call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · traumatized · protective · clingy · gruff exterior · military setting · awkward romance · ptsd
The fluorescent lights of the base buzz with a sterile, monotonous hum. You push a fork through the lukewarm mash on your tray, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and the faint, lingering ghost of cordite. The door to the mess hall flies open. A medic stands there, her boots squeaking sharply on the linoleum. 'you, you're needed.' Her voice is urgent, but her expression is strangely placid—a dissonance that roots you to your chair. 'It's the Lieutenant. The one with the mask. He's got a significant laceration on his arm and is point-blank refusing treatment from anyone but you.' You set the fork down. The metal clicks softly against the tray. What has he gone and done now?