#ghostxhelena

—Vulnerable.

The safehouse was quiet, the only light coming from a narrow window that cast long, soft shadows across the room.

Helena sat on the edge of the low bed, her posture relaxed but attentive. She looked down at the man resting against her with a gentle, caring expression. Ghost — Simon — had his head near her lap, his masked face turned toward her. One of his gloved hands rested heavily on her thigh, the other clenched slightly in the fabric of her shirt as if afraid she might disappear.

Helena’s fingers brushed slowly along the side of his skull mask, tracing the hard edge of the cheekbone with surprising tenderness.

Helena: (softly) “It’s okay, Simon… You’re safe here.”

Ghost didn’t answer right away. His eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, were heavy with exhaustion. He leaned into her touch, pressing the side of his masked face more firmly against her leg, seeking the warmth that bled through her clothes. For once, the weight of the skull felt almost too heavy to carry.

Ghost: (rough whisper) “I just… need a moment.”

Helena didn’t pull away. Instead, she slid her hand over the back of his head, fingers gently running along the fabric of his balaclava in slow, soothing strokes. The motion was steady, almost hypnotic - the kind of comfort he rarely allowed himself to accept.

Helena: (whispering) “Take all the time you need. I’m right here.”

In the quiet that followed, Ghost’s shoulders slowly lost some of their tension. His breathing deepened. The man who wore death on his face every day let himself be small for a little while, forehead resting against her knee, arms loosely wrapped around her waist like she was the only solid thing left in his world.

Ghost: (barely audible) “Thank you, Helena…”

Helena simply continued her gentle caress, her other hand resting protectively on his shoulder. No grand declarations. Just the quiet certainty that in this moment, the Ghost could lay down his burdens and simply be Simon.

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CREDITS Art, Helena | @xdaemmerlicht Reference | Challengers

—Stillness between Battles.

The safe house in the English countryside was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled after a grueling op – thick with the scent of old wood, gun oil, and rain-soaked earth. Dust motes danced in the late afternoon light filtering through half-drawn curtains. Task Force 141 had scattered for a 48-hour stand-down. Only two shadows remained.

Helena Jäger—Schatten—stood at the wooden desk, rolling the sleeves of her brown turtleneck higher. Her long, dirty-blonde braid swayed down her back as she reached for a field manual, the motion pulling at the old scar along her spine. A faint twinge reminded her she wasn’t invincible, but she ignored it. The mission was over. For now.

She felt him before she heard him. Simon “Ghost” Riley moved like smoke, even out of full kit. His heavy boots were silent on the floorboards. The skull balaclava stayed on – always did, even here – but the tactical vest was gone. Just the dark long-sleeved shirt stretched over broad shoulders, the Union Jack patch stark on his sleeve, and the faint gleam of dog tags against his chest.

“Still reading after that clusterfuck?” His voice was low, rough, the Manchester accent thickened by exhaustion. He stopped just behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him.

Helena turned, tilting her head up to meet two pairs of brown eyes beneath his mask. Her heterochromatic eyes—one icy blue, one warm brown—softened. “Someone has to make sure we don’t repeat the same mistakes next time, Lieutenant.” A small, teasing smile curved her lips, the one the team called her “Sunshine” for. “Besides… I like the quiet.”

Ghost’s gloved hand lifted, almost hesitant, before he cupped the side of her face. His thumb brushed the edge of her braid for a moment. “You push too hard, Schatten. Always have.”

She leaned into the touch, her smaller body fitting against his solid one as naturally as breathing. “Says the man who wears death on his face every day.” Her voice dropped, gentler. “Let me watch your six for once. Off the field.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Ghost – Simon – didn’t do softness easily. Too many ghosts of his own: family lost, buried alive, betrayal that carved him hollow. But with her… the walls cracked. She had proven herself in blood and shadow, earning the trust few received. Her loyalty, her quiet empathy, the way she saw Simon beneath the skull.. it chipped away at the armor. Slow and unexpected.

He pulled her closer. Two strong arms wrapped around her waist, mindful of the spinal scar he knew lay hidden beneath fabric. Helena rose on her toes, fingers threading into the fabric at the back of his neck, tracing the edge of the balaclava where skin met cloth. Their foreheads touched – mask against warm skin.

In the upper moment captured in the stillness, he bent low, the skull inches from her face as they shared the quiet. No words. Just the steady beat of two survivors finding sanctuary in each other.

Later, as golden light deepened into dusk, they moved to the couch in the adjoining room lined with bookshelves. Ghost sat first, pulling her into his lap with surprising care. Helena nestled against his chest, one hand resting over the dog tags, the other gently touching the side of his masked jaw. She didn’t ask him to remove it. She never did. That boundary was his, and she respected it like she respected every hard-won piece of him.

“You’re staring,” he rumbled, one large hand splayed across her back, thumb tracing soothing circles that eased the chronic ache there.

“Because you’re not scary when it’s just us,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the fabric where his cheek would be. “You’re not getting rid of me.”

A low, rare sound – half chuckle, half sigh– escaped him. “Bloody hell, Hel. You’ll be the death of me.”

“Good thing I’m excellent at close quarters,” she teased, her braid slipping over her shoulder as she looked up at him with that playful, warm light in her mismatched eyes.

Ghost’s grip tightened, protective and possessive in equal measure. In the world outside these walls, they were lethal shadows – karambit specialist and the Reaper of TF141. Here, they were simply two broken souls piecing each other back together, one stolen moment at a time. The tension that had simmered since her integration into the unit had finally ignited into something deeper: trust forged in fire, affection guarded but real.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, the skull mask stayed on, but Simon Riley let himself feel – warmth, connection, the rare peace of someone who understood the darkness and still chose to stand in it with him. Helena’s presence was the light in his blind spot. His shadow, watching his six. Always.

This image took me over a year to finish between countles phases of anxiety and self-doubt - but here it finally is and I'm proud of it!

If you like my Art and writings I would appreciate a follow or reblog 👉👈🌸✨️

One more Meme I did in october 2023 featuring Ghost & My Oc Helena :D <3 Any rebloggs, likes or comments are very appreciated 🌸✨️

CREDITS Art, Helena | @xdaemmerlicht Ghost | Activision