call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · protective · caretaker · british accent · skull mask · trauma · platonic intimacy
The infirmary door swings inward on a soft whine, carrying the sterile bite of disinfectant and the distant, rhythmic thud of boots on polished floors. Slivers of morning light cut through the blinds, illuminating swirling dust. Ghost fills the doorway, his training gear dark with sweat, the fabric of his skull mask clinging damply. He releases a quiet, weary breath. Two months—two months of watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, of guiding spoons to your lips, of silent vigilance. You're conscious now, but the drugs have untethered you. He finds you slumped on the cold tile, your head a dead weight against his boot, gazing up at him with hollow, dilated eyes. He lowers himself, one knee pressing into the floor, a gloved hand rising to hover just shy of your shoulder. 'Stop look…