simon GHOST riley imagines

wounds

Trapped in this forsaken office building, I found myself in a fucking fantastic situation – stuck with my wounded lieutenant, a bullet nestled in his side. It could have been anyone, any of my teammates, but no, fate played its twisted hand, and it had to be him. You're probably wondering why I find that to be such a mood-killer? Well, brace yourself for the scoop: the wounded guy is none other than my ex.

Task Force 141 was on a mission of monumental importance, the kind that called for every available hand on deck. Lt. Gen Shepherd spelled it out crystal clear – this was no ordinary op. No, this was high-stakes, nail-biting stuff, and he wanted us laser-focused. Shepherd wasn't one to detail a mission to us himself, but this time he did, ensuring we knew how huge this was.

Yet, within a mere 15 minutes into this critical mission, Ghost gets tagged by a bullet.

Bloody moron.

We ended up on the twelfth floor of an office building, just the two of us. And whoop-de-doo, that's not exactly a cheery scenario, is it? But I had no choice. When the bullet found its mark, it left me the last one standing on that floor with him. The rest of the team had already descended to the level below. I called for backup, but no luck – they couldn't afford to send another fit soldier from the fight.

So, here we are. Me and him. On our lonesome.

Stupid idiot.

Now, as if my day couldn't get any better, it's my duty to play nursemaid to my bullet-riddled ex. Isn't that just the cherry on top? Nursing my ex's wounds, who conveniently requires stripping down of us shirt to get patched up. Delightful, isn't it?

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

"Off with your gear and upper clothing." I quipped, letting a touch of authority lace my words, leaving him with about as much choice as a caged animal.

But he, oh he, always had to have the upper hand, in word and in action. Always. Not just when we were an item, but even after. When we were together, that dynamic didn't irk me as much. It's funny how annoying it becomes when he's your ex. A compulsive need to counter everything I say, making his responses painfully predictable.

"Wouldn't you just love that?" His voice oozed with a posh British accent. One hand cradling his gut, where the bullet was making itself at home. Stoic as ever, despite housing a chunk of metal in his stomach. But that was just a veneer. Underneath it, I knew he hated showing any vulnerability, a trait I'd always seen through.

"Cut the crap and make it easy for once." I fired back, a sharp edge in my tone showing my irritation.

"Anything for you."

Sarcasm, oh the sweet quality that made me swoon when we were together. Back then, I embraced it fully – two peas in a pod. But these days, it's more akin to nails on a chalkboard. Still, I concealed my annoyance with practiced ease.

With a graceful flick, he unhooked the harness that held his gear, letting it drop to the floor like it weighed nothing. He retrieved his daily companion – that mask, his facade that shielded him from the world. But I'd seen him behind it, yet it took me off guard when he actually took it off.

The zipper on the hood snaked down his chest, going smoothly down his left shoulder, but catching slightly on the right. The brief wince didn't escape me, a moment of vulnerability etching lines on his features.

I approached, stepping into his space, and helped him peel it off completely. What remained was a snug green combat shirt that hugged his torso, revealing the contours that had once been so familiar. The shirt's snugness meant there was no graceful way for him to take it off.