CW: scottish accent innacuracies, making up whatever I want about hybrids, medical whump, Kyle fluff
Sorry it's short :P
"Stop fockin' lickin' yerself!" Johnny's voice is a mix of concern and disgust. You look up blearily from where you were nuzzling into the cuts on your forearms. You weren't aware that anyone else was in the room. You don't even know where you are, come to think of it. Or how long you've been here. Or why. No matter. Nobody else is gonna groom you, that's for sure. Johnny moves into your line of sight, and as you try to focus on his sideways form your sudden dizziness distracts you from your task.
"Jesus, ye open yer eyes and instantly go full fockin' feline- don't you know we've been- been waiting for you to wake up for fockin'- Christ." His agitation dissipates somewhat and his voice draws closer. You realize you can see a little better - Johnny's big head is blocking the painful lights.
"You... yer a right fockin' eejit you know that?" It takes a second for you to realize what he's said, because his words are so at odds with the softness of his tone.
"Boil y'r head." You croak, more dust than sound.
"Naw ye cannae do that. Sounds daft when ye say it like that," he grumbles. The sound of a door opening has him turning, light suddenly piercing into your eyes again. You turn your face into your arms more, but there's a tugging on your wrist.
"Hey, hey you'll pull your IV out." The voice is Kyle. The lights dim after a few seconds. Cool hands help settle your limbs beside you. You want to turn onto your back, but something is wedged behind you. Your ears flick at the rhythmic click of a machine nearby.
There's noise filtering in from outside, too. Too much of it. Talking and beeping and clattering. And the smells! You aren't sure if the strong, chemically smells are hurting your ears or your nose- your tail hurts too.
"Shhhhh-shhush," you wine.
"Sorry. Loud out there, I know. They didn't have any hybrid rooms available."
"Guess she's not the only dumb animal trying to get herself killed," Johnny mutters. If it was a human saying shit like that, you'd bite them in the face. But Johnny just makes you snort. And then you're coughing, because your throat is so dry. And then you're gasping, because you had been blissfully unaware of any pain in your side but boy did you notice it now.
"Here, water." A straw pokes at your lips. You open your mouth clumsily to receive it. Your teeth clench automatically around it - which makes it hard for you to drink. But the cup's empty before you're ready.
"Johnny'll get you more," Kyle says, to Johnny's annoyance. But the door opens and closes, and its just you and Kyle.
"Is Price mad at me?" You murmur weakly, voicing the concern that sits top of mind - right next to the stabbing in your side, of course. Kyle lets out a startled laugh.
"Mad? Oh, he's...uh, you know what, don't worry about that. Focus on getting better so he can kill you properly," he jokes.
You nod, as if his suggestion is entirely serious.
"Did it help?"
"Hmm?"
"The manual."
"...it did. But... no don't go grinnin' like that you little menace, you're lucky you're still loopy and Price has the sense to give you some time before he chews you out."
"...never let me do anything...just...useless..." you breathe, your mirth fading.
"I just wanted..."
"I know."
"I don't wanna be a burden." It must be the drugs 'cause you haven't cried in ages, much less in front of a coworker, much much less in front of a man.
"...I know. I..." Kyle's hand settles cool and comforting on the back if your neck.
"I miss being- some... somebody... I miss my pride," you admit tearfully. "I just-"
"I know." Kyle's voice sounds watery too. You hope your emotional state isn't contagious.
"I can't even begin to... we didn't mean to-" he sighs.
You nod, though you don't really know what you're nodding about. But even through your hazy, pain-addled mind you feel like there's something to agree to, some kind of understanding forged between the two of you. Idly you hope you can remember the conversation. You also kind of hope that he'll forget the way you sniveled about being homesick.
"We'll have lots to talk about later. You just get some rest." The hand on your neck pulls away. You reach out blindly and catch it before it can go further. Johnny's scent is fading - you don't remember when he left - and you're worried the room will go back to just the stale, cold, hand-sanitizer-y smell you catch beneath Kyle's scent when he leaves too.
You're sure you're in no position to keep his hand immobile if he doesn't want you to, and besides, they owe you - so you take his wrist and press your nose into to, inhaling his warm, earthy scent. Your ears droop forward, no longer scanning through the noises in the hall. Your tail twitches minutely under the blankets. He lets you nuzzle him for a moment longer before pulling away - only to rub his scent into the pillow, right next to your face.
"Sleep," he says again. He sounds tired. You're tired too. You yawn into the smell of him and hear him echo it resentfully, clearing his throat afterward.
would thoust ever do a part II to the writing where soap gets his vocal cords cut? i ima give having such a core part of yourself ripped away would devastate him, with potential medical discharge looming. where would he even go then? a veteran with no voice? (+ghost immediately becoming his voice and offering to discharge ?)
I would and I did I just have been sitting on it because am nervous? It obviously just like ough the angst of the first part just sucndjmsdnjsnf yeah. Anyway I LOVE YOUR IDEA so I added that to the og part 2 this evening... So this is sorta two parts.
Part 1
cw: hospital recovery. Ghoap. Emotional angst. It sorta switches povs bc the og is with Ghost and the ask idea follows Soap 🧍♀️
They tell Ghost that it’s for the best, the separate rooms, separate team of doctors, separate recovery tracks.
Soap needs constant monitoring, his airway, the healing incision, neuro checks stacked on top of each other. Ghost needs his own eyes on him too: ribs, shoulder, concussion symptoms he keeps downplaying.
Then there's the combined trauma responses and the dependency risk. Words like "bonding" said carefully, like they’re defusing something volatile.
Simon nods. He understands it on paper.
He hates it in practice.
The silence is the worst part. This sterile quiet that hums and presses and leaves too much room to think. Too much room to remember Johnny’s voice filling every corner, loud and alive and furious, now there’s nothing to push back against.
He catches himself listening for it anyway. In hallways and through walls—though their rooms are as far apart as they can be.
His body doesn’t believe it’s gone yet. His gut twists every time hours pass without an update, every time someone else speaks for Johnny.
They let Soap have his phone at limited intervals. Ghost clings to that like a lifeline.
Texts come through in bursts whenever Soap gets a chance:
they keep asking if i’m dizzy
if one more person shines a light in my eyes i’m biting them
you okay?
Simon answers between scans, between being told to sit still and rest like he hasn’t been doing nothing but sitting still since they dragged him out.
behave
don’t let them rush you
i’m fine
Sometimes Johnny doesn’t answer for hours. Sometimes Simon stares at the screen long after it’s gone dark, mind spiraling into worst-case scenarios he can’t talk himself out of. He feels stupid for it. It's like the quiet is getting under his skin, hollowing him out.
The doctors are worried about "maladaptive dependency" Simon just calls it trauma bonding. Say too much proximity too soon could make it worse and make the attachment unhealthy.
Simon would rather them shove it. He knows, logically, that they are there to help them. He also knows, outright, he hasn't survived this long without Johnny.
But he doesn’t say it out loud.
And after a few days, it gets unbearable.
The pain meds blur the edges but don’t touch the agitation crawling through him. He paces his room until his ribs scream. Sits. Stands. Sits again.
The silence stretches until it feels hostile, like it’s waiting to swallow him whole now that Johnny’s not there to fill it.
So he waits for night and for the halls to thin out. He knows how this works. Knows where cameras don’t quite meet. Knows how to move quiet when he needs to.
He shouldn’t be walking this much. His shoulder protests, sharp and hot, his ribs scream at him. He ignores it. He would ignore worse.
Johnny’s door is exactly where he has figured out it'd be. He hesitates just for a second, then he pushes it open.
Soap looks up from his journal slowly. Then shock flashes across his face. Then relief so raw it almost hurts to see.
Johnny sits up too fast, winces, stills himself with a frustrated sound that never quite becomes a voice.
“Christ,” Ghost breathes, shutting the door behind him. “You look like hell.”
Johnny’s mouth twists into something that might be a grin. He scribbles something fast, then shoves the journal toward him.
you’re gonna get caught
“Worth it,” Simon mutters.
Johnny gestures sharply, points at Simon's chest. you’re hurt, idiot, eyes flicking to Simon’s shoulder, the way he’s favoring his side.
“Yeah,” Ghost says. “And so are you.”
Silence stretches. Johnny’s jaw tightens. He reaches for his throat without meaning to, fingers stopping just short like he’s been burned before.
Ghost steps closer. Lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, careful of wires and rules and all the reasons they’re not supposed to be doing this.
“They think keepin’ us apart’ll make it easier,” Simon says quietly.
Johnny’s eyes shine. He nods once. Angry and exhausted.
“They don’t know what to do with you,” Ghost continues. “And they don’t know what to do with me when—when I can't hear you.”
Johnny swallows hard. His hands curl in the sheets, knuckles white.
“You don’t have to talk,” Simon says, softer now. “Not here. Not for me.”
He reaches out slowly. Johnny grips his wrist hard, desperately.
Simon exhales for the first time in days.
The silence doesn’t claw at him anymore. And for now, that’s enough.
...
...
Johnny’s been out for weeks. Closing in on months.
He’s alive. He eats. He sleeps when he can.
He's doing alright. That’s what everyone says when they ask Simon how he’s doing, like all of those things are the metric.
Johnny lives in a small flat now, technically alone, because it’s easier than explaining himself to anyone else. Easier than watching people realize they don’t know how to talk to him anymore.
Every small thing gets under his skin.
The kettle boiling too loud. The TV captions lagging half a second behind the audio. People cutting him off mid-text because they don’t realize he’s still typing. And he texts constantly, Simon, Kyle, Price, short bursts, half-formed thoughts, jokes, anything.
you still out?
how long this one
tell Kyle that the recipe he sent is awful.
Simon answers when he can. From transport. From places Johnny can't ask about anymore. Missions still happen. Life keeps moving. Johnny stays where he is and tries not to feel like he’s been left behind.
The night Simon finally comes home again, something’s wrong.
Johnny doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t look up from the couch. No phone shoved at him. No crooked grin waiting to be translated. He sits stiff, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes locked on the football match on the TV.
“Johnny,” Simon says quietly.
Nothing.
Simon drops his kit by the door. He watches the tension radiate off him. The way anger sits heavier on Johnny now, like it has for weeks.
“You mad at me?” Simon asks.
Johnny’s shoulders hitch. He shakes his head no, but doesn’t turn. His hands curl into fists in his sleeves.
Simon steps closer. Kneels in front of him carefully.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
Johnny doesn’t. His breathing goes shallow. He tries to swallow it down.
Simon reaches up, fingers careful and firm, guiding Johnny’s chin until he has no choice but to meet his eyes.
They spend a single moment just looking at each other. And God nothing could hurt Simon more than the pain in Johnny's eyes.
Johnny tries to speak. He really tries, mouth opening, chest squeezing tight like if he just pushes hard enough the words will force themselves through. All that comes out is breath.
He makes a broken, frustrated noise and shoves at Simon’s shoulders once, then a second time, angry and desperate. Then his hands fist in Simon’s jacket and he folds forward like his body finally gives up holding it all back.
Simon catches him. Wraps him up, solid and warm, arms locked around Johnny’s shaking frame.
“Easy,” he murmurs, over and over. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Johnny sobs into his chest, silent and violent, whole body trembling. He claws at Simon’s shirt like he’s afraid if he lets go even for a second, that’s it.
They stay like that until the shaking eases. Until Johnny’s breathing stutters back into something steadier.
Eventually, Johnny pulls back just enough to grab his phone with shaking hands. He types slowly through blurred vision.
please don’t leave me again.
Simon reads it once. Then again.
His throat tightens.
He cups the back of Johnny’s head, pulls Johnny into his chest.
“Alright,” he says softly. “Alright, Johnny. I hear you.”
Johnny exhales and sags into Simon’s hold. And Simon lets his own tears wet Johnny's hair.
Whumptober day 12: It'll be for nothing
Pairing: Price x reader
CW: Price is an asshole, divorce, manipulation and emotional abuse, not my best work but oh well
You never should have married him. He was a bad boyfriend, but you had on rose colored glasses. He'd been so perfect when you first met, full of light and mirth and love. That went away when he enlisted in the military. He closed off, became crueler and colder. You'd been convinced he would change, eventually. But he never did. If anything, he got worse.
You were about to leave him when he popped the question. You thought he'd had a change of heart. How wrong you were. The marriage, his vows, his promises to love and cherish you, were as empty as his side of the bed.
Now, years down the line, years of always coming in second, years of begging and pleading for some semblance of the love he showed you when you first met, you realize it was just another ploy to keep you with him. Another lie to string you along, to see how far he could push you before you snapped.
Well, he'd finally found your breaking point. You'd tried to keep your marriage together for the better part of a decade, but it was like holding onto sand. Eventually, there was nothing left but a few specks that you knelt and begged for.
And now you were done begging.
The house was quiet when John got home. Odd. usually you were sitting on the couch, waiting up for him with that stupid hopeful look in your eyes. He always felt bad when he passed you up, but he was just so tired and stressed, and the last thing he wanted was for you to kiss him, for your hands to roam over his body. So he'd just grunt and lock himself in the shower until you fell asleep.
He walks past the empty couch, his brow furrowing. He didn't like that. But whatever. If this was how you wanted to act, if you wanted to be petty and not greet him when he came home, then fine. It wouldn't make him apologize for the words he'd hurled at you the last time he was here.
God, that fight. He hadn't seen you that angry since...well, since he enlisted. Usually you were this docile little thing, always pushed back into place with a biting word from him. Or, if that didn't work, then a rare display of affection was enough to silence you. But not this time.
No, this time you'd been angry. He doesn't really remember what even started the conversation, probably you bitching about forgetting an anniversary or something. Which you can't blame him for. His job his stressful, his life is on the line everyday. He has so much he has to remember that a silly little date doesn't stay at the forefront of his brain.
He'd said as much to you. And then you had the audacity to suggest couples therapy.
"I don't need a shrink looking at my head." He snarled at you.
"It's not a shrink, John!" You'd cried, "It's just someone that's gonna help us figure out how to make things work, because this isn't working. We need to talk things out without you screaming at me! Please, just one session."
"It'll be for nothing, doll." He'd sneered, "All they would do is tell you how clingy you are. God sometimes I wish I'd never married you. " The hurt in your eyes was almost enough to make him apologize, to gather you in his arms and kiss your head and tell you he didn't mean it. But he didn't.
"But fine. Schedule an appointment. I like being told I'm right." He'd left then, on a three month mission in Urzikstan. Late at night, when he was sitting in the freezing cold, smoking and keeping watch, your fight would come back to haunt him. Were you to clingy for him? Sometimes, yes. But truth be told, he liked having your attention. Even if he didn't necessarily want you touching him, it was nice how desperate you were to please whenever he did want it. He 'd hoped his little comment didn't change things.
But now you're not on the couch. Whatever. If that's the game you want to play, so be it. He eyes the closed bedroom door, rolling his eyes as he strides into the kitchen. He'd sleep in the guest room tonight. He wasn't gonna back down first. You'd come crawling in eventually, touch-starved and clingy.
He reevaluated that thought when he sets his bag on the counter and a little plume of dust bounces up.
"Y/n?" He calls out, "You coulda at least cleaned up a bit." There's no response.
"Love?" He calls out again, sounding slightly uncertain, "if you're trying to be petty right now, I swear to god you won't like how I respond." There's still no response. He grits his teeth, sliding his firearm out of it's holster and approaching the bedroom door. He prepares for you to have him locked out, but the door swings open with ease. His heart drops to the floor as he views the inside.
Its a tornado of destruction, broken glass and torn paper scatter across the floor, clothes and bedding strewn about, the desk chair overturned and the lamps ripped from the wall. His first thought is that someone took you, but then the cleanliness of the rest of the house wouldn't make sense. He stands in the door, weapon hung loosely in his hand as he tries to figure out just what the hell had happened.
His eyes fall on the desk, the only untarnished spot in the whole room, and he almost throws up. It's empty save for 3 objects. A piece of paper, a phone, and...your wedding ring. He knows what the paper is going to say even as he goes to read it.
John,
I'm sure you've figured out what I've done by now. You always were so smart. But in case it wasn't obvious, I'm leaving you. By the time you'll be reading this, the papers will have been filed for about 60 days. So you can't contest it. And don't look for me. I've got a 60 day head start. And you think my family didn't like you when we were dating? Well, after I called them sobbing because I can't live like this anymore, they came and got me. My brother says if he ever sees you again, he'll do a lot worse than shoot at your squad, whatever that means. Anyways, this is it John. I'm done. Done begging to be treated with common courtesy, much less with the love a husband should have for his spouse. Done being manipulated and abused whose only purpose in this marriage was to pleasure a narcissist. Because that's all you really are. A narcissistic little boy who joined the military because holding a gun made him feel powerful. You always swore you'd be better than your father, you rememer that? Swearing you'd never hurt anyone the way your father hut your mom and you? Well, you're not any better. We both know you just kept me around so you wouldn't come home to an empty house. Well now that's all you get. What was it you said to me before you eft? "It'll all be for nothing?" Well, here's your nothing John. I hope you enjoy it.
No longer yours,
Y/N PrGraves.
A/N: not sure about the ending. feels a bit abrupt but my wirst hurts and I also don't know where to go with it rn
phillip graves x reader, kidnapped user, protective/possessive graves, @whumpuary day 5: ransom, not good enough
Phillip's hands braced on the table, his eyes closed as he tried to gather himself. For a moment, no one dared to speak. They'd seen him angry before but this was different. This quiet rage terrified grown men; even his own men.
“They sent proof?” he asked with surprising calm. “Proof of life?”
A tablet was slid across the table. He glanced and closed his eyes again to push down the visceral rage rising up. One look had been enough. You, bound to a chair. A bruise blooming dark along your jaw. Your eyes unfocused but alive. Glaring at the camera. Alive.
His jaw tightened so hard it ached. Ransom. Someone had dared to take you for ransom. Money wasn’t the problem. It never was. He could wire the ransom ten times over without blinking, but he’s seen this game before. Pay the money, buy time and still get a body back.
He would not let that be you. Not you. Never you.
His mind flashed without permission. Images of you, half asleep in his bed, mumbling his name. Your fingers curling into his sleeve, trying to buy a moment longer before he had to leave. Your soft laugh when it was just you and him. Always gentle and sweet and trusting and his.
“No negotiations,” Phillip said, voice lowered into a lethal hiss. “I want eyes everywhere. Satellites, drones, informants. Burn through favors. I don’t care what it costs. Find them.”
And his men scrambled to comply, practically falling over themselves, as Phillip's eyes wandered to the image they sent of you.
I'm coming, sweetheart. I'm coming.
By the time Phillip steps into the little hole these rats had been hiding out in, it was already aflame. The last bits of gunfire sounded, largely replaced by shouting now, as his Shadows rounded up your captors and forced them to their knees. His focus, for now, however, was on the door, which was being guarded by five of his men.
Inside, you saw slumped over in a chair, wrists rubbed raw, eyes helf closed, hair falling in your face... He swallowed down the urge to run back and beat your captors to death on the spot.
Instead, he came closer and dropped to a knee before you. Gently, he whispered your name. His heart pounded when your fingers twitched and slowly, your head lifted.
His hands were gentle as they cupped your face, smearing blood on your cool skin as his thumbs brushed your cheeks. It was like coming home.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough and unguarded. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
You blinked at him as if unsure that he’s real. He cut the bindings himself, caught you when you sagged forward, and pulled you against his chest. His arms were steady and calm as they pressed you in, burried your face in the crook of his neck.
His eyes closed as he held you, felt you. I got you, baby.
His second-in-command cleared his throat behind him. “Sir. Orders on the kidnappers?”
Phillip didn't look back. “Don't kill them,” he ordered calmly, holding you closer. “That's not good enough.” Only then he turned, eyes cold and endless. “Pack them up. I'll be handling them personally.”
The Shadows noded and dragged the screaming men away.
“Let's get yu home,” he whispered in your ear and brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I'll never let anyone hurt you again.”
With little effort, he lifted you and stood, cradling you like something priceless. As he carried you toward the waiting plane, flanked by his shadows, his heart calmed as you tucked your head beneath his chin.
Having you against his chest helped. It was almost enough to make him consider simply executing your captors, but then his eyes dropped to your wrists. To your bruised cheek. He felt your tremors. His expression hardened again.
He was not the type to be weakened by his love. It hardened him, into something violent and destructive, something that did not know mercy when you were concered.
He boarded the plane with you in his arms, one hand pressed firmly to your back.
Once he arrived at the Compound, he would get you treated, showered, tucked into bed, and then he would slaughter your captors until they would not be recognizable as human beings anymore. And once he was done, he would wipe his hands, and slip into bed with you.
You would never know the blood he spilled in your name, and he planned to spill enough to drown anyone who might want to hurt you.
Chapters: 3/5
Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley, John "Soap" MacTavish & Simon "Ghost" Riley
Characters: John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, John Price (Call of Duty), Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Additional Tags: Simon "Ghost" Riley Needs a Hug, Hurt Simon "Ghost" Riley, Simon "Ghost" Riley Has PTSD, Simon "Ghost" Riley Has Feelings, Simon "Ghost" Riley Has DID - Dissociative Identity Disorder, Simon "Ghost" Riley Has Panic Attacks, Protective John "Soap" MacTavish, Soft John "Soap" MacTavish, John "Soap" MacTavish Loves Simon "Ghost" Riley, Simon "Ghost" Riley is Bad At Feelings, Simon "Ghost" Riley is a Mess, Simon "Ghost" Riley is Not Okay, Simon "Ghost" Riley is Catatonic, Explicit Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Military Inaccuracies, Geographical Inaccuracies, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Psychological Torture, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence
Summary:
Every night, Ghost is forced to relive some of his worst memories—Ghost digging out of his own grave. His dad beating the shit out of him for breathing too loud while he’s hungover. Soap getting shot and being hunted by Graves in Las Almas. Simon’s failures. It ends with everything going dark as Ghost has another violent seizure.
Ghost has nearly given up on the thought of anyone finding him. Hell, he doesn’t even know where he is. These bastards won't break him, though. He just has to wait for the perfect moment to escape. And then he’ll kill them all. That’s what he did with Roba and his men.
------------------
“This is bullshit,” Soap grumbles. As he gets up to prep his gear, Price barges through the safehouse entrance, covered in snow and blood that isn’t his own.
“We’ve found him,” Price smiles. “Soap, Gaz, get ready. We’re leaving in thirty.”
...
AKA Ghost has a Bad Time being tortured while the rest of TF141 prepare to rescue their lieutenant
“Do not get worked up, Simon Riley. We have not even started yet,” the tall man states as he slowly and methodically places monitor pads on Ghost’s chest and head. He places a pulse oximeter on his right middle finger. A soft beeping starts as the man turns the heart monitor on. Ghost stares straight ahead at what is surely a two-way mirror, refusing to give the man even an inkling of his attention.
That attempt fails when the man pulls out a medical-grade IV needle. Ghost’s breathing picks up. Fuck, he hates needles. The heart monitor is beeping faster. Simon is slipping through the cracks.
Maybe Ghost can’t go through this again.
“Scared of needles, Simon Riley?” The man sneers as he holds out Ghost’s arm, tying a tourniquet just above the vein. Ghost tries to fight, to move, to do something, but his body won’t listen. He attempts to brace himself instead. The man cleans the section and inserts the needle. Ghost’s vision goes dark. He feels dizzy and nauseated. The man pulls the needle out, leaving only the plastic catheter in his arm. Ghost might puke.
“See? I told you not to worry. I am professional, after all.”
Ghost glares at the man, tempted to use the nausea as an excuse to puke on him.
The man ignores Ghost shooting daggers at him with his eyes as he pulls out an IV bag full of some green looking liquid. “This, Simon Riley, is why we use heart monitor,” the man begins. Why does he always call Ghost by his full name? Why does he keep saying it like that? “This is memory serum. It targets hippocampus. Brings back worst memories. The only issue is that too much stress can cause seizure. We do not want that. So we monitor. What are your worst memories, Simon Riley?”
The man starts the line, squeezing the bag slightly so that the serum enters his bloodstream faster. It stings as it runs up his arm.
“FUCK!” Simon screams. In his peripheral, he hears the heart monitor beeping faster. He closes his eyes, hoping, no—praying it doesn't work.
“I hear you had bad time in Mexico, Simon Riley. Maybe we start there,” Ghost can hear the smirk in the man’s voice. Nobody knows about Mexico. Not even Soap. How does this bastard know that? What intel does he have? The man runs his finger down one of the scars on Ghost’s abdomen, tracing where the knife flayed him open all those years ago. Simon opens his eyes. He’s no longer in Romania. He’s laying on a gurney, being sliced apart by one of Roba’s men. Someone barks an order in Spanish.
Simon flails and squirms. He squeezes his eyes open and shut. The hallucination stays.
This isn’t real. This isn’t real. ThisisntrealthisisntrealTHISISNTREAL. He knows it isn’t. These men are dead.
So… why can he feel every cut?
Simon bites the inside of his cheek hard so he can’t scream. He can’t do this again.
Simon’s vision warps. He's outside. It’s midnight. A man stabs a hook through his ribs. Simon screams as the men hang him from the tree. Roba laughs. He watches as the cartel executes his remaining teammates. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Simon gasps for air. Something feels off. He’s shaking. Violently. His mind is full of static. His vision blurs. He can’t hear anything. Can’t see anything. Can’t feel anything.
Everything goes dark.
…
Ghost wakes up in a semi-abandoned Soviet-era bunker that feels uncomfortably warm, especially for the middle of fucking December.
His head is swimming and everything fucking aches.
He scans the room, checking for hostiles, abandoned weapons… anything that he could use to make his escape. To his right, he spots a downright ancient furnace that is—wait.
No.
He’s been here before.
This time, though, his body is cuffed to a wheelchair. The IV catheter is still in his arm, connected to a line of saline. This is the fourth day he's woken up like this after seizing from the “memory serum.” It’s the fifth day he's woken up in nothing but his boxers. The fifth day he’s had to stare down at his bare skin. His scars.
Every night—around 2100, Ghost has deduced—the tall Romanian man enters, checks his vitals, and asks him a billion medical questions as if he thinks he’s still a doctor. Ghost gets a punch in the face if he doesn’t answer. Once the man is satisfied that Ghost won’t keel over, he wheels him into the makeshift interrogation room, chains him to the dental chair, and injects the memory serum into Ghost’s IV.
Every night, Ghost is forced to relive some of his worst memories—Ghost digging out of his own grave. His dad beating the shit out of him for breathing too loud while he’s hungover. Soap getting shot and being hunted by Graves in Las Almas. Simon’s failures. It ends with everything going dark as Ghost has another violent seizure.
Ghost looks down and notices that, once again, he's puked on himself. The sickly sweet smell of rotting vomit makes him want to throw up all over again. He hasn’t eaten since before the mission, though, so the only thing that would come up is stomach bile.
Ghost has nearly given up on the thought of anyone finding him. Hell, he doesn’t even know where he is. These bastards won't break him, though. He already has nightly terrors of these memories. In fact, these sedative induced naps have led to some of the best sleep Ghost has had in a long time. He just has to wait for the perfect moment to escape. And then he’ll kill them all. That’s what he did with Roba and his men.
He just hopes that they didn’t find Soap. He could hear his young sergeant running back to him through the comms after everything went to shit. Ghost never turned his radio off. If the men had been paying any attention, they would have realized.
He doesn’t know what they would do to Soap.
After the first night’s fiasco, Ghost pushed Simon even further down. Locked him in a box and threw away the key. He thought that would help—that it would protect him—but now Ghost is realizing that he feels too. Maybe not as dramatically, but enough to fall into a spiral if he isn’t careful. There isn’t much he can do to distract himself, either.
So fucking hell, now he’s alone with his thoughts, worrying about whether his sergeant made it out okay or not.
Ghost stares at a spot in the floor, burning a hold into it with his eyes. It’s been 3 hours since he woke up, meaning it’s probably around 1300.
The tall man barges into the room, unscrews the saline line from Ghost’s IV, and pushes him into the interrogation room. He didn’t even stop to check Ghost’s vitals. He seems rushed. Ghost says nothing.
“You are tough man, Simon Riley, but we need you fast. It is time for more… drastic measure,” the man speaks as he starts the line. The familiar burn prickles up his arm, making Ghost feel dizzy and sick. His head spins and his vision starts to blur.
“Now, Simon Riley, it is almost Christmas. Something happened to you on Christmas, didn’t it, Simon Riley?”
No. Fuck. Not that one. Please, not that one. Ghost tries to fight it, but he fails.
He blinks and is back in that small Manchester flat. It’s Christmas Eve. Beth had just baked gingerbread. Little Joseph was gawping at the twinkling lights on the tree. Even Tommy and mum seemed happy.
And then everything went wrong.
“I hear, Simon Riley, that your family died that night.” The lights go dim. Suddenly, the man is in the room, walking towards Simon. He’s holding something in his hand. A gun. Is he going to kill them right in front of him? “I hear, Simon Riley, that you killed them that night.” He places the pistol in Simon’s hands.
What? No. No. Sparks and Washington killed them. Simon still realizes that…
Doesn’t he?
Simon looks around. Blood spatters paint the flat a deep red. He walks over to the Christmas tree. A gunshot wound pieces the front of little Joseph’s skull. Simon collapses to his knees.
“I hear you killed your nephew first, Simon Riley.”
“N-no. No, I didn’t,” Simon shakily replies. The gun in his hand is suddenly smoking though, and it is strangely pointing at Joseph’s little body.
But Simon knows he didn’t kill him… he thinks he didn’t kill him.
“I hear you went for your brother’s wife next, Simon Riley,” the man’s voice sounds from behind. Simon turns around and shoots the man. The body that falls is Beth’s.
“No! Fuck!” Simon screams as he rushes to Beth’s rapidly cooling body. Blood pools behind her head.
Simon didn’t kill Beth. He didn’t.
Did he?
“You killed your poor mother next, Simon Riley. She didn’t stand a chance, did she, Simon Riley?”
Simon looks over at the body right next to Beth’s. It’s his mum. Her terrified, lifeless eyes stare accusingly towards Simon.
“And then, Simon Riley, your brother walked in and saw what you did,” someone grabs Simon’s shoulder. He instinctively turns and shoots. It’s Tommy.
“You killed him, Simon Riley. You killed your entire family.”
No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t.
Maybe he did.
Simon looks around the room again. His entire family is gone. It’s his fault. He crumples to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his ears. His breathing picks up. His heart rate spikes. The man’s voice persists.
“You covered it up, Simon Riley. But you cannot run forever. What will your fellow soldiers do when they find out what you’ve done? How will they react when they find out you killed your family, Simon Riley?”
Simon gasps for air, but it doesn’t come. It’s just a hallucination, he tells himself. But the gun in his hands feels so real. The blood—their blood—is hot and sticky on his skin.
Suddenly, he’s in the Credenhill interrogation room. He has no mask. The man walks around the room, continuing to mock Ghost. The one-way mirror shuts off, revealing the rest of the SAS base. Price, Gaz, and Laswell stare at him, disgust plastered on their faces. Soap—Johnny—stands in the corner, eyes full of fear as he looks at the monster cuffed to the table.
In the center, though, the rotting corpses of the Rileys stare back at him.
Ghost feels himself starting to convulse. He’s seizing again. His vision swirls and starts to darken. At least it will be over again soon.
-------------------
It’s been seven days since Ghost was taken, and Soap has spent six of them stuck in the safehouse, delerious and bedridden from a fucking cold of all things. Not to mention his rolled ankle. Yesterday was the first day he could stand and walk around the room without feeling like he was actively dying. He’s so fucking pissed about it. Soap never gets sick. Why now, when Ghost needs him? Fuckin’ useless piece o shite. Why wid Ghost need you? It’s yer faut he’s been captured in the first place. He probably fucking hates ye.
Gaz and Price are trying their best, but so far they haven’t found anything that could lead them to finding their lieutenant. Yesterday, Price even seemed like he was close to giving up. Soap is pissed about that, too. If he had just ignored his captain, he probably would have found Ghost already. It’s not like Soap is unfamiliar with the concept of insubordination. In fact, he’s kind of known for it.
It’s 0900, and Soap is feeling much better today—so much so that he’s ready to go searching for Ghost himself. As he walks into the safehouse kitchen, he spots Gaz mulling over some papers.
“What’s this?” Soap asks as he pulls up a chair.
“Well good morning to you too, sleepyhead,” Gaz replies without looking up. “Back with the land of the living, eh?”
“Och fuck off, mate. I’m fine. What’re ye looking at anyways?” It looks like the schematics of some building—possibly a bunker.
“Well, while you were on your death bed, Cap found the mole. He interrogated the fucker early this morning and got… these,” Gaz gestures to the schematics and hands Soap a manilla folder.
Soap takes the folder and opens it. What the fuck..? Inside is a whole bloody fucking dossier on one Lieutenant Simon Riley. The folder includes his entire military history—including a very detailed, very disturbing section on his capture in Mexico and the aftermath. Steaming fucking Jesus. Betrayed by his own team, tortured for months, raped, and buried alive? Soap feels his pulse ticking in his neck. He knew Ghost had a rough history—Soap just always assumed it was because of his father’s abuse.
Then he sees it. Fucking Christmas Eve.
“Bleedin’ Jesus, did anyone know about this?” Soap asks, but it barely comes out as a whisper.
“No–not even the higher ups knew,” Gaz replies darkly. “The only person besides Ghost who knew the whole story was Price. He was fucking pissed when he came in earlier. Went through six bloody cigars in an attempt to blow off some steam.”
“How’d they get this?” Soap mutters.
“Seems like we had more than one mole,” Gaz states. “Someone broke into Price’s office and copied Ghost’s file just after we left. Bloody bastard was caught for breaking in, but they never found the copied records.”
Soap stares at the folder. Ghost lost his entire family in one night. No fucking wonder he seems to hate the holiday.
Wait…
“If those bawbags know about Ghost’s history, who fucking knows what they’re doing to him now,” Soap growls. “We cannae let him go through that again, Kyle. We have tae find him.”
“I know, Tav. I know. That’s what this is for,” Gaz points to the schematics. “This is an old Soviet bunker just outside of the town we passed a few weeks ago. Price suspects they’re keeping Ghost there.”
A lead. That’s a lead. Why are they waiting?
“Well, what the fuck are we still doing here? We know where Ghost is—why aren’t we going to get him?” Soap shoots up from his seat.
“Woah, easy mate,” Gaz grabs Soap’s wrist. “We can’t just run in there. We don’t even know if that’s where they’re keeping him. Price is doing recon now—he should be back in a few hours. For now though, we wait.” Gaz’s voice softens, and he gives Soap a knowing look, “We’ll get him, Tav. We won’t let these bastards break our lieutenant.”
That doesn’t make Soap feel any better, but he pretends it does for Gaz’s sake.
And so they wait.
…
It’s nearly 1300 and Soap is getting antsy. Price still hasn’t returned. Soap’s leg is bouncing so hard that it hurts. He and Gaz have already played through the Uno deck that Soap had brought. Soap had tried to draw in his journal, but nothing looked right. Now the floor is littered with crumpled sketches.
Realistically, Soap knows that reconnaissance can take a while, but he knows that Ghost is in that building. He knows that Ghost is suffering. They’re torturing him somehow. Soap needs to get him out of there.
“This is bullshit,” Soap grumbles. As he gets up to prep his gear, Price barges through the safehouse entrance, covered in snow and blood that isn’t his own.
“We’ve found him,” Price smiles. “Soap, Gaz, get ready. We’re leaving in thirty.”
Soap feels like all of the air is sucked out of him. They found him. They found Ghost. And based on Price’s reaction, he’s alive.
They spend the next twenty-five minutes gearing up and replenishing their packs. Price explains the plan. The bunker is underneath a country cottage just outside of the city. It’s mostly abandoned, save for a few members of the local Romanian mafia.
“We need to be careful, Sergeants. These men have strong connections to the local government. If they call for backup, we’re in deep shit,” Price explains.
“Mafia? I thought we were dealing with terrorists,” Soap asks.
“We are,” Price states. “Turns out it’s all connected. The mafia and their connections here are a part of the same terrorist organization that you and Ghost were tasked with gathering intel from. It’s a lot of bio-medical bullshit. Right now, they’re harvesting and trafficking organs.”
“Fuck,” Gaz whispers. “Do you think…” He cuts himself off. Price shifts but shakes his head. “No, Kyle. These wankers want to use him. It won’t work. We know this—he’s been through this before,” Price scrubs his face with his hand. “But boys, I need you to prepare for what you might see in there. They had Simon’s file. We don’t know what these bastards are doing to him.”
Soap’s jaw ticks. He keeps his mouth shut and stares a hole into the schematics. He doesn’t trust himself to not blow up on his captain. He knows he shouldn’t be angry. Price made the right call. And then there’s the cold and the rolled ankle, which were both 100% Soap’s own fault. He would have died if he stayed out there overnight.
But still…
They continue preparing, Price continuing to go over the infiltration plan. Soap can feel his heart rate increasing. What if ye fuck it aw up again? What if they catch on an kill Ghost before ye get the chance tae get him oot? Soap bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. He shouldn’t be this nervous.
“Alright boys, our entry point is here,” Price taps his pen to the bunker entrance. “I’ll stand back for overwatch until we can guarantee the outside is clear. Once we’ve picked off the guards, we’ll use a heartbeat sensor to check for hostiles inside. Gaz, I want you to clear out as many rooms as you can, but watch your fire. We don’t know where they're keeping Ghost. I’ll be on your six the whole time.” Gaz nods while staring intensely at the schematics, mentally mapping the bunker and all of its possible danger spots. Price continues, “Soap, I’m trusting you to find Ghost and… just make sure he’s breathing. Once we clear the bunker, Gaz will prep for exfil while I head to wherever you are for assistance. Are we clear?”
The words echoed in his head, lingering in the darkness when everything else faded. Even the pain disappeared, white hot and radiating until it became so much it was just… gone. Warmth, then cold, and finally, numbness.
Everything afterwards came in flashes.
About four months into recovery, Johnny meets someone who might just understand what he's going through. Of course, no one knows the whole story, and it's lonely.
Ao3 link
“Never bury your enemies alive.”
The words echoed in his head, lingering in the darkness when everything else faded. Even the pain disappeared, white hot and radiating until it became so much it was just… gone. Warmth, then cold, and finally, numbness.
Everything afterwards came in flashes.
Muffled voices, the scraping of multiple footfalls, and the slamming of car doors in the distance. Or was it right next to him?
He was aware of his body being moved even when he couldn’t open his eyes. Everything felt so far away. It was hard to notice the hands on him when every jostle sent searing pain through his temple and into his brain. It hurt too much to think. It hurt too much to exist.
The only reprieve was when he felt a soft surface below, giving way under his weight. The crinkle of paper and the beeping of machines barely registered.
“Johnny!”
The shout startled him awake. A sharp, stabbing sensation in the side of his head broke through the fog of his drug-addled mind.
Johnny blinked blearily. The rapid beeping on the monitor next to him betrayed the jolt of adrenaline coursing through his veins as he fought to control his breath, eyes scanning the dim room around him.
It was empty.
Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.
Christ, that’s annoying.
Johnny leaned over to the heart monitor, stretching his hand out and pressing a button he’d seen the nurses use to silence the irritating machinery. His whole world spun on its axis, threatening to dump him from the hospital bed and onto the speckled linoleum.
He only barely managed to save himself from having his brains spill out over the floor — again — by clumsily shooting an arm out to brace against the nearest surface, which was, unfortunately, the IV pole. The thin, flimsy metal pole toppled and crashed into the wall, leaving a scuff mark along the rubbery baseboard and tugging on the line taped to Johnny’s hand. At least if his blood spattered here, there’d be an easier clean up than where he’d nearly bled out on the concrete of the Chunnel.
The Scotsman let out a curse, wincing against the tender new injury just as the door to his room opened.
A now-familiar redhead peeked his way inside. His eyes widened at the scene as he flicked on the lights. He rushed forward to assist, picking the IV off the ground and helping Johnny settle back into the bed.
“Steamin’ Jesus, Sergeant. I thought you had fallen out of bed yourself when I heard the crash,” Carson breathed with a shake of his head.
“Nearly did,” Johnny grumbled as he let the medic take his hand and remove the IV properly.
“Good thing you didn’t. Besides nearly ripping the catheter out of your hand, are you injured at all?”
“Apart from the obvious?” Even Johnny could hear how his attempt at lighthearted humor wavered and fell flat. It came out bitter instead. His brow furrowed, gaze drifting off into the middle distance for what felt like the thousandth time this week.
The scar branching out from his temple throbbed in response, almost as if it could sense Johnny’s growing awareness of it again.
At least Carson had the good nature to chuckle and shake his head fondly. “You need to be careful. We’re dealing with some powerful drugs here. You won’t be as coordinated as you are used to. Press your call button if you need something, okay?”
"I'm coordinated just fine," he insisted, but there was an increasing awareness that he wasn't just fine.
The drugs weren’t the only reason Johnny was off his game, and they both knew that. But apparently, everyone was either too scared to mention the elephant in the room or so clinical that it felt like a slap in the face to be pelted with prognoses that he wouldn’t remember in 15 minutes. It had taken Johnny the better part of a week to remember Carson’s name, and the man had a bloody nametag.
Unperturbed by his silent brooding, Carson continued with business as usual. He brought in a tray of breakfast: all soft foods served with thick-handled utensils for ease of use. Well, easier.
“You’ve got another visit with Faye in physical therapy this morning. Did you want to take your pain medication or go without?”
When the doctors had first started Johnny on intravenous medication — morphine or whatever it was — he hadn’t been very receptive, insisting on going without when he discovered how hard it was to think clearly through the hazy fog in his mind.
Ironically, the fog didn’t improve without the meds. It was just easier to move his arms without feeling so heavy. But it was the intense, unending ache in his skull that had him sheepishly withdrawing his earlier request.
The military had a way of training a ‘ pain is weakness leaving your body’ mentality that was hard to shake. Johnny found it hard to believe that this amount of pain was doing anything other than making him weaker. There was a sour feeling that settled in his stomach whenever he asked for more pain management, so he frequently didn’t ask. As of now, he really only accepted the IV at night so he could sleep, but his dreams were confusing and left him feeling restless, even if the medication pulled him deeper into the nightmares.
The feeling of cold metal warming against his scalp, fingers in a bruising grip on his arm…
Johnny blinked rapidly as Carson gently tapped his arm, drawing him out of the spiral. He inhaled sharply through his nose and tensed against the touch.
What was he supposed to be answering again?
Carson held up the small paper cup with several pills inside, rattling it gently.
Oh, pain meds. Right.
Johnny gently shook his head, trying not to think about the wince he couldn’t hold back.
“Nah. Not today,” he insisted stiffly.
Carson narrowed his eyes a bit, but acquiesced and only handed over the antibiotics with a hum. At least, that’s what Johnny thought they were. It was hard to keep up with everything. So much of the days felt both too slow and too fast simultaneously. He wasn’t even sure how many days had passed yet. Did his blood still stain the grey concrete, or had they hosed it down by now? Would there be an unnoticeable pink stain outside the train windows as it whizzed by in a blur?
So he found himself in a waiting room. Again. Being wheeled around the hospital was both a blessing and a curse. The residual high from his overnight pain meds made coordination difficult, and he imagined that the shock of his feet hitting the hard flooring would hurt his still-tender skull. Not that he could walk even if he wanted to. That was the other side of having to be wheeled around everywhere: there was no control. He couldn’t decide to pop over to the vending machine for a snack without asking. He couldn’t even decide to go to the bathroom by himself. It was humiliating.
A part of him recognized that he’d have been absolutely eating up the attention and excuse to be in a fun wheely chair had this been any other situation, nagging Price to buy him snacks or whining to Ghost to push him around. But it wasn’t like that. And here he was. Alone.
Or as alone as he could be in the circumstances. Hospitals were always full of people. There was no sense of privacy. That was something he was used to, but more and more Johnny just wanted to hide away in the private room behind a solid door and not speak to anyone for the rest of the day.
Carson parked Johnny’s transport chair next to a row of peeling vinyl-cushioned armchairs. Everyone in this place was at least a good 20 years his senior or still in uniform, clearly taking the morning off from some cozy desk job to meet their required medical appointments.
None of it was new anymore, but it also wasn’t familiar enough to feel comfortable. Posters with too much information crammed onto their surfaces, while still attempting to look pleasing, were too hard to read. Johnny couldn’t remember the last time he willingly read something outside of work and he’d be damned if he was going to start with this crap.
A paper calendar on the wall said it was March of 2024. Johnny didn’t even remember the turnover into the new year. He’d probably been asleep or too confused to register the passage of time. Apparently, he’d attacked more than one health professional in his distressed state and even threw his dinner tray at Ghost and Gaz when he didn’t recognize them after waking up from his coma.
Things were still fuzzy, and despite being declared “non-agitated” he sure felt fucking agitated. It was hard to think for more than a few seconds at a time. Annoyingly, it was just long enough to get caught in a spiral of what must be his memories. Everything was taking its sweet time coming back to him, but he wasn’t sure if he could trust the dreams to be the truth. Instead, Johnny had tried to read reports about his last mission, about Makarov, about his task force.
More often than not, he’d ended up needing someone to read them to him, his eyes and brain swimming every time he tried on his own. None of his teammates complained, but there was a vulnerability to it that Johnny didn’t like. Yet again, something he couldn’t control.
“D’you mind if I sit here?”
Johnny fought to pull himself out of staring into space and register that someone had spoken to him. He felt slow and dumb as he blinked open-mouthed up at the new person, his heavy brow furrowed in concentration.
A woman stood before him, leaning on a pair of well-loved crutches that cradled her forearms. Her eyes studied his expression, a look of uncertainty passing over her face before Johnny finally grunted his assent.
She nodded with a tight-lipped smile before lowering herself down into the only open seat in the waiting room: the one directly next to him.
Like him, she was younger than the average age of the crowd here. But, unlike the younger adults present, she didn’t wear a uniform. Instead of fatigues, a dark grey pullover and black jeans stood out in the pale room. Her hair was black, clearly dyed if the centimeter or so of dark blonde hair at the roots was any indication.
“Nice mohawk, by the way.”
Johnny blinked, realizing he was staring off into space again as he studied her. His hand absent-mindedly went up to touch his head, fingers shaking as he traced the shaved sides. The scar ran underneath his palm instead of taking up the entirety of his attention this time.
Gaz had insisted on Johnny keeping his signature haircut, even when he was bedbound and could barely speak. He’d brought in clippers and everything. It’d been months since he’d had a proper shower, but Gaz didn’t care. Admittedly, it did feel more comfortable like this. More familiar.
“Ah, thanks,” he drawled slowly. His tongue tripped over the words as his mouth fought to make the right sounds. Was it always so hard to talk? Maybe Carson was so used to patients babbling nonsense at him that he understood without much fuss. Maybe Johnny just forgot how to speak in the last five minutes. Both could be equally true. “My mate did it for me.”
She smiled, lips stretching around the piercing in the center of her bottom lip. Her hand reached up and ran through her hair, eyes watching as her shaky fingers passed through the length.
“That’s cool of him to do. I miss my shaved head sometimes,” she sighed wistfully. “It was so much easier to take care of.”
It felt like he couldn’t blink as Johnny did his best to retain the conversation in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before blinking stupidly again as he searched for words that did not want to come.
“Did you—did you have—” He settled for pointing at the side of his head, hoping it was the right side where the pinkish scar sat.
Her eyes widened. “Oh! No, I just did it because I wanted to.” She paused. “At least you’ll probably have a gnarly scar. Or the perfect spot for a sick cover-up tattoo.”
Johnny felt his lips tug into a half-smile. “Aye, I hadn’t thought of that.”
The woman’s green eyes lit up as her smile grew to a grin. “You really should consider it! I think it’d look super cool with the mohawk.”
A tattoo on the side of his head? It was hard to believe SAS would allow that, but then again, none of 141 had really followed the uniform rules, had they? For some reason, it was easier to remember his days before becoming a sergeant than the days leading up to his hospitalization.
“Sergeant MacTavish?”
Shit, how long had he been sitting there quietly? His eyes found the nurse who called him. Her eyes scanned the crowd of waiting patients, passing right over him.
When had Carson left? Johnny supposed he had other parts of his job than attending to a grumpy soldier in a wheelchair, but now he was stuck.
“Is that you?” Johnny flinched. He’d completely forgotten about the woman and the conversation they had just had. He’d feel embarrassed if he wasn’t grappling with a strange sense of panic. She must have seen the look on his face because when he nodded, she stood up and called out “Here!” to the nurse.
“Is it alright if I push you?”
Johnny looked down at the transport chair, realizing there was no way to propel himself forward. It felt like fighting through tar to form full thoughts.
“Aye, that’s alright,” he responded quietly. “Thanks, lass.”
She disappeared behind him. “Okay, but you’ll have to carry these for me, then.”
A pair of crutches slowly inched into Johnny’s field of vision from behind him. He was supposed to carry them? Just as slowly as they had appeared, Johnny reached out and wrapped his hands around the scuffed aluminium poles. It took a lot of concentration to control the shake in his fingers enough to maneuver properly, but eventually he got them laid across his lap.
The woman waited patiently for him to settle, unlike the nurse by the doors, who tapped her foot and watched with an irritated expression. As soon as he was settled, the chair lurched forward and glided across the floor.
“Thank you so much for your patience. Alright, lead the way.”
Johnny could hear the faux sweetness and the smile in her voice. A part of him regretted being unable to see it, especially when the nurse clearly had to fight back an eye roll. Instinct told him the grin must have been shit-eating. A smirk tugged at his lips again.
The rest of the walk—or roll, in his case—down the hall was quiet. Even the quiet murmurs of the passed rooms didn’t drown out the gentle thrum of the wheels against the vinyl floors and the footsteps of rubber-bottomed shoes. Something about it was soothing. He could even hear the swishing of cotton jeans from behind him if he focused.
Johnny was practically being lulled to sleep, only catching himself when his head began to drift and fall, startling himself out of the stupor. When did he get so tired?
“Alright, I guess this is you.” The woman reached around Johnny and retrieved the crutches from his lap. “This is where we part ways.”
“You’re not coming?” He couldn’t stop himself from asking, even if he had the mental capacity to recognize that she probably had her own appointment to attend.
She chuckled as she handed his wheelchair off to the grumpy nurse. “No, I’ve got a support group to run. You should stop by sometime. We’re in the rec room on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings.”
“Support group…” Johnny parroted. He didn’t confirm or deny, just tried out the words in his mouth to see how they felt. It wasn’t that bad. Maybe he’d say them again.
The click of crutches down the hall drew his attention back to the present as he was wheeled away into another room, the retreating form of… Shit, he forgot to ask her name.
Tw: Uhhh none? This is pretty fluffy I think (starting off slow and soft this month)
Summary: First time writing for this fandom but canon did these guys dirty and yes I *will* make the military propaganda gay. Ghost isn’t great at handling the cold. Soap makes it a little more bearable. Could be seen as either pre-ship or platonic.
Ghost wasn’t sure if he had a fever or not, unable to tell if his shivering and inability to get warm stemmed from the cold weather or his rapidly failing body. Honestly, at that point, it didn’t much matter. He just wanted to curl up on the ground and sleep, preferably until the blizzard passed and the heli arrived to take them back to civilization (and hopefully somewhere warmer).
Another wave of shivering washed over him, and he gritted his teeth together to keep them from clicking. His jaw ached, sending spikes of pain up to his already throbbing head. “Fuck…”
He shifted where he sat on the uneven wood floor, trying to get comfortable. His toes felt stiff and numb, and he wiggled them in his boots every so often, just to make sure they hadn’t fallen off or frozen solid.
Another shiver. He curled into himself and indulged in a quiet groan -not quite a whine- allowing himself to acknowledge, just for a moment, how miserable he felt.
Wallowing complete, he lifted his head again, glancing around the cabin. It was unmaintained, an old hunting cabin forgotten snd left to the mercy of the elements, and the neglect showed.
The door-hinges had been nearly rusted shut, and the window was broken, glass long since swept away by the harsh winds. Ghost sat in the corner adjacent to said window, having strategically chosen the place in the cabin least exposed to the biting wind. Sure, snow sometimes still blew in from the window and found its way into the cracks between his clothes, but it was better than it could have been.
He wasn’t hypothermic (he didn’t think), and he wasn’t dead.
His gaze trailed over to the man beside him, propped against the wall less than a foot away. Soap had his knees up, arms curled around himself, chin tucked on it all.
And the bastard even had the audacity to look peaceful, as if they weren’t waiting out a blizzard in a derelict hunting cabin after a 42 hour assignment.
Ghost almost laughed.
No, he did laugh. Just a chuckle, bitter and hysterical, freezing as it escaped his cloth-covered lips. It bubbled in his chest, warm and tingling.
Uncomfortably warm.
Hot even.
Maybe he did have a fever.
The sudden hot flash passed, and he shivered again. He grimaced, curling into himself in an attempt to be warmer. Another shiver and his knee jerked, knocking into Soap’s foot.
Soap startled, head shooting up and gaze darting around.
He looked over at Ghost, frowning as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. “Ghost? … Lt?”
The man in question inhaled shakily, wincing. “Didn’t m-mean t’ wake you.”
Soap tilted his head a little. He looked at Ghost with a searching gaze. “Yer shaking.”
Way to state the obvious. “Fuck off.” Ghost grumbled, his own voice sending spikes of pain through his already throbbing head. His teeth chattered.
“Don’t think ah will, sir.” Soap retorted mildly, shifting so that he was facing Ghost. A frown pulled at his lips, and his brow wrinkled. “Ye dinnae sound great.”
Ghost didn’t reply, too busy trying to keep himself from letting out a rather un-ghost-like whimper.
Soap put his hand to his mouth, pulling off one glove with his teeth. He reached out with his now bare hand, tentatively touching Ghost’s collarbone.
When he wasn’t immediately mauled (physically or verbally), Soap continued moving his hand up, sliding it onto Ghost’s neck and just under the bottom of his balaclava.
His cold fingers brushed Ghost’s bare skin.
Ghost flinched, jerking away from Soap and glaring.
Soap just reached out again, bare hand hovering over Ghost’s shoulder (but not touching). “Shite, Ghost. Yer a furnace…”
“Figured…” Ghost shivered.
“Ye sick?”
“What do y-you think, MacTavish?” He growled, looking thoroughly unamused.
“Yer right, stupid question…”
A pause. The wind howled outside the cabin, grating over the window hole and sounding like breath over a bottle rim.
Ghost had closed his eyes, resigned to his fate of shivering to death (he was feeling particularly dramatic at the moment) on the floor of the cabin, when he felt a warm pressure against his side.
“Soap?”
“Whadda ye think, Ghost?” Soap retorted, mirroring Ghost’s earlier comment.
He smiled a little behind the balaclava. “R-right… stupid question.”
Another shiver, and he leaned into Soap’s touch almost without thinking. He let out a quiet groan. God, he felt awful. His muscles ached -every single one of them-, his head was pounding, and his body felt hot and cold at the same time.
Maybe the fever was already high enough to fry his remaining brain cells, he told himself as he leaned into Soap’s warmth. After all, why else would this simple act feel so right?
He swallowed thickly, relaxing into Soap’s arms, and the blizzard slowly started to ease outside.
