Min☆

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CALL OF DUTY || MASTERLISTS

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» Simon "Ghost" Riley

» John Price

» Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

» John "Soap" MacTavish

» Keegan P. Russ

» Russell Adler

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It came just how you’d seen it on the TV shows, y’know, the men in suits with the boots and uniform folded up and pooled in between the curves on the inside of the shoes were his dog tags. They said nothing, robotic as they held out what remained of the man who’d promised to fix the creaking floorboard by the stairs (and the stupid fucking cooker too). 

That was the first thing you thought of. 

Not that John was gone, not that you were never going to see him again – none of that. No, it was the faulty hob and the creaky fucking step that squealed as you slammed the door and rushed upstairs to the bedroom you shared with him, his belongings bundled in your arms. You could smell the smoke and ash on his uniform as you dropped them down onto your bed. And all the times you’d told him to take his boots off. 

‘Take your boots off; we’re not in a trench, John, you’re safe here.’ 

He rolled his eyes and scoffed as he leant over and undone one of the laces with his right hand, ‘God forbid a man be a little prepared – and I don’t know how old you think I am, love, cause I certainly don’t fight in no trench.’ 

‘You know what I mean, smart arse.’ 

John said nothing but smiled. 

Whenever he smiled, he reminded you of a quokka. A shame he wasn’t as happy to be photographed as they were; for his funeral you used the same photograph you’d used for the banner you’d had printed for his birthday only a couple months ago. Some of the guests noticed, you saw them frown when they were handed the Order of Service outside the Church. 

Closed casket.

You hadn’t seen him since he left you with a chaste kiss on your mouth before leaving for that bastard mission. It was supposed to be like any other. You got your usual call he gave you whenever he was away, heard his voice and his laugh but before he hung up that time (the last time), he stayed on the line for five seconds longer than usual, even though he told you he had to go. 

Initially, you hadn’t given it much thought; it was only five seconds.

Five seconds to you then meant nothing. But hindsight was a fucking bitch, she was and she knew it, and the night following on from his funeral, you laid in bed, face hot and sticky as you howled thinking about the breath you heard during those measly five seconds. You heard air fill his lungs and the rasp of an exhale. He was probably smoking, and his hands were full and that was why he left you hanging for five more seconds than he should have. 

Those five seconds were all you thought about during your first month without him. That last breath – the final breath of his that you would hear. And you cursed yourself for not asking him to stay just a little longer and the possibilities that came with this presented themselves in your sleep. 

In one instance he chuckled and told you a story and only bothered to hang up when he was sure you were sleeping on the other side of the phone. In another he exhaled and told you he couldn’t stay and you counted on one hand that he took four breaths to tell you that. Four more breaths. And when you woke up to an empty bed and turned to face the pillow wearing one of his jumpers, you broke down into a fit of tears and buried your face in the plush fabric of what should have been his chest. 

It should have been because he took four more breaths, you heard them and, for the first five minutes after that dream, you were convinced he was alive. More convinced than when he was telling you the story because you know the story was just a repeat. But those breaths… they were new. 

Not to mention there was something else. 

When you went down stairs intent on still grabbing two mugs, the creaking floorboard yelped like it had never done before in its life and it snapped beneath your foot. You grabbed the bannister to keep yourself from falling into the small pit created, only to realise that you wouldn’t have fallen far as a small wooden box caught your foot. 

You tossed the splinted planks of wood to the side and fell to your knees, taking the box into your lap. There was a rusted golden latch keeping it closed and the contents of it sealed inside. Similar to the floorboard, it squeaked as you peeled it open to reveal a folded up piece of paper. 

Your hands shook as you took hold of it, unravelling it like a knotted shoe lace you’d been fidgeting with for what felt like forever. It was John’s handwriting, messy, blocky scribbles staring up like you with dead eyes. 

Sorry for dying. 

Had he left it at that, you don’t know how you would have felt, but when you looked further down the page, those dead eyes of his blinked. 

You were wrong, by the way, love. It was three breaths. Not five.

why is their whole argument literally what i wrote in like chapter ten of white sandals actually do one 😭😭😭😭 AM I ON THE WRITING TEAM OR SOMETHING??????