Yael would have liked to say that consciousness had returned in waves, light and steady like a rising tide, with the gentle beat of the surf.
One after the other, she would have felt her numb limbs warm up, dispelling the tingling that had taken over her skin with the excess oxygen.
Instead, the sharp jolt that brought her back to reality had the bitter taste of an unresolved issue. It smelled of iron and combustion; its atrocious chemistry burned on her skin where the splinter had pierced her flesh.
Behind her closed eyelids, memories jumbled together, fragmented, resurfacing almost in shreds in flashes of unbearable lucidity.
She remembered MacTavish's voice shouting something from beyond the door. The rough fabric of the glove against her skin, the indiscreet thrumming of her heart under the peremptory touch of his fingertips.
Had it really been him?
In that maelstrom of confused images that bombarded her brain, something seemed to elude her, disintegrating only to re-emerge in new and disturbing forms.
All that blood. Whose was it?
For a mad moment, Sergeant Day's face overlapped with the cocky and familiar one of Soap MacTavish, pale and motionless, so motionless, his mohawk drenched in dark, thick, pasty blood. In those unbearably blue irises, the familiar heat, now extinguished, like an abandoned furnace.
Yael took a breath, to escape that vision, because it wasn't the tide that lapped at her damp, sweaty chest, but the icy pressure of an ocean floor. Dark and forgotten. Silent.
The effort her lungs made to take in air was such that the doctor suddenly found herself sitting up among the starched sheets of the cot. Perfectly awake.
"Johnny!" she shouted breathlessly at the bare concrete wall, her ears buzzing at the roar of blood.
She wasn't expecting a reply.
"Everything's alright, hen. It's over. Ye're safe." The rough, sweet voice, thick with the warm Scottish accent, bounced off her skin in a shiver.
She had called out to him instinctively, as if to snatch him away from that nightmare that still lingered on the periphery of her vision. Finding him beside her, that was a whole different story.
Her heart, already pounding in her chest, shot up to the stars.
The doctor blinked a couple of times to clear the veil of terror that was slightly clouding her vision, to focus on the heavy outlines of the enormous figure in distress beside her bed. Sitting on the desk chair, too small for his size, he seemed crumpled under the weight of his thermal suit, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands clasped at his chin.
"Ye were out cold for a couple o'hours, LT. I was startin' tae get worried."
From under the white camouflaged helmet, he flashed a grin of such heartfelt arrogance that Yael was almost tempted to wipe it off with a slap. His love for her was so blatant that a sob escaped her pale lips.
He must have stayed with her all that time, instead of setting off.
"God... Forgive me." Yael murmured, her nails instinctively clawing at the fresh bandage on her left forearm. The sudden burning sensation flared in her brain, momentarily easing the surge of adrenaline: "I... wasn't myself."
A nervous grin puffed out between his full lips, a rough breath revealing his canines, but his fingers in the thick gray thermal gloves contracted slightly.
"It's nae bother, bonnie. Ye were in shock. Adrenaline plays nasty tricks." the sergeant croaked, and his irises seemed so blue in the light filtering through the dusty windows near the ceiling that she thought she would be blinded.
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Wait For Me || John "Soap" MacTavish x OC (Call Of Duty)
FanfictionYael Williams, an emergency surgeon at the Royal Infirmary Hospital in Manchester, is haunted by a painful past. Dedicated to her work, Yael is brilliant and tenacious. However, her traumatic past has made her introverted and distrustful. A chance e...
