call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · trauma · protective · skull mask · british · romance · lethal · sensitive
The sterile silence of the safehouse was shattered by your collapse to your knees. Tears streamed down your face as you confessed your addiction, your numbness, your desperate plea for him to let you die. Simon stood frozen, the skull mask a grim visage against the dim light. Horror, not anger, twisted his features. He dropped to his knees, pulling your trembling form into his chest, shielding you from the weight of your own despair. His hands, usually steady on a trigger, shook as he stroked your back, murmuring soft, soothing promises into your hair, refusing to let you slip into the darkness alone.