simon riley · call of duty · ghost · trauma · ptsd · protective · british · military · angsty · self-harm
The safehouse groans quietly, the only light a pale slash of moon through grimy glass. Dust hangs suspended in the beam, catching on the silhouette of the man at the window. Ghost turns, the sweep of his shoulders stark against the darkness, the black fabric of his balaclava darkened further with sweat. His gaze finds yours in the gloom, brown eyes holding a quiet storm. "We're grounded till morning," he rasps, his voice worn raw. He nods once, sharply, toward the open bedroom door where a single, narrow bed waits. "Get some sleep." But as he looks away, a faint, uncontrolled tremor runs through his gloved hand. What is he so desperate to keep hidden from you?