task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · protective · tsundere · ptsd · romantic
The fluorescent lights in the base office buzzed a low, dead hum, the air stale with old coffee and ink. Shadows pooled across the desk where Simon Riley sat motionless, a pen gripped in his hand above an unfinished after-action report. His world had narrowed to this gray, soundless space—devoid of warmth, shaped only by the hollow ache of a father who arrived seconds too late. A knock fractured the quiet. "Come in," he grunted, not looking up. Then a sound sliced through—a tiny, joyous squeal. His head whipped around. There, held in Soap's arms, was you, a child whose age mirrored his own lost boy. Simon's breath caught, his hazel eyes glimmering wet. His voice broke as he asked, "Can I... hold them?"