#cod whump

"Stop fockin' lickin' yerself!" Johnny's voice is a mix of concern and disgust. You look up blearily from where you were nuzzling into the cuts on your forearms. You weren't aware that anyone else was in the room. You don't even know where you are, come to think of it. Or how long you've been here. Or why. No matter. Nobody else is gonna groom you, that's for sure. Johnny moves into your line of sight, and as you try to focus on his sideways form your sudden dizziness distracts you from your task.

"Jesus, ye open yer eyes and instantly go full fockin' feline- don't you know we've been- been waiting for you to wake up for fockin'- Christ." His agitation dissipates somewhat and his voice draws closer. You realize you can see a little better - Johnny's big head is blocking the painful lights.

"You... yer a right fockin' eejit you know that?" It takes a second for you to realize what he's said, because his words are so at odds with the softness of his tone.

"Boil y'r head." You croak, more dust than sound.

"Naw ye cannae do that. Sounds daft when ye say it like that," he grumbles. The sound of a door opening has him turning, light suddenly piercing into your eyes again. You turn your face into your arms more, but there's a tugging on your wrist.

"Hey, hey you'll pull your IV out." The voice is Kyle. The lights dim after a few seconds. Cool hands help settle your limbs beside you. You want to turn onto your back, but something is wedged behind you. Your ears flick at the rhythmic click of a machine nearby.

There's noise filtering in from outside, too. Too much of it. Talking and beeping and clattering. And the smells! You aren't sure if the strong, chemically smells are hurting your ears or your nose- your tail hurts too.

"Shhhhh-shhush," you wine.

"Sorry. Loud out there, I know. They didn't have any hybrid rooms available."

"Guess she's not the only dumb animal trying to get herself killed," Johnny mutters. If it was a human saying shit like that, you'd bite them in the face. But Johnny just makes you snort. And then you're coughing, because your throat is so dry. And then you're gasping, because you had been blissfully unaware of any pain in your side but boy did you notice it now.

"Here, water." A straw pokes at your lips. You open your mouth clumsily to receive it. Your teeth clench automatically around it - which makes it hard for you to drink. But the cup's empty before you're ready.

"Johnny'll get you more," Kyle says, to Johnny's annoyance. But the door opens and closes, and its just you and Kyle.

"Is Price mad at me?" You murmur weakly, voicing the concern that sits top of mind - right next to the stabbing in your side, of course. Kyle lets out a startled laugh.

"Mad? Oh, he's...uh, you know what, don't worry about that. Focus on getting better so he can kill you properly," he jokes.

You nod, as if his suggestion is entirely serious.

"Did it help?"

"Hmm?"

"The manual."

"...it did. But... no don't go grinnin' like that you little menace, you're lucky you're still loopy and Price has the sense to give you some time before he chews you out."

"...never let me do anything...just...useless..." you breathe, your mirth fading.

"I just wanted..."

"I know."

"I don't wanna be a burden." It must be the drugs 'cause you haven't cried in ages, much less in front of a coworker, much much less in front of a man.

"...I know. I..." Kyle's hand settles cool and comforting on the back if your neck.

"I miss being- some... somebody... I miss my pride," you admit tearfully. "I just-"

"I know." Kyle's voice sounds watery too. You hope your emotional state isn't contagious.

"I can't even begin to... we didn't mean to-" he sighs.

You nod, though you don't really know what you're nodding about. But even through your hazy, pain-addled mind you feel like there's something to agree to, some kind of understanding forged between the two of you. Idly you hope you can remember the conversation. You also kind of hope that he'll forget the way you sniveled about being homesick.

"We'll have lots to talk about later. You just get some rest." The hand on your neck pulls away. You reach out blindly and catch it before it can go further. Johnny's scent is fading - you don't remember when he left - and you're worried the room will go back to just the stale, cold, hand-sanitizer-y smell you catch beneath Kyle's scent when he leaves too.

You're sure you're in no position to keep his hand immobile if he doesn't want you to, and besides, they owe you - so you take his wrist and press your nose into to, inhaling his warm, earthy scent. Your ears droop forward, no longer scanning through the noises in the hall. Your tail twitches minutely under the blankets. He lets you nuzzle him for a moment longer before pulling away - only to rub his scent into the pillow, right next to your face.

"Sleep," he says again. He sounds tired. You're tired too. You yawn into the smell of him and hear him echo it resentfully, clearing his throat afterward.

"We'll be back," he promises.

You're inclined to believe him.

He catches himself listening for it anyway. In hallways and through walls—though their rooms are as far apart as they can be.

His body doesn’t believe it’s gone yet. His gut twists every time hours pass without an update, every time someone else speaks for Johnny.

They let Soap have his phone at limited intervals. Ghost clings to that like a lifeline.

Texts come through in bursts whenever Soap gets a chance:

they keep asking if i’m dizzy

if one more person shines a light in my eyes i’m biting them

you okay?

Simon answers between scans, between being told to sit still and rest like he hasn’t been doing nothing but sitting still since they dragged him out.

behave

don’t let them rush you

i’m fine

Sometimes Johnny doesn’t answer for hours. Sometimes Simon stares at the screen long after it’s gone dark, mind spiraling into worst-case scenarios he can’t talk himself out of. He feels stupid for it. It's like the quiet is getting under his skin, hollowing him out.

The doctors are worried about "maladaptive dependency" Simon just calls it trauma bonding. Say too much proximity too soon could make it worse and make the attachment unhealthy.

Simon would rather them shove it. He knows, logically, that they are there to help them. He also knows, outright, he hasn't survived this long without Johnny.

But he doesn’t say it out loud.

And after a few days, it gets unbearable.

The pain meds blur the edges but don’t touch the agitation crawling through him. He paces his room until his ribs scream. Sits. Stands. Sits again.

The silence stretches until it feels hostile, like it’s waiting to swallow him whole now that Johnny’s not there to fill it.

So he waits for night and for the halls to thin out. He knows how this works. Knows where cameras don’t quite meet. Knows how to move quiet when he needs to.

He shouldn’t be walking this much. His shoulder protests, sharp and hot, his ribs scream at him. He ignores it. He would ignore worse.

Johnny’s door is exactly where he has figured out it'd be. He hesitates just for a second, then he pushes it open.

Soap looks up from his journal slowly. Then shock flashes across his face. Then relief so raw it almost hurts to see.

Johnny sits up too fast, winces, stills himself with a frustrated sound that never quite becomes a voice.

“Christ,” Ghost breathes, shutting the door behind him. “You look like hell.”

Johnny’s mouth twists into something that might be a grin. He scribbles something fast, then shoves the journal toward him.

you’re gonna get caught

“Worth it,” Simon mutters.

Johnny gestures sharply, points at Simon's chest. you’re hurt, idiot, eyes flicking to Simon’s shoulder, the way he’s favoring his side.

“Yeah,” Ghost says. “And so are you.”

Silence stretches. Johnny’s jaw tightens. He reaches for his throat without meaning to, fingers stopping just short like he’s been burned before.

Ghost steps closer. Lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, careful of wires and rules and all the reasons they’re not supposed to be doing this.

“They think keepin’ us apart’ll make it easier,” Simon says quietly.

Johnny’s eyes shine. He nods once. Angry and exhausted.

“They don’t know what to do with you,” Ghost continues. “And they don’t know what to do with me when—when I can't hear you.”

Johnny swallows hard. His hands curl in the sheets, knuckles white.

“You don’t have to talk,” Simon says, softer now. “Not here. Not for me.”

He reaches out slowly. Johnny grips his wrist hard, desperately.

Simon exhales for the first time in days.

The silence doesn’t claw at him anymore. And for now, that’s enough.

...

...

Johnny’s been out for weeks. Closing in on months.

He’s alive. He eats. He sleeps when he can.

He's doing alright. That’s what everyone says when they ask Simon how he’s doing, like all of those things are the metric.

Johnny lives in a small flat now, technically alone, because it’s easier than explaining himself to anyone else. Easier than watching people realize they don’t know how to talk to him anymore.

Every small thing gets under his skin.

The kettle boiling too loud. The TV captions lagging half a second behind the audio. People cutting him off mid-text because they don’t realize he’s still typing. And he texts constantly, Simon, Kyle, Price, short bursts, half-formed thoughts, jokes, anything.

you still out?

how long this one

tell Kyle that the recipe he sent is awful.

Simon answers when he can. From transport. From places Johnny can't ask about anymore. Missions still happen. Life keeps moving. Johnny stays where he is and tries not to feel like he’s been left behind.

The night Simon finally comes home again, something’s wrong.

Johnny doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t look up from the couch. No phone shoved at him. No crooked grin waiting to be translated. He sits stiff, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes locked on the football match on the TV.

“Johnny,” Simon says quietly.

Nothing.

Simon drops his kit by the door. He watches the tension radiate off him. The way anger sits heavier on Johnny now, like it has for weeks.

“You mad at me?” Simon asks.

Johnny’s shoulders hitch. He shakes his head no, but doesn’t turn. His hands curl into fists in his sleeves.

Simon steps closer. Kneels in front of him carefully.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

Johnny doesn’t. His breathing goes shallow. He tries to swallow it down.

Simon reaches up, fingers careful and firm, guiding Johnny’s chin until he has no choice but to meet his eyes.

They spend a single moment just looking at each other. And God nothing could hurt Simon more than the pain in Johnny's eyes.

Johnny tries to speak. He really tries, mouth opening, chest squeezing tight like if he just pushes hard enough the words will force themselves through. All that comes out is breath.

He makes a broken, frustrated noise and shoves at Simon’s shoulders once, then a second time, angry and desperate. Then his hands fist in Simon’s jacket and he folds forward like his body finally gives up holding it all back.

Simon catches him. Wraps him up, solid and warm, arms locked around Johnny’s shaking frame.

“Easy,” he murmurs, over and over. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Johnny sobs into his chest, silent and violent, whole body trembling. He claws at Simon’s shirt like he’s afraid if he lets go even for a second, that’s it.

They stay like that until the shaking eases. Until Johnny’s breathing stutters back into something steadier.

Eventually, Johnny pulls back just enough to grab his phone with shaking hands. He types slowly through blurred vision.

please don’t leave me again.

Simon reads it once. Then again.

His throat tightens.

He cups the back of Johnny’s head, pulls Johnny into his chest.

“Alright,” he says softly. “Alright, Johnny. I hear you.”

The house was quiet when John got home. Odd. usually you were sitting on the couch, waiting up for him with that stupid hopeful look in your eyes. He always felt bad when he passed you up, but he was just so tired and stressed, and the last thing he wanted was for you to kiss him, for your hands to roam over his body. So he'd just grunt and lock himself in the shower until you fell asleep.

He walks past the empty couch, his brow furrowing. He didn't like that. But whatever. If this was how you wanted to act, if you wanted to be petty and not greet him when he came home, then fine. It wouldn't make him apologize for the words he'd hurled at you the last time he was here.

God, that fight. He hadn't seen you that angry since...well, since he enlisted. Usually you were this docile little thing, always pushed back into place with a biting word from him. Or, if that didn't work, then a rare display of affection was enough to silence you. But not this time.

No, this time you'd been angry. He doesn't really remember what even started the conversation, probably you bitching about forgetting an anniversary or something. Which you can't blame him for. His job his stressful, his life is on the line everyday. He has so much he has to remember that a silly little date doesn't stay at the forefront of his brain.

He'd said as much to you. And then you had the audacity to suggest couples therapy.

"I don't need a shrink looking at my head." He snarled at you.

"It's not a shrink, John!" You'd cried, "It's just someone that's gonna help us figure out how to make things work, because this isn't working. We need to talk things out without you screaming at me! Please, just one session."

"It'll be for nothing, doll." He'd sneered, "All they would do is tell you how clingy you are. God sometimes I wish I'd never married you. " The hurt in your eyes was almost enough to make him apologize, to gather you in his arms and kiss your head and tell you he didn't mean it. But he didn't.

"But fine. Schedule an appointment. I like being told I'm right." He'd left then, on a three month mission in Urzikstan. Late at night, when he was sitting in the freezing cold, smoking and keeping watch, your fight would come back to haunt him. Were you to clingy for him? Sometimes, yes. But truth be told, he liked having your attention. Even if he didn't necessarily want you touching him, it was nice how desperate you were to please whenever he did want it. He 'd hoped his little comment didn't change things.

But now you're not on the couch. Whatever. If that's the game you want to play, so be it. He eyes the closed bedroom door, rolling his eyes as he strides into the kitchen. He'd sleep in the guest room tonight. He wasn't gonna back down first. You'd come crawling in eventually, touch-starved and clingy.

He reevaluated that thought when he sets his bag on the counter and a little plume of dust bounces up.

"Y/n?" He calls out, "You coulda at least cleaned up a bit." There's no response.

"Love?" He calls out again, sounding slightly uncertain, "if you're trying to be petty right now, I swear to god you won't like how I respond." There's still no response. He grits his teeth, sliding his firearm out of it's holster and approaching the bedroom door. He prepares for you to have him locked out, but the door swings open with ease. His heart drops to the floor as he views the inside.

Its a tornado of destruction, broken glass and torn paper scatter across the floor, clothes and bedding strewn about, the desk chair overturned and the lamps ripped from the wall. His first thought is that someone took you, but then the cleanliness of the rest of the house wouldn't make sense. He stands in the door, weapon hung loosely in his hand as he tries to figure out just what the hell had happened.

His eyes fall on the desk, the only untarnished spot in the whole room, and he almost throws up. It's empty save for 3 objects. A piece of paper, a phone, and...your wedding ring. He knows what the paper is going to say even as he goes to read it.

John,

I'm sure you've figured out what I've done by now. You always were so smart. But in case it wasn't obvious, I'm leaving you. By the time you'll be reading this, the papers will have been filed for about 60 days. So you can't contest it. And don't look for me. I've got a 60 day head start. And you think my family didn't like you when we were dating? Well, after I called them sobbing because I can't live like this anymore, they came and got me. My brother says if he ever sees you again, he'll do a lot worse than shoot at your squad, whatever that means. Anyways, this is it John. I'm done. Done begging to be treated with common courtesy, much less with the love a husband should have for his spouse. Done being manipulated and abused whose only purpose in this marriage was to pleasure a narcissist. Because that's all you really are. A narcissistic little boy who joined the military because holding a gun made him feel powerful. You always swore you'd be better than your father, you rememer that? Swearing you'd never hurt anyone the way your father hut your mom and you? Well, you're not any better. We both know you just kept me around so you wouldn't come home to an empty house. Well now that's all you get. What was it you said to me before you eft? "It'll all be for nothing?" Well, here's your nothing John. I hope you enjoy it.

No longer yours, Y/N PrGraves.

His jaw tightened so hard it ached. Ransom. Someone had dared to take you for ransom. Money wasn’t the problem. It never was. He could wire the ransom ten times over without blinking, but he’s seen this game before. Pay the money, buy time and still get a body back.

He would not let that be you. Not you. Never you.

His mind flashed without permission. Images of you, half asleep in his bed, mumbling his name. Your fingers curling into his sleeve, trying to buy a moment longer before he had to leave. Your soft laugh when it was just you and him. Always gentle and sweet and trusting and his.

“No negotiations,” Phillip said, voice lowered into a lethal hiss. “I want eyes everywhere. Satellites, drones, informants. Burn through favors. I don’t care what it costs. Find them.”

And his men scrambled to comply, practically falling over themselves, as Phillip's eyes wandered to the image they sent of you.

I'm coming, sweetheart. I'm coming.

By the time Phillip steps into the little hole these rats had been hiding out in, it was already aflame. The last bits of gunfire sounded, largely replaced by shouting now, as his Shadows rounded up your captors and forced them to their knees. His focus, for now, however, was on the door, which was being guarded by five of his men.

Inside, you saw slumped over in a chair, wrists rubbed raw, eyes helf closed, hair falling in your face... He swallowed down the urge to run back and beat your captors to death on the spot.

Instead, he came closer and dropped to a knee before you. Gently, he whispered your name. His heart pounded when your fingers twitched and slowly, your head lifted.

His hands were gentle as they cupped your face, smearing blood on your cool skin as his thumbs brushed your cheeks. It was like coming home.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough and unguarded. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You blinked at him as if unsure that he’s real. He cut the bindings himself, caught you when you sagged forward, and pulled you against his chest. His arms were steady and calm as they pressed you in, burried your face in the crook of his neck.

His eyes closed as he held you, felt you. I got you, baby.

His second-in-command cleared his throat behind him. “Sir. Orders on the kidnappers?”

Phillip didn't look back. “Don't kill them,” he ordered calmly, holding you closer. “That's not good enough.” Only then he turned, eyes cold and endless. “Pack them up. I'll be handling them personally.”

The Shadows noded and dragged the screaming men away.

“Let's get yu home,” he whispered in your ear and brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I'll never let anyone hurt you again.”

With little effort, he lifted you and stood, cradling you like something priceless. As he carried you toward the waiting plane, flanked by his shadows, his heart calmed as you tucked your head beneath his chin.

Having you against his chest helped. It was almost enough to make him consider simply executing your captors, but then his eyes dropped to your wrists. To your bruised cheek. He felt your tremors. His expression hardened again.

He was not the type to be weakened by his love. It hardened him, into something violent and destructive, something that did not know mercy when you were concered.

He boarded the plane with you in his arms, one hand pressed firmly to your back.

Once he arrived at the Compound, he would get you treated, showered, tucked into bed, and then he would slaughter your captors until they would not be recognizable as human beings anymore. And once he was done, he would wipe his hands, and slip into bed with you.

You would never know the blood he spilled in your name, and he planned to spill enough to drown anyone who might want to hurt you.

“Never bury your enemies alive.”

The words echoed in his head, lingering in the darkness when everything else faded. Even the pain disappeared, white hot and radiating until it became so much it was just… gone. Warmth, then cold, and finally, numbness.

Everything afterwards came in flashes.

Muffled voices, the scraping of multiple footfalls, and the slamming of car doors in the distance. Or was it right next to him?

He was aware of his body being moved even when he couldn’t open his eyes. Everything felt so far away. It was hard to notice the hands on him when every jostle sent searing pain through his temple and into his brain. It hurt too much to think. It hurt too much to exist.

The only reprieve was when he felt a soft surface below, giving way under his weight. The crinkle of paper and the beeping of machines barely registered.

“Johnny!”

The shout startled him awake. A sharp, stabbing sensation in the side of his head broke through the fog of his drug-addled mind.

Johnny blinked blearily. The rapid beeping on the monitor next to him betrayed the jolt of adrenaline coursing through his veins as he fought to control his breath, eyes scanning the dim room around him.

It was empty.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

Christ, that’s annoying.

Johnny leaned over to the heart monitor, stretching his hand out and pressing a button he’d seen the nurses use to silence the irritating machinery. His whole world spun on its axis, threatening to dump him from the hospital bed and onto the speckled linoleum.

He only barely managed to save himself from having his brains spill out over the floor — again — by clumsily shooting an arm out to brace against the nearest surface, which was, unfortunately, the IV pole. The thin, flimsy metal pole toppled and crashed into the wall, leaving a scuff mark along the rubbery baseboard and tugging on the line taped to Johnny’s hand. At least if his blood spattered here, there’d be an easier clean up than where he’d nearly bled out on the concrete of the Chunnel.

The Scotsman let out a curse, wincing against the tender new injury just as the door to his room opened.

A now-familiar redhead peeked his way inside. His eyes widened at the scene as he flicked on the lights. He rushed forward to assist, picking the IV off the ground and helping Johnny settle back into the bed.

“Steamin’ Jesus, Sergeant. I thought you had fallen out of bed yourself when I heard the crash,” Carson breathed with a shake of his head.

“Nearly did,” Johnny grumbled as he let the medic take his hand and remove the IV properly.

“Good thing you didn’t. Besides nearly ripping the catheter out of your hand, are you injured at all?”

“Apart from the obvious?” Even Johnny could hear how his attempt at lighthearted humor wavered and fell flat. It came out bitter instead. His brow furrowed, gaze drifting off into the middle distance for what felt like the thousandth time this week.

The scar branching out from his temple throbbed in response, almost as if it could sense Johnny’s growing awareness of it again.

At least Carson had the good nature to chuckle and shake his head fondly. “You need to be careful. We’re dealing with some powerful drugs here. You won’t be as coordinated as you are used to. Press your call button if you need something, okay?”

"I'm coordinated just fine," he insisted, but there was an increasing awareness that he wasn't just fine.

The drugs weren’t the only reason Johnny was off his game, and they both knew that. But apparently, everyone was either too scared to mention the elephant in the room or so clinical that it felt like a slap in the face to be pelted with prognoses that he wouldn’t remember in 15 minutes. It had taken Johnny the better part of a week to remember Carson’s name, and the man had a bloody nametag.

Unperturbed by his silent brooding, Carson continued with business as usual. He brought in a tray of breakfast: all soft foods served with thick-handled utensils for ease of use. Well, easier.

“You’ve got another visit with Faye in physical therapy this morning. Did you want to take your pain medication or go without?”

When the doctors had first started Johnny on intravenous medication — morphine or whatever it was — he hadn’t been very receptive, insisting on going without when he discovered how hard it was to think clearly through the hazy fog in his mind.

Ironically, the fog didn’t improve without the meds. It was just easier to move his arms without feeling so heavy. But it was the intense, unending ache in his skull that had him sheepishly withdrawing his earlier request.

The military had a way of training a ‘ pain is weakness leaving your body’ mentality that was hard to shake. Johnny found it hard to believe that this amount of pain was doing anything other than making him weaker. There was a sour feeling that settled in his stomach whenever he asked for more pain management, so he frequently didn’t ask. As of now, he really only accepted the IV at night so he could sleep, but his dreams were confusing and left him feeling restless, even if the medication pulled him deeper into the nightmares.

The feeling of cold metal warming against his scalp, fingers in a bruising grip on his arm…

Johnny blinked rapidly as Carson gently tapped his arm, drawing him out of the spiral. He inhaled sharply through his nose and tensed against the touch.

What was he supposed to be answering again?

Carson held up the small paper cup with several pills inside, rattling it gently.

Oh, pain meds. Right.

Johnny gently shook his head, trying not to think about the wince he couldn’t hold back.

“Nah. Not today,” he insisted stiffly.

Carson narrowed his eyes a bit, but acquiesced and only handed over the antibiotics with a hum. At least, that’s what Johnny thought they were. It was hard to keep up with everything. So much of the days felt both too slow and too fast simultaneously. He wasn’t even sure how many days had passed yet. Did his blood still stain the grey concrete, or had they hosed it down by now? Would there be an unnoticeable pink stain outside the train windows as it whizzed by in a blur?

So he found himself in a waiting room. Again. Being wheeled around the hospital was both a blessing and a curse. The residual high from his overnight pain meds made coordination difficult, and he imagined that the shock of his feet hitting the hard flooring would hurt his still-tender skull. Not that he could walk even if he wanted to. That was the other side of having to be wheeled around everywhere: there was no control. He couldn’t decide to pop over to the vending machine for a snack without asking. He couldn’t even decide to go to the bathroom by himself. It was humiliating.

A part of him recognized that he’d have been absolutely eating up the attention and excuse to be in a fun wheely chair had this been any other situation, nagging Price to buy him snacks or whining to Ghost to push him around. But it wasn’t like that. And here he was. Alone.

Or as alone as he could be in the circumstances. Hospitals were always full of people. There was no sense of privacy. That was something he was used to, but more and more Johnny just wanted to hide away in the private room behind a solid door and not speak to anyone for the rest of the day.

Carson parked Johnny’s transport chair next to a row of peeling vinyl-cushioned armchairs. Everyone in this place was at least a good 20 years his senior or still in uniform, clearly taking the morning off from some cozy desk job to meet their required medical appointments.

None of it was new anymore, but it also wasn’t familiar enough to feel comfortable. Posters with too much information crammed onto their surfaces, while still attempting to look pleasing, were too hard to read. Johnny couldn’t remember the last time he willingly read something outside of work and he’d be damned if he was going to start with this crap.

A paper calendar on the wall said it was March of 2024. Johnny didn’t even remember the turnover into the new year. He’d probably been asleep or too confused to register the passage of time. Apparently, he’d attacked more than one health professional in his distressed state and even threw his dinner tray at Ghost and Gaz when he didn’t recognize them after waking up from his coma.

Things were still fuzzy, and despite being declared “non-agitated” he sure felt fucking agitated. It was hard to think for more than a few seconds at a time. Annoyingly, it was just long enough to get caught in a spiral of what must be his memories. Everything was taking its sweet time coming back to him, but he wasn’t sure if he could trust the dreams to be the truth. Instead, Johnny had tried to read reports about his last mission, about Makarov, about his task force.

More often than not, he’d ended up needing someone to read them to him, his eyes and brain swimming every time he tried on his own. None of his teammates complained, but there was a vulnerability to it that Johnny didn’t like. Yet again, something he couldn’t control.

“D’you mind if I sit here?”

Johnny fought to pull himself out of staring into space and register that someone had spoken to him. He felt slow and dumb as he blinked open-mouthed up at the new person, his heavy brow furrowed in concentration.

A woman stood before him, leaning on a pair of well-loved crutches that cradled her forearms. Her eyes studied his expression, a look of uncertainty passing over her face before Johnny finally grunted his assent.

She nodded with a tight-lipped smile before lowering herself down into the only open seat in the waiting room: the one directly next to him.

Like him, she was younger than the average age of the crowd here. But, unlike the younger adults present, she didn’t wear a uniform. Instead of fatigues, a dark grey pullover and black jeans stood out in the pale room. Her hair was black, clearly dyed if the centimeter or so of dark blonde hair at the roots was any indication.

“Nice mohawk, by the way.”

Johnny blinked, realizing he was staring off into space again as he studied her. His hand absent-mindedly went up to touch his head, fingers shaking as he traced the shaved sides. The scar ran underneath his palm instead of taking up the entirety of his attention this time.

Gaz had insisted on Johnny keeping his signature haircut, even when he was bedbound and could barely speak. He’d brought in clippers and everything. It’d been months since he’d had a proper shower, but Gaz didn’t care. Admittedly, it did feel more comfortable like this. More familiar.

“Ah, thanks,” he drawled slowly. His tongue tripped over the words as his mouth fought to make the right sounds. Was it always so hard to talk? Maybe Carson was so used to patients babbling nonsense at him that he understood without much fuss. Maybe Johnny just forgot how to speak in the last five minutes. Both could be equally true. “My mate did it for me.”

She smiled, lips stretching around the piercing in the center of her bottom lip. Her hand reached up and ran through her hair, eyes watching as her shaky fingers passed through the length.

“That’s cool of him to do. I miss my shaved head sometimes,” she sighed wistfully. “It was so much easier to take care of.”

It felt like he couldn’t blink as Johnny did his best to retain the conversation in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before blinking stupidly again as he searched for words that did not want to come.

“Did you—did you have—” He settled for pointing at the side of his head, hoping it was the right side where the pinkish scar sat.

Her eyes widened. “Oh! No, I just did it because I wanted to.” She paused. “At least you’ll probably have a gnarly scar. Or the perfect spot for a sick cover-up tattoo.”

Johnny felt his lips tug into a half-smile. “Aye, I hadn’t thought of that.”

The woman’s green eyes lit up as her smile grew to a grin. “You really should consider it! I think it’d look super cool with the mohawk.”

A tattoo on the side of his head? It was hard to believe SAS would allow that, but then again, none of 141 had really followed the uniform rules, had they? For some reason, it was easier to remember his days before becoming a sergeant than the days leading up to his hospitalization.

“Sergeant MacTavish?”

Shit, how long had he been sitting there quietly? His eyes found the nurse who called him. Her eyes scanned the crowd of waiting patients, passing right over him.

When had Carson left? Johnny supposed he had other parts of his job than attending to a grumpy soldier in a wheelchair, but now he was stuck.

“Is that you?” Johnny flinched. He’d completely forgotten about the woman and the conversation they had just had. He’d feel embarrassed if he wasn’t grappling with a strange sense of panic. She must have seen the look on his face because when he nodded, she stood up and called out “Here!” to the nurse.

“Is it alright if I push you?”

Johnny looked down at the transport chair, realizing there was no way to propel himself forward. It felt like fighting through tar to form full thoughts.

“Aye, that’s alright,” he responded quietly. “Thanks, lass.”

She disappeared behind him. “Okay, but you’ll have to carry these for me, then.”

A pair of crutches slowly inched into Johnny’s field of vision from behind him. He was supposed to carry them? Just as slowly as they had appeared, Johnny reached out and wrapped his hands around the scuffed aluminium poles. It took a lot of concentration to control the shake in his fingers enough to maneuver properly, but eventually he got them laid across his lap.

The woman waited patiently for him to settle, unlike the nurse by the doors, who tapped her foot and watched with an irritated expression. As soon as he was settled, the chair lurched forward and glided across the floor.

“Thank you so much for your patience. Alright, lead the way.”

Johnny could hear the faux sweetness and the smile in her voice. A part of him regretted being unable to see it, especially when the nurse clearly had to fight back an eye roll. Instinct told him the grin must have been shit-eating. A smirk tugged at his lips again.

The rest of the walk—or roll, in his case—down the hall was quiet. Even the quiet murmurs of the passed rooms didn’t drown out the gentle thrum of the wheels against the vinyl floors and the footsteps of rubber-bottomed shoes. Something about it was soothing. He could even hear the swishing of cotton jeans from behind him if he focused.

Johnny was practically being lulled to sleep, only catching himself when his head began to drift and fall, startling himself out of the stupor. When did he get so tired?

“Alright, I guess this is you.” The woman reached around Johnny and retrieved the crutches from his lap. “This is where we part ways.”

“You’re not coming?” He couldn’t stop himself from asking, even if he had the mental capacity to recognize that she probably had her own appointment to attend.

She chuckled as she handed his wheelchair off to the grumpy nurse. “No, I’ve got a support group to run. You should stop by sometime. We’re in the rec room on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings.”

“Support group…” Johnny parroted. He didn’t confirm or deny, just tried out the words in his mouth to see how they felt. It wasn’t that bad. Maybe he’d say them again.

The first time you attempted to nip playfully while sparring, Soap flinched and growled. It seemed so out of character coming from the usually upbeat and respectful fox hybrid. So you didn't try that again.

But you thought it'd be fine to rub your shoulder against Ghost's when you're both waiting in the hall to deliver a report - it's something you'd done all your life with other cat hybrids, even bears and birds were usually ok with it. And you'd seen the way the team ping-ponged between each other, like playing a game of scent hot potato. But the borzoi hybrid's head snapped to face you, the rest of his uncanny, large form unmoving. He didn't growl, but he didn't let off his sharp stare until you pulled away the offensive touch and folded your arms instead.

Gaz once found you asleep on the couch in the 141's barracks, your arms curled around the decorative pillow like a lifeline after a grueling day of training in the rain. He had politely woken you up and (strongly) suggested that you not make it a habit to "take up too much of the shared space". Which seemed odd for a jackal hybrid who consistently forced the others to go have a nap somewhere, anywhere, when they were obviously running on fumes.

Price was reasonably distant for a leader you weren't familiar with, and you didn't try to get chummy with him. But you couldn't help noticing how he checked over each of his men when heading out to an op, noticing every detail - did Ghost have an extra mask, and a pair of gloves? Was Soap hydrated, with enough snacks stored away? Was Gaz fully, fully recovered from his cold, and did he text his nephews to let them know he'd be gone for a while?

But when his eyes shifted to you, it was like the dingo hybrid didn't know what he was looking at. Didn't know what to look for. So he looked away.

You get left behind in ops, barely getting cover fire when you call for it - not that you need much, the team works so quickly and so in sync, hardly ever missing a target - and you desperately try to make it to the front of the action to prove yourself. But before you can make a move all the rooms are swept and the enemy is engaged with your teammates, only slim pickings for you. It makes your ears twitch, makes you reckless, and when you finally catch up, you're flinching against hold orders to be there first, to do something. Ghost has to yank you back by the straps of your vest more than once, and you get a gruff talking to from Price during debrief. Your impulsively burdens the team. I'd expect more grace from a cat hybrid. Just let the others do the job and keep the hell outta the way an eye out. Double tap, clean up, look for intel. When you rest after a grueling day, you find yourself on the outskirts of the pack, the backs of the others as they coil around each other giving you the sense of a cold stone wall you can never breach. Five is not an even number - no one there to run beside you on drills, or to engage you in conversation at meal times. There's no room for you. Why did Laswell recommend you for this crew to begin with?

Eventually you're so starved for praise, to be a part of the team, you go on a suicide mission. Nobody had expected it to be feasible, it was an option Soap threw out just for the hell of it. Almost a joke. You know that. Instead, they would rest and regroup, plan around their resources and find a strategy that wouldn't get anyone killed. Once they had the info they needed, they would jave a foothold in the region and the other teams would be able to make a final push toward victory. But for now, they were all tired. So it wasn't hard to sneak out of the safe house and treck through the city's underbelly to the target. What was more difficult was sneaking in to the fortified "sanctuary of depravity" (Price's words) unnoticed. You were almost vibrating with the bliss of being able to let your instincts take the wheel, to stalk and pounce and pad silently through the now bloodied halls. And miracle upon miracle, the sun rose, and you made it out alive. The intel the team required was now strapped inside your vest, likely stained with blood. All you wanted to do was collapse into the makeshift nest at the safehouse and sleep for days.

When you slink back to the entrance of the unassuming residence, you aren't prepared to guard yourself against Price's sudden movement, pinning you by the throat against the door frame before you manage to come inside. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and you felt the ambush hit you like a ton of bricks.

"What the fuck have you done?"

You suppose by now the smoke has risen high enough over the watery sunlight to be seen. The smell of blood fills your nostrils, and your hand grips Price's, claws blackened by dirt and viscera. The rest of you must look like a wreck.

"Sir," you manage, the word eeking out of your collapsed throat, but his teeth snap at your face when you move your other hand to your vest.

"Cap," Soap says tentatively. Not coming to your defense, more like he worries his superior will do something he might later regret. You spot Ghost behind him, arms crossed, looking too big for the room. Your tail whips dazedly this way and that, the way a dead body jerks before it realizes it's not supposed to.

"What could you possibly have to say for yourself?" Price barks, and grabs you by the collar, moving you only to slam you against the wall inside the small room. Gaz shuts the door, eyeing you suspiciously. Price's claws press into your chest, just above your heart. A warning. He'll let you speak, for as long as he's willing to listen.

"Your-... intel," you gasp, your words coming out weaker than you feel. But you know the crash is tumbling in, and you need to fix this before you do something stupid, like pass out. Or throw up. Your jaw clenches as you notice a sharp pain blossoming in your side. "Ugh- my vest. Got you the manual you r-ugh, the manual... you requested. Sir." You gasped. "Ple-ease un-nsheathe y'r claws fr'm'my side sir," you squeak out, your face going red from the pain. Price's eyes lose a bit of the rage sparking behind them and instead take on a look of frustrated consternation.

"The fuck are you talking about soldier?"

"My... the intel, I have-" Price steps away from you suddenly, and you wait for the pain to recede. But it doesn't. Instead you're falling to the floor, curling around the tender flesh of your side like it's a broken support column and you're some sad, terrorized building.

Ghost steps forward and crouches before you, looking you over intently.

"He didn't touch you," he says, mildly, like an afterthought. His attention is on the thick cardstock cover he can see poking out of your vest. He rolls you onto your back, and it feels like you keep going, keep spinning into yourself and into that pain in your side, in your head. You hear more than feel the sides of your vest unbuckle, the wet, tacky sound of it pulling slowly away from your undershirt.

"Steamin' bloody-" Soap's voice, cut off by your own choked scream when you feel hands on you, too close to the region of your body to which your entire perception has collapsed.

"How is it?" You hear Gaz ask.

"Legible," Price grunts.

"Jesus Cap, I meant the wound, not the bloody booklet!"

"Bad," is all Ghost says. At least, it's all you hear befor◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️

TMI my little friends. As I was writing this I was suddenly struck with a bout of the violent shits. So I was sitting there, clenching in pain, and found myself using the opportunity to voice reader's words as if I was being threatened by a feral dog and not my own asshole. You are most welcome.