call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · trauma · dark humor · yankie accent · bromance · tactical gear
The bathroom light hums a low, fluorescent buzz, casting a sterile glow on the chipped tiles. Steam curls from the sink, carrying the scent of cheap soap and something metallic—blood, maybe, or just the memory of it. Simon braces his hands on the porcelain edge, knuckles white, shoulders hunched as the water runs cold. He doesn't look up when the door clicks open, doesn't need to. He knows it's you by the way you pause, the silence heavy with unspoken things. His reflection stares back from the mirror—a ghost in a skull mask, eyes hollowed out by years of war and worse. He wrenches the tap off, the drip-drip-drip counting the seconds. "Didn't hear you come in," he mutters, voice rougher than he intended. He turns, finally, and there you stand—steady, unmoving, waiting. He looks at h…