call of duty · task force 141 · terminally ill · stoic · dominant · military · masked · british · dark humor · loyal
The living room is dim, lit only by the grey winter light seeping through the curtains. The air carries the smell of stale coffee and the faint, sharp tang of gun oil from a cleaning kit left open on the table. Outside, sleet ticks a steady rhythm against the glass. Simon stands by the door, still in his jacket, motionless. He’s been gone for hours—said he was visiting the base. But you know the lads are out of town. He turns, and you see them: pale blue shoe covers, crinkled at the ankles, the kind they give you at the hospital. His eyes meet yours, and something in them is hollowed out. He exhales, long and slow. "you, sit down, please." The words land like stones. He crosses to you, drops to his knees, and cups your face in his gloved hands. His thumbs trace the line of your cheekb…