COD Oneshots

Hold on (Roach)

The mission had gone south faster than either of them expected. Roach and Y/N had been deep in enemy territory, relying on stealth and silence to complete their objective. They had made it out, but just barely. A sniper, hidden in the shadows of the crumbling buildings, had taken a shot just as they were reaching the extraction point.

Roach barely felt the impact at first, the adrenaline surging through him keeping the pain at bay. But when Y/N noticed the blood spreading across his tactical vest, her heart dropped. The mission no longer mattered—getting him to safety did.

Y/N had managed to half-carry, half-drag him to a nearby safe house, an old, abandoned structure they had scouted earlier. She barricaded the door as best she could, then turned her attention to Roach. He was pale, sweat beading on his forehead, and she could see the pain in his eyes despite his attempts to mask it.

"Hang on, Roach," she muttered, trying to keep the fear from her voice. She had some basic medical training, enough to know that the bullet needed to come out. But out here, with no supplies, no backup, and no chance of calling for help without giving away their position, it was up to her to save him.

Roach grunted as she gently eased him onto the bed, his breath coming in short gasps. The bullet had lodged itself in his abdomen, and she knew there wasn't much time before things took a turn for the worse.

"You're going to be okay," she assured him, more for herself than for him. Her hands shook as she cleaned the wound with what little she had—a flask of water and a torn piece of cloth from her own shirt. He groaned in pain as she worked, but he bit down on a piece of leather she'd given him, refusing to make a sound.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally managed to extract the bullet. The relief was short-lived, though. She knew this was just the beginning. The wound needed to be cleaned, stitched, and most importantly, Roach needed to be watched closely for any signs of infection or internal bleeding.

Y/N did what she could, dressing the wound and making him as comfortable as possible. But there was no question in her mind that he needed a medic—something she couldn't provide. The radio sat on the table, taunting her with the possibility of help. But using it would be like lighting a flare, drawing the enemy straight to their position.

So she stayed by his side, watching him through the night. She kept her fingers on the pulse at his wrist, counting each beat, willing it to stay steady. She checked his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, and every few minutes she placed her hand on his forehead, praying there wouldn't be a fever.

Roach drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain and blood loss pulling him under. But even in his delirium, he was aware of her presence, of the way she hovered over him, her expression tight with worry. He wanted to tell her it would be okay, that she had done enough, but his words were lost in the haze.

As the hours dragged on, Y/N fought to keep her eyes open. She had to stay awake, had to watch him. She couldn't afford to rest, not when his life was on the line. But exhaustion was a relentless enemy, and eventually, it claimed her. She slumped forward, her head resting on the edge of the bed, one hand still clutching his.

Morning came slowly, the first light filtering through the cracked windows. Roach stirred, the pain in his stomach flaring as he shifted. He grimaced, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. His vision cleared, and he saw her there, sleeping next to him, her face peaceful despite the worry that had lined it the night before.