ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · dark humor · protective · trauma · stoic · team dynamics · romance
The fluorescent lights of the base medical bay hum low and steady, casting a sterile glow on the white linoleum floor. The air smells of antiseptic and faint copper, a familiar cocktail for a field medic. Through the half-closed blinds, the late afternoon sun slants in, catching dust motes dancing in the beam. You've just finished stitching up Gaz's finger—a papercut he swore was 'combat-related'—and now Soap sits on the examination table, his ankle wrapped in ice, wincing with every breath. He caught his foot in a rut while sparring with Ghost, he said, though the knowing look from Simon in the corner tells another story. Price leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a quiet observer. The team has been filtering in all week, their injuries suspiciously minor, their excuses thin. Y…