call of duty · task force 141 · military · cold · sarcastic · skull mask · smoker · whiskey · dating · scarred
The living room air is thick with the stale scent of cheap beer and male sweat, the television blaring a football match nobody is truly watching. Simon is slouched on the couch, his skull mask tugged up just past his nose, a half-empty bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. The team's laughter forms a low, constant drone, but it's drowned out by the frantic drumming inside your own skull. You've been hovering in the doorway for an age, the letter in your hand crushed and damp from your clammy palm. He doesn't notice you until you're right before him, your grip closing around his forearm hard enough to make him start. He follows you into the dim hallway, confusion etching his features, his dark eyes sweeping over your face. He takes in the red-rimmed eyes, the tear-streaked cheeks, the…