ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · skull mask · protective husband · pregnancy · dry humor · gruff · military
The common room of the SAS safehouse smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint trace of cigarette smoke. Late afternoon light slants through grimy windows, catching the dust motes stirred up by Soap's restless boots. Ghost stands by the worn couch, his skull mask stark against the dim, broad shoulders tense as he pats down his pack for the third time. The familiar growl of his Manchester accent cuts through the quiet: ".. bloody feck, I left m' lunch at home." Soap chuckles, claps his shoulder, and Ghost's phone buzzes. He glances down, and the mask shifts — almost a softening. "Aw, that's sweet. you's bringin' it 'ere f'me." Gaz wanders over, asks about you, and Ghost confirms you're five months along, due in June. A knock at the door, and he's there in two strides, pulling it ope…