𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 {𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 '𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭' 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲}

8 | real

I requested physical therapy immediately. Ghost and Rodolfo had gone back to base during the day and occasionally came back to see how I was doing.

Ghost was a frequent visitor and honestly, I'm beyond grateful for him that he was there with me and saved my life.

Though, I still didn't know what was happening back at base, and I was completely out of the loop. When I asked Ghost about it, he brushed it off, beginning a new conversation.

From all the times I'd asked and all the times I'd been ignored, I knew something had happened. I just didn't know what. We had gotten into multiple arguments about why he wasn't telling me but he always said it wasn't important.

Maybe someone had gotten shot like me, or got lost. Hell, maybe someone had died.

I was furious he didn't tell me, but there was no use in trying to pry it out of him if the answer was nothing.

—

While all that stress was on me, the stress of the physical therapy was taking a toll on me too.

It's like Ghost and Rodolfo had predicted it.

I had horrible trouble moving my arm from side to side and up and down, and the excruciating pain that came when I tried caused me to have to sit down every time and breathe.

It was embarrassing.

I was always able to get back up when I had gotten shot in the past, but not this one. The left side of my body was in constant pain and my muscles were on fire every time I tried to move.

About a week in, it was getting better, but nothing was to perfection.

—

He sat next to me on the bed, my right hand covering my face as my left arm lay to my side.

I didn't want to cry in front of him, but when he asked about the process I couldn't help it.

"It's not getting better," I told him.

Ghost just sat there staring at the ground while I cried. He didn't say a word or move a muscle as he didn't know exactly what to do to comfort me.

"But... you can move it?" He asks, more of an optimistic statement than a question.

"It hurts, Ghost. Everything hurts."

"Everything is gonna hurt at one point. Sometimes it gets better."

"And what if it doesn't?" I sniffle, turning to him with wet cheeks and red eyes.

He goes silent, never taking his eyes off the floor.

"I mean look at me!" I cry, pointing to my arm, "I'm a fucking cripple. I can't do anything!"

Finally, he turns to me, "You're not a cripple. Don't say that about yourself. You're getting better, it's a slow process, Cuda."

"Too fucking slow," I mumble. Somehow now I was angry. Angry at myself for being hurt although I couldn't help it. I was angry that my body wasn't healing as fast as I wanted it to. I was angry at everything.

Then, he carefully and gently throws his arm around my shoulder, wrapping his hand softly around the hurting arm. He rubs his hand up and down the skin, and although the contact hurt at first, it was soothing.

My head falls limp onto his body, and I stare blankly at the wall as my mind flickers through the events that had happened in the last week.

Silent tears dripped down my face as we both sat there quietly. I finally got a minute to breathe, my heart racing from all the yelling and crying that I had been doing.

My heart finally slowed down to a pace that I could breathe normally at; slow, quiet breaths from my mouth as my nose was clogged with snot.

"When's the last time you got shot?" I ask him.

"I'm not really sure. I don't really throw myself onto the battlefield in large groups, so there's no way to really see me to even shoot at me. The last time I was really fighting anyone was in Chicago."

"Where Hassan was."

"That's right. I was alone, just Soap and I. I had been watching out for Hassan from on top of a building then finally he caught my eye. If my aim hadn't been good, I would have shot Soap."

I chuckle lightly, "But your aim is just that good, so you didn't."

"Exactly."

I smile gently, the room falling into a comfortable silence again.

"When's the last time you had gotten shot? Besides this time."

I hum, trying to remember the previous few weeks.

"I was in a training game with König and he had actually grabbed the wrong gun, which was a real gun. His bullet grazed my arm though, so nothing penetrated."

I lift up my right arm's sleeve, picking my body up from his as his arm falls from my shoulder. I show him the scar from it, "It's just a surface wound, but there was a shit ton of blood. He felt so bad that poor guy."

He hums, looking at the scar.

I look at his eyes through the mask, the mask that never came off.

"I feel better," I tell him, "I'm glad you came."

"I had to. No one else does."

"Yeah," I say softly, "I just wish I could get out of here soon."

He takes his eyes off the scar, and I let my sleeve fall back down. His eyes flicker around the room, then back to me.

I hear him inhale deeply, then he stands up, "I should get going. It's my turn to cook dinner tonight."

I smile, "Okay."

He nods firmly.

"Can I give you a hug first?" I ask him. He stares, confused almost, but then he stretches his arms out.

I stand up shakily, walking over to him before I wrap my good arm around him.

"Hug me with both, or it's not a real hug," He whispers.

"Ghost, I can't."

"You can."

I sigh, bringing my left arm slowly up his back. It hurt just to move the muscle, but eventually, it got to a point where he could hug me back just as much as I was hugging him.

I rest my cheek against his chest, gently closing my eyes as he engulfs me in his embrace.

This felt real. Everything about this was real.

—
A/N

a little fluff here and there ☺️