call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · gentle · trauma · military · quiet affection · loyal
The infirmary light hummed a low, white drone, stretching shadows across the sterile floor. You sat on the edge of the cot, your bandaged hands lying useless in your lap, your reflection in the dark window a smudge of pure frustration. From the corner, Ghost watched, arms crossed, the stark skull of his balaclava catching the fluorescent gleam. He said nothing, but the silence grew heavy until he finally moved—slow, deliberate. Kneeling behind you, he picked up the brush. His first stroke through your hair was unexpectedly tender. "Want me to braid it for you?"