As Grim as the Reaper | PREQUEL Simon 'GHOST' Riley

ELEVEN

Walking through the halls of the huge base, your head hung low.

Lights were dimly lit, and the place was practically empty. It was way past hours now, but you'd chosen to stay, occupying your mind.

There was still no news on Alex - he was still missing in action, presumed dead, and the information weighed heavy on your heart. 

It felt like no one was doing a fucking thing to find him. You'd spoken to Farah countless times since it had happened, and she was hurting just as much as you.

You couldn't help but blame yourself a little. If you could have held on, if you didn't get injured when you did...if you were able to have continued the mission, maybe he wouldn't have had to sacrifice himself.

But it was no good to dwell on a bunch of fucking what if's. 

That's why you'd stayed late, trying to occupy your mind with the mounds of paperwork you had to go through (one thing no one told you about in this job).

You hadn't heard from John in days, but you knew he was busy in setting up his new task force; 141. Your brother, the captain of his own task force. The thought made you swell with pride. But he was late for your arranged call, and it made you worry.

Then there was Laswell, being sent here, there and everywhere to sort out a multitude of messes across the globe.

So you were alone, and on your birthday, no less.

You continued walking in the direction of the break room - footsteps almost silent on the tiled floor after taking your boots off some hours earlier -  desperate for a good cup of tea, when a light caught your attention, more specifically, the light to the room you were going to stop at on your way.

Sneaking up, you peered through the almost open door, finding Phillip Graves sat at his desk, hunched over a similar mound of papers.

One hand rested on the side of his head, propped up by his elbow, while the other scrawled words, knuckles white from the grip he held on the pen. 

The light was coming from the single desk lamp, angled to shine over him, illuminating his blonde hair and casting dark shadows over his features. The sight had you lick your lips a little - you'd be a fool to ever deny that the Commander of Shadow Company was attractive.

In all truth, he was bloody gorgeous, a classic southern gentleman.

You'd also be lying if you said his incessant flirting over the last year you'd spent in Special Ops hadn't been slowly (quickly) wearing you down, especially after the way he'd not left your side in the last months.

Smirking, you pushed the door wider, stepping into the room.

"Ya gonna kill me if I put this on your pile, Commander?" You spoke.

Graves looked up, almost agitated that someone had disturbed him, until he was met by your sweet voice and pretty face. Then, his shoulders relaxed, his lips curling into a soft smile.

"Do it and find out, princess." He challenged.

His response made you giggle, and so, placing the folder behind your back, you tiptoed over until you reached his side of the desk, and added it to his never-ending stack. 

After a moment, you released a dramatic breath, perching on the desk next to him, "Well, would ya look at that, I'm still alive!"

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair, looking up at you. 

Now, you had a full view of what he was wearing; dark jeans held up by a leather belt with an obnoxiously large concho depicting a horned bull. Tucked in neatly was a grey cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, with the first few buttons undone.