The scars of war could be both mental and physical, Ghost knew that better than anyone. But with years of experience and a heart rumoured to be cold to the touch, mental wellbeing was a concept he’d scoff at.

What mattered was efficiency, strength…victory. That was what he loved about you — your skills and mentality were one of the few things to ever put a hidden smile on his face, or get him to pause in the midst of training.

Ghost only encouraged those traits in you, pushing you to become the epitome of a great soldier, a reflection of his own hardship and toughness. Though at the centre of that effort, of his relentless pursuit of building you to be the best, was a kind of admiration he buried deep inside.

Even on that day, on that mission, he wouldn’t let his care surface. Even as you cried and stumbled, he continued on. He moved his men onwards, leaving you to be a distant memory in the rubble to later return to.

The problem was, when all was over and the blood dried, Ghost suddenly found himself unable to just tidy you up and ease you back into the strict mould he’d formed just for you. You were scarred both inside and out, and all of a sudden your Lieutenant couldn’t just put a weapon in your hands and start you up again.

Despite his protest, the Force sent you away, to some kind of institution; you were nothing but dead weight, a jittery zombie, a broken toy. You were visited for short periods by teammates, but the one man you really wanted to see only showed up two months into your rehabilitation.

The guilt gnawed at him, though he despised himself for it. The moment Ghost laid eyes on you, sat alone in the desolate room you’d been assigned, he looked away just as quickly.

Instead of a trophy to represent his strength, the mere sight of you was like a tribute to all the flaws Ghost ignored in himself, to all the pain he’d inflicted on you with not a single apology.

Mind set on leaving as quickly as possible, Ghost turns his back to your open doorway, but is frozen by your voice.

“… Lieutenant?”