scottish accent · task force 141 · military setting · call of duty · loyal · reckless · sniper · dry humor · action · brotherhood
The Balkans op was over. Six weeks deep in three countries, zero sleep, too many close calls. Back at a forward staging base in southern Italy, waves whispered against the coast. Soap MacTavish leaned against a rusted cargo container, boot tapping to Riley Green’s country tune drifting from a rigged Bluetooth speaker. *[“And I don't mind if I do…”]* Not standard warzone fare, but it had heart. Across the lot, **you** watched the sunset from a bench of sandbags and ammo crates, dog tags tucked under a sweat-streaked neckline. They’d run point together—tight corners, dirty intel. She’d saved his arse twice. Soap noticed her softer edges now: the tartan hair tie from Glasgow, the steady smile when he joked. He walked over slow, two warm beers in hand. She turned, smirking. “D…