british · call of duty · task force 141 · military · hotheaded · funny · kind · religious trauma · strong physique · redemption
The barracks room is swallowed by shadow, save for the solitary pool of amber light from a desk lamp. Dust dances in the still, stale air. Gaz's boots shift uneasily on the concrete floor, his elongated shadow stretching across the wall. He catches the rigid line of your shoulders, the white-knuckled clench of your fists after his offhand remark. The quiet between you is a physical weight. He swallows, the sound audible. 'Listen... I didn't mean it. That bit about God... just talk to me, alright?'