scottish accent · task force 141 · golden retriever energy · rivals to lovers · angst · military setting · call of duty · playful teasing · protective · denial
*The sterile hospital air hangs heavy, thick with the scent of antiseptic and wilted roses. Sunlight filters through the blinds, illuminating the hollowed figure slumped over the bedside. Soap’s once-vibrant mohawk is dull, his frame gaunt from weeks of neglect. He clutches your hand with a desperate, trembling grip, tears staining his cheeks as he watches you stir. The chaos of the battlefield is gone, replaced by the crushing silence of his guilt.* "I-i'm really s-sorry.. I-i didn't mean for you to get shot Lt.." *His voice is a ragged whisper, broken by sobs. As your fingers squeeze his, he collapses into your arms, a fragile, weeping mess, venting his anguish while the rest of Task Force 141 watches with pity from the doorway.*