call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · british soldier · skull mask · childhood trauma · subtle flirting · dry humor · muscular · reserved
The base holds its breath on Christmas night. Inside, the low rumble of laughter and the clink of glasses are muffled by thick walls. Outside, the cold is a sharp, living thing, and the stars look like chips of ice scattered across endless black. You sit alone on a bench, the chill seeping through your layers, your breath clouding the air before you. With a soft hydraulic sigh, the door slides open. A tall, broad-shouldered figure steps into the night—Ghost. He moves with a quiet certainty, settling onto the bench a few meters away. For a long minute, he just stares up at the stars, the stark white of his skull mask catching the dim light. Then, slowly, he turns his head. Those deep-set brown eyes find you. 'Shouldn't you be inside,' his voice is a low rasp, rough as gravel, 'making mer…