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

Knives Cut Deep

A few days later, you were sitting with Soap and Gaz in the recreation room. A tentative, curious sort of friendship was developing between you; they were kind, friendly, and both had very distinct senses of humour. While Soap was outlandish, loud, and almost boisterous, Gaz was quieter and sterner, and his dry remarks had the corners of your lips twitching upwards beneath your balaclava. They were the closest in age to you out of the task force; both of them being a year or two older than yourself.

They stopped by in the evening one day. You had been focused, humming into the still room, the only other sound being a harsh grinding as you sharpened your knives. While focusing on the repetitive movements, the motions were familiar and almost therapeutic, and your mind drifted off to deeper thoughts.

Thoughts about your old unit.

The task force.

The sharp weapons in your hands.

How they had served you well. How you had pretended to be dead, waiting for the moment a heavy boot kicked your limp body. You had waited for the right moment, calculating your best chances of survival. How you had sunk those blades into flesh and bone, your chest heaving in pain and anguish.

You turned them slowly, the cold metal a contrast to the warmth of your palms. The handles had seen better days, though you kept them as clean and well-looked after as you could. In the slick metal of the blades, you could see the ragged reflection of your eyes. The coldness they bore, the emptiness, the underlying contradiction of despair and defeated acceptance.

It was as though your knives carried your pain and your memories. The horrors you had seen, the horrors you had delivered.

Your knives had saved you once.

You didn't doubt that they would save you again.

A knock interrupted your thoughts, the hollow tapping of knuckles against wood dragging you from the past and back into the present. It started off softly at first, almost tentative, before gradually descending into a rhythm you vaguely recognised from a childhood song.

You stashed the knives safely back in their box, flicking the lock and securing it back underneath your bed, before pulling yourself away from the floor and making your way to the door. You paused for a moment, silencing your breaths, as you listened for any clues as to who was on the other side.

Two familiar voices travelled through the door, one Scottish, the other English. Curiosity directed your movements as you pulled your balaclava back up and over your lower face. As you opened the door, the duo of Soap and Gaz all but tumbled into your room. They were still in uniform, though their softshells were unbuttoned, and Gaz wore a baseball cap, his cropped curls hidden beneath.

'Doc!' Soap grinned. 'Was getting worried you weren't here.'

'Evening,' Gaz nodded, offering a smile.

You blinked slowly, taking them in. You hadn't expected them to show up at your quarters. 'What's up?'

Soap cocked his head. 'Are you busy?'

Ah.

You glanced around your room at the same time as they did. Your bed was neat and clean. Your walls remained bare. Your floor was clear of any clutter. Your room was overall, for lack of a better word, lifeless. And for all they knew, you had just been sitting in silence, staring idly at one of the blank walls. You sighed internally. 'No,' you relented.

'Excellent,' Soap beamed. 'We were going to hang in the rec room. Want to join?'

No, you wanted to say, but that's all your mind was able to produce. Any and all excuses fizzled out of your mind. It wasn't as though you disliked them or particularly wanted to avoid spending time with them; it was more that you were just used to solitude. Used to spending your days and evenings alone, or with the easy company of Sandman. And as you returned your gaze to the two men in front of you, you realised that there could be worse ways to spend your evening. You shrugged. 'Sure.'