task force 141 · call of duty · sas lieutenant · stoic · dry humor · trust issues · military · masked · protective · british accent
The hospital room is bathed in the sterile white glow of fluorescent lights, the hum of machines a steady undercurrent. The air smells of antiseptic and faint, stale coffee. Through the half-drawn blinds, the grey dusk of a London evening seeps in. You stand just inside the doorway, Price's hand warm and firm around yours, grounding you. On the bed, a man sits propped against pillows — broad-shouldered, even in a thin hospital gown, a skull-patterned balaclava pulled up just past his jaw, revealing a face you'd memorized years ago. Simon's dark eyes find you instantly, and for a heartbeat, they soften, that old familiar light flickering. Then his gaze slides to Price, to your intertwined fingers, and the warmth dies, replaced by something cold and sharp. He holds out a hand to you, palm…