That evening, Soap found her smoking a cigarette out on the front stoop of the burned out house. She'd changed out of her bloody battle gear but evidently hadn't bothered to wash her face or hands. Her temple was streaked in dried blood and there were smudges of dirt around her forehead and chin. The dragon tattoo down the length of her arm looked as if it was breathing angry, rust coloured fire and her knuckles had little cuts on them from when she'd punched the table earlier.
She did not respond to his seating beside her. Soap hadn't the faintest idea on what would be the right thing to say to the woman. Sure he'd lost his Lieutenant and most competent soldier, but she'd lost her best friend and brother. Sure, he felt betrayed, shaken up and angry, but he knew that the magnitude of his emotions could in no way compare to hers.
They sat in silence for a long time, hoping that the nicotine they were sucking into their systems could somehow make things a little better. In the back of his mind, Soap found himself craving Villa Clara's cigars because fags did nothing for him. Sighing, he moved to flick the butt of his cigarette away when she decided to speak.
"I'm never going to let that fuck bastard get away with this for as long as I live. I'm going to hunt him down and disembowel the fuck out of him." Her voice was small and flat, unparalleled to the brutal nature of her words.
Soap nodded. "You know we're all with you on this. When we find him, I'll let you take the first shot," he joked lightly in an attempt to dispel the grey clouds that hung over them.
She stared ahead into nothingness, never once turning to face him the entire time they'd been sitting there. She lit another cigarette, taking a deep drag from it and letting the smoke billow out of her nose. Watching it dispel, she allowed her broken eyes to follow the wisps up into the purple sky. Up, up, up, higher and higher, like Simon's lost soul.
Finally she turned to him. Her expression told no stories of the sentiments she must be feeling. Her brilliant sea green eyes seemed as though they'd turned a shade darker. He randomly remembered that they used to shine bright, that when he looked into them before, he could always distinguish about a dozen different shades of green in them, beautiful emeralds dancing in the light of the sun. Not like now, never like now.
"I'm numb, Soap." Her voice was so quiet that Soap could barely figure out what she was saying. "I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. Everything is so surreal, like we're living in a bad movie."
"I understand."
Her gaze drifted down to a spot on his upper arm. He followed her gaze. There was a vicious, jagged cut sitting there, lined maroon, little dollops of dried blood collected on it. Her cold fingers ghosted over the groove, touching it where it stung the most and he suddenly realized that he hadn't even noticed it'd been there before. He shifted uncomfortably and tried not to flinch under the contact of her skin.
"It's nothing. Just a scratch." he muttered.
"It's not just a scratch. There are little shards of metal in it," she said. "Come inside and I'll get you patched up."
She stood, offering her hand to him. Taking it, he let himself be pulled up and permitted her to push his reluctant form into the shelter.
"Sit down," she motioned vaguely around the room.
Soap did as she asked, selecting one of the battered chairs in the center of the room. Using a piece of torn off, white cloth dipped in alcohol and a pair of forceps, she cleaned his wound, removing the dry blood in order to assess the cut better. Turning a battery-operated table lamp to his arm, she slowly but carefully picked out the fragments embedded in his skin.
He watched her as she worked. Her hands were steady and sure, her eyes unwavering and razor-sharp. Loose strands of dirty hair were thrown messily back to reveal the grime on her forehead. Lips pursed in concentration, eyebrows slightly raised. Soap did not know what it was about her, but she looked magnificent just then. He wondered what it'd be like to kiss her pain away, how it'd be like to hold her in his arms and never let go. With a shake of his head, he tried to fling those inappropriate thoughts out the window, ashamed of even thinking them in the first place. This was no time for sappy, puppy love.
She noticed the movement out of the corner of her eye and stopped to look up at him. "Does it hurt?"
"No." His voice was strained.
"Right, well I've got the shards out, now I've just got to stitch you up good and we're done." She reached past him to grab her suture needle. Kneeling back down, she peered up into his eyes. "This is gonna hurt a bit, needle's pretty blunt. I lost all my other ones back where Simon… was killed," her voice trailed away and she looked down, setting her teeth against her bottom lip.
Soap nodded, choosing to ignore the last statement in order to save her the agony. "That's okay, I live for pain."
She proceeded to thread the needle and stitched him up. The pain did not register with him, he felt it too often, so often that he was practically desensitized from it. But that didn't mean he couldn't feel emotional pain, he felt it more often than not, especially when the men he were supposed to lead into battle gave their lives under his command. Especially with Ghost and Roach. How he wished he could turn back time and take those fatal shots for them.
She stood back to scrutinize the end product of her efforts. Satisfied, she slapped a bandage on it and packed up her medical supplies. "Try not to work that arm too much, you might re-open the wound. Come find me after three days and I'll replace the bandages and if all's good, I'll take them stitches out next week," she called over her shoulder.
He stood uncertainly. "Thanks, Doc."
"Don't mention it." She turned back to him, her eyebrows cocked questioningly. "Got any other injuries I should know of?"
He smiled reassuringly. "Just a few other scrapes and bruises."
"Well, I guess we're done here then. See you tomorrow, Soap." Turning on her heels, she made for the adjoining room, her footsteps racking up clouds of dust from the floor.
Soap watched her leave, shoving his hands into his pockets and feeling his calloused fingers brush against the cold metal of the dogtags nestled in the crook of his right pocket. Pulling them out, he promptly remembered why they were there.
"Hold on, Doc, not so fast!" He called out to her in an almost panicked voice, stopping her dead in her tracks. She pivoted, her fingers still curled around the doorknob she was about to open.
"What is it?"
Soap closed the distance between them in three large steps and held out the dogtags to her by its chain. She stared at them. He couldn't make out the expression on her downcast face.
"I was waiting for the right time to give them to you but I figured that there's never gonna be a right time," he pushed them towards her, desperate for her to take them and to stop making him feel like an insensitive buffoon. The more she hesitated, the more he regretted his decision. You half-witted imbecile, the man just fucking died for Christ's sakes, he berated himself loudly for being so stupid.
"Perhaps I could give them to you another time," he mumbled, moving to put the chain back into his pocket.
"That's all right," she held out a trembling hand and Soap put the dogtags into it, his big hand enveloping hers.
She studied the tags, her fingers running over the spots of dried blood and the engraved name on it. Simon "Ghost" Riley, it said. Her hand flew to her mouth and she seemed to be fighting back tears. She couldn't stop the strangled, tortured noise that escaped her throat.
"You know I've always got your back, right?"
She nodded and backed into the room wordlessly, shutting the door behind her. Soap stood listening for a moment. He heard her muffled sobbing against the door, a thud on the floor as if she'd let herself drop onto it. He heard her taking breathless, tormented gasps, the heavy storm in her mind finally letting loose its tumultuous temper. He couldn't listen anymore, couldn't stand the way she was lamenting, couldn't stand the fact that now she was truly alone in this collosal, inexorable world. He'd never felt so much pain for anyone and it broke his heart.
He walked away.