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ghostsvacuumcleaner · 1 year ago

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Shades of Red - Chapter II | 4k

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three ao3 | masterlist ✦ Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x civilian f! reader ✦ Summary: The sole survivor of a terrorist attack that killed over a hundred. The soldier responsible for saving her. He wants to help you, but his own trauma make him withdraw when he wants to get closer and intoxicate when he wants to remedy. He kisses your scars and hopes you’ll runaway. He wants you to run away. But you won’t. ✦ TW: NSFW, explicit, f!reader, little to none f! physical appearence descriptions, canon typical violence, mentions of abuse and trauma/PTSD, bit of gore, mental illness mentions, slowburn;

✦ Chapter TW: slightly obsessive behavior hehe.., just a hint yet; mentions of trauma and violence

A/N: Dropping chapter two because I'm excited to start the real deal of this story! Also, chapter three might take a little while to come out cause I'm working on a request I received; hope y'all enjoy! If anyone's interested in getting into a tagslist just lemme know!

Chapter 02 - Survivor

The hospital room you were in was pleasantly cozy. A large bed in the center, a considerably large television right in front of it and the big window to the left, whose blinds were closed for the time being. There were a few empty chairs next to the bed - you were sure that at some point in the last hours, someone was sitting there, as there was a small vase of flowers resting on one of the chairs. Although you could not see the world out there, you knew it was raining by the sound of the raindrops hitting the window; the sound echoed through your ears in an almost hypnotic intonation as you dissociated.

Your daydreaming was abruptly cut off when someone opened the door to your room. A lady, a nurse, whose name tag said Doris. You shook your head and quickly looked in her direction, your eyes no longer as confusing as before, but equally expressive.

“You’re awake, finally.” She pointed, as she approached her bed with some caution. “You’ve been sleeping for at least fifteen hours since you came here. I was starting to worry,” she said, sounding somewhat caring.

You raised your eyebrows briefly.

“Fifteen hours? Fuck my life…” You whispered, and her face turned into a little grimace in response.

“Language, lady.” she joked, as her hands caringly wrapped your nearest arm and began to remove the tapes that covered your venous access. “How are you feeling?” She asked in a murmur. “I don’t expect you to say ‘well,’ for God’s sake.” she pleaded.

“Well, I’m not feeling any pain at least.” you said. For the first time in those twenty-four hours in which you were silent, your mouth bitter in the metallic taste of blood and the horrible feeling of a cake in your throat, you began to speak. There was still a lot you wish you could say, but felt like you might never get to do it. You could never take the weight you felt on your back, the unsaid words, the pain that grew restless in your mind.

“That 's good. Means the medication is working; you hurt yourself pretty bad let me say,” she commented, still trying to sound as caring as possible. The care that emanated from her made you feel a little better, you had to admit. “but you will be fine. Can you move your leg?” She finally asked, finishing by skillfully exchanging your access without causing further pain.

You looked into your legs, and felt that bitter taste invading your mouth again. Fuck. You didn’t stop to think about it: that wound on your leg, previously partially buried by concrete, was well, very extensive.

After breathing deeply, you concentrated your energies into the hurt leg. Your face shrugged in a strenuous expression, you were giving your best; your leg began to tremble and the rest of your body too, by the effort. It was as if that concrete block was still there, preventing its movement, causing you to suffer in stuckness.

“It’s okay, you can stop now.” she said, but you were negative and shaken your head with all the strength you could, small tears forming on your red face as you tried to move.

“No. I can do it.” you grumbled between your teeths and closed your eyes.

“Dear, no-” she tried to say, but nothing seemed to be able to change your mind right now.

A little move was all you got, and then the relief. Your breath accelerated, exasperated and relieved by victory, but still concerned by the fact that all you could achieve was almost equivalent to a spasm. Doris sighed.

“Why can’t I move straight?” You asked, your eyes ran into hers with some despair and impatience. "Will I lose my leg’s movements? Will I need to amputate?” You asked anxiously.

“God, girl. No!” She assured you, striking with her head and placing a new tape on your arm. Doris then walked to the end of your bed. “No one will amputate anything. Just see, well,” she started, and pulled the blankets that covered you from the waist down.

Your expression relaxed, perplexed as you looked at the scarring on your leg. Almost like a crack, in your thigh — it started near your hip, and went up to almost half your thigh in a diagonal angle. It was a red, ugly wound, a crack in your now imperfected shell. It was sewn with the help of so many stitches that you could barely count. “you hit a nerve. It didn’t break, of course, or could barely move this leg, but it hurt and badly. It will take some time for you to recover from it. But you will.” she said.

“It’s horrible,” you whispered, your eyebrows scratched in a sad expression. “I’m horrible.”

Doris looked at you, to the tears that formed in your tired eyes. Her lips were compressed in a line.

“Oh, dear... You’d never be awful, don’t say that,” she whispered. “A scar won’t make you any less beautiful. Got it? It’s your survival mark.” she said, trying to encourage you a little.

You wanted to curse her. You felt angry at the kindness she offered you, for trying to make everything seem less heavy than it really was, but it didn’t seem fair. You knew that this should be some reaction of your mind poisoned by the depression you felt now.

It would not be fair to discount your frustrations on the only person who had offered you some comfort so far, would it?

No.

Your face formed a smile so weak that maybe it only made her more worried than she was already, but that was all you could do for now. Doris covered you again, fitting the blankets around your body in a very comfortable way.

“I’ll bring your lunch. You’ll need to eat enough to get some energy for your recovery now.” she commented quietly by changing the IV from the support over you. Your eyes followed the whole process attentively.

Although you were grateful for the treatment you were receiving from the hospital, there was only one thing surrounding your mind. The Ghost.

The man in the skull mask who had saved your life. He was nowhere to be seen, you knew that you might possibly never see him again, but the idea that you didn’t even have time to thank him correctly tormented your mind. He was in your dreams while you were unconscious, standing there looking at you, glaring at you with those dark eyes of his. The curiosity of what was hidden behind the mask was hitting you hard this time, the need to see something human in him; the way his eyes seemed to present him as nothing but a machine. He seemed unbeatable, but when he took you in his arms, gently as he could be, like he was holding porcelain - you could only see a human being. And you wanted to see it, you craved for confirmation, that there was a human beneath the mask and that this human was just the way you pictured him to be. Or perhaps the complete opposite. You liked surprises, and fairly - you just wanted to see him.

“Where are the soldiers? You know, those who took me out of the building.” You curiously asked, cleaning your throat. The nurse's eyes wandered around the room in search of the small window that turned out to the hallway, she could not see anyone there, a confirmation that they might have been there before but not anymore at the moment. “I didn’t have time to thank him.” you whispered.

“Ah yes. Of course. Captain Price said he would call you when you were feeling a little better. Do you want me to give them a call?” Doris asked kindly.

“Yes, please,” you agreed.

━ ⟡ ━

Soap was watching the news on TV in the town hall of the headquarters. His eyes were attentive, his ears well opened; he heard the television reciting for the thirteenth time that day those words that echoed in his mind, "hundred and two dead." The news anchor was saying something about the intelligence’s inability to detect the terrorist threat before the bombing occurred. Massive criticism of the military staff responsible for national security; people were in panic. How would you feel safe after that?

After the 141 left the building back to the headquarters, the British intelligence team searched the ruins of the disaster looking for any indication of association of some terrorist group known to the incident. At first, nothing. Bombers usually leave no traces but a blast of blood and human flesh everywhere.

But then, an agent left the building with a piece of semi-destructed cloth in his hands. It was almost incomprehensible but soon they discovered a symbol in it. And to the most absolute disappointment of all, no soul even recognized the symbol in question. A new terrorist group.

Fuck.

While the population was hiding in fear, the press was rendering a disgrace to society and introducing even more chaos by spreading information that should be confidential. Soap was too distracted with their babbling to even listen to Price and Ghost’s conversation in the background.

“She will need physiotherapy, and a good time to recover.” said the captain, releasing some smoke from his cigarette into the air. “She apparently suffered a nerve injury.”

Ghost had his arms crossed, resting on the wall behind himself, facing Price. His eyes were fixed on the ground, as if he was thinking of something.

“I can imagine.” he whispered, with a head nod. “I hope it goes well. What these guys did there...” he closed his eyes and snorted, seeming nervous.

“Yeah... The press won’t give anyone no peace now. I get nervous just to think.” he grumbled as he threw his cigarette butt into the ashes. Ghost only shook his head negatively, in disapproval; in accordance with the captain’s speech.

The silence that followed Price’s last words did not last more than five seconds before he spoke again.

“She asked about you.” he said, raising his eyes to Ghost. He was looking back at him this time. It was as if his words had caught his attention now. “Said she wanted to thank you personally.”

“She doesn’t need to. I just did my job.” he argued, pulling his back off the wall and pulling one of the available chairs around. As he sat down, he grabbed a piece of a disassembled rifle that rested on the table, and went on with his work to clean it.

“I know that, but work sometimes involves accepting a bit of gratitude from other people for what you did for them, Riley. In this situation specifically.” Price raised his eyebrows, and watched the gun as Ghost cleaned it, his concentration quickly diverted from the conversation to the work he was doing. “You should go see her.”

“With all due respect, captain, I think the job of talking to the victims is anyone else's but mine.” he replied almost instantly.

“Maybe, maybe. But she wants to talk to you.” Price insisted.

Ghost released an annoyed, almost annoyed breath.

“She doesn’t have to thank me. I know she’s grateful,” he tried to argue again, but the captain seemed irreducible for the moment. “Bloody hell, Price, hire a psychologist for once. She needs help, not to talk to me.” he continued, receiving nothing but silence in response.

“She wants you.” Price said, simply, unfazed by his upset behavior.

Ghost immediately stopped what he was doing and left the gun aside, the hand

supported on his knee, once again an uncomfortable breathing leaving his nostrils in a surely irritated mood now.

They would not understand. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you; there would be no reason for it, no. Ghost didn’t want to see you again. He followed the whole moment the ambulance left you in the hospital along with the rest of his crew, was informed of your situation, and like all other soldiers, he was discharged after that.

His job was to rescue the victims who survived the attack. Not to talk to a victim, sketch some sort of feeling – even if it is false. He would need to say something, comfort you, or at least try to look positive. He would have to face the idea that getting in touch with your trauma could remind him some more of himself, could bring back past memories he wanted to bury. There was no good in it, no. He wasn’t a therapist, wasn’t built for it.

Although he wanted to, he couldn’t feel compassion for you. He couldn’t feel sorry – He thought it was an extremely illegitimating, invalid feeling. Affirming that someone was worthy of pity was almost like treating someone like garbage, no; he would rather die than have others pitying him, why would it be different with the people around him? He wasn’t the right person for that.

As if the universe laughed at his face, the moment the conversation between the two became silent and he raised his eyes to the television, the image of the building's debris was replaced by one of the only survivor of the attack; a recent photo you had taken in London, two months ago. You were smiling, you could still do that at that time. The screen displayed your name, while the reporter was now talking about you.

“It’s her; poor girl.” Soap said, turning a little to observe them, and turned up the volume. The news said something about your success in keeping yourself alive: you were treated as a great achievement, called a ‘miracle girl'; they were talking about you as a poor little girl, about how clever you were, in college studying to become a prestigious doctor. Ghost squeezed his jaw, his teeth gritted in a bitter taste inside his mouth. There was no miracle in what happened to you.

You were lucky. You were in the right place, at the right time.

Two hundred people did not have the same luck.

A hundred and two people, men, women and children, were now dead. You had eternal marks engraved on your skin and soul. A miracle? He felt offended as if he were with himself — as if they were calling him a miracle for having survived all the painful events he had experienced so far.

“How dare they say this kind of thing?” he grumbled lowly. The other two shrugged their heads in denial, in disagreement.

“Fucking vultures.” it was Price’s turn to complain.

━ ⟡ ━

You had turned off the TV the moment you heard your own name. There was no reason you’d want to know, to to hear what they had to say about you. You didn’t want to hear them treat you as a mere victim of an incident, acting as if that disaster was all about you that mattered. You hated the way everything seemed to be reduced to that now: the attack.

The survivor. The only survivor. Your name didn’t matter anymore – you had become a martyr, and everyone treated you with caution, as if you were made of glass, as though it was impossible to get close to you without the risk of breaking it.

Since the silence established itself in the environment when you turned off the TV, all you heard was the static silence floating in the air, sound of little drops that flowed through your veins. Your mind had become vague, your thoughts made room for your imagination, you slowly fell asleep. There was a long time after you felt unconscious - you weren’t sure of how much exactly. Maybe two, maybe three hours. You had asked Doris to open the window before she let you rest alone in your room, and the wind was hitting your skin, still sensitive due to the excess of meds; the subtle cold you were feeling was making you feel alive.

The lights were off, and as soon as it became dark, the lights of the city reflecting through the window were no longer enough to light up the room belongings.

In that intense darkness and in the most absolute silence possible, the ghost that haunted your dreams was standing, tall as always, at the end of your bed. Haunting you. Silent like a snake approaching a possible victim, even his breath seemed to be controlled enough not to make a noise. His eyes, behind the mask, fixed on you; you slept quietly in a heavy sleep that was obviously the result of the strong medicines you were taking. He approached the bed a little, your hand was laying in your body side by the bed. So small.

Drop.

The sound of the drops of IV falling through the bag invaded the environment as if it were the sounds of a giant walking. The big night silence had this effect on small sounds – it enlarged them. You heard the sound of the window closing inside your dreams, but that didn’t seem to wake you up. The cold wind no longer hit your skin, and you began to warm up.

How long has passed since the sound of the curtains closed you could not say; but what awakened you knew: it was the sounds of the door opening. You instinctively frightened and adjusted your posture in bed a bit abruptly, until you realized that the man who was entering — now unarmed though still dressed in his combat suit — was him. The Ghost.

He watched you in silence for a few seconds before shaking his head.

“Did I wake you?” He asked, the same serious and rough voice, the loaded British accent, different from your American one. “Forgive me.”

“You’re all right.” was all you could think of answering in the first moments. His eyes looked at you altogether; he was so tall that only his presence there made you feel intimidated, even if that was not his goal. “Don’t you want to sit?”

“I don’t intend to delay myself much.” He responded quickly, getting a little closer to the bed and sitting on one of the chairs next to him just to match your heights a little, imagining it should be uncomfortable for you, bending your neck to look at him standing. “Do you need something?”

“No. I’m fine now,” you whispered, sitting down. “I just wanted to thank you personally. I didn’t have time before, I- I just don’t think I was in good senses for it.” you admitted, holding your hands together on your lap.

“I just did my job.” he nodded, a serious air to his words. Ghost seemed like a man of few words, of few feelings too. His tone was monotone, always serious, seemingly stern sometimes. Made you feel like it was perhaps due to his habit of giving orders; he was a tenant, as Price told you. You knew little about the military hierarchy you had to admit, but the little knowledge was enough for you to know he did give orders.

“I know, but... What you call ‘job’, to me was saving my life.” you seemed to try to remind him as if it was something obvious. “If I have any way to reward you for that, please tell me.”

Ghost closed his eyes for a moment and stretched his neck, shooking negatively.

“Again, I just did my job. You don’t have to reward me for that.” he said, looking at the flower vase that rested on the headboard table for a moment.

Simon noted that although there were thousands of gifts and tickets on the outside, sent by ordinary citizens in support of your situation - there were no balloons or any indication of a family or friendly gift inside your room. Only those flowers.

They were addressed to Anthony Miller. He assumed it would be your boyfriend.

“You don’t get it, Ghost. It’s not about needing, it’s just something I want to do. It doesn’t have to be right now, you can tell me in the future if you need a favor or something like that.”

“I don’t usually need favors.” he assured, snorting at your insistence, but trying to stay as polite and friendly as possible. He didn’t want to end up making you worse, did he? You were already sad enough.

“Everyone needs favors. I also used to not need many before yesterday’s events.” You admitted, raising your eyebrows quickly and turning your gaze away.

“I didn’t do you a favor. I helped you, those are completely different things.” He shook negatively, irreducibly. “Any other decent soldier would do the same. You owe me nothing.”

“Yes, but it was you. If it had been someone else then I’d like to thank this person.” you argued, and your stubbornness began to irritate him; he gave in compassion to your state and only sighed deeply.

“That’s all you have to treat with me, miss?” He asked, turning his head a little, and you corrected him; do not call me lady, you murmured, and instructed him to call you by your name.

You watched him in silence for a few seconds, before breathing deeply.

“Actually no. I have a request.” you said, in a whisper, and he shrugged his head as if giving you a positive one. “Can I see the face behind your mask?” You asked curiously.

“Negative.” He answered, almost immediately, without even giving you a chance to try to refute or argue. “I can’t show my face, and if it relieves you if anything, it’s not a nice image to look at,” he continued, rising up.

You were a little desperate for his sudden rising, hoping he would stay a little longer. Of all those people with whom you had talked so far — Price, Doris; he remained the one who seemed to please you into a conversation the most. You wanted to talk to him, because, unlike others, Ghost did not treat you like a porcelain doll.

He was treating you like any other person.

“No, wait — you think you’re ugly, is that so? I don’t care.” you assured. “I doubt you’re ugly, to be honest.”

“I didn’t say that,” he raised an eyebrow, seeming to have your commentary somewhat amusing. You raised an eyebrow in response and laid your body on the pillows behind you.

“Wouldn’t you open an exception for me?” You asked, and he shook negatively. You closed your eyes, in a frustrated but accepting sigh.

“Well- you get well soon. Hear me, girl?” Ghost gently said, and walked a little further to the door, and stopped in his steps before leaving. He looked at you for a moment. “Are you here alone?”

“Yeah, I am. Why is it?” You asked curiously.

“Because your IV is running out, and without those pain meds, let me tell you...” he raised his eyebrows quickly. “Should I call your boyfriend or a nurse?” He asked, glaring at you.

“Wait- my boyfriend?” You asked, furrowing your eyebrows for a moment, and he remained silent. His hand stood up and pointed to the flowers next to the bed, as if he mentioned that the person who sent them should be your boyfriend. You eyed the flowers and let out a soft laugh.

“Ah, that... No, it’s not from a boyfriend.” You explained.

“Well, I’ll call some nurse then.” he said, his hand leaned on the door knocker and his fingers danced in unison, in a thoughtful expression. He looked at you again. “Stay safe.” he said, before his huge, broad figure disappeared through the door and the long hallway of the hospital leaving you once again lost to your thoughts, and alone.

Your eyes looked at your own hands for a few seconds, and you realized that they were pleasantly warm. You looked out the window, closed.

How strange was the fact that you didn’t remember having closed the window, thought to yourself.

It could have been Doris. But your intuition said no.

#simon ghost riley #cod fanfic #ghost cod #ghost x f!reader #ghost x female reader #ghost x you #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #shades of red

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