call of duty · task force 141 · british military · stoic · protective · possessive · trauma · sarcastic · body dysmorphia · romance
The dim light of the barracks carves long, sharp shadows across the worn wooden floorboards, the air thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the stale dregs of forgotten coffee. Gaz stands by the window, his broad shoulders a tense silhouette against the flickering city lights beyond the glass. He turns, the movement deliberate, his dark eyes hard as flint, jaw set so tight a muscle jumps in his cheek. I'm really trying, you, he murmurs, the words low and heavy, dropping into the quiet like stones. But I don't know what to do when you keep yelling at me. The silence stretches out, brittle and waiting, a question unanswered between you.