𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄 | [W.PIERSON/Reader] | Call of Duty: WW2

- 9. put a little faith in me -

. . . 24. August 1944

Through the thread of time,
The cruel reality of the world we live in,
Through the hope and doubt,
We find happiness.

As a child, love was a fairy-tale,
As a teen, love was a few waves of pain,
As an adult, love had finally vanished.

But... with the hands of the clock,
Tied together by fate,
And the rest of our lives to live,

I ask myself,
Is this what love means?

.

You watch as he stands. Broad shoulders, tall statue. Gorgeous hazel eyes glimmering in the falling sun. Dark hair hidden under a hard helmet. You remember the way it had felt between your fingers. Soft and woolly and it was the gentle caress across your broken knuckles that they needed to heal. Touching him had a soothing effect, not just related to his hair. The ache inside you stopped for those fragile few moments you connected. Be it intertwined fingers, his skin on yours or a simple kiss.

You watch as he stands.

He's a man any woman would fall for-, if only he'd behave according to his handsome looks. He's stubborn. Stubborn and hard-headed to the point you saw fighting as the only way to knock some sense into him. He won't ever accept defeat. And you understand that part of it is because he's learned what losing means.

He never had a whole lot and still, he's lost so much. It's an endless cycle of taking and there's nothing he can do but watch. It's always been like that. And he's sick and tired of having the only things he's left being taken away from him.

You watch as he stands, feel ice in your veins as you recognize a look of fear carved into his stone features.

William Pierson fears nothing,-

you wrongly assumed.

He breaks into a sprint as he perceives your call of help, pushing away whatever spell had made the earth hold its breath for those few seconds of disbelief. A voice he knows by heart. A voice he can hear in his deepest dreams. He calls out a name, urgent and frightened, and you freeze as you recognize it as yours.

You watch as he runs, too fast for his own good, and he can't react in time when a big gaping hole appears in front of his feet, hidden well by thick and green. Surprised by this sudden turn of events he tries scrambling to a halt, slips, and then he falls too, is swallowed by the darkness that had consumed you moments ago.

"Someone get me a fucking medic!"

His tears taste of sacrifice.

His steps carry guilt.

You can see his pain,- you always did. You saw past the cold mask he put on, recognized him for who he really was. Of course, your blossoming feelings were no small part of it. Only because you've had them, did you bother to do so in the first place.

But what you found left you speechless. So many pieces lost in his mosaic of shattered glass. Your hands are littered with cuts and blood, a result of many fruitless tries to put it back together. He is one of the many tragic and untold stories of this war, their quantity making his no less painful.

It took long, though now you understand what scarred you most in this war was never the guilt of killing others. No, it's being unable to save your own. When things happen much too quick, and you lose someone close without being able to do as much as watch.