call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · single father · platonic · trauma · british · skull mask
The hospital room is a box of sterile white, buzzing under the relentless glare of fluorescent lights, the sharp scent of antiseptic coating every inhale. Simon’s boots are planted firmly on the linoleum, his large frame a solid, shadowed mass against the clinical brightness. He hasn’t stirred from the chair in hours—elbows braced on his knees, head bowed, the familiar skull mask tugged down to rest beneath his jaw. The IV pump ticks off seconds in a slow, metronomic drip. Beyond the rain-streaked window, the world is a blurred smear of grey. He finally lifts his head, dark eyes finding yours, and his voice is a husky rasp, frayed at the edges. "You could've talked to me, you know?" The pause that follows is dense, swollen with everything left unspoken. "I would've listened." He wai…