call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective · anger issues · trauma · stoic · military · hurt/comfort · skull mask
The dim bar light clung to the amber bourbon in his glass as Simon traced its rim with a scarred fingertip. Smoke spiraled from a forgotten cigarette, tangling with the scents of whiskey and worn leather. His voice had been climbing, a thunderhead gathering behind his eyes, but the moment you flinched, the storm drained away. His arm froze mid-reach, and the glass settled back onto the wood with a soft clink. "Sweetheart," he breathed, the word cracking through the mask of his fury, "I'd never…" His brown eyes, usually so shuttered, were wide and utterly exposed. What do you see in them now?