Wait For Me || John "Soap" MacTavish x OC (Call Of Duty)

45. Simon

The ticking of the clock was unbearable. 

Its sharp tick echoed relentlessly from the wall above the double doors of the operating theatre, right down to the bone. Swift and yet agonisingly slow. 

Shoulders pressed against the cold linoleum of the corridor, Simon was almost tempted to throw one of the knives hidden in his vest against it. As if that might shatter the damned waiting, too. 

Body rigid, breathing ragged, he eyed the black clock hands, trying to bottle up his anger, to shrink it down within his suddenly tight chest. 

He hadn't moved since they'd first set foot in the corridor, lit by the cold, humming fluorescent lights. 

Along with Gaz and the Captain, he had retreated into a stubborn, shocked silence. 

It was clear that what they had witnessed had marked them. It was plain to see in Garrick's incessantly tapping foot, and in the way Price rolled an unlit cigar beneath his dark moustache.

Yet, none of them seemed willing to break the silence, to admit to that bitter, visceral feeling. 

Five, maybe six hours must have passed when, without warning, the sterile door slid open with a soft, dry hiss. 

A draught of cold air, sharp with the smell of disinfectant, swept into the brightly lit corridor, bringing with it the slight, drawn figure of Yael Williams. 

Simon swallowed, his throat parched, his shoulders instinctively peeling away from the wall. Instantly, the three men surrounded her in the doorway. 

She seemed even smaller, dwarfed by the weight of their hope, by the scale of what they expected from her. 

"He's stable," the young woman murmured then, pale, her gaze distant, her eyes shadowed with fatigue. 

Garrick muttered an unrepeatable curse under his breath, his fingers twisting his grey baseball cap. 

"Good work, Williams," the captain croaked with a nod, his voice rough, thick from the long silence. 

The young woman didn't reply, seemingly not registering the acknowledgement, avoiding eye contact, a trickle of sweat still beading on her olive brow. 

"They're taking him to Intensive Care. You'll be able to see him shortly," she exhaled wearily, her small hand pulling off her surgical cap as if its touch had suddenly become unbearable. 

A blink, nothing more, then suddenly, Yael Williams's entire slender frame seemed to give way. She started to slide downwards. 

Simon's arms shot out instinctively, catching her before she hit the floor, her body bumping lightly against his chest. She was trembling. 

"Doc..." the lieutenant grunted, momentarily breathless as he took her weight. He clearly felt her fingers dig into his vest, pushing him away with a composure that somehow both irritated and touched him. 

Williams quickly regained her balance, not meeting his eyes, and a wave of stubborn pride flared in his chest. 

"I'm fine. I just need... excuse me," the doctor mumbled, her slender arms pushing tentatively between Garrick and the captain to make an escape. 

She strode quickly down the pale corridor, without a backward glance. Her back was straight, yet the slight tremor in her shoulders, the hint of unsteadiness, struck Simon with an unpleasant force. 

He only realised he'd started after her when Captain Price's voice – hoarse, almost peremptory – reached him. 

"Ghost. Steady."