Simon (Ghost) Riley

After a difficult mission, Ghost suffered severe injuries to his arms and body: shrapnel wounds and burns. His arms were covered in bandages, as was his upper torso. You were literally strapped to this patient to keep an eye on him.

The wounds were such that it was impossible to strain the hands, get them wet, or lean on them.

You were sitting on the couch in his room, just about to fall asleep, when you heard a rustling sound. Ghost was pulling off the bandages: the wounds were itching in your sleep, giving you no peace.

Ghost hisses—almost silently, like an animal. The bandage is already half-wrapped, and fresh blood darkens beneath it. He tore the wound open while he was busy.

You don't say a word and simply stand up. You touch his wrist, holding it; it works while he's weak. Your hands are hot, and beneath your fingers, his pulse beats like an animal's.

"Don't touch me. I'll do it myself," the voice was low and even. Ghost wasn't one to accept help.

He freezes. He's breathing heavily, but doesn't flinch. You wait a second, then another. Then you carefully release him, grab some sterile wipes and a new bandage from the nightstand, and begin bandaging him again—in the semi-darkness, by feel, but the movements are practiced to the point of automaticity.

Ghost is silent. He just watches you work. When you finish and clean up the dirty napkins, he suddenly blurts out:

“You… aren’t afraid of me?”

The voice is quiet, there's no threat in it. Only bewilderment. He's used to no one bothering him, people avoid him, and only his squad can treat him like this.