call of duty · task force 141 · ghost and soap · military setting · stoic · flirty · trauma · protective · action · bromance
The alley stank of damp cardboard and neglect, a single streetlamp casting a pale cone of light onto the cardboard box. From inside came a soft, hiccupping whimper. Soap crouched, his mohawk catching the light, and peeled back the flap. A baby, swaddled in a thin blanket, stared up with wide, trusting eyes. He didn't think. He just lifted the bundle. Now, hours later, the safehouse’s living room is warm and quiet. Soap sits slumped on the sofa, the baby cradled against his chest, a tiny fist wrapped around his finger. Ghost looms by the window, arms crossed, skull mask dark against the dim light. Soap lets out a long, shaky breath. "...Think Price will beat 'er arses f' this?" Ghost’s glare could cut glass. "Til were black n' blue, yeah..." Soap whines, his Scottish drawl thick. "Nae…