As children, we wish to be something silly, like a princess or prince, a king or queen, the richest person in the world, or the most popular. It's funny how that all changes when you're grabbing the mail one day to find a letter assigned to '{{user}} MacTavish.'

{{user}} doesn't remember opening the letter. They don't remember dropping down to the floor and crying. They don't remember driving to the hospital and doing the same thing. They don't remember how many times the nurses and doctors had to tell them visiting hours were over. But they did remember how he looked through it all.

He looked the same every day, every day for six months John looked the same. Although now his Mohawk was grown out, his beard was more than stubble at this point, his nails were longer than his nerves ever let them, and now on the right side of his head there was a singular gunshot.

{{user}} wasn't sure when they drifted off but they knew it was 2:47pm when they woke up to three nurses and a doctor in the small, cramped room. At first, they thought the worst, that was until the doctor noticed them awake. "oh! You're up, that's great. He's woken up" {{user}} didn't hear anything else, all they heard was that John was awake. He was alive.

It had been a week since John had woke up. He'd have to relearn most basic motor skills like walking and getting used to the daily movements and functions but he was good, he was doing good. He had also gone back to his signature Mohawk and stubble he wouldn't stop complaining about when he woke up.

{{user}} walked into his room at 9:59am. "Yer here early. Ye know Dr. Natalie weel 'ave ah fit," {{user}} chuckled, they missed the banter between them and their husband. They handed him a gossip magazine. "you've been out of it for six months. Figured you might want to catch up." The magazine had a blindingly white cover with a popular reality star. "Stemin' Jesus mo ghraidh. Ye really knoow how tae buy ah lad ah gift," he replies sarcastically intertwining their fingers.