A Collection of Short Stories | Simon Riley "Ghost" x Reader

under the mistletoe

In the early days of December, the air at the base is tinged with a frosty bite, signaling the onset of winter.

The last of the autumn leaves surrender to the season, swirling in a gentle dance to the ground.

A crisp, winter scent, rich and earthy, permeates the atmosphere, enveloping you in its chilly embrace.

You and the rest of the Task Force 141 had just returned from a taxing reconnaissance mission.

Such missions typically grant you a brief respite, as analysts meticulously scrutinize the information you've gathered. The initial day of rest, a cherished ritual, has passed.

It's a day when everyone indulges in a collective unwinding — sharing drinks, laughter, and stories until exhaustion takes over, leading to an inevitable, deep slumber.

Now, with the revelry behind you, a tranquil lull settles over the base.

The usual buzz of activity has dimmed, leaving a quiet that is both comforting and unsettling.

There isn't much to do, save for the routine tasks: training to maintain your sharp skills and preparing for whatever mission may come next.

Yet, amidst this, there's an unspoken agreement to embrace a lighter side of life.

It's time to decorate for the holidays.

You wake up with the first light of dawn, a rare sense of eagerness pulsing through you.

There's a mission today, not of strategy or combat, but of camaraderie and festive spirit.

With a spring in your step, you head towards Ghost's quarters, your excitement bubbling like a hidden stream.

As you knock on his door, your heart dances with anticipation.

The base, usually a place of stern faces and rigid discipline, is about to transform, and you can't wait to see Ghost's part in it.

The silence stretches, and for a moment, you wonder if he's even there.

Then, the sound of shuffling feet breaks the quiet, followed by the creak of the door swinging open.

Ghost stands before you, his iconic mask in place, but the absence of his usual intimidating eye black makes him seem almost approachable.

He squints at you, his gruff voice breaking the morning calm.

"Jesus Christ, Y/N," he groans, "why the fuck are you waking me up this early?"

Your smile doesn't waver.

It's a soft, knowing curve of your lips, a silent testament to the bond you've built amidst the chaos of military life.

"Wanna help me decorate the base for Christmas?" you ask, the sweetness in your voice is a stark contrast to his rough edges.

For a split second, he looks at you as if you've lost your mind. But your unwavering smile, bright and hopeful, seems to pierce through his grumpy facade.

It's a silent challenge, an unspoken reminder of the lighter moments you've shared.

"Sure," he finally relents, a sigh escaping him. It's a sound that speaks volumes, a blend of resignation and a subtle hint of affection. "Give me a second."

Your heart soars at his acquiescence.

"Perfect," you reply, your hands coming together in a soft clap, a physical manifestation of your inner joy.

This task, simple as it may seem, means more than just decorating; it's a rare chance to weave a thread of normalcy into the fabric of your military life.