Betrayal | Ghost x Reader

Moth to a Flame

Word count: 2.9k

The air that had been filling my lungs finally released itself in a small shaky exhale, one I didn't even realize I'd been holding since I stepped into his office, or more so since Gaz told me the Captain needed to see me. My body slightly relaxed as my heart began to slow and pump at a normal rhythm, the fog from fear slowly began to vanish, much like the clouds of tobacco Price blew out, the rich aroma of his cigar continued to fill the room. At least I'm not fucking dead.

As his words settled in my eyebrows knit together tightly, and a slight perplexed look spread across my features. Yes, me and Ghost had a slight mishap, yes he slapped me, but we were sparring. My reaction perhaps was a little dramatic, but only because it had resurfaced memories I so desperately tried to keep locked in the past, a small metal box in the pits of my mind, the key thrown away in a black abyss, never to be found again. The look of his emotionless, dead stare singed its way into my brain like branding on cattle, if only I could've seen his expression under his mask... maybe it would make sense.

I wasn't necessarily complaining, I mean, it's not like I wanted for him to keep "training" me. From any of my small, unwarranted interactions with Ghost, he didn't seem like one to lose his temper, his cool. Clearly something I said or did had triggered something inside of him. Maybe he was more than his stony exterior, something more hidden behind his mask, his facade. My lips parted slightly, almost wanting to ask what Ghost had said, at least some form of clarification to wipe my consciousness clean of these questions, but my mouth closed just as fast. 

Price continued to stare at me, taking long drags of his cigar. From the way he looked at me, he could tell I was confused, maybe not for the reason he assumed I was. He gently placed his cigar back in the crystal ashtray, sitting forward in his seat as he clasped his hands together, his elbows resting against the mahogany wood of his desk. With his lips pursed together, and slightly pulled to the side, a deep sigh emerged from his lips. "Dismissed," his rough British accent sounded, giving me one last glance and nod before motioning to the door and picking up a stack of loose paper. 

My eyes traveled down to the papers he was holding, his fingers grazing the rough edges, slowly flipping through the different pages, holding a black pen in his fist that looked comically small in comparison. Quickly his eyes flicked up to mine, his gaze telling me to get the fuck out. My stare met his and I nodded, quickly responding with "yes sir". Turning on my heel, my hand immediately found its place lightly gripping around the metal handle, a small click sound echoed through the small corridor as I turned it and stepped outside of his office, letting it close softly behind me. 

As I made my way through the compound towards my barracks my body was a canvas of pain, every movement a reminder of me getting my ass handed to me, hitting the ground time after time again. Ghost was good, I'd give him that. Bruises began to form, scattered like dark brush strokes on my tanned skin, shades of blue, purple, and black littered over various parts of my body like an oil painting. Exhaustion loomed over me, ready to swallow me whole. One would think my mind would be clouded by the aching feeling in my bones, how even trudging back to my room felt like a monumental task; but no, all my thoughts were occupied by him. By Ghost.

Somehow he had managed to infiltrate my mind, finding solace deep within it. Why couldn't I get his bitter British ass out of my thick fucking skull? My relentless search for the answer rattled through my brain. A tsunami of questions crashed into me, a riptide pulling me deep into his ocean where I found myself unable to escape the endless stream of thoughts, stuck in a raft in the middle of mind, no paddles, no flare, no call for help. Just him, consuming every fiber of me, haunting my consciousness like a ghost. 

I was unwillingly getting lost in his orbit, almost as if an invisible gravitational force had taken ahold of me, constraining me and reeling me into his dangerous forcefield. An irresistible pull, drawing me ever so close with an almost hypnotic allure, a black and white spindle set before my eyes, spinning me into a trance, a spider and its web with me trapped in the middle. A predator with sights on its prey, a lion and a gazelle. His rough accent, his burly stature, that fucking skull mask. But why? A broken record on repeat.