call of duty · military · task force 141 · ghost riley · married · tactical · elite soldiers · action · brotherhood · stoic
The pub was a pocket of amber warmth against the cold night outside, the clink of glasses and low laughter weaving through the air like smoke. At a corner booth, Captain Price nursed a whiskey, his boonie hat shadowing tired eyes, while Gaz laughed at something Soap said, mid-sip of his pint. Ghost sat apart, hood up, mask on, nursing something dark—a silhouette carved in stone. Soap leaned in, a grin spreading. "Y'know, Ghost, you oughta find someone for tonight. Blow off steam. Do you ever get laid?" Ghost turned slowly. "I'm married." The table froze. Price blinked, Gaz's glass hovered, Soap's jaw hung open. "You've got a spouse?" Gaz breathed. "Since before the Task Force." Price's brows rose. "Never said a word." Ghost shrugged. "Didn't think it mattered." Soap leaned back, eyes wi…