I Feel It In My Bones (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader)

Callsign, Bones

JOINED FORCES MILITARY BASE

GERMANY

07 AUGUST, 0800

You did not sleep well.

The night had been spent tossing and turning, throwing the sheets off and on your body, your muscles tense and your mind wide awake. Minutes stretched into hours, and it was only when the birds began to sing outside that you finally drifted into a fitful slumber. You had snoozed your first alarm, then your second, then your third, believing you had only been asleep for a few seconds. That's certainly what it felt like. When you finally opened your groggy eyes, the time on the alarm clock on your side table startled you out of bed.

You had missed breakfast and only had fifteen minutes before your meeting with your new team.

Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit.

You scrambled out of bed, the sheets tangling around your bare ankles, threatening to send you sprawling to the floor in a chaotic heap.

You were ready in ten minutes, donning your black half-balaclava and a fresh set of uniforms. Despite the rush, the evidence of a sleepless night was unmistakable, etched into the shadows that lurked beneath your eyes like storm clouds on the horizon. Your hair was pulled into a plait, rushed, and a little messy, but still within regulations.

The conference room was relatively small and dimly lit, with a round table in the centre. The walls were a shade of light grey, and the carpet was a deep blue. A large screen hung on the wall opposite the door you had walked through, though it was turned off and static. As you entered, your eyes were drawn to the figures already seated at the table: Price, flanked by two younger men whose faces were unfamiliar

One of the younger men reclined casually in his seat, a cheeky grin playing on his lips as he regarded you with unabashed curiosity. His hands were clasped behind the back of his head, bringing attention to his mohawk. In contrast, the other man, with cropped curly hair and a deep complexion, sat with a more restrained posture, his elbows resting lightly on the table before him.

Three men, not four. As your eyes swept across the room, you registered a landscape of scuff marks on the walls, paint worn away in places. Your attention was drawn to a figure lurking in the farthest corner, partially concealed within the shadows—Ghost. The hollow eyes of the skull-faced mask he wore fixated on you with a strange intensity.

You knew your own eyes mirrored their empty depths.

You turned away.

Price broke the silence, introducing you to the team with your full name. You couldn't stop your arms from crossing against your chest, a subtle shift that Ghost seemed to hone in on. Clearing his throat, Price swiftly added, 'Callsign, Bones. Please, take a seat.'

'Bones,' a deep, Scottish voice echoed as you complied with your new captain, pulling out the chair closest to you over the carpet and slipping into it. Your eyes flicked up in surprise, and you followed the voice towards the relaxed man with the mohawk. 'Where did that come from, lass?'

'A little humour from the field,' you replied coolly, shoulders relaxing an inch. It had been a while since you had worked alongside a fellow Scot. The cheerful-looking man broke into a massive grin upon hearing the similar lilt of your voice.

For a second, you thought you heard a low voice say 'fuckin' hell,' from the corner of the room, but before you could turn, the massive man had left the shadows and taken a seat at the table, one chair away from you.

'This is Sergeant John MacTavish, callsign Soap,' Price nodded his head to the grinning Scotsman and then to the quieter man beside him, 'and Sergeant Kyle Garrick, callsign Gaz. I believe you've already met Ghost.'