A Nurse and Their Ghost | Simon Riley "Ghost" x Reader

chapter 33

A week had fluttered by since the confrontation with Ghost, and with each passing day, the walls of the base seemed to inch closer, as if conspiring to compress the space around you. The bustling corridors, once alive with camaraderie, now felt like an enigmatic labyrinth, each turn designed to entrap you within the cobweb of your own tumultuous thoughts. 

Your interactions morphed into mechanical exchanges, the warmth that once radiated from your words now replaced by a sheath of cold efficiency. Each fleeting encounter with Ghost, brief as a lightning flash yet leaving a long-lasting burn, was like salt ground into an open wound. 

It was a palpable tension, an opaque fog that hung heavy between you two, replacing the easy camaraderie that once flowed effortlessly with a stifling silence. Each stolen glance, each inadvertent brush of shoulders, screamed of the gaping chasm that had wedged itself between you both.

Nights proved to be the toughest combatants. The dimly lit quarters provided no refuge from the ceaseless storm raging within your mind. Sleep turned elusive, skirting the fringes of your consciousness, leaving you alone with the relentless replay of that hurtful confrontation. 

The dark crescents under your eyes deepened with each dawn, narrating tales of restless nights and haunting reveries. The med bay turned into both a haven and a prison. As you delved into your work, seeking solace in the familiar hum of machines and the steady cadence of heartbeats, the routine provided a faint sheen of normalcy.

Yet, there were moments, unguarded and stark, when memories would breach the fragile barricade, causing your hands to tremble or thoughts to drift into that unwanted territory. The subtle shift didn't escape the notice of your fellow medics. They whispered, their exchanges interlaced with concern, eyes filled with worry whenever they lingered on you.

The assumption was unanimous – it was a ripple effect from the harrowing events of your captivity. They extended their understanding like a warm blanket, enveloping you with extra space, shouldering additional duties to lighten the load off you. But the truth swirled in a more complex vortex. 

While the scars from captivity were on a slow yet promising path of healing, the emotional gashes left behind by Ghost's words lay raw and untouched, an unattended wound festering in the backdrop. Uncertainty gnawed at your resolve; would it ever truly heal?

One sun-drenched afternoon, the quiet routine of the med bay was interrupted by a young soldier, his face a pallid canvas drenched in sweat. Wheeled in post a training misadventure that left him with a fractured leg, his misfortune momentarily eclipsed your personal ruminations. 

Your hands, guided by years of practice, moved with a fluid grace, assessing the damage and administering the required alleviation of pain. His occasional wince was interspersed with weak attempts at humor about his clumsiness, and how he had unwittingly turned into the laughing stock of his unit. 

Amid the clinical precision of your movements and the practiced ease, for a fleeting moment, the echoes of Ghost's harsh words dulled, allowing a sliver of focus to shine through the thick fog of discontent that had settled within you.

While examining the soldier's leg with meticulous care, you confirm that the fracture is clean, negating the necessity for surgery. With a touch soft as a whisper, you set the fracture, ensuring the bones align perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle finding their rightful place. Once set, you swaddle it snugly with a bandage to immobilize the leg and alleviate swelling. 

"It's a clean break," you share, attempting to infuse a sliver of optimism into the otherwise sterile ambiance. 

"With proper rest, it'll heal well." Preparing a set of crutches, you take a moment to impart instructions on their correct usage and offer guidance on caring for the fracture.