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

Too Many Questions, Not Enough Answers

Two weeks later, and you were bent over the toilet in your washroom, heaving. You had stripped your uniform, thrown it to the floor, pressed your exposed knees to the cool tile below. Though you only had on a pair of shorts and a thin top, your body was coated in a layer of sweat. Your hair, half unravelled and loose, fell into your face as you struggled for air.

The results of the samples had returned, and you had just given an overview to your superiors: Shepherd, Laswell, Price, Graves, and Ghost. The tension had been palpable, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Everyone could feel it - you could tell from General Shepherd's stern expression, Chief Laswell's furrowed brow, Commander Graves' contemplative gaze, and Captain Price's concentrated demeanour. Even Ghost, standing rather than sitting, had had his arms crossed over his chest, those lidded eyes giving you his undivided attention.

Ivanov had been working on a few different projects in his laboratory - but one, more so than the rest, had triggered alarm bells when under analysis. And while specifics and the complexities of the bioweapon were still largely unknown - you knew enough.

As you retched again into the white porcelain, snippets of your meeting ran through your mind, your words on an endless loop.

'Initial testing has identified a genetically modified virus....

Designed to target, but not spread....

Will infect a host and kill within days...

A nimal models presented with limited symptoms on the first day...

Decreased cognitive functioning occurred on the second day...

Followed by extensive damage to the central nervous system...

And on the third day, death...

If an individual is infected, they wouldn't know until their condition became irreversible...

It is the perfect weapon.'

You moved your head away from the toilet bowl, sputtering, and pressed harshly on the flush to remove the contents you had spewed up. Your body trembled as you leaned against the washroom wall, the gravity of the situation settling in your stomach like a heavy stone.

After the meeting had ended, after you had conveyed exactly what you were up against, you had all but bolted from the room. The sterile air of the washroom provided a temporary refuge, a space to collect yourself amid the storm of emotions.

But it had done little to help.

Rising from your crouched position, you splashed cold water on your face, attempting to wash away the remnants of nausea and stress. But as you stared at yourself in the mirror, there was only one word in your mind.

Death.

The flickering fluorescent light casting an eerie glow on your ashen face, the haunting memories of those you've lost echoed in your reflection. In the depths of your exhausted eyes, you saw the vacant stare of comrades fallen in the line of duty. Each pair of eyes carried the weight of a story left untold, a life cut short by the brutality of war. The specters of their gaze seemed to linger, etched into the very core of your being, a constant reminder of the sacrifices made in the name of duty. You blinked, attempting to dispel the ghosts that haunted your reflection.

Who knew how many more lifeless eyes would join them after this was all over.

At that thought, nausea tightened your throat, and you felt like you were going to be sick again.

As you braced yourself against the cold ceramic of the sink, your shaking hands gripping the smooth edges, another set of eyes appeared, staring at you from the mirror. A brown pair of eyes, with dark brown and silver strands falling into them, accompanied by a crooked nose and a downturned mouth. Simon leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest as they had been during the meeting, his head resting against the wooden panel, appraising the pathetic state you had found yourself in. 'Should I be worried?' He rumbled.