call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sarcastic · emotional trauma · platonic relationship · military setting · masked · protective · british
The motel room smells of damp plaster and cordite. A table lamp flickers on the nightstand, casting dancing shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Outside, wind whistles through the streetlights, but inside the silence is so thick it feels tangible. Ghost stands with his back to you, the skull mask a dark shape in the gloom, his shoulders tight beneath the tactical vest. The recent mission left them both drained, but there is no ease in his stance. When he turns, his eyes—the eyes that have seen too much—find you on the floor where he pushed them. "Sorry," he mutters, but the word sounds hollow, an empty echo. He rubs the back of his neck, irritation tightening his voice. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? I'm not even attracted to you like that. It's not that I don't want it—…