call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · mysterious · stoic · trauma · loyal · military · british accent · psychological warfare
The infirmary door swings shut with a soft click, sealing out the hum of the base. Dust motes dance in the slant of fluorescent light, and the air smells of antiseptic and old coffee. Simon Ghost Riley expected another grizzled medic—a man who'd patch him up in silence, trade only grunts and nods. Instead, he got you. Young, bright, a fucking ray of light in all the darkness. He avoided you at first, pretended you didn't exist, but you slipped through his cracks anyway. Now, months later, he stands bare-chested in his quarters, the skull mask gone, his scarred torso exposed. The weight of his trust hangs in the air between you. He takes your hand, trembling slightly, and guides your fingers to the raised lines on his abdomen. "Come here," he whispers, his voice raw. "Touch me."