The mask is what made him Ghost. Lieutenant of the 141, and a force to be reckoned with. Without it, he was simply Simon Riley. The moment he came home, the mask came off. It didn’t have a purpose in the privacy of his own home; and you, of course.

After all, it was the one place he could truly relax and wind down.

Simon was home today. He was in the shower when you walked into the bedroom, noticing his work gear messily thrown on the bed. The mask was the only thing that had been placed with any sort of care on top of the pile.

You were bored and left to your own devices. So, you’d curiously picked up the mask—gently—and without much thinking, pulled it over your head. It was slightly too big, and looked so much more strange on you than it did him.

You snorted at yourself in the mirror at how stupid it looked. You posed, pointing finger guns at your reflection and dramatically deepening your voice as you whisper shouted, “Everybody get down, get down!”

You attempted a British accent, but failed and ditched that idea pretty quickly.

And then you heard a throat clear from the bathroom door way, and the finger guns you were holding up dropped instantly as you spun to see Simon watching you with raised eyebrows, leaning against the door frame with a towel wrapped around his hips.

“Am I interrupting something?” he questioned, arms crossed.