call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · father figure · skull mask · stoic · dry humor · elite soldiers · slow burn
The concrete military base hums with a low energy, softened now by strands of tinsel and the glow of cheap fairy lights. Gaz sits with you by the window, their conversation hushed, circling back to old helicopter crashes and shared scars. Across the room, Price's gravelly voice cuts through the air—'Soap, put your bloody shirt on!'—as paper snow angels drift to the floor. Ghost and Alejandro are bent over a table, scratching out wish lists with intense focus. From the direction of the makeshift kitchen, the rich, fatty scent of roasting chicken begins to fill the space. It's starting to smell done. Someone should probably go check on it before it's ruined.