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

Six Weeks of Grief

One Week Later

With orders from Laswell, Simon moved you onto one of the Scottish isles just two days after.

It was a strange location, buried deep in the country. The surrounding mountains and tall trees reminded you of the base where you had first met the task force.

Built from granite, the building itself was dark against the green surroundings, though small crystals in the rock caught the light. It stood two stories tall, with large windows that were tinted and reflected the forest.

As you took in the surroundings, you murmured your first words in over a day. 'What is this place?'

Simon pushed the door open with his shoulder, held it open for you to enter first. 'It's safe. We'll be staying here until told otherwise.'

That was all he said on the matter.

Inside, only a handful of furniture pieces were scattered about. A sofa, a rug. A fireplace with a basket of logs close by. I'll-fitting curtains. Cream walls, but no paintings. A double bed upstairs.

It didn't seem as much as a safehouse as it did a blank slate.

It mirrored how you felt within yourself. You were numb, empty. Words felt heavy on your tongue, food lost its taste.

You went through the motions of daily life, though often only by Simon's prompting. You woke up with your alarm each day, but often stayed wallowing in bed. You showered in a daze, let the steam flood your lungs. You brushed your teeth, but lost track of how long you brushed them for.

At night, you lay awake, the image of the knife buried between Sean's ribs the only thing you could see behind closed eyes. When you did sleep, you were unsettled, tossing and turning.

Those first few day, Simon kept a wary eye on you. He stayed close by, but didn't hover. He stayed away with you, held your hand and murmured softly even when you didn't reply.

There was a knowing look in his eyes, and you had to remind yourself that it was there from experience. That he had also returned to his home one day to find the people closest to him murdered.

From reading his journal, you knew that he had tried to turn a gun on himself afterwards. And you wondered if he was worried you would try to do the same. So, you let him stay close to you, even if you didn't feel like having company.

Occasionally, you would catch him studying you when he thought you weren't aware. Something would flicker in his gaze, a cross between anticipation and worry. It was as though he was watching the timer on a bomb, was waiting for an explosion, an eruption of emotion.

Anything.

But that didn't happen until the following week.

Two Weeks Later

The rage that consumed the numbness was bitter at first, ugly. It transformed you into someone else, someone you used to be. Someone you weren't proud of.

The same person that Sean had first met.

'So, Bones. That's an interesting name for a medic,' he had said.

You had only been back to work for a few weeks. The pain, the helplessness, the rage was still raw. Despite meetings with your assigned therapist, you hadn't yet managed to tame the agony that consumed your body and soul. And so you unleashed it on him as you spun around and said, 'Yeah, well, what kind of a name is Sandman?'

Those sunshine eyes had met yours, curiosity swirling in their depths. 'Got the name on my first deployment. It became a joke on the field that I'd put people to sleep one way or another.'