Nightmare dressed like a daydream

The warmth you had longed for encased you, but today, it felt unfamiliar.

You hadn’t forgotten about yesterday (or earlier today). And even though what happened upset you, you’d still wanted him, so you could feel the comfort your father never gave you after an argument. You’d never received a genuine apology from him, just an offer for new shoes or to go to your favorite restaurant that day.

Even in anguish after what he did, you still wanted his touch. Or that may have been what you thought, because now you were peeling his strong arms off you, and creeping to the bedside. You cautiously swing your legs over and slowly step to the door, but even though you were going unbelievably slow, the pain underneath your feet made you wince.

“Wait—”

There’s a gruff voice that your back is turned to, making you jump at the realization he was awake. You had been taught all your life to fight when your fight or flight response flickers, but he noticed how you almost bolted towards your room.

He had been awake the whole time. He’d vouched to himself he wouldn’t close his eyes until your breaths were regular again, but even after they had, he’d barely gotten any sleep. If he had tears left to cry, one would’ve slipped.

Whenever he did fall to the night, in any circumstance, his body physically would prevent him from staying such. He was a light sleeper to another extreme. His body was trained by none other than trauma and instinct. So when he felt you raising his arm, he’d awakened and watched you do everything silently.

He would’ve said something, but he didn’t know what. An apology would sound fake in this situation.

Ghost was a hands-on man, so he moved. His large body flipped the covers off him and hastily brought itself to you.

The last time you’d let him get close, he screamed in your face. You took an involuntary step back, but had you thought about it you probably would’ve taken it anyway. His quick steps pause.

He gazes into your frozen eyes, glistening and pretty even in upset, but underneath carrying fear and shock.

Seeing him, one side of you wanted to apologize for not taking your job seriously, even though you did, or say you were sorry for the other things he mentioned. And you may have when you were 13, but you were a strong woman that built off men’s bullshit over the years, so you hold your ground.

He shrunk himself and moved effectively before you. No unnecessary movements.

“Please. Wait.”

You could tell he was trying to make his voice soft, but the octave and accent just did not allow it. He was trying though.

Do you book it, or stay?

You stay, to hear him. He recognizes your stance as one specifically military-taught, ready to move.

“I didn’t mean to yell at you. I should’ve been better,” he started. You’d come to realize even with small issues, he was an okay apologizer. “I’m sorry. You’re the last person who deserved that.”

He inspected the way you heard him but just stood there awkwardly. You were never awkward around him. In fact, he was the awkward one.

His heart dropped at how visibly uncomfortable you looked. He wanted to touch you—to take all your problems away, but it wouldn’t work this time. Not when he was the problem.

Ghost was the type of person to do anything for you, anything to get you back. You were the only one who saw him as Simon now, ever since the others died or were killed. He ruined that.

He let the mask get the best of him, finally turning into the murderous, scary man the world sees him as, everyone but you. You’d never been afraid of him, and he himself had changed that.

So in the silence he scans your beautiful eyes again, the brightness they usually reflect gone and replaced. You blink at him like a puppy. A small, scared puppy.

He’d made you cry. He’d made you cry.

He wasn’t expecting forgiveness, or your usual unconditional love, but the silence was too much to bear. He knows what he did, but he genuinely has no idea how he could make it up to you. Once you realize the conversation was over, and that’s all he had to say, you turn your head and limp past the doorway to your room. You were going to cry again.

But that was far from what he wanted to say.

He didn’t realize it when a tear of his own bundled up under his blonde eyelashes, a feeling so rare that people’s jokes about him being a robot could seem true. It had been so long, but watching you sadly walk away from him was enough.

The door was wide open, but he stood there, feeling more useless than he ever had.

These were the times he wished his mother was here. To tell him what to do. To spread the emotional knowledge of loving someone so much it pained you, something she had perfected over the years. Instead, he picked up the brutalities of his father. And he will never forgive him for that.

. .

You’d avoided him for an entire day, almost two, despite being in such close proximity and having to do everything with the squad. He didn’t know whether to leave you be or try again and again. Ultimately, he picked the first. That didn’t mean there weren’t subtle things to get your attention though.

He couldn’t think about yelling again. But it was only at you. So everyone else was graced with their lieutenant in a worse mood than he’s usually in, but they wouldn’t dare ask what was up or say anything to you. Actually, they had barely spoken to you like they had orders not to.

Ghost was rarely in the common room anyway, but now he was really tucked away in his quarters. He preserved his words, though even then they were still snappy. He had an attitude, yes, but he’d come to his senses enough to reflect and prevent himself from saying anything potentially hurtful.

He’d cherished the moments you had no choice but to be close to him a lot more than before, and his voice was barely even the tone of regular speech. Because now, he was scared.

He’d seen how bad relationships can turn, and it doesn’t help it was the man he’s seen all his life ruining what a woman gave him. He doesn’t want to be like that. And if he already has been, he tries to calm himself at night by running through his head “you’re already better than him by trying to fix it,” like a mantra. He’s cried the nights without you. He felt like he was floating away all the time, away from the Earth and the people around him. He barely knows himself anymore.

Little does he know, the time spent without him converted your sadness to anger. Rage.

He has the audacity to scream in your face? After all you do for him? After you put your life on the fucking line and take bullets for him every day?

With your father, it never did convert to anger, because you refused to let it. Being a child, you were way too dependent on him emotionally and physically. He was still your dad, you’d think.

And yes, while you loved Simon, there wasn’t the biological connection to pressure you to him. He was just a man. And if there’s anything you learned yourself, it was that you wouldn’t be pushed around by one.

So the day progressed on with an assignment. The troops were sent out, Ghost in charge.

He had made an order to surround the building, stay hidden in tall grass. A few would push in. They were armed and dangerous.

His voice was loud through the comms, going directly through the headset clear as day. Your team pressed forward alongside his. He had made every order around the fact that you needed to be right next to him, always in view, so he could keep his watchful eye out.

You crouched around the corner, waiting for command. You whisper in mic to your own squad, instructing them to watch for third-party while everyone’s idle.

The second he calls it, you all infiltrate right after smoke grenades set off. It was quickly cleared of the criminal within a few minutes because there weren’t many to take out, just a few in nooks and crannies, but one of them had caught you through a closet door. It had small blinded windows in it.

A quick sharp pain let you know there was a knife drilled into your side. It was small, and could be a lot deeper, but it still hurt like a bitch.

You had taken worse, so you gunned him down with a swift turn and ignored it. The adrenaline was medicine.

Once everyone returned to base with evac, people noticed the spot of red on your uniform but brushed it off as a battle scar. Until they saw the knife. It would be stupid to remove it.

“That looks pretty bad, you should get that patched up,” someone says. Someone you didn’t know, probably from another unit. You refrain from saying no shit and keep walking to the infirmary.

You finally decide remove it with added pressure to the wound, keeping the gauze close and the slim slit through your skin tight. The adrenaline was wearing off now and everything started to come back to you. You groan loudly when you touch it.

Red stains your fingers. It wasn’t deep but it had to be pulled out, and standing would be hard. You sit to see what you were doing.

“Fuck!” you yell.

The pain was ten times worse when you sat down, the fold of your body at the hip right underneath the opening. You feel like you could imagine the knife scraping other parts of your insides.

Suddenly the door opens. No one other than Ghost stands there, fully in gear, searching for the source of the cry. Once he locates you, you barely hear him murmur “bloody hell.” You glance up at him, then back down to what you were doing. He tries to ignore the equivalent stab in his heart at that, the one that matched the way his face drops at the sight of you. You would be able to see the white of his eyes through the mask if you’d look at him.

You were unconsciously trembling, attempting to mentally prepare yourself to pull the knife out slow. The man before you just watched.

“Get out,” you demanded.

“No,” he calmly replies. Once again, barely above a whisper, but heavy with accent.

You visibly roll your eyes and continue picking at the knife, trying to find the easiest way to retrieve it. Of course Ghost would take this time to be near you when you can’t run away from him.

He removes his gloves and opens the cabinets beside him, getting peroxide and other medical things. He walks to you with them in hand, and you bring it upon yourself to completely ignore him.

He steadily drops to a knee in front of you so you see eye to eye. You hiss when you pull at one side and it doesn’t work.

Softly, he breaks the silence, “When did this happen?”

No response. He was looking you dead in the eyes despite how horrible at eye contact he usually is.

“When did-“

“Earlier, Lieutenant.” You speak. He knows this was you digging at him. It worked, but he brushes it off.

He reaches his bare hands rid of the supplies up to help you. He was mad at nobody other than himself for not being there.

“Stop,” you shoo his hand away, tending back to your wound. Even though he wanted to help, he backed off.

To be honest, you had no idea what you were doing, and he’d probably had this happen a thousand times. He was inevitably better at medical anything compared to you.

“How did it happen?” He waits. Wasting time talking to him will have you bleeding out. The knife was a little under halfway visible.

“I was taking my job seriously, Lieutenant.”

He cringes at the words he’s shameful to call his own. He wants nothing more than for you to at least be on speaking terms with him, but even that he knows he doesn’t deserve. He sighs deeply.

“I’m sorry, let me help you. Please,” he begs.

“I don’t want your help, and you don’t want mine. So we can keep it that way.”

What he said that night was far from true; you did more than just help him. He was dependent on you. He surveys the way you hiss at the straining feeling, attempting to take deep breaths between tugs, but only making it worse. He won’t let everything you’re throwing at him break him down in this state.

“Grab it from the top, do it all at once. Then stop the blood immediately.”

You huff in annoyance at his words, causing yourself pain from your own irritation. But, he did know what he was doing, so you followed the orders. He inspects you.

You tug on the knife with a painful deep breath and moan at the pain, shutting your eyes. The view alone gives Simon whatever you’re feeling tenfold.

It only goes up about a centimeter. It hurt so bad though, your breaths were heavy and enhancing the stinging sensation. Your audible whimper was enough for the man in front of you to take action.

You almost forgot how mad you were at him from the pain, so when his hands reached up to you, you just let them. His right applied pressure to the sides. He couldn’t care that it stained his rough, pale hands. The left rests on your hand planted on the seat, then he instructs you to lay down. It’ll avoid scratching any more areas inside by stretching out.

“Relax. It’ll hurt, but you got it.”

You don’t respond to this, and stare up at the ceiling. You still didn’t want to look at him.

Simon has to remember you were still fairly untouched in comparison to his background in the military, the scars and scratches proof to where he’s been. He’s not used to being gentle. He’s around grown men for god’s sake.

And while he knows you’re strong, he wishes someone took the time to allow him some vulnerability back then.

You’re on your back, awaiting his next move. He hovers over you.

“I’mna to count to three, alright? I know you can do it.”

You blink, but he knows you can hear him. Somehow it hurts worse to breathe so your chest runs shallow.

“One,” he starts.

Were you ready? He was going to-

You scream loud enough to have the entire base questioning what was going on before he gets to three, but Simon’s face doesn’t falter from his soft expression as he accurately rips the object out of you. Your hands subconsciously reach for his, then grip him with a pure strength you didn’t even know you possessed. You yelled a long line of curses with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes until it all ended as fast as it came.

You were heaving and your face was hot, sweat gathering along your hairline.

“There you go,” he praises, his movements were quick and efficient. The tape was being placed over the filled injury. “Good girl.”

You were breathless, tired, and red. You wanted to lay down.

“It hurts, Simon,” you whisper.

“I know, I know baby.”

. .

You laid in bed with the dinner one of the soldiers brought you. Simon walks in sometime later, his hand cupped.

“You alright?”

He steps in beside your bed, sitting on the covers. He releases some painkillers right next to the water on your nightstand.

You just nod.

He nods approvingly back, then rests his forearms on his thighs. There’s an uncomfortable silence. An uncomfortable silence.

The ink on his arm was visible along with the scars he’s carried. Some new, some old. It’s a simple t-shirt that stops at the bicep, but he never likes to have his arms out because he’s never comfortable with his arms out.

“I just wanted to say-“

“I…don’t want to hear it.” You shut him down.

“Please?”

His ocean eyes survey yours for some type of mercy, some hint you’ll hear him out again. He has concluded that he can speak, but the worst that can happen is you’ll stop listening. You can’t really walk away.

And this was the first time his please seemed to end with a question mark.

“I didn’t mean to yell, but I did, and it hurt you. Even though I just aided you, I did it as a partner. Not just a comrade. You are great at what you do, but you mean a lot more to me than just business—I love you, because you see me differently than everyone else.”

Knowing Simon, it probably did take him the whole day and a half to come up with that and relay it. This tugged your heart strings a little, but then it all came back to you.

“On top of calling me useless you yelled in my face. What were you so angry for anyway?”

Truthfully, he felt that had he told you the real reason, It’d make him look worse. But you deserved it.

“One of the soldiers in another unit looked into my background. Found out about an old mission and the people behind it.”

You hadn’t known much about Simon’s life, because he never talks about it, but you knew enough. It was the mission where he was set up. Betrayed.

You would be pissed too.

But his head hung low in shame, angry that he let an old part of him rekindle in the form of fury. He let out said fury on you.

“Regardless, it was uncalled for. Just think on it, yeah?” He pleads. He’s not sure what he’s telling you to think on, though he doesn’t know the active status of your relationship. But he understands how degrading what he did was, and he’ll never forgive himself for it.

But you already had an answer.

“I don’t have to think on it,” you say.

His head whips around, the sadness on his face replaced with shock, and the crinkles coming to form between his brows in confusion. He’d expected the worst, but the worst was what he deserved.

“I’m still very upset. But I don’t hate you. I want you to go to therapy,” you insist.

On the inside, Simon was thrilled. This is the best outcome, better than anything he’d conjured up in his head, and he’d been told a billion times to go to therapy. If it meant being able to hold you again, he’d stay the whole day on a little couch instead of downing prescribed medication that wasn’t working every night.

“I’ll think about what to do from there. But I don’t want it to happen again, because I promise I know what my decision will be the next time,” you declare. He took this message more seriously than he takes Price some days. There was a fire in your eyes to show him how serious you were, and that you’d get up extra close to him just to point your finger in his face if you could.

He understood you hadn’t forgave him, but was giving him some type of redemption. So he could prove himself.

And he was damn good at proving himself worthy of things, hence the Lieutenant in front of his name.