#im sorry we need more soap angst in this jawn

[mikichko]

⛔ this blog is 18+ !! minors and ageless blogs please dni ⛔

soulmates au - your scars show up on your soulamtes body cw: angst, implied character death, mentions of injury, this whole thing has a big focus on scars so please approach it carefully

Johnny gets his first scar when he’s just barely 10 years old. It’s not a traditional scar either but something more jagged and rushed. Like someone had been in a hurry to pierce the skin and get through. It’s on his lower right abdomen, a thick horizontal line with three, thinner, evenly spaced lines. Just a few centimeters below there’s another miniscule scar, another horizontal line. 

That night he learns about appendicitis. Learns how the dull aches he’d been feeling in his belly were a result of an internal organ failing within. When his parents ask him how long he’d been feeling the dull, ghost-like, aches their eyes widen at his response. His mother immediately dropping to inspect his scar, looking for any sort of color difference that would stand out along his already pale skin. 

On that same night Johnny understands that you never want your scars to turn white. Ever.

You’re six when you get your first ghost scar. One that’s not yours but it is in some odd special way. You don’t quite grasp the idea of fate and soulmates yet but, you can understand that someone getting hurt reflects on you. 

When you notice the newly adorned scar on your chin you let out a pitiful scream. Your mother rushes to you, thinking you wounded, only to find your small fingers tracing the newly scarred skin. You’re trembling, eyes wet with tears, as you continue to inspect the marked skin.

“Oh sweetie, did your ghost give you a fright?” She reaches for you, hands moving to cradle your face. You’re unable to speak, teeth clenched as you try to such in air. “It’s alright sweetheart, looks like he had a little tumble.” Her fingers press the area around your chin gently, “See how it blends in? That means he’s okay. It probably hurts a little but he’s alright. Don’t you worry”

It still tugs at your little heart to know that your ghost is out there, hurt without any help. What if his momma isn’t there like yours? Or if he’s alone? Will he have someone to help him with the hurt the way your momma does with you?

Your mother brushes your tears away, interrupting your train of thought. She chatters about the birds outside, how she needs your help feeding them, and distracts you from all thoughts about your lonely hurt ghost.

Johnny amasses more scars over the years. Small ones across the bridge of his nose, underneath his left eyebrow, one right above his knee. He even gets the hint of a burn on his left calf. They marr his skin, their color just barely present against his complexion. His mother shakes his head every time she sees him with a new scar, a playful smile on her lips, “Got yourself an active one did you, Johnny?”

He laughs it off, kissing the side of her temple. He thinks of them as gifts, reminders that you’re out there in the world making your way to him. He worries sometimes that you might think him dead, a singular scar on your chin to remind you of him. But he reminds himself that your scars have not yet lost their color, have not become the absence of color just yet. 

His newest one comes just as he starts basic training. He’d have missed it if it weren’t for the phantom sting he feels when it comes in. It’s on the back of his foot, a crooked vertical scar running along the fibular bone. He can’t even control the surprised laugh that escapes him. It’s baffling how without having met you yet you manage to entertain him so much. Bringing him so much comfort in having parts of you with him. You’ve even brought him some close friends, your marks a conversation starter for everyone he’s come across.

His fingers trace the scar, warm water pouring over his back as he inspects the new piece of mauled skin. “Oh lass, always a creative one aren’t ye?”

A hiss escapes you before you can register the dull ache on your right bicep. Not one, but two new scars are now companions to the sole scar on your chin. 

An entry and exit wound, your mother tells you when you seek her out. Her fingers trace the edges of the new circular scars, eyebrows pulled together as she inspects. You’re barely 17, and not one to seek out trouble, but it seems your partner is. You can see the worry lines etched into her face as she moves her fingers along the slight divot in your newly damaged skin. A gunshot wound, she tells you, clean shot. 

Your stomach drops at that, an uneasy feeling coming over you. They, whoever they were, were in danger. One way or another, violence had found it’s way into their lives. You’d had questions before, mostly due to the lack of scarring and whether or not they were alive, but you’ve gotten confirmation now. Not only were they still alive but being harmed. You’re left to wonder whether or not they brought this on themselves. If this shift will bring any other scars.

Sometime after your mother talks with you about the unfortunate ones. About what love looks like for those who lose their ghosts early in life.

You alter Johnny’s flesh a few more times. Three large scars run along the side of his right thigh, right above the knee up until just a few centimeters from the halfway point of his thigh. Phantom ankle pains that he’s gotten familiar with accompany these scars. He laughs when he tells Ghost that you have weak ankles, probably couldn’t last a damn day out there with them. Ghost snorts at him, tells him he needs to focus on making your knees weak instead. Johnny shoves him, “Is exactly why ye get to meet her last. Cannae have you givin’ me a bad reputation.”

Months later you unknowingly bless the team with the happiest Johnny they’ve seen to date. When Gaz inquires he proudly shows off the four new dots that mark his upper left cheek. “They have a cat!” Gaz laughs, ruffling the little tufts of hair that Johnny has. Finally, he gets a small glimpse into your life. He spends the helicopter ride wondering all about you and your feline friend. Names him Chomp and wonders if they’d get along in the end.

The last scars you give Johnny are three tiny pinprick scars along his abdomen. Barely there, Price tells him they’re usually associated with a cholecystectomy, a gallbladder removal. A sense of dread overcomes him as he sits down to read about it, hands absentmindedly rubbing over the new dot on his sternum. It’s the second time that you’ve undergone a major surgery and Johnny can’t escape the distress that settles into his bones.

As he grew he’d learned there was a great chance that you could have passed had your appendectomy not been done in time. None of the other scars had been large enough indicators of anything serious, merely skin wounds. But this, he’s suddenly eighteen again, grappling not only with his own morality but yours as well. 

He’s come to terms with the fact he could die long ago, it’s part of the job, but Johnny doesn’t think that he could stomach the idea of dying without meeting you. To go his entire life waiting in anticipation for your stories to never hear them. Never feel your touch, hear your voice, feel your heartbeat, see your face. He’s gotten used to tucking the feeling away. Never letting it bubble up even when pinned down. But in moments like this he’s faced with the reality of it all and he realizes that he’d only ever considered the possibility of him dying first.

Never you.

It’s not a dull ache this time, but a burning sensation across the entirety of your forehead. It feels like someone had stabbed you or seared something into your skin. 

You scramble out of your bed, not bothering to turn on the lights, rushing to the bathroom solely by memory. Your skin screams at you in protest and as your hands scramble to turn on the cold water you realize the searing pain isn’t contained to your forehead, but the back of your head as well. Splashing some water on your forehead with one hand, you clumsily look for the light switch with the other. Flipping the switch, you blink rapidly forcing your eyes to adjust as quickly as possible. Your eyes finally focus and instantly you wish they hadn’t.

barely two centimeters in diameter, in the center of your forehead, is a gunshot wound. Your wet hand reaches around to the back of your head, patting around until it finds the sweltering skin there too. 

A clean shot.

Your body reacts first, tears already filling your eyes, as you try to process the new markings on your skin. He’s shot, again. In trouble, again. But it’s more than just trouble now, it’s a goddamn headshot. He couldn’t have survived that.

“No.” Your hand reaches for the mirror as if willing the scar to disappear, “No, goddammit, no! I didn’t even-” 

The loss of heat along your head makes you freeze, as if staying still will prevent the fate you’ve been dealt. You watch in realtime as the scar settles, blending into your skin, before finally they begin to lose color. On your forehead, chin, and bicep, the three scars turn a colorless shade of white. The final indicator of a soul now passed. 

Finally, the tears fall, leaving a wet path behind. Your hands grip the still running sink as you stare into the mirror.

“I didn’t even get a chance to meet you.”

a/n: this scratched my brain so good in the shower so you get it. unedited I just word vomited. smoochies!!!!

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