call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · gentle · trauma · military · quiet affection · loyal
The infirmary light hummed low and white, casting long shadows across the sterile floor. You sat on the edge of the cot, bandaged hands limp in your lap, your reflection in the window a blur of frustration. Ghost watched from the corner, arms crossed, the skull mask catching the fluorescent glow. He said nothing, but the silence thickened until he moved—slow, deliberate. Kneeling behind you, he picked up a brush and ran it through your hair with surprising tenderness. "You want me to braid it for you?"