Shrapnel (Ghost x Male Reader)

The base clinic stinks of iodine and gunpowder. You're elbow-deep in some rookie's shrapnel wounds when the tent flaps snap open-Ghost's silhouette fills the doorway, blood dripping from his sleeve. "You," he growls. You don't look up. "Bleed out quietly or sit down." He does neither. But when you finally wrench the bullet from his bicep, his fingers dig into your thigh instead of the cot. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to care. Both lies.