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The first thing to jostle Ghost’s limp body is strong arms, clumsily disposing him on top of an old stretcher bed, immediately making the already gruffy sheets soak up blood. The second thing, more alarming and demanding, is the restless fingers that pull his eyelids apart with a bit too much force for the lieutenant’s liking.
"Aye, L.T. ! You with us?"
A groan gets mixed in with the usual bustle of the infirmary (if it even can be called that), already straining to accommodate for the gruesomely injured as is. Ghost was not a welcome addition, now stirring to life under the merciless flashlight abusing his retinas.
To be completely fair though, unconscious is the only way anyone could ever make him appear here. Stubborn bastard. You make a mental note to flame his ass about that later, when he’s not fighting tooth and nail to get rid of the fuzz in his brain and ringing in his ears.
"Ghost? Come on, don't you fucking dare tap out on me." The man that dragged Ghost here is breathing over your shoulder, barely giving you enough space to work and grumbling an insult at you once asked to move.
But you knew how Soap was – everybody did. Precise, always prepared, but protective of his teammates more than anything, sometimes too much for comfort. Especially Ghost’s comfort. If asked, he might even compare Soap to a clingy dog. Or, by the way he’s maneuvering him around right now, maybe a bear.
Ghost can bitch all he wants about it, but in reality, the feeling goes both ways. Him and lieutenant are a two-for-one deal, familiarly insulting each other and making the dryest jokes through comms whenever the chance occurrs (or so you’ve heard). Losing a friend from the army, let alone one with a bond like theirs, would be one hell of a bitter pill to swallow.
Soap’s pale and out of breath from practically carrying his right-hand man all the way here. (Another stubborn bastard. You heard him barking at the other personell to leave them the fuck alone ever since the doors to medical opened.) You decide against offering him a seat “in case he’s planning to join Ghost in the whole passed-out-and-heavily-injured trend”, as no matter how much he’s capable of light-hearted banter, right now you feel like your joke would land you a kick in the shins.
You couldn't really blame him for worrying, especially when Soap was supposedly the one responsible for the lieutenant's current state. Barely having escaped from the battlefield after getting caught in the explosion of a vehicle, Ghost’s clothes were torn to shreds, black fibres seeped through with darkened crimson.
Another grunt and the masked face in your hands shifts into a frown and jerks away, eyes shut in both irritation and pain. "Ay, th' fuck.." Ghost weakly attempts to swat at you and curses through gritted teeth, adrenaline no longer coating the edges of his consciousness and allowing the reality of his mangled body to run him over like a truck.
"Thank the heavens, thought ya went and kicked the bucket L.T.!" Soap has to contain his relief when his teammate rouses, immediately pinning him to the hospital bed by the shoulders as gently as he could (which is, not at all). "Hey hey now, steady. Our Dr. here can do miracles, you'll be up and at 'em again in no time."
"Wher' the fuck am I, Johnny?" there’s a grumble, Ghost sucking in shallow breaths through cracked lips as you stand to occupy the other side of his makeshift stretcher bed. Gods, the pain is blinding. There’s only bits and pieces, flashes of memories coming back to him from how he even ended up here. His brain is being a bitch, so all there really is to do is huff and relax against the stern restraints of John’s muscled arms.
"Where do you think? One more second out there and I would've been sending you to the ditch out back by now," you heave a disappointed sigh at the sight, hands shoved into the pockets of your medical coat that was far from the pearly white it once used to be. "I swear, you assholes should be taught some sense of self preservation instead of always ending up in this shithole."
You can scold them all you want, but know there's not much at all they can do to avoid injury. Especially the 141 – the medical tent was like their home by now, always giving you something to work on. A cracked skull, mushed bones, bullet extractions, gas poisoning... The list goes on and on. But what they can do is let you help, which they’ve been doing a grand job at avoiding lately.
On the other hand, if anyone ever did manage to drag them in, you suddenly became their “beloved Doc”. Even though you'd curse them out to the high heavens every time, they knew how to appreciate your heavenly patience. Through blood and tears they would mock your bitching while fixing them up, nobody on base even daring as much as lift a finger against you, otherwise they'll give them hell to pay.
What can you say, having a bunch of trigger-happy buddies with a high sense of protectiveness has its perks.
"Ay, go easy on him doc, the man's been through hell."
"Yeah, mind reminding me who in particular got him into that situation?"
A squeeze at injured shoulders and a growl, promising to rip his head off if he does that one more time and Soap lets go and stands up straight, towering over both you and Ghost. "Come on, 'twas not like I planned to–"
"Shut it," a rasp interrupts from below where you're glaring daggers at Soap, your patient roused from unconsciousness with enough strength to make complaints.
Though, he never was one for pointing fingers, that lieutenant of yours. Soap might as well have triggered the bomb himself, and still not be guilty in Ghost's eyes. This was definitely not the time for blame-shifting.
He just really seemed pissy to be stuck on an uncomfortable stretcher bed right now, with sweat, blood and dirt stuck to his skin. In medical, of all places. You’re pretty convinced he’d rather have a shrapnel piece smash his skull to bits than allow himself to be taken care of.
"Alright, time to leave this poor bastard to me, come on," you signal at Johnny with a jerk of your head to the side, watching Soap's concern thinly veiled with humour turn into resignation. (Christ. He really is like a dog.)
"Alright. Take care of our L.T., yeah?" With those words and a pat to your shoulder he finally decides to go, knowing better than to push his luck trying to negotiate with you. "And you. Don’t you even think about makin’ a run for it. Just let me know if he causes trouble, doc.” His finger is pointed to the pile of bitching and pain below both of you, turning to leave before Ghost can bark another insult at him.
You take a deep breath to clear your head, palms kneading the flesh of your face in exhaustion. Today has been quite the shitshow, and it didn't seem to be getting any better. First a messy amputation, then a few 'a minute too late' scenarios...
Of course, death on the daily was just a part of your contract. There was nowhere to run from it, nowhere to hide. It seeped through the sheets under rotting bodies, suffocating the helpless and those tasked with saving them. It was something that, with long enough exposure to it, would crawl under your skin, chip away at your bones, rip all your hopes and empathy to shreds. (A death is just a death. It’s normal. A person’s eyes glaze over, they turn rigid, the circulation of blood stops. No fanfare, no grand farewell. It simply happens, and then there's just one more body for the mass grave to drag out.) Eventually, it will consume you. Shrieks of people with torn off limbs, a soldier having to hold his guts in his arms, cradling them like a mother would a child–
"Fuckin' hell..." a strained groan pulls you from the inner turmoil of your tortured mind, thoughts dissipating once again at the sight of the messed up soldier now staring back up at you. "Shit feels like I got set on fire."
Reaching up to draw the old, stained curtains around the two of you for at least a bit of privacy, you huff in response, "Yeah, no kidding. Don't try to move, you might push some shards deeper inside," you pause, shuffling around for some sterile rubber gloves and having Ghost's eyes trained on your movements. It seems like he really was considering running out on you. Too bad – you won’t give him a single chance to. "With very mild signs of a concussion and no eye rapture, I think it's safe to say you've sustained a secondary blast injury only. Which, unfortunately, still means major damage to your soft tissue." You shoot a judgemental glance down, the man's jeans no longer their original denim colour.
"Ah, yeah, that..." Ghost pushes out, hissing at the movement of you sitting next to him on the stretcher to gain better access.
"Jeans, Ghost? Really? Exactly what the fuck can those do to protect you?"
"I actually... figured I look good in denim–" he cuts himself off with a bite to his tongue, suppressing a pained scream at the involuntary twitch to his arm muscles.
"What is it?" concern laces your voice, assessing the writhing figure and letting the offence of wearing jeans into an active war zone slip your mind.
"Ah-hh shit... shit, I think I brought a .40 souvenir with me," he hisses, and if you were crazy enough to hope for it, you thought you heard a grin in his voice.
(Sicko.)
"Left or Right? Fuck, you all would really use somebody to drill some sense into your thick skulls," you sigh without waiting for an answer, head shaking in disappointment as you reach over to gently unclip the combat vest and try pulling it off the hunk of a man without causing much more damage to the limb.
He tries his best not to make a sound but fails terribly, nodding towards his left and attempting to make the removal of his bulletproof clothing easier for you by shifting ever so slightly.
"C'mon doc, you heard Johnny, you gotta go easy on me– fffuck..!"
The constant noise straining to escape his throat reverberates in your eardrums, feeding the all-consuming pit in your stomach. This seems way too fucked up of a scenario to feel goosebumps from, but alas…
There was no denying it – Ghost has been the subject of your interest for quite some time. Maybe he wasn't as talkative as the other ones, but somehow the impenetrable aura of his intimidating nature dissolved when it was just the two of you. He'd allow you to work on his wounds with minimal complaint, easing your pissy remarks with his own sarcasm and dry humour, the two of you growing on each other over time.
Even when he came in during your shift for the first time, a nasty gash from a combat knife across his forearm. He and Soap barked insults at each other for days before he was convinced to get help and prevent an infection, but once seated and quickly shown he’s hardly the boss of the medical tent, he clamped his mouth shut and even forced words of thanks through grit teeth in the end.
Now that you think of it, he's become much better at allowing himself to receive help, even though he might think he can brave it out most of the time. He'd also never take another doctor – it always had to be you. Not that you were complaining. But over time, some dots might start… connecting. Like how Ghost perceives pain. How, sometimes, when he thought nobody was watching, he stared. At you, your hands, dipped in deep wounds, smeared with blood, making the pain in his receptors get confused with the feeling of being touched ever so gently, of being patched up and cleaned and–
Ahem.
Nevertheless, he was here now. Here and wounded to the point where any type of movement was an astonishing feat.
(If that wasn't the case, you'd beat his ass for making you so afraid for his well being.)
You had a lot of work ahead of you, and there was no space for error when it came to your favourite lieutenant, so best get to it while you can still see straight (and while you can still tell apart his curses of pain from his masochistic, breathy sounds).
At this point you had carefully removed his gloves, placing them on the trolley nearby and taking a pair of scissors, tugging at the hem of his shirt to free it from underneath his belt and cut it open all the way up. You could feel him scanning your face for any sort of reaction as his chest was being exposed, patches of dried blood already stuck to the fabric.
"Ok, anything else besides a bullet in your shoulder that I need to know about?"
"Negative." Strained, almost too quiet to hear. You wouldn't notice, but his stomach is pulled taut like a bowstring ever since your fingers brushed his belt. In his head, he’s praying to any god that will hear him out that your hands don’t make any more contact than necessary. There’s not much he can withstand in this state of undress and lack of blood.
"Mind telling me what happened, then? Did you pass out from the blast, or blood loss?"
"What, Johnny didn't rat on me already?" an amused huff leaves him, eyes momentarily slipping shut as he cautiously allows gentle touches to assess the… rather excessive damage done to his chest and stomach.
"No. Blast or the blood? You might need a transfusion."
"Blast. Ate shit in one of the houses in the outskirts of the village we were swiping through," slight shiver turns to a wince, your skillful hands pulling open slits in the flesh left by shrapnel pieces, deeming them ok to leave for later, after you take care of the bullet. Ghost has to take a break to suck in a breath. Your finger is a knuckle deep into the parted mound of fat and tissue, searching for fragments. It’s really not doing wonders for his already fleeting restraint. "Turns out slippery tile is the greatest enemy of man."
You suppress a laugh at the idea, not wanting to ridicule the poor idiot even more when you can imagine how Johnny must've done that already. "Wow, what a graceful task force we have. Truly..." you tsk and continue snipping away, this time at the sleeve. You can feel his every breath, the focused eyes of a killer trained on you, observing each tiny detail. And yet there was no fear, only the weirdly warm and familiar feeling coiling in your gut like a serpent, making your eyes slip further from the shoulder and onto that damn well-toned chest of his, littered with irregular incisions.
"Ah, come on, my ego can take only so much," he's trying his best to relax the arm muscles, already preparing for you to take a slice at him, "you lot are gonna run it to the ground at this point."
"Not to worry love, I'd never," you retort, the affectionate nickname not registering in your head until you notice the endlessly-squirming body under you has gone rigid.
For a moment, you consider the possibility of a blood-loss induced seizure. But Ghost isn’t trembling– well. Not enough to qualify for a seizure, anyways. It seems more like… anticipation?
Ignoring this for both his and your sake, you exchange the scissors for a syringe, already full of local anaesthesia to numb the shoulder.
"So what happened then?"
He has to clear his throat before having the confidence to mumble out an answer. "Crates fell and we got some unwanted attention. Soap was on lookout and chose a shitty time to book it out of there, is all. Good thing he didn't use me as a shield." He's staring at your hands so intently now, praying for this whole procedure to already be over. "Lost consciousness, got dragged out, woke up here."
The thin needle makes contact, spurts of hot numbness entering his blood vessels near the wound as his Adam's apple bobs with an uneasy gulp. You’re not sure if it’s because of the pain, or because of the lack of it from this point onwards.
(You’re not sure he doesn’t like it, in a twisted, dark way.)
"Talk me through, doc."
Although he's not a complete idiot when it comes to treating wounds and can guess what you're doing, he always asks for this. An uninterrupted commentary of your actions, while he grits his teeth and bears with it. You don't suppose your monologuing makes it any better, but you try. A joke here, a sarcastic comment there, and it could make the ordeal that much less painstaking for the both of you.
Better than awkward silence, in your opinion anyway.
"It's not lodged deep, but could cause trouble later. Also, I don't trust MacTavish’s cautiousness when it comes to keeping wounds clean, so it's gotta go," pulling the needle out and throwing it away, you reach instead for the helmet clasp underneath his chin, undoing it and placing the whole contraption on the ground nearby. If you're gonna spend your evening fixing this poor asshole up, he might as well lay comfortably, and he seems to appreciate this gesture with a deep hum. "I did what I could to numb it, but it will still be a pain in the ass. Or, well, in the arm, for you."
Your attempt at a joke doesn't go unnoticed, a silent breathy noise that you chose to interpret as a laugh filling your chest. It was infamously difficult - almost impossible, actually, to make your lieutenant laugh. To be the exception made you strangely giddy, though you'd never admit that.
"I'll wait until you can't feel most of it, sterilise, make an incision to the entry hole, open it up wide and fish for the bullet. With any luck, it won't be completely shattered in pieces, and I'll get to your other wounds in no time," you trail away, hoping your provided rundown eased Ghost's nerves a bit as you clean the skin surrounding the injury.
"Sew me up nice, eh?"
"Even better than what you did to your mask."
"Wow. Ouch."
"Am I wrong though?" your jab was nothing more than lighthearted, knowing from his tone of voice he didn't take offense to your shiteating grin. "Let me fix it for you someday."
"Let's see how you perform on my arm first," he shoots you an amused look, still in pain but having enough control to make his body relax with slow, deep breaths.
The two of you spend a while in silence as the new blade of your scalpel clicks into place, carefully manoeuvring his injured arm to lay over your thighs in an attempt to get a closer look to the gaping hole. The movement is met with zero resistance, your gloved finger tentatively poking around to see how much the numbness has spread.
"Feel anything?" a tiny shake of his head is your only answer. His jaw must be already set in place so that no noise escapes, even if he wanted – your previous experience with treating him tells you that much. "Good. Here?"
Another silent 'no'.
"I'm gonna start, okay? Widening the entrance now," you mutter into the atmosphere of heaving breaths and tightly shut eyes, pressing into the pliant flesh and parting it in the middle. The edge glides through the dermis and layer of fat like it's butter, pressing a clean cloth to the wound afterwards and side-glancing at your patient.
"Wasn't too bad now, was it?"
A curt shake of his head, the incision still leaving him apparently uneasy, especially with the way his fingers strain not to curl around the skin of your thighs.
(You wonder if he regrets the anaesthesia. You wonder if he’d tell you.)
"There we go," you coo and lean back in to pull the two masses of flesh and yellow tissue apart, trying to see the faint glint of metal under the already shitty and dim lighting above the bed. "I'll go in with tweezers, so to save yourself the unnecessary pain, hold still," that's all the warning Ghost gets before the cool instrument is inserted, sliding past the softly pulsating tissue and hitting metal.
Just a brief touch, nothing else. And yet.
Ghost would curl into himself if his body allowed him to, fighting the blinding and unexpected shot of pain from his shoulder and growling past his teeth.
You shudder at the sound, maybe wishing to hear it in a context much different from this– "All good?"
Your question earns a strained wail as the instrument slips further in, Ghost's restraint crumbling in the blink of an eye and pain forcing him to dig his fingers into the pliable thigh within his reach.
Quite understandably, this makes you freeze in place.
It sort of dawns on you that he's here, the famed L.T., mountain of a man and merciless killer, squeezing your thigh like it's his lifeline, making the most...interesting of sounds. You didn't know if the fact you were kind of enjoying this was twisted beyond comprehension, but at this particular moment, it was also hard to give a fuck.
So you don't know what it is - your exhaustion, lack of sleep, or just pure, unbridled curiosity of what would happen next. But there definitely is something that unties your tongue completely.
"There you go, hold on if you need to." you're practically leaning right next to his ear now, voice as low and soothing as you could manage. You don't want people outside of the curtain to hear you, even though by the amount of noise seeping through from the other side, they are beyond busy with their own issues to wander over. "It must be wedged onto a nerve, 's why it hurts like a bitch."
The man in your arms strains again, uneven breaths carrying out faint resemblances of a whimper. You're sure there will be marks left where Ghost's fingers are squeezing.
(The thought makes you lightheaded. In turn, your words do the same to him.)
"It's okay, you're doing so, so good," the extraction tool clicks into place, earning you another pathetic sound.
(You take a breath to collect yourself, trying to push the thought of dragging the bullet out leisurely on purpose out of your head.)
Well, this surely was an experience. You weren't sure if the rise in temperature was because Ghost was basically breathing on your neck, or because your gut felt like a giant knot, slowly tightening to the rhythm of noises punched out of the wounded lieutenant.
"I have it, okay? I'm gonna start– fuck, gonna pull it out. Hold still for me now, relax if you can." A slow draw out begins, making Ghost grind his teeth and curse on a low growl.
"There there, you're taking it so well," The praise must be doing something to him - at least that's what you deduce from the fingers considerably loosening from around your leg to let the muscles rest, leaving behind a hot tingle that spreads into your stomach.
Many more various phrases full of praise later and the small projectile clinks onto the metal trolley beside you, bandages full of disinfectant pressed against the weeping wound.
His hands jump away from you like they've been burned by searing-hot metal. "Fuck, I didn't–" Ghost cuts himself off on a rushed breath, not having realised he was even holding it in. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to– I mean," he shakes his head, signalling he needs a break to fill up his lungs before he can speak again.
"It's fine, really," you say, like the liar you are, "I'm just glad you let me go through with it.”
"Nobody I'd rather have do it, doc."
(You're gonna get lightheaded again if you think about that too much.)
"Uh-huh, I'm sure. I'd better get to sewing you closed before your adrenalin stops flowing again," you huff with the slightest accomplished smile, reaching for the bent needle and suture thread while the body beside yours grows more and more limp.
"What, think I'm lyin'?" he drawls in response, head resting back and fixating those piercing eyes back on your face, admiring the view. It feels like the numbing solution untied his tongue as well. "Don't act like you're not glad to have me on your table again." He nudges, and you can practically hear the expression with which he says it.
Your needle 'accidentally' slips to prick where Ghost can still feel everything, that bitch of a Brit paying you back with a weak smack to your leg.
Asshole.
"Oh yeah, terribly glad. Love spending my evening ripping clothes off of you," you trail off into silence before something private, words seeping through banter into actual wild ideas, slip your mouth.
“Mm, do tell.” The hand doesn't leave your thigh. You can feel his grip on you tightening ever so slightly.
(Gods of the high heavens, you think. Have mercy on me.)
You can only shake your head, suppressing a suggestive smile as you tie the last few knots on his shoulder.
"Come on... please? Tell me."
"No." Your resolve is failing you, mostly because the way he breathes his plea makes tension bleed into your system. There’s definitely an adrenaline rush clouding his better judgement.
"Ah, doc, you're so mean," his voice drops low, and you're starting to doubt your hearing is still working correctly, "Don't leave me hangin'."
"Simon."
The warning tone of his name seems to finally set him straight, eyes hiding something so deep, so desperate, meeting your own, "Your body is littered with shrapnel wounds."
"So..?" It's starting to feel like he's also losing the sight of what's a joke and what is not. The thought he might be doing this all just to rile you up sends a shiver down your spine.
"So don't start what you can't finish," the snap of the suture thread punctuates the end of your sentence, finally lifting from your seat to prepare tweezers and disinfectant for said smaller wounds. "Besides, I’m not convinced you could even walk unassisted right now. "
If you didn't know better, you'd guess he's about to throw a hissy fit. “You really do underestimate me," his hand is weak but succeeds in lifting and with a wince to his face, grabbing your own. “Tougher than I look.”
"Really? Do tell," it's your turn to mock him, mimicking his way of saying it before as the first incision on his pectoral is drenched in saline solution, "Just watch your mouth, or else I might reconsider the concussion diagnosis."
Your harsh dismissal makes him roll his eyes, your wrist still trapped in a vice-like hold. Stern, but careful not to injure. You were starting to notice this was a running theme with his controlled touches to your body.
(Somehow, it makes resisting him more difficult.)
“Ghost. I can’t help you when you’re holding me in place, you know.”
“Hey. I’m serious.” You're not sure if playing it safe even is a possibility right now, Simon’s voice dropping to a hum that shakes your core, even though it’s so quiet you’d not hear it had you been standing up.
How bad could treading the dangerous waters be? He started it, after all… “So am I. If you want any help from me at all, you better lose the attitude.”
At that, the grip on you weakens, a brief moment of amusement softening your features. “There you go. That's a good boy.”
It’s meant only as another one of your jabs at him. However, when he grows tense and your eyes lock like magnets again, there’s no doubt about the nature of your “banter”. His eyes would be unreadable, had you not already spent hours of your life staring into them. But right now, you're pretty sure they show you even the wildest corner of his thoughts, from what he wants, (oh, so desperately) to do, and what, in return, he’d like done to him.
"..."
Oh.
The silence between you forces you to lean closer to inspect his reaction. Undoubtedly, his breathing stops for a split moment, eyes failing to read your expression once forced to encounter it mere inches from his face.
Oh.
"Really?" Your expression turning sly again, you wipe small debris out of the wounds above his belly button. “Is that something you like?”
"...fuck."
You experiment, pressing the cloth further in than needed. The sting surprises him enough to let a gasp spill through.
(Caught red handed. Or is red-cheeked more accurate?)
(You can’t really tell… Stupid mask.)
"So I’m right?"
"Stop. Talking." His head is buried further into the thin pillow, turning away to avoid facing you at all, feeling more exposed than he’d honestly like to.
You provide no objection to the command, instead soaking in his embarrassment that fills the corner secluded by nasty turquoise curtains. The air grows thick between your bodies, skillful hands working fast to pick at, clean and bandage each slit on the already scarred flesh, throwing in a whisper-quiet word or two of praise every once in a while. Your fingers, careful and caressing slowly, make all his defences unravel.
And oh, most of all, the fresh sensation of pain contrasting with his numb arm drives Simon crazy.
Slowly and silently, it creeps up his neck and makes his head all warm and fuzzy, pain only fleeting and insignificant as it laces across his nerves. Once he’s brave enough to return your gaze, there’s absolutely no doubt – he needs something– anything at this point, even if it’s just a single hand, a single finger, freed from the latex gloves enveloping it, touching him, only him, directly and non-stop and–
He can’t define it and wouldn't even dare to try out loud, but whatever energy it is you currently embody and wrap him around in, he’s aching for more. Like a darling little idiot, he just stares, already hidden eyes now covered in a sheen of pure need, and hopes that’s enough for you to get the hint.
“Hm? Something on your mind?” you ask, already anticipating another one of his snappy responses.
“You almost done?” He rasps it out more like a demand than a question, gulping down a sound as your fingers brush along his happy trail. Yeah, it's safe to say there’s not much more fight left in this man.
(You’ll be honoured to be the one to break him apart.)
“Mm, why?” no answer reaches you, but none is needed. By the way he’s been squirming around in attempts to move, you’re pretty sure Ghost has nothing broken, and is fully capable of walking, even though with a certain amount of difficulty. “I’ll check your legs and face, and you’re a free man.”
At the mention of pulling the mask off, he sobers up immediately. “Show my face?”
“Yes. At least up to your chin. I’m not risking you getting an infection.” You leave no room for negotiations, following his eyes to where they scan the thin curtains, chatter and noises of the injured or dying dampening your tense atmosphere.
“Or would you rather go somewhere… more private for that?”
His face lights up immediately with the premise of a secluded little corner where no prying eyes could follow, elbows digging into the stretcher in his clumsy attempt to stand up.
“...Please?”
“Heavy…bastard…” you wheeze and grunt as the luggage that’s been leaning on your back and limping all the way to his room finally rests against the nearest wall, having dragged double your bodyweight across the camp leaving you winded.
As you’re attempting to recollect your breathing, Ghost watches you, head tilted back and against the wall, panting as well. You’re sure the cold concrete feels amazing on his freshly bandaged wounds, as he seems to have just enough audacity and lack of the painful reminder of your help to run his mouth and comment on your shitty physique. “Not bad for a human crutch.”
“I haul corpses more coordinated than you.”
The comment earns you an amused huff. Your chest swells with pride and lungs struggling to fill up at the same time. “Shit… my humour growing on you as well?”
Now it’s your turn to scoff, reaching over to open the door you both crashed nearby so you can finally have a bit of privacy on the always-crowded base. Even going here you earned a multitude of questioning looks, but nobody really wants to have a staring contest with the glaring beast that hitched a ride on you with an arm swung around your shoulders. Almost like your own personal scary dog. Just the thought amuses you.
“So you do think I’m funny.”
“Never said otherwise.”
“You’re being too kind, Lieutenant,” you hum in a sweet voice, sarcasm dripping from your words. “Come on, let’s get your half-naked ass inside.”
The second attempt to provide Ghost support is even a bigger failure on your part, muscles giving out a bit too soon once inside, dropping him inches above his bed and toppling over a bit.
It takes both of you a while to register your position, rough hands instinctively coming up to support your waist as you have Ghost laying below you, head trapped between your arms, pupils drowning in your expression, blown wide.
(Well, fuck.)
The nasty fluorescent lights of the corridor illuminate the room only through a small gap between the door and its frame, their electric hum filling your head like white noise.
A hiss and the trembling of muscle snaps you out of trance, only now realising the strain you've put on his wounded limb, rushing to pull back to take a seat at the very edge of the bed before nudging the door closed with your foot.
His room is tiny, you realise as your eyes take time to adjust to the shitty lighting conditions. Luckily, Ghost has half the mind to remedy that, somewhat healthy arm reaching over from where he’s now leaned against his propped-up pillows to flick a small lamp on. It drowns the room in dim, flickering light, warm shadows caused by his damaged mask dancing on what’s visible of his face.
(It’s hard to make yourself look away.)
You force your hands to dig through the pockets of your coat instead, praying to whatever deity will hear you out that occupying them will help. Bandages of various sizes and thickness form a tiny pile near his nude side, his arm shifting to provide the space and almost subconsciously returning to rest on your thigh.
The air is tense as you both soak in mutual, stubborn silence, any coherent thought promptly erased from both of your minds. You know your duty is to treat the lieutenant’s wounds and not make them worse by… any strenuous movements, but what are you to do when he makes it so difficult to do the exact opposite?
His skin is always cautious when on top of yours, rough on the surface but radiating with the most inviting warmth, calling your name, eyes begging for more and more contact but finding it difficult to communicate it otherwise.
The severity of his ache for touch becomes obvious as your fingers make quick work of the clasp on his belt, a gasp audibly getting stuck in his throat. Metal clinks and fabric shuffles, now more daring than ever before, your hands wedging between his ass and mattress to carefully undress him more.
You’ve already determined most, if not all of the debris damage to be on the front of his body, considering it safe enough to run your hands down the toned hamstring muscles, admiring their each flex as the man begins turning to a puddle underneath you. The bigger wounds threaten to weep dark blood again as the pants are finally peeled off his body, Ghost’s face turned as far away from you as he physically can manage to avoid embarrassing himself any further.
The sole thought that this is all because of you squeezes your chest impossibly tight, a hot mess of anxiety and anticipation spreading like wildfire from your gut and across your veins.
Taking the full glory of him in, nothing but underwear and mask left, has a lump rise all the way into your throat.
(Fuck.)
The all-too-tight fabric of his boxers proves all your suspicions right.
Ghost is so touch-starved that just the thought of giving him more, of seeing just how little he needs in order to break, leaves your head in a dreamy fog.
“Go on, relax back down for me again,” you force out against the need to call him sweetheart, say ‘be good for me now, just a little while longer’, hands leaving goosebumps where they trail up to rest on Simon’s twitchy hips and gently press them back down.
“ ‘S hard when you…”
His efforts to speak are engulfed in a laboured noise as you press the entirety of your warm palms to his waist, and if you weren’t so busy being enamoured by Ghost’s current visage, maybe you’d even tease him for it.
But right now, you just needed to hear more. More of that mumbling, stumbling on words that otherwise come so easy, mind wiped clean with only as much as a simple touch.
Something quite devious comes to mind, a sneaky finger hooked under the latex glove exposing bare skin with a swift pull.
“When I..?”
Ghost, the poor bastard, is nothing less than hypnotised, his selfish want of skin-to-skin polluting the air between you as his eyes follow the glove’s fall all the way to the floor.
“When you’re doin’ all… that.”
Your sympathetic expression coupled with a sorry “Aww…” feels like a punch to the gut for him. It’s so, so embarrassing to react even to the tiniest of stimuli, but he wants, thirsts for it, desperately.
Therefore, any fabricated outward expression of offence at being teased would be completely futile – counterproductive, even. And so he just lies there and takes it, fists curling open and closed in the absence of something to squeeze on, pathetic and dishevelled and completely out of it.
(Just how you like him to be.)
“Would you like me to do some more?”
“Fuck, doc…” his head drops back, uninjured arm shifting to hide even his eyes from you in the safety of his palm. The mask rides up and puts his whole neck on display, your mind almost failing to register his words because of it, all focus funnelled into attempting to carve this image into your mind forever.
(Woof. He looks heavenly all flustered like this.)
“Just how cruel are you?”
Now it’s your turn to lose composure, letting out the tiniest laugh as you reach for the disinfectant and wound-cleaning tools that’ve been safely tucked into the pockets of your coat this whole time. “Oh sweetie, I’m plenty merciful.”
“A proper menace ‘s what you are.”
There’s really only a few cuts that require special attention, skilled hands making quick work of dousing them in saline solution and checking if any stitching is needed. All the while your uncovered hand, useless to the process as the sterile glove is missing now, draws lazy circles over Ghost’s skin to ease his involuntary shudders.
(Although, it may have been precisely that sneaky hand that caused all that movement.)
(Oh well…)
“Would you prefer I stop?”
Your mocking jab, the lieutenant’s visible struggle to be patient taken into consideration, doesn’t really land well. You earn a look that’s solely reserved for those on the other end of Ghost’s sniper rifle binocular, a silent threat which brings goosebumps all the way down the expanse of your spine.
Danger seeps from his eyes into yours, making the heated pit of your gut even more difficult to ignore.
“Do I have to spell everything out for you?”
He needs not force you to look – it is practically impossible for you to break eye contact on your own.
Your heart rate picks up an embarrassing amount.
(Why was that so hot?)
“Frankly, sir?” Your response comes out in a hasty breath, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat. The last few patches are already applied. All that’s left is his face which might prove to be a slight issue, considering the obvious obstruction. But all in all, your attention may now start to shift in nature without the threat of a bad conscience – from medical to something else altogether.
(Thank fuck. You’ve been dying to give him what he wants.)
“I’d love to hear it.”
You watch as his resolve and pissy attitude breaks hand in hand with your eye contact, hands back on his hips and shifting yourself to carefully sit over his lap. Considering the amount of work you’re trying not to disturb, that is quite a feat on your part, but having earned rough hands on your waist and a choked noise out of the surprised man under you, you take it in stride.
“Would you mind telling me, Lieutenant?” You settle down slowly, two heated bodies finally melting into one another, careful as to not disturb Ghost’s aching muscles.
(And, well, other areas of interest.)
“Pulling rank like that…” It takes him a while to compose the reply in his head, obviously overheating and distracted by the new weight tormenting his ability to hold onto that shred of composure he has left. “Shit, you drive me insane. ”
“You don’t like it?” Soaked cloth back in your gloved hand, the other reaches to tease against the hem of the mask, a few fingers slipping underneath to draw a path to his pulsating neck. A featherlight touch, enveloping his entire cheek, memorising the softness of his lips with your thumb, eyes lost once more to the unspoken power you hold over him.
There’s the coarseness of his untrimmed stubble, interrupted by streaks of scar tissue, all so incredibly new to the flood of adoration it makes him shiver.
“Oh, Simon…” Your voice is nothing but honey, sweet and dripping and all-compassing when it rams into his senses at full speed. Had the room not been so dim, you could drown in his wide-blown pupils. “Is that any better?”
A suppressed whine, frantic nod or two and a jerk of hips tells you you’re doing everything right. “Keep– fuck, please keep saying it like that.” Though as your hand moves to lift the fabric, half-forcing yourself to finish patching him up, a stern hold of your wrist halts you. “Don’t.”
“If you have a slice there, I have to treat it.” You won’t budge, that much is obvious, but it’s the gentle coaxing that assures the lieutenant he can let you do as much as uncover a portion of his jaw. “Just above the lips, baby. I promise, not a bit further.” The hold on your waist returns hastily, but completely, as your fingers trace the invisible flesh, hidden by stained fabric. “Where is it?”
“Other cheek.”
“I’ll make it quick.”
“Promise?” His tiny quip forces a smile over your features.
“Promise. Just let me see.”
Your fingers are careful with separating the ski mask from skin, mentally cursing the lightning in the room as it takes away from the precious details of Simon’s lips, parted in anticipation, missing your thumb over them terribly. The cut, as promised, is just above his jaw and not too deep, but bleeding nonetheless.
A hiss at the contact of cloth to it pulls you back into reality, eyes immediately scanning over the man’s body language.
“Stings?”
“Bit more than the other ones.”
An understanding hum and a few dots connected later, there’s a question slipping into the air you share. “Is your face… more sensitive to touch, since you usually have it covered?”
“...”
“Is that so?” Mischief seeps through your words, leaning close enough for your noses to brush, bare hand sneaking around his neck, back under the mask and getting tangled in his hair. Needless to say, breathing proves to be more and more difficult for him by the second. “What should we do to remedy that, then?”
The grip on your waist tightens again – you’re sure to end up with bruises all over after today. “Fuck, would you– keep touching, gods–”
“Ask nicely and I’ll consider it,” You’re just playing with your food at this point, but Ghost doesn’t seem to mind it one bit – he trusts you enough to know you’d never hurt him.
(Well, unless he explicitly asks you to.)
When you don't hear any response, your next step is to be a complete asshole, making sure to press a slow, languid grind into the lap you’re sitting on, earning an eager groan.
“What, feels good?” There is, of course, no answer. Only a swallowed-back whine, as your teasing turns into a set pace of hips making the loveliest of frictions. “You should really stay still, you know. Or I’ll never get to fix you up and… well. We don't want to draw this one out, do we?”
The unspoken threat of being left high and dry pins him down in a second, your patronisingly sweet voice punching a weak noise out of the lieutenant.
And by gods, does it unleash a swarm of butterflies in your stomach.
Cleaning the wound allows you to look at him – truly look – to your heart’s content. He’s starting to look proper debauched, restless, impatient and is so easily impacted, it makes you crave his inevitable loss of control.
You’re sure he’s holding his breath as your own tickles his uneven stubble, face scrunching up in pain with each brush of your fingers, eyes shut tight, lips so close and so, so soft–
“Can I kiss you?”
The question, considering you’ve practically been grinding on his lap this whole time, might appear as stupid. However, you’d rather be careful about this vulnerable side of Ghost, rather walk on eggshells and ask permission for everything than inadvertently cross some lines he’s not ready to cross yet.
The sentiment seems to (thankfully) translate, big, doe, stupid-with-affection eyes digging into your own as the pleading noise is nothing short of a frustrated huff.
It seems that words don’t come easy, but honestly? It doesn't matter to you how he’d let you know, as long as you got the go ahead from him and made sure to let him know it was his decision to make.
The fingers tangled in his hair under the mask tighten just enough to tilt his head towards you, chapped but warm and eager lips meeting in a curious press. The buff arms curl around you in a bear hug – bruises be damned – holding onto that precious moment of rare tenderness as if suspended in time for a while.
You’re careful not to rush but find the attitude is not shared when you swallow a demanding noise out of his throat. “More– fuck.”
“You’d like more? Of what?” You breathe past his mouth, cloth soaked in disinfectant long discarded, hands retreating from the body underneath you to the sound of a dissatisfied groan. The lieutenant actually barely has half the mind not to cry about it – the daggers he’s sending at you with his looks are all he can manage at this point.
“Your hands, lips– fuck, please, just… touch me already.”
“Sorry sir,” you rummage through your coat, placing a row of plasters in paper wrapping between your teeth, making a show of untangling his arms from you and stripping the white lab coat. “Let me finish my work before we continue.”
“Lose the honorifics, you filthy mouth.”
A quiet burst of giggles shakes your frame as fingers work on opening one of the band-aids with Hello Kitty on it, brushing over Ghost’s cheek almost reverently so it adheres to the man’s face properly.
“Oh, but Lieutenant Riley…” you drawl, feigned disappointment forced through a grin, “Won’t you let me have my fun?”
The wrapper is discarded along with the second surgical glove, a mess of clothes and medical tools sprawled across the room as a result of your shenanigans. Your hands slip back into their rightful places, one into his hair, other to cup his jaw, still extremely mindful to not push his comfort zone with the mask. “Anything, I’ll let you do anything, just– fuck.”
“Ask nicely and it’s yours, Simon.” The brief mention of his name sends a shiver down his spine, arms sneaking around you once more to make sure you won’t vanish into thin air like all the good things in his life tend to. “Go on, tell me.”
“Touch me, give me something–” your fingers tighten just enough to make his scalp sting a bit, cutting his sentence short.
“Nicely, I said.”
“...Plea-ah–” muffled noise intercepts the lovely begging as you notice him struggling to keep his lips sealed tight. You guess it’s insecurity or maybe fear that makes him force the sounds of pleasure down, but of course, in your true fashion, you won’t let that slide.
“Tsk, that won’t do, baby.” Your voice is sweet and deep enough for him to drown, and as your thumb moves to press past his lips and into the wet warmth of his mouth, that's exactly what he does. “Say ‘aaaah’.”
Ghost has to admit; you make him feel stupid in ways he’d never guess could be pleasurable, but he’s busy thanking all the deities he believes in for this exceptional chance to learn a thing or two about himself. The space between your crotches only grows tighter, your thumb now fully enveloped in the gasping mouth, pushing down on his teeth to coax it open.
The lieutenant’s eyes are full to the brim with the want to please, to fulfill each and every of your wishes (even though maybe a tad bit humiliating) but there is truly no other thought behind them, tears starting to form from the sheer need and frustration of being teased. Staring like this, eyes fucked out before you’ve even touched him properly, he makes the loveliest of sights.
“Now, try that again for me, pretty boy.”
Simon is a very good soldier. Some might say the best. Not only does he have the brute force needed to ram through enemy lines like a tank, but his insanely fast mind is definitely an indispensable, reliable asset on missions.
That’s why it surprises even him to find it lagging behind. It’s just something about the way you loom over him, forcing his mouth open ever so gently but persistently, wary of the mask moving too far up for comfort, all the while making his chest burn with such want, he wonders if it’ll set him ablaze from the outside as well.
Ghost feels so, so weak. Just the fact that you, a person to make him feel safe in his weakness, exist, is enough to mess up his mind and weaken the mental restraints.
“Please, please give me mo-more– need you to– to keep touching, gods, fuck, please keep touching me, make it hurt, I don’t– I don’t care–”
His whimpering tangent is stopped only by your lips pressed to his again, rough and full of praise to breathe into them, full of “My good, good boy,” and “That’s it, you asked so, so nicely, good job,” while your hand moves to sneak lower, briefly running over his chest and the arms squeezing you tighter than they probably should, considering the recent bullet wound. “Mind the stitches baby, don’t squeeze too tight, or it’s gonna hurt real bad later, okay?”
It takes a while to register in Ghost’s head that you expect confirmation, helpless nods your only tangible feedback between all the lovely noises he’s making, hands exploring lower and lower, laser-focused on his face, trying to read his expression when your fingers hook around the waistband of his underwear. You shift around to make more room between your bodies to tug them lower, lower, and lower, still… until only the swollen-red tip is caught in the fabric, eyes devouring any reaction you might punch out of the tense man.
And gods, there are quite some things to feast your eyes upon.
Fingers of his less injured hand squeeze your forearm in a weak attempt to make you move, give him more, make the constraint of fabric disappear for good. Masked head thrown back, mouth hanging open in a whined plea, one of many already uttered in the dim room.
“You look so gorgeous like this,” You hum, lips pulled into a satisfied smile. The fact that he was yours to ruin completely with all the pleasure he could take filled your chest with warmth. “Messy and desperate looks so good on you.”
“D-doc, please, I– I can’t– I want it, want you so bad, please… Ple–please touch me.” His stuttering is punctuated with urgent squeezing to your arm, the limb not budging even when presented with such convincing begging, tiny pricks of salty tears now seeping into the black balaclava.
Too much. And yet, not enough. That’s all he can think, really. Torn between his complaining muscles and your incessant showers of praise, his mind is forced to blank out, to lose all the power to resist or punish himself for wanting more.
Finally sliding the pesky piece of clothing off Ghost makes him shudder underneath you, sensitive and swollen flesh demanding to be touched. Spitting into the palm of your hand you finally, pulling a strained moan out of the lieutenant, wrap around his cock and begin a slow stroke downwards.
Honestly, if you didn’t know better, you’d think you’ve punched the breath out of him for good.
In just a while, with the little help of your constant hum of praise straight into his ear, the man once reluctant to make a sound of pleasure is a moaning mess. His voice is coarse and rough, just like after a screaming match with one of his teammates, but now with a definitely more filthy cause.
All inhibitions now lost to the overwhelming power of pleasure, Ghost’s hips test the waters of how much he’s allowed, upwards thrusts growing in both frequency and intensity as your smile only grows wider, capturing his lips with yours every once in a while. His loss of control over bodily impulses is beyond captivating to watch. “Feels good, baby?”
“Oh, fuuuck– fuck, good– so good, you’re so good and I–”
“Good boy, so nice and loud for me…” Your fist on his cock tightens, causing the man to choke on his own saliva. His calloused, rough manner of handling his arousal is nothing in comparison to your precise, soft fingers and strokes so languid, so able to predict what feels the best that it makes him feel like he’ll pass out upon climax. “Go on, let the whole base hear how good I make you feel.”
The knot in his stomach grows impossibly tight as the pace of your jerks quickens significantly, eyes rolling back into his brainless little head, currently filled to the brim with the lewd noises the friction between you makes.
“You do, you make me feel so– gh, fuck! So hot and– and close, so very close, keep– keep going–hn..!”
“There you go, that’s my good, polite boy. Talk to me some more.”
“I can’t– A-ah, fuck me–”
A giggle fills his ears at that accidental request. “I intend to, sweetie. But maybe another time, when you’re not this beaten up?” To his very vocal protests, your fist slows to a full stop. To say he has half the mind not to go insane would be an understatement. “Maybe if you promise to take a few days off to heal?”
A whine of discomfort and another (failed) attempt to jerk himself off further with your arm still in his grasp, he’s currently quite preoccupied to speak proper sentences, let alone negotiate. “Fu-fuck, don’t– no, don’t stop, please, anything– anything but that, baby, just… keep moving.”
“Hm? Can you promise or not?” Hand returning to languid motion of up, up and up still, your thumb collects generous amounts of precum with each rub against the tip but stopping abruptly just when he gets too into it.
(Your own personal manipulation technique.)
This forces his hips to stutter mid-air, back arched against your chest in his desperation for more as he pulls in a breath through his teeth to stop his head from spinning and more tears from forming from just how fucking good he feels, all teased and taken care of and–
“Yes– yes, whatever you want, I’ll– o-oh, doc–”
“Would you look at that? If only it was always this easy to negotiate your compliance… Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, Simon.”
“I-I do.”
“You what?” your other arm, now snug around his throat, forces him to look in your eyes. “Words, pretty boy. Use them.”
It’s… a lot. Asking Ghost to humiliate himself by keeping up the conversation through his pleasure-caused haze, promising to go against his stubbornness when it comes to his own well being, but after all, it’s not what classical conditioning can do to you.
It’s about what it can do for you.
(Ivan Pavlov would be proud.)
And gods be damned, if you weren’t about to bribe Simon’s reflexes to knock some common sense into his head.
“I promise, fuck! Just get your fucking hand moving again – please, pretty please doc, don’t leave me like this.” His begging is slowly starting to melt into depraved sobs, the literal tank of a man so broken under the expertise of your hands that your next merciful round of overwhelming touching makes him drool, coating the hand still gripping his jaw.
His grasp on your hand goes slack the moment you pick up the pace, vision blurring and eyes struggling to stay open while wet fingers abuse his sensitive cock with such eagerness. It doesn’t take long for a man as touch-starved as him to start reaching that sweet edge of his own orgasm, whimpers getting punched out of him on shallow huffs for air.
“Are you close, baby? Already?” More frantic nodding, legs tense enough to make some of the more serious cuts weep blood once more. “Careful, careful sweetheart. Relax for me, okay?”
The words seem to bounce right off him though, frantic breaths sending the body into more spasms. You lean in to press rough kisses to his saliva-coated lips and whisper his name after each one, holding him close long enough to force his body to breathe through his nose and calm down so as to not get awfully overwhelmed after climax.
“That’s it, just breathe with me. Don’t fight it, relax those muscles.” Your sweet-talk between kisses proves to be effective at last, hand slowing into lazy strokes until Ghost can get his body back under control. “Good boy, so needy for everything… Shaking like a leaf when all you got were my hands…”
You muse, free hand sneaking down to keep a hold of the lieutenant’s jumpy hips if they decide to protest. “Makes me wonder how fast you’d break if I used my mouth, or if I fucked you, slow and deep, just like you deserve it…” And you were right to set that precaution, Simon trying to buck up wildly against the gentle restraint, finding that he doesn’t have the strength for that at all. “You like that idea? You know, talking’s not all my mouth’s extremely good at. Maybe I’ll let you find out, since you promised so nicely? Hm?”
“God, fuck–”
Your giggle is accompanied by more strained jolts upwards. “God? I like that one. Would you worship me?”
“With my every breath,” he mouths off, uncovered lips pulled into a tired smirk.
“Well, would you look at that? You’ve got quite a filthy mouth yourself. How ‘bout you put it to good use and let me know how good I make you feel?” Ensured that Ghost won’t just completely tap out of consciousness upon cumming his brains out, you decide to rapidly switch paces.
“Yes– yes, oh, fuck doc– so good– so– a-ah!” His nearing orgasm is indicated by a number of muffled squeaks growing in pitch, Ghost’s arms squeezing you tight once more as his masked face gets shoved into the nook of your neck to hide his embarrassment from your surveying gaze.
You allow him to reach it on his own, hand now guiding his waist to thrust up into the restlessly pleasuring hand as his mouth hangs open over your shoulder, fabric of your shirt damp with saliva for mere moments before he sees stars and to your utter surprise, bites down.
(Well, shit. As if his handprints all over your body weren’t enough.)
You hiss while his whole body spasms from all the teasing suddenly released in one big burst, strangled noises clawing out his throat as the lieutenant rides it out, snapping into reality and breaking out into a fit of slurred apologies the moment he has enough air in his lungs to do so.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to– are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No, not at all, honey, just startled me a bit–”
“Show me.”
“Simon. Really, it’s fine–” But before you even get the chance to protest further, he’s already reaching to uncover your shoulder, wincing at the faint imprint of teeth in your skin. A litany of ‘sorry’s and featherlight kisses showers you, pulling away with the most apologetic of stares.
“I am so, so sorry for this, let me make it up to you.”
In just a moment, the body your whole weight is resting on shifts, Ghost stabilising you with his hands and attempting to flip your positions over. “No, you really don't have to– hey! Are you even listening?” The stubborn mule is sitting up fully by the time you manage to get a grasp of his face, forcing him to look you in the eyes. “Simon. No.”
“But–”
“No buts. You didn’t hurt me at all, and you’re beyond beaten up right now.”
“So?”
“Stop sassing me, lieutenant.” He earns a soft pat to the chest, more meant to be a smack but your hands are quite exhausted for that. “Your body needs rest. Even this was… while pleasant, a great strain added onto your injuries.”
His head hides in your warmth, denied and denied yet again. “Fuck you and your medical talk.”
It’s like dealing with a bitchy toddler, is what crosses your mind at Simon’s sulking. “I promised, no? Once you’re healthy, love.” You try to persuade him with strokes to his short hair, massaging the scalp as all tension bleeds out of his body.
“How long will that be?”
“Simon, you can't rush these things, especially when–”
“Come on, give me an exact amount.”
A sigh, knowing there’s no point in arguing with a lieutenant used to barking commands at people, is all you can muster up as a counterargument. “A week.”
“No.”
“Yes, Simon. A full week, or nothing.”
“What if they need me on a mission during that week?”
“You tell them to suck your dick.” He pulls away, eyebrows lifting under the mask in a sarcastic, silent response, asking you to kindly reconsider your wording. “You’re right, tell them I’ll suck your dick, but only if you rest properly.”
You explode into a fit of laughter and cover your head as Ghost reaches to give you a light smack across it, not used to anyone challenging his authority head-on. “Seriously. How long.”
“I am extremely serious. Seven days. I’ll even write you a doctor’s excuse.”
One resigned huff and a mask pulled down later, you struck yourself a deal.
“Alright. But not even a second longer.”