#flukey isn't that lucky after all

[mrssoapmactavish]

penny for your thoughts

content warning: mature themes, talk of death, gore, violence, mature language.

synopsis: flukey and ghost have a chat about the inevitability of the end. they make a promise that neither of them reach that point prematurely.

flukey is an oc.

in the words of her lieutenant, fuckin' hell.

flukey hadn't been this unfortunate on a mission since she was a rookie, back in days long past.

but alas, here she is, self-barricaded on the roof of a compromised building on a black-ops mission, a stab wound in her thigh placed in such a position that she'd need a bit of physical therapy and proper recovery to ensure she isn't limping for the rest of her days.

if she doesn't die on this mission, her mind curses, she'll be absolutely fucked.

a deep breath leaves her as she keeps one hand pressed against the make-shift bandaging she's used, the warmth of her life-giving liquid seeping out under her fingers, staining her skin.

"this is bravo 0-7, flukey, how copy?" there's the voice she's used to. the stoic tone of her manchester lieutenant, finally coming through. if there was a god, he'd be right stoked. "bravo 0-7, flukey, how copy?"

the aussie reaches for the walkie strapped to her vest, reaching and pressing the button, her voice much more strained than she would've liked it to be. can't be weak in front of your CO, eh? not when that bugger's taken more than a few bullets in front of ya.

"this is flukey, solid copy." is all she can get out, letting go of the button and letting out a deep exhale and a groan of pain, the last of the adrenaline having finally worn off, leaving her in nothing but agony.

"thought you were gone." ghost grumbles over the comms, making a soft laugh leave her trembling lips, fingers going to clamp around the button. "fuckin' nearly did, one of those cunts got me good."

there's a pause on the other end of the line, before a gruff little sigh leaves her superior. "keep those eyes open, fluke. give me some landmarks so i can find you."

"could just drop a flare, it's a fuckin' ghost town 'round here. what with how many squirters got dropped," flukey responds, a soft sigh leaving her as she feels her pulse start to fluctuate under the hand on her wound.

"that gives you away. landmarks, fluke." there's that tone again, the one that says 'i'm the boss man, listen to me or die.'

"shit, ghost, you're really pullin' me bum leg here," she jokes, though because it's met with silence, she sighs softly. "m'on the big skyscraper, one with the fuckin' thirty floors of windows. f'i look over the ledge, i can see a fountain, fuckin' city plaza."

another moment of her pained silence, struggling to keep herself both awake and grounded, until that voice chimes in; "was that so hard?"

"respectfully, sir, get stuffed." "glad to see you've got enough energy to get mouthy."

now that is funny, at least to flukey's blood-loss addled mind, too straddled with the impending possibility of permanent corpse status, so she laughs, unrestrained and pained, over the line.

"coulda used a big ol' shadow like you out there, lt. maybe it'd be a grave 'stead of this bullshit, got me bludgin' around. not sure i'll even make it outta this, sir." her mind is slipping away from herself, but her tongue is looser than ever– which is saying something, since she knows why bloody mactavish always gets her right hosed.

she can hear him in her head, right now. "flukey, if ye're gonna convince me you can knock back a few pints, ye've got to keep yer mouth shut 'bout it, steamin jesus, hen."

"you will make it out of this, sergeant. keep those eyes open. talk if you have to." ghost's voice is, quite honestly, the only thing keeping her fighting off that urge to just rest, close her eyes, let sleep swallow her whole.

"aw, ghost, y'gettin' all soft on me. not so much of an ankle biter now, am i?" "watch it, fluke. no one's here but us, no one'll know you died of strangulation." "takin' the piss, aye? here i was, thinkin' you an' johnny were a couple o'..." a cough interrupts her sentence, appropriately shutting her up, a satisfied rumble leaving the lieutenant because of it. can't have her insinuating he's getting busy with his sergeant, after all!

"aye, lt. penny for y'thoughts?" fluke speaks, voice soft and quiet, her eyes wandering down to the somewhat exposed skin around the gash, watching carefully as she eyes her fingertips turning a tint of white best left for ghosts made from sheets.

or the mask, her mind readily supplies.

"worth more than that," ghost grunts, entertaining her words, if not to keep her from retreating into the ending moments of her life, to see if everything really does flash before your eyes like they say.

"mm, how 'bout a pint then? pint for yer thoughts? and f'christ's sake, ghost, if i hear a joke, 'll fuckin' bury you out in the bush behind me house." she suggests, in no place or state of mind to be threatening the man willing to scale such a large building– likely not fully clear, to be plain– in order to save her.

"pint sounds fair," the man's voice rumbles, before he's quiet a moment. "entering the building. hang in there."

fluke isn't aware of how long her eyes close, though she's torn from the warm, loving embrace of death herself by the voice coming through her walkie.

"think you're not that lucky this time." "aww, bugger off." this is enough to get a rare, subtle chuckle from the lieutenant, M4 raised as he continues to sweep the building floor by floor, making his way up to the sergeant in distress.

"... think you're too young to be out here, dyin' on me." the man tells her, quiet honesty being enough to give the woman a small surge of confidence and keep her awake just a bit longer.

"so 've grown on ye, aye? cheeky. good on ye, finally gettin' in touch with your feelins', daft cunt." another laugh, this one bringing a ring of panic into ghost's mind, one that urges him to hurry the fuck up.

"think we make a deal, you and i." "yeh? what'ye want, my fuckin' leg? y'can take it, f'you get me outta here." "not quite. think we need to watch each other's back a bit more."

there's silence for a moment, flukey finally speaking up again. "sentimental. keep talkin'."

"neither of us dies out on the field. how's that for a deal?"

the prospect, especially when you feel so close to seeing your family up in the peaceful beyond, seems incredulous. though, even if it's a dying woman's wish, might as well humour him, one last time.

"...alright, sappy bugger. ye got yerself a deal." she answers, closing her eyes to rest again, the voice on the other line tapering off in the recesses of her mind, echoing like a bell in a clock tower.

it's not that much longer before her body, mostly limp, is lifted from the top of the roof by a rough brit who prays to a god long forgotten by him that the redhead makes it back to base alive enough that he hears about some shitty story of the outback.