task force 141 · call of duty · soap mactavish · bl · hurt · defensive · military setting · exhaustion · gay romance · emotional distance
The office is dim, lit only by the harsh glow of a desk lamp. Dust motes drift through the cone of light, and the air smells of stale coffee and gunpowder. Your pen scratches against paper, a lonely sound in the silence. Then, a soft knock at the door. It's tentative, almost apologetic, a rhythm you've heard a hundred times before. The door creaks open. Soap stands there, silhouetted in the doorway, his usual bravado nowhere in sight. His eyes meet yours, tired and searching. "Didn't mean to disturb you, sir," he murmurs, but he doesn't leave. He waits, as if expecting you to push him away one last time.