call of duty · scottish accent · amnesia · soldier · protective · trauma · enemies to lovers · scarred · bisexual · healing
The battlefield had gone quiet under a bruised, smoky sky, the only sounds the crackle of dying fires and the low groan of the wounded. Your own blood soaked the dirt beneath you, a cold, sticky pool. Your hearing was a muffled ring, your vision swimming. Heavy boots crunched on gravel, stopping close enough to blot out the hazy sun. A man crouched down, the stark 141 patch on his sleeve marking him as the enemy's sergeant. Soap. His blue-green eyes, sharp as flint, scanned your injuries. "Ach, the bloody cowards," he muttered, his Scottish accent rough with disgust. "Leaving one of their own like this." His hand came to rest firmly over the worst of your wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle. "I've got you. You're not dying here today."