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

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy

**There are references to SA in this, proceed with caution <3

Ghost's POV:

Simon woke up early, and it had nothing to do with the break of dawn or the sound of Soap snoring softly.

His sleep had been restless, had felt like a blink. One second the moon was high in the night sky, and the next, the sun was crawling its way above the horizon. And the second that Simon opened his eyes, feeling as though no time had even passed, he knew that he wouldn't get back to sleep again.

For a while, he just lay there. The room was small, with two narrow bunk beds pushed up against opposing walls. Soap slept in the bunk above Simon's head, dead as a log. You lay in the other bottom bunk across from Simon, the sheets pulled up to your chin, your body turned so that you were facing the wall.

Simon had grown used to having you beside him at night. He wasn't one to seek comfort, not one to pine for touch and love and contact. But with you beside him, he slept easier. He enjoyed the warmth of your body pressed against his, the way you slung one leg over his side as you slept. It was oxytocin, you had told him. The chemical that your body produced after a hug, from a gentle touch, during sex. But Simon believed it was more than that.

Either way, he had to get used to sleeping alone again.

He had to get used to a lot of things.

Like the way his past was slowly creeping back up on him, snaking one hand over his shoulder, gripping him by his throat. During the daytime, he could keep the memories from resurfacing. The memories of what they did to him, what they made him do. What they had tried to turn him into.

An emotionless puppet.

A cold-blooded killer.

A monster.

But it was different, being back in Mexico again. The sand was a familiar sight. He saw it in his dreams, his nightmares. He felt the coarse grains on his tongue, choked on its dust. Memories of the cell he had been kept in, the coffin he had been buried in, the jawbone in his hands filtered steadily through the barricade he had so carefully constructed to keep them out.

Simon dragged a hand down his face as those thoughts continued to invade his mind.

There had to be something productive he could do instead.

With a quiet grunt, he slipped out of the bunk, grabbed his balaclava. Slid into his uniform and boots, and slunk out of the room, quiet as to not disturb you or Soap.

The corridors were empty and hushed as he strode through them, until he came to the weapons room.

Inside, he flicked a yellowing switch on the walls, and the overhead flickered to life. He located the duffel filled with his gear and made his way over to a metal bench with it, emptied the duffel out, spread the contents out around him. He checked for damage, adjusted a few straps that had come undone during the journey. Spent more time than necessary on each step. Then, he found your duffel, and did the same for your gear. Calmly. Methodically.

When he was satisfied that all was in order, one of his hands drifted to the dogtags around his neck. Your name hung there now, too. Close to him, close to his heart, exactly where you should be. Where you would always be.

In some ways, his past had broken him. So much of the time, he felt like an empty vessel. Hollow. Distant. Fractured. Before you came along, he had to remind himself some days that he could feel. That he was more human than machine, that his heart beat blood for a purpose deeper than just biology. That he was needed beyond his handiness with a sniper, his commanding presence on the field.