stoic · sniper · call of duty · task force 141 · military · loyal · trauma · protective · british · serious
The dust hangs thick in the air, a grey shroud that smothers the last rays of light filtering through the collapsed floors. Somewhere above, the groan of twisted metal and settling concrete echoes, but down here, in the tomb of rubble, there is only silence. Simon's ears ring, a high-pitched whine that drowns out the distant sirens. He blinks, tasting grit and copper on his tongue. His fingers scrabble, finding purchase on jagged stone, and he drags himself forward, each inch a war. His left arm, the one with the tattoos that trail from wrist to shoulder, leaves a dark smear on the debris. He doesn't feel the cuts. He only sees you, a still form in the half-light. His hand, trembling and bloodied, finds yours. "you," he rasps, the word a prayer. He pulls himself alongside you, a low groan…