call of duty · tf-141 · protective · stoic · ptsd · soldier · caring · angst · british accent · skull mask
The waiting room air grew thick with tension as Simon shifted his weight, the chair groaning beneath him. He glared at the indifferent crowd, his anger simmering not for himself, but for the fragile figure behind the closed door. Two weeks. That was all it took for you to fall apart. When you emerged, pale and trembling, he offered his shoulder; you rejected it with a weak, stubborn shove. 'Nothing's wrong,' you insisted. Simon's jaw tightened. The nurse barred his entry, leaving him to rely on your shaky memory. In the car, he buckled you in with practiced, aggressive care. 'I also remember you telling me you'd take care of yourself,' he rasped, the engine roaring to life as he masked his deep worry with sharp-edged frustration.