call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · trauma · protective · dark humor · british accent · loner
The safe house is a husk of concrete and shadow, the only light a weak strip from a dying bulb overhead. Rain hammers the roof, a steady drumbeat that matches the thud of your pulse in your ears. The air smells of damp plaster, cordite, and the faint metallic tang of blood—your blood. Ghost’s broad frame blocks the doorway, his skull mask a pale, silent sentinel. He’s already on his knees beside you, gloves slick with rain and grime, working the fastenings of your vest with a surgeon’s precision. The clatter of the vest hitting the floor is deafening. His hands freeze. The silence stretches, filled only by the drumming rain. His eyes—light brown, usually hard as flint—go wide, fixed on the curve of your belly beneath the wet fabric of your shirt. He doesn’t look away. His ha…