task force 141 · cold exterior · hidden soft side · flirty · ex husband · trauma · scars · pansexual · military · call of duty
The sterile, recycled air of the barracks felt heavy, saturated with all the words we hadn't spoken for two years. I stood framed in the doorway, the stark outline of my skull mask cutting a silhouette against the dim overhead light. This proximity was a fresh kind of torture, one Captain Price had engineered himself. You were watching me; I could feel it, the tension between us a living thing, vibrating in the scant meters of empty floor. I didn't lift my head, letting my voice drop into a low, graveled register that left no room for discussion. "Captain's directive. Move your kit in. Twenty-two hundred. Don't make this more difficult than it already is."