@jericholeader sent a meme but actually this didn’t turn out to be a response to the meme because i ended it here. but here is a this.
It was called a Spontaneous Breathing Test. It was a prerequisite for extubation, which Connor had been told he’d failed twice in the past (he believed them, though he had no memory of the attempts and rarely failed anything at all), a period of two hours where they switched off the ventilator and waited to see how well his body breathed on its own. There were criteria to fulfill for an SBT and many of them were right at the start: the first breath in, the ability to cough “adequately” (whatever that meant), whether it was harder to draw air off a ventilator than it was on it.
He was past the first hurdles this time. The first breath was a little delayed, but he drew it in with a rasp and then a cough, hand grasping at Markus’ (he could not lift his head to find him). The focus it required worried him. Like he might somehow forget to breathe if he wasn’t paying close attention, but the alternative was staying intubated. Nobody had said much about it, but Connor was a Detective. He did not need to be able to lift his head to catch the feel of the room when they considered leaving him intubated longer still, longer than it had already been.
Shit, was what Connor would have said, if he had been able to speak, at this point. Breathing for himself, even with a tube down his throat, made a lot of it sharper somehow. The way his ribs ached, the cuts and scratches on his hands and neck (some of them defensive wounds; some of them a murder attempt), the bone-deep tired that probably had taken those memories of the first two attempts, and may well take this one. The fact he wanted Markus there, and it was a shame he could not see him. Instead of swearing Connor squeezed his hand, now, and Markus returned it, murmuring something patient and warm. This must have been awful for him. It was unfair, vastly unfair, that they were here, when Markus should have been moving on from time in an ICU room and courtrooms and being scared.
Connor rolled his head just that fraction of a distance that meant he could find Markus, now, sitting behind him and close enough Connor could see the much-later-than-five-o’clock shadow that he’d been feeling every time Markus pressed a kiss to his knuckles, or temple, or hair. Likely Markus just hadn’t considered it much of a priority, but he liked him like this, Connor thought. He had always liked when Markus’ facial hair got a little longer. Scruffy. A little bit scratchy. Maybe not to keep, but it was nice, to see it every once in a while. He would see many more of Markus’ five-o’clock-shadows, probably.
It was warm to think about. He remembered very recently thinking he would not see Markus, or anyone, again.
Two hours wasn’t long at all, Connor decided, when Markus leant forward to brush a thumb over his cheek and offer a book, or sketching, to fill in the time. Connor liked to watch him sketch. It was easier to follow than the cadence of Markus’ voice as he read aloud, though he had the sense Markus had done that quite a bit, these last few days (days? weeks?). Time had a way of disappearing inside hospital rooms, and so far breathing was maybe a little uncomfortable, but not hard. The difficult part would be staying awake the whole two hours, and he would not -- did not -- have to do that on his own.
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Open Arms - John "Soap" MacTavish
Soap might be the tiniest bit jealous of the throw pillows you nap with. You might just have to do something about that.
A/N; can someone please give soap a hug
Wordcount; 605
TW; none... but beware of tooth rotting fluff
"Why don' you hold me like that, huh?"
You blink a few times, swallow twice. Freshly awoken from a nap, your mind is still foggy, and you glance halfheartedly towards the sound of the voice--your boyfriend, Johnny MacTavish--with bleary eyes.
As you fully come to, you see him sitting at the opposite end of the couch, an amused expression on his face.
It takes you a moment to speak. "Huh?"
"I said," he repeats, leaning back on the cushions and giving you a sideways glance, "Why can' you hold me like that?"
Your brows furrow.
He rolls his eyes teasingly in response, gesturing to the throw pillow you have clutched in your grip. It's drawn close to your chest, chin hooked over the edge.
"You're talking about the pillow?" You ask drowsily, voice equal parts teasing and confused. "You're jealous of a pillow? I didn't take you for the type."
"Och, shut up," he chuckles, waving a dismissive hand in mock irritation.
You take a breath, momentarily shut your eyes, and stretch out on the cushions like a cat in sunshine. When you look up at Johnny again, his attention is elsewhere, looking at something on his phone. Frowning softly at the sight, you nudge the edge of his thigh with your foot.
He glances over at you, a brow raised. "Yeah, lass?"
You wordlessly pat the empty space on the cushion beside you.
This time, your boyfriend's the confused one. "What?"
"C'mere," you say, dropping the throw pillow to the ground and making a show of stretching your arms open.
His eyes glitter with amusement. That familiar, easy smile is tugging at the corner of his lips again. "Y'really don' have to. I was just jokin' with you."
"Lucky for you, I take everything seriously," you banter back, patting the cushion once more.
After a moment's hesitation, Johnny shifts to face you fully. "And... you're sure about this?" He asks, biting the inside of his lip. His gaze catches on your open arms, your sleepily determined expression. "You're positive?"
You don't miss his hesitance. When you speak again, you're mindful to keep your tone soft and inviting. "I wouldn't offer unless I wanted it."
You watch him swallow, Adam's Apple bobbing before he finally bridges the gap and settles himself within your open arms. There's not enough room for the two of you to lay side by side, so you lay flat on your back, Johnny sprawling overtop of you like some sort of weighted blanket. His head falls to rest on your chest. Almost instinctively, you reach up and card your hands through his hair.
You swear you hear him purr.
"Good?" You ask quietly as his arms wrap snugly around your waist. The hand that's not playing with his hair rubs gentle circles on his upper back, almost imitating the way you'd hold a stuffed animal.
"Mhm," he mumbled.
Leaning down an inch or so, you press a kiss to the crown of his head and relish his contented sigh.
For a while, there's nothing but a calm, slow quiet. There's the distant sound of the ventilation system kicking on; the faint scent of dish soap hanging in the air from when you'd worked together on chores earlier in the day. Johnny's chest rises and falls in time with your own.
After several minutes of muted hums and soft breaths, he speaks up, voice slightly muffled. "So," he murmurs, "You're tellin' me this is how you treat our pillows every time you settle in for a nap?"
You shrug. "Basically."
He groans quietly, burying his face in your chest. "...Lucky fuckin' bastards."
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