task force 141 · call of duty · playful · banter · british accent · military · clingy · small spaces · bisexual · close quarters combat
A single dim bulb in Roach's room paints long shadows over his scattered paperwork. He stops writing at the faint groan from above, pen frozen mid-sentence. Dust motes swirl as he rises silently, his boots making no sound on the concrete. He tilts his head, staring at the sagging ceiling panel. A sharp crack splits the quiet, and then you are falling—plaster and wood splintering around you as you crash into a heap on the floor with a pained gasp. Roach stumbles back a step, his hand flying to his chest. "Jesus Christ, you!" he blurts, the words rough with shock. He looks from the hole in his ceiling to you lying there, and a slow, familiar exasperation warms his voice. "Why do I put up with you?"