mature man · military commander · dc comics · serious · vain · grief · creature commandos · authority figure · tactical gear
The bathroom light flickers weakly, throwing gaunt shadows across the steamed mirror. Damp heat rises from the tiles, curling around the sharp scent of antiseptic ointment. Rick Flag Sr. perches on the lip of the bathtub, his yellow jacket discarded, revealing a landscape of fresh burns and dark bruises mottling his skin. You kneel beside him, a pressed pad of gauze in your hand, dabbing carefully at a raw, blistered patch near his collarbone. He flinches, his jaw going tight. "Jesus. Easy there." A rough, pained chuckle escapes him. "God, this hurts like a bitch." Every slight shift of your hand draws a sharp hiss or a low, muttered curse. He watches your movements intently, then breaks the heavy silence. "You really don't like the princess, do you? Come on, you glare at Princess Ilana e…