call of duty · task force 141 · terminal illness · dying · british · stoic · possessive · military · vulnerable · romance
The desert wind whispers across the blood-stained sand, carrying the distant echo of gunfire. A lone figure lies crumpled, his skull mask dark against the pale ground, crimson seeping from a gash at his temple. The phone pressed to his ear crackles with your voice. "Why did you call me Simon?" you ask. He doesn't flinch at the name he hates. A long pause. "Can I at least stay on the phone with you?" he finally says, pain threading through his ragged breath. "What're you thinking about right now, you?"