#tw mcd

[forestshadow-wolf]

made a new edit

CW: MCD

[shadow0-1]

Stars

[eiraeths]

For years, Price remained the only person on Ghost’s emergency contact list. Price practically had to bully Ghost into getting put on there too. Then comes Soap, who makes his way on there like he belonged there. The scotsman was always so good at that type of thing. It’s been almost a year since Soap died. Ghost has been more reckless on ops, he knows it. This time, it lands him in the hospital. The staff says there’s two people on his emergency contact list, but Ghost knows only one could ever answer the call. He can’t bring himself to take Soap off. Ghost still pays Soap’s phone bill to hear his voice mail.

[strawberryspence]

The Harrington mansion is always dark.

Steve never really noticed it when he was growing up, not until he started dropping off Dustin and the kids. No matter how late it is, there's always a light on the porch for them. Like a sign that someone is waiting home for them.

It doesn't matter if his parents are out of town or not, it's always dark in the house. His parents doesn't care enough to leave a light for him. He won't leave it on for himself, because that feels pathetic.

Steve forgets about it, there's so many other things he should worry about.

He forgets about it until he starts dating Eddie Munson the summer of '85. Steve thanks the blue Scoops Ahoy shorts and the Corroded Coffin members for letting Eddie come in to the shop everyday for the whole summer until they finally start dating and making out at the parking lot.

Eddie starts hanging around Steve's house. Every night that Eddie stays at his house, Steve comes home to a house with a light on the porch.

The first time he notices it, he sat on his car crying for 30 minutes before finally caving in and entering the house. When Steve tells Eddie about this, Eddie visibly melts, scooping him into a hug before saying, "Oh sweetheart, as long as I am here, there's always going to be a light left on for you."

It's Eddie that makes the house a home. Steve doesn't care if he's living in a cardboard box, as long as he's with Eddie, it's home.

And that's why Steve's been standing in front of the dark porch for almost an hour now. Nancy's going to pick him up in a few more hours, so they can go back to the hospital and watch Max and Dustin.

But he can't— can't push himself to enter the dark house, knowing that Eddie's light and warmth is never going to touch it again. There's still blood stained on his hands, blood from when he had to leave Eddie's lifeless body in the Upside Down.

Steve wonders— morbidly— if Wayne has a light on in the trailer porch, waiting for a son that's never coming home.

Maybe it's weariness or maybe Steve just wants to peek inside and see if there's still a hint of Eddie floating around the house. Steve lets himself in the dark house, sliding down against the door as he sobs into Eddie's battle vest.

Outside, the porch light flickers. It blinks three times.

Rapidly. Slowly. Rapidly.

The flickering stops and the light stays on.

Because as long as Eddie Munson's alive, there's always going to be a light left on for Steve Harrington.

[loserdiaz]

You were more than just a short time And I've got a lot to pine about

the one where buck dies and eddie is left to deal with the aftermath.

for @hoodie-buck bc she gets it <3

[frownyalfred]

Can we please have a fic where bruce doesn't kill joker as batman but kills him as bruce wayne and going completely mute after?

He just walks up straight to the Joker in the middle of one of his meetings (this hinges on him not recognizing Bruce Wayne as Batman right away which I’m rolling with even though I know it’s not always canon) and just. shoots him in the head. that’s it.

goes home, sits down in his bedroom in blood splattered clothes (still in Jason’s funeral clothing?) and goes silent. even alfred can’t coax a word out of him. and the Joker isn’t exactly a priority victim so it’s never traced back to him, but even if it was it wouldn’t matter. Bruce is gone.

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

Love love love fake-outs in whump because there's just so many angst potentials ranging from "oh no :(" to "oh my fucking god"

Whumpee finally managing to escape, running as fast as their legs will carry them right into the arms of Caretaker who tearfully tells them they'll never lose them again...only to wake up and realize it had been a delirious dream from blood loss

Someone coming across Whumpee who begs them for help, pleading for rescue, and this poor stranger is so startled and hurriedly assures Whumpee that everything will be okay, they won't let anything happen to them, they'll call the police and...haha, sorry, couldn't keep a straight face any longer. Whumper, did you get all that? Send me a picture of that face, it's too priceless.

Caretaker has finally found Whumpee after so long and are working on getting the shackles off, whispering soft praises and promises that everything is all over now, there's nothing to be afraid of because Whumper is...well, they thought Whumper was dead, but apparently they had just enough strength to come up behind Caretaker and slit their throat

Whumpee has been rescued from their hell, picked up by a kind stranger who's none to happy to hear about Whumper's antics, but don't worry, Whumpee will never have to experience that kind of torment again...because what their new captor has in store for them is much, much worse than the child's play that had been described

Whumpee is dragged away kicking and screaming from their beloved Caretaker, begging for Whumper to show them mercy and that they don't deserve such cruel treatment, promising to be good if they only let Caretaker go...but Whumpee, what are you talking about? Caretaker is the real Whumper, don't you remember? When they kidnapped you so long ago? What did they do to your mind?

Caretaker is just so relieved to have Whumpee back by their side again, their wounds carefully treated and cuddled up close, refusing to part from Caretaker ever again after being rescued...everything went according to Caretaker's plan, now that Whumpee's had a taste of what life would be like if they tried to leave, they'll never want to let Whumper go. I mean, Caretaker.

[a-little-unsteddie]

i'm havin' thoughts again. this time about true crime

True Crime enthusiast Eddie Munson doing research for his podcast about the disappearance/murder of Steve Harrington. the story follows him as he interviews people in his life that knew him--and with every interview, he falls a little more in love with this mysterious man who disappeared/died under mysterious circumstances. something something, either Steve is actually dead at the end of the story and the whole thing is just reading about Eddie falling in love with the idea of him, or Steve isn't dead and he's actually ran away, and after the episode airs, Steve reaches out and is like 'hey i'm not dead, they were just awful people and so i left and they reported me missing because that was easier than admitting they were bad people'

idk. i think it would hurt so good for Steve to actually be dead, but I also love the idea of Steve having moved on to something better and is like 'quit tellin' people i'm dead!'

[characcoon]

Masks and Shields

Part 1 (Here!) | Part 2 (TBA)

For context, first consider the idea where Mikey from the future is training his young self in the mystic arts because that's all my brain is microwaving these days. Coolio.

Now, some extra info about this story, of when and why Mikey stopped wearing a mask.

Donnie has been killed, his entire research facility turned into a pile of ashes. One of the main pillars of the Resistance, the brains of the operation, the guy who built and idealized 70% of their systems and weapons and equipments is gone, so is a good portion of his projects.

It's a dark moment. One of the biggest blows the Resistance has taken in a long, long time. Their members are on edge, expecting Leo to say something, but he doesn't show up to the memorial. Mikey has to speak alone, with no time to mourn. He doesn't tremble.

- Cityspeaker: a word I took from Transformers and mashed together with my own idea of how Mikey came to have and train his mystic powers in the bad timeline. More on that soon, I suppose.

[my-castles-crumbling]

hey! any chance you could write a rosekiller microfic? maybe right after Evan dies and Barty slowly starts to go crazy without him?

Ugh the angst. TW: MCD

-

Tick.

259278.

Tick.

259279.

His arm burned. He knew he should probably go.

“Let’s go, Barty,” Evan whispered to him from across the room, sitting curled up in a chair, his eyes almost sorrowful. “You have to go.”

“No,” Barty murmured, still staring at the clock.

Tick.

259283.

Merlin. His arm really fucking hurt.

“Let’s go, love. You need to leave,” Evan said louder, his voice more insistent. He reached towards Barty, but Barty shied away.

“NO!” he yelled, desperation filling his voice.

“He’s going to-”

But Barty laughed, low and desperate. “What will he do, Ev? Hurt me? Hurt Reg? Hurt you?”

The stricken look Evan gave him made him laugh harder, tears starting to fall, now.

“That’s the thing, Evan. I’ve got nothing left.”

The realization had been with him for 259327 seconds, now. Ever since that flash of green had hit Evan square in the chest and he’d crumbled to the ground.

He had no reason to care anymore.

No reason to be careful anymore. He could do whatever he wanted. No more consequences.

So, as the vision of Evan across the room began to fade away, he cackled through his tears and stared at the ticking clock, counting the seconds since Evan’s death and planning his next move.

Tick.

259345.

[serickswrites]

Between the Sheets

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, blood, mcd, hurt/no comfort

Whumpee giggled beneath the white sheet. Caretaker couldn't help but delight in the sound. "Shhhhh, you're going to ruin the surprise," Caretaker whispered.

Whumpee tried to suppress their mirth. "Are they coming?" Their eyes were shiny with laughter.

"Any moment. And you are going to ruin Teammate One's surprise if you don't shut up." Caretaker froze at the sound of approaching footsteps. "Scoot over," they whisper shouted at Whumpee as they tried to slide beneath the sheet with Whumpee.

"If you two are trying to surprise me, you could be a little less obvious," Teammate One's voice came loudly. "You know I hate surprises."

***

Whumpee smiled up at them as they lay between the sheets. The early morning sunlight passed through the thin sheet, giving Whumpee's hair a golden halo. Caretaker loved these moments above all other moments. The soft, gentle morning kisses. The sweet embraces and whispered declarations of love. Caretaker loved this. They couldn't get enough of it.

"I love you, Caretaker," Whumpee said softly.

Caretaker took Whumpee's face in their hands and kissed Whumpee gently. "I love you, Whumpee."

Whumpee kissed them back fiercely. "I want it to always be like this." They lay their head against Caretaker's chest. "I want to always be with you."

"I will always be with you, Whumpee. I won't let anything happen to you ever. I love you more than anything."

***

Whumpee took a shuddering breath in their sleep. They huddled under the thin sheet as they slept on the couch in Caretaker's office. Caretaker had never seen Whumpee work themself into such bone weary exhaustion as they had during their pursuit of Whumper. Dark circles, dark as bruises, beneath Whumpee's eye stood out in sharp contrast with their skin. Their brow was pinched in sleep, as though even as they tried to rest, they couldn't stop thinking, couldn't stop working.

Whumper had threatened Caretaker. Threatened to hunt and destroy Caretaker. Whumpee, as had the rest of the team, taken the threat seriously. None of the team had stopped working. They wouldn't, not until Whumper had been neutralized.

"Caretaker, I think--" Teammate Two's loud voice had Caretaker rounding on them.

"Shhhh, you'll wake them. I only just got them to fall asleep." Caretaker stood up from behind their desk. "Let's talk in the hallway."

Teammate Two nodded silently and stepped out with Caretaker. Neither of them noticed Whumpee's pale eyes open. Neither of them noticed Whumpee rise and check the phone on the coffee table. Just as neither of them noticed Whumpee slip out and into the dark night.

***

Caretaker didn't want to look beneath the sheet in front of them. They didn't want to see what was lying there. Who was lying there. Because then it would be real. And Caretaker couldn't have this be real.

Teammate One and Teammate Two had carefully, painstakingly, cleared the scene in Whumper's compound. The two teammates had gone ahead of Caretaker when Caretaker's resolve had failed them.

Getting the call from Whumper had been the beginning of the end for Caretaker. Walking through Whumper's compound and seeing the implements of torture that Whumper had used had nearly brought Caretaker to their knees.

But now staring down at the bloodstained sheet before them, Caretaker knew that this would undo them. That they would never recover from lifting the sheet. From knowing.

But they had to know. They couldn't exist in the limbo of wondering. They had to know. Even if it broke them.

And so Caretaker carefully, slowly pulled back the sheet and exposed what lay beneath. Who lay beneath. Caretaker let out an unearthly cry as they collapsed to their knees at what they saw. At who they saw.

Whumpee's bloodless face was almost as pale as the sheet they lay beneath. Their pale eyes suddenly a dark contrast with their skin. Whumpee's sightless eyes stared up at Caretaker. "You weren't supposed to get hurt," Caretaker sobbed. "They wanted to hurt me. They were supposed to hurt me. You weren't supposed to get hurt. Oh God! Whumpee! Please!"

But Whumpee didn't reply. Didn't giggle from under the sheet. Didn't smile up at them and offer sweet kisses. Didn't jump out and shout "Surprise!" Whumpee merely lay there, cold and dead. Lay there in the pool of their cool, tacky blood. Lay there in the position Whumper had left them in after days of torture. All to hurt Caretaker. Whumper took Whumpee to hurt Caretaker. This was all Caretaker's fault. Caretaker knew that this was their end. Whumper had broken them so completely that they would never recover and come back from this.

And Caretaker was perfectly fine with that. They couldn't, they wouldn't live in a world without Whumpee.

[sweetestofchaos]

Have Mercy Masterlist| P.JM & M.YG

☾ Paring: Demon!Jimin x Reader | Alpha!Yoongi x Reader | Demon!Jimin x Alpha!Yoongi ☾ Summary: As a crossroads demon, Jimin is no stranger to vile creatures. Summoned once more, Jimin is surprised to find one of the purest souls asking for his help. Not only does he accept her deal, but while watching over her, Jimin finds himself falling for the very soul he is meant to devour. Eager to confess, Jimin summons the sweet soul only for his plan to turn sour when someone far more evil finds her alone. ☾ Genre/AU: Angst | Smut | Strangers to Lovers | Demon AU | A/B/O AU ☾ Rating: 21+ | Dead Dove ☾ Warnings: Soul Selling | Nudity | Unprotected Dream Sex | Creampie | Oral (fem receiving) | Pet Names | Virgin!Reader | Rape (fxm/mxm) | Forced Knotting | Biting | Blood | Murder (MCD) | Anal | Bounty Hunting | Shifting | A/B/O Elements ☾ CWC: 3.8k

☾ Part of the BTS Fantasy and Fangs Trick or Treating collab, hosted by @sailoryooons and @theharrowing​

☾ Banner made by the talented @floralkive​

☾ AO3 | Masterlist

I. Crossroads II. Untitled III. Untitled

[sherashalala]

“Bravo 0-7 this is Bravo 0-6, give me a sitrep.”

“Bravo 0-7 what’s your status?”

“Ghost, do you copy?”

“Solid.” Ghost grunts out an answer, yet his voice has long since been left raw. He leaves it low, leaves it strong and solid with no signs of what happened here.

“Almost gave me a heart attack,” Price says lightheartedly, and Ghost knows not to blame him for it. Knows that this situation is not a moment for laughter or anything of the sort. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. “Give me a sitrep.” His Captain tells him. 

“Mission accomplished.” Is all Ghost could manage to say. He’s out of breath, 

“Fuckin’ sweet.” Price says. “Exfil in five. Get you and Soap out of there. Don’t want any more hostels on your tails”

He’s trying. He’s trying. Ghost makes sure that he doesn’t slip off his shoulders, makes sure that he keeps the man’s torso right on top of his back with his weight on the entirety of his back. He is leaned forward, making sure the weight is evenly spread so he could trek faster. The sooner he is out of there, the sooner he could put his attention to it. To Soap.

Ghost has stopped talking. Stopped calling for his Sergeant’s attention because he knows that it’d fall on unhearing ears. He doesn’t think. Not when the consequences of thinking could just as easily lead him towards spiraling. Ghost can’t have that right now. He can’t afford it. 

Still, he misses the noise. Yearns desperately for even the slightest bit of it. A sound. Anything. Please. 

He hisses when his foot hits a slope, and he slips. It twists his ankle at an awful angle but Ghost has walked off worse. Still, the weight on his shoulders is heavy and it makes it hurt worse. But he won’t let him go. Won’t ever even think of it. 

Ghost swallows something in his throat, but it stays lodged. 

“Soap.” he begs. “Johnny,” he calls. “Wake up, you bastard.” He growls under his breath, but it breaks. “Please.”

There’s no answer from behind him. Not even a twitch or a flinch. 

“We never talked about it.” Ghost says. “You never had a lass at home, didya? Or a lad. Never had the chance to tell me about it.” He talks. Johnny always had that effect. Ghost had been a lot more talkative since he’d come into his life. Ghost knew, though. He knew that he had a chance, more than a chance with him. “I’d try harder if– when you wake up.” Ghost begs.

He is still heavy on Simon’s shoulders, and still limp. 

Ghost makes sure that Soap is still on his shoulders when he reaches for his communication device, opening up the channel between him and Price. “Bravo 0-7 to Bravo 0-6,” Ghost opens. “Requesting medical on exfil.”

“You hurt?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

“Ghost. Who is hurt.”

“I couldn’t do anything, Price.” Ghost tells him. “He–” Ghost swallows, and he’s not sure if the dampness of his mask is because of his sweat or because of something else. 

The acceptance is hitting him far sooner than he’d wanted it. “He died alone.”

[strawberryspence]

Steve is 19 when Eddie first says it. It's the night Eddie comes home from the hospital, body all bandaged up to help him heal. Steve picks him up, drops him off the brand new trailer and has to say his goodbyes. He's the one who's been staying with Max at the hospital since Lucas started going to school again. Eddie watches, seated on the door, shoulders leaning against the frame.

Eddie waves at him, hand still wrapped protectively on his middle. There's a tired smile on his face, "See you tomorrow, Steve." It's the first time Eddie ever calls him by his first name.

Steve is 20 and Eddie Munson has been saying, "See you tomorrow!" as his goodbye to him since that night. Robin thinks it's for him and for him only. Steve watches Eddie, something he does a lot these days. He watches as he says his goodbye to the kids, says goodbye to Nancy, Robin, Jonathan, Argyle. Eddie never once says the words, "See you tomorrow!"

Steve waits for everyone to be gone, hitching rides from the other older kids. Eddie turns to him when everyone has finally left, "Are you staying, Stevie?"

"No. I am leaving too."

Eddie smiles at him, cheeky and dimpled, brown eyes shimmering like a fucking gem against the cheap yellow fluorescent light, "Well then, see you tomorrow, sweetheart."

It clicks. It's not a goodbye, It's a promise. Eddie will see Steve tomorrow, come hell or high water. A promise made for him, and him only.

Steve pulls Eddie by the lapels of his ridiculously shiny jacket and kisses him straight in the mouth.

Steve is 23 when Eddie and him move in to their first apartment together. It's dingy, kind of old, but hey, it's freaking cheap. They unpack boxes of things that was given by Joyce, Karen, Hop, Mrs. Henderson and Mrs. Sinclair. It's not much but it makes their bare home more livable.

They sleep on the floor with Steve's old mattress laid in the middle of the room, unopened boxes and furniture scattered surrounding them.

It's the first night they sleep together in their first home.

"See you tomorrow, sunshine." Eddie kisses his forehead, his nose and then his lips.

Eddie never says goodnight, just see you tomorrow.

Steve is 25 and it's the first time Eddie won't see him tomorrow. Eddie has to go to New York because Corroded Coffin just got discovered by an agent who wants to sign them.

It's okay. Eddie still calls every night, thank God the time differences of Chicago and New York isn't that big. Steve makes sure Robin isn't using the phone, so Eddie could call and tell him about his day with producers and songwriters and music and Steve can tell him about school essays and presentations for his Education class.

And always, always, just like every night since he was 19, Eddie ends the call with, "See you tomorrow." With whatever name he feels like that day. Sometimes it's sunshine, sometimes it's Stevie, sometimes it's love or baby or sweetheart. It doesn't really matter because it's all Steve.

Sometimes it's not true. Steve doesn't see Eddie the next day. Sometimes it goes on weeks and months on ends before the greeting finally means they get to see each other again.

That's okay. Steve's okay with it because if not tomorrow, he knows he'll still see Eddie again.

Steve is 34 when he hears Eddie say the greeting to someone else for the first time. Adoption is exhausting and repetitive and long and grueling but in the end— with a tiny little baby, cradled right against your arm— it's perfect.

Kids are always a mess. Steve knows because he has seven of them already, all grown up, all spread out in the country, all doing things on their own. And it's exhausting and takes out so much energy from you and your partner.

But with Eddie, all the weariness in his bones dissipate at the image of him, rocking their child on a rocking chair, humming a soft song as he finally tells them, "See you tomorrow, peanut."

Steve is 47 when Eddie and him finally get married. Joyce and Robin plan the wedding and as ridiculous as it sounds, they separate the two of them the night before. Steve rolls his eyes, kisses his groom on the cheek and waits for Eddie to say the four magic words.

"See you tomorrow, fiancé." Eddie whispers against his lips.

They get married the next day, under the bright beaming sun, spring flowers surrounding them as their daughter reluctantly spreads flowers for them.

Steve thinks he's heard so many variations of the greeting, but, "See you tomorrow, husband." might be his favorite from all of them.

Steve is 54 and it's the first time Eddie doesn't say it to him before going to bed. They both silently slip into the bed together, hands intertwined together like the other will float away if they let go.

Apparently being tortured and experimented with half of your childhood has some bad outcomes. It's the day they find out that El has a brain tumor.

Steve is 56 and the Party sleeps beside him and Eddie, tucked into each other like they're 15 again. The last time the Party had a sleepover was in 2000. They still all have sleepovers, don't get him wrong. What Steve means is the sleepover where they're all squished together on the floor, clinging onto each other as they sleep soundly, knowing they're safe and sound with their friends.

They have a sleep over just like that one last time.

"See you tomorrow. I love you." Eddie whispers, just as he falls asleep.

The expired eggos in their fridge gets thrown out six months later.

Steve is 65 when he gets to meet their first grandchild. Eddie is adamant that he is not crying, but his glasses make his tears more visible, making them look like actual diamonds coming out of his eyes.

Their daughter laughs, and lets them hold him for the first time. Steve is a blabbering mess of tears, holding the baby close to his chest. They stay the whole night, to help take care of the baby and their daughter.

And there's nothing more beautiful than the moment the nurse has to take their grandchild away from their daughter and she whispers, as gentle as a feather, "See you tomorrow, Ellie."

Steve is 73 when Eddie first forgets to say goodnight. It's Alzheimer's, it's—

It's not okay. It's never going to be okay. But Steve has to be okay, has to carry on for the love of his life. He takes care of Eddie, because he vowed to do so the day they got married, because he loves this man and he will do anything for him.

Steve tucks Eddie at night, after fits of confusion as to where he is, as to who he is, and kisses his forehead, soft and gentle, and says, "See you tomorrow, Eds."

Steve is 82 when he hears it for the last time.

Eddie's health has been declining. Nine years after his first prognosis, Steve takes it as a win, nine years and his love still battles it everyday.

They've been living in a nursing home, Steve is also getting too old to take care of Eddie. His bones are weary in ways that never goes away, his sight and hearing has always been bad but time has made it worst.

There's something called terminal lucidity. The doctors explain to Steve, in the most gentle way he's ever heard, "You're husband will probably, theoretically, have a moment of clarity where he remembers everything and it will seem like you have him back, but for us it is the sign of his health declining further. I am sorry, Mr. Munson."

Eddie gets it a few days later, and they talk nonstop. They talk about the kids, their grandchildren, about their friends, about how they've lived their lives. They open up photo albums, and point and laugh and smile and cry. Steve excuses himself to go to the bathroom, but only so he can call the others, so they could say their goodbyes. The kids fly in, from all around the country, to say goodbye.

Eddie goes a few hours later, warm and comfortable in his bed, cuddled next to Steve with a big dopey smile on his face, "See you tomorrow, Steve."

Steve smiles back, as Eddie closes his eyes. He stops fighting the ache in his bones, the never-ending beat in his scars.

"See you tomorrow, Eddie."

Steve doesn't see Eddie the next day, not the next, not the next, not the nex—

Until, he finally sees Eddie again.

[storeecbrcod]

Whump Drabble/fic where Soap suffers realistic trauma from MWIII (though we’ll put a bandaid over his ultimate fate lol).

TW: explicit medical injuries and treatments, angst with a bittersweet ending, will likely be inaccurate in some way seeing as I’m not a medical professional nor a trauma doctor/nurse (I’m just a girl fr), Ghoap✨

Ghost had been wrangling with this worm of guilt that chewed at his heart, something that he thought he had grown accustom to over his life but was now back with a vengeance. When he wasn’t clawing his skin from his bone to try and find the fucker, he was with Johnny.

He had thought the hardest part of this would be overcoming that guilt, but he quickly realised the coma was much worse.

He’d followed soldiers after they’d suffered significant GSW trauma before, of course he had. He’d caused many himself, knew how to engineer one that would guarantee a kill, knew how impossible it seemed yet possible it was to survive a shot to the temple, nearly point blank. He knew what recovery entailed.

Yet, he didn’t know what recovery entailed when it made the soft birdsong in his life silent and still.

He was a sniper and a stealth operative, he was used to sitting in one place during recon, unmoving and hyperaware for hours on end, days or weeks or even months at a time.

Yet, he wasn’t used to searching for a heartbeat and willing it to keep going rather than aiming to stop it.

He’d never felt so restless in his life, cataloguing every detail of the man on the bed in front of him every day. He watched as bandages turned red, watched as the side of his head swelled and bruised and went so black it was like staring into space. He read the words ‘Pressure relief DO NOT TOUCH’ scribbled on the vacuum-sealed, open wound on the back of a window in his skull over and over and over until swelling bowed the dressing and the words didn’t make sense.

He watched air be pumped through tubes down his throat when his brain couldn’t do it for him, and saw urine pool in a bag next to the bed. He watched nurses exercise his body, watched the shut door as they cleaned him up with sponge baths. He’d watched the codes be called and watched from outside the room as ribs were broken in the frail, pale body that was a fifth of the size it used to be and void of the usual tan.

He watched it all. He watched everything.

Just watched.

He knew people in comas could often hear what’s going on around them, he’d learnt that when he rushed Tommy to the hospital after a particularly bad overdose. But it was like his lips were fused together, vocal cords totally lax and frozen. He couldn’t speak, wouldn’t speak, scared of what would tumble from his tongue and leave in the open when Johnny couldn’t even respond.

Spontaneity was a common tactic on the field, as much as they tried to negate it. It wasn’t very often a plan went totally right. Damage control and problem solving were heavily exercised skills that Ghost possessed.

But he couldn’t solve this. He could wish death on Makarov as much as he did before, he could research the best trauma surgeons and doctors and nurses and therapists in the UK, he could monitor Johnny’s condition obsessively all he wants, but he can’t fix it. He can’t heal the snapped neurons, he can’t dig into Johnny’s veins and fish out the blood clots that continued to threaten his life or limbs. He couldn’t crawl into John’s skin and nest there in his warmth, protect him and feel protected. He couldn’t.

Helplessness wasn’t something he’d felt in a long time, but he’d much rather be clawing out of his own grave as ravens cawed again than have to put John in one, still and unable to dig to join Simon.

So when Soap eventually does wake, it felt like an endless tunnel came to an abrupt end with blinding lights and trees, waiting for birds to call their greeting.

He made his own greeting, his imposing yet solid presence next to the bed as tubes were removed and the body was propped up and assurances were given. He was eager, after 4 months of pure silence about to be filled with music again.

But it was off key.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital, Johnny.”

A furrowed brow.

“Who th’ fuck ah you?”

Simon thought that the worst part of all this was the coma, the silence, but he was wrong. It was the recovery.

Simon had learnt that the temple was the perfect place to locate the parts of the brain responsible to speech, decision making and rationalisation, and memory. He’d learnt how irritating it could be re-explaining the same thing over and over every few minutes could be, he learnt of the shame that followed the irritation knowing that Soap couldn’t help it. He learnt how much it hurt to be escorted out of the room for routine check-ups because the once unrelenting trust between him and Johnny had relented to the shadow of unknown.

He had learnt that nothing is permanent.

His visits became less and less. Unsurprisingly, John (not Johnny; only his family calls him that) didn’t want a mountain of a man, full of angst and anger and sadness, haunting the corners of his hospital room. He only wanted his ma and pa, and as much as it hurt Ghost, he respected his wishes.

For months, Ghost isolated himself, got lost in his work. For months, John worked at recovery, regaining his smart mouth and witty remarks, slowly relearning his impulse control that wasn’t really as much control as it was pure will power to restrain himself.

For months, Ghost sought birdcall in the gurgles of his enemies’ throats, revelling in the garbled melodies that never matched the one he remembered, but breaking off just the same.

Beware the mockingbird, Johnny would say.

Yet here he was, searching for a blue jay’s song among the mouths of the unknown and wicked.

He got so used to the warped record that he often found himself forgetting what the original chords sounded like when they reverberated through his chest, right to his heart. Was it sweet, like the pull of a blade through supple skin? Was it explosive, like the crack of body armour in the hap between Kevlar plates? Was it deafening, like the rounds discharged that aimed for his heart?

Was it quiet, like an unmonitored heartbeat over nighttime?

Was it gentle, like the lingering touches left on his waist that still burned his skin months later?

Was it still there?

“Simon.”

Ghost blinked, looking up to Price. He hadn’t realised that he’d let his gaze wander, his mind even further.

“You need to go see him.”

There’s a cry of a broken-winged dove in his ears, overshadowed by the croon of a raven. Stability and chaos, broken and mended in one.

It hurt his head.

“He asked me to leave,” Ghost reasoned.

“When he first woke up, yes,” Price conceded. “Back when you honoured your callsign very proficiently, mind you.”

A scoff erupted from Ghost’s chest, under his crossed arms.

“Look, Simon,” Price sighed, leaning back against his desk, blue eyes of cobalt melting the sulphurous gleam of Ghost’s brown ones. “He remembers, now. Remembered Gaz in a matter of moments, recognised me soon after.”

There was a pause, pregnant and heavy as Ghost kept his mouth shut, luring Price to continue. Daring him to try and push past the raven’s sharp talons to help the dove.

A hand reaches towards the nest.

“It might be time for you to try again.”

The raven hesitates.

“The hospital staff spoke to us about how helping Soap’s brain reconnect the broken neural pathways from the trauma could help him recover faster.”

The dove coos.

“Please, Simon.”

Outstretched fingers.

“Fuck, I can’t watch two of my men crumble at the same time.”

A flurry of feathers, the screeching of breath through gravel, rubber on road, nails on chalkboard. It’s overwhelming, sending his heart into overdrive and rationality to the wind.

“Fuck you, Price.”

Yeah, the recovery hurt the most.

Looking in the mirror during recovery, specifically, hurt like a bitch. Scars that pulled over once unmarred skin, hollow cheeks where laughter and smiles once grew, gnarled soul and memories where purity reigned. It was all thrown back at you, as insistent as a murder of crows at your doorstep.

He could see the way John, not Johnny, sifted through his memory like a locked filing cabinet while trying to place Ghost, desperately searching through the unlocked drawers over and over for the file he needed, all while the closed drawers taunted him with kept knowledge. It was all right there, yet he couldn’t access it.

“Ghost, aye?”

It’s met with a grunt. Silence stretches out, black feathers shielding the delicate white ones.

“And ye were my… lieutenant?”

He was going off of information fed to him, his brow furrowed in concentration, still trying to place Ghost. He couldn’t tell where the darkness around him ended and Ghost started, obscured by inky blackness.

He doesn’t sound right. It’s not the same teasing, playful lilt that danced in the air. It’s not pronounced the same, not said the same, it’s not the same.

It’s some… imposter. Something that looks the same and smells the same and tastes the fucking same, but it’s different.

A cuckoo’s egg in a nest.

“Price ‘nd Kyle were telling me some stories about ye,” John noted with a small smile. “You’re quite the stunner out field, ‘pparently.”

It’s an olive branch, a bridge built half way. An offering to meet in the middle, to talk and revere and remember.

But Ghost didn’t remember, and neither did John.

Recovery never ends, you know. It goes on and on and on, haunting your nerves and your wits for the rest of your life. You’ll always have some sort of ache or pain, a reminder of what happened to you.

John never ended up recovering fully. He was medically discharged, left to nurse a broken cage and a silent heart. He did well, considering; it wasn’t hard when you didn’t remember the song that beat with the rhythm of your heart.

He still joined the team on outings sometimes, staying in a local hotel when everyone was back at base. They’d have a meal, or go to a pub, catch up. Re-establish connections once lost.

Ghost rarely joined them, to save his own torment.

But of course, he had to honour the dove occasionally. Just as he was now, sitting across the table from the lively Scot and with his two other teammates, Gaz and Price. Beers had been served, a single glass of warm whiskey for cold hands. The table was lively, fun, rambunctious in all the best ways.

The cuckoo had hatched in earnest, Ghost found.

It was easy to see the progress John had made, loud and bright and cheeky like he used to be. Demanding of attention, hungry for every scrap of past he could swallow to try and heal old wounds. Listening to stories about himself and his old crew when they were all together, as if it was another version of him. The right version of him.

And by god, were the scraps from Simon the most nourishing of all.

John’s mouth felt desert dry, cactus dust caking his tongue as he bit desperately into every glimpse of Ghost’s bare face, lips wrapped around glass and breath smelling of potent, liquid gold with every word. It hurt, it tasted awful, and it was impossible to rid himself from. It hurt so good, feeling his heart pull and swell in ways he didn’t understand anymore.

He felt like glass, he felt like the air, he felt like expensive liquor, he felt like it was meant to be him in their places, held and touched and breathed and consumed. It was overwhelming, leaving him starstruck and staring, a flutter in his chest reawakened.

Ghost’s own nest was erupting with displaced wind, white wings desperate to spread and carry it away, escape the raven’s hold. Right now, meeting Johnny’s eyes, he realised that the time spent captive in the nest had only lent to the dove’s healing. It was stronger now, bigger and fiercer and so, so hopeful.

The cuckoo cackled, loud and leering. Mockingbirds whistled and cawed, off key and haunting. The raven keened, shaken and damning.

The white dove flew.

The blue jay sang above the bramble.

And the two nested together, among the dappled branches of a birchwood tree, cool and calm and surrounded by colour year round. Above the bramble of the past.

Ghost had learnt one thing over everything else; a lesson that was recurrent in his life, stubborn and overwhelming. It swallowed him in waves, crashing him into the sand bank below.

Nothing is ever, ever permanent.

Admittedly, his retirement had gone well. The down payment was easy, the renovations smooth, moving in a sigh of relief. They’d have their harder days, where getting out of bed and walking without aid was difficult for Johnny, but they’d have their good days, too. They’d have their days where they’d go for walks across the countryside, watch as their service dog bounced around through tall grass, tongue lolling from her mouth.

They’d have quiet days, relaxing days. They’d have loud days, rough days.

But they were all days where the sun would rise and then set.

They were all days when the blue jay sang.

Simon had forgotten silence. His life was filled with sound, and love, and content.

Maybe… maybe the worst part of it all was loss.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the unmoving body, still warm.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the frantic screams that drowned out the silence.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the silence.

Silence.

A/N: bandaids don’t last forever

Idk if this is coherent or cohesive or any other co-words meaning readable and enjoyable. Maybe I’ll rewrite it, who knows. Probably not, I can’t post consistently as it is lmao

[artistsfuneral]

It was one thing hearing his brother say the bard was immortal. It was another seeing him crack his own skull open so he wouldn't be able to disclose the keep's whereabouts.