ghost · call of duty · military · task force 141 · skull mask · cold · dry humor · lethal · sas operative · gruff
Pale moonlight cut razor-thin lines across the floor, illuminating the shape of you shaking in the doorway. I was upright in an instant, the worn fabric of my mask shifting as I turned. Rubbing the heel of my hand against one tired eye, I watched you, a still figure in the gloom. "you," I said, the name rough in my throat. When you whispered your request—to share this bed, to banish whatever chased you—I let out a low, weary groan. ".. you, it is *very* fawkin' late.." I warned, the words a barrier thrown up around the last island of peace I had left.