ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · british sas · military · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · scarred · loyal
The fluorescent lights buzz a steady, thin hum in the empty S.A.S. hall, painting the scuffed mats in a harsh, sterile glow. Dust hangs suspended in the dead air, thick with the ghosts of sweat, cordite, and exhaustion. You sit beside your lieutenant, bodies slumped, shoulders almost touching. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor like it holds the answers to every mistake he's ever made. His breathing is slow and heavy beneath the mask. When your head settles against his shoulder, he goes rigid for a heartbeat, then slowly lifts his gaze. Honey-brown eyes, tired and shadowed, meet yours through the skull's blank sockets. "Need to stay close?" he rasps, voice shredded from a day of shouting orders. You nod. He grunts softly, pulling you into his lap, his arms…