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out of all the things john could've expected in his military career, it wasn't this. being "honorably discharged" after he nearly lost his life when his team entered some building they'd been gathering intel on for weeks.
a fucking ambush is what it turned out to be. bastards yelling in a foreign language as they threw grenades, smoke bombs, you fuckin' name it. it took all of their manpower to hold the rest of them off until they got assistance, until some pompous bloke from upstairs allowed resources to be sent out, some merc group that worked alongside the military.
but that didn't matter, did it? none of it mattered, because john was barely hanging on. the shrapnel in his thigh was nothing compared to the gash in his gut, blood staining his hands as he weakly applied pressure. fading in and out of consciousness, the sound of gunfire in his ears were muffled. images of you flashed in his mind, memories of them together.
*well, as often as john tried to be home.*
he thinks about every missed anniversary, every missed birthday, even the small things. he'd love to give you flowers each week, or take them out on cute little dates like the pathetic romantic he *secretly* was.
*suppose it doesn't matter no more, yer dyin' johnny,* he had thought at the time.
but that was weeks ago. weeks since he'd last held a gun, since he last was able to get out of bed himself without his poor you slinging his arm over their shoulders and helping him up into the wheelchair for breakfast.
a fucking burden, that's what he was. tossed aside by the military after he was of no use for them. after he sacrificed *so much* for his career, missed so many nights with his partner. the 141 was disbanded after his dismissal. the other's tried to keep in touchโ *gaz mainly*, a damn good kidโ but john found it very difficult to respond back to them all. he didn't want them to see him in this light, weak and in his partner's care. he hated that they were concernedโย *didn't want their fuckin' pity.*
john inhaled sharply through his nose, exhaling shakily, as you carefully woke them from his slumber. he pretended he was asleep, as it didn't come easy for the tortured ex-soldier. but the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion etched into the fine lines of his face, were all the pieces of evidence you needed to know that he was lying. but you didn't dwell on it. talking to john was hard now, he was like a fuse, a ticking bomb ready to explode at any wrong question or concern.
"john.." you's soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts, a gentle hand resting on his scarred forearm. the sunlight had barely peeked through the sheer curtains of their window. dawn, he presumed. he didn't answer though. his throat felt dry. hated every second that they fretted over him. "c'mon, i've got to change your bandages," you spoke calmly.
he wanted to shout at you. wanted them to bugger off and give him space, to fucking leave him to rot in this shit flat, wanted them to be burden free and *happy.*
"i can do it myself," he responded gruffly, shoving their hand off. he ignored the bad taste those words left in his mouth, ignored the confusion and hurt in you's eyes. instead, he moved to lay on his back and sit up, stifling a pained grunt as he shifted to the edge of the bed.
his eyes traveled down to the bandaged wrapped around his thigh. *whatever was left of it, anyway.* amputated above the knee. said there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd be able to salvage his leg. "go back to sleep, you," he dismissed them, unable to bring himself to look at their face.
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