Work Text:
The Scotland that Soap described was green. Always green. Verdant, and dotted with pinks and blues; overrun with the national flower as if it were his own special slice of heaven.
John MacTavish was a man indelibly from Scotland. Delete.
It was the Scotland they saw from the cliffs when they laid him to rest - scattered on the wind of a country he'd proudly represented.
Johnny was as Scottish as they come. Delete.
But they knew better than to believe it was HIS Scotland.
John MacTavish has fought bravely for Queen and Country since he was seventeen. Delete.
When Ghost sat, drafting the letter of condolences to a MacTavish he'd never met - to a MacTavish about whom Johnny rarely spoke - he tried to think less of thistle and more of sky-blue eyes. Of shaved, gelled hair. Of righteous fury and the flaming sword held in one saint's hand. Though this sword was that of the SAS.
He was my friend. Delete.
What adjectives could a family possibly want read in a letter that ended with the fact that their son, their brother, or whatever he happened to be to them, was dead? Shot in the brain that calculated so quickly and yet not quickly enough to avoid the inevitable?
…stupid, bull-headed, stubborn mule of a man who couldn't be damned to stay safe if others were in danger- Delete delete delete.
Five aborted attempts left Ghost hollowed out. Finally, at 02:42, he put to page the only words he felt were the truth:
I would have died for him. I'm sorry he beat me to it.