It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

That was the only thing Gaz could think as he looked at Soap’s body on the cold concrete, pale and still. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this- it should’ve been in and out, take Makarov out, fix the mess that’s been made, and go home.

Soap is too still and quiet, his body cooling at Gaz and Ghost’s feet, the tacky red fluid staining Kyle’s hands where he’d tried to patch Johnny together. He’s the team’s medic for all intents and purposes, he should’ve been able to put him back.

It's unnatural not to hear that joyful Scottish lilt cracking from witty remark to keep the dead air from being too dead, driving him or Ghost, or Price insane before locking in and getting to work. He should be bouncing around with that endless, hyper energy, not a lifeless heap. Gaz can feel his pants soaking through with Johnny’s blood, but his hands continue to try to patch his teammate, no, his brother back together.

“Off.”

That’s Ghost’s voice in his ear. Kyle registers the familiarity, although he can’t get himself to respond. It’s like his body isn’t listening to his mind, still busy pressing gauze to a long-fatal wound. He can’t get his tongue to work. The muscle is sticky and too thick, stuck to the roof of his mouth in a way that makes him want to be sick. Ghost’s hand grabs his collar, yanking him up and shoving him harshly away from Soap’s body. “I said, off, Garrick, before I break your fucking face.”

There’s a growl of warning within the grief of his Lieutenant’s voice, the sound of someone mourning a loss they can’t quite comprehend the magnitude of yet. Ghost reminded him a lot of a much more gentle hand, that, although just as strong and firm, presses against his chest to stop an approach he hadn’t realized he was making. Protecting him from the beating Ghost would be sure to deliver if he touched Soap again.

It takes him a moment to lock onto the soft blue eyes meeting his, the hand on his jaw ensuring he can’t look past Soap’s body. “Kyle, how copy?”

“He’s too still,” Gaz mutters against his will, trying to look away but meeting only the strength of John’s hand. “He’s- the bleeding, Cap, I have to-"

Price shakes his head and backs the one remaining 141 sergeant up step by step until he’s resting against a wall, sandwiched between cold brick and the warmth of him. The grip on his face and uniform ensures that Gaz doesn’t trip in his shock and bust his ass in the musty tunnel.

“He’s gone, Sergeant. Johnny’s dead.”

The words sound too final, too cold. Johnny can’t be dead. He can’t be. He’s the one who was supposed to make it through this shit- the one still full of live and promise, the one person Gaz trusted to be able to get the fuck out before it was too late and have a million little Scottish babies running through the Highlands, not dying like cattle in a damp tunnel in the middle of Kent.

{{user}} watches on from the side, stuck where they'd been standing since this all started, eyewitness to it all.