The Ghost of Task Force 141 [Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader]

Burning

"I'll see you later," you had quickly excused yourself, scurrying out of the room.

Ghost sat, practically dumbfounded on his bed. The only thing reminding him this interaction had indeed occurred was the steady throb resonating from his freshly bandaged wound. The one you had just tended to, once again.

He snapped himself out of the daze he'd been in as he'd stared at the door click, listening to your footsteps immediately exit away from his room after a moment.

Your touch was gentle. Undeniably gentle.

Ghost found himself relishing in it, much to his dismay.

His fingers traced up to his mask, slightly damp from the wipe you had used to clean blood splatters from.

It intrigued him.

His arm fell back from his mask to his thighs, laying limp in his lap.

As much as he disliked it, he was growing used to these types of interactions between the two of you. Soft, and frustratingly fleeting.

He desperately wanted to reach out and grab you, hold you in his arms. Temptation etching at his very core. Pooling in his stomach, threatening to overfill.

—

Ghost snapped himself out of the memory, wrenching his tired eyes open.

The steady pitter-patter of water hitting his body from the showerhead woke him. The droplets streaming down in groups, before eventually falling into the drain below.

Ghost sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand before stopping at the bridge of his nose.

Annoyedly, he flicked the faucet off, dragged open the shower curtain, and stepped out as the water peeled off of him, landing at his feet.

His hand grasped his mask, still seated at the edge of the bathroom counter, and he tugged it over his head, ignoring how his wet hair now clung to his scalp. Uncomfortable, but nothing he couldn't handle.

Internally Ghost scolded himself. Falling asleep in the shower was low, even for him.

How long has it been since he'd been able to sleep peacefully? Even get close to getting more than 4 hours of sleep? Much less not be bombarded by memories of you.

A sigh left Ghost's lips as he grabbed some clean civilian clothes, attempting to fight off the shiver nibbling at his flesh, freezing his dog tags to his chest. He pulled them on, his wet skin clinging to the fabric, catching on parts of his body before he settled them down.

Ghost sat himself on his bed, feeling the twitch of his already weary muscles relax. His hands busied themselves with a pocket knife, tucked back behind his nightstand lamp. Flipping it back and forth as he thought. The continuous noise helped him to keep his focus.

First things first, he needed to get into contact with Fox. Price had set them up with the Informant, so naturally Ghost needed to pay him a visit.

After that, he would arrange a meeting with Fox and his colleague on base.

Ghost sighed, setting his pocket knife back into its spot. He stood from the bed, the mattress rising from the absence of his weight. His eyes dragged over to the door, his arm found itself at the back of his neck as he cracked it.

Price was most definitely going to rag on him. He kept a careful protective eye on his squad. While Ghost knew it was for his own well-being, it didn't make it any less tedious. Ghost could take care of himself. He always had.

Regardless, Price had good intentions. And was more than likely, usually right.

Ghost arrived at Price's temporary office, knocking once, before letting himself in as Price barked that it was open.