Ghost One Shots | FemReader

HE GETS JEALOUS

Simon Riley had worked very hard to not let feelings of jealousy spread through his veins, especially not about women.

"It's your shot, mate!" Soap called out, stepping back from the green felted table.

Simon leaned over, readying the pool cue down his line of sight. For them all being able to accurately hit targets down the sights of a gun, few of them could hit a ceramic ball around a flat surface. It was almost embarrassing.

He pushed forward, potted one, then realigned himself along the side of the table and potted another. The third, he missed.

"Aw by a baw hair, oh well!" Soap clattered his back with the heel of his palm before leaning to take his own shot.

Simon was resting into the cue, the rubber end pushing hard into the old, and particularly uneven, wooden floor. It spun around slowly in his calloused grip as he stared, his height lending itself to being able to see right over the top of the crowds gathered at tables and straight to the bar. There you were, stood chatting to some civvy guy who didn't deserve an iota of your attention. You'd left a few minutes prior, announcing your glass was empty and you needed another drink, flitting eyes around the team to get confirmation that they all wanted another as well, before bouncing off in the direction of the bartenders.

It bothered him the way you smiled at this guy, he looked like he couldn't fight his way out a wet cardboard box. He's not even worth it, Simon. No, but you were worth it. It had been three years now that you'd worked side by side. He admired your dedication to the job, you said you had no family back home, no one waiting for you, so you'd take the longest contracts, let the other guys go home for some rest. Several late nights in the office, fuelled by caffeine and some degree of avoidance of the real world outside those doors, had slowly blossomed a friendship between the two of you. He started making you cups of tea, sitting next to you in meetings, it was real friendship. Then, the way the dusty sunset caught the line of your jaw one evening when disembarking from the heli in Mexico... friendship shifted.

He would never do anything about it though, it was all to go completely unspoken. Yet tonight, it simmered, harsh words bending and altering the shape of his tongue despite being strangled of air to actually form any sound. He watched as your teeth showed in a buttery smile, your hand reached out to touch this guys arm. This guy didn't know what you did, how you risked your life, how strong you were, how smart you were. He would probably sleep with you, then never talk to you again. He would hurt you.

"Simon!" Price's bellowing tone broke him out his daydream, blue eyes following his gaze. "C'mon son, take your shot."

He could feel a blush creep over his cheeks, he'd been caught. As he looked from Price to Soap to Gaz, they could all tell where he'd been looking, dissociating or not, it was in your direction.

He leaned down to take his shot, watching you pay for the drinks and pick up the tray from the bar, weaving your way back. One, two, three, four balls potted. There was barely anything left, but he missed the fifth on purpose as the guys flocked to you to retrieve their pints.

"Nearly left us dehydrated there, Serg." Soap joked, you smiled and told him to shut up and drink. Simon hadn't moved. Why was he so jealous? So angry with you? Delicate hands picking up the last two pints, coming over to hand him one. He took it, but no without losing his internal battle as he stooped a little to make sure you heard him.

"Wipe that smile off your face."

Your smile wobbled slightly, but then something unexpected happened. You grinned more, one brow twitching a little.

"Never took you for the jealous type, Simon."

"I'm not."

"Oh, sure." And you rolled your eyes. *Rolled them*. He couldn't believe it, it almost made him more mad.

"Come for a smoke." He rested the cue down against the wall, taking a large swig of his pint.

"No."

"Yes." He said, that air of authority clawing its way through the cracks. "Lets go." He tilted his head towards the door. You sighed and followed behind him. As he passed the civvy you were talking to, he made sure his shoulder made enough contact to just knock the pint in his hand enough that it a spilt a little.

"Real mature, Simon." You muttered as you passed through the door he held open. He remained silent, concentrating on lighting a cigarette, then giving it to you before lighting his own.

"What's your problem?" You looked as annoyed as he felt.

"You're better than them."

"Oh am I?"

"Yes." He took a long inhale, you tutted, shaking your head in disbelief.

"Admit your jealous."

"I'm not." Lies.

"You are."

"I'm not." But he felt his heart rate quicken as you stepped toward him.

"You should be."

He was stunned into silence. What did that mean? You were just friends. He wasn't a jealous type of guy. You didn't like him like that. He had never asked. You didn't know he liked you, did you? He'd done so much to keep it under wraps, to control it. He was your superior. This couldn't happen. He rounded you, returning the hand of power to him. You slowly backed up against the wall, smoking the cigarette. His eyes were stuck on your lips for a moment before drifting back to your own.

You were teasing him, whether you meant to or not, he felt his fingers curl up into a fist. You flicked your cigarette onto the ground, rubbing it into the wet pavement with your boot before lifting your head, your skin so close he could feel its warmth radiating onto his own.

"If you want to be a jealous, give yourself a reason, Simon."

Then you left, and all he could do was press his forehead into the cold wall of the pub.