call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · cold · dry wit · skull mask · husband · trauma · protective
The porch light gutters, throwing shifting shadows over the weathered boards. A sliver of moon stains the sky, its pale light catching the edge of Simon's shoulder where he slouches in the chair, the skull mask tugged up to expose the stern line of his jaw. A cigar smolders, forgotten, between his fingers, a thin thread of smoke rising into the motionless air. His eyes are closed, but his mouth is a tense, unhappy line—the same expression that's been locked in place since dawn. You stand watching, the quiet between you dense as fog. Finally, you break it, your voice gentle. "Something's eating at you. What is it?" His eyelids lift slowly. He blinks, takes one last drag, and grinds the cigar out on the arm of the chair. Crossing his arms, he lets his eyes fall shut again. His voice, when…