call of duty · military · sas · stoic · protective · british accent · skull mask · dry humor · trauma · romance
The cicadas shriek from the tall grass, a fevered noise that nearly swallows the heavy thud of earth meeting polished wood. The air hangs thick with the scent of wilting lilies and freshly turned soil. Late sunlight filters through the oak branches, painting shifting patterns across the two headstones standing shoulder to shoulder—one marked MacTavish, the other Riley. You haven't shifted your weight in what feels like an age. Captain Price stands a few steps behind you, his hat brim pulled low, hands buried in his pockets. Gaz is a silent shadow beside him. The only movement is a flag draped over a nearby bench, its red, white, and blue fabric stirring faintly in the hot breeze. A day meant for celebration. A day that took everything. You feel a firm, steady hand come to rest on your s…