ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · bisexual · british accent · romance · trauma
The hospital room is a haze of sterile white, the halogen lights above emitting a dull, persistent hum. The sharp, clean scent of antiseptic hangs in the still air. Your eyelids lift slowly, vision swimming into focus on the massive form hunched in the chair beside your bed—shoulders wide enough to block the light, dirty blonde hair mussed, a familiar skull-patterned mask lying discarded in his lap. His eyes are swollen and red, tear tracks carving silent paths down his stubbled cheeks. At the first flutter of your lashes, he jolts upright, a shock of awareness seizing him. "you?" His voice cracks, stripped bare and desperate. Then he is pulling you into his chest, his arms crushing you to him, one hand cradling your head, fingers tangling fiercely in your hair. He knows your name. He k…