Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

bad tidings.

"I'm sorry, love, I'll make it up to you. I swear, I-"

"What am I gonna tell 'em, Simon? You promised."

"I dunno, I'm sorry."

You huff out a sigh of frustration. 'Frustration' is more of an understatement even though he can't help that the mission has run later than they all expected. A few weeks was what they had been scheduled.

"I'll be home just in time for Christmas," he had promised, forehead touching yours. "We'll wrap the presents together the night before like we usually do, and in the mornin' we'll have the biggest pot of coffee imaginable to cure the bags under our eyes."

It was an attempt to make you laugh as you usually wear your heart on your sleeve, spilling out any emotions without any barriers.

Exact opposites, you and Simon. While he keeps everything in check, reserving that tenderness for only your family and the closest of friends, your kind energy is shared with everyone.

It's why he fell in love with you, your too-naive-of-a-heart giving him love that he wasn't used to but quickly became accustomed to. His saving grace.

A home he's never had.

The sound of rambunctious children laughing in the other room distracts you briefly before returning to the conversation. Your voice lowers to become a harsh whisper in case there is a chance of tiny, nosy ears eavesdropping. "And Johnny? Is he in the same boat?"

"Yeah, 'fraid so..."

A sigh breezes through your lips, and you can feel the familiar prickling sensation forming in your waterline before you squeeze your eyes shut. At least you won't be alone while Johnny's wife and children are visiting for the week, a happy coincidence that now has bid tidings.

You assumed that it would be a holiday spent with everyone, the men included. Especially them.

You try and keep your voice composed as you speak again, but he can hear the vulnerability. The way it cracks at the end of your question, he knows you too well to know that you would get emotional over this. "Does he want me to tell Isla?" You ask, not wanting to reveal the news to Johnny's wife at all, but you'll do it if need be.

"No need. He's summoning up the courage to do it." He pauses. "I really don't know when we'll be home, [Y/N]."

You know you can't blame him, but God is it easy to condemn him to such levels of accountability. "Okay," is all you say, scared to say any more than that. That's all you can do for now, accept that he's safe and that he will be home eventually.

"I love you," he murmurs, and there is no doubt he's pinching the bridge of his nose before rubbing tension out of his face. You can almost hear a calloused palm run across his stubbly jaw.

No hesitation comes before you reciprocate the long-distance affection, "I love you, too."

"So much," you two promise simultaneously.

There is no need to explain the unshed tears you try and hide from the five kids now circling you as you re-enter the room, hand gripping your phone as if you're trying to decide if that conversation actually happened.

This is just some cruel nightmare, the thought emerges.

But this is no dream, nor is it a trick. Your husband won't be home for Christmas as he promised he would be, and the woman staring at you, trying to silently interpret the puffy eyes doesn't even know yet.