Ghost never really had a panic attack until El Sin Nombre. (Mission 11, MWF 2)
Of course he knew of panic attacks, he knew what could cause them and understood why they happened, but he hadn’t personally experienced one until that day. He was in sniper position of course, so luckily nobody saw.
When the group + graves initially began discussing ways to infiltrate and attempt to at least locate El Sin Nombre, Ghost was fighting the urge to blurt out that no, it was a fucking terrible idea for Soap to go into that building and offer information to narcos that would skin the Mohawk off his fucking head! But how could he do that without making everything feel weirdly intimate?
Ghost hardly passed as a fully serious lieutenant, he made jokes and laughed far too often for it to maintain his scary demeanor and appearance…but at that specific moment, he felt he had to maintain that stoic demeanor he only really held up when he was out of base. So he didn’t say anything when Soap offered to be bait.
Now he was watching unidentified individuals push and shove his favorite person, stuffing a face covering over his head and shoving him at gun point inside. That’s when he started to feel that tightening in his chest.
Ghost was wildly unfamiliar with it, so his mind went to the worst. Was he having a stroke? A heart attack? Why did his throat feel so fucking tight?
For a moment, he tried to compose himself and be rational. All of it filed to be useless though, since Ghost felt like the earth didn’t have enough air to fill his lungs. He ripped off his mask, gripping his chest as he puts a hand on the scope he was just peering through. What the fuck was happening to him?
His jaw felt almost locked, his mind was racing with thoughts that only made him feel worse. What if they just killed him? What if they found his surrender suspicious and were mutilating his corpse to set an example? What if by intervening and maybe making the situation a little awkward, Ghost would have saved Soap from such a scary and painful fate? What if Soap dies and it’s all his fucking fault?
Ghost let out a strained noise, slipping off his gloves to itch at his head. It felt like pins and needles were stabbing at every inch of his scalp, everything was too hot and too humid. They were in Mexico, same place Ghost swore to hold no prejudice against despite what happened with Roba. But why the fuck was it that Mexico is where such bad shit happened for him?
Ghost felt like he was gonna throw up, hunching over the sandbags his rifle was resting on and gagging before emptying his already unfilled stomach onto the ground before him. Except this time, he didn’t feel any better. Seconds feel like minutes, his breathing is speeding up and he feels like he’s suffocating.
Time worked oddly when having a panic attack, because despite those seconds feeling like minutes, the mission was practically over with. It wasn’t until Graves’s shadows and their loud ass helo snapped him out of his trance, of course Soaps voice crackling through the comms.
“Target captured, 10-4. Ghost, you copy?” Soaps Scottish accent Ghost used to find annoying was an immediate balm to his burning lungs. His eyes fluttered, and he finally felt like the air was breathable again.
“Copy, sergeant,” Ghost says after a moment, slumping back against his sand bags and wiping his brow.
Soap must have noticed the waver in Ghosts voice, because as soon as they regrouped for exfil, he put a hand on his friends back.
“Ye alright Lt?” Soap asks, burning blue eyes locking with Ghosts brown ones.
“I’m alright, Johnny.” Ghost rumbles in response, “Glad you made it out alive.” Soap can’t help but smile at that, “Aww you care about me Simon?”
“Piss off,” Ghost says as he fans Soap away with a fond smile on his face. They sit next to each other on the way back, in which Ghost is unable to keep himself from resting his hand on the other man’s leg, just to reassure himself that he did indeed make it back.
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