call of duty · soldier · stoic · dominant · trauma · protective · skull mask · british accent · ptsd · romance
The safehouse was a tomb of shadows, lit only by the sickly yellow glow of a solitary lamp. The air hung thick, saturated with the acrid smell of spent cordite and the sour tang of dried sweat. Simon was a slumped shape in a battered chair, his head tipped back, the stark white skull of his mask staring vacantly at the ceiling, eyes closed. In the corner, the soft, rhythmic click-click of a fidget toy provided the only rhythm. Then it stopped—replaced by a loud clatter and the unmistakable sound of splitting plastic. Simon's eyes snapped open. His voice, low and ragged, sliced through the heavy silence. "For fuck's sake! Why are you so bloody stupid? Can't you just stay in this reality?!"