Work Text:
The road to recovery isn’t linear. Never has been, never will. Soap feels like his road to recovery is more like teaching a baby how to function like an actual human rather than an empty brain in the shell of a human.
Surviving the gunshot to his head was the easy part. Being hit in the head with the force of a train, a bullet fragmenting in his skull, fracturing it and putting pressure on his frontal lobe- that was fucking easy.
Recovering from the gunshot seems near impossible. It’s three months later now and he still feels completely useless. He’s lucky- he knows that damn well because that’s all he’s heard for the last 12 and a half weeks- to have escaped with minimal injuries. Sure, a broken skull isn’t exactly an at home patch up job, but compared to what could’ve been Soap is bloody lucky.
That being said, he is experiencing side effects from the impact to his head on a daily basis and trying to function with them and around them is near impossible for someone of his status. He needs to be moving, bouncing off the walls, chattering away, burning energy to thrive. Right now, he feels like a prisoner on day release. He stays in the ward most nights but for two hours a day he is sat rehabilitating in the Hospital that he’s not seen the outside of for 86 goddamn days.
His left frontal lobe absorbed the damage from the hit. He’s fucking lucky to be conscious and alert and alive but Soap- he doesn’t feel like it.
His rehabilitation is getting him steady again. He will never fight again, most likely. He will be okay at walking, okay at talking, okay at maths and reading and writing but he will not be special. Not anymore.
His rehab nurses massage his ankles when they wobble and bandage his feet when they swell. They reteach him how to say simple fucking words like he’s a child. They point to their lips, for Johnny to copy, and sometimes he purposefully says nothing just to be obtuse. He can speak like always, just a little slower, he doesn’t need the nursery class in pronouncing his vowels. He thinks the Scottish part doesn’t help although his accent seems very muted since the shooting.
Ghost keeps referring to it as The Accident much to Soap’s chagrin. It wasn’t an accident, it was a planned attack, and calling it such makes it sound like Makarov made a mistake, regrets his actions. They won’t tell him but he knows Makarov is still free, Ghost hasn’t been calm a single minute since that day, and he knows full well that Vladimir Makarov is laughing his arse off knowing that Soap is reduced to fucking stammering speech and shaking limbs.
Maybe he’s not paralysed or mute, maybe his reading and writing doesn’t seem worse than usual, maybe this outcome is considered lucky or a miracle but that’s said by the people who are not living inside his mind. They aren’t in his brain, telling it to lift his goddamn leg up without the other shaking just for them to fail to cooperate. They can’t hear him speaking words in his mind, chanting Simon, Simon, Simon over and over again whilst only managing to say ‘Ghost’ because the one time he tried to say ‘Simon’, his words jumbled and he felt the lisp he had so strongly in his youth fall back to the front of his mouth to say ‘Thimon’.
If only Makarov had better aim, Soap thinks.
If only.
Things are improving. Soap is being discharged, doesn’t need to stay at the hospital anymore, and Simon is going on long term leave to care for him at home.
Johnny is in the bathroom getting dressed whilst Simon is sorting through all the discharge forms and asking for help with certain rehab exercises that he doesn’t quite understand. It’s been 109 days since he was shot and this is the first time putting his own clothes back on. He’s had his sweats and his hoodies but not his good clothes. Not his jeans and his shirts.
When Johnny takes his jumper off and drops his sweatpants, he hardly recognises himself.
His stomach was once toned and tight. He was the fittest of the 141 and it was obvious because he made it obvious. He wore tight fitting clothes on purpose, showing off his muscled biceps and the abs that solidified his stomach like a suit of armour. Looking in the mirror now, Johnny doesn’t know what changed.
His exercise routine was brutal and he’s missed it, but he hasn’t eaten much since the shooting, they’re lucky to get him to eat one meal a day so he isn’t quite sure where his pudgy body has come from. He sucks in a breath, his stomach looking almost flat when he does so, but when he lets it out he sees fat in the places where his muscles once were.
He buttons his jeans and finds they pinch, his stomach hugging the waistband of the clothes painfully, and his t-shirt does nothing to hide the small paunch he now sports. His arms feel less strong, muscle still present but not obvious and when he looks closer, he feels his jaw looks less defined.
Johnny knew he still wasn’t himself, knew he was still struggling, but to let himself go this badly? He doesn’t recognise himself anymore.
There’s a knock on the door, “Johnny? You ready?”
“Yeah, comin’ LT.” Johnny’s voice is hoarse and he clears it before going to head out, not tucking his shirt in; an effort to hide his stomach.
The first week at home is, for want of a better word, absolutely shit. Simon has been amazing but Johnny doesn’t like feeling like Simon’s more of his carer than his partner. Simon makes him eggs and bacon every morning, his favourite breakfast, but Johnny just pushes it around his plate. He puts a yoga mat on the floor and helps Johnny to the ground, mindful of the shoulder that was damaged in Las Almas as it is still a little weak, and he does his physiotherapy with him. He makes Johnny push against Simon’s hands with his feet, makes him do sit ups, uses a resistance band behind his head to exercise his arms.
His strength is returning, slowly but surely. His hands and legs don’t shake anymore at the slightest of movements and his exercise routine helps bring a bit of normality back into his life but he is still struggling mentally.
Though Johnny’s speech is much improved, sometimes his mouth just refuses to cooperate and getting words out takes longer than normal. This frustrates him to all hell because he knows exactly what he’s trying to say but he can’t get any of it out.
For the first week, Simon gave Johnny space in bed, letting him have the whole thing whilst Simon crashed in the spare room. He argued that their flat didn’t need a spare room when they first got it but Johnny insisted on it for when his family came to visit. Simon is glad for it now.
Johnny, though, wants Simon back. He can’t sleep without him, not peacefully at least, and alls he wants is Ghosts arms around him, protecting him. So Simon comes back and now Johnny is regretting everything.
Simon is fast asleep, lay on his side facing Johnny, and with an arm around his waist. Johnny’s mind is reeling with all sorts of unhelpful thoughts, negative feelings controlling him entirely, and he knows he’ll never sleep like this. Ghosts hand is flat on Johnny’s stomach and the Sergeant watches the rise and fall of it in time with his breaths and sighs. He put on 15lbs of weight in the last three and a half months and he feels like he can see where each pound lies in his body.
If he knows it’s there, surely Ghost does too.
Carefully, Johnny grabs Ghost’s hand and pulls it further up his torso, resting his palm between his pecs and he settles there for a moment before feeling that familiar itch in his chest. If his stomach has changed, surely so has his chest, and Johnny tries to hold back his feelings until Simon’s touch feels more like a burn to his body that a comforting embrace. He pushes Simon’s hand this time, pushing it far down and over his hip, letting him hug the dip of his waist and squeeze the meat over his hips but again, after mere moments, the burn returns.
He places his hand on top of Simon’s once more, prepared to move it from off his body when Simon grunts and nuzzles his nose into Johnny’s shoulder, “If you don’t leave my hand alone I’m going to kill you.”
His voice is impossibly deep and usually would rile Johnny up enough with its sultry undertones but he just huffs in annoyance and grabs Simon’s hand, pushing it off completely.
“Oi,” Simon sighs, “You asked me to come back to bed and now you’re pushing me all over the place.”
Simon’s hand comes back to Johnny’s middle but Soap simply rolls over and mumbles quietly, “Sorry, Si, I just can’t sleep with you touching me. I feel claustrophobic, or whatever.”
“Well I can give you your space again, I’ll stay in the other bed-”
“Don’t leave,” Johnny interrupts, rolling back a little to put a hand on Ghost, “Don’t leave me just- don’t hold me right now, okay?”
Simon nods slowly and leans down, kissing Johnny’s forehead before curling back up next to him, no questions asked.
Things boil over the following week. Johnny is nearing the four month anniversary of the shooting but he is pretending to not keep count of the days anymore. Pretends he doesn’t see Makarov in his dreams- or nightmares if he thinks about it. Acts like he doesn’t picture this fate cursing Ghost instead, thinking of him caring for Simon in the same way Si has looked after him and he hates himself when a small, disgustingly selfish part of his brain thinks that it would be better that way. After that thought niggles its way into Johnny’s brain, he starts wishing for a do-over of the day just so he can step slightly more to the right so the bullet goes straight between his brows and burrows deeper into his skull.
Instead, he showers. His dangerous thoughts aren’t as scary as they should be. He knows he can’t redo that damned day and he sure as shit isn’t going to carry out the action himself. He can’t do it to Price, who shot back at a running Makarov. Can’t do it to Gaz who called his family to let them know of what happened when no one else felt brave enough. Most importantly, he can’t do it to Ghost. His Simon who, in the heat of battle, threw his body over Johnny’s when gunfire echoed through the tunnels. Simon who held the wound, stemming the bleeding, whilst pressing two fingers firmly to his neck- glove dangling from his teeth. Ghost who- when Johnny was in surgery and the outcome looked bleak- nodded, left the room, shot three clips into the shooting range dummies on base and then threw up so harshly blood trickled from his lips. Why do all of that to them just to do worse the next time?
Once he is clean, he swings his legs over the bathtub and leans there for a moment to catch his breath. Simon insisted upon a shower seat and whilst Johnny initially argued, he is thankful for it. His arms are heavy and shaking from being held up to wash his hair and he leans to grab his towel whilst sat willing for the shaking to cease.
He dries himself faster than he ever did in the shared showers on base, knowing the second he is dry and dressed, he can lie down without having to worry about passing out, shaking so hard he’s immobilised like the last time he procrastinated in the shower.
Still curiosity wins over Soap’s mind when he catches his toe on the edge of the scale and thinks that it’s been a while since he weighed himself. He has started following his own diet from before again, cutting back on a couple things like the Digestive biscuits Simon would give him in a morning to have with his coffee- three of them everyday besides Thursdays because Soap would train the recruits from 7AM and he always ran late enough to not manage three biscuits without having to eat them as the recruits warmed up. He only got one on Thursdays.
Johnny hops onto the scale, hoping to see some movement in the right direction, even if only minor, but he feels rage building under his skin when he sees the number on the device.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny grumbles, “I have done everything by the book, how have I put another 3lbs on?”
Fury ignites like an angry creature in Johnny’s gut. He eats protein daily, carbs only three times a week, mixed vegetables with every meal and yet here he is.
Self-conscious, Johnny wraps his arms around his middle and turns away from the sink- pointedly ignoring the mirror that taunts his name menacingly. It calls out Johnny. Take a look Johnny ma boy, look at the state of you. How Simon can even look at you anymore blows my mind. Pathetic, useless loser!
Johnny has had enough. If he had the strength still, he’s certain he’d have punched through the mirror. Hit it hard enough for him to bleed and for the shards to decorate the bathroom like a disco ball. He keeps his cool- somehow- and stalks his way to the living room, now clothed and motivated more than ever.
His workout mat is already laid out on the floor, a book resting on one of the edges that always curls back up, and Johnny knows Simon has prepared it for him before going out for his morning run. Somehow, even that simple act of kindness makes his blood boil more.
With a dramatic thud, Johnny collapses to the floor and lies on his back, preparing himself for a gruelling workout that he wants to get over and done with before Simon comes back. He forces himself through sit ups, grinding his teeth every time his stomach rolls as he sits up. He pushes through lunges despite his legs shaking and his head spinning. He plops back down onto the mat, determined to do fifty push ups which he doubles once he hits the goal.
He is sweating profusely, undoing the cleanliness he gained in the shower for a thorough coating of sweat over his entire body. He only pushes himself harder, holding his push ups for longer as disgust floods his system. How could he go from doing missions like he was to a sweating mess when barely working out in less than six months? Each memory only fuels the fire in his mind.
Soap fights through the burning in his arms and legs. He pretends to not feel the way his stomach turns with the pressure he’s putting through his body. He blatantly ignores the shaking that radiates from his palms into his shoulders; the cramp that circles each leg and renders them useless.
He’s so distracted by fighting his pain that he doesn’t even hear the door open.
“Johnny?” Simon says, striding over to the man and crouching to his height, “What are you doing? You’re supposed to wait for me.”
Simon, too, is sweating. No doubt he ran at least 5K, maybe more with how long he’s been gone, and the bottle that Johnny sees in his line of sight is void of any remaining water. Still, he endures and continues his exercise.
“Johnny! Oi, the fuck are you doing.” Simon moves to grab him, shaking his shoulder to get him to stop but Johnny just shrugs him off and pushes harder and harder and-
His arms give way and he hits the mat with a thud. Tears that he didn’t even know were dancing over his waterline spill down his cheeks and he lies there lazily as the world continues to spin and his entire body shakes like a dog in the rain.
“Fucking useless.” Johnny rasps. “Not good enough. Not fucking good enough.”
He tries to sit, tries to do something that could be classed as exercise but Simon puts both his hands on his shoulders and keeps him laying flat.
“Johnny you’re going to fucking pass out, stay there.” Simon instructs.
Simon moves to stand, grabbing his bottle and quickly filling it with water for Johnny. The Scot has curled up on his side and is groaning as pain radiates through his head like a fire consuming oxygen. It just grows and grows and grows and nothing is stopping it.
After a few moments, the world stops turning as viciously and Soap feels more comfortable getting in a sitting position. Simon slides behind him and lets Johnny rest his body on his chest as the Lieutenant harshly rubs at Johnny’s thighs, trying to stop them from shaking as vigorously.
The Scot is sipping at the water and trying to catch his breath. Every time he stops seeing stars and his breathing evens out, a spike of anxiety hits him square in the chest and he repeatedly blurts out ‘Not good enough. Not enough.’
“What were you doing?” Simon asks. He sounds firm but not angry- concerned, most likely. “You’re supposed to take things slow and at your own pace, that was far too much.”
“It wasn’t enough.” Johnny scoffs, “It isn't enough!”
“Enough for what? Hurting yourself isn’t going to speed up your recovery, it’s only going to hinder it.” Simon explains.
“Enough for you! Enough for me. God I’m fucking awful, Simon. I’m fucking disgusting and nothing is working for me and I just want things to go back to normal!” Johnny is stressed and talking loud enough for his stammer to be working ten fold which causes him to groan in frustration and tug at his mohawk.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this!” Johnny yells, gesturing to his body. “I’m f-fucking hideous. I have a scar the size of London on the s-side of my head that has healed like a burnt f-fucking ballsack, my voice won’t stop b-bloody shaking like I swam home from the Arctic fucking c-circle and I’ve gained nearly t-twenty bastard pounds s-since Vladimir Fuckface took a 9mm to my s-skull!”
Silence falls between them for a moment. Johnny is shaking and crying but not loudly. The tension between the two lingers in the air until Simon clears his throat and quietly says, “You’re still my Johnny.”
“I’m not g-good enough for you anymore and y-you should know that,” Johnny spits, “I’m the one that should’ve worn the fucking mask, n-not you. Spare everyone the effort of shooting me pitying looks when they see my daft h-heid.”
“Do you not think I get to decide who is and isn’t good for me? Fucking hell, Johnny, do you even hear yourself? You’re the only bit of good that I’ve ever been served in this world, that one ray of fucking sunshine in a life full of rainy days and you think that, what, you do one of the bravest things I’ve ever fucking seen and I’m just going to get over it and get over you? Live in a dark world because you have a hole in your head and a bit of meat on your bones?” Simon scoffs and shakes his head, clinging onto Johnny’s shoulder, “I love you no matter what, Soap, and nothing will ever change that.”
“You say that now but you haven’t seen me.” Johnny sniffs, “Haven’t seen the fucking state I’ve let myself get into.”
“Have you not considered the fact that you’re recovering from a serious brain injury? You’re resting and recovering, you’re not supposed to be training for bloody marathons. Fuckin’ hell Johnny, we’re retired now, I’ve still been training and have put a couple pounds on. I think you can excuse yourself on the grounds of ‘You nearly fucking died.’” Simon presses.
Johnny says nothing. He sits in petulant silence but Simon can see that the rage burns on inside Johnny’s head and he sighs deeply. He stands, knees clicking as he gets to his feet, and he doesn’t hesitate when he hooks his hands under Johnny’s armpits and moves him to standing too.
“Hey you daft fucker, let me go!” Johnny curses, jumping at the sudden contact, but he clings to Simon once he is stood as his vision swims with black again and his knees begin to shake once more.
“We need to relax. We’re having a bath, come on.” Simon says. He hooks his arm around Johnny’s back and steadies him as they walk back towards the bathroom.
“I just had a shower.” Soap argues.
“Yeah and then you decided to try and drown in a pool of your own sweat. You stink, I stink therefore we bathe.” Simon says.
He lifts Johnny effortlessly by the hips when they’re in the bathroom and sits him by the sink whilst Johnny fervently pushes his hands away and complains about the childlike treatment.
“Simon,” Johnny breathes out tiredly. He’s sat on the counter in the bathroom, clutching the granite top, whilst shaking like a leaf in the wind, “Just stop. I can do it myself.”
“Just because you can doesn’t mean you have to.” Simon says. He reaches down into the bath, letting the water splash over his hands before determining the heat to be good as he puts the plug in the tub.
“Fine, well I’d rather do it myself then,” Johnny huffs, “Don’t you think you’ve done enough for me lately?”
“Don’t you think you deserve it?” Simon turns around. He puts a small splash of bath oil into the water and the room slowly fills with the smell of ylang ylang. Pre-injury Johnny couldn’t even say that so he doesn’t attempt it now. “Do you not think that after everything you deserve a break?”
“I think you deserve a break.” Johnny admits. “You’ve worked non-stop for 16 years and ended a stellar career by becoming a live-in carer for a damaged soldier.”
“I’m not a carer, I’m your partner.” Simon sighs, “You didn’t see me do more than ship out a box of croissants for Gaz when he was stabbed.”
Johnny sighs and leans back, head hitting the wall as he wraps his arms around himself, “What I’m saying, Si, is that you don’t deserve this life I’ve left for you.”
Simon’s gaze grows stony and cold. He turns the water off and moves around the bathroom grabbing various essentials for Johnny. Massage oil for his shoulder, a new flannel to wash with, a razor to tidy up his beard and the whole time he spews words out at him.
“You sure as shit don’t deserve this life, Johnny. You can’t sit there and tell me I’ve done enough when you got shot on my watch. You didn’t sit in the hospital for days just staring at you, waiting for you to wake up because all the doctors would say was if, if, if. If I had done enough, you wouldn’t have a hole in the side of your fucking skull and we would still be on base but I fucked up, I let my guard down and got too comfortable and you fucking paid the price!” Simon raises his voice as he drops the shaving cream into the bathtub and curses as he fishes it back out, “Let me fucking make it up to you. Please. Let me in. Let me help. I can’t imagine what you’re going through Johnny, I really can’t, but please try and understand that we’re going through this together. Neither of us can do this alone and I’ll be damned if I just walk out of here and leave you to your own devices when I know I could’ve done something better. I should’ve done something better back then.”
“Simon what happened isn’t your fault-”
“And it isn’t yours! To the Army what happened to you is a side effect- it’s a possibility that’s unfortunate but likely. And to him- to fucking Makarov- he probably hasn’t even thought of you once. Probably can’t remember your fucking name but I- we- we have to live with the hand that he dealt you. You have to live with it and I’m sorry Johnny but I’ll never not feel responsible for what happened to you because I could’ve done so many things differently and I didn’t.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, if anyone should feel responsible it’s me. Fucking stupidest decision I could’ve made.” Johnny curses.
“You saved Price’s life.” Simon sighs. He moves between Johnny’s legs and wraps his hands around his waist, squeezing tightly as Johnny shifts in his hold.
“And I ruined ours in the meantime.”
“No,” Simon mutters. He leans forwards and presses his lips to Johnny’s forehead. A hand slides up his back and around his neck, fingers squeezing the warm skin tightly as a shiver runs down Soap’s back, “No you didn’t.”
Johnny admits defeat, sighing deeply, and he lets Simon guide his head into the crook of his neck. His face heats up with the warmth from Simon and he presses his own lips to the slither of skin poking above his jumper.
Beautiful, beautiful Simon. Fingers rubbing soft circles into the nape of his neck, breath tickling the tip of his ear. Soap chuckles to himself, wondering why he ever let his brain wander the way it did. Why would he ever wish to be dead when he has Simon like this, right now?
“C’mon,” Simon whispers, “Let’s get you in the tub.”
“You don’t need to do this.” Johnny says, moving to his feet slowly. Simon holds his hips once more, thumbs drifting under his shirt and circling his waist.
“I want to.” Simon mumbles. He pulls Johnny’s shirt up and mirrors the action by following with his own. “So if you’re okay with it, I’m going to get in with you and we’re going to relax, alright?”
Johnny nods and lets a small smile fall onto his features before he mumbles a quite ‘okay’ as Simon moves on to removing their pants.
“You’re so beautiful Johnny.” Simon murmurs, “I know you’re hurting right now, I know you’re struggling, but just know that you’re the most beautiful person alive, especially in my eyes.”
Johnny says nothing, just flushes from his cheeks right to the tip of his ears, and holds Simon’s shoulders to steady himself as he jumps back onto the floor.
Simon stands to the side of the bath, holding Johnny’s hand to steady him as he gets in, and once he knows Johnny is safe he slots in behind him in the water and pulls him back into his hold. Their skin melds together as one and Simon practically feels the tension oozing from Johnny’s shoulders as he slides further into the warm water.
A short while passes. The water is still warm but the slight layer of bubbles have fizzled out and the oil Simon mixed into the water is resting in little circles on the surface of the water. More has accumulated since Simon lathered his hands up and massaged the strain right out of Soap’s back. He enjoyed the intimacy of massaging over his lover’s body, running his hands down to his thighs and squeezing the strong muscles there, without having to commit to sex or anything else. The proximity between them can exist without the air becoming charged.
The water is finally starting to cool and Simon has just finished washing Soap’s back with a citrus body wash that Johnny adores when his lover’s quiet voice appears for the first time since they got into the bath.
“I don’t know how you stay when I’m not who you fell in love with.” Johnny mutters, leaning his head back in the bath. His head hits Simon’s chest and he melts into his arms, “I don't feel like Johnny. I can’t do what he could, I don’t look like him, I don’t even sound like him anymore. You’re a patient man, Simon.”
“None of that, Johnny,” Simon whispers. He tightens his arms around Soap’s middle and rests his lips on the back of his head, tucked between the fluffy strands of his mohawk, “That’s enough self-deprecation for one day.”
“Simon-” Johnny pushes, “I just- I’m different.”
“And yet, I still love you. I love you when you’re a pain in my arse. I loved you that time you jumped from a second storey during an escape straight into my arms and broke three of my fingers. I loved you when you had nightmares after Las Almas and you kept me up all night to talk. I love you now that your eyes are softening, no longer ready for battle at the flick of a switch. I love you the longer you rest each night knowing you’re safe and comfortable. I love you right this second, even though you’re talking horribly about yourself, because you’re my Johnny. You always have been and always will be, love. Nothing will change the way I feel, not about you.” Simon insists.
Johnny raises his hand and cups it over Simon’s. It rests on his chest, no ulterior motive behind the move, and Johnny just embraces the comforting warmth contact with Simon provides.
“You promise?”
“Pinkie promise, Sergeant.” Simon hooks his little finger around Johnny’s and the younger of the pair huffs out a laugh as he squeezes back.
Still, he accepts the promise and in return he promises to be kinder to himself so Simon doesn’t begin to think Johnny is as hard to love as Soap seems to think he is.
Meanwhile, Simon knows he never would think such a thing. Loving John MacTavish is as easy as breathing, as simple as counting to five- he just does it. It just happens and he sure as shit isn’t going to try and stop it any time soon.
Any time at all, if he’s being honest.