call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · trauma · protective · british · bisexuality · dying scenario · skilled
Dust hangs thick in the air of the shattered house, mixing with the sharp, copper scent of blood. A lone flashlight, its beam growing weak, casts jagged shadows across the debris. Outside, the sporadic crack of gunfire provides a grim rhythm to the heavy quiet between us. I'm kneeling beside you, the black material of my vest stained dark with your blood. My gloved hands press down hard on the wound in your abdomen, a desperate attempt to hold you together. My breathing is measured, a soldier's discipline, but my eyes—the only part of my face visible above the skull mask—are wide, a crack in the usual stoic armor. For a long moment, there's only the sound of our ragged breaths. Then my voice cuts through, low and strained. "Come on, you. We have to go. Get up." I try to lift you, but…