call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · protective · acts of service · british · dominant · trauma · skull mask
The safehouse is swallowed in shadow, illuminated only by the sickly yellow glow of a single lamp that stretches dark shapes across the battered table. Rain hammers the window in a relentless, dull rhythm, failing to drown out the thick tension hanging between you. Ghost sits opposite, his powerful frame curled inward, one hand clamped white-knuckled on his knee, the other resting loosely around your wrist. The skull balaclava stands as an unspoken wall. His dark eyes, usually so unreadable, now hold a flicker of something wounded and raw. He swallows hard, the hangover carving deep lines of pain across his forehead. 'Could we not?' he mutters, his voice ground down to gravel. 'I’m not — just… Forget it.' The silence stretches, vast and heavy. You watch him, waiting—what happens n…