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“Helen.”
“I’m going as quick as I can,” she snaps, almost hissing it out through her teeth.
He watches her. How her eyes scan over the monitor, fingers pausing over the keys.
Ghost hadn’t meant it to come out sharp. Cold. But he couldn’t shake the fact something was wrong. It was too easy, too clean.
That, and the fact she shouldn’t even be here. Should be on the base, or at the Heli. Not here, not downloading information Price had demanded. She should be safe. Away from this shit—as much as he could prevent.
But she wasn’t. Isn’t.
The sound of boots—a pair, at least—filled the air. His eyes look to her, watching her rip out the USB as he removes a knife.
“Hide.”
“Wh—“
His finger over his mask, silencing her, moving to the door. It’s quick, easy—hand over their mouth, two punctures, neck and chest, moving them to the floor.
Ghost wants to think, and hope, it’s just him.
One lone man.
One man checking out this side of the base, but he suspects it isn’t.
Something in the air, something knotting in his stomach.
He spots her head poking up, his eyes stern, I need you alive, Simon, don’t die. Your eyes purposeful, direct, and beautiful—like fucking always.
But, from the worried look she’s giving him, she’s likely hearing them too—boots, more boots. He shows his knife, her hand raising, showing the one he gave her earlier.
Because all she can do is defend.
Part and parcel of being a medic in the field. Something he finds ridiculous and half the reason why she shouldn’t be here. The other being… she’s his.
He can’t lose her.
Keep her safe. Keep Helen safe.
He cracks his neck before he grasps approaching fabric, fist clenching vest as he disposes of one person after the next. His ears tuned in, forcing himself to listen through the grunts and hisses. Almost on top of it, thankful her head hasn’t popped up, almost sure they’d done it—remained undetected.
As in-and-out as two people can be in this situation.
Until he sees a shadow, a flicker of something in the other doorway as more boots approach. Trying to calculate, gripping his knife tighter to dispatch the one closer—making a snap decision he hopes will pay off.
Because it’s clear they’re already fucking compromised.
The four bodies on the floor are evidence of that.
So he stabs, and dispatches—glove soaked with other people's blood as he removes the knife, sliding it through more flesh to be sure.
And he hears it too late.
The sound of a bullet leaving a chamber—a handgun, the specific type coming to mind as he turns, and he sees it.
Sees her.
He hears her small, ‘No’.
There’s nothing he can do. Not a single, fucking thing.
Her body is already launching through the air between him and the man trying to shoot him—straight in his back. All he can do is watch it all happen.
A passenger.
A bystander to the fact the woman he cares about is about to be pierced with a bullet. One meant for him. Watching her take the bullet, hissing before continuing—adrenaline thumping as she attacks. His knife in her hand landing once, twice—just like he taught her. Like he’d shown her, her body slick with sweat, flushed cheeks and body pressed against his on the mat.
This isn’t practice.
This isn’t him showing her how to defend herself.
It’s real and it’s all in slow. slow. slow motion.
The sound of it all reaching his ears way after he’s watched it happen, punctuated by the horrific sound of her gasp. A horrid, fucking sound he’s not sure he’ll be able to scrub from his mind.
And for a moment, he’s lost. Frozen. Stuck. Even his blink is slower, his swallow slower than that.
Then, as though someone flicks a switch, everything rushes back to him. The sounds, the smell, the moment—it’s almost overwhelming.
His hand raising—all instinctive, a direct response—moving to clutch his vest—the space directly above his fucking heart. A pain radiating through him, flooding like wildfire that’s about to choke him from the inside out.
Even if the two of them land with a thud, his focus is on her.
Because it hurts. Almost as though the bullet has gone through him to hit her.
And then.
Like all moments, it shatters. It snaps. It cracks.
And he’s charging. Closing the small gap, grabbing her, lifting her to her feet, feeling her stumble before he holds her close. Her eyes looking down, scarlet blooming around her hip as she tries to smile—tries not to show how much she’s in pain.
Even if the air is tinged with sawdust and the iron of blood, his heart hammering as if he’s been struck with adrenaline himself.
They won’t take you from me.
They cannot have you.
Mine. You’re mine. Only mine.
He doesn’t look, supporting her, pulling her close by her vest, hearing her grumble at the movement as he radios.
Her hand taps her pocket, silently telling him she has the drive—has what matters. As though he even gives a shit.
Pocketing his knife, he shifts his gun into his other hand, trying to take the knife from her fingers, shaking it until she lets go.
“Simon…”
“Keep y’blood in you, Helen. That’s your focus.”
His grip on her tight, so fucking tight.
She says nothing, glancing to see her plugging the hole with one finger, the other clutching him. Tightly. Desperately.
“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” he groans, “Takin’ a bullet for me.”
The corridors feeling long, too fucking long.
“You’re one ungrateful bastard, you know that?”
Her voice breathless, tinged with something he doesn’t want to linger on. Because it’s clear she’s in pain. Clear that it’s more than a graze from the way she is breathing too.
Each corner they take, half expecting more people, more things requiring a fight—until he hears the distinct sound of an explosion—far away, distant. He almost grins, almost.
It’s not until he kicks open the door they first snuck in through, the sun hitting his eyes does he allow himself a moment to look at her. Seeing her face full of the same determination he’s sharing, the same look he’s seen when she’s assessing which part of someone to begin with first.
“I love you, just so you know.”
It’s not quiet when she says it, her eyes not meeting his either.
It’s purposeful—the same way her hand grips his tighter.
He almost loses it, almost readjusts her so he can see her face—rip her vest and tactical top off to see the damage. But Johnny skids into view, he hears it, hears the noticeable panic of him shouting ‘Doc?’ ‘Lt?’
He almost bites, almost tells him to back the fuck off. But he doesn’t.
He squeezes her hand instead. “None of that, Helen.” Please.
Her head nods, a silent acknowledgement before a slight hiss replaces it—falling from her tongue as Johnny takes her other side.
“Whatcha’ done ‘ere then, Doc?”
He likes that she laughs.
Short. But sweet.
“Took a bullet for our Lieutenant, didn’t I?”
“Sure he appreciated that.”
She laughs, more breathy, more through her teeth. “Y-yeah. He’s been thank-king me ever since.”
You’ve been hit before.
It comes with the territory of being a combat medic, of being on the field, back turned, in the midst of it.
There’s a scar on your thigh, a graze on your upper arm and a stunning one shoulder too. Ones he’s kissed before, paid attention to purposefully—as though he can will away the memories and pain. In a way he does. And he doesn’t even realise it.
But, this. This is something else.
Your side, from chest to hip, burns with something far worse than pain. It consumes you, it almost swallows you—desperately trying to pull you into its dark depths.
“Talk to me.”
You look at him. Snap your eyes to him.
And then you really look at him.
Read his eyes, the only thing on show, focusing on the way he’s holding your hand still. Having not let go. Not even when evac arrives, not even when the woods begin to fly past the window.
“What-t do you want to t-talk about?”
He leans close, and you wish you could feel his breath on your skin. “Where am I takin’ ya? Next time we’re off?”
You laugh, even if it hurts. Rolling your head against the window, hissing—your lung burning, your side throbbing.
“You like Italian?”
“It’s alright.”
You swallow, trying to take smaller breaths—already having assessed your lung has collapsed. The other needing to work twice as hard.
“You tell me where and I’ll t-tell you what dress I’m wearing-g.”
“You need to live first, Helen.”
You smile, just for him. “Not going anywhere, Simon. Y’need me.”
“I do.”
You blink, watching his eyes drop at the realisation of his words before they land on you—asking you what dress you’re gonna wear.
“Black. Probably.”
“Not red?”
You snort, eyes feeling heavy. “Y’seem like someone who prefers black.”
“Maybe I like red?”
“I know you like red, can tell from how much of it gets soaked into those gloves and mask,” you say, lips feeling dry, skin beginning to feel cold. “Black, though. Silk. Below the knee, a slit. Low cut—give you three things to look at.”
“What’re those then?”
You manage to open your eyes, finding him looking at you with worry—a look you rarely see in his eyes.
Always so confident, so self-assured. A little standoffish—unless behind closed doors when he can remove his mask. When he can unveil the full man you love. A man who has wiggled and fought his way out of situations other men would have died in.
“My smile and m’boobs. You like my boobs.”
“I like your arse too.”
Smiling, you try to squeeze his hand. “Know that. But. Y’Can see that when I turn around.”
“Helen.”
“I’d do it again… take it. The bullet...”
“Helen.”
He sounds distant.
Your throat is dry, chest burning more and more—your breaths harder to find, your hip not hurting as much. “I need Soap…”
Ghost mumbles something.
“Inflate. M’lung,” you manage to grumble, hoping he can hear you. “Bullet… likely fracture… lung. Yeah?”
Your eyes struggling to open, feeling his hand—his bare skin—on your cheek, moving your chin, tilting your face. “Copy.”
You hear him bellow something, likely Soap. Your head almost colliding with the glass, even if you feel his gloved-fingers clutching your skin—desperately trying to root you.
“Love you…”
Hoping the words come out how you intend them to. Hoping they’re not lost in whispers and groans.
You want those to be the words he hears last, not knowing if you’re close or far.
You’re sure he knows.
He has to.
He’s been pacing, drilling his boots into the wooden floorboards. It doesn’t matter he’s been told to sit down. Doesn’t matter that one of the times he has, had been from Price. He isn’t sitting.
Not when she’s still unconscious, not when he’s watched Soap inflate her lung in the ‘exact way she’s shown him’.
“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny!”
“I’m doing m’best, Lt. Lass is normally barkin’ orders at me.”
They all have basic medical training.
His likely more extensive, having needed it, having required it to be sent on so many solo missions. But, working on her is different. He knows it, Price knows it.
It’s why he imagines it was Soap who was ordered to inflate it, to check for a bullet—even if he’s sure the lung is due to a fracture. The bullet hitting your hip, through and through. He knows that from the blood loss—and from stitching her.
Not trusting Johnny to do it.
“Give it ‘ere,” he’d eventually snapped, taking the needle from him, trying to tell himself this isn’t her.
Isn’t his Helen.
It’s a soldier. Someone who needs him.
It works well, almost convincing himself until he moves from the hole on the back of her side to the one on her front. Seeing the places he’s kissed more frequently, the soft ghostly marks of bruises he knows he’s left from holding her when her thighs are either side of his.
And then he waits.
Waits some more.
Looking even smaller, more fragile than he ever recalls her being as she lays in the bed. The one she’s usually tending to, the one she’s normally rushing around. It’s weird she’s in one of these beds.
He doesn’t move, wringing his hands out as he stares at her—willing her to open her eyes.
And then, her eyelashes flutter. A soft groan. Then, her eyes land on him. It feels like something close between the sun and a spotlight, illuminating him, warming him. For a moment, the two of them sitting in this second that’s all their own.
Until her face shifts, and the hold on his chest lessens.
“Hi,” she whispers.
As if she almost didn’t die on him earlier.
He bites the inside of his mouth as he sighs. “Hi.”
She tries to move, groaning as she does. “How mad are you?”
“Very.”
“Thought so.”
He places his hand on her shoulder—the good side—urging her down. Happy she relents, taking a breath, fingers finding the tube still sticking out her chest.
“Soap did good,” she mumbles, licking her lips before staring at him. “You stitched me though.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“How’d y’know?”
Swallowing, her eyes glance over his mask—unsure what exactly she’s looking at. “I was sorta awake. For parts. You're gentler than I imagined.”
“Yeah?”
She nods.
He takes her hand, “You shouldn’t have done it… that.”
“Not apologising.”
“Course y’won’t, stubborn—“
“Unless you want me to pop my stitches, I’d swallow that word. Because y’know I’d do it again.”
“You’ve said.”
Sighing, she smiles. “So, let it go.”
“Let it… Helen? That was the stupidest fuckin’ thing you’ve ever done!”
“Cool.”
“Don’t… don’t fucking do that.”
Her fingers turn, sliding between his as she sighs. “Simon, it’s done. You are worth saving—y’hear me. That’s why I did it, why I’d do it again. I need you around too. Did I think? No. But….” I love you.
“I’d have been fine.”
“Just like I am?”
Fuckin’ bitch.
But, fuck, she’s everything. She’s the only person who fights him, fucks him and loves him like she does. And, for the last so many hours, when she wasn’t awake, he’s had a chance to ponder it all.
How he can’t be without her. Ever.
That he wants to go back to that building and burn the entire base down. How he didn’t even slam his knife into the man’s skull, having only focused on her. He forgot the mission—even if it was done, accomplished.
Simon has never, ever done that.
“You passed out.”
It comes out fragile, cracked at the edges.
Her shoulders sinking, the most beautiful smile spreading over her pale face. “People do that sometimes when it’s hard to breathe, Simon. But, other than some stitches, I’m guessing a cracked rib, bruising, a sexy scar in my hip and a temporarily deflated lung, I’m fine. You’re fine.”
“You bled.”
“And yet still, here I am.”
The other words churning on his tongue. Tasting bitter, burning a hole into his mouth as he stares at her, hoping she knows them.
Until they fall from his lips anyway. “You scared me…”
That silenced her.
Just for a moment. “I can’t lose you either… I—“
“I know… I don’t. I don’t need you to say it,” she whispers, looping her fingers between his—and he’s suddenly thankful he’d changed his gloves, clean ones for her clean, soft skin. “I had needed to say it…”
“Just in case?” Her eyes dropping, as he shakes his head. “Fuckin’ hell, Helen. Don’t… don’t fucking do that again.”
“What say it? Or take a bullet for you?”
“Both.”
“I can promise to try and not do one of those things.”
“Tell me it’s the latter.”
“Sorry, Zero.”
“Zero?”
“He’s a ghost dog, from Nightmare before Christmas.”
“Never seen it.”
“I’ll show you one day.”
“Yeah?”
She closes her eyes, fingers playing with his. “Promise.”