#post mwiii

[aary-soap]

reunion :)

(heavily inspired by “all that’s said in the low light”)

[divine-draws]

cross posting a thread from twitter where I rambled about my ghoap family au: thinking of johnny bringing sammy on base for lunch with simon and when they show up simon is not in his office, he’s still out on the drill pad scaring the shit out of recruits. ghost notices the recruits’ attention goes to somewhere to his right and that’s about all the warning he has before sammy flings herself at his leg, clinging to the camo as she stares up with a wide toothy grin. it’s not the first time and wont be the last sammy sees of Ghost. she is far from scared of the mask. she happily babbles and reaches up, asking to be picked up. it’s also not the first time ghost had sammy out here with him, the last time she was strapped to his chest, and as such he scoops her up, resting her on his hip, before turning to bark more orders at the poor recruits. Sammy happily joins in giving orders, demanding one particular recruit sing the Incy Wincy Spider and do the dance. He hesitated and looked to Ghost for some direction who just glared down at him “You heard the lady,” he growled out. The recruit shrunk back some before complying.

[ghvst-ing]

The weak, yet steady beeping of the heart monitor fills your heart with hope, one dulled out over your time spent grieving.

You look like a right mess. Your hair’s disheveled, the whites of your eyes reddish. Dark eye-bags adorn your face, too, cheeks stained with trails of dried tears.

The sharp smell of antiseptic, and chlorine burns your nose. A migraine prods at the back of your brain, and you feel the pounding of your head behind your eyelids.

Light, rhythmic taps of your shoe against the tiles fill the hospital room, and your knee bounces in tandem, unable to keep still.

The body of your lover lays still on the cot. Motionless. Unmoving as you stare. The only sign of life is the gentle rise and fall of his chest, dry lips just barely parted underneath the oxygen mask.

Your clammy hands grasp one of his limp ones, not even the smallest twitch in his rough fingers.

The familiar, calloused skin of his palm reminds you that he is tough, resilient. That he could will survive this. That the bullet that pierced the side of his skull wouldn’t leave him in an indefinite coma — stuck within his own body like a captive, but not quite dead.

Your teary eyes settle on his face. A long-healed scar runs down his chin, almost covered by the light brown stubble that littered his jawline. His head, however, was wrapped in a pristine, white bandage, while his hair was cropped for better access to his wound.

“You better wake up, Johnny..” A bittersweet chuckle tumbled from your downturned lips, your quiet voice cracking at the end, the words escaping the tight knot that formed in your throat. “Don’t think I could live without you, y’know..?”

His job was dangerous, and you knew that.

Many times did he return bruised and battered, yet, luckily, never handed to you in a plain box of his belongings. There had been instances, scares, when you were called to the hospital due to injuries he suffered on the field, but during your entire relationship, it wasn’t ever this bad.

Your fingers trembled as you held his own in your grasp, his hand only lying there limply. Your sleek engagement band brushed against his warm skin as you swallowed thickly.

Your shoulders slumped in exhaustion, hunched forward in the uncomfortable chair beside his hospital bed, and your nose scrunched up with a sniffle.

Feeling your eyes burn with tears, you let them fall closed. You wondered if he could hear you, feel your presence beside him in this comatose state.

You were never religious before this, but you’d turn to any god just for him to wake up, even if just for a mere moment, a passing second, at least.

“Please..”