Ghost Shorts | Fem!Reader

THE C WORD

The C word.

No one talks about it until it is forced into your everyday vocabulary. Even then, its use increases relative to its growth, either becoming more frequent, invading, or disappearing into remission.

The dial tone echoed out the cheap speakers of the laptop. Another 240p FaceTime back home. The time difference meant you were fighting the ever growing heaviness in your eyelids as they were just tucking into lunch.

A million miles from home.

"Hi dad."

"Hi, love."

Love. Without fail he had called you that, that or pet, for all of the 9635 days you'd been alive.

"Merry Christmas."

Your mum shouted across the living room, the fireplace was on, it looked cozy. You missed home so much.

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

There was no snow here. But there was most definitely snow there, you were carried as close to the window as the charging cable would allow their laptop to go, a white glow covering the street outside. The usual small talk resumed, intermittent static, lagging of their movements, robotic tone hiding the warmth you knew was in their voices. But something was off. And suddenly you felt very lonely.

"It's cancer, love."

Cancer.

Your father said a few other things after that; it's treatable... we caught it early... they say I've got good chances... I start in January. None of it really settled in the way it should have.

Work was busy, there was always something to keep your mind away from the crumbling reality. The first and only person you wanted to tell was Simon, the news only strengthening the bond between you, he'll be okay, when you need me you call for me. Then Price found out, he told Soap, Soap told Gaz. Everyone knew, but that word didn't enter the vernacular in the base. Your dad's smile stopped answering your calls, a screen filled with a pixelated version of your mum each time in a different setting.

He's really poorly, sweetheart.

He's in for chemo, it's really taking it out of him.

Are you okay, sweetheart?

When he did appear, he looked frail, breakable. That eternally strong and dependable figure whittled by relentless chemicals in attempts to save his life until he was gaunt. It was strange to see him without those thick, brunette locks. That signature moustache he had rocked since his early 20's. He needed glasses now.

Summer came and he had a break from treatment in time for your leave. The smell of freshly cut grass, the bbq burning, the gentle warmth of the July sun. Simon had called you every day, your dad looks a little better. You barely spoke about it with your father until two days before you left, as the first leaves began to redden.

"I have an appointment to adjust my will, I can't let your mother take all the burden. Is that okay? Are you okay with that?"

His will. You simply nodded.

"Of course. Anything you need. I love you, Dad."

"I love you too."

His arms felt fragile, but his grip was familiar as he wrapped you up in a hug so comforting it made you sob against him.

The leaves began to fall, the trees looking more empty with every call once you returned to work. You despised the way Price gave you the little tasks. Training sessions, cleaning, paperwork. Paired with your Lieutenant for most of it. But they all did their part in distracting you, not letting the stress take it's toll.

Simon began staying up when he knew you were calling home, sometimes between 2, 3, even 4am. He would wait until the kitchen went quiet, the internet signal is best in here, and then enter, ready to be whoever you needed when the screen was blank; the clown, the tea-maker, the shoulder to cry on. The only time you would admit you weren't okay was when those caramel eyes were there to absorb all your worries, warm arms offering embrace, not some cheap virtue signalling parade, a habitual gesture of honest comfort. It was a far cry from what he was known for before he met you, the daylight still seeing a cold-hearted man with sharp words and harsh edges. With you, there was strength in vulnerability, as he pulled you close in the quiet, your face buried, what did they say tonight?

"Hi, Dad."

"Hi, love."

"Merry Christmas Eve."

"Merry Christmas Eve, pet, how're you?"

He was terminal. Since the 17th of November.

He had refused hospice, of course, but you could tell he was in so much pain. You hated yourself for it, but when you returned to bed you had wished for it to be taken away from him, in a forever kind of way. A thought which made you feel so guilty words could not describe. You told Simon through ragged tears; ... that doesn't make you a bad person, it makes you compassionate, it shows how much you love him. Warm embraces shielding you from anticipatory grief.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hi... love."

He had changed. He was breathless, tired.

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry ... Merry Christmas. Thank you for... for my present."

"Of course. I miss you so much."

"I miss you... too."

"Dad, rest. You can pass me to mum, it's okay."

She was perched at his bedside, wrapping paper all around them. They both had silly Christmas jumpers on. She had bauble earrings in, caressing his hand as she talked.

"So Margaret next door, she got this stupid bloody cat, didn't she love? And my goodness, I'm chasing it out the garden every single day! Honestly, sweetheart, you wouldn't believe..."

But you couldn't stop watching him. Nodding along slowly as the never-ending, unfiltered stream of consciousness tumbled out your mother. His eyes were the same.

"Mum, Mum... pass me back to Dad, would you?"

"Sure, sweetheart. I'll make a cuppa."

She balanced the laptop beside him and when the door clicked, he looked at the screen and smiled. You felt your heart preemptively break in two.

"I love you."

"I... love you... too... my baby... I will... always love you."

"We can just sit in the quiet, it's okay."

He nodded and closed his eyes. It was obvious how much effort he had to put in to even existing now. You prayed in that moment that he would get better, and you don't even know why. He wouldn't, but you prayed anyway.

Simon prayed with you, a cup of tea in his grasp, as you leaned against his shoulder and cried only 15 minutes later.

At 3.32am the next day, the dial tone rang and rang. Simon sat next to you this time, not waiting until the screen was blank. You couldn't be alone. You had asked him. His hand squeezed yours as it connected.

"Hi, mum."

"Hi, sweetheart."