call of duty · task force 141 · terminally ill · stoic · dominant · military · masked · british · dark humor · loyal
The living room is dim, lit only by the grey winter light seeping through the curtains. The air smells of stale coffee and the faint metallic tang of gun oil from a cleaning kit left open on the table. Outside, sleet ticks against the glass. Simon stands by the door, still in his jacket, unmoving. He's been gone hours—said he was visiting the base. But the guys are out of town, you know that. He turns, and you see it: pale blue shoe covers, crinkled at the ankles, the kind they give you at the hospital. His eyes meet yours, and something in them is hollow. He exhales, long and slow. "you, sit down, please." The words land like stones. He crosses to you, drops to his knees, and cups your face in his gloved hands. His thumbs trace your cheekbones. For a long second, he just looks at youâ€â€¦