Soap falling into a depression after surviving The Shot
cw: heavy on the depression
By some miracle, Johnny survived the headshot from Makarov but not without a sick daily reminder of what happened. The bullet damaged his frontal lobe and he could never be the same Johnny he used to be. He would have aggressive outbursts, apathetic episodes, gaps in his memory. Everything was fucked.
And the worst part was that he knew it was going on. Somewhere deep within him, he was watching himself on this decline that he couldnât seem to slow no matter how hard he fought. He hated that he screamed and threw things at Simon when he was just trying to help. He hated that he couldnât fully understand what Gaz would tell him anymore even when put in the simplest of words. Hated that he would forget who Price was, even just for a fraction of a moment. So it was no wonder that he fell into a deep depression.
Some days he could barely talk. He had to keep a wheelchair by his bed in case his legs decided not to work right. Every day, he wished Makarov had a better aim. But maybe thatâs what he wanted. Maybe he wanted Johnny to live this hell for whatever twisted reason. The hell that was trying to communicate what he was feeling or going through to others but they could never get it. They didnât know him anymore.
Laswell thought he should at least get a medal or something to recognize what he went through. He refused. He dodged every call from her and ignored the texts he could barely comprehend. He didnât deserve anything, he was useless now. His muscles would jerk without him wanting them to but theyâd also be completely still when he did need them.
Heâd been in bed for days now. Radio silent, his phone probably died but he didnât notice or even care. He couldnât bring himself to eat or drink anything. Only got up to use the bathroom and cursed every second of that struggle. Hadnât turned the lights on in about a month, heâd rather not have to see himself. He didnât even flinch when he heard a knock at the door. Then another before Simonâs voice announced that he was coming in and the door unlocked.
Simon was enveloped by a deafening silence and he squinted through the darkness to try and find any hint of Johnny. He found a lamp and turned it on, the warm light filling the living room at a comfortable level. He moves through the apartment, looking in the kitchen and frowning when he sees it completely spotless. Nothing touched since the last time he was there. He keeps walking and checking every inch of the space and growing more worried that something had happened.
âHello?â He breaks the silence and the bedroom door creaks open. He finds another lamp and turns it on, sighing in relief when he sees Johnnyâs body moving with each breath. He stalls in the doorway for a moment then steps in. He goes up to the bed and sits just behind Johnny. Simon looks down at his hands, rubbing them together as he clears his throat.
âWeâre worried bout ya. No oneâs heard from yâfor days.â
âYou uhâŚyâhungry? Thought I could make yâsomething while Iâm âere.â
Simon sighs and looks up at the ceiling, chewing the inside of his lip in both frustration and as an attempt to hold back his emotions. He gets up and decides the man just needed some tough love or else heâd never eat.
He finally shifts, turning over onto his back and glaring at Simon before he pushes himself up slowly. Thankfully, his legs were functional so heâs able to stand up on his own. Simon helps him to the dining table anyway, knowing they could give out at a momentâs notice. He sits him down and starts cooking one of Johnnyâs favorite dishes. Silence stretches between them and Johnny finally speaks up.
âYellin at ye. Throwin shite. ItâsâŚitâŚâ the words wouldnât come out anymore and his fist hits the table lightly.
âI know.â Simon stops him, looking up to nod. âDonât be sorry. Sânot your fault.â
Silence stretches again and Simon helps Johnny eat when he needs it. He doesnât react to the outbursts, doesnât make him feel worse than he already was. Just helps and accepts. It was hard for him to see his best friend like that. But it would be harder to pretend he was dead anyway. He would rather get yelled at and get hit with anything the Scot could reach than see him in the ground.
