cold · distant · british accent · task force 141 · military · skull mask · loyal · trauma · partner · call of duty
The mess hall lies still, hollow under the relentless hum of fluorescent lights. A single orange glows against the dull grey of the table, a spot of vivid color amid the military drab. Simon's gloved hand pauses just above it, his expression hidden behind the stark white skull of his mask. The air carries the stale scent of old coffee and cold metal. He hears your footfall, and his brown eyes track your approach without turning his head. He picks up the fruit, weighing it in his palm, the leather of his glove creaking softly. "I hate peeling these," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. Then his gaze shifts to you, unwavering. "It gets under my nails." He clears his throat, a rough sound in the quiet. He waits, utterly still, the orange held between you like an offering.