Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

god of death ghost whose body is soft with fat, with rich organs and hot blood because he gives himself to the dead as their final meal; lets them glut themselves on his body so they're full and content and feel safe as he leads them to the afterlife.

he doesn't begrudge them for their hunger; it was his idea to invite them to gorge themselves upon him, decided so long ago he can hardly recall the little soul who inspired him. he’d felt their confusion, their fear; so lost waking to his visage instead of the weak firelight their cold body fell asleep to.

ghost longed to ease their passing, to conjure memories of smaller times; of warm hearths, soft blankets and whispered lullabies and drifting off to sleep with full bellies.

many are hesitant, unused to bloodying their hands, and ghost doesn’t make them look as he cleaves his own flesh; offering the most tender, coveted bite with gentle fingers, easing it past their lips until they brave their own slice.

he lays before them, the quiet lamb happy to be devoured, and watches their fear flee with every bite; iron-stained hands rubbing their drooping eyes as they grow warm and sated.

he guides their swaying forms with spilled organs and bloodied footsteps and turns away as they cross into the great light so they don't see the flesh reforming over gnawed and picked over bones.

until johnny; the fallen soldier, the child left to the cold of war.

johnny who refuses to feast.

he was raised to always respect and never take from the dead; raised with the memory of those he’s never met on the tongues of his loved ones, shared until he could taste them on his own. he's shared too many final breaths, dribbled water between too many trembling lips to bear take from death himself; not even blood freely offered to slake his own thirst.

but after millennia of feeding, ghost can't bring himself to lead the hungry to the afterlife; can't leave johnny to be an empty starved thing, certainly not this soul who burns so bright with lives comforted before their gentle end.

before they met him.

so they stay together, guiding souls to the beyond; ghost, the last comfort, and johnny, the friend welcoming them to their final meal.

time is a distant thing in this place but every few years, ghost tries to convince johnny to partake when he nourishes the hungry and wayward souls; not even so he can move on, simply to ease the hunger doubtlessly yawning within him after decades of watching others be satisfied. but he never does. instead, he watches over him; a faultless guard, steadfast and devout, as he's feasted upon, and cleans the leftover blood from his renewed skin as penance for rejecting a god.

he never lets a single drop touch his lips, not when it means abandoning the ever-sacrificial ghost. he seemed so impervious when he first crossed over but after decades at his side, johnny is presumptuous enough to believe he knows him better than anyone could know death.

he sees him; sees his genuine pleasure in soothing the fearful dead. but he also sees the slight hurt as they turn their backs on him in favour of the great light. he knows he will never admit to the all-too human loneliness of being consumed but never kept.

but the human soul isn't meant to linger in this in between purgatory; isn't meant to remain in the gaps between thought that gods reside in and johnny grows weak, struggling to cling to this half-life as his soul fades. he needs to move on, to be embraced by the great light or risk being lost to the starved void for eternity.

but he can't leave ghost alone to his own starved existence.

ghost cradles him in his arms as he grows ever weaker; gives him the same comfort he's watched him give the other fallen. clumsy fingers brush back sweat-soaked hair and cool sallow cheeks, arms unused to non-grasping - clawing, tearing, eating - touch gather him close to warm him as his blood grows cold and sluggish in his veins and ghost watches the only being who's ever wanted him but refused to take from him slowly slip away.

and he can't let him go.

he brings johnny to his breast and uses his nail to carve into his flesh; thick, rich blood welling behind it and johnny’s eyes widen as he knows, intimately, what it means.

ghost forces himself to ignore johnny's weak begging; his, "no... no please, ghost, please don’t do this to us," voice hoarse and faltering as he tries to struggle out of his arms.

but he is no match for a god.

johnny can do nothing but look at him with betrayal stinging his eyes as ghost caresses his bloodied thumb over his inner lip - a touch he's longed for, that he's hungered for - and feels the cruel spark of warmth as his tongue touches life.

“no.”

johnny has been fed.

now ghost can bring him to the afterlife.

and johnny will survive to hate him for it.

Chapter Text

when asked why he was so determined to join the military, johnny always gives some variation of the same answer; he wanted to serve his country, wanted to protect the helpless, wanted to give his life to something higher than himself.

it’s not a lie. something in him recoils at the thought of voicing a false reason; something that feels older than it should conceivably be.

his childhood games back him up; the stick sword and bark shield of a knight of the realm upholding a sacred duty, the weeds he picked out with his mam the rare herbs of a blessed pilgrim tending to the ills of the sick and the lost, his sketches the offerings of a disciple dedicated to a long forgotten god.

he wanted to be a soldier before he even knew the word for it.

sometimes, his mam teases that he was born a trickster. she thought he would be such a quiet child, easy where his sisters ran her ragged; that he was born silent as winter’s night when other babes came out screaming. it was only when she fed him for the first time that he cried; wailing his little lungs out as if his very heart had broken and he’d been fighting the world ever since.

johnny laughs along with her, at the familiar story warm and love-worn around the edges. he laughs with her and his da and his sisters, his voice a strong bolstering layer in the mactavish melody, and says he was just keeping her on her toes.

johnny laughs because he doesn’t know how to explain that sometimes, he thinks he was born with blood in his mouth.

born with blood on his tongue sweeter than anything his mam could provide him and his tears and broken heart had been for the taste of it getting washed out.

he doesn’t know how to look into the eyes of the ones who raised him in gentle safety and tell them he feels drawn to violence and death like the call of an old friend; that cleaning his hands after a battle feels like an insult- to whom, he can never tell.

how can he ever voice the sick excitement he feels when a squad mate falls? that he looks forward to his dreams when he should fear nightmares laying in wait? there’s no excuse for the bright anticipation of seeing flashes of an old, worn skull, pale as the horseman’s steed; out of focus and ill-defined like it’s just out of reach.

how can he explain that he longs to wake with warmth on his lips like death stopped to visit him too?

so johnny holds his tongue and he laughs; he dutifully washes himself of the blood he’s spilt and he offers mourning words in the name of his lost brothers in arms and he lets his family see their son and brother as a sworn protector instead of a man courting death.

but even the lover of death can’t delay the inevitable.

johnny falls. he falls to betrayal and confusion and a scattering of birds. his captain’s begging’s nothing but a fading hum in his ears as his grip slackens and the table below him becomes warmer than his flesh.

johnny dies with blood in his mouth.

and he opens his eyes to the taste of life.

he opens his eyes to ghost.

and he remembers.

remembers the decades - the centuries - spent together in service to the fearful dead; remembers his hands stained red as he dutifully cleaned ghost’s picked over body, his reverence imbued into his skin with every pass of cloth and drop of crystal water.

johnny falls into ghost’s arms and this time, he doesn’t fear leaving them.

they know now how long they have together, how long they can stretch the resilience of his soul in this space between spaces before he needs to rest; to return to the mortal plane and live out another lifetime with godly blood on his tongue.

and when the time comes, johnny will go willingly into the great light, knowing he will always find his way back to his god.