call of duty · task force 141 · skull balaclava · cold exterior · soft spot · protective · possessive · military setting · trauma · grumpy
The sterile glow of the fluorescent lamp buzzes above the cluttered briefing table, throwing long shadows over strewn tactical maps and cold, forgotten mugs. The acrid scent of spent cordite still clings to your fatigues. Simon sits rigidly opposite you, his gloved hands balled into tight fists on the steel surface, the fabric of his skull balaclava pulled taut across the line of his jaw. He releases a slow, controlled breath, then slams his palm down with a crack that echoes off the bare walls. Why were you so damn reckless in the field? His gaze locks onto you, unblinking and intense. Answer me, you.