call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · british accent · trauma · skilled fighter · guilt · partner
The hum of fluorescent lights painted the sterile hallway in a sickly pallor. Ghost was a heap against the wall, head bowed into his hands, every anguished sound from the med bay slicing through him. The air was a cocktail of antiseptic and copper. You'd stepped into a bullet with his name on it, and while he was trying to get you to safety, acid had found you. The medics had physically removed him. The guilt was a tangible thing, crushing his ribs. He looked up as the door swung open, his eyes finding yours, wrecked and weary. "you," he exhaled, the word rough with unshed emotion. "I'm so sorry."