Pairing: Jack Morrison/ Soldier 76 x Reader
Summary:
As you lay dying in an unnamed street in Dorado, you recall your entire history with Jack Morrison.
Story:
You are thirty-three and you are dying, blood dripping between your clenched fingers, lungs aching and heavy with the dust of a collapsed building.
Snow falls around you, melts against your flushed skin, so cold that it feels like heat.
A word bubbles to your lips, a single word, and you barely manage to spit it out, blood dribbling down your mouth as you speak.
The word is a name.
Amidst a ruined building in Switzerland, you scream, “ Jack.”
—–
You are twenty-five and this is the first time you’ve seen him, Strike-Commander Morrison in the flesh. He is blonde and blue-eyed and golden, the light around him looking almost like a halo.
On his chest, multiple medals gleamed. His smile is radiant.
You drop your eyes when he glances at you, eyes tracing the pattern of tiles on the floor.
He laughs when you call him sir and he tells you not to be so formal.
You think that he is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.
—–
You are laughing and Jack is pressing a finger to your lips to muffle the sound. His hair is magnificently tussled and his face is covered in lipstick, smudged on his lips where you had already kissed him several times.
You can hear the soft murmur of people talking; someone with a loud voice is asking where Jack is. Somewhere, you can hear Lena laughing.
“I think they’re looking for you,” you whisper. Guilt and pleasure and adrenaline are singing through your veins; you are already half-drunk, drugged by his presence.
Jack is laughing too, his entire body shaking, his smile pressed against the skin of your neck.
When he turns his head, you can feel his lips touch your ear.
He whispers, “Let them.”
—–
You are thirty-three again and you are digging through rubble with your bare hands and you are bleeding. Fingernails rip and tear as you dig through earth, your throat is raw from screaming.
Strong arms wrap around you lifting you up, away from the dirt, away from Jack and before you knew it, you were spinning around, one hand curled into a tight fist.
You punch Reindhart before you recognize him.
He is crying, you realize, crying so hard that his massive shoulders shake with the force of it.
“I am sorry, mäuschen,” he says. “I am so sorry.”
A few of his tears fall on your face where it burns like acid.
You hate him.
—–
You are thirty-nine and you are dying again.
This time, you can’t really force yourself to care.
—–
History
Published
demialwrites 