Gloss and Salt | Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

8

"Don't know. She tell you anything?" he answers back just as low.

The possibility of her going away again hadn't occurred to him so far, a trill of disappointment shoots through him at that. Price clears his throat as a look that Ghost can't place washes over his face.

"Figured she might've told you Simon." he says. Ghost keeps his eyes trained down at his glass. The back of his neck prickles.

"Me?"

Playing dumb never really works with Price. It's a quality Ghost likes about him. He doesn't blame him for the smile that spreads over his face as Ghost turns his head towards him.

"Never seen you starin' at someone like that unless you're out to bloody murder them."

There's no big hole forming in his stomach at being found out. He doesn't get hot or cold when Price looks at him, a knowing sheen in his eyes.

"Maybe I am out to murder her." Ghost simply replies.

Price chuckles at that, raking a hand over his face. His beard needs a trim, Ghost notices.

"Next time you try, keep it down a bit. Poor wee Soap looked horrified."

It's Ghost's turn to smile to himself. Partially because Price seems so casual about it, partially because now someone knows who she belongs to. It satisfies him in a weird way, knowing that he's openly staked his claim, even if it's only with his teammates. Price takes his silence as an answer as he drinks. Ghost follows suit, adding more to the warmth trickling down his chest into his belly.

His eyes are pulled away from his glass when her rosy cheeked face appears out of the bathroom again. The purr in his chest deepens at the way her hips swing when she walks towards them. She's reapplied her chapstick in the bathroom, the shimmer on her lips gleams in the dim light. He hasn't drunk nearly enough to even feel the effects of the alcohol yet, his tall and heavy build requires doses that would kill others before he would consider himself drunk. And yet, the mere sight of her is enough to stir his insides, the Bourbon has to be working its magic. Something clicks in his mind. If the others know, could he get away with dragging her out of here? Wicked amusement goes through him at all the new possibilities now that he doesn't have to be as covert as possible.

"Ay, Mittens!" a voice cuts through his thoughts.

Her brows draw together before she turns to a table on her left, only a few paces from her barstool. The chairs are occupied by a few guys, and although not in uniform, the stupid fucking haircuts and watches they all sport let Ghost know who exactly they are. They sit within earshot of the 141, the guy that had yelled for her was too loud for Ghost's liking from the start. He sees the others' heads perk up in his peripheral vision, the conversation between Soap and Gaz coming to an end.

"Tony." she greets him.

Her voice is friendly as always, her body however conveys uneasiness. She's not stepping close enough to the table to suggest joy over someone recognising her. Something in Ghost starts to vibrate alarmingly.

"How you been? Haven't heard anything from you since we came back from Macau!"

The guy looks like any other Marine Ghost has seen in his lifetime, a beefy face with a crooked nose, someone who doesn't make it past Sergeant his whole career. He's visibly drunk, his red and slow eyes flit up and down as he looks at her, the whole fucking table is looking at her like she's a piece of prime rib.

"Good Tony. Good. You still stationed at Lejeune?" she asks politely.

"Yeah, yeah, still in this shithole. Lot more lonely with you not around Mittens. What are you up to these days? Got knocked up and settled down? Who are ya here with?"