Chapter Text
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He'd seen dangerous men before. Was one, for all intents and purposes—the kind that made rooms go quiet, the kind that people stepped around like unexploded ordinance waiting for a bomb squad to diffuse. To them, danger was the kind of man who wore a skull on his face and carried a knife at his belt, who could break a man's neck multiple ways without breaking a sweat.
They didn't usually see it wearing Kyle Garrick's face, however.
The briefing room had quickly become an epicentre of sheer tension, surrounded by too small walls and too bright lights. Shepherd stood at the head of the table, posture relaxed and shoulders squared like a man who simply saw himself above it all. Like this was just formality, that he had no reason to need to defend himself or his actions, the same actions that nearly got an entire squad killed—
Ghost's fists clenched at his sides. His jaw ticked. But he said nothing—not yet, not when his thoughts were split between here and there: the rooms in medical currently housing the rest of his squad. Price had two cracked ribs, a split brow he refused stitches for, and enough shrapnel embedded in his arm to set off every metal detector within a kilometre radius. Sparrow was concussed—again—curled up in a bed with the lights dimmed and a nasty bruise encompassing her entire shoulder. Johnny hovered, flitting between both rooms despite the sling immobilizing his dislocated shoulder and the limp he'd been sporting from twisting his knee during exfil.
They were alive, all of them, but that was down to sheer luck and years of training. Not that Shepherd wouldn't try to take credit for it, call them 'heroes' or whatever the flavor of the week was in an attempt to smooth things over, and so help him if he did because Ghost would put him through a bloody wall—
—except Kyle got there first.
"With all due respect, sir," and Ghost couldn't help the way his lips twitched beneath the mask, because the way Kyle said sir could've stripped every layer of paint from the dingy gray walls, "that op was a disaster from briefing to extraction. The intel was outdated, the LZ was compromised before we touched ground, and you sent a five-person team into what should've been a full battalion operation."
Shepherd's gaze flicked to him. Cold. Bored, like Gaz was nothing more than a slight annoyance instead of one of the most experienced operators in the regiment, a beetle to be crushed under his shoe rather than someone to be listened to and respected— "Sergeant Garrick," he drawled, "I don't recall asking for your… assessment."
Kyle, to his credit, didn't blink. "Three of my people are in medical. I'm giving it anyway."
A low murmur rippled through the room. Shepherd's expression didn't change—if anything, it hardened, that particular brand of authority that expected submission and silence and absolutely not Kyle Garrick on a bad day.
"Operations carry risk, Sergeant. You know that. Your team performed admirably under difficult—"
Kyle held a hand up, letting out a harsh breath as he cut Shepherd off. "Difficult circumstances that were entirely avoidable," still calm, still measured, but Ghost could hear it, the faintest edge underneath as Kyle's composure started to fracture. "Sir."
Shepherd leaned forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the table. "I'd be very careful about your next words, Sergeant Garrick. I don't know what Price lets you boys get away with, but there is a chain of command to respect."
Ghost's eyebrows raised as he watched something shift in Kyle's expression. Not anger, but something deeper—the kind of conviction that didn't come from training or rank and couldn't ever be drilled out of someone's spirit.
"My Captain doesn't let us 'get away' with things," Kyle said, and his voice had dropped, quieter now, steadier. "He trusts our judgment because we're the ones out there in the thick of it with him. He leads us. There's a difference, General—and with all due respect, it's one you may benefit from learning."
Shepherd's lips thinned. "You're treading a very thin line, Sergeant."
"Good. Mean's I've got your attention." Someone in the room coughed into their hand. Another shifted in their chair, the joints squeaking slightly as the tension reached a fever pitch. Ghost didn't move, not even as Shepherd turned his gaze towards Ghost like he was looking for support.
Ghost nearly scoffed at the thought. No bloody way in hell he'd defend Shepherd—especially not over one of his own. As far as he was concerned, Gaz hadn't said anything out of pocket—just spoke the truth no one wanted to hear. This was his fight, and he was winning.
"You want to write me up for insubordination, sir, go right ahead. I'll have the incident report submitted before the ink's even dried." He paused, lips twitching in the beginnings of a snarl. "My Captain had to get thirty four pieces of shrapnel removed from his arm. He's lucky that nothing nicked an artery or severed nerves, else he'd never fire a gun again. One of my teammates hasn't been able to open her eyes in hours because she vomits every time it gets too bright. The other can barely walk, and he won't leave their sides long enough to get properly checked out because he knows Lieutenant Riley and I are tied up here so you can stroke your own ego."
He took a step forward, shoulders back, chin up, showing every ounce of that fiery spirit that nothing could ever hope to extinguish. "You sent us in blind, undermanned, on intel you knew was stale, and it nearly cost me everything. So either take responsibility or find me someone who will—but do not stand there and call this a success."
The silence stretched. Shepherd's jaw worked, hands balling up into fists on the table while his nostrils flared.
"Well. I think it's about time we wrapped this up," Shepherd murmured, voice hard. "Dismissed, Sergeant."
Kyle held his gaze for one last second. Just long enough that, for a moment, Ghost wondered if Shepherd would reach across the table and strangle him—or maybe the other way around—before Kyle turned and shoved his way through the door.
Ghost followed. Didn't acknowledge Shepherd on his way out, because anything he could've said to Shepherd had already been delivered on a silver platter, with the kind of righteous fury Kyle wielded like a scalpel.
They fell into step together in the corridor, boots echoing against the concrete for a few long moments before Kyle's stride faltered. Ghost clocked the moment his shoulders dropped, quietly observing the long, shaking exhale he let free as the adrenaline of the moment burned its way out. He let it linger for a second or two, then bumped Kyle's shoulder with his own.
"Good man."
Kyle glanced at him, startled for a moment before the corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close.