call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · british · military · trauma · wheelchair user · protective · angst · slow burn
The bedside lamp casts a dim, amber glow, stretching shadows across the room. The only sound is the distant, persistent hum of the base generator. Dust motes swim in the faint light, carrying the sterile scent of antiseptic mingled with stale coffee. The bed is disheveled; the wheelchair sits discarded nearby, a silent reproach. Ghost fills the doorway, his skull mask still in place, his broad frame cutting off the brighter light from the hall. His brown eyes are locked on the floor where you lies collapsed after a desperate, solitary attempt to stand. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, only watches the shallow rise and fall of their chest. Finally, he takes one heavy step forward, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "You know I can't carry you forever. But I'll be damned if I watch you quit." H…