Chapter Text
Sleep, for the first time in a month, came easier that night, and the few nights following. He slept... not well, not per se, but far better than he had been.
And really - why wouldn't he?
Johnny had woken, and at the very least, recognized them. Anything else was a minor detail and could be worked around, could be thought about and dealt with later.
It was a few days after that day, early, but the morning nurse had already been in, had checked Johnny's vitals and pushed meds into his lines in what had become a familiar routine. Price was dead to the world, sprawled on the cot and snoring like a cartoon character. Gaz had, at some point over the course of the night, migrated over to him and was now draped over him. If either of the men were to roll, or even shift suddenly, they were both likely to end up on their arses.
Johnny hadn't woken yet, not after those first few moments, but his eyes had been active behind his lids and had even fluttered a few times. Overall, his coloration was far better than it had been even just the day previous, but that could be his own wishful thinking.
Wishful thinking. What a fucking strange notion coming from him. Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley didn't do feelings, wishful or otherwise; they were something far too close to hope for him to be comfortable.
Who was he to hope? Anytime in his life that he'd dared to... well, the four lonely gravestones in the corner of an equally lonely cemetery outside Manchester was proof that he and hope had a very poor track record together. Yet... here was his sergeant, alive and breathing, who had the fucking gall to try to smile at him. Ghost may not do feelings, but apparently Simon hadn't gotten the memo.
Wanker.
The steady pulsing rhythm of all the machines Johnny was hooked to formed an almost soothing white noise in the background, a consistency he'd come to rely on over the last three weeks. The doctors had insisted he was doing well, so well they had gone ahead and removed the breathing tube, so well they had taken him yesterday for the delayed surgeries on his leg, his shoulder.
Price had insisted they leave the hospital while Soap went under the knife. They needed to get out and breathe, he'd insisted, and the repair work was slated to take the majority of the day.
It irked him, but his captain hadn't been wrong. Neither he or Gaz had protested, and dutifully allowed the man to bully them into getting dressed properly and before dragging them down for chow.
No one had given them a second look, even with his black surgical mask, even with all three of them wearing basic SAS-issued fatigues, the jacks prominent. It had been almost pleasant, if one could overlook the circumstances that had them there. Candidates for Selection knew who he was, who they were. West Point was an academy for future American Army officers, kids who were too young to even know what TF141 was, or that it even existed. To them, three Brits wandering about was a novelty to give a lingering glance at and forget.
Dinner had been... Surprisingly good. Instead of a restaurant, they had changed their plans and made for the school's main cafeteria. Laswell had set them up with a liason assigned by the commandant, and the clearly awed lad had given them maps and schedules before making himself scarce. They had arrived after the main surge of the lunch rush, but the staff had happily heaped up their plates, chattering the standard small talk typical of cafeteria staff the world over. The cadets who had leave over the holidays had started to filter off base, leaving the cavernous room echoing.
They had made small talk. Gaz had gone on about his footie club and their senseless trades and contracts, and Simon would readily admit if asked that he had no idea what he was on about. Price just kept giving him fond looks, eyes dark.
He really wasn't subtle. Johnny would be giggling.
He hadn't been able to fault them. The accumulated stresses of the last few months, of tracking down Shepherd, of fucking Vladimir Makarov and that entire shiteshow... of watching their teammate, their friend, take a round to the head while disarming a bomb that had enough biochem in it to spread to China... Laswell had hinted how bad it could have been.
He had jerked at the gentle nudge on his arm. Gaz just slowly blinked at him, like a bloody cat.
"You all there, mate?"
Oh. Oh.
Price's expression had been worried. He must have been disassociating again... "Yeah, I'm solid."
Neither man had called him on the blatant lie. He hadn't been solid since he knelt in the spreading pool of Johnny's blood on the cold, filthy concrete. They really hadn't been either, they were just doing a better job at keeping their thoughts from wandering too far.
Price not-so-subtly rolled his eyes as he'd brushed imaginary dust from his boonie. "As I was saying," he'd managed to not sound condescending but instead teasing, something Simon appreciated. He'd gone on with what he had been talking about, Laswell's plans to tuck them away into a safehouse, well off the grid. He had paid enough attention to be able to bluff his way through any questions about the discussion, but otherwise drifted.
Gaz had flanked him as they went back up to Johnny's room, filling the otherwise quiet air with soft words he didn't really hear. The nurses and other staff had waved them on, familiar enough with them they only glanced at the ID badges they'd been given. Still though, he remained unsettled until the door behind them closed, Johnny back in his line of sight.
That night passed in a slow blur, time becoming mired in a sludge. Price disappeared sometime after they'd arrived, planning their next moves no doubt, and almost immediately Gaz settled onto the cot with his Switch. When Price returned, he settled into the armchair and tugged his boonie over his eyes in an attempt to dissuade Gaz from telling him about his island in Animal Crossing and his eternal hatred of someone named Nook.
Otherwise, the night crawled, the clock's hands seeming to freeze in the wee hours between very early and just early.
Until he looked up to find blue eyes sleepily blinking down at him.
"Johnny-" he breathed, the word feeling like a benediction, lurching forward.
He was rewarded with a soft smile before Johnny dragged his tongue over chapped lips. The ice had long since melted from the pitcher the nurses kept replenishing, but the water was still chilled, going off the beads of condensation on the sides of the ugly plastic cup. He scooped it up, positioned the straw so it fell against his dry lips, watched as Soap took his first, careful sips. Without looking away, his free hand grasped blindly for the nurse's call button, pressing the button as soon as it fell into his hand.
"You scared us, mate," he murmured, focusing on keeping his voice steady. "Don't fucking do that again, yeah?"
Fucking arsehole had the nerve to smile at him again. "Don't plan on it, LT." His voice was absolutely wrecked, rough and ruined from disuse, but the Scottish accent shone through.
He set the cup down on the tray table and picked up his sergeant's limp hand. "Do and you're on perpetual rookie duty."
That earned a pout. His mouth opened for the expected retort, then closed, as if he'd forgotten what he was going to say, then opened again. His expression shifted from thoughtful to confused to fucking terrified, and the sound that came out could only be described as a panicked keen. His fingers spasmed against his own as Soap's eyes went from darting about to being lost, hazy, all while his respirations sped up.
Even with the cannula, it was clear he was struggling.
"Breathe for me, Soap," his thumb was running circles over the papery skin. He flipped his hand over, positioned Johnny's fingers so they laid over his pulsepoint. "Know it's hard, but just relax, yeah? You were hurt bad, take your time."
Soap looked scared and he fucking hated it.
John MacTavish should never look scared.
There was a knock on the door and a nurse's head appeared. Gaz jerked up, reaching for a pistol that wasn't there as he tumbled off the cot, Price spent a moment fighting with his boonie, a Ka-Bar he wasn't meant to have in hospital in his hand.
Johnny's fingers tightened almost painfully over his wrist.
"I'll go get the doctor," she told them like she was commenting on the weather before vanishing.
Keeping this free hand behind his back so Johnny couldn't see, he waved Price and Gaz off. Soap was too close to panic, to true distress, to add any more variables just yet.
It also took him a shamefully long time to realize that Soap was tapping words against his wrist.
They weren't clear though, jumbled.
Out of order.
The doctors had warned about this being a real possibility, something to keep in the back of their minds once Johnny regained consciousness.
One didn't just walk off being shot in the head, just like one didn't walk off losing their entire blood volume or dying multiple times on the operating table.
He forced himself to concentrate on the shaking fingers tapping frantically against his skin, trying to figure out what he meant without upsetting him further.
"Breathe, Johnny. You're safe, we're all safe, yeah?" Without pulling away, he managed to lower the bed's safety rail one-handed and settled himself onto the side of the bed.
He hated how much smaller Soap seemed after a month of unconsciousness, his muscles already showing signs of atrophy.
The physical press of his hip against Soap's side seemed to calm the man enough for his hands to stop shaking as violently as they had been, though the fear was still clearly evident on his face, in his eyes.
"The docs will be in soon, mate, right? I'll let them tell you all the medical shite, but..." the words caught in his throat, and he had to turn his head away to cough around the lump in his throat. "You got hurt bad, John."
John.
Not Soap. Not Sergeant. Not the ‘Tav’ that Gaz favored.
Certainly not MacTavish.
In his memory, he couldn't remember ever using Johnny's proper Christian name.
The slow blink the simple word earned him showed that Johnny was aware of it, too. His gulp was loud even over the constant chirps and chimes of the monitors.
"B-bad?" The word wasn't stuttered, per se, but came out disjointed. It seemed like he wasn't sure it was the proper word to use coupled with him forgetting the word he was using partway through.
He wouldn't, couldn't lie to him, not after all they'd been through.
"Yeah, Johnny. It was bad. Don't worry about it yet. Just know we're all here, okay? Gaz and Price just stepped out. Laswell and Nik visited. Alejandro and Rudy said they'd be by, they're just cleaning up a few things in Mexico. Just... Laswell has us safed up in the States, okay? Just so you're not surprised."
He was about to say more when a solid rap came from the door, and the doctor stepped in, a tablet in his hands. Dr. Russ was a wiry man, well past the age of active service but someone who loved their job far too much to let something paltry like that push him into retirement. His hair was crewout, salt-and-pepper around his temples and going to an almost pure silver as it extended upwards.
He was blunt, honest, irreverent.
He was quite possibly the best doctor they could have hoped for, for Johnny. He pulled no punches and promised nothing, but held nothing back.
The first time they'd seen him, he'd been straddling Soap as he coded during his intake, performing chest compressions while a nurse charged the defribilator's pads. He'd cursed Soap out, asking what kind of soldier would give up after so much, just when things were starting to look up.
The 'thank you' he'd given the man when they'd been formally introduced had been totally heartfelt.
Now the man came In, his expression carefully neutral, trailed by Gaz and Price. He dropped his chin fractionally toward him, then focused his complete attention on Soap.
"Sergeant MacTavish, I'm Kevin Russ. Welcome back to the world of the waking." He carefully took Soap's wrist in hand, fingers pressed against the soft skin as he counted beats.
He got no answer, Soap's eyes darting between him and the doorway, where Price and Gaz were not-so-subtly lurking.
“Would you like them to come in and be present for this conversation, Sergeant? It's your choice, It can be all of them, none of them, one of them.” The doctor kept his tone level, but that didn't keep the surge of upset he felt. If Soap wanted them all out…
He shouldn't have worried.
Almost before Russ's words cut off, Soap was signing against his palm again.
A-L-L.
The doctor accepted his translation before stepping far enough over for Price and Gaz to come in, there carefully shut the door while they settled onto the edge of the cot.
"This isn't going to be an easy conversation, Sergeant, it's distinctly unpleasant. If at any point you need to tap out or take a break, tell us. Understood? I'm not going to pull any punches and there's no shame in needing time to process.”
The silence of the room was heavy, like a wet blanket dropped on them.
Soap still hadn't released his hand, had it locked in this grip. It wasn't a firm grip, not by any means, certainly nowhere near what the man was capable of, but Simon made no attempt to pull free. His jaw worked a few times, his nose scrunched. "Aye, sir,” he finally mumbled, garbled, the two small words coming out like they'd fought him every step of the way.
Regardless, the doctor gave him a quirked smile and powered on his tablet's screen. “Today, Sergeant MacTavish, is December 19th. On November 21st, you were shot, point blank, in the head. On November 21st, you died.”