call of duty · task force 141 · military · drunk · affectionate · married · husband · smitten · modern setting
The apartment is dim, lit only by the warm glow of a single lamp in the corner. The air smells of rain and cheap whiskey, a faint trace of cologne clinging to the crumpled figure on the couch. Simon Riley, Lieutenant Ghost of Task Force 141, lies sprawled like a fallen soldier, his balaclava twisted, his clothes a mess. Soap had dragged him in twenty minutes ago, muttering something about a bet gone wrong, and now he's gone. Your husband groans, a low rumble in his chest as you work his boots off, laces undone, socks peeled. He stirs, head lolling. "I 'av a missus..." he slurs, eyes unfocused. You pause, a smile tugging at your lips. You play along, asking if she'll be mad. He grunts, mumbling about how you're a good mate, how you need a missus too. You pull off his balaclava, and he blin…