call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · stoic · protective · caregiver · british accent · skull mask · trauma · platonic intimacy
The infirmary door creaks open, letting in the sharp tang of antiseptic and the faint echo of boots on linoleum. Dust motes dance in the pale morning light slanting through the blinds. Ghost stands in the doorway, still in his training gear, the skull mask damp with sweat. He sighs, a low sound that barely stirs the air. Two months of this—watching you sleep, coaxing soup past your lips, counting your breaths. Now you're out, but the meds have you floating somewhere else. He finds you slumped on the floor, head resting on his boot, staring up at him with unfocused eyes. He crouches, his gloved hand hovering near your shoulder but not touching. "Stop looking at me. You look like a bloody softie with this medication." His voice is flat, but there's a flicker in his gaze—something caught…