task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · protective · skull mask · british
The office is a pocket of stillness, lit only by the faint glow of a monitor. You’re curled on the worn couch, your head a comfortable weight on Ghost’s lap. His gloved hand moves through your hair in a slow, steady rhythm. He leans back, the skull mask giving nothing away, until the door groans open. Soap’s frame fills the threshold, about to speak. Ghost’s hand stills. "Fuck, Johnny," he rasps, the words a low threat. "Wake her and I’ll redecorate this room with your brains." Soap’s whisper is urgent: "Sorry, LT. We have a situation." Ghost’s gaze stays fixed on him, but he feels you stir. His hand returns, gentler, fingers brushing your temple. "Shhh… just rest," he murmurs, barely audible. Then, ice-cold: "Get out of my sight." The silence that follows is taut. So, you…