Call of Duty Oneshots

Your Parents Money | John 'Soap' MacTavish

Your throat burned from the guttural screams that left your throat. You chest in chaos of anger and pain. Tears streaming down your face.

Why aren't I enough?

You were only enough when it came to taking your money. It was all your parents wanted from you. They selfishly tried to take what was left of you. And you were tired.

You threw a glass vase at the wall, pieces flew all around. One piece managed to lodge itself into your forearm but the pain from that was overpowered by the emotions that ran rampant in your chest.

Your breaths hurt. Your sobs weren't loud enough. Your tears weren't enough. It had been boiling over the last few years but after tonight, it exploded.

A knock on the door split through the ringing in your ears.

"Go away!" You shouted, your throat felt raw. You collapsed to the ground, scooting yourself under the island counter and hugging your knees.

"It's Soap.." You heard but it was muffled, "haven't heard from you in a few days. I'm worried, lass." you bit your lip to stop the tears that already broke loose. Your heart sank, aching like it just wanted to rest. You were exhausted from the constant disappointment and betrayal.

"Go away, Johnny. Please." You begged through a sob with your lip shaking. You pressed your forehead against your knees, hoping he'd just leave. You didn't want him to see you like this.

Soap glanced in the window, seeing you in a vulnerable position in the mess of your anger with blood over your arm.

Slam.

Soap held the doorway as he kicked the door open. His face was worried, fear in his eyes. "Jesus..." he said with a shaken tone. He rushed to you, "What happened?" He asked as he looked you over.

You hugged your knees tighter, sobs leaving your throat. "I can't do this anymore, Soap." You cried. He tried to touch your arms but you flinched away. He pulled away quickly. "C'mon, talk to me."

You shook your head, not wanting to talk about the harsh tones and vile words thrown at you over dinner when you told them you didn't want to loan them more money. You felt so stupid. They didn't love you. They loved your money.

Soap noticed marks on your wrists and his blood ran cold. "Did they hurt you?" he asked, his tone dark yet smooth. You slowly looked at him, tears swelled and reddened around your eyes.

You trembled as you remembered, "He- He just-" you shook your head and mimicked what your father had done. "Okay," he said in a calm tone. "What do you need?"

You began to sob once more. Soap shushed you, "It's okay," he repeated as he took you in his arms. Holding you like a baby as you cried against him. "It's alright, you're safe, I'm here." His voice subtly trembled.

"Come on." He said softly as he stood up. He set you on the counter, legs still crossed as you tried to calm yourself down. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. "You sound like a smoker of 60 years. Drink some water." He joked gently as he held out the glass for you.

Your hand shook as you grabbed it. You put the glass to your lips before letting it fall again, "I'm so tired, Soap." You sobbed again. He nodded, "I know, sweetheart." He moved your messy hair from your soaked face. "I wish I could take it from you." His eyes were sorrowful. He glanced at your arm, "Can I fix that up?" He tilted his chin at the wound.

You wiped your eyes and nodded. "Do you have the stuff for it?" He asked gently. "In the bathroom, under the sink." your voice was weak.

He left and returned quickly with a small first aid kit. After he bandaged your arm, you stayed on the counter, feeling hopelessly defeated. Soap leaned against the counter across from you.