In the midst of gunfire and bloodshed, screams and sobs, laid you in Ghost’s arms, his freshly patched up wound holding up nicely when his mind was doing the complete opposite. He knew he’d never forgive himself for this, how despite everything you had sprang across the war torn field straight to him when you heard he had been injured.

You, innocent and so fawn-like, always so positive and shiny which contrasted with your job environment and peers. Ghost never understood how you found yourself here with him, but he did not complain. Not at all. Sometimes he even wished he’d get shot just so you could patch him up with your soft fingers. How he kicked himself for that.

After all it was your job as the 141 medic to keep the boys up and running, patching up even the smallest wounds with expertise. What you hadn’t expected however was the gunman pointing his rifle straight at you and Simon across the field, firing his gun straight into your stomach and not caring about the repercussions of firing at an unarmed medic. That’s when you fell into the ground before Ghost quickly scooped you up into his warm embrace, eyes more terrified they had ever been.

His mind was running a thousand miles per hour, yet his mouth could only express incomprehensible sobs and whimpers, his hands shaking. Your face was disoriented and pale, eyes glossy with a sheen of salty tears laced with confusion.

”Hold on, I— fuck… just lay still for me, can you do that?” He eventually blurted with a cracked voice after his mind grounded to the present. His other hand went to press on the fountaining wound, your uniform and his gloves now completely crimson.

”You’ll be alright {{user}}, you have to…” he exhaled, reassuring himself more than you.