Chapter Text
Simon couldn’t remember the last time he felt this… carefree. Maybe it was the last time he got well and truly drunk. Even then, he still wasn’t quite able to get rid of the nagging paranoia that clung to him so constantly. Burrowed into his skin like beetles and worms, itching, burrowing, feeding and reproducing-
He dragged his blunt nails across the side of his neck where the skin was already irritated and scratched raw. He couldn't help but think of the disgusting porous holes filling Vernon's skin back in that grave all those years ago.
There’s no point to the paranoia now. No point worrying for his safety when he’s probably going to be dead soon anyway. He should’ve used his handgun. At the same time, he doesn’t want his brains splattered across the wall and ceiling for some hired cleaner to scrape up. Overdose was probably one of the cleanest ways to die.
Simon let his head loll to the side like it was full of heavy sand instead of a brain, a phantom ringing piercing his ears. Inhaling was becoming a struggle, taking each breath felt like such a monumental effort and he just didn’t have the energy for it, breaths coming with long pauses between. He ran a clumsy hand with shaking fingers through his hair as he leaned back against the wall. Everything was spinning and the shadows looked like they were moving. Maybe that's what the afterlife had in store for him. Creeping shadows and haunting creaks when you're at your worst. He honestly hopes he dies and nothing else.
A knock came from his door and Simon couldn’t tell if it was real or not. He’d been hearing his mother's voice every so often and the sounds of bullet casings clattering, so it wouldn’t surprise him if this was another hallucination. The knock came again, louder this time.
“I know yer in there, Lt. Let me in or I’m bustin’ down the door,” someone threatened from outside. It took Simon far too long to identify the voice as Johnny’s. He prayed it was another hallucination. He didn’t need anyone finding him like this, especially not someone who means so much to him. He isn’t even wearing his mask.
“Fuck ‘ff,” he yells, slurring his words despite his best efforts. For a minute there’s silence, before the sounds of clicking and metal on metal begin to come from the door.
He’s picking the lock, Simon realizes belatedly, as the handle eventually clicks and the door swings open. The light from the hallway momentarily blinds him, a figure blocking out half of it.
“Sorry t' barge in, but ye... Simon? What’s wrong??” Johnny demands as he reaches Simon’s side in long strides, kneeling next to him and grabbing his face with a gentleness that didn’t match his panicked urgency. He'd picked up on the distinct wrongness of it all far quicker than Simon would've hoped.
“... ‘s nothin’,” Simon mutters, looking away. His tongue feels too big in his mouth. He kind of hopes this is just a dream, or a vivid pre-death hallucination. It’d be nice if death came in the form of his best friend. No big bad grim reaper to guide the way, just Johnny with his cocky grin and bright blue eyes, leading him to the park his mother used to take him and Tommy to feed the ducks. Distantly, he feels Johnny taking his pulse and flinches when his friend pulls open his right eye to look at his pupil.
“Simon, what happened? Tell me, now,” he demands, voice and hands trembling. Simon sighs and lets his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk.
“... took somethin’,” he admits in a dejected mutter. Johnny inhales sharply.
“What’d you take? How much?” He sounds like he’s holding back tears, and when Simon turns his head back to look at him again, it looks like it too. He hopes it’s his blurry eyes playing tricks on him. Johnny isn’t supposed to cry. He never wanted to hurt him, he just wanted it to end. "Simon, what did you take??
“... took a lot,” he admits in a whisper. “Two-- three bottles.”
The realization of what he’s done hits him, suddenly. He could very well survive this and be honorably discharged on account of his attempt. He could very well not survive this. This could be it. He's going to die painfully high on the floor of his assigned room beside the person who means the most to him.
Maybe it's okay to let it end this way.
“What did you take, Simon??” Johnny demands, pulling out his phone. Simon shakes his head, finding his eyes slipping shut. Keeping them open is taking effort he doesn’t want to put in.
“Don’ remember,” he mumbles as his eyes flutter closed, before shooting back open as Johnny gives his face a harsh shake, pulling a displeased grunt from him.
“Don’t close yer eyes, focus on me. Talk to me. Tell me about your family, I’ve only heard bits and pieces about them,” Johnny begs, putting the phone up to his ear. Simon hums noncommittally. “Price, ambulance to Ghost’s room, he says he took two or three bottles of somethin’, can’t remember what. Slowed heart rate, depressed breathing; he’s out of it and his pupils are blown. Keeps tryin’ to close his eyes on me, I’m tryin’ to keep him awake, get yer ass moving now.”
Simon notes absently the sound of the phone clattering recklessly to the floor. He really fucked up this time, didn’t he? Should’ve just used the gun. Would’ve been dead by now, it would’ve been quick. There’d be no chance of being saved. Now he has to worry about his future in the military if he lives. God, he hopes this is it. If there is a god, he will let Simon Riley die with three empty pill bottles tangled in his sheets and drool pooling uncomfortably in his mouth and dripping down his chin.
“Don’t--” he mumbles, trailing off. Johnny grabs his forearm, squeezing it hard enough to bruise and putting his other hand on Simon’s shoulder.
“Don’t what?” he prompts. It's easy to tell he's trying to keep Simon engaged and awake.
“Don’t save me,” Simon pleads softly. “They’ll-- they'll discharge me. I don’ wanna survive this...”
A broken whine reaches his ears and he doesn’t want to acknowledge that Johnny, Soap, could ever make such a grief-ridden sound.
“Don’t talk like that. You’ll be fine, you’ll-- you can get help and this won’t happen again,” he promises, but Simon knows it’s hollow.
“Sorry, Johnny. This’s… my time, ‘r whatever,” he slurs, eyes drifting across the room as his eyelids begin to flutter again.
“Simon Riley, don’t you dare pass out on me now!” Johnny snaps, shaking him roughly. He groans as the dizziness increases tenfold, and he can almost pretend the light from the cracked door looks like a stairway if he squints. “If they discharge you-- I’ll go with you. My contract expires in a year, I’ll let it expire and retire with you and we can move somewhere far away from all this, I promise. Swear my fucking soul on it, I won’t leave you, so don’t you dare— don't do this to me, not now-!”
Simon’s heart aches at the promise, at the blatant begging. It doesn't suit Johnny at all, this pathetic pleading. He's supposed to be strong, resilient and unbreakable.
“Been dead f’r a long time, Johnny,” he admits softly, breaths coming shallower as his chest feels heavier. “Don’t think I ever did crawl out of that grave. Been livin’ on... borrowed time.” His eyes flutter closed again and he refuses to let them open, even when Johnny shakes him, pinches him; even when he cries.
“Simon, open yer fucking eyes! You cunt! You absolute cunt! Lettin’ me know ye and then dying like this, you’re a dick for it!” Simon doesn’t really understand the words being said to him anymore, but he wishes it would be over already. He wishes Johnny wouldn’t be sad because of him. Distantly, as though hearing it from another room, he hears the door slam open and more voices surround him.
He vaguely registers feeling himself getting picked up and placed on a stretcher, and everything beyond that is no longer his concern.