Chapter Text
The clock ticks as you lay your non-dominant hand on your thigh. The soldier above groans loudly as you pull your needle and thread through his calf. The man continues whining like a cat in heat as you finish your up suture.
"Don't you have any vodka?" the man cries out in pure agony, but you laugh at him.
"If only you didn't drink it all," you smirk and pat his knee. Getting up, you slip your tool into a box labeled 'NEEDLES - DON'T TOUCH.' You reach up to your high cabinet and pull out a container filled with multiple types of gauze and an array of medical tape. You look into the container before deciding which one would prove to be more useful.
"Can you lift your leg a bit for me?" you ask with a soft smile. As you wrap the gauze around his calf, you ask him about his life back home.
"I have a wife," he mentions, "Samantha. She's amazing and she is even greater with our two sons."
You nod, glad he's being distracted and no longer screaming his head off. Tapping the flap down, you make conversation.
"That's amazing. Not many soldiers speak kindly of their wives. You're a good man. In about three days you can take your gauze off and show your sons your stitches. I'm sure they'll get a kick out of it." You smile and walk away from him again.
"You are good to go, sir." you look into his eyes and nod your head to the door. His eyes widen slightly, and he limps away.
You take off your gloves and pick up your shitty headphones, plugged into some sort of radio-cassette tape-CD player combination. Your mouth turns down as you realize that it never stopped playing. The entire side finished skipping over your favorite song. Instead of rewinding it, you flip the tape to the next side.
The cassette tape geared and started to sputter out music before it fully came back to life. Enjoy the Silence beginning to play into your headphones. You sit down at your run-down desk and think. The second verse plays while you hum along, acting along to the solemn tone. You suppose you might be attempting to romanticize your shitty work environment.
Currently, you are stationed at a British army base or barracks. You honestly have no clue. Being one of the three medics at said base, you are typically swamped with men and women coming in and out of your "office." You thanked whoever would listen to you that you are not. You sigh and attempt to pull yourself back to work, not wanting to leave any work for later. You probably jinxed yourself.
You remember hearing your previous patient's remarks on his wife, wishing you weren't alone. You also miss your family back home in America, which is well over four thousand miles away.
You allow your hand to fully grasp one of the drawers and pull it out. Seeing the Manila-covered files, you attempt to find your previous patient's file. You let out a satisfied hum as you see his name 'Lieutenant James Tremont.'
You make a quick note to check if he actually kept the dressing on his calf for a day. You sincerely doubted it, the man was always ready to impress his sons. Or so James seems to be the type. You truly wouldn't know. You close the folder and slip it back into your file cabinet drawer.
Your hand hovers over a particularly empty folder, 'Ghost.' Not even a full name, just an alias. Sometimes you forget he exists as you never see him, excluding times when you might see him cleaning his guns in the barracks. You always make your rounds to that specific area since there are always accidental injuries. You scoff at the thought of having to do it again this evening. The things you do as the only competent medic in the entire compound as of right now.
Curious, you pull the file out. You almost imagine it to be full of dust from the lack of use, nonetheless, it is clear of any dust bunnies. Carefully, you open it. There's exactly one sheet of paper inside with a paper clip pathetically holding it together. You look at the standard medical sheet. You believe it would have believed it has been one if it wasn't fully blacked out in marker. In the top right of the page is an empty rectangle, the perfect spot to put a photo. If only there ever was one. You subconsciously start scribbling a small, stick figure with a small skull face. Ghost now has a picture.
You sigh and rest your head in your arms, listening to the next song start.
"Hello.." a sing-songy voice calls out to you. You look up and see your favorite patient, John "Soap" McTavish. Your almost best friend. You take off your headphones and your face breaks in a wide grin.
"You're back!" you start to break into a burst of laughter and go over to hug him. You should've heard them arrive back from their mission. Most of the soldiers would've been shouting when a team of their fellow soldiers just came back from a three-month mission, completely unharmed. You paused for a moment.
"Are you hurt?" you look the Scotsman up and down, examining him. "How's the rest of the Task Force?"
He shakes his head. "I'm fine. You know I never get hurt. Ghost got shot. He pretended like he didn't, though. You ought to check on him. I doubt he'd let you care for him, Doc." His eyes wander over to your desk, seeing your drawing.
"That's a mighty fine drawing. You're back to watching the poor lad again?" the man teased, which only resulted in your scoff.
"You caught me checking him out once. That was two years ago, you know this." you groan and close the file, trying to put it back into the drawer before Soap mentions anything relating to Ghost. However, you remembered that Ghost supposedly got shot and immediately picked up a nearby kit.
"Do you know where he is right now?" You grab a pair of gloves. You await Soap's response as you turn off your tape.
"He is in his room like the loner he is." Soap laughs. You only nod as you gesture to the door. Soap nods and you both walk down the hall.
"Is he always like that?" you ask.
"Like what?" Soap questions.
"Y'know, so independent. He reminds me of a stubborn elementary schooler." you pause.
"Don't let him hear that. You might make him angry, can't ruin your chances now. Can we?" the man to your right teases. You immediately stiffen and hit him in the shoulder.
"Why would you say that??" you look around as if Ghost could be around the corner. "What if he hears?"
Soap only laughs at your defensiveness and the two of you walk in awkward silence for a few moments. You finally reach the dormitory area where the higher-up soldiers sleep. Soap stops, making you turn around to face him.
"You go ahead. I have to unpack still," he explains, tiredly. The poor man most likely hasn't slept in days. Maybe Ghost is sleeping or showering. Soap sees you hesitating. "He never sleeps. Not for a while anyways."
"Alright," you nod and begin to walk further down the hall. Your eyes scan the different door plates and feel jealous that you don't have room to yourself. Fortunately, your 'roommate' has been discharged after she got into serious issues with drugs. You continue with your strides and arrive at Ghost's room. His nameplate is blank, but you know it's his. Extending your hand, you knock. You immediately recoil. The knock was way too loud.
You remain standing outside of the door, pathetically holding your medical bag in your hands. The door opens slowly. Ghost's head pokes out almost menacingly. He isn't wearing his normal skull mask, just his balaclava mask. You can see his earthy brown eyes bore deep into your soul, but you still stand proudly.
"Were you shot?" you ask rather bluntly. Ghost's eyes squint at you for a moment.
"No," he answered. You know better. Ghost goes to shut the door, but he winces ever so slightly. You slam your hand against the door and ask him if he would allow you inside. However, you already knew his answer.
"No," he replied.
"Then come into my office."
"I will not."
"Fine then." you want to shove your medical bag into his chest but you prevent yourself. Instead, you slowly lift it and hand it toward Ghost. "If you won't allow me to treat you," you look into his eyes, "Use this to treat your wound. I will not allow for a solider like you to suffer."
He only nods and takes your bag. You did it. An amazing job. Ghost closes the door without a goodbye. If it wasn't for his strong British accent, you would've assumed he was from Ireland.
You turn to your left and catch Soap with a wide smile on his face.
"He likes you," he jokes, "Didn't expect him to accept your help."
You sigh and continue down the hall. Soap, of course, shadows you.