Chapter Text
“So how’d it go then?”
Seeing as he’s the only other person in the car, it takes a remarkably long time for Johnny to realize that the question had been directed at him.
His father, Jack, spares him a curious glance, eyes shifting back and forth between the damp stretch of country road they're winding through, giving the wheel a few awkward taps.
It takes him about five seconds more to realize he has to answer as well.
“Was a’right,” Johnny supplies, uncertain how he really feels about that particular verdict.
“Not too rough for the first go, eh?” He’s surprised his da is even broaching the subject, seeing as they’d been driving ten minutes and the old man had already exhausted his go-to conversational topics, limited to his latest golfing trip and that flood from a few years back folks won’t shut up about.
Never ones for small talk, the MacTavish boys.
“Naw, i’was fine. Just gettin’ in the basics, y’know. Trainers seem decent.” There’s a struggle to make it sound convincing, but Jack seems to buy it.
“Reckon ye know a thing or two ‘bout keepin’ fit an’ all. Should be back on yer feet in no time.”
A grimace threatens to lock Johnny’s jaw, but he manages to convert it into a half-smile for his father’s sake. “Aye.”
They both know how shite his outlook really is.
After the career-ending injury, the coma, months of recovery, four surgeries, that bout of pneumonia, more recovery—John would say he’s had a fair amount of time prepared to face the facts.
But he’d let his da remain optimistic.
“Caroline thinks she went to school with one of the trainers,” Jack says, doing that odd little tap on the wheel again.
“Aye?” Johnny scratches the back of his head with a spare hand, scrubbing a sore spot blooming in his neck. “Reckon that might be Shelly then.”
He recalls the physiotherapist who had been around his older sister’s age, not that he’d really taken much note of the woman; too busy trying not to let on how much pain he’d been in. And the poor lass had no doubt been occupied peeling him up off the floor to ask about family. Despite his previous admission, the PT session had been far more difficult than John had anticipated.
“Yer mam’d prob’ly ask if she’s single,” da snorts, casting a teasing smirk his son’s way.
Johnny winces dramatically, all too fair considering the ache he’s still nursing, and bats a hand. “Ach! She’s already got her grandbabes, doesnae she? Not gonnae get any more from me.”
His father’s quiet chuckle evens out, accenting the unspoken confession in John’s dismissal. As if he might as well have added: “what would anyone see in a cripple like me anyway?”
The car reverts back to its awkward silence, at least until Jack points out a soggy patch of land up the road.
“See—this is where Ol’ Billy’s gaff got flushed damn near inna the river from the flood. Billy MacCallum, aye? Ye can see they never rebuilt it here, done moved down ta Dundee last I’d heard…”
It’s easier to let his da’s babble drive the nagging thoughts from his head, even if it doesn’t quite distract from the chronic pain still coursing up his limbs. There’s a bone-deep ache that’s taken residence in Johnny’s lower back, as well as the come-and-go palsy in his right leg. Small grievances on days like these—as opposed to the white-sharp agony he’d been in those first months after the fall.
It’s probably a blessing he can’t remember much.
“Mind if we have a pop inna town?”
Again, his father’s direct question has Johnny spacing out, and the brief shake of his head only further aggravates his nerve pain. He winces.
“Unless ye're feelin’ knackered after—”
“Naw, it’s a’right,” he asserts, despite truthfully fancying the prospect of going home and lying on the couch for the next four to six business days.
“The missus sent me ta get the messages.” His father gestures the pad on the dash, mam’s signature scrawl spelling out a hasty grocery list. “Figured we could pick up yer meds as well.”
Johnny nods, slumping further down the leather seat, his fist kneading the back of his neck. It’s getting that low-burn pulse now, hard to ignore. “Sure.”
“She’s makin’ stovies, she says.”
“Right.”
“Still yer favorite, eh?”
“I s’ppose.”
His da nods twice, too focused on turning through a tricky bend to pay attention to the frown settling on his son’s face.
There’s a lump in John’s throat that kindles alongside the burn in his spine. He doesn’t remember what it was like to have a favorite food; years of MREs had pretty much anesthetized his tastebuds. But it does something to him knowing his mam was making an effort for his sake.
Distracting himself further, the man fiddles with the mobile phone in his lap, idly scrolling through message chains long since gone dormant. The most recent had been some dumb meme sent from Garrick, postmarked three weeks ago with Johnny’s perfunctory clown emoji. Dumb bastard. He wonders how he’s doing. Too much of a coward to ask.
After scrolling further back, Johnny’s thumb brushes past the contact name that is most likely to worsen that lump in his throat.
He doesn’t click it, just lingers over it, unsure what the last message had even been anyway.
Better not to go down that road.
Sliding the phone back into his sweatpants pocket, John attempts to rally himself as his father parks their trusty old Corsa parallel to the market—some dingy-looking place, evidently unrenovated after the flood, seeing as those posters advertising the latest fizzy juice predate his primary-school diploma.
Jack’s belt clicks, and there’s an uncertain shuffle. “Need me to—?”
“I got it.” Johnny scrambles behind him for the forearm crutch in the backseat. Just the one today, as it’s his damn right leg hogging all the attention lately. That had been the main target of today’s PT, and it’s still rigid as all hell.
Making his way around the car to get his son’s door, Johnny allows his father to help him out, gripping the old man’s hand while hoisting upwards on the crutch.
“A’right, lad?” Jack’s hands still hover anxiously, and Johnny’s short bark of, “Solid,” doesn’t seem like enough reassurance.
Doesn’t help that the tactical report slides out so readily; it’d take more than a minute to beat that out.
A sharp twinge in his back threatens to sabotage his nonchalance, but the young man hobbles forward before his father can start inflicting pity. “M’a’right. Let’s get gaun.”
All things considered, it’s a minor miracle that he can even walk, albeit looking like a right fucking grannie. The crutch helps, on his decent days.
He hates it regardless.
Beating back a frown, Johnny grits his teeth, following his da into the mart with what he hopes is the last of his dignity intact.
Upon entering the shop, he’s immediately bombarded with a stale sense of nostalgia he has nothing to combat against. The whiff of tobacco and mildew, a bright orange Irn Bru display, some reedy Annie Lennox song hissing through the speakers. If Johnny had thought he’d be here, all of twenty-nine years old, retired, still in his hometown… Christ, he might’ve hoped that drop had been just a bit farther…
He shakes his head, riling the eternal knot in his back, and trails behind his da as they start making their way through the aisles.
As if to prove to the old man how capable he is, Johnny snatches the grocery list from Jack’s hands, nodding in the direction of the butcher in the back. “Go on get the meat, I’ll handle the rest.”
“Ye sure—”
“Aye.” It’s got enough snap to have his father conceding, retreating towards the back of the shop. And for Johnny, it feels like a notch loosened from the belt wrapped around his ribcage, a scant breath of air amidst all this noise.
Pressing his left palm into his back, Johnny leans into his crutch for just a second, hating the tremble that runs through his thigh. He pushes through it.
Most of the groceries are easily attainable, even his mam’s sneaky additions of some of her favorite treats; he didn’t think anyone actually likes soor plooms, nasty little things. Elaine MacTavish and her prickly tastes…
Johnny’s about finished filling up the small cart when he spots a colorful display near the corner, seemingly a collection of random, mostly Eastern European, imports. One item, in particular, captures his attention.
A grin splits his face before he can recant it.
“No way,” he mutters out loud, shifting forward to inspect if it’s really the same. Sure enough—there’s that silly little cow, plastered on the bright tube shape, the word ‘mleko’ in big block letters.
His mobile is out, ready to snap a picture before he feels a halt in his chest. And with it—
“Ye cannae tell me people actually enjoy this shite?” A squeeze from the tube provokes another grimace, but it’s the low chuckle next to him that has Johnny raising his brows in delight.
“Dunno, sergeant. It doesn’t look half bad.”
“'Not half bad’, he says. Christ, it’s like a shot of pure sugar. Very sticky, very gooey sugar.”
“Gimme.”
He watches in rapt attention as the tube of condensed milk slips beneath the black tactical mask, an elongated slurping sound that feels astonishingly out of character.
Johnny actually giggles.
“Ye're takin’ the piss,” he accuses, grinning like a fool.
When the mask slides back into place to reveal an empty tube, he scoffs in disbelief.
“Yeah. Not half bad.”
“Jesus, LT, ye damn skyrocket! Ye're the on’y one crazy enough to enjoy that, reckon.” He inspects the tube, confirming its origin. “Well—you and the fuckin’ Polish.”
“It’s…sweet,” the man beside him confirms, and the shy snort that follows makes Johnny’s insides feel as gooey as that god-awful condensed milk.
“Aye, ye better not go replacin’ yer toothpaste with tha’, LT. Or mine, fer tha’ matter.”
Johnny gives a cheeky kick to his comrade’s shin, the both of them sprawled in some backwoods barracks, nothing to pass the time with besides easy banter and a paper bag full of foreign snacks.
But he reckons there are worse ways to spend a weeklong stint in Eastern Europe...
Johnny drops his hand, and almost his phone with it. He shakes his head, blinking through flashes of memory so bright he can nearly feel that warmth next to him.
But there’s no one in the aisle beside him; just Annie Lennox and her techno croon.
His mobile slides back into its pocket, a coffin for all those silly texts he’ll never send. For the best.
Letting out a low sigh, John shoves the cart under his arm, hobbling his way toward the till to see where his da ended up. He spots him over by the betting counter attached to the side of the shop, an old vice of his, and probably the reason he’d wanted to stop here in the first place.
Speaking of vices—Johnny leans against the checkout, slipping his wallet out before he can use his better judgment. The lass behind the counter looks fresh out of high school, and she only gives him the vaguest glance of sympathy when she notices his crutch.
“Y’a’right?” she asks, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s just the standard greeting, not a goddamn status update.
“Not bad, you?” He doesn’t wait for her to shrug before pointing at the display behind her. “Packet of B&H Gold, please.” Figures he might as well go all out, price tag be damned. Not like he has much to keep himself calm these days.
The young clerk slides him the pack, bless her for not asking for ID, as she tallies up the rest of the cart. John knows he should’ve waited for his father, but he just…he wants to get out of here.
“Thanks, cheers.”
Cigarettes discreetly stowed in his back pocket, he loops the bag through the arm still grappling his crutch, pivoting forward to go track down the old coot before he ends up gambling away their savings. He catches the cheerful, naïve look on his da’s face as he continues chatting up the clerk at the lottery desk, and again—it’s like there’s something pressing on the interior of his larynx, a sudden emotion he can’t quite put a name to.
It’s not like they’d been particularly close, what with Johnny’s teenage years being just a trial run of his eventual deployment. And over the decade since then, he’d only come home to visit his parents less than a dozen times. So why does looking at him now, his father, in this place, his hometown, feel so much like a footnote in a eulogy that doesn’t exist yet?
Jack MacTavish is a simple man, yet he’s inherently good. Set in his ways, maybe, but he’s honest in a sense Johnny can’t ever seem to replicate.
His son watches him quietly, the slight paunch, the baldness that threatens the crown of his wispy gray hairs—something that doesn’t bode well for his own hairline’s future, but as he scrapes his palm down his clipped head, John estimates he’s balder than his da at the moment. It had been one of the first things he’d done, straight out of the ICU. A fresh start, he’d claimed, taking the razor to the middle of his immature hairstyle and calling it a day. Now it’s an even buzz, just enough to tickle the pads of his fingers.
When he next looks up, John sees his father making his way toward him, a stack of lottery cards held covetously in his grip.
“When’s yer birthday again, Johnny-boy?” Jack asks, holding out a sheet like John’s just supposed to fill it in right then and there. Figures he wouldn’t know, what with the not being close and semi-intentional avoidance.
“Sixth of November,” Johnny answers, letting his da take the card back and fill in the numbers accordingly. He watches him scrunch his eyebrows in quiet consternation before adding, “Ninety-three, ya ol’ dafty.”
“Right-o,” Jack chuckles, patting his son lightly on the back. “Aye, that’s not too far off, is it? What’ll you be wantin’ ta do ta celebrate?”
John had honestly given it no thought whatsoever. Christ, is it already October?
“Thirty’s a big deal, eh?” Just more salt in the wound; put out to grass before scraping through his fucking twenties, who would’ve thought. And that young recruit had had such high hopes…
“Doesnae have to be anything special,” John says flatly. “Mam can make stovies again.”
Jack tries to nod at that, a faint frown pressing his brow. “Right.”
The two of them make their way back through the aisles, more awkwardness flanking them with every creak of John’s crutch. It doesn’t help that his leg is starting to really throb, probably having overdone it in PT. Shelly What’s-her-face ought to feel chuffed knowing what a right mess she’d made of him this morning. And that had only been the first session.
“Oi, MacTavish, is’at you?” They both swivel their heads at the interruption, an older man Johnny vaguely recognizes walking toward them. Here he’d been hoping not to run into any familiar faces. So much for catching a fucking break…
Seems the man had meant MacTavish the senior with his greeting, as when he approaches, his thick fist finds Jack’s palm, a hearty handshake.
“Aye, Ollie, ‘ow ye been?”
“Been keepin' on a’right, cannae complain.”
“Tha’s fair.”
“Elaine’s a’right? Think Wendy mentioned seein’ her down at tha’ fundraiser last month.”
“Aye, she’s fine. We’re all doin’ well.” Jack maneuvers a bit to the side, as if to emphasize his son standing next to him. Not like Johnny had wanted any attention at all, especially in his current state.
The man—Ollie Boyd now that he recalls, some bloke his parents had been friendly with years ago—raises his brows in an almost comical fashion, giving him a proper once over. “My, this is yer young lad, inne? S’been a long time now, gotten proper big, he ‘as.”
Johnny just nods politely, feeling his leg start to pull from the spreading ache. And embarrassment.
“Wha’s his name, Jamie, aye?”
“John,” he corrects, sliding his left hand forward for the clumsy handshake. “It’s nice to see you, sir.”
“How'sitgoan, laddie? Ah mind ye now, ye done went ta school with my lad, Angus, aye?”
“Ah, yeah, we were in the club together.” Bit of a twat, if he’s remembering correctly.
“Aye, aye, tha’s right.” Ollie nods enthusiastically, crossing his arms. “He’s still playin’, y’know. Down inna wee league an’ everything. Got himself inno a proper tussle, though, his arm’s all gammy.” With that, his eyes skate over John’s crutch, a questioning glance. “An’ what happened to you, ye poor bastard?”
It catches in his throat, whatever pathetic answer John isn’t ready to give. Some paltry excuse, a little dose of poor-me that wouldn’t sit well on his tongue. Shame; that’s what it is, bubbling up his back worse than any nerve pain.
And all at once, he’s left reeling that this is his reality now—his bum leg and fucked-up spine on par with a grown man playing five-a-side. A poor bastard, indeed.
Thankfully, his da comes to his rescue.
“John here was in the service,” Jack says, somewhat reverently. “Special forces.”
“No kiddin'!” Ollie proclaims, widening his stance with his hands on his hips. “Tha’s pure class, int it?” He seems to register the crutch again, all its implications. It makes Johnny’s back twinge even sharper, a ripple up and down his center. “Wha’ happened then?”
“Wounded in action,” John finds his voice, despite it coming out scratchier than he’d like. He doesn’t elaborate.
“Shite, tha’s too bad,” Ollie says, still eyeing his stature far too critically. Johnny stands his ground, even though all he wants to do is run. “Shouldae seen Angus whingin’ ‘bout his gammy elbow. But I reckon ye're made of sturdier stock, eh, MacTavish?”
The quick clap to his shoulder has Johnny cringing, a flush building up his neck. He desperately wants to leave.
“Johnny, he…took a bad fall,” his father explains, and that’s it, isn’t it—a summation of his career, hook, line and sinker. A fall from grace, if he’d been feeling poetic. All John feels is red-hot shame. Unfortunately, his da keeps going. “It’s all a bit…classified, aye, boy?”
Johnny shakes his head, mumbling, “Da, ye don’t have ta…”
“Stationed overseas an’ everythin', not knowin’ where he’s ever gaun next. We’re not even sure of the whole story, y’see. All’s we know is he got hurt fightin’ bravely, protectin’ a good cause.”
“Da…”
“We’re just glad he’s back home again. Fall like that…Christ, yer commanding officer said it was almost thirteen meters.”
“Shite,” Ollie hisses. “Ye're lucky ye're still standin', laddie.”
John might nod; his neck’s gone numb so he isn’t sure. But he feels Ollie’s eyes on him, eating in the sight of his waning posture. He needs to leave.
“Didja get a medal then?”
The question lands like a knife to the gut, and Johnny’s had enough intimacy with the sensation to know its grade. He thinks a raspy noise escapes his lips, but it doesn’t even fucking matter.
He needs to get out of here.
“Aye,” Jack answers for him, naïve as ever, “he’s got loads. Didja know ye can get two Victoria Crosses? ‘Parently on’y three others have.” There’s a sickening amount of pride in his voice. It curdles in Johnny’s gut adjacent to the embarrassment.
“Da,” he tries to warn, but it’s still too raspy to be heard.
Ollie gives a ruddy grin, flippantly impressed. “Aye, chief, tha’s really somethin’.”
“Our Johnny’s always been brave, he ‘as.” The warm hand that cradles his son’s shoulder spreads ash in its wake, a fire burning up and down John’s spine.
Christ…he can’t take it anymore.
“Da—I’m gonnae,” Johnny fumbles, shifting out of his father’s grip. “Just gonnae go wait in the car.”
“Aye,” Jack says with a frown, still reaching out. “Y’a’righ—”
Johnny starts pedaling backward before he can hear the rest. Before another person can ask him if he’s all-fucking-right.
He catches those slick, critical eyes from Ollie, that tactless gawking most people try to hide. And the awkward follow-up, barely hushed as they whisper behind his back.
“Poor lad. Reckon he’s needin’ a rest.”
“It’s been…difficult for him.”
“Aye, tha’s fair.”
“He’s had a rough go.”
His face is on fire, surely, each squeak of his crutch fanning the flames. Johnny staggers forward, only waiting until he’s reached the next aisle to scrape his hand along his buzzed head, a poor attempt to ground himself.
Breathe, MacTavish.
He swallows down the missile in his throat, blinking through heat that isn’t really there.
Didja get a medal then? that fucking cunt bastard. As if all that matters is how many ribbons dangle from his big boy coat, how many pushpins jabbed into his mangled fucking body. Johnny wants to hit something.
He stumbles through the aisle, passing the checkout again and clocking the young clerk eyeballing his limp.
Fucking Christ…some bloody homecoming. He wants to shoot her a heads-up, a warning of any kind to tell her to get the hell out of this town while she can. While she’s still got a life ahead of her instead of some deadbeat’s hard-luck story.
John can still hear his da’s voice in the background, no doubt spreading more misinformation about his son’s claim to chivalry.
A splinter down the center of his back has Johnny canting his hip forward, his leg feeling proper jammed, and before he can help it, his crutch skitters against the linoleum.
All it takes is a misplaced step, his arm trapped in the grocery bag, not able to grab the shelf.
He might make an awkward yelp, but it doesn’t register—because in the next second, he pitches forward, falling, falling—
“Evac the building now, Soap. That’s a fucking order!”
“It’s not cleared, captain!”
Soap doesn’t wait for the reprimand, using his rigid instincts to keep moving up the stairs. At least he knows Gaz is hot on his heels. They’d both heard the cries.
“Withdraw now, boys! That building’s coming down!”
Sparing a breakneck glance at Garrick, Johnny keeps moving up to the fifth story, those telltale sobs steeling his resolve. And confirming his worst suspicions.
He grits his teeth, hissing over the comms, “There are fucking kids up here, sir.”
Price doesn’t respond right away, but the distant clatter of gunfire and IEDs extenuates his distraction. And after six more seconds of strained silence, the gruff, “Fuck,” is as much of a greenlight as Soap needs.
“7-6, do not hit this building, we’ve got civilians on site,” he orders over the comms, gesturing to Garrick behind him. “Gaz, on me, let’s clear this level. Watch yer damn step.”
It’s crazy what adrenaline can do; almost makes him a proper leader.
The two soldiers spread out across the rubble-strewn floor, of which the surface looks to be literally crumbling before their eyes; guess Price was right about this building being past its prime.
Chaotic noise from combat on the ground prickles his senses, but it’s not enough to drown out the sharp cries, point of origin estimated five meters into the room on the right, unfortunately the side that’s now cracking apart at the seams.
Of course there were goddamn kids in here. Some sick fucking bastards must’ve left them behind…
“Johnny—” The name through his earpiece almost halts him in his tracks, but he keeps pressing on, using insanity and pure reflex to prevent himself from looking down; half the walls and floors are just…gone, a wasted scene of urban disaster playing out like a drive-in theater. “Enemy fire’s concentrated on that block, we’ve got no overwatch—”
“Copy, Ghost,” he snaps back, perhaps a bit too harshly. “Keep the ground clear for us then.”
He has no time to be talked out of this. No time to be distracted by his nickname being used like a plea for his safety.
To his left, Gaz stumbles over a raw block of concrete, and Soap snatches the back of his tac gear to keep him from plummeting down the hole that cracks under its strain. “Easy, we’ve got this.”
He leads his fellow soldier around the minefield of detritus, securing a route to the remaining room, eyes and ears peeled for those godforsaken children.
He sees the two girls first, clinging to the edge of a wall that’s half crumbled away, the remains of some kind of balcony their only perch. One of them screams shrilly, clawing at the other who must be her sister in pure, undiluted terror.
Fucking hell…
“Gaz, this room’s not sound,” Soap warns, already seeing the glaring cracks through the structure, that balcony looking like it’s about a stray gust of air away from detaching like a hangnail. “Hold in the corner, I’ll pass them to you.”
“Soap, we should wait for air support—”
“No time,” he hisses, already scouting a hold for his rappelling clip to little success. Most of the beams carrying the ceiling above have started slanting, but he secures his rope to the nearest one, giving Gaz a pointed look before treading across the half-shattered floor.
One step at a time, MacTavish…
Holding up his hands, he waits for the girls to notice him before directing his order. “Steady. Everything’s gonnae be fine, I just need ye to trust me.”
Their fear-blown eyes as well as the fact that they probably don’t speak English excuse the lack of solid response, but Soap keeps stepping forward regardless, each splintering crack a reminder of how time-sensitive this shitshow is.
The littlest girl shrieks again when Johnny reaches the edge of the balcony, his weight threatening to separate it from the wall it’s tethered to. And beyond that—a lengthy drop, the streets overrun with combat vehicles and collapsed architecture.
Shame Johnny’d never been a fan of heights…
“Easy,” he says, and his voice is readily calm despite his growing anxiety. “Gonnae need ye to let go, sweetheart.” He nods to the little one, holding out his arm for her to reach him.
A swift shake of the head, and a whine of, “Ya ne hochy pomiraty!” but the older one mutters something in her ear, giving her a sharp nudge.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got ye, darling. Just come to me.” He leans forward to hold out his arm, mental clock already ticking. “Nice an’ easy now. Don’t look down.” More of a reminder for himself.
The older one trembles around a sob, but she helps ease her younger sister’s fingers off her shirt, teetering slightly onto the ledge to get her closer to Soap.
“Oberezhno!” she cries, letting Johnny slip his arm around the little girl, quickly and carefully turning to deposit her in Gaz’s waiting arms on the only stable patch of ground left behind him.
“Watch it!” Gaz warns, as Soap’s shifting weight jostles the support beam. He watches a stray bit of rubble tumble off the edge.
Christ…
The older sister continues sobbing, muttering out fast, frenzied words Johnny can’t translate.
“That ledge won’t hold your weight, Soap.”
“I know, I know,” he growls back to Gaz, but he moves forward regardless, jaw tightly clenched, testing the strength of his tether before leaning a touch closer to the other child.
She cries repeatedly, eyes near vacant. “Ni…ni…spochatku vizmy mogho brata…”
“Easy, hen. I’ve got ye, just reach out for me. I won’t let ye fall, I promise.” He tries the same method as the previous girl, but his weight proves to be too much for the structure, a shuddering crack breaching the floor—and he’s sent sprawling.
The girl screams, her arms beating at the side of the wall. Soap manages to snatch her right wrist, a horrible wrench exacerbating her screeches. Half of the platform drops from the pressure, crackling down onto the streets below in a concrete snowstorm.
“Fuck!” He winds his arm, feeling something pull while the girl struggles against him, still yelling at him in repetitive words.
“Miy brat! Miy brat tam vnizu!”
“Soap,” Gaz’s voice cuts from behind him. “There’s another one down there.”
And sure enough—
Soap catches the stark, terrified eyes of a boy roosted on a lower patch of the balcony, dangling in between the fifth and fourth floors.
“Fucking Christ…”
“It’s coming down, Soap,” Gaz cautions, his presence behind Johnny still waiting for the pass-off. “You won’t make that ledge…”
Having just the barest grip on the girl, Soap grinds out a low growl, bending his taut arm in a way that threatens to snap a tendon. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get ye clear. I’ll get yer brother, don’cha worry.”
Gaz grabs for the girl, who’s still screaming her head off for the little boy below them.
“John,” Garrick hisses, and both of them are unsure if it’s a warning or a command.
Johnny knows he can’t let that boy fall.
He slides his legs further along the remainder of the balcony, pushing his luck by shouldering his weight against the broken wall. There’s a heavy groan but he begins slowly inching downwards, the tether of his rappelling rope slithering along his descent. Half of the structure had broken off in a slant, the portion the boy is huddled on barely hinged to the main platform. But John somehow manages to slide his bulk along the edge, keeping it intact enough to rappel towards him.
“Soap—status?” buzzes in his comm, Price sounding as tense as he currently feels.
“Hangin’ in there,” he mutters curtly, points lost for attempting humor at a time like this.
“We’ve got enemy artillery still inbound for your location, MacTavish. Get the hell out of there now.”
“Copy, sir.” He keeps going.
“Soap…” A second warning, he’s not even sure from whom.
The little boy is now about three meters below, big, dark eyes gaping at him as John slides into view.
“Hey, mate, gonnae need ye to work with me, a’right?”
Maybe it’s the shared dread, but the boy nods at him, irrespective of his English comprehension.
“I’m gonnae reach out my leg, an’ I need ye to grab it, ok?” He mimes the action, waiting for the sniffled nod. But the second the boy moves an inch from his perch—
The platform shudders, splintering concrete from its center.
“Goddamnit—”
There’s no fucking time.
Johnny knows the ledge he’s on is about to crack, the pressure underneath him splintering with every inch he moves. The boy is barely able to cling to his tiny platform, and each second threatens to send it plummeting.
There’s no time.
“MacTavish, don’t you dare—” he hears above him, but it’s too late.
In the quickest display of dexterity he’s ever managed, Soap unclips the grappling line from his belt, throwing it in a straight pitch towards the little boy below, effectively transferring his lifeline.
“Loop it around yer waist,” he instructs as quickly as he can, voice still shockingly calm.
In however many seconds they have left, he watches the boy strap the rope around his small body, once, twice, fingers trembling.
“Tha’s it, mate, nice an’ tight.”
“Soap—are you fucking mad?!”
There’s no time to respond to Gaz. No time to make sure the kid had tied the knot properly. No time to grieve his lack of fucking judgment.
Because in the next second—
Boom!
An IED rockets the side of the building, and the boy screams as his feet drop, the platform crumbling from beneath him, a snap of the rope keeping him tethered.
And Soap can’t help but try to reach out for him, some inherent form of desperation, because the balcony he’s still sprawled across shatters too.
He might hear someone else scream, an echo, a name over the comms. But then there’s just a resounding crack—
And with it—Johnny falls backward, arm outstretched for nothing, just the panicked shout of his callsign, that stray gust of air and—
White noise.
Static in his ears, in his mouth, in his scalp.
A rush that brings all the blood in his body to the crowns of his teeth.
Freefall.
And then—
Impact.
A full body snap, clap, crack that slams him into a blank white bottom.
Bones, blood, breath stolen in the same convulsive gasp.
He feels everything and nothing, all at once.
There’s no sound, just a frantic crackle, like one of his comms had burst in his eardrum, spilling out liquid electricity.
It takes him an indefinite amount of time to realize there are words mixed into that weird, droning soup.
“…fucking—fuck! Get the ground clear! We need a fucking medevac now! Fucking—somebody get to MacTavish…God-fucking-damnit!…”
Johnny drowns in it, the noise, the chaos. He can’t…
He can’t feel anything.
Just a strange puddle, a blanket rippling beneath him like waves under a dock, not touching. All of his fluids just ebbing and flowing, the opposite of heat, but not quite coldness either.
He ought to feel scared.
He loses time. Until—
A rush pulls at his senses and then suddenly, he’s—
Moving. His body’s moving.
There’s a wrench under his jaw, someone shouting in his face and thrusting his chin up. More noises of, “Fuck…fuck…fuck…”
A strained sound grates against Johnny’s periphery, and a jarring pop in his ear has him recognizing that it’s him; that wrecked, rasping croak is coming from his own mouth.
“Shhh. Shhh. I got you.” Rough hands cradle his face, and he can’t see, can’t breathe but—
“G-ah-ghl—” he tries to speak, choking around the plunging sensation in his chest. “G-gaz,” he manages. “Di’ Gaz ge’ out?”
“MacTavish, just—breathe.”
He needs to know; he desperately needs them all to be safe. He needs—
“Garrick’s on his way down, the kids are fine, Johnny.”
He needs to hear that. His name. Just not…like that. Not like—
“Johnny! Look at me, Johnny. Stay with me.”
He makes the most pathetic noise, a mangled gasp, and with it—fluid bursts from his throat, a gurgle of red that tastes like static and batteries and smoke.
“No, no, no…Johnny…don’t…”
Those hands are back on him now, petting, grasping. He thinks his head moves because there’s a dull thunk, his helmet cast aside as strong fingers spread along his scalp, searching, cradling.
“Fucking…don’t…I swear to God…”
More blood dislodges from his mouth. He wants to speak again. To say: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Anything to keep him from hearing:
“Johnny…Johnny…please.”
He’s never heard him sound so…
His eyes blink but Johnny still can’t really see. Just a vague outline of that hulking figure, hovering over him with red-stained gloves. Then the second silhouette.
“Price!” comes the strangled cry, so raw and desperate it sounds like a stranger’s last words. “Fucking—do something. Help him!”
Never like this. Never this…
“Jesus Christ, don’t move him, Simon, just—”
“He’s bleeding, his leg…fuck…he’s in shock already, Price…what do I—”
Sound and reality blink in and out, Johnny can’t hold both. But he wants to. He needs to.
“Keep his airways clear, we’ll wait for the med team…God…just…hang in there, son…”
He wants to say ‘ok’, he wants to say their names, watch them crumple with relief, a smile and a ‘don’t be so reckless next time, kid’.
He wants to squeeze the hand pressed in his, warm and solid and just the right size, brushing thumbs across his numb fingertips, a prayer in each stroke.
He wants to say: Don’t be scared, Simon. It’s alright, love…
Instead, he just passes out, his last thought spent wondering if he’d ever get to feel that warmth again…
“John…Johnny, y’hear me, son?”
There are hands on him again, hoisting under his arms, lifting his weight off of the stained floor. A puddle of concrete and bones and his red, red blood—
He blinks.
Tinny music, the squeak of linoleum, stale tobacco—right. He remembers now.
“’At’s it, lad, I gotcha right here, easy does it.”
His father huffs beside him, straining with the effort, practically dragging Johnny back to his feet.
“I’m solid,” John mumbles, still reeling, still half in his flashback.
Da doesn’t seem to want to let him go though, cradling under his arms in a way that’s both supportive and tender. And Johnny doesn’t fight the urge to just…lean in for a second, his body still coming back online but it’s more about the contact. The novelty of letting his da hold him up.
He’s bigger than Jack by a fair margin, taller. But da does just fine keeping Johnny on his feet. MacTavish boys and their goddamn chivalry…
“’Ere we go. Tha’s a good lad.”
The momentary reprieve is enough for Johnny to clarify in his mind what had happened; he’d fucking tripped. Right into the produce display. And his acute mortification only intensifies when he looks up to see everyone staring. The clerk. Ollie Boyd. Some other random shoppers getting more than they bargained for.
Just fucking great…
“It’s fine, da,” he mutters dryly, detaching himself from his father’s support, hating the way he reaches for him still.
“Johnny, yer back—”
“It’s fine.”
Face flushed, he doesn’t want to look at his father’s expression, so he simply shrugs off, staggering forward with no real destination in mind besides: away from here.
Johnny manages to limp out of the front door of the shop, only realizing halfway that he’d left his crutch abandoned amidst the pears and apples. He can barely walk without it, all but crashing into the nearest bench, huddling forward to tuck his arms into his sweatshirt pocket, a right sorry sack of shite.
That fall had done no favors to his back, so he digs his fist up and down it roughly, failing to remedy the lingering ache. It’s like he can still feel wedges of concrete, pressed into his spine like fucking fossils, a souvenir not really worth keeping.
He knows his da will be cleaning up his mess, probably giving everyone a proper good excuse for that pathetic behavior, so Johnny just sits there, stewing, running a hand up and down his spinal column and trying to recall the last time he’d had a real fucking backbone. Seems like a lifetime.
Sliding his recently purchased cigarettes from his pocket, he slips one through his teeth, cupping his lighter and savoring the brief flash of warmth. The smoke goes back easy, a wash of sedative air relieving the tension in his neck almost immediately. He drags out a longer hit, eyes closed and fingers loose.
So this is what feeling sorry for yourself looks like…
He hears the door squeak behind him after a few minutes, but he keeps his eyes shut, delaying the inevitable.
Surprisingly, his da doesn’t ask if he’s alright. There’s just a low exhale of air before the bench dips beside him, his crutch propped on the armrest, groceries deposited at their feet.
“Mam wouldnae want ye smokin’,” Jack says softly, after a moment.
Johnny huffs, drawing on another hit before sliding it from his mouth. “She wouldnae want ye playin’ the bookies either, aye?”
That draws an honest chuckle from his da. “Teutcher.”
“It’s touché, ye daft bastard,” Johnny manages his own chuckle, a grin splitting around his smoke. “A teutcher’s a bloke from the bloody Highlands.”
“Aye, tha’s right,” Jack snorts, leaning in a touch closer to his son’s shoulder.
Johnny lets the odd moment of comfort settle in the back of his throat with his next drag, a cloud of grey unfurling from his exhale, the color of his mood these days.
He’s waiting for the talk. The lecture disguised as sympathy. For his father to say, not in so many words, how strong he thinks he is, how proud he’s made them all, in spite of being nothing but a fucking deadweight. How he’s better than his disability, because look at how many shiny medals he’s got.
There’s not enough nicotine in these bloody B&H Golds to wash that down with.
But instead, Jack just sits with him a bit, letting his son smoke in silence. And when he does speak, the words that come out are…unexpected.
“Dinnae think I ever told ye how scared we were.” His voice is hushed, as fleeting as the smoke from John’s cigarette. “Yer mam an’ me. After gettin’ tha’ call…”
Pressure threatens his throat again, but John tries to breathe through it, ash and bitter cold air in his lungs.
“Mind ye, it wasnae the first one we’d got over the years. But just…somethin' felt different this time, aye? S’like we knew…”
Johnny doesn’t need him to elaborate; he’d heard from Price how he’d coded in that field hospital. Twice.
“An’ then they brought ye home an’ all, me and mam went down ta London ta be with ye. Said those first few weeks ye might not wake up. It was…”
He can feel the hesitation in his da’s shoulder, pressed against his side, his sturdy cork jacket giving off a hint of a shudder.
“Ye were so…small.”
John would scoff at how it sounds like a dig to his pride, but he can’t move his lips from the clamp he’s got on his cigarette.
Jack shuffles next to him, wringing his puffy pink fingers in his lap, tracing an aimless pattern on his track pants. “Scared us ta death, ye did.”
Blinking too rapidly, Johnny doesn’t know if he’s supposed to respond. But his da recovers, his speech picking up its usual sincerity.
“Aye, but ye were in good hands. We know that now. What with all them doctors takin’ care’a ye, bringin’ ye back.” Da sniffs lightly, nodding his head at the memory. “Plus tha’ big bloke wouldnae leave yer side fer a second.”
At that, Johnny raises his head, smoke falling from his lips. “What?”
Jack doesn’t seem to notice the hitch in his son’s breath, the startled nature of his question. “Aye, tha’ scary lad with the mask. Mam thought he was some kinda thug or one’a them goths.” Johnny nearly chokes, but he clings to every word. “Yeah, he was there every time we went te see ye, those first few days. Sort of like a bodyguard, on account’a the way the nurses let him stay with ye all the time.”
He’s sure it’s written all over his face, the disbelief, but Johnny says nothing. He just cradles his cindering smoke in a hand that won’t stop shaking.
“We could tell ye were well protected,” Jack says. “Gave us some peace’a mind when ye finally decided to wake up.”
It’s still hazy, those first days after his coma. And Johnny had gone back and forth over which conversation had hurt the most: Captain Price sitting by his bedside, bitter resignation in his tone as he’d patted his good leg, said, “Eleven years is a hell of a run, kid,” before going over his discharge forms—or that hollow expression from Gaz, bastard still wouldn’t look him in the eyes from his misplaced guilt, the passive remark to the question John wouldn’t ask: “Ghost requested reassignment. He left for a covert op three days ago.”
An intimacy with knife wounds, even ones with no tangible blade. He hadn’t gotten to say goodbye.
Johnny shakes himself from his daze as his father grips him round the shoulders, one last confession to bookend this unexpectedly tender moment.
“We’re very glad ta have ye home safe, John-boy.” And it’s so fucking honest, in only the way Jack MacTavish has the right to be.
John feels his throat clamp, and he has to hide the tremble of his lips with the next hit off his smoke, nearly smoldered out.
He’s considerate enough not to remark upon the hasty way his da wipes his eyes, nor the bashful clasp to the back of his buzz cut, a quick kiss planted on the crown of his head.
Their one-sided heart-to-heart is eventually interrupted by the creak of the shop door, a cursory acknowledgment from Ollie Boyd, in all his shortness of tact. “Y’a’right, boys? Hopefully we can see ye’s down at the club one’a these days, aye?”
Jack gives him a dry, “Cheers,” and a wave before gripping his son’s shoulders tighter in a semi-defensive manner.
And when he mutters out, “Reckon he’s a bit of a wanker, eh?” Johnny can’t help but chuckle in agreement. “Didnae help out with the flood relief in the least bit, the scunner. Plus, I hear he’s a bleedin’ Hibs fan.” The highest offense, that. Johnny can attest.
The two of them make their way back over to the car, Jack shouldering his son as Johnny limps without his crutch. He settles in the seat, nodding when da suggests they go pick up his meds at the pharmacy and head home.
Home; such a strange concept. He’s not sure he’d ever given it much stock before, and it might take him a while yet to really relate it to this cold, grey, shabby place.
But he'd have time.
When they arrive back at the house, Johnny makes sure to kiss his mam on the cheek, thanking her for dinner, eating every bite. You really can’t go wrong with meat and potatoes, he reckons, deciding it’s still his favorite after all.
And when he goes upstairs to retire, lying on his old bed, in his childhood room, he stares at the ceiling wondering if Simon Riley has a favorite too. A favorite food, favorite color, favorite time of day, favorite look on someone’s face—the way their eyes crinkle in the corners, nose scrunched—favorite laugh.
As long as it’s not condensed milk, Johnny reasons, a sad smile breaching his features as he rolls onto his stomach.
He pulls out his phone again, even though he knows how self-sabotaging it is to scroll through these messages, epitaphs in their own rights. He finds his name, the date of their last conversation June sixteenth, nearly four months ago, the day before they’d shipped out to Ukraine.
Johnny holds it in front of his face, stray breath fogging the surface, but not enough that he can’t read the texts.
That sad smile drags at his lips, probably a frown now if he’s honest, as Johnny props the mobile into his pillow, still with the Scooby Doo bedsheets—Christ, he ought to see about eighty-sixing those.
He knows how pathetic this all is, especially with the way his heart stutters, his eyes feeling too tight already. He knows why he hadn’t reached out yet, too much of a fucking coward, as always. Yet…
Da said he’d sat with him for days, by his side. A guardian.
All this time…he’d thought…
Johnny’s hand trembles around his phone, and he presses his forehead into the pillow and—
MacTavish, just—breathe.
His thumb brushes back and forth over the keyboard, but it catches in his ribcage, locking his fingers—the realization that he can’t put it into words.
How is he supposed to just…send out a greeting, a casual how-do-you-do after four months of radio silence?
Just a playful: hey ghost, how’s life treating you these days?
Or an angry: why’d you fucking leave like that, you heartless bastard?
Or a confession: don’t you know how much that hurt me, still hurts me, huh? How am I supposed to breathe right without you telling me to?
How? After four months. After years. How?
How is he supposed to understand the concept of home when it’s a person, a ghost, a laugh he’ll never hear again?
How is he supposed to spell out those words, etched in the bones of his fractured spine, in English, in whispered sobs, in fucking Polish if he has to…
How can he make him understand when all he’s got to say for himself is:
I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.