sorry guys i just really like tragic ghost
cw: nightmares, ghost's christmas trauma, worry that you're dead
Maybe it was the last mission he went on, the one that went tits up before he even stepped into the field- maybe it was the hostages they rescued, one of them with eyes like yours but so full of fear that it stopped him in his tracks. Felt like it was you in front of him for a moment before he reminded himself you were safe at home.
(He almost didn't leave until Price promised to watch over you for him, and even then, he nearly had to be dragged to the tarmac.)
Or maybe it's that Christmas is creeping up, the worst day of his life looming on the horizon, the day he lost his family. The knowledge that he's coming back from Mexico- just like he was then- to a home with a loving family waiting for him- just like he was then.
Or it's just regular, plain old nightmares.
Whatever the reason is, Simon can't stop dreaming about you night after night. In his dreams, he comes home to an empty house and an inescapable, clawing dread in his chest, and somehow, he just knows you're gone just as simply, inexplicably, and assuredly as he knows his own name.
Or he's taking you out somewhere nice- that one place you'd been talking about for the last few weeks- only for a laser's dot of red to trace from your shoulder to your forehead for a blip of a second, teasing him before you crumple, red staining your favorite clothes.
Or you've been taken hostage by some awful man coming after him, and he fights to get close enough to just barely touch the rope binding your wrists before you're ripped away from him forever.
Each night is a new horror, but you're always at the center of it.
Begging him to save you.
He never can.
It makes him itch to go home, to make sure you're alright, to feel your pulse beneath his fingers.
And it makes him want to never go home again, to not have to see the state they've left you in and the blood staining the rug in the living room that you spent so much time picking out or ruining the bed you make up for him even on the nights he isn’t coming home.
Maybe that's why he lingers on base.
His feet hit tarmac nearly two hours ago, and when he'd usually rush to get home to you, he finds himself outside, leaning against a metal railing. An unlit cigarette crushed between his fingers, he stares out into the blanket of white snow covering everything and ignores the shivers wracking through him.
By this time, you’d have him well-fed, showered, and in bed, curled up around you like a guard dog.
Warm.
From the meal you made especially for him, from the shower and the gentle toweling off after, from the thick winter pajamas you insist he wears because they match yours.
From the feeling of you in his arms.
He’s so cold.
But home might be even colder.
Red stains his mind, turning his stomach.
A hand slinks around his waist, a body presses against his for warmth, and a forehead leans against his back.
He goes still, breath catching for a moment, before he drops the crinkle of paper and tobacco to take your hand, fabric-covered fingers encasing your ungloved ones to save you from the chill.
"Been waiting for you," you say, the words muffled into his coat.
"That's what I was scared of," he admits, words hardly a whisper on the wind, breath almost too cold to form a cloud anymore.
Part of him still worries this might be a dream that'll turn to a nightmare as soon as he turns to face you. That you might fall limp against him, eyes blank as your body goes cold and red stains the snow beneath you.
A shudder racks through him.
You know what he's thinking about.
You know him.
He's bigger than you, a wall of muscle and mass that doesn't move unless he wants it to, but still, you manage to weasel your way between him and the railing the hand not holding yours has clung so tightly to.
You gather up your little soldier boy in your arms, pulling him as close to your body as is physically possible, and guide his masked face into your neck. It fits like it belongs there, though he has to duck to accomplish it.
Even with the fabric of his mask between you and him, you can feel the cold of his nose as he buries himself into you.
He brings a hand up to cup your face, gloved thumb tracing your cheek, rosy from the cold. His fingers slip down your neck to feel the beating of your heart at your pulse point.
"I'm here, Simon," you promise him. You settle a warm hand on top of his; you know he needs this. "Nothing could ever take me from you.”
"Swear it," he whispers, voice rough and hardened with the knowledge that this isn't something you can promise.
"Swear it," you echo like you can. "Let's go home."
HELLLOOOOOOO IM BACK
found this mostly finished thing in my drafts and wanted to share it; i think it was supposed to originally be a bad ending(?) but i can't remember lol so you guys get the good ending
thanks for reading, and thank you for all the support even as i’ve been gone! a very special thank you to those of you that sent me really nice notes in my asks; i read them over so many times while i was gone, and they always brought a smile to my face :)
love you guys 🫶 see you again soon 😋