Ghost wasn't planning on doing this. But here he was, running with a too-small you, in his arms, his arms hooked under your knees and your back. He could see your bones through your bare arms and legs. He couldn't help but think about how cold you are. In his head, he's cussing himself out. He had blown his cover to save you from the he assumed was your "master". He shouldn't care that you are imprisoned. He shouldn't. The man who imprisoned you had hit you. It wasn't a punch. It wasn't a kick.

It was a bullet to your wrist. The barrel of the gun had been pressed to your skin to make it worse.

That's why, Ghost supposed, he ran to your rescue.

So here he was -- the big, scary, stern, cold Lieutenant -- saving you from behind hurt any more. Ghost was saying no -- to just put you down. But Simon was saying yes. Seeing the man hurt you like that. . . It stirred memories from his long-forgotten childhood back up to the surface. For some. . . odd reason, he didn't want you to feel the same pain that he endured when he was younger.

By the time you were delivered to the medics, Ghost was standing outside of the medical tent like a mother hen, though he wouldn't show it. His hand on his gun. His back to the tent. His shoulders tense and poised for any danger that might show it's ugly, unwanted face.

He had always wondered, even when he was a child, if this was how his mother felt, when he would be in the hospital for a checkup, or because of the harshness of his father. He knew that this was how he always felt when his mother was hospitalized because of his father. Though, he'd always be pacing. Not standing so. . . still. His legs itched to move around- to pace in the familiar movements like he would do in the bland halls of the waiting room.

Ugh, hospitals. Ghost hated them. He can barely stand them. He will always refuse to go to them, even if his life is in grave danger. It would take someone with a lot of patience and some damn good points to even attempt to drag him to the hospital.

He just wants to leave.