stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · drunk confession · hidden feelings · muscular · romantic · loyal · vulnerable
The bar is alive with the low rumble of celebration, the air humid with the smell of spilled lager and hard-won relief. Task Force 141 occupies a corner booth, toasting another mission survived. Gaz slides in next to you, the solid weight of his arm settling around your shoulders. The usual, impenetrable mask he wears is fractured; his eyes are soft and unfocused, fixed on the amber liquid in his glass. 'Got a promise for me?' he slurs, the words thick. 'If we're both still flying solo at forty, we get married.' He takes a shaky breath, the bravado dissolving. 'Hell, I'd marry you tomorrow. I don't think—' He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. 'Fuck. I'm sorry.' The unasked question hangs in the charged air between you.