This is gonna sound really weird but I might need some beaten up, broken and bloody Johnny being gently taken care of by Simon.
I mean Johnny has is face broken, bloody all over, notably scarred and beaten senseless and Simon is there to pick up the pieces
“Johnny.”
Soap drifted back to consciousness at the familiar sound and was immediately wracked with pain. It felt a lot like he’d had a hot date with a tank. His nerve endings screamed beneath bruised and broken skin but he still couldn’t manage more than a pitiful whimper.
“Johnny, are you with me?!”
Soap knew the voice but couldn’t place it and tried to open his eyes. The world swam with red agony. He couldn’t see much more than a few indistinct shapes and gave up on sight for a while.
“He’s not responding, we’ve got to get him out of here…”
He knew the second voice as well but his interest in who, and his energy was very low. Focus MacTavish, are ye broken? He tried to wiggle his fingers and toes in a half hearted attempt to make sure he wasn’t paralyzed but he could already feel himself fading back into unconsciousness.
“JOHNNY! STAY AWAKE!”
But it was no use.
…
He couldn’t be sure how much time passed by in the dull void of unconsciousness, but it was long enough to get him out of that absolute failure of a recon mission and back to the base’s med bay. The bright antiseptic white filtering through his closed lids and the sharp beeping of the heart monitor were a dead giveaway. He’d survived… something anyway. The lovely morphine slipping silently into the small plastic catheter in his arm dulled the pain and muddled his ability to tell exactly what hurt the most but if you’d asked Soap, he might have assumed he’d finally gone and blown himself up. Fockin’ eejit…
He spent an unknown amount of time in this warm half dope dream before some shuffling and the squeak of a chair roused his attention. He still didn’t want to open his eyes so he shifted his head over on the pillow in the direction of the noise.
“Johnny…”
———
Simon Riley had always hated hospitals. The poking and prodding. The odors of the human body at its worst mixing with the chemical smells meant to mask it. Hell, even the bright blue-white of the lightbulbs they always used set him on edge. Of course he got hurt now and again but no one would have called him the most “cooperative patient.” But he wasn’t here because of anything that he’d done to himself this time. It was his fault though.
…
He was supposed to lead Soap safely though enemy territory and had failed him. Had seen that big slab of enemy beef get the drop on his Sergeant through his scope, seen him get dragged out of sight, and been too late to stop him from getting beaten to a bloody pulp before he and Gaz could get there.
Ghost gutted his unfortunate foe with cold efficiency. Too concerned about the bloody heap of his comrade to take any pleasure in punishing him. Too bad. They’d found Soap in a bad way. The back of his head had been bashed with the butt of a rifle, probably in an attempt to take him out in one blow but it hadn’t worked. Soap had fought back and in the fray and had endured a broken nose, a sliced brow, and nearly had his ear ripped off. He was also bleeding under his tac vest but he didn’t want to risk checking under it incase it was really bad. Soaps face was bloody red mask and he could only mewl in pain. They’d been able to call in a bird and get Soap to safety but the image of him smashed and bloody, painted the inside of Ghost’s eyelids. That could have been it, and it would have been all your fault.
…
He needed to see him. He’d waited around for hours, bothering med techs and nurses for any information but eventually Price had insisted he go back and get some shut eye.
“You’ll be notified when he comes ‘round.”
When he finally got the call he’d been waiting for he barely remembers to throw his balaclava back on before rushing to the med bay. That would have given them a shock. He entered Soap’s room and sat down in the chair adjacent to the hospital bed as quietly as possible, finally taking in the scene.
Soap looked like shit.
He had all sorts of tubes and cords running in and out of him and below the neck he was wrapped like an old movie mummy. That fucking bastard had really gotten happy with a knife on Soap’s midsection and he was certain to have a roadmap of new scars it show for it. They’d set his nose, probably while he was still unconscious, and stitched up his ear and brow. Despite the swelling that would go down with time, he still looked like the same old Soap he’d become be grudgingly fond of. Still a pretty-boy.
Soap shifted his head towards Ghost, subconsciously reacting to the noise of his entry, and he relished the unguarded youth of his face. How many times had he imagined watching Johnny sleep like this? Because this was Johnny he was looking at now. Imagined watching over him finally allowed to trace his eyes over every freckle and mole to memorize them. He smiled in his sleep and Ghost wondered what he was dreaming of.
“Si… ‘m glad yer heere.”
