Chapter Text
Would it really be a “normal” mission if something didn’t go haywire? After his time in Taskforce 141, he sincerely doubts it. Good luck and fortune were not things associated with the men he works with, and today is no different.
The thrumming in his ears caused by the tight clenching of his jaw against the biting bolts of pain lacing up from his chest nearly drowns out the suddenly-active communicator in his ear. Price is asking if someone has been hit by the unprecedented gunshot ringing through the empty village; someone else (judging by the sound of the voice, it’s König) immediately echoes with a kill confirmation--whoever had just shot had just been shot as well. Soap is swearing vehemently as a hellfire of bullets sparks up, though none are coming in Ghost’s direction (thankfully, he thinks for a split moment before reacting the thought: if the assailants are not shooting at him, then it means they’re shooting at the rest of the squad).
“Fuckin’ dammit,” he hears Soap eloquently snarl into the comm. “Where’s Ghost?” The lieutenant must certainly be imagining the desperate tone to the Scot’s voice. To be fair, the sergeant is under considerable duress. Anger and frustration are what should be lacing his guttural shouting, not needless things like desperation.
Like the good little soldier he’s trained himself to become, Ghost’s hand reflexively goes to respond to the bellowing. As the communications link opens with the flick of his thumb, he tries to speak. “The same fucking place I’ve been throughout this whole stakeout, dumbass,” is what he tries to say, but all that comes out is a ragged cough that bubbles up from his lungs.
His coughing leads to another volley of bullets blindly pelting into the house wall he’s propped against. He’s sheltered, at least, until the shooters realize there’s a perfectly-openable door leading into the main room he’s hunched over in. Ghost can still hear friendly shots pinging off the buildings nearby as his allies try to clear the area.
Ghost has been through worse than a shot to the ribs, he supposes. The intangible pain of losing those he cared about certainly hurt far more than any physical pain he’s been through. The mental agony he regularly puts his own treacherous mind through takes a close second place.
But he will admit--to nobody but himself--that the wound smarts. He can’t tell if the bullet had gone far enough to puncture a lung (it certainly feels like it, in his opinion) but the resulting labored breathing is an annoyance to deal with.
“Lieutenant, you copy?” Price’s voice is far more schooled than Soap’s as he checks in. However, having the man as a captain for as long as he had, he can imagine the mental gymnastics Price is going through to keep himself outwardly calm. Price openly cares about his ragtag bunch, and it’s no secret.
Ghost keeps himself quiet (save for heaving breaths that are muffled through the skull mask on his face) in the wake of the question. He’d like to let everyone know that he’s alright, to tell them to stop worrying and focus on what they’re here for. Unfortunately, he is not alright and everyone seems to know that. Ghost may be skilled at lying about certain things, but this will not be one of them.
As much as it physically pains him, he tries to keep silent. One hand blindly reaches for the now-apparent bullet wound in his side to try to staunch the bleeding and not because it hurts like the devil because Ghost does not admit that pain can get to him like this. Clamping down on the steadily-bleeding puncture, he slowly and clumsily scoots to hide behind a piece of furniture. Should someone come through the door, he’ll at least have an extra second or two to prepare to deal with the assailants before they find him.
More bullets shatter the window he’d been peering out of with his sniper. The glass rains down inside in a glittering cascade that’s quickly disrupted by the continued gunfire. Whoever is shooting is either doing their best to ensure he’s at least hit or outright trigger-happy. Bullets continue to shatter the wall beside him, some even going through the window and hitting the other side of the room entirely. Ghost can’t really blame them for wanting to be thorough. To get rid of him is akin to distancing oneself from death itself, in a way. Cool your ego, there, his mind snarks back at him. Being compared to a manifestation of death isn’t necessarily a good thing to brag about to people who want to know you, asshole.
Once again, Ghost is ratcheted out of his own mind. Something skitters across the floor towards him, and he only belatedly processes what it could be. He abandons his bleeding torso to awkwardly shove himself away from what surely was some sort of frag grenade. Even though it’s close, he manages to sidle up behind a couch to at least dampen the blast. To his dismay (and shock) the grenade somehow ricochets back towards him off the wall bordering, leaving him utterly open and exposed.
He tucks in on himself--should a grenade go off a few feet from him, he should at least try to protect his important organs.
The blast never comes.
For a moment, he forgets entirely that he is in the middle of a firefight, more intent on discarding the faulty (or simply belated) explosive to somewhere farther away. His boot nudges the object on the ground mere feet from him, and instead of rolling away like it should, it darts towards him once more.
Great, he thinks to himself, a rodent is just what he needs to deal with right now. Almost irritably, as if he’s forgotten he’s in danger, Ghost shoos it away, only for the fuzzy thing to crawl up onto his pant leg to hide in his bloodied lap.
Jesus Christ, it’s not a rat. It’s certainly not a grenade. Its little green eyes are wide open and triangle-shaped ears are pinned back against its dirty black fur as claws dig into the fabric of his pants and cling. “For fuck’s sake,” he tries to lament, only to be sent into another coughing fit. To move it would waste precious time, so he begrudgingly allows the thing to stay put.
Just as quickly as they started, the bullets stop. Ghost knows better than to assume the coast is clear, though. He can hear heavy footsteps nearing his location. To his dismay, the black-and-white cat starts wailing as loudly as it can--which seems to be considerably loud. A pair of steps pause in the doorway, following the cascade of pitiful and raspy mewing.
Ghost resists the urge to slam his head back into the wall in exasperation. Of all the ways to go down, this has to be it? One hand quickly unholsters a pistol to ready it while the other smothers the cat’s face. He can feel it squirm through his gloves and has half a mind to pinch its mouth shut with his fingers.
While the footsteps grow near, they never reach him. All at once, the cat skitters away from him and yowls, charging towards the door. A blood-curdling caterwaul that does not sound in any way capable of coming from an animal of its size erupts as its fur puffs out.
The sound only worsens as he hears the stranger take one step closer to him. Guttural hissing interjects the downright screeches being let out. The stranger huffs, either a laugh or of annoyance, and miraculously turns around to walk back out. Ghost feels a stab of satisfaction at a single rifle shot and the telltale sound of a body slumping to the ground bonelessly.
He’s rudely reminded that he’s been holding his breath as his body demands air. Even with measured and careful inhales, breathing still hurts like hell.
“What on God’s green Earth is that noise?” Ghost can hear Soap resume speaking through the radio. “Ghost, copy?”
“I’m hit,” he admits reluctantly. “Nothing too bad. Are things clear?” He’s become quite talented at lying through his teeth throughout his life, shrugging off the fact that he’s been shot.
“Affirmative,” Price responds. “Can you get to us safely, lieutenant?”
Almost automatically, Ghost goes to agree before realizing that no, he isn’t quite sure he can get anywhere on his own at the moment. With adrenaline steadily wearing off, his body protests any movement at all. Gritting his teeth, he tells the truth. “I may need assistance.”
The sentence has hardly left his mouth before Soap volunteers to come over. “‘M I hearing things? Did he just admit he needed some help?” the Scot cackles over the link as a bluff. “Must be in a real sorry state for that to be true.”
“I can still kick your ass perfectly fine, sergeant,” Ghost spits back. “Just wait and see.”
“I’m shaking in my boots,” Soap jeers with a laugh.
“Sergeant! If the lieutenant is injured, this is not the time to jest,” König sounds more worried about Ghost’s current state than he himself. On one hand, it’s understandable: the Austrian is notorious for fretting and expecting the worst (which is sometimes a good thing, he supposes, as someone prepared for the worst is hardly ever caught). On the other hand, it's Ghost he’s worrying about. He wants to make a quip, something nearing “he doesn’t need to be worried about” or “he doesn’t deserve to be worried about”, but he knows it’d be of no use.
“I’m fine,” he lies, as he is most certainly not fine. Ghost can still feel blood leaking from the wound, sticky and tacky as it soaks into his gear. Applying pressure can only do so much to a decently-sized wound. Belatedly, he fumbles for a med pack and the stim that is surely inside it. His anger only spikes when his fingers are too sluggish and clumsy to properly ruffle through gear to retrieve the stimulant. In a huff, he pauses and thunks his head back against the wall. Ghost forcefully evens his breathing, even though he’s still angry about the whole situation.
At first, he thinks he’s being too paranoid when he hears the simple and near-silent footprints approaching him. They’re far too small to be a human, so it can only mean one thing.
“Nobody asked for you,” he spits at the cat striding up to him. He wants to nudge it away with his boot (absolutely not kicking it, as he wants to be nothing like his shitty father had been towards innocent things). Unfortunately, it pads up to him and settles back in his lap in a neat little circular pile, tucking its front paws under its chest.
“Mmn.” He groans. He’s stuck here with it and if he’s found like this he knows there’s going to be comments and quips at his expense.
Mmh! The cat replies, a happy little trill.
Oh, he’s certainly in for it.