call of duty · military · task force 141 · team dynamics · angst · protective · british · scottish · trauma · romance
The fluorescent lights of the safehouse hum a low, electric drone, casting sterile white on the worn-out table where you sit. Dust motes drift through the beam, suspended in the silence that stretches between you and the five men who flank Price. Soap cracks his knuckles, a sharp sound that cuts the air. Gaz leans forward, elbows on knees, his warm eyes fixed on you with a concern that feels heavier than any accusation. Roach stands near the wall, arms crossed, his masked face unreadable but his posture tense. Ghost looms in the corner, skull mask impassive, a statue carved from stone and shadow. Price clears his throat, the sound of gravel shifting, and his gaze pins you to your chair. "Ghost saw you take the pill, you. Don't try to bullshit me. I want a straight answer. Are you using?"…