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scrunklyscrimblobatman · 6 months ago

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Gut wrenching and beautiful, delightful read

I’m Not Ready To Go

Mature || Ghost x Soap

cw: angst, MCD, vomiting, graphic description of a corpse, blood and gore, hurt no comfort

————

It’s warm here,

Come on in,

But that’s a long way to dive,

When you don’t know how to swim

- Hazlett, I’m Not Ready To Go

————

When John MacTavish was eight years old, his family went on vacation. Gun to his head, he couldn’t say where exactly, but he remembered being warm, a stark contrast to the chilled air of the Scottish Highlands that seemed to sink into his very bones. There was a pool, somewhere near where they were staying, and John had been fixated by it. It was brilliant blue, unnaturally so, and the surface shimmered in the summer sun, blinding, yet so alluring. His fascination hadn’t gone unnoticed, and his mother had led him to the water’s edge, clad in his brand new swim trunks, to dip a toe into the unknown. She slipped into the pool, the glittering sun reflecting off of the water, wreathing her in ethereal light, and motioned for him to jump in after her. But John balked. He’d never been swimming before, had never been in water deeper than his bathtub, and the thought of leaping so readily into uncharted waters had his entire body freezing up, fear lacing his veins like a paralytic.

“I dinnae ken how to swim,” he whimpered.

“It’s okay, John,” his mother had said, low and assured. “I know it’s scary, but I’m right here. I’ll hold your hand; I won’t let you fall.”

Trusting her was as easy as breathing. With one hand tight in her grip, he stepped off of the edge and into oblivion.

————

The gunshot didn’t hurt, all things considered. No more than his aching legs or straining lungs, anyway. Pressure against his temple, a concussive force that was over in a flash; the impact of his shoulder against the concrete hurt more than the bullet lodged in his brain, nestled in a bed of shattered bone. Vaguely, he could feel a rush, like water over his skull, hot and slick as his brain matter pooled on the ground beneath him.

And then he got up.

It was perhaps the hardest thing he’d ever done, but something in his chest, or maybe his soul, knew that there was no other option. He had to get up, so he did. He managed to roll over, get his arms underneath him, and push himself to his knees. The change in elevation made the gaping hole in his head gush, spilling scorching blood over his ear and down his neck, soaking into his shirt and tac vest, and nausea roiled in his stomach at the sensation. The world was blurry and vague, as if submerged; everything around him was muffled and slanting. He was lightheaded, which made sense, considering half of his head was currently on the ground. He swayed slightly, trying to catch his balance with the new weight distribution but it felt like he was keeling over, a ship caught in a gale, a drunkard stumbling out of a pub. His arms swung out, desperate to find some semblance of equilibrium, but he couldn’t quite manage it with half of his head suddenly feeling much lighter than before.

His stomach made a valiant attempt to keep its contents in place at the resulting swoop of vertigo, but it lost the fight as soon as he caught a glimpse of the pool of red, bright against the off-white floor. He twisted to the side, palms braced against the cold concrete to compensate for the abrupt movement, and narrowly avoided vomiting on his own body.

His own, dead, body.

Vaguely, as stomach acid burned the back of his throat, his stomach convulsing painfully, his eyes watering from the force, he wondered how it was possible. Wondered how he could be here and there at the same time, living and dead, conscious and a corpse. Normally, he didn’t make a habit of questioning miracles, leaving skepticism to Price and Ghost, but this didn’t feel like a miracle.

A train swept by, deafening in the tunnel, and the wind buffeted his body, both of them. Through the din, he heard a voice.

“John.”

She was beautiful, all soft skin and warm eyes, blinding yet alluring. Beautiful in the way that men would walk through fire and flame for, if only she led the way. Beautiful in the way that men would kill and die for, if only for the prize of her gentle smile. Beautiful in the way that had John listing towards her, towards her outstretched hand, trust as easy as breathing, but then… he balked. He looked back.

The bomb, disarmed.

Gaz and Price, standing off to the side. Gaz’s face was pressed against Price’s tac vest, his fists curled in the back of his captain’s shirt as he sobbed, held up only by the support of Price’s arms wrapped around his body.

Ghost, kneeling next to his dead body. His head was bowed, his gloved fingers tight on his knees, as if the tension held in his bones was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

“It’s okay, John,” she said, so softly that he shouldn’t have been able to hear her, but her voice rang clear anyway. He glanced back, breath caught in his throat.

“Who are ye?” He asked, but he knew who she was. He knew her as innately as he knew his own mother, the sound of her heartbeat, the warmth of her skin, the moment his life began. Death stood before him, and he knew that this was the moment his life ended.

All at once, a maelstrom of emotion surged through him. Rage, grief, fear. They ignited in his blood like a wildfire, scorching him from the inside out. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair.

“I’m no’ ready to go,” he snarled, face twisted in fury, but the anger melted like snow in the face of her impassivity. He’d learned a lot from Ghost over the years, but he’d never gained the ability to intimidate Death herself, especially when she was looking at him with such gentle kindness.

“I know it’s scary,” she said, and something in him broke. Tears streamed down his cheeks before he even felt the sting in his eyes and he couldn’t catch his breath, his mouth caught open on a sob that lodged in his throat. He wrapped his arms around himself, as tightly as he could given his bulky gear, but it didn’t help. He couldn’t escape this nightmare. There was no comfort to be found here.

“I’m no’ done here,” he ground out, quiet between his lips but it echoed impossibly through the tunnel as if he had howled it, carrying all of the emotion he’d held back. He turned back to the dismal sight; to his lifeless body sprawled on the floor, heat leeching out with his blood; to his team, seemingly stuck in place, undoubtedly waiting for the medical team to arrive with the body bag. “I’m no’ even thirty,” he whispered, voice thick. “I’m supposed to have more time.”

“I’m afraid not, John,” she said. The words should’ve hurt, should’ve made him bear his teeth and fight, but he couldn’t summon the defensiveness. Desolation took its place, like a gaping hole in his chest, a twin to the one in his head. “This is all the time you get.”

“No.” He shook his head. He couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. “There’s so much I didnae get to see, I cannae leave yet. Don’t make me leave.”

“You can’t stay, John.”

Her words sank through him like a stone in a still pond. He knew she was right, could feel the truth in his bones, like an ache that wouldn’t leave, a chill that he couldn’t shiver out.

“I gave everything!” He yelled, pressing his hands to his eye sockets, hard, but the outburst ebbed just as quickly as it had the first time, leaving only empty, numb resignation and a hollow sense of defeat. “I gave everything, and this is what I get?”

“I’m sorry, John,” she said earnestly after a long moment, so earnestly that he couldn’t doubt her. It only made it worse. He shuffled forward until his knees his his own side, until he was face to face with Ghost, or would have been, had Ghost been able to tear his eyes from the cold corpse between them. John lifted his trembling hands, just shy of cupping the mask-shrouded lines of Ghost’s cheeks. For a moment, a split second, Ghost glanced up, as if he could sense John’s proximity, the chill of his fingers only centimeters from his face, and their eyes met. The moment seemed to stretch and warp, a second caught in an endless expanse as he stared into the depths of Ghost’s, bourbon brown eyes for the last time. And then Ghost dropped his head again, and the second shattered.

“I cannae leave him,” he said, directing the words over his shoulder even as he kept his eyes on the slope of Ghost’s mask, the way his balaclava rippled where his hair was flattened underneath it, the careful stitching that kept the whole ensemble together. “Don’t make me leave him, not like this. I cannae- I never got to tell him…”

He knew he was dangerously close to begging, knew how hopeless it was, but he had to try.

“Simon,” he breathed, then again, louder, the sudden resurgence of his anguish lending a warbling strength to his words. “Simon, I’m so sorry, love, I didnae mean to, I promise, please, love, please look at me again-“

“He can’t hear you, John,” she murmured.

“Tell me he’ll be okay,” he snarled at the interruption, whipping his head to the side, just far enough to throw the words behind him. A bad idea, if the swoop of his still-unbalanced head was any indication, but he didn’t care. There was nothing more important than this. The urgency was glass under his skin, paralyzing.

“John, I can’t-“

“Lie to me if you have to,” he snapped, “but tell me he’ll be okay. He’ll die in his sleep when he’s eighty, quick and painless. Tell me he makes it out. Tell me he disnae die here.”

He could hear another train coming, rushing down the tracks, rumbling through his knees. The medics would be here soon, no doubt, and then it would be chaos. Team members or not, the rest of the 141 would be swept to the side, told to return to base for debrief and several rounds of psychological evaluations. He could see the slow preparation to move in the shift of Price’s arms around Gaz, getting ready to let go, letting him find his footing again before stepping back. He could see it in the flexing of Ghost’s hands against his knees, fingertips digging into the flesh of his thighs, burying everything until they got back to base, just like he always did. Only, this time, he wouldn’t be there to see it. He wouldn’t be there to bump his shoulder against Simon’s, a comforting weight at his side.

“I love you, Johnny,” Simon whispered, so low that John thought he’d imagined it. Agony laced his voice, dripping with grief and guilt. He ripped off his mask, quick and desperate, and John was gifted the unique torment of watching, helpless, as Simon’s lips curled in a silent keen, his tears running in wavering rivulets down his scarred cheeks. He brought the cloth part of his mask up to his face to wipe away the tears. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry, Johnny.”

He stretched his hand out and his fingers were twitching, his arm trembling, every sniper instinct utterly broken, but the touch he used to close John’s unseeing eyes was as gentle as a wave, softer than water, extinguishing the dull, lifeless blue.

“Goodbye, love,” he breathed, and then he stood up, pulling his mask back over his head, shutting out the rest of the world, containing everything that was Simon Riley behind the skull plate, locked tight. He turned, stooping to pick up his gun, and stalked out of the tunnel, not waiting for Price or Gaz to catch up.

John stared after him, rendered—for once in his life, or maybe only in death—speechless. The train hurtled through the tunnel, but he barely noticed it. He felt scraped hollow, nothing more than a husk, eyes caught on the retreating back of the love of his life. He’d never be able to say it back.

“He makes it out,” Death said softly as the sound of the train faded in the distance. He’d forgotten she was there, but he didn’t startle. She was a calming presence at his back, a warmth that he couldn’t explain, didn’t even try. He didn’t know if she was lying and he didn’t dare ask. It was a comforting fantasy, if nothing else. He swallowed roughly, ran a hand through his mohawk, and stood up. It was easier this time, somehow, or maybe he’d gotten used to the dead weight. He turned, his back to his own corpse for the first time, and felt the yawning expanse of the unknown in front of him, a nebulous, unseen aura that shimmered like sun on water, wreathing Death in ethereal light. Her expression was soft and sympathetic, but he didn’t feel the sharp sting of pity he’d expected. It made his next words a little easier to bear.

“I dinnae… I dinnae ken how to swim.”

“I’m right here, John,” she said, low and assured. “I’ll hold your hand; I won’t let you fall.”

Trusting her was as easy as breathing. He placed his hand in hers, tight in her grip, and together, they stepped off of the edge and into oblivion.

————

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#good writing

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