Callsign: Princess // Ghost x Reader/oc

22

I spend my next days observing Ghost more closely than usual. If he notices, he doesn't show it — unless that's the reason why he's constantly at my throat.

"I've seen geriatric patients do better push ups," he growls as I battle with both the concrete beneath me and my own core strength. "Elbows at ninety degrees, or you'll be doing the set again until you get it right."

He pushes me harder than ever before — and not even for the sake of making me stronger, or a better soldier. He barks at me if there's a single crease in my bedsheets after I've made it each morning. He orders me back into the showers to wipe down the stall if there's still a mist of water coating the tiles. He appears suddenly, silent and looming, when I'm cleaning up on kitchen duty, and orders me to wash the dishes again until they gleam.

If I thought we'd fall into an easy friendship after the experience we shared together, I thought wrong.

I begin to wonder if our time in the cabin together was real or just a figment of my imagination. His determination to keep me safe. The way his body felt against mine as we'd conserve body heat. All of it feels so alien now. He's right back to being an asshole, and I'm right back to loathing him.

But I put my loathing to use.

I make note of the way Ghost throws himself into training each morning. He never breaks routine. Even between barking orders at me, If you don't pick up your feet, I'll make you run the course in your socks, he's still executing flawless pushups, or lifting tires above his head.

When he's not training, he's in meetings with Price, or briefings with the rest of us. Always listening. Always observing.

Though he's not exactly screaming BFFs with the others on the Task Force, he socialises with them periodically. Over meals. Exchanges about duties or training modules. The odd joke, grumbled through sarcasm so thick it doesn't sound funny anymore.

He's always busy. Always. The only time he's still is when he goes to bed. And even then, there's the sense his mind is still whirring. Sorting through one thing or another. 

Which is why I'm struck by surprise when my alarm blares for sentinel duty and he's not in our room.

This is a change to the routine. I frown, wiping the layer of sweat from my forehead, sighing in relief as orange glow replaces the blackness of my nightmares. I'm still stuck with my dummy pistol. Not that I can argue against it — privately, I'm relieved not to be carrying live rounds. I still don't trust myself.

I slip out of the room, trying to think of places where Ghost could be. I duck my head into the showers, and check the main room and kitchen, but he's nowhere to be found. I make a quick coffee and decide to push the matter from my mind. It shouldn't bother me so much, not knowing where he is. It shouldn't gnaw away at my mind like a paranoid woodchuck. But I quickly realise, he's become something of a comfort. A stability in a routine of my own. A focus. With that gone, I'm flailing wildly in the darkness once more.

My sentimental streak dissipates as soon as I reach the post, and find Ghost lounging there in my place. The smell of alcohol burns my nose as I realise he's got a glass of whiskey in his hand. He glances up at my arrival.

"Yes?" He barks.

"I'm here for sentinel duty."

"That's over, Princess. You've done your time." He takes a sip beneath his mask. "Bloody good thing too, as you're three minutes late."

"And you're drinking on the job," I point out.

"Everyone drinks on this bloody job," he mutters.

I hesitate for a moment. I could just go back to bed. Enjoy the precious few hours of sleep I've missed while taking the shift.

But instead I release a small sigh and sink to the floor, sitting cross legged on the cold concrete.

"Hand it over."

He tilts his head, appraising me. "No."

My face instinctively glowers. "One rule for me and another for everyone else, right? The Ghost rulebook."

"Ask me nicely, and I'll consider it."

"Fuck you."

He pauses at that. Tenses. Looks at me once more. "That's the first bit of fight I've heard from you in a while. Do it again."

A strange chill runs through me at his words, but I'm all too happy to oblige. "Fuck. You."

If I didn't know better, I'd think he's smirking beneath the mask.

He holds out a bottle of Jack Daniels. Empty only down the neck. I note this, too, in my mental catalogue — Ghost doesn't drink to excess. Doesn't lose control.

I take the bottle before he can change his mind, and take a swig. I can't fight a grimace — it tastes terrible on its own. Burns like I've swallowed straight gasoline. But as it spreads through me, my muscles all seem to relax. My brain along with them. I take another sip — just one. Following his lead. Don't drink to excess. Don't lose control.

"You're not half bad at that," Ghost comments. There's a rare hint of something resembling approval in his tone. He shifts, leaning against the wall, harsh spotlights casting shadows across his masked face.

I try to hide the way I glow at his praise. We sit in silence, the only noise the distant hum of the base and occasional clink of the bottle. Ghost finishes his glass and drinks straight from the neck, as I do. It's a strange moment, sharing a duty with Ghost. Even stranger to share a drink with him.

"Why the late night drink?" I finally ask, breaking the silence.

He takes another swig before answering. "Sometimes it's the only way to keep memories at bay."

Noted. I file this away in my brain. And reach for the bottle once more.

But he pulls away, holding it out of reach. "Easy, Princess. You've had enough."

My eyes narrow. "Who says I've had enough? I can handle it."

"It's not about handling it. You try drowning your demons in a bottle, they'll only swim back up stronger. Believe me. I've tried."

"What worked?" I ask quietly.

"Not sins of the flesh. I can tell you that much."

My cheeks burn at the admission. Of course, he's referring to drunkenness and debauchery — but I'm assuming, the more literal meanings also.

I don't want to be vulnerable with Ghost. I don't plan to be. But the words fall from me before I can stop them. "I don't think I can ever be touched again."

He shifts his weight. "I used to think so too. But it gets easier."

"How?"

"You start with yourself. When you're ready. At your own pace. Worked for me." By the time his words have clicked into place in my mind, he's pushed himself to his feet, taking the bottle with him. "Gaz can take the rest of duty. He owes me a favour."

"No need," I say quickly. "I've got this one."

I need the cold air biting me in the face to recover from what he's just said. From the images suddenly flashing through my mind. I almost groan in annoyance — I thought I'd finally managed to push the dream I had about Ghost out of my head. Suddenly, it flares stronger than ever.

The last thing I want is to be touched. And yet I can't stop thinking about him.

It's all very confusing.