Nine Line
Chapter 3
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
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Soap x Ghost
PTSD | Angst | Hurt/ Comfort
Word Count: 8,790
Rating: Mature
Status: Ongoing
Additional Tags/Warnings:
Coma Visions | Needles | Panic Attacks | Brief Vague Mention of SA | Nightmares
Soap wakes up.
//BEGIN MISSION REPORT—SGT JOHN MACTAVISH//
For a while the world blinks in and out. There will be a sudden burst of color, of fuzzy shapes and blurry faces, and then it’ll all be black again. Sometimes there’s a muffled noise—the hum of a helo, little beeps, concerned voices. It’s all very exhausting and hard to understand.
But the constant pain, isn’t. It’s unending. He can’t pinpoint what hurts the most, where one ache ends and another begins. His body is in agony even when he’s not aware enough to realize it, consuming him from the inside out. It’s threatening to drive him mad, but he can’t seem to move his body, to wake himself up, to try to tell someone he feels like dying.
Where is he? He can feel a bed beneath him in one of his random bouts of half-lucidity, so he doesn’t think he’s in that room with Ghost anymore. He hasn’t felt the sting of his skin splitting open in a while, or his bones breaking, or the burn of that drug in his veins. So that has to mean he made it out. And he thinks that’s Gaz’s voice in his dreams sometimes. Did Ghost get out too? God he hopes so.
“Come on, Soap,” Gaz’s voice will say, and in his dreams he can see him sitting next to him, “wake up, mate. You’re safe now. Just. Wake up for me.”
Soap. Is that who he is? Why can’t he remember? He knows that voice is Gaz’s voice. He’s heard it in his ear for plenty of missions. He knows who Gaz is. And Ghost. And Price. Soap. Yeah, Soap. That sounds familiar. John, maybe?
“Johnny.”
That sounds familiar too. When it’s whispered to him with fingers that trace over his bandaged cheek, he thinks that sounds right. Johnny. He likes that. Likes Ghost’s voice the most. It’s always been his anchor out in the field. Is his anchor now.
Wake up, that’s what they want him to do. He’s trying, he really is, but he can’t get his eyes to open. He’s just so tired, why can’t they let him sleep? Why does everyone sound so worried? Why do they keep poking and prodding him? Don’t they know it hurts?
When he’s not listening to his team’s disembodied voices, he’s dreaming. Most of the time he’s back in the room with Ghost, choking on his own blood, or that tube they’d force-fed him with. Panic seizes his chest when Ghost disappears sometimes, and the red light of the video camera blinks at him from the darkness.
Sometimes he’s back home in Scotland, sitting in his childhood living room listening to his parents fighting. It sets him on edge, fingers curling over his knees as he forces himself to act like nothing’s wrong. Sometimes his da is telling him how worthless he is for joining the military, to have fun getting nowhere in life. How much of a disappointment he is.
Other times he’s still in boot camp, or on his first mission, or running through Las Almas, bleeding out in the rain.
Perhaps he was dying. Was this his life flashing before his eyes?
He doesn’t think he wants to yet. Despite the way his body screams, the way it feels like it’s still convulsing from a drug or lack thereof, he doesn’t want to die. He would at least like to say goodbye to his team if he’s going to.
So he starts pushing himself harder to cling to the moments that Gaz’s voice is there. He can’t tell what he’s saying half the time, but it cuts through the dreams like a little guide-light. He chases it when it does, running after the beam to try and find the end. He can never quite reach it before it goes out though, before Gaz stops talking. It frustrates him, his limbs slow and heavy, body sluggish, like he’s running through mud while the ghostly hands of Vasily and his men rip at his clothes, holding him back.
But then his name is said softly, reverently, and the little beam turns into a beacon. Like a light whose purpose is solely to guide him back. It washes over him, bathes him in a warm glow, and just for a moment, the pain is gone. For a moment, the sun is on his face and he can hear waves crashing against cliffs. Everything is calm, peaceful…it’s nice. The light is so bright that it’s blinding, but God it feels so good. He wants to reach out and touch it, wants to walk right in the soothing warmth because it’s taken away his pain and that’s a good thing, right?
“You can if you want, Johnny.”
He turns his head right before his fingers can reach the light, finding Ghost himself lingering just beyond its reach. Like a wraith in the shadows, eyes reflecting the yellow glow back at him.
“But there’s no coming back from it.”
He frowns, “Just for a little while.”
The Ghost apparition shakes his head, “You either go or you don’t, but you have to stay if you do.”
“I can’t leave the team.” He says, dropping his hand away from the little wisps of light that had been trying to wrap around it, “Not yet.”
“Is that your decision?” The Ghost apparition asks.
He turns toward him, “I need te talk te them. Te you.”
“You won’t be able to if you go.” The Ghost apparition tilts his head, “But the pain will be over.”
“It will?” His voice sounds relieved, but apprehension sits heavy at the nape of his neck.
“You’ll be happy.”
Would he be? Maybe. But he was happy with Gaz, too, and Price and Ghost. Especially with Ghost.
“I don’t think I want to.” He says, stepping toward the Ghost apparition and away from the warm light.
“If you walk away now, you won’t get another chance for a while.” The Ghost apparition says, making him pause, “You’ll be in pain again. It’ll be agonizing.”
“I won’t leave my team if I don’t have to.”
The light starts to dim, and he feels the crack of broken bones and torn skin creeping back in.
“You’re sure?” The Ghost apparition asks, and everything goes still. The light stops dimming, and the waves stop crashing over the cliffs.
“I want te see ye again. I’m sure.” He says softly, and watches the Ghost apparition fade into the darkness behind it.
“So be it.”
The light dies, the Highlands disappear, and he’s left alone in the black, with not even the apparition to keep him company. It’s cold, his body shivering from that mixed with the pain. He sinks down to sit, drawing his knees up to hug them to his chest, trying to stay warm.
“Gaz.” He whispers, his voice echoing in the cavernous void, “Ghost. Get me out.”
There’s no answer.
“Please get me out!” He screams, “Get me out, get me out, get me out!”
“Soap.” It’s barely a whisper above the echos of his cries, but he hears it, his head snapping up as that little sliver of light beckons to him, “You with us?”
“Gaz?” He asks, reaching toward this stream of light, “Gaz help me! Wake me up!”
There’s a pause, and then his voice is soft, wrapping around him like silk, “Johnny listen to me. You can do it. You can wake up. Just listen to my voice.”
Just as it had before, the light erupts, but this time it isn’t just warm. It’s familiar, comfortable, a light he’s looked for in more than one darkness. He lunges for it, reaching up into its rays, and he feels solid fingers squeeze his hand. His real, physical hand. He feels tears roll down his face, a breath sputtering out of his sore lungs—and he squeezes back.
The first thing Soap sees is Gaz’s blurry face over his, wide-eyed and mouth agape. Groggily he looks around, gathering that he was indeed out of the room and in a hospital bed. There are flowers in the windowsill, with a little Scottish flag poked in between them. His coffee mug is next to them, which is good because he’d kill for some already.
And then there’s Ghost, in his plain balaclava, no eye-black, staring at him with wide dark eyes, and Soap doesn’t think he’d seen anything more beautiful in his life.
To keep on brand, like he hadn’t just gone through an existential crisis in his own head, he beckons them closer.
They lean in.
“‘bout time you lot shut the hell up.” He says hoarsely, feeling like he’s shredding his throat to do it.
But the laugh that blurts out of Gaz’s mouth, and the soft snort from Ghost make it all worth it.
“‘bout time you woke up, you fucking wanker.” Gaz says, voice thick, “Scared us half to death.”
“Only half?” He tries to grin, but he’s not sure how that goes, “Mus’ be losin’ my touch.”
A slew of medical staff burst into the room, and Soap feels anxiety slice through his gut, the sudden movement and unknown people setting him on edge. Gaz moves away, so he latches onto Ghost’s hand with all the strength he has in his body.
Ghost holds on and covers his bandaged hand with a gloved one, gently sandwiching it between them, “I’m right here, Johnny. Not going anywhere.”
Soap nods, still dazed and exhausted, and he kind of feels like he wants to throw up, but he’s tamps it down. The nausea keeps rolling as the nurses touch him, and when he closes his eyes to focus on not panicking, all he can see is Vasily.
The heart rate monitor is beeping rapidly, and vaguely he can feel his breathing coming in too fast. Panic seizes his limbs, sending a sharp jolt throughout his entire body. His chest feels like it’s constricting, he can barely breathe, barely think—
“Hey.” Ghost’s voice cuts through the commotion, “Give him a fucking second. He just woke up.”
“We need vitals—”
“I said give him a second.” Ghost says again, his officer’s voice making everyone pause.
Soap finally pulls in a breath, a good one this time, and takes several more as his body starts to relax. No Vasily, no room, no camera.
Just Ghost. And Gaz. And the staff that was trying to make sure his body wouldn’t shut down after it just started working again.
“Sorry.” He rasps, throat swollen and sore, “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” Ghost says, thumb rubbing circles into his wrist, “They should know better.”
“‘S’okay.” Soap lets out a shaky breath, relaxing back into the bed, “I’m okay. Jus’ surprised me ‘s’all.”
“I can give you something to help you relax.” One of the nurses says, holding up a syringe to the tubes his arm.
The reaction is instantaneous, his body moving before his mind has time to catch up. He inhales sharply, attempting to push himself away from the syringe. From the drug. From the pain that had made him want to die.
“No!” He shouts, eyes drifting down to the tubes in his arm, and more fear seizes him. Fuck, the needle’s already there. Already hurts. All they had to do was push the plunger on the syringe, and he’d be a puddle of agony again. He’d have to crawl across the floor like last time, beg, grovel, lick their boots, force himself to admit things he promised he wouldn’t. Please not again—
Wait. His wrists aren’t bound this time, fuckers. Big mistake. He claws at the needle in his arm, a strangled yelp leaving his throat as he gets the tape off. So close.
“Johnny, stop.” Ghost says gently, his hands finding Soap’s wrists, “Stop, you’re alright.”
“Get it out,” He chokes, startled when tears start pouring from his eyes, “get it out, get it out!”
Ghost’s hands squeeze a bit more tightly, and Soap struggles against him, fighting his hold weakly. Why is he doing this? Why won’t he let go? Why is stopping him? He saw what the drug did to him. Why?
More hands push against his chest, shoving him down, but he resists. They want to restrain him, want to hurt him, want to laugh at him again. Want to degrade and beat and humiliate him. All over again.
No, not again. He lashes out, fist connecting with someone’s face, and knocks over a table. There’s a shout, and then a crash as the table hits the ground, spilling its contents everywhere. The pain makes him want to vomit, nearly shuts him down, but he can’t do it again. He can’t deal with the torture anymore.
“Give him a sedative!” A male voice grunts.
“Don‘t you fucking dare!”
Ghost.
Soap’s eyes snap to him, to where he’s leaning protectively over him.
“Put the fucking syringe away, that’s what set him off!” Ghost continues, his eyes taking on the murderous glint they get when he’s particularly angry, “He can’t tell it’s not a needle!”
Not a needle?
Despite the fight or flight coursing through his body, Soap pauses for a moment. Forces himself to breathe, to look at things as the soldier and not the man. He’s in a hospital. Surrounded by medical staff. Ghost is there, free from the chair he’d last been in. Gaz is there, who had been looking for them.
A whimper leaves his chest as he falls back against the bed, and he realizes what he’s done. The mistake he’s made. How ridiculous he’s being.
“Fuck.” He breathes, lip trembling, “Fuck, I—”
“It’s for his own safety, Lieutenant.” The male voice, a doctor, says.
“Bullshit.” Ghost spits, reaching over to put a hand on either side of Soap’s bed rails, putting himself between him and the med staff, “You’re the ones who fucking startled him!”
“Stand. Down. Lieutenant.” The doctor says through his teeth, ripping the syringe out of the nurse’s hands.
“You touch him, and you’ll be picking your teeth up off the fucking floor.” Ghost growls.
“I think everyone just needs to calm down.” Gaz says, coming up to stand at Ghost’s side, “No sedation, no violence. Let us talk to him.”
“Your boy just broke a nurse’s nose.” The doctor says, and guilt bleeds through Soap’s chest, “He’s a caged animal right now!”
“What the fuck did you just call him?” Ghost snarls.
“You better watch your fucking mouth, bruv.” Gaz, who’d seemingly abandoned his level-headedness, is saying at the same time, pointing a finger in the doctor’s face.
“Enough!”
The shouting ceases, all heads swiveling to the door. Soap exhales, his head throbbing, on the verge of sobbing from all the overstimulation. He’d wanted to wake up so badly, and now he just wants to go back to sleep.
Captain John Price is standing in the doorway, anger radiating off of him, his eyes burning as he turns his gaze on everyone in the room.
“What the bloody hell is going on in here?” Price demands as he steps inside.
The doctor opens his mouth to speak, but Price holds up a silencing hand. He turns his gaze over to Ghost, who was still hunched over Soap.
“This lot game bargin’ in here, spooked Johnny, tried to give him some meds without saying jack about it, he saw the IV, panicked, they tried to restrain him, he lashed out, they then tried to sedate him, and then called him a wild animal.” Ghost lists in summary.
Price looks to the doctor.
“The lieutenant forgot to mention that he broke one of the nurse’s noses.” The doctor says, turning a glare on Ghost.
“After you all ambushed him!” Gaz cuts in, “Lucky it wasn’t worse.”
“Can it, Sergeant.” Price says sternly, and Gaz closes his mouth with a sour expression.
“Now, tell me why I could hear you all shouting from the med bay entrance.” Price says, eerily calm, “You have a fucking operative who’s been through hell, who just fucking woke up from a coma, and you’re all going to sit there and scream at each other like children?”
The room remains silent.
“You’re goddamn professionals. Act like it.” Price says, finally looking down at Soap, and he softens up as he does, “Welcome back, son.”
“It’s not their fault, sir.” Soap says quietly, feeling like a complete idiot, “I panicked and I…I dinnae mean to. I just thought—I saw the syringe an’ I—”
“You don’t need to explain yourself.” Price’s eyes flick up to the med staff, “They should know better than to startle a special forces operative.”
The doctor scoffs, “We’re in here trying to help him—”
“Where’s his assigned doctor?” Prices cuts him off.
“I’m on the floor tonight.”
“Well get Jennings.”
“That’s not how this works—” The doctor says, taking a step toward the captain.
“It is now.” Price says, going toe to toe, “Get Jennings, or I will.”
The doctor looks like he wants to say more, but he decides better on it and leaves the room in a huff. Some of the nurses who look like they don’t know what to do, follow him, leaving two next to Soap’s bed.
“Sir,” One of them says softly, and Soap realizes she’s talking to him, “do you mind if my partner and I continue your vitals? We want to make sure you’re doing okay after waking up to all this.”
He nods, throat burning at the embarrassment, “Some pain meds would be appreciated, lass.”
“Of course. I can get you pills, but,” her eyes flick down to the IV port in his arm, the one he’d mistaken in his confused state, “it’d work faster if I was able to put them through your IV.”
Soap knew, he knew she was telling the truth. That she had no ill intent. But he couldn’t stomach the thought.
“Pills will do.” He says roughly, face burning.
Ghost loudly drags a chair up next to Soap’s bed, deliberately scraping it across the floor while staring at both nurses so that they have to look at him. So they can see how serious his threat about picking teeth off the floor is. He plops down into it, keeping an arm up on the bed, watching their every move.
Gaz leans against the windowsill behind him, arms crossed, sharing a look with Price. Soap knows a secret conversation when he sees one.
“The, uh,” Soap looks up at the woman above him, shining a light into his eyes that makes his headache worse, “the nurse I hit. She’s okay?”
“She’s tough.” The nurse says, “Don’t worry about it, alright?”
“I dinnae—”
“Hey.” She smiles, pausing what she’s doing to fix him with a look, “She’s okay, and so are you. We’re gonna get Dr. Jennings in here to go over everything.”
“Jennings is good.” Gaz says.
Soap nods, opening his mouth when the other nurse brings a cup of pills back. He swallows them, along with some water from a straw, and lays back against the bed to wait for them to kick in.
The nurses continue their fussing, and he relaxes further and further as the pain lessens.
“Is it okay if I sleep again?” He asks, eyes already drifting shut.
“You sleep, Johnny.” Ghost says, “We got you.”
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After the whole debacle with med staff, Soap gets an entirely new team aside from the two nurses who’d stayed. The one whose nose he’d broken comes to visit, laughs about it, and assures him there’s no hard feelings.
He still feels a little rough about it.
Dr. Jennings takes over and is light years better than the other guy. He shows compassion and gentleness, making sure to explain whatever he’s doing before he does it. He becomes a face that Soap doesn’t hate to see coming.
As the days pass, his strength starts to return. He can sit up on his own, able to move both his arms and legs, and the bandage covering his right eye gets removed. But he’s got plenty more wrapped around his battered body, plenty he hasn’t seen underneath.
The team comes to visit often, and even though sometimes Soap would love to be alone, he can’t be mad at them for hovering. Especially when they’re all crammed into his hospital room like they did his barracks, pestering him to no end.
“Ach! Captain, I can do it my damn self!”
Price lobs him the look of a disappointed father, a forkful of cafeteria food frozen in the air between them, “Sit back and open your yap, you bloody muppet.”
“I can feed myself. I dinnae die, boss! Dinnae come close!” Soap says, sitting up in bed, refusing to be fed by Price.
The nurse typing away at the computer next to him makes a strangled noise, giving him a side-eye, “Your heart stopping on medevac begs to differ.”
“Oi! Who’s side are ye on, lass?” He asks, whipping his head in her direction, affronted, “Yer supposed to be my nurse!”
“I’m on the side of letting people take care of my patients. I swear you SAS boys are something else.” She turns toward him, putting her hands on her hips, “I promise none of us med staff are going to question your masculinity if your Captain feeds you on account of, you know, both your broken hands.”
Gaz snickers from his spot in the chair next to Ghost. Ghost, who had come to see him so many times after he’d woken up, after the fog in his head lifted and he remembered what he’d done in that other room. Ghost, who tried so many times to talk to him, only for Soap to give a half-hearted, short response. Ghost, whose dark eyes never leave Soap for a second, pleading for him to look back.
But he doesn’t. Can’t look at him. If he looks him in the eye, will Ghost see the shame he still feels? For crying in that room? For screaming? For begging? For cracking wide open in the end?
For what they made him do?
Ignoring Ghost’s gaze yet again, he throws Gaz a glare before turning near heart-eyes on his nurse, “I do love a lass that can put me in my place.”
“Here we go.” Gaz mutters, lips pressing together to hide a grin.
“I’m ten years older than you.” His nurse says, fighting a smile.
“I’m no’ shy of an experienced woman, doll.”
“Sorry John, you’re not my type.” She says after laughing, turning back to her computer with a smile.
“What? A braw handsome man like me?” He feigns hurt, “What is yer type, then?”
“Leave it to Soap to try and pick up his nurse looking like the second coming of King Tut.” Gaz mutters fondly under his breath. Ghost blows a puff of air out of his nose.
“I much prefer men who don’t try to get themselves killed for a living.” She tips her head in thought, “And blondes.”
“Ohoho!” Soap grins, turning his excited gaze on Ghost, momentarily forgetting the sick feeling he gets when he does, “Then yer in luck, lass! The Lt here is blonde!”
“Keep running your mouth, Johnny, and I’ll make them wrap that too.” Ghost grumbles from his spot, and Gaz giggles further.
“You’d miss my mouth, Lt.” Soap says, blurting out something stupid so that he didn’t completely shut Ghost out. He wouldn’t have done that before.
“I promise I wouldn’t.” Ghost says quietly.
Price, face beet red, says, “Boys. There is a lady.”
“I dinnae mean it like that!” Soap knows his face slowly bleeds scarlet, “Honestly, Captain, get yer mind out the gutter!”
“The way you two talk sometimes? I’m not to blame here!”
The nurse laughs, which only adds to Soap’s growing demise. Eventually he gives in to Price’s incessant attempts at feeding him, grumbling about where he could actually put it.
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“I would sell my soul fer a shower righ’ about now.” Soap says, shifting in bed and catching a whiff of himself. It was rank to say the least, and he winces at the smell of sweat mixed with stale blood. The nurses had been doing a stellar job at helping him with sponge baths, but the idea of feeling warm water run over his still-sore body sounded as close to heaven as he could get.
“You feeling up to it?” Gaz asks from the chair next to him, proof-reading some old mission reports.
“Not by myself.”
“Want me to see if one of the nurses can help?”
“Nah. They’re busy enough without havin te haul my arse te the shower.” Soap says, sighing, “Just wishful thinking’s all. Haven’ had a proper wash since before we left on that recon.”
Gaz lowers the report he’s working on, “Want me to help?”
“No. No, I canna ask that.” Soap says quietly.
“You can, bruv.” Gaz sits forward in his chair, “If you think you’re up for it and won’t make yourself sick, I can help.”
“No, Gaz.” Soap would be picking at his fingernails if his hands weren’t still casted…and if he had any nails left, “Tha’s too much te ask.”
“Oh come off it, mate.” Gaz hits the call light before Soap can protest further, “If you think for one second it’d be inconveniencing me, you can fuck off. I’d love to help, if it makes you feel better.”
Soap feels himself flush, shame curling in his gut that Gaz even needs to offer. Why can’t his body just do what he tells it to? Why can’t it move when he says, stand when he wills it, stop shaking like a leaf every time he tries to sit up?
He’d already tried getting out of bed a few days ago with his nurse. Just sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed had left him breathless, quivering with exhaustion and pain, the room tilting sideways. It ended in disaster, with Soap barking at the nurse in frustration, his temper getting the better of him before he could get a handle on it. Hot, frustrated tears had burned the back of his throat as she guided him back against the bed, trip damned.
He hates this. He hates the way his body suddenly feel so foreign to him, when it had always been the one thing he could rely on. It was one of the only things he knew inside and out, one of the only things he could trust implicitly. He knew what made it tick and how far he could push it, but now it felt wrong. Like it wasn’t his anymore, a shell he’d crawled into after his had been uninhabitable.
He hates this place. Hates the hospital bed so stiff and uncomfortable beneath him. The smell of antiseptics had already driven him to nausea, and the constant visits from staff at all hours of the day to keep him up on meds made him want to commit himself to the psych ward.
He hates the way everyone looks at him. Hates the sympathy, the pity, he sees in their eyes. The nurses, Gaz, Price, even fucking Ghost when Soap bares to look at him. They act like he’s going to break if they look at him wrong. Like he’ll shatter if they touch him hard enough. As if he was some fucking rookie who had his first bad mission.
He’s fine. He’s a special forces fucking operative for the SAS, for fuck’s sake. He’s one of the best snipers they had, the best demolitions expert, he thinks he deserves some credit. So he’d been injured, he didn’t need people’s sympathy, and especially not their pity.
“Soap.” As if reading his mind, Gaz puts a hand on his shoulder, right in the crook of his neck, “Mate. Let me rephrase. I want to help. I’m not offering like it’s some sort of obligation, I’m offering because you’re my friend and I love you.”
“I just…” Soap swallows harshly, embarrassment creeping up with the blush he knows is on his neck, “A few weeks ago I could run an op with my eyes closed. Now I canna even take a fuckin’ shower by myself.”
“I know.” Gaz says softly, “But it’s temporary, yeah? You’ll be back up in no time, but for now, let me help. Doesn’t make you any less for needing it.”
Soap can’t help the small smile he gets, finally turning to look over at his friend, ending the conversation before the guilt ate him alive, “Don’ lie, Gaz. Ye jus’ wanna get me naked.”
“You are a beautiful man, bruv.”
Soap snorts just as the nurse walks in, and she seems delighted that he wants to try and get out of bed again. She brings a clear wrap that she puts around his casts to keep them dry, as well as the IV port in his arm.
“Okay. Ready to try this again?” The nurse, a pretty lass with dark hair and green eyes, asks, holding out an arm for him to lean on, “Just take it slow.”
“Yer a saint, bonnie.” He says, wincing at his first move, “Puttin’ up with me.”
She smiles, and he thinks he’d have fallen apart for it once upon a time, “You don’t scare me, Sergeant. Now get your ass out of bed.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He grits his teeth against the ache in his ribs as he leans an arm on hers, using it as leverage to move his legs. He gets one over the side of the bed, pausing to catch his breath and let the ache subside.
“Doing great, John.” The nurse says, waiting patiently for him to move his other leg, “Way better than a few days ago.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.” He grits out, dragging his other leg across the bed until it joined the other dangling in midair.
“How are you doing?” She asks, holding her arms in midair to catch him if he were to sway too far.
“Hurts like a fuckin’ bitch.” He says through his teeth, dizzy with pain, but fuck if he’s going to stop now, “But I’m alrigh’.”
“Okay, you take a minute while I get these bandages off.” The nurse says, starting with the ones around his head, before helping him slip his arms out of his gown to get at the wrap around his torso. It’s freeing to feel the cool air on his skin. It stings at first, right when she peels the copper tinged bandages off, but then it settles. It makes him feel lighter in a way, like finally taking off his vest after days of the same mission.
“Hold tight, John, I’ll go get a wheelchair.” The nurse says with a smile and disappears out the door.
Soap risks a glance down at himself, letting out a low whistle so Gaz wouldn’t be able to tell how badly his stomach drops at the sight. Until then, the bandages had only been changed late at night, when the only ones in the room were Soap and the nurses. He hadn’t looked any of the times they’d done it, hadn’t wanted to see what had them sharing looks when they thought he wasn’t watching.
But now there’s no avoiding it, the shame. There’s no avoiding the state his body is in, not when it was bared without the bandages, and would be for God knew how long it would take him to shower.
It’s not pretty, that’s for damn sure. His torso is riddled with bruises, deep black, fading to blue, then sickly yellow, with a dark purple surrounding the particularly nasty bits. A jagged cut runs diagonally across his chest, still red and angry at the edges. There are places where his skin had split open from being beaten with something blunt and heavy—the baton, the brass knuckles. Some wounds have been sewn together nicely, with time and precision. Some look crude, like they’d been done in the back of medevac, no time to spare.
He glances up, ready to crack a joke to distract himself from the fact that he looked like Frankenstein’s fucking monster, but the words die as soon as he sees Gaz’s face.
His friend is staring, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, his eyebrows drawn in something stuck between shock and disbelief. He looks stunned, like all the breath has vanished from his lungs, and it makes Soap’s throat want to close. It takes a lot to rattle Gaz. He’d seen the carnage of combat, seen bodies much worse than this, yet he was staring like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing.
“Is it—” Soap starts, but the nurse walks in with a cheerful smile, wheeling the chair right up to his bedside.
“Kyle, could you help me on his other side?” She asks, slipping an arm underneath Soap’s left side.
“Are you sure—” Gaz goes to put is arm around the other side, hesitating at the state of his body, “I don’t know where to grab you.”
“Just grab me, Gaz.” Soap gives him a reassuring smile, “Canna hurt me any worse than I am.”
Gaz presses his lips into a thin line, and then sighs, shrugging Soap’s arm over his shoulders. Together, he and the nurse haul Soap up off the bed, and he attempts to keep the groaning and wincing to a minimum. Pain flares to life everywhere, but especially his ribs, where he’s straining to keep his arms tight around Gaz and the nurse.
He lets out a soft grunt, blowing a breath out of his nose while his lips tuck between his teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gaz’s eyes flick to him in concern.
They gently lower him into the wheelchair, and he lets out a relieved breath this time. His eyes slip closed, and he lets his head fall back to relax into the chair. It feels good to be sitting.
The nurse wheels him into the bathroom with Gaz at her heels, having given him a towel to place over his lap for privacy.
“Okay, I have soap and everything in the rack, and there’s a towel on the sink.” She says, wiping her hands on her scrubs, “You boys sure you don’t want my help?”
“As much as I would normally love yer assistance in the shower, lass,” Soap says with a charming grin, “not this time.”
“Thank you.” Gaz tells her, the two sharing a soft look that Soap clocks and files away in his brain for later.
A blush slowly creeps into her cheeks, and she nods, “Call if you need anything. Seriously.”
“You bet.” Gaz says, and waits until she’s gone to turn the water on.
Soap watches the steam rise up to the ceiling, the tiles of the open shower gleaming as water spatters against the walls. Anticipation curls giddily in his chest, and it feels good to finally be excited about something.
“‘Kay, mate,” Gaz pushes him forward, not quite in the stream of water, “how’s the temperature?”
“Uh…” Soap tips his head, unable to reach his hand out to feel. Not even his foot. Gaz looks horrified that he’d asked. To rectify the situation, Soap sticks his elbow in, finding it near-scalding, just the way he likes it, “Feels good, Gazzy.”
“Let me know if you want it changed, ‘kay?” Gaz says, slowly rolling him forward into the stream.
Soap feels himself melt down into the chair when the water hits him, his sore, stiff limbs turning to liquid themselves and joining the puddle under his wheels. A deep sigh heaves out of his lungs, and he lets his eyes slip closed as the heat envelopes him. It stings, both in part to how hot it is, but also from the wounds that haven’t healed. It doesn’t matter, though. Soap is in the clouds.
Gaz removes the detachable shower head from above the permanent one, bringing it down to pay extra attention to the parts of Soap’s body he couldn’t get into the stream. It feels good down his back, down his shoulders, washing away the sweat, dirt, and blood that still clung to him for dear life.
“Head back.” Gaz says, and Soap does as instructed, letting out a happy little hum when he feels the water on his head, “Bloody hell, have they been bathing you or not?”
“As best they can, why?” Soap asks, cracking an eye open to look up at Gaz.
He looks angry, sorrowful, and guilty all at the same time, his eyes swimming with it, “No reason.”
But Soap catches the brief flick of his gaze down to the floor, and turns his head to look down, too. The tiles are a steady pink with the flow of the water, swirling down into the drain. Dark red chunks mix here and there, clots of blood falling from his body from the wounds that just wouldn’t seem to stop bleeding.
“Huh.” Is all he can say, watching a particularly sizable one get stuck at the drain.
Gaz wets a cloth, gently starting with one shoulder and working his way down his arm as far as he can go. He works in slow, soft circles, taking care not to press too hard, but Soap flinches at the contact anyway.
“Too hard?” Gaz sounds startled, the cloth leaving Soap’s skin.
“No, no,” Soap shakes his head, “feels good. Keep going.”
Gaz does, making slower, more conscious strokes of the cloth over his body. He helps him lean forward to get at his back, and Soap can’t help the groan when the cloth scratches over it, getting long overdue itches from the sweat that had dried there. It’s reverent, the way Gaz washes him, and Soap would spend the next lifetime making it up to his best friend.
After a moment of careful tension, Gaz suddenly snorts, and then laughs. Soap twists his head to eye him, “‘S so funny?”
“Just,” Gaz doesn’t stop grinning, “anyone standing outside the door might be getting a different picture of what’s going on in here.”
“What do ye mean?”
“Too hard? ‘No, no, feels good keep going’.” Gaz quotes them from before, and Soap can see what he’s getting at, starting to grin himself, “And you’re making all these noises—”
“Fuck off.” Soap says, but there’s no bite to it, “I’m enjoying myself, sue me.”
“Enjoying me getting my hands on you.”
“If I wanted someone’s hands on me real nice, I’d have asked the pretty nurse, not you, Gaz.”
“Or Ghost.”
“Piss off.”
“Didn’t hear any denying.”
“Away and bile yer heid.” Soap grumbles, “I wouldna asked him either.”
Gaz hums, moving to kneel down next to him and scrub his legs, “Why? Because you’re avoiding him?”
“No.” Soap says, startled that Gaz had noticed.
“So you’re not?”
Soap sighs, letting his head rest back against the back of the wheelchair, “I just…every time I look at him, all I can think about is…” He swallows, not ready to broach the topic of the video, “It’s not fair. I know it’s not.”
“Ghost is good shit, mate. I don’t think he’s taking it personal.” Gaz moves to his other leg, “I figure he understands more than anyone. But he’s worried about you.”
“I know. I know. I feel like shit about it, Gaz.” Soap says quietly, “Like I’m punishing him for what they did. It wasn’ his fault fer any of it.”
“Does he…” Gaz looks up, “Does Ghost know about the video?”
“No.” Soap says it too fast, too harsh, the reaction of its mention visceral and raw, “And he won’t. You can’t tell him, Gaz.”
“He has no clue?” Gaz asks, brows pulling together.
“He was asleep when they took me.” Soap blinks up at the ceiling, but sees a flash of Ghost’s face for just a moment. In the room, slumped forward, eyes closed from the exhaustion overtaking him. Hands clasp something tight around Soap’s neck, yanking him harshly from the chair until he’s sprawled out on the ground, being drug across the jagged floor, choking and gasping and—
“Soap.” Gaz is squatting next to him now, and he forces himself to breathe.
“He doesn’t know, Gaz.” He says, barely a whisper, chest too heavy for anything else, “He can’t.”
“Won’t hear it from me.”
Soap watches his face as he starts working on his hair, running his fingers through the snags in his mohawk, snarls and blood mats.
“Did you see it?”
Gaz pauses a moment, eyes trained on Soap’s hair, before he nods, “Price, Laswell, and I did.”
Soap doesn’t know what he’d been hoping for. He knew Vasily had sent it, knew it was meant for them specifically, as well as Ghost, but Soap had been holding out hope that since none of them had mentioned it, maybe they hadn’t seen it. It was foolish to hope, and now that he knew for certain, he felt the humiliation seeping into his chest, burning with tears behind his eyes.
He just nods, letting the sooth of Gaz’s fingers in his hair distract him.
“I swear to God, Tav,” Gaz says quietly, “we’ll find them. I’ll kill them myself for what they did.”
“It wasn’t even that bad.” He says, voice hoarse, “Could have been worse. I thought it was gonna be worse. Thought they were gonna—you know. They talked about it.”
Gaz’s hands freeze at the implication, then continue.
“I mean…they dinnae, did they?” He frowns. There are gaps in his memory from the whole ordeal, long periods of time missing from his head. He can remember a lot about the pain they put him through, but there are other wounds he doesn’t remember getting, nightmares that he can’t tell are missing memories or not, “I don’ remember a lot about what happened.”
“No, mate, they didn’t.” Gaz says, voice thick.
“You’d tell me if they did?”
“On my life.”
“I have tha’ goin’ fer me, then.” He shrugs.
“Doesn’t mean they won’t suffer.” Gaz grabs a bottle of shampoo from the rack under the shower head, “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Yer kinda hot when you’re bein’ scary, Garrick.”
A smile finally cracks the dark look on Gaz’s face, fingers working the shampoo into Soap’s hair, “You’re not my type, Tav.”
“Apparently no one aroun’ere has any taste.” Soap gripes, happy that the subject has turned away from his embarrassment.
“On the contrary, I’m pretty sure this night nurse is hot for you.” Gaz says waggling his eyebrows, “Could have had someone much prettier than me washing you up.”
“Yer talkin’ out yer arse now, Kyle.” Soap scoffs, “I saw the eyes you gave each other before. And yer on first name basis?”
“What eyes?” Gaz asks, flustered.
“The not quite fuck-me eyes.”
“I did not give her fuck-me eyes.”
“No. You gave her not quite fuck-me eyes.”
“Fuck off, Soap.” Gaz laughs, avoiding his gaze because Soap is right as always, “Get Ghost to wash your hairy ass next time. I’ll be too busy giving Serena not quite fuck-me eyes.”
Soap hums, “No’ ready fer anyone else te see me like this. Especially not Ghost.”
“Ah, so I get the dirty work.” Gaz jokes.
“I trust you with it.”
“Well, I hope I did good then.” Gaz sits down on the floor, just outside of the water’s reach, “You’re all sudsed up and rinsed. Just let me know when you want to go back to bed.”
Soap smiles at him, “Thanks, Gaz. I feel like a brand new lad.”
“You look better.” Gaz says, returning his smile, “Not so bloodied up anymore.”
Soap sits in the stream for so long he loses track of time, maybe he falls asleep, he can’t be sure. The water lulls him into a state of in between, soothing his aching muscles and comforting him down to his bones. He could sit there for hours if he was able to, and he thinks Gaz would let him.
As it is, his friend is sitting with his back propped up against the far wall, just out of reach of the water. He simply scrolls on his phone, eyes flicking up periodically to make sure Soap was still doing okay.
Finally he concedes, telling Gaz to come take him back to his bed. He groans when the water turns off, but the thought of laying back in bed doesn’t seem so unbearable anymore.
The nurse, Serena, according to Gaz, had changed his bed sheets while they were gone, and together they get him perched back on the edge. She re-wraps his chest, but says his head can stay out for a bit until his hair dries. He’s not going to remind her.
And then, warm and content, with Gaz’s familiar, safe, presence at his side, Soap drifts off to sleep.
✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦
“Look up at the camera, Sergeant.” Vasily’s voice whispers through his head, “Smile nice and pretty for your comrades.”
A hand tangles in his hair, yanking his head back sharply until he’s staring up at the red, blinking light. The pain makes him gasp, blood-slick hands reaching up to uselessly clutch the arm above him. He’s on his knees, completely nude, with nothing to spare him from the frigid concrete beneath him.
Exhaustion pours through every inch of his body, his eyes heavy and barely able to stay open. He’s cold, so fucking cold that it only adds to the ache suffocating him little by little. He can’t tell if he’s shaking from the exhaustion, the cold, or the pain anymore.
“Don’t you want to say anything?” Vasily asks, but his voice continues to be wispy, pitch in and out through the pounding in his head, “Come on, Sergeant, now’s your chance to say any last words.”
Soap bites his tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction, only stares at the camera as Vasily’s grip tightens in his hair. He winces, his dull fingers digging into Vasily’s wrist.
He lets go of Soap’s head, planting a foot square in his back to kick him to the floor. The air whooshes out of his lungs as he hits the concrete, groaning involuntarily at the sudden loss of air. He rolls slowly onto his side, choking on a breath, unable to pull anything in.
Vasily cups the back of his head gently, picking it up off the floor to tip it up to him, “If only your Lieutenant were here to see this. What would he think?”
Ghost.
Soap opens his mouth, tries to say something but he can’t breathe.
“What would he say if he knew?” Vasily grins, “Knew all about what kind of man you are.”
No. Soap tries to say, No!
“Maybe we should show him, then perhaps he’d have an easier time letting you die.” Vasily’s voice is in his ear, “Not so confident now, are you Sergeant? Is it because you’re afraid that he’ll see you like this?”
I’m not.
“He’ll never look at you the same if he does.”
Stop.
He squeezes his eyes shut but the image of him is everywhere, projected against the walls, the ceiling, he can’t look away. He’s tugged up by his neck, the chain around it biting into his flesh, until he’s back on his knees. It pulls taught, keeping the air from seeping back into his lungs. He’s choking again, eyes burning as they feel ready to burst.
“You’d do anything for him, right?” Vasily’s voice sneers, “Isn’t that why you’re doing all this? For him?”
Get outta my head.
“He’s the reason you’re here.” The voice hisses behind his eyes, “He could end all your pain and suffering, but you endure it for him.”
God does he want it to end.
“Why, Sergeant? What is he to you?”
Soap grinds his teeth, refusing to answer.
A boot connects with his stomach, his body folding inward as a crack takes his breath away further. He coughs once, blood spattering across the floor.
He’s yanked back upright, groaning at the new pain. Vasily lays his head against Soap’s, long fingers tracing his jaw, “What. Is. He?”
Stop, Soap groans, blood dripping down his chin.
“I want you to say it.” Vasily whispers,, “I want you to look at the camera and tell every single one of your comrades what a fucking degenerate you are.”
He freezes.
“You think I haven’t caught on?” Vasily laughs softly, pulling something out of his pocket to hold up so only Soap can see. He inhales sharply, stomach violently lurching, “You think I couldn’t tell with the way you look to him for everything?”
A whimper escapes the back of his throat.
“Tell them, Sergeant.”
No, I can’t.
“Tell them, or this won’t end well for you.”
Not this. Please, not this.
Vasily hums, rising to his feet and handing the fabric to another, much larger man, telling him to put it on. Soap feels like he’s going to be sick when the man does it, then steps into view of the camera.
“Maybe you’ll tell me.”
No.
Johnny.
“Come on say it.”
Stop.
Johnny.
“Isn’t this what you’ve wanted for so long?”
Fucking stop!
Johnny!
Vasily and the others are laughing, including the man wearing Ghost’s mask—
“Johnny!”
Soap lurches upright with a gasp, choking and coughing on a lack of air. It feels like his lungs have seized, collapsing in on themselves. He clutches his chest with a casted hand, blinking rapidly at the dots in his vision. Fuck, he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe—
“You’re alright, Sergeant.”
And just like that, some natural instinct that laid dormant until needed perks up, and he sits up straighter at the sound of his Lieutenant’s voice. Ghost is towering over his bed, a quiet looming presence that should be terrifying, but only ever served to be a relief in Soap’s life.
“Hey.” A gentle hand, ungloved and scarred, finds Soap’s neck, pressing warmly against the side of it, his thumb resting just in front of his ear, “Eyes on me, Johnny. Do as I do. Just breathe.”
Soap watches him take a couple deep breaths, failing on his first few attempts before finally being able to pull in more and more. Eventually he’s able to mirror Ghost’s, whose dark eyes never leave his as they breathe together.
“There you go.” Ghost says softly, “Good, Johnn. Good as new.”
“Thanks, Lt.” It comes out hoarse, “Don’ know what came over me.”
“You were having a nightmare.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I heard you, Johnny.” Ghost’s voice doesn’t leave room for dispute, “You were talking in your sleep.”
Soap wants to be sick again, genuinely thinks he might be as he asks, “What…what was I sayin’?”
“Doesn’t matter, Johnny.”
“Yes it does!” He snaps, hot, frustrated, humiliated tears gathering in his eyes, especially when Ghost’s widen by a fraction, but the dream had left him with a wide open wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding, “It—” He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut, “It fucking matters Lt.”
“You were just saying no. Telling someone to stop.” Ghost, the saint he is, sounds unaffected by his outburst, “Said my name a few times.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Soap sighs in relief, breathing out a few curses as he wipes the stupid tears off his cheeks. So dumb. How could he still be so weak?
“Well.” Ghost retracts his hand, and Soap startles at its absence, “As long as you’re alright, I’ll go back to—”
“No!” Soap reaches for Ghost’s hand without thinking, bumping into it with his cast. It makes Ghost pause, glancing down at Soap who can’t bare the thought of being alone, too exhausted and raw to care about how Ghost made him feel, “I mean. Unless you want to.”
Ghost doesn’t move, “You want me to stay?”
Soap hates the way it sounds mildly surprised, hates that he’s the one who caused it, “Ye don’ have to. I just—‘m all…ye don’ have to.”
“Johnny.” Ghost turns toward him, “Do you want me to stay?”
He never wants him to leave.
“Yes.” He breathes.
Gaz finds them hours later, when he finally comes back from Price’s office, laying side by side in Soap’s bed, passed out and dead to the world. Soap’s head rests against Ghost’s shoulder, one arm tucked under the Lieutenant’s, the other wrapped around it. Ghost’s cheek is smushed against the top of Soap’s head, their legs tangled together.
With a smile, he backpedals out of the room and back to his, letting them have the first moment alone they’d gotten since coming home.
//END REPORT — FILE ENCRYPTED//
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