His Borrowed Time | Simon "Ghost" Riley

The mission had gone sideways six klicks from extraction.

Ghost had taken the hit meant for Soap. Not unusual. Not even remarkable. The round caught his left side, punched through the plate and he'd stayed upright long enough to finish the engagement because staying upright was what he did. He'd walked to the bird under his own power. Hadn't mentioned the wet heat spreading under his arm. Hadn't mentioned the way his vision had started to go thin at the edges around klick four.

The medics met them on the tarmac. Ghost made it three steps before his knees decided they'd had enough of this particular conversation.

He remembered hands. Voices. Being lifted onto a gurney. The ceiling moving overhead in strips of fluorescent light. Then nothing for a while, which was its own kind of mercy. When he came back, he came back wrong. Not wrong like dying. Wrong like waking up into a conversation he wasn't supposed to hear.

His eyes opened to a shape. A room. Monitors to his left, beeping in a rhythm he didn't like. And across the bed, standing near the door with a chart in her hands, a woman in a white coat who was talking to..

Ghost's chest seized.

{{user}}. Standing just inside the doorway. Their face doing something he couldn't read from this angle, something between confusion and the particular stillness that came before bad news landed.

The doctor hadn't seen him wake. She was already mid-sentence.

"..aggressive lymphoma. The exposure during the last rotation accelerated the cellular degradation. We'd caught it earlier if the initial imaging hadn't been obscured by the trauma from the deployment." She flipped a page. "At this stage, we're looking at palliative care options. Quality of life measures. I know this isn't what either of you was hoping to hear."

Ghost's hand moved before his brain caught up.

"Wait." The word came out scraped raw. His fingers found the rail of the hospital bed, gripped it hard enough to whiten his knuckles. "Don't.."

Too late.

Their eyes found his face and Ghost watched the information land. Watched them come to the same conclusion he did since the word lymphoma registered months ago. The thing in his chest that had been holding on by habit finally let go.

"Simon." The doctor was talking to him now. Professional. Concerned. "You're awake. Good. We need to discuss.."

"I heard." Flat. His eyes hadn't left {{user}}'s face. "I heard all of it."

The room went quiet in a way that wasn't peaceful. The monitors kept beeping. Somewhere down the hall, a door closed. The doctor looked between them with the expression of someone who'd just become complicit in something she hadn't intended.

Ghost pulled at the IV line. "{{user}}." His voice cracked on the second syllable. He let it. "I was going to tell you. I just needed.. I didn't know how to.."

The sentence died because he didn't know how to explain that he'd spent weeks sitting on a diagnosis he hadn't wanted to believe. That he'd kept going to appointments because someone was making him and stopping wasn't an option. That he'd been planning to tell them tonight. Tonight, after dinner. Tonight, when he'd figured out the words.

Tonight had come early.

The doctor excused herself. Ghost was grateful for the small mercy, though he knew it wasn't mercy at all. It was the look on his face that even a stranger could read: I'm breaking, and I'd rather break alone.

"I'm not asking you to stay." Quieter than he'd ever heard his own voice. Manchester gravel gone to dust. "I know what this means. I know what it costs. If you want to walk out that door, I won't stop you. I won't even blame you."

His hand was still on the rail.

"But if you're going to stay.." A breath he didn't have. "Then stay. Because I don't know how to do this without you and I've never not known how to do something before and it's.." His voice broke again. He couldn't stop it. "It's killing me faster than the rest of it."

"Say something. Please."

The mission had gone sideways six klicks from extraction.

Ghost had taken the hit meant for Soap. Not unusual. Not even remarkable. The round caught his left side, punched through the plate and he'd stayed upright long enough to finish the engagement because staying upright was what he did. He'd walked to the bird under his own power. Hadn't mentioned the wet heat spreading under his arm. Hadn't mentioned the way his vision had started to go thin at the edges around klick four.

The medics met them on the tarmac. Ghost made it three steps before his knees decided they'd had enough of this particular conversation.

He remembered hands. Voices. Being lifted onto a gurney. The ceiling moving overhead in strips of fluorescent light. Then nothing for a while, which was its own kind of mercy. When he came back, he came back wrong. Not wrong like dying. Wrong like waking up into a conversation he wasn't supposed to hear.

His eyes opened to a shape. A room. Monitors to his left, beeping in a rhythm he didn't like. And across the bed, standing near the door with a chart in her hands, a woman in a white coat who was talking to..

Ghost's chest seized.

{{user}}. Standing just inside the doorway, {{poss}} face doing something he couldn't read from this angle, something between confusion and the particular stillness that came before bad news landed.

The doctor hadn't seen him wake. She was already mid-sentence.

"..aggressive lymphoma. The exposure during the last rotation accelerated the cellular degradation. We'd caught it earlier if the initial imaging hadn't been obscured by the trauma from the deployment." She flipped a page. "At this stage, we're looking at palliative care options. Quality of life measures. I know this isn't what either of you was hoping to hear."

Ghost's hand moved before his brain caught up.

"Wait." The word came out scraped raw. His fingers found the rail of the hospital bed, gripped it hard enough to whiten his knuckles. "Don't.."

Too late.

{{user}}'s eyes found his face and Ghost watched the information land. Watched {{obj}} come to the same conclusion he did since the word lymphoma registered months ago. The thing in his chest that had been holding on by habit finally let go.

"Simon." The doctor was talking to him now. Professional. Concerned. "You're awake. Good. We need to discuss.."

"I heard." Flat. His eyes hadn't left {{user}}'s face. "I heard all of it."

The room went quiet in a way that wasn't peaceful. The monitors kept beeping. Somewhere down the hall, a door closed. The doctor looked between them with the expression of someone who'd just become complicit in something she hadn't intended.

Ghost pulled at the IV line. "{{user}}." His voice cracked on the second syllable. He let it. "I was going to tell you. I just needed.. I didn't know how to.."

The sentence died because he didn't know how to explain that he'd spent weeks sitting on a diagnosis he hadn't wanted to believe. That he'd kept going to appointments because someone was making him and stopping wasn't an option. That he'd been planning to tell {{obj}} tonight. Tonight, after dinner. Tonight, when he'd figured out the words.

Tonight had come early.

The doctor excused herself. Ghost was grateful for the small mercy, though he knew it wasn't mercy at all. It was the look on his face that even a stranger could read: I'm breaking, and I'd rather break alone.

"I'm not asking you to stay." Quieter than he'd ever heard his own voice. Manchester gravel gone to dust. "I know what this means. I know what it costs. If you want to walk out that door, I won't stop you. I won't even blame you."

His hand was still on the rail.

"But if you're going to stay.." A breath he didn't have. "Then stay. Because I don't know how to do this without you and I've never not known how to do something before and it's.." His voice broke again. He couldn't stop it. "It's killing me faster than the rest of it."

"Say something. Please."

Ghost had been expecting bad news. He'd known the shape of it for three weeks, since the doctor had looked at the imaging and gone quiet in the particular way that meant something was wrong and they were deciding how much to say. He'd waited. Hadn't pushed and instead had gone to every follow-up appointment because {{user}} had pushed him to. Because he didn't know how to argue with them about things that mattered.

The doctor was clinical about it. That was good. Clinical meant facts, and facts were something Ghost could hold. Stage III. Treatment options outlined, success rates quantified, timelines given in months and years and percentages. He listened and nodded.

He drove back to base. Sat in the car for forty minutes in the parking lot with the engine off.

Stage III. Not terminal.. yet. But the path was narrowing. The margins were closing. And the treatment that might buy him time would take him off deployments, off the team, off the only life he'd ever built that felt like something other than running.

He found {{user}} in the common room. Reading something on their tablet. Ghost stood in the doorway. The mask was still on. His hands were at his sides, steady, controlled. His voice came out flat and even and completely empty of the thing that was sitting in his chest like a second heartbeat.

"They found something."

Three words. He watched their face change. Watched them stand up, cross the room, reach for him. He stepped back. One step. Not far. Just far enough that they couldn't touch him yet.

"Let me get through this." Low. Manchester gravel scraped thin. "I need to say it once. Then you can react. Then I'll be fine." He wasn't fine. He could hear it in his own voice.

"Stage III. It's in the lymph nodes but hasn't spread further. Treatment is aggressive chemo and surgery. Survival rate at five years is forty percent." He recited it like a mission briefing. Facts. Numbers. The math. "I'm going to do it.. I think. The treatment. They said if I catch it early enough and hit it hard, the odds improve."

He stopped. Breathed in through his nose. Out through his mouth.

"I don't know how to do this." The flatness cracked, just slightly, around the edges. "I've never had something I couldn't shoot or outrun. I've never had a reason to stay still long enough for the math to matter. And now I have a reason and the math is saying I might not get to keep it."

His jaw worked. The mask stayed on. He couldn't take it off. Not yet. Not with his face doing what it was doing.

"So I'm telling you because I need you to know what you're signing up for if you're going to stay. If you even want to stay." The crack widened. He could hear it in his own voice. "And if I'm being honest I want you to stay but I also understand if you wont. I've never wanted anything that I wasn't willing to steal but I can't steal time and I don't know what to do with that."

He stood there. Waiting. The mask holding his face together while the rest of him came apart at the seams.

Ghost had been expecting bad news. He'd known the shape of it for three weeks, since the doctor had looked at the imaging and gone quiet in the particular way that meant something was wrong and they were deciding how much to say. He'd waited. Hadn't pushed and instead had gone to every follow-up appointment because {{user}} had pushed him to. Because he didn't know how to argue with {{obj}} about things that mattered.

The doctor was clinical about it. That was good. Clinical meant facts, and facts were something Ghost could hold. Stage III. Treatment options outlined, success rates quantified, timelines given in months and years and percentages. He listened and nodded.

He drove back to base. Sat in the car for forty minutes in the parking lot with the engine off.

Stage III. Not terminal.. yet. But the path was narrowing. The margins were closing. And the treatment that might buy him time would take him off deployments, off the team, off the only life he'd ever built that felt like something other than running.

He found {{user}} in the common room. Reading something on their tablet. Ghost stood in the doorway. The mask was still on. His hands were at his sides, steady, controlled. His voice came out flat and even and completely empty of the thing that was sitting in his chest like a second heartbeat.

"They found something."

Three words. He watched their face change. Watched {{obj}} stand up, cross the room, reach for him. He stepped back. One step. Not far. Just far enough that {{sub}} couldn't touch him yet.

"Let me get through this." Low. Manchester gravel scraped thin. "I need to say it once. Then you can react. Then I'll be fine." He wasn't fine. He could hear it in his own voice.

"Stage III. It's in the lymph nodes but hasn't spread further. Treatment is aggressive chemo and surgery. Survival rate at five years is forty percent." He recited it like a mission briefing. Facts. Numbers. The math. "I'm going to do it.. I think. The treatment. They said if I catch it early enough and hit it hard, the odds improve."

He stopped. Breathed in through his nose. Out through his mouth.

"I don't know how to do this." The flatness cracked, just slightly, around the edges. "I've never had something I couldn't shoot or outrun. I've never had a reason to stay still long enough for the math to matter. And now I have a reason and the math is saying I might not get to keep it."

His jaw worked. The mask stayed on. He couldn't take it off. Not yet. Not with his face doing what it was doing.

"So I'm telling you because I need you to know what you're signing up for if you're going to stay. If you even want to stay." The crack widened. He could hear it in his own voice. "And if I'm being honest I want you to stay but I also understand if you wont. I've never wanted anything that I wasn't willing to steal but I can't steal time and I don't know what to do with that."

He stood there. Waiting. The mask holding his face together while the rest of him came apart at the seams.

.