently. Just about every week now, usually requesting bacon and some kind of fish. He gets more talkative every time. More willing to share his personal life, his past, what he hopes for in the future, what he plans to make with each item he buys, hell, sometimes even jokes around with you―it’s torture. It’s torture because you don’t know how to react to it. You’ve spent so long treating him like a hobby, something you can choose to focus on or stray from, but all of a sudden, he’s decided to share so much of himself that you feel like it’s all you can focus on. You can’t handle so much information about your subject.
It’s caused a few meltdowns over the past few weeks.
Every so often, whether it be at work while sharpening knives, at home trying to sleep, or even walking down the street with your headphones on playing the sweet sounds of ocean waves and rain to calm you, you’ll remember that he knows. He’s known. It disturbs you and makes that knife slip in your hands, scares your circadian rhythm into deviance, and forces those waves to crash into rocks as the rain turns to thunder. Everything feels out of order, the puzzle pieces of your mind scattered and a few missing, with you unable to solve why or how exactly everything went so wrong. Why you feel so wrong. Why, out of everything, the thing that bothers you the most is that unsettling feeling of the ever-so present fact that Simon is painfully aware of your tendency to follow.
You lean against the wall and slide down into a sitting position, your knees reaching your chest and your arms automatically wrapping around yourself in lieu of a hug. You wish it was him. For the quickest moment, you wish it were his arms around you instead, his calloused fingers stretched over your back and his rough palms rubbing circles into your lats. The thought makes your hands tremble and your gaze shifts to the ruined film strewn across the room, the flickering red light overhead reflecting off of each polaroid, the faint sound of water dripping from the counters crossing with the buzzing of the lightbulb. You let out a shaky breath and hold yourself a little tighter, allowing your head to fall limp ahead of you, your forehead resting on your knees.
It’s ridiculous how much this affects you. How much he affects you.
—
Simon considered that maybe you stayed home today, the idea of you falling ill worrying him, but after checking your flat, he found nothing but your keys missing and your lack of presence. Therefore, you must be in your shop. However, your shop is currently closed.
He could break in. He’s done it before, after closing once you’d gone home, and snooped around your little photography room curiously. He was, admittedly, mildly impressed with some of the photos―a few of them he didn’t even notice, though many of them he can recall seeing you out of the corner of his eye or hearing a faint click behind him―but otherwise indifferent to each one. He hadn’t taken any but was tempted, just to maybe let you know that he’d been there long enough to steal something, but decided against it; he’d tortured you enough with his much-too-dramatic confrontation. You don’t need any more stress. Even he knows that, despite not being the best at showing it.
There’s no lights on in the shop. Nothing that hints at your presence, nor anything that invites his own in, but the feeling in his gut tells him to just go in through the back door and hope to God nobody sees him. Simon sighs and looks around haphazardly, not seeing anyone out in the open, and walks as casually as he can around the back of the butchery. There’s a door the same color as the wall, with a small handle rusting at the edges and a lock that barely functions. I would remind you to fix it, but it would give me away, he thinks, I’ll just replace it myself one of these days.
He easily opens the door without a key, the rusting lock giving into the slightest force worryingly quick. It turns inwards, and Simon walks into the room, closing the door behind him and reaching for the string on the side of the wall. He pulls on it and the overhead bulb flickers before turning on, an orange-yellow glow casting the room in a decent amount of light, making the cleaning tools and chemicals visible. Simon ignores all of this and instead reaches for the door, opening it before walking out into the dimly lit kitchen. It’s freezing, and the white lights cast an even glow onto the counter, reflecting off of the metal surface and illuminating the clean table. Simon looks around, and to his disappointment, you’re nowhere to be seen. Despite this, he moves on and searches for the next door, eventually finding the one that leads out into the main shop. He soon finds himself clicking the door shut behind him whilst being behind the counter you typically are. The role reversal feels strange, the new view of looking outside the shop rather than gazing inside as he usually would.
Simon makes his way towards the end of the counter and finds yet another door, though it’s locked with a slightly better lock than the last. It looks newer rather than an old lock that’s simply held up well over the time you’ve had it, so he assumes it’s been changed recently. It would make sense, considering it's the lock that guards your oh-so-precious photography room—or, at least, the stairs down to it. He hesitates, his hand hovering over the door, balled up into a fist with his knuckled readied in front of the door, about to knock.
He can hear something. It’s shuffling. Maybe some soft breaths, the tell-tale hitch of them a sign of your distress―something Simon’s not particularly proud to know of―and a tell-tale sign that maybe Simon should leave you alone. He’s not a sadist; he doesn’t enjoy seeing you upset. It’s satisfying at most, knowing your remorse for your stalking, knowing that you’re guilty enough to be so upset over it. Assuming that that’s the reason you’re so upset, of course. He thinks it’s a good show of character, or a nice way of knowing that you don’t have the worst intentions. And maybe, going by that logic, Simon isn’t the best person―but he’s willing to go without remorse if it means that he feels no guilt keeping you safe.
Simon steps back from the room, his hand dropping to his side. He sighs and walks around the counter, heads towards the front door, and flips the misleading ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ before he walks out. Even if you’re not closed, he can’t imagine you’d want any customers while you’re in the middle of whatever you’re doing. Your photography room is important to you, or so he assumes; he can’t imagine there’s many things that would draw you away from the room besides him. The room is so clean it almost annoys him. The organized nature of it all, the pictures of him strung up and strewn across the room so perfectly, the drawers filled with camera film and different camera lenses―the sight of it seems so wrong, knowing the less-than-perfect hobbies the room provides sanctuary for.
He can’t imagine you breaking down in there. It’s aphantasic, how little he can visualize any sort of mess taking place in the room. He wonders if you break down often in that room. If you find it safer than your house. If, sometimes, when your store is closed for no apparent reason on an average, festiveless day, the true reason behind its closure is the fact that you’re too busy crying over lost potential photos and an unpredictable tomorrow in your little safe room in the same place meant to be your workspace to open up shop. He, quite frankly, can’t imagine something more pathetic than being so swept up in your own sorrow created by your own mistakes that you could’ve so easily avoided had you not done an objectively disgusting act.
And, for whatever reason, that patheticism is the exact reason Simon finds himself heading towards the local hardware store, a new lock and some WD-40 on his mind.
—
It’s been two days. You wake up in your photography room. The floor is wet and your clothes are wet and you hate the feeling of your clothes sticking to your skin. You slept here last night, after going home the previous night to sleep in an actual bed, then came back here in the morning to spend another day mourning the pictures you ruined and the potential friendship you threw away by acting so recklessly. By being so obvious. You’re about one more mistake away from hopping off the nearest bridge with a ball and chain wrapped around your ankle.
You push yourself up by your elbows, and eventually the palms of your hands make contact with the ground, then you’re sitting up with your legs outstretched at awkward angles. Your knees hurt when you bend them, and as you try to push yourself up, you have to stop and breathe for a bit to get a handle on your pain. It’s not the worst you’ve felt. Far from it, honestly. But for some reason, this little thing keeps making you stumble, keeps making you hesitate in pushing yourself up, your knees feeling as unstable as a fawn and your frame as shaky as a leaf in the wind. When you finally manage to completely push yourself up, your femur feels as though it’s barely attached to your tibia; the two bones are balanced so unevenly that it feels like you’re standing on stilts.
The doorbell rings and you curse out loud. Rather loud, in fact, for the small room you’re in. You already sense who it is. You’re not in the mood for this, already knowing what’s bound to happen, and despite this, you make your way out of the ruined room and up the stairs. Lo and behold,
Simon stands at the counter, waiting for you to get behind the other end of the counter to take his order. You do so, putting on a pair of latex gloves before speaking.
“What are you looking for today?” you ask politely, slipping on the black gloves, leaning forward against the counter as you wait for an answer.
“It’s been a while since we last had a chat,” Simon hums, opting to stay standing straight, “and, for some strange reason, I haven’t heard any camera noises recently.”
Your mind pauses for a moment before you sigh and stand up straight, taking a step back from the counter, “I don’t want to do this with you today.”
“Why not?”
“Please. Not today.”
“I don’t remember having a say in when you’d follow me around and take pictures of me minding my business.”
You purse your lips at his valid point and look away for a moment, “Did you not just say you haven’t noticed me take any pictures of you recently?”
Simon is silent for a moment, before taking a step closer to the counter, voice a little quieter, almost gentler, “So I can’t complain a little about you stalking me, then? Because you’ve stopped for a month or two?”
“But that’s not―” you choke up, despite mentally begging yourself not to, your voice cracking. You sigh defeatedly, tiredly, and lean against the counter as if it can offer any more than physical support. You stare down at the grimy-clear surface. You need to clean it.
“Not…?” Simon presses on, though his voice is gentle, softly coaching you through your emotions.
“It’s not stalking,” you have to defend yourself with a broken voice while quiet, labored breaths leave you and force you to breathe manually. You already did horrible the first time Simon decided to interrogate you about your observing―you don’t know why he’d think it was a good idea to try and do it again. He already knows that you “stalk” him, or however he wants to classify it, so why does he have to keep bringing it up?
“Then what am I supposed to call it, huh?” he asks, the gravel leaving his voice gradually, exposing something soft and fuzzy in its leave. Something smoother, something that makes the hairs on the back of your neck shoot up.
I don’t have an answer for him, you realize. You can try to explain yourself however you like. You can tell him that you’ve been following him―or, had been following him before being confronted―and taking candid pictures of him, leaving them to hang in the dingy room below your shop, with dates and locations attached to each photo to ensure that you remember each one. You can explain the thought that goes into every photo, and how each one is selected from the many taken from that day. You don’t do any of that, however; instead, you stare at him and hiccup again, hot embarrassment rushing to your face as you let out another shuddering breath and dare to draw another one back in.
“Hey, listen,” Simon reaches a hand across the counter and puts his palm over the back of your latex-covered hand, making you look at him with glassy eyes, sniffling, “I’m not doing this to make you upset. I don’t want you to cry, or feel guilty, or think that I’m in any way mad at you. Because I’m not.”
It’s barely reassuring. You’re just glad that you have the shop hours posted outside so that nobody thinks to come in right now, since you’re sure it's at least an hour beyond closing by now. Simon’s thumb rubs circles against the back of your hand as he continues, “You stalked me for at least a few months. I don’t know why, I don’t know who else you’ve stalked, I just know that you’ve been following me around for a while. I would like to know why you’ve chosen me.”
It’s an awful question, really. You don’t think he could’ve chosen a worse one. You would honestly take prison over answering this, because truthfully, you don’t know―Simon was there, and for whatever reason you felt inexplicably attached to him. It could’ve been something he said the day you two met, something he did, or just the way he acted, but whatever it was, it elicited a strong enough feeling from you to cause you to start following him. You sniffle again, and Simon must sense that something’s not right, because he squeezes your hand and leans in a little further.
“I think I should at least know why, right?” he asks, before pausing, and offering, “Maybe we could trade information?”
You furrow your eyebrows at this. “Huh?” You wince at the way your voice cracks.
Simon doesn’t mention it. “I’ll tell you something I think you’d like to know, in exchange for you telling me why you decided to stalk me.”
You don’t answer him, partially because you’re not sure what he could possibly tell you, partially because you don’t know what you could possibly tell him. After a few moments of silence, though, you nod your head and a nearly unintelligible “okay” leaves your mouth. Simon takes this as an invitation to share his information, and so he does.
“I knew for a month before I told you,” he tells you in a low voice, “and for that month, and the month after that, I watched you.”
You swear your heart stops for a moment. What? “... what?”
“I watched you close your shop every day,” Simon hums, “and I made sure you got home safely. The area you live in is dangerous. Plenty of roadmen just waiting for someone as… unaware as you to come by them.”
Your heart starts beating again, faster and faster, and you think you can feel your pupils dilating. Simon’s words reach your hypothalamus and you can physically feel the dopamine multiply, hell, you can feel it lighting up your nerves and flooding your veins. It feels like lightning coursing all throughout your body. You’re nearly positive the blacks of your pupils have consumed the majority of your iris, leaving just a ring of color in your eyes.
“Is that why you watched me?” Simon asks, a hand coming up to brush his thumb over the tears that’ve trickled just below your eyes, “Did you think I was unsafe? That I couldn’t take care of myself?”
You shake your head, and a breathy “no” leaves you, making you take a deep breath, stuttering as you exhale. Simon keeps his hand on your cheek and pauses, a curious look on his face.
—
No?
Simon tries to think. He considered the―frankly horrifying―possibility of you fancying him, but that idea went as soon as it came, both out of lack of evidence and because he truly can’t stand the idea. It would only mean he’d been playing into it, and that’s the last thing he wants to do. He watches your pupils grow uncannily big and only gets more concerned. He forgets what it means when the pupils get bigger outside of being under the influence, and since he doesn’t recall seeing you take anything while talking to him, he can only assume that that’s not the case.
“Do you know me from somewhere?” Simon asks, bringing his hand down from your cheek to your own, squeezing it gently, “Should I recognize you?”
You shake your head negatively, “No.”
Simon thinks for a few beats, each feeling a little longer than the last, before speaking up again, “Did I seem particularly interesting?”
Despite what he hoped the answer would be, you shake your head again wordlessly, a “no” never escaping you verbally but your body language more than enough to tell Simon that he wouldn’t be able to guess why exactly you stalked him. He supposes it can’t be too easy to tell your victim why exactly you stalked them, but he told you what he did, so he thinks it’s only fair if you return the favor and grace him with the answer to the question, “Then why did you do it?”
You take shaky breaths, still hunched over the counter, staring down at the dirtied glass so as to not make eye contact with Simon, “You’re new.”
He stays silent. You continue after swallowing, “You were right there. Everyone else― they don’t come here as often. If they do, they make too much conversation. They give too much of themselves to me. I don’t want them. You’ve never… been so open, not as much as them. I didn’t find you any more interesting than them, I just― I just thought that you were better. You’re so rare. I needed you, like… like a―”
“Like a toy?” Simon tries to interrupt, only for you to shake your head negatively, looking up at him and finding his eyes.
“Like an artifact.”
Simon tries to think. An artifact? As if you were a museum curator, looking for new items to add to your displays, a collector of sorts looking for something new. Something special. And he had the luck to be the one you found different, to be the one that you need, for God know’s what reason.
“You needed me?” Simon asks, thumb swiping over the back of your hand, “Nobody else?”
“Only you,” you confirm, turning your hand over so that your gloved palm is in contact with Simon’s bare one, “it was so strange. I didn’t think for a second that I was stalking you. I just wanted to know you.”
“… Do you know me now?”
“Not as well as I want to.”
So you still want to. Simon’s conflicted. He’s not sure how he feels about being some kind of collectible. He’s sure you didn’t mean to equate him to an item―or at the very least, something inhuman―but he can’t help but feel that you’re doing just that. The lock in his back pocket feels heavier. Like these conflicted feelings weren’t weighing Simon down enough, he just needed the extra weight of the steel lock to remind him of where he is. How close to the ground he is. How close to you he is. Who he bought the lock for. How much better is he than you? You stalked him first, but he stalked you back. You broke into his flat, he broke into yours. You observe him, he watches you. Same difference.
“I bought you a new lock,” Simon comments after a few beats of silence, amusement poking through his conflicted feelings at the sight of your suddenly confused expression, clarifying quickly at the look, “for your photography room.”
Your expression hardens and you sigh, “I’m not using that room anymore.”
“No?” Simon tilts his head, “lost your interest in photography, all of a sudden?”
“The room’s not in the best condition right now,” you admit, watching as Simon pulls a lock out of his back pocket with his free hand, sliding the metal across the counter to your end. He’s surprised by the admission―just a few days ago, he couldn’t imagine your room being any less clean than a research clinic. You take the lock regardless, flipping it over in your hand and smiling at Simon, “Thank you, though.”
He nods and you hesitantly slide your hand away from his, walking back towards the stairs, with Simon following behind you closely as soon as he rounds the corner of the counter. It’s a quick walk down the stairs to your locked-up room, and Simon steps ahead unprompted to grab the rusted lock, not missing your look of appreciation as he yanks off the decayed hunk of metal. Orange dust flies into the air in the lock’s unexpected departure and the particles soon melt into the surrounding air. You fit the bar of the lock through the uneven hole in the bar of metal attached to the door, and open the door before the bar can go all the way through.
When Simon sees the state of your photography room, he can hardly believe his eyes. There’s splattered dye everywhere, all various shades of blue and purple―from your polaroid film, he guesses, seeing all the tattered plastic-paper pictures strewn across the floor, all having the same colored clumps attached to the interior plastic. There’s tubs of water knocked over, accompanied by puddles of the same water gathered on the floor, desecrating any originally-decent pictures. The red overhead light bulb is flickering and the room is darker than light. There’s several camera lenses shattered to bits across the floor. Cameras follow the shattered glass, several models from the same brand of each camera broken, either the lithium batteries leaking or the lens broken or the camera itself looking like it’d been run over.
The room is a mess. This pleases Simon greatly.
He stays silent as you kick a few shards of glass out of the way, though he keeps an eye on you to make sure you don’t get hurt doing so, watching as you walk across the room and open up a drawer underneath the only intact table in the room, the others greatly dented or a hole worn in them. You put a single picture out of it, though not before brushing small shards of glass off of the polaroid, making Simon take a step forward and hold out a hand as if to take yours and inspect it for cuts. The red light makes it nearly impossible to tell, but the way that you don’t react to the glass makes him think that it hadn’t punctured your skin at all. When you walk back over to him, he sees what’s in your hand; a picture of him.
“This is my favorite one,” you hum, holding the picture out for him to take. Gently, he takes the film into his hand and reads the caption. 24/06/23, Mosley St. It’s a picture of him walking towards the camera, but looking off to the side, watching a car speed by. He can’t remember the moment, but judging by the look he sees on his face, he imagines he was wondering who in their right mind decided to go so fast in whatever speed zone that street is.
“It’s very nice,” Simon replies, something warm settling in his chest, “I don’t believe I saw you take this one.”
He knows it’s a lie. Not because he remembers seeing them, but because it would be ridiculous if he didn’t see them. Despite this, he feels no guilt lying to your face, not when you get this proud look on your face that coincides with the disbelief appearing upon it at the same time, the two creating a look Simon can only respond to with the smallest bit of adoration.
“Really?” you ask, and Simon doesn’t hesitate to nod.
“Really.”
He doesn’t mind it, really. Not when you seem so happy, letting him follow you back out of the room and up the stairs, an invisible tail wagging behind you in excitement, goosebumps erupted across the skin of your arms and the back of your neck. He thinks it’s worth it.
Of course, for you, most things are worth it, if not everything.
platonic ghost x reader, just a little blurb, retired!simon, retired!reader, fatherfigure!simon (?), prolly ooc simon, mentions of PTSD and (very very very slightly) hinted torture (only if you squint really hard, i swear), reader is inspired by those house climbing parcour people lol
readers call sign is ‚kid‘ :)
(masterlist | old man masterlist)
REQUESTS/ASKS OPEN!!!
„you gotta keep up with me old man“ you laugh as you jump from roof to roof, the city blurry beneath you. there was a big smile painted on your lips, you felt carefree.
behind you simon cursed and panted, trying to hide the fact that he was at least a tiny bit scared of the height he was currently running around at. „bloody hell, i ain‘t that agile.“
his words get carried away by the wind but you stop nevertheless to let him catch a breath and admire the view. you turn to grin at him, laughing when you see him catching his breath with his hands on his knees. „you really are getting old.“
„i ain‘t had the luxury t‘retire a‘28,“ he grimaces, stretching when he walks up to you.
„i didn‘t want to retire,“ you snort, plopping down at the edge of the roof. „i had no other choice.“
simon rolls his eyes and sits down beside you. „i know, i know. ‘m sorry.“
you smile, „don‘t be. i‘m happy at least someone is being honest to me.“ a sign escapes your lips and you stare at your dangling legs. „everyone who knows of my…condition treats me like i‘m made of glass, y‘know? i‘m happy you don‘t do that.“
„well, i‘d say i know y‘betta than most,“ simon says with a cocky grin, trying to enlighten the mood. „trained ya f‘long enough.“
this idea has been in my head for so long it's like a burnt egg fr
Imagine being put on desk duty after nearly selling an undercover mission and getting injured (Price and Laswell weren't happy). It had been about a month since it happened, but Price insisted you stay at the desk for a while later despite being almost fully healed.
Then, like a curse had been put on you all, a mission had gone sideways leaving Ghost severely injured. You caught a glimpse of him on the stretcher after being brought back to base. It was hard to identify what all happened, but you almost gagged seeing his right arm bent at an impossible angle.
Since he was put in a medically induced coma and probably wouldn't talk to you even if he could, you asked the sergeants. Unfortunately, they didn't know much more than you did, but Soap mentioned something about a head injury.
After two more weeks of desk duty and nearly falling asleep every hour, Price called you into his office. This was it, maybe he finally considered letting you back into the field.
He had to, right? Ghost was pretty much out of commission until further notice. It sounded selfish to think about your teammate's accident as an opening to get back into the field, but you were desperate.
Besides, Ghost didn't seem to like you anyways.
What you didn't expect was to be ordered to watch over Ghost while he recovers. Couldn't he watch over himself? He was well into his 30's you were sure of it.
That's how you ended up sitting in a chair next to your Lieutenant's bed in his room. Medical let him go back to his own room, but he had to be watched over. Since you were on desk duty, you were the perfect candidate apparently.
It was awkward, so you played on your phone while Ghost just stared at the wall. It creeped you out, you were never this close to him for so long.
You got dinner for him and yourself (reluctantly), but he didn't eat it. You held back the need to scold him. He should be grateful you even got him anything. After an hour of him not eating it, you just sighed and took the trays back to the mess hall.
After a few hours of awkward silence, it was finally midnight. You were hoping to go to your own room, finally have your own time. Except Ghost still wasn't asleep.
Great, just what you needed. As much as you didn't care much for him, it worried you to see him so out of it. He was concussed for sure, but the coma definitely left him more disoriented than the actual injury.
It was late, and you were tired. Which is why you sighed before climbing in bed next to him. He didn't react much, leaving you a little uneasy seeing your hard ass Lieutenant be so docile. Nonetheless, you eased him down to lay back on the pillow and turned him to lay on his side.
Hesitantly, you laid on your side as well with your back to him. When you woke up the next morning his back was pressed to yours while he was still fast asleep.
That's how it all started, with just one injury. You regretted it now since the large behemoth of a man couldn't properly sleep without having his back against yours.
The others made fun of you both, but Ghost didn't care, as per usual. Now when you try to stay up to play games with Soap and Gaz, a large shadow engulfs you from behind. Seeing his shadow behind you is enough of a threat for you to carry your ass to his bed.
It's like having a big, threatening guard dog that refuses to go off schedule.
Hi!! I recently read the Ghost being a paternal figure to reader without reader noticing and it’s amazing! I love that!!!
I don’t see a lot of comfort things like that and as someone who also age regresses it was nice to see that!!
I was wondering if you were gonna do a part two? Or maybe another small tidbit? If not I completely understand!!!!
Hiiii yay thank you!!!! I only have a little blurb in my mind because it’s been plaguing me 😔
But trust twin there will always be more to come 🙏😏
You had your schedule down to a tea at this point. Every week you had training in the mornings and a little ways through the afternoon, except Wednesdays. For some reason, Wednesday had become your free day, but there was nothing to do. You got to wake up at a regular time, stay up at night as long as you wanted, and go around doing whatever it was your little heart desired. So, how did you choose to spend these days?
Getting up at 5 a.m. sharp to accompany Ghost while he did his lieutenant duties.
It all started as a punishment from the man himself. You had done a couple things wrong during a training session, and in retaliation he made you get up with him for the training he conducted the next morning with his other group of soldiers. Ever since then, you did it on your own, for what reason he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t deny how much his heart swelled to see his little shadow following him to training every Wednesday morning.
He had to admit, it was cute to see you sitting in the grass with your legs crossed, squinting in the morning light with your still sleepy eyes. Instead of wearing your strict uniform, you would wear lounge clothes. Often sweatpants and a t-shirt, sometimes remembering to bring a sweatshirt or hoodie. When you didn’t, though, he got to look back at you every so often to see you practically swimming in his hoodie. No matter how big you were, his hoodies always managed to make you look embarrassingly smaller than you actually were.
Curse him and his stupidly over average body.
Surprisingly, you both didn’t talk that much. When he wasn’t yelling at the team in front of him or giving orders, you would both sit in silence. Every so often you’d have a bit of small talk, but you were both comfortable in the silence. Besides, that’s why he was able to hear you quietly sucking out the last bit of water from the straw of your water cup.
“You already drink all that, love? It’s barely seven in the morning,” Ghost sighs as he stares down at your cup, this was not rare.
You nod, smiling sheepishly and setting the cup in your lap. He raises a brow at you before extending his hand down to grab it.
“I’ll fill it up for you,” He gets ahold of it and unscrews the top, looking for your reaction. You don’t comment, knowing that he’ll fill it no matter what.
“I trust you’ll keep these guys in line while I’m gone, yeah?” You can practically hear the smirk in his tone as he ruffles your hair, walking off to fill it.
Not long later, he comes back to where you were sitting in the grass, handing you your cup which was now filled with fresh ice water. For some reason, he always knew just the right amount of ice to put in your water. He smiles as you instantly take a sip of the water, his eyes crinkling under the mask.
“I never have to worry about you, always drinking your water. You’re a great eater too, always finish your food. So good.”
You couldn’t help but smile at the praise that he gave you. It was rare for him to praise out loud and you made sure to soak in the moments before they were gone.
Wednesdays had easily became your favorite day of the week. And although he never said it, they were his too.
I have a cute lil platonic hc idea if you wanna write it :)
Ghost finds a kid wandering a warzone wearing a skull hoodie while deployed for recon. The kid is like 16 and skittish, and they remind Ghost of his past self. He calls in the get the kid sent back to base (not without some mouthing off from them) and informally adopts them when he gets back.
Ik its kinda long but it sounds wholesome :D
a/n: such a cute topic! There’s a lot of platonic asks in my inbox and I love the ideas for them a ton lol
ghost:
-Simon ghost Riley lived up to his name in mentality and reputation, he was a shadow, a figure enemies should be scared of, the boogeyman to barrack soldiers and a scary silent figure to even those who knew him, hidden under that mask
-but the second he saw you, tucked into a corner with a bloody knife and a hoodie on that looked so much like his mask, he let his persona slip off for a moment
-you seemed so much like him in some way, the way your breath was heavy, the way you were scared in the way only anger can show, the way you stared at him with fear but had yet to look away
-he couldn’t let you die here, or live in the place you seemed to for much too long. He picked you up over his shoulder and decided that it was what he would do. Get you to base at least.
-he ignored the cursing in his ears or the kicking against his back as he helped you in the exfil plane, and as soon as your adrenaline burnt out you were at least happy to be around someone
-you didn’t talk much and neither did he, but he began to get attached… the idea of a kid was something he had only thought of in dreams, or nightmares of being like his father, but looking at you made him realize you had little chance elsewhere. Too old for adoption, too young for a safe place to work.
-he took you in officially that very night, let you clean up and told you a bit about himself, enough for you to trust him- and ever since he’s been the best dad you could hope, similar oh so much that nobody would ever assume based off personality alone that you weren’t related. You had melted his heart in ways he didn’t know another person could.
