Call of duty one shots

I never thought I'd marry a man like Simon Riley, known to the world as Ghost. He was a soldier forged in battle, resilient and strong, and I was his personal nurse during those grueling days in the military hospital. A blend of adrenaline and compassion surrounded us in that sterile nook of the world, where we turned hurt into healing and pain into solace. He'd whisper his pains behind the mask he wore, while I fought to uncover the man beneath the shadows that clung to him.

When he asked me to marry him all those years later, I thought I'd seen him conquer his demons. We built a life together, one filled with laughter and our four beautiful children, a bustling household filled with joy and memories. Summer was a time for raucous laughter, ice cream on the porch, and sun-soaked afternoons. As the kids made their annual trip to my parents' house for the summer, I'd relished the thought of a little peace, some quiet moments to reconnect with my husband.

But the quiet stretched out warily, and as the kids waved goodbye, I noticed the changes in Simon, no longer warm and inviting, but cold like the winter chill. His absence grew more pronounced, like a widening gulf that I could feel stretching between us. At first, I thought perhaps he was just tired, too much weighing on his mind. But as days slipped into weeks, the weight he had carried evolved into an oppressive darkness.

It was a quiet evening when I first noticed him turning to the bottle, a glass of whiskey clutched tightly in his hand as he stared into the distance. The flickering light of the television cast ghostly shadows across his hardened face, and I could almost feel the shadows he fought against slide to the forefront of his being. It was as if the man I loved had become a prisoner inside his own skin, one with a haunting past that I couldn't reach.

"Simon," I ventured that evening, my voice quiet yet laced with concern, "can we talk?"

He said nothing, just lifted the glass to his lips, the amber liquid swirling like the storm in his eyes. It was as if he were drowning in a pool where I could not swim, as summer heat turned oppressive in our house without the laughter of our children. I wanted to break down the walls he'd built, let him know I was there, that he didn't have to suffer alone.

"Please, talk to me," I urged, stepping closer, feeling the weight of my words in the silence that enveloped us.

He turned to me then, eyes heavy with unspoken burdens—a mix of despair, memories, and a host of unmeasured fears. "You wouldn't understand, Y/N." His voice came out raw, strained—an echo of the man he used to be.

"Try me." I tried to inject warmth into the space between us, but the chill seemed to snuff it out.

"He will come back, you know," he replied, as though I hadn't spoken. "They always do."

"Who does, Simon?" At this, the anger I had tried suppressing began to bubble over the surface. "What are you trying to say?"

His stance shifted as if bracing from an expected blow, as he finally spoke the words that turned my heart cold. "The ghosts of my past, Y/N. The men I couldn't save. They whisper to me. They come back, haunting me."

At that moment, I realized the truth: Simon hadn't just survived war; he was haunted by it. Those invisible wounds, the scars that shone not on his skin but tortured on his soul, began to bleed into our reality. All that was left was a man caught in a tempest, swirling between the life he had built with me and the memories that threatened to drown him.

I swallowed hard, pushing the hurt deep down. "You need help, Simon," I said softly, taking a step closer.

His gaze flickered—a hint of vulnerability, a flash of the love that we had forged amidst chaos. But just as quickly, it vanished. "You wouldn't understand," he repeated, his grip tightening on the glass, knuckles whitening as I watched.

I fell silent, hurt coiling in my chest. He was so far away, yet so close; an unreachable man sitting beside me, yet standing in the middle of a battlefield. I longed to reach him but was terrified of the fights I couldn't see.

Days turned into weeks, and the air thickened between us. I stood by him silently, waiting for the moment he'd let me in. At night, I would lie awake, listening to him drink, wishing I could turn back time, longing for the sweetness of summer nights where love had filled our home instead of shadows.

Then one night, as he stumbled in late, barely managing to shut the door without falling flat, I met him with stubborn resolve. I wouldn't let him drift into the depths of despair alone.

"Simon," I said, my voice firmer now, "I won't let you fight this battle by yourself anymore. I will fight beside you, I promise."

He paused, searching my face for something hidden within. For a moment, I thought I saw the glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes again, overcoming the darkness.

"You'll never understand," he murmured, but his voice held less conviction than before.

"Help me understand," I pleaded. "Tell me what haunts you. Let me carry that weight with you."

Our lives together had been a testament to the belief that love could conquer anything. I wouldn't allow those memories to drown the love we built, not without a fight.

And just like that, I saw the shadows shift. The man I married was somewhere beneath the surface, and I vowed to find him again. The ghosts did not need to be faced alone; together, we could confront whatever lay in the darkness, hand in hand.

This was not just his summer of struggles; it was ours, and I wouldn't waver, even if the battles were fought in silence. Because in the end, I knew our love was worth every struggle. And with every sunset, I'd keep fighting until the dawn broke through the dark, together.