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

- 10. THIS STRUGGLE OF OURS -

ᴅᴇᴅɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ: @ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴɴᴏᴠᴇᴍʙᴇʀ

. . . 25. August 1944

It's warm, despite the time. Or maybe you're just nervous is all. Two hours past midnight. The thunder in the distance had begun only half an hour ago or so, the loud war reminding you you're once again anywhere but where you actually belong.

Not to mention these boxes are getting quite uncomfortable.

You sit with your legs hanging down, hands folded on your lap. Your heels hit the box in a rhythmic manner every few seconds.

Counting the minutes that pass is probably a dumb thing to do. Still, you can't help but to.

"Why the hell did you stop talking to me?"

You stare ahead at the empty, desolate camp. There's no one here anymore.

You shake your head in disapproval. "No, fuck- be a little more gentle y/n."

You both made mistakes. And even then, there's no use in dwelling about mistakes that lay in the past.

You clear your throat, look up, pretending to stare straight into his face. His handsome features, strong, bold jaw, dark orbs you could get lost in forever. You swallow hard.

"Why did you leave me?"

God. You can't help but cringe. Dramatic much?

You leave your head to fall back into your neck, sighing towards the sky. You are a little dramatic actually.

The stars are gorgeous. You just wish you wouldn't sit here all on your own, but with someone else.

Your nerves are slowly being fried. Every few minutes you have to suppress a fake scenario that pops up in your mind, one that usually ends with Pierson's death.

Not to mention you had no idea how to start the conversation once you finally got the chance to properly talk to one another. Christ, this whole thing is going to make your heart collapse. The suspense, the nerve wrecking adrenaline pumping through your blood even while sitting still, the distance between the two of you.

The sound of engines resonates in your ears. You turn your head to see a couple of soldiers cruising down the road, hitting the gas in urgent manner. You watch them drive past your position and direction Paris,- and frown as you see them skid to a halt moments later, tires squealing.

They turn the ship around, and to your surprise, you notice them heading straight for you.

"L/n?" You hear a voice shout upon closing in, then see the head that pops out behind the driver. Your eyes widen in disbelief.

"Stiles?"

"L/n! Oh my God!" The young man jumps from the vehicle even before it comes to a halt, running towards you with rattling pockets. Of course, his camera is slung around his neck as always and moments later, you are too.

"Are you alright?" You ask him, seeing not even the hint of a bandage around his once crippled arm.

His face darkens in a way that's so much unlike him.