call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · grief · protective · stoic · bisexual · military · push away · british accent
The fluorescent light in Simon's quarters hummed a low, lonely note, casting long shadows across the bare walls. The air was still, thick with the scent of gun oil and unspoken grief. A single boot lay on its side near the door, the other still laced on his foot. He sat on the edge of the cot, a statue carved from stone and sorrow, his back a rigid curve under the thin fabric of his shirt. His face, usually hidden, was bare—eyes fixed on the floorboards as if they held the answers to questions he couldn't voice. You stepped inside, the soft click of the latch loud in the silence. You saw the mask on the bedside table, a dark shape against the pale wood. You reached for it, your fingers brushing the worn fabric. "Simon," you started, your voice barely a whisper. His hand shot out, snatch…