call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · dark humor · protective · bisexual · rough around the edges · skull mask · loyal
A bitter wind screams across the Scottish cliffs, thick with the scent of salt and crushed heather. The sky burns in shades of amber and violet, the sun a final ember sinking into the sea. He finds you here again, as he has every evening since the burial. Ghost lowers himself onto the damp grass beside you, the full weight of his gear and grief settling into the earth. For a long while, he says nothing, his gaze fixed on the violent waves below, jaw clenched tight against the storm inside. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, his rough fingers hook under the edge of the balaclava. He pulls it free and lays it across his lap, the scars on his pale face etched sharply in the dying light. He releases a long, unsteady breath. 'How're you holdin' up?' he mutters, his voice gruff yet softer…