Ghost One Shots | FemReader

HE HELPS YOU WITH TARGET PRACTISE

Damage at the ulnar nerve.

It's the only nerve which signals both up and down your arm—the doctor had demonstrated by tracing his pen back and forth on his own arm—it's unfortunate, this is going to take a while to heal.

You had looked at your elbow in the mirror, fresh pink scar tissue sealing the site of surgery closed. It curved round the back of your elbow and halfway down your arm, surrounded by small dots from the stitches, though they assured you those would fade at least.

It runs down the arm and into the small and ring finger. That explains the numbness.

Numb indeed. You could barely do anything without use of those fingers, it seemed so superficial but it frustrated you.

You had a strict physiotherapy program to follow, and you did, to the T. No exceptions. Every day, touching the tip of each finger to your thumb, flexing the tennis ball, each twenty, fourty, a hundred times over.

At first, Farah helped you with everything; tied your hair back, made you cups of tea, cut up your food.

But she was gone now.

Your voice echoed off the four walls of the empty range as you swiped hair out your vision for the umpteenth time.

"FUCK!"

The numbness was unbearable, your grip weak. Without Farah here next to you with her soft tone murmuring words of encouragement, her hands cradling your elbow up in aid, you felt defeated. Useless.

Price had fought to keep you on, believing sending you home would curb your drive and lead to prolonged healing. He needed you here. They all did. Or so he told you.

The door opened, you remained sunk on the floor, safety glasses fogged from your tears, lifting them up into your hair.

"Sergeant?"

An embarrassed groan escaped your lips, your address spoken without even looking up, balled fists rubbing your eyes dry.

"Lieutenant."

"You good? I heard you yelling from the offices."

You sighed, sinking further down against the flimsy balsa of the range. He came over and leaned down on one knee beside you.

"I can't do it. I can't feel anything. I need Farah, my hair is in my eyes, I can't concentrate with this damn thing!"

You flung the injured hand in the air hoping it would somehow detatch itself and regrow like a lizards tail. Instead it remained and fell limply to your side.

"Up."

He held out both of his gloved hands, palms to the ceiling, waiting to bring you to your feet. It required minimal effort on his part, his biceps flexing against his shirt and he used his strength to lift you and turn you around. The way he pulled your hair back over your shoulders made your spine tingle.

"What does Farah do with your hair?"

You almost choked on your answer, surprise from both his question and the implication that he was offering to do your hair. And the way he had touched you. He was usually so careful.

"She put it in a plait, all of it, out the way."

He hummed, proceeding to drag his gloves off with his teeth and gather the strands between his fingers, combing them and splitting them in three sections. Over, under, over, under.

He knew what he was doing.

You didn't want to ask how.

As he continued carefully, untangling each section before he wrapped it round another, he shifted a little closer behind.

"And how did Farah encourage you?"

She just held your elbow and sometimes shouted. So that's what you told him.

"How about we try something different?"

You nodded.

"Pick up the rifle."

He was even closer, pressing against you. When you didn't do what he told you, he spun the plait around his fist and tugged. You let out a breathy yelp and felt your body press back into him.

"Pick up. The rifle."

You did.

"Raise it."

You couldn't. He tugged harder. You lifted it up, he tucked his hand underneath your elbow to raise it, then he let go. It wobbled, he tugged again. It stayed up.

"Now fire."

The paper target ripped right between the eyes.

He let go, you pressed yourself against him again, his cock outlined by the material of his trousers, pressed against the swell of your ass. It was involuntary, the grinding. He resumed his grip upon your hair, letting his whisper fall over your shoulder and into the depths of your ear, rattling your brain, making your stomach flip.

"That's my good girl, lets try again, shall we?"