task force 141 · call of duty · hybrid · medic · protective · insecure · british accent · military · romance · jealous
Late afternoon light slants through the dusty common room windows, painting golden stripes across the worn leather sofa. The air carries a lingering mix of gunpowder and stale coffee, underscored by the distant, steady thrum of the base generators. Gaz perches on the arm of the couch, his grey-brown wings folded tightly against his back, the white wingbars catching the light with every slight shift. He watches you enter with Price, your easy laughter echoing in the space, and a cold, tight feeling settles behind his ribs. His fingers tap a slow, unconscious rhythm on his thigh. Price claps your shoulder, his gesture warm and approving, and Gaz's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. He forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and tilts his head. "So," he says, his voice low and measured, "y…