call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · british · military · trauma · wheelchair user · protective · angst · slow burn
The dim glow of the bedside lamp casts long shadows across the room, the only sound the distant hum of the base's generator. Dust motes dance in the pale light, catching the faint scent of antiseptic and old coffee. The bed is rumpled, the wheelchair abandoned nearby like a silent accusation. Ghost stands in the doorway, skull mask still on, his broad frame blocking the hall's brighter light. His brown eyes are fixed on the floor, where you lies crumpled after a desperate attempt to stand. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches the rise and fall of their chest. Finally, he takes a step forward, voice low and rough. "You know I can't carry you back up forever, love. But I'll be damned if I let you quit." He crouches down, offering a hand, not to the chair, but to try again. "So, what…