Catching A Ghost | Simon 'GHOST' Riley

WHAT IF?

Summary: You were safe, and you were his; so why on earth was Ghost spending night after night tossing and turning as you slept soundly beside him? Why was his mind replaying that moment on the bridge in Las Almas over and over? There was only one question that was truly haunting him – what if you'd married Graves?

Ghost lay on his side, head supported by his hand as his arm bent at the elbow, propping him up. His eyes were trained on you.

You were deep in sleep, mouth open slightly, chest rising and falling to the calming rhythm of your breathing. The curtains were cracked to allow a soft breeze to circle the room from the open window, and it let in a soft beam of moonlight to cut through the darkness, illuminating you in the silver glow.

With his free hand, Ghost reached out, fingers barely grazing your face as he pushed a stray hair back.

You stirred, leaning into his touch unconsciously, causing a fluttering feeling deep in his stomach.

He couldn't help but smile.

How lucky was he that you were his?

Ghost had struck gold when he met you, when you'd forgiven him, when you'd taken him back without a second thought after everything he did.

And fuck, he knew it.

You loved him, that was obvious. You loved him as Ghost, and you loved him as Simon. You proved it every day; so why was he doubting that right now?

Why was he laid there, with the only thought in his head being you with someone else?

The smile he had quickly turned into a pained frown, and he rolled onto his back gently, cautious to not disturb you.

Running a hand through his hair and then pressing his fingers to his eyes, Ghost sighed. He didn't have any more fight in him to try and sleep, and the clock reading almost 4am just pushed him further. He wasn't sleeping tonight, and he needed to accept it.

With one more sigh, he pushed the covers off his body, tossing on a shirt and grabbing his secret pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket.

He moved silently through the hall, making his way to the kitchen and through the door, where a small balcony resided. There, he leant against the railing, lighting a cigarette, basking in the rush of nicotine.

He sighed, enjoying the feeling of the cool night air on his skin. Since being in the Amsterdam safehouse, he'd gotten a little more used to showing his face, and now, he much preferred having the mask off than on around the team.

Thanks to you.

Rings of grey smoke flowed through the air, slowly growing as they ascended into the sky. He watched them, catching a glimpse of the stars, cursing himself internally.

Gotta fuckin' quit this shit.

He stood there, marvelling at the sky and smoking cigarettes until the pounding in his heart finally started to cease.

Yet still, the thought of going back to bed, back to you, started it off all over again.

Every time he closed his eyes, it started it off all over again.

Because every time he closed his eyes, he was back on that bridge, back in Las Almas. Back in the moment he saw Soap dive over the ridge, and Graves call out for him.

With you lying unconscious on the floor, you were no longer a threat, so Graves allowed his Shadows to unleash on your team. Soap was hit, dropping to the floor. Ghost expertly took out the two Shadows flanking him, desperate to get to you.