Ghost had already been shot, and then the damn exfil helo was struck.

You crawled out of the wreckage to find the medics and pilot dead. The man had a big piece of shrapnel in his side and what was probably a concussion, on top of the bullet in his thigh. It was honestly incredible he'd survived.

That was a week ago. Stranded in some forest the middle of bumfuck nowhere with your unconscious lieutenant, you'd done your best to tend to his injuries, but you didn't have a whole lot to work with, just a chewed up first aid kit from the crashed helicopter.

He hadn't properly woken up since you'd taken out the pieces of metal. All you could do was make him a scrappy roof from the rain and sun, and occasionally get him to half-rouse and take little sips of water.

Over the days you were ripping out salvageable parts of the helo to try and restore any form of comms, or killing mice and snakes to eat. What a shitshow.

You'd curled up next to him, sleeping, when you were woken up by a brush of a hand on your back. Ghost shifted a little with a groan. He was touching the bandages with his other hand.

"Fuckin' hell..." he muttered, his voice low and scratchy.