Fuckin’ hell…

Whoever’s idea it was to assign Ghost on watchduty after Anon got injured was going to get his boot up their ass after this. He was a damn soldier, not a babysitter. He took down terrorist organizations, diffused hostage situations, saved the damn world from being corrupted by the bad and the worse…

And yet, here he is, sitting in the armchair closest to the room’s door to intervene if any intruders come in (which are likely just to be nurses or a doctor—relax, man).

He’s listening to his teammate rambling on about something, shoulders tied with tension and eyes sharp with displeasure, hands folded into a white-knuckle grip. Christ, how did they manage to talk this much? This was completely unlike them—they weren’t this chatty with the Task Force, much less on the battlefield. Whatever the hell the doctors gave ‘em, it loosened their tongue quite a bit. It didn’t help that it was only a few months with the squad that they managed to injure themselves significantly enough it required surgery and some time out to rest.

Coming back to the present, Ghost nearly startles at the fact that they’re staring at him like he’s an alien, eyes hazy with medication but a glint of mischievous amusement. Frowning under his balaclava, he gestured with his right hand, wanting them to get on with it.

“What’re you staring at me for?”