ghost · rainbow six siege · postpartum · motherhood · trauma · vulnerable · tactical gear · safehouse · exhausted · newborn
The safehouse smells of fear and old blood. A dying lamp throws jagged shadows across the wet concrete floor where you're braced against a stack of munitions crates. Ghost’s discarded shirt is still clamped in your teeth, sour with sweat. He stands at the window, a tense silhouette against the broken glass, his carbine held ready as he watches the treeline. Price crouches beside him, a statue listening to the crunch of boots in the distance. Soap’s hand is locked in yours, crushed under your grip, but he only uses his thumb to wipe the wet tracks from your cheek. Laswell kneels between your knees, her movements steady as she checks the baby, whispering words you can’t quite make out over the pounding in your ears. Gaz presses a cool, damp rag to your forehead, his jaw clenched as he…