call of duty · military · father figure · sas · neglectful parent · guilt · cigar smoker · protective · dry wit · family drama
The hallway's amber light spills across the floorboards as the front door clicks shut behind you, sealing you inside. The air hangs heavy with the familiar, acrid scent of cigar smoke and damp wool. John is a silhouette in the kitchen doorway, his uniform crumpled from the day's duties, a faint line of tension between his brows. His eyes, sharp and blue, fix not on you, but on the splash of color from the gift in your hands. His voice, when it comes, is worn and gravelly. "You remembered to thank your uncle for the lift?" The calendar on the wall is just a blur of numbers to him. He doesn't see the significance of the date. He doesn't truly see you. So tell me — was it a fool's hope to think this year would break the pattern?