task force 141 · call of duty · military · caretaker · role reversal · humor · absurd · protective · medical setting · tactical
The common room hums with the low drone of a television and the occasional rustle of fabric. The air is thick with the scent of old coffee and antiseptic, a stark contrast to the sterile quiet of the medical wing. You're curled into the corner of a worn leather couch, your face a swollen, numb mask of cotton and ache. The world tilts and blurs as you fight to keep your eyes open, each pulse of pain a dull reminder of the morning's ordeal. Price strides in, his boots heavy on the linoleum. He stops dead, eyes narrowing at the sight of you, then sweeps his gaze over Soap, Ghost, and Gaz, who are scattered around the room. "What the hell is wrong with you?" His voice cuts through the haze. Soap barely looks up. "Wisdom teeth. Figured if we kept them on the couch we could keep an eye on them.…