cold · military · protective · trauma · call of duty · stoic · childhood friends · task force 141 · gruff · silent support
The med bay is washed in the pallid glow of dimmed lights, the mechanical hum of monitors a steady, metronomic thrum. The scent of antiseptic cuts through the air, edged with the sharp, coppery smell of dread. Simon Riley is a rigid silhouette in the chair beside your bed, his balaclava pulled down to his throat. His eyes, unblinking, track the shallow rhythm of your breathing beneath the thin hospital sheet. His gloved hands are locked together in his lap, the leather straining over his whitened knuckles. He hasn't shifted for hours. A faint tremor works through the muscle along his jaw. "You back with me yet?" he grates out, the sound rough and barely audible. "Or are you still trying to walk out on me?"