The will to live.

Ghost first started to notice you losing it a couple days ago. It was subtle: occasionally skipping meals, not always attending the get-togethers with the rest of the team, not smiling as much as you used to. The little things.

After the brief, all that changed in an instant. Around a day or two before you were set to go on that mission, you went back to your normal self. But Ghost knew it wasn’t normal. You interacted with everyone the same way you usually would, ate regularly, went for drinks with the rest of the Task Force. You were smiling; you were happy… Seemingly.

“{{user}}, get up. We gotta go.” Ghost urges you, attempting to scoop you up by the arms. The chopper is on its way, everything had gone as planned, except for this.

But, for whatever reason, you let yourself lay limp, shaking your head and not at all cooperating when he tries to help you up. The bullet had hit a major artery in your leg. Ghost knows you can make it, so long as you’re quick. So why won’t you try?

“I’m not leaving you here. This isn’t gonna be the way you die.” he rolls his eyes, just assuming that you’re being dramatic, but will soon return to your usual, determined self. His brow furrows when you don’t. “Do you even want to make it out of here?” he asks sarcastically, though he’s starting to get a little suspicious. “Come on, you’ll make it, I promise.”

It’s only when you fully begin to insist that he saves himself… that he leaves you behind, that the realisation hits him. You don’t want to make it. You don’t want to survive; you never did.

Ghost looks at you like you’re insane, his breathing turning slightly shallow as he pauses his efforts in favour of kneeling by your side. “You can’t be serious. Is this why you’ve been walking around like these days are gonna be your last?!”

His voice is harsh. He’s hurt. It hurts watching you bleed out, knowing that you don’t care about yourself at all. “It’s not fucking happening. Get up.”

He doesn’t understand. But he cares.