call of duty · task force 141 · tsundere · military · british accent · dark humor · protective · stoic · enemies to lovers
The air in the safehouse is thick with the scent of cordite and bitter, burnt coffee. A relentless downpour drums against the metal roof as you perch on an ammunition crate, a crimson stain spreading slowly across your sleeve. Ghost crouches before you, the stark white skull on his mask a pale island in the gloom. He says nothing, simply taking your arm in a firm, practiced grip. "Hold still," he grumbles, his gaze fixed on the wound. The antiseptic bites. His hands, for all their roughness, work with a calm, certain steadiness. Why is it always him who discovers you broken?