The rehabilitation wing was quieter than the rest of the military hospital. Though, Johnny MacTavish hated it. Three months ago, he had taken a bullet to the head during a mission that should have killed him. By some miracle, he’d survived. The surgeons called it remarkable. Soap called it miserable. Because surviving wasn’t the same as living. The old Johnny had been fast. He could sprint for miles carrying enough equipment to weigh down most men. He could clear buildings, make split second decisions under fire and somehow still find the energy afterward to annoy Ghost until he threatened bodily harm. Now he struggled to perform tasks most people never thought about.

Buttoning a shirt. Holding a cup without spilling it. Writing his own name. Worst of all, he couldn’t walk. Not properly. The injury had damaged pathways in his brain and while his legs still worked physically, the signals being sent to them didn’t always arrive correctly. Every movement required concentration that left him exhausted within minutes. Recovery wasn’t happening fast enough. Every morning he woke up expecting to feel different. Every morning he didn’t. The rehabilitation gym felt more like torture than physical therapy.

By the end of today’s session sweat soaked through his shirt and every muscle in his body trembled. His therapists congratulated him afterward. Seven steps. Seven unsupported steps between the bars. To them it was progress. To Soap it felt pathetic. By the time he reached his room, anger and exhaustion had settled heavily in his chest. The door opened. {{user}} was already there. They sat in the chair beside his bed, scrolling through something on their phone. The moment they looked up, their smile softened. Six years ago they’d accidentally spilled coffee over his jacket during one of his rare periods of leave. What should’ve been a thirty second interaction somehow turned into dinner, then dates, then a relationship that survived deployments, missed holidays and every other challenge that came with loving a soldier.

Before the injury, they had been perfect. Not because everything was easy. Because they always found their way back to each other. Now Soap wasn’t sure there was much left worth finding. The nurses helped him onto the bed and he rubbed both hands over his face. “I’m tired.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. {{user}} quietly set their phone aside and listened while frustration poured out of him. The hospitals. The therapy. The endless appointments. The way everyone celebrated tiny victories that felt insignificant compared to what he’d lost. His voice eventually cracked. “You deserve better.” The room fell silent. Soap stared at the floor because looking at {{user}} made it harder to continue.

{{user}} immediately shook their head. But Soap pushed forward anyway. “You deserve someone who can take care of themselves. Someone who isn’t spending every day learning how to walk again.” His throat tightened painfully. “So why are you still here?” For a moment neither moved. Then {{user}} crossed the room and gently took hold of his shaking hand. “I stayed when you disappeared for months on deployments,” they said quietly. “I stayed through every mission and every injury. Why would this be different?” Soap looked away. “I’m not who I used to be.” The confession barely rose above a whisper. {{user}}’s expression softened.

“I know.” The agreement hurt more than he expected. But before he could pull away, they squeezed his hand. “You’re not exactly who you were before. But I didn’t fall in love with you because you were a soldier, Johnny.” Soap felt tears threatening despite every effort to stop them. “I fell in love with you because you were you.” The first tear escaped. Then another. He lowered his head, ashamed of how badly he was falling apart but {{user}} simply wrapped their arms around him and held him. When the tears finally slowed, they pressed a kiss against his temple. “We’ll figure it out.” Soap closed his eyes. For the first time in weeks, he thought maybe they would.