#HOLY SHIT I WROTE SUMMAT! MA GET THE CAMERA

[vivisectedvitality]

"i don't believe in god, so you're the only one to whom i can pray"

cw: prior mcd, brief suicidal ideation

ghost sits in the front pew of a tiny catholic church in russia. his skin prickles underneath his gear, rifle sat next to him on the bench. he shouldnt be here. he shouldnt be sticking his neck out like this when theyre so close to catching makarov. practically at his front door price had said. or was it gaz. he cant remember very many small details right now.

the church has all the same fittings as the one they held johnny's service at. it's much less ornate though. he thinks johnny might have liked this one better. less frills, much simpler than the drawn out affair they'd had in glasgow. ghost sticks his hand in one of the pockets of his tac vest and figets with the warped bullet fragments in it.

his eyes are drawn to a statue to the side of the altar. its of a woman, eyes looking skyward. she's got swords encircling her, something like a halo over her head. he can't remember her name. something about wounds and sorrow. ghost scoffs, fist tightening in his pocket. the shards of metal dig into his palm.

there's a shift in the constant cloud cover outside, and a solitary beam of sunlight shines through a small window behind the altar. it filters perfectly through the stained glass, casting the pew ghost is on in muted reds and blues. he releases his grip on the metal pieces in his pocket and removes his hand from it, slumping in his seat. blessed sunshine. there's something he could worship. after all these weeks, either holed up inside or underground or living under steel grey skies he felt like some kind of prayer of his had been answered.

it gives him an idea. a bad one, but those seem to be the only kind he can come across these days.

ghost pulls off his gloves, one finger at a time, and sets them on the pew. he flexes his fingers and puts them together like he'd seen people do when they were in church, like he'd seen johnny's mother do after he'd told her that her boy would be coming home in a body bag. he shuffles forward and down until creaky knees make contact with creaky wood, and he waits for the words to come.

but they don't. he sits there for long minutes and nothing comes out. the small beam of sunlight dissappears back into the constant grey, leaving him in the half light of the abandoned church again. he drops down to sit on his calves. the backs of his shoes are digging into his ass and the edge of the pew is jabbing into his vest. he should get up. but he doesn't. he can't. if this is it, the end of makarov, what may be the end of ghost himself, he's going to get through to johnny one way or another, even if he has to sit here on his knees for hours to believe in his god.

another idea occurs to him. it's worse than the first. but he's sick of failing, so he tries anyway.

ghost reaches up and pulls his mask off, tossing it into the seat behind him. he regains his earlier posture, kneeling with his legs straight, hands clasped together, looking up through the window like the statue was.

simon opens his mouth. closes it again. shuts his eyes.

"johnny."

his voice is rough with disuse, breaking on the word. he clears his throat, purses his lips. starts again.

"johnny. dunno if you can hear me. all i know you're just dust in the wind now."

he flexes his interlocked fingers, trying to soothe their urge to pull his mask back on.

"i can't pray for you, can't bring myself to. seems selfish, sure but its facts. cause if theres someone up there watchin' then why the fuck wasn't it me instead'a you. man like me ought to croak before a man like you. bloody fuckin' waste otherwise."

simon knocks his forehead to his knuckles and sighs.

"but now i guess. guess i'll trust you to do that. watch my six. always did johnny, always."

he squeezes his hands together.

"we're going after him, soap, no fuckin about this time. we'll get him. i'll get him for you."

his trigger finger twitches.

"help me get him for you. don't let me fall until he does. don't let me breathe my last until his goddamn skull's caved in. please."

part of the weight he's been carrying since that cold day in november slides off him.

"all the shit i do now is for you johnny. woulda left if price hadn't kept chasing the bastard. woulda gone to meet you off the side of that cliff. everything i do is for you now."

he thinks about the mountains of bodies they've gone through to get this close, the rivers of blood that have stained his shoes so badly he's replaced them twice in four months. he thinks about torture sessions that lasted days, men screaming for their mothers in the pitch blackness of underground cells.

he thinks of fights with price he had to be physically dragged away from, about gaz clocking him across the face after simon had said they didn't care their sergent was gone.

"we'll finish the job. whatever state we're in."

" 'n when i blow his brains out i'll think of you."

he blinks his eyes open to find the whole church bathed in sunlight.