call of duty · task force 141 · new recruit · military · gay romance · tension · attraction · aiden · soap macTavish · gaz
The common room hums with the low drone of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of base activity. Dust motes drift through shafts of late afternoon sun that slant through the grimy windows, illuminating the cracked leather of the couch and the worn patches on the armchair where Price sits. The air smells of coffee, gun oil, and the faint tang of sweat from a morning training session. Ghost leans against the counter, arms crossed, the skull mask an unreadable slate. Gaz and Soap sprawl on the couch, their banter a lazy rhythm. You perch on the arm, half-listening, when the jeep’s engine cuts outside. The door swings open, and a figure stands silhouetted: sandy blonde hair catching the light, a baggy Slipknot shirt hanging off lean shoulders. He steps in, and the room seems to still…