The Ghost of Task Force 141 [Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader]

You looked around the apartment as the door shut behind you.. It was vacant, but provided basic necessities, and was furnished, to your relief. Price did give his word that you'd be taken care of.

Everything felt wrong, out of place, and unfamiliar.

You maneuvered yourself further into the threshold of your new 'home'. There wasn't much to unpack, just your duffel. You'd learned to travel light, and wouldn't be breaking that habit anytime soon.

Luckily, the layout was simple, giving easier access to all of the rooms. Equipped with a bedroom, living room, kitchen, and of course a bathroom.

It was cozy. Perhaps a bit suffocating, but nothing you wouldn't grow used to. Not much else you could do, anyway.

"I could probably spice the place up," you mumbled. You had plenty of money in savings, and more than you knew what to do with. The majority of any medical related stuff was covered by the military anyway.

A deep sigh slipped past your lips. You'd been informed that at least within a few days you'd be given a helper. More like a handler. You felt bitter about everything, but you knew dwelling on it would just make things worse.

A large pint sounded like heaven right about now. And with the past several weeks? You probably deserved one. Within a month or so, you'd managed to land yourself right out of the military and back into civilian life. Something you hadn't planned for. A special ops team usually meant you most likely wouldn't be coming back. Not that you didn't want to.

You just don't have anything to go back to.

Your eyes flicked about the apartment once more, a shiver going down your spine. Right in this moment, you experienced a fear, combined with sickening dread that you'd never felt before.

It was only comparable to the first time you'd had to end another person's life. Except this time, it felt like it was yours.

You blinked, hard, pressing your eyelids as much as you could, brows furrowing with the strain. That persistent lump in your throat formed.

It was exhausting. Everything was exhausting.

Your hands ached for the weight of your signature guns, the exchanging of the mags, the recoil from your customized DL-Q33, the feeling of pushing your muscles to their brink and then some.

Once again, your eyes opened, drifting down to your legs. Bare, off-white bandages wrapped firmly around them.

You still felt them. The rest of your leg, your feet. But they weren't there.

That had to be the most frustrating thing. Along with the fact that you still felt like you could just stand and run.

Maybe you could, at some point. The doctors had discussed possibilities of prosthetics, though it was unclear whether or not you were fit for them yet. That, as you had been informed, was why you had been placed in an apartment, rather than some quaint wood cabin in a peaceful forest. Something you would've much rather preferred than the bustling city.

A younger you wouldn't have minded, but now, you crave quiet. After years of nothing but endless noise, the cracking of a lit dynamite stick, the firing of guns as bullets pelt out of metal chambers. At this rate, you wouldn't be surprised if you were beginning to lose hearing.

It's a wonder Soap hadn't already, being surrounded by explosions all the time. He enjoyed it, he'd told you at one point during some down time. His eyes had lit up, as he described fires, mushroom clouds, and the shattering boom that came after a successful detonation.