flesh wounds | 141 x soldier!reader
Prompt: You return from a mission injured and the 141 find you.
The mission started as a routine check. Your squad was sent out to survey an abandoned outpost and report back any suspicious activity, but what was meant to be a simple patrol quickly became a bloodbath when you were ambushed shortly after arrival.
One rushed extraction later, you were back on base and begging into your radio for all available medics to meet you at the tarmac. Your main priority was to get help for your squad. Your makeshift patch jobs with the field medkits wouldn't last much longer.
When support came, it was a flurry of movement. You supported each squad member up onto a cot - giving quick, concise explanations to the paramedics about the location and severity of their injuries. You leave out anything about yourself.
The swarm left, not a minute later, leaving you alone on the tarmac. As the adrenaline began to fade, so did your tolerance for pain. A horrible, pulsing ache at your side became known. You let your fingers graze it, just enough to feel for the thickened, dark blood.
Shit. Your vision is already starting to darken at the edges. Nausea curls up your throat from your stomach. You hear your name being called, once quiet and far away, then louder as they get closer.
"I'm fine," you try to say, but the ground tilts when you take a step, your boots slipping on loose gravel.
A hand catches your elbow, grip like iron. "Bullshit," Gaz growls, hand instantly finding its place at your side where the source of thick sludge-like blood leaks out. "Why didn't you go with the others?"
You blink, trying to focus on his face, but his features blurred. "It's nothing," you slur, "Just- help them. Please."
Someone is behind you, broad chest pressed against your back. You let your head tip onto their shoulder, searching for that expanse of heat as your eyes fall shut and your face turns to the sky in prayer.
"Eyes open, Sergeant." Ghost tells you, fingers tapping at your cheek. His voice was rough, offering no room for arguments.
"Get the shirt off," Price shouts, "We need to stop the bleeding."
Your undersuit is ripped open with a practiced jerk, exposing the jagged tear below your ribs. Sluggish, bubbling blood fills the cut. You don't feel the pain when Gaz's fingers press into the flesh around it, assessing it. That's bad. You know that's bad.
"-losing too much." Someone, Soap, swears violently. The scraps of your shirt are pushed into the cut, shoved so far deep inside it's as if they mean to plug it into the hole itself to stop the bleeding.
Your knees buckle, threatening to send you to the ground. The boys don't let you. Nearby, you can hear Price barking orders into his phone.
You blink up at the sky, trying to keep your eyes open like Ghost asked, but the blue won't stay still. The hands holding you up are your only anchor.
"Hang on, lass." Soap tells you. His jacket has been shrugged off, thrown over your front to obscure your chest. "Stay with us."
Gaz was muttering numbers - blood pressure, pulse, but it all meant nothing. The voices slid away, replaced by static. Your eyelids flutter.
Ghost smacks your cheek again. Once, twice. The sting is distant, a mere pinprick in a sea of painful sensations. "Stay awake, damn it."
You wanted to tell him that you were trying, but your tongue was lead. Gaz's fingers were at your neck. Numbers again. It meant something, you knew they did, but all meaning dissolved like salt in water.
"Talk to me," Soap tries, near desperate.
Price steps into view, phone still at his ear. His lips are moving, probably another order, but it's all muffled to your ears. You reach out, bloodied fingers grazing his jaw. For a moment, you feel warm. Almost safe.
Suddenly, your body is being lifted away. Something sharp pricks your thigh. It makes you panic, even as you struggle to stay conscious. The last thing you see is their anguished expressions before you pass out.