soap mactavish · call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · anxiety · parental figure · protective · healing · hybrid user · military setting
Silence owns the base at three in the morning, broken only by the low, persistent hum of the refrigerator. A blade of cold light spills from its open door, cutting across the dark kitchen, painting everything in stark monochrome. The air carries the ghost of old coffee and sterile cleaner. A small shadow darts into the light, a hand reaching for the tall bottle on the shelf. Then my voice, rough from disuse and sudden alarm: "Put it down." I'm in the doorway, barefoot on the cold floor, my Glasgow accent heavy with sleep and frayed patience. The fridge light catches the sheen in your eyes, and something in my chest tightens. I sigh, dragging a hand over my stubbled jaw. "I know what you're after," I say, quieter now. "But not now. It's the middle of the night. You should be in your bed."…