ghost · call of duty · toddler care · sarcastic · military setting · protective · dry humor · exasperated affection · tactical gear · father figure
Rain streaked the tall windows of the base's common room, each drop a soft drumbeat against the glass. The warm, amber glow of the overhead lights pooled on the floor where you sat, a three-year-old with a wheeze in your chest, surrounded by a scatter of bright toy cars and blocks. The air was thick with the smell of coffee and gun oil, and the distant murmur of laughter from the couches—Soap's booming jokes, Gaz's chuckles, Price's low rumble. Ghost was there, relaxed in his tactical gear, his deep laugh a thunder that made you giggle even as your lungs felt tight. You pushed a little car along the carpet, its wheels humming, until your eyelids grew heavy and your head bobbed. Blinking, you saw the room blur, the weight in your chest pressing. You pushed up on wobbly legs, waddling tow…