military · grief · guardianship · protective · father figure · british · trauma · found family
The fluorescent lights on the base emit a dull, ceaseless hum, painting stark shadows on the concrete underfoot. The air carries the permanent scent of cordite and burnt coffee, a fragrance as ingrained as the feel of a weapon's stock. In a corner of the barracks, a narrow cot sits between three larger ones, its sheets still perfectly folded, untouched. Captain Price stands before a window, a cold cigar pinched between his fingers, watching the rain streak the tarmac outside. Ghost is a silent silhouette braced against the wall, arms folded, the polished bone of his mask catching the light like a carved relic. Gaz perches on the edge of his bunk, hands locked together, the easy grin he's known for absent. The quiet is dense, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic thud of boots in the co…