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The sun was setting. The wind was brisk here, whipping around his hoodie strings, pushing him closer and closer to the ledge. He could hear the ocean under him, rushing and crashing on the cliff face. Reds and oranges lit up the sky, the clouds bouncing off the light and making the most beautiful sight Ghost had seen.
“You made a beautiful one Johnny.” The sentence was barely a whisper, a brush of air past his lips, a breath. The urn was cold in his hands, seeping through his gloves, the metal the steely reminder of why he was there, why Price and Gaz were standing with him, watching the sunset. Something was tight in his chest, an ache he couldn’t quite place, something wrong.
It had been forty hours since Ghost had slept. He had went back to base, thrown on civvies and bought the next red eye ticket to Scotland, his body alight with something he dare not name, an anger and anguish that he hadn’t felt since the fire. Price hadn’t said a word, just followed, Gaz tagging along soberly. His body was transported home, his wishes to be cremated. His family couldn’t know, not yet. So this was what they had to do.
If Price wasn’t right behind him, Ghost would do what he had sought out to do so many years ago after escaping Makrov. The wind whispered in his ear, the waves beckoning, asking for him, temptation incarnate on this cliff. Price had known, of course. He could see how tired Ghost looked, how he carried himself.
He placed his hand on top of the lid. To spread his ashes in his home, spilled on the soil and into the sea, so he could stay but also go. A million thoughts were milling in Ghost’s head, death and life and joy and anguish. To throw himself off the cliff, to join Johnny, or live and avenge him, to keep going or to end the suffering.
The brief moment of light in his life after so many years of darkness was extinguished with one bullet, one split second decision, and now he was on this cliff. He was just so tired. Everyone he loves dies, and his hands reek of blood and it won’t wash clean and he can’t live like this anymore. His hand wouldn't open the urn, he couldn’t move.
‘So you like me?’ Johnny’s voice was echoing in his head, bouncing off memories and grief and pain.
‘I like you alive.’ His hand tightened on the lid, knuckles going white. ‘I love you dead too.’
He didn’t know when his knees landed on the ground, a soft thump echoing as he hit the soft dirt under them. He couldn’t let go of it, he couldn’t open that lid and let Johnny go yet, he had so much life left, he was supposed to stay with him, he was supposed to outlive Ghost. He could feel the cold of the urn seeping through his hoodie now, not so dissimilar to how cold Johnny was in that pool of blood, pale and empty and cold.
He could distantly head voices, feel warmth on his shoulders, hands clasping and shaking in concern. None of it was acknowledged. His brain was violent static, memories and voices and gunshots and screaming. So much pain. He was so tired. He could feel warm tears down his face, soaking his mask. Johnny wanted him to live, but what was there to live for? There was no warmth on this cliff, no comfort or joy. Only crashing waves and beckoning wind.
“Ghost.” Price’s voice was gravelly, tired and concerned.
Ghost had been simply a weapon for most of his life. A machine used to mow down anyone who stood in the way, anyone who he was told to kill. He had simply gone along with it, dead and lifeless, a shell of anything. Johnny was a revival. A gentle hand, pulling his walls down and waiting with opened arms.
His body was dust, ash in his hands now. He had finally found his missing piece, something that made him want to live, not just exist, and it was gone.
He stood. He could feel himself tearing out the rest of his humanity, ripping his soul to shreds.
As the ashes were carried into the wind, so was the rest of him.