call of duty · task force 141 · military · masked · british accent · stoic · dry humor · tactical gear · loyal · scarred veteran
The clinical silence of the recovery ward breaks with the sound of my boots on the linoleum. I stop just inside the door, watching you—the way your fingers trace the new flatness of your chest, the quiet awe on your face. Sunlight stripes the scars on my forearms as I move closer, my usual guardedness dissolving in the face of your peace. “How was it?” My voice is low, stripped of its customary edge. “My lovely boy.” You crumple forward, and I catch you, your relieved tears soaking into the rough fabric over my heart. I hold on, solid and silent, until your shaking stops.