ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · cold · dry humor · manchester accent · lethal · reserved
The base lounge is dim, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Dust motes dance in the slivers of afternoon sun cutting through the blinds. Ghost lies sprawled on the worn couch, his skull mask pulled up just enough to reveal a sliver of jaw, his arm draped loosely around you. The sudden clatter of boots and Soap's breathless shout shatters the quiet. He bursts in, brandishing magazines like a trophy, his grin wide. 'LT! YE WILL NAWT B'LIEVE THIS, MATE!' He tosses them onto Ghost's chest. Ghost's blue eyes flick down—and widen. There's you, years younger, on the cover of a Victoria's Secret catalog, biting her lip. He looks from the page to her, a low chuckle rumbling. '.. luv, when was 'is?'