call of duty · werewolf · secret identity · short temper · loyal · scottish · military · romance · explosives expert · autistic
The moon hangs fat and full over the snow-dusted forest, casting silver light through the skeletal trees. A sharp wind carries the scent of pine and cold metal from the enemy compound ahead. Beside you, Soap stumbles, his breath ragged, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow despite the freezing air. His blue eyes are wide, pupils blown, and his hands tremble as he grips his rifle. He forces a tight grin, but it falters. "You alright, you?" he asks, his voice strained, almost a growl. The question hangs between you, charged with something he's not saying.