Contagious || Ghost x Fem

𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲

 You had received an email from Price earlier that morning that you were due for yet another training session. It kind of annoyed you that you were the only one who had to train with a trainer, but you were injured and had to build some of that muscle back. You slip into a breathable tank top, its fabric light and moisture-wicking to combat the warmth of the day. Pairing it with athletic shorts ensures comfort and flexibility for the training ahead. 

You briefly consider the soreness in your muscles, a reminder of yesterday's intense session, but you're determined to push through. You step out of your room, the morning sunlight filtering in through the windows, casting a warm glow across the corridor. Soap is there, looking like he could use another few hours of sleep. His hair is tousled, and there are dark circles under his eyes, clear signs of a rough night. Despite his disheveled appearance, he manages a weak greeting, prompting you to inquire about his well-being.

You ask Soap if he's alright, noting the weariness etched into his expression. He responds with a half-hearted nod, his voice carrying the weight of a morning spent battling a relentless hangover. "Just a rough one," he mumbles, rubbing his temples in a futile attempt to alleviate the pounding headache. "What about you? What are you up to today?" he asks, his curiosity evident as he peers at you through tired eyes. You offer a sympathetic smile, understanding the struggle all too well. "I'm heading for another training session," you reply, your tone casual but tinged with a hint of anticipation. Despite the soreness in your muscles, the prospect of further training with Ghost stirred a mix of nerves and determination within you.

Soap's brow furrows slightly in concern, his gaze flickering to the bandage peeking out from beneath your shirt. "How's the wound holding up?" he inquires, his voice tinged with genuine concern. You give a reassuring nod, the memory of the injury already fading into the background of your mind. "It's pretty much closed up now," you assure him, offering a small, reassuring smile. As you both descend the stairs, the remnants of the party have been cleared away, thanks to your diligent efforts earlier that morning. Empty pizza boxes and discarded bottles have been disposed of, leaving the room looking relatively neat.

Most of your team is slumped on the couch, their movements sluggish and their expressions mirroring Soap's evident hangover. Gaz and Alejandro seem to be engaged in a quiet conversation, their voices hushed as if any louder sound might shatter their delicate states. Ghost and Price, however, appear more composed despite the late hour and the remnants of the night's revelry. They're engaged in what seems like a serious discussion, their voices low as they exchange words that you can't quite catch from this distance. 

Price nods at Ghost's comment before excusing himself from the room, leaving behind the lingering scent of his cigar. Soap, looking considerably worse for wear, shuffles off to the kitchen to brew some much-needed coffee, the promise of its bitter warmth perhaps the only thing capable of alleviating his hangover. Ghost's gaze shifts to you, his expression unreadable behind his mask, as he tersely remarks, "Let's get this over with." His words carry an air of annoyance, suggesting that there will be no room for excuses or leniency during today's training session as he walks out the door.

As you prepare to leave, Alejandro, seemingly intrigued by your sudden departure, inquires about your destination. "Where are you off to?" he asks, curiosity evident in his tone. You respond with a nonchalant shrug, "Training," you explain simply, the weight of the impending session not yet fully registering in your mind. Gaz, clearly surprised by your plans given the previous night's indulgences, interjects with a hint of incredulity, "You're training after a night of drinking? You're crazy." You offer a dismissive shrug in response, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips, as you retort, "I don't really get hangovers."