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shroomygumi · 8 hours ago

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The Silent Type

Ghost x Reader possible tw: scars, self hate »»——⍟——«« Ghost doesn't know you. But he knows who you are.

A shadow lingering in the back of the team. A faint whisper lost in the chorus of other, much more powerful voices. A face without a name, a real name, not the one the others have adopted for you.

He knows you're here, even though he'd wager the crowded bar is a place you'd normally want to avoid. It's not that hard to notice. The way you murmur a few words to Price, before hastily retreating to the sidelines, as far away from the rowdy group as possible.

An itch in his throat, and growing headache caused by a certain Scot's endless babbling, pushes him out to grab a smoke. He finds you outside, and he's not even surprised you'd sought refuge in the quiet of the night.

"Got a lighter?" he grunts, rummaging through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes.

Ghost knows who you are, but he doesn't know you. He understands the value of privacy and is willing to respect it.

But what is the reason you always choose to stand alone?

You quietly hand him a lighter, your fingers softly grazing his. You look out at the road silently, before lifting your gaze up to the stars.

Ghost takes the lighter with a brief nod and holds your gaze for a moment. You look a little tired. Exhausted is the word he'd actually use. A beat of companionable silence passes between the two of you, as he lights up a cigarette. He follows your gaze, taking a small drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke drift into the air. "Beautiful night," he murmurs.

"Yeah, it is," you nod and take the lighter back, and shift back on the bench where you sit. You fidget with the lighter, flicking it on and off, open and closed. You pause to run you thumb along the floral engravings on the side.

There's a soft exhale of smoke, as he watches you. He takes another drag, the only sound being the flicker of your lighter. His eyes flick between your hands and your face, taking in the tired expression that masks the turmoil. He's not one to pry—he wouldn't want anyone else to pry in his life, either. But he notes the way you toy with the lighter. The engraved designs on the object. An object you keep in your hand, no matter what.

A comforting item.

Like a security blanket. He's observant, this man. His eyes miss nothing, the cogs and wheels in his mind always turning, always working, even when his body is at rest. Ghost's never been able to switch off his brain—it just never ends. He glances up at the stars above them, the silence hanging between them. There's a question at the tip of his tongue, but he holds it back. He's not one to ask personal questions. "Goddammit.." you mutter, resting your head in your hands, elbows on your knees. Ghost raises an eyebrow at your muttered curse. If anything, it only piques his curiosity further. He's noticed, the way your fingers grip the lighter. How you run your thumb across the engravings, a gesture so simple but so telling. It's a small piece of comfort to you, in a world that's been too cruel. He's torn between minding his own business and indulging in his curiosity in wanting to know more about you. And when did he even start to care? He blows out a cloud of smoke from his lips as he continues to silently study you. The way your shoulders droop, the way your head is cradled in your hands. You're tired, he knows. "Beyond physically," he thinks. He hesitates before asking. Ghost's never been good with words—he's more of a man of action, after all. But for some reason, right now, he has a need to ask. "You alright, y/n?" He asks, his voice low.

You shake your head. "Bloody hell, what am I even doing here? The military? A sergeant? Seriously? After today's.. awful mission, I can't help but wonder if I'm really cut out for this. There were so many casualties. So many innocents I was unable to protect from enemy fire", you think to yourself.

He's not very surprised by you shaking your head.

There's a flicker of understanding in his eyes, but he keeps his face stoic as he takes another drag of his cigarette. The mission was a mess, he won't disagree. But there were too many uncontrolled elements at play, and too many enemies. You were outnumbered, overpowered.

As much as he hates causalities, especially of innocent civilians. There's only so much they could've done.

"We did the best we could." He says quietly. There's a firmness to his voice.

"I guess so.." you sigh. He's right. You just can't seem to accept it. You sit up, glance at him, and pull at your half-mask that covers your nose and mouth. You're used to it, but sometimes you feel like its suffocating you. You wonder for a split why you wear the mask, but then remember. You hate letting people see your scarred face. Your lip is permanently ripped, a jagged tear going up the right side of your jaw. There's a scar over your left eye, which is steadily going blind. Thankfully though, it was never your dominant eye. He watches your hands tug the cloth over your face, hiding the scars that mar your skin. He knows precisely why you prefer to hide the scars—he's well aware of how some people are when it comes to things that aren't quite the norm. But he's not like that. Scars to him are a proof of strength—proof of perseverance, of resilience. Proof that you've lived and survived. That you're still here, no matter what you've been through. You set your gaze on the sky again and lift a hand absentmindedly to your cheek, pressing into the mask and your jaw. You feel the fabric touch your exposed teeth and huff.

While you're lucky to have survived the incident from a few years ago, sometimes you feel you would have rather not. The tear in your flesh.. the permanent hole in the side of your face revealing the bones that were supposed to be concealed by your cheek..

"I can never really be in public without my mask because of it. I scare people. I look like a monster. And it hurts," you consider saying, but hold it in. Ghost may have interacted with you, but that doesn't mean he really wants to know what you're thinking, does it?

He doesn't need to know your thoughts to know the pain in your eyes. The anguish. The self-hatred etched in your features.

He's seen it, the look in your eyes—it's the look he sees in his own eyes on countless occasions, when he stands in front of the mirror. Ghost takes another drag of his cigarette, not tearing his gaze from you. You stand. "Tell the captain I'm heading back to base, will you?" you ask him, glancing back at him as you tighten your jacket around yourself.

He looks at you, his blue eyes dark in the shadows, before giving a slight nod.

"Sure. I'll tell Price." He looks away as he raises the cigarette to his lips for another drag. "You'll be alright?" He's not much of a man of words, but his voice lacks the usual hardness.

"As alright as I can be," you say with a half-hearted laugh.

The response makes the corner of Ghost's lips twitch into a nearly imperceptible frown, the only physical sign betraying his otherwise stoic face. He gives another nod as he drops the cigarette, crushing it under the heel of his boot. "Watch your six." He says simply, his voice low and firm. It's not a question, his words are an order.

"Copy that, Lieutenant," you reply with a small, but surprisingly genuine, smile. You walk off towards the parking lot and climb into your car to leave.

His eyes follow your form as you walk away, until you're swallowed by the darkness of the night. He stands in the darkness for a while longer, the quiet of the night hanging around him, as his gaze flicks back up to the sky.

#fanfic #oneshot #ghost cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley #ghost

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