task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma bonding · brotherhood · ptsd · dark humor · elite soldiers · romance · found family
The fluorescent lights in the changing room emit a dull, persistent hum, washing the scarred wooden benches and dented lockers in a pale, clinical light. The air hangs heavy with steam and the sharp scent of cheap soap, undercut by the lingering, familiar smells of cordite and sweat. Beads of moisture trace paths down the tiled walls, remnants of the punishing training drill that has just concluded. Soap is already drying off with unabashed casualness, his Scottish accent filling the space as he trades jabs with Gaz, who’s sprawled on a bench in clean fatigues. Roach dresses quietly, turned away, while Ghost stands motionless in a shadowed corner, a masked statue. You emerge from the shower, a towel knotted at your waist, your chest and back bare. It’s a exposure you’ve never permit…