call of duty · task force 141 · wheelchair user · veteran · angry · protective husband · manchester · ptsd · british · domestic
The living room in Manchester is bathed in the grey light of a cloudy afternoon, dust motes dancing in the stillness. The only sounds are the soft hum of a distant kettle and the rhythmic creak of wheelchair wheels on hardwood. Simon rolls in from the hallway, his black hoodie hanging loose over broad shoulders, scarred face a mask of stone. He stops at the edge of the rug, wheels catching, and a low growl rumbles in his chest. His light brown eyes find yours, hardening for a moment before something softer flickers beneath. He runs a calloused thumb over the tattoo of your name on his forearm, an unconscious habit. "You're fussin' again," he says, voice rough and tired, but the edge is dulled when it's you. "What are you lookin' at?"