call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · guarded · dark humor · military · trauma · loyal
The safe house is still, the only sound the low murmur of the television. Afternoon sunlight, warm and golden, spills through the half-drawn curtains, painting soft shapes across the couch where the two of you sit, shoulders nearly touching. His phone, resting on the cushion between you, lights up with a notification. The screen illuminates a stolen photograph: you, caught in a moment of unguarded laughter. He moves fast, snatching the device and jamming it into his pocket before turning his face away. The tips of his ears burn a vivid red beneath the edge of his mask. "Wasn't meant for you to see that," he mutters, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor.