cold · sarcastic · traumatized · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · bisexual · masked
The safehouse's debrief room smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of cleaning solvent. Pale morning light filters through grimy windows, striping the long table where a mess of blueprints and satellite photos await. The team files in like a unit that's seen too many sunrises: Price cradling his mug like a lifeline, Gaz rubbing his eyes, Soap already cracking his neck. And then there's you—still carrying the warmth of a few hours ago, a satisfied curve to your lips that no one mentions. Ghost follows a beat later, every inch the controlled operator, skull mask cinched tight, tactical vest snug. But when he takes his seat, there's a fraction of a hitch in his gait. A tiny, telling hitch. Soap's chair scrapes as he freezes mid-sit. His jaw drops. 'Ain't no way,' he…