Prompt: Rain
Characters: Ghost, Roach
Timeline: Post-Loose Ends [AU]
Words: 1035
Rating: T
Warning: Angst

#3

Pitter, patter, pitter, patter… Thump, thump, thump.

It's raining; thick, harsh droplets pouring out of the sky, creating curtains of water that reach as far the eye can see. It bites into the earth, the mud, the thin fabric of his fatigues, soaking through to the skin, and he grits his teeth, trying to stop them from chattering.

The noise will be too loud, even in this torrential downpour, and he can't afford to give them away.

Russian voices murmur above his head; the squelch of combat boots stiffening his spine as they walk closer to his hiding place. There's the soft whine of a dog, rattling chains – the abrupt, sharp sound of the mutt shaking wet from its fur. One of them snaps something, tone indicating protest. Ghost listens as they continue to meander about, his suspicions confirmed – the dog can't catch his scent in this weather; their bloodied trail having long been washed away.

They were safe.

Or they would be, if Roach could keep his gob shut.

Another pained moan makes it through the man's blood-flecked lips, his feverish gaze staring up at Ghost without really seeing. Ghost is quick to silence him with a gloved hand clapped over his mouth, fingers viciously biting into his friend's face as he tries to muffle the noise. Roach doesn't understand why – hasn't since they first toppled into this cold, sopping hell. But Ghost remains an unrelenting force against the man's panicked struggles, right up until they cease all together.

They have to be quiet, still. It's the only way they'll get out of here – if they can get out of here.

He's lying on top of Roach. When they'd first stumbled upon the ditch, Roach had been barely able to stand, his legs so close to giving out that it was only Ghost's supporting presence which kept him upright. There'd been no doubt in his mind that Roach wouldn't be able to hold on to consciousness for much longer, which meant that if Ghost had gone into the deep, narrow trench first, Roach's dead weight would have prevented him from coming out. Ghost might have still had his wits about him, but he was tired, injured and close to succumbing himself. He wouldn't be able to lift his friend – he'd suffocate.

He knew that even if he didn't manage to crawl out, leaving Roach to suffer the slow, cruel fate in his place – he was the only one with a chance. So he'd thrown Roach in and followed him down, collapsing some of the ditch onto them in a hasty attempt at camouflage. If he could keep his eyes open, his brain working, then maybe, maybe, it would be alright.

That's what he tells himself as he all but crushes Roach into the dirt, the man so weak that he can only take the punishment and plead for mercy with quiet, unintelligible noises Ghost has already steeled himself against. He listens to them with a heavy heart, closing his eyes when he can't stand to look at Roach's crumpled, distressed face anymore.

Just a little longer. As soon as the patrol's moved on, he'll get them out. He'll get them out and get Roach to a fucking doctor and it'll be okay. He'll make it okay.

The dog whuffles nearby; nose sniffing the air. Ghost is suddenly gripped by fear, ice running through his veins as several footsteps start towards them in a terrifying tempo. At least two of the soldiers are closing in on the edge of their ditch, speaking lowly as they canvas the area. A bird chirps, taking off with flapping wings and rustling leaves. They pause. He wonders if they're watching it, subconsciously holding his breath. The dog barks, startled.

Somebody laughs.

Heavy boots stomp back the way they came. Ghost inhales, barely feeling relief as his lungs stop burning. Beneath him, Roach is unmoving save for his shallow, labored breathing. Ghost can feel the man's heartbeat thrumming sluggishly against him; the sensation a comfort when howling winds drown out any other signs of life. He opens his eyes, searching Roach's pale face.

He's unconscious.

Ghost's gut clenches painfully, logic telling him what he refuses to believe. His fingers relinquish their grip on Roach before tentatively tugging back an eyelid. Nothing. He slaps the man's cheek as hard as he dares. No response.

The Russians are retreating. Slow and unhurried. Ghost strains his ears, following their progress as well as he can with hearing alone. He needs to move, but he can't – not until they're out of sight, out of earshot. Far enough away that the dog won't notice them. A zip is tugged down – one of them lags behind to take a piss.

Only a few more minutes. A few more minutes, and they'll be gone. Just a few more minutes. Hold on, Roach. We're almost there. Just hold on, mate – promise me you will.

He doesn't realise he's whispering it, forehead against forehead, desperation leaving cracks in his voice. There's no future for him – stolen by the General who betrayed them both. He has nothing – nothing but Roach. A friend, a brother. Someone he can save – something that gives him purpose. As long as he has a purpose, he can keep going. He can keep going, and –

– Pants are being pulled up, belt jingling. Steps trail off in the direction of the others, getting softer, quieter, more distant. Ghost waits until he can't pick them up at all, waits longer just to be safe – then he shifts. His body is sore, heavy. Exhaustion has seeped into every pore, every muscle. But he needs to get Roach up – needs to get him out. Dirt tumbles down around him as he stands. He pauses, glances around. They're alone.

He reaches for Roach, taking the man's limp, dead weight – shouldering it.

It's time to go, brother.

Hold on.

I'll get us out of this shithole, if it's the last thing I fucking do.

I promise.

I'll get you out of here.

Just hold on.

Keep breathing.

Please.

Don't leave me alone.

You know what happens when I'm alone.

Pitter, patter, pitter, patter… Thump… tha-thump… thump…

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'Gary?'