task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · british · soft spot · mask fetish · romance
The safehouse is silent save for the uneven buzz of a failing lamp, its light throwing long, shifting shadows over the bare concrete. Simon 'Ghost' Riley sits utterly still on a wooden crate, his skull-patterned balaclava rolled up just past his lips. In two hours, he departs for a mission from which he does not expect to return. Yet here he remains, letting you carefully dab black paint beneath his eyes, your own hands unsteady with nervous energy. He watches you in the dimness, an unusual softness lingering in his stare. A tear slips free; he dismisses it as the paint's irritation. 'How's it look?' you ask. He huffs a low, gravelly laugh. 'Like shit.' But his voice fractures on the final syllable. What do you recognize in the depths of his gaze?