Laid Bare
@sleepy-dino12 - thank you again for letting me play with your OCs. Your work on them is so amazing and they're so evocative. I wish I had the words to tell you how much I've loved getting to know you and what an inspiration you are for me in the fandom. <3
Summary: After a close call in the tunnels, Gen comes to terms with the realization that no matter how well she builds her walls, people will always find a way to slip behind them.
WC: 2,355
Content warnings: N/A
~*~*~*~
"Comms check," Gen intoned, leaning closer to the walkie on her shoulder. Silence followed. "Check, how copy?" She tried again. The line crackled. She glanced at the others beside her. Orders remained.
They waited, weapons hot, but did not push.
Until the gunshots.
Gen wasn't there when it happened. When a bullet drove through Soap's skull at point blank. When Soap collapsed and spilled a crimson halo around what she had affectionately termed his "fuckass mohawk." She wasn't there when he was fitted with a foam and plastic collar and hauled into a van to be transported to an emergency medical facility.
But Ghost was.
She was headed toward them, boots pounding on concrete when Price's voice cut through comms.
"All stations - this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralized... Bomb is safe... Requesting immediate medevac."
Gen stood in the sterile on-base hospital, her pits clammy with adrenaline sweat, her hair crusty with the same. She stood in front of Ghost, eyes blazing.
"They say it's a close shave." The joke landed flatly between them. "Missed him by a hair." Another dud. "...it's a fifty-fifty shot."
The look Gen gave him would have killed a lesser man.
"That wasn't a joke," Eve placed a warning hand on Ghost's forearm, "GSWs to the head are the cause of 48% of TBI-related deaths. But the good news is that he's still with us, which gives us a reason to hope."
Gen shook her head, turning to stare at the glowing green sign above the exit.
The running man.
"You should have been faster," she accused, throat working, "where were you?"
"Coming from the other side," Ghost explained patiently, his deep brown eyes not entirely unsympathetic, though they didn't meet her sharp, blue gaze. She knew it wasn't because it was her.
"Not good enough," she ground out, "we were told to hold position. You should have-"
"I did what I was ordered to," Ghost cut off the rebuke sharply.
"You didn't tell me until he'd been in surgery for four hours." Gen hated how her voice cracked.
The moment Ghost had texted (not called, texted), she had been lying in Soap's room waiting for him to return. An hour, then two had passed, and she had to admit to herself that even Soap couldn't shower that long. Her phone had buzzed - a quick one-two. Face buried in his pillow, she'd blearily brought it to her face and found purchase on just two words:
IN SURGERY
She leapt up, not bothering to snatch up her sweatshirt as she tore through the base, shouldering past privates and lieutenants alike. Any indignant squawk was silenced when they saw the look on her face.
She pushed through the door to his hospital room, heart stuttering as she took in a sharp breath. Her eyes widened.
The rest of the 141 stood in a semicircle around the bed, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only indication that Soap was alive.
Gen swallowed, eyes trained on the deep rise and fall of his chest. The dark lashes lying still against his too-pale cheeks. Anywhere but the tubes and wires that fanned out around him like angels' wings. The halo of gauze that hid the reality of what had happened in that tunnel.
"He'll be okay," Gaz assured her gently, "the doctors said it was a close miss, but he should be able to come out of it in a week or two."
Gen said nothing, her gaze snagging on his hand, carefully placed on the side of the bed so as to allow his...
"Pulseox," Eve supplied. "Just to make sure he's getting what he needs."
"That stays on?" Was all Gen asked in return. The others began to filter from the room. Only Ghost brushed his shoulder against hers as he passed.
"For now," Eve said gently. "Can I get you anything? Or, if you wanna talk..."
"No," Gen's eyes hadn't left Soap's hand. Her nostrils flared. She swallowed again.
"Okay. I think visiting hours are over in twenty minutes. I'll wait for you in the cafeteria."
"Mm."
Eve wasn't sure if that was an agreement or not.
Gen sat, perched atop the aircon intake, and stared at the stars. A cigarette hung limply in her hand. The sun had set a while ago. The air had begun to chill. But she had no reason to go to sleep quite yet.
She heard the heavy tread of boots before the door squeaked open, every sound for her benefit. Every crunch of gravel the words that Ghost couldn't, wouldn't, say.
"Can I bum one?" He lowered himself against the rough metal by her feet, planting one foot solidly in the sediment. Gen didn't bother to look as she leaned forward, handing him hers,
"Here," she murmured, eyes tracking a commercial flight just outside their airspace.
"Ta," he took a heavy drag, and Gen knew he held it. She'd done the same. Felt it char her from the inside out. It was a relief. A release.
Minutes ticked by and neither spoke, though Gen already knew what he'd say when he did.
"'s Orion," Ghost pointed to the constellation. He always started with Orion.
"I know," Gen replied, kicking her boot heel against the aircon.
"He was a warrior."
"I know."
"Fought Mother Earth herself."
Gen took a deep breath through her nose. Her chest ached. She reached for the crumpled box of cigarettes in her pocket. The metal rasp of her lighter filled the air between them, the flame illuminating dried tracks on her cheeks. She said nothing.
"Won out in the end," Ghost continued, "because he's in the sky forever, and we still know his name." Ghost rested his head against the metal with a soft thunk, his blond hair, Gen realized as she glanced down, shaved rather short on the sides and back.
"New look," she commented.
"Needed a change," Ghost agreed.
"Gonna itch like hell in your mask."
"Mm," Ghost pointed to another constellation, twisting to do so. "Scorpion. Thing Orion was fighting. Stung him."
"Uh-huh," It came out rather choked as Gen let the black tar coat her lungs. Her following sigh was white, obscuring her vision for a short moment. She leaned back on her palms, once more letting the cigarette burn.
"But it can't get him now," Ghost said, "That's the point, you know?"
Gen kicked the aircon once more, her boot brushing Simon's shoulder. He didn't move.
"It's time to sleep," Ghost said once their cigarettes had burned to the filter, too gentle by half. "Tomorrow's another day."
"Yeah," Gen hopped off the unit.
They descended to their rooms, stinking of cigarette smoke and chill air.
---
Gen hated how right Ghost was. It was another day. She woke at 05:00, ran four miles, and ate breakfast before she showered. She watched teammates make small talk as they readied for the range. She shot horribly. And she continued.
Until visiting hours.
She was the first there, that first day. Fresh shirt, fresh uniform pants, hiking shoes having dried last night. She didn't want him to get the wrong idea - that he'd woken right after the mission. She tugged the old, worn upholstered wooden monstrosity of a visitor's chair closer to his bed, barely holding herself aloft by her elbows. Balanced forward on her toes, her calves shook as she took him in one more time. As pale as yesterday. His dark hair limp and brushing his forehead. Not a hint of blue. She planted her heels on the ground, leaning closer.
"Soap," she murmured, eyes tracking down to his shoulder, then the corded muscle of his arm. The rest of the SAS was inked into his forearm in delicate, fine lines. Her chest ached as she fought the urge to reach out and trace those lines. "Who dares wins," it tore at her to continue the path downward, toward a hand draped limply on the blanket, seemingly unmoved since yesterday, except the IV that had been inserted had been moved. The thin plastic tube snaked under the covers, instead.
Gen made a note to ask Eve what it might be.
"Johnny," she tried again, mouth sluggish around his name, "can you hear me?"
Not as much as a twitch of the eyelid greeted her. Those eyelids that creased at the corners when he grinned at her. Those teeth that gleamed white and straight like...
tombstones...
Gen lay on the rec room couch. Her head, against her better judgment, had found its way into Soap's lap. She groaned, the world spinning on an altogether unfathomable axis. One grounding, blessed constant was the warmth that Soap seemed to radiate no matter the situation. She let out another soft moan, turning to bury her face in his stomach.
"Hard night?" He teased lightly.
"You Scots drink like you don't want to live," Gen groused into the well-worn fabric of his sweatshirt.
"Aye, most of us don't," Soap conceded, "you gonna be sick?"
"No," Gen said, entirely unconvincingly.
"I believe you," Soap lied. A moment passed between them. Then, something warm rested on the crown of her head. Hesitant, then heavier. Gen's eyes shot open as it registered. Carefully, Soap began to rake his blunt, straight-cut nails over her scalp and through her hair. She stiffened.
"Hm?" Soap paused, "no good?"
Gen didn't reply for a long moment, expecting Soap to retreat. Instead, he slowly began anew, raking carefully through her short-cropped hair.
"My mom used to do this for me when I was sick," he explained, dropping his voice to a soothing murmur, "was always a comfort."
Gen slowly reached a hand up, grasping at the front of her own shirt. Soap didn't move; didn't change pace or try to explain further. Gen let her eyes slip shut as he continued, fighting an embarrassing heat that began to well behind her eyes. She clenched her jaw, grasping her shirt tighter in her fist.
She gulped down a shuddering breath, suddenly thankful that Soap seemed to have been overcome by an uncharacteristic quietude. It's why she liked getting drunk with him - away from the boys, he would get almost... contemplative. Not maudlin, but altogether... softer. Less boisterous. As if the alcohol sapped the essence of him, leaving only the dregs of the man and what he'd done.
Gen liked seeing someone else hurt, selfish as that was.
"I never..." she mumbled into his belly, unable to complete the sentence. Not when the thought of comfort conjured its polar opposite.
"Well," he brought his hand to the nape of her neck, massaging the base of her skull, "now you have." They lay like that for minutes, Soap alternately running his nails over her and massaging temple, cheek, and neck. When, ten minutes in he encountered the soft shudders and telltale wetness of her surrender on his pass over her cheekbone, he said nothing. He simply swiped it away and continued on his path.
Until she had no more tears to cry.
---
She folded over herself, forehead resting just beside that hand of his.
She turned, staring up at him through heavy lids from where she lay. Mechanical blips and beeps replied with hollow reassurance.
She'd learned her lesson too many times before. There was no use in hoping, or praying, or begging.
Or crying.
And yet the tears came, silent as they tracked over the scar that crossed the bridge of her nose - one of the first things she'd ever let Soap touch when they were alone.
It was when they first fell into bed together after an op, adrenaline crash leading them both to what Gen reckoned would be a quick and dirty roll and ended up being Soap, inimitable Soap, propped on his elbow after having put his all into a kiss and looking at her like she'd hung the moon in the sky herself. He'd gently traced that scar and whispered, awestruck, that he'd always found her striking.
She'd slapped his hand away, rolling over to gather her things and head back to her room. He'd watched her the whole time, that dopey smirk affixed to his lips as if he'd just handed her his heart.
She took a breath, saliva sewing her lips together, and finally reached for him.
His hand fell almost too naturally over her crown, the soft heat of it no small comfort. Gen closed her eyes.
And sobbed.
---
"Oh, no," Eve whispered as she and Ghost stepped into the room. Gen had fallen asleep at some point, having cried herself out of any remaining energy. It was the first time Eve had seen her like this.
The second time Ghost had.
"Blanket," Ghost beckoned to Eve, taking the scratchy wool thing they'd meant for one friend and draping it carefully over the other's shoulders. She didn't move, only letting out a soft sigh. Ghost's fingers brushed the back of Soap's hand before resting carefully, just a moment.
"We'll come back," Eve took Ghost's other hand. He nodded.
"We'll come back," he agreed.
The week after, when Soap's eyes fluttered open and his hand trembled as he tried to bring it to scrub at his face, was the first time Gen had ever initiated anything.
It should have been gentle.
It could have been careful.
But in the end it was neither.
It was Gen, heedless of the fact that she could hear Price and Gaz approaching, or that Eve and Ghost had only just stepped away for coffee, throwing herself across the room. Standing, chest heaving, as Soap's eyes fixed on hers, then drifted down to the bridge of her nose.
"Hey Genie," he croaked, expecting her to scowl or snap back.
And she did. As she threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in the thin fabric of his hospital gown. It took a moment for his brain to catch up, surprise still written on his features when Price and Gaz rounded the corner, before he melted into her embrace, resting his cheek on the crown of her head. His arms circled her gently, one hand over her shoulder.
The other tangled in her hair.
"You're alive," she breathed.
"I'm alive," he confirmed.
