Call of Desire

6. Reconstruct

re·con·struct
/ˌrēkənˈstrək(t)/
verb
build or form (something) again after it has been damaged or destroyed.

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Content Warning: Gore

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Ghost was covered in engine grease, having worked on the broken-down truck for several hours. His shirt clung to his back, his entire body soaked with sweat. 

"Turn the key again?" he looked up at Soap, who sat in the driver's seat.

Soap obeyed, and the transmission whined and choked before failing.

"Shit!" Ghost slammed his fists into the front bumper.

"We'll get it." Soap sighed, his blue eyes slightly dull, lidded.

"Will we?" Ghost hissed, gaze flashing with frustration. "Fucking look at the situation we're in!"

"I know, Simon," MacTavish replied, trying to remain level-headed despite the cloud of doubt that loomed over them. "I'm trying to stay optimistic."

"How the fuck can you be optimistic with the deadline we're on! We've already wasted half a day!" Ghost growled, shooting a glare at the other man.

"Yelling at me won't bloody change that!" Soap climbed out of the truck, slammed the door and limped back to the bar.

Ghost sighed, letting his head hang for a moment. "Johnny, I didn-"

"Talk to me when you've found something else to take your anger out on!" Soap hissed with a wince, his hip giving out under him with a spike of pain that travelled up his back and down his leg. "Shite!" he hissed, hitting the ground with a thud. His shoulder throbbed, hip aching with a bone-deep soreness.

"You alright?" Ghost carefully helped him up, supporting most of the Scotsman's weight. He groaned, wiping the dirt off his face.

"Fuck, it hurts." Soap uttered roughly.

"You're really warm, mate," Simon spoke, worry lacing his usually stoic tone.

"Am I?"

"Yeah," Ghost assisted him as they walked back into the bar. "You feel okay?"

"I feel fine." In reality, Soap felt heavy and weak. He felt extremely overheated, and yet, he was shivering.

"Relax, okay? Just sit." Simon gently leaned Soap against the wall. He slid down, collapsing. He breathed heavily, his shirt clinging to his sweaty torso. "Where does it hurt most? Arm or hip?"

"My leg..." Soap uttered between clenched teeth, and Ghost gently pulled aside the other's trousers and removed the bandages. As Ghost peeled away the final layer of gauze, he recoiled lightly at the ghastly scene. "Aw fuck, it's bad, isn't it?"

"Well..." Ghost pursed his lips. The blood around the wound had turned almost black. "It's  infected."

"What?" Soap looked up as Ghost hurriedly stood, gathering the various medical supplies they had scattered around the bar from the last attempt at first aid.

"Just take a few deep breaths," the Lieutenant kneeled beside the wounded man, bottle of whiskey in hand.

"What, trying to win me over with a drink?" Soap smiled painfully, trying to push past the fear with humour.

"You're gonna need it," the Brit offered the bottle to Soap, who took it, taking several large gulps. The alcohol burned his throat, warmth settling into his empty stomach.