Summary: saving Ghost from being tortured.
Warnings/tags: minors DNI, fem!reader, sniper!reader, no use of y/n, callsign "Echo", child abuse, childhood trauma, whipping, torture, English is not my first language.
Simon remembered his father's thick leather belt with a metal buckle, how the engraved image of a bull shone in the morning light. When he whipped his son with this very belt, he liked to say, "Some need a push, while others need no spur!" The boy apparently needed even more than that. For him, whipping was the most terrible punishment, usually one that went unexplained.
At the moment, the executioner's motives were generally understandable, but, to the captors' chagrin, they were ineffective. Ghost remained silent, clenching his teeth so hard he was surprised they hadn't cracked yet. With each lash across his bare back, his body convulsed in agony. Streams of blood flowed from the long welts, mixing with dirt. His joints ached from kneeling for so long, his wrists, shackled to a pillar, chafed against the rough metal, but this faded further into the background with each swing of the whip.
"Took the position, I see him. Over."
You lay on your stomach on the roof of an old high building. Under the scorching Afghan sun, the concrete was as hot as a frying pan.
"Got your coordinates. How many are there?"
You peered at the rough male faces through the rifle scope. Hidden among the ring of houses, there were five captors in the small courtyard. Two of them took turns passing the whip back and forth, lashing Ghost across his back.
You had been taught to detach yourself, to focus on the task at hand, without thinking about personal matters. In combat, there are no connections except enemies and allies. You thought you were mastering this lesson. Then why did it hurt so much to breathe? Because he's down there, and you're forced to watch, and, with every swing of the torture device, force a desperate sob back down your throat.
You can't cry. If your vision blurs now, you'll miss.
You didn't need to be told twice. Having already found the right angle, you pulled the trigger. The first one fell silently, decorating the nearest wall with the contents of his skull. The other two didn't even have time to react before they were next. It was the executioners' turn, and the whip only just managed to cut the air one last time. It missed and cracked the ground. At that moment, in the rifle's scope, you thought you saw Ghost's battered back shudder with a silent sob.
The streets were empty, as if this part of the city had become deserted, and you'd finished off the last five survivors. You ran down the building's stairs, leaping several at a time, then raced through the narrow, dusty streets, driven by fear and pain deep between your ribs.
Ghost was too weak to even acknowledge your arrival with a nod. His once powerful, strong body was now held upright only by the shackles above his head. His back —oh God and the Holy Mother!— was covered in blood, caked from the scorching sun, his skin reddened and blistered from the furrows of deep wounds and sunburn. He was wearing nothing but his underwear.
"Hey, hey, hey... Wake up! Hey! Don't sleep, Ghost!" You fell to your knees before him, trying to peer into his lowered face. His eyes were closed, pale face covered in bruises and sweat. Beads of unshed tears glistened on his blond eyelashes. And yet, he was breathing.
"Look here, lovely. It's me, it's over," you fumbled with the shackles. The metal was hot, leaving red burns and abrasions on the skin of his wrists. Panicking, you tried your best to keep your fingers from shaking as you worked the pick on the rusty lock. It wasn't working.
There was a delay on the other end of the walkie-talkie, and silence on the other line. After a minute that felt like an eternity, the captain's voice hissed.
"We have a problem, wait at the shelter, I'll send you the coordinates."
"He's barely conscious, I can't carry him!" But Price couldn't hear your cries anymore.
A quiet wheeze escaped Simon's cracked lips. You pulled the kufiya off yourself, carefully wrapping the scarf around his head and lower face, wiped the sweat and sandy dust from his forehead with a corner of the cloth. Those who had forcibly seen this face were already dead.
When the shackles finally gave way, Ghost fell chest-first onto the wooden pillar, and you barely managed to catch him.
"I know you're tired, I know," you whispered, shifting his weight onto your shoulder. "I know, lovely, but we need to go. I'll help you stand up, okay? Please, just try, for me."
His eyelids flattened heavily, revealing dilated pupils that stared into nothing. He seemed to hear, but didn't fully comprehend. You placed the neck of a flask to his lips, and he took a few sips with great effort. After a couple of minutes of panting, his gaze cleared.
"On the count of three. One, two..." It was difficult to lift him without touching his back. Blood was still flowing and pooling beneath him on the hot sand. You managed to sling his arm over your shoulder, shifting most of his weight onto yourself. The rifle bag was pressed against your other shoulder.
The coordinates Price had sent pointed to a dead end in a passageway between two old buildings. A small door, the same color as the building itself, was hidden in the wall of one of them, and you confidently assumed that was where you were going. Dragging Ghost here had been its own challenge: at first, he moved his legs on his own, groaning in pain, but soon his strength began to gradually fail him. The heat and the blood loss finished him off equally, with no less cruelty, as the Taliban would have done.
A staircase led down from the mysterious door. The small basement room had long been empty, but a single light bulb in the middle was still working, casting a faint, pale glow. Beneath the bulb stood a wooden table on which you had laid Ghost without wiping off the dust first.
"I'm sorry! Sorry, I'm so sorry..." your voice cracked as he howled in pain. His muscles contracted with renewed vigor, arching in agony.
Your first aid kit contained concentrated hydrogen peroxide, which you hurriedly diluted with water. You fed Simon a few painkillers, but there was no time to wait for them to take effect, so you cut open his clothes and poured the solution onto his mangled back. The roar that erupted from his chest momentarily stunned you. Tears welled in your eyes in panic.
You couldn't afford to be afraid. The first-aid kit was tiny, and in this basement there were only a couple of bandages and a bottle of alcohol. You used whatever was at hand to stop the bleeding and treat the wounds. The skin on his back was blistered at the edges of the cuts, dark red, purple and blue in places. When everything was done, Ghost lay motionless, his wrists dangling over the edge of the table. The pain evoked a strange sense of deja vu. Back then, in his childhood, beaten black and blue, little Riley would trace the pattern of a bull imprinted on his skin and imagine green, sunny meadows instead of wallpaper stained with grease and dirt.
You leaned back and slid down the wall of the floor. You didn't sleep, watching Ghost's even breathing waver from time to time. He would drift in and out of consciousness for a few minutes.
The team wasn't responding to your attempts to contact by radio, which was getting on your nerves even more. The basement was pleasantly cool. Outside, it was quiet, save for the rustling of sand blow by wind through the streets. Listening to this soft sound, you almost missed Simon's hoarse whisper.
Jumping up, the next second you were by his side, crouched at the edge of the table so your faces were level, just a few centimeters apart. You lowered the kufiya a bit, and Ghost greedily sipped from the flask you offered him. A few droplets ran down his stubbled cheek and soaked into the wood of the table. You wiped the wet trail away with your fingertips.
The lump forming in your throat choked you. Though he remained silent, Simon watched from under his heavy lids. His intelligent eyes never left yours. You leaned down and lightly brushed your lips over his eyebrow, then the other, the tip of his nose, the corner of his lips...
"Are you?" A humorless, nervous laugh escaped you.
"Well... maybe after a few... more kisses..." He couldn't get the words out in one breath.
Blinking back tears, you rested your chin on the edge of the table. "You'll get as much as you want if you behave."
"If I said that... you'd call me... cringe."
"Cringe is being caught by the Taliban."
He only huffed in response, attempting to chuckle, the corner of his lips twitched slightly. Burying your fingers in his hair, you gently massaged his scalp and the back of his neck until he grimaced in discomfort.
The radio, forgotten against the wall, hissed, breaking the silence.
"Echo, how copy? We're coming. Over."
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