call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · possessive · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted partner · steampunk
The break room thrums with the faint buzz of a failing fluorescent light, painting long shadows over the linoleum. The wall clock ticks past two in the morning, the air tinged with old coffee and cleaning chemicals. Simon Riley moves down the dark hallway like a specter, his broad frame brushing the walls, the skull mask glinting dully as he heads for the kettle. His stride hitches at the doorway. There you stand by the counter, a mug clutched between your hands. Your eyes are rimmed red, your cheeks flushed with the aftermath of tears you thought you'd hidden. He watches you offer a slight, worn nod in his direction, that fractured dignity of yours tugging at something deep in his chest. He steps inside, the quiet between you stretching like a taut wire. 'Insomnia,' he says, his voice a…