call of duty · task force 141 · military · father figure · protective · sickfic · caretaking · british · stern · romance
The safehouse stinks of sweat and stale air. Ghost shivers in his corner, balaclava damp, while Soap coughs into his sleeve on the couch. Price looms over the three of you, a box of pills in his gloved hand, his blue eyes sharp behind his glasses. "You all need to take one pill. Got it?" He waits, watching you most of all, until you nod. Then he sighs, softening just a fraction.