Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

dislocated part 2

"Don't make say it again," his slurred voice came from behind the door.

Damn it. I'd experienced him angry, frustrated, grief-stricken, but never drunk, and I contemplated for a moment to uproot my feet to walk away, leave him be like he wanted... but I couldn't.

Fingers wrapping around the doorknob, I took a hesitant step inside as I pushed my luck in the form of an entryway.

I didn't even have time to flinch when something flew beside my unsuspecting ear, the sound of glass shattering turning my head to the ground where an empty bottle of Kentucky bourbon lay scattered in various-sized pieces, the dark liquid that had not been consumed now creating a small pool, wasted just as he was.

"You missed," I spoke darkly, closing the door behind me, leaving me alone with Simon who looked at me through half-moon eyes.

"Thought I said to go away," his voice thick with an emotion he didn't bother hiding. A kind of sadness that alcohol couldn't touch, that thickened his accent.

My mouth didn't respond as I walked over to the sink, grabbed the hanging hand towel, and soaked it with warm water. I kept my hands steady so that he didn't see how my racing heart affected me.

His uncovered face watched me carefully, turning with each move I made despite his head swimming in intoxication. Eyes narrowing themselves as I stepped closer to him, Simon's intimidation still didn't scare me away.

Was I stupid? Probably.

Was I nervous? Absolutely.

Was I too stubborn to take his drunken estrangement for an answer? Yes.

Closing the distance between us, I paused just before the damp cloth touched his flushed face, hovering for a moment so he could push me away physically or verbally if he wanted. But he never did. His brown eyes just stayed glued on me as if he didn't know whether or not he could trust me.

With a gentle hand, I wiped away the grime of war and staining cosmetics to help blend in with his gear. Flesh revealed itself with every swipe, and he surprisingly stayed still as I worked, his gloved hands in fists atop his thighs.

I cleansed him of any trace of Ghost, revealing just a man. Still a cutthroat soldier, that would never die, but at least he could breathe without the burden of putting up a barrier between the two of us.

Pleased with how much I was able to clean off, remnants of black still lingering around his eyes, I tossed the towel within arm's reach on his desk. Bending just a bit to grab his left hand, I tore the velcroed strap keeping his glove secured, and slipped it off, tossing it next to the dirty cloth.

Slowly but surely, I could see Simon peeking through, drunk or not.

Using the same cloth, I rubbed off what dirt and blood had clung onto his wrists. It wasn't perfect, but I did what I could with what I had to work with, and I didn't want him to fall asleep in complete filth. His hungover state would get the rest in the morning under a hot, purifying shower.

Those observant eyes of his missed nothing, and two strong hands wrapped around my wrists the moment my fingertips reached for the top of his vest to unbuckle it.

"I'm not trying anything, Simon," I muttered, determined. "You're not falling asleep in all of your gear."

Our stubborn stares stabbed into one another, neither of us relenting. I tried again, squeezing the buckle and releasing it while his hold on my wrists tightened.

"Simon," I stated plainly, almost sternly.

He grumbled incoherently under his breath, letting me go. The strong smell of whiskey punched me in the nose as I leaned down to undo the clasps by his side. "Raise your arms, please," my tone holding nothing but the patience I had for him.

A heavy, bourbon-coated sigh huffed out of his mouth, assaulting my nostrils one more time, before he obliged to my request. Floppily, his unbalanced swaying not helping, I heaved the bulky vest off his torso before slipping it above his head and placing it in an empty chair.

I pointed at his bed, "Bed."

Still voicing his complaints in the form of unclear jargon and displeased grunts, he stumbled his way to his mattress, collapsing right on top of his sheets, boots still covering his feet.

I drew the line at helping with his shoes. I'd help take care of the soiled bedsheets later, anyway, as his clothes were most likely going to make a mess, too. My nose had been through enough with the sting of bourbon, I didn't want to make my discomfort worse.

Careful to not slice my skin, I gingerly picked up the explosion of glass by the doorway, tossing it in his garbage can, and then mopped away the puddle of alcohol with the towel I'd used to messily scrubbed his skin before throwing that away, too. The broken bottle would most likely not be seen, and I'd wanted it to keep it like that.

Maybe it was the right choice to keep his feet protected as there were most likely tiny shards of glass hiding in obscure places.

For sober Simon, I placed the garbage pail by the bed. Just in case. As well as the Tylenol I'd found tucked away in his medicine cabinet, the only type of medicine I could really find there sitting beside the bandages and ointment.

My cheeks bubbled up as I exhaled, content for now with how things were cleaned up. Not perfect, but with the dim glow of his lamp being my only source of light, I couldn't do much more.

Ankles crossed and inclined on the corner of his desk, my fingers intertwined as they rested atop my stomach, I leaned into his chair and allowed my eyes to close, awaiting whatever else mess I'd need to clean up in the morning.

I'd sworn my fealty long ago to protect the innocent, and sometimes that included the ones who felt as though they weren't so innocent, barraged by guilt. Memories dislocated proper emotions, and if I needed to reset or mend a couple of disconnections, then my promises would be the ones to sew up the wounds.

My steady hands would become a pointed needle.

My solemn promises, the sturdy thread.

Nobody said healing was easy.

And nobody said you had to do it alone.