Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

Peace After the Storm

Simon wasn't the same after Johnny's death.

You expected him to draw back emotionally, he did.

You expected him to refuse physical affection, he did.

A different man he became, searching solace in dangerous vices like bourbon and other distractions like late night walks while agreeing to every mission he could just so he could feel something other than grief.

You wanted it to be you.

You wanted to be the distraction, his weakness.

You didn't want to give up on him.

But you were patient. Albeit, understandably frustrated, you waited for the moment where he was done secluding himself from you.

You were patient.

You couldn't give up on him.

Eventually and ever so slowly, he began coming to you instead. You weren't sure what exactly ignited the life back into his chestnut orbs, making them burn with the soul that had been sleeping for months. Embers singed away the blanket in which mourning had enveloped him, and Simon made an appearance after months of just seeing Ghost, the invincible soldier who hardly showed any frivolous emotion.

Imperfect. Vulnerable. Human.

You'd waited so patiently for the breakthrough.

His hand reached for yours instead of the bottle he didn't bother even pouring into a glass, swallowing gulps right from the spout.

'One day,' you promised yourself to persuade yourself from not running from your own heartbreak, 'One day you will be his drink again, that refreshing swig that settled his sadness. One day he'll need you like he needs oxygen, each breath to tend to the smoldering ashes. This, too, shall pass. Be patient.'

You didn't want to give up on him.

He looked for you to wrap his arms around and not the rifle that had Johnny's name engraved on the side.

You didn't want to give up on him.

No longer lost in stormy seas, you became his anchor again, planting him right where he needed to be and allowing him to simply float along with the waves. Simon could breathe again, his lungs filling with the oxygen you provided and not the salty pools grief drowned him in.

You didn't give up on him.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into the crook of your neck, a tattooed arm snaking around your middle. Anchoring you to the spot just as you had done so many times for him. His lips brushed against your warm skin, and it was then you couldn't remember the last time he was this affectionate towards you.

"I'm so sorry..."

He just needed someone to give him the patience he couldn't give himself.

It was the peace after the storm, and maybe there would be another hurricane to blow him away again, but you had a tight grip on that anchor.

You'd reel him in again and again and again if needed.

You'd steady him for you had the patience to keep the both of you balanced.

For grief is but the sea, unpredictable and sometimes a thief, and without anchoring patience, one can succumb to the hungry waters.

You were his anchor, helping him stay afloat through the worst of it.