#cathexis

Nox's biggest risk was blood loss. When Ghost set her down on the rear bench of the van, his shoulder was dark and wet. He did his best to support her head as Price drove. The trees were so thick that there was no chance of the helicopter reaching them from here. Soap kneeled on the cold metal floor of the van in front of her, med kit in hand. He worked to tug her jacket up, then her undershirt, to reveal the angry wound against her pale skin, all while fighting to maintain his balance. The edges around the bullet hole were drying and caking with blood, but the center was still raw and leaking.

Soap frowns, plants his hands on her lower back, and lifts her onto her side. He grimaces and swears under his breath. "It went through."

The exit hole looked worse. Red, inflamed, larger than the entrance. Merely two inches from the curve of her waist. He digs through the med kit and grabs clean towels, placing one on each side of her, and pressing as hard as he can. Her blood dyes them red instantly.

There wasn't much they could do in the small, confined space while their captain drove wildly. Ghost didn't like the churning he felt in his stomach, especially because he didn't have a reason for it. He didn't like holding her while the life drained from her, every moment feeling like an eternity. He didn't believe himself equipped to hold someone in their last moments; his hands weren't gentle enough. So, holding Nox felt like she was burning him.

Although not a medical helicopter, it was better supplied. Medics were on board with the proper equipment to stabilize her until they reached base. They surrounded her as she lay on a transfer sheet, limp and hardly breathing. They talked urgently among themselves and worked to stop the bleeding as they flew through the air.

When they landed on base, Ghost's instinct was to follow her into the medbay as she was rushed inside on a stretcher. He didn't. Something like a brick wall stopped him. He stood with his boots cemented to the ground, watching as she disappeared into the building. She would be fine. Then, she can finally leave as she said she would, and he can focus on destroying Al-Qatala.

The team didn't have to verbally agree on not seeing her, mostly because no matter what happened, they would carry on with their mission, but also because the medics had to remove her mask to supply her oxygen. It wouldn't be right for them to see her bare face while she was senseless, considering how hard she had fought to keep it on.

It took her a day to wake up.

She slowly blinked awake, the fluorescent lights hurting her eyes. Her right side throbs with pain. She lies still for a while, slowing her shallow breathing to minimize the ache as much as possible. Dizziness clouds her brain, leaving her with the whirlpool of memories—the sound of a gunshot, the smell of blood, and steady hands supporting her weight. The sterile room is quiet, other than a monotone beep that tracks her heartbeat. An IV bag drips steadily through a tube into her vein.

Oddly, she doesn't feel relieved. That should have been it for her. Her struggle, her perseverance, and her burdens should have died along with her body. When she imagines she's experienced true pain, another kind rears its ugly head.

As a tree stops receiving water, it does its best to conserve the remaining moisture inside. The soil around it dries. One by one, the leaves fall. The roots wither, and once they are brittle and beyond repair, it is only a matter of moments before the tree follows. It will stand in the rotting soil as a corpse.

Nox inhales unevenly, wincing from the pulse of her wound, wishing her roots would die.

Her eyes drift downwards. A thin blanket covers her lower half. Her gear has been switched to a hospital gown. She slowly reaches her left hand up and tenderly strokes her bare cheek. It feels raw and human.

The nurses are kind. They checked on her soon after she woke up. The bullet didn't hit any vital organs and passed right through her body. They were administering her heavy pain medications through the IV. One nurse said she was brave. Another said she was lucky. Nox didn't believe either of them. She was up and walking later that day. Unsteady and wincing when her skin stretched and wound stung, but walking nonetheless. The nurses wanted to keep her one more day to continue another dose of the IV, and she didn't argue. Time felt less urgent in her hospital room. Instead of a racing panic that seemed to stretch on forever, it had slowed to a crawl. She kept replaying the look on Bullet's face as he died, imagining how outraged Zakhaev was.

The next day, a nurse came and placed fresh clothes on her bed by her feet, with her mask lying on top of the pile. "You've been cleared." She says in a soothing voice. "Take care."

Putting on the clothes was harder than she thought it would be. She could hardly move the right side of her body without pain shooting through her limbs. Her teeth clench as she pulls her black long-sleeve shirt on, and she groans as she tugs the black leggings over her hips. She gathers her hair in a messy ponytail and shoves the length of it into the collar of her shirt before slipping her mask over her head.

She walks with a slight limp through the medical bay. As she rounds a corner towards the exit, she stops in her tracks when she sees Price sitting in the waiting area, a frown on his face, and his thick arms crossed in front of his vest. He notices her and stands with a rough grunt, then saunters towards her. He seems awkward and unsure. His lips press together in a tight line before he grumbles, "How're you?"

Her head tilts slightly. "Alive."

He hums. "We appreciate your help."

Nox's eyebrows raise a little, surprised. She never imagined she'd be thanked. Not to mention, thanked by her own previous captors.

"Was the right thing to do." She says softly.

Price nods, digesting her words. "We have room for you, if you're willing."

Her eyes lock onto his.

An official spot on the team. A real place fighting in the war. Somewhere she belongs in a place that isn't home. But home has been calling her for a long time, always in the back of her mind. It's always been her reason why—a promised land.

She sighs deeply, her shoulders sagging. "I can't."

Price nods, disappointed by her rejection. "Why's that?"

"I have personal business elsewhere."

He doesn't know the extent of it, but has faith it's the truth.

"Right," he mumbles. "There's a dorm unoccupied. Stay there for the night and take off in the morning."