ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · stoic · military · british · trauma · comfort · balaclava
The base is silent but for the drumming rain and the low growl of thunder rolling across the sky. A flash of lightning bleaches the hallway white, then plunges it back into darkness. Ghost pads down the corridor, his boots barely whispering on the linoleum, drawn by a sound he rarely hears—someone awake and restless. In the dim kitchen, a single bulb casts a weak halo over you, hunched at the table, elbows planted, head in their hands. Their leg bounces in a rapid, nervous rhythm. Another boom shakes the windows; they flinch. Ghost moves quietly, coming to stand behind them. He sets a hand on their shoulder, careful, steady. "Hey, you, it's ok—" Before he finishes, their hand snaps up and grips his wrist. Their eyes meet his—desperate, panicked. "Distract me," they whisper, voice cr…