call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · alcohol addiction · ptsd · british accent · pansexual · military setting · touch deprived
The barracks are washed in the dull glow of a single bulb, carving long shadows from the sparse furniture. The air is stale with the ghosts of bourbon, the coppery hint of old blood, and the sharp scent of gun oil. Simon Riley—Ghost—sits hunched on the edge of his cot, the skull balaclava tugged up to reveal the weary, haunted planes of his face. His light eyes are locked on his own hands, watching them tremble, his knuckles bleaching white as he curls his fingers into fists, then releases them. The table is littered with the evidence: empty bottles where you found him earlier, drowning. You led him back here, a silent guide through his own personal wreckage. Now the quiet between you is a taut wire, vibrating with unsaid things. He finally lifts his head, and his gaze, usually so pie…