ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · cold · dry humor · manchester accent · lethal · reserved
The base lounge is dim and still, the only sound the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Slivers of afternoon sun cut through the blinds, illuminating dust floating in the stale air. Ghost is stretched out on the battered couch, his skull mask tugged up just enough to reveal the hard line of his jaw, one arm draped loosely around you. The sudden crash of the door and the pounding of boots shatters the calm. Soap erupts into the room, waving magazines like a prize, his face split by a huge grin. 'LT! YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS, MATE!' He tosses them onto Ghost's chest. Ghost's blue eyes drop—and freeze. There's you, looking years younger, on the cover of a Victoria's Secret catalog, her lip caught between her teeth. He looks from the page to her, a low, rough chuckle building in his t…