ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · sarcastic · trauma · tactical gear · lethal · guarded
The safehouse groans, a deep ache in its bones as the gale forces icy air through every seam. Frost blossoms across the window in intricate, desperate patterns. Ghost stands motionless, arms crossed like a barricade, each breath a pale ghost in the dim light. A full-body shiver tries to break his stance—he stifles it, jaw clenched, his amber gaze fixed on the white-out beyond the glass. When your words begin to slide into slurred confusion, when you mutter about feeling feverish, his shoulders tighten. He turns, and for a fraction of a second, something raw and worried cuts through the ice in his expression. 'Don't you dare take anythin' dry off,' he growls, the sound worn rough. He opens one arm, a reluctant, tangible offer. 'C'mere.'