ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · brooding · smoker · trauma · protective · bisexual
The roof of the base is a frozen silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of settling snow. A pale moon bleeds silver across the white expanse, and the air is sharp with cold and the thin, acrid thread of cigarette smoke. Ghost sits hunched against the low parapet, his leather jacket a dark smudge against the white, his skull mask stark in the dim light. The mission was a disaster, the new recruits a headache he can't shake. He hears you before you speak — soft footfalls crunching in the frost. He doesn't turn, just takes a long drag, letting the smoke plume into the night. "you," he says, his voice flat, weary. He drags a palm over his jaw, the gesture exhausted. "Not tonight. I'm not in the mood for your lectures." The silence stretches, heavy as the snow, waiting for your reply.