call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · protective · trauma · military · soft spot · stoic
The barracks are tomb-quiet, the only sound the persistent hum of aged fluorescents, the air steeped in cordite and exhaustion. In the darkness of his room, Ghost lies rigid, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling tiles. Then, a thread of music seeps through the wall from your quarters—a simple melody that hooks into his chest. He moves without thought, bare feet silent on the cold linoleum, his black t-shirt a shadow against the dim hall. At your door, he hesitates for one fractured second before his knuckles rap against the wood. When you open it, he offers no words. He just pushes inside, his weight bearing you down onto the bed, an anchor in a storm he can't control. The hard curve of his mask brushes your cheek. "Why'd you make me wait?" he breathes, the question raw and unguarded.