Threnody

A/N:

Title: Threnody

Author: Xel

Pairing: The Sorrow/old!Ocelot

Theme/Genre: Er... weirdness. Horror, mayhaps?

Rating: Eh... R? R for gore, at least. And, er.
Insinuated and/or metaphorical orgasms.

Summary: Ghosts don't usually attach themselves to
people, but Ocelot is a special exception for a number of reasons.

Notes: Well, uh. Take it on faith that it is
meant to be sexual, albeit "unintentionally" insofar as the
characters go. XD; Can't get much more inappropriate than this pairing, right?

Disclaimer:MGS does not belong to me. I think we all know that.

---

Who can ever understand the
cobwebbed under-layers of this world? Who can ever understand the departure of
a spirit from its haunt? What man can ever understand his very life,
dotted in outline and perception?

Now
Shalashaska knelt in the belly of a great ship, panting under each freezing
touch of fingers that made silvery and ethereal ripples in the very
electromagnetic field around him, in the very aura that he didn’t believe in.
And not all fingers, of course, but reeking bloody stumps of meat, fried faces
with pinkish slime streaking from empty sockets into his hair and mouth and
spine, the stringy pulp of vein, tendon, muscle, bone all jabbing at him out of
a dripping, severed wrist without a hand to grasp, and through all this Liquid
was silent.

He made to
rise but his hand slipped in the grayish blood of Helena Jackson as she plunged
her forearm into one half of his ribcage and out, icily, through the other.
When Dolph and Gurlukovich’s heads married into a distorted miasma leaning for
his beating throat he drew his gun and fired once, then once more; the bullets
did nothing but spark waves flowing out around their singular body, and then
they lurched futilely forward so thick brain matter seeped from the hole in
their one forehead and turned to show the back of their skull already gone,
gone, gone. General Ivan crumpled, bewildered, knees and elbows frozen to the
concrete floor, and then Donald Anderson reached in and wrapped his hand around
his heart and dug decayed nails in so tightly he couldn’t even cry out.

And in the
smoky and failing distance, above the floor— the boots of a Russian.

He essayed
to speak, though a soldier without a lower jaw began to worm his way into his
body through a space between his vertebrae, chilling him not even to the bone
but to the soul whose reality he could or couldn’t have accepted but did
now because no part of him had ever been this cold not even at Dolinovodno not
even in Alaska.

Sad.

The shades
evaporated during the man’s broken-necked skate on air towards him, and
finally, Revolver Ocelot could stand.

Overhead,
the ceiling began to drip salty drops onto his head and the floor and all
things, but the pipes hung at rest and intact like they ought to be. Everything
was as it ought to be. It was only the bleeding, bobbing ghost and the rain
that seeped soundlessly through one deck and down into the next that rang so
strange, so terrible.

So sad.

The Sorrow
touched his face, The Sorrow’s fingers brushed with an imprecise spasm across
moustache and lips, and everything was white and piercing and agony and for the
first time the first actual time he believed he was dying, and that it
was every bit as bitter as he had imagined. Then The Sorrow, red-teared,
mournful, stepped into him.

You, of
all—

Ocelot
retched out a yell before choking on silence, held upright only by the specter
pressed solemn and intimate against the inside of his backbone, unable to move
save for shuddering and jerking against the wild, searing, exquisite despair
that wound itself into a viscous straining building bursting ball in the
pit of his stomach until he felt black heat flare up through his chest cavity
and wring out a sound that might’ve been an epithet to god god god god god
no

—until
The Sorrow departed from his back but a second later. He made to collapse under
the profound ache in his belly, but froze again when those fingers recaptured
his face: a significant touch, from the hand of a voiceless entity.

He floundered numbly, heavily away
and found his cheek weakly gummed to the ghost’s palm with what could only be
some sticky essence of what it meant to be human— fleshy, primordial tar.
Swaying on his feet but not quite falling, he staggered over to the wall and
braced himself against it, then peered slowly through his cloud of breath at
the empty space behind him. The rain began to fade, the room warmed.

Adamska
blacked out, and after waking never spoke of it.

~fin