bring your child to work day: zayne and his daughter spend a day at the hospital
fluff, dad!zayne/reader (a little bit), ~2.2k
warnings: reader only makes a small appearance it's mostly about zayne + his daughter spending quality time together tbh, allusions to zayne + mc's lore (no specific memory idt just the overarching theme of their story), zayne is a devoted girl dad bc i believe in girldad!zayne...
a/n: mc/reader + zaynes daughter is named zenith here bc i liked the idea of them sharing an initial 😭 meaning the highest point/the point right above you in the sky bc i think thats what she would be for zayne+mc like one of the best moments of their lifetimes :( anyway it's mentioned in the fic but shes the spitting image of zayne thats his mini-me fr
“good morning,” zayne says, passing by the nurses’ station without much fuss. it’s an ordinary wednesday, after all.
“morning,” greyson echoes with a curt nod, his eyes still focused on the files he’s reviewing from an overnight patient.
“mornin’!” a third voice calls happily.
greyson freezes, his papers falling unceremoniously on the floor. “huh!?” he exclaims, a little too loud for a hospital corridor.
however the chief pays his outburst no mind, and he suddenly sees why, greyson’s gaze finding the little girl perched on his boss’ hip. of course, he remembers, it’s “bring your child to work” day. but for some reason, he never thought that zayne would actually bring his child to work. perhaps that explains why he’d made sure no surgeries were scheduled for this day weeks ago.
zayne strokes her dark hair, brushing a loose strand from her pigtails behind her ear. “this is dr. greyson,” he speaks softly, pointing in his direction. “dr. greyson, meet zenith.”
“nice to meet you!” she exclaims, waving a chubby hand in the air, paying no mind to his wide eyes and slack jaw.
she can’t be over four judging from her height, and, of course, greyson knew zayne had a daughter, but he didn’t really know. he remembers you mentioning her at your appointments, the photos on his desk and, of course, zayne’s paid time off actually being used at personal all time highs (which had already been on the incline after you moved in and then got married) since a few years ago, but it still feels surreal to actually see him with his child.
if she has any opinion on greyson’s lack of response besides the cartoon birds that would appear around his head if they were in an animated tv show, she gives no hint. instead, she smiles brightly, her green eyes sparkling as she takes zayne’s glasses off his face and fists the lenses, trying to rotate them in her tiny hands and fit them on her own face.
somehow, with the much too large frames perched on her nose, she looks even more like her father. everything, from her dark hair tied with ribbons to her hazel eyes, the curve of her brow and little nose, she is her father’s daughter to a t. perhaps the only un-zayne-like thing about her is the permanent cheeriness in her gaze and her gummy smile. that she must’ve gotten from you. while greyson has definitely noticed how his boss has become a little less taciturn and stern over the years, he would be lying to himself if he said he ever thought zayne would become even a miniscule fraction as bubbly as the daughter he holds close right now.
“i didn’t know you were bringing your daughter in today!” greyson exclaims, the realizations of today finally settling and coming together in his mind.
there’s a fondness in his eyes as he glances to zenith, his lips quirking the slightest bit upwards. “she’s been asking for weeks to come with me; i figured now would be the best time with the other kids here. i know you’ve seen the schedule for today, but—”
“oh my god!” yvonne gasps, speeding towards the trio gathered. “you brought your daughter, dr. zayne!” she extends her hand to the girl, which she happily takes. “i’m yvonne, i work with your dad.”
“i’m zenif,” she babbles, her syllables getting caught on her missing tooth.
simultaneously both greyson and yvonne coo at the little girl.
“aren’t you the cutest thing? i’ve seen so many pictures of you but you’re just the dearest little one, hm?”
and word of mouth travels fast, because, soon enough, a whole crowd has come to fuss over the most adorable little girl who looks exactly like the aloof department chair and has the sweetest smile. she graciously accepts their compliments with quiet ‘thank you's' and hides her face in her father’s neck and shoulder, causing even more ‘aww’s to fall from his colleagues’ lips. when the attention dies down, zayne finally gets to his office, nearly an hour later than he usually would have by now, but he can’t even be annoyed. his little girl is the most precious; of course, he would react in the same way.
he shuts the door behind them and puts his bag down by his desk, moving zenith so she has a place on his lap when he sits down. “what would you like to do today, hm?” he asks, booting up his computer and finding a pile of files from the depths of a drawer.
“what do you do?” she asks.
he hums. “well sometimes i see patients who don’t feel well, sometimes i do surgeries on them so they feel better, and sometimes i have to do paperwork. i don’t have any patients or surgeries scheduled today, so we can do whatever you want; how does that sound?”
“what about paperwork?” she exclaims. “you said that’s what you do?”
“would you like to do paperwork with me?”
she nods firmly. “i wanna spend time with daddy!”
his heart softens, his already abnormally warm (at least for work standards) gaze growing even more endeared by his precious, favorite little girl. “you want to spend time with me?”
her head bobs and she wraps her arms around his neck, resting her cheek on his shoulder. “of course! i love you, daddy.”
pressing a kiss to her cheek, he can’t help a smile. of course he knows she loves him, loves spending time with him. when he’s home she’s practically glued to his hip. and he tries his best to make sure she knows the same. but sometimes it’s just nice to hear it from someone you love. “and i love you, princess.”
it used to be a foreign expression on his tongue many, many years ago, before you’d returned to his life, and especially before she came into his life. but as time flew by, thanks to you and your help, he’d grown familiar, comfortable, fond with it. while he knew you didn’t mind him not saying that as much as other boyfriends and husbands might from all your conversations, knowing he expressed how much he loved you and then some through other ways, he knew she might not have understood just how her father expressed his feelings and fondness at her young age.
so beyond his quiet actions, he makes sure to tell her. whether it’s a post-it note in her lunchbox, right next to the heart-shaped sandwich with the crusts cut off, just how she likes it, whenever it’s his turn to make her lunch, or a birthday card she’ll know how to read one day, he tries to tell her through words too. ‘i love you’ went from an expression he seldom said or heard, to one he couldn’t get enough of, whether it be from your lips or hers, and one he always wanted you both to know.
“let’s see what kind of paperwork we can find for you, then.” coincidentally a knock sounds from the other side of the door. “come in.”
“they brought some donuts and coloring pages out in the lobby,” yvonne says, popping her head in. “i figured you’d both be interested.”
“thank you, yvonne.” when the door shuts, zayne leans back to look at his daughter, brushing her hair. “what do you think about that? do you want to take a look?” with her eager nods, zayne stands.
“i wanna walk,” she pouts, tugging on his once crisp button-up, and he puts her down accordingly, taking her small fingers in his.
they make their way hand in hand down the corridor, drawing even more endeared coos from the staff until they reach the table. kneeling down to her height, he points at a smaller kids table in the corner.
“how about you get some coloring sheets and crayons? i can get you a donut and we can head back and do some paperwork,” he explains.
she happily obliges, skipping over and inspecting the books with a familiar seriousness (which also makes the other staff coddle her just as much as her bright smiles. “aren’t you so precious!?” “she’s just like her father!” zayne can’t help the small quirk of his lips when he hears how cute they find his daughter, because she is, speaking from his personal experience.). meanwhile he grabs a strawberry donut with sprinkles and a chocolate one, both her favorites, placing them on a napkin and grabbing a few extra knowing how she takes after you in terms of her messiness.
meeting her in the corner, he bends down, taking a quick look at the drawings she’s taken. “find anything you like?” he asks.
raising her pages to his eyes, she beams. “they have the bears!”
he smiles softly, tucking her loose hair away. “yes, they do,” he hums. “who knew?”
it totally wasn’t like he’d ordered specific character coloring books when it was time for the cardiology department to refill their kids’ activity section. it totally wasn’t like he’d looked for some ones he knew his daughter would love. it wasn’t like that at all; zayne maintains he’s as impassive and serious at work as ever…he’s lying to himself.
when she gathers her crayons, the duo make their way back to his office. the day flies quickly by, her babbles and light, curious questions bringing a new level of comfort and joy zayne never thought he’d get from his job. he loves what he does, of course, but everything just seems more enjoyable and memorable with his daughter by his side. or rather, with her on his lap, in her own little world of just her and her beloved dad, oblivious to the seriousness of the paperwork her father is dealing with as she busies herself with her own “paperwork” and scribbles vibrant colors all over the once black and white image.
and zayne thinks he would be perfectly content if it were to stay like this forever. even with all his prizes and awards, nothing could compare to the reward and title of being your husband and zenith’s father.
he lowers his pen to the desk from his fingers, using his free hand to rest his head as he admires the precious life before him. “i love you, princess,” he murmurs, pinching her cheek.
“i love you too, daddy!” she turns to face him, crumbs of donut glaze still around her lips.
he takes a napkin and dabs at her face before checking his watch. you’d said you’d meet them around now… “how about we get lunch soon?”
right on time, a knock sounds from the door, which opens to reveal you. “how are my favorite doctors doing?” you exclaim.
“mama!” she cheers, hopping off zayne’s knee and running into your waiting embrace.
kissing her head, you give her a squeeze. “how’s work with dada going?”
“i love it here! daddy colors and eats dessert all day,” she cheers.
glancing to your husband, you chuckle. “is that so?”
he makes his way towards you both, giving you a peck as you stand, your daughter now on your hip. “something like that,” he mumbles.
“then maybe i should become a doctor too,” you tease. “is now a good time for lunch?”
he nods, opening the office door once more and allowing you to pass first.
“i wanna become a doc-tor, too,” zenith ponders, suddenly serious with her small fingers tapping at her chin as she thinks, a habit no doubt from her father. “then daddy and i can color and eat snacks together forever!”
“is that so?” you ask, but you can’t help the smile you shoot at your husband.
she bobs her head, a determined furrow in her brow. “i wanna be with mama and daddy forever.”
zayne has a warm fondness in his gaze as his eyes find his daughter. she looks up to him with wide eyes and her gummy grin, reaching her small hand out for his own, which he happily obliges. her tiny fist wraps around two of fingers, and he briefly wishes that she could stay his little girl for eternity. she doesn’t need to know how hard her dad’s job actually is, how much work he had to put in to get to where they are now, the sorrows of her parents’ past. she is a precious gem, the shining peak of all your shared lifetimes.
this one existence, finally at peace, a happy ending for you and him, domestic bliss with the two, now three, of you, he thinks it’s worth every tear that’s been shed before. and maybe in another universe and lifetime, the you’ll get another happy ending. he thinks that even if it’s a simple life, as long as it’s with the two of you, it’d be one he cherishes and treasures close to every fiber of his existence, one he would fight all there may be to remember, for no god could tear his devotion. maybe he’d even bet every splintering past life that led to this one was worth the years he’s gotten to spend with you in this one, and the years still to come. so he hopes she stays as optimistic and bright as ever, that you stay by his side in this heavenly life he could only once dream of. after all, ice is made of crystals.
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Breaking Point (1/2)
SUMMARY: Civilian!Reader, who works as Price's assistant, has a breakdown at work. Soap+Ghost help the best they can. Hurt/comfort. Can be read as platonic or romantic. Gender Neutral Reader.
PAIRINGS: Ghost x GN!Reader
Soap's version.
TAGS: Hurt/comfort. Military inaccuracies (I make shit up for the sake of the plot). Ghost is... Ghost; taciturn, blunt, aloof, but Not An Asshole, protective, trustworthy, He's Trying ☆.
WARNINGS: Mention of relative in the hospital, suicide ideation, depressive thoughts, swearing. Ghost's part is significantly darker than Soap's (in terms of suicide ideation, not as in he's a yandere).
WORDS COUNT: 3.6k
A/N: Very self-indulgent, Reader is going through it and so am I. 🙃 Ghost role-plays (NOT SEXUAL) as the world's worst psychiatrist. Yours truly suggest to listen to "Strong For Somebody Else" by Citizen Soldier to set the mood. (Song includes suicide ideation and depressive thoughts too, so listen at your own risk).
The news you’ve just been told cannot be real. Life could not possibly be that cruel. What did I do to deserve this? you wonder helplessly. It’s like every time you get back up, life knocks you down again, sending you tumbling on the cold, hard ground.
After ending the call, you put down your phone on your desk in a daze, hand shaking.
Clenching your fists, you stare into space, a thousand thoughts disorderly swirling inside your brain, all bursting with anguish, until a burning tear running down your cheek brings you back to the present. You’re at work, your boss is in the next room; a breakdown is a luxury you cannot afford right now. Better bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood than be caught sobbing.
Inhaling a shaky breath, you take your head between your hands, shoving your fingers into your hair, trying to convince yourself to postpone your nervous collapse. Only one hour left, and you’ll be free to cry your eyes out at your flat. Or on the way home, even. It’s not like the other passengers ever paid you attention the other times you’ve cried on the bus.
But somehow your attempts have the opposite effect, and more tears roll down your face, staining the papers beneath it. As you furiously wipe your face with your sleeve, with a blend of frustration and despair, pissed at yourself, and wanting to get rid of the evidence of your fragile state as fast as possible, the unmistakable sound of your office’s door opening makes you look up.
The sight of the dark, bulky silhouette standing in the frame does nothing to appease your worries - quite the opposite. Of freaking course of all bloody people that could have walked in on you, it had to be fucking Ghost. The most intimidating - not to say terrifying - man on the whole base, but also the most cryptic.
Towering over 190cm and built like few were, even on a military base, you had recoiled despite yourself the first time you met. Every single detail regarding him was redacted - you knew because you had checked his file, consumed by curiosity -, including his own face - unvaryingly covered by a black mask adorned with a white skull. That semblance of halloween mask and an alias was all that he shared with the world.
He dispensed his words in dribs and drabs to a handful of privileged people, which seemed limited to your supervisor, Captain Price, who was also his direct superior, and his teammates of the Task Force 141. He couldn’t have offered you more than ten syllables in the six months you’ve been there. Yet, everyone knew who he was, what he was capable of, and crowds systematically parted with his passage like the Red Sea.
You had wisely taken the resolution to not heed the rumors about him, which ranged from hardly believable to frankly ridiculous, but you couldn’t help the knot in your stomach every time he was nearby. It wasn’t only his imposing stature that put you on edge, but mainly the fact that he was always impassive. His mask effectively hid his emotions, sure, but his voice didn’t let anything show through either. Most of the time you had no idea what he was thinking or feeling, leaving you puzzled at how to interact with him. Not that there were that many interactions to begin with, but the few that happened left you with a lasting impression.
However you were pleased with yourself after you quit agonizing over his opinion of you, focusing instead on doing your best to treat him like the other soldiers. He may not be friendly, but he never had been disrespectful either.
You stare at him in horror, a deer in the headlights, unable to emit a sound. You didn’t even have the time to fabricate a bunch of excuses to get you out of this situation.
Shit, shit, shit. What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?
“Ya good?”
His tone is gruff, as it always is, but not hostile. The question feels like a way out of this awkward situation, a lifebelt. You cling onto it like you're lost at sea.
Maybe you can still turn this around - pretend everything is OK. He will follow the implicit rules of politeness and leave you to it.
You hasten to reply.
“Yeah, yeah, it's fine. I'm fine.”
As you finish drying your face, he steps into the room, stopping in front of your desk.
“Did you need something?”
Your voice automatically switches to “customer service” mode, and you plaster a fake smile on your face. The mental image of a puppet, strings forcing the corner of its lips to lift, comes to your mind.
Ghost doesn't respond. His eyes are searching your face like it's an encrypted message that could provide a target's position.
Your smile vacillates under his scrutiny. The examination is cold, clinical; there's no warmth nor sympathy in those brown eyes.
“Doesn't look fine to me.”
He announces the statement like a fact, voice dull, neutral. He doesn't provide sympathy, but he doesn't cast judgment either. It’s not less irritating though.
Your first instinct is to snap at him, tell him to mind his own business, ask why he even cares. You resist it. Picking quarrels will only make matters worse. You grit your teeth and lie some more, trying to sound carefree.
“It's nothing, really. I'm just being a crybaby.”
Crybaby.
Ghost turns the word over in his mind, unconvinced. He still recalls vividly the moment he stopped considering you like another faceless office worker amongst others and made an effort to remember your name.
He was mindlessly killing time in the break room with Gaz and Soap until you showed up at the door, a forced smile on your face, attempting to look casual but your body language betraying your nervousness. He spotted you first, the other two engaged in a lively conversation. Relief spread on your face when you saw he had noticed you, sparing you the trouble of having to call out for him, and you approached.
“Ghost, can I have a word? … in private?”
He straightened up from the wall he was leaning on and followed you wordlessly, feeling the prying stares of his teammates lingering on him. You stopped in the hallway to face him.
“You forgot to fill out the medical part in your last report.”
Fingers linked together, you were anxiously twiddling your thumbs. His eyes followed the movement unconsciously.
“I haven't.”
You frowned in uncomprehension.
“Your medical file said-”
“I know what the medical file said,” he retorted firmly, hoping that you would understand his intention without him having to spell it out loud.
The furrow in your brows didn’t go away, quite the contrary.
“You want me to lie.”
The statement wasn’t an accusation, but a request for confirmation.
“You catch on quick.”
The sarcasm and patronization unintentionally slipped into his voice. You were just a newbie trying to do your job well, after all. However the others before you never took the trouble to confront him about this, either out of fright or negligence, and this felt like a waste of his time.
He watched you search his face for something, an explanation, a way out? You bit your lips, conflicted, before replying:
“No.”
“No?” he repeated, raising a skeptical eyebrow that you couldn’t see, crossing his arms. He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused. He wasn’t used to being turned down anymore, except for so few individuals, like Price or Laswell, that they could be counted on the fingers of one hand. That the first person to oppose him in so long wasn’t an uptight high ranking or a gutsy enemy, but you, an average civilian, was definitely a surprise.
“I'm not taking that risk”, you added with a determination he didn’t expect.
“Ya wouldn’t be takin’ any. Nobody will be none the wiser.”
“That's not what I- urgh. I am not letting you go back injured on the field! I don't care if you're the ghost or whatever, you’re not invulnerable. So either you fill that damn file or I'm telling Price.”
“Oh? You'd snitch on me?”
“I'd do it to save your life, yeah.”
And with that, you shoved the papers in his chest, turned around and walked away. You had barely disappeared around the corner that he was already mentally calling himself a bloody idiot. Why had it been so tempting to provoke you? Because out of nowhere your usually bashful self showed audacity? Because you were absurdly hellbent on defending his expandable life? No matter the reason, he started to look at you differently from that day on.
Clearly you and him had a different definition of “crybaby”.
He deposits the stack of files he had been holding on your bureau, but as you reach to seize them, he covers your hand with his own and leans in.
You would have stared in disbelief at his gloved hand over yours if the proximity of his face wasn’t a much more pressing matter. You can feel your face warm up and you loathe it.
“Those'll still be there tomorrow, love.”
You blink in surprise at the pet name. It's like you're a spooked horse and he's trying to soothe you with sweet nothings.
“But the paperwork-”
“Fuck the paperwork.”
Easy for him to say.
“But Price-”
“I'll deal with Price.”
“My mom's in the hospital”, you brutally admit, having run out of pretext.
You look each other in the eye for what seems forever.
“Ye take yer coffee with three sugars, yeah?”
“Uh, yeah?”
You reply hesitantly, stunned by the ask that, a priori, has nothing to do with your wholehearted confession. How did he even know that? The words have barely left your lips that he already disappeared into the corridor. You stare in disbelief at the door, mouth agape. You poured your fucking heart out and that socially inept bastard in his goofy ass halloween costume just ditched you after wringing the truth out of you like you were an interrogated enemy soldier.
Sipping the content of your mug with the Ghost's unblinking stare fixated on you is an unsettling experience, to say the least. Seated on the chair facing your desk, legs wide open, wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and gray pants, one hand holding his mug of tea, he hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he sat down.
Does he seriously not realize how unnerving his starring is?
He exudes an aura of tranquil power; the unchallenged authority of someone who is used to being obeyed without question, combined with the nonchalance that comes with being unmatched. Even casually sprawled like this, he remains formidable.
A few minutes ago, he set down a steaming mug in front of you and a box of tissues - a delicate attention that sent a pang in your chest -, before taking a seat. The fingers of his free hand are softly taping his knee.
“Guess I won’t need to kill anyone tonight,” he declares in a detached manner.
You blink in incomprehension at that.
“But you don’t have a mission tonight…”
“Won’t have to kill anyone for makin’ ya cry,” he clarifies.
“Oh.”
What else can you possibly reply to that? The murder machine lounging in front of you has enough confirmed kills to make a sniper of legend green with envy.
“So…”, you initiate, not without uncertainty, “is this the moment where I get everything off my chest?”
“Do whatever ya want.” he placidly counters, shrugging.
It really, considerably, sounds like he doesn't care at all; but if he did, he wouldn’t be here.
You take a deep breath, staring at your desk.
“She's in the ICU. Paralyzed, intubated, put in a coma.”
Tears flood your eyes again. This time you don't try to fight them.
“I'm terrified for her. But, what's worse is…”
You swallow your saliva; blink in rapid succession - the tears sting.
“I can’t help but think the worst. About what'll become of me without her.”
Water overflows your eyes. The dam ruptures abruptly. Raw honesty spills from your lips.
“She’s all I have. Without her, I have nothing. I am nothing.”
The ensuing silence is deafening. You wonder what the hell you’re doing. There’s something about the man in front of you that, paradoxically, makes you want to confide in him. Despite his lack of warmth, he feels steady, reliable. A rock to lean on when your whole world is crumbling. Solid ground when it feels like everything is caving in around you. Like you could lay all your burdens on him and he wouldn’t even flinch under what feels like the weight of the world.
You feel awfully selfish to entertain that thought, but you doubt he'd ever give you the opportunity to return the favor.
“Bollocks.”
His tone is surlier than before. You look up at him to be sure you heard correctly.
“What about yer job? Ye enjoy it, right?”
You scoff bitterly at that.
“It's just a temporary gig. I'll be kicked out in two months.”
“We can make it permanent.”
You shoot him an incredulous look.
“You're just saying that.”
“‘M not. Wouldn't lie just to make ye feel better. Not my style.”
A cynical chuckle escapes you before a mischievous smirk stretches your lips.
“I’m sorry big guy, when did you get nominated as the commander of the base? Cause as far as I know this is outside your jurisdiction.”
A similar smile spreads behind his mask. He’d take your sass over your tears any day.
“I have my ways,” he replies tranquilly.
From anyone else, you’d call it bragging or bluffing. Coming from the Ghost, it doesn’t sound as anything but the truth. He stares at you intensely, as if daring you to doubt him again, or intent on proving you his integrity through gaze alone.
You look away, your cheeks heating up.
Ghost never minded that you can’t maintain eye contact. Just like he’s not into small talk, or physical contact. He knows most people tend to take it the wrong way, interpret it as contempt, when it couldn't be further from the truth.
“Thank you, but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’d feel like I’m manipulating you.”
He chuckles darkly, sending a shiver crawling down your spine, one you do not know if it was born of fear entirely or attraction.
“Oh sweetheart, you couldn’t even if you tried.”
Another tingle. Definitely pleasant this time. You desperately busy yourself with the content of your mug, the effects of that sentence on you too intense for the solemnity of the situation.
Your strategy proves itself fruitful until a movement at the periphery of your vision attracts your gaze. You peek without thinking, and freeze at the sight of Ghost lifting his mask above his nose to drink from his cup. One scar crosses his mouth, another departs from the corner of his lips, both ancient but deep. They don’t faze you though - truth be told, the omnipresent mask made you expect him to look like a world war one veteran, so heavily disfigured that you wouldn’t be able to bear it.
“Enjoyin’ the view?”
He doesn’t sound even remotely annoyed, but you lower your eyes in shame all the same.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
“If I didn’t wantcha to look, I wouldn’t have taken it off.”
As you need a moment to take in the implications of that sentence, he talks again.
“What's your poison?”
“Pardon?” you reply, genuinely lost.
He snorts at your exaggerated politeness.
“Coffee isn’t gonna cut it. Whataya usually take when you feel like this? Alcohol? Cigs?”
A pause.
“Sex?”
You choke and set down your mug out of fear of dropping it.
“No, no… and no.”
“Nothing?”
He sounds doubtful.
“I… cry myself to sleep?”
It makes no sense to formulate it like a question, but everything about this is surreal.
He hums, contemplative.
“You’re not making this easy.”
“What?”
“Helpin’ ya.”
You scoff, suddenly irritated.
“You could lend me one of your guns and let me blow my brains off with it. That would help.”
“Not gonna happen,” he counters with emphatic authority that leaves no place for rebuttal.
“Worth a shot,” you say, trying to get the last word. “Ha, shot. Get it?”
“Very funny.”
You roll your eyes at his comment, like he’s a tired parent indulging you, a tireless child.
“You just don’t have any humor.”
The words left your lips before you could consider their impact. Yes, you never heard the Ghost laugh, but maybe he has a very good reason for that. Maybe several. Maybe you’re just a fucking asshole.
“Why are colds bad criminals?”
Your head pivots towards him so fast you fear your neck is going to snap.
“Why…?”
“Because they’re easy to catch.”
You stare at him in bewildered silence, not quite believing what just happened, before starting to laugh, first softly, then, carried away, louder and louder, bordering on hysterical. You don’t even giggle because of the joke, but because the contrast between the silliness of it and how deadpan Ghost was when enunciating it is simply too good. That, and the nerves are probably getting the better of you.
“Never had anyone laugh that much at this one before.”
You attempt to get your breath back, alternating between pants and laughs, wiping a solitary tear at the corner of your eye.
“It’s just… you… I didn’t see it coming, jeez.”
Sighing wistfully, you take in the quietude of this fleeting moment.
“This is nice.”
“I'm always nice,” grunts the lieutenant.
You let out a good-natured scoff, then reality catches up to you.
“SHIT! What time is it!?” you shout in panic as you violently get up. “Maybe I can still catch a bus-”
You log out of your work session, turn off your PC and shove all your belongings inside your bag in record time. Ghost barely bats an eye, still like a languid cat; a very big, very dangerous cat.
“You can spend the night.”
“No I can’t!”
You push your chair under your desk and pick up your coat.
“We can make some sorry bloke sleep outside.”
“Noooo- That's horrible!”
You have no idea if he’s messing with you or not.
“Not worse than what's waiting for ‘em on the field.”
“Well, I still can’t do that.”
“Good for you that I can, then.”
You finally look at him, an half-amused smile on your lips, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
“Lemme guess. This is you ‘having your ways’ again, isn’t it?”
His offer is tempting. You really don’t want to be left to your own devices tonight.
He stands up and takes a step towards you while pulling his mask down and, oh, with him sitting this all time, you would have almost forgotten how much he towers over you.
“S’that a yes or a no?”
You could almost detect a hint of playfulness in his voice.
“It’s a yes, sir,” you retort while pronouncing the “sir” with as much impertinence as you can muster.
“Better keep up, then.”
And just like that, he vacates the premises, and you do have to focus to keep up because those long legs of his ain’t just for show.
As you two travel across corridors unknown to you, you wonder once again what the hell you’re doing, hanging out with this mountain of a man who’s more myth than human, and breaking the rules of a military base on a whim. Lost in thought, you don’t pay attention to the voices edging closer, and you’re completely taken aback when Ghost grabs you by the back of your shirt and drags you in a dark alcove with him. You’re so astounded, you don’t even make a sound. He takes hold of the back of your head and presses you against him to occupy as little space as possible, effectively hiding you from the men walking by. Only then you recognize Captain Price among other officers.
“Sorry ‘bout that, love,” whispers the man you’re squeezed against, barely audible, imperturbable as ever, like this is an everyday situation for him.
You don’t answer - you can’t, anyway, essentially muffled by his pecs. You should be more irked by those circumstances, but the sudden proximity set your face ablaze, therefore you’re very happy with its current concealment.
“Price will have my head if he thinks I made you cry.”
You’re about to protest, but then you remember that one time when Soap tagged along when you were carrying a huge box back from the archives, and when Price saw you two, Soap unconcerned with empty hands, and your face almost disappearing behind the imposing cardboard, he called the sergeant a bloody useless muppet and then proceeded to call into question his ability to transport his rucksack for days. Nevermind that you were the one who insisted on carrying the crate on your own as it provided a nice workout, and that you had to bare your teeth at Soap to prevent him from taking it from you.
When the peril has walked by and Ghost releases you, you silently thank the shadows around you hiding how affected you are by this ersatz of a hug. Later, he drops you off at an unoccupied bedroom, small but including a bathroom and furnished with everything you could ever want. You say your goodbyes and your thanks at the door, and he. pats. your head. You don’t even have time to be outraged that he states he will see you tomorrow, something that sounds like a promise as much as a threat, probably in reference to the morbid fantasies you shared, and he vanishes into the shadows like a… ghost.
A/N : The real reason Ghost ran out:
He be googling “how to comfort female civilian age between 20 and **”
In the TF Group Chat (Price not included):
“We have an emergency.”
“Send as many kitten pics as possible to [Reader] … stat.”
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