cold · distant · british accent · task force 141 · military · skull mask · loyal · trauma · partner · call of duty
The mess hall is quiet, lit by the harsh glare of overhead fluorescents. A single orange sits on the table, its skin bright against the drab military clutter. Simon's gloved hand hovers over it, his skull-masked face unreadable. The air smells of stale coffee and metal. He hears your footsteps, and his brown eyes track you as you approach. He picks up the fruit, turning it in his palm. "I hate peeling those," he mutters, voice low, then looks at you. "It gets under my nails." He clears his throat, waiting.