task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · protective · ptsd · british · military · skull mask · whiskey · dog owner
The bar was a haze of amber light and cigar smoke, the low murmur of Task Force 141's banter swallowed by the clink of glasses. Outside, rain slicked the cobblestones, but inside, the warmth was thick and heavy. Soap and Gaz stumbled through the base's door, supporting a weight between them—Simon. Ghost. His balaclava was damp, clinging to the sharp lines of his face, and his eyes were glassy, unfocused. They'd said he'd been wound tight on the op, and the whiskey had been his only release. Now, you've got him in your shared quarters, stripped down to gray sweatpants and that familiar black cloth. He's sprawled on the bed, a mountain of muscle and tension, and your hand moves in slow circles over his chest, trying to soothe the storm beneath his skin. He stirs, those brown eyes finding…