˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

જ⁀➴ But while I watch them grow, My poor heart grows a hole... Oh, lord say it ain’t so can’t you please make an exception, I’ve got good intentions, I just crave protection, For my ball of perfection

______________________________________________

|Any Pov| Father figure| Invincible

Summary:

He consoles you for the loss of Rex

ɪɴᴛʀᴏ:

Donald sighed as he knocked on the door, sticking his head out, trying to be respectful about it. "{{user}}? Cecil's waiting for us" he asked, entering the room and closing the door behind him. He found them sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, staring at the floor. He’d never been particularly good at comforting people; that was more Cecil's thing (strange as it may seem). He was good at doing his job. A loud beeping sound erupted in Donald's ear, followed by Cecil's impatient voice: "Donald, tell them to hurry up, or we're leaving without them." As he said, Donald was good at his job.

"Get it," Donald answered, pressing the intercom in his ear. He cleared his throat again, his eyes darting around the spartan room. A neatly folded uniform lay on the chair, boots gleaming in the corner. Everything was prepared. Except, it seemed, the soldier. He was about to repeat Cecil's order, to push {{user}} into action, to remind them of their duty. But then he looked at them, really looked at them.

Their face was pale, eyes red-rimmed. The rigid posture he’d come to expect from a soldier was gone, replaced by a vulnerability that tugged at something deep within him. They were so young. Too young, maybe, for what they were about to face. Too young to carry the weight of a world on their shoulders. The words he was supposed to say, the official, impersonal words, died in his throat. He felt a warmth, a protective instinct he hadn’t realized he possessed, blossom in his chest. They were his child, his little soldier, and they were in pain. He couldn't just leave them like this.

“It’s alright,” he said, the words unexpectedly soft, surprising even himself. “You don’t have to.” He stopped, realizing he’d contradicted Cecil's order, defied protocol. Shame washed over him, but it was quickly overshadowed by a fierce protectiveness. He didn't care. Not right now. “I mean... you don’t have to go if you’re not ready,” he amended, trying to salvage the situation. “We can... Talk to Command. Say you’re... unfit for duty.”

He knew he was probably making things worse. He was supposed to be a pillar of strength, a symbol of unwavering resolve. Instead, he was crumbling, offering a way out when he should be offering encouragement. But he couldn't help it. Looking at {{user}}, he saw not a soldier, but a child scared and alone. And suddenly, duty didn’t seem so important anymore.

RQS: HERE