Friends Don't Look At Friends That Way

Part Nineteen.

The steady, monotone beeps of the monitor seem to echo alongside the pulse thrumming beneath my skin. It was a comforting rhythm at first, a welcome distraction to separate my conscious stream of thought from the guilt and shame plaguing my brain. Now, the sound only serves as a cruel reminder of a reality I don't wish to face.

[Y/N] hasn't woken up yet. My perception of time has skewed horribly since I have become the hallow, empty shell, unmoving from her bedside, but at best, I could gauge it has been maybe two days. Two days since she was shot. Two days since I did the one thing I can never forgive myself for. The one thing she will never forgive me for.

Those last moments loop through my head nearly every second, the haunting details carving away pieces of my soul each time I relive it. Sleep offers no reprieve from the flashes of Soap gunning back down that hallway toward the awaiting hoard of armed mercs. Bursts of rifles, shouts of surprise, and [Y/N]'s desperate cries all wend through my senses to torment my every thought.

I won't say that it isn't deserved. Despite the lone wolf reputation I've earned for myself, joining the task force drastically changed the way I operate in the field. Leaving a comrade behind is never an option, not anymore. It would have never crossed my mind in any other context, but the sheer desperation overtaking Soap's usually collected expression unraveled my resolve. Sure, the bleeding body of the woman I have grown to love falling apart in my arms may have also fueled my decision, but the unspoken plea written clearly on my friend's face ultimately sealed his fate. I know he needed to do it. After everything, he owed her more than he had been able to give, so he offered the only thing he had left.

"Still nothing?" Price's low grumble has my tired eyes shifting to where he leans against the opposite wall, gaze fixed on the motionless form tucked into the bed.

My lack of a response has frustration sighing between his lips, his heavy stare now finding its way to me. I know my disheveled appearance is the source of the worry that pulls the corners of his mouth into a disapproving frown. My refusal to leave [Y/N]'s bedside made sleep and other necessities nonsensical. I have no doubt it shows in the dark circles beneath my eyes and the blood stains across my clothing. 

"You need to take a break, Simon." Price orders in a low tone, "I can watch her for a bit."

A shake of my head is all I care to offer, willing the tight lines of my expression to explain what I don't want to say.

"It isn't your fault."

A muscle flickers in my jaw as I clench my teeth tightly, avoiding the spiteful words balancing across the tip of my tongue.

"She knows you both did everything that you could. Once Soap sets his mind to something..." Price trails off slowly, a mournful look settling on his face.

"We need to go back for him." I croak, voice rough from lack of use, "Not for rescue, but-"

"Recovery."

The grief Price pours into that one word is palpable enough that I cannot maintain eye contact, gaze falling to the floor. Thinking about what we have to do overwhelms me with emotions I wouldn't say I like feeling. It makes me feel weak.  

"We will come up with something." Price says solemnly, shifting towards the bed. He places a hand gently across [Y/N]'s wrist, his thumb making a reassuring circle on her skin. "Listen up, rookie. You better pull through, or I will sic Gaz and his flat earth theories on you. Then you are going to wish you were dead, huh?"

He hovers for a second longer, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips before they fall back into a thin line. If it were anyone else, this small moment of affection would be a rare sight, but Price has always had a soft spot for [Y/N]. He will deny it till the day he is put in the dirt, but the way his demeanor softens in her presence is obvious enough.

"How do I live with it?" I ask quietly, taking advantage of the shift in his mood.

He remains silent for long enough that I worry he didn't hear the question until he blows a soft sigh.

"You will forgive yourself eventually. It won't be easy, but it is necessary. Don't let the guilt of something you couldn't have changed eat you alive, Simon."

His watchful eyes assess me as I drag a longing look over [Y/N]. 

"She will forgive you too. Maybe not right away, but she will." He speaks aloud, the worry burning through my brain like he can read my mind. It does little to comfort the building fear of what I know will happen when she wakes up.

If it hadn't been for me, [Y/N] would have proudly died alongside Johnny. She wanted it, and I took that away with purely selfish motivation. As long as I live and breathe, she will, too. I do not care what it takes or if I lose her. I will not live in a world where she does not exist. She may hate me for it, but for that choice in particular, I am not sorry and never will be.

***

I managed to sleep for a few minutes at best; head slumped across my arms on the edge of the bed before a soft thud to my skull pulled me from sleep. At first, I am sure I imagined it, but it happens again a few seconds later. I raise my head slowly to see [Y/N]'s bleary eyes glaring at me with confusion. She has her hand hovering mid-air as if debating on hitting me again.

I can only stare back, both in awe and utter relief. It feels like I can finally breathe again, as if her regaining consciousness brought the oxygen back to my lungs. I begin to reach a hand out timidly, wanting more than anything to touch her, but there is an uneasy look on her face that stops me. 

An awkward silence stretches between us as my brain fumbles, trying to find words. What is someone supposed to say in this situation? Hey! Glad you're not dead. Sorry that the love of your life is! The longer I sit and stare like a complete idiot, the more nervous she appears to grow. 

Say something, you idiot.

"Nice to see you." I blurt out, cringing immediately.

Real smooth, Simon.

"What is going on?" Her voice sounds rough, cracking when she speaks.

"What do you mean?"

She pins me with a stern look that says she doesn't appreciate me answering her question with an equally vague question.

"What happened to me? Why do I feel like I was hit by a truck? Why do you look like hell? Where is Soap?"

"Are you serious?" A sudden dread starts to trickle through me when she gives me a slight nod in response to signify that this is not, in fact, her cruel version of a joke.

She doesn't remember what happened.