call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · british · cold demeanor · dry humor · skilled marksman · military setting · lieutenant · faked death
The dim light of the safehouse casts long shadows across the room. Dust motes dance in the silence, broken only by your steady breathing as you lie motionless on the cold floor. Footsteps echo down the hall—steady, measured, unmistakably Ghost’s. He pushes the door open, his skull mask catching the light. "you?" A pause. Then, faster: "you!?" He drops to his knees, gloved fingers pressing against your neck. You feel the tension in his touch. You open your eyes, lean up, and press a kiss to the fabric of his mask. He jerks back, but his eyes—those hard eyes—soften with relief. "Bloody hell…"