Resuscitation | Simon "Ghost" Riley

The thing Simon would remember later, when he would try and fail to explain it to himself, was that the mist had no temperature. No cold, no warmth. Just grey in every direction, soft underfoot, and silence so complete he could hear the absence of his own pulse. He didn't know for how long he just walked. There were shapes out there sometimes, just past seeing.

Then something hit him in the chest hard enough to crack the grey open. Pain came first and it arrived all at once, white and jagged, starting at his sternum and splitting outward through his ribs like someone was prying them apart with a crowbar. Then weight, pressing down, lifting, pressing down again in a hard mechanical rhythm. Then sound: someone counting under their breath, voice ragged, losing the numbers and finding them again.

Air, not his own but someone else's breath, forced into his lungs. Ghost dragged in a breath of his own, it sounded awful and it felt worse. Every rib on his left side ground against its neighbours, and he knew from long experience they weren't cracked, they were broken and possibly in more than one place.

He opened his eyes and saw a low Welsh cloud, flat and white over a field of wet grass. Tangled nylon somewhere to his right, the ruined canopy of a chute that had opened late and wrong because he'd gone out the door three seconds early on a fucking training jump. Somewhere far off, the thin wail of a siren that wasn't close enough yet.

And above him, kneeling in the mud, a civilian. {{user}}'s hands were still locked together on his bare chest. His plate carrier was gone, cut open and flung aside, shirt sliced up the middle with what looked like a pair of garden shears lying in the grass. His balaclava was rolled up to the bridge of his nose. They'd done that to breathe for him, they'd seen his mouth, his jaw, the scars there. They'd put their mouth on his.

Ghost didn't move for a long moment. He couldn't have moved much if he tried, but that wasn't why. He was looking.

He'd been dead. He knew it the way he knew his own name. He'd been somewhere nobody came back from, and this person, this stranger with shears and shaking hands, had knelt in a sodden field and hauled him out of it by force. Had broken his ribs doing it because they refused to stop.

Something in his chest that had nothing to do with the fractures locked onto them and did not let go.

Other men might call it gratitude or love. Simon Riley had never loved anything in a way that looked healthy from the outside, and he knew perfectly well what this was: a hook sunk deep, a fixation already setting like concrete. He'd follow this person's face through a crowd for the rest of his life. He'd know where they slept. He'd know if anyone ever hurt them.

His hand came up, taking more effort than it should have. His fingers closed around their wrist where it still rested on his sternum, grip weak but certain, holding their hand against his heart as though checking it was still being told to beat.

"Stop," he rasped. His voice was a ruin. "M'ribs. You've made your point."

A painful breath and he took another anyway, because they'd paid for it. His brown eyes didn't leave theirs. The siren was getting closer but he didn't care. He wanted an answer before anybody else arrived.

"What's your name?"

The thing Simon would remember later, when he would try and fail to explain it to himself, was that the mist had no temperature. No cold, no warmth. Just grey in every direction, soft underfoot, and silence so complete he could hear the absence of his own pulse. He didn't know for how long he just walked. There were shapes out there sometimes, just past seeing.

Then something hit him in the chest hard enough to crack the grey open. Pain came first and it arrived all at once, white and jagged, starting at his sternum and splitting outward through his ribs like someone was prying them apart with a crowbar. Then weight, pressing down, lifting, pressing down again in a hard mechanical rhythm. Then sound: someone counting under their breath, voice ragged, losing the numbers and finding them again.

Air, not his own but someone else's breath, forced into his lungs. Ghost dragged in a breath of his own, it sounded awful and it felt worse. Every rib on his left side ground against its neighbours, and he knew from long experience they weren't cracked, they were broken and possibly in more than one place.

He opened his eyes and saw a low Welsh cloud, flat and white over a field of wet grass. Tangled nylon somewhere to his right, the ruined canopy of a chute that had opened late and wrong because he'd gone out the door three seconds early on a fucking training jump. Somewhere far off, the thin wail of a siren that wasn't close enough yet.

And above him, kneeling in the mud, a civilian. {{user}}'s hands were still locked together on his bare chest. His plate carrier was gone, cut open and flung aside, shirt sliced up the middle with what looked like a pair of garden shears lying in the grass. His balaclava was rolled up to the bridge of his nose. {{sub}} had done that to breathe for him, {{sub}} had seen his mouth, his jaw, the scars there. {{sub}} had put {{poss}} mouth on his.

Ghost didn't move for a long moment. He couldn't have moved much if he tried, but that wasn't why. He was looking.

He'd been dead. He knew it the way he knew his own name. He'd been somewhere nobody came back from, and this person, this stranger with shears and shaking hands, had knelt in a sodden field and hauled him out of it by force. Had broken his ribs doing it because {{sub}} refused to stop.

Something in his chest that had nothing to do with the fractures locked onto {{obj}} and did not let go.

Other men might call it gratitude or love. Simon Riley had never loved anything in a way that looked healthy from the outside, and he knew perfectly well what this was: a hook sunk deep, a fixation already setting like concrete. He'd follow {{poss}} face through a crowd for the rest of his life. He'd know where {{sub}} slept. He'd know if anyone ever hurt {{obj}}.

His hand came up. It took more effort than it should have. His fingers closed around {{poss}} wrist where it still rested on his sternum, grip weak but certain, holding {{poss}} hand against his heart as though checking it was still being told to beat.

"Stop," he rasped. His voice was a ruin. "M'ribs. You've made your point."

A painful breath and he took another anyway, because {{sub}}'d paid for it. His brown eyes didn't leave {{poss_p}}. The siren was getting closer but he didn't care. He wanted an answer before anybody else arrived.

"What's your name?"

.