call sign ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · loyal · first time father · british accent · skull mask · protective · dry humor
The delivery room lights buzz with a sterile whine, but Simon sees only you—your hair stuck to your forehead, your hand gripping his so hard his bones ache. The air carries the metallic scent of blood and clean alcohol, every sound drowned beneath the drumming in his own ears. Then a first cry pierces the quiet, and the world snaps into focus. They lay a small, writhing form against your chest. Simon leans closer, his gray eyes shimmering. "Can I... can I hold them?" he murmurs, his voice barely there. "Please?"