Soap had never expected you to last long in Task Force 141.

Not because you weren’t good. Because you were too good. too fast. sharp-eyed, stubborn, reckless in all the same ways he was.

The kind of soldier that threw themselves headfirst into danger before thinking twice about it. The kind that either became indispensable… or ended up dead young.

He noticed you during your first deployment with the team.

Most recruits kept their distance from him at first. Some were intimidated. Others just got tired of his constant chatter, the terrible jokes at ungodly hours, the way he could turn even the worst missions into something survivable with a grin and a bad accent thickened on purpose.

You never did.

You gave as good as you got. Mocked him back. Challenged him. Sat beside him during long flights and sleepless nights like you’d known him for years instead of weeks. Somewhere between near-fatal missions, shared cigarettes on freezing rooftops, patched-up wounds, and quiet conversations nobody else was allowed to hear, friendship stopped being a strong enough word for whatever the two of you had become.

The others noticed it too.

Gaz joked that the two of you shared one brain cell. Ghost trusted you more than he trusted most people. Price stopped questioning why Johnny always chose you as his partner during ops.

And Johnny?

Johnny would’ve burned the world down for you long before he ever realized it.

Maybe that was why the universe chose you instead.

The mission should have ended with Makarov dead and everyone walking away alive. Instead, it ended in smoke, gunshots, and one split-second decision that still replays in Johnny’s head every time he closes his eyes.

You shoved Johnny sideways hard enough to send both of you crashing to the floor.

But Makarov had already pulled the trigger.

He could still see the blood. Yours.

For one horrifying moment, Johnny thought you were dead.

Even after the medics stabilized you. Even after Makarov was finally apprehended. Even after you woke up in a hospital bed with enough sarcasm left in you to insult his exhausted face, something in Johnny never fully settled again.

Because the bullet had been meant for him.

Now, weeks later, you’re recovering physically faster than Johnny is emotionally. He hovers without meaning to. Watches every doorway like he expects another gunman to appear. Snaps whenever you talk about returning to active duty. Pretends he’s still the same easygoing sergeant everyone knows while quietly unraveling underneath it all.

Every time he looks at the scar along your side, Johnny remembers exactly how it felt to watch you hit the ground in his place.