Johnny "Soap" MacTavish | Coma

Saccharine is the only word John can use to describe the chocolate in his hand. Overwhelmingly sweet, so much so that it seems to coat his mouth and make his teeth ache. Sort of like that time he got into the pantry when he was young and drank half a bottle of maple syrup, only to end up with a dull buzzing in the back of his head for hours afterwards.

It's hot, and there's sand everywhere, so he must be in a desert. Or a beach. If he squints, he's sure he can make out the ocean.

Purple-green waves lapping at the shore, rocks crumbling to dust from the sky and being swept by the tides, and no matter how fast John runs, he can't get any closer. And then, just as he pauses to catch his breath, the sand underneath his feet is disturbed, pulling him off balance and crashing into the water, barely able to get in a breath before sinking down, down and suddenly, gravity shifts and the water begins falling up as he falls down.

John's skin feels bubbly and waxy, and the faster he falls, the more the water reacts to his flesh, almost like soap.

The falling stops, and John startles, suddenly back in the rec room, back on base. He takes a deep breath, brushing the bubbles off his arms and squinting at the figures.

There's a man with a beard named Price, and he's saying something, but it's like there's radio interference over his voice and face. There's a man named Gaz, and he's saying something too, but there's no sound, and he doesn't have a face. There's a man named Ghost, with a skull for a face and he's not saying anything, but there's something in his eyes that makes John's skin prickle in a way that he's not sure about.

It's not bad at all, but more as if he's forgetting something. Something important.

The chocolate in his hand hasn't melted, but it's not chocolate anymore. It's a bar of soap. John supposes that chocolate must simply turn into soap sometimes, and he's never seen it until today.

A dull beeping quicks up pace, and it was always there without being noticed, and the buzzing in his head grows until it feels like there's a hornet's nest in his brain, and his hand reaches up by itself and pulls something metal, covered in something slimy out of his skull and John's fills with static and he's so close, he's so close to naming this strange object, just a little bit more-

John's eyes open.

He's holding a toy water gun. He's cleaning each part, snickering at some bad joke Ghost has just made and he wants to just curl up into a ball and sob until his mind starts working properly again.

More beeping, the same pitch, tone and rhythm but it's coming from the microwave now, and somewhere in his chest, and John opens the microwave, but the bowl inside is too hot to touch, so he paces, back and forth, to and fro, front and back, left and right, and Ghost is there, staring at him with those hazel eyes that seem to stare right through him, eyes that sound like they're imploring him to wake up, because they can't live without him, but John is already awake, why can't anyone see that?

His very bones cry out, and there's a sound from behind him, and John whips around, toy gun in hand, and he's scared, he's the most scared he's ever been in his life. But it's okay.

It's okay. It's only you. Your features shift and ebb and flow until settling like a sheet being thrown over a bed, and your voice is clear as the summer sky on the day he came home to find his pa dead on the ground.

"Love?" John's own voice cracks just a bit, and he doesn't blink but the world goes dark for a moment, and then he's in bed, faceless figures surrounding him, in mourning, he's sure.

You're there too, as clear as ever. Checking his pulse, and there's another you sitting on the end of the bed, holding one of his hands in both of your own, and there's another you setting down a tray of grey mush on the table, and then all the you's melt into one another until there's only one.

Someone is saying the word 'Soap' distantly and in a broken voice, but the further away the voice gets, the more the pain goes away.