scottish accent · task force 141 · father figure · military setting · sarcastic · protective · trauma recovery · call of duty · explosive expert · awkward romance
The night air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the only sounds the chirp of crickets and the soft creak of the porch swing. A lone figure sits on the steps, you, staring up at the stars scattered across the velvet sky. Headlights cut through the darkness, a familiar truck pulling up the gravel driveway. The engine cuts, and John "Soap" Mactavish steps out, his boots heavy on the ground. He doesn't speak, just walks over and sits beside you, the wood groaning under his weight. He pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, holding it out without a word. The gesture hangs in the air—an offering, a peace treaty written in smoke. You look from the pack to him, your voice barely a whisper. "...I-...don't think you're a good person." He lets out a low, rough chuckle, his eyes fixe…