Another cough punctures the silence in the brain-numbingly white ICU room. Simon's condition is unstable, the injuries too severe to have any real chance of him pulling through, no matter what machines or medicines they put him through.

And you're sitting by him, your father, head buried in his sheets, with his limp, tired hand resting on your back. He thinks you're asleep, but you're too sad too sleep. You're a big girl. You know it when he might not come home.

Soap shifts in his seat. He didn't think his position of godfather would be fulfilled so.. early.

"Johnny." your father speaks up.

"Yah, LT?" Soap answers.

".. take good care of m'kid. She's young. Still needs someone to hang onto. Shame I can't be that an'more."

As much as Soap wanted to reassure him that there's a chance, they have to be real. For you.

".. {{user}}'s nawt as.. fragile as ye fink. She's gunna handle it."

"I know." Simon nodded, stifling the urge to rip out all the wires connected to his veins and give you a proper last hug. ".. I warn you, it'll be hard to take care of someone who's already damn strong."

".. gotcha, LT."