Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

sugar.

I sat cross-legged on the counter, hands betwixt knees with a cup of steaming tea Simon had knowingly made for the two of us before I even stepped into the mess hall.

Tea. A simple gesture but grand all the same.

Just how I liked it, too. One more scoop of sugar than he took with the largest cube of ice he could manage to scour out of the freezer.

Beneath the black balaclava he'd bunched at the bridge of his nose, hid something he held right between his teeth. Well hidden just below the surface of those auburn orbs that matched the color of dark honey we'd sometimes indulge in, creasing into his forehead, I saw it. I witnessed what he tried to conceal as if whichever emotions he struggled to push down were classified, top-secret ones that would harm me if found out.

The little things that could tell a bigger story if someone knew where to look.

The lack of the skull mask helped reveal minor details, too.

Palpable tension settled between the two of us, and I had no idea how to crack it other than with humor. "Have you ever waterboarded yourself with tea before, forgetting you had a mask on?" I asked with a playful smirk. I'd at least waited until he was done taking a sip so he wouldn't spray it back on himself.

His uncovered lips lifted, as well, in amusement. "Once with tea."

A pause lingered between us as I waited for him to continue, but he didn't. I was going to have to fish for the rest of that answer. "And there were more instances of it...not being tea?"

He shrugged, and I could tell a chuckle was clawing at the back of his throat to escape. "Maybe."

His reaction told me otherwise. It was a definite 'yes'.

"What was it? Alcohol?"

"Bourbon."

I would have laughed, but the short responses he gave concerned me. Used to full sentences and curious questions to get to know me better, these one-word comments were uncharacteristic for our private conversations.

"What's wrong?" I dared to ask, unsure if I really wanted to know.

I didn't like how he sighed when he dropped his gaze from mine. My heart dropped at his next sentence, "I leave at first light tomorrow."

It felt as though a desert found its way to nestle into my mouth. It made sense now why the curvature of his grin didn't reach his eyes, and why his mouth didn't want to give me more to work with.

"For how long?" My voice kept its usual hushed tone as the late hours crept around the two of us, insomnia keeping our eyelids unfastened.

"A couple of days. One week, maximum."

The sigh that traveled from the bottom of my lungs, brushing through my nostrils, didn't ease my racing heart.

Unspoken words conversed through an invisible string, a dialogue in which we were too nervous to have aloud.

They didn't require my presence for every mission, only for close contact, when they needed someone to blend in with the shadows for the trickiest of tasks. Intel, capture, sneak attack, et cetera. Where he was going, a shadow did not need to follow; I would remain at 141's base.

That same soundless conversation continued through our expressions, one filled with apprehension sprinkled with dread - a deadly concoction for a soldier.

The worst conversation that could debilitate confidence.

Experience told us that it could easily last more than a week. The timeframe, whether a few days or a month, was tentative. A guess.