Beautiful Lie [John 'Soap' Mactavish]

Forty Seven [Bruises]

John hadn't left her side.

He had stayed glued to the chair, his hand in hers, whispering to her every minute of the day, he only left her side when Peggy and Peter came, the captain would move from the chair to the small sofa under the window.

Sometimes he would sleep, other times he'd sit and listen as the mother told stories of the agents childhood, a mischievous child with wild black hair and an infectious laugh, a toothless smile that would light up the whole room, he could imagine it, he could picture her as a reckless child much like he had been.

The more stories he heard the more he realised their childhoods were similar, despite their differences growing up, he couldn't relate to the lavish holidays to distant countries or expensive gifts and day trips out, but the building of a tree house at the end of the garden, countless injuries from falling off her bike. He could relate to that, a childhood not so different from his own.

Peggy recounted stories of when Alyssa became obsessed with snails as a child, collection them and housing them in a small lunchbox ladened with leaves and grass, hidden in her room, she recounted Maria's erratic screams when the elder sister had found a 'family' of snails on her pillow.

John sat quietly on the sofa at the left of the room, his eyes trained on his wife as he nursed the lukewarm cup of coffee between his hands, gently spinning the plastic cup in his hands.

A small smile pulling at his lips as he listened to Peggy's talk about how it took her over an hour to calm maria down, how David had laughed at his sisters terror, how Peter had to take the younger two siblings away as Maria screamed the house down. His gaze briefly fell to her stomach, he swallowed thickly as he thought of his child.

He wondered if they were a girl, or a boy, if when they were born, they would have wild black hair like their mothers, of a dusty brown like his. Would they have her emerald, green eyes that he loved so much or his icy ones. He couldn't picture, HIS child. He couldn't begin to imagine what they would look like if they would have a subtle Scottish accent or a posh English one. He felt the tears prick his eyes once again, his head dropping between his shoulders as a small sigh left his lips.

Peggy's words soon faded, never quite reaching the captains ears, his gaze focused on the coffee held in his hands, he watched the small ripples as they gathered into the middle, from every small movement, he felt his jaw tighten, the more he allowed his thoughts to wonder the more the bile pulsed around in his stomach.

His eyes felt heavy with sleep, he ran his hand over his face shifting slightly, even when he managed to sleep on the uncomfortable sofa, he never managed more than an hour or two, he'd always wake and search for her frame in the bed. Sometimes he'd fall asleep in the chair, after talking to her for hours, with his head tucked carefully under her hand, some remnants of comfort from her touch.

He felt pathetic, powerless as she laid there motionless, the rhythmic beeping taunting him, a painful reminder although she was still here... she wasn't. she wasn't awake, he didn't know if she would ever wake, the doctor had told him in not so many words, if she didn't wake, they would keep her alive, to ensure the babies survival. It turned his stomach, something joyous they should be celebrating together, preparing for together, he was stuck in a pit of despair.

John's eyes snapped up, watching under his brow as a commotion commenced just outside the door.

"Excuse me! You can't go in there!" he heard a nurse call.

John stood up defensively, readying himself for the worse. The paranoia settling deep within his stomach.

"Ah captain MacTavish" Agent Brooks spoke standing at the door, his hands tucked smugly in his pockets as he rocked on his feet slightly, his gaze fell to Alyssa, his face faltering slightly at the sight of his ex-girlfriend Unconscious in bed, the tubes and wires attached to her.