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

chapter 39

Your eyes slowly flutter open, their gaze meeting the icy and unwavering stare peering through Ghost's mask. Yet, diving deeper into the depths of those eyes, you discern a narrative veiled in concern, and perhaps, a glint of underlying fear. 

With great effort, your lips part, "M'here," you murmur, your voice a faint whisper against the backdrop of silence. 

As the cold threatens to seize you once more, you find yourself ensconced in the snug embrace of a sleeping bag. A fleeting wonderment darts across your mind: where did this come from?

You observe Ghost, his silhouette dancing as he tends to a dwindling fire. With each log he adds, the once fading embers are rekindled, casting a radiant, golden hue throughout the dim cabin. The renewed warmth, paired with the fire's gentle lullaby, nudges you towards a semblance of coherence.

Drawing a ragged breath, the words, like pebbles against a tide, manage to escape your lips, "How long has it been?" The cold has bestowed a raspy timbre to your voice.

"A few hours." Ghost's voice responds, laced with an undertone of concern, his mask concealing the nuances of his expression. 

As he tends to the fire, ensuring its flames remain robust, his vigilant gaze intermittently sweeps over to you, as though tethering your consciousness to the present. 

"How do you feel?" The weight of his query belies the simplicity of its phrasing. The mere fact that you question the passage of time, rather than asserting your wellness, paints an unspoken tale of your fragile state.

Attempting to assess the state of your being, you sift through the sensations that flood you. The pervasive chill has ebbed, giving way to a slow, insidious warmth. 

"Like I've been trudging through the worst blizzard ever," you confess, allowing a feeble chuckle to escape. 

You draw the sleeping bag closer, its embrace an ally against the lingering cold. Your observation meanders to Ghost, who, in silence, rummages through his pack. Producing his own sleeping bag, he meticulously transforms it into a makeshift blanket. 

Your protest finds voice, albeit weakly, "No... no, that's for you."

"You're shivering," Ghost counters gently, the softness of his words belying their firmness. 

"You almost died out there; you could still go into shock. Trust me, you need this more than me at the moment."

 His urgency is palpable, his demeanor leaving little room for contestation. With deft motions, he envelops you within the folds of the makeshift blanket, ensuring not a wisp of cold air breaches its confines. Taking his place beside you, Ghost's watchful eyes remain ever on you, an unwavering sentinel.

The weight of his words sinks deep, a piercing reminder of the thin thread that separates life from the freezing embrace of death. As realization dawns, the marrow-deep cold that has seized you becomes all the more pronounced. 

You murmur your gratitude, "Thank you," each syllable shaking in tandem with the tremors racking your frame.

Even with the shield of his mask, the intensity of Ghost's gaze is palpable — a fusion of unwavering determination and concern. The makeshift blanket, albeit a beacon of his care, fails to stand guard against the insidious chill. As shivers wage war against your body, you clutch the fabric close, in a desperate plea for warmth.

"You're welcome," Ghost's reply floats through the air, carrying an undercurrent of heartfelt sincerity. 

Behind his stoic exterior, vulnerability peeks through, though he endeavors to keep it masked. It's evident: he yearns to shield you from harm. The sight of you, trembling despite the additional covering, etches lines of worry on his face.