Chapter Text
Hiding injuries and various ailments from the rest of his task force was nothing new to Ghost. He’d done it many times in fact, preferring to handle things himself rather than being fussed over by his teammates, or worse, the medics in the infirmary. Ghost would often lie to himself, say that his reasoning for being fiercely independent was based on the desire to not be a burden, however truthfully if he were to think on it too long, it was the fact that being vulnerable like that in front of anyone was a terrifying thought to him.
And it was for this reason that when a stray bullet had grazed his shoulder in Las Almas, he told no one. Ghost told himself that he could stitch it up himself with his meager medical skills after they were safely back at base, however his plan quickly spiraled as Price pulled both him and Soap into an extensive debrief regarding the whole situation. As Price and Soap were talking endlessly, Ghost could practically feel the wound fester under his clothes. As the meeting dragged on, a horrible concoction of fever and unbridled nausea made itself known.
As the debrief finally came to a close, Soap gave him an odd look. Ghost knew what it was for of course; the masked man had barely spoken the entire meeting, which wasn’t necessarily uncharacteristic for him, however after the back and forth banter between the two men in Las Almas, the silence seemed a bit out of place. Ghost tried to say something, anything to excuse his sudden odd behavior, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. A simple and half-hearted shrug is the only thing Ghost managed to convey to Soap before the two of them parted ways for the evening.
Ghost sluggishly returned to his room, doing his best to seem as normal as possible as he practically stumbled through the base. By the time he’d made it to his door, his vision was swimming and his tactical gear felt far too heavy and somewhat… constricting. Even his mask felt suffocating. Both sensations brought him back to that shallow grave with Vernon. The brief flashback was the nail in his coffin. With haste, Ghost entered his room and immediately stumbled into the bathroom. Pulling his mask up to his nose was all Ghost could accomplish before he was vomiting into the toilet.
Rather than moving, Ghost settled himself on the bathroom floor. The nausea still coiling in his gut told him that moving was a bad idea so he stayed still, simply resting his head against the bathroom wall. It definitely wasn’t a comfortable position by any standards, let alone a desirable situation, but to Ghost, this conundrum was far better than being fussed over by others. With his hand shaking, Ghost reached up and gently rolled back his sleeve, hissing as his hand brushed against the bullet wound. As his eyes made contact with the injury, he cursed under his breath. The sight around the wound was a vibrant and angry red, whereas the wound itself supported a sickly yellow-green color.
There weren’t any doubts in his mind. He was dealing with a serious infection, and thus the associated sickness that came with it. Ghost sighed, letting his eyes drift closed as his exhaustion began to hit him full force. Typically, he did his best to limit sleep as much as possible, preferring the sleep deprivation to the horrible nightmares he experienced. However given his current compromised state, the overwhelming need to sleep triumphed and he practically slumped onto the bathroom floor.
Soap should have figured something was wrong during the debrief. He definitely should have realized something was wrong when Ghost split off without a single word afterwards. It wasn’t until Soap was eating dinner in the mess hall that it occurred to him that something was wrong. He hadn’t seen Ghost since they’d split ways earlier. Sure, Ghost could be rather elusive when he wanted, but that man didn’t miss meals for anything. Soap sighs, shaking his head at the stupidity of his friend. The Scottish man abandons his seat, throwing away the scraps of his meal and returning to the meal line.
As he approaches the food selection once again, the serving lady gives him a quizzical look.
“It’s for Ghost. He didn’t show up for dinner.” Soap explains, hoping she’ll make an exception.
She simply nods in response, dishing out another plate of food and handing it to Soap.
“Thank you lass” He offers with a smile. Soap then exits the mess hall, plate in hand as he falls into the familiar path to Ghost’s room. Soon enough, Soap reaches the door and knocks gently. Typically it takes nothing more than a gentle knock for Ghost to open the door, however it doesn’t happen that way this time. Soap scrunches his brow, knocking again, quite loudly. He hears some quiet shuffling but again the door doesn’t open
“Ghost you numpty, open the fucking door” Soap mutters impatiently
“Piss off” Ghost manages to reply, not having moved from his spot in the bathroom. His voice is hoarse from vomiting and he knows it. Ghost hopes that the door muffles this enough that Soap won’t notice and will perhaps go away. Ghost’s hopes are trampled on when the door opens. Soap steps into the bathroom doorway, his hand instantly coming up to his nose as the foul odor of vomit hits him.
“Fucking christ Ghost, is this why I’ve not seen ya since earlier?” Soap proclaims.
Ghost does nothing but huff in response, annoyed that he’s been caught. “More or less.” He eventually replies, doing his best to sit up and face Soap properly, hoping to preserve some level of dignity, however truthfully he knows it’s already flown out the window.
Soap sighs, holding his forehead in his hand for a moment of exasperation. His form temporarily disappears from the doorway. Ghost can hear him opening the door to his fridge, likely to put the food away. A weak smile dusts his features temporarily at this act before it quickly drops again as Soap enters the bathroom. Ghost is painfully aware as Soap’s gaze drifts over him. Alarm crosses the Scot’s features and it is at this moment that the masked man knows he’s in for a proper scolding; Soap has spotted the wound. A string of curses that can only be described as gibberish by Ghost escapes Soap and suddenly the Scot has his hand on Ghost’s forehead. More Scottish gibberish ensues and Ghost can’t help but roll his eyes.
“English, MacTavish” Ghost weakly gripes.
“You’re burnin up ya dafty” Soap shoots back, an obvious scowl on his face. His arms are crossed, and as Ghost analyzes him, likely a bit more than he really should, he notices that the expression Soap wears isn’t necessarily anger, but worry. Ghost doesn’t really think much of it; it’s only natural for teammates to care about each other, right?
Soap sighs exasperatedly at the state of his friend, his head hanging in defeat. “Simon, how many more rock bottoms are you going to hit before you start taking care of yourself?” The Scottsman asks, his tone serious.
Ghost snorts in reply, refusing to acknowledge the fact that Soap used his given name. “Was thinkin of a number between 11 and 25” the stubborn man replies, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Soap shakes his head, his expression dead serious now. “I’m taking you to the infirmary.” He mutters, offering his hand for Ghost to take, figuring the taller man can’t get up himself given the state he’s in.
“Take me there and I’ll break your fucking knees” Ghost replies stubbornly.
Soap can’t help but chuckle at this remark. “Aye, that's totally threatening given the state of you. C’mon, let’s go.”
Ghost shakes his head, not budging. “No, Johnny.” he replies, his tone deadly serious.
Soap’s lip curls at this and the two share somewhat of a staring contest before Soap sighs in defeat. “Fine, but youre gonna do what I say or I will take you to the infirmary.” He mutters, accentuating the word ‘will’.
Ghost nods, figuring this is preferable to the alternative. Soap smiles in response, reaching around Ghost and turning the faucet to the bathtub on. He sets the water temperature to cold before leaning back again. “I’m going to go fetch some ice, I want you in that tub when I’m back” the sergeant mutters.
Ghost shakes his head, knowing that he won’t be able to get his gear off by himself. This fact alone is utterly humiliating for him, and he really doesn’t want to voice this, but with Soap holding an infirmary visit over his head, he doesn’t really have a better option. “Can’t get my gear off.” He admits.
Soap raises an eyebrow at this, a devilish smirk temporarily gracing his features. It makes Ghost’s guts flutter, and not in a nausea sort of way. He decides to evaluate the feeling later and weakly lifts his arms up for Soap. The Scotsman wastes no time, gently undoing all of the straps and belts on Ghost’s gear. First the belt comes off, followed by his tactical vest. Ghost breathes out a sigh of relief, for more reasons than one. Typically he’d be able to tolerate Soap being this close, however given his illness ridden mind, he really isn’t thinking clearly.
“Thanks” Ghost murmurs weakly, looking up in time to see Soap’s burly frame heading out of the door. Ghost weakly sits up again, doing his best not to throw up as his vision spins and the nausea hits him full force. He weakly pulls himself up using the toilet as his support. The masked man frowns, fumbling with the button of his pants as he struggles to get them off. After several minutes, he’s finally succeeded in getting his pants and shirt off.
Ghost shakily steps into the tub, still using the wall and toilet for support. He manages to get both feet in before essentially slumping into the cold water. Ghost frowns, not enjoying being so exposed like this, as he knows Soap will likely be back soon. He gently pulls the curtain to the bathtub closed, knowing it's opaque enough that Soap won’t be able to see in. He then turns the water off.
Just as he’s settling into the cold water, he hears Soap return to the room. A blush dusts his cheeks, not that they’re exceptionally visible, as his mask is still pulled up only to his nose. He refuses to just take it off, as the lack of clothing elsewhere is making him feel exceptionally exposed. “Just dump the ice in and don’t look.” He tells Soap.
Soap frowns at this remark, a little hurt that Ghost doesn’t trust him. The sergeant does as told, moving his gaze to the floor as he approaches the bathtub. Soap barely opens the curtain and gently begins pouring the ice into the tub. A hiss escapes the lieutenant at the sudden temperature drop. Soap puts the bucket back on the floor and goes to exit the room.
“Thank you, Johnny.” Ghost murmurs.
Soap stops in his tracks, a smile dancing on his lips. “You’re welcome, Simon.” he murmurs in reply before exiting the bathroom.