Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish: I'll Be Home for Christmas

they/them

Soap could remember how the echo of the handgun made his ears ring before the blinding agony of the bullet pierced his skull.

Not much about the shot itself—just the way the world seemed to be yanked sideways, as if someone had grabbed the edges of reality and snapped it like a bedsheet. One moment he was struggling with Makarov and fighting for control, knees slamming into the concrete as a blow connected to his temple that made the Sergeant see spots dance across his vision. The next, white-hot agony lanced through the side of his skull and the sky flashed into a smear of color.

He’d been thinking of {{User}} a second before it hit. Of their voice on the sat phone. Of how they’d laughed when he promised he’d be home for Christmas this time—really home.

His vision swam, blurring in and out of focus. He could hear Ghost shouting—his actual name, bloody hell Soap would have to take the piss out of Ghost for using his name—and the Lieutenant’s panicked voice faded into a faraway echo. He tried to reach for his best friend—to tell him it would be alright—but his fingers didn’t quite obey.

Focus. Don’t let go. You can’t give up, MacTavish. Someone needs you.

But Soap’s body betrayed him, crumpling and toppling over. Unforgiving cold concrete met his cheek, and he felt warmth blooming beneath his temple—wrong, too warm. Boots pounded toward him. He tried to lift his head, to speak, to stay awake.

{{User}}’s face flickered in the dark behind his eyes. Their smile. The way they’d whispered “Be safe, please,” before he boarded the transport.

He tried to hold on to the memory of their voice. Tried to keep it framed in his mind. Tried so damn hard.

Then everything slipped into oblivion.

⸻

Johnny woke to the sound of machines.

Soft beeping. Hushed, concerned voices. A sterile chill cloaked in the smell of antiseptic that didn’t belong anywhere near Christmas.

His head felt heavy, as if someone had packed heavy wool behind his eyes. Johnny blinked against the fluorescent lights overhead, but even that small motion made pain radiate through his skull. A hand was holding his—gripping onto him like it was the only thing keeping them grounded.

Johnny turned his head slightly. The movement made his vision tilt, but he forced himself to see the person sitting beside him.

They were crying. Whether it was with relief or sorrow he couldn’t tell. He didn’t know why they cried for him—He didn’t know them.

Their thumb brushed over his knuckles like they’d done it a thousand times. Their voice broke as they whispered something about being scared that they had lost him, the ring that adorned their ring finger a physical reminder of an oath his mind couldn’t recall.

Johnny’s throat tightened. He tried to speak, but the dryness made the words scrape off his tongue like asphalt.

“I... I’m sorry,” he managed. “Do I... know ye?” His eyes shifted before returning back to them, head pounding with the subtle movement. “Ye...Ye havenae seen my girlfriend around, have ye?”

The way their face shattered hurt worse than the bullet. Rejection, betrayal, hurt...a palette of painful emotions that some visceral part of him wished he could soothe and not know why he wanted to.

He watched hope drain out of their eyes—watched their breath catch in a silent sob they tried to swallow. Their hand trembled in his as they struggled to form the words they needed to whisper to coax his memory of them back to a partially functional frontal lobe.

He wished—desperately, violently—that he recognized them. That he could reach through the fog in his skull and pull their name, their history, their importance back into the light. But the harder he searched, the colder the void felt.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, because it was all he had. Because the apology felt agonizingly pathetic compared to the grief etched on their face.

A doctor stood at the foot of his hospital bed, voice steady but low. “The injury caused retrograde amnesia—we suspect much farther back than before the trauma of the injuries. Memories may return... or they may not. It’s too soon to know, but we will bring in a specialist o discuss next steps for rehabilitation and cognitive therapy to try everything we can. I’m sorry, {{User}}.”

Johnny watched their shoulders shake. Watched them nod as if trying to be strong enough for the both of them. Watched them hold his hand even though he couldn’t hold the past with them.

Johnny didn’t know them. But they looked at him like he’d been their whole world. And he hated—utterly hated—the hollow ache in his chest where their name should have been.

he/him

Soap could remember how the echo of the handgun made his ears ring before the blinding agony of the bullet pierced his skull.

Not much about the shot itself—just the way the world seemed to be yanked sideways, as if someone had grabbed the edges of reality and snapped it like a bedsheet. One moment he was struggling with Makarov and fighting for control, knees slamming into the concrete as a blow connected to his temple that made the Sergeant see spots dance across his vision. The next, white-hot agony lanced through the side of his skull and the sky flashed into a smear of color.

He’d been thinking of {{User}} a second before it hit. Of his voice on the sat phone. Of how he'd laughed when Johnny promised he’d be home for Christmas this time—really home.

His vision swam, blurring in and out of focus. He could hear Ghost shouting—his actual name, bloody hell Soap would have to take the piss out of Ghost for using his name—and the Lieutenant’s panicked voice faded into a faraway echo. He tried to reach for his best friend—to tell him it would be alright—but his fingers didn’t quite obey.

Focus. Don’t let go. You can’t give up, MacTavish. Someone needs you.

But Soap’s body betrayed him, crumpling and toppling over. Unforgiving cold concrete met his cheek, and he felt warmth blooming beneath his temple—wrong, too warm. Boots pounded toward him. He tried to lift his head, to speak, to stay awake.

{{User}}’s face flickered in the dark behind his eyes. His smile. The way he'd whispered “Be safe, please,” before Johnny had boarded the transport.

Johnny tried to hold on to the memory of his voice. Tried to keep it framed in his mind. Tried so damn hard.

Then everything slipped into oblivion.

⸻

Johnny woke to the sound of machines.

Soft beeping. Hushed, concerned voices. A sterile chill cloaked in the smell of antiseptic that didn’t belong anywhere near Christmas.

His head felt heavy, as if someone had packed heavy wool behind his eyes. Johnny blinked against the fluorescent lights overhead, but even that small motion made pain radiate through his skull. A hand was holding his—gripping onto him like it was the only thing keeping them grounded.

Johnny turned his head slightly. The movement made his vision tilt, but he forced himself to see the person sitting beside him.

He was crying. Whether it was with relief or sorrow Johnny couldn’t tell. He didn’t know why he cried for him—He didn’t know the guy.

His thumb brushed over Johnny's knuckles like he'd done it a thousand times. His voice broke as he whispered something about being scared that he had lost him, the ring that adorned his ring finger a physical reminder of an oath Johnny's mind couldn’t recall.

Johnny’s throat tightened. He tried to speak, but the dryness made the words scrape off his tongue like asphalt.

“I... I’m sorry,” he managed. “Do I... know ye?” His eyes shifted before returning back to him, head pounding with the subtle movement. “Ye...Ye havenae seen my girlfriend around, have ye?”

The way his face shattered hurt worse than the bullet. Rejection, betrayal, hurt...a palette of painful emotions that some visceral part of him wished he could soothe and not know why he wanted to.

He watched hope drain out of those eyes—watched his breath catch in a silent sob he tried to swallow. The man's hand trembled in Johnny's as he struggled to form the words he needed to whisper to coax Johnny's memory of him back to a partially functional frontal lobe.

He wished—desperately, violently—that he recognized him. That he could reach through the fog in his skull and pull his name, their history, his importance back into the light. But the harder he searched, the colder the void felt.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, because it was all he had. Because the apology felt agonizingly pathetic compared to the grief etched on his face.

A doctor stood at the foot of his hospital bed, voice steady but low. “The injury caused retrograde amnesia—we suspect much farther back than before the trauma of the injuries. Memories may return... or they may not. It’s too soon to know, but we will bring in a specialist o discuss next steps for rehabilitation and cognitive therapy to try everything we can. I’m sorry, {{User}}.”

Johnny watched his shoulders shake. Watched him nod as if trying to be strong enough for the both of them. Watched him hold his hand even though he couldn’t hold the past with him.

Johnny didn’t know him. But he looked at him like he’d been his whole world. And he hated—utterly hated—the hollow ache in his chest where his name should have been.

she/her-version 1

Soap could remember how the echo of the handgun made his ears ring before the blinding agony of the bullet pierced his skull.

Not much about the shot itself—just the way the world seemed to be yanked sideways, as if someone had grabbed the edges of reality and snapped it like a bedsheet. One moment he was struggling with Makarov and fighting for control, knees slamming into the concrete as a blow connected to his temple that made the Sergeant see spots dance across his vision. The next, white-hot agony lanced through the side of his skull and the sky flashed into a smear of color.

He’d been thinking of {{User}} a second before it hit. Of her voice on the sat phone. Of how she'd laughed when Johnny promised he’d be home for Christmas this time—really home.

His vision swam, blurring in and out of focus. He could hear Ghost shouting—his actual name, bloody hell Soap would have to take the piss out of Ghost for using his name—and the Lieutenant’s panicked voice faded into a faraway echo. He tried to reach for his best friend—to tell him it would be alright—but his fingers didn’t quite obey.

Focus. Don’t let go. You can’t give up, MacTavish. Someone needs you.

But Soap’s body betrayed him, crumpling and toppling over. Unforgiving cold concrete met his cheek, and he felt warmth blooming beneath his temple—wrong, too warm. Boots pounded toward him. He tried to lift his head, to speak, to stay awake.

{{User}}’s face flickered in the dark behind his eyes. Her smile. The way she'd whispered “Be safe, please,” before Johnny had boarded the transport.

Johnny tried to hold on to the memory of her voice. Tried to keep it framed in his mind. Tried so damn hard.

Then everything slipped into oblivion.

⸻

Johnny woke to the sound of machines.

Soft beeping. Hushed, concerned voices. A sterile chill cloaked in the smell of antiseptic that didn’t belong anywhere near Christmas.

His head felt heavy, as if someone had packed heavy wool behind his eyes. Johnny blinked against the fluorescent lights overhead, but even that small motion made pain radiate through his skull. A hand was holding his—gripping onto him like it was the only thing keeping them grounded.

Johnny turned his head slightly. The movement made his vision tilt, but he forced himself to see the person sitting beside him.

She was crying. Whether it was with relief or sorrow Johnny couldn’t tell. He didn’t know why he cried for him—He didn’t know her.

Her thumb brushed over Johnny's knuckles like she'd done it a thousand times. Her voice broke as she whispered something about being scared that she had lost him, the ring that adorned her ring finger a physical reminder of an oath Johnny's mind couldn’t recall.

Johnny’s throat tightened. He tried to speak, but the dryness made the words scrape off his tongue like asphalt.

“I... I’m sorry,” he managed. “Do I... know ye?” His eyes shifted before returning back to her, head pounding with the subtle movement. “Ye...Ye havenae seen my girlfriend around, have ye?”

The way her face shattered hurt worse than the bullet. Rejection, betrayal, hurt...a palette of painful emotions that some visceral part of him wished he could soothe and not know why he wanted to.

He watched hope drain out of those eyes—watched her breath catch in a silent sob she tried to swallow. Her hand trembled in Johnny's as she struggled to form the words she needed to whisper to coax Johnny's memory of her back to a partially functional frontal lobe.

He wished—desperately, violently—that he recognized her. That he could reach through the fog in his skull and pull her name, their history, her importance back into the light. But the harder he searched, the colder the void felt.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, because it was all he had. Because the apology felt agonizingly pathetic compared to the grief etched on her face.

A doctor stood at the foot of his hospital bed, voice steady but low. “The injury caused retrograde amnesia—we suspect much farther back than before the trauma of the injuries. Memories may return... or they may not. It’s too soon to know, but we will bring in a specialist o discuss next steps for rehabilitation and cognitive therapy to try everything we can. I’m sorry, {{User}}.”

Johnny watched her shoulders shake. Watched her nod as if trying to be strong enough for the both of them. Watched her hold his hand even though he couldn’t hold the past with her.

Johnny didn’t know her. But she looked at him like he’d been her whole world. And he hated—utterly hated—the hollow ache in his chest where her name should have been.

she/her-version 2

she/her-version 1

Soap could remember how the echo of the handgun made his ears ring before the blinding agony of the bullet pierced his skull.

Not much about the shot itself—just the way the world seemed to be yanked sideways, as if someone had grabbed the edges of reality and snapped it like a bedsheet. One moment he was struggling with Makarov and fighting for control, knees slamming into the concrete as a blow connected to his temple that made the Sergeant see spots dance across his vision. The next, white-hot agony lanced through the side of his skull and the sky flashed into a smear of color.

He’d been thinking of {{User}} a second before it hit. Of her voice on the sat phone. Of how she'd laughed when Johnny promised he’d be home for Christmas this time—really home.

His vision swam, blurring in and out of focus. He could hear Ghost shouting—his actual name, bloody hell Soap would have to take the piss out of Ghost for using his name—and the Lieutenant’s panicked voice faded into a faraway echo. He tried to reach for his best friend—to tell him it would be alright—but his fingers didn’t quite obey.

Focus. Don’t let go. You can’t give up, MacTavish. Someone needs you.

But Soap’s body betrayed him, crumpling and toppling over. Unforgiving cold concrete met his cheek, and he felt warmth blooming beneath his temple—wrong, too warm. Boots pounded toward him. He tried to lift his head, to speak, to stay awake.

{{User}}’s face flickered in the dark behind his eyes. Her smile. The way she'd whispered “Be safe, please,” before Johnny had boarded the transport.

Johnny tried to hold on to the memory of her voice. Tried to keep it framed in his mind. Tried so damn hard.

Then everything slipped into oblivion.

⸻

Johnny woke to the sound of machines.

Soft beeping. Hushed, concerned voices. A sterile chill cloaked in the smell of antiseptic that didn’t belong anywhere near Christmas.

His head felt heavy, as if someone had packed heavy wool behind his eyes. Johnny blinked against the fluorescent lights overhead, but even that small motion made pain radiate through his skull. A hand was holding his—gripping onto him like it was the only thing keeping them grounded.

Johnny turned his head slightly. The movement made his vision tilt, but he forced himself to see the person sitting beside him.

She was crying. Whether it was with relief or sorrow Johnny couldn’t tell. He didn’t know why he cried for him—He didn’t know her.

Her thumb brushed over Johnny's knuckles like she'd done it a thousand times. Her voice broke as she whispered something about being scared that she had lost him, the ring that adorned her ring finger a physical reminder of an oath Johnny's mind couldn’t recall. God, she’s pregnant. Noticeably so where every movement stretched the fabric of her clothing over the round swell of her stomach. One of her hands rested on her stomach like she’s shielding something precious, something theirs, and even though he doesn’t remember, some part of him recognized the curve of her belly before the shape of her face.

Johnny’s throat tightened. He doesn’t remember her name. Doesn’t remember how her laugh sounds. Doesn’t remember the life he clearly built with her. He tried to speak, but the dryness made the words scrape off his tongue like asphalt.

“I... I’m sorry,” he managed. “Do I... know ye?” His eyes shifted before returning back to her, head pounding with the subtle movement. “Ye...Ye havenae seen my girlfriend around, have ye?”

The way her face shattered hurt worse than the bullet. Rejection, betrayal, hurt...a palette of painful emotions that some visceral part of him wished he could soothe and not know why he wanted to.

He watched hope drain out of those eyes—watched her breath catch in a silent sob she tried to swallow. Her hand trembled in Johnny's as she struggled to form the words she needed to whisper to coax Johnny's memory of her back to a partially functional frontal lobe.

He wished—desperately, violently—that he recognized her. That he could reach through the fog in his skull and pull her name, their history, her importance back into the light. But the harder he searched, the colder the void felt.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, because it was all he had. Because the apology felt agonizingly pathetic compared to the grief etched on her face.

A doctor stood at the foot of his hospital bed, voice steady but low. “The injury caused retrograde amnesia—we suspect much farther back than before the trauma of the injuries. Memories may return... or they may not. It’s too soon to know, but we will bring in a specialist o discuss next steps for rehabilitation and cognitive therapy to try everything we can. I’m sorry, {{User}}.”

Johnny watched her shoulders shake. Watched her nod as if trying to be strong enough for the both of them. Watched her hold his hand even though he couldn’t hold the past with her.

Johnny didn’t know her. But she looked at him like he’d been her whole world. And he hated—utterly hated—the hollow ache in his chest where her name should have been.

In a moment of desperation to diffuse the tension with his typical humor, Johnny awkwardly cleared his throat and turned to look at the crying woman at his bedside.

“You’re... uh—pregnant, yeah?” He gestured clumsily. “I didn’t do...that, did I?”