𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭: Ghost x Fem reader

Act 6: Fear.

The next day was the day you set off to South America.
Surprisingly, you did seem well enough to go. Was that a mistake? Maybe, but you won't dwell on it when you have bigger fish to fry.
Admittedly, you did spend most of the night thinking about Dahlia. Did she really deserve what you did to her? Her premature death was insignificant and violent - her skull being smashed in itself by Valentino's in a toilet bowl, then left to die in an alleyway.

The poets could argue that it's iconic, but you're everything but poetic.

You picture what the night would've turned out like if you didn't do what you did. Ghost may have taken her back to his room, and she would've done what you should be doing with him. The most painful feeling you could feel is imagining her living your daydream before you could dream it again. The sheer image of him using her body is enough to have you foaming at the mouth, to commit imbecilic acts of violence and to possibly be discharged from the military.

Your thoughts come to a musical halt as you step into the military transport aircraft, breathing in the scent of rusted metal and the perpetual atmosphere of past missions, loss and violence. Graves and his mercenaries are arriving later in their own plane, much to your delight.

Leaning against your seat, you strap yourself in and make eye contact with Ghost and Soap as they follow in after you. Since the incident at the bar, you haven't spoken to Ghost.

The evening ended with you throwing up all over the truck as Soap desperately tried to control your food waste all the way back to the base, and it was almost enough to put everyone off of bar retreats again. Someone, however, tucked you into bed. It wasn't Soap. It was Ghost.
The second most memorable moment from that night was a skull mask hovering over you as you chase a drunken sleep, your abdomen aching with defeat as you fail to vomit up any more liquids. He looked after you. He rubbed your arm. He turned off your lamp. Then he left. Not a word since.
It sort of- No, that's undermining it. None of it makes sense to you. Shouldn't he be scared? You woke up the morning after with the endurable thoughts that you've officially driven him away and he's lost for good. The memories of right before you blacked out however came trailing back slowly throughout the way, 'jigsaws falling into place'. It truly is a puzzle, isn't it? You've killed for him. And he doesn't seem to mind.

Him and Ghost settled on the seats opposite you, Soap giving you a grunt of acknowledgment.
"How are you feeling? I'm fucking shocked you're even stable enough to come on."
"Me too." You giggle lightheartedly, your irises locking onto Ghost's for a moment before looking away. His eyes remain magnetic, but they're slightly narrowed through the slits of his mask.
"You've always been the strongest of us, Y/N. You would fight until there's nothing left of you. That's why I like you."
He gave you a nod of confidence, his Scottish flair lacing each word with more reassurance and respect than the previous one. Soap's always been the most thoughtful in TF141. Gaz, of course, had his moments and Captain Price was the father you never had, but Soap was simply just your best friend. It's a breath of fresh air to have a connection in your life which isn't severed or bridged with violence.
"Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere, I'm still pissed you let me drink as much as I did." You say sardonically with a smile and eye roll, holding your breath as the plane rumbles like a thousands drums with its take off.
"Well-"
"That was your decision. Don't blame anyone else for it." Ghost harshly cuts Soap off as he spills out his first words of the day, looking at the wall and not at you. Your stomach drops. Could he have been any more rebuffing towards you?
Then it clicks. He's using it as an allegory of your murder of Dahlia. It cuts deep, your fingers curling up into a fist as you sigh and look away, allowing the deafening resonation of take off to drown out any further comments.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, awkward and painfully long.

The plane doors open swiftly, allowing your trio to step into a sudden atmosphere of hot air as you step foot on Las Almas ground. The sky is a bright perfect blue and you're happy to not be stuck in an enclosed space with Ghost anymore. Alejandro and his companion, Rudy, greet you as you make your way towards them. They're a duo of Mexican Militants, and are both tall and robust in their figure. They look as if they could tear you apart.
"Welcome to Las Almas. Amigos míos, ¿cómo están?" (My friends, how are you?)
"Nosotras somos geniales, como estas?" (We are great, how are you?)
You respond to Alejandro in perfect Spanish, looking up at the towering man as you make a moment of eye contact with him. He elicits scents of Spanish paprika and woody cologne with a touch of manly sweat, which draws you in, more than it should.