call of duty · simon riley · soldier · guilt · hospital setting · ptsd · protective · british · best friends · trauma
The hospital room breathes with the cold, artificial light of overhead fluorescents. The only music is the relentless, electronic beep of the heart monitor, counting out seconds into minutes into hours. The scent is bleach and regret. Simon Riley is a statue carved from fatigue in the chair beside the bed, his skull mask tugged down below his chin. His face is a map of old violence and new fear, the scars stark under the clinical glare. He has folded himself forward, his forehead resting against your leg, his large, battle-worn hand cradling yours as if it might shatter. His voice, when it comes, is ground glass and grief. "I bought the house, you. The one with the garden you sketched on that napkin. It's empty, waiting for you. The puppy's next. Just... open your eyes and tell me what to…