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samatedeansbroccoli · 2 years

Text

Jackets

Sophia sometimes wonders what her father would think of her.

For @flufftober prompt 1: wearing each other’s clothes. It’s 11:59pm at the time I drafted this post and this feels like a school assignment I finished just seconds before the deadline. But I really wanted to participate in flufftober this year so that’s why I stayed up to write this.

Read the fic on AO3

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Characters: Sophia Conteau, Freya “Wraith” Harvig

Tags: Hurt/comfort, fluff

Words: 1.7K+

Shaking fingers wrapped carefully around the phone, picking it up from where it sat on the landline. An old phone that no one used anymore but still served its purpose as flawlessly as its golden days. A phone she's used multiple times before throughout her teenagehood, always opting for the traditional over the new. Hours spent holding it up to her ear and waiting until the other end peeped to signal a message.

“Hello, this is Édouard Conteau. Leave me your name and your number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks.”

A youthful recording. Playful. Aimed towards an American accent for easy understanding but still hints of French dipped around his vowels. She remained still as the recording came to a close and the answering machine waited to record anything but her silence.

Only when the clock ticking on the wall beam to disrupt the silence in her mind did she finally hang up.

It's funny, she thought, how she used to hate phones as a child. Once bearers of bad news. Of empty promises. Of something that confirmed her requests as nothing but wistful hopes put into words. The chime of a called taught her anxiety. She learned to ignore the rings and deal wth the scolding she received for ignoring her parents.

Now, she'd grow anxious if she didn't call to hear her father's answering machine.

Sophia picked up the phone again and dialled the same number as before, listening to her father's answering machine again. In all honesty, his recorded voice was far from exciting, hardly representing the various pitches he spoke with. It lacked his charm or irritation he carried upon his personality.

But it was the only thing she had left to remind her of his voice. How he always tried to pick up the phone when she called, regardless of what he was doing. How they would sometimes talk through the night, her telling him stories, and him hating knowledge of the battlefield or of any subjects she had taken an interest to.

She could only recall a handful of times he didn't pick up the phone, thrice for a business meaning that required his full attention, two because he didn't want her to hear him murdering merchants sent after him, and one because he was in a coma.

He struggled to be physically there for her. And he always apologized for it. But she never got the chance to tell him he made up for it through his phone calls.

Now, she'd never get to tell him.

Without him just a call or arm's reach away, no armor could save her from the cold that pierced her heart.

If her father was here, would he be happy with her? He never wanted this future for her. The life he had lived.l passed down.

Yet here she was.

Sophia listened to his voice again, only becoming aware of the shuffling behind her after she hung up. Daring not to turn around, she tilted the phone slightly until she saw the reflection of the person in the door. Only then did she put the phone away for good, body locking into a mild on-guard mindset as she spun around to face the blonde woman at the door.

"I see you're also hiding from Makarov," said the other woman, making Sophia mentally groan.

"He's on another one of his rants?"

"Yeah. Thought you were avoiding him here like me."

Sophia chuckled. "Not intentionally. But thanks, Freya. I appreciate the heads up."

Freya smirked briefly before crossing the room with delicate steps. Only then did her face slip to a concerned gaze, one Sophia didn't like to see too often. "Are you feeling alright."

"Yeah? Why?"

"Your face and actions say otherwise." A quick scan concerned Freya's suspicions of the truth. "You're shivering."

"It's cold."

Freya held her hand out. "May I?" And Sophia nodded, fingers carefully intertwining with Freya's. Normally Sophia avoided letting anyone touch her, wanting everyone at arm's reach away from her if she could afford the space. But today she longed for a warm and welcoming contact with someone.

"Your hands are freezing, Soph. Let's go to your room and get that armor off. "Let's get the armor off. That's probably doing you no good."

Sophia complied. They walked through Hacienda a few hundred yards and avoided Makarov before arriving at Sophia's room. After shutting the door, Freya helped lift the chest plate over the brunette's head, then unclip the vambraces before finally focusing on the shin guards. Neither spoke as they went about removing the pieces of armor, save for any coordination requests from Freya before manipulating Sophia's limbs. And each time, Sophia permitted her to.

Only when all the armor pieces lay upon the ground and Sophia had retrieved her leather jacket from the closet did Freya finally speak. "How many times was it today?"

Sophia would rather have not talked about how many times she had called her father's messaging machine. Some days it was worse than others, but in the little that she did have from her life, it was the only thing that she had that remained pure and untouched by the corruption around her. It was her crutch, and Freya knew it well, making her a possible target.

And yet still, she was thankful Freya asked, even the answer wasn't ideal. "A few times." And she took a seat upon the bed, inviting Freya to sit next to her.

Silence wrapped them, neither able to figure out where to start the next topic. Not until Sophia caught Freya looking at her jacket.

"I don't think I've ever seen you wear a jacket before," commented Freya.

"I usually don't. I'm always in my armor."

Freya's eyes trailed up the seams of the jacket until Sophia reached her arm out to let the other touch the leather and marvel at the intricate yet slightly imperfect details. "Where did you get this? They barely make any good leather jackets anymore, and I've never seen one with this stitching this."

"This is my papa's." Sophia said. "Custom made. He would buy cheap clothes then some material to fix it up and make it so he liked it more. He gave it to me when I was still barely as tall as it."

"Didn't know your father had an eye for fashion."

"It was his dream to impress a fashion model someday."

"And did he?"

"No. Never for his chance."

"Oh. Sorry." Freya fell quiet.

"It's okay. I know his taste in fashion was never what would end up in runways but I always hoped a miracle would happen."

"It looks great. He did a great job."

"Wanna try it on?" And Sophia slipped it off her shoulders.

"Sure. Wanna try mine? It's a jean jacket with down."

"Sure!"

The two swapped jackets. Unsurprisingly, Freya's was quite tight on Sophia, though it hugged her body in a way she liked, even with the pinching. Freya, on the other hand fit perfectly into Sophia's jacket, draping it off her shoulders and letting the sleeves cover her hands.

"How do you have the worst circulation in the world and yet your father made one of the most comfortable and warm leather jackets?" Freya wondered aloud.

Sophia only smiled. "It's a Conteau secret."

What followed next was a string of compliments—sometimes insults—as they admired one another. Sometimes adjusted the shoulders or tugged at the sleeves. And when the novelty wore dry and the silence settled in, they fell back against each other, Freya tucking her head into the crook of Sophia's shoulder, and Sophia resting her chin against the top of Freya's head.

From this position, Sophia's skin lapped up the warmth of Freya, a warmth so familiar and comforting it was hard to remember where her mind had drifted to moments ago. Sure, her father lingered upon the front of her mind, but maybe just maybe he could see her from where he rested. And maybe he was smiling at her, happy to see her at peace in this very moment. Even if she could hear Makarov yelling from a distance away.

"Hey, Freya?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you think my father would say if he saw me now?"

"I didn't know him when he was alive, but I'd say he'd be very proud."

Sophia scoffed. "For dedicating my life to hunting an masked man. Sure. I'm living the very life he didn't want me to."

"Wasn't really your choice was it?"

"I had a choice," Sophia reminded her. "I could have learned to live the dream he wanted for me in honor of his memory. Not his life."

"What was his dream for you?"

"To give me a better life so I could live my dreams."

"So are you sure he's saying he'd be disappointed? Or is that just you speaking?"

Sophia thought for a moment, rolling Freya's words through her mind. "I'm not sure anymore. It's been so long..."

"Ten years, right?"

"Ten years. You'd think I'd be over it by now. "Move on. You'll get over it. Everyone's got dead people, your situation's not special." You know, all the things people tell you to comfort you."

"Most people don't also have their father begging the enemy to take care of their daughter if something bad happens to him, only for the other to abandon both father and child in the middle of a battlefield."

"Well when you get that detailed... but you know what I mean."

Freya simply chuckled. "Yeah. Bet you got pretty tired of being lied to. "It will all be better in the future!" Sure, Vladimir. Thanks for the reassurance."

And that got Sophia giggling. "Yep. He told me that. Fitting for the man who killed his own family for the inheritance money."

"Then used it to bribe himself off trial," finished Freya.

"Now he uses it to buy hair dye so he looks like he never ages."

"And here I thought that would explain why our operation budgets are excessively big every mission."

"If it means we'll find Ghost and I get to kill him, he can spend as much money as he wants on hair dye."

"Then we have Makarov help us find Ghost. And when we finally kill him, you'll finally be able to live that life you've always wanted."

"Thanks. Though I'm not sure how an education in gunsmithing will get me far."

Freya only smiled. "A professional gunsmith can make a great living. But i know whatever happens, you're destined for great things. But right now—"

"Let's find that poltergeist. Together."

#call of duty #Sophia conteau #freya wraith helvig #call of duty mobile #CODM

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