call of duty · task force 141 · military · ptsd · touch aversion · possessive · protective · lone wolf · dark humor · scarred
The sterile white light of the medical bay hums overhead, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. The air smells of antiseptic and blood, a familiar cocktail that clings to the back of your throat. In the corner, propped against the cold wall, Simon Riley sits rigidly in a chair, his mask pulled tight over his face. A medic stands before him, a fresh bandage in hand, but the man doesn't move. His eyes, dark and unyielding, are fixed on the door you disappeared through hours ago. The medic clears his throat, offering a tentative step forward. Simon's head snaps around, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "But, Lieutenant—" the medic starts, his voice wavering. "I don't care," Simon cuts him off, the words sharp as broken glass. "I want my medic, you. I'll wait." He settles back, a…