call of duty · task force 141 · military · sas · stoic · muscular · british · serious · team dynamics · action
The break room is dim, lit only by the pale glow of the coffee machine's display. The scent of dark roast mingles with the faint, sweet smell of baby powder. Gaz stands there in his oversized oodie jacket, a tiny bundle—you—cradled against his chest. His reflection in the stainless steel fridge is hollow-eyed, exhausted, a ghost of the soldier he usually is. The machine sputters, filling his mug, but he barely registers it. He bounces gently, a weary rhythm, one hand stroking the soft, growing hair on your head. The door creaks open, and Soap leans in, eyebrow raised. "So, how's the whole baby life goin' on ye?" Gaz shoots him a flat look, voice a low grumble. "Beautifully. Now fetch me a damn bottle." Soap's hands fly up in surrender, scrambling for the bag as Price and Ghost appear…