Chapter Text
It wasn't so quiet anymore. Rustling of tree branches told him he wasn't so dead. The faint scent of burned flesh, and hair, coming from around him. If he could move, he would.
The world was so dark. Everything too quiet but somewhat still there. His helmet protecting him from most burns. Yet, he swore he still felt the flame on his skin.
Shots echoed in his head. He remembered who he was laid next to. Laid in a field, far from most. He wanted to speak, wanted to see if his friend was alive. But he knew the shot had gone straight to the heart. A long time ago, he promised not to get attached to a team he hardly knew... But task force 141 was different. It was a family, always looking out for each other.
This time, the Intel had been bad, at least from what they knew. They got fucked over, lied to by the general they were supposed to trust.
The last thing he truely remembered was his captain telling him he shouldn't trust the general. It was too late. The gas had been poured, drenching his clothes and his friend's body.
His friend was Ghost. Was. It was too late to save him. Too late.
Still being alive was a miracle after what had happened. The flame must've at least partially cauterized the bullet wounds he sustained.
He knew he wasn't dead, for he could still feel the pain. Even though the flame was long gone. Death would've been easier. It wasn't the relief he got.
The sudden hands grabbing onto his shoulders sent shockwaves of pain through his system. It wasn't a surprise when the world went quiet again. Pain ever present, but dulling. He felt sharpness in his neck, just under his helmet, then everything was gone.
In a blink of an eye.
Was this death?
No. He wasn't granted the sweet release. But maybe, just maybe he'd been saved. He could only hope.
And hope he did. From behind those closed eyes, the burns cover almost all his body, and the silence of his unmoving lips, he hoped.
Maybe one day he'd see his friends again. His team.
He was not so lucky when he woke. Or at least, when he regained consciousness.
Everything was cold. The faint sounds of beeps and monitors. He had to be alive. In a hospital, even. Who had brought him here? Did he even deserve it?
He couldn't move, but he could hear around him. His skin was bandaged, burns on his neck and around his face had been bandaged. Everything was dull, he had to assume it was due to medication. How long was he out for? He felt so different.
Mostly though, he missed his friends. His team. He was alone now. Alone, but alive. It felt wrong to live after what he'd experienced. His mind felt blurred, and just out of touch of the memories that he held closest.
Time blurred along with those memories.
A voice cut through the dark behind his eyes. He was awake, but unable to move. He didn't have the energy, even if he did he probably wouldn't want to move much.
"They call ya Roach..." An american? Really? He had to have been dreaming. This wasn't someone he knew. Was it? The voice was unfamiliar, rough.
"Ya got some pretty nasty wounds there... I got you covered." Weird. He couldn't understand why an american was helping him. Couldn't he read his file would say he was a United Kingdom citizen? Or at least part of the SAS? Maybe it wouldn't. He didn't know how long he was out.
"docs said you'd pull through, you can hear me. I think. Bless your heart.." The man sounded genuinely sad for him. Maybe it was the southern accent to his words.
"what happened to you?" He asked, as if Roach could respond. He couldn't, unfortunately. Not that he'd say anything anyways. He wouldn't want to. He never spoke much before this anyways. Speaking wasn't on his agenda, and he wouldn't be speaking to an american especially.
The man let out a dry laugh. No humor, this wasn't a time for humor. "It's been a while since i found you. Gotta admit it's a little boring waiting for you to be better."
At least the words stopped after that. It was hard to process it all. Painful, even. Too much too soon. He couldn't even voice his discomfort, he didn't even know if he could make a sound. Could he? Probably not... He'd been too wounded. He needed to rest.
Of course the man near the bed seemed to know that, but Roach seemed to realize he wasn't leaving. The faint warmth from his direction was enough to make that clear. Yet, somehow, it soothed him. He wasn't truely alone.