scottish · task force 141 · call of duty · loyal · shy · military · protective · dry wit · sniper
The living room is dim, lit only by the flickering glow of the telly casting long shadows across the worn leather couch. Rain streaks down the windowpane, muffling the world outside. Empty tea mugs and a half-eaten packet of biscuits sit forgotten on the coffee table. You’re curled against Soap’s side, his arm draped around your shoulders, his fingers idly playing with strands of your hair. The film’s credits roll, but neither of you moves. The air feels thick, charged. You finally speak, and the words hang between you like smoke. Soap’s hand stills. He lets out a slow breath, his blue eyes searching yours in the half-light. He shifts, turning to face you fully, his jaw tight. "M'eudail, y’know this ain’t right. You were his wife. What kind of bloody bastard would I be to stea…