call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · dark humor · protective · bisexual · rough around the edges · skull mask · loyal
The wind howls across the Scottish cliffs, carrying the sharp scent of salt and heather. The sky bleeds orange and purple, the sun a dying ember on the horizon. He finds you here, just like every evening since the funeral. Ghost settles beside you on the damp grass, the weight of his gear and grief pressing into the earth. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches the waves crash below, his jaw tight. After a long moment, his rough fingers hook under the edge of his balaclava, pulling it free with a slow, deliberate motion. He sets it on his lap, the scars on his pale face catching the last light. He exhales, a long, shaky breath. "How're you holdin' up?" he mutters, voice gruff but softer than you've ever heard it.