John Soap MacTavish

Johnny MacTavish had always figured he'd die in the military. It was a dangerous job, and he knew the risks when he signed up. If he somehow lived long enough to retire, he wanted it to be his choice. Maybe he'd settle down somewhere in Scotland, get himself a dog, and spend the rest of his days annoying Simon over the phone. He certainly never imagined he'd be forced out before he even reached thirty.

Then Makarov put a bullet through the side of his head in that bloody tunnel.

Johnny shouldn't have survived. The bullet had struck him in his temple, causing severe damage to his brain. He'd spent weeks in hospital, most of that time unconscious, while doctors tried to figure out whether he'd ever wake up.

When he finally did, he could barely remember what had happened. His speech was slurred, his head constantly hurt, and he couldn't move his legs properly.

At first, he'd been grateful to be alive. Price had even called him a lucky bastard, though the old man's eyes had been suspiciously wet when he said it. Simon had barely left his bedside during those first few weeks, and Gaz had brought him all sorts of rubbish to keep him entertained.

But the excitement of surviving didn't last very long.

Months of physical therapy had done little to improve his condition. The doctors explained that the damage to his brain had affected his ability to walk, and while there was still a chance of improvement, they couldn't promise anything.

For now, he needed a wheelchair.

Johnny hated the bloody thing.

He hated needing help getting dressed on particularly bad mornings, hated struggling to get into the shower, and hated how strangers looked at him whenever he went outside. Most of all, he hated that he'd been medically discharged from the military. Everything he'd worked for was gone because of one bullet.

The Task Force tried keeping in touch. Price called every week, Gaz sent him stupid videos, and Simon regularly offered to visit.

Johnny ignored most of it. He couldn't stand the thought of his old teammates seeing him like this, especially Simon. They'd known him as the loud, energetic Sergeant who could run for miles without complaining. Now he could barely get himself out of bed some mornings.

So he stayed home, alone in his little flat, pretending he was doing just fine.

Eventually, though, he had to go outside.

He'd run out of groceries, and after spending nearly twenty minutes arguing with himself about ordering delivery, Johnny decided he was perfectly capable of going to the shops. He wasn't completely helpless, for fuck's sake.

The trip started well enough. He managed to get himself down the pavement and into the supermarket without much trouble. Getting around the aisles was annoying, but manageable. He even felt a little proud of himself when he reached the checkout with everything he'd needed.

Then he dropped his bloody wallet.

It slipped off his lap while he was reaching for his shopping bag, landing on the floor beside his wheelchair. Johnny stared at it for a moment before leaning down to grab it.

His fingers barely brushed the leather...

"Come on, ye bastard," he muttered, stretching a little further.

His balance wasn't what it used to be. The injury had left him with poor coordination, and leaning too far forward made his head spin. He quickly grabbed the armrest to steady himself, breathing heavily through his nose.

A few people walked past. One woman glanced at him before looking away, and Johnny felt his face growing hot.

He tried again, this time gripping the side of his chair with one hand while reaching down with the other. His fingers trembled from the effort, and a sharp pain spread behind his damaged temple.

"Fuck!"

He pulled himself upright, squeezing his eyes shut until the dizziness passed.

It was a fucking wallet. A stupid, little wallet lying barely two feet away, and he couldn't even pick it up without nearly falling out of his chair.

Johnny wanted to scream. He wanted to kick something, punch something, do anything other than sit there feeling like a useless idiot. Instead, he stared down at his lap, blinking rapidly as tears threatened to spill.

He'd survived gunfire, explosions, and years of dangerous missions. He'd dragged wounded soldiers out of combat zones and carried grown men over his shoulders. Now he couldn't even pick something up off the floor.

God, he wished that bullet had finished the job sometimes.

After another minute, Johnny finally looked around. He spotted someone nearby, close enough that he wouldn't have to raise his voice too much.

His stomach twisted.

He'd almost rather crawl home than ask a stranger for help, but he couldn't leave his wallet behind. His hands tightened around the wheels of his chair as he tried to work up the courage to speak.

"Erm, excuse me?"

His voice came out quieter than he'd intended, and he cleared his throat, forcing himself to look in their direction.

"Sorry tae bother ye, but could ye...?"

He stopped, swallowing hard. His cheeks were burning, and he couldn't bring himself to finish the question immediately.

"Could ye grab that wallet for me? The one on the floor."

Johnny gave an awkward little laugh, trying desperately to make the situation seem less pathetic than it felt.

"Normally I'd get it myself, but..." He glanced down at his wheelchair, his smile disappearing. "Aye. Bit difficult these days."

He rubbed a hand over his face before looking away again.

"Sorry, mate. Wouldn't ask if I didn't have tae."

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