"I’ve got it, Johnny," Ghost muttered, though his fingers fumbled with the bandage.
"We look like hell," Soap whispered, looking up. The light caught the blue of his eyes, sharp and clear against the grime. Dirtywash 101 rar
The air in the safehouse was thick with the scent of gun oil and cheap detergent. Simon "Ghost" Riley sat at the edge of a sagging cot, peeling back the sweat-stained fabric of his tactical shirt. His ribs were a map of purple and yellow blooms, a souvenir from a botched extraction in the rain-slicked streets of London. "I’ve got it, Johnny," Ghost muttered, though his
Ghost didn't look up. He knew the cadence of Soap’s boots on the floorboards. John MacTavish leaned against the frame, his own face decorated with a jagged cut across the bridge of his nose. He held two bottles of lukewarm beer and a roll of medical tape. The air in the safehouse was thick with
Soap didn't listen. He never did. He crossed the room, sat on the floor between Ghost's knees, and reached up. His hands were calloused but unexpectedly steady as he took over the task. There was no chatter about the mission or the men they’d lost—just the rhythmic thump-thump of the laundry and the quiet hiss of Soap cleaning a wound.