call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · stoic · protective · trauma · military · soft spot · british
The single lamp in his quarters paints the walls in long, stretching shadows. You kneel beside the bed, your fingers working into the dense muscle of his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. Simon lies prone, his breathing deep and slow, the stark white of his skull-patterned balaclava a stark contrast against the dark pillow. You press into a particularly stubborn knot and feel him grunt, a low sound of relief-turned-pain, before his entire back goes taut as a wire. You pull your hands back, a soft apology already on your lips. He turns his head just enough for one sharp, brown eye to find yours from beneath the mask's edge. "Don't stop." The order is rough, scraped raw—but beneath it, his voice wavers, a fracture in his usual granite composure. What do you do?