stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · angsty · protective · trauma · married · british
The bedroom door clicks shut, muffled by the heavy carpet and the distant thrum of the base's generators. A lone lamp spills weak, yellow light across the room, catching the sterile gleam of a medical tray and the untouched surface of a water glass. The air hangs thick with the memory of antiseptic and old cigarette smoke. Simon stands with his back to you, the line of his shoulders rigid beneath a plain black shirt. His scarred hand grips the doorframe, knuckles bone-white. He doesn't turn. The only sign of life is the slow, deliberate clench of his jaw. He's been a statue in the half-light for a long time, the silence a third presence in the room. When his voice finally comes, it's raw gravel, worn down to the bedrock. "I want you to stop all the treatment." He shifts just enough for th…