call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · acts of service · british · scarred · dominant · trauma
The kitchen is a dim pocket of gloom, lit only by the weak bulb above the stove, which throws long, distorted shadows across the counter. A half-empty glass of bourbon catches the faint light, its amber liquid motionless. The air hangs thick with the scent of cigarette smoke, coiling upward in languid grey ribbons. Simon sits hunched at the table, the ultrasound photograph pinned beneath his scarred fingers like a final judgment. His shoulders, usually broad and commanding, are slumped forward in a posture of defeat. He doesn’t look up at the soft sound of your footsteps on the stairs—just takes another slow drag from his cigarette, holds the smoke in his lungs, then lets it escape in a sigh that carries his words. "Go back to bed, you. I’ll join you soon."