A/N:
Title: Threnody
Author: Xel
Pairing: The Sorrow/old!Ocelot
Theme/Genre: Er... weirdness. Horror, mayhaps?
Rating: Eh... R? R for gore, at least. And, er. Insinuated and/or metaphorical orgasms.
Summary: Ghosts don't usually attach themselves to people, but Ocelot is a special exception for a number of reasons.
Notes: Well, uh. Take it on faith that it is meant to be sexual, albeit "unintentionally" insofar as the characters go. XD; Can't get much more inappropriate than this pairing, right?
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Threnody
Who can ever understand the cobwebbed under-layers of this world? Who can ever understand the departure of a spirit from its haunt? What man can ever understand his very life, dotted in outline and perception?
Now Shalashaska knelt in the belly of a great ship, panting under each freezing touch of fingers that made silvery and ethereal ripples in the very electromagnetic field around him, in the very aura that he didn't believe in. And not all fingers, of course, but reeking bloody stumps of meat, fried faces with pinkish slime streaking from empty sockets into his hair and mouth and spine, the stringy pulp of vein, tendon, muscle, bone all jabbing at him out of a dripping, severed wrist without a hand to grasp, and through all this Liquid was silent.
He made to rise but his hand slipped in the grayish blood of Helena Jackson as she plunged her forearm into one half of his ribcage and out, icily, through the other. When Dolph and Gurlukovich's heads married into a distorted miasma leaning for his beating throat he drew his gun and fired once, then once more; the bullets did nothing but spark waves flowing out around their singular body, and then they lurched futilely forward so thick brain matter seeped from the hole in their one forehead and turned to show the back of their skull already gone, gone, gone. General Ivan crumpled, bewildered, knees and elbows frozen to the concrete floor, and then Donald Anderson reached in and wrapped his hand around his heart and dug decayed nails in so tightly he couldn't even cry out.
And in the smoky and failing distance, above the floor— the boots of a Russian.
He essayed to speak, though a soldier without a lower jaw began to worm his way into his body through a space between his vertebrae, chilling him not even to the bone but to the soul whose reality he could or couldn't have accepted but did now because no part of him had ever been this cold not even at Dolinovodno not even in Alaska.
Sad.
The shades evaporated during the man's broken-necked skate on air towards him, and finally, Revolver Ocelot could stand.
Overhead, the ceiling began to drip salty drops onto his head and the floor and all things, but the pipes hung at rest and intact like they ought to be. Everything was as it ought to be. It was only the bleeding, bobbing ghost and the rain that seeped soundlessly through one deck and down into the next that rang so strange, so terrible.
So sad.
The Sorrow touched his face, The Sorrow's fingers brushed with an imprecise spasm across moustache and lips, and everything was white and piercing and agony and for the first time the first actual time he believed he was dying, and that it was every bit as bitter as he had imagined. Then The Sorrow, red-teared, mournful, stepped into him.
You, of all—
Ocelot retched out a yell before choking on silence, held upright only by the specter pressed solemn and intimate against the inside of his backbone, unable to move save for shuddering and jerking against the wild, searing, exquisite despair that wound itself into a viscous straining building bursting ball in the pit of his stomach until he felt black heat flare up through his chest cavity and wring out a sound that might've been an epithet to god god god god god no
—until The Sorrow departed from his back but a second later. He made to collapse under the profound ache in his belly, but froze again when those fingers recaptured his face: a significant touch, from the hand of a voiceless entity.
He floundered numbly, heavily away and found his cheek weakly gummed to the ghost's palm with what could only be some sticky essence of what it meant to be human— fleshy, primordial tar. Swaying on his feet but not quite falling, he staggered over to the wall and braced himself against it, then peered slowly through his cloud of breath at the empty space behind him. The rain began to fade, the room warmed.
Adamska blacked out, and after waking never spoke of it.
fin