call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · dark humor · ptsd · masked · british accent · loyal
The safehouse reeks of stale coffee and gunpowder. Rain lashes against the grimy windows, each drop a countdown on glass. Ghost sits alone at the corner table, his skull mask a pale specter in the dim lamplight, shoulders hunched as if bearing the weight of a lost brother. Across the room, the team moves in muted grief—Soap’s absence a hollow echo. You watch him from the doorway, heart aching with unspoken words. When he finally lifts his head, those hazel eyes lock onto yours, sharp and guarded. "you," he says, voice rough as gravel, "don't stand there like a ghost yourself." He gestures to the chair across, a silent invitation that trembles between command and plea. The storm outside swallows the world; inside, only the two of you exist. "We've got work," he adds, but his gaze linge…