#figuratively speaking

Things were going fine,for the most part. The hardest thing you had had to do was reveal you were a traitor. You will never forget the look in Ghost’s eyes as you shot Soap and walked away with Makarov. Of course, you didn't hit Soap anywhere fatal, just pistol whipped him and grazed the side of his skull, but from any point of view other than your own, it looked like you had shot him in the face. 

You rose in rank quickly after that, being able to dedicate your full time to ‘the cause’. Things were going well, and you started to think you might actually make it out of this alive. That is, until Ghost showed up, beaten, bloodied, and caught. 

You stand on the other side of the one-way mirror, watching Ghost get beat 9-ways to Sunday as he refuses to give out information. You hear him let out a small, pained cry and close your eyes, knowing what you have to do, even if it‘s going to get you killed. 

You spend the day preparing, packing a go-bag, obtaining the key to his cuffs, making sure you would be on rotation to ‘question’ him. You set the cameras to loop for 10 minutes at 8:30, make sure the power will shut off, knowing it will take 9 minutes to bring everything back online. You spend the day high-strung, on-edge about someone catching you before you even have the chance to save him.

 The time comes and you make your way down the hall, down the stairs, and to his cell, key stuck under your tongue. You nod to the guard outside of the door and take a deep breath before stepping in. 

“Traitor.” Ghost hisses when he sees you. His mask is off, blood running freely from his mouth. You say nothing, just kneel in front of him. Your heart hurts at how bloodied and bruised his body is. You touch his cheek, running a finger gently along a cut under his eye. He flinches back, spitting blood at you.

“Don't think so little of me.” You murmur softly, wiping blood from your cheek, “Why are you here? Did Price send you?” 

“I’m not telling you anything.” He snarls. You sigh softly, resisting the urge to cry at the absolute hatred in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, digging your thumb into a wound on his arm, “I’m so, so sorry.” He hisses, face contorting in pain and your heart falls even more. You continue like this for almost 15 minutes, you doing your best not to hurt him too much, and Ghost remaining tight-lipped and angry. 

“You know,” He gasps out finally, “Soap had hope for you. Said that you could have killed him but didn’t. It’s almost sad that I’l have to tell him he’s wrong.” 

You feel a flicker of hope in your chest, relief that maybe someone other than Price will show up to your funeral. 

“Tell him I’m sorry, will ya?” You ask softly. He opens his mouth to respond and you seize your moment, grasping his face and pulling him in for a kiss. He makes a muffled sound of protest and tries to push you off, stopping when he feels cool, hard metal being pressed into his mouth. 

“This hallway will be clear in 30 minutes for exactly 9 minutes.” You whisper in his ear, pressing a hand over his mouth as he tries to ask you a question, “Tell Price I’m sorry that I couldn’t give him everything he needed.” You press a kiss to his forehead, rise, and walk out the door. “Anything?” The guard by the door asks.

“He won't talk. He is as infuriating as he was when I left.” I roll my eyes, “Never did know what was good for him.” 

“Cheers to that.” You nod to the guard, walking briskly down the hallway. If you are going to have any chance of surviving this, you have to get out now. 

Rescue

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. You did still have a job to complete. You began to collect every scrap of intelligence you could find, anything to ensure this whole mission wasn’t in vain. It took you 3 days to get everything together, but finally, after 3 days of being scared of your own shadow, you were ready to leave. You planned it all out, preparing to slip out under the cover of darkness, when the guard changes. But life is never so easy. 

In those 3 days, they managed to figure out you were the one who helped Ghost escape, and when they did, all hell broke loose. You were dragged to interrogation, handcuffed to the table, and questioned for hours. You said nothing, and soon harsher methods were utilized to get you to talk. 

You didn’t break. No matter what they did, you never said a word. You held your tongue through the beatings, the waterboardings, the white room, through fingernails being removed, through stress positions, through electrocution. You would be proud of yourself for how you held up, if  you weren’t in so much pain. You latched onto the fact that someone *would* come for you, if only because you would miss your monthly rendezvous with Price. That alone gave you the willpower to not give up completely. 

You lay curled in your cell, back up against the wall in the fetal position when the door swings open. Nothing new, the guards liked to try to scare you. You automatically curl up tighter, bracing yourself in preparation for whatever was about to happen. You keep your face pressed into your knees, hiding from the world for one more second.

“I’ve got them!” You could tell he yelled it, but the sound is muffled in your ears. You shift slightly, unused to the sound in the quiet of your cell, and look up. A man crouches over you, his figure blurred and wavering. He looks familiar, but you are so exhausted and in too much pain to think about it.  He speaks again, and hope wells in your heart as you recognize the voice. 

“We’re gonna get ye outta here, okay little bird?” Soap winces at your bruised, malnourished form. Your clothes are in rags, and he can see your ribs through your skin, which is mottled with bruises, welts, and burn marks. His heart hurts as he sees the fear in your eyes when the medics touch you, collaring and loading you onto a stretcher before moving out. 

He follows behind, eyes never leaving your frail, trembling form. Price and Ghost wait outside, and Soap stops next to them, letting the medics take you away. Price looks guilty and Ghosts look haunted, as they see your broken form, and deep inside Soap gloats in their misery. 

“I shouldn’t have sent them on this op.” Price murmurs as he watches the medics load you into the chopper. Ghost stands with him, eyes never leaving your limp form. 

“Ye shouldn’ta sent them with no back-up.” Soap says, slightly annoyed, “It’s against regulations and if they die, it's on yer conscience” 

“I know.” Price says softly. He climbs into the driver's side of the truck once the chopper fades from view, and Soap discreetly nudges Ghost forwards. He takes his spot in the passenger seat, Soap in the back, and they drive back to base in silence.

“They’ll be okay.” The doctor says after hours of surgery, “But they have a long recovery ahead of them. They had a dislocated shoulder, fractured wrist, broken fingers, partially-healed broken ribs, multiple burn marks and contusions, a concussion, a major couple ear infection, and pneumonia. We also had to re-break their femur because it had started healing wrong, and we have them on an IV and feeding tube due to how malnourished they are. They should be coming out of anesthesia soon, if one of you wants to visit them.” 

Soap looks at Ghost and Price, expecting one of them to say something. But the guilt that's written in every fiber of their being answers that questions for Soap. 

“Ghost’ll go.” He says quickly. Ghost looks at him, and Soap can almost smell the fear. He rolls his eyes, shaking his head at his friend's stupidity. How a man who had faced war, torture, and death on the daily with a straight face could be afraid of saying sorry, Soap would never understand. He shoves him forward, and watches in disbelief as Ghost somehow manages to hide behind the doctor as they walk down the hallway.

Ghost did not want to see you. Well, no. That's not exactly true. He did want to see you, but he didn’t think you’d want to see him. He had accused you of being a traitor, of betraying everything you had ever stood for, and you had saved him anyways. And got tortured for it. So to be the first face you saw when you woke up? He didn’t think you’d like that very much. 

Soap, on the other hand, had believed in you, even after you’d shot him. And here Ghost was, your partner, and he couldn’t even have that much faith in you. He spent this past month wracked with guilt, barely eating or sleeping as they counted down the days until they would be able to rescue you. 

The doctor guides him to your room, and he takes a deep breath, steeling himself, before opening the door to sit by your bedside. 

His eyes rake over your prone form, the guilt deepening as he takes in the multiple stitches and bandages, atrophied muscles, bruised skin, the tubes and wires sticking every which-way out of your body. 

“Hey.” He flinches, honest-to-gods flinches, too lost inside his head to notice you were awake. Awake, and sounding awful. Your voice was low and hoarse, and it hurt him to think about why. 

“Hey.” He murmurs, sliding into the seat by your bed with surprising grace. You don’t miss how his hands clasp together in his lap instead of holding yours. 

A frown crosses your face as you look up at him through glazed, unfocused eyes. Real or not, this sight of him has joy and fear warring in your heart. Joy, because you still love him, and you are glad your sacrifice was not for naught. Fear, because what if he still hates you? What if he never wants to see you again? What if he’s upset that you got rescued. You can’t help but think about how Soap was the one that found you. 

“How are you?” Comes out of his mouth, startling you. 

“D’nno.” you slur, “they’ve go’ m’ ‘n th’ gud dru’s.” He doesn’t respond, just nods and goes back to staring at you in silence.

“How ‘re y’?” You mumble. He looks up, his eyes dark and haunted, heavy with guilt. He doesn’t respond for a moment, surveying your broken form again. You almost cry, never once having seen him lay his emotions bare like that. Wake up.

“Fine.” He says finally, “alive.” He looks down, fingering his gloves. You don’t respond, just sink back against your pillows and watch him through hooded eyes. It amazes you how someone so big can make themselves look so small. 

“ ’m sor-.” 

“Do y’ h-” You stop, both of you speaking at the same time, the minutes of uncomfortable silence finally driving you to talk. 

“Y’ firs’.” You slur. He nods, staring at his hands as he opens his mouth. 

“ 'm sorry.” He murmurs, “I never shoulda doubted you. I jus-” He trails off, still not meeting your eyes. Hope blooms in your heart, a fragile thing you had not felt in months, a tiny little flame in your chest, fuelled by the thought that maybe he doesn’t hate you. You sigh softly, knowing there's no way that would be true. Wake up.

“Don’ be s’rry.  It w’s by d’sign tha’ y’ though’ I w’s a tra’or. I ne’er…I di’n’ thin’ I woul’ b’....I though’ y’ woul’ ha’e me wh’n I c’me ba’.” You pause, breath hitching, “Do y’ ha’e me?” 

“No.” The word is sharp, leaving his mouth without a thought. He shifts, finally meeting your eyes, and all you can see in his gaze is grief. 

“I ne’er…that’s why I was so angry.” He looks at you pleadingly, “I never stopped loving y’, ‘n I was so angry that I couldn’t…when Price said you didn’t show…” He trails off, and you just know that he is biting his tongue under the mask.

 It’s almost too good to be true, you think to yourself. Your exhaustion-addled brain was just conjuring up another story for you. At least this one he forgave you. You laugh wetly, wishing you could stick around. But no, you need to wake up.

 Wake up. 

Wake up and it will be gone. 

Wake up. 

Just wake up and you can stop this self-inflicted torture. 

Wake up.

Wake up! 

WAKE UP!

“Y/n?” You flinch at the touch on your arm, heart racing, your lips parted as you let out a startled cry. Ghost pulls his hand back, and once your vision clears you can see the worry in his eyes. “Are y’ back?” He asks softly, “y’r mind was gone there f’r a minute.” You pant softly, hands shaking as you take in the room around you. 

“Ghost?” You gasp, the room vibrant and swirling around you. Your vision tunnels, and you reach for him, needing to feel, to know that this is real. But you are too weak to even lift your arm that far, much less to sit up. You fall back, black dots dancing in front of your vision. 

Distantly you feel a hand on your forehead, tucking your hair back. A voice is whispering in your ear, but you can’t hear it. Your eyes flutter shut, the meds and exhaustion finally pulling you under. 

"Sleep." Ghost murmurs as your eyes slide shut, "I'll be here."

Part 2?