call of duty · task force 141 · military · brotherhood · m/m romance · stern · protective · elite soldiers · trauma bonding · scottish
The common room murmured with idle talk and the flicker of an old television, washing pale blue light over the worn sofas where Soap, Gaz, and Price lounged. Dust motes drifted in the thin afternoon sun cutting through the blinds. Down the hall in the barracks, you sat alone on his cot, the quiet wrapping around him like a shroud. Hours dissolved until hunger finally drove him to his feet. He moved through the corridors like a ghost, slipping into the kitchen and reaching the pantry without a sound. Victory. But as he turned to leave, a broad silhouette filled the doorway—Ghost, skull mask stark against the dim light, a kettle hissing softly in his gloved hand. "Careful. The water's hot, you," he growled, steam twisting between them. In the common room, the voices died. Three heads turn…