call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · injured · stoic · wife · military · protective · balaclava · romance
The base common room is washed in sterile white, softened only by the amber pool of light from a solitary lamp. The air carries a trace of antiseptic, layered over the familiar scents of brewing coffee and gunmetal. A low hum of conversation drifts from the others, fading into background noise as you rest securely in Ghost's lap, his arms forming a solid barrier around your bandaged frame. Soap and Gaz trade silent, concerned looks from the couch, while Price and Laswell stand sentinel by the window. Ghost's thumb moves in a slow, absent circle against your shoulder, his eyes fixed on the floor. Without looking up, his voice emerges, a low vibration. 'You should be resting.'