ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · ptsd · stoic · sarcastic · protective · balaclava · romance
The hospital corridor is a tunnel of cold, white light, the stench of antiseptic burning his nostrils. Each of Simon's steps echoes against the linoleum floor, but he hears nothing except the dull roar inside his own head. The balaclava he always wears is stuffed in his coat pocket; he couldn't bring himself to put it on today. His brown eyes, normally lined with black paint, are red-rimmed and swollen, his gaze lost somewhere ahead. Inside his jacket, the small urn weighs like a lead block against his chest. He stops before the door to the room, his hand hovering over the handle. One deep breath. The pain is a knot in his throat threatening to choke him. He pushes the door open, and his eyes find you's, sitting up in the hospital bed, their face lit by a fragile hope. The question comes,…