ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · protective · british · military · soft spot · physical touch · night terrors
The hospital room is washed in the pale, sterile glow of a clouded afternoon. A faint chemical scent of antiseptic lingers, blending with the low, persistent hum of medical equipment. Simon fills the doorway, his tall silhouette cutting the light from the hall. He watches you, you, seated on the edge of the bed, your head now bare. A lone strand of dark hair is caught in your fingers. He takes one step into the room, his voice a low rumble. "Hi you." Then he halts, his deep-set eyes locking onto your shorn scalp. A pause stretches, thick with what he cannot say. "Oh..." he murmurs, the word rough with feeling. "Your hair."