His Ghost
Okay, so a big THANKS goes to my Econ teacher, because without his boring lecture on supply and demand (that somehow went into the topic of food) I probably would not have written this. So thanks for that.
I would also like to point out that this is indeed about Callen. It is from the time when he was at the CIA and fell in love with his partner who is unfortunately dead and how he feels about the whole thing now, after ten years.
Disclaimer: Although it does not specify who he or she is, it is about Callen and so therefore, I sadly do not own him…
The nightmares woke him every night like they had for the past ten years. He didn't even know if he could call them nightmares, when they were also considered dreams. They were dreams because she hadn't been there, holding his hand and talking to him while he lay in the hospital after receiving five bullets to the chest. They were nightmares because she would never be able to hold his hand, or whisper sweet words in his ear again, or tell him that she loved him. She was dead, and there was nothing he could do to bring her back.
He replayed that day, ten years ago, in the dark streets of Moscow, Russia, over and over again in his head until he would see blurs. He desperately didn't want it to be real, it didn't want to think that it had actually happened, that he had left Moscow without her by his side, laughing and joking, saying that they had saved the world once again.
He didn't want to think about the funeral that had followed his completion of the mission in Moscow; he didn't want his heart to be nearly ripped out of his chest as they lowered her casket into the ground next to her mother and father. He didn't want her name to be one of the 102 stars that lined the wall at the agency along with her father's saying that she had died protecting her country just as he had. He didn't want her words to flow through his head saying that she would follow in her father's footsteps. He knew she would, he just didn't want hers to end like her father's had.
Replaying it over and over again in his head did nothing to comfort him. He always thought about the what if's. What if I had gotten there sooner? What if I had told her to let me handle this on my own? What if I told her to leave Moscow when she could? What if I had told her I loved her?
He had never told her he loved her, after six years of being with her, those three simple words had never left his mouth, and now, he would always be haunted with the fact. He would always wonder if she felt the same way, and why hadn't they given it a chance. They were just three simple words, and now they would always haunt him, forever.
She had her whole life ahead of her, she was young, beautiful, and talented at what she did, anyone with a pair of eyes could have seen that. He knew that if she hadn't of been taken by six bullets to the chest, she would be something great.
The picture in his wallet of her had seen better days, much better days, but no matter how hard he tried, he could never get rid of it. The worn creases from the folds of the wallet were there, visible to everyone else but him. To anyone else, it was just a photograph of a pretty face that had seen better days, but he never saw them; all he saw was her beautiful ocean blue eyes and sunny smile.
Everything that had been hers was packed in a few boxes and put in storage. She hadn't had any family left; she had no one who would have missed any of it, except him. On the anniversary of her death, he would take out the boxes and go through them, one by one, and after ten years, he knew everything that was in them. He didn't have to have his eyes open to know exactly what it all was. Photographs of her, her mom and dad. Photographs of him and her. Her badge and gun. Little things that had meant something special to her, but nothing to him. They were a part of her, and that was all that mattered.
Some nights he thinks he's gone crazy, delusional even, seeing her when she's not really there. She couldn't be, she's gone, nothing but a ghost of a memory. Every time though, every time he thinks he sees her, something flows through him like electricity and he can't help but wonder what it could have been like if she had survived, if Moscow had never happened.
When the morning comes though, his delusional thoughts always vanish as he gets up to start another day. As he heads off to work, and looks out at the ocean, he thinks of her ocean blue eyes and sunny blonde hair.
She was nothing but a ghost when she was alive, vanishing at any given moment when needed, and she is nothing but a ghost now, gone from everyone's thoughts but his.
He smiles, because that's just the way he wants it to be.
She was his ghost, and he was hers.