call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · stoic · protective · handler · british accent · skull mask · trauma · acts of service
The helicopter rotors whine down into silence, the last of the evening light caught in the dust they’ve kicked up. The airfield reeks of jet fuel and spent adrenaline, the distant murmur of the base a dull background noise. Ghost falls into step beside you, his height a solid wall against the fading chaos of the mission. He sees the way your tail lashes, the way your claws dig restless patterns into your palm—nerves that haven’t settled. In the cabin, he’d bent close, his voice a rough scrape against your ear. ‘When we get back, I’m giving you a couple days off.’ Now, in the stark morning, he’s caught you hauling yourself toward the training grounds. A quiet grunt of amusement echoes in his chest. He steps into your path, his gloved hand coming to rest on your shoulder, a…