Friends Don't Look At Friends That Way

Part Eighteen.

"Our ride is here. We need to go."

"Ye heard the man. Let's get the hell out of here," Soap grins, turning to head after Ghost, who is already waiting at the threshold of the exit.

It doesn't take the three of you long to locate a back entrance in the office that conveniently has stairs leading up to another hallway of rooms, which your escape lies at the end of in the form of an open-air balcony.

There is such a joyous gait to Soap's walk that all you can do is stop to admire the beauty of everything that he is—this man you love deeply, whose soul wended so thoroughly through your own that they became one. You couldn't have asked for more in this world.

The linear lines of the hallway begin to tilt, causing you to stumble. Strange. Is your happiness so intoxicating that it also fools your body into thinking so?

Another step forward, and the world lurches again, forcing you to throw a hand against the wall before the movement sends you flying to the floor. What the hell is happening? You try to focus on grounding your feet, but the earth won't stand still long enough to gain your bearings.

That strange, tearing sensation returns to your side but is no longer something simple to overlook. What you dismissed as a potential broken rib now burns through your body like it's been set ablaze. Your fingers drift down to graze the painful spot, a hiss sliding from your clenched teeth, and it alights agony that strikes like lighting across your limbs. The fabric of your dress is soaked with blood, crimson liquid darkening the side of the garment, which you'd stupidly assumed was from Carlos. The round hole that now lies there says otherwise.

You were shot.

Your brain must have allowed you to block the incident from your pain receptors, an emergency response your body threw to keep the adrenaline pumping long enough to get yourself safe.

It must have happened when Gaz shot Carlos. In his last-ditch efforts to cause suffering, his finger pulled that trigger once it lowered from your head. The commotion, the yelling, and the sound of your pulse throbbing violently in your ears drowned out the bullet breaking through your body. Now that your adrenaline has begun to die off, you feel absolutely all of it.

"When we get home -" The rest of Soap's sentence tapers out as sounds around you seem to slip in and out of a muffled state.

You hadn't realized your gaze was locked on the blood coating your palm until your head tips up to see Soap frozen in place, his eyes wide with terror. He, too, is staring at your crimson hand with a heaving chest.

"It is my blood..." That is all that comes out before your feet give out from beneath you. Luckily, Soap is faster and catches you before you can hit the ground. Your body melts into the warmth of his arms as he pulls you tight against his chest.

"No. No. No." His free hand roams frantically over your side, pressing to the wound to staunch blood flow. "SIMON! I need help NOW! Hey, look at me. Yer ok. Yer gonna be jus' fine, baby."

Your head grows so fuzzy. That sickening burn has spread to every nerve in your body to where involuntary sobs stutter from your lips in vocalizing your pain. It causes a look of pure panic to fall over Soap's face as he struggles to his feet, keeping you locked against him.

You are vaguely aware of his rush down the hallway, pain blooming through your muscles with each movement he makes. Soon, Ghost's presence is looming over you, too, his brown eyes sick with anxiety as it sinks in what has happened. There is a subtle movement of his head looking over Soap's shoulder and then back to you several times before he shouts something inaudible to Price in the helicopter. His brows are so knitted with concern that you reach a bloodied hand out to draw his attention.

"W-What is wrong, S-Simon?" Your voice is so weak that the words barely make it out. Soap is now glancing over his shoulder frantically, and it has you swelling with frustration that you can't look to see what the problem is.

"Ghost, I need ye to take her. I will hold them off, but ye need to get her the hell out of here."

"No. We are not leaving you here, Johnny."

"Ye won't make it five feet. They will shoot ye out of the sky if someone doesna' start plowing them down. Go. I got this. I will meet ye back at the drop-off point."

A cry of pain escapes your throat as Soap carefully passes you into Ghost's arms, precisely drawing his rifle once his grip is free. Your blood stains the front of his gear, the skin of his arms. He looks ragged and completely broken, but that air of fierce determination is still there.

"Johnny, don't do this." There is desperation to Ghost's plea that you have never heard before. Never from Simon.

Your eyes grow heavy, darkness begging to pull you into its embrace, but you hold them open long enough to watch Soap delicately place his bloodied hands on your cheeks. The softest smile you've ever seen tugs at his mouth before he presses two utterly gentle, lingering kisses: one to your forehead, then one to your lips. For that moment, and just that moment, it feels as if your pain has disappeared and genuine peace has taken place. All that exists in the universe is you and him, and this moment so tender that it will forever brand your heart. The kiss ends before you can truly revel in it, coldness shuddering over you when Soap withdraws a step with a deep sigh. Unshed tears lie in those beautiful blue eyes that you adore so dearly.

"Go. Now." He pauses, eyes fluttering closed as if desperately trying to gather the strength to walk away, "I will never forgive ye if she dies, Simon. Please go."

With that, he turns back down the hall; rifle raised steadily like the soldier you've always known him to be. Your vision has started to haze over, but you can still spy the crowd of cartel hands storming around the corner before Ghost whisks you away toward the waiting chopper.

You want to fight. Your heart, your head, the very fiber of your being screams at you to get up and fucking fight. Don't let them leave him behind. It is a death sentence, and you want to stand beside him till the bitter end.

"L-let me go, Simon. I am not l-leaving without him!" With no results, you try to surge against the iron hold Ghost has on you. The weakness ravaging your body wins out, the wound in your side sapping your life force from you the longer it expends blood.

Ghost says nothing, giving you the most hurt-riddled frown you've ever seen grace his delicate mouth before that familiar cold exterior of his seems to shutter in place.

No.

You know that look well. He is separating his emotions from the situation and drawing the line between Simon and Ghost, between soldier and friend. That look tells you everything he won't allow himself to say.

A profound sense of loss is already settling heavily on your shoulders as the muffled echos of shouts and gunfire play in the background of your less-than-heroic exit, the noise of the chopper drowning out the symphony as it begins its ascent into the night sky, leaving behind the one person you'd trade your life to be standing beside.

For as long as you had him, you never got to love him in the way you wanted. 5 minutes. That is all you were given before everything you'd longed desperately for got ripped away. You've spent so long mourning the unrequited heart you'd long since given away. You've grown so familiar and comfortable with that ache that spending the rest of your life with this feeling somehow seems easy now.