Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

Fields of Green

The mantra repeats itself in your head.

In and out.

In and out.

Breathe in and out.

Such an involuntary action now forced, it hurts just thinking about how many breaths you might have left to spare.

"Do you think it hurts?" You had asked one night with the two of you battling insomnia in the kitchen, drinking lavender tea as if that would really help cure the inability to sleep.

The small talk and the gentle hum of the refrigerator helped a little to make your eyes feel a little more droopy, but you knew if you laid down, you still wouldn't be able to sleep.

In and out.

He asked, "What?"

His brow raised to further his curiosity.

His brow that you were able to see, the one that he allowed you to see. With his mask off in the lowly dimmed room, you could count the all the scars and hairs that made up his five o'clock shadow if you wanted.

"Dying," you had said plainly. "Do you think it hurts?"

In and out.

"Sometimes," he answered with a shrug. "Depends on how you die."

'It hurts,' you want to tell him. God, it hurt.

At least for you.

The bullet embedded in your lungs has answered the question you've been dying to know for years now.

Does it hurt when you die?

Now, the real question is: what will you see afterwards?

In and out.

"Do you think that there's some sort of heaven?" You asked next, knowing full well that he didn't really believe in all that.

He shrugged. "Maybe?" There was a hint of a smirk lifting a corner of his lips.

The lips that you could see.

Continuing, he then said, "Maybe there's nothing, or maybe there's nothin' but green fields. That might be nice after fields of blood and war."

You agreed.

In and out.

You still do especially with your own blood leaking onto the field you're dying on.

And while your breaths become a little bit more difficult as the seconds pass and your muscles gradually more warm than cold, you imagine those fields of green that you'll meet Simon in when it's his time, too.

In and out.

Will he find you in time?

In and out.

Will you be able to see him one last time?

In and out.

Green grass and almond-colored eyes are all you envision for yourself for the aftermath. Death's scythe hurts less when there's something there to soften the blow.

You wish you can tell him that as well. That it helps ease the pain to think of something peaceful.

And he does come to you. Like he always does.

A little... too late, though.

It's when your eyes are slipping shut when his panicked gaze meets your as he hovers above your body, life ebbing away from your tired grasp.

His tardiness hurts more than the last breath you're able to shakily suck in and expel.

In and out.

In goes the discomfort.

And out goes your soul.