Takes place during and after "Loose Ends"
Disclaimer: Does not own Call of Duty, only the games :(
Contains slash, alcohol, swearing and violence :D
GhostxRoach

Gary "Roach" Sanderson
Task Force 141
Day 6

"Do you have the DSM?"

"We got it, sir!" Ghost has one arm up in the air, shielding himself from the grit that's being flung up by Shepherd's chopper. His other arm is still wrapped protectively around my shoulder. I'm breathing hard but I look up at Ghost and he nods back at me, tightening his grip on my shoulder. It's just a light touch, an everything-will-be-fine touch, nothing really intimate, but I draw some solidarity from it anyway. Everything's going to be fine, my ass. I can feel the raw burns on my side bleeding, there are a few pieces of metal lodged inside my body, and I'm pretty sure my leg is broken and I don't want to look at it. Definitely not fine.

None of that matters, of course, because we've made it. We're safe. Now that I don't have to worry about Ultranationalists, I start thinking about how much time its going to take for my wounds to heal. If my leg is bad enough, they might even decide to keep me out of the task force for good. I glance again at Ghost again and smile weakly through my mask. He just keeps staring, cool blue eyes fixed on my face. He probably feels guilty, like me running into that mortar was somehow his fault. Maybe he can stay with me at the hospital. Wonder if hospital beds can fit two people—

"Good," Shepherd says, dragging me reluctantly back to reality. "That's one less loose end."

Ghost and I are still staring at each other, looking the wrong way at the wrong time. I hear a small metallic click, but I don't even notice that Shepherd's drawn his .44 Magnum until a bullet carves its way through my stomach. My hand slips off of Ghost's shoulder, soars into the air for a brief second, then follows the rest of my body down as I drop backward. When I collapse, my head hits first and that, coupled with the concussion I got in the Gulag, makes my vision go red and blotchy. Temporarily blinded, blood pounding in my ears, I can only hear and imagine, rather than see, what happens next:

"No!" Ghost turns to face General Shepherd, pulls his ACR up to his shoulder— too late —

I hear the crrrack of another bullet being fired and the following thump as it punched through his body.

Pain.

Darkness.

The last thing I see after Ghost hits the ground is General Shepherd digging through my vest to find the DSM and two human-sized blurs moving in at his command. Then the dark descended.

The world is dark. I am alone in the dark, tumbling and spinning through the black that is the world. My incoherent thoughts collide and crash mixing everything in my mind together, combining old memories with confused emotions. Everything is spinning out of control.

— "Target at your six"—

—I dig my pick into the ice directly below Captain MacTavish as we climb toward the Russian cliff hangar—

—"Switch to your sidearm, Roach, it's faster than reloading! Now melee
with your knife!"—

—Alejandro Rojas. AKA Alex the Red. Arms Dealer. Protected by
the local militia. Contract and Armorer of Vladimir Makarov—

—"Roach! Come on, get up! Get up! Get up! We're almost there!" —

—...Ghost? —

I try to wake up, get moving, like Ghost orders; but I realize, belatedly, that someone —rather, some ones—have their hands around my arms and legs, and they're swinging me swinging me like some sort of over-sized paper doll.

Abruptly, the hands let go and I fly through the air, sideways, head spinning, world tilting. I land—luckily, on my right arm, which seems to be the only uninjured part of me. I flip around once more and finally come to a halt. The red spots in my vision are back and I seem to have trouble breathing regularly.

Over the sound of my labored breathing, I can hear him. General Shepherd. He's talking to his troops, these mysterious soldiers clad in black. The soldiers are spreading out now, suppressing the ultranationalist forces that had managed to survive the task force's assault. I watch them for a while, noticing that they seem less substantial than the average soldier. They move like shadows through the forest. Shadow Company. And as I lie, head spinning, mind reeling, in this ditch that they've pitched me in, I watch another pair of soldiers enter my field of vision, hauling an additional body along with them. My stomach (or what's left of it, anyway) twists and that only serves to worsen the pain of what's coming. Grey combat pullover —no— patterned balaclava —not this— Anything. Anywhere. Anyone.

Not him.

But Time is its own master; Fate listens to no man. And I can only watch, helpless, bleeding to death, as General Shepherd's men toss Ghost —my companion, my comrade-in-arms, my better half— into the ditch, directly toward me.

"Be careful with him!" I call out to the soldiers in black. "Can't you see that he's injured? Don't you know who this man is? Take better care of him!"

That's what I mean to say, anyway. It comes out as more of a low-pitched whimper as I feel blood rush into my mouth and bubble at the corner of my lip. They pay no attention to me, either, dumping Ghost's body beside mine as if he were just another piece of rubbish Shepherd had ordered them to throw out.

He hits the ground, bounces, rolls over. It's then that I see the bullet wound on the front of his chest and the gaping hole it's exit made. He rolls again, head facing me, body bent at odd angles like some cast off, broken puppet. Pawns. That's all we were.

Ghost.

I search his face for signs of life. He's not moving. Okay. That's all right. I can deal with that. There's a large bloodstain on his balaclava close to where his lips would be. Shit. Getting frantic, I look at his eyes, hidden beneath the red sunglasses I bought him as a replacement for ones I had stepped on in Rio. But behind the glasses, his blue eyes, usually glinting, are instead, glassy; he's staring beyond me, beyond this world to god knows where. Shit. Shit shit shitshitshi—

But he's not dead. I know he's not dead because he can't be dead. I can't let him be dead; if I admit that he was gone I would have to admit that he'd failed me, that he had died before me like I told him not to, died when he should still be living and cracking jokes and making me pissed off and hopelessly addicted to him at the same time.

"You should have listened to me!" I tell him, getting more and more incoherent as I ramble on. "You should have listened when I told to leave me to the mortars. I couldn't have helped you! You shouldn't have saved me! But you did, and I didn't, and now you're dead and I can't do anything because YOU didn't listen when I told you to and now we're stuck in some nameless ditch and no one's here to save our asses this time because you stopped to help me up. LOOK WHAT HAPPENED!"

I never get past "You—" before I cut myself off with a strangled moan. I could feel, with every beat of my stupid, broken heart, the blood pulse from my stomach into the dirt beneath us and I just don't have the energy to try to say anything anymore, and even if I did, no one but Shepherd would hear me. But it doesn't matter anymore, nothing matters nothing can hurt more than this empty hollow feeling no one's left they're all dead — even you. Ghost.

I wheeze, and the pain in my side from the mortar and the bullet would make me nearly black out again. doesntmatter. Wearily, I close my eyes. Every part of my body is numb, tired, broken and bleeding. My wrist is throbbing and my head is swimming, it feels like I drank too much and then decided to run a marathon. I can hear snatches of conversation and I'm not sure if they're from Shepherd, his troops, Ghost's radio or my head. Everything is going dark again. I know I'm going to die, right? I can feel myself dying right now; the only remaining question is how many minutes I have left. Reminds me of the time on the rooftops of the favela.

—"Roach! Roach! Wake up! Roach! We can see them from the chopper! They're coming for you, dozens of 'em! Roach!"—

I'm sorry Ghost. I apologize in my thoughts, not even having the strength to attempt to speak aloud anymore. I was wrong. It was my fault. I should have tried harder, ran faster. You'd still be alive then. I'm sorry about what I said before. You know I didn't mean it. I was just too stupid, too slow to realize before. I made a mistake, and now you're paying for it. Can you..

...forgive me?

...

There's no answer; I wasn't expecting one. Instead, I open an eye, squinting, and slowly flex my left arm. The pain is severe, but not totally unbearable. Hurts like hell, though. I wiggle my fingers— they seem to work fine. I start to drag my hand, slowly, unsteadily, towards Ghost's lifeless arm, manage to grasp his hand, squeezing unresponsive fingers for a sign that I know isn't coming. It doesn't matter now. And in that instant, I mean it. Abandoned, betrayed, and dying; But not alone. Holding hands with his corpse, I close my eyes.

Do you remember how we met? I ask him.