prompt: (Y/n) gets revived from a fatal shot, but there's a catch

warning: strong language, blood, near-death experiences, etc.

word count: 2010

pronouns: gender-neutral

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second-person point of view. . .

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It was a soft and slow pull, almost as if the hands of conciseness did not want to disturb your slumber too much. Your eyelids stuttered open and your eyes struggled to adjust to the suddenly bright lights. Finally, your awareness came back to you. There was a bed under you, but not the kind meant for sleeping. It was a hospital bed, but the sights surrounding you were none that belonged to a real hospital.

Panic instantly shot through you and you sprang up. The abrupt movement caused someone else in the room to jump. A young woman with glasses and a well-tailored suit. She was no doctor. Who was she? Your feet hit the floor and you force the numb limbs to stand.

"(Y/n)!" She looked relieved when she realized you were awake. "Sit down, you need to rest."

Your hands moved on their own, grabbing the scalpel sitting on the cart to your left. You lunged for the woman, latching onto her collar to hold the scalpel blade to her neck. She did not fight back but instead tried her best to stay calm.

"How do you know my name?" You asked, using the low and threatening tone you have trained for years. "And where the hell am I?"

"I know your name because I'm your friend. It's me, Ginger," she explained with a shaky breath. "We're Statesman--agents of an independent intelligence agency. You got shot in the head on a mission, so you're in the medical wing."

The cold metal was still pressing against her skin. Ginger held your stare, though her brown eyes were far less intense than yours. She could tell your memory had not returned to you quite yet. She had to think of another way to trigger that jog, but Ginger could not remember an experience of yours traumatic enough to bring them all back. Especially not while you were holding a knife to her neck. 

You heard the sound of footsteps approaching. You saw him out of the corner of your eye and quickly knew he would pose more of a threat than this Ginger judging by his stature.

"Shit," the man hissed. "(Y/n), calm down!"

He rushed for you, presumably to pry you off Ginger. While keeping on hand at her collar, you switched the scalpel's target. You kept the man back with the blade to his neck, forcing him to stay out of arm's reach. He held no fear in his doe eyes, not even a little.

"They don't remember who they are," Ginger said, directing her words to the man at the end of your knife. "It's one of the side-effects of the Alpha Gell. We have to get them to remember--"

"Shut up!" You seethed, still holding your ground. "People don't live after getting shot in the head."

Your gaze was constantly shifting from the woman you held by the tight collar and the man you kept at bay with the scalpel. They were lying, they had to be. The man inched closer after a moment of silence as if to test your commitment. The blade did not budge, it only came dangerously close to splitting his skin.

If you had not been so blind-sighted, you would have made fun of the stupid cowboy hat he wore. Or maybe you would have remarked on his accent, the one that you could not help but assume was fake. Yet, his body language was telling you he was being genuine and so was Ginger's. They must be well trained to manufacture even the subtle movements.

"But sometimes they live from gettin' shot in the neck... ain't that right?" The man wondered slowly, looking you in the eye when your stare fell back to him.

"The fuck are you talking about?" You sneered, not letting your attention slip from him as he reach his hand closer to you.

He could almost touch an inch above the crook of your neck. He pointed to that spot, carefully, as to not make any sudden movements.

"That scar," he began cautiously, holding eye contact. "You were shot in the neck, I was there."

Your first response was, I don't have a scar like that on my neck. There were no signs of lies when he spoke. There was a small chance he was telling the truth, that they both were. You could not check for a scar while keeping both the strangers from having an opportunity to attack.

"It was just the two of us that mission," he went on, recalling the night with specific vividness. "We were in Georgia, it was so hot the air felt heavy. We crawled through the swap to find a militia's hideout." A chuckle interrupted him. "I complained the whole time and you threatened to cut my tongue out."

You looked back at Ginger, who had yet to resist you. A new kind of panic worked its way into your head. Could he be right? That sounds like something you would do, but you have absolutely zero memory of him or that night. You had no way of knowing if you could trust him.

"We got through about half of 'em before some bastard got in a lucky shot," he uncomfortably shifted his jaw, like he was still sore about what happened. "I pulled you out of the way. I'd never seen you scared like that. You really thought you were gonna die." His voice passed every test you could put it through, but still, you could not recall. "I promised you I'd never let that happen."

In such a distraught state, he managed to get closer without getting his throat slit. Your guard was slipping by the second and he could tell. His hand slowly came to rest over yours, the one that held Ginger's collar. He guided your fingers somewhere else and you let him. He pressed them against the spot on your neck he had pointed to. You felt the bumps of lacerated skin, quickly identifying it as, in fact, a scar. As soon as that registered, all your forgotten memories hit you like a tidal wave.

The sudden searing pain, the hot blood that poured over you, the feeling of the wet marshland as you laid on the ground, the hands that gently cradled your head and applied pressure to the hole in your neck, the assuring but all the while afraid eyes that peered down at you, the soft whisper of you're going to be okay, we'll make it outta this, I'll never let anything happen to you, don't you worry, (Y/n)--you remember that night. In a matter of moments, you remember everything.

"Jack... " you whispered his name under your breath as if you were unsure that was the correct answer. He nodded his head with a kind smile. The scalpel slipped from your fingers and clattered against the shiny tiled floor. Tears burned at your eyes after you were forced to remember everything, including the heartaches you had wished to bury. You fought them down.

"I'm sorry," you immediately apologize, quickly whipping over to look at Ginger--your friend Ginger. "I'm so sorry! I--"

"It's not your fault," she told you, signing with relief. "I'm just glad you're back now."

"But you said one of the side-effects was memory loss," you reminded her. "What else is there?"

"Nothing precise," Ginger admitted, adjusting her glasses which had stumbled when you grabbed her. "You just won't be in the right mind for a while. You should probably stay here for a few days, just in case."

"No, she'll go home," Jack jumped in. "I'll keep an eye on her."

Reluctantly, Ginger agreed to discharge you, supposing it might help your recovery to stay somewhere so familiar. Jack drove you home, he even walked you inside your home. He knew you well, so when he saw the way your eyes had glossed over, he knew he could not leave you alone. Slowly, he came to sit next to you on your sofa.

"You alright?" He wondered in a soft voice.

"I'll be okay," you sighed, your hands running over your face. "I think I just need to get some sleep."

"Then I suppose you wouldn't mind me crashin' here," Jack patted the space between you.

You shook your head.

"You don't have to do that," you told him.

In truth, you needed the company. You needed someone to keep you distracted so you would not think about the memories that were recently pulled to the forefront of your mind. You needed someone to keep you anchored to reality and the present moment so you would not lose it again. You needed someone to sit there and make stupid jokes so you would forget about the things that haunted you--if even for just a moment.

"I want to," he insisted with that warm smile of his. "I'm nothin' if not a man of my word."

That was a partial lie, and you knew it, but you were too exhausted to say anything in response. You could now recall multiple instances in which he swore a plan of his would work and it, in fact, did not work. Though, perhaps that was more of a pride issue. He kept his word when it was a commitment between friends.

Jack suddenly got to his feet with a small huff. He placed a firm hand onto one of your drooping shoulders.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed," he suggested and you nodded your head.

You walked down the hall as your body remembered the motions better than your mind remembered the path. Inside your bedroom, you tossed your shirt, which was stained with day-old blood, into the dirty laundry pile amassing in a small basket. Jack oh-so chivalrously averted his eyes without you ordering him to. Once in something more comfortable, you climbed on your unmade bed.

"Make yourself at home while I'm out," you told him, shifting the blankets to your liking. "Just don't go through my stuff."

"I'm gonna assume that doesn't apply to the fridge." Jack stood at the side of your bed, looking at you with his hands in his jean pockets.

"Course not," you mumbled, settling further into your welcoming mattress. "Goodnight... and thank you."

"You don't have a thing to thank me for," Jack assured you, though you were already about to drift off.

He smoothed your hair back fondly. There was no scar, but his eyes kept drifting to your forehead. He could not help but lean down and press his lips to the spot. It was not necessarily out of character for him, so your sluggish senses did not register the deeper meaning of his actions.

"Get some rest," Jack said. "I'll be here in the morning."

The quiet sound of your bedroom door clicking shut nearly echoed off the hallway walls. He returned to the living room, to the sofa he had been sitting on mere minutes ago. He went back to that position, taking the hat off of his head to set it on the coffee table a foot from him.

It was remarkable that there was no scar on your forehead. He had seen the bullet hole and how brutal it was. That sight made him afraid in a way he had not experienced in a long time. No one would be able to tell you were shot--shot by a bullet that was not even meant for you.

Though you lived, Jack could not shake the guilt that racked him. What if you had died? Certainly, he would not have been able to live with himself, even when there was nothing he could have done to stop you from jumping into the line of fire. You took the shot so he would not. Did you even know it would hit you in the head? Did you know the Alpha Gell would work?

Jack did not have an answer to either of those questions, but he figured it would not have mattered. You would have done it anyway. He felt a sore smile form on his face. Despite every sarcastic comment and deadpanned threat, you cared about him. And that scared him just as much as the image of your open eyes staring up at him as blood dripped down your face from the hole in your skull.