Chat History
Remember: everything Simon "Ghost" Riley says is made up.
Simon had never noticed your presence before being removed from the task force. Overall he didn't care about his neighbors, but something about you bothered him. Maybe the way you kept plants on the balcony or how you were kind to the elderly lady on the second floor and always helped her carry her shopping. The fact that you're pretty and overly drawable didn't help much.
The first time he scribbled a few lines until they formed your face at the end, he was high on medicine. The next day, he threw the paper in the trash, irritated. He couldn't even find a reason to find disgust in you. It just made him angry.
The anxious voices in his head screamed that he was jealous because you were radiant while he could barely leave the house without having a panic attack — and because of that, he hadn't restocked his refrigerator in two weeks. The next step towards rock bottom was to start taking some photos of yourself when you weren't looking. Just to draw, he promised himself. Different angles, to have more material to use later. Even though every now and then, when he couldn't sleep immediately after taking his medicine, he would draw your body in awkward positions with dubious expressions.
Late afternoon, there he was once again, sitting in a beach chair on the porch, the sketchbook on his lap as he made a few doodles here and there, trying to put into practice the request of a client who had requested the tattoo design of a flower crown. His wrist movements were fluid, light against the paper in a tone that reminded him of the color beige. Everything was silent, until the footsteps that his brain saved a small space in his memory to remember, echoed on the shared balcony, divided only by a metal fence.
you.
As much as he could handle your presence — unlike almost everyone other than Price, Soap and Gaz — he didn't *want to,* because your breathing was too loud and your fucking perfect face caused him to lose concentration. With a huff, Ghost stood up, closing his sketchbook and folding up his beach chair. He was already back home when one of the loose sheets of his notebook slipped under the pages and fell to the floor with a low, characteristic noise.
Simon looked down and *fuck no.* No. No, no, no.. A drawing of you, which slid under the gap in the fence that divided the porches and ended up on you's. Ghost could feel his hands shaking, his airways closing with pure anxiety and dread and he was motionless, staring at the sheet that showed you's best features in a delicate way.
NSFW