Ghost One Shots | FemReader

LIMBO

Black was Ghost's colour. It was heartbreaking that he spent so much time in it. Too much. Your pinky interlocked with his as you both stood there, staring at the sight in front of you. To think that someone, a whole person, could fit into a small wooden box in the end was almost unfathomable. Surely it was empty? It was empty, right? Fingers shifted as he grasped your hand in its entirety, placing the other on the solid, waxed lid. Not a single tear had been shed, but you knew he was being torn apart by the loss.

Soldiers were KIA all the time, it wasn't a new concept to either of you. But it was the first major incident in the small team for a while. After it had happened everyone had been in shock, however as the contract's were not up yet, there was nothing to do but finish the job, every small task dedicated in his name. Emotions remained at a breaking point when you had gone to organise your equipment the night before you got to go home, wanting to keep everything clean, neat, tidy. It had become an obsession, a coping mechanism. Simon had been particularly quiet that day. It gave you a horrible gut feeling, a turmoil between anxiety and terror. The entire time you had been unsure if he would make it through another catastrophic passing. And your suspicions were right.

The radio crackled. Price's voice.

"We need you. Simon's room."

Feet had pounded, shins aching in an effort to keep up with yourself as you sprinted through the corridors. It felt like slow motion, like you just couldn't move fast enough to get to him. On the linoleum the worn down boots had little grip causing you to slide as you rounded the final corner. The room door was open. His room. Everyone surrounded it. You slipped more as boots came to a halt, hearing Price telling everyone to get back, give him some space as the crowd parted like the Red Sea, letting you in. He was crouched down beside the bed, holding onto his skull mask with white knuckled intensity. He looked so small, so fragile. Your approach was slow, soft, like trying to not frighten an injured animal. One knee hit the ground, fingers wrapping his hands, bringing them to your mouth, planting soft gentle kisses on his rough, calloused skin. His head remained hung, limbs lifeless. Everything about him felt like a black hole, all consuming. Words were whispered only to him, though they attained no reaction.

"Simon, Simon, I'm here."

Desperate eye's had met Price's gaze, he gave a small nod before exiting the room, yelling at everyone to move back as he closed the door behind him. The newfound privacy warranted closer affections, body shifting, arms wrapping around him to let him rest against you, fully embraced. You leaned your head against his as he had started to cry, his sobs silent but they moved every inch of his being. It caused tears to flow out of your own eyes.

"It's okay, it's okay."

It was a lie.

It wasn't okay.

But what else should you have said?

You wished you could crawl inside his soul and take his pain away from him. A hand cupped had his head, holding him even closer as you turned your face, breaths warm in his hair as ragged, hurt inhales shook through him. Grief had... has a way of twisting and winding through every crevice, even ones you weren't aware of. It's a numb emotion, a hollow chasm that opens which you can only fill up with tears, lest you ignore it altogether. It feels unfair, weighted. You suddenly look in the mirror and appear a shell of yourself. An instantaneous transformation, puffy eyes, lack of colour in the cheeks, slimmer figure from the stress obliterating any appetite. Sometimes you know it's going to come, but that doesn't matter, nothing helps cushion the fall into the abyss. Like fingernails being ripped off slowly, tediously, as you're scrambling with frantic need to get a grasp on the edge of a high mountain face before you plummet.

That's only the denial setting in.

There are another 6 stages after that. Another 6 chapters to pass through. It feels like layers of something Dante would poeticise.

In the time it takes to progress, unwrap each messy emotional step and bundle it back up again methodically, sometimes even the strongest people are crumbled to dust. And sometimes, the weakest are those which find their iron heart. That night you were his iron heart, his protector. You would never see him like that again, his demeanour only growing more stoney.

The travel home was horrendous. You watched as they had loaded the casket onto the carrier plane first, a large flag draped over the tan wood. Simon sat on his own, unwilling to participate in any conversation. Reclusive; a spectator. But he held your hand the entire way back. It took hours.

The funeral had been arranged for a week after, 7 full days of which Simon had spent alone, holed up in his house. Not a single text returned, but all were read. The morning of, you had approached his door. You weren't confident he would answer. But he did, standing in front of you all in black. Black was Ghost's colour. It was just to be an understated event; organised, arranged, paid for already. A small dispute in the hallway of his home led to Simon driving you both to the church.

And now, as you stood there having to take respite from the casket, you adjusted the flower attached to his jacket lapel with your free hand. The gold plaque glinted under rainbow glow cast from beautiful chapel windows. Depictions of heaven, depictions of saviours and saints. Holy, beautiful things that you wished were awaiting you. Anything except an eternity in darkness. A cease of life, of what really made a person. You knew what made this person. He was 141, he was family. Another brother. The thistle pricked your skin, drawing blood as Ghost's fingers slipped from the wood; the final goodbye complete. Eyes read the plaque one last time.

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish.