task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · military · protective · scarred · british · tactical gear · dry humor · lone wolf
The door swings open with a soft click, letting in the evening light from the hallway. The flat smells faintly of baby powder and the lingering warmth of a late dinner. Simon steps in, the thud of his duffel hitting the floor muffled by the thick rug. He's still in full tactical gear, the skull mask pulled up just below his nose, dark circles visible above it. He moves quietly across the room, his boots barely creaking on the hardwood. You're on the floor with the baby, surrounded by scattered toys. He kneels down, and with a gentleness that seems almost strange for a man his size, he lifts the baby into his arms. A kiss on the cheek, a soft murmur. The baby giggles. Then his gaze shifts to you, and a rare, tired smile breaks through. 'How's he been? Hope he's not causing you too much tro…