Ghost One Shots | FemReader

STAY, LEAVE, REMAIN

Soaps voice was muffled through the wall.

"Ghost? You awake?"

Of course he was. He had heard you, eyes opening the second you'd started but he was hoping you would calm. The rawness of your suffering brought back memories of his own.

You hadn't. Piercing cries continued echoing the halls.

The past few nights had you plagued with recurrent nightmares, these visceral, anxiety inducing blurs which crawled up over you without warning; an intense feeling of being chased, followed by a threat you couldn't identify. They sat on your chest, the weight holdin you down so you couldn't move. Even though you opened your mouth you couldn't scream loud enough for anyone to hear. The team had taken turns visiting your room, gently disturbing you, letting an exhausted, troubled mind reset. Ghosts knuckles rapped the wall to let Soap know he'd heard him. With one last inhale, legs swung out the bed, carrying him to you.

The door handle clicked as the latch pulled back and it swung open gently. Soft light dragged his shadow long across the floor. A face, only feet away, illuminated, covered in sweat, contorted, with hands that gripped fistfuls of the sheets. You were worse tonight. The room returned to darkness as the door closed behind him, bare feet treading the cold ground as he approached your bedside. Crouched down, he was level with you as he gently shook your shoulder. The motion was startling enough to make you jolt, an action accompanied by an inhale so sharp he almost felt himself flinch. The prevailing silence in the room was an uncomfortable contrast to the chaotic, overbearing horror you were just in.

"It's me."

A rough voice murmuring familiar words which calmed your breathing as he gripped your shoulder firmly, hands perfectly cool against your clammy skin.

"Jesus."

It was a barely audible whisper. Palms smoothed over your hair repeatedly, moving stubbornly sticking strands from your face, before dragging your fingers down, stretching all the pent up muscles. His company brought comfort; he always tried to hang around the longest after he woke you, traumatic visions of his own a not-so-distant memory leading to a level of understanding few else felt. Everyone on the team was aware, your door never clicked opened and his closed again until the early hours of the morning, but no one had said anything.

You sat up a little more, arms pulling long legs towards a tight chest, acquiring a position which provided the illusion of safety. Emotions unfurled, heartbeat slowing, coming to terms with the fact you were awake now and no longer in the grips of a cruel subconscious. He remained crouched, his tattooed arm lazily resting on the sheets in front of you. But something was different about him. You looked at him, feeling a pang of guilt.

"Ghost that... you cannot be comfortable, please just sit up here."

He gracefully stood up, perching on the edge of the bed. It was contradictory that such a mass of military grade muscle was so remarkably agile. The strip of light emitting from underneath the door cast on his profile, and realisation struck you.

He didn't have a mask on. He did not have his mask on.

Eyes fixated on him, but you didn't utter athing. He had been through to see you so many times this week he must've forgotten to grab it as he left his room. He was... beautiful. Hair messy, obviously slept on, fingers having run through it to little avail. Stubble overgrown. His features were sculpted but still rugged. A sheen on his skin where a scar was. He looked almost like you had imagined, but completely unlike it all at the same time. Somehow it made sense.

Dark eyes gazed at the floor; he hadn't even noticed you surveying him yet. It felt like an invasion of privacy but you couldn't look away.

"Ghost... Simon... you..."