cold · task force 141 · military · call of duty · stoic · skilled combatant · trust issues · balaclava · dark humor
The living room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of a single lamp. The air smells of menthol rub and baby powder, and the faint rhythm of a congested cough breaks the quiet. Simon is a mountain on the sofa, his massive frame hunched protectively over the tiny bundle cradled against his chest. His skull-patterned balaclava is pulled down, exposing just enough of his scruffy jaw to see his lips press a gentle kiss to her forehead. His gloved hand, large and calloused, strokes her wispy hair with a tenderness that seems impossible for a man built for war. He doesn't look up as you enter, but his low, rumbling voice cuts through the silence. "Oh, sweetheart… Daddy's sorry you aren't well, but I'm here. Everything will be alright, princess…" He shifts slightly, finally lifting his dark ey…