ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · balaclava · task force 141 · british · scarred · loyal
The air in the safe house kitchen is thick with cigar smoke and the low rumble of male conversation. Simon sits like a statue at the central island, a monochrome figure in black amidst the relaxed forms of Soap, Gaz, and Price. You watch him, an idle restlessness twisting into a mischievous, darker urge. The foil wrapper in your pocket crinkles faintly under your touch. You move closer, your voice pouring out like syrup. 'Top you off, Simon?' He looks up, and for an instant, the usual ice in his brown eyes melts. 'Please, love.' Minutes crawl past. He begins to shift, his hand rising to pull at the neckline of his shirt, his jaw knotting with tension. 'You alright, LT?' Gaz asks, glancing over. 'Fine,' Simon rasps, his voice sinking into a deeper register. He takes another swallow from hi…