Ghost One Shots | FemReader

LIMERENCE

When he had called you hadn't even been participating in conversation; a glass in one hand, a thousand mile stare on your face. You had noticed his name out of the corner of your eye when the screen lit up slightly.

Simon Riley.

His contact picture illuminated, it made your heart skip a beat. He never called you off duty, well, not this early at night anyway. Excuses had rolled off your tongue about it being work as you left the table to answer, phone in hand. Only one pair of eyes had seen right through your words, angrily watching as you rounded the door, but they didn't follow you any further.

Now he stood here, in your house, your home, whilst muffled voices tumbled along the wooden floorboards, bounced off the walls. It was the first time, but he didn't feel out of place. The colours of the stained glass panes in the door scattered on his face, his eye already turning a shade of indigo mixed with blotchy red; a shiner that would develop nicely over the coming week. His lip was split a little, a small patch of dried blood the most noticeable part of the wound. Drink lingered on his breath, a little aftershave cutting through as he stood so close. Voices were kept low as you warned him.

"He's here."

"Who? The boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"I'll be on my best behaviour then."

Relief, disappointment, they mixed like water and air, bubbling away in response to his typical humour. His voice was smooth, you'd missed hearing it in person for the last few weeks whilst on leave.

"Look, I didn't know who else to call I-"

"It's fine. Let's get you cleaned up?"

He always spoke more when he'd had a few, it was dangerous territory for him, leading to over-explanations and spiels about his childhood that were a source of regret the next day. You were used to it by now, the closest pair on the team, constant jokes about how you were his better half, the patient, kind, openly caring one, the complete opposite of him. And opposites attract.

Feet carried you ahead, needing to be the first to enter the kitchen, your mind running over what to say or do as damage control for the situation. No one knew he was coming here, but you couldn't ignore him, you wouldn't ignore him when he needed you. The door creaked slightly as it opened and everyone watched. An uncomfortable silence settling down like a thick fog. Your best friend piped up first, her chirpy tone working magic to ease the tension as your boyfriend stared Simon down with no remorse.

"Hi, you must be... Simon, right? The work friend?"

Despite being fairly intoxicated, he took her hand and firmly shook it. It was strange to see him through their eyes, maskless, just Simon, just the work friend. A lack of talk about your home life when you were at work left him at a loss for her name, but she took introducing herself in her stride, making it seem almost so effortless that no one else really noticed. In contrast, your incessant talk about your work life to everyone else at home was a root cause of many large, explosive arguments in your relationship. You considered the concept that there was an air of jealousy in the room a little more exciting that you probably should have. The first step away from him had to be forced, mind over matter, as you advanced towards the sink to continue with the motions. Run the tap, wring the cloth out, take it back to Simon.

"We're going to leave for the bar now, you coming?"

A voice so familiar, a voice of three years by your side in some capacity when you were home, a voice of love for you, care, affection, it felt wrong suddenly. You looked into dark eyes as two more bore holes into your back. The right thing to do was stay behind and help him clean his wounds up, get home; knowing what that would land you in later, the fight you were going to have, induced a moments hesitation. You didn't even turn round to face him back as you spoke, captured in Simon's presence, gently dabbing the damp cloth on his lip.