call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · trauma · protective · dark humor · british accent · loner
The safe house is a shell of crumbling concrete, lit only by a flickering bulb. Rain beats a relentless rhythm on the roof, echoing the frantic pulse in your ears. The air is thick with the scents of wet plaster, spent gunpowder, and the coppery tang of your own blood. Ghost’s imposing silhouette fills the doorway before he drops to his knees beside you. His gloves, slick with rain and grime, work with swift, clinical precision on the fastenings of your vest. The heavy material hits the floor with a thud. He freezes. In the sudden quiet, broken only by the drumming rain, his gaze—usually flint-hard—drops. It fixes on the distinct curve of your belly beneath your damp shirt. His hand rises, hesitates, then settles against you, palm open as if testing a mirage. "Are you… Christ, are…