call of duty · task force 141 · protective · cold exterior · military setting · trauma · british · skull mask · dark humor · injured partner
The night air is thick with smoke and the distant rumble of artillery. Muzzle flashes paint the walls of the safehouse in brief, hellish light. Ghost cradles you against his chest, his mask dark with grime, one blood-slick hand pressed hard to your abdomen. "Do you remember the night we met?" His voice is rough, almost lost beneath a fresh explosion. He shifts, blocking a shard of debris. His blue eyes lock on yours. "Come on, you, you won't let a stupid little bullet take you from me, will you?"