The Crow & The Ghost: A Dystopian AU Simon Ghost Riley x Reader

Chapter Twelve: Professionally and Personally

        The rest of the afternoon passes by in a blur, sitting in a meeting debriefing the Star Avenue Elementary School debacle to multiple members of the Defense. Soap sits beside you, his thigh touching yours.
        At one point he leans over to ask lowly in your ear: "Are you all right, Crow?"
        You nod your head slightly. He pulls away for a moment before leaning back over. "Would you be honest with me if you weren't?"
        You shake your head slightly. He lets out an amused huff of breath against your ear and straightens in his seat, saying no more. After a few minutes he adjusts himself, bringing his hands to his lap as one of the Defense psychiatrists gives an update on grief counseling for the students and teachers.
        Your mind is on Riley. You replay the conversation with him on the phone, your conversation with him after being introduced to Sergeant Russ. You wonder if perhaps you're hurting him more than you realize. You wonder if, even though he started this game, you're now playing by rules he hasn't learned yet. You wonder if you're pushing it too far, if flirting with Keegan was one step beyond the tenuous boundaries you and Riley have in place. You wonder if this anger you're causing him will melt into pain, and whether he'll cut you loose, just to avoid getting hurt.
        There's that deep, never ending sorrow in his eyes. The hooded gaze that so poorly masks the pain that lives there. You would rather die than contribute to it, you realize. You realize this, and your fists tightens in a powerful emotion that you can't quite place—anger? Sadness? Dread?
        This realization is not pretty, not pretty at all.
        Suddenly, you feel a hand on your thigh. You're sitting in a corner seat, Soap on one side and a wall on the other. There's a younger Defense member sitting across from you who's been doodling diligently in their notebook the entire meeting, not looking up once. The Defense member sitting across from Soap has been dutifully listening to the entire conversation, their eyes trained on the speaker. No one is watching Soap—or you.
        You wonder for a moment if Soap will be the second man in as many hours to start squeezing your thigh. You consider this, and wonder what you'll do if Soap does. Will you slap him across the face or lead him to a janitorial closet? You think about it for a few moments and still can't say for sure, but you're leaning towards slapping.
        But Soap just keeps his hand there, a reassuring weight on your leg. After a moment his thumb starts brushing lightly back and forth, almost absent-mindedly. He does this for several minutes as everyone else in the room speaks—he doesn't look at or speak to you once. But at one point, the conversation starts to shift and Soap catches where it's headed, and he gives your leg a soft pat before he puts his hands back on the table, just in time for General Moorehouse to ask him to run through the events of your response once more.
        Soap starts to respond, and then pauses. "I... have told my version of events before. Would anyone like to hear from Lieutenant Crow?"
There's a silence in the room. Not even General Moorehouse speaks. She rarely pipes up in defense of you—people have already accused her of favoritism towards you.
        Usually, you would have already demanded to be listened to. You would have cut Soap off by now. You would have started speaking once Soap asked the question, not waiting to hear if anyone wanted your thoughts.
        But Soap is met with silence. So, for once, you sit in it.
        He glances at you, his brows knitting together in confusion, before he turns away and starts recounting the day himself.
        No one asks you any questions. For once, you're grateful to be ignored, grateful that the people in this room see Soap as the authoritative storyteller simply because he was the only man present. You just don't have it in you to fight today.
        As soon as the meeting ends you get out of your seat and start walking towards the door, clamoring to leave before General Moorehouse can corner you and start asking questions about the elementary school, Meara O'Sullivan—any of it. You glide out of the room and start heading to your office, ready to shut yourself in it until you can go home...
        ... And wait for Keegan's call. The thought fills you with more dread than you felt earlier in the day.
        "Crow!" Soap calls after you. You keep walking until you reach the door leading to the stairwell, and you go open it without looking back, going up the stairs two at a time. A few seconds later you hear the door open again and heavy footsteps trudge up the stairs behind you.         "Will you slow down?" Soap groans, and you hear his pace getting faster.
        There's suddenly a large hand on your waist, applying pressure so you have to stop on the step. You stop, irritated, and whip around to see Soap standing two stairs below you. You're taller than him like this, and he looks up at you with those brown eyes.
        "What do you want, Soap?" You ask, exasperated, your breath a little heavy from going up the stairs.
        "Why were you so quiet in there?" Soap demands. "I've never seen you like that. You're not the type to let someone speak for you."
        "Well," You say, shrugging. "I appreciate you doing it for me anyway. I'm just tired."
        Soap makes a face. "Bullshit, you're tired." He grabs your wrist. "What's going on with you?"
        You roll your eyes. "Please don't act like you care."
        This makes him release your wrist, as if your skin stung him. "I do care. Crow, look at me." You look at him, begrudgingly. "I do care. You're my friend."
        "Then as my friend," You say. "Just know that I appreciate that you care. But I am tired. And I'm overwhelmed. I just need the afternoon to myself."
        And you are tired. You are overwhelmed. Every angry or upset or pained word Riley has said to you has replayed in your mind over and over, and you feel a guilt that you cannot properly place, but it's choking you nonetheless. It's suffocating you completely.
        "Does this have to do with Ghost?" Soap asks quietly.
        Your eyes snap to his. The look on his face is purposefully blank.
        You sigh. "Of course it's to do with Ghost, John." You turn away and start going up the stairs again. "Isn't it always?"
        "Yes, it is." Soap agrees, but his footsteps don't follow.