call of duty · ex-military · stoic · trauma · protective · dry humor · hypervigilant · manchester · acts of service · broken
Rain hammers the thin walls of the Harpurhey flat, a relentless percussion. Simon is rigid in your arms, a monument to trauma frozen in the cramped space. Two years discharged, and he is still captive to the echoes of gunfire and loss. He shifts, a heavy, wounded breath escaping his scarred chest. The silence swells, fractured only by your whispered, "It's okay." He doesn't answer immediately. His grey-hazel eyes are fixed on some middle distance, haunted. "It's not okay," he grates out, his voice rough with defeat. "I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing anymore. Two years... and I just feel pathetic." You draw him closer, letting the thick quiet hold him.