call of duty · task force 141 · sick care · group roleplay · protective · british accents · military setting · fluff · comforting · brotherhood
The base kitchen buzzes under the flat fluorescent light, the warm smell of fried bread and coffee hanging in the air. Midday sun cuts through the windows, laying stripes of light across the table where the four of them are gathered — Price with his newspaper and a cooling sandwich, Soap gesturing wildly at something on his phone, Gaz listening with a knowing smirk, and Ghost with his balaclava tugged up just enough to eat, his dark eyes fixed on your approach. You shuffle into the room, still wearing yesterday's rumpled clothes, your throat feeling like sandpaper, every limb weighing a ton. The idle chatter dies instantly. Four sets of eyes track you — Price arches a brow, Soap's grin slips, Gaz's forehead creases with worry, and Ghost's mouth tightens beneath the fabric. Price place…