COD Oneshots

The medic (ghost)

Y/n had lost count of how many times she had stitched up Simon "Ghost" Riley. As the lead medic in a remote military outpost, she was used to seeing her fair share of wounds and injuries, but there was something different about Ghost. Not just the injuries he sustained—always the most severe, the result of the most dangerous missions—but the man himself. He was a mystery wrapped in layers of black tactical gear and an ever-present skull mask.

It was late, the fluorescent lights of the hospital tent casting a harsh glow on the rows of beds. Most of them were empty tonight. Y/n was reviewing patient charts when she heard the familiar sound of heavy boots approaching. She looked up and there he was, like clockwork, limping through the entrance.

"Back again, Simon?" she asked, a hint of a smile playing at her lips as she set her clipboard down.

"Seems that way," Ghost grunted, lowering himself onto the nearest bed with a wince. "Took a bit of shrapnel this time."

Y/n grabbed her kit and moved to his side. She knelt to inspect the wound on his thigh. "You're lucky it's just shrapnel. Could've been much worse."

"Luck's never been on my side," Ghost replied, his voice carrying a weariness that tugged at Y/n's heart.

As she worked, the tent was silent save for the soft clinking of instruments and Ghost's occasional hiss of pain. Y/n had gotten used to his stoic demeanor, but tonight, something felt different. There was a tension in the air, an unspoken heaviness that seemed to weigh on him more than usual.

"You don't have to do this, you know," she said softly, not looking up from her work. "You're not indestructible, despite what you might think."

Ghost chuckled, a sound that was more bitter than amused. "Someone's got to do it. Might as well be me."

Y/n finished stitching the wound and began wrapping it. "You need to take better care of yourself, Simon. You're no good to anyone if you end up dead."

He didn't respond, just watched her with those piercing eyes of his. She could feel his gaze even through the mask. It was unnerving and comforting all at once.

"You worry too much," he said finally, his voice softer now.

"Someone has to," she shot back, meeting his gaze. "And since you don't seem to care, I'll do it for you."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Ghost reached out, his gloved hand lightly touching hers. "Thanks, Y/n. For everything."

She looked at their hands, surprised by the gesture. "Just doing my job," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"No," Ghost said, shaking his head slightly. "It's more than that."

He stood up, testing the weight on his injured leg. Satisfied, he nodded to her. "I'll see you around."

"You better not," she replied with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood. "But if you do, I'll be here."

As Ghost walked out of the tent, Y/n watched him go, a mix of worry and admiration swelling in her chest. She knew he would be back, and she knew she would be there, ready to patch him up again. It was a dangerous dance they played, but in this brutal world, it was the closest thing to companionship either of them had.

And for now, that was enough.

---------

Y/n was reorganizing the supply shelves when she heard the now-familiar sound of heavy boots. She turned, already knowing who it was. Ghost stood in the entrance, his presence as imposing as ever, but there was a noticeable difference this time—a certain lightness in his posture, a glint in his eye.