The Medic || Ghost [Simon Riley] Story.

I am a woman

                                   Myla

Overcoming exhaustion, I find myself now benched by a furious agitation. My back and shoulders ache, my eyes sting, and I cannot divert my gaze from Ghost. Surprisingly, his mask no longer instills fear in me, even after a mere 72 hours of acquaintance. How is this possible?

He has been fixated on the wall behind my head for hours, his deep amber eyes clouded with pain, framed by impossibly long blonde eyelashes. The only movement I detect is the slow rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes.

I find myself wanting to lie my head in his lap, or rather let him lie his head on me. The things he told me last night. I don't know if he was still disoriented from his night terror or if something in him shifted, but the things he was forced to endure as a child. That darling boy. I just... it wasn't fair, it shouldn't have happened. And now look at the consequences. A broken man. He didn't deserve that, no one does.

Twin tears slip free and glide down my cheeks. If I wipe them away it will only draw attention to them. So I let them fall, dripping off my chin and onto my vest. This repeats another few times. My instinct overridden by fear of appearing sympathetic, maybe even weak. So I let them dry.

Soap lies on the floor between us, clutching his pack tightly as he dozes. His snores, though not loud enough to indicate a deep sleep, fail to mask the weariness we all feel after the harrowing night we've endured.

Suddenly, the intense amber blaze from Ghost's eyes catches mine, as he now looks directly at me, causing me to shift uncomfortably.

"Get some shut-eye," he gruffly orders.

I shake my head, running my hands over my face. "I can't sleep," I confess.

"It won't happen again," he assures me, shifting his gaze to the floor. "At least not tonight," he adds with a muttered remark.

Silence engulfs us once more, yet I find myself unable to tear my eyes away from him. I am desperate to remove the source of his protent torment, the entity that haunts him so relentlessly that it elicited such a visceral reaction, I want to take it all from him.

Is it the reason behind his mask? Ghost remains an enigma, one that I am desperate to unravel. Unsure of why, but I want to know more of him, all of him.

"Nash, wake up!" My body jolts as I hear the urgent voice.

Opening my eyes, I see Ghost and Soap towering above me. The room is bathed in a deep terracotta hue of sunrise, and I can't recall how I ended up lying down. My backpack qtucked under my head.

"Mornin'," I mumble, my accent unintentionally thicker than usual. Soap raises an eyebrow at my groggy state.

"Howdy," he chuckles in response, and I force a small smile. Cocky Scottish bastard.

Sitting up, I reach for the nearly empty water bottle by my side and grab my backpack.

My attention immediately shifts to Ghost, assessing him. Did he manage to fall back asleep too? I notice his fists, now covered by his black skeletal gloves, and let out a sigh.

"How are your hands?" I ask, concerned.

His grip on his gun tightens. "Fine."

Grabbing wipes and gauze from my bag, I stand up. "I need to clean and dress them before we leave."

"Negative, don't need it, Nash."

"I'm the medic," I assert, moving towards him, "so let me see your fucking hands."