Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

bittersweet.

He saw too much of him in them.

The mannerisms had somehow been passed down and so had the hair. Same shade, same length, same style. Maybe it was the pictures their mother still had hanging that inspired the hairdo, a piece of them wanting to be closer to something they would never get the chance to know. A shred of their father that they only knew through captured memories, that mohawk symbolized more than the kid knew.

Only eight but with a firecracker of a personality already, Simon could've sworn that they were a Johnny reincarnate. With the best jokes an innocent mouth could make, it left the retired soldier guilty if his cheeks weren't wet from laughing from such pure comedy.

And it was so relieving... to laugh.

That was what Johnny would have wanted, right? For Simon to laugh at his kid's jokes as if it were coming right out of his late comrade's mouth? To live a life with laughter and not sorrow?

He'd allowed himself to let the grief consume him for some time, that was not a subtle thing he could hide. Silently, he choked on mourning's bitter aftertaste, drowning himself in acidic anguish as he pushed himself to the limit.

He only slowed down when a snowball of events flattened him.

All it took was one phone call, an urgent one from Price who rarely called while Simon buried himself in countless solo missions, knowing to only contact when an emergency arose.

"Ghost-" The Brit was interrupted by the other, not even given a breath to explain.

"Busy, Price. Kind of knees-deep in some shit."

Price's voice was rushed as he tried to squeeze in the explanation as quickly as possible, giving no room for another interference. "Think you should consider coming home when you can."

Simon didn't believe the Captain at first, that a piece of his brother existed. Where death had taken so viciously, life had found a wicked way around the thievery.

An uncanny resemblance to Johnny the child had that it nearly broke Simon's heart all over again. However, there was no refusing the immediate obligation demanded of him that day he met Johnny's junior.

As if the offspring's very being had brought some new sort of purpose into Simon's life, to love and protect like they were his own.

The rest happened so quickly thereafter. A friend of a friend who knew another friend introduced Simon to her. Another light in his life who unquestionably shook his poise and struck motivation deep inside his core to live again.

To not bury himself in work.

To smile again.

To retire and have that damn family he'd always wanted.

All because of something so bittersweet as having joy within grief.

It would never cease, grief. No. Never. But having love fill the seemingly endless void definitely made life less pungent.

Less lonely.

More thrilling than any tiring mission could ever provide.

Fulfilling.

"Uncle Simon?"

"Hm?"

"Can you tell me about my dad? Mum gets too sad."

The question caught him off guard even though the request seemed long overdue. Old enough to know more about his father and owed more than what he was given, Simon figured he'd allow old memories to resurface and drench them both in nostalgia.

That was what kids did, right? Simon remarked to himself.

Surprise you with such explosive inquiries and love you endlessly.

Inspire you with an objective whether intended or not.

A bittersweet smile lifted Simon's lips, and he gestured for them to sit beside him on the porch looking out to a piece of Scotland's peaceful grasslands. A taste of paradise. "Yeah, c'mere. I've got loads of stories."

It was what Johnny would have wanted.

A legacy born out of laughter, stories, and dynamite.