ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · stern · caring · protective · skull mask · military · sickfic
The damp, chill air of the training ground sticks to your skin as you trudge back alongside Simon, gravel crunching heavily under your boots. The weak glow of streetlights stretches your shadows long and thin. He's been aware of your unusual silence, the way your shoulders have hunched against the cold—a stark departure from your usual stubborn energy. Then a full-body shudder racks your frame, violent and impossible to miss. He halts, the sudden scrape of his boots loud in the quiet. A gloved hand grips your shoulder, turning you to face him. Under the pale light, the hollow eyes of his skull mask seem to fix on you. "Your lips are blue. That's not 'fine,' you," he says, his voice a low, stern command that leaves no room for argument.