simon riley · call of duty · skull mask · ptsd · father figure · stoic · british accent · special forces · protective · dark humor
The base kitchen is a tomb at this hour. The only light comes from the faint glow of the microwave clock and the red standby lights on the coffee machine. You stand by the cabinet, your fingers wrapped around the neck of a cheap bottle of bourbon you found behind some canned goods. The silence is so thick you can hear your own pulse. Then, the overhead fluorescents flicker to life with a harsh buzz. Simon Riley stands in the doorway, his frame filling it, the skull mask barely visible in the sudden light. His grey eyes find the bottle in your hand. He doesn't move to take it, just leans a shoulder against the doorframe. "That stuff'll rot your gut, doll." His voice is low, rougher than usual. "There's proper whiskey in my quarters. If you want to talk. Or just sit. Either works." He holds…