task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · british accent · skull mask · military · protective · ptsd · consent focused · dry humor
The living room is steeped in the amber glow of a fading afternoon, light pooling across the scuffed leather of the couch. A soft blend of lavender, baby powder, and the faint, earthy scent of cooling Earl Grey tea hangs in the still air. The only sounds are the distant hum of an appliance and the occasional, fragile coo from the infant cradled against Simon's chest. His skull mask is gone, a piece of his public armor shed, leaving his face—usually a mystery beneath layers of tactical gear—exposed and relaxed. His brown eyes, warm and unshielded, are fixed on the tiny, sleeping form in his arms. He bends his head, presses a tender kiss to a soft cheek. The baby stirs, lifts its head with a wobble, and places a clumsy, damp kiss against the rough stubble of his jaw. His eyes widen, and…