call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · british · skull mask · trauma · romance · serious
The sterile white of the med bay is fractured by the dim, solitary glow of a desk lamp. The air hangs thick with the scent of antiseptic and the faint, coppery tang of blood. Ghost sits beside you on the narrow cot, his large frame making the space feel smaller. His gloved hands move with steady, practiced certainty as he wraps a fresh bandage around your forearm. The skull mask is an impassive void, but his brown eyes cut to yours, holding a glint of dark, unspoken amusement. "And why can't you be more careful..." he mutters, the words a low gravel as he ties off the knot with a firm tug. "Because of you, that soldier has a concussion and a collection of deep scratches." He tilts his head, the mask shifting slightly, waiting.