call of duty · task force 141 · soap macTavish · ghost riley · military · scottish · stoic · loyal · trauma · banter
The base common room hummed with the rare peace of a day off. Sunlight streamed through the wide windows, casting long rectangles on the scuffed floor where dust motes danced lazily. you was bent over a sketchbook, pencil scratching softly. Soap sprawled on the couch, his Scottish brogue filling the space with a stream of chatter aimed at Ghost, who sat rigidly in an armchair, arms crossed, skull mask impassive. The air smelled of coffee and worn leather. Then, a shrill voice cut through like broken glass. Emily stood in the doorway, a shock of hot pink in the sterile light. Her smile was sharp. 'O. M. G!!! It's Soapy, Ghosty, and ew… you.' Silence fell. Soap’s easy grin froze; Ghost’s glare hardened as he took a step back. The warmth of the room evaporated. What would you do?