Disclaimer: CoD is not mine and I'd probably shoot myself if it was.
The strangest thing about being dead was that, by some miracle, one retained their senses. And though it may have seemed inane to some, the sense that Simon valued most was the one he'd taken for granted while alive- Smell.
For about a week, he favoured hearing. The rhythmic croon of his Captain's voice singing just a skip off-beat to a Dean Martin song between sips of Irish whiskey and old cigarettes. It didn't last long, though, and what he heard wasn't always singing. It was drowned-out calls in the field. It was groans and curses and screams that came along with nightmares. It was John's gruff tone, solitary in the middle of the night in an empty, hollow room, apologising to no one in particular.
Sight lasted longer- nearly two weeks. Ghost had taken a liking to leaning over John's shoulder and watching him scratch away in his journal. He liked watching him thumb through the pages. He liked that he paused over unfinished sketches of the old one-four-one, and to be specific, Ghost himself. But most of all, he liked watching the words as he wrote them- Everything that was on his mind, everything he'd wanted to say. But as the two weeks drew to an end, the entries had become difficult to read and John's face was often contorted in pain, and suddenly Simon didn't like his ability to see half as much.
Touch was better. Touch was a feather-light brush of fingertips over the swell of a cheek. The scratch of stubble. The soft down of hair desperately in need of a haircut and the rugged khaki material of a battle-worn shirt. Touch was invisible fingers tracing over the crease of familiar lips. However, it was also the sticky heat of blood and hot, overworked breaths. It was, after a time, uncomfortable.
So Simon had turned to smell. Relying on smell, he didn't have to hear his Captain curse when he was shot. He didn't have to see him stare at the trigger of his own gun. He didn't have to feel a heartbeat that was pounding just a bit too lightly. Smell was selfish and as long as Ghost was watching over his CO's shoulder, he was taking in the scent of tobacco smoke and gunpowder. Charcoal and the metallic tang of blood. When he allowed himself closer while the man slept, it was warmer. It was familiar and homey. Vanilla and whiskey and a hint of cinnamon. It was a scent that he could take comfort in, and admittedly, one that kept him tethered to the earth.
It was painless.