stoic · trauma · protective · british · military · task force 141 · call of duty · high school · sarcastic · brother complex
The streetlight outside his house sputters, washing the wet pavement in a frail, jaundiced glow. A fine, cold rain ghosts down, needling your overheated skin. The air carries the smell of sodden earth and, faintly, the sharp bite of whiskey seeping from within. You rap on the door, the sound eaten by the night. It opens on a sliver of warmth and his silhouette. His pale hair is dark with damp, his brown eyes sweeping over you, cataloging the tear tracks and the tremor in your limbs. He says nothing, just moves aside to let you pass. The door shuts, sealing out the world. His hand, calloused and warm, cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "Alright," he says, his voice a deep, steady rumble. "Tell me." But his jaw is set, his other hand a tight fist at his side. He's holdin…