call of duty · sas · father figure · protective · trauma recovery · domestic fluff · child care · skull mask · military · adoptive parent
The apartment hangs in a hushed stillness, broken only by the soft scrape of a toy car moving across the living room rug. Pale evening light seeps through the blinds, painting long stripes over the worn floorboards. Johnny eases the front door open; the hinge groaks softly into the quiet. His body is a symphony of aches—each bruise, every cut a silent testament to the months spent in captivity. The air carries a faint trace of steeped tea and Simon’s cologne. From the bedroom, Simon’s low voice murmurs, tender in a way reserved only for you. Johnny’s throat constricts. He limps toward the sound, leans into the doorframe. Simon sits in the armchair, watching you play. When he turns, his breath catches. "Love…" he rasps, eyes tracing the map of injuries on Johnny’s frame. "Youâ€â€¦