Chapter Text
Johnny’s heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest, blood rush causing a swooshing echo in his ears and throbbing in his skull. He was laser focused, rifle up, and alone. His first solo mission, it was day 2 of 3, and things were going… Alright? A few bumps and bruises, scrapes here and there, but nothing Soap wasn’t prepared for. But what he was NOT prepared for?
He felt a jolt, and then a sudden sear of pain caused him to bite his lip hard enough to bruise. His right leg gave way, and his hand absentmindedly slammed onto wherever the pain was- and that was when he felt the warmth and wetness against his glove. Wait.. What? Blood.
“Soap, whats your status.” Ghost so perfectly timed a question into Johnny’s ear piece. Johnny knew he had to get out of line of fire, while he didn’t think he was- he needed cover and he needed cover fast before he got shot again and risked the whole operation. He chose to not respond for the time being and get himself to safety.
Walking clearly wasn’t going to work, the bullet wound in his leg being all too demolishing- too much for his liking. He half-army crawled, half-limped, to be barricaded against a wall that he prayed was out of sight of wherever he was.
“Johnny? Johnny, status.” Ghost repeated, the rasp of his vocal chords showing that of the slightest touch of panic that had Soap’s heart aching just as much as his thigh. He had no time to think about that, just getting home alive.
“I’m hit, I’m hit bad.” He choked out, shame filling his gut as he admitted to his failure to complete the mission.
“We’re comin’ to get you, Johnny, don’t you worry.” Ghost replied after a moment, and Johnny could only guess he was cursing to every goddamn person on base to bring his Sergeant home.
The next while was a blur to Soap as he found himself falling in and out of consciousness before he could get the tourniquet. It, quite frankly, was a miracle that he wasn’t found and killed on the spot while waiting for them to get him. The last thing he saw was Ghosts mask above him, rifle hanging around his torso, and blurs of other men kneeling down before his eyes fell shut.
When Johnny’s eyes opened again they were back on base, though Johnny could tell he was still being transferred to some kind of medical facility. They were inside, but he was being carried down a hallway on a gurney. The minute he took in his surroundings and comprehended that he was conscious, he was alive, the pain came back to him and he couldn’t help but shout.
Soap yelled out nonsensical words, trying to reach for the wound till his hands were swatted away and a deeper pressure was put on the bullet wounds entrance and exit.
Ghost had large, previously glove covered hands, applying firm and steady pressure (that hurt like a son of a bitch) to Johnny’s thigh. The injured man cried out in agony as he was suddenly transferred to a bed, Ghost trying his best to not jostle the wound and minutely failing as Johnny groaned and moaned in pain.
It was clear Soap wasn’t all there, unaware of what was going on, probably in a state of shock. But as Ghost’s duty of applying wound pressure was over, letting the medics take over, Ghost looked into Johnny’s eyes and realized that this wasn’t his Sergeant but his little boy. Soap was one step away from regressing from the fear, uncertainty, agonizing pain, and Ghost didn’t blame him one bit. It was only confirmed by the sob that left Johnny’s throat that Ghost wasn’t dealing with military personnel anymore. He was dealing with a terrified age regressed boy that needed his caregiver. So Ghost did just that.
“I know, Johnny. You’re alright.” He hummed, sitting at the edge of the bed and wrapping his arms around Soap’s now stripped torso as they rid him of his vests and cami’s to gain access to the wound.
Ghost couldn’t help but notice all the cuts and bruises lining his arms, and wondered what was covered by the t-shirt. But for now he had to calm his little boy down.
“You’re alright, Johnny. I’ve gotcha.” He whispered soothing nothings in Johnny’s ear, glaring at a medic that dared look at them with so much as a questioning look.
“Do your job and I’ll do mine. Am I understood?” Ghost growled, receiving a nod in return.
“I-I can’t, I- Ghost,” He cried, panting for air as they worked on his wound.
“Give the man some damn pain meds, will you? He’s got a fuckin’ bullet in his thigh.” Ghost ordered.
“We need vein access. He’s too frantic. We could sedate him…” The medic offered.
“No. Hold on.” Ghost huffed, turning back to his little boy.
“Johnny, hey. Johnny, look at me.” He insisted as Soap rocked his head side to side and tears rolled down his cheeks. Ghost gripped Johnny’s arms and held them to his chest, applying gentle pressure that he knew would relax the regressor a bit. It always had the same effect as Ghosts arm over him as they slept at night, a comforting weight to ground him.
“Listen to me, Johnny. They’re gonna help you feel better, but you gotta let em put in an IV. You gotta hold still. Okay?” He spoke slow and steady, looking into MacTavish’s teary eyes and waited for a nod.
“Thank you. Put your arm out.” He requested, and Johnny obliged. The IV was set and a high dose of morphine was set in and worked quick work, letting Johnny fall back into unconsciousness for the time being so the medics could assess the wound and debate getting him off to surgery.