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Summary
“Look at me.”
“No.” Ghost responds quickly, breathes out the syllable as if it hurts him to say. Soap can picture the way his eyes must squeeze shut.
“Why?”
“‘Fraid of what you’ll see.”
There’s a feeling in his chest, buried deep within his rib cage and the meatiness of his heart. It feels like a stab, a bullet wound, a fist around him, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. “Not afraid of you, Lt..”
The shake of Ghost’s head is abrupt. It jostles Soap’s hand, and he adjusts by shifting it down, touching the heel of his palm to the space between his shoulder blades. “‘Fraid of how I’ll look at you,” Ghost clarifies.
Soap takes another shuffling step forward, their bodies almost touching. “How are you gonna look at me?”
“Like a dying man looks at water.”
or;
In which Soap tries to save Ghost.