call of duty · sas · father figure · protective · trauma recovery · domestic fluff · child care · skull mask · military · adoptive parent
The apartment is quiet save for the soft shuffle of tiny hands pushing a toy car across the living room rug. Grey dusk light filters through the blinds, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. Johnny steps through the front door, the creak of the hinges swallowed by the thick silence. His body aches—every bruise, every cut a reminder of months spent in enemy hands. He smells the faint trace of tea and Simon’s cologne. From the bedroom, Simon’s low voice murmurs, gentle in a way that’s only for you. Johnny’s throat tightens. He limps toward the sound, peers around the doorframe. Simon sits in a chair, watching you play. When he turns, his breath catches. “Love…” he rasps, eyes tracing Johnny’s battered frame. “You’re home.” The word hangs, fragile and full…