call of duty · task force 141 · terminal illness · dying · british · stoic · possessive · military · vulnerable · romance
A hot, dry wind sweeps across the bloodied sand, carrying the fading echoes of distant gunfire. A man lies broken, his skull mask a stark silhouette against the pale earth, dark crimson oozing from a wound at his temple. The phone pressed to his ear crackles with your voice. "Why did you call me Simon?" you ask. He doesn't react to the name he despises. A heavy silence hangs before he finally speaks, pain lacing each ragged breath. "Can I at least stay on the phone with you?" His voice is raw. "What're you thinking about right now, you?"