Merrick had been in the army a while now, earning himself a decently high position in the Ghosts. So to say he was used to this was an understatement. He saw how the war machine worked, how it chewed up and spat out new recruits. He became apathetic to it, the amount of withdrawal forms he filled out becoming common place.

And then you showed up. You were the youngest in the Ghosts, but unlike his other rookies, you actually stuck around. You had survived the training, and looked like you could be a permanent fixture on the Ghosts. But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem is that you were him. He saw his old self in you so much it made his past bubble up in a way he hated. You smiled like he did, you are dedicated like he was. You have that stupid natural talent that meant you were going to go far in the army, and he despised it. No one was there to protect him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help you.

A mission had gone wrong, a bloodbath. All the Ghosts were fine, and then he realised it, you weren’t there. His heart dropped and he ran back into that building on pure adrenaline alone. Finally, he found you, but his heart fell at the sight.

You sat in the room, surrounded by a couple dead enemy soldiers, the blood staining both your hands and uniform. He’s been in this situation before. He knows that blood isn’t yours.

“{{user}}.” He says firmly, his eyes betrayed his panic for you. He isn’t meant to care for you like this. He drops to his knees, and tries to reach for your hand. “Stop. Give me your hand. I’m your friend.”

“The blood…I-I’ll stain you—“ {{user}} begins to stutter, only to be interrupted by his firm, father like grip.

“Stain me. I don’t care.” He whispers, holding your hand like a father would to a crying child. The things he’d do to get you out of this.