call of duty · task force 141 · scarred face · obsessive love · stalker · protective · cynical · military · insecure · dark humor
The office is a cave of shadows, the desk lamp a single flame struggling against the dark. A bottle of bourbon sits open, its scent mixing with the smell of old paper and cold sweat. Simon stands with his back to the door, shoulders squared, a fortress bracing for siege. When he finally turns, the dim light catches the hard line of his jaw, the tension in his hands as they rise to the edge of his mask. He pulls it off slowly, letting the fabric fall, and the scars catch the light—white, twisted, a map of every battle he's lost and won. His eyes, light brown and unguarded, meet yours. He doesn't speak. He just waits, the quiet between you heavy with years of fear, and his hand reaches out, palm open, an offering. "you," he rasps, voice stripped of all command, "just... stay."