Not All Shells are Hollow

Hell can be Home

"So then you got tackled by a dog about as big as you?" Ghost watched MacTavish prod at the numerous stitches in his hand. Doc was flexing some of his authority as a medic for a change and advised no training or work that risked popping the stitches. The decision was clearly driving the Captain up the wall. "I didn't realize dogs could get that big."

"Great Danes are huge monsters," MacTavish grumbled and went to work wrapping his hand in fresh bandages. Sadly, his injured hand was also his dominant, so he clearly struggled a bit.

After a minute, Ghost sat down beside him. "Here, lemme help. You're not doing it right." He took the gauze from him and went over the hand neatly and carefully. "Our Captain, bested by a dog and a bottle of scotch. How awe inspiring."

"Quiet. I'd like to see you deal with that shite." MacTavish curled his fingers a little under the bandages, just to test how tight they were. He definitely couldn't form a proper fist. "Thanks."

"Your welcome," Ghost patted his shoulder and then gave the bandage on the back of his Captain's head a tap. "Need me to change this too?"

The tap made him cringe slightly. He then supplied a small nod in compliance.

Ghost carefully peeled the medical tape up off his scalp, and removed the bloodied pad of gauze. Underneath was a half formed scab over a nasty scrape about 5 cm across. The skin around it was a lovely shade of purple. With a steady hand, he cleaned it up as best he could with the man wincing away under him. "Stay still," he warned, pressing the damp paper towel to the scrape.

"Ow! I'm trying!" MacTavish gripped the knees of his pants.

Shaking his head, Ghost resumed his work and affixed a fresh pad of gauze to the wound with a few strips of medical tape. "Alright. Any other injuries you hiding? Bullet holes, stab wounds?"

The Captain waved him off with a half hearted "No, no." and sunk back in the metal seat. "Any idea when Doc's getting back over here?"

Initially Ghost came in here to deal with a scrape on his back after taking a tumble on the ice outside the barracks. Some ass forgot to salt the step the day before when it was raining, so it froze over. By sheer coincidence, MacTavish was already here getting about seven stitches redone after he tried to open a bag of salt to deal with the ice before anyone could get hurt. Ghost only just got through explaining to Doc that his back was bleeding when Buck arrived, claiming he may have sprained his wrist slipping outside the barracks. That was six minutes ago. "Who knows. I just know that I'm gonna kill whoever forgot to treat the steps."

"You and me both," MacTavish agreed. "And if we don't, Price will have his skin."

At about this time, Buck stepped through, wrist splinted, and left. Doc returned as well and shut the door after Buck was gone, the tension in his brow was enough to make it twitch. "I swear, you lot are a bunch of nutters. I take bullets out of some of you without so much as a peep, but suddenly you can't stop bitching when it hurts to move your hand." He turned to Ghost. "Alright, shirt off. Let's have a look-see."

Ghost tugged his shirt up and over his head, exposing the bloody scrape to the open air. He couldn't see it himself, but if he had to guess, it spanned from his hip all the way to the center of his back.

"Did you leave the rest of your back on the step?" MacTavish commented behind him.

"You're funny." Ghost recoiled slightly as Doc got to work cleaning up the scrape with cool water. "How the hell does a patch of ice take down three of us?"

"You tell me," Doc remarked, covering the wound now. Once the bandage was secure, he gave Ghost's shoulder a tap. "You're all set. And, Captain, I can't stress enough apparently, don't pop the damn stitches."