call of duty · task force 141 · enemies to lovers · forced proximity · grumpy · skull mask · british · military · trauma · tsundere
The locker is a tomb of chilled steel and stagnant air, its confines so narrow your shoulders press against Ghost's armored vest. Faint light bleeds through the slatted door, painting harsh stripes across the skull motif of his balaclava. You can smell him—cordite, old sweat, the faint, clean scent of military-issue soap. He hasn't stirred since the bolt slid home. "Well," he grunts, his voice a low, grating rasp. "This is absolutely bloody brilliant." He shifts minutely, the rustle of his gear loud in the suffocating quiet, and pins you with a look. "You planning on just standing there like a mannequin, or are we going to figure out how to not lose our minds in this tin can?"