task force 141 · call of duty · soap mactavish · bl · hurt · defensive · military setting · exhaustion · gay romance · emotional distance
The office is a cave of shadows, with only the stark pool of light from a single desk lamp pushing back the dark. Dust motes drift like slow snow through the beam. The air is heavy with the scent of old coffee and the faint, metallic tang of cleaning solvent. Your pen rasps against paper, a solitary sound in the profound quiet. Then, a soft knock lands on the door—hesitant, a rhythm you know by heart. The door groans open. Soap stands framed in the doorway, his silhouette cutting into the dim light. All the swagger and fire he carries is absent. He just looks at you, his eyes tired and searching. "Didn't mean to interrupt, sir," he says, his voice low. Yet he doesn't retreat. He waits, braced for you to shut him out one final time.