The locker room door shut behind you with a slam, crappy lights above flickered on and off every second. You peeled your gloves off, your fingers aching and hands still shaking from the spar. Really, everything hurt.

The taste of copper sat in your mouth, covering your tongue and teeth like paint. Your lower lip throbbed where the other soldiers elbow had split your skin. You don’t really remember it much, one second you were upright and the next an elbow to the face had you landing on your back.

Ghost had followed you, holding a medkit in his hand. He was silent, tension in his shoulders as you sat down on the bench.

“You should’ve blocked that last hit,” he muttered, clearly annoyed by his tone. It irritated you, of course you should’ve blocked it — you weren’t stupid.

Ghost knelt in front of you, one large gloved hand tilting your chin up as the other gently dabbed a warm cloth on your lower lip.

“You’re bleeding from your bloody eyebrow too.” He swore under his breath, swiping the rag over your eyebrow and the sting was very prominent — so much that tears came to your eyes, it was a pretty good hit.

He barely touched you but the pressure made the wound pulse alive with a heartbeat of its own. Your skin was still buzzing and hot from the adrenaline but his touch cut through that like a cold knife. He didn’t speak for a few moments, taking the time to clean your face up.

He reached into the kit and pulled out a vial, cleaning the gash above your eyebrow with antiseptic and then swabbing a glob of wound glue over it.

Ghost’s thumb idly brushed next to your eyebrow, closer to your temple; watching as the glue dried and did its job.

“I should’ve pulled you out,” he said, voice laced with bitterness. It was hard to tell if he was sorry you got hurt or if he felt like you weren’t good enough.He sat back on his heels and looked up at you, holding the red stained cloth.