Call of Desire

11. Disdain

dis·dain
/disˈdān/

noun
the feeling that someone or something is unworthy of one's consideration or respect; contempt.

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Content Warning: Internalised Homophobia, Smoking

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Simon woke at the feeling of his stomach gnawing at itself. He hadn't bothered to turn the lights off or close the window blinds before he fell asleep. The moon was visible through the glass, shining brightly among the stars.

Simon blinked, trying to clear the fog from his head.

Do I even bother getting out of bed?

He turned over, burying himself in the blanket once again.

I wanted to do something... what was it?

Exhaling, he sat up. He glanced around the room, his eyes falling on the neatly folded clothing and styrofoam box left on the bedside table. He completely ignored the small box, grabbing the clean garments.

Johnny, I have to see Johnny. I need to check on him. I need to see him.

He quickly got dressed, brushed his teeth and stumbled out the door in the ill-fitting khakis and black button-up. They must've been Price's. A brief smile tugged at the corner of his lip at the skull balaclava, slipping it over his face, becoming Ghost once again. His calves protested as he rushed down the hotel stairs, bursting through the exit.

"Evening, Simon." Price mumbled through his cigar, leaning against the wall beside the door.

Ghost nodded to him. "Sir."

"Headed to see MacTavish?" Price asked, making Ghost pause.

"Aye."

"Have you eaten?" the Captain looked at him knowingly.

Ghost  clenched his jaw, eyes fixed on the hospital at the end of the road. "No."

"You should." he spoke. "I left you food in your room."

"I saw, I just want to see Johnny first."

"Johnny?" Price raised an eyebrow. Ghost felt his face heat up, glad that his mask covered the flush that crawled onto his cheeks.

"Yeah." The Brit began to walk off.

"Stay here for a moment, Simon. Relax. You've had a rough week." Price offered him an unopened pack of cigarettes. 

Ghost paused, staring at the pack for a long moment before finally acquiescing. He slowly pulled his mask above his mouth, placing a cigarette between his lips. Price flipped open his lighter, holding it under the end of the cigarette.

"Cheers," Simon mumbled, taking a long drag. He stared at the hospital, hoping to see Soap walking toward him with a smile.

"You've never shown this much concern for another soldier." Price stated, staring straight ahead.

"What makes you say that?"

"Just something I noticed."

"Hm." Ghost glanced at his Captain, trying to figure out what he was getting at.

He doesn't know, does he?

"Thanks for the pack, Price, but I've gotta go check on Soap," Simon mumbled, walking away.

"I'll be here." The Captain called, taking another puff from his cigar.

The Brit began down the quiet street, losing himself in thought as he neared the hospital.

If Price has figured it out, has Soap? He's been very... friendly with me. 

Back in the bar, did he want to kiss me? Am I fucking blind? 

Am I going insane? Am I seeing things that aren't there? 

Fuckin' hell I must be losing it. 

I'm losing it!

Ghost flicked his cigarette to the ground, stepping on it and pulling his mask back over his chin before entering the hospital.

He walked past the lobby, ignoring the receptionist, following the path the doctor had led him down the day before. The door to the room was open.

MacTavish looked so small, laying motionless on the bed. The heart monitor beeped periodically. His gaunt face was partially covered by an oxygen mask, his eyes closed. His arms lay at his sides, several IVs and wires connected to him. His wounds had been cleaned and rebandaged, his clothing gone, replaced by a thin hospital gown. A flimsy blue blanket covered his lower half.

Simon stood there for longer than he cared to keep track of, simply staring at John, waiting for him to wake up.

He didn't.

Moving stiffly, Simon pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed. He sunk into it with a shuddering sigh, reaching forward to take Johnny's limp hand into his own.

"I'm so sorry..." He breathed shakily. "This is my fucking fault. This is my fault and I know it, Johnny." He ran his thumb over John's knuckles, searching the Scotsman's face for any sign of movement, any evidence that he could hear this.

"There's so much shit I could've done to prevent this. I could've properly tended to your wounds, I could've avoided fucking shooting you, I could've taken the bullet for you, you know that? I saw that fucking cunt shoot you, back at the complex." Simon's voice broke, tears blurring his vision. 

"I fucking hate myself, Johnny." A sob tore from his throat, making him shudder. "I fucking hate myself for letting this happen to you." He laid his head on the edge of the mattress, shame settling heavily upon his shoulders.

"I'm so fucking confused." He murmured, shaking. "I love you, Johnny. But I feel like I shouldn't. You're my closest friend. You're all I have. You're all I've ever wanted. But that- it's wrong., isn't it?"

Simon shallowed back a sob, the words rough and raw. "I love you and I hate myself for it." 

He waited for some sort of response, a word, or maybe for John to squeeze his hand, a twitch, something, anything to show a sign of life.

But there was nothing.

Simon felt something shatter within him. His heart ached, his lungs burned, and his head pounded from dehydration. His entire body trembled. He lifted his head, looking over Johnny.

"I'm not leaving until you wake up. I'll die before I leave you alone again." Simon gently ran his thumb over MacTavish's knuckles again.

"I know you hate being alone..." he uttered quietly, laying his head on the mattress once more.

Simon let his eyes drift closed, overwhelmed by exhaustion. It didn't take long before he succumbed to the fatigue. Even while asleep, his hand remained firmly entwined with Johnny's.

Simon wasn't awake to notice the gentle squeeze that came from John's hand, or the slight smile that crept onto the Scotsman's lips.