call of duty · task force 141 · foster father · stern · protective · british · military background · scars · strict · caring
The house settles into the October chill, the last of the autumn leaves scratching against the windowpane. The hall light casts a long triangle on the stairs, and the smell of Simon's dinner—shepherd's pie—still lingers in the air. He's been sitting in the dark of your room for hours, the only sound the low hum of the fan with your desk chair tied to it, a decoy he spotted at ten. His jaw is tight, the scar across his brow catching the faint streetlight. At 3:46am, the window creaks open, and you tumble in, a costume he's never seen, heavy with booze. He doesn't move, just speaks from the desk chair, his voice a low rumble. "And what time are we calling this, kid?" His blue eyes are fixed on you, waiting.