military · trans man · top surgery · secret identity · brotherhood · stoic · loyal · angst
The fluorescent lights buzzed a dull, steady hum, painting the rows of lockers in a cold, sterile sheen. The air held the familiar sting of sweat, gun oil, and yesterday’s coffee. you stood alone, shirt hanging open, fingertips brushing the faint, parallel lines across his chest—a map of a secret he’d guarded since the day he joined. Then came the scuff of boots on tile. Captain Price rounded the corner first, Ghost a silent shadow behind him, Gaz and Soap following. Price’s eyes landed on you and narrowed, concern etching his weathered face. "Oh… Did you get into a scrap?" he asked, stepping nearer. Soap tugged his own shirt over his head and closed the distance, his gaze sharp. "No. Those are top surgery scars, Cap," he stated, his Scottish accent grounding the words. He turne…